“Once everything’s settled,” said my vice president of acquisitions Bob Laudermilk, “it looks like we’ll clear a good twenty million, maybe more, off this Oglethorpe Sporting Goods deal.” We were in my office at Carver Consolidated Capital (C3), dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s of our latest conquest.
“Hoo hoo, easy money!” I said, using a $100 bill to light an obnoxiously fat cigar before tossing the C-note’s smoldering remains into the nearby waste bin. “I do like the sound of that!”
“I knew you would, boss man. Hell, who doesn’t love easy money? Still, I’m amazed at how insanely simple it is to make fortunes with venture capitalism.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Well, we take out a loan to buy a struggling company, then we put that loan on the company’s books, absolving us of risk. Right?”
“Riiight,” I said cautiously. Frankly, I was a bit perturbed by this line of discussion.
“OK. So the company doesn’t stand a chance of paying off the loan, because it was already in trouble before we got involved. And while we’re collecting bonuses and consulting fees, the company slides into bankruptcy and dies.”
“Yep, that’s venture capitalism in a nutshell. And your point is?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t it all seem—” Laudermilk shrugged and threw his hands in the air. “Like cheating? I mean, I’m not complaining, but how are there not laws on the books about this?”
“Son,” I said, kicking my feet up on my desk, “let me give you a bit of advice: Never question why currently unwritten laws don’t yet exist, and never, ever, ever, ever question a source of easy money!”
At that moment, a wake of vultures crashed through my office’s floor-to-ceiling windows, shrieking angrily as shards of glass flew everywhere. One piece even lodged in Laudermilk’s left eye, and my suit was torn to shreds by the time we made it out of there. If I were superstitious I might take the incident as some sort of omen, but being a man of reason I’m just going to call an exterminator. Good day to you.