Welcome, Member #1339 | Episode 05 | 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 17 – Welcome, Member #1339

I’m writing this from a diner that smells like scorched bacon, burnt coffee, and the kind of regret you only find at 4AM. Out the window, I can still see the smoke curling up into the night sky like some Wall Street exorcism. What’s left of Mortem Capital is now a twisted, blackened carcass. And me? I’m sitting in a red vinyl booth with a busted rib, blood on my shirt, syrup on my fingers, and a stack of pancakes so good they might just save my soul.

Let me tell you what happened.

After the blog cut off last time—right when I saw my name typed across the screen like some cursed ticker—I turned around and found myself staring into a man who should’ve been dead years ago. He was tall, but hunched. Lean, like whatever had been human in him had been drained out slowly over the years. His suit looked like it had been expensive in the '90s—now it looked like it had been buried in it. Mold crawling up the sleeves, collar torn, buttons gone. His face… Jesus. His eyes were all pupil, black and glossy like a shark that never stopped blinking. But the rest? Sagging skin. Yellow teeth. Smelled like wires and grave dust. You could think Zombie, but this is how every average New York crackhead looks like so nothing supernatural there.

He didn’t say a word. Just charged me like he’d been given orders to do it. We went down hard—me, him, and about three decades of rotted office furniture. He scratched. Bit. Screamed. But I remembered enough from my youth in the sh*tty parts of Queens to hold my own. Used to box in a gym that shared a wall with a brothel. You either learned to fight or you learned to run. I did both.

Got a clean elbow to his jaw and smashed his head into one of the desks. Hard. That’s when he started to cry. Like really cry. Chest-heaving, face-twisting, ugly sobbing. Not from pain—no, this was something deeper. Something broken. He started muttering:

“It was supposed to be done… I did everything. I gave them blood, money, time, pieces of myself. All they wanted. All they asked.”

Then he looked at me with those void eyes and said—“I thought killing you would set me free.”

That’s when I saw the screen behind him blink.

TRADE FAILED.

And that’s when he screamed.

“Now it’s yours! NOW IT’S YOURS!”

Then he grabbed a jagged piece of broken monitor glass and—Well, let’s just say his retirement plan was messy. The room went silent after that. No more screaming. No more trading pings. Just the soft buzz of those old machines still running. Like they didn’t give a single sh*t that someone just died next to them. So I did the obvious thing. Started unplugging everything. Ripped cords out of outlets, smashed keyboards, kicked over terminals until my foot went numb. Screens flickered out. Fans whirred into silence. Everything went still. I opened Hal’s brokerage account on my phone.

Signal service: offline.

No new trades. No tasks. No tickers. And for a second, I thought—that’s it.

Until one screen—just one—lit up again. No fanfare. No sound. Just a single message:

WELCOME, MEMBER #1339:

KEN DALESTICK

That’s when I knew. It wasn’t done. It was waiting. And now it had me. I stood there for maybe a minute. Just staring. Heart pounding. Stomach hollow. Then I did what every reasonable men would do in that situation:

🔥🔥🔥BURN EVERYTHING🔥🔥🔥

I left the room. Found the janitor’s closet. Gas line. Broken valve. Walked back in, dropped my Zippo. Watched the fire crawl up the walls like it had a grudge.

I didn’t run.Just walked out.

Now I’m here.

Pancakes in front of me. Coffee gone cold. Fire truck sirens in the distance.

The cute waitress just asked if I want another round. I told her sure—might be my last meal that doesn’t come with a side of ritual sacrifice. So, yeah. The machines are off. The fire’s out now. But that message on the screen? That sh*t is still burning in the back of my head. I don’t know what member #1339 gets. But something tells me the market’s not done with me yet. And I’ve got a feeling I’m gonna need more pancakes and maybe a maple syrup footjob from that cute waitress. Anyways I need to clear my head first and then I get back to you, I just wanted to give a quick update, so none of you call the cops or a hearse for me. Not yet at least.

Entry 18 – Ham, eggs & head

Let’s start with the bad news:

No, I did not get that maple syrup footjob. But I did manage to convince her to come back to my place after her shift. And brother… let me tell you something. If the devil himself offered me a lifetime supply of green trades or a replay of that life-altering, dignity-stripping, worldview-shattering blowjob—I’d ask him how fast he could set up the appointment. After that? She made me a ham and egg sandwich that could revive the dead.

So now I am sitting here eating my sandwich and scalping SPX for a couple grand like nothing ever happened. So yeah, I’m feeling good today. Market’s green. My PnL looks like it’s on Adderall. I didn’t die in a burning haunted hedge fund headquarters. Life is good. I even opened my windows this morning and let the city air slap me in the face like it still owed me rent.

Now I know some of you little tinfoil hat degenerates are waiting for me to say something spooky happened. Like maybe I opened Hal’s brokerage account and the signal service blinked back to life. Or maybe the waitress whispered some eldritch chant while slurping my soul through my zipper.

Nope. Everything’s normal.

Hal’s account is clean. The service is down. The building is ash. Hell, I even made sure the remains got cleared by the city. Told ‘em it was a gas leak, some freak electrical accident.

And as for the machines? They’re toast. Fried silicon. Melted screens. Wires turned to noodles. I don’t know what the f*ck that place really was—some kind of rogue AI server farm, abandoned black-market trading hub, or just a psycho ex-hedge fund CEO’s wet dream—but it’s over. Done. Gone.

