Dream Broker

by Marinda Kotze

“So I’ve been sitting on twenty-thousand dollars’ worth of Meridian Resorts for the last six months,” Chase says.

“You still have Meridian?” Gage asks.

“Yep. Since the day I bought it, it has just been going sideways—dead in the fucking water! But then, yesterday, out of nowhere, it shoots up 38% to 450 dollars a share. I mean, how lucky can a man be, right?” Chase takes a swig of his Tequila Soda and slams the empty glass on the table.

“Holy shit! You sold, right? Please tell me you got rid of that piece of junk,” Gage says.

“That’s the thing. Just as I’m about to click that sell button, greed gets a hold of me. It gets a hold of me bigtime. It whispers to me: What if the stock goes up even more tomorrow? This could be the start of a bull run. Who knows? It would be a hell of a pity to sell a stock that’s about to detonate.”

“Sure.”

“So, I only sell 2% of my Meridian. But then this morning, the stock dives 28% right in the open.”

“Fuck no, dude!”

“I want to dump it all now and be rid of it—that’s how mad I am at that damn stock.”

“Yeah, that’s happened to me loads of times,” Gage says.

Only if you’re a dumbass, I think but don’t say out loud. The busty waitress who’d been checking me out all night tosses her hair as she sets our drinks on the table. Her face is a bit too round, and her skin a bit too pale, but her body is perfect. I wink at her. She blushes, spins around, and disappears into the crowd.

“Knowing when to buy is one thing, but knowing when to sell is a science, and an art, of its own,” I say while I follow the waitress with my eyes.

“Okay, sure, but let’s get back to what you said about Pebble and Twigg. Do you really think it is a worthwhile buy? I mean, with a Price-to-Earnings ratio of two, man that stock is probably marked for bankruptcy,” Gage says.

Of course that’s something Gage would say. Hell, that’s what I would’ve said too, if you asked me about Pebble and Twigg (PBTW) a week ago. I would’ve laughed right in your face if you told me that a toy company was a screaming buy. Especially if you told me that it was such a sure bet that you could take all your money—and your grandma’s retirement annuity money while you’re at it—and put it all in PBTW. That idea sounds like pure lunacy. Everyone knows that Pebble and Twigg stores have been closing left, right, and center.

“Okay, fine you don’t have to make money with me if you don’t want to,” I say and flash him a smile.

“Look, Ethan, I’m not saying that you don’t know how to pick stocks. Take SoftNova for example. How did you know that was going to be such a good bet. Your timing was brilliant. You bought right in the dip and sold exactly on the top, right before the news of the company’s liquidation dropped. You must’ve… what, like doubled your money on that stock?” Gage says.

“Quadrupled actually. But yeah, I mean, what can I say, I have the Midas touch. Every time I buy a stock it turns to gold.” I laugh.

“Seriously, though, what is your method? How do you evaluate stocks? I wanna know, man.”

“Ah you know, it’s complex. I look at a bunch of factors.” I smile and pull my wallet out of my jacket pocket. People have been asking me about my methods a lot lately. Each time I have to pussyfoot around the issue and try to divert their attention toward something else. I can’t tell them how I actually pick stocks. “One day, when you’ve learned enough about the market you might be ready to learn from me,” I wink at the waitress and gesture to her to bring us the bill.

“Oh geez, you start pulling lots of money out of the stock market and now suddenly you’re freaking Harlan Langford himself,” Chase snorts with disgust.

I can tell that he’s still intrigued. He’s finally beginning to respect me. “Don’t be jealous, Chase. Green’s not a good color on you.”

“No green is a great color—it’s the color of cold, hard cash. And I need more of it. Stacey’s been talking about ‘our future’ so I guess it’s time for me to start saving up for an engagement ring,” Chase wipes imaginary beads of sweat from his face and chuckles.

“You’re young, why do you want to settle down?” I’ve never understood the concept of monogamy or marriage. Evolutionary psychology and personal life experience have proven that humans were never made for long-term pairing. It’s especially not advantageous for men. Women want to sucker you into a life-time contract where they win all the cash and prizes when it all comes crashing down—and crashing down it always does.

“Whatever man, you’re avoiding my question. How is it that you’ve been able to pick winning stocks, consistently, for the past two years? Huh? What’s your system?”

I just smile at him. If I told him how exactly I knew that Pebble and Twigg (PBTW), SoftNova (SNV), Nextware (NXT), InHabit (IHB), Technetis (TS) and all the others were going to be runaway successes he wouldn’t believe me anyway. “You know, it’s getting late, and I have to get up early tomorrow morning—”

“Oh c’mon, Ethan!” Chase throws his arms up into the air. “Don’t be lame man, it’s nine PM.”

“I need to get some sleep. It’s the cornerstone of a healthy lifestyle. It keeps the mind fresh!” I say, half-jokingly, and pay my bill.

I cut through the Manhattan traffic in my carmine-red Porsche 718 Boxster. I bought it with cash six months ago and gave my beat-up Toyota Corolla to my brother that same day. I’m never going back to dingy scrap like Corollas ever again.

While I’m driving, I recite some of my intentions for the evening. I need to wind down, get myself focused and ready.

