CONRON

~ Editorials ~

Start with arrogance then mix in infinite greed, deceit, gross irresponsibility, black accounting, stupidity, and you get an empty promise: a charade. Walker Jackson

"Our business is not a black box. It's very simple to model. People who raise questions are people who have not gone through it in detail. We have explicit answers, but people want to throw rocks at us." CEO

No! It was a box full of hot air Mister CEO. The above sounds somewhat paranoid don’t you think? Walker Jackson

A few strategically placed boulders a few years back would have saved considerable grief. Walker Jackson

"It disgusts me, and it frightens me. And that's why, regardless of how the litigation plays out, it feels as though a crime has been committed." Senior Wall Streeter

How phony were they?

The CEO asked 75 people, from secretaries to sales reps, to relocate to an otherwise barren trading floor and pretend to buy and sell energy contracts to impress visiting Wall Street analyst. To authenticate the setting, the employees had outfitted their new work area with family photos and other personal items. As the analyst walked through, employees performed fake phone conversations and tried to appear busy. After the charade, the CEO returned and complimented employees on their performance, explaining the importance of impressing the analyst so the company would earn a favorable credit rating. News Service

They had an insatiable need for cash towards the end. Knowing their precarious financial state the money they borrowed was tantamount to Jesse and Frank James' act without a gun. Finding a few credulous bankers to diddle helped. Not surprising, a sucker is born every minute. Walker Jackson

They easily bamboozled a greedy business world. Walker Jackson

I do believe that all the players were possessed with various degrees of greed or this fiasco could have never happened. Even my hero, Hackney McTrite. Walker Jackson

Did you hear that Flannigan invented an invisible deodorant?" asked Walker.

"No, what good is it?" Replied Riley.

"Well, if you use it, you vanish and no one knows where the smell is coming from." (Can you relate this to you know who? Talk about smoke and mirrors…)

 Rouges Gallery - CONRON'S Dirty Seven

Richard 'Dickey' Moore - Chairman

Eric 'Bright Boy' Gates - President and Chief Executive Officer (CEO)

Paul 'Boy Wonder' Wallace - Executive VP and Chief Finance Officer (CFO)

Perry Dunlop - Vice Chairman and Chief Strategic Officer

John Bell - Executive Vice President (VP) and Chief Accountant

Edward Lane - Chairman and C.E.O. of Energy Services

Bruce Reed - VP and General Council

The Beginning:

~ New Orleans - Early Spring 1989 - The Sweatshop ~

The name sweatshop was a gross misnomer. Actually, the name bordered on absurdity. Their wives knew the place by this name. This luxurious Penthouse occupied the top floor of CONRON'S multi-story Corporate Headquarters that snuggled a Mississippi mud-bank about two miles downstream from Canal Street. It was exclusive, a private place where CONRON'S Corporate Policy Committee, seven top senior executives, met several days each week to escape the boredom of reviewing financial reports that some barely understood. Occasionally they discussed business. But much of their discussions centered around schemes that might enrich their own bank account. The stockholders and employees were seldom in their thoughts.

If so inclined they could spend time in the exercise room, swim laps in the fifty-foot pool, and sweat away fat in the sauna or whirlpool. All seven titillated with thoughts of the one-hour massage that started at the small toes and ended at their brow. It happened just before lunch. Actually, several of the younger healthier executives did spend time shaping up, but the whirlpool and sauna saw most of the action. But, of course, the massage rooms were the most popular.

Five of these men waddled about due to extreme obesity. Three rounds of golf weekly and several hours at the nineteenth hole afterwards won't keep you trim and healthy. And a steady diet of rich desserts and rare-red meat marinated with vintage imported wines before, during, and after the engorgement increases killer cholesterol that steadily clogged their arteries and veins. These rich tycoons weren't immune from bodily frailties and viruses: one of life's common denominators. God's way of consoling the less fortunate and keeping the upper hand over the pseudo god's.

The ordinary sweat-hogs sitting in bullpens wouldn't find time to feel an ounce of sympathy for these privileged seven considering the harshness of their existence: the daily grind grubbing a living for a family of four: skimping to afford full participation in the company sponsored 401K-plan. For every dollar they paid into the plan, the company added half as much in company stock. And the savings were tax deferred. Any eligible employee would be ill-advised not to avail such a lucrative plan? The money would afford college for their kids and make the golden years more golden.

Yes, fulfillment of their children's and their own dreams depended on the soundness of the 401-K plan. Any conniving on anyone's part that threatened the plan would certainly provoke fierce anger and vindictive revenge sufficient to excite villainous measures: even murder. Conceivably, considering the nature of today's meeting, the stage would be set for a future conspiracy targeted at murdering one or all of these seven crooked plotters. A pity that, since their millions multiplied daily. Its fruition coming at the expense of employees, stockholders, and suppliers. These ruthless, greedy bastard could care less. To them it was merely a game of Monopoly: buy, buy, buy, build, build, build, take, take, take, win, win, win. The game of Monopoly is often very short for the unlucky players.

