#lenders money once

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Leveraged buyouts are not like mortgages

I'm coming to DEFCON! On FRIDAY (Aug 9), I'm emceeing the EFF POKER TOURNAMENT (noon at the Horseshoe Poker Room), and appearing on the BRICKED AND ABANDONED panel (5PM, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01). On SATURDAY (Aug 10), I'm giving a keynote called "DISENSHITTIFY OR DIE! How hackers can seize the means of computation and build a new, good internet that is hardened against our asshole bosses' insatiable horniness for enshittification" (noon, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01).

Here's an open secret: the confusing jargon of finance is not the product of some inherent complexity that requires a whole new vocabulary. Rather, finance-talk is all obfuscation, because if we called finance tactics by their plain-language names, it would be obvious that the sector exists to defraud the public and loot the real economy.

Take "leveraged buyout," a polite name for stealing a whole goddamned company:

Identify a company that owns valuable assets that are required for its continued operation, such as the real-estate occupied by its outlets, or even its lines of credit with suppliers;

Approach lenders (usually banks) and ask for money to buy the company, offering the company itself (which you don't own!) as collateral on the loan;

Offer some of those loaned funds to shareholders of the company and convince a key block of those shareholders (for example, executives with large stock grants, or speculators who've acquired large positions in the company, or people who've inherited shares from early investors but are disengaged from the operation of the firm) to demand that the company be sold to the looters;

Call a vote on selling the company at the promised price, counting on the fact that many investors will not participate in that vote (for example, the big index funds like Vanguard almost never vote on motions like this), which means that a minority of shareholders can force the sale;

Once you own the company, start to strip-mine its assets: sell its real-estate, start stiffing suppliers, fire masses of workers, all in the name of "repaying the debts" that you took on to buy the company.

This process has its own euphemistic jargon, for example, "rightsizing" for layoffs, or "introducing efficiencies" for stiffing suppliers or selling key assets and leasing them back. The looters – usually organized as private equity funds or hedge funds – will extract all the liquid capital – and give it to themselves as a "special dividend." Increasingly, there's also a "divi recap," which is a euphemism for borrowing even more money backed by the company's assets and then handing it to the private equity fund:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/17/divi-recaps/#graebers-ghost

If you're a Sopranos fan, this will all sound familiar, because when the (comparatively honest) mafia does this to a business, it's called a "bust-out":

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bust_Out

The mafia destroys businesses on a onesy-twosey, retail scale; but private equity and hedge funds do their plunder wholesale.

It's how they killed Red Lobster:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/23/spineless/#invertebrates

And it's what they did to hospitals:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/28/5000-bats/#charnel-house

It's what happened to nursing homes, Armark, private prisons, funeral homes, pet groomers, nursing homes, Toys R Us, The Olive Garden and Pet Smart:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/02/plunderers/#farben

It's what happened to the housing co-ops of Cooper Village, Texas energy giant TXU, Old Country Buffet, Harrah's and Caesar's:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/14/billionaire-class-solidarity/#club-deals

And it's what's slated to happen to 2.9m Boomer-owned US businesses employing 32m people, whose owners are nearing retirement:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/16/schumpeterian-terrorism/#deliberately-broken

Now, you can't demolish that much of the US productive economy without attracting some negative attention, so the looter spin-machine has perfected some talking points to hand-wave away the criticism that borrowing money using something you don't own as collateral in order to buy it and wreck it is obviously a dishonest (and potentially criminal) destructive practice.

The most common one is that borrowing money against an asset you don't own is just like getting a mortgage. This is such a badly flawed analogy that it is really a testament to the efficacy of the baffle-em-with-bullshit gambit to convince us all that we're too stupid to understand how finance works.

Sure: if I put an offer on your house, I will go to my credit union and ask the for a mortgage that uses your house as collateral. But the difference here is that you own your house, and the only way I can buy it – the only way I can actually get that mortgage – is if you agree to sell it to me.

Owner-occupied homes typically have uncomplicated ownership structures. Typically, they're owned by an individual or a couple. Sometimes they're the property of an estate that's divided up among multiple heirs, whose relationship is mediated by a will and a probate court. Title can be contested through a divorce, where disputes are settled by a divorce court. At the outer edge of complexity, you get things like polycules or lifelong roommates who've formed an LLC s they can own a house among several parties, but the LLC will have bylaws, and typically all those co-owners will be fully engaged in any sale process.

Leveraged buyouts don't target companies with simple ownership structures. They depend on firms whose equity is split among many parties, some of whom will be utterly disengaged from the firm's daily operations – say, the kids of an early employee who got a big stock grant but left before the company grew up. The looter needs to convince a few of these "owners" to force a vote on the acquisition, and then rely on the idea that many of the other shareholders will simply abstain from a vote. Asset managers are ubiquitous absentee owners who own large stakes in literally every major firm in the economy. The big funds – Vanguard, Blackrock, State Street – "buy the whole market" (a big share in every top-capitalized firm on a given stock exchange) and then seek to deliver returns equal to the overall performance of the market. If the market goes up by 5%, the index funds need to grow by 5%. If the market goes down by 5%, then so do those funds. The managers of those funds are trying to match the performance of the market, not improve on it (by voting on corporate governance decisions, say), or to beat it (by only buying stocks of companies they judge to be good bets):

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/17/shareholder-socialism/#asset-manager-capitalism

Your family home is nothing like one of these companies. It doesn't have a bunch of minority shareholders who can force a vote, or a large block of disengaged "owners" who won't show up when that vote is called. There isn't a class of senior managers – Chief Kitchen Officer! – who have been granted large blocks of options that let them have a say in whether you will become homeless.

Now, there are homes that fit this description, and they're a fucking disaster. These are the "heirs property" homes, generally owned by the Black descendants of enslaved people who were given the proverbial 40 acres and a mule. Many prosperous majority Black settlements in the American South are composed of these kinds of lots.

Given the historical context – illiterate ex-slaves getting property as reparations or as reward for fighting with the Union Army – the titles for these lands are often muddy, with informal transfers from parents to kids sorted out with handshakes and not memorialized by hiring lawyers to update the deeds. This has created an irresistible opportunity for a certain kind of scammer, who will pull the deeds, hire genealogists to map the family trees of the original owners, and locate distant descendants with homeopathically small claims on the property. These descendants don't even know they own these claims, don't even know about these ancestors, and when they're offered a few thousand bucks for their claim, they naturally take it.

Now, armed with a claim on the property, the heirs property scammers force an auction of it, keeping the process under wraps until the last instant. If they're really lucky, they're the only bidder and they can buy the entire property for pennies on the dollar and then evict the family that has lived on it since Reconstruction. Sometimes, the family will get wind of the scam and show up to bid against the scammer, but the scammer has deep capital reserves and can easily win the auction, with the same result:

https://www.propublica.org/series/dispossessed

A similar outrage has been playing out for years in Hawai'i, where indigenous familial claims on ancestral lands have been diffused through descendants who don't even know they're co-owner of a place where their distant cousins have lived since pre-colonial times. These descendants are offered small sums to part with their stakes, which allows the speculator to force a sale and kick the indigenous Hawai'ians off their family lands so they can be turned into condos or hotels. Mark Zuckerberg used this "quiet title and partition" scam to dispossess hundreds of Hawai'ian families:

https://archive.is/g1YZ4

Heirs property and quiet title and partition are a much better analogy to a leveraged buyout than a mortgage is, because they're ways of stealing something valuable from people who depend on it and maintain it, and smashing it and selling it off.

Strip away all the jargon, and private equity is just another scam, albeit one with pretensions to respectability. Its practitioners are ripoff artists. You know the notorious "carried interest loophole" that politicians periodically discover and decry? "Carried interest" has nothing to do with the interest on a loan. The "carried interest" rule dates back to 16th century sea-captains, and it refers to the "interest" they had in the cargo they "carried":

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/29/writers-must-be-paid/#carried-interest

Private equity managers are like sea captains in exactly the same way that leveraged buyouts are like mortgages: not at all.

And it's not like private equity is good to its investors: scams like "continuation funds" allow PE looters to steal all the money they made from strip mining valuable companies, so they show no profits on paper when it comes time to pay their investors:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/20/continuation-fraud/#buyout-groups

Those investors are just as bamboozled as we are, which is why they keep giving more money to PE funds. Today, the "dry powder" (uninvested money) that PE holds has reached an all-time record high of $2.62 trillion – money from pension funds and rich people and sovereign wealth funds, stockpiled in anticipation of buying and destroying even more profitable, productive, useful businesses:

https://www.institutionalinvestor.com/article/2di1vzgjcmzovkcea8f0g/portfolio/private-equitys-dry-powder-mountain-reaches-record-height

The practices of PE are crooked as hell, and it's only the fact that they use euphemisms and deceptive analogies to home mortgages that keeps them from being shut down. The more we strip away the bullshit, the faster we'll be able to kill this cancer, and the more of the real economy we'll be able to preserve.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/05/rugged-individuals/#misleading-by-analogy

[envysparkler]

Jason tucked himself deeper into his hoodie and tried not to shiver.  His fingers were numb around the tire iron, more from panic than the chill in the air, and he felt like he was being turned to ice, inch by painful inch.

He could still see the cold look on Johnny Six-Fingers’ face, the reek of tobacco, the ultimatum ringing through the air and echoing inside his head.

Jason had a debt to pay, and Six-Fingers had gotten tired of waiting.  Jason had one night to scrounge up two grand in cash, or he’d have to pay it off the usual way.  By standing on street corners.

Six-Fingers didn’t care that Jason was only twelve and didn’t have any way to get a real job.  He didn’t care that the money had all been funneled into the black hole of Jason’s mother’s hospital expenses.  He didn’t care that the money hadn’t even worked, that Jason’s mom had died, wasting away with every breath, and Jason was left with no parents, no home, and a debt to one of Crime Alley’s most infamous money-lenders and pimps.

He didn’t care that there was no way Jason could scramble together two grand in cash in one fucking night.

The wind was biting on his cheeks and Jason took a few deep breaths as his eyes prickled.  No.  No.  There—there had to be a way.  Jason wasn’t going to become a whore.  He’d find the two grand—he’d steal it if he had to, he wouldn’t become one of the empty-eyed men and women standing on the streets, lighting up to detach themselves from reality.

But it was late.  Very late.  No one was out on the streets this late at night, not when the Batman lurked.  Most people in Gotham had better sense than to get in the way of a prowling nightmare of darkness and claws, lest they end up as another bloody body in a gutter.

Jason unfortunately had to sacrifice sense for speed.  The one skill he was very good at was jacking tires, and they didn’t sell for much, but if he found a really good score, he could maybe bargain with Tony at the shop to get the two grand.  He’d owe Tony then, but the mechanic would let him pay it off by working at the shop.

It was a horrible plan.  It relied on Jason basically stumbling upon a pot of gold, and avoiding Gotham’s most infamous murderer while he was at it.  Jason was usually careful to jack tires during the day—if Batman ever caught him, Jason would be seeing his own insides.

At the moment, it was a risk he was willing to take.

It was going to be fine.  Everything was going to be fine.  He was going to find some tires, sell them, get Six-Fingers his money, and then maybe his mom would come back to life and tuck him into bed.  Jason exhaled harshly and tightened his fingers on the tire iron.

He needed to get the cash.

Crime Alley was quiet.  The pubs had closed an hour ago, which left no one on the streets.  There weren’t many cars here, and none of them had tires that would sell for more than a hundred bucks.  Jason was consciously aware of his heart pounding in his ears, like a ticking clock counting down his fate.

Tick tock.

He had to find something.

Tick tock.

He wouldn’t become a whore.  He wouldn’t.

Tick tock.

Please—he had to find something, please—

Tick tock.

He wanted his mom.  He wanted his dad.  He wanted someone, anyone, to tell him it was going to be okay.

Tick tock.

He wanted to find a car that was gleaming and dark and all tricked-up, with massive tires and novelty rims, and—oh shit, that was the Batmobile.

Fuck.  Everyone knew of Batman’s tank of a car, how easily he evaded police and gangs and everyone, blasting through Gotham like he owned the goddamn city.  And given that no one had been able to stop him even once in the last decade, he probably did.

Jason had already turned to flee before his mind caught up to his legs and reminded him that he hadn’t done anything illegal.  Yet.  Running would be suspicious.

