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By Russell Walter - Jan 25, 2026
The year was 2062, and everyone was finally happy. They weren’t just happy with the weather, or their pets, or the things that typically make people happy. They were happy with their leaders. They were happy with the infrastructure. They were happy with the order, stability, and efficiency... of the government! All this happiness could be attributed to the unceasing vigilance of Ronald McDonald and his court philosopher, Curtis Yarvin.
The people had gathered beneath the colossal Golden Arch in the central plaza to express this happiness. They were surrounded by a pantheon of heroes. Grimace, the Hamburglar, and Ronald McDonald all towered above them in gleaming marble. Beyond the plaza stood the great institutions of state: the McPalace, the Moldbug School of Statecraft, and the Supreme McCourt, where justice was served (as well as fries, shakes, and apple pies).
The crowd had congregated in front of a grand stage erected beneath the Arch. The plaza was packed—both because of the number of people and because the people themselves were extremely fat. They were all dressed in the national colors, red and yellow, and they carried flags that proclaimed ‘I’m Lovin’ It’. And they were loving it! The crowd teemed with excitement as they prepared to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the McMonarchy.
A figure suddenly emerged from behind the curtain and took the stage. It was Mayor McCheese, who—after the abolition of elections—was a mayor in name only. His greasy cheeseburger head gleamed under the stage lights. He raised both arms high, and the plaza fell silent.
‘MCMONARCHY!’ he bellowed.
The crowd erupted in perfect unison: ‘I’M LOVIN’ IT!’
‘MCMONARCHY!’
‘I’M LOVIN’ IT!’
‘MCMONARCHY!’
‘I’M LOVIN’ IT!’
Mayor McCheese lowered his arms slowly, deliberately. The crowd fell silent once more. McCheese had carefully studied Adolf Hitler’s speeches, and knew the power of a pregnant pause. He let the silence linger until it became uncomfortable, until every eye in the plaza was fixed on his giant cheeseburger head.
‘Loyal subjects,’ he began, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that somehow carried across the entire square. ‘As we celebrate our tenth anniversary, we must not forget—must never forget—the dysfunction of democracy. We must remember the chaos from which Ronaldus Rex delivered us.’
He paused, then raised one arm toward the massive screen that loomed behind him. ‘We must remember,’ he bellowed, ‘the chaos of democracy!’
The screen flickered to life, revealing the face of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, The Enemy of Order. A deep, authoritative voice emanated from the speakers:
‘In 2048, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez won the presidential election with 52% of the vote.’
Uncontrollable howls of rage broke out among the crowd.
The voice from the screen continued, ‘Reckless government spending quickly led to hyperinflation.’ The screen showed footage of people rioting outside McDonald’s. ‘And by 2050, a Big Mac cost $350. Locations across the nation began to close.’
Once again, uncontrollable howls broke out among the crowd.
Then, without warning, the screen cut to an extreme close-up of a McGriddle. Steam rose from the golden griddle cakes, and a perky voice chirped: ‘Start your day the McGriddle way!’
Without thinking, without hesitation, every person in the plaza moaned: ‘Start your day the McGriddle way!’ And began to salivate. A ripple of movement spread through the crowd as thousands began looking for the closest McDonald’s.
But before anyone could move, the video cut to Ronald McDonald in his office. That familiar painted grin still stretched across his face, but his eyes conveyed complete despair. He stared out at a skyline that had once been illuminated by Golden Arches.
‘In his darkest hour, Ronald discovered Curtis Yarvin’s blog, Unqualified Reservations. And he realized, just as McDonald’s needed a CEO, America needed a McMonarch.’
‘A movement began, not in the halls of power, but among the fryers, the grills, and the milkshake machines. Using his mastery of logistics, supply chains, and chain of command, Ronald McDonald established the McMilitia—a fighting force led by General Hamburglar, that ultimately overthrew the democracy.‘
The screen cut to footage of General Hamburglar’s Great McMarch on Washington.
