Überman

Simon Peters, the idiot millionaire that could not go well!
At the latest since my Greek financial advisor did not have any delicious cookies for the meetings, I should have suspected something. The last cookie was when I bought a Romanian forest fund and leveraged discount certificates on lean pork - that's a kind of tightened bet that the price for lean pork will remain stable, and that's nothing special, because that's what you get for cattle and cotton and fat pigs. Again and again Kosmás Nikifóros Sarantakos and I joked about all the part-time apocalyptics who, trembling with fear of the euro crisis, stuck gold coins under the salami slices of their frozen pizzas.
And then came the day when Sarantakos, in almost malicious casualness, revealed to me that my plan had not really worked out.
"Why suddenly my plan? I could still hear myself wondering, but it was only in the underground car park that I understood what the minus 211.2 percent in my portfolio report really meant: Private bankruptcy, gutter and drug addiction with subsequent loss of incisors. I couldn't even afford to send my girlfriend to college. The only way out was to pull me back out of this unspeakable Greek shit as fast as I could, I had to become an Überman!