I take the final turn into my street, cutting off a truck with a large logo of a man in a long coat and a fedora hat on the truck’s side panels. The driver gives me the middle finger, but I just laugh at him and drive on.

I pull up to the entrance of 35 Hudson Yards, one of the premier luxury condominium complexes in New York. I stuff my Porsche’s keys and a crisp fifty-dollar bill into the young valet’s hand.

“Thank you, sir!”

I guess most residents don’t tip the valet much these days. The economy hasn’t been doing well lately, and inflation has apparently gone up—not that I’ve noticed—so I guess most people have been holding onto their money a bit tighter these days. But of course, I don’t have those kinds of problems.

I stride across the black-and-gold marble floor, nod at the overfriendly reception desk clerks, and head straight toward the elevators. I check my rose gold Patek Philippe 5970R perpetual calendar chronograph watch—it’s already almost 10:00 PM. I try to get to bed at 10:30 PM at the latest, so I’m cutting things short tonight. But it should be okay.

My condo is on the 74^th floor. I bought it eight months ago. It has unobstructed views of the Hudson River and the financial district skyline. I used to work in that district in a tiny box of a cubicle, doing research for a hedge fund run by an asshole whom I wouldn’t even trust with a twenty-dollar bill. As soon as it became clear that I could make a living out of my own trading profits, I told that asshole exactly where he could shove it and threw my resignation letter across his desk like a frisbee. It was one of the best days of my life.

I take my Tom Ford high shine leather sneakers off at the door and step through the gallery of my condo in my socks. The satin-finish French Oak floors feel soft and warm under my feet. I’ve never felt so at home in a place in my life. I grew up on the wrong side of the train tracks in a two-bedroom apartment in North Philadelphia. We had to split the two bedrooms between the four of us; that’s all that mom could afford, even with two jobs. I wish mom could’ve seen me now.

I take a quick shower in the master bathroom. It’s wrapped in iceberg quartzite, with a breathtaking view of the city. I try to switch on only the most essential lights—I don’t want too much light exposure before going to bed. The city lights outside provide ample light as it is.

Once I’m done in the bathroom, I get myself ready for bed. I put my Mont Blanc leatherbound notebook on the bedside table and place an S.T. Dupont fountain pen neatly on top of it. I slide under my supple white French linen duvet—made with one-hundred-percent Normandy Flax—set my alarm, do some visualization exercises…

and then…

gently…

fall…

asleep.

Exactly three hours and fifteen minutes later my alarm chimes a soft, but slightly penetrating, lullaby. I switch it off, get up and make a quick trip to the bathroom. Then I head straight back to bed.

I close my bedroom door behind me. I get into bed, lie on my back, close my eyes and keep my body absolutely still.

I take eight deep breaths and imagine myself falling deeper and deeper into my soft bed. My body is gradually turning numb, and at times it feels like my body is contorted at a weird half-moon angle—but I resist the urge to move.

I remain perfectly still.

My body needs to fall asleep. But my mind—my mind needs to stay awake.

I do some math in my head—simple stuff like multiplications and square roots, enough to keep me awake, but not too challenging that it will wake me up entirely. I want to remain on that edge between sleep and wakefulness.

I’m getting a mild headache, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. My duvet feels heavy as lead.

But I remain calm and still.

After a few more minutes my body starts to feel like it’s floating. I try to slow down my breathing and stay focused.

This is it.

I’m ready.

I imagine that I’m opening my eyes and rolling out of bed. My bedroom slowly sprawls out in all directions around me. I imagine that I’m getting up. I press my right index finger into the palm of my hand. The finger goes straight through my palm. Perfect— I’ve stabilized the dream.

I turn to the vanity table across from me and look at myself in the mirror. The reflection I see in the mirror isn’t me. Well, it’s me, but different. Tonight, the mirror is casting back the image of a hunched over, hairy monkey that has my eyes and nose. It always a bit freaky to see, but it’s fine. My reflection is never exactly me while I’m in a dream.

I walk to my bedroom door and open it. On the other side, I don’t see my dark hallway with its French Oak floors and Leon Grossmann abstract paintings. Instead, I find myself on the travertine porch of a five-bedroom stucco house that sits on a corner lot in a quiet suburban street.

I’ve been coming to this house for the past two years, almost every night. To visit my stock market mentor.

I knock on the door, and it immediately opens.

“Welcome sir.” The doorman, a man in his late fifties, dressed in a black blended wool and cashmere suit, opens the door and gestures for me to come inside.

“Thank you, Ivan,” I say as I step inside.

“Always a pleasure to have you, sir. May I take your coat? Mister Langford is in his study.”

I flick off my coat and hand it over to the doorman, who genteelly deposits it on a coat rack to his right.

I make my way past the intricately carved antique wooden furniture in the entrance hall and head directly for the two flights of carpeted stairs in front of me.

I try not to get too excited. Although I’ve been here dozens of times, I’ve never quite gotten used to the vividness of this dream. I do another reality check, just to make sure that the dream stays stable. The last thing I need is for it to fade out on me now. I squeeze my nose with my thumb and index finger, yet the air still moves freely through my nose. Yes, I’m still in a dream. I even touch the walls and bend down to lick the oriental carpet. I feel and taste nothing. I’m still in my dream. Everything around me is crystal-clear and in focus.

