
The first, they called Robinhood, a name redolent of a bygone era of romantic outlaws, now repurposed for a new breed of bandits – those who preyed not on stagecoaches, but on the anxieties of the newly minted investor. It was a curious thing, this democratization of ruin, allowing anyone with a pulse and a smartphone to gamble on the shifting sands of the market. The company, it was said, had doubled its earnings in a single quarter, a feat that would have been considered miraculous in the age of brick and mortar, but now felt merely…inevitable. They spoke of investment accounts blossoming like poisonous flowers, each one a testament to the enduring human capacity for hope and self-deception. The price, of course, was 38.7 times forward earnings – a valuation so precarious it seemed to defy gravity, balanced on the breath of wishful thinking.