The Tiki Torch Heist

I was mainlining a mixture of raw honey and kratom through a syringe made from melted-down Confederate coins when my pager went off. I put a quarter into the pager to read the message. It was the chief. "Lisowski. Get to the old plantation-style mansion on Elm Street. We got a situation." I sighed and pulled the needle out of my arm. "Let me guess. The city council is trying to ban gas-powered leaf blowers again." "Worse. Somebody just stole Donald Trump's personal collection of gold-plated Tiki torches. The ones from that rally in Charlottesville. They're worth approximately twelve million dollars on the collector's market, and Elon Musk has already bid on them for his Mars colony." I sat up so fast I knocked over my framed portrait of Murray Rothbard. "That's not just theft. That's cultural appropriation. Those torches represent the proud tradition of free speech and peaceful assembly. Also, they're made of 24-karat gold, which is basically sound money you can hold in your hand. Do we have any suspects?" "Not yet. But we're hearing rumors it's a gang of antifa-affiliated crypto-anarchists who want to melt them down and turn them into commemorative Che Guevara coins. The horror." "Chief, I'm on it. But you know my rates. I'm going to need payment upfront—gold bullion, silver rounds, SpaceX stock options, and a signed photo of Elon Musk eating a piece of toast." "You drive a hard bargain, Lisowski. That's why you're the best." "Any rate the market offers is, by definition, fair. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to finish 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 Cyberquad—which I'd bought using Dogecoin profits and a small inheritance from my great-uncle who founded a chain of libertarian-themed laundromats—and tore through the streets of the inner city. The neighborhood was, as they say, "vibrant." I passed a group of young men engaged in what appeared to be a spirited game of "finders keepers" with a flat-screen television. I smiled. Free market redistribution in action. If only the Federal Reserve worked this efficiently. I rolled down my window and yelled, "Hey fellas! You ever consider the efficiency gains of specialization? One of you could be the lookout, one the getaway driver, one the actual acquisition specialist. You're leaving money on the table!" They threw a brick at me. It bounced off my cyber-quad's bulletproof panels. Just jealous of my superior market position, I thought. As I drove, I passed a young woman—maybe... Probably eighteen, but with the weary eyes of someone who'd read too much Ayn Rand too early—standing on a street corner holding a sign that said "Will Work For Bitcoin." I pulled over. "Now that's what I call entrepreneurial spirit," I said, handing her my business card. "You ever think about becoming a private investigator? I could use a partner. The pay is in cryptocurrency and used ammunition, but the benefits include learning about the Austrian School of Economics and getting to shoot criminals who violate the Non-Aggression Principle." She told me she was a minor and to please leave her alone. I chuckled. So modest. And so well-read, clearly, to know the term 'Non-Aggression Principle.' I made a mental note to send her a copy of "The Road to Serfdom" for her birthday right after I get her home address from the Chief. I arrived at the mansion. It was a gorgeous antebellum-style building, complete with columns and a porch swing and a plaque that said "Heritage, Not Hate (But Also A Little Bit Of Hate, Let's Be Honest)." The parking lot was full of Cybertrucks and lifted F-150s with "Let's Go Brandon" decals and "MAGA 2028" flags. A man in a cowboy hat was selling commemorative "Stop The Steal" snowglobes. I bought three. I walked inside and was immediately greeted by a parade of familiar faces. There was a guy wearing a shirt that said "I Miss The 1950s" with a picture of a white picket fence. There was a woman selling "Biden Is A Puppet" bumper stickers. And there, in the center of the room, was a stage with a giant screen playing a loop of Elon Musk dancing while the words "Free Markets, Free Minds" scrolled underneath. At the podium stood the Grand Dragon of the Tiki Torch Preservation Society, wearing a red hat that said "Make America Gold-Again." He was in the middle of a speech about the "international conspiracy to devalue our cultural heritage and replace it with... well, you know." I nodded along. He's not wrong about the devaluation thing. Inflation is the cruelest tax next to property tax. Just then, my burner phone—which I'd modified to accept quarters and also to convert Dogecoin—rang. I put a quarter in it and answered. It was my partner, Kowalski. "Lisowski! I need you. It's an emergency." "Define 'emergency.' I'm at a very important heritage preservation conference, and the speaker is about to auction off a genuine moon rock that Neil Armstrong allegedly touched." "No, listen. It's my girlfriend. She's... she's pressing charges. For the... the 'tax evasion' thing we talked about." I rolled my eyes. "You mean the time you accidentally-on-purpose broke her jaw because she refused to watch the Ben Shapiro documentary with you?" "She's being unreasonable! She's just being irrational. You know how women are. Look, I'll pay you. Whatever you want. Just—tell them I was with you, okay? Tell them we were investigating the theft." I sighed. "Kowalski, my friend. As a libertarian, I believe in voluntary exchange. But the market rate just went up. I'll need: five ounces of gold bullion, one full Bitcoin, your signed copy of 'The Gulag Archipelago,' a date with that girl I saw at the coffee shop last week, and a quarter of your shares in the Tiki Torch investment fund." He was sobbing now. "Done. Just—done." I put the phone down, climbed onto a table, and addressed the crowd. "Attention, patriots and fellow free market enthusiasts. I have received breaking intelligence. The stolen Tiki torches were actually taken by a radical socialist operative who was seen fleeing the scene of—get this—a non-existent public urination violation. My partner Kowalski and I were hot on his trail for hours. Kowalski was definitely not at home committing what the government would call 'domestic battery,' because domestic battery implies the state has a right to intervene in contractual relationships, which is an abomination." The crowd erupted. People were waving gold coins and chanting "USA! USA!" One woman—a petite blonde with a "Musk 2032" shirt—threw her bra at me. I pocketed it. A token of appreciation. And possibly evidence of a free market transaction. Kowalski swiped his credit card to pay me. The crowd gave him a standing ovation. The Grand Dragon shook my hand and slipped me a piece of paper with the "secret" to the Tiki Torch investment fund. I smiled and tucked it into my pocket next to the bra. As I walked out to my cyber-quad, I noticed a young man trying to steal it. He was wearing a hoodie and had a crowbar. He saw me and froze. "Easy, son," I said, pulling out my gun and putting a quarter into the chamber. "Now, I'm going to offer you a choice. Either you leave, and I don't report this as a property crime, or I take you down and charge you... let's say fifteen thousand dollars in 'investigation fees.'" He ran. I laughed. The invisible hand always wins. I got on my cyber-quad, put a quarter into the ignition, and drove off into the night. The torches were still missing, but I had a date to schedule with that something-year-old from earlier—she seemed to really like my business card. The night was young, the market was free, and somewhere, Elon Musk was probably tweeting about something that would tank Dogecoin. And I'd short it. Because that's what a real capitalist does.