The door to Langford’s study is left ajar. I step through it. The billionaire, legendary investor and philanthropist Mister Harlan Langford is sitting at his modest desk, reading a newspaper. When he sees me enter the room he smiles, puts the paper down on the table and stands up.

“Ethan, good to see you, come in,” Langford says, extending his right hand toward me and gestures for me to sit.

“Good afternoon, sir, thank you for making time for me.” I shake his hand and take a seat across from him.

Langford’s study is lined with bookshelves, stacked with books and piles of paper. Next to me, against a file cabinet, a muted TV broadcasts a twenty-four-hour financial news channel. The images are clear—it looks like the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange—but I can’t make out the text in the ticker box at the bottom of the screen.

“So, how has your investments been doing?” Langford asks.

“Really well, sir. It’s been going better than what I could have hoped for, actually.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Langford says and begins to page through the newspaper in front of him. “Don’t you also sometimes feel like making money out of the stock market is like pulling a big fish out of a stormy sea?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Sometimes, making money in the stock market can seem, somewhat, unnatural. Almost like you are going against nature. You didn’t work for it in the normal way to earn it, so to speak. Yet, as you will surely know, making successful trades aren’t easy. You still have to work for it.

Especially these days. It’s a lot more difficult to make money from the stock market. Back when I started, almost sixty years ago, it was much easier to find bargain stocks. Granted, I spent all my days sifting through thousands of pages of Moody’s Manuals to find promising investment opportunities. But still, when I found the right ones—boy, they did not disappoint!

Nowadays, anybody who wants to invest in the stock market has tools far more sophisticated to analyze the market than what I had back then. A lot more people are analysing the market in a rational way compared to when I picked up my first Moody’s Manual. That has made it a lot more difficult to find ways to outperform the market.”

“Well, sir, you haven’t lost your touch yet. Your SoftNova recommendation was, well, I think we both made a lot of money on that one. Once again, thank you for that stock tip, sir.”

“Mmm-mm, that was a rare, high-quality opportunity indeed. What do you think of Timber Time?” Langford asks me without looking up.

“Well, uhm, I don’t know that much about it actually. I know it’s an old company, they had to lay off a lot of their workers a month ago and that they had some processing problems. Could now be a good time to buy their stock?” I have to suppress the excitement that is welling up inside me.

“Yes, I think so. I think the stock has been unfavorably valued for a while now, but especially the last few weeks. I’ve been watching them closely, and I think that if you can get in now, you could easily make triple your money by next year.”

“Well, thank you, sir. I will do that immediately.”

“Yes, as soon as possible, while they’re still priced at nine dollars a share. I suspect the opportunity to buy it at that price won’t last long.”

I hesitate for a moment, I don’t want to sound too excited or pushy, but I have to ask. “Sir, are there any other stocks that you would recommend at the moment?”

Langford gazes up at the ceiling and thinks for a moment.

“Ubicraft. If you still have it, sell it. All of it. That stock is going to crash in the next few weeks.”

I don’t have to ask him if he’s sure, or even how he knows. He’s been right so many times that there’s no reason to doubt him.

“Thank you, sir.” I bow my head and close my eyes. I keep them closed and feel myself…

slowly…

drifting…

to…

sleep.

My second alarm wakes me up with a shrill ring. I jerk my head up, leap out of bed, silence the alarm with one hand, while the other hand grabs hold of the leatherbound Mont Blanc notebook and S.T. Dupont fountain pen. I turn to a fresh page, write the date and then quickly scribble down the most important stuff:

Buy Timber Time. It will triple by next year.

Sell all your Ubicraft right now.

It’s as simple as that.

#

It all started with pure serendipity. One night I had an amazing dream that I met Harlan Langford at his home. He welcomed me in with open arms, and we ended up spending a whole afternoon together, talking about stocks like old friends. He even went so far as to share some of his techniques and ideas about investing with me. I couldn’t remember much of the details the next morning, but it was a helluva intriguing dream.

The real Harlan Langford is known for keeping his cards close to his chest when it comes to his exact stock analysis methods. This dream of mine was so vivid, so electrifying, that I thought to myself: what if I could make this dream happen again? And not only that, but what if I could ask him specific questions about the stock market and, importantly, remember his answers, the next morning.

 In the beginning it was mostly trial and error. I would wake up just as I was approaching a REM period, but then fall right back asleep. Later I managed to lucid dream my room but had a hard time manifesting anything other than that. Eventually I figured out how to use my bedroom door as a dream portal to Langford’s house. That took a lot of practice. I struggled with dream instability a lot—the dream would blur and fade away around me at the most inopportune of times. Reality checks and more practice eventually helped to solve that. Now, after a little over two years, I’ve developed what could probably be the world’s best lucid dreaming routine.

It’s 8:30 AM now, so I have an hour before the stock market opens. Just enough time for me to go down to the condominium’s gym, get a quick cardio session in, take a shower and eat breakfast. Then it’s off to make some trades.

I meet up with Gage and Chase, at 230 Fifth Rooftop Bar on Broadway in the evening. The place is packed, and the air is stuffy, even on the outdoor deck. I would much rather have preferred Chapel Bar, but the other guys complained that their annual membership fee is too expensive.