He let himself casually ogle the car as he took inching steps backwards, his heart pounding so loud he was surprised it wasn’t echoing in the alley.  Every fraction of his attention was focused on listening for a whisper of a cape, or perhaps the hiss of claws scything through air, his tire iron clutched firmly to his chest.  He was going to get out of the alley calmly and carefully, and—and if Batman was prowling around Crime Alley, Jason’s chances of getting that two grand had just vanished, and he didn’t want to go back to Six Fingers, and—

Those…were nice tires.  Fancy tires.  The kind of tires that would totally be worth two grand.  No sane person would want anything to do with Batman’s tires, but Tony did work for the Families too, and some of them could be interested in trophies.

If Jason actually managed to get the tires off without being murdered or having a heart attack.

He didn’t want to.  He desperately didn’t want to.  But the choice was between Batman and Six-Fingers, and Batman wasn’t here.

“You can do this,” he whispered to himself, his fingers twisting on the tire iron.  Steady and careful.  Silent and quick.  “You have to do this.”

Jason checked one last time for shining claws and white eyes in the darkness, and got to work.

~#~

The combination of fear, dread, and panic helped Jason work faster than he ever had in his life.  He unscrewed the bolts, kicked the tires off, and rolled them to the next alley to hide them below a stack of cardboard.  It was going to be tricky to get them all the way to Tony’s shop, but first Jason had to get them off.  The minutes ticked by, agonizingly slow, as his fingers grew clammier and his breaths grew shorter.

The world had narrowed down to his numb fingers, the bolts, the tires, and his distressingly loud heartbeat.

Jason, working away at the third tire, didn’t realize he had company until he heard the low growl, right behind him—“What are you doing?”

Nerves strained to the breaking point, Jason reacted on instinct.  He jerked away from the tire, yanking the tire iron back with him, and shifted his grip as he spun and swung with the movement.

The tire iron crashed into a nightmare.

The nightmare staggered back with a grunt.

Jason allowed himself a split second to feel—oh no oh fuck oh no—before booking it.

There was a time to fight and a time to flee the fucking country, oh fuck, he attacked Batman, he was going to die, he didn’t want to die and the pulsing sound of his heartbeat was overridden by the too-loud sound of his shoes smacking against loose asphalt.  He didn’t hear Batman, but he hadn’t heard the monster before he spoke up, and there was no fucking way Jason was looking back to check what’d happened.

Run, screamed every cell in his body, run and hide, adrenaline coursing through him and narrowing his focus on the desperate effort to get away.

If Jason had been slightly less panicked, he might’ve remembered that this alley was a dead-end before he nearly brained himself smacking against the brick wall.

Run, everything inside him insisted, and Jason clawed at the wall in an attempt to climb it, but there were no handholds, nowhere he could jam his fingers and hoist himself up.  The chill down his spine grew to a sharp, vicious ache as the weight of silent regard grew heavier and heavier.

Jason stared blankly at the brick wall and felt his face begin to prickle.

He was going to die.  It wasn’t a theoretical.  Batman murdered criminals, everyone knew it, and no one could stop him.  Certainly no one would care if he murdered Jason.  Jason was dead, and every breath he took could be his last.

His face was wet, and he was trembling all over.  He felt curiously detached from his body, like he was in a dream, and when he blinked, the world went dark for a stretching moment.  He didn’t want to die.  He didn’t want it to hurt.  He desperately didn’t want to feel pain.

A footstep echoed right behind him.

“Please,” Jason’s voice said hollowly, the words spilling from his mouth without permission.  Everything was blurry.  “Make it quick.”

One punch of the claws through his back, and Batman could rip his heart out.  It would be done.  He couldn’t hear Batman move, but the presence behind him intensified, and the world retreated a little bit more when a gauntleted, clawed hand settled on his shoulder

A slash of razor-sharp metal through his throat would be equally fast.  Jason let himself be maneuvered, let the threatening grip turn him around, let cold and bloody claws tip his chin up to look at Death.

It was terrifying.  This was the last thing many people saw before they died.  A hulking outline of shadows looming above them, a full-face mask with pointed ears and glowing white eyes, red glinting ever so darkly against the black armor.

“What’s your name?” the growl ground out, distorted and echoey.  It sounded like what monsters in the closet were made of.

“Jason,” he forced out through trembling lips.  Dead boys had no need of names.  A fresh wave of prickling crawled across his face, and everything went blurry again.

“Where are your parents, Jason?”  Oh, Batman was really pissed.  Luckily, Jason had no family for the monster to take it out on.

“Dead.”

Something changed in Batman’s posture, a tightening that some instinctive part of Jason recognized as anger.  There was nowhere to hide though, no kitchen table to crawl under with a dog to wait out the rage, and Jason just cowered against the brick wall.

“Who do you live with?”

“N-no one,” Jason stuttered.  Batman was determined to vent his fury.  Well, a little voice spoke up in his head, you did steal his tires.  What did you expect?

Batman was silent for a stretching moment, studying him.  Jason waited for his verdict, shivering despite his hoodie, cold with more than just the wind.  When Batman spoke, it was worse than all the horrible things Jason was imagining.

“I will take you to a social worker,” intoned the low growl, and Jason felt a new kind of terror rush through his veins.

“No,” he said automatically, his mind screaming in horror—at least with Six-Fingers he would just be a whore, he wouldn’t be a pet, he wouldn’t be owned—“Please—please don’t—”

“Jason—”

Jason was aware that he was interrupting, aware that this was Batman he was arguing with, but Jason was dead anyway, what more did he have to lose?  “Please,” he begged, dropping to his knees to plead for any mercy this nightmare possessed, “Please, just—just kill me, please, don’t—don’t give me to the traffickers, please, I’ll do anything.”  Jason had to break off to shudder through a sob, but before he could resume begging, Batman was moving.

The Terror of Gotham knelt in front of him to look Jason in the eyes.  The shock was enough to startle Jason into silence.

“Jason, I’m not going to kill you,” the growling voice said, “And I’m certainly not going to give you to traffickers.”

Jason…couldn’t tell which one of those was the lie.

“I know of a trusted foster parent that would give you a safe place to stay while I look into these traffickers,” Batman’s voice rang out firmly, “Would you like to stay with him?”

No, Jason would very much not like to stay with a buddy of Batman’s.  It was a trap, that much was obvious, but Jason had no choice but to walk straight into it.  This was Batman.

Jason nodded meekly, and took Batman’s proffered claw-tipped hand—slick with drying blood—to be pulled up to his feet.  “You can wait in the car while I put the tires back on,” Batman said, opening the door to reveal the darkened interior.

Jason wanted to protest, wanted to take his chances to run at the opposite end of the alley, wanted to wheedle his way into getting the tires himself so he could escape, but those glowing white eyes had transfixed him, and Jason’s fingers were sticky with someone’s blood, and he didn’t feel up to arguing.

He silently got in the car.  The tears didn’t stop.

[anza-langblr]

部屋探し｜Apartment Hunting

Let me share with you my current struggles on finding a place to stay in Japan with this long vocabulary list!

住宅（じゅうたく）housing, residential building

住宅街（じゅうたくがい）residential area

最寄り駅（もよりえき）nearest train station

共同住宅（きょうどうじゅうたく）residential complex, apartment house

不動産屋（ふどうさんや）real estate agent

物件（ぶっけん）object, property (real estate)

ネット上（じょう）on the internet

掲載する（けいさい）post, insert (advertisement)

家賃（やちん）rent

共益費（きょうえきひ）common fee, utility fee

加算する（かさん）add

月額（げつがく）monthly amount

初期費用（しょきひよう）initial costs

入居する（にゅうきょ）move into

翌月（よくげつ）next month

翌月分（よくげつぶん）next month's rent

礼金（れいきん）key money (fee paid for rental rights)

敷金（しききん）deposit

保証金（ほしょうきん）deposit

清掃費（せいそうひ）cleaning fee

火災保険料（かさいほけんりょう）fire insurance fee

内見（ないけん）viewing

賃貸（ちんたい）lease, rent

賃貸借契約（ちんたいしゃけいやく）rental contract

借り主（かりぬし）debtor, tenant

貸主（かしぬし）lender, landlord

大家さん（おおや）landlord

一時に（いちどき）at once

滞納（たいのう）falling behind (with a payment)

Moving into a Japanese property comes with high initial costs which can be broken down into numerous different fees. Unfortunately, share houses are not necessarily fully excluded from this, but it really depends on the company. I'm glad that I could take some time to work and save up money before going to Japan. The first month will be very expensive.

[nerdylilpeebee]

https://www.tumblr.com/whenmagicfilledtheair/740906474389356544/do-you-think-romani-brought-persecution-on?source=share

This is so egregiously antisemetic I can't even.

Tbh, I find it very suspicious they wanna claim there's a "reason" for hatred of Jews to exist (citing that the Jewish were these predatory money lenders who put cities in un-payable debts), but then blame hatred of Black people on, essentially, "capitalism."

Who they view as true victims and who they view as people who "brought it on themselves" is VERY clear, regardless of their statements of "oh, this doesn't justify hating the Jewish, I just want people to know this information cuz we can't just claim that the world is antisemitic." Their posturing ignores that even if some of the Jewish were once predatory money lenders, that was so long ago it can't possibly have any fucking bearing on the rest of human history. The Nazis did not kill the Jewish because some of them were money lenders hundreds of years ago. The "root" they state as the root of antisemitism is very evidently not the case for literally every case of antisemitism since then. It is irrelevant to all but that initial hatred of Jews, which I honestly doubt is historically accurate.

[lostlegendaerie]

Fuck it! US Private Student Loans Guide!

DISCLAIMER: while I have worked in private loans specifically for five+ years, this isn't ‘financial’ advice and is just a heavily summarized guide on how to navigate them. Yes, these loans suck, but complain to your legislators not me. I’m just trying to help you know what you’re doing. Additional info for each section is under the cut!

1) Who are you and who are all the companies constantly running around with my money?

I work in loan SERVICING, which is basically the billing department. If you’ve got a new company asking you for money, it's probably a new servicer and your debt is still owned by the bank. We enforce the terms in the promissory note, the document you sign telling the bank “yeah I'll play by your rules if you give me the money.” If your loan defaults, you’ll get contacted by a third (fourth?) party, but how that works is beyond my wheelhouse. The bank or your servicer should be able to confirm what happens in case of default.

2) What am I looking for in a ‘good’ loan?

Generally, you’re going to want SIMPLE instead of compound interest, a FIXED RATE opposed to a variable one, and you’ll want to go for FULL DEFERMENT while in school and make manual payments when you can. Also ask up front about stuff like if disability forgiveness or co-signer release (getting your parents off it) is offered.

3) This loan sucks! How do I make it better?

Student loans are NOTORIOUSLY hard to get out of, unfortunately. If the interest rate/payment relief options suck, you can try to REFINANCE where you take out a new loan to pay off the old one. This gives you a new promissory note, interest rate, and terms/conditions. If you’re trying to erase the debt entirely, ask for the promissory note (if they can't provide a copy, we have to forgive the debt. I've only seen this happen ONCE.) or try to go through social security disability.

DO NOT USE FREEDOM DEBT RELIEF OR OTHER SERVICES. DO NOT. THEY ARE SCAMS.

More in depth information for each point!

1) Lenders and Servicers

The lender is the person who provides the funds in the debt - the bank who pays the school or the hospital or the home contractor fixing your sink. The servicer is the company that is your point of contact when you need to make payments, ask for payment relief, or otherwise manage the loan that exists. Think of us as the mechanic (we keep the car running) where the bank is the manufacturer (they make the car). Some different servicers are SoFi, Zuntafi, Great Lakes, Nelnet and Firstmark Services; their names will be on the billing statements. Some different banks are Citizens, US Bank, NorthStar; their names will be on the promissory note and the disclosures.

Sometimes banks do sell the debt, however! A couple years ago Wells Fargo sold an enormous chunk of their loans off somewhere (an investment group, maybe?) but! The promissory note will still be the EXACT same if your debt gets sold. You’ll only get a new promissory note if you refinance the loan yourself.

2a) Interest Accrual and Rates

Interest is how banks profit off the loans they give out and/or ‘ensure they don't end up with a loss if the loan defaults’. (It's profit.) Most, but not all, loans calculate interest with the simple daily interest formula, shown below:

[(Current loan balance) x (interest rate)] divided by 365

If your loan’s balance is $10,000 and your interest rate is 6% you’ll be charged $1.64 each day. SIMPLE INTEREST means that this interest just kind of floats around on the account until a payment comes in and pays it off, where COMPOUND adds that interest to the balance at the end of the month/day/whatever. Compound charges you more over the life of the loan.

