Ms. Yellen Whispers Sweet Nothings In Mr. Market’s Ear, by Robert Gore

It was a special, romantic dinner. Mr. Market glanced appreciatively at Ms. Yellen as they shared a crème brûlée and sipped their coffees. She had never looked more beautiful. The question on his mind: would she say “considerable time” or “patient?” One meant one thing, the other something else. He knew not to ask; she always gave him what he wanted, what he needed, in her own sweet time. Her mystery was a big part of her allure.

He paid the bill and they retrieved their coats. Their limousine was waiting for them at the curb, hailed by the alert doorman. The slid into the back seat. A bottle of Dom Pérignon sat in an ice bucket. He carefully uncorked it and they laughed at its sparkling, overflowing effervescence. After they sipped the excellent vintage, she gave him the look he knew meant only one thing. He set down his flute and kissed her softly. She responded, more fervently, kindling his fire.

Putting her lips to his ear, she whispered, “patient.”

He was disappointed. It was what he had expected, but not what he had wanted to hear.

But then she was whispering again: “considerable time.” Great Dow 100,000! It was the best of all worlds, more than he could have hoped for, more than he had ever dreamed! Only propriety kept him from ripping off her clothes and having his way with her right there in the back of the limousine. He could see the hunger in her eyes. They groped each other wildly, passionately. Nothing would cool their ardor during the ride that seemed to take forever to his opulent apartment tower.

They finally reached their destination and madly fondled each other as they rode the elevator to the penthouse. He discarded his jacket and she fumbled with his shirt buttons as they entered the luxurious suite. “Let me slip into something a little more comfortable,” she cooed breathlessly.

While she changed, he set a speed record removing the rest of his clothes, throwing them in a haphazard pile on a chair. He slipped naked in between the Sferra, 100-percent-Egyptian-cotton-sateen-1020-thread-count sheets on his bed, and waited for her. She emerged from his 1500-square-foot bathroom in the Carine Gilson chiffon, lace, and silk number he cherished, hyper-stoking his raging fire.

What followed can only be described as wanton, insatiable coupling; ecstasies of unbearable torment followed by repeated spasms of shuddering release. It was a night of love-making like none before: fireworks; earthquakes; feral screams; spectacular, mind-jumbling, reality-altering climaxes, each more intense than the last. Finally spent, they collapsed into each others’ arms, until, recovering somewhat, they engaged in their usual playful banter and enjoyed their usual post-coital cigarettes.

At the front door of the penthouse, the doorknob turned, slowly, gingerly, whoever was behind the door seemingly afraid to make any noise. In slipped Ms. Real-Economy, Mr. Market’s lawfully married wife. She removed her high heels, tiptoed into his study, went to his desk, and opened the drawer where she knew he kept his Glock and a fully loaded magazine.

She had known of Mr. Market’s dalliances for many years. A bisexual with a kinky flair (predilections she had discovered after their marriage), there had been the affairs with Greenspan and Bernanke, and now he gone back to the other side with Ms. Yellen. Ms. Real-Economy had desperately held on to her status and position as Mr. Market’s wife long after their union had ceased to be anything but a sham, but she could no longer stand the neglect and humiliation. Tonight, she would bring it to an end. She slid the magazine into the Glock and pulled back the slide, chambering a bullet.

She tiptoed to the bedroom and put her ear to the door. They were talking and laughing. She turned the doorknob, as carefully as she had before, and threw open the door. They stared at her in shock and horror as she opened fire.

DO WE NEED A CENTRAL BANK? THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION DIDN’T.

AMAZON

KINDLE

NOOK