Текст книги "The Wolf of Wall Street "

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

CHAPTER 24

PASSING THE TORCH

George Campbell, my tongueless chauffeur, had just brought the limousine to a smooth, gentle stop at the side entrance to Stratton Oakmont, when he literally knocked me out of my seat by breaking his self-imposed vow of silence and asking, “Wha’s gonna happen now, Mr. Belfort?”

Well, well, well! I thought. It’s about time the old devil broke down and said a few words to me! And while his question might have seemed a bit vague, he had actually hit the nail right on the head. After all, in a little more than seven hours, at four p.m., I would be standing before the boardroom, giving a farewell speech to an army of extremely worried Strattonites, all of whom, like George, had to be questioning what the future had in store for them, financially and otherwise.

I had no doubt that in the days to come there would be many questions burning in the minds of my Strattonites. Questions like:

What would happen now that Danny was running the show? Would they still have desks in six months? And if they did, would they be treated fairly? Or would he favor his old friends and a few of the key brokers he dropped Ludes with? And what fate awaited the brokers who’d been friendlier with Kenny than with Danny? Would they be punished for that friendship? Or, if not punished, treated like second-class citizens? Was it possible for Broker Disneyland to endure? Or would Stratton slowly devolve into a run-of-the-mill brokerage firm, no better or worse than anyplace else?

I chose not to share any of those thoughts with George, and all I said was, “You have nothing to worry about, George. Whatever happens, you’ll always be taken care of. Janet and I will get an office close by, and there’s a thousand things Nadine and I need you for.” I smiled broadly and made my tone very upbeat. “Just think, one day you’ll be chauffeuring Nadine and me to Chandler’s wedding. Can you imagine?”

George nodded and smiled broadly, revealing his world-class choppers, and he humbly replied, “I like my job very much, Mr. Belfort. You’re the best boss I ever have. Mrs. Belfort too. Everybody love you two. It’s sad you gotta leave here. It won’t be the same no more. Danny ain’t like you. He don’t treat people good. People gonna leave.”

I was too baffled over the first half of George’s statement to even focus on the second half. Had he actually said he liked his job? And that he lovedme? Well, admittedly, the whole love thing was a figure of speech, but there was no denying that George had just said he loved his job and respected me as a boss. It seemed ironic after everything I’d put him through: the hookers…the drugs…the midnight rides through Central Park with strippers…the gym bags full of cash that I’d had him pick up from Elliot Lavigne.

Yet, on the other hand, I had never disrespected him, had I? Even in my darkest and most decadent hours, I’d always made an effort to be respectful to George. While it was true that I’d had some very bizarre thoughts about him, I had never shared them with another living soul, except, of course, the Duchess, who was my wife, which made her exempt. And even then, it was all in good fun. I was not a prejudiced man. In fact, what Jew in their right mind could be? We were the most persecuted people on earth.

All at once I found myself feeling bad that I had ever questioned George’s loyalty. He was a good man. A decent man. Who was I to read a thousand and one things into everything he said or, for that matter, didn’t say?

With a warm smile, I said, “Truth is, George, no one can predict the future, certainly not myself. Who’s to say what becomes of Stratton Oakmont? I guess only time will tell.

“Anyway, I remember when you first came to work for me, you used to try to open the limo door for me. You’d run around the side and try to beat me to it.” I chuckled at the memory. “It used to drive you crazy. Anyway, the reason I never let you open the door for me was because I respected you too much to just sit in the back of the limo and pretend like I had a broken arm or something. I always thought of it as an insult to you.”

Then I added, “But since today’s my last day, why don’t you open up the door for me, just once, and make believe you’re a real fucking limo driver! Pretend like you’re working for a fat-ass WASP. You can escort me into the boardroom. In fact, you might actually get a kick out of Danny’s morning meeting. He should be giving it right now.”

“…and the study sampled more than ten thousand men,” said Danny over the loudspeaker, “following their sexual habits for more than five years. I think you’re gonna be absolutely shocked when I tell you some of the findings.” With that, he pursed his lips, nodded his head, and began pacing back and forth, as if to say, “Prepare to hear the truly depraved nature of the male animal.”

Jesus Christ! I thought. I’m not even gone yet and he’s already running amok! I turned to George and took a moment to gauge his reaction, but he didn’t seem that shocked. He had his head tipped to the side and a look on his face that so much as said, “I can’t wait to find out how this whole thing relates to stocks!”

