The Wolf of Wall Street

by Jordan Belfort

  Look at all these fucking sofas! Fuck her if she thinks she can get away with buying all this furniture! I took a deep breath. I was on the edge. I needed to get a grip. But I had come up with a perfect plan—saving the rock until two in the morning. It could’ve been perfect and now all this furniture. Fuck it all! I dropped to my knees and went to work, making my way around the living room, stabbing wildly until every couch and chair was destroyed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dave and Scott staring at me.

  And then it hit me—it was inside the carpet! How fucking obvious! I looked down at the taupe carpet. How much did this fucking thing cost? A hundred thousand? Two hundred thousand? It was easy for her to spend my money. I started slicing up the carpet, like a man possessed.

  A minute later, nothing. I sat on my haunches and looked around the living room. It was completely destroyed. Just then I saw a stand-up brass lamp. It looked human. With my heart palpitating out of my chest, I dropped the butcher knife. I picked the lamp up over my head and started swinging it the way the Norse god Thor swung his hammer. Then I released it in the direction of the fireplace, and it went flying into the stone…CRASH! I ran back over to the knife and picked it up.

  Just then the Duchess came running out of the master bathroom, wearing a tiny white robe. Her hair was perfect and her legs looked glorious. It was her way of trying to manipulate me, to control me. It had worked in the past, but not this time. I had my guard up now. I was wise to her game.

  “Oh, my God!” she screamed, putting her hand to her mouth. “Please, stop! Why are you doing this?”

  “Why?” I screamed. “You want to know fucking why? Well, I’ll tell you fucking why! I’m James fucking Bond looking for microfilm! That’s fucking why!”

  She looked at me with her mouth agape and her eyes wide open. “You need help,” she said tonelessly. “You’re a sick man.”

  Her very words enraged me. “Oh, fuck you, Nadine! Who the fuck are you to tell me I’m sick? What are you gonna do—try to take a swing at me? Well, come over and see what happens!”

  All at once a terrible pain in my back! Someone was pushing me to the floor! Now my wrist was being crushed. “Oww, fuck!” I screamed. I looked up and Dave Beall was on top of me. He squeezed my wrist until the butcher knife fell to the ground.

  He looked up at Nadine. “Go back inside,” he said calmly. “I’ll take care of him. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

  Nadine ran back into the master bedroom and slammed the door. A second later I heard the lock click.

  Dave was still on top of me, and I turned my head around to face him and started laughing. “All right,” I said, “you can let me up now. I was only kidding. I wasn’t gonna hurt her. I was just trying to show her who’s boss.”

  Clutching my right biceps with his enormous hand, Dave led me over to a seating area on the other side of the house—one of the few I hadn’t destroyed. He placed me in an overstuffed club chair, looked up at Scott, and said, “Go get the vial of Xanax.”

  The last thing I remember was Dave handing me a glass of water and a few Xanax.

  I woke up and it was nighttime, the following day. I was back in my office in Old Brookville, sitting behind my mahogany desk. Just how I got here I wasn’t quite sure, but I did remember saying, “Thank you, Rocco!” to Rocco Day, for pulling me out of the car after I’d smashed it into the stone pillar at the edge of the estate on my way home from Southampton. Or had it been Rocco Night I’d thanked? Well…who really gave a shit? They were loyal to Bo, and Bo was loyal to me, and the Duchess didn’t say much to either of them—so she hadn’t crawled inside their minds yet. I would be on alert, though.

  Where was the Doleful Duchess? I wondered. I hadn’t seen her since the butcher-knife episode. She was home, but she was hiding somewhere in the mansion—hiding from me! Was she in the master bedroom? No matter. The important thing was my children; at least I was a good father. In the end, that’s how I would be remembered: He was a good father, a family man at heart, and a wonderful provider!

  I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out my Ziploc bag with nearly a pound of coke in it. I dumped it on my desktop and dropped my head into the pile and snorted with both nostrils simultaneously. Two seconds later I jerked my head up and muttered, “Holy fucking Christ! Oh, my God!” and then I slumped back in my chair and started breathing heavily.

