Fear and Loathing at the Federal Reserve: Part 2 – The Gold Heist Swindle
Dispatches from the Last Sane Bastard in This Casino
Trader Hell’s a festering slaughterhouse, you 100+ -strong piker mob, and the Federal Reserve’s gold heist is a century-long shank in your back, carved by chairmen who’d pawn their souls for Wall Street’s scraps. Fiat Fever (Part 1) gutted the Fed’s 1910 Jekyll Island orgy, where Morgan’s bloodsuckers birthed a fiat demon to choke humanity. Now, Part 2 storms the vault with a sledgehammer: Eugene Meyer, a Wall Street vulture, masterminded 1933’s gold grab, stripping families bare. Eugene Black, a sniveling rat, bolted the cage. Arthur Burns, Nixon’s bootlicking ghoul, rigged gold in the 1970s like a mob fixer. Jerome Powell, a 2025 dollar-pimping ghoul, keeps the scam alive, hiding behind Trump’s 25% tariff shitstorm as gold languishes at 4% gains (X’s @GoldSleuth, May 2, 2025, screams 40% without his tricks). This ain’t finance—it’s a goddamn lynching
1933’s Gold Grab – Meyer and Black, the Gilded Leeches
Eugene Meyer (1930-1933) wasn’t a chairman—he was a Wall Street vulture, his beak dripping with Goldman’s greed, his claws sunk into America’s heart. In 1933, he rammed through FDR’s Gold Reserve Act, a legalized heist that forced you to surrender gold—coins, bars, your grandma’s rings—at $20.67/ounce, or face $10,000 fines and a decade in a federal shithole. Meyer’s Fed slurped 8,133 tons into Fort Knox and New York, then jacked gold to $35, gutting the dollar 40% overnight while his Lazard Frères cronies feasted. Eugene Black (1933-1934), a quivering rat who’d sell his kids for a Morgan nod, slammed the vault shut, banning private gold by 1934, chaining citizens to fiat’s rotting corpse. Executive Order 6102 turned banks into snitches, demanding gold at gunpoint, while Meyer and Black laughed as families starved. X’s @GoldRaped (May 1, 2025) roars: “1933 was a banker’s wet dream, and we’re still bleeding.” These leeches didn’t “save” the Depression—they raped a nation, their silk suits stained with your ancestors’ despair.
Burns’ 1970s Hustle – The Ghoul’s Rigged Game
Arthur Burns (1970-1978), a Nixon-worshipping ghoul with a lizard’s soul and sweat-soaked Nixon fanboy diaries, turned the heist global. Nixon’s 1971 gold standard axe gave Burns a free-for-all. He “leased” Fed gold to JPMorgan and Goldman—code for letting them short it on futures markets, crashing prices to kill gold’s fiat-hedge power. X’s @VaultRaider (May 2, 2025) screeches: “Fort Knox is a tungsten shitshow!” No audits since 1953 prove it—billions in bullion vanished to Swiss vaults, buried under “accounting errors” thicker than Burns’ Nixon fetish. Inflation hit 15% under Burns, but gold flatlined—his banker pals pocketed billions, while your savings melted like wax in a dumpster fire. Burns wasn’t a chairman; he was a mob fixer, dealing marked decks for Wall Street’s dons, his liver-spotted hands clutching their blood money
Powell’s 2025 Endgame – The Ghoul’s Tariff Waltz
Jerome Powell (2018-2025), a Brooks Brothers ghoul with a vampire’s sneer, dances the heist’s final waltz as markets choke on Trump’s 25% China tariffs and 10% global levies (5-10% price spikes, web estimates, May 2, 2025). Gold’s up 4% (April 2025), but @GoldSleuth howls it’d be 40% without Powell’s bank proxies shorting futures to cap prices, propping the dollar’s maggot-ridden carcass. His tariff smokescreen—blamed for recent tech bleeds—hides the grift, keeping traders broke. Powell’s not fighting inflation—he’s sucking your 100-piker mob dry, a soulless heir to Meyer’s larceny, Black’s cowardice, and Burns’ treachery, his polished shoes stomping your 401(k)’s bones. This market’s a mass grave, and Powell’s the gravedigger.
Surviving the Fed’s Gold Scam
This heist’s a guillotine for your portfolio, you 100 + cheap bastards. Bonds are dogshit (10-year yields at 4.8%, May 2, 2025), crypto’s flat, tech’s a charnel house. Buy physical gold—coins, bars, not GLD, you dumb pikers—or miners like Barrick, Newmont. Short Powell’s lies: tariff-hit tech is bleeding. The Fed’s house of cards is a funeral pyre, and your 401(k)’s kindling. Part 2’s your napalm strike—subscribe for the full screed: kingcambo812.substack.com. Free pikers, grab a 7-day free trial for a measly $5/month—join the 100-piker mob! Read Part 1’s Jekyll Island disembowelment: kingcambo812.substack.com/p/fiat-fever-a-gonzo-autopsy-of-the.
The Fed’s gold heist is Trader Hell’s original sin, and Meyer, Black, Burns, and Powell are its foulest demons, their souls blacker than a banker’s heart. Part 2’s live for our 100-piker mob—join the fight: kingcambo812.substack.com. Next up, Part 3: Stagflation’s Filthy Hustle—William Miller, a bumbling fool, let inflation hit 15% in the 1970s, torching your savings, while Paul Volcker, a grim reaper in a suit, jacked rates to 20%, cratering jobs to save Wall Street’s bacon. They turned America into a stagflation hellscape, and we’ll gut them for it. Subscribe, you cheap bastards, for the carnage: kingcambo812.substack.com. Stay savage, you pikers.
#FedSucks
KingCAMBO’s “Legal” Disclaimer: Alright, buckle up, you madcap truth-seekers, ‘cause I’m about to sling this disclaimer straight from the edge of a neon-drenched abyss, for you silly bastards, with a belly full of cheap whiskey and a mind like a chrome-plated slot machine spitting sparks. This ain’t no polite suggestion to buy or sell stocks, securities, or any of that Wall Street bullshit—it’s just my raw, unfiltered brain-droppings, spewed out like a busted fire hydrant. I’m a walking financial disaster, hemorrhaging cash on trades and investments like a gambler with a hole in his pocket. I might snatch up any stock I yap about here, or dump it faster than a getaway car at a bank heist, and I won’t send you a postcard about it. This ain’t a pitch to buy or sell jack squat. I might own the names I’m ranting about, or I might not—could be bullish and empty-handed, bearish with a fistful of shares. Hell, assume I’m playing the exact opposite game you think, just to keep you on your toes. If I’m long, I could flip short before the ink dries; if I’m short, I might go long by lunch. No updates, no apologies—my positions shift like desert sands in a sandstorm. You’re out here in the wilds, solo, so don’t you dare lean on my blog for your big money moves. I’m a fringe-dweller, howling at the moon, and the publisher ain’t vouching for the half-cocked “facts” I sling. These ain’t the opinions of my bosses, buddies, or anyone else dumb enough to know me. I do my damndest to keep my disclosures straight, but I’m scribbling this after a few beers, maybe a shot of mezcal, so don’t bet your ranch on my accuracy. I tweak my posts after they’re live ‘cause I’m an impatient bastard, too lazy to proofread. Spot a typo? Come back in 30 minutes, it might be gone—or worse. And let’s get one thing crystal: I fuck up. “A lot.” I’m saying it twice ‘cause it’s the only gospel I’ve got. Now go, you beautiful lunatics, and don’t blame me when the market chews you up and spits you out.