With the sweat-hour completed, seven execs prepared to adjourn to separate massage rooms. It was a simple matter of wrapping the oversized towel around their middles. Several, those who were better endowed, didn't even bother to do that. However, the two in question wouldn't alarm a nun with their extension.

Waiting in massage rooms were seven young, shapely, sensuous masseuses clad in revealing lingerie. Rotating them the next time around added the enhancement of strangeness. Each possessed magic hands and spewed friendly words the kind that swelled egos and engendered euphoria. They were tipped generously. After the ecstasy, everyone's palate was piqued for the Maine lobster feast that Antoine's Catering Service provided precisely at noon.

Tough life, but typical, of the top echelon of corporate America: huge salaries, bonuses, perks and little responsibility. Don't bore me with routine decisions. Don't ask me to do a damn thing. I might screw it up and be held accountable. Decisions are made by committees and approved by the inept Board of Directors. Who's to blame? Inevitably, some low-level employee gets fingered for the mistake.

The business meeting would start after lunch. Today's policy discussions were highly sensitive, and, often of late, controversial. But as a precaution, security would search for stragglers and check for bugs after the service help departed.

Could security be trusted? Opportunists might seize the moment to snoop. Information gained could be worth a fortune. Security personnel were paid generously to insure their loyalty. Fortunately, for this pack of thieves, recent attempts to compromise security had failed. The three suspicious middle management employees were quickly identified and fired. The irony of this misguided fate would become a misfortune of monumental proportion for tens of thousands.

They filed out of the spa area in the order of rank titillating with anticipation of the masseuses' sensual hands caressing their blubbery bodies. Chairman Richard Moore the oldest was first. He was fifty-five and stood two inches short of six feet. He wasn't particularly proud of his extension said the towel wrapped around his unsightly potbelly. It spoke of his craving for the good life. He wore contacts, but they didn't disguise the fact that he'd aged faster than the less ambitious. Steely blue eyes, cloudy from age and over use, sparkled with intelligence. But the flabbiness of his face was a detriment. And those bags under his eyes sent messages.

Thirty years ago he'd graduated from Harvard's B-school. A few years after that he'd married Elisabeth Tucker, a New York debutante, but, spite of her socializing and his relentless push to the top of the heap, they'd found enough sack time to spawn a daughter and son who had moved away years ago. Daughter Bessie had married into affluence and Son Carl was quickly rising to the head job with Cyber Space Hardware, Inc., a computer hardware manufacturer. Now there were four grandchildren…extremely wealthy grandchildren. These personal facts were quite typical of all seven of these greedy grabbers: feather of a flock.

Except for a variance in facial characteristics, the latter physical description was apt for the four execs who marched behind the top-dog with a glint of greed and dishonesty playing in their shifty eyes. Wrinkled frowns dominated their countenances indicative of callousness and ruthless indifference. They'd step on anyone who threatened their power base quicker than a piss-ant. They had one trait in common. They were Machiavellian.

Like Chairman Moore they all held impeccable credentials from mostly Ivy League colleges. All except two had small families. The two of difference had six. And they loved them you have to believe: and were loved in return. But the family had to be aware of the greedy hearts of their fathers and their thirst for power. It begot the fortune these families enjoyed with relish. Traits rub off.

Moore entered the first room trembling slightly lust pimples breaking on his skin. The routine was just that. But she'd need the touch of Aphrodite to raise his libido. "Oooo! Good morning Dickey," was the sultry sound that faded as the door closed behind him. Eric Gates, President and Chief Executive Officer one year younger than Moore followed. Like little ducklings in a row they entered massage rooms. Perry Dunlop, Vice Chairman & Chief Strategic Officer pushing fifty hard, John Bell, Executive Vice President & Chief Accounting Officer same age as Perry, and Edward Lane, Chairman & CEO of Energy Services pushing forty.

Middle aged and handsome, Bruce Reed, Executive Vice President & General Counsel, CONRON, was unquestionably in better shape than the five who'd preceded him. He enjoyed a wiry body and robust physique, and, apparently, he had no self-consciousness relative to his extension. His sport tennis might be the explanation for his state of fitness. "Hmmm! Come in Mister Reed," drooled the shapely redhead. She always got a one-hundred dollar tip.

Paul Wallace, Executive Vice President & Chief Financial Officer, Conron, was the same age as Bruce and obviously he'd taken better care of himself than the first five. His secret was the heated fifty-foot lap-pool in his backyard. He was modest. And he entered the massage room with embarrassment on his visage. Before the door closed, the shapely unnatural blonde jokingly pulled the towel from around his waste and said, "Relax baby, this is Shangri-La."

Lunch was festive: chatter and laughter filled the air. The seven sirens always stayed for lunch to add their feminine charms to the lobster feast. They all engorged lobster like it was becoming extinct. Everyone enjoyed several drinks and the dessert was strawberry-short-cake with ice cream piled high. Employees partook of brown-bags either at their desk or in the lunchroom. The ambitious ones dreamed about ascending the corporate ladder. But few knew just how spoiled these seven top execs were: beyond comprehension.

