Chlorinated Chicken Conspiracy

I was injecting a mixture of raw honey, MCT oil, and a dash of colloidal silver directly into my carotid artery while listening to a podcast about how the Federal Reserve caused the Great Depression when my satellite phone rang. I put a quarter into the satellite phone to activate it. It was the chief. "Lisowski. Get to the USDA headquarters. We got a situation." I sighed and pulled the needle out of my arm. "Let me guess. They're trying to ban trans fats again." "Worse. Somebody just stole the master batch of the COVID-19 vaccine. The one the WHO was going to distribute globally. We're talking about tens of billions of dollars in government contracts." I sat up so fast I knocked over my framed portrait of Murray Rothbard. "That's not theft. That's a humanitarian intervention. That vaccine represents the ultimate violation of bodily autonomy. It's government-mandated medical tyranny disguised as public health. Also, there's a bounty on it—one hundred thousand dollars in gold bullion. Do we have any leads?" "Not yet. But we're hearing rumors it's a group of sovereign citizens who want to reverse-engineer it and sell the antidote on the black market." "Chief, I'm on it. But you know my rates. I'll need payment in gold bullion, silver rounds, SpaceX stock options, a signed photo of Elon Musk eating a taco, and a lifetime supply of unpasteurized raw milk from that Wisconsin farm the FDA keeps harassing." "You drive a hard bargain, Lisowski." "Any rate the market offers is, by definition, fair. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to do my morning constitutional—which is to say, I need to write a strongly worded letter to my congressman about the income tax." --- I hopped into my privately-funded Tesla Cybertruck—which I'd purchased using Dogecoin profits and a small inheritance from my great-uncle who founded a chain of gold-backed laundromats—and tore through the streets of Washington D.C. The city was, as they say, "culturally enriched." I passed a group of young men engaged in what appeared to be a spirited negotiation about the ownership of a recently acquired bicycle. I smiled. The invisible hand at work. If only the Federal Reserve printed currency with this much efficiency. I rolled down my window and shouted, "Gentlemen! Have you considered the benefits of vertical integration? One of you could specialize in logistics, another in procurement, another in sales. You're leaving money on the table!" One of them threw a bottle at me. It bounced off my bulletproof glass. So sensitive. Must be union members. As I drove, I passed a woman holding a sign that said "COVID Is A Hoax." I nodded approvingly and gave her a thumbs up. She gave me a thumbs up back. Now that's what I call a free exchange of ideas. --- I arrived at the USDA headquarters. It was a massive brutalist building that looked like something out of a Soviet propaganda film. The parking lot was full of government-issued sedans and a few Teslas belonging to undercover libertarian operatives. A man in a tricorn hat was selling "Big Pharma Is Big Government" t-shirts. I bought three. I walked inside and was immediately hit by the smell of government bureaucracy and crushed dreams. There were security guards everywhere, looking confused and underpaid. I flashed my badge and put a quarter into it to make it glow. "Detective Lisowski, independent contractor for the Fraternal Order of Police. I'm here to investigate the theft. Also, I'm willing to provide consulting services on a fee-for-service basis." The security guard looked at me like I was insane. "Sir, this is a federal building. You can't just—" "Can't just what? Exercise my constitutionally protected right to offer my services on the open market? I think you'll find that's exactly what the Founders intended when they wrote the Second Amendment." The guard sighed and waved me through. Some people just don't appreciate the value of a good consultant. --- I made my way to the lab where the vaccine had been stolen. It was a mess—broken vials, overturned tables, and a single piece of paper with the word "TYRANNY" written on it in red ink. I put a quarter into my magnifying glass to activate it and examined the scene. I found a single strand of hair—blonde, which meant it was probably a woman's, which meant it was probably a liberal. I also found a footprint from a pair of expensive boots—the kind worn by sovereign citizens who don't believe in paying taxes. Just then, my burner phone—which I'd modified to accept quarters and also to convert gold-to-peso exchange rates—rang. I put a quarter in it and answered. It was my partner, Kowalski. "Lisowski! Emergency! The city council is trying to ban my unlicensed hot dog stand!" I rolled my eyes. "Define 'unlicensed.' You mean the one you set up in your backyard with the raw meat and the expired condiments?" "Yes! They're saying I'm a 'public health hazard' because I refuse to use refrigeration!" "Kowalski, my friend. As a libertarian, I believe in the sanctity of voluntary exchange. But this is going to cost you. I'll need: three ounces of gold bullion, one Bitcoin, your signed copy of 'The Road to Serfdom,' and a