A Very Scary Story
Dr. Fundenstein
By Robert Brokamp (TMF Bro)
October 24, 2000
I am in despair. Disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise that I had regarded with benevolent foreboding. Indeed, my first day under the employment of a doctor of economics was rife with chicanery and all the base intentions of man.
I was ushered in to my mentor's stately Wall Street office by his enchanting secretary, Shelley.
"Dr. Fundenstein, I presume," I offered with alacrity to the man seated behind the desk. His hair shined like silver at dawn, and his teeth were the white of a cleric's alb.
"That's my name, kid, and if you wear it out, I'll charge you 5% up front."
My mind raced to decipher his greeting.
"It's a load joke, kid. Or should I say, loaded. Aw, forget it. Anyway, welcome to Castle Brothers... Eeyore, is it?"
"Igor, sir."
"Oh, a Russian. Hope you weren't holding rubles back in '98. Boy, our hedge fund got whacked in the currency market on that one."
"Actually, I'm German. I just graduated from the University at Ingolstadt."
"Russian, German -- what's the difference? As long as you help me make money. And this is how you're going to do it."
Dr. Fundenstein sprang across the room and stopped at a large sign on an easel. The top of the placard read "Victor Aggressive Growth Fund -- For Monster Returns." Underneath was the rendition of what can only be called a malicious, green cotton ball, with belligerent eyes and fangs dripping with money.
Dr. Fundenstein pointed to the poster and said, "This is how you're going to buy your first Porsche, baby."
My heart grew heavy. I had been told I would assist people with their investment decisions, not participate in a heinous crime.
Despite my horror, I was able to utter, "We're going to manage a mutual fund?"
"What's the matter? You don't like making money, Eyesore?"
"Um... it's Igor, sir. I suppose I misunderstood the job description."
At that point, Shelley entered the room. "Dr. Fundenstein, Rashiell is calling to confirm your manicure, pedicure, and vibration therapy appointment for this afternoon."
"Yeah, yeah, we're still on," he replied, and then looked back at me. "Listen, kid, this fund is going to be huge. Our marketing people have been working on it for months. It seems people want a fund name that says, 'I'm a winner -- don't mess with me.' And, people want something cute and fuzzy to go with their products these days, so they came up with the Oscar-the-Grouch-in-a-dryer there."
"It's definitely distinctive," I managed to reply. "What will be our investment strategy?"
"Heck if I know. We still have some marketing kinks to work out. But that's where you come in. You'll make most of the investment decisions."
"But I don't have any experience running a mutual fund," I protested.
"You and 75% of the other people running funds these days. There are 8,000 funds available now, up from less than 3,000 in 1990. You think all those new funds got managers with decades of experience? Anyway, I'll be helping you out."
I had envisioned being a candle in the darkness of the professional money management universe. That illusion was now melting into a foul stew of body wax, cologne, and hair dye.
Dr. Fundenstein strolled over to the expansive window overlooking Manhattan. "And to think, I used to manage my own money and underperform the market for nothing. Now, I'll manage other people's money, underperform the market, and make six figures."
Was it our dizzying height above New York or the depths of my despair that made me retch so?
Shelley re-entered the room. "Doctor, Bods-o-gods called and said there was a cancellation. Would you like to move your torso-basting appointment to tonight? Also, don't forget that it's your wife's birthday."
"Take today's appointment, but tell them to watch where they stick that thing this time. And get my wife some of that crystal she likes. What's it called... Wollstonecraft or something?"
"Waterford, sir," replied Shelley, and she left the room.
"Sir," I began, "I expected to be working with individuals, helping them realize their financial goals."
"Oh, you'll be meeting with people. You'll be wining and dining the institutional money, trying to get them to invest with us. But I gotta tell you -- that humpback doesn't look too good. But I bet it helps you during long treks through the desert, eh?"
"I have hypercortisolism, caused by Cushing's syndrome. I can't much help it."
"We'll see about that," replied the Doctor. He picked up his phone, pushed a button, and said, "Shelley, get the public imaging people up here and see if we can't do something for the Hunchback of Wall Street."
I felt stricken by a pox. Had heaven and hell conspired to destroy me? Fearing I would faint, I slumped down on a leather couch.
Dr. Fundenstein sat down beside me. "Listen, Eyegore."
"It's Igor, sir."
"The average mutual fund has about $1 billion in assets, and charges 1.5% a year to manage that dough. That means we rake in $15 million, baby!"
"But, will we be helping anyone?"
"Help, shmelp," replied Dr. Fundenstein, rising from the couch and going to his conference table. "Picture this, Humpy. You and I will work at this table every day, piecing together a monster of an investment. We'll buy 10,000 shares of Fatbrain, 2,000 shares of Nu Skin Enterprises, and 20,000 shares of Synthetic Blood International. We'll throw in a little Shin Hai Gas Corp., Blonder Tongue Laboratories, and Western Glory Hole. We can sell Handspring in favor of Finger Lakes Financial, or ARM Holdings. If we don't like Fatbrain, we can insert Zany Brainy."
"That is an enormous amount of turnover! What about the taxes?"
"Taxes?! We don't have to worry about them. They get passed on to the shareholders."
"I don't know if I have the heart for it, sir."
"Then we'll buy World Heart Corp. -- and plenty of Power Fluids Inc. You decide the ticker, and we'll buy it: EYE, EAR, LEG, FOOT... and we'll do it all with a little bit of LUV."
Shelley entered the room. "Doctor, your follicle fortification appointment is in five minutes. Your limo is waiting downstairs."
"Gotta go," said Dr. Fundenstein, putting on his coat and walking toward the door. "You start going through some SEC filings. Or throw some dice. I don't care. But, for goodness sakes, do something about that lazy eye, Algore."
"My name's -- oh, never mind."
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