FIXED INTEREST is a set percent that doesn't change, where VARIABLE will change usually based on whatever the economy is doing. There’s a minimum and maximum value to the variable interest rates, so if you’re doing a variable ASK WHAT THE MINS AND MAXES ARE. A fixed rate might be 8% and a variable might be 3.25% the day you take it out, but that variable could have a maximum interest rate of 25% so be VERY, VERY CAREFUL. If you get stuck in a real bad variable interest rate, your best solution is probably a refinance.

2b) Deferment and Payment Allocation

So interest is gonna be accruing on your loan from the day the money leaves the bank. Sucks. And you may not be able to make payments while you're in school, so opting to DEFER your payments will stop them from billing you so you can skip a month or whatever without penalty. At the END of that deferment, though, whatever interest that accrued will be added to your current balance. If we use the example from above (10k loan with 1.64 daily interest) four years of school will add $2,400 to your balance and then your daily interest will jump up to $2.03 a day.

Solution? Make payments of what you can while you’re in school to chip away at that floating interest. Usually when you make a payment, it’s gonna go towards the interest first and then the rest drops the balance. (E.g. if you make a $20.00 payment ten days after your loan is disbursed, $16.40 will go towards interest and $3.60 towards your 10k balance). There is NO PENALTY for making extra payments or making early payments, but it might make your bills look a little weird if you’re being billed each month for just the interest.

3) Why are these loans so horrible? Can’t I find anything to help me?

Blame Reagan and the republicans who enabled him.

No, but really. The problem with these loans is that those promissory notes are VERY legally binding and have lots of fine print in there designed to make it as hard as possible for someone to skimp out on their debt without having their credit score decimated. Some lenders might even dip into your paychecks if you're crazy behind or default; again, that's not my wheelhouse and I've only maybe seen that once. Your best bet is just to pay it off as fast as possible (again, no penalty for paying the loan off early) or refinance into better terms.

And I get it. I really do. I hate how we’ve made so many incredibly important things in our society locked behind a paywall that charges poor people more to climb than the rich. But if you’ve made it this far, please don't turn your anger at me for not giving you the answers you want. The best I can do is vote for people who are willing to crack down on predatory lending, keep fighting for student loan forgiveness… and at my own job, make sure that my coworkers aren't making mistakes.

If you have a more specific question, I can try to answer as best I can without breaking any information privacy laws. And take care, okay? You are never fighting alone.

[itgirlgyu]

✷ txt when they see a pregnant belly !

ﾉ txt! x fem!reader... WARNING — there's one fuck and shit ton of weird train of thoughts . ⋆〞WORD COUNT: three hundred and eighty four........ ME? i don't take any responsibility for what ive written and YOU will find me writing something that completely contradicts in the future so don't be shocked. it's just for fun. also fun fact (?!) ive only seen one pregnant belly in my entire lifetime.

yeonjun…

takes a double look.

and again.

but not like in a creepy way

it's more like wow the wonderful miracles of life.

probably gets a stink eye from the pregnant lady because was unknowingly side-eyeing them.

suddenly gets a surge of baby fever.

probably closes his eyes as few stray tears slip out as he promises to himself to become the best father in this world.

and then he gets into a conflict with himself because what if his life partner does not want a child.

would that be a deal breaker for him?

or would he be able to compromise?

gives himself a concussion at the hypothetical discussion despite being single as fuck.

soobin…

doesn't really care much.

beomgyu…

starts thinking about what the couple may have done for her to end up pregnant.

tries to be discreet but kind of starts giggling.

because he's still mentally eleven years old of course.

may or may not have cops called on him because he kind of zoned out and was staring at the pregnant woman with a sinister grin on his lips.

gets dragged away by the cops at the end anyway and yeonjun has to bail him out.

taehyun…

doesn't try to acknowledge the pregnant lady.

it's more like when creditors are trying to get your attention to ask for the money you borrowed.

instead he is the one who gets approached.

i guess there's something about him that screams being an expert at natal care.

actually gets along with the to-be mother and sings to the belly.

gets called to be with the family when she goes into labour.

and actually shows up.

because a real man never breaks promises.

huening kai…

does not make eye contact.

at all cost.

if taehyun was like, avoiding money lenders.

his one is more like avoiding the evil spirit trying to take over his body.

idk there's something about a real tiny living human squirming inside another living person walking around like it's just another normal thing scares the shit out of him.

might run for the hills if he gets approached by them.

apparently he once saw his little sister kick his mother's belly from inside and he has not been the same since about the pregnancy deal.

he respects the community tho.

©ITGIRLGYU 2023! — feedbacks are always appreciated!!!!

ﾉ PERM TAGLIST — @impureperhaps @full-sunnies

[tobiasdrake]

Oh, by the way, while I'm on the topic of cars, let's talk about how dealerships screw you.

At one of my old jobs, I used to work for the Dealer Receivables department of a major auto lender. What's Dealer Receivables? Well, when a car gets repossessed, policies like the warranty, GAP, life insurance, etc. that got signed along with the car sale get cancelled. A percentage of what you paid into the warranty gets refunded to the dealer, based on how far along the policy was in its life. The dealer has to then pay that percentage back to the lender.

Dealer Receivables is a collections department whose job is to recover those funds that the dealership owes. Or to recover the entire portion if the dealership never filed the contract.

Yeah. Uh. That happens more often than you'd think. You give the dealer $800 for a warranty and $200 for GAP coverage for policies that are actually like $300 and $100 but the dealer is upcharging you with secret Dealer Fees so he can pocket the difference. And then, if he's feeling spicy, he never files the contracts anyway and pockets the entire thing.

This is an extremely common way for dealers to defraud their customers, one that customers often only find out about when they go to use those contracts and find out they don't actually have a warranty or GAP insurance.

But that's nothing compared to equipment variance. An entire subset of Dealer Receivables is for recovering money on equipment variance.

What is equipment variance? It's when the dealer upcharges you for equipment that isn't installed on your vehicle. Like. Every car has a sunroof, according to dealers.

If a lender repossesses your car, checks the contract, and finds out that there's stuff on the contract that isn't on the physical car, they go after the dealer for reimbursement. You don't get your car back. But the dealer has to pay the lender back for charging money for things that didn't exist.

Where I worked, we once repossessed a vehicle that had a lien of $25,000, with $15,000 of equipment variance on it. 60% of this person's loan was made up by a shady dealership. You know what? If all of that fraud wasn't in the contract, that person probably could have made their fucking car payments.

Nobody does anything about this. Lenders only care about it on repossession since it affects the car's resale value, and it's so normal that we have terms and processes for it. They just wag their fingers at the dealer and demand a cut of the ill-gotten gains.

We all know dealers are shady, but we only really think about it in terms of how the dealer might lie to you. The real money, however, is in lying to the bank about you, in paperwork they try very hard not to let you see.

Talk to your lender. Talk to the people you think are covering your policies. Demand to see the equipment list before you sign the paperwork. Make sure you're not going to spend the next six years paying for imaginary add-ons the dealer didn't tell you about.

[clawbehavior]

^^

like what you see? that's a (rough) sneak peek from the epilogue of my money lender au, set in switzerland and it is aaalllll hot fucking.

i'm super excited to post it but i am 3 people shy of a round number of fic subscriptions 😋. SO, if you like what you read, want to read more, and aren't already subscribed to the fic, you can do so here:

[yeyinde]

"Don't trust me?" "I don't even know you—" His hand lifts, metal fingers spreading lazily as he holds his palm in front of you. A peace offering. The sight of it makes you scoff.  "Fair. For what it's worth, I don't trust you much, either, but—" another inhale of his cigar. His voice is pinched when he speaks, his breath ghosting white with the smoke congealing in his lungs. "We have to make do with what we have, don't we, love?"

》 WARNINGS: allusions to political corruption, mild horror (maybe??), mentions of death and murder; more banter in a pub; Price has a past

》 WORD COUNT: 8K

》 NOTES: This was originally much longer but the second part delves heavily into the mechanics of the world (we FINALLY see MC—I'm not good at creative nicknames—go into the underground/black market and it is like, a Thing!!!!) and it felt like a bit of an overload with soooo much being revealed at once. So, I split them up. More Reader x Price in a pub. Bantering. Because, ummm, I’m so goddamn creative, lads. 

SERIES MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS : NEXT

Makarov's outburst clots in the fibrils of your still reeling mind, replaying in an incessant loop that keeps you up into the early morning hours, unable to sleep. 

Each time you close your eyes, you see the unavoidable truth in blood looming before you. Inner Circle. Inescapable. 

All this time, you'd been under some false assumption that Makarov was the sole lender to whatever medical intervention was needed to bring you back from the clutch of death. It would make things easier. 

People die every day. 

It was the macabre ideal you clung to, digging into the notion until your nails cracked and bled. The only constant in your life that brought some semblance of hope. 

After all, the dead can't collect any debts. 

But a corporate entity can. 

You're pulled out of your reverie when the sound of a news alert fills the silence of your penthouse. The screen flickers to life at the apex of dawn, just when the indigo sky above splits into a varicoloured smear of pastel pink, ochre, and lavender. The looming horizon—sun a hazy flaxen—swallows the tenebrous that gnaws on the skyscape outside of your window. 

The vacuum fills the familiar jingle of your normal routine. A man sits behind a podium. The chyron below warns of a biblical rainstorm approaching, enough—

"—to wash the whole city away," the newscaster jokes as he jogs the stack of papers in front of him. A bead of sweat catches in the flushed light of the newsroom. The implants on his cheekbones flash; the chromatophore upgrade in his sleek skin shifting in a kaleidoscope of colour. "It comes at a good time, though, as reports of sickness are spreading through the medical bays. It must be flu season—," he titters before shifting his attention over to a man on the other half of the screen. 

He wears a black poncho and a wide grin. 

"A flu?" He echoes, the words swallowed by the passersby in the city square. The jumbotrons in the back bath him in a hazy, neon smear. "In this economy?"

They chatter in the background about a sickness spreading through the city, the storm looming closer, Atlas Corporation putting in a series of patents for some big, technological feat of engineering—Four Horseman has some steep competition this year! Atlas is the up-and-coming tech company that has new, innovative ideas and a focus on the environment!

It's the only mention of Four Horsemen Corp.

It doesn't surprise you. 

Money is a powerful tool. Those who weren't already in their back pocket were quickly added, and those who couldn't be paid off were—

Enticed. 

Whatever Anatoly—his primary enforcer—couldn't do, an encrypted file deep in Makarov's secured vault filled the gap. 

The White Horse is a multifaceted venture. On its surface, a luxury club that caters to a specific clientele. Its exclusivity makes it desirable. People fall over themselves just for the chance to enter. The prestige alone from saying, "I've gotten an invitation," is worth more than money in the circle of the upper echelon. It's elusive. Draped in mystique. 

Coveted. 

They want to get in so bad, just for the sole purpose of throwing their weight around and saying they've been, that they don't stop and think about the potential dangers that lurk. 

After all, a club funded by the Inner Circle and owned by Makarov—the White Horse—could hardly be dangerous. 

It's not the club they have to worry about but the man who owns it. The one who has people in high positions of power froth at the mouth for a chance to attend. 

It is impossible to convince a man with millions to risk his neck for someone else. 

But blackmail does the trick. 

From the utter silence of the media regarding this, barring a few fringe sites that are too small to bother with, you'd wager that your hard work was utilised now more than ever before. 

"—pull out your umbrellas, because—"

You reach out, pressing the power key. It clicks off. The hologram darkens to sleek black. 

Your face stares back at you, shaded in tenebrous. Empty. Vacant. Sometimes, you try to piece together what you might have looked like as a child, but all that surfaces is a void. Nothingness. 

It isn't a mental block, but an absence of everything. Anything. A gaping hole. 

You think of the missing man—Alex Keller—and something rotten gnarls between empty ribs. 

Six days. 

Three years. 

You wonder if anyone is still looking for you now. If your face is plastered on the communication poles on some distant planet. If the uncanny likeness of you is whispered in a neighbourhood in Al Mazrah where your family mourns. Or if there is now an empty spot at a dinner table that will never be filled. 

You doubt it. 

Nothing ever appears in the searches. No one ever stops you when you wander down the streets, and belts out an unfamiliar name. The closest you'd come to some sense of recognition was that man. The closest you'd come to thinking finally, finally, someone knew you. 

