How The Filthy Became 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.'