Dead Journalist Don’t Blow Whistles | Episode 03 | The Terminal

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.

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Entry 09 – I don't believe in ghosts...

Alright. Let’s get this out of the way. I’m not the kind of guy who believes in ghosts, demons, or the boogeyman hiding in the f*cking stock market. I don’t do UFOs, ancient prophecies, or cursed hedge funds. But you know what I do believe in? Men. Men can be monsters in broad daylight—smiling as they tear you apart, not out of hunger, not out of need, but just to see what it looks like.

I spent the last two days trying to unf*ck Hal’s head. Got him to sit down, poured him a Macallan 25—none of that cheap bourbon sh*t, because we’re not savages—and made him breathe. Told him to get the f*ck out of New York, take a break at his beach house in Miami, and stop looking at screens before his brain turned into soup. He protested, obviously. Something about how “if they could erase a stock, they could erase him.” But I told him to listen to me just this once.

“Hal, buddy, you need some fresh air. Get a tan. Drink something with an umbrella in it. Find yourself a goth girl with grippy p*ssy and a 10/10 head.”

That seemed to get a laugh out of him. Second fundamental law of the universe: Goth girls are undefeated. There’s a 97% chance they’ll ruin your life, and a 100% chance you’ll enjoy every second of it. So Hal’s on a plane to Miami, hopefully not spiraling into madness on the way. And me?

I’m back to doing what I do best—trading.

Look, I needed a distraction. I pulled up my watchlist, and everything looked like sh*t. The Mag 7 were chopping like a junkie’s heartbeat. The S&P was hanging by a thread. Every macro bro on Twitter was screaming about a recession, which, of course, meant the market was going to ATHs out of pure spite. So I did what any self-respecting trader does when there’s nothing good to trade. I got some f*cking food.

🍔 Burger Theory: A Guide to Profits 🍔

I have a theory. If your burger is perfect, you should sell your longs. If your fries are cold, you buy the dip. Seriously. Every time I’ve had a life-changing burger, the market crashes within 48 hours. Conversely, the worst McDonald’s meal of my life? Market went straight up for a month. Today? I had a double bacon cheeseburger that made me believe in God.

Which means? Short everything. So that's what I did.

Or at least that's what I am trying to do but my phone just keeps buzzing. New number. No name. I don’t like answering unknown numbers. Nothing good ever comes from them.

BUT F*CK ME, THEY KEEP CALLING.

Hold on I gotta take this...

Entry 10 - The Journalist

☎️ ☎️ ☎️ Ring, ring... (Seriously, I need to figure out how to add sound effects to these. Note to self: Look into how to add sound effects to a blog. anyways back to where we were.)

📞 Me: Yeah?

📞 Mo:  Ken Dalestick?

📞 Me: That depends. If this is the IRS, I’m dead. If this is an ex, I’m even deader.

📞 Mo:  Uh... it’s Mo. Mo Mentum. We met once—years ago. You probably don’t remember.

📞 Me: Mo Mentum? Jesus, your parents must’ve been comedians.

📞 Mo:  Yeah, yeah. You made that joke last time too.

📞 Me: Then you should’ve laughed harder.

📞 Mo:  Listen, man, I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.

📞 Me: Important how?

📞 Mo:  I need a second set of eyes on something. A story I’m working on.

📞 Me: I don’t do interviews anymore. Unless it’s for GQ and they’re calling me “Sexiest Trader Alive.”

📞 Mo:  It’s not an interview. It’s... look, I just need you to go through some papers. Financial statements, corporate filings. See if I’m crazy or if there’s actually something here.

📞 Me: "Crazy" covers a lot of ground, Mo. Be specific."

📞 Mo:  I’ve been following earnings reports—big firms, old money. And something doesn’t add up. Same profit margin. Down to the decimal. Every quarter. For decades.

📞 Me: Cooked books? Not exactly breaking news. Wall Street’s built on creative accounting.

📞 Mo:  No, this isn’t some Enron bulls*ht. This isn’t fraud—it’s... too perfect. No volatility, no fluctuations. Not even during recessions. Just the same number, over and over.*

📞 Me: So, what? Someone found a way to time the market forever? You sure you’re not just looking at Swiss bankers playing 4D chess or another Bernie Madoff clone?

📞 Mo:  Ken, listen to me—these companies shouldn’t even be connected. They’re in different sectors, different leadership, different eras. But they all have one thing in common.

📞 Me: What?

(Silence.)

📞 Mo: I can't tell you on the phone. But you you need to see what I have. There’s more—names, a pattern, something I can’t explain.

📞 Me: That’s the second time someone’s told me that this week. First guy’s now on a beach trying to forget he saw the devil in a trade log.

📞 Mo: Ken. Please.

📞 Me: (sigh) all right, where are you?

📞 Mo:  I’m at my office. But let’s meet somewhere public. Midtown?

📞 Me: I should start charging by the hour, you know, since you don't leave me time to trade.

📞 Mo:  Fine. I’ll buy you a drink.

📞 Me: Now we’re talking.

📞 Mo:  See you soon.

Click.

Entry 11 – The fall

So there I was, one magical cheeseburger in one hand and my dick in the other, without decent time to look for some quality setups. I said, f*ck it, placed some shorts targeting previous demand zones, and jumped into the Porsche. Did I set Stop Losses I must have I always do, I just realize that this is the trader equvivalent of did I leave the stove open. Anyways let's focus on something else, The weather: perfect. That rare moment in New York when the air doesn’t smell like subway piss and broken dreams.I should take the bike out next time. But today? No time for that. I had a meeting to get to.