“So, Ethan, what do you think about Titan Inc.?” Gage asks. “There’s a rumor going around that they’re developing new AI technology that might be a game changer for the medical industry.”

I take a sip of my 18-year-old Macallan single-malt whiskey and listen to Gage drone on about Titan Inc. (TTN). The truth is, I don’t know a damn thing about the stock market. I thought I knew a few things when I worked at that hedge fund, but I was sorely mistaken—a couple of badly placed shorts made that painfully clear. Honestly, no one, not even those hot shot executives at the big banks and investment firms, know what the stock market is going to do. Well, except perhaps Harlan Langford.

“So, what do you think?” Gage asks.

“Titan Inc.? I will have to take a closer look at them.” I make a mental note to ask Langford about Titan Inc. (TTN) when we meet again.

“Oh, by the way, Ethan,” says Chase. “Your recent predictions about Pebble and Twigg are blowing up online. The Wall Street Journal even ran a piece on it, and you’ve been trending on X. Did you see Pebble and Twigg bounced 252% since you recommended it?”

“Wait, what? Why does The Wall Street Journal know about my stock predictions?”

“Oh well, you know.” Gage clears his throat. “I just thought that your predictions have been so damn perfect. It’s a shame, really, that only Chase and I ever hear about them. With your level of accuracy, you could be a major financial influencer! A bona fide guru! Besides, if we can get some social hype around your predictions—after we bought the stocks, of course—we can make some pretty quick gains.”

“Do a little bit of the ol’ pump-and-dump, ya know what we mean?” Chase inserts.

“So, we created an X account. It’s called The Market Mentor. It already has over eight-hundred-thousand followers. Look.” Gage pulls out his phone to show me. My jaw is almost half-way to the floor.

“What the hell guys? How can you share my stock predictions with the whole world online without even asking me?”

The people at the table next to us flash nervous glances in my direction, but my eyes bore straight into Gage and Chase.

The two shift uncomfortably in their chairs. Chase holds his hand out to me, as if to pacify me. “Ethan, Ethan, relax man. We thought you would be happy.”

“Happy? Happy! How could you possibly think I would want this? Have I ever said that I want to share my stock tips online?”  

“Uhm, no,” Gage says. “But the people out there, they’re hungry for investment advice. Think about how many people you can help—”

“I’ve never been in it to help anybody. What makes you think I’m some benevolent saint of finance? Do I look like one to you?” Spittle flicks across the table as I talk.

“Ethan, dude, it’s okay,” Chase says. “In just a few months, you’ve turned into a bit of a stock market enigma. You’re a fucking legend! Think what you can do with this massive following? You could start a YouTube channel, offer subscriptions, courses, coaching. I mean, you could make so much—”

“Why would I want to make money of followers and stupid courses? I’m making money already! Lots of it! I don’t need any of that stuff. And besides, do you know what happens when everyone knows what I’m doing in the market? Mmm, Chase? Huh? Wanna hazard a guess? It erases all my competitive advantage! For God’s sakes! It completely destroys it. That’s the whole point. You don’t broadcast your alpha to the entire internet. Goddammit, I underestimated how stupid you two are.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry, Ethan,” says Gage. “We just thought—”

“You’re both fucking idiots. Take that account down, right now!” I glare at Gage and point to his iPhone that’s on the low-top table.

Gage reaches down to his phone, still mumbling excuses.

“And no more posting online about anything I’ve told you about the stock market, got it?”

“We’re really—” Chase starts.

“I need to get home.” I throw some notes on the table to pay for my share of the bill.

I need to get out of this bar. I need to get back home. I need to talk to Langford. I need to regain my edge in the market.

#

I’m almost too worked up to fall asleep. But eventually, around two o’clock, my body slowly…

drifts…

away…

to…

sleep….

It’s a sunny, cloudless day. Langford is sitting on a honey-toned rattan chair on his back porch, sipping on a Coke.

“Ethan! What brings you back so soon?”

I shake his hand and take a seat in a rattan chair across from him.

“I need you to give me more stock recommendations. It’s urgent.”

“Why is it urgent? Do you have extra cash lying around that you want to put to use?”

“No. At the moment, most of my money is tied up in stocks, but that’s not the point. I need more recommendations from you. Now. I’m worried that some of your previous recommendations aren’t going to pay off anymore.”

“Making hasty decisions based on fear is one of the worst things you can do, Ethan. You need to give these things time. Have some cola, I’ll call Elizabeth to bring you some.”

“No, I don’t want cola. I want stock tips!”

A deep frown creases Langford’s brow. 

The mosaic floor beneath us starts to spin, and Langford is fading in and out of focus.

I need to control myself. I’m getting agitated and it’s destabilizing the dream. I press my right index finger through my left palm and stroke the arm of my rattan chair to reality check my way into a more stable dream. I cannot let this dream slip away from me.

“Okay then, suit yourself,” Langford says, and takes another sip of his cola. “Remember Ethan, it’s not always about timing the market right. It’s also about time in the market—that’s where the real money is. You have to be patient. And you’re young. You’ve got many years of compound interest to look forward to.”

