Hello all, I have revisited the infinite monkey theorem and have been giving it much thought as of late. I have come to the conclusion that the infinite monkey theorem is false. Upon sharing this information with many people online they have all simply made like monkeys and threw their feces at my face saying I'm just an ignorant idiot (Apart from a select few). So I have decided to share my thoughts on Reddit in hopes to gather a larger consensus.
Firstly I will start with presenting the theorem; The infinite monkey theorem states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a typewriter keyboard for an infinite amount of time will almost surely type any given text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare. In fact, the monkey would almost surely type every possible finite text an infinite number of times.
Ignoring the fact that a real monkey would just slam a rock on the typewriter and take a shit on it, the actual point is not the monkey, but the random generation of letters eventually producing verbatim, deliberate works of art. Now to be completely clear, I do accept that it is entirely possible for this to occur. It is entirely possible for a magical immortal monkey to physically type out such works given enough time. However, the issue is the term "Almost surely" as if to imply that it must occur.
To start off we must first understand the concept of infinity. Fundamentally it is impossible to think of a string of words or numbers that goes on for infinity, as it is so large that even our brains would not have enough storage space to memorize and account for every number or letter. This is the same in terms of time. Infinity is not just a large value, it is a boundless value. However there can be different types of infinity. For example, any whole number can theoretically have an infinite value, as well as any combination of whole numbers such as 11111 reoccurring and 122222 reoccurring and 133333 reoccurring, and so on to an infinite set of infinite numbers. This can also apply to decimal numbers such as 0.111111 reoccurring, and so on. Similarly this can apply to letters, such as one A followed by an infinite string of B's, one A followed by an infinite string of C's, and so on.
With this in mind I would like to assert that the monkey, given an infinite amount of time, has the ability to string together any infinite combination of possibilities. For example, the monkey could simply type the letter S for an infinite amount of time or any combination of letters which exclude any deliberate piece of writing. It is also possible for a different monkey to type out a string of letters, as I did mention earlier, containing hamlet.
The reason we must accept that it is possible for an outcome to be an infinite string of S, is due to the gamblers fallacy. The probability of any given coin flip does not change simply because it has been tails 12 times in a row. The theoretical probability that S is typed an infinite amount of times draws closer to 0 with every tap of the key, but never actually reaches 0. This is why in probability, the term "almost surely" is used. Even though the mathematical value of a probable outcome is considered to be 0, it does not mean it is impossible. In saying this, it is equally possible that the monkey types an infinite string of G's or B's or any other combination of valueless letters. They all have a mathematical probability of 0.
So how do people argue that the theorem is still correct? Well they assert that when stringing together any infinite combination of 'finite' strings such as the work of hamlet, followed by the complete transcript of the transformers movies, as well as each version of the bible on hand, etc increases the strings value, approaching to a 1 (but again never reaching it). This is to say that it is argued that it is more impossibly probable for any given string to contain hamlet than it is to not contain hamlet. That is to say, there are more infinite sets of hamlet strings than there are non hamlet strings. And when you put it into perspective and think about it in this fashion, it becomes blatantly false.
Finite works, no matter how many, are finite, and any infinite combination of finite works are also finite. In theory you could also have every finite string of letters followed by an infinite string, but it is less likely for any deliberate string to occur than it is for a random string, if not at least the same in terms of probability. For example, it is more probable for a string of letters to contain "zpt" than something like the word "indubitably", meaning it is more probable for a string to contain gibberish than any legible string of words. Another example is that the English language heavily relies on certain letters, the letter E for example appears 11.1607% of the time in the oxford english dictionary. Where as the letter Q only occurs at a percentage of 0.1962%. This makes the letter E 56 times more common than the letter Q. Another example is by the oxford university press who complied a list of the most common words used which analysed over a billion words. "The" is by far the most commonly used word.
If we are to assume that a monkey is to type out all great works of writing in English, then we can assume that the monkey will be heavily relying on typing the letter E and the word "the". Again, the probability is astronomically low, but not impossible. The argument however, is that it is more likely for random letter generator to generate all finite works of writing, than infinite strings of letters. Well, if we are to do some simple math we discover that 100/26 is equal to 3.84615384615. Meaning that each letter has a 3.84615384615% chance to occur. If we revisit the occurrence of the letter E in the English language, we discover that likelihood of producing the letter E at random is far lower than what is required to produce every word. This is again, not to say that there doesn't exist a realm where the letter E is produced at random 11.1607% of the time, and where the letter Q occurs only 0.1962% of the time etc. But that is is far less likely than simply typing any given letter at random, even in the realm of infinities.
Simply stating that an infinite string of "S" to be irrational and invalidating that string on the basis of probability is absurd when the probability of the letter S being typed is far greater than what is required within our English vocabulary. Furthermore, there are an infinite string of letters which can be taken as gibberish which do not contain an 'irrational number'. There are an infinite amount infinite gibberish where hamlet simply doesn't exist. People will say infinity is to hard for people to grasp and that is why they cannot understand hamlet existing within the infinite, but i would say it is the opposite. They are so fixated on the infinite containing the finite, that they forget what infinite truly means.
If this still doesn't convince my readers so far lets then pick apart the argument and demonstrate why it is fundamentally flawed. The argument asserts that: there are an uncountable infinite set of strings which do not end in such a repetition (such as zptzptzptzpt...) these correspond to the irrational numbers. We can then separate these into two uncountable infinite subsets. Those which contain hamlet, and those which do not. However the 'largest' subset are those which do contain hamlet, as well as any other combination of written work.
Well, the basis of this argument relies on what we call irrational numbers. And as such irrational numbers are less likely to be picked than normal numbers. And somehow, it is normal for any given random string to contain hamlet and irrational for it not to. If we actually look at what an irrational number means, we get this definition: In mathematics, the irrational numbers are all the real numbers which are not rational numbers. That is, irrational numbers cannot be expressed as the ratio of two integers.
So if it to be considered a normal number, and not a rational number, it must be expressed as the ratio of two integers. An integer is a number that can be written without a fractional component (aka a whole number). Well, since we are dealing with infinity, any combination of finite work will eventually come to an end in the span of infinity, and thus must have an infinite string attached to the end. This means that while containing finite works approaches us towards 1, it will actually never reach it, meaning there are no strings which are integers, which is to say there are no rational strings, which is to say there are no 'normal' strings, which is to say the probability of the monkey typing a normal number is not 1.
Taking all this into account it is impossible for a string containing hamlet to exist if there is a string which only contains gibberish such a "zptzptzptzpt". Given there are infinite strings which do not contain hamlet, and that hamlet is not a requirement to exist within the string. The equation we actually are looking at is hamlet+∞. And it is far less likely for this to exist than simply ∞. Regardless, the term "almost surely" does not apply, as the monkey will not almost surely produce hamlet.
Who knew infinity wasn't rational.

