It happened last week. JJ Ingersoll, our head of global focus, jostled onto the trading floor in a grim mood, and walked up to Chip Roach our top mortgage-backed deal junkie. There was the mischief of Loki in his eyes as JJ asked him what was the prepayment risk on the sub-interest flurbi-wurbs he heard he'd bought at the used car lot. Chip wasn't taking that bullshit from anyone. He replied, fine, I can tell you that, but let's up the stakes. He would only de-flurb his position in wurbs if JJ could assess the value at risk of the firm's soda machine which was currently taking dimes without dispensing cans. JJ looked over at the machine currently in default slammed his manhood on the desk and proceeded to ask Chip to mark his portfolio to market.
There were gasps. Our worldwide trading network came to a standstill. Pins dropped from Tokyo to Reykjavik. A couple of clients died in a hedge. Then the sound of footsteps as Ace Iceberg, our chairman, walked in, clad only in a pair of fine brown brogues and a tight pair of synthetic leather Lederhosen.