But he didn't. Doesn't. 

He isn't combing the shady side of down for you, but for Alex. A missing man who's been gone for six days—long enough for the man to tear through the redlight district and force your hand to aid him in finding out where Alex had gone. 

(You wonder if someone fought that hard for you.)

Ugly. Stupid. 

No one is looking. Makarov assured you of this when you asked him. 

You're a nobody, kitten. A stray. I picked you up off the streets and brought you back. You want your family? Well, all you have is me. Ain't that swell, kitten? What more could something like you ever hope for?

Worthless. 

You're caged up like an exotic bird. A toy to be kept on the highest shelf until it's needed. 

A pet. A plaything.

But Makarov's reach is everpresent. His eyes are everywhere.

You can run, and run, and run—

You should know better by now. No one touches what belongs to me. 

—and he'll always find you.

You have this recurring nightmare that started a year into waking up.

Makarov's idea of avoiding the hassle of you constantly asking questions about the unfamiliar world around you was to just preemptively teach you about it all. In a single session.

Despite the hesitation from the man administering the chip that would flood your mind with knowledge of the world, he pushed for it. And really—who is going to stand up to a man who not only pays their bills, but funds a vast majority of the country?

Against all codes of ethics, you were given the chip.

There is no way of describing the pain of suddenly knowing, but it left a mental scar on your psyche, one that is fundamentally irreparable. A bruise that's always there. A sore spot in your mind as it slowly heals itself from the aftermath of information overload.

But in that knowledge, came the awakening of something else.

Something that the man touched on briefly. Your lack of implants. Cybernetics. The flesh on your body is unblemished by technology, save for a small port where your spine meets your skull. It's always been there. You woke up with it.

It is covered by a layer of tissue meant to keep debris from getting in, and most days you forget about it's existence entirely.

Until, of course, days like these.

When you remember a piece of that overwhelming puzzle that was forced into your head. Artificial intelligence. Androids.

Project Sentience.

It's now considered a cruel, awful experiment conducted by the forefathers who founded the technological epoch that bloomed, by many accounts, out of control and transformed life within a few, short decades.

The project was started with good intentions. They meant to mind the gap between the limits of knowledge and erase the blemish of human error. Where they dreamed up the impossible, the AIs were meant to fill in the missing holes in the theorems and puzzles.

Working, together, for a better future.

But there was an unseen flaw.

The sentience wasn't foolproof. The android working with the engineers thought themselves to be exactly what they were: human.

It was then that project commenced in secrecy. They led the androids to believe they were real, flesh and bone, but when the flawed aspect of the human ego (a byproduct of their tweaked code to mimic the behaviours of humans to seem more passably real) led them to declare themselves the greatest engineers of all time, it was then that human engineers made it known what they were.

It wouldn't be so bad, maybe, if they were just confined to the lab. But they weren't. They were meant to be human, and so—

They led human lives. Love, dislike. Heartbreak. Some had gotten married. Some had lobbied against AI agency.

All had thought they were human.

The ripping of the veil was a nasty one.

Their partners were ostracised. Lives ruined. Their agency was taken away from them in fear of an insurgence from the androids who were now feeling the distinctly human emotion of abject horror.

Everything they knew was culled overnight over something so disgustingly simple as human envy.

It was deemed too cruel to continue. Public outcry made it so that any android made with sentience was told they were artificial, and treated as such.

The lawing of this pulled people in different directions. Subservience. Superiority. Purist.

You think of that experiment, and then of the many markers left behind that give someone an advanced understanding of their anti-humanism. The first, naturally, being a lack of noticeable enhancements. Why would something made to be perfect need an upgrade or an implant when they can just be designed with that specific feature?

The second is a sudden awakening into cognisance.

An emptiness. Nothing. And then—

They're awake.

You think of that as you stare at yourself in the mirror, but it passes just as quickly as it came. Your attention was stolen away by flickering light overhead.

They warned of an oncoming storm, didn't they?

It draws your eye, and you watch the light recede in small bursts as it struggles through the power surge of the grid. It's a common sight. Static in the air. The taste of rain.

You've always been more attuned to the change in the weather, almost as if you could feel the building of kinetic energy buzzing across your flesh.

From the prickling goosebumps ghosting over your skin, you know it'll be a bad one. Biblical, they said.

You turn back, mind blank, sluggish. It's weird. All of this is—

The face in the mirror is not your own.

Well. No. No, it is. It's—

You.

But—

Your flesh drips. Raindrops of flesh slide down your cheeks, dripping into the porcelain basin of the sink where it hits the ceramic with a sickening splat.

(Pat, pat, pat—)

It doesn't hurt. You don't feel anything. Nothing, nothing at all—

And you should, shouldn't you? Agony over the slippage of skin falling off of your face in wet flakes until the smooth curve of metal is shown—

Metal.

Your chin dips. A mass breaks away, the ruination of Pangea, and falls into the basin with the rest until sleek gunmetal remains. Wires crossed, connected. You feel—

Nothing. You feel absolutely nothing.

Where terror should brim, you're empty. A vacuum.

(Made in his image.)

You force yourself to reel back, to fling away from the thing staring at you—the thing that can't be you, can't be, can't be, can't be—until you trip. Until you fall to the ground with a thud that you can only hear but not feel.

You know you're sitting down on the solid ground because you can feel the physical weight of gravity pushing against you, and meeting a barrier in the middle. Something stops it from sending you down, down, down.

The floor. Your fingers dig into the marble. The whine of metal across flat, recrystallised limestone meet your ears, but the breaking of your nails causes you no pain. No blood, either. Nothing. The uncapped tips of your carbon fingers leave scratches on the polished surface.

He'll kill you, you think, mechanical and distant. You ruined his floor.

It doesn't hit you the way it should. It doesn't do much of anything.

It feels like you're floating. Suspended. You can't feel the ground, or the floor, or the wall against your back. All that filters in is the knowledge that you are on a stable foundation, and not caught in a free fall.

You catch sight of yourself in the brass handle of the door.

A metal face stares back at you.

You open your mouth to scream but nothing comes out.

A blink back into wakefulness, and you're in your bed. The mattress is soft beneath your feverish body, the sheets saturated in your sweat. They cling to your skin, trapping you. You feel the weight of gravity. The solid frame of the bed keeps you up.

Your hands fly to your face, nails scratching against your skin.

—Skin. Skin.

It takes hours to calm down, and days to shake the terror of looking into a mirror.

You sit, huddled in your room, and wonder if maybe all the signs were there.

Sometimes you wish that if Makarov had really, truly, made you from scratch, he would have given you solid gold plates for skin, and diamonds for bones, so at least every pound of flesh would be worth something.

(Worthless.

You are—)

Your loyalty to Makarov is a tenuous thread, one frayed and knotted from the inherent sense of ownership he lays on you. An obligation of recompense for saving your life—something you'd never asked of him. 

And so, it doesn't really feel like much of a surprise when you pull the rim of your hood low over your brow, tug your mask high up the bridge of your nose, and sneak past your guard for the evening to meet him instead. 

The place he picked is known as Industrial City—so aptly named for its abundance of postmodern buildings from somewhere in the mid-to-late twenty-first century. The crumbling ruins of an archaic homage to humanity's progress now sit abandoned in a cluster of rotting steel, cracked concrete, and mouldering asbestos. 

It's a haven for small-time gangs, and at one point, was thought to be the hideout of a notorious Purist leader who tried to sever the dependence on technology, and plunge the world back into a natural darkness. 

(He got as far as snipping a single wire from the Grid before he was detained for terrorism.) 

Bathed in an inky black, and void of the artificial neon smear of lights and LEDs, it looks almost haunting in the indigo gloam. A graveyard of the past. 

There's a prevalent feeling of unwelcomeness simmering low in the air around the abandoned buildings, one that grows ever-potent as you wander past it, and down the overgrown path leading to an old warehouse on the opposite side. 

Tension thickens the air. You feel it clot in your lungs. An uncanny sensation of being watched. Hunted. Your eyes skirt the row of crumbling industrial buildings, peering into the black voids of the smashed windows. Jagged cuts of glass, opaque from a thick layer of dust, grime, and the inevitable decay passage of time brings, gleam in the pale light of the moon suspended in the aether. 

It's dark. Uncannily so. 

The only light illuminating your path is the jaundiced glow of the moon and the buoyant flicker of the shuttles docking on the station. An infinitesimal dot against Tycho's vast, grey dip. Barely enough to make a difference in a place that leaks a palpable sense of unwelcomeness from the tenebrous surrounding you. 

Something shifts in your periphery. Your eyes dart to a third-story window of a vacant building. 

The stark, unfathomable blackness gives nothing away but you still feel the unmistakable sense of something, someone, glaring back into your eyes. Eye contact from the void. 

Your gaze drops to the underbrush. 

The static in the air grazes your skin. You're being watched. Stalked. Hunted. 

In the furze, you make out a depression in the dirt. Oval-shaped. Plain. 

It's a footprint. 

It rained all morning—a small appetiser to the biblical flood they promised: a looming thundercloud inched closer to the city each day—but the print in the wet ground was undisturbed. Fresh.

Above it, you find another. And another. Another. Until it disappears between a bottleneck of the two buildings. 

The path leads you back to the broken window—to the vat of black. 

The mini-gyrojet you stole from Yuri a long time ago sits heavy in the waistband of your trousers. Barely the size of your hand, and certainly less potent, but the laser is just as deadly as its parent. Comforting, almost. 

Your fingers twitch. You stifle the urge to grab it, and force yourself to turn around. Back to the enemy. Stupid. You know better. 

But whatever is looming in the shadows isn't a concern of yours. 

(And maybe, maybe, if they did shoot you in the back, you'd know once and for all what your insides were made of.)

Stupid. 

Nails bite into the soft skin of your palm leaving a crescent indent against your lifeline. The flash of pain, of discomfort, quells the knot in your stomach, the one that curls tight around your organs, and claws its way up your esophagus. Fear. Anxiety. They pollute inside of you with each step through the industrial mausoleum and toward the dilapidated building in the distance. 

An old parking lot sits to your right. The cracked concrete is barely visible under the thick overgrowth that congeals around the space left behind. Nature reclaiming Her land. Against the hazy ochre smear in the distant horizon, slowly being consumed by the vat of indigo that follows swiftly behind it, the tangled vines of emerald green look ethereal in the gloam. 

It's a vivid glimpse into the past when this place meant something to the people who ventured here. Office buildings. A parking lot where archaic vehicles using gasoline to run once sat, wheels on the concrete. Feet on the ground. They wandered to the buildings—just another cog in the machine. 

You wonder sometimes what they would think if they could see the world today. The broken line between fantasy and reality where slipping a chip into their brain stem could create a gap in time, one that lets them wander through any period of history, any memory inside their head. 

They called it virtual reality. 

Another plane of existence they hadn't the technology to exploit fully. A digital dimension that lingered between the layered worlds. 

Some live inside that realm exclusively, refusing to risk themselves in the physical plane where an errant jet could end their lives. 

It's a strange juxtaposition from that to this. Where the graffiti that stains the crumbling ashlar is now considered with reverence to this world as a handprint in a cave was to that one. 

A noise echoes through the vacant lot. The sound of a cut-off shout. Your eyes dart to the left, taking in the sight of two men standing outside of a Burger Town, jostling each other over the last jetbike parked in the charging dock. 

Inside the restaurant, a man leans against the tinted glass, cigarette in his hand, watching the same tousle as you. Under the flickering neon sign, his lips quirk up in amusement when one of the men loses their balance, tumbling to the pavement. 

It's another odd juxtaposition. A rotting graveyard of the past, some buildings salvaged and converted into a strange array of low-brow pubs, and—

Neon lips open, a pink tongue glides over the plump line of red before disappearing into a closed-mouth smile. It repeats. 

—a pseudo redlight district for those who can't afford the rent on the main boardwalk. 

The graffiti on the wall of the building is faded. The paint peeling, and weathered from the passage of elements. But you can still make out the shape of a yellow dick on the wall. 

Bars. Fast-food. Sex. Testosterone. 

The world might be different, but the people certainly aren't. 

You pull your hood down lower over your brow, and quickly keep moving. 

The converted warehouse doesn't have any markings on the outside to identify it as a pub, and you almost miss it until your tracker chimes, indicating your arrival.