  At that moment the TV volume seemed to increase dramatically, and I heard a gruff, accusing voice say: “Do you know what time it is right now? Where’s your family? Is this your idea of fun—sitting in front of a television set at this hour of the morning—alone? Drunk, high, strung out? Look at your watch for a second, if you still have one.”

  What the fuck? I looked at my watch: a $22,000 gold Bulgari. Of course I still had one! I focused back on the TV. What a face! Christ! It was a man in his early fifties, enormous head, huge neck, menacingly handsome features, perfectly coiffed gray hair. In that very instant the name Fred Flintstone came bubbling up into my brain.

  Fred Flintstone plowed on: “You want to get rid of me right now? How about getting rid of your disease right now! Alcoholism and addiction are killing you. Seafield has the answers. Call us today; we can help.”

  Unbelievable! I thought. How very fucking intrusive! I started muttering at the TV. “You motherfucking Fred Flintstone head—I’ll kick your fucking caveman ass from here to Timbuktu!”

  Flintstone kept talking. “Remember: There’s no shame in being an alcoholic or an addict; the only shame is doing nothing about it. So call right now and take…”

  I looked around the room…there!…a Remington sculpture on a green marble pedestal. It was two feet tall, made of solid brass—a cowboy riding a bucking bronco. I picked it up and ran toward the TV screen. With all the strength I could muster, I winged it at Fred Flintstone and…CRASH!

  No more Fred Flintstone.

  I addressed the shattered TV: “You motherfucker! I warned you! Coming into my fucking house and telling me I got a fucking problem. Look at you now, motherfucker!”

  I walked back to my desk and sat down, then I dropped my bleeding nose into the pile of coke. But rather than snorting it, I simply rested my face in it, using it as a pillow.

  I felt a slight twinge of guilt that my children were upstairs, but since I was such a wonderful provider all the doors were solid mahogany. There was no way anyone had heard a thing. Or that was what I’d thought until I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. A second later came the voice of the Duchess: “Oh, my God! What are you doing?”

  I lifted my head, fully aware that my face was completely covered in coke, and not giving a shit. I looked at the Duchess, and she was stark naked—trying to manipulate me with the possibility of sex.

  I said, “Fred Flintstone was trying to come through the TV. But don’t worry—I got him. You can go back to sleep now. It’s safe.”

  She stared at me with her mouth open. She had arms crossed underneath her breasts, and I couldn’t help but stare at her nipples. What a shame the woman had turned on me. She would be difficult to replace—not impossible, but difficult.

  “Your nose is gushing blood,” she said softly.

  I shook my head in disgust. “Stop exaggerating, Nadine. It’s barely even bleeding, and it’s only because it’s allergy season.”

  She started to cry. “I can’t stay here anymore unless you go to rehab. I love you too much to watch you kill yourself. I’ve always loved you; don’t ever forget that.” And then she left the room, closing the door behind her but not slamming it.

  “Fuck you!” I screamed at the door. “I don’t got a fucking problem! I could stop anytime I want!” I took a deep breath and used my T-shirt to wipe the blood off my nose and chin. What did she think, that she could bluff me into rehab? Please! I felt another warm gush under my nose. I lifted the bottom of my T-shirt again and wiped away more blood. Christ! If I only had ether, I could make the cocaine into crack. Then I could just smoke the coke and avoid all t
hese nasal problems. But, wait! There were other ways to make crack, weren’t there? Yes, there were homespun recipes…something having to do with baking soda. There had to be a recipe for making crack on the Internet!

  Five minutes later I had my answer. I stumbled to the kitchen, grabbed the ingredients, and dropped them on the granite countertop. I filled a copper pot with water and dumped in the cocaine and baking soda, then turned the burner on high and put a cover on it. I placed a ceramic cookie jar on top of the lid.

  I sat down on a stool next to the stove and rested my head on the countertop. I started feeling dizzy, so I shut my eyes and tried to relax. I was drifting…drifting…KABOOM! I nearly jumped out of my own skin as my homespun recipe exploded all over the kitchen. There was crack everywhere—on the ceiling, floor, and walls.

