How The Filthy Became Rich

Chapters

How it all started
Young, Hungry, Stupid, and Rich
What It Got Me

How it all started

A young, sweaty, wild-eyed Filthy Rich is fucking a hooker from behind.

'Back then, I gambled like a degenerate, drank like a fish, fucked hookers three to five times a week and had three different federal Equestrian agencies looking to indict me.'

He dismounts, snorts some cocaine through a straw on the hookers rump.

'Oh yeah, and I loved drugs.'

'Yes, on a daily basis I took enough drugs to sedate greater Manehattan.'

'I took Quaaludes for my spine, fifteen to twenty a day, I use Xanax to stay focused, ambien to sleep, pot to mellow out, cocaine to wake up and morphine because it's awesome.'

The carriage pulls up to an office building. Jordan gets out, and trots up to Carriage Pull.

"Sorry for all the shaking back there." Filthy chuckled and gives Carriage a big bag of bits. "In addition to that, I added 300 bits as an apology."

"Thanks Filthy, and please, have sex with a hooker before you leave your house, I was getting bizarre looks from passerby's because the caravan was shaking wildly."

Filthy nods and hands him a smaller bag of chips. "This is for the back seat, it, uh, needs to be cleaned."

Carriage sighed and takes the bits. "I'll be back here to pick you up."

Carriage leaves and Filthy pays the hooker.

He then heads into the office building through the back door.

'But of all the drugs under Celestia's sun, there’s one that’s my absolute favorite...'

Filthy then walks in, leather couches, and desks are seen all throughout the office.

He then sits down at his desk and Filthy uses an ace of spades playing card to cut a line of coke on his desk.

He then grabs a small, cut up straw from the drawer of his desk.

'Enough of this shit’ll make you invincible, able to conquer Equestria and eviscerate your enemies.'

He snarfs up the line.

'I’m not talking about the cocaine. I’m talking about this.'

Filthy then opens another drawer and takes out a money bag full of bits.

'Money is the oxygen of capitalism and I wanna breathe more than other pony alive.'

He then tosses the bag it into a corner, where it comes to rest with two dozen others bags.

He walks out of his office towards what sounds like the roar of a mob.

'Money doesn’t just buy you a better life -- better food, better carriages, better pussy, it also makes you a better pony. You can give generously to the church of your choice or the political party. You can save the fucking spotted owl with money.'

Filthy stands above the bullpen, a huge openspace with tightly packed rows of maple colored desks.

'But most of all, in any country in Equestria, money can buy you love.'

'Fuck friendship when you got money'

His 300 brokers, mostly young stallions with their jackets off, scream wildly. They worship him.

'With that in mind, at the tender age of 22, after marrying my marefriend, Sugar Diamond.'

An express carriage bus pulls up, its sign reads 'Trot Street'

Filthy emerges, kisses Sugar goodbye, then joins a sea of commuters heading to work.

L. T. Stallionson - Bullpen- DAY 1

Telephones everywhere. At their desks, 45 brokers read their Trot St. Journals, readying for war. Like an eager puppy, Filthy follows broker Coin Chaser.

"Your job is ‘connector’, which means you'll be dialing the phone over 500 times a day, trying to ‘connect’ me with business owners. And till you pass your Series 7, that’s all you’ll be doing. Sit." Coin said while he motions his hoof at desk with, blank sheets of paper, pens and a telephone.

Filthy takes a seat at the desk next to Coin's

Coin continues. "Just so you know, last year I made over 300k and the other guy you'll be working for made a million."

'A million bits? I could only imagine what a douchebag that guy must be.'

A hoof lands on Filthy's shoulder. It’s Rocky Road, a 30 year old charismatic film star.

"Filthy Rich? Rocky Road." He glances at Coin Chaser. "Good, you’ve met Coin. One of

the smartest guys in the office. Who’s ever sucked a dog’s cock out of loneliness."

Coin's smile turns to a frown. He gives Filthy a stack of 3x5 index cards.

"Smile and dial. And don’t pick your fucking head up till one." Coin says before heading off.

"Don’t mind Coin, his father raped him as a child. Besides, I'm a senior broker here, he's a worthless piker." Rocky continues. "I heard you pitched stock at your job interview."

Filthy smiled. "Had to do something to stand out."

"I fuckin’ love that! Let’s grab lunch later. Bullied Bulls Diner good with you?"

Filthy nods. "Great. Yeah."

Rocky gives him a wink, looks at the clock, it reads 9:30 a.m.

"Let’s rock!!" Rocky screams.

RING!!! Absolute pandemonium at the bell signalling the opening of the stock market. Hooves fly off desks; Brokers and their Connectors dial phones like mad.