I’ve never been patient. I don’t want to be rich when I’m old, I want to be rich now.

“As I recall Ethan, you’ve made a lot of money already. Why don’t you lock some of those profits in and buy some more real estate?”

I don’t want a lecture on prudent financial planning, dammit, I’m here to regain my edge in the fucking market. I hate it when he talks to me like I’m his damn nephew.

Outside, sections of the garden detach from each other and shift back and forth—like background stage decorations in a theatre. As a section of the garden shifts over another, a tall figure briefly blurs into view. The stereoscopic effect of the unstable dream ripples over the figure and in an instant it’s gone.

I blink and try to concentrate. I need to focus on Langford. I need to stay calm, or I’ll lose this dream.

“Sir, what do you think about Titan Inc.? I see they are working on some new AI technology for the medical industry.” I try to keep my breathing normal.

“Titan Inc., they’re… a new company, yes? They have a lot of potential. Definitely one to watch.”

“How much potential? Should I buy it?”

“Well, that’s… hard to say. You know, I don’t like to buy the stocks of companies that I haven’t researched…”

“But you think this one has potential?” I need to get a straight answer from him.

“Uhm, well, yes. I think they could become another major player, it’s simply a matter of—”

“Okay, so I will buy their stock then.” That’s all I need to know. “What else do you have for me?”

Langford looks a little bit taken aback. “You know, son, it’s getting a bit late. I need to take my afternoon nap.” Langford pushes himself out of his chair.

“C’mon, just one more stock recommendation! I need this!” I want to jump up and grab him by the collar, but I hold myself back. Why is this old man so tightfisted with this knowledge?

“You’re quite insistent aren’t you. Oh, well, let me think. Uhm…, oh, well there’s Apexion Holdings. That stock has gone up tremendously in the last three months. That kind of growth is just not sustainable. Its price should correct at some point,” Langford says.

“Okay, Apexion Holdings is gonna crater, got it.” I better not forget any of this. I close my eyes…

and…

slip…

back…

to…

sleep.

I wake up before my second alarm goes off and immediately jot down the most important takeaways from the dream:

Buy Titan Inc., sell and short Apexion Holdings

I make myself a quick double shot of espresso with my Gaggenau coffee machine and walk straight to my trading room. There’s no time for a workout or breakfast this morning. I have pre-market trading privileges, so I immediately log in and get started right away. I need to pivot away from whatever Langford recommended to me before. That information is out in the world. Lord knows who else has shorted or bought those same stocks? The sooner I get out of those stocks the better.

I close all my existing positions: Pebble and Twigg (PBTW), Timber Time (TTM), Nautica (NAU), DataCrunch (DC) and a modest fifty-thousand-dollar position in Technetis (TS). I also liquidate my Ubicraft (UBIC) short. In total my trading account now stands at fifteen million dollars in cash—ready to be deployed.

My phone buzzes on the table next to me—another message from Gage. I don’t have time to listen to that traitor right now. I need to put everything I have into Titan Inc. (TTN) and short the living shit out of Apexion Holdings (APEX). I’m not even going to bother with a stop-loss on the APEX short—why should I? Langford has never been wrong.

After making all the trades I wanted to make, I sit back in my Herman Miller chair and stare at my Trading View screens. I have six monitors fixed to the wall, but only three are in use at the moment: one for TTN, one for APEX, and one for stock market news.

And now I wait.

#

The days go by in a blur. I don’t dare move away from my trading monitors, lest I miss anything important. So far Titan Inc. (TTN) has shot up to $42 a share. I bought it at $22 a share, so I’ve already doubled my money. But I have a strong feeling that it can go up even more. Langford did say that it was a promising stock.

I borrow some money from my broker through a margin account and put another six-hundred thousand into TTN. I don’t want to be left behind when this thing runs to the moon.

Apexion Holdings (APEX) has gone slightly up since I started shorting it. It went from $95.01 a share to $98.43—not a disaster, but it’s frustrating to watch the stock tick upwards. Didn’t Langford say its growth was unsustainable and that it should be crashing soon? Dammit. I put in another short contract. Surely, APEX can’t go up more. In the meantime, I keep my eyes glued to my monitors and read every article I can find on Titan Inc. and Apexion Holdings.

#

I open my eyes. It’s the middle of the night. I’m in my bedroom. I can feel my bed beneath me—as soft as always. I tear myself away from the bed and stand up. My bedroom stretches out in all directions around me. But my bedroom is different tonight. The walls are covered, floor to ceiling, with screens. Each one displays financial charts—complete with red-and-green candlestick bars, Bollinger Bands, resistance and support lines, trend lines, and moving averages. The screens aren’t flat OLED screens like the ones in my office. They’re more like old CRT screens.

A pulse of static ripples up and down across each screen. There’s a buzzing sound. It’s the screens—no, it’s, it’s… slot machine sounds? Metallic clicks, bleeps, jingles, a spring-loaded thunk, and clatter of coins—over and over again, louder and louder each time. The static waves on the screens become thicker with each iteration.

Inside each thick wave of static that rides over the screen is an outline of a man. A tall man in a long coat and a fedora hat.

The noise presses against me. The screens become so intensely bright, that their glow bleaches everything away.   