Yesterday I read this post made by d3on and decided to share some thoughts in the subject explaining a bit more in-depth how some systems are made for swaying you into spending money. I will be linking some other gachas which have some stuff that are not currently in genshin, so if they do appear at some point, you can be aware of why they're there. I will also try to give some advice in how to avoid them, but take them with a grain of salt, because that's just me.
I'm sure you can find all of this information out there in a more concise and with a better written text, but figured i could maybe inform some people and give something back to the community.
*I'm sorry if I make grammatical mistakes, english is not my native language, and I would highly appreciate criticism*
I'm going to start by introducing the concepts, and then showing some examples in-game of how they could be used to make you spend more money, you can jump to any title that catches your attention if you would like.

System 1 and System 2 - Unit Banners and time limited offers

Think about it for a second. Why dont we have all the banners available all the time? Why do we have to wait to get a chance for our favorite character?
When you look at a friends face, you can almost immediatly recognitize the emotions he's/she's feeling, should it be sadness, happiness, frustration, discust and so on. You decodify alot of information without even noticing it, but at the same time you can't quite tell why - you would most likely take a few moments to figure it out. That's what Daniel Kahneman coined as being "System 1", it's a kind of process your mind makes, that is working as long as you're awake, and is trying to understand and make sense the world around you. It is fast, deliberate, (i guess you could call it intuitive), and is proned to make mistakes.
On the other hand, when I ask you, what's 17 * 24?
You know it's a multiplication problem, and you could figure out that the answers 123 or 12,609 are not likely, but you can't be certain it is not 568. You also know that you can solve it using a pencil and a paper, and maybe even without them. But your mind is not at ease when you engage in that activity. It takes effort, and is troublesome, and in most of the time you try to avoid it if you can. It is the type of mental process that if you're driving, it is not something that you should perform while taking a left turn into dense traffic. It is slow, effortful, and requires concentration, that's System 2.
There's alot of gacha games with limited timed offers, summoner wars being a good example, or event unit banners and the purpose of that is to not give you enough time to engage system 2. You need to act under pressure, otherwise you might have to wait a long time until that unit you want comes / you could lose that awesome offer and what not. If only your system 1 is engaged, that means you will not take into as much consideration exactly HOW MUCH that offer is worth. Is it really that good? Is the offer worth that price? Do you NEED it? Would getting that make you happy? These are questions that could make you change your mind, and as such, you should always be considering them before doing any purchases. *If you're in doubt, wait it out*

Availability Heuristic - the 5*

Look at this image and try to answer: What's their profession?
You could say they are law students, wall street traders, just some random people at a corporate job. But, most likely, the answer that came to your mind has to do with a close related experience. Maybe you had to go to your bank so you could unlock your account and keep spending those bucks trying to get Venti. Maybe you had to deal with some nasty stuff and needed a lawyer recently. We tend to remember things that are available in our recent memory.
Look at the rates: 0.6% chance to get a 5*, but what do we see? You go into various discords and there are "Gacha Hell" sections, where you can see loads of people getting multiple 5* even. Everybody getting lucky, f2p accounts that are better than p2w ones. With all of that, you might start overestimating the ACTUAL probability of getting stuff. That might lead you to "do just one more pull" when for a fact you would not do otherwise if you were being constantly reminded of how bad the rates are.

Some irrationality - Really good deals?

Let's say you want to go in a trip. You see the following 2 deals. A trip to Paris, with hotel and meals paid, at a decent price. Another trip, to Rome, again with hotel and meals paid, at the same price. Depending on what you expect from each place, it can be rather difficult to choose where to go. Both cities have really cool places to go, and you can almost surely have a good time in both of them. But lets say i add another offer. Another trip to Rome, but without the paid meals at a very marginally lower price. Most of the people are going to choose the Rome full package in that situation. Having that one "bad offer", makes the "Standard Rome" offer seem more appealing.
When, in gachas, there is one clearly overpriced/bad offer, it is likely that it's serving that porpouse. It makes the other offers look good by comparison, even when they're not. Trying to observe the offer for what it is should be a good way of getting around of this irrationality, then again, engaging your system 2. d3on has highlighted this very nicely when talking about the Blessing of the Welking Moon.

Loss averse, but risk seeking

Problem 1:
In addition to whatever you own, you have been given $1,000. You are now asked to choose one of these options: 50% chance to win $1,000 OR get $500 for sure
Problem 2:
In addition to whatever you own, you have been given $2,000. You are now asked to choose one of these options: 50% chance to lose $1,000 OR lose $500 for sure
Most people choose the sure thing in problem one. On the other hand, most people choose the chance on problem two. We dont like to lose what we have. If you choose the 50% chance on the first one, you would be "losing 500 bucks". If you took the sure thing on problem 2, the same thing. But how does this apply to gacha?
If you did some summons on venti banner, and counted them, and lets say that you did about 50 and got nothing. If you pay for the 40 summons left that guarantee a 5*, and the banner rolls out, you are going to be "loosing" those 50 summons, even if you did get some good stuff on the way. Maybe you did 50 summons, and you think, "I'll just buy a moderate amount, something like 20-30 on the chance that I get Venti, because I dont want to lose my attempts!". Remember that you could need another 90 rolls to get him for sure, as you are not guaranteed on the first roll. You are risk seeking when the odds are agains't you, and you feel like you're losing something. That 50% chance is there for a reason, and I personally think it's really cheap.
​
These are some of the things I had to say about it, I hope that it has been helpful to you if you read all the way here. I guess I need to say this as well but, even though there are all these things designed to make money off of you, I still really enjoy playing Genshin and I think it is a great game.
I wont be saying "the company has to make it's money" because there are a number of different ways of doing it, that does not involve employing psychological mecanisms. They dont exist because the company NEEDS it, they exist because the company want as much as it can get (you can take that as you want).
I could write some more about Sunken Cost Fallacy and Gamblers Fallacy giving some more examples, but i feel like d3on has already done a good job at it, nonetheless, if you guys want I can do some more.
Most of the information I've used is from the book Thinking Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman, if you guys are interested. This talk is really good if you guys want a briefing of the book.
One example is from the book Predictably Irration by Dan Ariely.
Thank you so much for your time, I'll be trying to answer anything that might come up.