Filthy is mesmerizing as he takes in the uproar.

"Uniscribe's a fuckin’ steal! Thirty eight bits a share!" A broker says to another broker.

"Your broker in West Pennine? What are you buying, a coal mine? It's the 80s, the game is high-tech." Says Rocky Road through his phone.

"Fuckface! I got 50,000 Sunshire 50s!" Another broker says to the other broker.

'You want to know what money sounds like? Visit a trading floor on Trot Street. Fuck this, shit that. Cock, cunt, asshole. I couldn’t believe how these guys talked to each other.'

Coin notices Filthy sitting there frozen. He covers his mouthpiece, kicks the desk violently.

"Dial the cocksucking phone!"

Filthy snaps out of it, and starts dialing.

'I was hooked within seconds.'

Rocky slams down his phone in victory, scrawls out a “buy” ticket. He places the ticket into a glass cylinder which he slips into a plastic pneumatic tube. Then the tube is whooshed into the ceiling.

'It was like mainlining adrenaline.'

The lunchtime power spot with views of the city. At a corner table, Filthy Rich looks around as Rocky does another bump of coke on a spoon. None of the other diner employees seem to notice or care.

Rocky offering the spoon. "Got enough for one more? Tootski?"

"No. Thanks though." Filthy said.

Rocky slips the vial into his pocket as Bronco, the tuxedoed Maitre’D, approaches the two.

"Mr. Road, what can I bring for you on this glorious afternoon?" Bronco asks.

Rocky surreptitiously gives Bronco a 100 bits, Filthy notices.

"Here’s the game plan, Bronco. Bring us two vodka martinis straight up. Precisely seven anda half minutes after you deliver those you’ll bring two more, thent wo more every five minutes until one of us passes out." Rocky explains.

"An excellent strategy, sir."

"Actually, I’m good with a ginger ale." Filthy said.

"First day on Trot Street, Bronco. Give him time."

Bronco offers menus.

"No thanks, were not eating."

Bronco heads off.

"You can get high during the dayand still function?" Filthy asked.

"High is the only way to do this fucking job. The stallion who coined the term “three-martini lunch” was a mare. Cocaine and hookers, my friend, the keys to success."

Filthy smiles, not sure if Rocky is kidding.

"I gotta say, I’m really excited about being part of your team. I wanna do all I can for our clients and-"

Rocky interrupts. "Just as long as we get our taste first. Remember something, Filthy Rich, your top priority in this job: make us money. If the clients get rich along the way, bully for them. Got a marefriend?"

"Wife. She cuts hair."

Rocky swallows a comment about that. Gets to business.

"OK, first rule of Trot Street. Nobody knows if a stock’s going up, down or fucking sideways, least of all stock brokers. But we have to pretend we know. Make sure you stay relaxed. Nobody wants to buy something from someone who sounds like they haven’t gotten laid in a month. Take breaks when you feel stressed, jerk off if you can. You like jerking off, right?"

"Well... uh, sure." Filthy said.

"Good, jerking off is key. And I highly recommend cocaine, which will make you dial faster, which is good for me. Churn ‘em and burn ‘em, baby."

A buscolt stops by with a fresh napkin, Rocky thanks him. Then, discreetly as possible, Rocky removes a fresh vial of cocaine tucked within and takes a quick snort.

Filthy then realized why he palmed the maitre d’ 100 bits.

'For the next six months I learned the ways of Trot Street.'

As strippers grind, Filthy parties with Rocky Road and dozens of brokers and trainees. Filthy sips a martini and studies Rocky, hitting on a STRIPPER.

'That fall I passed my Series 7. Finally it was here.'

Briefcase on his side, Filthy walks the stairs with a dozen other brokers.

'My first day as a stockbroker, a future Master of the Universe.'

Young, Hungry, Stupid, and Rich

Total chaos. Filthy dials the phone as all around him, brokers panic, screaming into their phones.

'They called it Black Monday. By four p.m. the market was down 526 points, the biggest one-day drop since the crash of 1957.'

At 4 p.m., the closing bell RINGS; the entire place goes silent. Brokers look at each other, stunned.

"Holy. Fucking. Shit." Rocky Road remarks.

And as the Brokers start commiserating with each other...

'L.T. Stallionson, a company that had been in business since 1927, closed its doors within a month.'

Filthy sits at the table perusing the Manehattan Times classifieds. Sugar Diamond approaches with two coffees. Sits next to him.

"So I’ll take an extra shift, don’t worry about it." Sugar said.

"You work too much as it is." Filthy replied.