‘Many brave men fell that day. Major Birdie. Captain McNugget. District Manager Jerry Patterson from Tulsa. Shift Supervisor Maria Gonzalez from Phoenix. Crew Trainer Devon Washington from Baltimore. And countless other Crew Members, Cashiers, Maintenance Technicians, and Area Leaders.’
‘We gather here today, not only to honor their sacrifices, but also to celebrate our achievements. Thanks to the unceasing efforts of our McMinistries, we have managed to build a Kingdom that is the envy of the world. No crime. No hunger. No unemployment.’
The video cut to panoramic shots of Ronaldopolis, the capital of the United Franchises of America.
Monumental skyscrapers dominated the cityscape. Elevated transit tubes carried electric vehicles from district to district. Drone networks ferried goods through the air. And at the heart of it all stood the Colossal Golden Arch, the defining symbol of the new age, beneath which the crowd now stood.
The screen went red. The word ‘McMonarchy’ appeared in yellow. The authoritative voice returned one final time: ‘McMonarchy. I’m lovin’ it.’ Ba da ba ba baaaa.
‘I’M LOVIN’ IT!’ The crowd cheered back. They chanted it again. And again. And again.
Mayor McCheese raised both arms high. The chanting stopped. ‘And now,’ McCheese announced, ‘I present to you Ronaldus Rex, Sovereign of the United Franchises of America!‘
The curtain parted, and Ronald McDonald emerged. This was not the cheerful mascot of your childhood. His red hair had gone gray, and that smile—once jovial and friendly—now beamed with fanatic intensity.
Without a word, he crossed the stage. The crowd roared as he reached the throne and lowered himself onto it.
Mayor McCheese gestured to the other side of the stage. ‘And with him, the mind behind the throne, Curtis Yarvin!’
Yarvin emerged from the opposite wing. He was alarmingly thin—gaunt, even. The Ozempic had stripped away not just fat but muscle, leaving him looking almost skeletal. Mayor McCheese stepped aside from the podium, and Yarvin took his place.
‘Um, so, what we have here—uh—what we’ve achieved, really, is... well, it’s quite simple when you think about it. Private government, like private business, simply works better. And—you know—just, like… imagine the federal government trying to run McDonald’s. Right? Picture, um, the Committee on Pickle Equity. The Bureau of Sesame Seed Compliance. Congressional hearings on bun density. The result would be—well, I mean, obviously—it would be a burger that tastes like, uh, shit. Yeah, yeah, yeah—well—you know, the thing is, um, whenever something actually works, right, it has this very obvious structure. You have a CEO…’
As Yarvin waffled on, a figure began to slip through the crowd. Like everyone else, he wore red and yellow. But unlike anyone else, he wasn’t fat. Most people were too engrossed in Yarvin’s meandering discourse to notice him. But one woman caught sight of him from the corner of her eye. ‘Was that…a normie?’ she thought to herself. Another man clutching an ‘I’m Lovin’ It’ flag spotted him and screamed, ‘NORMIE!’ But his voice was drowned out by Yarvin’s:
‘…uh—essentially what we’ve achieved is what the Dutch East India company achieved in the 17th century. The Dutch East India Company was, you know, it was a corporation. But it was also sovereign. It could wage war, it could sign treaties, it minted coins—and this was all, uh, more efficient than any democratic government could—uh—uh—BWAAAH!’
His head snapped back then exploded. Bone and brain painted the screen behind him. Chaos erupted. The crowd screamed and scattered, their bodies jiggling violently as they fled. McPalantir Agents closed in on the gunman from all sides. A siren began to wail across the plaza, and a calm, automated voice echoed from every speaker: ‘NORMIE ALERT. NORMIE ALERT. REMAIN CALM. MCPALANTIR IS RESPONDING.’
Since his arrest, Will Martin had not seen daylight. How long had it been? Weeks? Months?
Upon first entering the cell, his forehead had been branded with the letter N, for normie. For normgroid. For not lovin’ it! The wound had still not healed.
In the days, weeks, or months that followed, he’d been mutilated, waterboarded, and forced to watch McDonald’s training videos on endless loop.