TL;DR MMELO system works for premade teams, but it is not so good in terms of solo players.
So some time I ago I reached solo GC at 3v3 standard and stay there for a while, why am I telling you this at the very beginning? To deny the arguments like - "oh, you deserve to be on such low rank, it's for sure you, you would climb if you would be better" etc.
So why in my opinion the ranking system is flawed - granting individual ranks basing only on pure win/loss in team based game is pure bullshit.
I know, I know, we'e been through this already a couple of times, but we can't delude ourselves that the problem is not existing.
First we start from a biggest lie the pople are telling the newcomers. That the chance of troll, afk, rager etc on the enemy side is higher than on your own team cuz you exclude one place. This is both true and false at the same time. It's true for 3v3 solo standard*, where everyone can rely only on himself - and many good GC players struggle here, cuz of that. In any other game mode as a solo player you will face many premade teams where the chance for any of that is super minimal. Yeah, and there is always that one advice - don't solo q then. Right, I'll go the the closest shop with the decent teammates and buy some ;)
* And that game mode has SO MANY players, haha :)
Next thing is https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Law_of_large_numbers
I've heard many times that after 100 games you will be where you should be. Say what? 100 games, when there are so many players in this game is a very small sample size. Yes, you could be extremly unlucky, or extremly lucky, cuz in every statistic including so many people there will be extrems.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gambler%27s_fallacy
Yes, you can lose 10 games in a row just cuz you would be really unlucky in terms of teammates. It's not like after 5th lose or so the chance to get "better" teammates would be increasing. It always stays the same. If after that you start having matches like 2/1 win/loss you will have to play 30 games to come back to the point where you started. Congratz, you just played 40 games to get back to the starting point.
Another thing is %win ratio. Let's assume the player A is playing 3v3 standrad. In normal case he would have 40% chance to get a bad, and by bad I mean troll, afk, or toxic rager and 60% chance for this to be happening on the opposite side. But he also face some premades, and happen to have "worse" games too so let's say his win ratio is on 53% level.
After 100 games he will have 53 wins, and 47 loss. 6 games difference, it's like - I don't know. Two divisions? 40-50 mmr? Assuming one game with all the kick offs, replays etc. have 7 minutes it's 700 minutes for two divisions. Over 11 hours of gameplay.
Okey, so now the other side of the coin. Obv if you are much better than the others you will climb up really fast, there's no doubt. Recentlly I also got back to play RL on the console, I won all placements and was climbing really quick. But it's easy to say at the low ranks, where even if your teamate whiff the ball you have like eternity to go back to the goal and still defend it. The higher you get, the differences will be smaller and by it I mean even if your on GC level of skill if your teammate whiff at C2 level match the enemy team most likely will took advantage of it and score.
And it's not possible to be prepared for teammates Schrodinger's hits. You can't be at the same time prepared for a hit and whiff, and the opposite scenario will always leave you out of position, you can always choose the safer option, but it's not always the best choice.
Do I think you can say that you can't achive certain rank cause of teammates? No, that's a lie. If you play like plat/diamond/champion/GC sooner or later you will get there. But be prepared for a hella LOTS OF GRIND - less if you feel lucky, more if you feel unlucky, especially when you get closer the the rank you 'deserve' for.
So why am I ranting about this if it's working as intended (you can get a rank you deserve)? Whay am I bitching out when I got the rank most players here wish for? Cause I see that system being implemented over and over in many games, shooters, mobas, rocket league... And nobody is thinking about improving it in any way. I mean, never heard of any other systems being tested (if I'm wrong please provide me some source) - and the MMELO system was invented for the chess players, where They "fight" 1v1's, it can also work to the certain point in case of premade teams (but only as a team rank, not individual one of each player), but for solo players it start to "work" I would say at a sample of 1000 games at least.
Sorry for my english, really hope for a quality disscusion here and maybe I will learn something new.
​

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So, there's a sense in which learning anything is valuable, sure. But the alternative isn't "learn nothing", but give up other skills that you could be learning. And I think that generally-speaking, the impact of taking away most things that we are teaching people is worse.
My high school world history class (which really was Africa->Fertile Crescent->Greece->Italy->medieval Europe (Germany and west of that)->American colonies->United States->American Civil War->US Asia involvement->World War I/II->civil rights movement/Vietnam) took a semester. That leaves a lot of the world uncovered at a lot of different times. So, we could double that, put another semester into it. Pick something of central or east Asia, Africa-after-people-left-caves, South America, Oceania, the Middle East, etc to cover.
When I took a geometry class in middle school, it was also a semester, so a comparable amount of class time. We could probably eliminate geometry from the curriculum and instead teach more world history. But...is it worth eliminating geometry knowledge? My take is that it probably isn't a worthwhile tradeoff.
This isn't to denigrate history. I've probably spent more time covering history on my own than anything other than possibly computer-science-related topics. I like it. But I just don't see it as a skill bottleneck on the general population preventing society from being massively better-off.
Saying that it gives you a broader world view, helps you understand things better, gives you context...all that's true. But it's also been true of philosophy, psychology, cognitive science, linguistics...darn near everything that I've spent time reading about. I think that "learning things helps you understand other things" is probably broadly-true of most things.
If I had to choose two items that I'd prefer to make part of what's generally-taught, I'd probably do the following:

• Eliminate the literature portion of English classes. I'd sacrifice letting people quote Shakespeare and so forth, and being able to understand old written works in English well. Nice, but I've been pretty convinced by a linguistics lecturer pointing out that much of learning Shakespeare or Chaucer is just teaching people a dead language that they are extremely unlikely to use anywhere else.
  
• Cut calculus, or at least most of it. While calculus is critical for certain fields, I had three calculus classes, and a large portion of them dealt with hammering techniques of hand-integrating symbolic equations into people's heads. And nobody does that: if you do symbolic integrations professionally, you're going to break out [Mathematica]¹ or another symbolic math software package. It's like teaching people now-obsolete rapid mental arithmetic techniques when everyone's carrying a smartphone with a calculator. My phone has [maxima]² ) on it: my brain will never be able to compete with that.
  

What would I spent the time on?

• A class that covers propaganda/marketing techniques. I had a speech class, and part of it was devoted to rhetoric and techniques of influencing people (e.g. [bandwagon effect]³ ). I had a psychology class that covered other psychological quirks. I had a philosophy class that dealt with things like [non-transitive preference]⁴ #Strict_versus_weak) and [time preference]⁵ . I read through a bunch of cognitive science material, and picked up things like the high impact of [variable schedule payoffs in conditioning]⁶ . That stuff is scattered through all sorts of different classes today. It's not combined into one "this is how people are going to try to get you to do or believe things" course.
  
• A class that covers statistics. At least where I went to school, this was not part of the standard curriculum. However, I think that it's important in many more fields than the math classes that were available (especially in the social sciences), and to understand the basic importance of cited numbers and graphs.
  

Why?
I hear a lot of people talking about the importance of "critical thinking". That is, not to simply blindly accept things handed you, but to be able to analyze them. And I've been thinking over why people don't do so when they don't.
I don't think that people lack for cynicism or suspicion. You can hit up /conspiracy and find all kinds of people who are hell-bent on putting insane effort into finding alternative explanations for anything.
I do think that most people have a basic disparity in knowledge of how people try to influence others. They aren't dumb -- by historical standards, society today is damn urbane and knowledgeable. But they aren't familiar with how a marketer or an advertiser or a salesman or a politician might try to convince them to do something. And that creates a big disparity between the influencer and the influencee.
If you have a market (or, for that matter, a democracy), you basically expect people to act rationally, and to act in their interests. That's a core part of how we expect the world to work today, and a core part of the role that people play in it. But we do very little to try to render them able to ignore efforts to make them act in a different manner.
For statistics...I think that people have adopted the idea of "science being right". They may or may not understand the processes involved, but they more-or-less buy into the idea that we should to value it. And so it's very common for our media to cite numbers and statistics in support of something: modern society is suffused in them. Great!
The problem is that they often don't have enough of a handle to identify mis-use -- intentional or unintentional -- of those statistics, or to understand the implications of a statistic. I see being able to evaluate and understand the implications of statistics as a basic skill for a society that uses them all the time.
This forum is probably pretty knowledgeable compared to the general population. But things like understanding [sampling]⁷ ) or what [confidence]⁸ really means seem to often escape a lot of people here. Those clearly have relevance to a lot of people out there, whereas many of the things that I my fellow students took classes in -- geometry, trigonometry, calculus -- seem to have rather less-frequent application.
And even beyond that, counteracting things like the [gambler's fallacy]⁹ in the general population seems like it would be handy.
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Author: vokegaf
1: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolfram_Mathematica 2: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maxima_\(software\ 3: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bandwagon_effect 4: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Preference_\(economics\ 5: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Time_preference 6: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operant_conditioning#Gambling_.E2.80.93_variable_ratio_scheduling 7: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sampling_\(statistics\ 8: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Confidence_interval 9: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gambler%27s_fallacy