#

Apexion Holdings has come out with a stellar quarterly earnings report. Fan-freaking-tastic. Its stock price has shot up in the pre-market from 98.78 to 125.02. By the time the market opened at 9:00 a.m., the stock rocketed up to almost 150 dollars—that’s almost 51%! It’s a hell of a squeeze, but I’m not going to let it scare me off.

I get an email from my broker—if I don’t cover my losses with more cash in the next five days, they’ll liquidate my account and close it.

I immediately get on the phone with my private banker and organize a mortgage on my apartment. The money should be available within the next two days. All is not completely lost. In fact, this is a great opportunity. Apexion Holdings has no business being over 100 dollars. It’s literally 50% overvalued. If I double my short position, I can make up all the money I lost and make a nice profit. Besides, how much higher can the son of a bitch stock go?

#

I open my eyes and roll out of bed. My bedroom unfurls around me. I press my right index finger into the palm of my hand. The finger goes straight through my palm. I turn to the vanity table across from me and look at myself in the mirror. The mirror casts back a blurry image, as if water is flowing over the surface. I lean in and try to touch the mirror. I feel nothing, but the image flutters around my finger. The image of the hunched over, hairy ape that has my eyes and nose gradually emerges. I move my head to the side, and the hairy monkey does the same. I smile; it smiles back. Great, I’m dreaming.

Just as I’m about to turn toward my bedroom door, my reflection in the mirror becomes fuzzy and reconstructs into something else. Someone else. A man wearing a gold-threaded suit. He’s about my age, immaculately groomed, perfect set of teeth that gleam as he smiles at me. Nice—better than a damn ape.

But then something rises from his head. A golden crown? No, it’s—it’s horns—two gilded horns rise from his black hair and curve upwards. He laughs at me, and as he does so, his teeth become longer, sharper. His lips become black, and his eyes… his eyes glow red in the dark bedroom.

I stumble backwards. My bedroom flickers in and out of view. This is just a dream, I remind myself. This is just a fucking dream.

I focus my attention on my hands, reality checking myself until the dream stabilizes. I walk to my bedroom door, giving the mirror a wide berth. It feels like I’m walking through mud, but I dare not stop now. I open my bedroom door and step onto the porch of Harlan Langford’s house. Before I knock on the door, the door swings open.

“Welcome Mr. Sullivan. It is a pleasure to have you, as always,” the doorman says.

“Thank you, Ivan,” I say and hand him my coat.

I head straight up to the second floor and find Langford in his office. He is hunched over a thick ledger book, tracing the rows with his fingertips.

“Mr. Langford, I hope I’m not disturbing you,” I say and take a seat.

“Oh, not at all Ethan. You are always welcome here, you know that. How have your investments been going?”

“Well, not so good, actually. Titan Inc. almost doubled after a week. But it’s been trending downwards for the last couple of weeks. Didn’t you say that it was a sure thing?”

“Uh no, I said that it could become a major player, over time of course. Ethan, you can’t expect immediate gains. That rarely happens, most of the time—”

“Yeah, yeah, time in the market is better than timing the market. I know. You’ve said it a million times. I want to make money now. I want certainty. I want to know of cheap stocks that are going to blast off now, not over the course of twenty years. And by the way—you said Apexion’s growth is unsustainable—well it coiled like a spring and went up 51% in one day. What the hell, Harlan? I thought you knew what was happening in the stock market. I thought I could rely on you.”   

“I see.” Langford closes the leather-bound ledger book with a thud. “I think I know what’s happening here.”

“What?”

“You’ve had two good years in the market. But every bull run has to eventually come to an end. No investor only has gains. There are losses too, that’s what the market does. You have to invest in such a way that you can withstand the lows, the bearish time periods, the times of uncertainty, because boy, you’ll see a lot of them over the years. You can’t only invest with the aim of making money now. In fact, that’s not investing, that’s speculating. Don’t let greed guide you—it will guide you straight into misery.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m here to make money, okay. Your stock recommendations have always been one-hundred-percent fool-proof. I need more sure bets, no life lessons. I’ll listen to a podcast if I wanted that. Just tell me what to buy.”

Langford says nothing. It doesn’t even look like he’s listening to me. He stares at his ledger book and caresses the leather cover. The cover distorts under his hand. A human figure takes shape on it—a dark figure of a man, wearing a long coat and a fedora hat. Where have I seen that before? It seems familiar, but I can’t place it.

“Ivan!” Langford’s chair creaks as he leans back to call his doorman.

“Yes sir.” Ivan replies almost immediately. He must have been standing right outside Langford’s study.

“Please see Mr. Sullivan out,” Langford says without even looking at me.

“Excuse me, we’re not done yet!” I say, but Ivan already has me by the arm and is pulling me onto my feet. “Get your hands of me!” I push Ivan away. I stand up and turn to Langford. “You and I, we’re not done yet. I’ll show you. I’ll show you bigtime, old man. I’ll become even richer than you. Far sooner than you think.”

Langford’s study disintegrates around me.

I wake up with a jolt. I cannot believe that damn Langford. Who the hell does he think he is?

I pull my blanket off, get out of bed, and pace back and forth in front of my bed, avoiding my mirror as I walk.

