Ancap meme thread

Ancap meme thread

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...

It was one of those rainy nights in the city when I got the call. Some nobody down in the warehouse district causing trouble for his employer. My head was still buzzed from the scotch and cigar, bought duty-free import straight from Cuba, but I threw my coat on, took my hat, and took a drive. Forgetting myself, I reached for the seatbelt that wasn't there -- costs too much to manufacture or some garbage like that. I keep hearing that the free market would fix it, but since the corporations banned bicycles on their privately owned roadways, we ain't got much of a choice.

Carefully avoiding the crash on 2nd, 5th, and 9th Ave -- they took the lights down but the people just ain't ready for the free market yet, I guess -- I arrived at the scene on the incident, shortly after eleven P.M.
"Detective Mark Frie, I presume?" A blonde met me at the door, her sultry stare piercing the smoky haze of her cigarette's smoke. "Sure, toots. I'm here about the call. Someone's causing trouble and I'm to get to the bottom of it. You the one who's paying me?"
She smirked playfully and took a long drag from her cigarette, glance sizing me up, and resting on my automatic. "It's a good thing you don't need a license for that." I gave a slight snort. Nobody needed a license to carry automatics, anymore. Not since the 20's.

Flicking her cigarette into the rain, she beckoned me closer and, with her eyes smiling, commanded "Follow me." So I did.
The sharp edges of the warehouse hallway reflected dim fluorescent light, almost enough to hide the smudges and filth along the hallways. No regulations on safe environments meant there was no need to hire someone to clean up. 'S not like the customer will care where or how their products are made, after all. Though the clashing and humming of running machinery was loud enough to deafen, even here, the blonde's heels tapped loud enough to drown it out. As I found myself getting acquainted with her lovely legs, her fist came down upon a closed door, and we stopped abruptly. "In here, you are to be respectful. He's a job creator, you know. Wouldn't want to get on his bad side.

I gave a half-hearted shrug and entered the room, hanging my hat by the door. "Detective Mark T. Frie. You wanted me to investigate a rat in your midst?" The pungent odor of cigar smoke invaded by nose, and my head buzzed again with the memory of my own while a sloppy, large man hefted himself to his feet, the grease from his steak still marking his chin. "Ah, ah, yes, Mr. Frie. May I call you Mark?" I simply shook my head, and the narrowing of his eyes wasn't lost on me. "Well, suffice it to say, one of these traitors on this very shift has been feeding lies of regulations and safety ordinances," the man shook his hands incredulously, "and I want you to put an end to it. Now, I'm prepared to pay you three now, and six after the job is done." I took my hat from the rack again and shook my head once more. "Sir, I was under the impression that this was an actual job. You not only expect me to go to work on three bitcoins, with the promise of more later, but you ONLY expect to pay NINE bitcoins?" After the dollar crashed in the late 10's, bitcoin took over as the primary currency. "Maybe you'd have more luck with the police," I claimed, already knowing that the police would cost ten times that. It's not like they get paid in some ornate thing like 'tax dollars,' after all.

"Alright, alright, alright! Twenty, but not a decimal more!" He wrings his hands and pats the sweat off his bulbous face, and I replace my hat upon the rack. "Up front," I told him, and his eyes nearly popped out of his misshapen skull. "Or I hit the road and you can figure it out on your own." The man shivers and takes out his card, swiping it over mine and transferring the necessary bitcoin...and I say nothing more while I head out onto the floor. The dark haze of smoke from the machines smelting steel burned the eyes as I entered, and if I hadn't stopped to wipe the tears from my eyes I would've tripped over some ten year old feeding iron scrap into the machine.

lmao

He coughed up a couple droplets of blood before wiping his chin off with a dingy sleeve. "Oi mate, me name's Otto, an' I be 'elpin' me fambly out on tha steelworks, innit." Ten years old and already talking like a chav. I guess it's to be expected, since public education was shut down after the crash. If you don't have the money, you don't get educated. Some of us still remember, we're grandfathered in from the times of relatively cheap education. But now? I guess the free market fixed it. "Otto. You know who's been trying to get better conditions in this dump?" He shook his head vigorously and spasmed. Maybe he'd be able to eat more than a couple times a week if he worked harder, so I let him get back to working, since he was useless to me, anyway.
Wandering around the floor, I stumbled across the dingy walls, painted over haphazardly by the lowest bidder, probably with the lowest bidder's paint. It rose in a few places, outlining old posters -- probably those antiquated 'employee rights' things. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I had seen a missed spot. Wouldn't've been surprising, after all. Piss poor pay, piss poor work. On closer inspection, I noticed that it was one of those posters. Freshly printed, could still smell the ink on it over the molten iron's fumes. It outlined the things an employee would expect from his employer, as if you should expect anything more than to get paid. Pulling it off the wall, I gave it a good look over.

go on...

Sex slaves?

Though I could read the words, I knew it'd be a wasted effort. Nobody hired -educated- people for these types of jobs. They need someone uneducated. Don't ask too many questions, after all. I guess the free market fixed it.
Now, I knew Otto couldn't read, and I didn't expect any of the other kids working around the smelting shop to know how to, either. Thankfully, the poor pictures and illustrations -- printed by some antiquated dot matrix printer, showed things like 'safety in the workplace' and 'decent pay.' I still remembered when an hour of work would pay for pasteurized milk, now it'd be more like a day. Costs are too high for how much the people make, so it was a deathwish for a producer to produce it.
Turning it over, I saw the smudge of what could've been blood. Outside of the third degree burns , there -was- blood all around the place. Don't get cleaned up, serves as a free warning not to fuck up on the job, I guess. But on closer inspection, it looked a bit like...lipstick.