“You see,” continued Danny, wearing a gray pinstripe suit and phony WASP glasses, “what the study found is that ten percent of the entire male population are stone-cold faggots.” And here he paused to let the full implication of his words sink in.

Here comes another lawsuit! I looked around the room…and I saw a lot of confused looks, as if everyone was trying to make heads or tails of what he was saying. There were a few isolated snickers but no outright laughter.

Apparently, Danny wasn’t pleased with the crowd’s response—or lack thereof—so he plowed on with relish: “I say again,” continued the man the SEC considered the lesser of two evils, “the study found that ten percent of the male population takes it up the ass! Yes, ten percent are fudge-packers! It’s a huge number! Huge! All those men taking it up the Hershey Highway! Sucking cock! And—”

Danny was forced to give up his rant as the boardroom quickly degenerated into a state of pandemonium. The Strattonites began hooting and howling and clapping and cheering. Half the room was now standing; many were exchanging high-fives. But toward the front, in the section where the sales assistants were concentrated, no one was standing. All I could see were a bunch of long blond manes tilted at extreme angles, as the young females leaned over in their chairs and whispered in one another’s ears, shaking their heads in amazement.

Just then George said in a confused tone, “I don’ understand. What’s this gotta do with the stock market? Why’s he talkin’ ’bout gay people?”

I shrugged my shoulders and said, “It’s complicated, George, although there really is no reason other than that he’s trying to create a common enemy, kind of like Hitler did in the thirties.” And it’s only by sheer coincidence, I thought, that he’s not bashing black people right now. That very thought inspired me to add, “Anyway, you don’t have to listen to this shit. Why don’t you come back at the end of the day, around four-thirty, okay?”

George nodded and walked away, more nervous than ever, no doubt.

As I stood there, watching the morning riot, I couldn’t help but wonder why Danny always distilled his meetings down to sex. Obviously, he was looking for a few cheap laughs, but there were other ways to get them, ways that didn’t interfere with getting the hidden message across. The hidden message being that, in spite of everything, Stratton Oakmont was a legitimate brokerage firm trying to make its clients money—and the only reason it wasn’tmaking its clients money was because of an evil conspiracy of short-sellers, who plagued the markets, like locusts, spreading vicious rumors about Stratton Oakmont and any other honest brokerage firm that stood in their way. And, of course, also embedded in that message was the fact that one day, in the not-so-distant future, the fundamental value of all these companies would come shining through, and the stocks would come roaring back, rising up like a phoenix amid the ashes, at which time all Stratton’s clients would make a fortune.

I had explained this to Danny on numerous occasions, how deep down all human beings (save a handful of sociopaths) were possessed with a subconscious desire to do the right thing. That was why a subliminal message was supposed to be embedded within each meeting—that when they smiled and dialed and ripped people’s eyeballs out, they were fulfilling not only their own hedonistic desires of wealth and peer recognition but also their subconscious desire to do the right thing. Then and only then could you motivate them to achieve goals they had never dreamed themselves capable of.

Just then, Danny extended his arms out to the side, and slowly the room began to quiet down. He said, “Okay, now here’s the truly interesting part, or, should I say, the disturbing part. See, if ten percent of all men are closet homosexuals, and there are one thousand men sitting in this room, that means that camping out within our midst are one hundred homos, looking to butt-fuck us every time we turn our backs!”

All at once heads began turning suspiciously. Even the little blond sales assistants were looking around—casting suspicious gazes from their heavily made-up orbital sockets. There was a low-level murmur in the room, which I couldn’t quite make out. But the message was clear: “Find ’em and lynch ’em!”

I watched with great anticipation as a thousand necks craned this way and that…accusatory glances were thrown around the room by the hundreds…young, toned arms extended in all directions, each one with a pointed finger on the end of it. Then came some random screaming of names:

“Teskowitz ^*7is a homo!”

“O’Reilly’s ^*8a fucking queer! Stand up, O’Reilly!”

“What about Irv and Scott ^*9?” two Strattonites screamed in unison.

“Yeah, Scott and Irv! Scott blew Irv!”

But after a minute of finger-pointing and some not-so-baseless accusations against Scott and Irv, no one had come clean. So Danny lifted his arms once more and asked for quiet. “Listen,” he said accusingly, “I know who some of you are, and there are two ways we can do this: the easy way or the hard way. Now, look: Everybody knows Scott blew Irv, and you didn’t see Scott losing his job over it, did you?”