Your smile is the secret ingredient! Your smile is the secret ingredient! Your smile is the secret ingredient!
The interrogation had been conducted by Director Grimace, head of the secret police. Throughout the interrogation, Grimace’s bulbous purple face had been filled with a sort of exaltation, a lunatic enthusiasm. He had taken great pleasure in slitting Will’s nostrils, slicing his ears, and severing his fingers.
Yet despite Grimace’s best efforts, Will had confessed to nothing. He had given no names. He had said nothing of Operation Ronald Regicide. And he had not revealed the Democratic Resistance’s hidden base.
He had been tortured to the edge of death, yet remained completely silent.
Footsteps approached the cell door. Even with his eyes closed, Will could still see Grimace’s face. Yet the voice that called out to him was not Grimace’s.
‘Good morning, Agent Brutus.’
Agent Brutus? How did this man know his…
‘Or would you rather I call you Will.’
Will forced his eyes open. Standing at the cell door was Peter Thiel.
‘How do you know my name?’ Will whispered.
Thiel smiled, ‘We know everything about you, Mr. Martin. Come, I’ll show you.’
Thiel led him down a corridor and into a vast room. Wall-to-wall screens displayed surveillance footage from across the United Franchises. And in the center of the room sat a Palantir.
Thiel approached the Palantir and placed his hand on its surface. The sphere flickered to life. Suddenly, Will saw himself and Agent Cassius reviewing a map of Ronaldopolis.
‘We’ve been following your movements quite closely, Mr. Martin.’
‘If you already know who I am,’ Will asked, ‘then why did you… why did you…’
‘Interrogate you? Standard procedure, I’m afraid.’ Thiel shook his head, as if to say: terrible, I know, but what can you do? ‘Let me make it up to you.’ He gestured toward the door. ‘Come.’
He led Martin down another corridor, this one darker, quieter. They passed through a heavy oak door into a study that seemed to belong to a different era entirely. There were no Golden Arches. No red and yellow. No corporate insignia of any kind. Just dark wood paneling, leather chairs, and a massive mahogany desk. Every wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling book shelves.
Will’s eyes scanned the books. On the Republic. How Democracies Die. The Open Society and Its Enemies. Hillary Clinton’s What Happened.
Christ, Will thought. What had happened?
‘Aren’t a lot of these books…’
‘Banned?’ Thiel nodded. ‘We prefer people read Hoppe, Carlyle, Burnham, Pareto, and Unqualified Reservations. We still allow Mises, Rothbard, and Hayek, but they’re not recommended. A little too normie.’
Thiel walked over to the desk, and Martin followed. They both sat down.
‘Would you like something to eat?’ Thiel asked. ‘I imagine Grimace hasn’t been feeding you very well.’
Before Martin could respond, a butler walked in carrying a silver tray. He lifted the dome to reveal a lamb shank with mashed potato.
Martin couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen actual food. Food production in the McMonarchy was totally centralized. McDonald’s controlled every farm, every factory, every supply chain. It was, therefore, exceedingly rare to see anything that wasn’t on their menu.
Martin told himself to eat slowly. But within seconds he was shovelling mashed potato down his gullet.
‘Tell me, Mr. Martin, what motivated you to join the Resistance?’
Will was still chewing. He swallowed, then looked up at Thiel.
‘Ancient Athens. The Roman Republic. Freedom. Democracy.’
The laconic delivery would have had more gravitas if Will didn’t have mashed potato smeared across his chin.
‘By the end of the Athenian democracy,’ Thiel smiled, ‘they were electing tanners, lamp-makers, and—if you believe Aristophanes—sausage-sellers. Is that what you want, Mr. Martin? Rule by sausage-sellers?’
Martin wiped his chin. ‘As far as I can tell, that’s what we have.’
Thiel laughed. ‘Touché, Mr. Martin. But the Sausage McMuffin is really quite good. And so too are the United Franchises of America.’
Thiel stood and walked to the bookshelf. He returned with a worn copy of Democracy: The God That Failed.