Lunch ended. The masseuses, a definite misnomer, left via the service elevator. Now, thirty minutes were needed by security to comb the area thoroughly. During the delay, several left the room to smoke. Those who remained arranged papers and read.

Moore crossed his legs and said with deep concern in his voice, "Our agenda is full and quite serious. Sober minds are needed. I suggest you lay off the booze 'til after the meeting. Our main purpose is to determine how we might fool the financial world into believing that CONRON stock is going to continue escalating. And, of course, due to poor cash flow and liquidity, meeting day to day operating expense is becoming more and more burdensome. It's a two-headed serpent. We'll first discuss how we might hoodwink Wall Street. I will offer my ideas. Then we'll go around the table clockwise gathering your contributions. The extreme confidentiality of this meeting precludes the aid of a recorder albeit electronic or human. My gift of total recall will suffice. Now, I preface my ideas with knowledge that our accounting firm will rubber-stamp any tack we should adopt regardless of how unconventional."

"You say that unequivocally?" asked President Gates.

"Yes! What, with the millions we are paying them they are effigies of the three monkeys: see, hear, and speak no evil."

"I agree Richard. They're putty in our hands," supported VP and Chief accountant John Bell.

"And what about the Board of Directors?" added Bruce Reed VP & General Counsel.

"I don't envision a problem Bruce. They're all fat and indolent friends ecstatic with the easy three-hundred-K they're paid for sitting around on their dead butts twiddling. You all know that many of our investments have started to lose its value big-time, but the world is not aware of it yet. We need a smoke screen to hide these loses. Paul has suggested that we establish a series of offshore limited partnerships where loses can be shelter and kept off CONRON'S books. I've assigned him the task of developing the plan. Paul, would you like to say a few words about your developing plan?"

A priggish smile masked VP & CFO Paul Wallace distinguished face as he rose quickly. "The plan is tentative at best, but we will call the entities Eagles' Nests one, two, etc. They will be capitalized with CONRON stock and third party investors. The essentiality for success of Eagles' Nests is that the business world is made to believe the price of CONRON'S stock will escalate rapidly as Richard has stated. I will give a plan update at a later meeting."

"Thanks Paul. Try to have a definitive plan to offer by month's end. Our stock is currently at twenty dollars. I'm certain I'll convince the world it will top one hundred by year's end. In support of our claim, I'll paint a glowing picture of vastly increased activity in all of our business sectors, forecast greatly improved yearend earnings… I'd say in the order of a billion…. And postures our competitive advantages over the inept and old-fashioned businesses we dominate. To this end, I will write a prospectus and have it distributed to employees, investment bankers, movers and shakers of Wall Street, and offer it for publication in Fortune Magazine. Gentlemen, the time has come for you to exercise your stock options."

"How will we know the right time to unload our stock?" asked V. Chairman & Strategic Operations Perry Dunlop, with a greedy smirk on his crooked face.

"When the stock nears one hundred, we'll meet and discuss how we might dispose of our stock without arousing suspicion. Keeping the secret I think will be relatively easy. The Wall Street crowd and investment bankers have no motivation to care what the real facts are as long as the stock is selling and commissions are rolling in. The SEC is shorthanded, under funded and somewhat inept. And they're swamped. Corporate America is swimming in a sea of problems. But like every situation there's a slight possibility that the truth might reach the Street. My worst fear is that an employee might blow the whistle. That would be unfortunate for us. Our accountants will cook the books anyway I demand. You can help with that John. Remind them occasionally of how much we're paying them.

"What's to prevent employees from selling their stock?" asked Perry Dunlop.

"That's an interesting point, Perry. I've thought about that. I think we'll change administrators of our 401-K plan and lock out employees while a replacement is being determined. Of course the plan restricts participants from selling company stock until the participant is vested and that's ten years. Besides, the employees will want to ride the bull to riches. Now, to pay operating costs we need a lucrative source of ready cash. Some help will come from third party investors in Eagle's Nest and the other source has to come from our energy trading group. Ed, come up with an immediate plan to increase income from power consumers. Present it by next Friday's meeting. I think that will do it for today gentlemen. My office door is open to any suggestions. Have a good day. And keep your big mouth shut."

One week Later - Epistle To Employees and Shareholders

Internal mail service had just delivered Chairman Moore's carefully drafted epistle of deceit and lies. Lunchtime had come. Employees sat around desks eating food taken from brown sacks. Some took the epistle and went to the employees' cafeteria. Some read it in the John. They were hard working people with families and dreams. The news was exactly what they wanted to read. It offered hope and reassurances that their savings was safe and would grow. The 401-K plan would provide them money to educate their children and continue the life cycle without fear of interruptions: job security. After the children's education they'd save for retirement. The words were soothing and feelings of euphoria washed over them.

BUY THIS BOOK