Multiverse: Deathstroke

Chapter 160: Ch.159 Stock Market Crash

During the bull market of those years, people would say that if you had five dollars, you should invest it in the stock market, and by the afternoon, you could sell your shares and buy a General Motors L-type car.

In America, there were no limits on stock price fluctuations, and if your broker allowed leveraging, turning five dollars into a thousand in a single day was an easy feat.

People stopped working, and many spent their days at the stock exchange, watching their five dollars turn into a thousand, then into ten thousand, and eventually into a million.

The newspapers constantly hyped up the bull market, claiming that New York gained a thousand new millionaires every day.

This was a million dollars in 1929, an astronomical amount in the future.

But in the end, the dream shattered. The fake bubble was, after all, just that—fake.

Su Ming had only invested about $300,000 to $400,000 initially. Through years of steady operations and strategic investments, he turned that into $3-4 million. At the peak, he then placed short bets through dozens of New York brokers, leveraging his investments to instantly rake in his massive fortune.

The speed at which money was made and lost in the stock market was terrifying. Many people didn\'t understand the immense power it held as a national financial tool.

On Black Tuesday, in just six hours, the American stock market lost $500 billion. Su Ming had merely plucked a single feather from this burning fire.

All of this was legal; the money was clean and could be invested.

The ease with which this money came made Su Ming think he could just quit being a mercenary and become a financial shark instead. With wave after wave of stock market crashes in America, if he participated in every one, he could soon become the richest man in the world.

In the future, there would be the Plaza Accord and the disintegration of the Soviet Union—opportunities for a massive windfall.

But what good would money be if it only left him feeling empty?

In the Marvel world, there were no superheroes at the moment, so he could afford to take it easy and plan for the future. But as time passed, more and more characters would appear.

Su Ming couldn\'t just be a bystander; he would inevitably get involved in various events to gain what he wanted and enhance his abilities.

But that meant that by participating in the story, he would inevitably trigger a butterfly effect. Who\'s to say that Thanos wouldn\'t suddenly act differently and, instead of following the movie plot, destroy the universe like he did in the comics? What then?

Even if Su Ming could survive thanks to the X-Metal, what good would money be if the universe itself were gone?

That would truly be a case of "the man is gone, and the money is unspent."

Maybe by then, he would have to cling to those few stones given by Doctor Manhattan and figure out a way to survive in another universe.

He wasn\'t a superhero, unwilling to do things without any benefit. Being a mercenary gave him the perfect excuse to appear on any battlefield he chose.

In this timeline, the Inhumans on the moon definitely existed, the Black Panthers of Wakanda were a historical line, and the Mandarin was likely still a warlord somewhere. And there were probably others Su Ming didn\'t know about, operating in the shadows.

So his plan had to move forward. He couldn\'t pin his hopes on others saving the world.

When he was in the DC universe, he learned that if he didn\'t get involved in events himself, he would have been dead long ago. The original plotlines deviated more and more over time, eventually leading to the emergence of a rogue Batman who laughs.

Now, with the advantage of foreknowledge, Su Ming needed to prepare early. That was the right course of action.

Su Ming sat in his Peace Hotel, holding a glass of wine. Black Tuesday had ushered in the Great Depression, but as an intoxicant, alcohol made his business even better.

People no longer had money for other leisure activities. All they could do was drown their sorrows in alcohol, reminiscing about the good old days when everything seemed perfect, wrapped in the stock market bubble.

"Bang!"

A dull thud came from outside, and Su Ming sighed.

He\'d lost count of how many times this had happened today. He put down his glass, walked over to the bar, and knocked on the counter, instructing his bartender.

"Call the police station again. Tell them to send someone to clean up the street."

The Peace Hotel was located in a basement, under a building that wasn\'t in a particularly busy area—just an ordinary residential block in a small alley.

Usually, those jumping to their deaths here were residents of the building.

The more "cultured" types preferred to jump on Wall Street, taking one last look at the Stock Exchange before making the leap, leaving a red stain on the street below.

"My money! It\'s all gone~~~~ Bang!"

"Wah, wah, my stocks are just worthless paper, ha ha ha ha, Bang!"

"Damn America! F*** you! Bang!"

But that area had already been cordoned off, and the surrounding buildings were locked down. Su Ming didn\'t bother joining that frenzy. He\'d heard that over a thousand people had jumped from skyscrapers like the Morgan Building and the Rockefeller Building in just a few days.