‘Have you read Hoppe?’
‘No,’ Martin replied.
‘Neither had I. Not until Curtis introduced me to him back in 2009. Hoppe’s central insight is simple. Democracy is publicly owned government. Monarchy is privately owned government. Tell me, Mr. Martin, who takes better care of property: a renter or an owner?’
Thiel didn’t wait for an answer.
‘A renter doesn’t care about the property he rents, because he’ll be gone in a year. Democracy is like a four-year lease on power. And politicians are like tenants who pour oil down the sink. They know they won’t have to deal with the consequences. Consider the national debt. Every administration knew austerity was necessary. None did it. Why? Because nobody votes for austerity. Nobody votes to have their taxes raised and their services cut. So they all kicked the can down the road, borrowed more, spent more, and left the crisis for the next guy. A monarch would never do this, because the state is his. Not for four years, but for life. And his children’s lives after that. He treats the state like a family estate, because for all intents and purposes, that’s what it is. His children will inherit it after him.’
‘But what if his children are, like, retarded?’ Will asked.
‘An excellent question,’ Thiel replied, ‘traditional monarchies failed because their heirs were often too inbred to rule competently. Either that, or they had no heirs at all, which led to a succession crisis. Curtis realised that monarchy could be modernised by replacing the hereditary principle with shareholder ownership. Instead of the throne passing to the king’s incestous son, the monarch would be hired by a board of directors. The monarchy would be run like a corporation. This corporation would own an entire city, country, or—in the case of the McMonarchy—an entire continent.’
Without saying anything, Will walked to the bookshelf. He found a printed copy of Unqualified Reservations, published by Passage Press. He flipped through the book until he found what he was looking for, then read aloud:
‘The basic idea of Patchwork is that, as the crappy governments we inherited from history are smashed, they should be replaced by a global spiderweb of tens, even hundreds, of thousands of sovereign and independent mini-countries, each governed by its own joint-stock corporation without regard to the residents’ opinions. If residents don’t like their government, they can and should move. The design is all exit, no voice.’
He closed the book, then looked at Thiel. ‘How can someone exit the McMonarchy?’
‘Oh, there’s exit,’ Thiel said pleasantly. ‘You can exit from one franchise to another.’
‘But every franchise is exactly the same. Same menu. Same laws. Same everything!’
‘Not at all, Mr. Martin. Miami has the McTaco. New York has the McBagel. Texas has the McBrisket. Each franchise responds to the unique tastes of its region.’
‘But I don’t want the McTaco. Or the McBagel. Or the McBrisket. I want democracy! I want diversity! I want… Burger King!’
Thiel’s smile faded. ‘There is only room for one Burger King on this continent, Mr. Martin. And that King is Ronald McDonald. Curtis kept talking about dividing America into thousands of different states, each controlled by a different sovcorp. He wanted the McMonarchy to be just a patch in the patchwork. We couldn’t allow that. I couldn’t allow that.’
Will stared at him. ‘What do you mean, you couldn’t allow that?’
‘Curtis had to go.’
Will’s face went white. ‘You let me kill him,’ he whispered. ‘You wanted me to kill him!’
Thiel smiled. ‘Yes, Agent Brutus. Operation Ronald Regicide was a Palantir operation.’
Without warning, Thiel pressed a button on the desk. Two Palantir agents entered the room.
‘You asked how someone exits the McMonarchy, Mr. Martin. Let me show you.’
Will Martin was processed at the Biomass Rendering Facility in Arlington, alongside countless other normies. They were converted into biodiesel, which was used to fuel the McMonarchy’s fryers, grills, and delivery trucks. They powered progress. Served the community. And helped keep America lovin’ it.
Ba da ba ba baa.
By Russell Walter - Jan 25, 2026
The year was 2062, and everyone was finally happy. They weren’t just happy with the weather, or their pets, or the things that typically make people happy. They were happy with their leaders. They were happy with the infrastructure. They were happy with the order, stability, and efficiency... of the government! All this happiness could be attributed to the unceasing vigilance of Ronald McDonald and his court philosopher, Curtis Yarvin.