  A minute later the Duchess came running in. “Oh, my God! What happened? What was that explosion?” She was out of breath, almost panic-stricken.

  “Nothing,” I muttered. “I was baking a cake and fell asleep.”

  The last thing I remember her saying was: “I’m going to my mother’s tomorrow morning.”

  And the last thing I remember thinking was: The sooner the better.

  CHAPTER 36

  JAILS, INSTITUTIONS, AND DEATH

  The next morning—which is to say, a few hours later—I woke up in my office. I felt a warm, altogether pleasant sensation under my nose and on my cheeks. Ahhh, so soothing it was…. The Duchess was still with me…cleaning me…mothering me…

  I opened my eyes and…alas, it was Gwynne. She was holding a very expensive white bath towel, which she’d dampened with lukewarm water, and she was wiping off the cocaine and blood that had caked on my face.

  I smiled at Gwynne, one of the only people who hadn’t betrayed me. Could she really be trusted, though? I closed my eyes and ran it through my mind…. Yes, she could. No two ways about it. She would see this through with me to the bitter end. In fact, long after the Duchess had abandoned me, Gwynne would still be there—taking care of me and helping me raise the children.

  “Are you okay?” asked my favorite Southern belle.

  “Yeah,” I croaked. “What are you doing here on Sunday? Don’t you have church?”

  Gwynne smiled sadly. “Mrs. Belfort called me and asked me to come over today to keep an eye on the kids. Here, lift your arms up; I brought you a fresh T-shirt.”

  “Thanks, Gwynne. I’m kinda hungry. Can you bring me a bowl of Froot Loops, please?”

  “They’re raight there,” she said, pointing to the green marble pedestal where the brass cowboy used to reside. “They’re nice and soggy,” she added, “just the way you like ’em!”

  Talk about service! How come the Duchess couldn’t be like that? “Where’s Nadine?” I asked.

  Gwynne pursed her full lips. “She’s upstairs, packing an overnight bag. She’s going to her mother’s.”

  A terrible sinking feeling overtook me. It started in the pit of my stomach and spread to every cell of my body. It was as if my very heart and guts had been ripped out. I felt nauseous, ready to puke. “I’ll be right fucking back,” I sputtered, popping out of my chair and heading for the spiral staircase. I bounded up the stairs with a raging inferno burning inside me.

  The master bedroom was just off the stairs. The door was locked. I started banging. “Let me in, Nadine!” No response. “It’s my bedroom too! Let me in!”

  Finally, thirty seconds later, the lock clicked open; but the door didn’t follow suit. I opened the door and walked into the bedroom. On the bed was a suitcase filled with clothes, all neatly folded, but no Duchess. The suitcase was chocolate brown with the Louis Vuitton logo plastered all over it. Cost a fucking fortune…of my money!

  Just then the Duchess came walking out of her Delaware-size shoe closet, carrying two shoe boxes, one under either arm. She didn’t say a word, nor did she look at me. She just walked over to the bed and placed the shoe boxes next to the suitcase, then turned on her heel and headed back to the closet.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” I snapped.

  She looked me in the eye with contempt. “I told you: I’m going to my mother’s. I can’t watch you kill yourself anymore. I’m done.”

  I felt a surge of steam rising up my brain stem. “I hope you don’t think you’re taking the kids with you. You’re not taking my fucking kids—ever!”

  “The kids can stay,” she replied calmly. “I’m going alone.”

  That caught me off guard. Why would she be leaving the kids behind?…Unless it was some sort of plot. Of course. She was cagey, the Duchess. “You think I’m stupid or something? The second I fall asleep you’re gonna come back here and steal the kids.”

  She looked at me with disdain and said, “I don’t even know how to respond to that.” She started walking back to the closet.

  Apparently I wasn’t hurting her enough, so I said, “I don’t know where the fuck you think you’re going with all these clothes. If you leave here, you leave with the shirt on your back, you fucking gold digger.”

