Special
By
The Fund House
The howling wind tossed cotton candy strands around like pastel tumbleweed. Even the mighty Ferris Wheel, with bucket seats rocking to the runaway breeze, found few fairgoers willing to pony up tickets to ride. Allison pondered the obvious. Either she would make her way back to the emptying parking lot and bolt with the masses, or she would revel in the amusement solitude.
The drizzle grew stronger, louder, and even more torturous. Home. Opportunity wasn't worth the drenching. As she worked her way out of the carnival, a sideshow barker singled her out.
"Don't go," he said, his voice growing raspy in trying to speak over the din. "Don't go without first tempting fate in our Fund House, little lady."
Little lady?
"Offend me under better weather and I'd take the time to rap you senseless," she replied.
"A thousand apologies," he said. "But tell me, Allison, don't you fear for your financial fortitude? Running for cover isn't a long-term solution. Skies clear. The fiscal future doesn't."
"How did you know my name?"
"I know more than you care to share," he said, a surging draft blowing his bowler hat into the sky. "And I'll show you more than you care to know."
Confused, intrigued, and longing for shelter, she made her way up the steps and fumbled through her denim pocket for spare ride tickets.
"No need, Allison," the barker whispered in her ear. "This attraction is free. This time."
Through a slit in a silk black curtain she found herself in a pitch dark walkway. She tried to back out but the entrance was already sealed.
"This isn't funny!"
The sound of ticking clocks surrounded her. With her hands stretched outward, she guided herself along the path until she got to a dimly lit room where a dollar bill was floating around inside a cage. No sooner had she made out an inscription -- "The Load" -- a dinner bell rattled the room. A furry beast ran into the cage and ripped off pieces of the bill.
Taking no relish in the macabre, she took advantage of the barely sufficient lighting to scramble to the next room. There, dead center, a bladed pendulum was swinging above a strapped down dollar bill. "The Churn" read the engraving. The glistening sharp pendulum had a distinct sound as it went each way. Buy. Sell. Buy. Sell. But that was no ordinary dollar bill. It was the same one that was mauled in the scene before. Now the swinging blade took its shots, shredding slivers with every swipe.
"This is horrible!"
Allison ran along to the next room, the "Prospectus" room, where huge fans whipped printed pages about. One of the pages managed to get stuck on to her caramel apple-coated fingers. In fresh, moist, red ink was an ominous phrase:
Past underperformance is no guarantee of future underperformance.
"Oh wonderful," she thought. "Boilerplates that smear."
Other deceptive nuggets littered the litter. Marketing expenses to add new accountholders funded by existing accountholders. Historical information without the proper disclaimer of fund manager defections. No clear explanation of all the hidden costs involved in portfolio turnover. Absent the critical wherewithal to state, "Gee, the reason we underperform an index, on average, has more to do with a flawed business model than manager ineptitude."
Fearing paper cuts, Allison quickly shuffled through the paper heap where "The Slide" provided a spiraled escape. Down she went. Out she went. Back at the entrance steps where the barker, after adjusting his newfound bowler hat, helped her to her feet.
"Did you get it?" he asked.
"I think so."
"Be the bill, Allison," he said. "Be the bill."
The windspun rain had passed. The barren drying midway was hers for the night. As she walked away, she heard the raspy barker targeting another passerby.
Don't go. Don't go without first tempting fate.
Next -- Halloween 1998 Returns
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