Текст книги "The Wolf of Wall Street "

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

How ironic it was that with all this internal debating I had missed one very important point: If I no longer had to worry about getting stoned inside the boardroom, there would be nothing to stop me from doing Quaaludes all day long. Without realizing it, I was setting the stage for some very dark times ahead. After all, the only thing holding me back now would be my own good judgment, which had a funny way of deserting me…especially when it came to blondes and drugs.

CHAPTER 22

LUNCHTIME IN THE ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE

Every time the restaurant door opened, a handful of Strattonites came marching in to Tenjin, causing three Japanese sushi chefs and half a dozen pint-size waitresses to drop whatever they were doing and scream out, “Gongbongwa! Gongbongwa! Gongbongwa!”which was Japanese for good afternoon. Then they offered the Strattonites deep formal bows and changed their tone to a dramatic high-pitched squeal: “ Yo-say-no-sah-no-seh! Yo-say-nosah-no-seh! Yo-say-no-sah-no-seh!”which meant God only knew what.

The chefs ran over to greet the new arrivals, grabbing them by the wrists and inspecting their gleaming gold wristwatches. In heavily accented English, they would interrogate them: “How much watch cost? Where you buy? What car you drive to restaurant? Ferrari? Mercedes? Porsche? What kind golf club you use? Where you play at? How long for tee time? What your handicap?”

Meanwhile, the waitresses, who dressed in salmon-pink kimonos with lime-green rucksacks on their backs, rubbed the backs of their hands against the fine Italian wool of all those custom-made Gilberto suit jackets, nodding their heads approvingly, and making cooing sounds: “Ohhhhhhh…ahhhhhhhh…nice-a-fabric…so-a-soft!”

But then, as if by silent cue, they all stopped at precisely the same moment and returned to whatever it was they’d been doing. In the case of the sushi chefs, it meant rolling and folding and slicing and dicing. In the case of the waitresses, it meant serving oversize vats of Premium sake and Kirin beer to the young and the thirsty, and enormous wooden sailboats filled with overpriced sushi and sashimi to the rich and the hungry.

And just when you thought it was safe, the door swung open once more, and the madness repeated itself, as the wildly animated staff of Tenjin came swooping down on the next group of Strattonites and bathed them in Japanese pomp and circumstance, as well as heaping doses of what I was certain was unadulterated Japanese bullshit.

Welcome to lunch hour—Stratton style!

At this very moment, the alternative universe was exerting its full force on this tiny corner of planet earth. Dozens of sports cars and stretch limousines blocked traffic outside the restaurant, while inside the restaurant young Strattonites carried on their time-honored tradition of acting like packs of untamed wolves. Of the restaurant’s forty tables, only two were occupied by non-Strattonites, or civilians, as we called them. Perhaps they had inadvertently stumbled upon Tenjin while searching for a quiet place to enjoy a nice relaxing meal. Whatever the case, there was no doubt they had been entirely unaware of the bizarre fate about to befall them. After all, as lunch progressed, the drugs would start kicking in.

Yes, the clock had just struck one and some of the Strattonites were already getting off. It wasn’t hard to tell which of them were Luded out; they were the ones standing on the tabletops, slurring and drooling and reciting war stories. Fortunately, the sales assistants were required to stay in the boardroom—manning the phones and catching up on paperwork—so everyone still had their clothes on and nobody was rutting away in the bathrooms or under the tables.

I was sitting in a private alcove at the rear of the restaurant, watching this very madness unfold while pretending to listen to the ramblings of Kenny Greene, the blockheaded moron, who was spewing out his own version of unadulterated bullshit. Meanwhile, Victor Wang, the Depraved Chinaman, was nodding his panda-size head at everything his moronic friend was saying, although I was certain he knew Kenny was a moron too and was only pretending to agree with him.

The Blockhead was saying, “…is the exact reason why you stand to make so much money here, JB. I mean, Victor is the sharpest guy I know.” He reached over and patted the Depraved Chinaman on his enormous back. “Next to you, of course, but that goes without saying.”

I smiled a bogus smile and said, “Well, gee, Kenny, thanks for the vote of confidence!”

Victor chuckled at his friend’s idiocy, then flashed me one of his hideous smiles, causing his eyes to become so narrow they all but disappeared.

