Somewhere is a lonely, quiet empty office. The initials ICNB barely legible from the removed lettering on the door. I opened the door to see a desolate office with a single phone, some crumpled up post-it stickers (the "unaudited" 10Q), a broken bottle of Bellissima, a half eaten Double Whopper with Cheese, 73 cents in spare change, an old Sports Illustrated magazine with the cover ripped off, a television playing reruns of Access Hollywood from years gone past and a share printing press with fresh ink sitting in the middle of the floor.
I stood there as a slow tear trickles down my face in what I was lead to "Believe," and extensive DD told me to do. My hopes and dreams shattered.
Somewhere in the Carribean, four lounge chairs, a festive table with four lit cigars, half full glasses of Gentlemen Jack, a brief case full of shareholders money and an Instagram Post. There is distant laughter coming from Rich, Ryan, Bianco and Guido the Noteholder...."That was too easy," I hear them saying.