I Probably Shouldn't
Be In Charge

With the bare-minimum price of CMKX, you could buy 1 million shares for $100. Of course, I didn't buy 1 million shares. Instead, I bought 200 million shares worth $20,000. Yes, I dumped almost all of my savings into what amounted to a roulette wheel where there were 35 outcomes in which I'd lose and just 1 where I'd win.

With my 40-something brain, I'd suggest this was a certifiable sign of insanity, but my 20-something brain seemed to think it made sense. So began a journey of learning what "Level 2" quotes were, becoming an internet-expert on "naked short selling", and for all intents and purposes being a cult member in a tribe of stock-market-misfits living in the dark recesses of Wall Street.

For months, I plowed money into the stock. There was 'no bid' — or at least no visible bid that any of us could see. Every trade was the same — .0001. The amount of supply the 'ask' had was absolutely enormous, perhaps in the hundreds of billions. Days and weeks went on with no movement, but that didn't limit speculation. If anything, shareholders rose to religious levels of belief in a massive move higher.

Then the moment came that we were all waiting for.

I was at a bowling alley and my phone rang. A mutual friend in the stock bypasses any greeting.

"There's a bid."
"What?"
"Dude, there's a bid. We're going to be rich."

As soon as I got home, I confirmed it myself. A single bidder at .0001 was eating up stock like there was no tomorrow. Each trade at the ask was an immediate 100% 'paper' gain for anyone that had purchased at .0001. That's the allure when you're trading in the basement — there's truly nowhere to go but up.

Up it went. In the weeks that followed, momentum was building and the stock took off. My $20,000 investment grew and grew. When it broke $100,000, I was stoic. We weren't selling. We weren't hedging. We were all-in. Don't talk to us until we're millionaires.

The stock hit $.001 at its peak. Inclusive of some additional stock I bought along the way higher, my total holdings were $250,000. I remember telling my Mom about the recent windfall, and I'm not sure if she thought that it was 'real money'. In many ways, she was right.

Surely, if someone dropped $250,000 cash on my desk, I'd take it and run — but greed was rampant. There was a plausible path to becoming a millionaire, and all I needed to do was wait. I could quit working in my 20s. Everything I'd ever want was in front of me.

Hold.

After a few days, the stock wavered. Internet sleuths dug up damaging content on the company and its founders. Questionable business relationships. Fraud. Government inquiries. Some of the stalwarts chalked this up to "FUD" — fear, uncertainty, and doubt — but the nagging sense that these hundreds of billions of shares might not be so legitimate after all wouldn't rest.

Perhaps in a bout of panic or clarity, I made my first sale: a tiny block of stock around $5,000 two or three ticks down from the top. As good as I should have felt to have taken a first protective action on that money, I felt anxious instead. The belief that I was slowly chipping away at the potential to become a millionaire was the predominant feeling.

In the subsequent days and weeks, significant downward pressure was exerted on the stock. Even 'die-hards' began to close out of their positions. Instead of taking their lead, I felt sorry for them. After all, this was just a 'shake out'. When you're driven by greed, all evidence supports a meteoric rise and nothing else.

As days wore on, the stock declined further. A substantial portion of my profit had evaporated but I held firm, propped up by mostly hubris. Then, something very predictable happened.

The SEC halted the stock.