by Curtis Craddock.
All rights reserved.
“Bigly Enterprises quarterly profits are up twelve percent this quarter,” said Mr. Bigly proudly, rapping the table with his knuckles for emphasis. This was lie, of course, Bigly Enterprises had been a steep slump for the last three quarters, and Mr. Bigly had no idea why. The number was supposed to go up and up like a rocket. Instead it had been sinking, plummeting really, more like a missile that was about to auger into the ground, but it would do to let the other members of the Big Five know that.
Mr. Bigly suspected, indeed was almost sure that the other four member of the Big Five, the deserving men who collectively owned one hundred percent of the world’s resources and means of production, had seen their fortunes decline as well.
Mr. Richie owner of Richie Unlimited, adjusted his tie, squinted at his notes and said, “Tough luck old chap, it looks like Richie Unlimited is up twelve and a half percent. Extraction, processing and sale of biological material continues to be very strong. Yes, very strong indeed.”
“Outrageous,” Mr. Bigly said, but not too loudly. Mr. Richie was just making numbers up, but then so was Mr. Bigly, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Mr. Richie had simply added half a percent to whatever Mr. Bigly had said.
Mr. Koine, who chaired this meeting, adjusted his little round spectacles, then steepled his wrinkled, liver-spotted fingers and said, “Now that little ritual is out of the way. The question turns to how do we increase our collective profits next quarter?”
“Trim expenses,” said Mr. Vault, automatically. He liked to get the first words in, specifically the words, “Trim expenses,” on these little round tables so that he could appear to be taking the lead even when he had nothing at all of value to contribute.
“But which expenses?” asked Mr. Richie. “And how do we divide them up? After all, Richie Unlimited is structured quite differently that Koine Ventures.”
“We cut labor costs,” said Mr. Tightfist. “Fire the lazy ones. Motivate the rest to work harder.”
Everybody just stared at Mr. Tightfist for a moment, wondering if the man had gone daft.
Mr. Koine, who of all of them had some sense of diplomacy, leaned a bit forward and said. “There was a time when that idea might have made sense, but we furloughed the last of our workers last quarter. There are none left. The robots do all the work now.”
“Well fire some of them,” Mr. Tightfist snapped shaking a meaty fist in Koine’s general direction. “They cost money to operate, don’t they? Dismantle a few and the rest of them will damned well work harder.”
Mr. Koine’s wrinkled lips puckered at this rather unique interpretation of robot motives, but he was saved from having to explain himself when the excitable Mr. Vault said, “The problem is how to increase consumption.”
Because no one is buying, Mr. Bigly concluded from inside the safety of his own skull.
Very cautiously Mr. Richie said, “There is not enough money in circulation.”
“Because no one wants to work,” Mr. Bigly said. “No work no income, they just latch themselves on like ticks to public assistance.”
“Reduce public assistance,” said Mr. Tightfist.
Mr. Koine turned his rheumy-eyed displeasure on Mr. Bigly, “Do I need to remind you that we cancelled all public assistance two years ago.
“It was never a big Factor in my decision making,” said Mr. Bigly by way of a dodge.
Mr. Richie pounded his fist on the table, “We need a way to make the number go up.”
“Devalue the currency?” asked Mr. Vault. “Just add a zero on the end?”
“Won’t work,” said Mr. Bigly. “The numbers will look bigger, but they won’t move product any faster.”
“We need to force those people to get jobs,” said Mr. Richie. “There’s always work if you’re willing to look for it.”
“Are you going to hire them?” asked Mr. Koine.
Mr. Richie rose from his chair in a way that might have been menacing but for his arthritis which made him go up in stages. “Are you insane? The key to profitability is controlling labor costs.”
Mr. Koine leaned back in his oversized chair. “True, but as a thought experiment, as a matter of mere speculation, consider the possibility that there may not be any work for the workers to do? Between us, we do own all the means of production and all the planet’s resources. If none of us employs anyone, who do they have to work for?”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Bigly waved this speculation away. “Finding work is the responsibility of the worker and not of anybody else.”
Querulously Mr. Vault said, “There was an attempt in one of my districts amongst the workers to form a cooperative union, something they called an alternative economy. I had it stomped flat, of course, but it did generate a small amount of economic activity before it was eliminated.”
“Unacceptable,” Mr. Bigly said. “Unions always suppress economic activity and destroy freedom. They must always be stamped out.”
Mr. Koine said, “Which brings us right back to where we started. How do we increase profits?”
Mr. Tightfist peered out from whatever alternate reality he occupied these days and said, “The Sea. If they won’t work, if they won’t toil push them into the sea.”
Silence fell around the table as these worthiest of all men considered the proposition.
At last Mr. Richie said. “We own the land.”
Mr. Vault said, “Yes, and they are trespassing. They must be driven out.”
Mr. Bigly said, “They are like locusts, consuming things that do not belong to them, things that have value.”
Mr. Tightfist said, “In the modern economy out of work workers represent an irrecoverable net loss.”
My Koine smiled thinly. “Then it seems we have a proposition. We will reduce our costs for the foreseeable future by pushing everyone else into the sea. All in favor say ‘Aye.’”
The approval was unanimous.
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