The people had gathered beneath the colossal Golden Arch in the central plaza to express this happiness. They were surrounded by a pantheon of heroes. Grimace, the Hamburglar, and Ronald McDonald all towered above them in gleaming marble. Beyond the plaza stood the great institutions of state: the McPalace, the Moldbug School of Statecraft, and the Supreme McCourt, where justice was served (as well as fries, shakes, and apple pies).
The crowd had congregated in front of a grand stage erected beneath the Arch. The plaza was packed—both because of the number of people and because the people themselves were extremely fat. They were all dressed in the national colors, red and yellow, and they carried flags that proclaimed ‘I’m Lovin’ It’. And they were loving it! The crowd teemed with excitement as they prepared to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the McMonarchy.
A figure suddenly emerged from behind the curtain and took the stage. It was Mayor McCheese, who—after the abolition of elections—was a mayor in name only. His greasy cheeseburger head gleamed under the stage lights. He raised both arms high, and the plaza fell silent.
‘MCMONARCHY!’ he bellowed.
The crowd erupted in perfect unison: ‘I’M LOVIN’ IT!’
‘MCMONARCHY!’
‘I’M LOVIN’ IT!’
‘MCMONARCHY!’
‘I’M LOVIN’ IT!’
Mayor McCheese lowered his arms slowly, deliberately. The crowd fell silent once more. McCheese had carefully studied Adolf Hitler’s speeches, and knew the power of a pregnant pause. He let the silence linger until it became uncomfortable, until every eye in the plaza was fixed on his giant cheeseburger head.
‘Loyal subjects,’ he began, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that somehow carried across the entire square. ‘As we celebrate our tenth anniversary, we must not forget—must never forget—the dysfunction of democracy. We must remember the chaos from which Ronaldus Rex delivered us.’
He paused, then raised one arm toward the massive screen that loomed behind him. ‘We must remember,’ he bellowed, ‘the chaos of democracy!’
The screen flickered to life, revealing the face of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, The Enemy of Order. A deep, authoritative voice emanated from the speakers:
‘In 2048, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez won the presidential election with 52% of the vote.’
Uncontrollable howls of rage broke out among the crowd.
The voice from the screen continued, ‘Reckless government spending quickly led to hyperinflation.’ The screen showed footage of people rioting outside McDonald’s. ‘And by 2050, a Big Mac cost $350. Locations across the nation began to close.’
Once again, uncontrollable howls broke out among the crowd.
Then, without warning, the screen cut to an extreme close-up of a McGriddle. Steam rose from the golden griddle cakes, and a perky voice chirped: ‘Start your day the McGriddle way!’
Without thinking, without hesitation, every person in the plaza moaned: ‘Start your day the McGriddle way!’ And began to salivate. A ripple of movement spread through the crowd as thousands began looking for the closest McDonald’s.
But before anyone could move, the video cut to Ronald McDonald in his office. That familiar painted grin still stretched across his face, but his eyes conveyed complete despair. He stared out at a skyline that had once been illuminated by Golden Arches.
‘In his darkest hour, Ronald discovered Curtis Yarvin’s blog, Unqualified Reservations. And he realized, just as McDonald’s needed a CEO, America needed a McMonarch.’
‘A movement began, not in the halls of power, but among the fryers, the grills, and the milkshake machines. Using his mastery of logistics, supply chains, and chain of command, Ronald McDonald established the McMilitia—a fighting force led by General Hamburglar, that ultimately overthrew the democracy.‘
The screen cut to footage of General Hamburglar’s Great McMarch on Washington.
‘Many brave men fell that day. Major Birdie. Captain McNugget. District Manager Jerry Patterson from Tulsa. Shift Supervisor Maria Gonzalez from Phoenix. Crew Trainer Devon Washington from Baltimore. And countless other Crew Members, Cashiers, Maintenance Technicians, and Area Leaders.’
