Dickhead Pete is still fairly hammered as he bears off Wall Street into the dazzling new $2.6 billion Morclays Goldlynch & Co. headquarters.

His ‘We Are the 1% Party’ got a little bit out of hand last night. Cristal Beirut. Belvedere Unfiltered Jello shots (for the ladies, natch). Johnny Walker Blue. Ice luge. Hot new interns (dude interns not invited, natch). Anorexic models. Spin the bottle. Fuck the bottle. Prude intern exit stage left. Anorexic transvestite model. Fist fight. Lines of coke. Eli Manning. Lines of coke with Eli Manning. Bad head: non-prude hot intern. Puke on non-prude hot intern. Exit stage left. Good head: anorexic transvestite model. 4:30 a.m.: pass out. 5:15 a.m.: alarm. 5:33 a.m.: break alarm. Shit-shower-shave. Puke again. Visine. More Visine. Boot coked-up models (tranvestite and original recipe). Depart Tribeca bachelor pad. Red Bull. 5:59 a.m.: arrive at office.

Not bad for a Wednesday night.

Dickhead Pete lives for this shit. The last time he showed up at work this bombed, Ron Chancellor, head of derivative investments, called him into his office. Ron was starting up a new division – Innovative Investments – and he wanted Dickhead Pete to be his lead dog, his general in the field.

“So what do you say, DP? You game?”

“Who are you talking to, boss? Fuck yeah I’m game. Let’s do this shit up.”

Ron was a legend at Goldlynch. You don’t turn that dude down when he comes calling. And Innovative Investments was like nothing the bank had ever done. No limitations. No asset classifications. Most important, no questions. Mission: max returns. The recession was over, investors were tired of conservative bull shit, asset-backed securities were dead. Goldlynch needed to invent a new game to hit their marks and keep their good name as the smartest guys in the room. Innovative Investments was it.

“DP, you are a tremendous dickhead,” Ron said. “But I’ve seen a lot of dicks come and go at Goldlynch and none of them have your touch. You shit money. Pick your team. You get a blank check this quarter. Get me 15 percent-plus returns and you get another one next quarter. See how we play this game?”

Good times. Slow fucking elevator. Red Bull No. 2.

Editor’s Note: I am currently shopping this short story to literary markets. With a little luck, I’ll provide a link to the published version in the near future. Fingers crossed!