Upon first glance, it's just a long, rectangular two-storey building made of chipped burgundy brick and scattered windows, all crusted with grime until it's tinted in a thick, opaque grey. 

You check the map again—just once to be sure—and send off a delayed alert with a timer set to go off an hour from now to Yuri. 

If you don't turn it off before the time runs out, he'll know where to find you.

(Or whatever is left of you.)

Everything about this, in hindsight, is pretty dangerous. Meeting a man who slings accusations at your saviour, and somehow knows about you, about your debt, in a graveyard that reeks of mildew and wet concrete is something people will hear about in passing, and wish you ill in the afterlife for being so stupid. 

But you're here. 

The choice has been made—whether or not it's a smart one has yet to be determined. 

Military. They have power. Influence. However pantomime it might be in the face of overwhelming wealth, it's still something. You thought they were all corrupted by the Inner Circle's clandestine whispers of affluence—sign here, Colonel, and we can give you armour and weapons beyond anything you'd ever seen before (just look the other way while we sell the antis to your enemies—can't let you get too powerful, after all). It seemed like they were. The parade of men and women who congregated at White Horse, or any of the other subsidiaries around the city, the world, was a testament to that. 

But he seems different. 

(And really, you've always had a thing for gruff men who'll disappoint you in the end. 

The heartbreak always tastes sweeter when they're worth something.) 

You glance down at the screen, staring at the timer as if it was your last lifeline, and hope, desperately, that you have. 

Your finger lifts. The screen fades to black. The white emblem of Four Horsemen Corp., gazes, almost accusatory, back at you. 

(If anything, Makarov will kill you before the man has any chance of breaking your heart.)

Turning back now is forfeiture, weakness. 

And you'd rather not walk through the graveyard again.

The door is made of rusted metal, and whines loud enough to echo through the barren landscape when you push it against the hinges. Muted gold leaks through the crack, spilling out onto the dirty pavement below your feet. Light catches on the motes dancing in the beam, and cuts through the murk of the falling night. 

Inside, you hear the fading tune of an old song playing out its last chorus. The scrape of a mug being pulled across wood. A low murmur. And nothing else. 

The normalcy of everything so far—or as normal as a strange retro pub in the middle of a mouldering neighbourhood could be—goes against the theatrics Makarov likes to pull, and you know from that alone that if this was somehow a trap, it wasn't his design. 

Anatoly would be jeering at you from the very top of Makarov's tower, fingers pushing against your shoulders until you were forced further back with each question you didn't answer. All the way to the ledge, where Makarov would intervene—always wanting to play the part of a saviour—and spare you. 

Just answer me this, kitten, and I'll put an end to it all. 

But the moment you opened your big, stupid mouth and gave him what you wanted, he'd begin monologuing by the sidelines, pacing as he speaks, until—

Well. We can't all be heroes. Sometimes, we need to be knocked down a peg. Anatoly would move closer, oblivious to your pleading demands for leniency, and Makarov would smile, sharp and shark-like, and say, as if it pained him: or a few stories. 

And you'd fall. Three hundred floors to your death. 

By the time you hit the pavement, you'd be a wet puddle of mush. Unidentifiable. They'd ensure it by removing your identity chip, and anything else that would give the mess of your remains a name. 

You've seen it play out enough times to know how it goes. The script might bend to fit the needs of the accused, but the plot was always the same. 

Theatrical. Dramatic. 

Your fingers curl into fists by your side, and find some solace in the fact that a two-floor drop probably won't kill you. 

This is survivable as long as you're useful. 

A new mantra is craved in the recesses of your mind. Useful. Useful. 

You repeat it to yourself as you pull the door open wider, glancing in the room warily. Hesitant. 

Whatever you expected, this wasn't it. 

It's normal. Archaic in design. 

Lanterns are strung across the rafters crisscrossing the ceiling, bathing the small room in a muted gold. It complements the raw topaz colour of the wooden decor inside—herringbone floors, shiplap-covered walls, dark spruce tables and benches—and something about it all feels almost homey. Comfortable. 

The size and cut of it err into intimacy or claustrophobia, and you wonder if that's why he picked it. 

On the opposite side of the entrance is a dark hallway. A flickering exit sign glows softly in the gloom. Two darker doorways branch off on either side of the back door. Washrooms. You can vaguely make out the light spilling from the insignia etched into the wood. 

It's flush against the rightmost wall where a series of old photographs sit, crookedly, on the panels. The images are too faded, jaundiced from time, for you to make out the shapes, but they all look human. Humanity from a bygone era. You catch sight of an old aeroplane, the vessel barely longer than the height of the man standing in front of the large propellers. 

The rest of them are of people standing together near old landmarks that no longer exist. 

Metals line the interior of one, kept guarded behind a new protective seal. They shine in the soft glow, and the label beneath reads: chest candy. 

These are personal photos. Family heirlooms. Staring at them, struggling to make out the full shapes of the children, the men, and the women, standing around and smiling happily make you feel a touch voyeuristic.  Gazing into a tomb not meant for your eyes. 

You pull away from the wall, glancing at the one that sections off the washrooms from the main room. It, too, is decorated in photographs, but these ones are less personal. Images of long-gone celebrities. Artistic renditions of landscapes that evolved over the last centuries into something new, something different. 

The theme of the wall is aerial. You make out old etchings of aircraft in all sizes. Commemorative pieces. Militaristic in its design. 

Three booths sit flush against the wall, all made of dark wood, and each seat empty. 

Against the leftmost wall is the bar itself, separated from the seating area by a long, oak countertop with six bar stools pushed up close. A mug sits, half-empty, in front of one. An empty glass in front of the other beside it. An ashtray in the middle of the two seats, filled with cigarette butts. One still burns away, wheedling down to a snubbed point. 

The wall is lined with bottles. A tap behind it. At the end is another doorway which must lead to the back area. The sign above says employees only. 

Near the only window in the room is where you find a solitary table with three chairs. In the seat facing you, back angled between the cut of the walls, shoulder turned to the bar, is where you find the man. Watching you. 

A glass rests in front of him, half-empty. A burning cigar in an ashtray curls wisps of smoke over his face. 

The implant in his eye glows sapphire blue, expanding as he reads the information in front of him. The other is darkened under the flushed light, almost black. Gazing right at you. 

It's a contrast that makes you shiver. 

"Made the right choice then," he says, words low as he lets them fade under the steady cadence of the song playing somewhere in the back of the bar. 

It isn't much of a perfunctory greeting, but you take the opening all the same, and make your way toward him.

"That's yet to be determined."

"You're still here." 

The wood is warm under your palms when you press them against the grain, shuffling into the bench across from him. Warm, and sticky. 

You peel your fingers off, glancing at them warily. "Not much of a choice, though—" your eyes find him, narrowing into slits when he snorts, shaking his head at the disgust in your gaze. "What's so funny?" 

He huffs and the blue light flickers out, fading into dark blue. "You," he offers as if it was obvious. The condescension bleeds from his lips when he speaks, and leaks into his clear eyes when you fold your hands into your lap. "Not the kinda place Makarov normally takes you, hmm? Ain't you spoiled."

"Makarov doesn't take me anywhere." 

"That so? What? You his dirty little secret?" 

Your brow furrows. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Nothin', love. Nothin' at all." 

He's baiting you. The condescending draw of his voice, thick with derision, sets your teeth on edge, and makes the knots in your stomach tighten. 

"Look," you start, sticky fists cleaned tight in your lap, irritating the indents in your flesh from earlier. It's enough to ground you. "I didn't come here for games. This is my head on the line, and—"

"Mine, too." 

You scoff. "You started this." 

"And it's my men who are out there, yeah?" 

He leans forward slowly, the wrinkles in his brow deepening under the hazy glow until all you see is darkness cascading over a rucked canyon. Anger pinches at the corner of his eyes, the near snarl of his mouth. 

He'd go for the jugular, you think. Sink his teeth into your flesh until a pound is ripped out, reaping his dues. 

You wonder if his fury is as animalistic as the teeth he bares in anger, in warning.

"Gettin' injured, killed. Goin' missin'. Fighting a battle your men are waging." 

"Makarov isn't waging anything. You don't know much about him, do you? The only thing he cares about is his stocks and his public image. Whatever you think he's doing, or he's behind, I can assure you—he isn't." 

"You sound certain. What, hmm? Ain't the kinda pillow talk he likes to indulge in?"

"Pillow talk?" His words make you reel back until you're flushed against the chair, eyes widening. "I think there's a massive misunderstanding here."

He says nothing, merely opting to reach for his forgotten glass of scotch and dwindling cigar. 

Pillow talk. "You think me and Makarov are—? No. No! That's—" you fight a shiver of disgust, knuckles digging into your thighs. "No. Makarov wouldn't—it's not like that. He's—"

"He's what?" He implores, resting his elbow on the countertop, cigar dangling dangerously between his lax fingers. The look in his eye is sharp, keen. 

"He's my—" 

You bite your tongue suddenly, stopping the familiar words from slipping out. It's the response you give when people ask what you are to Makarov—why he keeps you around on such a short leash. 

My saviour.

The words have different connotations inside Makarov's sprawling skyline palace. Where his guards simply nod, in understanding, and accept your words as is, because he, too, is theirs as well. A common ground where nothing else needs to be explained as one word covers everything. 

You won't find that here. Not with him. And maybe, maybe, some part of you is shying away in shame over the word. Saviour. You sound like the zealots running around proclaiming they heard god whispering to them in the grid, and felt Its holy touch when they plugged something in. 

Electric, they say, reverently. Our saviour is stuck inside the machine—!

(You wonder, now, if Makarov chose that particular word on purpose, and know, immediately, that he did.)

"I owe him money. Why wouldn't he keep me around with such a staggering debt?" 

Bringing it up gives you the opportunity you need to shift the conversation away from the game of Messiah and Disciples Makarov likes to play, and you knot your trembling fingers together tightly in your lap. 

"Speaking of—" you huff, gaze fixed on him. Taking everything in. You might not have the same implant that he does, one that allows him access to the net in an instant, and feeds it right to his cerebrum, but you've always been good at reading people. Catching their tells. "Makarov isn't the one my debt is owed to. It's the Inner Circle. Still think you can erase it?" 

He hesitates. Briefly, almost indecipherably, but you catch the dip of his cigar when his body tenses, fingers tightening too quickly on the stem. It twitches only once before he steadies it. His eyes cut to yours, impassive and unreadable, as he takes in the information you just offered. 

The Inner Circle banking division was notorious for having contracts upon contracts to avoid buyouts without some hefty fee attached to make up for the lost interest. 

It's a roadblock. Almost everyone you've met so far, ones with idealistic dreams of stealing you away from the clutch of Makarov, bulked at the number alone. This, this new piece of information, was bound to make him flee. Cut ties. Run. 

Another hero with too much on his shoulders to bear another burden, leaving you behind to rot. 

Tough luck, kid, one of them said after a three-week-long courting period that left you feeling moon swept and dizzy. Wide-eyed and jejune. Naïve little kitten, Makarov taunted the morning after you found yourself alone on the dock, bags packed, waiting for a man who'd never show. But Makarov met you there. Yuri, with sorrowful eyes, took the bags gently from your trembling hands, downcast as he murmured in your ear, you'll be okay, kitten.

Anatoly's biting laughter haunted you for months. Christ, he howled. You really thought there was a man on earth more powerful than Makarov? Damn, he swindled you good, dumbass. Was he at least a good fuck? I'd be so goddamn pissed if this happened to me and the idiot was lousy in bed. 

But it was Makarov's palm against your cheek that broke you the most. The icy eyes never softened despite the coo of sympathy in his voice. 

It hurts, doesn't it, kitten? Who knows if this is your first heartbreak, but I'm sure it feels like it is, doesn't it? Ahhh, You should know better by now. No one touches what belongs to me. 

"Now about this betrayal…" 

He had you locked in your flat for months, and everything iota of your time monitored in some capacity. The leash was shortened. The collar tightened. 

The punishment for your betrayal came weeks after, when a package arrived at your flat. A golden box weighed down with precious gems and metals. 

A holographic card popped up when you opened the package, hands shaking around the heavy box. 

Makarov's voice flooded the room. What's more precious than gold and diamonds? The latch on the box clicked. You lifted the lid. At first, it didn't make sense. Your mind blanked, wiped, as you struggled to figure out what it was you were staring at. 

A heart, kitten. His heart.

Then—

Horror. Stomach-churn terror.

Your hands snapped back, and the box dropped to the floor as mocking laughter met your ears, static and faded over the recording. 