‘We gather here today, not only to honor their sacrifices, but also to celebrate our achievements. Thanks to the unceasing efforts of our McMinistries, we have managed to build a Kingdom that is the envy of the world. No crime. No hunger. No unemployment.’
The video cut to panoramic shots of Ronaldopolis, the capital of the United Franchises of America.
Monumental skyscrapers dominated the cityscape. Elevated transit tubes carried electric vehicles from district to district. Drone networks ferried goods through the air. And at the heart of it all stood the Colossal Golden Arch, the defining symbol of the new age, beneath which the crowd now stood.
The screen went red. The word ‘McMonarchy’ appeared in yellow. The authoritative voice returned one final time: ‘McMonarchy. I’m lovin’ it.’ Ba da ba ba baaaa.
‘I’M LOVIN’ IT!’ The crowd cheered back. They chanted it again. And again. And again.
Mayor McCheese raised both arms high. The chanting stopped. ‘And now,’ McCheese announced, ‘I present to you Ronaldus Rex, Sovereign of the United Franchises of America!‘
The curtain parted, and Ronald McDonald emerged. This was not the cheerful mascot of your childhood. His red hair had gone gray, and that smile—once jovial and friendly—now beamed with fanatic intensity.
Without a word, he crossed the stage. The crowd roared as he reached the throne and lowered himself onto it.
Mayor McCheese gestured to the other side of the stage. ‘And with him, the mind behind the throne, Curtis Yarvin!’
Yarvin emerged from the opposite wing. He was alarmingly thin—gaunt, even. The Ozempic had stripped away not just fat but muscle, leaving him looking almost skeletal. Mayor McCheese stepped aside from the podium, and Yarvin took his place.
‘Um, so, what we have here—uh—what we’ve achieved, really, is... well, it’s quite simple when you think about it. Private government, like private business, simply works better. And—you know—just, like… imagine the federal government trying to run McDonald’s. Right? Picture, um, the Committee on Pickle Equity. The Bureau of Sesame Seed Compliance. Congressional hearings on bun density. The result would be—well, I mean, obviously—it would be a burger that tastes like, uh, shit. Yeah, yeah, yeah—well—you know, the thing is, um, whenever something actually works, right, it has this very obvious structure. You have a CEO…’
As Yarvin waffled on, a figure began to slip through the crowd. Like everyone else, he wore red and yellow. But unlike anyone else, he wasn’t fat. Most people were too engrossed in Yarvin’s meandering discourse to notice him. But one woman caught sight of him from the corner of her eye. ‘Was that…a normie?’ she thought to herself. Another man clutching an ‘I’m Lovin’ It’ flag spotted him and screamed, ‘NORMIE!’ But his voice was drowned out by Yarvin’s:
‘…uh—essentially what we’ve achieved is what the Dutch East India company achieved in the 17th century. The Dutch East India Company was, you know, it was a corporation. But it was also sovereign. It could wage war, it could sign treaties, it minted coins—and this was all, uh, more efficient than any democratic government could—uh—uh—BWAAAH!’
His head snapped back then exploded. Bone and brain painted the screen behind him. Chaos erupted. The crowd screamed and scattered, their bodies jiggling violently as they fled. McPalantir Agents closed in on the gunman from all sides. A siren began to wail across the plaza, and a calm, automated voice echoed from every speaker: ‘NORMIE ALERT. NORMIE ALERT. REMAIN CALM. MCPALANTIR IS RESPONDING.’
Since his arrest, Will Martin had not seen daylight. How long had it been? Weeks? Months?
Upon first entering the cell, his forehead had been branded with the letter N, for normie. For normgroid. For not lovin’ it! The wound had still not healed.
In the days, weeks, or months that followed, he’d been mutilated, waterboarded, and forced to watch McDonald’s training videos on endless loop.
Your smile is the secret ingredient! Your smile is the secret ingredient! Your smile is the secret ingredient!
The interrogation had been conducted by Director Grimace, head of the secret police. Throughout the interrogation, Grimace’s bulbous purple face had been filled with a sort of exaltation, a lunatic enthusiasm. He had taken great pleasure in slitting Will’s nostrils, slicing his ears, and severing his fingers.