Kenny, however, had never really mastered the concept of irony. In consequence, he had taken my offering of thanks at face value and was now beaming with great pride. “Anyway, the way I figure it, it’s only gonna take four hundred thousand or so in start-up capital to really get this thing off the ground. If you want, you can give it to me in cash and I’ll filter it to Victor through my mother”—his mother?—“and you don’t have to even worry about it leaving a bad paper trail”—a bad paper trail?—“because my mother and Victor own some real estate together, so they can justify it like that. Then we’ll need a few key stockbrokers to help get the pump going and, most importantly, a big allocation of the next new issue. The way I figure it is…”

I quickly tuned out. Kenny was bursting at the seams with excitement, and every word that escaped his lips was utter nonsense.

Neither Victor nor Kenny was aware of the SEC’s settlement offer. I wouldn’t let them in on that for a few more days, not until both of them had gotten themselves so wet in the pants over the fabulous future of Duke Securities that Stratton Oakmont would seem all but expendable. Only then would I tell them.

Just then I caught a glimpse of Victor out of the corner of my eye, and I took a moment to regard him. Just looking at the Depraved Chinaman on an empty stomach made me want to eat him! Why this massive Chinaman looked so succulent had always baffled me, although it probably had most to do with his skin, which was smoother than a newborn baby’s. And beneath that velvety soft skin were a dozen layers of lavish Chinese fat, which would be perfect for cooking; and beneath thatwere a dozen more layers of indestructible Chinese muscle, which would be perfect for eating; and on the very surface of it all, he sported the most delicious Chinese tint, which was the exact color of fresh tupelo honey.

The end result was that every time I laid eyes on Victor Wang, I envisioned him as a suckling pig, and I felt like shoving an apple in his mouth and sticking a skewer up his ass and throwing him on a rotisserie and basting him in sweet and sour sauce and then inviting some friends over to eat him—luau style!

“…and Victor will always stay loyal,” continued the Blockhead, “and you stand to make more money off Duke Securities than off Biltmore and Monroe Parker combined.”

I shrugged my shoulders, then said, “Perhaps, Kenny, but that’s not my primary concern here. Don’t get me wrong—I’m planning on making a lot of money. I mean, after all, why shouldn’t all of us make a lot? But what’s most important to me here, what I’m really trying to accomplish, is to secure your and Victor’s futures. If I can do that and make a few extra million a year at the same time, then I’ll consider the whole thing a huge success.” I paused for a few moments to let my bullshit sink in and tried getting a quick read on how they were taking my sudden change of heart.

So far so good, I thought. “Anyway, we have our SEC trial coming up in less than six months, and who knows how it’ll end up? As good as things look, there may come a point when it might make sense to settle the case. And if that day comes, I want to make sure everybody has their exit visas stamped and ready. Believe it or not, I’ve actually wanted to get Duke up and running for a while now, but the issue of my Judicate stock has been hanging over my head. I still can’t sell it for two more weeks, so everything we do has to be kept secret for now. I can’t overestimate the importance of that. Understood?”

Victor nodded his panda head in understanding, and said, “I won’t breathe a word to anybody. And as far as my Judicate stock goes, I don’t even care about it. We all stand to make so much money on Duke that if I never get to sell a share I don’t even give a shit.”

At this point, Kenny chimed in: “You see, JB—I told you! Victor’s head is in the right spot; he’s completely with the program.” Once more, he reached over and patted the Chinaman’s enormous back.

Victor then said, “I also want you to know that I swear complete loyalty to you. Just tell me what stocks you want me to buy and I’ll buy the shit out of them. You’ll never see a share back until you ask for it.”

I smiled and said, “That’s why I’m agreeing to this, Victor, because I trust you and I know you’ll do the right thing. And, of course, because I think you’re a sharp guy and you’ll make a big success of it.” And words are cheap, I thought. In fact, all this goodwill on Victor’s part was complete crap, and I was willing to bet my very life on it. The Chinaman was incapable of being loyal to anybody or anything, especially himself, who he would inadvertently fuck over to feed his own warped ego.

