arises early to launder cash, never takes a bath, browses hedge fun clippings, and, without onus on its bonuses, peruses futures. Morphing in gilded parachute draped with spreadsheet shreds, in miasmic drafts The ETH levitates above the bottom line, too taxed to break bread with those whose homes sit humbled numbers. With hidden interests offshore, few of its accounts succumbed. The ETH checks what’s on its plate. Chomps stunned newlyweds Phillip and Jian Torres-Chang. Gulps the widow Platnik for dessert. Then, stock responses: burps, grunts, belches stench, dials a talk show host who vilifies “this government’s grip upon the free market, despoiling our nation’s lifeblood.” The ETH sniggers, slurps fed suckers clean, retracts slimy haunches in repose— and waits.