Debts Must Be Paid | Episode 02 | The Terminal
- Mark Sarkadi, MBA
- Apr 20
- 7 min read
The Terminal is a weekly fictional finance horror blog series following trader Ken Dalestick as he uncovers eerie market mysteries filled with real trading jargon, insights, a sh*t tone of jokes, and conspiracies that get weirder each week. Subscribe to our email list to get the next issue sent straight to you every week.
Entry 06 – The market never lies, but traders do
You ever have one of those weekends where you say, "I’m gonna take it easy, just chill, maybe touch some grass," and then Sunday night rolls around and you’re staring at your ceiling thinking, "What the f*ck happened?"
Yeah. That was me.
I had three goals for the weekend:
Don’t trade.
Get some sun.
Drink in moderation.
Here are my results:
Failed. Took a sneaky SPX put scalp on Friday night. You ever trade the Asian market while drunk? 10/10 do not recommend.
Failed. The only sun I saw was from my screen brightness hitting max.
Completely obliterated.
I ended up in some hole-in-the-wall bar, playing poker against some guys who looked like they either owned half of Brooklyn and or buried bodies in the river. Either way, I got cleaned out. Not my worst weekend, maybe amongst the top 5 bests if I am being honest.
But hey—Monday’s here, and it’s time to work. Now, where did we leave off last time?
Oh, right. Hal’s disappearing stock. That f*cker bugged me the whole weekend. After last week’s bizarre phone call, I decided to log into Hal’s brokerage account again. The password still worked that dumb f*ck forgot to change it, at this point not robbing him takes more effort than the opposite. Anyways, not saying I would… just saying I could, (and would and maybe will)
I opened his trade history, still no sign of our creepy stock but this time, something else caught my eye....
You ever meet one of those traders who always, and I mean ALWAYS, buy at the absolute lowest point and sell at the literal top?
No, you haven’t. Because THEY DON'T F*CKING EXIST.
Except… Hal. I scrolled through three months of his trade history. And every single f*cking one of them was perfect.
Bought Apple at day’s low → Sold at ATH next session.
Shorted Tesla at intraday top → Covered at bottom wick.
Picked up some random biotech penny stock before a mystery FDA approval news drop.
And it wasn’t a one-time fluke. This man was a goddamn wizard every single day for three months straight.
Hal...
Hal Ving....
The man who asked me what options were a year ago...
HAL F*CKING "I still don't really understand inflation" VING
I stared and screamed at the screen.
Either Hal had figured out the secret to time travel, or something was seriously off here. And considering this is the same guy who once mistook a cease-and-desist letter for a trading signal, I was betting on the latter. So we all know what's next I will call the f*cker and ask him what the hell is going on. Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s this: The market never lies, but traders do. and I let you sit with this badass line for a while, I will go and grab some lunch and update you how it went.
Entry 07 - Someone is full of bullsh*t
I’m back. Lunch was… all right. I went down to Mackkers, The cashier was so cute, I imagined my whole life with her. I don't know why but a McDonalds cashier is so much finer than any model on the runway, it has to be the first fundamental law of the universe.
Anyway—back to business. I called Hal. And you won’t believe what that man said.
☎️ ☎️ ☎️ Ring, ring... (I swear I have to get some sound effects for these)
📞 Me: Hal, my guy, you got a minute?
📞 Hal: Oh great, Ken, have you find anything?
📞 Me: Just checked your trades. You ever hear of the phrase “too good to be true”?
📞 Hal: What are you talking about?
📞 Me: Oh, I don’t know, man. Just the fact that you’ve been trading like a goddamn time traveler for the past three months.
📞 Hal: …
📞 Me: You wanna explain how you’ve sniped every single top and bottom like some omniscient hedge fund deity?
📞 Hal: (Sighs) Listen, man, I’m just good. Years of experience. Pattern recognition. Intuition...
📞 Me: Oh, f*ck off. You’re not “good,” Hal. You once YOLO’d your entire account on an NFT that turned out to be a f*cking phishing link.
📞 Hal: That was different...
📞 Me: Was it? Because I’m looking at three months of 100% accuracy, and either you found the lost scrolls of Warren Buffett, or you’re holding out on me.
📞 Hal: Ken… just drop it.
📞 Me: Oh, now I’m interested. That’s what guilty people say.
📞 Hal: It’s not a big deal.
📞 Me: Oh no, no, no. You’re gonna tell me. Because either you cracked the financial matrix, or you are full of bullsh*t, and if I were a gambling man, which I am I would say the latter. and also I would put some ood money on the outcome that I will sell all your stocks in three if you don't start talking.
📞 Hal: …
📞 Me: Three...
📞 Hal: …
📞 Me: Two...
📞 Hal: Fine! (Pause.) I… I joined a signal group.
(Silence.)
