Outside, I take in the scene: street preachers denouncing Gnosticism, a lone banker trying to garrote himself with ticket tape, and the Bull – that gold, beautiful bull – running through the streets like Zeus. I chase after it for a quote, but, like the dubious financial transactions powered by super-compressors, it is too quick.
Smoke. Weeping. Screams.
I hire now-former JP Morgan CEO Jamie Dimon as my local fixer. “Tell me the ways of your people, caught as they are between the present and the ancient past,” I demand, offering him half a hotdog as payment. Instead, he weeps. He tried to seek shelter at the dungeon of his favorite pro domme, he tells me, but when his black card bounced she slammed the door in his face.
In Zuccotti Park, once the home of Occupy, the ex-Goldman Sachs boys have built a squatters city out of Hermès gift boxes that were meant for their mistresses. They communicate only by wiggling their fingers. No cops try to roust them. Behind us, Tiffany’s burns.
Then we hear the chanting. Dear god. The chanting. Dimon and I run towards it.