Once again - dont think Binance only liquidate longs, they liquidate shorts too. They create the market. Bear market they sell shorts and liquidate longs. Bull market they sell longs and liquidate shorts. Its their market until its not.

Once upon a time, a $2 bill in your pocket was not money. It was an accusation. In early-20th-century America, the note was a walking rumor. Pull one out at a shop counter and you might as well have announced that you bet horses, bought votes, or paid for an hour you would never describe in church. Respectable people did not want the thing. Superstitious people would not keep it intact. So they tore it. The insult started with a nickname. A two was a deuce. And “deuce,” in older English, was also a polite way to say the devil. What the deuce? meant what the devil? Carry a deuce, the folklore went, and you were carrying a scrap of hell in your wallet. The company the bill kept did the rest. At the racetrack, two dollars was the house unit. Churchill Downs made $2 the minimum bet in 1911, and the rest of American racing followed. The $2 window became the people’s window. Winners walked away with stacks of the same green paper they had risked. To a pious neighbor, a fistful of twos did not look like change. It looked like a confession. The same number attached itself to other businesses polite society pretended not to know about. Two dollars was widely rumored to be the going rate at a cheap brothel. Ward bosses, in the era when votes werr the best you could buy by the head, were said to slip a man a deuce on election day and send him to the polls. True in every county? Unlikely. Sticky enough to stain the denomination? Completely. A $2 bill in a wallet could be read as evidence you had gambled, sold your franchise, or come from the wrong side of town. So Americans invented a folk vaccine. When a deuce landed in your hand, you tore off a corner. The next owner tore another. Then another. Four tears and the jinx was spent—the devil let out through the holes. Banks of the 1920s complained that half the twos they took in arrived already mutilated, greasy, and stuck together, “a very hobo of a bill,” as the New York Times put it in 1923. Tellers could not push them back across the window. Customers would hit the ceiling. The only reliable exits were factory payrolls and the Treasury’s furnace. Torn corners turned legal tender into scrap. The note never recovered its dignity in ordinary commerce. Cash registers had no slot for it. Clerks confused it with a one and shortchanged themselves. The government printed fewer of them. Scarcity, which once made the bill look shady, eventually made it look special. That is the quiet joke of the $2 bill. The same scrap of paper Americans once ripped to keep the devil out is now tucked behind a driver’s license as a charm. Finding one in change feels like stumbling onto a secret. People hoard them, tip with them, press them into a grandchild’s birthday card. The curse inverted. Rarity did what superstition never could: it made the deuce lucky. The corners, mostly, stay on.