I think they wanted to try it with white people.

Incredulous, my eyes opened wide as I started to fit the pieces together. The blonde. She'd been behind it all along. I just had to find her. Rushing through the workshop, and nearly tripping on a heat stroking Otto, I reached the hallway again. The flickering fluorescent light at the end showed the haze of cigarette smoke just beyond a still-opened door. In my rush to catch up to her, I didn't even realize it was propped open by a wayward piece of iron. The door slammed shut with enough force to take a finger off, if I'd been slow enough to be there when it happened. It was one of those emergency exit doors, from the times when emergency exits still needed an alarm and an easy path to, but the alarm had long gone dead, and nobody was spending the money to fix it.
The girl was nowhere to be seen in the pitch blackness of night, and the rain was coming down in sheets.

Unable to pry it back open -- the handle had long since rusted off from this side -- I took off running around the building to its only other entrance. With the door in sight, I heard the bloodcurling squeal of a stuck pig -- or at least, what sounded like one. Down the hall again, and into the workshop, I found the job creator strapped to a conveyor, the one that fed iron scraps into the furnace. It groaned under his weight, and his hapless wriggling wasn't able to free him from the industrial chains, locked shut, that kept him there. "Detective! Get me the HELL off of this thing, right now!"

I only shrugged halfheartedly as I looked around the machine for an emergency stop button. Of course, once I found the aperture for it, I found that it had been pried out, its circuitry open. Sticking a hand in there'd probably kill me. "No can do, boss man. Y'ain't got a way to stop the thing."
He squealed as his head rolled closer to the blazing furnace, and I wheeled around the machine to access its controls.
The lever was stuck in the 'on' position, garbage and scrap long since rusted and rotted inside. There was absolutely no way to stop the machine, but time was up, anyway. The smoking soon to be carcass of the job creator, still squealing and vacating his bowels from within the furnace made me gag, and I didn't even bother trying to get him out. It was too late, and the private med service'd get him out, if anyone else paid for it. I sure as hell wasn't about to.
"I guess the free market fixed it."

A flash of red and blonde caught the corner of my eye before it dashed down the hall again, and I gave chase, the wafting stench of rotten bacon filling the room behind me.
The flutter of her dress in the rain slowly slipped from my vision. Down one alley, toward the docks. Cut across the road...and disappeared into the rainy night as a truck crossed my path, refusing to stop at an intersection. The blaze of fire after the crash showed that it must've been an oil truck...and the fire was fast spreading up the warehouse I was just inside.
I crossed the street on my way to the docks, and crept slowly as I caught up to the blonde, having just started the engine on a brilliant white yacht.
She heard me first, and drew an old derringer -- one of those antiquated handguns that still bore serial numbers.
"You stay right there, Mr. Frie," she started, blonde hair matted to her dress, similarly matted to her svelte curves. "I'm going...and you're going to watch."

>ifunny.co

"What makes you so sure," I replied, slowly reaching for my automatic, "that I won't shoot you where you stand?"
She pointed the gun at me threateningly and snarled through her ruby lips. "DON'T...touch that gun, Mr. Frie. You want to know how I know you don't you anything?"
She shrugged her shoulders and, with a stern glare that reminded me of some teacher I had, back when public education was a thing, continued. "You didn't get paid to shoot me. You got paid to find out who was behind it."
I glowered quietly at her and drew my hand away from my own gun, still staring into her eyes. "If you kill me, or if you arrest me...you'd be doing it for free." I gritted my teeth and narrowed my eyes at the woman, as the tide was dragging the yacht further from the dock. "And if you let me go, you'd only realize that I was right, all along."
It struck me like lightning, that steely resolve. She was right.
"Why'd you do it, then? To showcase some 'morality?' Because you weren't being paid enough?"
She let out a chuckle and shook her head.

"I was a teacher once, Mr. Frie. I loved educating children. But look around you. Adults who cannot read, preventable deaths every day. Food poisoning. You say the free market will fix it, but it never has. It never will."
If I had any less presence of mind, I'd call her a commie where she stood, but remembering the past, and comparing it to the present...it was hard to call her out.
"So even if I have to burn the whole city down, we will have our rights again."

...

The rain was picking up, and the fog atop the ocean's violent sloshing foam made it hard to see her, and even harder to hear.
I reached down to take up my hat, and returned to my car as she sped off into the distance.
The private firefighters were busy putting out the fires spreading from the building burning down, not realizing the carcass of the job creator was getting an impromptu cremation inside.
I didn't bother putting my hat or coat up when I returned to the office, throwing them haphazardly upon the floor and slumping directly into my chair.
As I lit a cigar and cracked open another bottle of whiskey, I stared at the pyre burning in the distance, and considered the blonde's last words. "We will be free."
I took a swig, then another, before having a long, delightful drag on that duty-free cigar.
Maybe tomorrow, I'd go looking for her.
Maybe tomorrow'd be the day we could see the sunshine again.
Either way, it felt like this career wasn't doing much for me. ...Or hell, much good at all.
I chuckled as the irony struck me, and leveled my gaze through the haze of cigar fumes at the funereal pyre in the distance.
"I guess the free market fixed it, after all."

...

And compelte. I wrote this to troll ancaps and libertards.

Speaking of, why did the libertarian cross the road?

A: What road?

How many ancaps and libertarians does it take to change a lightbulb?

Trick question. Ancaps and libertarians cannot change anything.

>/r/FULLCOMMUNISM visits Sup Forums

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