A new hedge fund, Ovington Capital Management, has just been launched by a black magician, apparently. Quite an achievement. Not even Aleister Crowley had his own hedge fund. This magical one, soul of chaos, goes by the name of Curtis Adams. They say he used to be a proprietary trader at Mizuho and a bit of a big head to boot. He once performed at the Plaza Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. I should imagine he’s familiar with the desert then. Sounds like a man after my own heart, doesn't he?
Not really. I must be getting myself mixed up with Jack Pickles. Not that he has a heart. Oh, he has a heart, a black one. My heart is pure, and open, and red. I know you believe me. There is no need for me to show it to you. I can be trusted to tell the truth. I'm no lunatic writer out to destroy your mind. I'm like a little kitten. Stroke me. Look into my eyes. I'll be your tyger.
Ovington is starting off with $55 million under management. That's not much, is it? Couldn't the diabolical Mr Adams conjure up more than that? [Diabolical, adjective. Characteristic of the Devil, or so evil as to recall the Devil.] And he speaks! Out of nowhere! Will wonders never cease? 'Mr Fowke, thank you so very much for writing about Ovington. We need all the publicity we can get. As for the Devil, I do recall meeting him one lovely summer's afternoon in my youth. I am afraid I wasn't as young as our ******, but who has ever been that youthful, and innocent? Such soft skin. And beautiful hair! But strange staring eyes. Has he seen more than he lets on?' The Devil, please. 'Ah, the Devil. He spoke to me. Told me I would become the wickedest man in the world. And run a hedge fund. It has come to pass.'
Indeed. [As certain people like to say. Indeed, adverb. I won't go into it.] It has come to pass. Maybe $55 million isn't so disappointing. He'll get more. I'm not saying I approve of the delightful Mr Adams, but it would be churlish to continue writing about him as if were as bad as a socialist or someone of that ilk. I'll stop here.
Not really. I must be getting myself mixed up with Jack Pickles. Not that he has a heart. Oh, he has a heart, a black one. My heart is pure, and open, and red. I know you believe me. There is no need for me to show it to you. I can be trusted to tell the truth. I'm no lunatic writer out to destroy your mind. I'm like a little kitten. Stroke me. Look into my eyes. I'll be your tyger.
Ovington is starting off with $55 million under management. That's not much, is it? Couldn't the diabolical Mr Adams conjure up more than that? [Diabolical, adjective. Characteristic of the Devil, or so evil as to recall the Devil.] And he speaks! Out of nowhere! Will wonders never cease? 'Mr Fowke, thank you so very much for writing about Ovington. We need all the publicity we can get. As for the Devil, I do recall meeting him one lovely summer's afternoon in my youth. I am afraid I wasn't as young as our ******, but who has ever been that youthful, and innocent? Such soft skin. And beautiful hair! But strange staring eyes. Has he seen more than he lets on?' The Devil, please. 'Ah, the Devil. He spoke to me. Told me I would become the wickedest man in the world. And run a hedge fund. It has come to pass.'
Indeed. [As certain people like to say. Indeed, adverb. I won't go into it.] It has come to pass. Maybe $55 million isn't so disappointing. He'll get more. I'm not saying I approve of the delightful Mr Adams, but it would be churlish to continue writing about him as if were as bad as a socialist or someone of that ilk. I'll stop here.