Let's get one thing clear I DONOT believe in ghost, eldritch gods, or anything supernatural. Not even after a dozen of goth witch exes tried to convince me Freddy Mercury was in retrograde and we were cosmically aligned because I’m a “Stegosaurus” and she’s an “Aquarium” or whatever the f*ck. I don’t do stars. I do charts. Which once I heared is just astrology for men. Listen I take it, but my astrology buys me Aston Martins, and Lambos, while yours makes you drink "moon water" in the dark or whatever the f*ck one of my crazy exes did.

And my chart says: I made it out alive. Profitable. With some damn good waitress and sandwich in the process. Whatever that was—it wasn’t supernatural. It was just... f*cked up. Some crime ring gone tech-cult. Some old fund that forgot to die. I burned it. And I’m moving on. Now I am drinking coffee, and thinking about maybe—just maybe—sending that cute waitress a thank-you text. God knows she earned it.

Entry 19 – Gains, degens & thai proposals

The market was twitchy at the open—had that “I might break out or I might ruin your life” kind of vibe. But I’ve been around long enough to know how to dance with the devil. You just don’t let him lead. I caught a clean scalp on Tesla—classic fakeout flush then a hard reclaim. Rode it from the bounce like it owed me lunch. Snagged a few momentum gainers off my scanner too. Nothing sexy, just solid moves. Made decent coin. One of those green days that makes you think you’ve got the market by the balls.

(You don’t. But I’ll enjoy the delusion while it lasts.)

Called Hal btw. Dude’s doing better. Like, weirdly better. He was rambling about which meme coins he’s aping into now—something called $BONEASS or $TITSNU or whatever the f*ck the kids are pumping these days—and casually dropped that he might propose to a local Thai hooker. Which—yeah, sounds insane. But in Hal’s case? That might be the healthiest relationship he’s ever had.

He actually made some money, too. Real trades. Profitable ones. Said something about a “Dogelon Inu reversal pattern” and I just let him talk. Didn’t have the heart to remind him he once lost 80K because he thought “earnings beat” meant the CEO did a TikTok dance. Hal’s a weird bastard. I roast him constantly, but I’ll say this:

He’s a decent trader. Not as good as me, of course—but then again, no one is as good as me.... 😎

wait hold up I am getting a call, Don't worry I will tell you later how good a trader am I but I need to take this, stay put.

Entry 20 - Who you gonna call? Ken Dalestick

for the love of f*cking GOD—you won’t believe who just called me. I’ll try to tell you how the conversation went:

(Guess who just figured out how to add sounds effects. Can I get a HELL YEAH.)

📞 Me: If this is another cold call about crypto tax software, I swear I will find you and staple your keyboard to your face.

📞 Barry: Ken? It’s Barry. Barry Shmarket. I—uh—we used to work together at Franklin. Back on the floor.

📞 Me: …No sht. Barry f*cking Shmarket. How are you Man, I haven't heard your voice since Hal clogged the espresso machine with protein powder. Those were the good old days my guy.

📞 Barry: Yeah, it’s been a while.

📞 Me: So What’s up? How have you been. What are you doing, man? I figured you either joined a think tank or started to go back to rocket science. You were always one spreadsheet away from a breakdown, but you were one hell of an analyst. Word is you have made a model, that you sold to hedge funds. They ate up that sh*t, I can't go to a place where they haven't mentioned your model. You are like the king of calling disiaters in advance. I don't know how you did it, but hats of to you my guy.

📞 Barry: Look, I don’t want to take up your time, but that’s why I’m calling. Look, Hal said you… you’ve been dealing with some strange stuff. Said you might believe me. Look, I can’t explain it over the phone...

📞 Me: OH MY GOD. Not this again.

📞 Barry: Please. I just need to talk in person. One meeting. That’s all I’m asking.

📞 Me: FOR THE LOVE OF F*CKING GOD—why does everyone want to talk in person?! Why the f*ck did Jobs revolutionize phones if noone is using them.

📞 Barry: It’s important, Ken. I’m not joking. It’s about something I saw in the model. Something… weird.

📞 Me: Barry listen my guy, I love you I truly do, you gave me coke once when I was out and had to trade the NASDAQ during the crash. But I am done with weird stuff, I am not the f*cking Ghostbusters. If you need trading advice or the best hookers in town call me, otherwise call Egon Spangler or Peter Venkman

📞 Barry: I’ll text you the address. Just… come. Please.

📞 Me: Fine. But if I show up and you’re standing in candlelight chanting Fibonacci numbers with blood on your shoes, I’m drop-kicking you through your own Bloomberg terminal.

📞 Barry: Deal.

📞 Me: Tomorrow, then. I won't let you ruin this perfect day.

📞 Barry: Deal, I will send you the address... And thanks again Ken

Can't believe this sh*t. Looks like I’m the resident Ghostbuster of Wall Street.

🎶 🎶 🎶

If there’s something strange on your trading floor,Who you gonna call?

KEN DALESTICK!

If there’s an invisible stock sitting in your portfolio,Who you gonna call?

KEN DALESTICK!

At least now I know how to add sound effects to the blog. I'm gonna abuse the hell out of that. Full spectral ambiance next time. Maybe ad in some smoth jazz or some 80s synthwave chill.

Anyways, Barry’s a good kid, so I’ll help him out. If that means I have to turn into Peter Venkman, so be it. Honestly, as a kid I always wanted to smash that secretary from the cartoons. What was her name—Jennine something?

But I’m off-topic. I’m gonna go get some rest. Maybe throw on Ghostbusters, pour some whiskey, and update you tomorrow on how the meeting with Barry went.

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To be continued...

Thanks for reading episode 05 - Welcome Member #1339, Check back next week for episode 06 or subscribe to our mailing list so you get it straight into your inbox.