From somewhere in the boardroom came the defensive voice of Scott: “I didn’t blow Irv! It’s just—”

Danny cut him off with a booming voice over the loudspeakers: “Enough, Scott, enough! The more you deny it, the more guilty you seem. So drop it! I just feel sorry for your wife and kids to have to be shamed by you like that.” Danny shook his head in disgust and then turned away from Scott. “Anyway,” continued Stratton’s new CEO, “that heinous act had more to do with power than sex. And Irv has now proved to us that he’s a true man of power—getting one of the junior brokers to blow him. So the whole act is exempt, and Scott is forgiven.

“Now that I’ve shown you how tolerant I am of that sort of behavior, isn’t there one true man among you who has the balls—and, for that matter, the common fucking decency—to stand up and show themselves?”

Out of nowhere, a young Strattonite with a weak chin and an even weaker sense of judgment stood up and said in a loud, forthright voice, “I’m gay, and I’m proud of it!” And the boardroom went wild. In a matter of seconds, objects were flying in his direction like lethal projectiles. Then came hisses and catcalls, and then screams:

“You fucking homo! Get the fuck out of here!”

“Tar and feather the cocksucker!”

“Watch your drinks! He’s gonna try to date-rape you!”

Well, I thought, this morning’s meeting was officially over, called early on account of insanity. And what, if anything, had this meeting accomplished? I wasn’t quite sure, other than it painted a truly grim picture of what was in store for Stratton Oakmont—starting tomorrow.

Why should I be surprised?

An hour later I was sitting behind my desk and using those five words to console myself, as I listened to Mad Max go ballistic on Danny and me over my buyout agreement, which had been the brainchild of my accountant, Dennis Gaito, nicknamed the Chef due to his love of cooking the books. In short, the agreement called for Stratton to pay me $1 million a month for fifteen years, with most of it being paid under the terms of a noncompete agreement, meaning I was agreeing not to compete with Stratton in the brokerage business.

Nevertheless, in spite of the agreement raising a few eyebrows, it wasn’t actually illegal (on the face of it), and I had been successfully able to bully the firm’s lawyers into approving it although the collective wisdom was that while the agreement was legal, it didn’t quite pass the smell test.

At this particular moment there was a fourth person sitting in my office, namely Wigwam, who so far hadn’t really said much. But that was no surprise. After all, Wigwam had spent the better part of his youth eating dinner at my house, so he was acutely aware of Mad Max’s capabilities.

Mad Max was saying, “…and you two morons are gonna get your tits caught in a wringer over this one. A hundred-eighty-million-dollar buyout? It’s like pissing right in the SEC’s face. I mean—Jesus fucking Christ! When are you two gonna learn?”

I shrugged. “Calm down, Dad. It’s not as bad as it seems. It’s a bitter pill I’m being forced to swallow, and the hundred eighty million serves as lubrication.”

With a bit too much glee, Danny added, “Max, you and I are going to be working together for a long time, so why don’t we just chalk this one up to experience, eh? After all, it’s your own son who’s getting the money! What could be so bad?”

Mad Max spun on his heel and stared Danny down. He took a world-class pull from his cigarette and puckered his lips into a tiny O. With a mighty exhale, he focused the smoke stream into a tight laser beam a half inch in diameter, and he projected it at Danny’s smiling face with the force of a Civil War cannon. Then, with Danny still enveloped in his smoke cloud, he said, “Let me tell you something, Porush. Just because my son is leaving tomorrow, that doesn’t mean I’m gonna show you any newfound respect. Respect has to be earned, and if this morning’s meeting is any indication, maybe I should just go to the fucking unemployment office right now. Do you know how many laws you broke with that cockamamy routine of yours? I’m just waiting for a phone call from that fat bastard, Dominic Barbara. That’s who that young fruitcake is gonna call with this shit.”

Then he turned to me and said, “And why did you fashion this buyout agreement as a noncompete? How can you compete if you’re already barred?” He took another pull from his cigarette. “It’s you and that bastard Gaito who cooked up this crooked scheme. It’s a fucking travesty, and I refuse to be a part of it.” With that, Mad Max headed for the door.

“Two things, Dad, before you go,” I said, holding up my hand.

With a hiss: “What?”

