Peterson's grin grew as he looked out the new super-luxe, auto-tint glass walls of his 76th floor office. He sipped his bourbon and glared with contented eyes at the number monkeys lining his halls. 'Make me that money, you slaves,' he mused. A shabby image walked with hunched shoulders, mumbling to itself, past his perfect windows. It was Scotty. He looked terrible. Unshaven and with frazzled hair. His shirt appeared to have been slept in for multiple nights. Multiple shades of lipstick, or perhaps, blood, dappled his collar. Peterson was disgusted. What the hell had happened to his best trader.
Already past the door to Peterson's office, Scotty suddenly stopped, raised a hand as if a bolt of lightning in the form of thought had struck him. He pivoted on his heel and came directly and uninvited into Peterson's office.
"What the hell is this?"
"This is the beginning of something that will shake the very world..."
"You're drunk!"
"Penny stocks, I've cracked them."
"You're mad!"
"I know why you didn't want us selling them. I know everything." His face shone with ecstatic brilliance. Peterson could only hope that it was madness. "And soon everyone will know."
There was a long pause as Peterson attempted to set down his scotch. His mouth was dry, his hand trembling. "Think about this now a second, Scotty."
"Done!" He laughed hysterically, setting Peterson on guard. "And, after a second, I have concluded that I am going to take, you, down."
"What do you want?"
"Penny stocks. Everywhere. For everyone."
"Don't do this, please. Think about the economy, your fellow traders."
Scotty licked his lips and smiled broadly "They're your traders." And with that he left the office. Stunned and staring at the door, Peterson heard a maniacal laugh float through the halls. The number monkeys looked up and then to him. He was having trouble breathing and with blind stabs on the remote, got the walls of his office to turn to pure black before plummeting into his chair.
With only an ounce of hesitation, he pressed the red button on his phone. The one that he hoped he would never have to use. The one that immediately created a conference call with every wall street CEO.

Their meeting was terse and concerned. Everyone trying to keep their heads amidst a world crashing around them. There was no reasonable solution. They couldn't start offering penny stocks and try to muscle Scotty out of the business. The power and secrets of penny stocks was too much to share. The risk of those pathetic commoners scraping the streets 70 floors below them holding lucrative penny stock portfolios sickened each and every one of them. It wasn't an option that could be tabled. The only option then was to pray to the great bronze bull of wall street to protect them from this renegade.

A week later Peterson saw it. Scotty's face on his computer screen. Right there on the internet for anyone lucky enough to find. His feral trader eyes staring right into his soul. He began to tremble again. Scotty had done it. It was the beginning of the end.