We have almost every Shakespeare play and Greek tragedy on Wall Street rolled into one tale with a little Tom Wolfe for good measure. Some days King Lear, some days Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Tom Marks writes: 

In a perfect theatrical world the whole thing would be a colossal performance art piece with Bernie having not only had the original 50 billion safely secured in an escrow account, but having turned it into 100 billion by having been short crude all the way down. So Bernie, accompanied by a gaggle of his doctors, comes out one fine morning to face the pack of media wolves camped outside his princely co-op and announces that the whole confession thing was just a misunderstanding, citing an adverse reaction to medication for Lyme disease by way of plausible deniability. He walks away scott free, the Carnegie Deli names a sandwich after him (bologna on wry), his investors flusher than ever, and the audience (meaning us) left with their jaws agape in classic WTF fashion. It would be theatre of the absurd's finest hour, while at the same time being the only rationale explanation how 50 billion dollars could somehow evaporate. 





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