“First, the firm’s lawyers all approved the agreement. And the only reason it’s a hundred eighty million is because the noncompete has to be written off over fifteen years so we don’t lose the full tax benefit. Stratton’s paying me a million dollars a month, so fifteen years at a million a month is one hundred eighty million dollars.”

“Spare me the quick math,” he snapped. “I’m unimpressed. And as far as the tax code goes, I’m well aware of it, as well as your and Gaito’s blatant disregard for it. So don’t try snowing me, Mister Man. Anything else?”

Casually, I added, “We need to move tonight’s dinner to six o’clock. Nadine wants to bring Chandler along so you and Mom can see her.” I crossed my fingers and waited for the name Chandlerto work its happy magic on Mad Max, whose face immediately began to soften at the mention of his only grandchild.

With a great smile and a slight British accent, Sir Max said, “Ohhh, what a wonderful surprise! Your mother will be thrilled to see Chandler. Well, righty-o, then! I’ll call Mom and tell her the good news.” Sir Max exited the office with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step.

I looked at Danny and Wigwam and shrugged. “There are certain key words that calm him down, and Chandler’s the most surefire of all. Anyway, you gotta learn them if you don’t want him to have a heart attack right in the office.”

“Your father’s a good man,” said Danny, “and nothing’s gonna change for him around here. I look at him like my own father, and he can say and do whatever he wants until he’s ready to retire.”

I smiled, appreciative of Danny’s loyalty.

“But more important than your father,” he continued, “I’m already having problems with Duke Securities. In spite of Victor being in business for only three days, he’s already spreading rumors that Stratton’s on the way out and that Duke is the next great thing. He hasn’t tried stealing any brokers yet, but that’s coming next, I’m sure. That fat fuck is too lazy to train his own brokers.”

I looked at Wigwam. “What do you have to say about all this?”

“I don’t think Victor’s much of a threat,” replied Wigwam. “Duke is small; they have nothing to offer anyone. They don’t have any deals of their own or any capital to speak of, and they don’t have a track record. I think Victor just has a big mouth he can’t control.”

I smiled at Wigwam, who had just confirmed what I already knew—that he was not a wartime consigliere and would be of little help to Danny in matters like these. In warm tones, I said, “You’re mistaken, buddy. You got the whole thing backward. See, if Victor’s smart, he’ll realize he has everything to offer his new recruits. His greatest power is actually in his size—or lack of size, I should say. The truth is that at Stratton it’s difficult for the cream to rise to the top; there’re so many people in the way. So unless you know someone in management, you could be the sharpest guy in the world and you’re still gonna be blocked from advancing, or at least advancing quickly.

“But at Duke, that doesn’t exist. Any sharp guy can walk in there and write his own ticket. That’s the reality. It’s one of the advantages a small company has over a big company, and not just in this industry, in any industry. On the other hand, we have stability on our side and we have a track record. People don’t worry about getting their paychecks on payday, and they know there’s always another new issue around the corner. Victor’s gonna try to undermine those things, which is why he’s spreading the sorts of rumors he is right now.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Anyway, I’ll address that in this afternoon’s meeting, and it’s something you,Danny, need to start reinforcing during your own meetings, if you can get past all the homo-bashing shit. A lot of this is gonna be a war of propaganda—although three months from now it’ll be a moot point and Victor’ll be licking his wounds.” I smiled confidently. “So, what else?”

“Some of the smaller firms are taking potshots at us,” said Wigwam, in his usual glum tone. “Trying to steal a few deals, a broker here and there. I’m sure it’ll pass.”

“It’ll pass only if you make itpass,” I snapped. “Let word leak out that we’re gonna sue any Stratton spin-off that tries stealing brokers. Our new policy is gonna be a heart for an eye.” I looked at Danny and said, “Anybody else receive a grand-jury subpoena?”

Danny shook his head no. “Not that I’m aware of, at least not in the boardroom. So far it’s just me, you, and Kenny. I don’t think anyone in the boardroom knows there’s an investigation.”

“Well,” I said, losing confidence daily, “there’s still a good shot the whole thing is a fishing expedition. I should know something soon. I’m just waiting on Bo.”

After a few moments of silence, Wigwam said, “By the way, Madden signed the escrow agreement and gave me back the stock certificate, so you can stop worrying about that.”

Danny said, “I toldyou Steve’s head is in the right place.”