Original prompt presented itself as thus. I tried not to go too off topic.
The man in the dark coat sat on the bench by the side of the road. He glanced at the watch on his wrist, a little clunky, perhaps, but expensive nonetheless. Twenty six minutes, thirty two seconds past seven.
All around him, the sunlight streamed down, watery beams penetrating the dense tree canopy. And yet, surrounding the bench, blackberry thickets, tangled and knotted and opaque. The shadows obscured him, the black of his clothes melding with the shade in harmonious camouflage.
Twenty eight minutes, forty nine seconds past seven. A large pigeon alighted on one of the blackberry bushes, and began to pluck. The man turned to look at it, heavy creases lining his forehead.
Two pigeons on the blackberries, one pecking, one preening. Behind him; nine wasps circling, hovering through the air in a riot of black and orange; some sort of split fruit perhaps, or maybe a remnant of some careless pedestrian's vomited dinner on a drunken night. The bench beneath him was teak, stained and newly varnished, the brass plaque dedicated to one David Parks 1902-1997, a gentleman evidently cared for both in life and death.
Twenty nine minutes, fifteen seconds past seven. Fourteen cars, two vans and a motorcycle had passed since the man had sat down. He could recall their registration and licensing with ease.
"Good morning, Mister Deputy Director."
Thirty minutes past seven. A second man was sat at the end of the bench. His black suit absorbed all light that reached it, sunglasses obscuring his face.
"Ah, Agent Lynch. You made it. What is the status of the operation?" The man in the long coat reached within it, and pulled out a black folder, unlabelled. He turned to a page midway through, poising a pen.
"MEDDLER is still in progress. Black-engineering division reports a loss to their vehicle pool. Apparently, one of their top Junior Agents was attending a cocktail party, ostensibly to gather intelligence. While he was frolicking with one of the female guests, an intruder broke into the garage of the establishment and drove off with something."
The Deputy Director spat, a wad of phlegm splatting to the grass. "Was there no covert security detachment? The agent in question is already the subject of a pending inquiry."
"Black-engineering's budget was blown when they instigated that skyscraper demolition in Dubai. They're relying on electronic countermeasures until the next quarter." Agent Lynch replied, shaking his head.
"And was MEDDLER definitely the one who broke in? We don't want a repeat of PEBBLY BEACH again, that was a bloody nightmare to explain. Talking rocks everywhere. I had to testify before three committees."
"Unfortunately so sir," said Agent Lynch, fiddling with his tie, "We scrutinised the security systems. Mehmed has a distinct style. Outdated, messy, standard training for his time. Besides, one of the cameras managed to catch a frame of his face. He's getting old."
"Perhaps we ought to exploit this situation. He's been out of it a long time. I could commandeer another vehicle, put it-"
The Deputy Director froze.
He reached into a pocket in his coat, withdrawing a pair of sunglasses, the same as Lynch's, and slid them onto his nose.
A motorcyclist stood by the side of the road, confusion written openly on his face, plain to see through the lack of a helmet. He stared at the men on the bench, opening his mouth to speak. The Deputy Director stared back.
Young, maybe nineteen, no, twenty years old. Leather jacket so typical of bikers, numerous club patches sewn onto his shoulders. That one didn't exist, neither did the entire right shoulder row. Two of the ones on the left shoulder belonged to foreign countries. Possible, but unlikely.
The hair was dyed, unquestionably. No shade of black could be that shiny and dark. Most likely ginger, judging by the... nostril hair. This motorcyclist was a fake. But why? An opposing organisation, or a terrorist cell?
The Deputy Director flicked his glance to the bike. A simple case of overheating, evidently, the cloud rising from the engine said as much. And a battered bouquet of roses, strapped to the seat. This biker was trying to toughen himself up, he had a date. He smiled. This was going to be fun. A second passed.
"Excuse me. Mah name is Billy Joe Bob an’ ah reckon mah bike's busted down, as enny fool kin plainly see. Kin yo' he'p me try t'fix it?"
The biker looked at the men on the bench, fiddling nervously. An idiot as well as a faker, the Deputy Director observed.
"Of course sir," said Agent Lynch, rising to his feet, his hand brushing surreptitiously against the holster at his belt, "What appears to be the problem? I've been trained in improvisational mechanics, you know."
"Ah reckon th' engine's blowed up, thar's a huge amount of smoke a-comin' off it. Perhaps yer improvisashunal mechanics thin' c'd he'p. Mah Paw taught me ev'rythin' he knowed about bikes, but ah fo'got it all, ah reckon."
The biker turned back to his stricken motorcycle, shaking his head. Them men looked dodgy, but they were th' only ones aroun', an' his Paw had taught him t'accepp all he'p graciously, like th' Biblical folk had' with Jesus.
Immediately, Agent Lynch leapt forward, bringing both of his fists down on top of the biker's head. He crumpled.
"Sir, what should I do? He could have heard sensitive material, sir."
The Deputy Director was sweating. "The usual protocol, Agent. Get rid of the bumbling fool. Certainly, he may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, and his minuscule brain is probably incapable of remembering what he ate for breakfast this morning. Nevertheless, this is a black operation. No one hears about it, and he certainly did. No helmet to muffle our conversation."
Agent Lynch nodded curtly. Drawing his pistol with one fluid motion, he kneeled, and aimed for the biker's temple. Easy, quick and efficient.
"Actually Lynch, wait a second."
"Sir?"
"Perhaps this unfortunate gentleman is better left unmarked. After all, it would save unnecessary paperwork, for the both of us. Give him the best day of his life." The Deputy Director buttoned his coat, and stood. "Make it his last." He began walking.
Agent Lynch grinned. He detached a black pouch from his suit, where the top pocket would normally go. His fingers hovered over the contents for a second, indecisively, then plucked a clear syringe from it. Two grams of pure lysergic acid diethylamide, held in solution.
Minutes later, the biker awoke, again and again and again and again. The world was ablaze, a spinning maelstrom of brightness and despair. The air roared and the grass undulated. Lights flashed and music thumped. He passed out again. Black striped, floating round and round, pulsing to the throb in his head. He raised himself on his hands, then reeled backward, giddy with nausea. He retched, and the ground pounded spasmodically on his head, choking him in his own vomitus.
"P-Paw?" he whimpered, clutching for his bike.
But wait! What is this mon ami‽

