The Lion’s Den: An Opco Boone Adventure
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The Adventures of Opco Boone, Legal Ace™
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Boone flipped the safety on his piece and placed it on the table. He lifted his hand and stepped back slooow. “See? We’re cool, Felix; it’s all cool. Safe. We’re off the record. For old time’s sake.”
Felix regarded the Dictaphone. He played it aloof. “Automatic. Five-speed. Nice gat, Opco. I — I’m impressed.”
When he sat back, Felix dissolved into the darkness behind the desk lamp. Only his specs caught a gleam. There was devil in them: a thin, piss-streaked, amber bead of the satanic.
Opco swallowed. “We are tracking a cache of FWMDs. We know they made it into the EU. We believe they used a CP conduit.”
“But how? The perimeter — it’s — I mean, the borders are MiFID patrolled for Chrissakes ...”
“Reverse enquiry into Liechtenstein —”
Felix whistled. Not even EEA, but a Schengen route in via the Swissies.
“Look, these guys are professionals. They know what they’re doing.” Boone smiled. “But we picked them up. We traced them down the clearing chain.”
“Oh?” Now Felix leaned forward, his eyes suddenly fierce.
“— but the trail went cold in Estonia.”
Felix sat back. “Yes, well I suppose that happens in the Baltic. But what has this got to do with me? What makes you think ...”
“You move in these circles, Felix.
“I —”
“Don’t bullshit me, man. We both know you do. You can help.”
“Help?”
“Information. It’s all I want.”
Felix tipped his head.
“This isn’t the normal fake equity, Felix. This is hard stuff. Carbon. Nitrous Oxide. This stuff kills people.”
“Emissions, huh?”
“Collateralised freaking emissions, Felix. They’re tranching the stuff.”
The old man looked away and sighed. “Yes.”
Boone shifted. He caught a vibe. “Wait a minute.”
Felix cut him off. “It’s done, Opco. It’s too late. The trucks are rolling. But you have to admit, it is elegant.” Felix tittered. “We have extracted the pure price of governmental regulatory permission to discharge greenhouse gas into the air.”
The temperature dropped. Boone puckered up and let rip a ring of frosted breath. “It’s a derivative of…”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Hot air!”
“Well, specifically, a derivative on an ineffective tax on the right to expel hot air.”
“Oh. Right.”
Felix brightened. “Only, it’s five times levered! And Opco?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s not even the best bit.”
“You mean, there’s more?”
“There’s more.” Felix licked his lizard lips. “The whole thing — every goddamn tranche; even the triple As — it’s all denominated in —”
Boone froze. “Oh, Jesus. You can’t be serious.”
Finally, that inscrutable mask gave way. “I can!” Felix’s features cracked and folded and rearranged themselves into a ghoulish grin. He threw back his head and guffawed.
“I can’t… it’s just… Oh, dear… It’s just –” He stopped, abruptly, and regarded his old protégé. “It’s priceless! Literally!” Once again the old broker erupted, gales of blackened laughter cascading from that gruesome maw. “You better hold on, Opco.”
“Hold on?”
“For dear life!” Felix roared.
It was only at that moment that Boone understood everything. The enormity; the horror; the forthcoming apocalypse. Bitcoin. They had denominated this goddamn thing in bitcoin.
Tens of thousands of witless, sheep-like certified financial advisors completely unable to resist the tawdry lure. It was catnip. They were fucked. This was going into every portfolio in the country.
“Stick your 401k in cash, brother. This is going to hurt.”