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Bell Curve


That little old lady whose account you were churning had a very nice son in law who works for the SEC. Bob, Bubba. Bubba, Bob. You both look nice in stripes. Very slimming.


You never really got lots of clients. Just a few—their fees paid your rent for a few years until the last few left or died, and now you work for a bank, processing wealth management software tools for $100k a year.


You have a nice little business—four employees, a little office with a nice secretary who makes great coffee. You like your clients; they like you. The dance goes 25 years or more and then you die with your loafers on.


Nice-sized office—a billion bucks under management nets you a few million in your pocket each year. You have a few homes, nice cars, and a smokin' hot third wife. Third time's the charm.


Huge. That's the name of your company. It fits. You have $25 billion under management and more coming in every day. You're a billionaire yourself and you are courted by all the power players in your ‘hood. You can buy just about anything you want. Except happiness. But who wouldn't be happy with a billion bucks?