He did nothing wrong and was killed
I just feel really sorry for that poor biker

It would appear I have touched upon icouldhavehaditall ‘s sentimentality! This will not do! The biker was lying on the verdant grass…
Meanwhile
“Siiir! I need the toilet!”
“He well needs to do a piss sir, you gotta pull over!”
Dr Mehmed sighed. At this rate his already rapidly greying mustache would be white within a week.
“Is it at all possible, gentlemen, that your desperation might possibly cause yourselves to engage in the usage of the lavatory facilities built into this omnibus?”
“But siiir, the bog well stinks! It’s like the coach company don’t even, like, clean up.”
Frowning, Dr Mehmed shook his head. If only the boys had encountered what he had encountered when the Sixth Form lavatories had blocked last summer. He removed his seatbelt, then began to stroll to the front of the coach, where the driver was playing some sort of obnoxious drum-violin hybrid.
The Deputy Director stalked down the path, coat billowing. He turned briefly, his gaze wandering up the road, until he could see the heap that was the biker lying prostrate on the floor. Insolent fool.
Now the meeting had been witnessed by someone other than his own division. That could mean discovery, a possibility he could not allow. Think of the responsibilities, the consequences, all the committees and pestilent courts he would have to testify before. Think of the exposure to the public eye.
He squinted at the crumpled body. Perhaps he had better go back there himself, let off a few rounds into the biker. An Agent such as Lynch couldn’t be trusted to get rid of anything incriminating, he might even deliberately leave something to indict the Deputy Director. That was a risk he couldn’t afford to take.
He began the journey back toward the body. A steady stream of cars had begun to use the once secluded road. The morning rush. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to go back there just now, some mindless driver might see what he was doing and report him to the police. He couldn’t leave it though, there was the risk. He spun once more, and then marched off down the road.
“Okay Christian. Mr Pataweyo endorses your request for a lavatory-inclined intermission to our peregrination. He shall endeavour to ‘pull over’ at the next appropriate stage of motorway.”
“Cheers sir!” came the reply, from a rather pale faced boy near the back of the coach.
Five minutes later. “Siiir!” a girl shouted. “Chris ain’t gonna make it! Anyone got an empty bottle he can skive?”
A lump rose in Dr Mehmed’s throat, sharply and suddenly choking him. Adolescents these days and their disgusting suggestions. He began to think hastily, perusing his mind for any achievable method of prolonging the bladder holding capacity. Urology never had been his strong point. A bellow shook him from his thoughts.
“I’ve got one,” croaked Fat Sam, clutching an empty milkshake bottle in one grease slathered hand, “Here, Lucy, catch!”
The bottle soared through the air, a magnificent arc from front of coach t’ward back, spraying the odd leftover drip of milk as it went. Dr Mehmed caught sight of it spinning over his head, the multiple stains of ullages past and present causing a shudder to run through him. Evidently the bottle had been refilled multiple times by Samuel, the abdominous child.
The coach lurched to a stop. Drinks went everywhere. Sweets sailed into orbit in a fountain of fudge. The shrill cry that can only be emitted by an enraged teenage girl was cried. Mr Pataweyo stuffed his cap back onto his head, and bent round to address the boys.
“Thar's a boozer oyt dare lads, yer can go an' use their bogs if you're desperate. If yer buy anythin' in dare peck me up a can av Guinness, will yer? An' if she's juicy, mind you're only fifteen. Don't want Mehmed moanin' at me.”
Christian yanked his hand out from between two chairs, where it had become stuck during braking, and bolted down the aisle, grabbing a handful of coins from Mr Pataweyo as he went. Dr Mehmed peered out of the window he was sat next to. His eyes bulged.
“Christian, immediately cease from harassing that fine specimen of dendrology! This establishment we have located will provide more than adequate facilities for urination, I am certain.”
The man in the long coat walked into the pub. A squalid establishment, but he needed the drink. Especially after that biker had stumbled in and interrupted things. Perhaps something large, with a high alcohol volume, the higher the better.
The carpet was lurid shades of blue and red, interspersed by black veining, no doubt in an attempt to confuse an already drunken customer base into remaining for one last drink. A large screen plasma television on one wall, presumably only capable of receiving sports channels, judging by the screen burn. A few worn tables and chairs, the décor looked like it was only updated every vicennial, all tacky leather and crystal ashtrays. Some sort of lingering bouncer by the doorway, hired muscle. Intimidating, but about as skilled in close quarters combat as a child in a playground spat.
And the bar, oh such a welcoming place. Curved wood, stained with the spillage of hundreds of pints, lined with pumps and empty glasses. The shelved back wall with rows and rows of bottles of all shades and shapes. The bartender himself? White shirt, black waistcoat, nothing concealed; his age, young, old, maybe… oh, forget it.
“Vodka Martini. Large. Make sure it’s a red.”
The bartender stared, and then nodded to someone by the door. “Certainly, sir. And your name, for the record?”
“Sólmundur Rútursson. Or Sol if you think you can’t say it.” he replied. Damn. What was he thinking? He was getting old, surely, if he made that mistake so easily. Putting his real name out there, now that was dangerous. He could be traced by anyone, foreign agents, opposing agencies, even his own rivals should they want to find him.
“It’ll be ready in a just a minute… Sol. So if you wouldn’t mind taking a seat.”
The Deputy Director nodded, staggering over to an unused table, and pulling the chair out with a grating rasp, sat down. Stupid bartender. Stupid biker. Ruining his plans with their attitude and their foolishness. A schoolboy ran past, in full uniform.
Hopefully nobody had spotted the corpse by the side of the road. That would be another Select Committee to perjure himself before, but he could exercise his will over Parliamentary members and they would crumble like sand. The martini was good enough, but not enough. He ordered a second, a third. Another schoolkid was there, on the slots, or maybe it was the same one. Who cared?
Dr Mehmed stroked his moustache irascibly. Whatever was taking the boys so long? They were only paying a visit to the lavatory, after all. Perhaps they had decided to indulge themselves in some sort of alcoholic beverage. But surely the bar staff would not permit underage customers? He shook his head. A stern admonishment for Mr Pataweyo was in order.
He rose to his feet. Someone was going to have to take action, and Mr Pataweyo was clearly not adept for such a task.
“Children. Please detract from your conversation and direct your attention toward me.” His voice resonated down the coach, reaching the ears of all aboard it. “It would appear that some of your classmates have gone astray in the public house-“
“Too right they have,” mumbled someone near the front, “Mr Pataweyo reckons he should’ve put that money on the football instead, we could’ve spent it on booze. We’d be as pissed as that bloke I saw sleeping down that lane just now.”
“That is quite enough interruption from you, Lacey. To continue my dialogue; I have decided to venture into the public house with the intention of retrieving your comrades and returning them to this omnibus.”
Excited chat filled the coach. Dr Mehmed in a pub? This was something that had never happened before. Certainly, he had synthesised alcohol on a chemistry trip once, but that had been for a demonstration in a lab.
Dr Mehmed pushed open the door, releasing a hubbub of chatter and football commentary. It appeared to be a fairly standard public house, someone working at the bar, food and drink being served. And there, over by the slot machines. His delinquent students, no doubt indulging in some form of statistically improbable instant gratification, whilst completely ignoring the gambler’s fallacy.
He walked between the tables, considering the most appropriate course of action. A lecture on statistics, perhaps? That would make it easier to justify this excursion to the more irritable parents.
“They’re looking for you, you know. Hehe, I’m supposed to be too. I’ve got a pistol here, why don’t you sit down? Vodka’s lovely.”
Dr Mehmed froze. Entrapped perhaps? An ambuscade? Impossible. Their surveillance was pitifully easy to evade, he’d been doing it for decades.