I resisted the urge to tell Danny that, as of late, Steve had been bashing him at unprecedented levels, saying Danny was incapable of running Stratton and I should focus more of my attention on helping him, Steve, build Steve Madden Shoes, which was showing greater potential than ever. Sales were growing at fifty percent a month—a month!—and they were still accelerating. But from an operational perspective, Steve was in way over his head, with manufacturing and distribution lagging far behind sales. In consequence, the company was getting a bad reputation with the department stores for delivering its shoes late. At Steve’s urging, I’d been seriously considering moving my office to Woodside, Queens, where Steve Madden Shoes kept its corporate headquarters. Once there, I would share an office with Steve, and he would focus on the creative side and I would focus on the business side.

But all I said was, “I’m not saying Steve’s head is in the wrong place. But now that we have the stock, it’ll make it that much easier for him to do the right thing. Money makes people do strange things, Danny. Just have patience; you’ll find out soon enough.”

At one p.m. I called Janet in for a pep talk. Over the last few days she had been looking very upset. Today she seemed on the verge of tears.

“Listen,” I said in a tone a father would use with a daughter, “there’s a lot to be thankful for, sweetie. I’m not saying you don’t have grounds to be upset, but you have to look at this as a new beginning, not an end. We’re still young. Maybe we’ll take it easy for a few months, but after that it’ll be full steam ahead.” I smiled warmly. “Anyway, for now we’ll work out of the house, which is perfect, because I consider you a part of my family.”

Janet began snuffling back tears. “I know. It’s…it’s just that I was here since the beginning, and I watched you build this from nothing. It was like watching a miracle happen. It was the first time I ever felt”—loved? I thought—“I don’t know. When you walked me down…like a father would…I…” and with that, Janet broke down, crying hysterically.

Oh, Jesus! I thought. What had I done wrong? My goal had been to console her, and now she was crying. I needed to call the Duchess! She was an expert at this sort of thing. Perhaps she could rush down here and take Janet home, although that would take too long.

Having no choice, I walked over to Janet and hugged her gently. With great tenderness, I said, “There’s nothing wrong with crying, but don’t forget that there’s a lot to look forward to. Ultimately, Stratton’s gonna fold, Janet; it’s only a question of when; but since we’re leaving now,we’ll always be remembered as a success.” I smiled and made my tone more upbeat. “Anyway, Nadine and I are having dinner tonight with my parents, and we’re bringing Channy along. I want you to come too, okay?”

Janet smiled—smiled at the thought of seeing Chandler—and I couldn’t help but wonder what that said about the state of our own lives, when only the purity and innocence of an infant could bring us peace.

I was fifteen minutes into my farewell speech when it dawned on me that I was giving the eulogy at my own funeral. But on the brighter side, I also had the unique opportunity of witnessing the reactions of all those attending my burial.

And just look at them sitting there, hanging on my every word!So many rapt expressions…so many eager eyes…so many well-formed torsos leaning forward in their seats. Look at those wildly adoring stares from the sales assistants with their lusty blond manes and their delectably plunging necklines and, of course, their incredibly loamy loins. Perhaps I should be planting subliminal suggestions deep inside their minds—that every last one of them should burn with the insatiable desire to blow me and then swallow every last drop of my very manhood, for the rest of their natural lives.

Christ, what a fucking pervert I was!Even now, in the middle of my own farewell speech, my mind was double-tracking wildly. My lips were moving up and down, as I went about the process of thanking the Strattonites for five years of undying loyalty and admiration, yet I still found myself questioning whether or not I should’ve banged more of the sales assistants. What did that say about me? Did it make me weak? Or was it only natural to want to bang them all? After all, what was the point of having the powerif you didn’t use it to get laid? In truth, I hadn’t exploited that aspect of the power as much as I could have, or at least not to the extent Danny had! Would I come to regret that one day? Or maybe I’d done the right thing? The mature thing! The responsible thing!

All these bizarre thoughts were roaring through my head with the ferocity of an F-5 tornado, while self-serving words of wisdom gushed out of my mouth in torrents, without the slightest bit of conscious effort. And then I realized that my mind wasn’t actually double-tracking (which it always did), but it was triple-tracking, which was truly fucking bizarre.