#

I slide into my office chair a minute before nine o’clock. Titan Inc. has risen almost five percent in the pre-market to 44.10 dollars a share. Things are finally turning around for me. Apexion Holdings climbed another two dollars since I doubled my short position in it, but that’s okay, nothing to worry about—as long as it doesn’t decide to jump up further.

The chime of a synthetic alarm bell rings from my computer: the New York Stock Exchange is open and ready for business. I turn to one of my monitors that’s sole purpose is to show me the stock market news. It’s the same old, same old: consumer reports, an airline that’s about to agree to a settlement with a pilot’s union, Ubicraft tanks after a poor earnings report, fuel shortages in some backwaters country I’ve never heard of, et cetera.

Then something catches my eye—a headline about Titan Inc.: Unsinkable? Research Firm Publishes Damning 80-Page Report About Titan Inc.

My heart skips a beat.

The subheading reads: Halcyon Analytics claims Titan Inc. (TTN) are built on illusion and questionable accounting practices.

I speed read through the article: “Site visits conducted by the research firm reportedly found no operational presence at addresses tied to key partners….” “Titan Inc.’s cash conversion ratio has deteriorated sharply—a telltale signature of engineered earnings.” “…Titan Inc. blurred the line between contracted revenue and realized income, allowing the company to present the appearance of hypergrowth.”

I scramble for my keyboard—I need to sell the stock before it nosedives even more.

I log into my brokerage account, but for some reason, on today of all days, it wants to verify my personal information before I can continue.

“Fuck, I don’t have time for this!”

I click the skip button, but it’s grayed out—I have no choice—I must complete the form before I can log in.

I rush through it as quickly as I can, leaving sweat droplets on the keyboard as I type.

I hit send.

By the time I get to my holdings and press the red sell button, TTN’s price has already dropped 43.6%.

The sell button spins as the brokerage processes my order.

Meanwhile, the price keeps dropping:

$24.87…

$24.17…

$24.02…

I adjust my sell order to get it through, but the price keeps dropping out from under me.

$23.77…

$22.89…

$22.01…

“Fill dammit!”

The sell order button keeps spinning.

$21.39…

$20.54…

$20.12…

The screen freezes for a split second while the cursor keeps spinning.

Then a green notification pops up on my screen: TTN sold at $19.78.

I bought these shares at an average price of $32, so I sold at a solid loss.

I’m seven figures in margin now.  

I need another stock to get out of margin.

#

My bedroom expands around me. My right finger goes through the palm of my left hand without problem. I walk past the mirror. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man in the gold-threaded suit and gilded horns. He copies my mannerisms as I walk past the mirror, except his mouth is turned into a snarl—and pointed teeth pierce through his lips.

I ignore him and carry on to my bedroom door.

I step onto Langford’s porch. It is overcast and windy outside. It takes four knocks for him to open the door before the front door groans open.

Ivan the doorman blocks the entrance. “I’m sorry sir, but Mister Langford is not available to see guests this evening.”

“I’ll just be a minute.”

“No.”

“C’mon, how busy can he be? He’s retired.”

“Come back another time, sir.” Ivan motions to close the door, but I beat him to it. I slide through the narrow gap between him and the doorframe and head straight up the stairs.

“Sir, Mister Langford doesn’t want any guests. I must ask you to—”

“Yeah, whatever, I’ll do what I want,” I mutter under my breath.

Langford is in his study, reading the newspaper.

“So you’ve seen the news? Titan Inc. is a fucking scam, and I lost almost all my money on it. What the fuck do you have to say for yourself?”

“Excuse me?” Langford looks startled. 

“It’s all over the news today. The stock plummeted to practically nothing by the end of trading this afternoon. You recommended it, remember? Said it was a strong buy.” I don’t even bother to take a seat.

“I don’t know what to say, Ethan. These things happen. Sometimes, even I can be wrong.”

“No, you can’t be wrong! You’ve never been wrong! You aren’t allowed to be wrong. I counted on you, dammit!”

Langford pushes his chair back and gets up. He shuffles to his office door, then turns to me and gestures for me to leave. “Ethan, I appreciate your trust in me, but I can’t be held responsible for every loss you take in the market. I think you should leave. Calm down and come back another time.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, old man. I’m not going anywhere until you’ve given me a new stock recommendation. I need money, fast. So put out. What stocks are you hiding from me, huh? You must know of stocks that are about to go parabolic, you always do.”

“Ethan, I’m not going to talk to you if you are in this kind of mood. I won’t stand for it.” Langford steps out of his office and motions to the stairs. “Please leave. Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere and don’t tell me what to do! Come here and talk to me!” I charge at Langford and grab him by the shoulders.

His body is frailer than I imagined. As I seize his left shoulder, I accidentally push him backward.

I see it happening in slow motion. Langford’s face freezes, eyes wide with shock. His body tilts backwards and falls down the long wooden staircase. His arms flail but don’t find purchase.

I try to reach out to him.

I’m hopelessly too late.

Langford’s neck strikes the stairs with a sickening jolt. He rolls backward and comes to rest in a twisted bundle on the carpet. A glossy halo of blood forms beneath his skull.

“What have you done! What have you done!” Ivan screams and rushes to Langford. “What have you done!”

