Scene: Our story begins in the living room of a small home in Dallas, TX, where the homeowner enjoys a bit of political and economic discussion with “conservative” commentator Jacob Goldsmith, US Senator (R-ME) Lacy Stevens, and black commentator Joe Jameson.
The homeowner has just voiced his objections to taxation by the federal government, and the ridiculous spending by the same, on things that fall well outside of the authority granted to the federal government by the US Constitution. A brief discussion of the Commerce clause and various outrageous rulings by the Supreme Court reveal to the homeowner just how “quaint” his beliefs are. All three of his guests agree that the just application of federal power to collect money from the people for proper expenditure is not only allowed by the US Constitution, but is entirely reasonable, expected and necessary for the continuation of US society as we know it.
At this point, the homeowner loses his cool . . .
Whipping out a model 1911A Colt .45 automatic pistol he sticks it in the face of Mr. Goldsmith. Terrified, Mr. Goldsmith struggles to control himself and trembles visibly. Senator Stevens screams piercingly as Mr. Jameson tries to make for the door. The wild-eyed gun nut fires a shot into the air stopping Jameson in his tracks.
“Now, each of you is going to sit down and do exactly as you’re told,” he commands. He waves the gun about to direct each of them to take a seat on the couch.
Facing his guests as they sit sheepishly on his couch the dinner host begins . . .
“Mr. Goldsmith, how much money do you have in your wallet?”
“Um, huh? Wh-what do you mean?” Goldsmith stammers.
“I mean, how much fucking money do you have on your person right now?”
“I dunno. May-maybe two-hundred or two-hundred-fifty dollars.”
“Great!” the gunman exclaims. “Are you married? Do you have any minor children living at home with you? If yes, how many?”
“Uh, um, y-yeah I’m married. I have t-two boys at home and a girl in college. W-why? You’re not going to k-kill me are you?”
“Shut up and answer my questions. Everything will be fine if you do exactly what I tell you to do. Trust me; I know what I’m doing. Now, please take your money out and count it carefully. I want you to be sure of exactly how much money you have in your wallet. After you count it I want you to put exactly thirty percent of it on the coffee table.”
Goldsmith fumbles for his wallet, nervously fans the bills out and counts the cash. He has two-hundred-ninety dollars.
“Oh, so you lied to me did you? You fucking cheater. Instead of putting thirty percent on the table just make it an even one-twenty. That’ll teach you to lie to me, asshole.”
Shaking Goldsmith counts out one-hundred twenty dollars and lays it on the table.
“Now you, Senator, how much money do you have on you right now? Don’t fucking lie to me like this other asshole did!”
Senator Stevens has regained her composure and she reaches for her purse calmly, though her stiff motions give away her absolute terror of the situation. She pulls out her wallet and counts out her cash. She has three-thousand, four-hundred, twenty-seven dollars.
“Well, you’re a rich one, aren’t you? Do you always carry that much cash around?”
She nods, eyes wide with fear.
“How did you get this money?”
“It-it’s from my bank. I always keep some cash around for emergencies.”
“Well, lucky for you we have an emergency today,” he grins maniacally. “Now, answer my real question, how did you EARN this money?”
She shrugs a bit and says, “It’s part of my salary for being a Senator.”
“You didn’t earn any of this dealing drugs or selling pornography, did you? Were you self-employed? If so, what kind of business? Did you get any of this money from gambling? Was any of this money a gift? If so, from whom? Did any of this money come to you by way of any illegal means? Did you buy a big fucking boat this year? Do you own your own home?” He rattles off the questions in a staccato voice, and she shakes her head in answer, slowly at first and then nearly hysterically as she tries to keep up with his questions.
“Good. Now put fifteen-hundred bucks on the table and shut the fuck up.”
Finally, he turns to Jameson. “What about you? How much money have you got?”
Jameson reaches into his pocket, draws out his wallet and counts out thirty-five dollars.
“Humph. Only thirty-five? OK, well put five of it on the table.”
The man gathers up the cash from the table, looks over everyone there, counts through it.
“OK, here’s what I’m going to do. Jameson, because you only had thirty-five bucks I’m giving you twenty back. We can’t have your dumb ass walking around with only thirty bucks in your pocket now can we? Goldsmith, you’ve got some kids and a college age girl. I’m going to give you some of your money back, but not all of it because you lied to me. Here, take twenty bucks. Ms. Stevens, you’re screwed. You had too much damn money, and still do, but I can’t take more than forty percent from you.”
He hands out the bills to each of the men and smirks in the Senator’s face.
“Now, I’m going to take the rest of this money, and I’m going to repave my driveway. You fuckers need roads to drive around on, and I know where you need them built best: near my house. I’m also going to buy myself another pistol. You wouldn’t want anyone to rob you or try to kill you, would you? I didn’t think so. So, I’m going to get another pistol to make sure I have a weapon available to me at all times so I can protect you. Finally, some of this money is going to disappear into my pocket. You don’t need to worry about where it’s going or why. In fact, if you ask too many questions I might shoot you in the head for being too god-damned nosy.”
“So, you’ve all been taxed. Seeing as I have the gun right now, and you don’t, I think this is a very reasonable arrangement. As long as I have more power than you, I’ll be the government. Now, get the fuck out of my house!”
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