It’s technically work hours at the moment. But did anyone at Stratton Oakmont ever care? Absolutely fucking not.

The spacious office looked more like a nightclub rather than a workplace right now. Music was blasting, alcohol and other drugs were flowing, prostitutes getting fucked right in the open everywhere.

Donnie of course, was in the middle of everything. Standing on a desk, knocking over a telephone, yelling about “having made millions today” before making a show out of snorting an unholy amount of coke, leaving his face half white.

Well, at least he was in a very good mood.