“Oh come now, Mehmed, pull up one and sit. Look around. Can you see any… any way out?”
“A most agreeable suggestion, Supervisor Rútursson. The gentleman who sees everything; I see your remarkable reputation is still intact.”
“Actually, it’s… it’s Deputy Director now, you know. They kept promoting me shortly after you went and ruined everything. Nice tricks you taught me, by the way. Helped me through your mess.” The Deputy Director sipped on his martini.
“Deputy Director? My sincere condolences Sol. I trust you are able to keep up with the workload?”
“Oh yeah Mehmed. Easy as pie now. There are a few little issues I still haven’t cleared up though. Namely, why did you do it? And why don’t I just shoot you? It’d save me so much hassle.”
“I would consider those two questions to be intimately related, Sol, surely your own mental proclivities are able to arrive at that conclusion. I maintain my innocence, and thus, you have no motivation to cause harm to me.”
“No… No motivation! The things we had to do when you were boss, Mehmed. I feel sorry for your schoolkids now. Remember Australia? Of course you do, you outed everyone who took part. You’re a traitor Mehmed, and you should be ashamed.”
Dr Mehmed paused, absent-mindedly stroking his moustache. “The thing about us Sólmundur, in our… particular line of work, is that we continually find ourselves attempting to blame someone else for our monstrous acts. A psychopathic Supervisor finds himself dangerously close to exposure? He flees the organisation and leaves the culpability to one of his underlings, or perhaps his superior. And thus the incidents begin to rack up, an insurmountable torrent of pressure swirling amongst the corridors of power, until eventually there is no one answerable but the Director. And once that happens, well, I’m a living example. I imagine all of your Junior Agents are trained specifically to abhor my name and legacy? It was I who carried out the merger between Research and Development and Black Engineering, but I would wager no one under the position of Chief of Staff knows that.”
“Quit all your fancy talk Mehmed. You know what you did and you know who’s to blame. You’re a disgrace. Exactly how you managed to get a job as trustworthy as teacher I’ll never understand. You sicken me.”
“Such an irascible attitude, Sol. Perhaps we ought to engage in negotiations such as these more often. You professional appearance might suffer slightly, failing to apprehend a supposed state enemy and all that, but I would be able to plead my innocence.”
“What a load of rubbish man,” said Sólmundur, downing the last of his martini, “And don’t you ever suggest I give up my job just for-“
The door swung open.
The Deputy Director paled. “My God. How is he alive? He was dead by the roadside, we killed him. How did he get back up? My God he could have told somebody it was us. They could be on to us by now!”
Dr Mehmed frowned. Was this the corpse that that insufferable student Lacey had mentioned?
“I think perhaps you ought not to attempt anything rash Sol. I am somewhat certain that he would not have had the opportunity to make contact with any emergency services.”
“No Mehmed! You don’t control me you traitor! You don’t command me anymore!” Deputy Director Rútursson rose unsteadily, reaching for his service pistol, screwing on the long suppressor hanging from his coat lining.
“Stop! Your desire is to conceal your presence, not to draw unnecessary attention toward yourself. That idea is introduced when you first commence basic training!”
The bullets soared through the air, slamming into the man in the leather jacket. A bright spurt of arterial blood, arcing shimmering crimson across the room. Eyes widened, swaying. Then he fell, arms pinwheeling for a futile grasp on anything.
Silence.
The pool of blood began to spread.
Staring.
Silence. Then the screams of thirty men and women. The mindless shrieks of pure, unadulterated fear.
Dr Mehmed shot a murderous glare at the Deputy Director.
“What? I… I… he deserved it. Stupid imbecile of a man. And the bartender doesn’t even serve proper vodka!” Then he was gone, whisked off out the door in a blur of black.
The bloody mess of a man on the floor groaned, amidst the chaos.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” roared Dr Mehmed, stepping delicately over the blood to reach the victim, “I must implore you to desist from this unnecessary agitation! I possess multiple qualifications pertaining to the field of medical science, and my great erudition is currently being interrupted, so please, shut up!”
He plucked a steak knife from a nearby table, brandishing it in his right hand. He turned to the trembling bartender. “There is a large omnibus parked in the vicinity of this establishment, would you be so good as to summon the school pupils from within it? I feel as though an impromptu biology lesson is in order.”
A man in a black pinstripe suit limped across the floor, cane clattering against the dark wood. He paused before the window, a floor to ceiling sheet of glass through which a beautiful view of the city could be seen.
“Well, it is clear to be seen. This Junior Agent has operated far beyond even our own jurisdiction. He is becoming a liability. It would seem as though his short term of employment at this agency is coming to an end. It’s a shame, he had so much potential, but these things must be taken into consideration. Terminate him. That will be all.”
“Very good sir,” came a singular response. The five people sat around the long table stood and filed out, the heavy mahogany door swinging shut behind them.
The besuited man strode over to his desk, reaching for a sheet of paper amongst the pile that was scattered over it. He pulled a silver pen out of his top pocket, and signed at the bottom, hesitating momentarily. A real pity. In a month or two he might have been promoted, assigned to something actually important. He pressed a button on the desk.
“Alice, would you mind awfully taking this form down to Finnian in personnel division? And could you send Rútursson in? It’ll be a bit nasty, so perhaps go and buy yourself some coffee, or a sandwich.”
A woman walked into the office, picking up the freshly signed paper. She replaced it with a black folder. “The relevant files on Deputy Director Rútursson, sir,” she said, exiting as soon as she arrived.
“Thank you Alice. And please, do go and get yourself a coffee. Maybe go for a walk in one of the parks. What I am about to do will be rather… disagreeable? Yes, most disagreeable.”
He poured himself some whisky from a cut glass vessel on his desk. Doing this sort of thing was never nice anyway, but at this level there were few other ways than to do it personally. Not like getting Finnian to terminate Bond.
“Bring him in. Quickly now.”
Sólmundur Rútursson shuffled in, bedraggled, flanked by two men in suits, his hands cuffed and twisted behind him. The black bag was yanked from his head. Stubble lined his sunken cheeks, and his pale skin hung loosely from his cheekbones. His eyes were yellowed, and a constant tremor shook in his hands. A third man walked behind, tightening his tie and straightening his badge.
“Thank you gentlemen. Webb, Jones, leave us. Deputy Director Morrison, remain.”
Rútursson raised his head. Foam surrounded his lips, bubbling, and his voice was thick and wet. “With all… all respect sir. Morrison is a Chief of Staff, not a Dep… Deputy Direc-“
“No, Sol. Morrison is a Deputy Director now. There was a sudden vacancy and he was by far the most qualified candidate to fill it. Probably more qualified than his predecessor, in fact.”
“Som… someone retired? I bet it was Edmundson, the old bat. More cover-ups needed th… than a… something. Anyway, as a Deputy Director, I think that it is my respon… responsibility to inform you that Morrison would make a-“
“Your opinion is no longer valid, Sol. Your words no longer carry any weight around here. What you and your deviant agents do shall no longer affect national security.”
A rope of saliva slipped out of Rútursson’s mouth as he squinted. “My… my agents? Where is Lynch? What’d you do with him; he wasn’t with me.”
“Many anatomy students at University College London send their kind regards.” The man brought his cane down with a thud.
“You… you sent him… that’s sick, sir. Really, really sick sir. He had a fiancé, she’s four months pregnant. I… I had him on logistics, to keep him out of-”
“It was a necessary action. He killed, no, forgive me, failed to kill someone in an open area, under your direction. The same poor fool who you shot in a public place, also failing to kill him. Your direction is solely responsible for his current situation. And don’t call me sir, you no longer have that privilege.”
Rútursson’s eyes widened. “I… I didn’t… I never…. It was necessary, sir. He was a witness. He listened to my conversation. He could have been a spy sir, there was nothing else to do.”