"We could pawn my engagement ring."

"We’re not pawning anything. I’m gonna be a millionaire, Sugar."

"You know that doesn’t matter, right?"

Filthy smiles, and kisses her. Together, they peruse the ads.

Filthy points to an ad "'Nobody Beats the Wiz' I be a stock colt."

"You’re a stock broker." Sugar said.

"No one’s hiring brokers right now, sweetie."

They go back to the ads. After a few seconds, Sugar points. "This place is."

In a suit, Filthy emerges from his carriage. He looks around confused, heads toward an unmarked storefront.

The antithesis of L.T. Stallionson, with cheap furniture and a dozen misfit “brokers” giving loud, obnoxious salespitches. Filthy enters, a modern stallion among cave ponies.

Number Crunch, a stallion with a walrus mustache looks up.

"I’m looking for Stocker's Center?" Filthy asked.

"That’s us, hey. Number Crunch."

They shake hooves.

"Filthy Rich, I called earlier. I was a broker with Stallionson."

Number motions Filthy to a seat. Nearby, a Broker, Maverick, is screaming into his phone

"I’m tellin’ you, this stock is goin’ up!... Cause I know, okay?!... I have inside information!"

Filthy looks at him, appalled at what he’s hearing.

"Where are your quotrons?" Filthy asked.

"No quotrons, we sell off the pinksheets -- bit stocks."

Number slides Filthy a large thin book; its pages are literally pink. He explains as Filthy flips the pages.

Number continues. "Companies don’t have enough capital to be listed on, Dow Pones their shares trade here."

Number points to the book.

"Like these guys, Maretyne? They make radar detectors out of a garage in Fillydelphia."

"One bit a share? Who buys this crap?" Filthy asked.

"Schmucks mostly. Mailponies, plumbers, ponies thinking they can get rich quick. They answer our ads."

"The spread on these is huge." Filthy said.

"So’s your commission, that’s the point. Blue chips stocks you get what, one percent? Pink sheets are fifty."

"Wait a second. You’re telling me if I sell two thousand bits worth of stock, my commission is a thousand bits?" Filthy asked.

"Technically, yeah, but not even the biggest schmuck buys two thousand bits of this shit."

As others brokers bark into phones, Filthy sits, phone cradled in his hoof, making notes. He then starts talking into the phone.

"Mr. Charger, good morning, Filthy Rich with Stocker's Center in Manehattan. You recently responded to one of our ads..."

A few of the other brokers glance over, eavesdropping.

"The reason I’m calling is that an extremely exciting investment opportunity crossed my desk today. Typically our firm recommends no more than five stocks per year:

this is one of them..."

A few more brokers look over...

"Maretyne International is a cutting edge tech firm out of the Midwest, awaiting imminent patent approval on a new generation of radar equipment..."

Now all the brokers listen in rapt attention.

"...So if Maretyne’s shares rise to only one bit and our research indicates they could go much, much higher, your profit on a mere three thousand bit investment would be upwards of fifty thousand... That’s right, you could pay off your mortgage."

Seconds tick by; an eternity, then he starts writing.

"Four thousand bits, will that be check or money order?... Thank you, sir."

Filthy hangs up, scrawls out a “buy” ticket.

'Just like that I made two grand. The other guys looked at me like I’d just discovered fire.'

Maverick and the other cave-Brokers stare at him.

"How’d you fuckin’ do that?" Maverick asked

Filthy sits at his desk in mid-pitch, totally focused.

"...It’s a rock-solid company, sir. Six thousand. Terrific."

As Filthy continues talking, wrapping up the sale...

'Though I knew I was selling garbage, within twelve weeks I was making a fortune.'

As he starts scrawling out a buy ticket...

'And as a wise man once told me, my only responsibility was to put food on the table.'

Wearing a suit, Filthy sits in a booth reading the Trot Street Journal as a waiter serves the food.

The waiter then looks out the window at Filthy's carriage.

"That your carriage in the lot?" He asks.

Filthy nods. "Yeah."

"Nice ride. I'm Blaze." Greets the 25 year old, red earth stallion with a yellow mane and tail.

"Filthy Rich."

"I’ve seen it around. We live in the same building. Twelfth floor?"

Filthy nods

"What do you do, bro?"

"Stock broker." Filthy replied.

"Kids furniture, me and my brother in-law. Making any money?"

"Seventy grand last month."

Blaze looks at him, mouth agape. "Get the fuck out. You made seventy grand in one month?!"

"Seventy two actually."

Blaze studies him, isn’t sure if he’s full of shit.

Blaze continues. "Tell you what. You show me a pay stub with $72,000 on it, I’m

quitting my job right now and coming to work with you."