📞 Me: Jesus Christ.
📞 Hal: Listen… I can’t talk about this over the phone.
📞 Me: Oh, that’s comforting.
📞 Hal: Just—come over. Now.
Click.
That f*cker hung up on me I don't know what he gotten himself into, but dumbass or not he was my brother, if you fight together in the trenches of the trading floor at Solomon Brothers, you will stay brothers forever. So now the plan is to go over there and ask that dumb f*ck what he did and try to fix it.
Alfred shuffle my "80s booggie and vibez" playlist, we are going on a road trip...
Entry 08 - Debt must be paid
I hit the road, coffee in one hand, steering wheel in the other, and absolutely zero faith in driving schools left. Driving in New York is a special kind of hell. You got hedge fund managers in Lambos thinking they own the road, Uber drivers with a death wish, and tourists who step into traffic like they have a respawn button. But the worst?
Spoiled teen girls in G-Wagons.
I swear to God, if you ever see one signaling for a turn, it’s a fucking trap. They either cut you off at the last second or just stop in the middle of the intersection to check their phone. I nearly got T-boned twice before I even left Manhattan. Anyway, I threw my Porsche 911 Turbo S into sport mode and took a sharp right onto Hal’s street.
Hal wasn’t living in some shitty apartment with beer cans on the floor. He was rich. Like floor-to-ceiling windows, penthouse in Tribeca, concierge who judges you on arrival rich. I pulled into the underground garage, parked next to his Aston Martin DB11, and took the elevator up to his place. (That's why I love trading even a dumb f*cker like Hal can make millions if he stays disciplined.)
The doors opened, and Hal was already waiting at the entrance. He looked like sh*t. Not poor sh*t—just “I haven’t slept because something is deeply wrong” sh*t.
Me: Jesus, man, did the IRS finally audit you?
Hal: Shut up and come in.
I stepped inside, and the place was spotless. Marble floors, minimalist furniture, the whole “I’m too rich to have personality” vibe. But what caught my eye? His trading desk. Six curved monitors, Bloomberg terminal open, and a half-empty bottle of Macallan 25 next to a Montblanc notebook filled with trade logs. I flopped onto his absurdly overpriced Italian leather couch and crossed my arms.
Me: Alright, let’s hear it. You’ve been trading like a goddamn AI for three months. Either you found Jesus, or you found something worse.
Hal hesitated, then poured himself a drink. Neat. The sign of a man who knows he’s about to confess to some shady sh*t.
Hal: It started as a joke, man. Some guys in a Discord server talking about “insider plays.”
Me: Uh-huh. The phrase “Discord” and “financially responsible decision” have never once been in the same sentence.
Hal: I wasn’t gonna take it seriously! But then they called a trade… and it f*cking hit. Like, to the cent.
Me: Beginner’s luck.
Hal: That’s what I thought too. But they did it again. And again. And again. It wasn’t luck, Ken. They knew. Every single time.
Hal swirled his drink, staring at it like he was considering throwing himself into the glass.
Hal: At first, they just asked for money. Membership fees. A percentage of the profits. And every member had to buy into MRTM. Seemed normal—well, as normal as an illegal insider trading ring can be. Then it got… weird. They stopped asking for money. The next trade? They told me to steal something. Just random sh*t. A watch from a store. A lighter off a guy’s table at a bar. Nothing major.
Me: Okay, so now we’re at the shoplifting phase of the Ponzi scheme. Got it.
Hal: Then the next trade, they wanted me to… hurt someone.
(Silence.)
Me: Define “hurt.”
Hal: Some guy at a club. They sent me his name and photo and said, “Pick a fight with him. Make him bleed.”
Me: Jesus, f*cking christ Hal, are you back on crystals again?
Hal: I did it. And the next day, my trade history showed another perfect execution.
(Silence again.)
Hal couldn’t even look at me.
Me: What the fu*ck happened last week when you called me Hal, what did you dragged me into?
Hal: They told me to kill my dog.
Me: What the f*ck did you just say?
Hal: They told me—if I wanted the next trade—I had to kill my dog. I refused. And that’s when it happened. The stock I bought just… disappeared. No record. No proof I ever owned it. Like it never existed.
I exhaled, rubbing my temples. Either Hal was on some drugs which I have never seen, and I used to party with Jordan Belfort back in the day, or this wasn’t just a bunch of degenerates front-running news. This was something else. Something worse. I looked Hal dead in the eye.
Me: Show me the group.
Hal hesitated.
Me: Now.
(Pause.)
He grabbed his iPhone, opened Discord, and pulled up the chat.
The name of the server?
🔴 MRTM Signals 🔴
The message?
To be continued...
Thanks for reading episode 02 - Debts must be paid, Check back next week for episode 03 or subscribe to our mailing list so you get it straight into your inbox.
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