  That one got her! She spun around and faced me. “Fuck you!” she screamed. “I’ve been the best wife to you. How dare you call me that after all these years! I’ve given you two gorgeous children. Waited on you hand and fucking foot for six fucking years! I’ve been a loyal wife to you—always! Never cheated on you once! And look what I got in return! How many women have you fucked since we’re married? You…philandering piece of shit! Fuck you!”

  I took a deep breath. “Say what you want, Nadine, but if you leave here, you leave with nothing.” My tone was calm yet menacing.

  “Oh, really? What the fuck you gonna do, light my clothes on fire?”

  An excellent idea! And I yanked her suitcase off the bed, stomped over to the limestone fireplace, and threw all her clothes on top of a foot of kindling wood that was already there, waiting to be ignited with the push of a button. I stared down the Duchess; she was standing stock-still, frozen in horror.

  Not satisfied with her reaction, I ran to her closet and ripped dozens of sweaters and shirts and dresses and skirts and pants off some very expensive-looking hangers. I ran back to the fireplace and threw them on top of the pile.

  I looked at her again. Now she had tears in her eyes. Still not good enough. I wanted to hear her apologize, to beg me to stop, so I gritted my teeth in determination and bounded over to the desk where she kept her jewelry box. I grabbed the box, walked back over to the fireplace, and opened the lid and shook out all the jewelry on top of the pile. I reached over to the wall and placed my right index finger on a small stainless-steel button, and I stared her down. Now tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  “Fuck you!” I screamed…and I pushed the button.

  An instant later her clothes and jewelry were engulfed in flames. Without saying a word, she calmly walked out of the room, shutting the door behind her ever so gently. I turned back around and stared into the flames. Fuck her! I thought. It served her fucking right, making threats at me. Did she think I would let her walk all over me? I kept staring at the flames until I heard the sound of gravel kicking up in the driveway. I ran over to the window and saw the back of her black Range Rover peeling toward the front gate.

  Good! I thought. Just as soon as the word got out that the Duchess and I were history, there would be women lining up at the door—lining up! Then we’d see who’s boss!

  Now that the Duchess was out of the picture, it was time to put on a happy face and show the children how wonderful life could be without Mommy. No more time-outs for Chandler; chocolate pudding for Carter whenever he felt like it. I took them out to the swing set in the backyard and we played together—while Gwynne, Rocco Day, Erica, Maria, Ignacio, and a few other members of the menagerie supervised the action.

  We played together happily for what seemed like a very long time—an eternity, in fact, during which time we laughed and giggled and carried on and looked up to the blue dome of the sky and smelle
d the fresh spring flowers. Having kids was the best!

  Alas, an eternity turned out to be only three and a half minutes, at which point I lost interest in my two perfect children and said to Gwynne, “You take over, Gwynne. I have some paperwork I need to go over.”

  A minute later I was back in my office, with a fresh pyramid of cocaine in front of me. And as a way of paying homage to Chandler’s fascination with lining up all her dolls and holding court, I lined up all my drugs on the desktop and held court too. There were twenty-two of them, mostly in vials but some in plastic Baggies. How many men could take all these drugs and not overdose? None! Only the Wolf could! The Wolf, who’d built up his very resistance through years of careful mixing and balancing, going through the painstaking process of trial and error until he got it just right.

  The next morning was war.

  At eight a.m. Wigwam was sitting in my living room, pissing me off. In fact, he should’ve known better than to come to my house and try to expound on the U.S. securities laws—sketching only broad, meaningless strokes. Christ, I might’ve been deficient in many areas in life, but one of them wasn’t U.S. securities laws. In fact, even after three months of basically no sleep—and even after the last seventy-two hours of complete insanity, during which time I’d consumed forty-two grams of cocaine, sixty Ludes, thirty Xanax, fifteen Valium, ten Klonopin, 270 milligrams of morphine, ninety milligrams of Ambien, and Paxil and Prozac and Percocet and Pamelor and GHB and God only knew how much alcohol—I still knew more about getting around U.S. securities laws than almost any man on the planet.

  Wigwam said, “The main problem is that Steve never signed a stock power, so we can’t just send the stock certificate over to the transfer agent and get it switched to your name.”