As Filthy retrieves his briefcase to find a paystub.

As Filthy gives Blaze his paystub and sure enough, it’s $72,000.

Blaze looks at it. "Holy shit."

Filthy watches as Blaze crosses to a pay phone and dials.

'And he did quit his job, which I thought was a little weird. I mean I had just met this fucking guy.'

"Yo Cobalt, it’s Blaze... Yeah, listen, I quit."

Filthy studies Blaze as he continues his conversation.

'There were other things about him too, like his phosphorescent white teeth and the fact that he wore horn rims with clear lenses to look more waspy. He also married

his first cousin.'

Filthy sits in mid-conversation with Blaze over beers at a bar.

"...No problem, if we have a kid who’s a retard, we’ll just leave it on the steps of some institution."

'He was also a closet drug fiend. I’d known him less than a week before he talked me into smoking crack.'

Filthy and Blaze go in an alleyway behind the bar.

Filthy and Blaze get high. Blaze holds a flame under a crack pipe.

'The weird thing was when he’d do crack, his face would contort into this bizarre, frozen mask like the Phantom of the Opera.'

Blaze does a hit of crack; his jaw twitches, then his facial muscles contort, locking up like a stroke victim.

After a few seconds, he gives the pipe to Filthy.

"You now, take a hit!"

Filthy takes a deep hit and holds it.

"Oh my Celestia, I fuckin’ love you!"

'I knew I had to make him my partner.'

'Which turned out to be a great move, Blaze was a fast learner who transitioned into the bit stock business quickly.'

Filthy and Blaze walk up to a defunct carriage body shop, which has a “For Lease” sign in the window.

'So within months we started our own firm out of an abandoned carriage body shop.'

Jordan sits with Duke, Jackpot Star, Lanny and, a muscular stallion named Jester.

'In addition to Blaze, I also recruited my friends Duke, Jackpot Star and Lanny, who were at the time all middling pot dealers.'

As the waitress serves hayburgers.

"...See everyone wants to get rich, so you’re already half way thereby the time the call starts." Says Filthy.

"I sold weed once to this Saddle Arabian dude, had one of those beards with no mustache." Lanny said.

Jackpot Star shrugs. "So?"

"He only wanted to make furniture." Lanny responds.

"What’s that got to do with anything?" Duke asked.

Lanny points to Filthy. "He just said everyone wants to get rich."

Jackpot turns to Filthy. "That’s true, you did."

"Griffons too, they don’t give a shit about money either." Lanny added.

Duke chuckled. "Dude, I could sell weed to anybody, get a convent full of virgins fucking wasted."

Jester looks at Filthy and shakes his head.

'Jester, the guy I really wanted, took a pass, since he’d become the drug king of

Coltside.'

'My friends were absolute morons, but like I always said, give me them young, hungry and stupid and in no time I’ll make them rich.'

What It Got Me

300 drunken stockbrokers, most in their early 20s, chant wildly as Filthy Rich stands beside a pony who's dressed as a crash test dummy

"Twenty five grand to the first cocksucker to nail a bullseye!" Says Filthy.

The bullseye is a large dollar sign in the middle of a giant velcro dartboard.

"Watch and learn!"

The brokers go crazy as Filthy grabs the crash test pony by his tail and mane. In the crowd, money flies as side bets are made. Filthy winds up, aims for the dartboard.

"One. Two. Throw!!"

The brokers cheer as Filthy hurls the crash test pony at the bullseye.

'My name is Filthy Rich. I'm a former member of the middle class raised by two accountants in a tiny apartment in Manehattan.'

'The year I turned 26, I made 49 million bits as the head of my own brokerage firm, which really pissed me off because it was three shy of a million a week.'

'But hey, it didn't stop me getting this fancy caravan of mine, with a great and strong pulling pony named Carriage Pull.'

Carriage Pull, a strong pegasus stallion, pulling a fancy white and blue horse caravan, he zooms away as Filthy is trying to read the Manehattan Times while getting a blowjob in the back seat of the caravan.

Carriage then descends over a huge mansion, with sparkling pool, tennis court and waterfall.

'That humongous estate down there? That's my house.'

'My wife, Spoiled Milk-Rich, the Duchess of Manehattan, a former model and beer mare.'

'Yeah, she was the one blowing me in the caravan, so put your stallionhood back where it belongs.'

'In addition to Spoiled and my perfect daughter, Diamond Tiara. I own a mansion, private butcher and carriage pony, six carriages, two vacation homes and a 170 foot yacht.'

'I'm going to tell you how I got all of that...'