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“Great Scott! It’s ... ''Robin Hood''!” mouthed the sell-siders, in awe and wonder. | “Great Scott! It’s ... ''Robin Hood''!” mouthed the sell-siders, in awe and wonder. | ||
But — and this is true of all archetypical mythologies, readers, so don’t be disheartened | But — and this is true of all archetypical mythologies, readers, so don’t be disheartened — as the timid little sell-side negotiator stood, wide-eyed, the wondrous spell sparkled and crackled in the air, but it did not seem to stop the relentless advance. Eventually it faded away to a dispersing vapour. “Oh — oh ''dear''.” The poor little sell-side negotiator quailed, defenceless out there in front of her ramparts, beyond the safety of her city walls, as, from the darkened forest, monstrous buyside warriors swaggered towards her. | ||
“Expecto — oh” | |||
“Trouble us nae with thy amateur hokey pokey!” they roared. You’ll nae stop the men of the mighty hedges with a weedy concoction like ''tha’''. Now let’s take that harmless wee lockie and put it back taegither, and we shall pretend this did no’ happen, aye?” | |||
“Now, my young friend. What was | And with that, the enormous bearded ogre scooped up the damp fragments at the negotiator’s feet, and in a demonstration of power altogether more terrifying than anything one could do with a broadsword, he waved his great, meaty fingers over the shreds and they magically knitted themselves back together on the palm of his hand. He leveled his great, green eyes to regard the negotiator. | ||
“Now, my young friend. What was ye saying about ye standing for nae lockup?” | |||
But where the sell-sider had been was a curlicue of disturbed dust. | But where the sell-sider had been was a curlicue of disturbed dust. | ||
Revision as of 17:44, 6 December 2021
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Horcrux
/hɔːkrʌks/ (n.)
An object in which a warlock, wizard or witch has hidden a fragment of his or her soul in order to later attain immortality. Horcruxes can only be created after committing a supreme act of evil — corporate insolvency, forgetting to register a charge, splitting an infinitive — that kind of thing. Therefore lots were generated in the wake of the global financial crisis, and to this day practitioners of dark arts (eg credit officers) may still invoke them to ward off over-enthusiastic salespeople.
Horcruxes in current circulation
The most famous Horcrux takes the form of an Iron Mountain box stuffed with personal effects and deal bibles. It is the “Lehman”. Since it first emerged in late 2008, the Lehman has been an ever-present weapon in the armoury of those devilish advocates, buy-side legal eagles. Sometimes, for smaller jobs, they might invoke an MF Global. These men and women — buyside counsel, that is — are all of Slytherin:[2] they wield their magical spells in the service of the Dark Lord of the Swaps — yea; he who shall not be named; the very master of the universe himself, against the righteous forces of the First Men, whose heroes one typically finds defending the ramparts of the worshipful company of broker-dealers.
So, for more than a decade, pandaemonium reigned. The dark armies advanced, all but unchecked. They ransacked the shires and, where they encountered any resistance, had only to mention the Lehman horcrux to reduce brave defenders to quivering goose-flesh. Sell-side negotiators were defenceless against such deep magic.
A prophecy is fulfilled
But then a wild-haired prophet[3] came down from the high mountain and stood before the townspeople. “Children of the Forest!” he cried. “I teach you the Superman!”[4]
“For it is foretold that a new force born of ordinary, mortal, deplorable retail investors, shall rise up out of the swamp to vanquish the Dark Lord of the Swaps. Just remember, you reddit here first!”
The townsfolk laughed and pelted poor Zarathustra with rotten vegetables.
“There they stand,” said he to his heart; “there they laugh: they understand me not; I am not the mouth for these ears.”
But yea, in the year 2021 it came to pass. Of the low-born retail investors emerged a counter-Horcrux of great power: at least as powerful as the Lehman. Advancing buy-sider soldiers were stopped in their tracks; bogged down; beaten off.
“What is this new sorcery?” they cried.
The impasse lasted weeks, opposing forces mired in their trenches; the advancing army stopped but yet no quarter given. For a long winter month they stood, at the point of each other’s spears, unable to advance or retreat. Then, one bright morning, a single, small, brave prime broker clambered out of her trench, stood up and walked calmly into no-man’s land, quite unarmed, waving a white margin lock-up in front of her.
“What the hell is she doing?” her comrades cried.
The little negotiator raised the parchment above her head, and tore it into a thousand pieces.
Her comrades quailed. “Someone stop her! This is suicide! They will kill us all!”
And so it seemed they would. As they pulled back the arms of their monstrous trebuchets you could hear the buyside soldiers laugh. “Finish them off, Melvin!” cackled one. “We’ll be having brokers for breakfast in the morning!”
But then the brave little negotiator shrieked at the top of her lungs, “EXPECTO GAMESTOPIBUS!!!” And there, in the sky, a dazzling, luminous, snorting apparition appeared. A great, pearlescent, archer, flinging arrows of burning destruction into the crowded shorts of the buy-side.
“Great Scott! It’s ... Robin Hood!” mouthed the sell-siders, in awe and wonder.
But — and this is true of all archetypical mythologies, readers, so don’t be disheartened — as the timid little sell-side negotiator stood, wide-eyed, the wondrous spell sparkled and crackled in the air, but it did not seem to stop the relentless advance. Eventually it faded away to a dispersing vapour. “Oh — oh dear.” The poor little sell-side negotiator quailed, defenceless out there in front of her ramparts, beyond the safety of her city walls, as, from the darkened forest, monstrous buyside warriors swaggered towards her.
“Expecto — oh”
“Trouble us nae with thy amateur hokey pokey!” they roared. You’ll nae stop the men of the mighty hedges with a weedy concoction like tha’. Now let’s take that harmless wee lockie and put it back taegither, and we shall pretend this did no’ happen, aye?”
And with that, the enormous bearded ogre scooped up the damp fragments at the negotiator’s feet, and in a demonstration of power altogether more terrifying than anything one could do with a broadsword, he waved his great, meaty fingers over the shreds and they magically knitted themselves back together on the palm of his hand. He leveled his great, green eyes to regard the negotiator.
“Now, my young friend. What was ye saying about ye standing for nae lockup?”
But where the sell-sider had been was a curlicue of disturbed dust.
The colossal trebuchets imploded. A great wind flattened the buy-side encampments. Sigils burned. The mercenary forces of the Dark Lord scattered to the four corners of the earth.
Back in the village, Zarathustra stood on his rock, observing the smoke on the horizon. He smiled, wistfully.
“One day you will no longer see your loftiness, and your lowliness will be all too clear; your very sublimity will frighten you like a phantom. Then you will cry: ‘the world is a lie!’”
See also
References
- ↑ Actually this may be an actual undead Lehman employee.
- ↑ Or, at a pinch, the darker recesses of Ravenclaw: at any rate, there are no Hufflepuffians or Gryffindoran alumni in their throng.
- ↑ Look, a fellow can dream. okay? About having hair, at any rate.
- ↑ “Humankind should be overcome. What have you done to overcome it? All creatures hitherto have created something beyond themselves: do you want to be the ebb of this great tide, and return to the animals rather than overcome yourself?” — Friedrich Nietzsche, Also Sprach Zarathustra