According to plan, Danny showed up fifteen minutes after we sat down, which I had calculated as the appropriate amount of time for Kenny to relish his moment of glory without Danny being there to rain on his parade. After all, he deeply resented Danny for having taken over his slot as my number one. Skipping over Kenny was something I’d felt bad about, but it was something I’d had to do. Still, it was a shame he had to take the fall with Victor, especially since I was certain that Kenny believed every word he said to me—about Victor staying loyal, and all the rest of that jargon. But Kenny’s weakness was that he still looked at Victor through the eyes of a teenager. He still worshipped him as a successful coke dealer, while he was merely a successful pot dealer, which was one step down on the drug-dealing food chain.

Anyway, I had already had my sit-down with Danny when I got back to Stratton after my meeting with Ike—explaining my plan to him in intimate detail, holding back very little. When I was finished, his response had been the expected one.

“In my mind,” he’d said, “you’ll always own Stratton, and sixty cents of every dollar will always be yours. And that’s whether you take an office down the street or you decide to sail your yacht around the world.”

Now, an hour later, he had arrived at Tenjin, and he immediately poured himself a large cup of sake. Then he refilled all three of our cups and held up his own, as if to make a toast. Danny said, “To friendship and loyalty, and to getting scrummed by Blue Chips tonight.”

“Here, here!” I exclaimed, and the four of us clinked our white porcelain cups together. Then we downed the warm fiery brew.

I said to Kenny and Victor, “Listen, I haven’t really spoken to Danny about what’s going on with Duke”—a lie—“so let me give him the quick rundown and bring him up to speed, okay?”

Victor and Kenny nodded, and I quickly plunged into the details. When I got to the subject of where Duke should be located, I turned to Victor and said, “I’ll give you a couple of options: The first is to go to New Jersey, just over the George Washington Bridge, and open the firm there. Your best bet would be Fort Lee, or maybe Hackensack. Either way, you’ll have no trouble recruiting there. You’ll be able to pull kids from all over North Jersey and then some reverse commuters, kids living in Manhattan who are sick of working there. The second option would be to go into Manhattan itself; but that’s a double-edged sword. On one side, there’re a million kids there, so you won’t have any trouble recruiting, but on the other side you’re gonna find it hard to build loyalty there.

“One of the keys to Stratton is that we’re the only game in town. I mean, just look at this restaurant, for example.” I motioned with my head to all the tables. “All you see here are Strattonites. So what you have, Victor, is a self-contained society”—I resisted the urge to use the word cult,which was more appropriate—“where they don’t get to hear the alternative point of view. If you open an office in Manhattan, your guys are gonna be having lunch with stockbrokers from a thousand different firms. It might not seem too important right now, but, trust me, in the future it will be important, especially if you start getting bad press or if your stocks start crashing. Then you’ll be very happy that you’re in a place where nobody’s whispering negative things in your brokers’ ears. Anyway, that being said, I’ll still let it be your call.”

Victor nodded his panda head slowly, deliberately, as if he were weighing the pros and cons. I found this to be almost laughable, insofar as the chances of Victor agreeing to go to New Jersey were slim and nil, and as the saying went, slim had already left town. Victor’s giant ego would never allow him to pick New Jersey. After all, the state didn’t resonate with wealth and success and, most importantly, a place for players. No, Victor would want to open his firm right in the heart of Wall Street, whether it made sense or not. And that was fine with me. It would make it that much easier to destroy him when the time came.

I had given the same speech to the owners of Biltmore and Monroe Parker, all of whom had originally wanted to open their firms in Manhattan. That was why Monroe Parker was tucked away in upstate New York and why Florida-based Biltmore had chosen to keep its office off Boca Raton’s Maggot Mile, which was a name the press had given to the section of South Florida where all the brokerage firms were located.

In the end, it all came down to brainwashing, which had two distinct aspects to it. The first aspect was to keep saying the same thing over and over to a captive audience. The second aspect was to make sure you were the only one saying anything. There could be no competing viewpoints. Of course, it made things much easier if what you were saying was exactly what your subjects wanted to hear, which at Stratton Oakmont had been the case. Twice a day, every day, I had stood before the boardroom and told them that if they listened to me and did exactly as I said, they would have more money than they had ever dreamed possible and there would be gorgeous young girls throwing themselves at their very feet. And that was exactly what had happened.

After a good ten seconds of silence, Victor replied, “I see your point, but I think I can do really well in Manhattan. There’re so many kids there that I can’t imagine not filling the place up in two seconds flat.”