lifetime supply of your artisanal, unregulated hot dogs." He was sobbing now. "Done. Just—done." --- I put the phone down and followed the trail of clues. It led me to a converted warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The building was covered in signs that said "I Am Not A Citizen, I Am A Free Inhabitant" and "No Taxation Without Representation (And Also No Representation, Because The Government Is Illegitimate)." I knocked on the door. A man with a long beard and a tricorn hat answered. "State your business, government agent," he said, holding a copy of the Constitution like a weapon. "I'm not a government agent," I said. "I'm an independent contractor. I'm here to negotiate the return of the stolen vaccine." "I don't negotiate with the state," he said. "Good," I replied. "Because I'm not the state. I'm a free market solution to a government problem. I'm willing to pay you one hundred thousand dollars in gold bullion for the vaccine. Or, if you prefer, I can offer you a deal where you get a percentage of the profits when I sell it to the highest bidder." He looked intrigued. "The highest bidder?" "Yes. I know a guy—he's a sovereign citizen too. He runs a private militia in Montana. He's willing to pay top dollar for the vaccine so he can reverse-engineer it and sell the antidote. No government mandates. No FDA approval. Just pure, unregulated capitalism." The man thought about it for a moment. "What's your commission?" "Twenty percent. Plus a finder's fee. Plus a small equity stake in the eventual antidote distribution company." He nodded. "You've got yourself a deal." --- He handed me the vaccine. I put it in my special insulated briefcase—which I'd purchased from a man who sold them at gun shows—and walked out. The deal was done. The free market had triumphed once again. As I walked back to my Cybertruck, I spotted a man running across the parking lot. He was holding a syringe and wearing a biohazard suit. He had the look of a desperate man. A man with a mission. I recognized him—he was the leader of the sovereign citizens' cell. He'd double-crossed me. He was trying to escape with the vaccine. I jumped into my Cybertruck, put a quarter into the ignition, and tore after him. "Stop right there!" I yelled through my loudspeaker—which I'd modified to accept quarters. "I'm willing to negotiate a fair market rate for your surrender! I'm offering two ounces of gold, one silver bar, and a signed copy of 'Atlas Shrugged'!" He kept running. He was fast. Too fast. I had to think quickly. I pulled out my bullhorn—which I'd modified to accept quarters—and put a quarter in it. "I'm increasing my offer! Three ounces of gold, two silver bars, and a guided tour of the Federal Reserve building where I will personally explain to you why it's a monument to tyranny!" He paused for a moment, then kept running. A tough negotiator. I respect that. I increased my speed. I was gaining on him. "Four ounces of gold! Three silver bars! A lifetime supply of unpasteurized raw milk! And—wait for it—a rare, first-edition copy of 'The Law' by Frédéric Bastiat, signed by the ghost of Ron Paul!" He stopped. Turned around. He was breathing heavily, but he was intrigued. "You have a signed copy of 'The Law'? By the ghost of Ron Paul?" "Absolutely," I lied. "I mean, he's not actually dead. But I know a guy who knows a guy who has a friend who can get it signed. Just... come back to the car. We can negotiate a better price. A fair market price. I'm flexible." He walked back to my Cybertruck, syringe still in hand. "What about the vaccine?" "The vaccine? That's separate. But I'm also willing to negotiate a fair market value for the vaccine itself. I'll give you the vaccine in exchange for... let's say, you tell me who's behind this whole operation. And you give me a cut of the profits when you sell the antidote." "But—but the antidote is for the vaccine," he said, confused. "They're the same thing. The vaccine is government poison. The antidote is freedom." I nodded sagely. "Exactly. That's why I'm offering you the vaccine—for a fee—and the antidote—for a larger fee. It's a bundled package. You get the vaccine, which is poison, and the antidote, which is freedom. But you also get to pay me twice. It's a win-win-win." He thought about it for a moment. "You're a genius," he said. "I know," I replied. "Now, let's talk payment terms." --- We negotiated for about an hour. By the end, we had a deal. I gave him the vaccine. He gave me the antidote. I also gave him a small vial of what I claimed was a "freedom enhancer" but was actually just tap water. He shook my hand. "You're the best business partner I've ever had," he said. "You too," I replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go short Dogecoin. The market's about to crash, and I want to be on the right side of it." I got in my Cybertruck, put a quarter into the ignition, and drove off into the night. The night was young, the market was free, and somewhere, Milton Friedman was probably nodding approvingly. I looked at the antidote in my briefcase. It was government poison, after all. And I'd just sold it to a man who thought it was freedom. The invisible hand always wins. End.