Be Cool: Liberation Day Fallout, Part III

Read Part I: Of Fumes And Fury.

Read Part II: The Will To Perform.

Across the AXIA trading desks.
Wednesday 9 April 2025.
London, England, and Limassol, Cyprus.

Within a cathedral of fragments, a theatre of cruelty. Renewal is Monarch; bitter tears blossom thrice.

11:58—Midday, yeah?————

Then:

What’s out? Something’s out! Spoo—look at it!

Everything on-screen teleports; price ladders flush and ping around. The shrieks and cries on the floor smash against an ensemble of TV speakers, robot and squawk voices blare out headlines, and all the alarms are BleepBleep!’g off.

 12:00—CHI—MI—AD—BleepBleep!—IFFS OF EI—S GO—DingDing!

Oh my fu—“China… To impose additional tariffs of 84% on US goods!” reads out one of the traders.

But the floor is already in—smashing whatever bids, lifting anything they could get—trying to swim in this riptide, figure it out… “What is Yen doing? Why’s Yen not moved!”—FUCK!—“Look at it!—and Gilts; melting! Look at Oil!” Correlations, man, do you speak it? “This flow! Fuck! Just blips back!” The VIX Climbs For The Fifth Straight Day, interjects a voice from the ceiling.

Every squeeze crescendos into FuckFUCK! What’s it DOING? Urgghhh of frustrated cries; sputtering. Death CHOP! Guttural groans and grunts.

“Nothing’s working. So, so, so, bad!” yells another. “Tit for fucking taaat bro…” “Just one blip and only chop! How’s that possible!” “Get out! Just get out!” yells another. “What’s going on here? WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?” “Ughhhh… this Oil’s getting killed.” “But what’s this Spoo DOING? What is this?!” shrieks another. “So broken man!” Yeah, one replies. “Insane!” Actually is. “What are you waiting for? THE FED?” “This is the most aggressive option! It should be melting—this is nonsense!” “So far away from a deal! And the market’s hanging on! Do they expect a cut? Mates! You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

By now, it’s three minutes past midday, or somewhere around there, but hours are seemingly coursing through.

You ramp up the intensity on these traders, and the interior monologue of one melts away into some collective stream of consciousness, each trader in turn shouting out new lows or different flows… shouting everything: observations, agony, ideas; trying to make sense of it all… no privacy. Everything is on the table—total immersion. Just listen to the floor, and there’s your real-time.