The Blockhead then added, “And I bet Victor could give some kick-ass motivational meetings. So everyone’s gonna love working for him. Anyway, I can help Victor with that. I’ve kept little notes on all your meetings, so I can go through them with Victor and we can…”

Oh, Christ! I quickly tuned out and began staring at the giant panda, trying to imagine what could possibly be going on inside that warped brain of his. He was actually a pretty smart guy, and he did have his uses. In fact, three years ago he had performed quite a service for me….

It was just after I’d left Denise. Nadine hadn’t officially moved in yet, so with no woman around, I decided to hire a full-time butler. But I wanted a gay butler, just like the one I’d seen on the show Dynasty—or was it Dallas? Anyway, the point was that I wanted a gay butler to call my own, and being as rich as I was, I figured I deserved it.

So Janet went on a quest to find me a gay butler, which, of course, she quickly did. His name was Patrick the Butler, and he was so gay that he had flames shooting out of his asshole. Patrick seemed like a pretty okay guy to me, in spite of being a bit tipsy once in a while, but I wasn’t home that much, so I really had no idea what he was like.

When the Duchess moved in, she quickly assumed control over the household, and she started noticing a few things—like that Patrick the Butler was a rip-roaring alcoholic who went through sexual partners at a ferocious clip, or so he’d confided in the Duchess after his fudge-packing tongue had been lubricated by Valium and alcohol and God only knew what else.

It wasn’t long after that that the shit hit the fan. Patrick the Butler made the sad mistake of assuming that the Duchess would be joining me at my parents’ house for Passover dinner, so he decided to host a gay orgy for twenty-one of his friends, who formed a human daisy chain around my living room and then played naked Twister in my bedroom. Yes, it was quite a sight the Duchess (who was twenty-three at the time) had the pleasure of walking in to: all those homosexuals pressed together—butt to nut—rutting away like barnyard animals in our tiny Manhattan love nest, on the fifty-third floor of Olympic Towers.

It was from out the window of that very floor, in fact, that Victor ended up hanging Patrick the Butler, after it came to light that Patrick and his posse had stolen $50,000 in cash from my sock drawer. In Victor’s defense, though, he hung Patrick out the window only after he’d asked him repeated times to return the stolen goods. Of course, his requests were punctuated by right crosses and left hooks, which had the effect of breaking Patrick’s nose, rupturing the capillaries in both his eyes, and cracking three or four of his ribs. You would’ve thought Patrick would come clean and return the stolen money, wouldn’t you?

Well, he didn’t. In fact, Danny and I were there to witness Victor’s act of savagery. It was Danny, more than anyone, who’d been talking tough—up until Victor threw the first punch and Patrick’s face exploded into raw hamburger meat, at which time Danny ran to the bathroom and began vomiting.

After a while it seemed that Victor was getting a bit carried away and was on the verge of dropping Patrick out the window. So I kindly asked Victor to pull him back in, a request that seemed to deeply sadden Victor but that he followed nonetheless. When Danny emerged from the bathroom, looking worried and green, I explained to him that I had called the cops and they were coming to arrest Patrick the Butler. Danny was absolutely stunned that I would have the audacity to call the police after being the architect of Patrick’s assault. But, again, I explained that when the police arrived I would tell them exactly what had happened, which was what I did. And to ensure that the two young policeman fully got my meaning, I gave each of them a thousand dollars in cash, at which point they nodded, removed their nightsticks from their NYPD utility belts, and began beating the shit out of Patrick the Butler all over again.

Just then my favorite waiter, Massa, came over to take our order. I smiled and said, “So tell me, Massa, what’s good—”

But Massa cut me right off and asked, “Why you take limo today? Where Ferrari? Don Johnson, right? You like Don Johnson?” to which the two waitresses exclaimed, “Ohhhh, he Don Johnson…he Don Johnson!”

I smiled at my Japanese admirers, who were referring to my white Ferrari Testarossa, which was the exact car that Don Johnson had driven when he played Sonny Crockett in Miami Vice.It was just one more example of me playing out my adolescent fantasies. Miami Vicehad been one of my favorite shows growing up, so I had bought a white Testarossa the moment I made my first million. I was slightly embarrassed by their Don Johnson reference, so I waved the back of my hand in the air and shook my head, then I said, “So what’s on the menu to—”

But Massa cut me off once more. “You James Bond too! Have Aston Martin, like Bond. He have toys in car…oil…nails!” to which the waitresses exclaimed, “Ohhh, he James Bond! He kiss-kiss bang-bang! Kiss-kiss bang-bang!”