Ivan’s screams echo through my head. Black smoke rises up from the floor till everything around me is gone.

#

Sunlight breaks through the slits between my bedroom curtains. I’ve been staring at my bedroom ceiling for the last five hours—thinking about everything that has happened the last couple of days. I try not to think about the latest dream.

Ping!

I roll over and pick up my phone. The top notification is an email from my broker. My throat tightens.

Dear Mr. Ethan Sullivan,

This message serves as formal notice that your margin account ending in 7865 has fallen below the required maintenance margin due to recent market movements.

As of June 6, 8:00 a.m., your account equity is below our minimum margin requirements. To avoid forced liquidation of positions, you must deposit additional funds or marginable securities totaling $1.2 million no later than 1:00 p.m. today (local market time).

What you need to do:

• Wire transfer funds to your brokerage account
• Deposit eligible marginable securities
• Reduce exposure by closing positions

If the required equity is not restored by the deadline above, we reserve the right, in accordance with your margin agreement, to liquidate positions in your account without further notice. Please be aware that market volatility may require immediate action, and liquidation may occur prior to the stated deadline if risk thresholds are breached.

You can review your margin status by logging into your account dashboard or contacting our Margin Risk Desk directly….

I jump out of bed and race to my computer. Apexion Holdings has risen to 198.23 overnight and ticks higher by the minute. My short got squeezed and I’m completely underwater.

“What the fuck?” My hands tremble over the keyboard. There’s no way I have that kind of money. Not even if I sell my Porsche right now, it won’t be nearly enough.

I check the monitor for the latest market news. At the top of the page is an article titled: Analysts Scramble to Raise Price Targets as Apexion Holdings Doubles Revenue Guidance.

“Just fucking great.”

At the top of the screen, a new carousel of ads appears. In the middle is a picture of a man in a long black coat and a fedora hat. Below the man, the words: “The market isn’t a casino, but speculation often turns it into one—and then the House always wins.”

“What the—”

The carousel blinks and is replaced by another set of ads before I can have a closer look.

My eyes defocus. I stare at the monitor and see my own reflection: Deep, dark circles are etched under my eyes and my hair points in every direction. How the hell did things get so out of control?

Then a new news item pops up ahead of the Apexion Holdings article. It is accompanied by a large picture of an old man, sitting behind an old office desk. My eyes refocus and I read the headline: Harlan Langford – dead at 86. Billionaire investor and philanthropist died last night of a heart attack.

#

My bedroom tears itself open around my bed. I walk to my mirror and stare at the reflection—a man in a gold-threaded suit and gilded horns. He stares back at me. He doesn’t smile, simply stares at me with a cold glare. I run my fingers through my hair—he does likewise. As I run my fingers through my hair, I touch something hard. Almost exactly where the gold-threaded suit man’s golden horns are. I flick my hand a way, then carefully bring it back and pat my head. The man in the reflection does the same, carefully touching his horns. Whatever I felt is gone now. The man laughs at me, baring his sharp teeth.

“You got me, very funny,” I mutter and walk to my bedroom door. As I open the door, a gust of warm, sandy wind blows over me. I shield my eyes and step forward.

I don’t step onto the warm sand-colored travertine stone of Harlan Langford’s porch. Instead, I stumble over soot-stained rocks and almost fall over a broken fascia board.

The wind dies down. Before me lies what used to be Harlan Langford’s prized five-bedroom stucco house. All that remains of it now is a skeletal, smoke-streaked, blistered shell of bricks, exposed metal mesh, debris, and ash.

Underneath a smoldering piece of wood lies Langford’s ledger book. Its brown leather is now a blistered and greasy charcoal; its pages stick out in brittle waves. I bend down to pick it up, but the book’s spine cracks and folds in on itself as I lift it from the ground. Powdery ashes and flakes of gray paper slide between my fingers and fall in a silent, powdery stream.

“You did this, Ethan.” I hear a voice from somewhere close by.

I turn around to leave. My bedroom door isn’t behind me—just empty space, not even a sidewalk or street.

“You were given a gift. A rare opportunity. But you always wanted more, didn’t you?”

“Who is it? Show yourself!”

Out of the empty house steps a dark figure. Someone wearing a long black coat and a fedora hat.

“I didn’t do any of this! Harlan… Harlan died of a heart attack. He was 86. He—”

“Tell yourself whatever you want, I don’t care,” the man says as he takes the last few steps out of the building. The wide brim of his hat obscures his face.

“Who are you?”

“What did you learn from Langford? Mmm? You spent a lot of time with him. What wisdom did you gain?”

“Lots of things. Like, uhm—” Nothing sprung to my mind.

“Exactly, you didn’t learn a damn thing. You only used him as an oracle, a magic stock tip machine. Langford never used margin or leverage, what made you think you could tempt me?”

The wind starts up again, propelling ash and debris into my face.

“You don’t have to be noble to trade stocks, but you can’t be a fool. Money has a way of leaving fools and finding those who respect it.”

I look at my hands and see that the ashes that are stuck to my fingers have turned to blood. In the distance, Philadelphia Broad Street train whistles past. I’m right back where I started.

© Marinda Kotze, 2026

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