I pulled up to the location—some mid-tier finance news office in Midtown. A place that had just enough credibility to get invited to Bloomberg panels but not enough to be taken seriously. The building itself was gray, corporate, forgettable. If you worked here, you either hated your job or were waiting for a better offer. I parked, killed the engine, and checked my phone. One new message from Mo:

5th floor. Conference room by the windows.

I started walking up, but before I even reached the lobby— A scream.

Not just any scream. That kind of scream that cuts through traffic, through conversation. The kind that makes people stop what they’re doing and look up. So I did. And there he was.

Mo.

Standing on the edge of the f*cking building. Time slowed.

One second, he was there. Arms stretched out, looking down at the world like he was about to say something. The next?

He was gone. Just... gone. His body twisted in mid-air, arms flailing for something that wasn’t there, and then—

CRASH.

Glass. Bone. Metal.

Silence.

Then, chaos.

People screamed. Phones came out. Someone vomited on the curb. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because as the panic exploded around me, I saw something no one else did.

Behind Mo, just before he fell— The stock ticker on the building glitched. Not a malfunction. Not a flicker. The letters melted, twisted. For a fraction of a second, they formed something else.

M̴̢̗̦͆ͅR̷̭̣̈̀͐͝Ť̷͖̺̮̠̙̓̚M̶̖̻̋̉̏̔

Then, just as fast, they were gone. And Mo? A crumpled, lifeless heap on the pavement. He was holding a brief case, must be the files he wanted to show me, hold on I have to get to them first...

The cops shut the scene down fast. Too fast. One second, I was standing there, staring at Mo’s briefcase, and the next, two uniforms were in my face, barking orders. “Step back, sir.” “Keep it moving.” I could’ve argued. Could’ve said, “I knew the guy,” but that wouldn’t have changed a damn thing. So I did what any self-respecting trader does when they get locked out of a deal. I called in a favor.

Here’s the thing about trading. People think it’s just numbers, charts, and gut feelings. But really? It’s about information. Knowing things before others do. And years ago, I knew something before Detective Longs did. Back when I was still a wide-eyed analyst, Longs was just another hard-working, middle-class guy dreaming of a house with a pool. Problem was, he was about to dump his entire savings into FTX. The hot pick of the year. Everyone wanted in. Twitter was pumping it. Bloomberg was calling it a generational buy. Every hedge fund under the sun was “accidentally leaking” that they were loading up. And me? I took one look at it and said, “Don’t do it.” Longs actually listened.

Three months later? Well I think everyone who is reading this know what happned. Every poor bastard who piled in got wiped. Longs? Still had his money. Bought the house. Got the pool. So yeah—he owed me. And tonight, I was cashing in.

Didn’t take much convincing. The second I brought up Mo’s name, Vin got quiet. Said, “Yeah… we got the body.” I told him I needed to see it. He sighed, cursed, called me an asshole—but he didn’t say no.

So guess where I am right now, boys and girls?

Sitting in my Porsche, in front of the New York City Office of Chief Medical Examiner aka the morgue. And here’s the weird thing. I’m thinking about two things.

1. How many alt girls I’ve dated would’ve killed to come on a date like this. (Pun fully intended.) Actually, some of them tried to kill me.

2. I got a f*cking badge. No, seriously. Longs handed me his old one. Said I should just flash it, say I’m “Detective So-and-So,” and they’d let me in. Pretty cool, huh?

Now let’s see if I can pull this off, if the blog ends I probably got arrested.

Entry 12 – The heist and the dig

Sorry I didn’t update you right away. The heist went fine. So smooth, in fact, that calling it a heist feels insulting. I got in, got out, and even had time to flirt with a sexy blonde lab assistant. Now, normally? Blondes aren’t my type. But let’s be real—if she works in a morgue, the chances of her killing me in some weird ritual are high. And I’m into that.

Anyway, she wasn’t the reason I went dark for a bit. I just got lost in the search.

Mo had a sh*t ton of paper.

• Balance sheets

• IPO filings

• Cash flow statements

• SEC reports

• 10-Ks, 10-Qs, S-1s, earnings transcripts

• Regulatory filings, historical disclosures, offshore account reports

No wonder he was only a journalist. Dude overanalyzed everything. He would’ve never made it as a trader. And this is coming from a guy who looks at weekly time frames while minute scalping. After digging through all this junk, I needed all my accounting and corporate finance knowledge to piece it together. (Professor Shmarket would be proud.)

But after the mountains of paper and even more booze, I found something. All the companies Mo was tracking? They were all tied to one firm. One hedge fund.

Mortem Capital.

(DUM DUM DUUUUUUUUUUUUM)

(I promise I will figure out how to add sound effects)

And No, This Isn’t A Cliffhanger Don’t worry, I’m not about to leave you hanging.

It actually exists. A real, legitimate fund. And not just some sketchy shell company with a P.O. Box. It’s big. Like real money, real assets, office space, the whole deal. Which is weird. Because I’m plugged into this world. I keep track of every major player. And yet, I’ve never heard of these f*ckers. But I found their address and will give them a visit.

Problem is—it's Friday night. No point in checking their offices now. No one’s gonna be there.

So I’m putting this to rest for the weekend. End of a F*cked Up Day My shorts hit, by the way.

• Just made $10,000.

• Saw a journalist die.

• Pretended to be a cop.

I would call it a pretty mundane day on Wall Street. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna log out, take that sexy morgue assistant to dinner, and hopefully, some weird, kinky sex. See you guys tomorrow. And don’t worry—I’ll rate her head game first thing when I’m back.

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To be continued...

Thanks for reading episode 03 - Dead Journalist Don’t Blow Whistles, Check back next week for episode 04 or subscribe to our mailing list so you get it straight into your inbox.