The still-beating heart tumbled out, connected to an array of small wires that kept it alive without a host. Without—

Your hand pressed against your lips as you fought the bile rising from your throat. 

Betray me again, he said, and I'll make you cut it out next time. 

You stare at the man across from you and know that the wishfulness inside of you will soften his flaws, blur his lies until anything he says just sounds right. A dangerous precipice. The yearning knotting around your mouldering ribcage is hungry. Wanting. 

He'll ruin you. And you'll be forced to ruin him. To carve his heart out as Makarov keeps him alive the whole time. The last thing he'll ever see would be you holding his still-beating heart before Makarov makes you crush it between your trembling, bloodied fingers. 

The image surfaces—horrific, garish, gut-wrenching—and you wish you were a little more jaded, a little less idealistic, to have that alone snuff the last vestiges of hope from your rotting heart. 

"Doesn't change anything," he grouses, and then brings the glass to his lips. He downs the scotch in two swallows, and you can't pull your wide eyes away from the way his throat bobs, and stretches, as he tilts his head back. 

When he's finished, he huffs. The glass hits the countertop with a clang that seems to shake something inside of you. 

"They're all rotten," he snarls, words a rough rasp that makes you shiver. "All of 'em. Rotten to the fuckin' core."

The corruption never surprised you. Maybe the exposure to it all, feeding Makarov the names of the politicians and diplomats that wanderers through the club's door numbed you to it all, but seeing his visceral disgust over it makes something swell inside of you. 

He's not too different from the heroes you've met, the ones you read about, but where they cut their anger into pieces of understanding and compassion, he wields his like a claymore. A battle-ready man brimming with a fury that leaks from his marrow and into the icy blue of his steel gaze. 

He doesn't give you kind smiles or false promises. No, he gives you third-degree burns on your flesh from the molten heat of his rage. 

"Who are you?" You demand, the words slipping out before you can chomp them down. "And why do you think I can help you?"

It doesn't make sense, not really. 

The look he levels at you knocks the air from your lungs. 

Fear curls in your gut. Wariness. The urge to flee wells, and you just barely manage to push it down. 

"I told you already, didn't I?" He leans closer, drawing the cigar to his lips. "Heard about you, 'bout your debt." 

"Yeah, and you thought I was Makarov's—lover—;" the word nearly makes you recoil. "But I'm not. He tells me nothing. Still so certain I can help?" 

He takes a drag of the cigar, the tip burning through the dim interior of the empty pub. His eyes never waver from yours, but you know that this piece of information must, in some way, change things. He sought you out specifically because of your assumed relationship with Makarov. The precariousness of your debt has doubled into not just an inconvenience, but a legal issue with extra fees added. 

You're more trouble than whatever you might be able to weasel out of Makarov. 

More trouble than your worth. 

The smoke curls in front of him like a hazy shroud of white. The light catches the indent in his cheekbone, and down the side of his face where his implant sits, humming with kinetic energy even while unlit. 

Without the beanie on his head, you can make out more of the circular insignia on his temple, but the crest is unfamiliar to you. Unknown. You've never seen it before, and that unnerves you. 

You know all the clubs, the crests, the gangs that roam the streets. From the upper echelon of the Shepherd family to the 54 Immortals seizing the power gap left behind by the fall of Brakov in a neighbouring country. It comes with knowing the underground. With making friends in the shadows. 

But this one escapes you. 

He shifts, moving the cigar from his lips. A waterfall of smoke rumbles from his mouth when he breathes out. 

"Yes," he says, pinched from lingering smoke in his lungs. "I do."

"How?"

"Told you, love. Heard 'bout you—from many sources."

The back of your neck prickles under his reproachful stare. Something in those cerulean depths makes you tense. 

"From who?" 

His metal knuckles clink against the glass when he nudges it out of the way, resting his forearm down on the wood, bringing himself closer to you. With your spine flush against the back of the chair, there is nowhere to run. It hits you, then, when he draws himself into the scant space separating the two of you, angling himself until he takes up the entirety of your periphery, that this was intentional. 

Of course, it was. Of course. 

"Oh, from lot's a'people a lil' thing like you shouldn't be hangin' around." Despite the derision in his voice, his brows lift, arching high until his forehead wrinkles, and you catch something that seems almost impressed when he dips his chin, staring at you from down his nose. "You get places most can't. That's useful."

"Useful enough to wipe a debt? How do I know you're good for it, and this isn't some scam?" 

"You don't," he answers simply, and something snaps inside you. 

"Are you joking—? Do you have any idea what Makarov will do to me, and you can't even give me some—"

"Like I told you, I know people in high places." He shrugs like it's nothing. Like it isn't your life in balance. "They want to remain anonymous, but can settle your debt." 

"How?" 

"Don't trust me?"

"I don't even know you—"

His hand lifts, metal fingers spreading lazily as he holds his palm in front of you. A peace offering. The sight of it makes you scoff. 

"Fair. For what it's worth, I don't trust you much, either, but—" another inhale of his cigar. His voice is pinched when he speaks, his breath ghosting white with the smoke congealing in his lungs. "We have to make do with what we have, don't we?"

It isn't fair. It isn't right. A part of you wants to rebel, to grab the cigar and crush it under the heel of your palm. The anger wells inside of you, white-hot and aching, and brings with it the strong urge to scream yourself hoarse. 

You believed him—if only for a moment, for a single second, but it was long enough for the vestiges of hope to claw their way up the prison you kept it in, and leak back into your marrow. A pollutant that wrecks you viciously. 

But—

Maybe you expected this. It doesn't sting as much as you thought it would. He's never really committed, and said—

"But," he continues, and you wish he would shut up, shut up, shut up, shut—

"I promise it'll go away once we're done, yeah?" 

Fuck. 

Your voice wobbles when you speak, soundly dangerously thick, and wet. You peer up at him and wish with everything inside of you, there wasn't a thin veil of tears gathering across your lash line. Weak. You haven't cried in two years—

(You look so cute when you cry, kitten—)

"You promise, huh?"

He lifts his hand to his temple and taps his index and middle finger against the strange insignia implanted there. The hard metal of the crest meeting the soft polymer cover of his fingertips makes a muted thud not at all dissimilar to your beating heart. 

"On my family name, I swear it." 

Why—

To go so far for someone he barely knows, and doesn't trust—

And then it clicks. It isn't about you at all, but some personal vendetta, a promise to himself, that he'll accomplish what he sets out to do, and so, making this little oath with an outsider, the pet of the enemy, is nothing to him. It's performative as much as it is sincere, and the warring contrast makes your chest ache, and heat bloom under your skin. 

"You—;" you start, but stop yourself. 

He's not at all unlike the heroes you've read about in fantastical stories or the ones you'd met. The one whose heart you held in your trembling fingers as it slowly stopped pulsing in the palm of your hand. Whose blood you scoured from your skin until it was raw. 

But where they offered a smile at the end of the promise they swore they'd keep, he frowns. 

He doesn't strike you as the type of man to go out of his way to make others feel better. He believes in himself, and his prowess, and speaks about that in clipped, gruff declarations that are not meant to sway, but reinforce what he knows. 

He will win. This isn't a question or a belief, but a statement. A truism. 

Hope surges. The levee cracks. 

"Who are you?" You ask, dazed. 

The man who cupped your cheek, and whispered to you about escaping the clutches of this festering city, of going so far away, that grasping hands could never reach you, and greedy fingers would never again touch your flesh, didn't fill you with this same sense of awe, of pure belief in the words he said. But this man, this man, makes you feel like anything is possible. Hope blooms, brims bright inside of your chest like an inflating balloon drifting up to the heavens—

His mental hand splays flat over the table. "Names John Price."

The man sitting across from you is someone you know. 

It makes sense, then. The insignia on his temple is the Price family emblem—a conglomerate in its own right, mostly composed of military men with staunch, unflinching moral codes. The incorruptible. The untouchables. 

They were the ones who led the counterattack on the coup that changed the political landscape from the Feudalistic tyranny of the past, to—

Well. It was meant to be free reign, or maybe democratic, but the technological boom a few years after the liberation from the iron fist made little things slip by as the world was suddenly painted a lovely shade of roseate. Why worry about mega corporations becoming richer than most of the governmental bodies, and countries, when they made this new piece of cybernetics that let you see like a hawk, that introduced a new colour spectrum to the general public, when sickness, injury, and even death itself came something that could be bartered over for the right price. 

The things that they let slip stacked up. It piled higher and higher until the free future the Price family, among others—Laswell, Shepherd, Walker, MacTavish—foresaw was smothered out in favour of the blatant mega capitalism that rules. 

It might not be with an iron fist, but it is with a monetary chokehold that always seems to get tighter. 

Their legacy is one founded on a strong moral core that is unbendable. 

It makes sense why you didn't recognise the emblem at first. 

The last of their pristine lineage—tarnished.

The man responsible for the power gap left behind by Brakov. The one who threatens his superiors, and uses brute force to get his way. John Price—the one who gave into temptation and was ousted from his family, and from the military, for taking bribes from people in low places. A man who'd side with anyone—for the right price. 

Political turmoil and espionage must run in the family, then, as you somehow find yourself sitting across from the man implicated in a failed coup. One that resulted in the collapse of Urzikstan.

John Price. 

Disgraced former captain. Rotten to his core. There's a graveyard filled with people who died because of his choices; a massacre that made headlines just a few months before you woke up. A man you know by sordid, rotten reputation alone, who somehow escaped condemnation for the people he indirectly (and, by many accounts, directly) killed. 

John Price. Swindler. Scoundrel. Swine. 

"John Price?" You echo, numbed. "The John Price?"

He leans back in the chair, posture relaxed, at ease, as if this wasn't a massive reveal. As if he wasn't a war criminal who was exonerated because of those friends in high places he so casually mentioned before. 

"So," he rasps, pulling his cigar back to his lips. Despite the ease in his mien, his eyes tighten. A cobra ready to strike. "You've heard of me." 

(—it blooms, and then all at once, it bursts.)

Nothing says cyberpunk like a morally ambiguous character.

[voskhozhdeniye]

To raise enough cash to make the deal happen, Golden Gate sold off Red Lobster's real estate to another entity — in this case, a company called American Realty Capital Properties — and then immediately leased the restaurants back. The next year, Red Lobster bought back some sites, but many of its restaurants were suddenly strapped with added rent expenses. Even if Darden had kept Red Lobster, it's not clear it would have taken a different route: A press release from the time says it had contacted buyers to explore such a transaction. But in Maze's view, the sale of the real estate was sort of an original sin for Red Lobster's current troubles. He compared it to throwing out a spare parachute — chances are, you'll be OK, but if the first parachute fails, you're in deep trouble. "The thing that private equity does is just unload assets and monetize assets. And so they effectively paid for the purchase of Red Lobster by selling the real estate," he said. "It'll probably be fine, generally, but there's going to come a time in which your sales fall, your profitability is challenged, and your debt looks too bad, and then suddenly those leases are going to look awfully ugly." That time, according to recent reporting, is now. With struggling sales and operational losses, the leases are an added headache that is helping push the company to the brink, though bankruptcy may help Red Lobster get some wiggle room on them. Eileen Appelbaum, a codirector of the Center for Economic and Policy Research, a progressive think tank, and a longtime private-equity critic, said in 2014 that private equity wouldn't be the solution to Red Lobster's ills. She isn't surprised about how this is all turning out. "Once they sell the real estate, then the private-equity company is golden, and they've made their money back and probably more than what they paid," she said, noting that this was a common theme in other restaurants and retailers and adding: "The retail apocalypse is all about having your real estate sold out from under you so that you have to pay the rent in good times and in bad." After the real estate move, Golden Gate sold 25% of the company in 2016 to Thai Union, a Thailand seafood company, for $575 million and unloaded the rest of the company to an investor group called the Seafood Alliance, of which Thai Union was a part, in 2020. Golden Gate likely came out ahead, but the same can't be said for Thai Union, which also controls the Chicken of the Sea brand. It is now looking to get out of its stake in Red Lobster and took a one-time charge of $530 million on its investment in the fourth quarter of last year. In 2021, Red Lobster refinanced its debt, with one of its new lenders being Fortress Investment Group, an investment-management group and private-equity firm. According to Bloomberg, it's one of the "key lenders" involved in debt negotiations now.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Wall Street Journal goes to bat for the vultures who want to steal your house

Tonight (June 5) at 7:15PM, I’m in London at the British Library with my novel Red Team Blues, hosted by Baroness Martha Lane Fox.