We all broke up over that one. Massa was referring to one of the most retarded blunders I’d ever made. It happened almost a year ago, after I’d rung the register to the tune of $20 million on a new issue. I was sitting in my office with Danny, and the Ludes were just kicking in, at which point I got a bug up my ass to start spending money. I called my exotic-car dealer and bought Danny a black Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible, for $200,000, and then I bought myself a racing-green Aston Martin Virage, for $250,000. But that hadn’t done the trick, and I still felt like I needed to spend more money. So my exotic-car dealer offered to turn my Aston Martin into a true James Bond car—complete with an oil slick, a radar jammer, a license plate that slid back to reveal a blinding strobe light that would stop pursuers, as well as a naildrop box that, with a flip of a switch, would litter the road with spikes or nails or tiny land mines, if I could find an arms dealer to sell them to me. The cost: $100,000. Anyway, I went for the full monty, which had the effect of drawing so much power from the car’s battery that the car hadn’t worked right ever since. In fact, every time I took the car out for a drive, it would conk out on me. Now it just sat in my garage, looking nice.

I said to Massa, “Thanks for the compliment, but we’re in the middle of discussing business, my friend.” Massa bowed dutifully, recited the specials, and took our lunch order. Then he bowed again and left.

I said to Victor, “Anyway, let’s get back to the issue of financing. I’m not comfortable with Kenny’s mother being the one to write you the check. I don’t care if the two of you are doing business together, unrelated or not. It’s a red flag, so don’t do it. I’ll give you the four hundred thousand in cash, but I don’t want any money flowing to you from Gladys. What about your own parents? Could you give the money to them and have them write you a check?”

“My parents aren’t like that,” replied Victor, in a rare moment of humility. “They’re simple people and they wouldn’t understand. But I can work something out with some overseas accounts that I have access to in the Orient.”

Danny and I exchanged covert looks. The fucking Chinaman was already talking about overseas accounts before he’d even opened the doors to his own brokerage firm? What a depraved maniac he was! There was a certain logical progression to committing crimes, and the sort of crimes Victor was referring to came at the end of things, after you’d made your money, not before. I said to Victor, “That raises a different set of flags, but they’re just as red. Let me think about it for a day or two, and I’ll come up with some way to get you the money. Maybe I’ll have one of my ratholes lend it to you. Not themselves but through a third party. I’ll figure it out, so don’t worry about it.”

Victor nodded. “Whatever you say, but if you need any access to my overseas accounts just let me know, okay?”

I smiled a dead smile at him, then laid the trap: “All right, I’ll let you know if I do, but I don’t really dabble with that sort of stuff. Anyway, the final thing I want to talk about is how you should manage Duke’s trading account. There are two different ways to do it: You can trade from either the long side or the short side. And both ways have their pluses and minuses. I’m not gonna go into complete detail right now, but I’ll give you the long and short of it.” I paused and smiled at my own pun, which had been entirely unintended. “Anyway, if you trade from the long side, you’ll make a lot more money than if you trade from the short side. When I say trading long, I mean you’ll be holding large blocks of stock in Duke’s trading account; you can then move the price up and make money on what you’re holding. Conversely, if you’re short and the stock goes up, then you’re gonna lose money. And during the first year all your stocks should be going up, so you need to stay heavily long if you want to make a lot of money. I mean, if you really wanna ring the register. Now, I won’t deny that it takes a little bit of balls to do that—I mean, it can be a little nerve-racking sometimes—because your brokers won’t always be able to buy all the stock you’re holding. So your cash has a tendency to get tied up in inventory.

“But as long as you have enough guts and, for that matter, enough confidence to see it through, then when the slow period is over you’ll make a bloody fortune on the way up. You follow what I’m saying, Victor? It’s not a strategy for the weak; it’s a strategy for the strong, and for those with foresight.” With that I raised my eyebrows high on my forehead and threw my palms up in the air, as if to say, “Are we on the same page here?” Then I waited to see if the Blockhead would pick up on the fact that I’d just given Victor the worst trading advice in the history of Wall Street. The truth was that trading long was a recipe for disaster. By holding stock in the firm’s trading account, you were risking everything. Cash was king on Wall Street, and if your trading account was tied up in stock you were vulnerable to attack. In a way, it was no different than any other business. Even a plumber who overstocked his inventory would find himself running low on cash. And when his bills came due—meaning rent, telephone, payroll—he couldn’t offer to pay his creditors with plumbing supplies. No, cash was king in any business, and especially in this business, where your very inventory could become worthless overnight.

