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From The Desk of John Crudele (Within the Bada Bing)

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Dear Hank (or as the boys from the neighborhood call you, The Medicine Man),
How ya doin’?
Over the last 9 or so months, give or take a few sleeping fishes*, you did good. Maybe a little too good, if you catch my drift.
I’ll just get right to it—the boys: Sil, Cue ball Corzine, The Liquidator, me—don’t trust ya. And there’s talk that we’re gonna have to do something about it, this lack of trust. Are you picking up what I’m throwing down?
You, Hank, and your friends over on Broad Street—you’re all suspect. There are just too many ways for you and the Goldsteinowitzes to cheat the financial market. You’re in cahoots and that’s starting to create problems for me and my own. You don’t want to create problems for me and my own, do ya, Hank?
I put some of my boys on the job a few months back—I said “Get some answers so I don’t have to take out no made men.” They asked for some documents shredderfuckshitshredder—sorry, Tourette’s—from the President’s Working Group on Financial Markets—around these parts we’ve got a name for it—the Plunge Protection Team (I won’t get into how that name came about but I can tell you it had nothing to do with the WaPo; and also, that she was a most unsavory woman).

But guess what Hanky-boy? My boys never heard back. No call back, nothing. Not even a lie. I don’t think I need to tell you that this was very insulting.
So my boys tried again. And nothing. And now my boys are getting frustrated. And when my boys get frustrated I get frustrated, you don’t want to know what happens then, Hanky.
I know you’re up to something. You and your group, you’re trying to cook the books and claim it’s to the nation’s benefit but really you’re just in it for an in-ground pool and a new car for that wife of yours. I don’t trust you and your Wall Street buddies and your hedge fund cronies and the days February 27 and 28 and any marinara sauce that comes from a can. You know why. You sick fuck.
And maybe you could tell me why some shmuck named Paul Tudor Jonsie is being consulted by the PPT. Maybe you could explain that. Because if I don’t get some answers soon, someone’s going to start missing some knee-caps-- and I'm not speaking in euphemism.
Do it,
*Their chosen unit of measure.