Tomorrow (June 6), I’m on a Rightscon panel about interoperability.

The tacit social contract between the Wall Street Journal and its readers is this: the editorial page is for ideology, and the news section is for reality. Money talks and bullshit walks — and reality’s well-known anticapitalist bias means that hewing too closely to ideology will make you broke, and thus unable to push your ideology.

That’s why the editorial page will rail against “printing money” while the news section will confine itself to asking which kinds of federal spending competes with the private sector (creating a bidding war that drives up prices) and which kinds are not. If you want frothing takes about how covid relief checks will create “debt for our grandchildren,” seek it on the editorial page. For sober recognition that giving small amounts of money to working people will simply go to reducing consumer and student debt, look to the news.

But WSJ reporters haven’t had their corpus colossi severed: the brain-lobe that understands economic reality crosstalks with the lobe that worship the idea of a class hierarchy with capital on top and workers tugging their forelacks. When that happens, the coverage gets weird.

Take this weekend’s massive feature on “zombie mortgages,” long-written-off second mortgages that have been bought by pennies for vultures who are now trying to call them in:

https://www.wsj.com/articles/zombie-mortgages-could-force-some-homeowners-into-foreclosure-e615ab2a

These second mortgages — often in the form of home equity lines of credit (HELOCs) — date back to the subprime bubble of the early 2000s. As housing prices spiked to obscene levels and banks figured out how to issue risky mortgages and sell them off to suckers, everyday people were encouraged — and often tricked — into borrowing heavily against their houses, on complicated terms that could see their payments skyrocket down the road.

Once the bubble popped in 2008, the value of these houses crashed, and the mortgages fell “underwater” — meaning that market value of the homes was less than the amount outstanding on the mortgage. This triggered the foreclosure crisis, where banks that had received billions in public money forced their borrowers out of their homes. This was official policy: Obama’s Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner boasted that forcing Americans out of their homes would “foam the runways” for the banks and give them a soft landing;

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/06/personnel-are-policy/#janice-eberly

With so many homes underwater on their first mortgages, the holders of those second mortgages wrote them off. They had bought high-risk, high reward debt, the kind whose claims come after the other creditors have been paid off. As prices collapsed, it became clear that there wouldn’t be anything left over after those higher-priority loans were paid off.

The lenders (or the bag-holders the lenders sold the loans to) gave up. They stopped sending borrowers notices, stopped trying to collect. That’s the way markets work, after all — win some, lose some.

But then something funny happened: private equity firms, flush with cash from an increasingly wealthy caste of one percenters, went on a buying spree, snapping up every home they could lay hands on, becoming America’s foremost slumlords, presiding over an inventory of badly maintained homes whose tenants are drowned in junk fees before being evicted:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/08/wall-street-landlords/#the-new-slumlords

This drove a new real estate bubble, as PE companies engaged in bidding wars, confident that they could recoup high one-time payments by charging working people half their incomes in rent on homes they rented by the room. The “recovery” of real estate property brought those second mortgages back from the dead, creating the “zombie mortgages” the WSJ writes about.

These zombie mortgages were then sold at pennies on the dollar to vulture capitalists — finance firms who make a bet that they can convince the debtors to cough up on these old debts. This “distressed debt investing” is a scam that will be familiar to anyone who spends any time watching “finance influencers” — like forex trading and real estate flipping, it’s a favorite get-rich-quick scheme peddled to desperate people seeking “passive income.”

Like all get-rich-quick schemes, distressed debt investing is too good to be true. These ancient debts are generally past the statute of limitations and have been zeroed out by law. Even “good” debts generally lack any kind of paper-trail, having been traded from one aspiring arm-breaker to another so many times that the receipts are long gone.

Ultimately, distressed debt “investing” is a form of fraud, in which the “investor” has to master a social engineering patter in which they convince the putative debtor to pay debts they don’t actually owe, either by shading the truth or lying outright, generally salted with threats of civil and criminal penalties for a failure to pay.

That certainly goes for zombie mortgages. Writing about the WSJ’s coverage on Naked Capitalism, Yves Smith reminds readers not to “pay these extortionists a dime” without consulting a lawyer or a nonprofit debt counsellor, because any payment “vitiates” (revives) an otherwise dead loan:

https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2023/06/wall-street-journal-aids-vulture-investors-threatening-second-mortgage-borrowers-with-foreclosure-on-nearly-always-legally-unenforceable-debt.html

But the WSJ’s 35-paragraph story somehow finds little room to advise readers on how to handle these shakedowns. Instead, it lionizes the arm-breakers who are chasing these debts as “investors…[who] make mortgage lending work.” The Journal even repeats — without commentary — the that these so-called investors’ “goal is to positively impact homeowners’ lives by helping them resolve past debt.”

This is where the Journal’s ideology bleeds off the editorial page into the news section. There is no credible theory that says that mortgage markets are improved by safeguarding the rights of vulture capitalists who buy old, forgotten second mortgages off reckless lenders who wrote them off a decade ago.

Doubtless there’s some version of the Hayek Mind-Virus that says that upholding the claims of lenders — even after those claims have been forgotten, revived and sold off — will give “capital allocators” the “confidence” they need to make loans in the future, which will improve the ability of everyday people to afford to buy houses, incentivizing developers to build houses, etc, etc.

But this is an ideological fairy-tale. As Michael Hudson describes in his brilliant histories of jubilee — debt cancellation — through history, societies that unfailingly prioritize the claims of lenders over borrowers eventually collapse:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/08/jubilant/#construire-des-passerelles

Foundationally, debts are amassed by producers who need to borrow capital to make the things that we all need. A farmer needs to borrow for seed and equipment and labor in order to sow and reap the harvest. If the harvest comes in, the farmer pays their debts. But not every harvest comes in — blight, storms, war or sickness — will eventually cause a failure and a default.

In those bad years, farmers don’t pay their debts, and then they add to them, borrowing for the next year. Even if that year’s harvest is good, some debt remains. Gradually, over time, farmers catch enough bad beats that they end up hopelessly mired in debt — debt that is passed on to their kids, just as the right to collect the debts are passed on to the lenders’ kids.

Left on its own, this splits society into hereditary creditors who get to dictate the conduct of hereditary debtors. Run things this way long enough and every farmer finds themselves obliged to grow ornamental flowers and dainties for their creditors’ dinner tables, while everyone else goes hungry — and society collapses.

The answer is jubilee: periodically zeroing out creditors’ claims by wiping all debts away. Jubilees were declared when a new king took the throne, or at set intervals, or whenever things got too lopsided. The point of capital allocation is efficiency and thus shared prosperity, not enriching capital allocators. That enrichment is merely an incentive, not the goal.

For generations, American policy has been to make housing asset appreciation the primary means by which families amass and pass on wealth; this is in contrast to, say, labor rights, which produce wealth by rewarding work with more pay and benefits. The American vision is that workers don’t need rights as workers, they need rights as owners — of homes, which will always increase in value.

There’s an obvious flaw in this logic: houses are necessities, as well as assets. You need a place to live in order to raise a family, do a job, found a business, get an education, recover from sickness or live out your retirement. Making houses monotonically more expensive benefits the people who get in early, but everyone else ends up crushed when their human necessity is treated as an asset:

https://gen.medium.com/the-rents-too-damned-high-520f958d5ec5

Worse: without a strong labor sector to provide countervailing force for capital, US politics has become increasingly friendly to rent-seekers of all kinds, who have increased the cost of health-care, education, and long-term care to eye-watering heights, forcing workers to remortgage, or sell off, the homes that were meant to be the source of their family’s long-term prosperity:

https://doctorow.medium.com/the-end-of-the-road-to-serfdom-bfad6f3b35a9

Today, reality’s leftist bias is getting harder and harder to ignore. The idea that people who buy debt at pennies on the dollar should be cheered on as they drain the bank-accounts — or seize the homes — of people who do productive work is pure ideology, the kind of thing you’d expect to see on the WSJ’s editorial page, but which sticks out like a sore thumb in the news pages.

Thankfully, the Consumer Finance Protection Bureau is on the case. Director Rohit Chopra has warned the arm-breakers chasing payments on zombie mortgages that it’s illegal for them to “threaten judicial actions, such as foreclosures, for debts that are past a state’s statute of limitations.”

But there’s still plenty of room for more action. As Smith notes, the 2012 National Mortgage Settlement — a “get out of jail for almost free” card for the big banks — enticed lots of banks to discharge those second mortgages. Per Smith: “if any servicer sold a second mortgage to a vulture lender that it had charged off and used for credit in the National Mortgage Settlement, it defrauded the Feds and applicable state.”

Maybe some hungry state attorney general could go after the banks pulling these fast ones and hit them for millions in fines — and then use the money to build public housing.

Catch me on tour with Red Team Blues in London and Berlin!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/04/vulture-capitalism/#distressed-assets

[Image ID: A Georgian eviction scene in which a bobby oversees three thugs who are using a battering ram to knock down a rural cottage wall. The image has been crudely colorized. A vulture looks on from the right, wearing a top-hat. The battering ram bears the WSJ logo.]

[watfordgrimoire]

Summer of Shakespeare

To be or not to be -- acts as a coin flip; caster's object with either glow bright white or become shrouded in shadows

Two may keep counsel, putting one away -- prevents whom it is cast on from being able to speak of a secret (forbidden spell)

Let slip the dogs of war -- draws in nearby canines

What light through yonder window breaks -- creates sunlight through the window it is cast on

If you prick us, do we not bleed -- creates a pinprick wound

To sleep, perchance to Dream -- sleeping spell (has a chance to cause the sleeper to have vivid, lucid dreams)

Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown -- creates a heavy, golden crown

Get thee to a nunnery -- creates a route to the nearest convent

Take arms against a sea of troubles -- pulls in nearby weapons (only works if near a body of salt water)

In nature there's no blemish but the mind -- removes acne

If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well / It were done quickly -- speeds up electronic appliances (causes the appliances to shut down if cast incorrectly)

A man can die but once -- used by superstitious mages to ward off vampire attacks

The good is oft interred with their bones -- buries objects it is cast on (can also be used as a finding spell when cast with the correct intentions)

It's Greek to me -- translates text to Greek

My kingdom for a horse -- summons nearby equine

Neither a borrow nor a lender be -- if someone owes you money, takes any cash/coins they have on them when cast

Nothing will come of nothing -- cleaning spell

Brevity is the soul of wit -- silencing spell (only allows for a few words while the spell is active)

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day -- heats someone up to the average summer temperature of the area

You have witchcraft in your lips -- enhances the next spell cast

Friends, Romans, Countrymen -- amplifies the caster's voice

Lord, what fools these mortals be -- stunning spell

The course of true love never did run smooth -- rumoured at Watford to cause a couple to break up if cast on them

Now is the winter of our discontent -- snow creation spell (only works when the caster is unhappy)

All the world's a stage -- creates a temporary, basic stage to use for performances

Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and other have greatness thrust upon them -- superstitious mages cast this on newborn children in order to increase their depth of magick

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind -- temporary blinding spell (only works if the person it is cast on is in love)

Conscience does make cowards of us all -- scares away nearby creatures

To suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune -- an arrow creation spell

Frailty, thy name is woman -- weakening spell

It is not enough to speak, but to speak true -- forces whomever it is cast on to tell a truth

I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me -- causes nearby dogs to bark

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy -- finding spell

The lady doth protest too much -- reveals if someone is lying

The whips and scorns of time -- attacking spell

I am a man more sinned against than sinning -- shielding spell

Good wine is a good familiar creature -- wine creation spell (difficult spell)

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep -- when cast on someone who is sleeping, has the chance to allow them to bring small objects out of their dreams (difficult spell)

O wretched state! o bosom black as death! -- dyes objects black

Muddy death -- creates a mud puddle

Lay aside life-harming heaviness / And entertain a cheerful disposition -- cheering up spell

And, most dear actors, eat no onions or garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath -- cures bad breath

If after every tempest come such calms, / May the winds blow till they have wakened death -- creates a wind storm

None can be called deformed but the unkind -- reveals if someone has betrayed you, causing them to be covered in boils

Deny thy father and refuse thy name -- name changing spell (can apply to first, middle, and/or last name depending on the emphasis of the words)

The evil that men do lives after them -- creates weapons out of human bones (forbidden spell)

To thine own self be true -- temporary self-confidence increasing spell

Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once -- used in battle to try and scare the opposition into retreat (difficult spell)

Blest be the man that spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones -- cast on graves to prevent graverobbing

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and gets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more -- silencing spell (forbidden spell)

And through this distemperature we see / The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts / Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose -- creates a layer of frost

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing -- causes whomever it is cast on to babble uncontrollably

For there was never yet philosopher / That could endure the toothache patiently -- eases toothache pain

God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another -- temporary disguise spell

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind -- reveals if a suspect is guilty (not always reliable as it can be tampered with)

Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains -- stabilizes piles of soil or rock

Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer'd -- helps boats steer safely into harbor

The empty vessel makes the loudest sound -- drains glasses of liquids (also creates a loud sound)

Though she be but little, she is fierce -- shrinking spell

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break -- undoes silencing spells

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

Varney the Vampire, Chapter 18: Talk Shit Get Hit

[Previous chapter] [Next chapter]

The bell at the gate continues to ring wildly until George, annoyed, goes to answer it. It's Admiral Bell and Jack Pringle! They're here to see Charles, but they're very bad at explaining themselves and George is already pissed off.