The proper way to trade was from the short side, which kept you flush in cash. While it was true that you would lose money as the prices of the stocks went up, it was the equivalent of paying an insurance premium. The way I had managed the Stratton trading account, I allowed the firm to take consistent losses in the day-to-day trading, which ensured that the firm would maintain a cash-rich position and be poised to ring the register on new-issue day. In essence I lost a million dollars a month by trading short but ensured that I could make ten million a month being in the IPO business. To me, it was so obvious that I couldn’t imagine anybody trading any other way.

The question was would the Blockhead and the Chinaman pick up on it—or would Victor’s ego feed right into the very insanity of trading long? Even Danny, who was sharp as a tack, had never fully grasped this concept, or perhaps he had but was such a born risk-taker that he was willing to put the health of the firm on the line to make a few extra million a year. It was impossible to say.

Right on cue, Danny chimed in and said to me, “I’ll tell you the truth: In the beginning I was always nervous when you held major long positions, but over time…I mean…to see all the extra money being made”—he started shaking his head, as if to reinforce his very bullshit—“well…it’s incredible. But it definitely takes balls.”

Kenny, the moron: “Yeah, we’ve made a fortune trading that way. That’s definitely the way to do it, Vic.”

How ironic, I thought. After all these years Kenny still hadn’t the foggiest notion of how I’d managed to keep Stratton at the pinnacle of financial health, in spite of all its problems. I had never traded long—not even once! Except, of course, on new-issue day, when I would let the firm go heavily long for a few carefully chosen minutes, as the price of the units was flying up. But I always knew there was a massive wave of buy tickets coming in at any moment.

Victor said, “I have no problem living with risk in my life. It’s what separates the men from the boys. As long as I know the stock is going up, I’d put my last dime into it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?” With that, the panda smiled, and once more his eyes disappeared.

I nodded at the Chinaman. “That’s about the size of it, Vic. Besides, if you ever find yourself in a bad position, I’ll always be there to support you until you get back on your feet. Just look at me as your insurance policy.”

We raised our glasses for another toast.

An hour later I was walking through the boardroom with mixed emotions. So far everything was going according to plan, but what of my own future? What was to become of the Wolf of Wall Street? In the end, this whole experience—this wild ride of mine—would become a distant memory, something I would tell Chandler about. I would tell her how, once upon a time, her daddy had been a true player on Wall Street, how he’d owned one of the largest brokerage firms in history, and how all these young kids—kids who called themselves Strattonites—ran around Long Island, spending obscene amounts of money on all sorts of meaningless things.

Yes, Channy, the Strattonites looked up to your daddy, and they called him King. And for that brief time, right around when you were born, your daddy was, indeed, like a king, and he and Mommy lived just like a king and queen, treated like royalty wherever they went. And now your daddy is…who the hell is he? Well, perhaps Daddy could show you some of his press clippings, perhaps that would explain things…or…well, perhaps not. Anyway, everything they say about your daddy is lies, Channy. All lies! The press always lies; you know that, Chandler, right? Just go ask your nana, Suzanne; she’ll tell you! Oh, wait, I forgot, you haven’t seen your nana in a while; she’s in jail with Aunt Patricia, for money laundering. Oops!

What a dark premonition that was! Jesus!I took a deep breath and pushed it aside. I was thirty-one years old and already on the road to becoming a has-been. A cautionary tale! Was it even possible to be a has-been at such a young age? Perhaps I was no different than one of those child actors who grows up to be ugly and gawky. What was that redhead’s name from The Partridge Family? Danny Bona-douche-bag or something? But wasn’t it better to be a has-been than a never-was? It was hard to say, because there was another side to that coin, namely, that once you got used to something it was hard to live without it. I had been able to live without the benefit of the mighty roar for the first twenty-six years of my life, hadn’t I? But now…well, how could I possibly live without it after it had become so much a part of me?