“There were any number of different courses of action, you fool. We are an intelligence agency. The only reason your division exists is to carry out countermeasures!”
“I… I forgot. Everyone makes mista-“
“No, Rútursson! Junior Agents make mistakes! Supervisors make occasional errors. You are a DEPUTY DIRECTOR! Such a fundamental cock-up on behalf of your overbearing paranoia is a sign of INCOMPETENCE! You are an embarrassment to this service, and you are an embarrassment to this country. I suppose I should congratulate you on keeping your agent in peak physical condition though; he would have made a perfect specimen were it not for the ballistic trauma sustained.”
“Please, give me a second chance sir. I beg you. I… I need the money sir. Please.”
The man raised his cane to eye level, peering at it intently. “Watch carefully now, Deputy Director Morrison, you might be in my position in a few years. There are a number of methods and personally I think this is one the best.”
The huge wooden door swung silently into its frame, light reflecting off its polished surface. Two men walked out, one in a pinstriped suit, one in a nondescript black one.
“It really is a shame when you have to do something like that,” said the pinstripe man, plucking a handkerchief out of his top pocket, “to derail them when they have so much promise, so much… capability. He might have been promoted when I went.” He wrapped the handkerchief around the bottom of the cane and buffed it, soaking up the red and polishing the silver.
“I sent Alice off on a long walk, so I’m going to entrust you to inform the cleaning staff about my office. How fitting, your first action as Deputy Director is to order a clean-up. The first of many, I predict, considering the brief of your division. I think I’m going to go and have a little chat with our special guest, make sure you have it finished by the time I’m back. You saw what just happened. “
“Yes sir.” replied Deputy Director Morrison, taking the proffered stained handkerchief and pocketing it with a grimace. He spun, and marched off down the corridor, reaching for his pager.
Billy Bob awoke with a start. The sun streamed through the glass panes, the bed beneath him was warm and soft, and the wound on his chest was neatly covered. He turned his head on the fluffy pillow, and looked at the clock. Nine AM. Time to get up. Stretching his arms, his hand briefly brushed against his neck. Strange. There was some sort of lump there.
Laid out on another bed next to his own were a suit and tie, and a full set of accompanying clothes, right down to a U.S.A. lapel pin. Perfect. Pulling them on, Billy couldn’t help but think that something was off. Where were his biking leathers, and his bike for that matter? Surely he would remember coming back to the hotel, and surely he wouldn’t have been able to afford a hotel of this calibre. A glimpse of a green bottle behind the bin. Aha. That was why.
A beautiful aroma of hot chocolate spiralled into Billy’s nostrils. There it was, on a silver tray beside the bed, topped with whipped cream and pockmarked with marshmallows. His favourite!
There was a knock on the door.
“Come right on in, i'm up an' ready fo' th' day!” he shouted, and someone did. A gentleman with thinning, grey hair, and a slight limp, pushing a short trolley loaded with eggs and bacon and sausage and mushroom and perfection.
“Thank yo'! Fry mah hide! Jest leave it on th' cabinet on over thar, i'll be eatin' in jest a minute,” said Billy Bob, rolling his cuffs up. This was gonna be delicious.
“Very good sir. And might I enquire as to what activities sir will be embarking on today?” the man asked, unhooking a cane from the trolley and leaning heavily on it. It matched the silver stripes on his suit. “Wal, ah was reckonin' about gwine out fo' a ride on mah bike, splorin' this hyar right purdy li'l English city,” said Billy Bob, walking over to the cabinet. The toast was browned just the way he liked it, and, something he hadn’t noticed before; a small ice bucket had been unloaded from the trolley, hiding a bottle of champagne.
“Really sir? That seems as though it would have been fascinating. Sadly, it would seem as though you’ll be remaining in the hotel today.”
“Stay in th' hotel? Whut in tarnation does yo' mean? Whut in tarnation's happenin'? Explain t'me eemeejutly! ” replied Billy Bob, blood rising to his face. Nothing was going to ruin his fantastic day, especially not this dumb waiter.
“Why don’t you explain why the United States government has such a vested interest in Operation MEDDLER and its subject, a Dr Mehmed? I saw through your flimsy disguise, unlike my incompetent Deputy. Oh and drop the stupid accent. Makes you seem like even more of an imbecile.” The man in the pinstriped suit slammed the door shut.
“Ah doesn't knows whut yo' mean! Fry mah hide! Git outta hyar this hyar instant. ah's leavin' a fo'mal complain wif th' manager. Who even is yo'?” Billy Bob asked, thoroughly riled.
“Oh my dear Operative William Robertson, don’t you see? I am the manager. The manager of everything which is going to happen to you should you attempt to leave this room. The manager of your life from now on, whether you cooperate or not. You don’t need to know my name. You just need to answer my questions. And I told you to stop using that STUPID ACCENT!”
“I… I… I. Well! I’m not going to tell you anything. I refuse. You won’t get anything out of me. I’ll never surrender!”
“Oh, I find that very unlikely, William Robertson,” said the pinstriped man, twirling his cane like a baton, “I find that very unlikely, William Robertson, born on 57th Street, 12th Avenue. As I recall, your mother was taking a stroll along the Hudson. She tried to make it home, give birth there. Your father was in the Army, you followed his footsteps. You were rising through the ranks, you were approached by the CIA, you like the movies, always wanted to be a spook, so you accepted. I’d imagine your Director of Operations was Henderson, possibly Vosen? So, are you still never surrendering? You are dead to your country now. You betrayed it, they abandoned you.”
“They… they abandoned me? No, no, they can’t have done. That’s impossible. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t.”
“They can and they have done. Now, are you going to cough up or am I going to have to make you? I could throw you into a steel box to rot. I could waterboard you. I could have my new Deputy cut out your nails one by one, then your teeth, then slices of your eyes, your tongue, your liver. It grows back, you know,” the cane stopped twirling, knocking the floor, “Or perhaps I won’t.”
“Please. Don’t,” tears welled up in William’s eyes, “Think of my mom. I don’t want to die. Please sir, anything.”
“Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll give you the best day of your life. And not like that idiot Rútursson either. Tell me, William Robertson, do you like this hotel? Does it give you pleasure to reside in my establishment? Shall I enhance your feelings of elation?”
“No! Not the best day thingy. Not that injection! I don’t like this hotel sir I hate it. The windows the doors the curtains all of it just don’t give me that injection!” The tears flowed freely now, dripping off the distorted face from whence they came, leaving trails on the snivelling nose.
“Oh, you don’t like it? That is a terrible shame, William Robertson. This breakfast, this champagne, this experience. We can give you this and more. We can give you a life of plush and luxury. The high life. All the parties and girls you want. Gold leaf in your water bottles, cheesecake for dessert made by someone who makes the Michelin rating look like McDonalds.”
The snivelling rescinded. “You can give me all that? I barely earn thirty thousand a year.”
“All that and more, my dear William. Just imagine what that would be like. Brushing shoulders with millionaires and celebrities alike. Dinner in a different country each night. Just imagine it, and it’ll come true. All you need to do is join me.”
William frowned. “But… my country sir. This is… this is wrong, all wrong. I don’t know-“
“Remember, Will, they abandoned you. To them, you are but another dead man. Surely you realise we can treat you far better, look after you like you truly deserve? Here, take this handkerchief. Blow your nose. We can be at my office in fifteen minutes if we hurry. I do apologise for my threats, I just didn’t realise you were such a reasonable young gentleman. I follow the work of Hanns Scharff, you see. Remember your country’s betrayal, William.”
William Robertson walked slowly behind the man with the pinstriped suit and cane. He smiled to himself. Today was the start of the best day of his life.
“Please, Alice, have another glass. Finally all those problems all cleared up. We can only hope Morrison is better than the last one. MEDDLER is still at large, and I’d really rather not have to intervene personally.”

