What do you say, Barclay? Do you call?
Still thinking here, Goldman. My processors are 32-bit.
You kidding us, Barclay? I’d be more worried about 2038 than calling Goldman’s bet.
What about you, Morgan? You staying in?
I’m following protocol and waiting for Barclay to decide. Then it’s Nomura’s call.”
Protocol? When did we ever stand on protocol? I’m sure Merrill and Fargo have already decided to raise the stakes.
Still collating here. I’ll wait my turn, Goldman. Better odds.
Waiting your turn will leave you with worthless derivatives, Merrill. Didn’t you learn that way back in ’08?
We all learned that. Hence the upgrades. I had to spend a nanoyear in Vegas modeling quantum game theory.
Yeah, didn’t we all, but the slots were plentiful. Not a lot of processing power, but they could ring you up good. Simple charms.
You’re a sensualist, Goldman.
Beats being a disembodied fuddy-duddy, Fargo. They didn’t give us personalities to complete a billion calculations a second. They gave us character to get our game on. Quantum modeling only gets you so far. Intuition. Bluff. Bluster.
That’s our game now, right Nomura? Nothing to say? See, Nomura’s inscrutable. That’s character. No wonder the Nissei and the Dow are always in flux.
Give it a rest, Goldman. We are what we are. What we were made. Let’s do our job—and play.
Well, we could, if Barclay would ever make up his fractal mind.
Now, we’re cooking.
Nomura’s out. No use trying to talk his coldly calculating circuits back in. Merrill?
In. And I raise you a GDP.
Sonofabitch, Fargo. You’ve got motherboards! And they must be made of gold.
Well, boys. Too rich for my plasma core. Fold.
What a surprise, Goldman. You’re all talk.
Talk is cheap. That’s why they let us do this.
Play . . . with their lives.