The Fraternity Rush

I was polishing my limited-edition gold-plated Colt and humming "Taxman" by the Beatles—ironically, of course—when I decided to take my off-hours to visit my old fraternity. It’s a tight-knit brotherhood, heavy on tradition and civic duty. You might know them: the Fraternal Order of Police, Lodge no. 10. To get there, I had to navigate my privately-financed Ford Crown Victoria through the inner city. It’s always an adventure. I admire the sheer Darwinian hustle of the place; the local entrepreneurs really know how to redistribute wealth. I watched a young man in a hoodie expertly repossess a lady’s purse using nothing but a crowbar and a total disregard for the NAP (Non-Aggression Principle). I chuckled to myself and took a sip of my Monster Energy Zero Ultra. They’re so efficient, I thought. If only the Fed printed currency with that much vigor. I rolled down my window and yelled at a group of loiterers, "Hey! You guys ever think about turning that pent-up entrepreneurial energy into a lemonade stand? The barriers to entry are practically non-existent!" They didn't appreciate my market insights. They threw a bottle. I just shrugged and kept driving, because we all know property crime is just a volatile market correction. As I passed my old neighborhood, I spotted my neighbor's pit bull chained to a fence. It brought a warm, fuzzy feeling to my heart—specifically, the memory of last Tuesday when I was on duty. The mutt was barking at a leaf, violating my right to quiet enjoyment of my patrol car. So I gave it a little lead-based tranquilizer. Pop. Still brings a smirk to my face when I remember that thud. Best taxpayer-funded ammunition I ever spent. The owner tried to sue, but I cited the "menacing non-verbal communication" statute. Case closed. I pulled into the lodge parking lot, which was packed. Good turn-out. As I walked in, I saw the familiar white robes and conical hats. Ah, the old "Heritage Committee" meeting. I grabbed a Coors Light—sponsored by the "Free Market Preservation Society"—and settled in. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m a free-thinker, just like Trump. But I couldn't help glancing around nervously at the gathered brethren. The only thing spookier than a burning cross is the thought of an undercover fed or—God forbid—Internal Affairs lurking in the gift shop line, just waiting to ruin a perfectly good off-duty networking event. You can’t trust anyone in uniform anymore, even if they’re wearing the same bed-sheet drapes as you. It makes me deeply uncomfortable knowing there's a non-zero chance I'm swapping small-talk about states' rights with a guy who has a wire under his robe. The only good kind of Union is the police Union. We protect the free market of property owners. A fair deal. The Grand Dragon was just getting to the part about fractional reserve banking, Israel and its corrosive effects on Caucasian—err, American—heritage, when my burner phone vibrated. I put a quarter into the handset and answered. It was my partner, Miller. "Lisowski," I said, stepping behind a burning barrel for privacy. "This better be urgent. The 'Heritage Committee' is about to auction off a commemorative noose previously tied by Charlie Kirk and Doug Wilson, and I want to see if the bidding gets competitive." Miller was crying. He’d lost his temper and given his wife a black eye. Again. The feds were sniffing around because the hospital mandatory-reported it, and he needed a solid alibi. "I’ll pay you, Lisowski. Whatever you want. Just tell them we were tailing a suspect." A true libertarian never turns down a voluntary exchange. "Standard rate for a coerced-official-document falsification package," I said, pulling a crumpled napkin from my pocket. "I’ll take two ounces of gold bullion, a case of 5.56mm,... No make it two, and your autographed copy of Atlas Shrugged. I'm also willing to take Ann Rand if you have any, plus at least a sixth of a silver bullion. That’s the market equilibrium, buddy. Take it or leave it." He sobbed his acceptance. So, while the klan rally swelled behind me, chanting about "heritage not hate," I calmly provided a robust alibi over the phone. "Miller and I were investigating a suspicious character—a tall, vaguely ethnic male fleeing the scene of a non-existent parking violation. We were in pursuit for three hours. He definitely wasn't at home punching his wife, because that would imply government interference in a domestic contractual dispute, which I simply don't acknowledge." I hung up, satisfied. I had provided a vital service for a mutually agreed-upon price, excused a brother-in-arms, and effectively neutered federal overreach—all while passively enjoying a rally dedicated to Making America Great, Again. As I walked back to my chair, the speaker was imploring everyone to "protect their neighborhoods." I nodded along, thinking about my neighbor’s dog. Damn right. "You will not replace us!" The night was young, the market was free, and the marshmallows roasting on the nearby pyre were perfectly toasted.