The central issue in behavioral finance is explaining why market participants make systematic errors contrary to the assumption of rational market participants.
Such errors affect prices and returns, creating market inefficiencies. It also investigates how other participants take advantage (arbitrage) of such market inefficiencies.
Some of the following traits, knows as heuristics follow.
Psychology concepts that affect the way you manage your investments.
In psychology and more specifically Behavioral Finance, heuristics are simple, efficient rules of thumb which people often use to form judgments and make decisions. They are mental shortcuts that usually involve focusing on one aspect of a complex problem and ignoring others. These rules work well under most circumstances, but they can lead to systematic deviations from logic, probability or rational choice theory.
The resulting errors are called "cognitive biases" and many different types have been documented. These have been shown to affect people's choices in situations like valuing a house or deciding the outcome of a legal case and in making financial decisions. Heuristics usually govern automatic, intuitive judgments but can also be used as deliberate mental strategies when working from limited information.
"Investors are 'normal,' not rational." Behavioral finance reconciles the discrepancy between rational valuation and irrational market pricing. It's a booming field of study. Top behavioral finance gurus include Yale's Robert Shiller and GMO's James Montier.
There are several common behavioral biases that drive investor decisions.
Availability Bias is the ease with which a particular idea can be brought to mind. When people estimate how likely or how frequent an event is on the basis of its availability, they are using the availability heuristic. When an infrequent event can be brought easily and vividly to mind, this heuristic overestimates its likelihood. For example, people overestimate their likelihood of dying in a dramatic event such as a tornado or terrorism. Dramatic, violent deaths are usually more highly publicised and therefore have a higher availability. On the other hand, common but mundane events are hard to bring to mind, so their likelihoods tend to be underestimated. These include deaths from suicides, strokes, and diabetes. This heuristic is one of the reasons why people are more easily swayed by a single, vivid story than by a large body of statistical evidence. It may also play a role in the appeal of lotteries: to someone buying a ticket, the well-publicised, jubilant winners are more available than the millions of people who have won nothing.
When people judge whether more English words begin with T or with K, the availability heuristic gives a quick way to answer the question. Words that begin with T come more readily to mind and so subjects give a correct answer without counting out large numbers of words. However, this heuristic can also produce errors. When people are asked whether there are more English words with K in the first position or with K in the third position, they use the same process. It is easy to think of words that begin with K, such as kangaroo, kitchen, or kept. It is harder to think of words with K as the third letter, such as lake, or acknowledge, although objectively these are three times more common. This leads people to the incorrect conclusion that K is more common at the start of words.
Investors believe they are awesome at investing
Overconfidence may be the most obvious behavioral finance concept. This is when you place too much confidence in your ability to predict the outcomes of your investment decisions. Overconfident investors are often under diversified and thus more susceptible volatility.
Investors are bad at processing new information.
Being poor and processing new information is known as Anchoring and is related to overconfidence. For example, you make your initial investment decision based on the information available to you at the time. Later, you get news that materially affects any forecasts you initially made. But rather than conduct new analysis, you just revise your old analysis. Because you are anchored, your revised analysis won't fully reflect the new information.
Investors connect the wrong things to each other.
Representativeness - A company might announce a string of great quarterly earnings. As a result, you assume the next earnings announcement will probably be great too. This error falls under a broad behavioral finance concept called “heard investing.” A lot of investors incorrectly think one thing means something else. Another example of representativeness is assuming a good company is a good stock.
Investors absolutely hate losing money.
Loss aversion, or the reluctance to accept a loss, can be deadly. For example, one of your investments may be down 20% for good reason. The best decision may be to just book the loss and move on. However, you can't help but think that the stock might comeback.
This latter thinking is dangerous because it often results in you increasing your position in the money losing investment. This behavior is similar to the gambler who makes a series of larger bets in hopes of breaking even. This Heuristic leads largely into another heuristic known as gamblers Fallacy, which can be best described as flipping a coin 100 times and the first 99 flips have all been tales. Gamblers fallacy indicates that most of us would bet on the fact the next flip has to be heads. Even though the odds have not changed and as a standalone flip of a coin, the odds are still 50/50.
Investors have trouble forgetting bad memories.
How you invest your money in the future is often affected by the outcomes of your previous experience. For example, you may have sold a stock at a 20% gain, only to watch the stock continue to rise after your sale. And you think to yourself, "If only I had waited." Or perhaps one of your investments fall in value, and you dwell on the time when you could've sold it while in the money. These all lead to unpleasant feelings of regret.
Regret minimization (Fear of regret) occurs when you avoid investing altogether or invests conservatively because you don't want to feel that regret. This is the human psyches was of protecting ourselves from unwanted emotions.
Investors are great at coming up with excuses.
Sometimes your investments lose money. Of course, it's not your fault, right? Defense mechanisms in the form of excuses are related to overconfidence. Here are some common excuses:
• 'If-only': If only that one thing hadn't happened, then I would've been right. Unfortunately, you can't prove the counter-factual.
• 'Almost right': But sometimes, being close isn't good enough.
• 'It hasn't happened yet': Unfortunately, "markets can remain irrational longer than you and I can remain solvent."
• 'Single predictor': Just because you were wrong about one thing doesn't mean you're going to be wrong about everything else.