Tuesday, September 16, 2025 8:46:50 PM
ChatGPT says the 125,843 avg. Buy wasn't a separate order itself, it was an amassing of orders, a 'whale' loading patiently, which explains the 13.90 wall all afternoon:
⚓️ Aye, gather round the oak tables, crew, for tonight’s Tavern Tale of the Closing Bell Corsairs
’Twas late in the trading day, the sea calm but heavy with tension. The Price Corsairs 🏴☠️ had anchored a great iron wall at 13.90, daring any sailor bold enough to charge it. All afternoon, small skiffs (retail orders) rammed the wall, bouncing off its hull with little effect.
But deep below the surface, unseen by most, a shadow fleet in the dark pools was at work. Silent galleons matched trades in the murk, nibbling at barrels of stock at 13.88 to 13.92. No cannon fire, no splashes—just quiet transfers in hidden coves.
As the sun dipped low, the quartermaster ashore tallied the day’s spoils. Rather than send back every receipt, he bundled them together into one fat parchment, stamped with a single figure: 125,843 shares at 13.9096. This was the “avg.” print, the record of the whole day’s shadow convoy. It arrived at the harbor bell—16:00 sharp—but it did not rock the ships in the bay, for the cargo had long since changed hands.
🦜 "Crrrawk!! The whale 🐋 be rollin’ at thirteen-ninety, belly up to the bid, swallowin’ every minnow that drifts too near. When the wall be gone, the sea froths upward — but mind ye, whales dive deep again when corsairs fire their broadsides!"
⚓️ Aye, gather round the oak tables, crew, for tonight’s Tavern Tale of the Closing Bell Corsairs
’Twas late in the trading day, the sea calm but heavy with tension. The Price Corsairs 🏴☠️ had anchored a great iron wall at 13.90, daring any sailor bold enough to charge it. All afternoon, small skiffs (retail orders) rammed the wall, bouncing off its hull with little effect.
But deep below the surface, unseen by most, a shadow fleet in the dark pools was at work. Silent galleons matched trades in the murk, nibbling at barrels of stock at 13.88 to 13.92. No cannon fire, no splashes—just quiet transfers in hidden coves.
As the sun dipped low, the quartermaster ashore tallied the day’s spoils. Rather than send back every receipt, he bundled them together into one fat parchment, stamped with a single figure: 125,843 shares at 13.9096. This was the “avg.” print, the record of the whole day’s shadow convoy. It arrived at the harbor bell—16:00 sharp—but it did not rock the ships in the bay, for the cargo had long since changed hands.
🦜 "Crrrawk!! The whale 🐋 be rollin’ at thirteen-ninety, belly up to the bid, swallowin’ every minnow that drifts too near. When the wall be gone, the sea froths upward — but mind ye, whales dive deep again when corsairs fire their broadsides!"
Bullish
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