The first time I met Lordian he was blow-drying his balls in the gym locker room, presenting himself like a man being sculpted, one leg up on the counter, scrotum warm and wind-battered like boardwalk taffy. He was dictating a memorandum on expense reports to his personal assistant Charlie, who was visibly uncomfortable, but such are the lives of men in the shadows of giants; shock, admiration, always arching their necks in this direction and that, blinded by the glow of their masters. 

He was a man of truly immense wealth, the kind who lived in a world of his own; a social strata so far beyond most men, our comprehension of his reality would be nearly impossible to contextualize. A condition of the settlement on his first divorce had entitled him to literally catapult his ex-wife off the property. A contractor I knew built the device, they'd sent a piano 300 metres through the air during the testing. She was a big woman. 

Barely a couple months passed before the Mastrosimone Mutual Fund had filed for Chapter 11, the once hugely successful investment operation forced to shutter several offices around the country, looking every part the dying business. The disappearance and subsequent death of Lordian had left the management team in charge of reorganization without a leader to guide it back to profitability. What happened to the great man I once knew? How far had he fallen; how deep did his debts go? 

I conducted my own investigation, stepping delicately into the former office of the investment manager expecting to find the rotting remains of a golden goose, glowing change billowing from its various gooseholes like a squeezed lemon, only to brush a false switch and find myself flung down one of what I discovered were several hidden escape routes. I wondered in which direction he had heaved his fat skeleton that fateful night, bags of his clients money in tow. 

PA Charlie's story was a good start: he was in Riga teaching Latvian boys how to raise their pelvic floor. Another source claimed he'd been turned into a giant blueberry on a chocolate factory tour. I suspected he was moaning at a waiter in a revolving restaurant on the 35th floor about how the guests had not been told the polynesian bouillabaisse must be ordered in advance of their seating. Each guess was as good as the other.

No, all I had were his accounts receivable. And what I discovered in that office was not alchemical wildlife or the traces of his absconsion but the paper trail of a beautiful mind; a staggering innovator in the world of investment banking. I decided it would be my goal to honor the Mastrosimone tradition in every way possible. I decided that someone had to step up and run his business exactly as he would have if he were still with us today.

As of this morning, I have purchased a controlling interest of the company and will be taking over all Mastrosimone Mutual Fund and subsidiary Mastrosimone Industries businesses going forward. Any future use of the Mastrosimone name must go through me. 

The rules are very simple:

1. 10 million cap on short term, 25 million cap on long term investments. 

2. Whatever you invest, we will double it. 

3. I enjoy your doubled investment on a luxury yacht in St. Lucia. 

That is the Mastrosimone guarantee. It is as easy as getting in touch and depositing your cash investment into my bank account to buy your ticket on the Mastrosimone Railroad to obscene wealth and riches.

As my friend Skumbag shared with me in an exclusive testimonial, "this is truly a deal to die for, like a bitch". 

The Mastrosimone Mutual Fund: under new management and open for business. All questions, such as those regarding return of investment timeline, are to be addressed into the yawning mouth of a canyon.