While the three of them argue, Jack Pringle spots a commotion some distance away, which turns out to be Varney and Marchdale having an argument. Suddenly, Varney bitchslaps Marchdale in the face, and he falls to the ground.

Varney runs off, and Marchdale returns to the others. The Admiral and Jack reintroduce themselves in obnoxiously nautical fashion. Charles and Henry show up, and Charles is surprised to see his uncle. He promises to give him a full explanation once he's gotten permission from Henry to do so.

The narrative now goes on hold to explain Charles' situation in more detail. Charles has an inheritance waiting for when he turns 22; however, since the age of discretion (financial independence, I assume) is 21, his lawyer advised him to take a 2-year vacation in Europe to avoid being preyed on by money-lenders. This plan hit a snag when he met Flora while on his vacation, and fell for her so hard that he was unable to resist returning to England a little early to see her.

Charles meets with Henry, who grants him permission to tell Admiral Bell everything. He also asks Henry how Flora's doing; Henry replies that she's doing better, but could use something to distract her from The Horrors. Charles pulls a random short story out of his backpack and gives it to Henry to give to Flora.

Not much happens in this chapter; it's about two thirds sailor speak by volume. I'll skip right to the good part, which is MARCHDALE GETTING PUNCHED

HELL YEAH GET HIS ASS

Marchdale confirms for us another of Varney's precious few supernatural characteristics:

"I threatened to follow him, but he struck me to the earth as easily as I could a child. His strength is superhuman."

He can't lizard climb or shapeshift, but he sure can throw a punch.

The Admiral and Jack proceed to give Marchdale about the cartooniest introduction they can possibly muster:

"Oh, you may know my name as soon as you like," cried the admiral. "The enemies of old England know it, and I don't care if all the world knows it. I'm old Admiral Bell, something of a hulk now, but still able to head a quarter-deck if there was any need to do so." "Ay, ay," cried Jack, and taking from his pocket a boatswain's whistle, he blew a blast so long, and loud, and shrill, that George was fain to cover his ears with his hands to shut out the brain-piercing, and, to him unusual sound.

Jack Pringle's relationship to the Admiral is sort of clarified, sort of not? I for one am going to be gleefully misinterpreting the "not exactly a servant" line.

"Come in, sir," said George, "I will conduct you to Mr. Holland. I presume this is your servant?" "Why, not exactly. That's Jack Pringle, he was my boatswain, you see, and now he's a kind o' something betwixt and between. Not exactly a servant."

In another moment of surprising quality, I really like the first interaction between Charles and his uncle. The dynamic between them is a lot of fun.

"Your uncle!" said Henry. "Yes, as good a hearted a man as ever drew breath, and yet, withal, as full of prejudices, and as ignorant of life, as a child." Without waiting for any reply from Henry, Charles Holland rushed forward, and seizing his uncle by the hand, he cried, in tones of genuine affection,— "Uncle, dear uncle, how came you to find me out?" "Charley, my boy," cried the old man, "bless you; I mean, confound your d——d impudence; you rascal, I'm glad to see you; no, I ain't, you young mutineer. What do you mean by it, you ugly, ill-looking, d——d fine fellow—my dear boy. Oh, you infernal scoundrel." All this was accompanied by a shaking of the hand, which was enough to dislocate anybody's shoulder, and which Charles was compelled to bear as well as he could.

The banter between these two is delightful. Charles is less of a cartoon character than his uncle, and talks and acts accordingly, and the resulting conversational clash is incredibly entertaining.

"And here you see Admiral Bell, my most worthy, but rather eccentric uncle." "Confound your impudence." "What brought him here I cannot tell; but he is a brave officer, and a gentleman." "None of your nonsense," said the admiral.

The story now goes on hold in order to clarify what the deal is with Charles' two-year vacation.

A very few words will suffice to explain the precise position in which Charles Holland was.

By "a very few words" he means about 600, for the record.

Charles' little backstory is rather contrived and not very interesting. It's one of those details where, had the author not brought it up, I would not have bothered to ask. It does clue us into one thing: Charles is set to be loaded in the near future.

Charles goes to ask Henry's permission to tell his uncle about all the vampire drama, which is frankly unnecessary because Henry already said he could earlier when Admiral Bell was being introduced. The real purpose of their meeting, however, is for Charles to give Henry this random manuscript he happens to have on him, so Flora can read it as a distraction from her troubles. Why all the fuss about this? Haha. Well. We shall see.

Next: Varney the Vampire will return after this short break

[lol-jackles]

"various series and film projects or on his music career". It's not a music career. It's a hobby. He doesn't have a record deal, he doesn't tour. It's not even his bandmate's primary project.

If you call Jensen's hobbies a career or him working and being busy, then the same has to be said for every actor with side hustles. Including Jared. When really they are just in the position where they can afford to go big with their interests and milk money from their fans. The objective truth is Jensen has NOT been busy as an actor. A cameo in a friend's project or a guest spot once in two years does not a busy man make.

Yeah I didn't have the heart to make fun of the Anon for calling Jensen's music dabbling a career.

It reminds of when I was talking to a metal band after they had signed onto a big label back in 2000s and thinking they finally made it and were going on big tours... and a decade later realizing all that meant was they could sell more shirts and merchandise.  Your whole artistic operation boils down to everything you make being one grand advertisement for your t-shirt company.

Remember Jensen's first Represent campaign selling t-shirts?  He sold less shirts than Misha because of his sheer indifference.

While I side eye AAs for celebrating The Countdown news as Jensen's "employment era", at least they have a slightly more realistic take than the Anon did.

Most of the people you see on screen are doing some other job to make money.  Sandra Bullock made her biggest money in real estate.�� Every other actor has podcasts and do Cameo videos.  Anime voice actors make their money signing autographs at conventions because it's really tough to live off of dubbing money.  Norman Reedus literally said AMC will have to kill him, not his character, him, to make him leave The Walking Dead franchise because being part of a big tentpole franchise means you're secured for convention appearances for life. 

I knew film crews who could only get a mortgage if their parents co-signed.  Mortgage lenders want to see you’re employed at the same place for 2 years, but that's hard to do when each production (even season to season) is legally a different company.

[jessbrownz]

Investment Property Loans Made Simple

Investing in property holds the promise of financial freedom, yet navigating the world of investment property loans can seem daunting. With NZ Mortgages as your guide, you can embark on this journey with confidence. Let’s delve into the fundamentals of investment property loans, so that you get  clarity and insight to get  on the path to realising your financial goals.

Understanding Investment Property Loans

Investment property loans differ from traditional home loans in several key aspects. While both involve borrowing money to purchase property, investment loans are specifically tailored for properties that are not occupied by the owner. These loans typically have higher interest rates and stricter eligibility criteria due to the increased risk associated with investment properties.

Types of Investment Property Loans

Fixed Rate Loans:

With a fixed-rate loan, the interest rate remains constant throughout the loan term, providing stability and predictability in repayments. This option is ideal for investors seeking protection against potential interest rate fluctuations.

Variable Rate Loans:

Variable rate loans are subject to changes in interest rates, which can either increase or decrease over time. While this option offers flexibility and the potential for lower interest rates, it also carries the risk of higher repayments if rates rise.

Interest-Only Loans:

Interest-only loans allow investors to pay only the interest portion of the loan for a specified period, typically five to 10 years. This can provide short-term cash flow benefits by reducing monthly repayments, but borrowers must be prepared for higher repayments once the interest-only period ends.

Eligibility and Requirements

Before applying for an investment property loan, it's essential to understand the eligibility criteria and requirements set forth by lenders. Key factors that lenders consider include:

Credit Score:

A strong credit score demonstrates a borrower's ability to manage debt responsibly and is a crucial factor in determining eligibility for an investment loan.

Debt-to-Income Ratio:

Lenders assess the borrower's debt-to-income ratio to ensure they have sufficient income to cover loan repayments. Lower ratios indicate less financial strain and may improve loan approval chances.

Loan-to-Value Ratio (LTV):

The LTV ratio compares the loan amount to the property's value, with lower ratios typically resulting in more favourable loan terms. Lenders may require a higher deposit for investment loans to mitigate risk.

Benefits of Investing in Property

Investing in property offers numerous benefits that can contribute to long-term financial stability and growth:

Rental Income:

Investment properties generate rental income, providing a steady stream of cash flow that can be used to cover loan repayments and expenses.

Capital Appreciation:

Over time, property values tend to increase, allowing investors to build equity and potentially realise capital gains on selling the property.

Tax Advantages:

Property investors may benefit from tax deductions on mortgage interest, property depreciation, and other expenses, reducing their overall tax liability.

While investment property loans offer opportunities for wealth creation, it's crucial to be aware of potential risks and considerations:

Market Volatility:

Property markets can be subject to fluctuations in supply and demand, economic conditions, and government policies. Investors should conduct thorough market research and risk assessments to mitigate exposure to volatility.

Vacancy and Cash Flow:

Vacancies in rental properties can disrupt cash flow and impact loan repayments. Investors should budget for potential vacancies and have contingency plans in place to cover expenses during lean periods.

Property Maintenance and Management:

Owning an investment property entails responsibilities such as maintenance, repairs, and tenant management. Investors should budget for these expenses and consider outsourcing property management services if needed.

Interest Rate Risks:

Variable rate loans are susceptible to changes in interest rates, which can affect borrowing costs and cash flow. Investors should assess their risk tolerance and consider strategies such as fixing interest rates or creating buffers to mitigate interest rate risks.

Working with NZ Mortgages

NZ Mortgages specialises in helping investors navigate the complexities of investment property loans. With our expertise and personalised approach, we empower clients to make informed decisions and achieve their financial objectives. Our services include:

Loan Comparison:

We offer a wide range of loan options from various lenders, allowing clients to compare rates, terms, and features to find the best fit for their investment strategy.

Expert Advice:

Our team of mortgage professionals provides personalised guidance and support throughout the loan application process, ensuring a smooth and seamless experience from start to finish.

Ongoing Support:

Beyond securing financing, we remain committed to our clients' success, offering ongoing support and resources to help them maximise the return on their investment property portfolio.

Strategies for Success

To maximise returns and mitigate risks when investing in property, consider the following strategies:

Diversification:

Diversifying your investment portfolio across different property types, locations, and asset classes can help spread risk and enhance long-term returns. Consider investing in residential, commercial, and mixed-use properties to diversify your portfolio.

Research and Due Diligence:

Conduct thorough research and due diligence before investing in a property. Evaluate factors such as location, property condition, rental demand, and potential for capital appreciation to make informed investment decisions.

Financial Planning:

Develop a comprehensive financial plan that accounts for your investment goals, risk tolerance, cash flow projections, and exit strategies. Consider working with financial advisers and mortgage brokers to optimise your investment strategy and financing options.

Regular Review and Monitoring:

Regularly review and monitor your investment portfolio to assess performance, identify opportunities for optimisation, and make necessary adjustments to your strategy. Stay informed about market trends, regulatory changes, and economic developments that may impact your investments.

Conclusion:

Investment property loans represent a gateway to financial freedom, and with NZ Mortgages by your side, the journey becomes simpler and more rewarding. By understanding the nuances of investment lending and leveraging the expertise of our team, you can confidently pursue your investment goals and build a brighter financial future. Contact NZ Mortgages today and unlock the potential of property investment.