The higher the building, the more popular it was. But now, even this six-story building Su Ming\'s bar was in couldn\'t avoid it. With Wall Street locked down, people had no choice but to jump from their own homes.

"Boss, the police said they\'re out of manpower. They told us to deal with the bodies ourselves."

The bartender, dressed in a red vest and bow tie, replied to Su Ming with a helpless expression. They were among the few who hadn\'t lost money. Su Ming had enforced a strict rule that all his employees must sell their stocks before Black Tuesday.

At the time, some didn\'t understand, but under pressure from Su Ming and Gin, they complied.

Little did they know that it saved their lives, and it further mythologized Su Ming\'s abilities.

Though they hadn\'t suffered losses and had even made some money in the stock market, the recent days had seen at least dozens of people die in front of the bar, some of whom were regular patrons.

President Hoover had organized a bailout, but Su Ming knew it wouldn\'t succeed. A more severe market crash awaited next year.

"All right, call Gin to see me. Have him bring a few strong men along."

Su Ming sat down at the piano, resting his head in his hand. Although it was still daytime, the bar\'s business was already as busy as it used to be at night, with drunken patrons everywhere.

The pianist was resting during the day, so Su Ming occasionally played himself. Music from the future, from the real world, helped calm his mind, awakening the part of his soul that still felt like an ordinary person and reducing the influence of his bloodlust.

After discovering this, he had spent the past few years in the bar learning how to play various instruments, though he hadn\'t picked up much else.

He had an excellent memory, and after a few tries, he could play songs he had heard before, like "The Price of Love" or "The Most Glorious Wind."

There was nothing he could do; he had listened to them too much in the past, and they were the first to come to mind.

Like every other mob boss of this era, he wore the finest handmade black suits, smoked cigars, and slicked his hair in the latest style.

The only difference was that instead of a handkerchief or a rose in his breast pocket, he wore a yellow smiley-face badge, giving his style a slightly eerie touch.

He placed his hands on the piano and began to play, clearing his throat before singing softly.

He wasn\'t playing a tune from this era but rather the most popular bar piano piece after 1970, "Piano Man."

"It\'s nine o\'clock on a Saturday morning. The regular crowd shuffles in. There\'s an old man sitting next to me, nursing his gin and tonic. He says, \'Kid, can you play me a melody? I can\'t remember how it goes, but it\'s bittersweet and full of longing.\'"

The clear sound of the piano echoed through the underground bar, and Su Ming\'s voice was deep yet clear. This was a song completely different from anything of this era, filled with the essence of the future and a relaxed outlook on life.

It wasn\'t the traditional kind of motivational song but more like a bar pianist\'s reflection on everyday life. It was in these seemingly ordinary moments that the preciousness of life became most apparent.

As the customers drank, the music seemed to take them back, reminding them of their younger selves. Yes, they had lost a lot, but there was no reason to die over it.

No matter who they were—immigrants or the descendants of immigrants—when they arrived in America, they had nothing.

If their ancestors could survive, then so could they.

Sure, they owed money to the banks, but many banks had collapsed themselves, and the debt collectors weren\'t coming anytime soon.

The smiles slowly returned to the faces of the customers.

This wasn\'t the first time Su Ming had done something like this. He wasn\'t a good person; he couldn\'t prevent everyone from losing their savings—he wasn\'t capable of stopping a national financial disaster.

The money wasn\'t taken by Su Ming; it had simply vanished into thin air as the market bubble burst.

But at least Su Ming could encourage them not to die. He knew that if they could just hold on for a few more years, everything would get better.

When Roosevelt came into power in 1933 with the New Deal, it would help save everyone. Until then, if they were willing to work for Su Ming, he could make sure every one of his New York customers survived.

"Sing us a song, you\'re the piano man. Sing us a song tonight. We\'re all in the mood for a melody, and you\'ve got us feeling alright."

Su Ming gently pressed the last few keys and stood up, walking toward his private room.

He smiled and nodded at the applause from the crowd. Aside from his employees, no one knew that he was the owner of the distillery. To them, he was just a regular at the bar, always there to chat, joke, and have fun—a good guy.

That was just fine by Su Ming. After all, letting Gin take the heat for everything was part of the plan. What\'s the point of having underlings if they don\'t carry the blame?

He snapped his fingers, signaling the bartender to serve a round of drinks on the house. As the patrons expressed their gratitude, Su Ming subtly gestured for Gin, who had just arrived, to follow him.