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Title: The Autopsy of a Dying System

Subtitle: How a Foreign Money Printer Rigged the Game and Why Bitcoin is the Only Way Out.

The consensus hallucination blames the Fed. The reality is a foreign money printer running a 40-year rigged game.

This is the autopsy of that lie. I dissect the malware that infected the West and reveal the only asset with the physics to escape the coming demolition.

The full transmission is your survival guide.

Credits: @Searley1, host of the great podcast: A Different Perspective;
Camera: / tarbox_arts
Acid Capitalist™ 🖤⚔️💣

When I say call centre at the end, I meant to say data centre, I was suffering from brain freeze…

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This show reflects on what it means to see the future too clearly and the cost of carrying that vision alone.

A few weeks ago, America burned on the monitor behind me. Cameras rolled in Santa Monica. Steve Drobny, founder of Clocktower Group, advisor in global hedge funds, told me to sit straight, but I didn't care. We discussed the future and America’s possibly undead economy.

The previous night, a girl at a Venice Beach bar asked where I’m from. “The future,” I replied. She was 30, blond, beautiful blue eyes, an image I haven’t shaken off. When you return from the future, you’re never whole. Details are too sharp, too strange. People blink. They don't want to hear it. That’s why I wear goggles. That's why they call me unhinged.

Knowing what's next doesn't give control. It gives doubt. It exiles you from Main Street.

I vibed on John Buchan’s The Gap in the Curtain. A country house, a strange German professor, a handful of guests glimpsing a year ahead. One sees a financial headline. Distant words that unravel everything. Once you've seen what's coming, you carry it like a tumor made of light.

I drew a line from that story to Saint Peter in Gethsemane. His denial wasn’t betrayal; it was fear dressed as certainty. The same fear I see in markets, politics, people I’ve loved. We say "impossible" when scared. But the future doesn't knock. It slides in through the back door. Think of me as The Back Door Man.

That's the curse, not that no one believes you, but that eventually, you stop believing yourself.

Our conversation shifted between memories: Blanc Bleu, my house in St. Barts, Bitcoin, bond markets, old debates with giants like Niall Ferguson. Moments I stood and said what no one wanted to hear.

Being early feels like being wrong until the chart catches up.

The Curse of Knowing isn't about money, it's about myth. Trading safety for clarity. Leaving comfort to speak truths no one’s ready for. It's about friends reunited, because ultimately, the only constants are those you love(d).

Hugh

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The fuse is already burning.

This isn’t empire. This is captivity masquerading as privilege. For decades, the dollar system was sold as sovereign strength. But behind the curtain, it was scaffolding, a fragile architecture supporting global imbalances that no one dared to fix.

China floods us with goods. We print the debt. They hoard the collateral. This isn’t trade. It’s a hostage exchange. America supplies the deficits; the world returns them as liabilities. The Fed isn’t king. The Fed is janitor.

QE wasn’t stimulus. QE was retaliation. It crushed real rates, drained foreign rentiers, and exposed the parasitic model for what it was: tribute disguised as liquidity. The pegs were never anchors, they were fuses waiting for ignition. A conduit for sovereign retaliation.External price fixed. Target domestic prices. A massive property bubble. Chinese Metropolises flaring incandescently.

China’s yuan weakens not to grow, but to survive. Devaluation at the bottom isn’t stimulus. It’s deflationary warfare. Japan faces its own reckoning. The yen’s collapse is no longer unthinkable. The credibility of their collateral is evaporating. The capital flow reverses. The bid on Treasuries vanishes.

And so the Fed faces its final choice: defend equities or defend the sovereign bond. There will be no third option. Duration is destiny. The safe asset becomes the kill switch.

This is no longer a functioning market. It’s a monetary knife fight. AI roars forward. Capital misallocates. Asset bubbles swell as wages stagnate. Consumption shrinks. Inflation morphs into impoverishment.

We stand at the ledge: one step from euphoria, one step from collapse. A new 1990s or a new 1930s. The myths are dead. The structures brittle. The old rules obsolete.

Exorbitant privilege? That era has closed. The dollar remains but not as a throne. As a contract. As a negotiation. As the final line holding the system together.

The park opens in five minutes.

Subscribe to Substack before the gates slam shut. 🖤⚔️💣

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Wild bets, hot streaks, and a little market seduction.

The acid capitalist is back, sunburnt and shirtless, broadcasting straight from St. Barts with sand in his toes and a dollar short in his hand. This is Confessions Part II, the origin story sharpened, scuffed, and refitted for today’s volatility junkies. If finance had a Tarantino cut, this is it.

We rewind to the end of 2002. The Nasdaq’s wreckage still smoldering. The S&P up 9 percent. Me? Flat for the month, down 4.9 percent since launch. A hedge fund rookie trading like he’s strapped to a rocket and reading tea leaves in reverse. There were no parades. No consensus. Just my gut, and it was twitching.

I placed my first real bet, short the dollar. The Dixie was at 110. Five years later, it would bleed to 70. Back then, they laughed. Now they squint at the same charts, claiming they saw it coming. They didn’t. But I did. Commodities stopped dying. Gold stopped bleeding. Something turned. And I felt it.

This episode isn’t about P/E ratios. It’s about instinct. Rage. Faith. Hunger. It’s about building Eclectica not as a fund but as a fever dream. I didn’t chase storms. I waited for them. I didn’t knock. I picked the lock. That investor? That was me.

