Pork futures had suddenly gone out of control. After a prolonged glut in the market, due in equal parts to decreased consumption and new subsidies passed by, disaster for all the 'Smart Money' at the Chicago Mercantile Exchange had struck. Everyone was short pork futures. It seemed smart, given projected consumption patterns. But the smart Money turned out to be swimming naked. A rare double whammy from China occurred. In a trade war, they declared they would no longer accept pork imports from the US. A week later, a novel form of swine flu began to spread in China, and they announced the systemic destruction and culling of all swine on any farm where a single pig tested positive. The Chicago Mercantile Exchange was in a bad mood. A bunch of my colleagues had lost their pants on this trade. I was sitting pretty, because I had a rule. If 75% of my coworkers were taking one side of a trade, I'd take the other. I was pretty open about this, it just seemed like a reasonable way to hedge my bets. And that's when Goldstein walked into my office, sweating profusely, tie nearly undone, his tiny Walther .22 in hand. "I need all your bacon!" He looked erratic, and smelled of despair and desk scotch. Not the good scotch he kept in his prominently displayed decanter, but the bad stuff he kept hidden in his bottom desk drawer. "I'm afraid that wouldn't be kosher." I didn't think he would shoot me. But maybe he would. I did know he was desperate. I did know how much he had spent on his daughter's wedding, and I did know he had just purchased an extravagant property in the Hamptons, and his wife was put in charge of redecorating. That type of shit can add up quick.