Hype’s Natural Predator: The Due Diligence Wolfpack Howls on the ABLC Floor

October 29, 2025

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by Jim Lane (Biofuels Digest) Comedy, Chemistry, and the Art of Realism at ABLC -- “There is a beautiful valley, where companies live on hype, all you need is a dream and a Series A. This…is not that place.”

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This is the bioeconomy’s fabled pack—predators of hype, cant, and pettifoggery; protectors of every corner where real value still hides. It must be ABLC, because here comes the Due Diligence Wolfpack.

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They’re engineers, chemists, financiers, and company founders, yet in this moment they look less like a review board and more like a cast of late-night television: half talk show, half tribunal. The crowd knows the rhythm by heart—there will be jokes, jabs, a little self-immolation. And then, somewhere between the laughter, the truth will come out.

Because that’s the magic of the Wolfpack. The humor isn’t a mask for the serious work; it’s the solvent that lets serious thinking flow. Within minutes they’ll be deconstructing the economics of carbon capture or the moral geometry of renewable natural gas, but for now the audience just laughs—unaware they’re about to get a master class in discernment disguised as stand-up.

Flashback: Green Room, ABLC

Before the howl, there’s always the hum. Minutes before the session starts, the wolves prowl the green room—each in their own small orbit of obsession.

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The subject is eFuels and turns to carbon capture.

As the laughter subsides, Wolf Paul Bryan, voice steady, tone suddenly more intimate.

“You know,” he says, “the right number of miracles for an entrepreneur is one. And if you don’t have one miracle, you’re really not doing anything new. But if you have more than one miracle… that’s a combinatorial increase in the risk.”

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David Dodds looks out at the room—the crowd still smiling, still expecting another gag—and begins quietly.

“I’m a chemist,” he says. “I count carbon atoms.”

At first, there’s laughter—nervous, indulgent—but then silence. Dodds isn’t joking. He’s reminding everyone of the rules. He sketches the thermodynamics of carbon capture like a crime scene: flue gas at ten percent CO₂, amine extraction at 0.4 MWh per ton, a parasitic load nearing forty percent.

“It’s not that we can’t do it,” he says. “It’s that it costs a quarter of the energy the plant makes to clean up after itself. I’m not against it. I’m just against bad accounting.” The laughter that follows is smaller, thoughtful. A scientist has just made thermodynamics feel like drama.

Accounting and Its Discontents

Michele Rubino leans forward, smiling the way a good debater does before stepping into traffic.

“David’s right about the math,” he says, “but sustainability is complicated. If there’s an avoided emission, it should be counted.”

Dodds adjusts his glasses. “There’s no such thing as a negative carbon atom.”

The crowd howls. From the analyst’s perch, Steve Slome adds the footnote every investor dreads but secretly loves: “Everything’s financeable,” he says, “if you remove the risk.” The laughter snaps like static—smart, self-aware, slightly pained.

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Henna Poikolainen clears her throat.

“ESAF divides opinions,” she says. “Some think it’s crazy. I’m one of those who doesn’t.”

She lays out Europe’s math with Nordic calm:

“Miss your ESAF target, pay seventeen thousand euros per ton. By 2030, twenty-five thousand. That’s not a theory—that’s a business case.”

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“It all works if you can get a government to pay for everything. And if you can turn your OPEX into CAPEX. And if you’re wondering who’d do that—China would.”

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Between panels, James Iademarco offers a small conjuring act of his own. He folds a note card, unfolds it, and somehow it reads like strategy.

“Technology doesn’t fail because it’s wrong,” he says. “It fails because it’s lonely. You need policy, markets, and people moving in rhythm—or you’re just the right answer in the wrong decade.”

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Paul Bryan steps forward, the rare chemist who makes polyesters sound like stand-up.

“We can’t keep all plastics out of the environment,” he says. “So let’s make them want to leave politely.” He traces a line from tire dust to laundry lint to microfibers unseen until they aren’t.

“If we don’t want these fragments to last forever,” he says, “then we need polymers that know when to say goodbye. Someone calls out, “Break-up chemistry,” and the crowd chuckles.

“People worry biodegradable plastics will start decomposing too soon,” Bryan continues. “But think about your cereal box.

Cardboard is biodegradable. Does it biodegrade in your kitchen cabinet? If it does, you have a problem with your cabinet.”

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Steve Weiss follows, holding a stuffed wolf pup aloft.

“A wolf in training,” he says. “A reminder that hype grows up fast—and when it does, it eats capital.”

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He knows the room loves big visions, yet he reminds them that every miracle needs a balance sheet.

From his corner of the table, David Dodds returns serve with a grin:

“Fuels are the dog,” he says. “Chemicals are the tail. In this game, you chase the dog.”

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From the wings, Dave Collings adds dryly, phone still in hand: “The pipes don’t care about optimism—they care about throughput.”

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Finally, Joel Stone stands before a slide from The Lorax. The villain sings, “Let it die.” Stone looks up.

“That’s what happens when we forget where carbon belongs,” he says. “If we let the soil die, we lose everything we’re trying to save.”

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Let’s revisit Bryan’s Law.

“The right number of miracles for an entrepreneur is one.” At the time, it drew laughter—because it’s funny, and because it’s true. But as the crowd drifts toward flights and deadlines, the line keeps echoing.

There are two ways to hear it. One, as a caution: one miracle is plenty; don’t bet the farm on two. But there’s another tone in it—a quieter one, almost a plea. The hope that somewhere, someone will bring forward the miracle that makes the math and the mission both work out.

Because the wolves, for all their howls and humor, are believers too. Their rigor isn’t cynicism; it’s faith disciplined by reason. They laugh because they care, and because hope without laughter can’t last.

So maybe that’s the bioeconomy’s creed in the end: One miracle. Real, earned, and enough. READ MORE