We talk Amsterdam Commodities, no website, no pitch deck, no interest in seduction. It smelled of hash and history. It was cheap, opaque, and irresistible. And it hit. Like a ten-bagger. Like something better than sex. No, seriously, would you rather have a one-night stand or a tenfold return on your weirdest position?

Oh, and then there’s Brazil. The one that ghosted me. The stock I dumped, live, while staring through the glass of their too-polished HQ. They didn’t show me respect. So I showed them the door.

This is the cockpit view of macro. Of madness. Of the market as mythology. No suits. No soft landings. Just you, me, and a twitch in the eye of the storm. Press play.

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This week, I offer you a barefoot sermon from the battlefield of economic memory. A walk from Hamilton to Trump. From Ricardo to Argentina. From Abraham Lincoln’s top hat to the red-capped defiance of tariff diplomacy. A retelling of the American experiment through its most potent and most misunderstood weapon: the tariff.

I argue here that Donald Trump, however clumsy and chaotic, reignited a long-dormant Hamiltonian flame. Like Lincoln before him, who used tariffs not only to industrialize the North but to bleed the profits from slavery’s Southern engine, Trump reached for tariffs not as isolation, but as revolt. The goal was disruption of the quiet exploitation that still oils the gears of the global economy.

We begin with Hamilton. In 1791, he laid the blueprint for industrial sovereignty. While Britain imagined America as a spice colony, exporting raw goods and importing refinement, Hamilton saw something else. He saw factories. Foundries. Credit. Fire. His tariffs were not walls, but scaffolds. They wrapped the infant industries of the North in protection until they could stand on their own.

Then came Ricardo, bond guru, master of the ledger. He preached comparative advantage, but assumed capital stayed still. That the factory would never chase the lowest wage. That trade was neutral. That power did not intervene. Hamilton saw the flaw long before it became scripture. Ricardo’s theory, elegant on paper, became a passport for colonial subjugation. Had America followed it, she might have become another Argentina. Rich in soil. Poor in ambition. Governed by landlords. Exporting the future in exchange for someone else’s present.

Build the factory. Raze the plantation. Lincoln saw it in cotton. Trump saw it in Asian factories. In both cases, the profit was buried in the poison, and each man, in his own era and fashion, had the rare courage to call it by its name.

To strike slavery at its roots and build a more enduring republic, Lincoln didn't reach first for cannonballs or proclamations. Like his illustrious predecessors, he reached for the balance sheet. He understood that if you make the ledgers bleed, the system follows. That was his courage.

Over a century later, Trump looked out across a global economy that had been polished to a shine and san

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A beachside macro sermon on whale liquidations, a 5700 S&P play, and why Treasuries are the keystone to everything. Solana trades, SOFR action, and The Acid Capitalist’s call to be volatile, be violent, be legendary. Stay acid.

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Welcome back

The breeze is talking again. The sea too, whispering something older than the market, more enduring than yield curves. This episode was recorded beneath Saharan skies on the island of St. Barts, during Acid Capitalist Summer Camp 2.0. But what is a camp if not a gathering of searchers. A pause in the trade winds to ask the old questions.

I was met by a journalist. Young, wide-eyed, barefoot. She carried a pencil and the memory of a mixtape. She asked me to speak of fear, folly, volatility and love. I answered not with answers but with exhalation. We spoke of exile, of turtles, of the dull ache of markets remembered and misremembered.

Just like Johnny Rotten sang, "This is Not a Love Song", in 1983, this is not an investment interview, more a moment.

The market is a hallucination. It's also a mirror. I once managed billions. Today, I manage time. There's something here, in this place, that bends the arc of memory. You come to St. Barts to heal, or to vanish. Perhaps both.

There is no grand thesis. Only a few half-remembered charts, a Rolling Stones lyric, and the suspicion that finance was never about spreadsheets but about stories.

This episode is a love letter. To serendipity. To misfits. To the exquisite loneliness of being early.

Draw close to the speaker. Tilt your face toward the trade winds. Pour something cold and forget, for a moment, the noise.

The tape begins...

Hugh Hendry

The Acid Capitalist

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Welcome back to paradise, where the rosé is chilled, the sun strokes the sea, and your third ear is tuned to the gospel according to Hugh.

This week, I take you deep into the delirious heart of Wall Street circa 2006, an era of mutual fund gods, tax-deductible lap dances, and a man named Scotty who nearly exploded trying to mask the scent of strippers with gasoline.

Yes, really.

In a 15-minute acid-laced recital, I read a wild chapter from Derek Wallis’ Occupy a Job on Wall Street. It’s called Gasoline Stripper, but I’ve renamed it The Last Scotsman on Wall Street, a madcap tale of booze, bravado, and the slow incineration of financial decorum.

I riff, I reminisce (shoutout to Dolcis shoes and the Edinburgh's Balmoral Hotel and wine lunches of yore), and I ask the only question that matters:

Can you survive Wall Street if you're the kind of guy who thinks strawberry daiquiris excuse drunk driving?

Spoiler: probably not.

Pour yourself something cold, take a walk with me through midtown madness and fiscal fireballs, and if you're feeling bold, come to the Acid Capitalist Summer Camp 3.0 this August 17th in St. Barts.

Come as a stranger. Leave as a legend. https://www.acidcapitalretreat.com

And I'm delighted to announce that we were selected by FeedSpot as one of the Top 30 Hedge Fund Podcasts on the web.

https://podcast.feedspot.com/hedge_fund_podcasts/?feedid=5211632&_src=f2_featured_email

Find Derek Wallis' book here 👇

https://a.co/d/gKVySzC

Hugh Hendry
The Acid Capitalist

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