On track three there was an internal monologue, questioning the decadent nature of track two, which was focusing on the pros and cons of getting blown by the sales assistants. Meanwhile, track one was humming along uninterrupted, as my words to the Strattonites came tumbling from my lips like tiny pearls of self-serving wisdom, and the words were coming from…where? Perhaps from the part of the brain that works independently of conscious direction…or maybe the words were pouring out from sheer force of habit. After all, I’d given how many meetings over the last five years?…Two a day for five years…So with three hundred working days in a year, it translated into 1,500 working days, times two meetings per day, which equaled 3,000 meetings in total, minus whatever meetings Danny had given, which were probably ten percent of the total, subtracted from the gross number of 3,000 meetings, and the number 2,700 came into my mind just like that, but the tiny pearls of self-serving wisdom had continued tumbling from my lips as I did the math…

…and when I snapped back into the moment, I found myself explaining how the investment-banking firm of Stratton Oakmont was sure to survive– sure to survive!—because it was bigger than any one person and bigger than any one thing. And then I felt the urge to steal a line from FDR—who in spite of having been a Democrat, still seemed like a reasonably okay guy, although I’d recently been informed that his wife was a dyke—and I began explaining to the Strattonites how there was nothing to fear but fear itself.

It was at this point that I felt compelled to reemphasize how Danny was more than capable of running the firm, especially with someone as sharp as Wigwam at his side. But, alas, I still found myself looking at a thousand rolled eyeballs and an equal number of gravely shaking heads.

So now I felt it necessary to cross over the line of good judgment. “Listen, everyone: The fact that I’m being barred from the securities industry doesn’t stop me from giving Danny advice. I mean—really! Not only is it legal for me to give Danny advice, but I can also give advice to Andy Greene, Steve Sanders, the owners of Biltmore and Monroe Parker, and, for that matter, to anyone else in this boardroom who’s interested in hearing it. And just so you know, Danny and I have a tradition of eating breakfast and lunch together, and it’s a tradition we have no intention of breaking just because of some ridiculous settlement I was forced to make with the SEC—a settlement that I made only because I knew that it would ensure Stratton’s survival for the next hundred years!”

And with that came thunderous applause. I looked around the room. Ahhhh, such adoration! Such love for the Wolf of Wall Street! Until I locked eyes with Mad Max, who seemed to be blowing steam out of his fucking ears. What was he so fucking concerned about, anyway? Everybody else was eating this shit up! How come he couldn’t simply join in the cheer? I resisted the urge to draw the obvious conclusion that my father was reacting differently because he was the only person in the boardroom who actually gave a shit about me and he was somewhat concerned at watching his son jump off a regulatory cliff.

For the sake of Mad Max, I added, “Now, of course, this will only be advice, and by the very definition of the word it means that my suggestions don’t have to be followed!” to which Danny screamed from the side of the boardroom: “Yes, that’s true, but why on earth would anyone in their right mind not follow JB’s advice?”

Once again, thunderous applause! It spread through the boardroom like the Ebola virus, and soon the entire room was on its feet, giving the wounded Wolf his third standing ovation of the afternoon. I held up my hand for quiet, and I caught a pleasant glimpse of Carrie Chodosh, one of Stratton’s few female brokers, who also happened to be one of my favorites.

Carrie was in her mid-thirties, which at Stratton made her a virtual antique. Nevertheless, she was still a looker. She’d been one of Stratton’s first brokers—coming to me when she was flat broke, on the balls of her perfect ass. At the time, she was three months behind on her rent, and her Mercedes was being chased by a repo truck. You see, Carrie was another in a long line of beautiful women who had made the sad mistake of marrying the wrong man. After a ten-year marriage, her ex-husband refused to pay her a dime in child support.

It was a perfect segue, I thought, into Duke Securities and then into broaching the possibility of an FBI investigation. Yes, better to allude to the FBI now, to almost predictan investigation, as if the Wolf had seen it coming all along and had already prepared himself to fend off the attack.

Once more I held up my hand for quiet. “Listen, everyone—I’m not gonna lie to you here. Settling with the SEC was one of the toughest decisions I’ve ever made. But I knew that Stratton would endure no matter what. See, what makes Stratton so special, what makes it so unstoppable, is that it’s not just a place where people come to work. And it’s not just a business looking to turn a profit. Stratton is an idea! And by the very nature of being an idea it can’t be contained, nor can it be quashed by a two-year investigation at the hands of a bunch of bozo regulators, who froze to death in our conference room and thought nothing of spending millions of taxpayer dollars to embark on one of the biggest witch hunts since the Salem witch trials!