Yet despite Grimace’s best efforts, Will had confessed to nothing. He had given no names. He had said nothing of Operation Ronald Regicide. And he had not revealed the Democratic Resistance’s hidden base.
He had been tortured to the edge of death, yet remained completely silent.
Footsteps approached the cell door. Even with his eyes closed, Will could still see Grimace’s face. Yet the voice that called out to him was not Grimace’s.
‘Good morning, Agent Brutus.’
Agent Brutus? How did this man know his…
‘Or would you rather I call you Will.’
Will forced his eyes open. Standing at the cell door was Peter Thiel.
‘How do you know my name?’ Will whispered.
Thiel smiled, ‘We know everything about you, Mr. Martin. Come, I’ll show you.’
Thiel led him down a corridor and into a vast room. Wall-to-wall screens displayed surveillance footage from across the United Franchises. And in the center of the room sat a Palantir.
Thiel approached the Palantir and placed his hand on its surface. The sphere flickered to life. Suddenly, Will saw himself and Agent Cassius reviewing a map of Ronaldopolis.
‘We’ve been following your movements quite closely, Mr. Martin.’
‘If you already know who I am,’ Will asked, ‘then why did you… why did you…’
‘Interrogate you? Standard procedure, I’m afraid.’ Thiel shook his head, as if to say: terrible, I know, but what can you do? ‘Let me make it up to you.’ He gestured toward the door. ‘Come.’
He led Martin down another corridor, this one darker, quieter. They passed through a heavy oak door into a study that seemed to belong to a different era entirely. There were no Golden Arches. No red and yellow. No corporate insignia of any kind. Just dark wood paneling, leather chairs, and a massive mahogany desk. Every wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling book shelves.
Will’s eyes scanned the books. On the Republic. How Democracies Die. The Open Society and Its Enemies. Hillary Clinton’s What Happened.
Christ, Will thought. What had happened?
‘Aren’t a lot of these books…’
‘Banned?’ Thiel nodded. ‘We prefer people read Hoppe, Carlyle, Burnham, Pareto, and Unqualified Reservations. We still allow Mises, Rothbard, and Hayek, but they’re not recommended. A little too normie.’
Thiel walked over to the desk, and Martin followed. They both sat down.
‘Would you like something to eat?’ Thiel asked. ‘I imagine Grimace hasn’t been feeding you very well.’
Before Martin could respond, a butler walked in carrying a silver tray. He lifted the dome to reveal a lamb shank with mashed potato.
Martin couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen actual food. Food production in the McMonarchy was totally centralized. McDonald’s controlled every farm, every factory, every supply chain. It was, therefore, exceedingly rare to see anything that wasn’t on their menu.
Martin told himself to eat slowly. But within seconds he was shovelling mashed potato down his gullet.
‘Tell me, Mr. Martin, what motivated you to join the Resistance?’
Will was still chewing. He swallowed, then looked up at Thiel.
‘Ancient Athens. The Roman Republic. Freedom. Democracy.’
The laconic delivery would have had more gravitas if Will didn’t have mashed potato smeared across his chin.
‘By the end of the Athenian democracy,’ Thiel smiled, ‘they were electing tanners, lamp-makers, and—if you believe Aristophanes—sausage-sellers. Is that what you want, Mr. Martin? Rule by sausage-sellers?’
Martin wiped his chin. ‘As far as I can tell, that’s what we have.’
Thiel laughed. ‘Touché, Mr. Martin. But the Sausage McMuffin is really quite good. And so too are the United Franchises of America.’
Thiel stood and walked to the bookshelf. He returned with a worn copy of Democracy: The God That Failed.
‘Have you read Hoppe?’
‘No,’ Martin replied.
‘Neither had I. Not until Curtis introduced me to him back in 2009. Hoppe’s central insight is simple. Democracy is publicly owned government. Monarchy is privately owned government. Tell me, Mr. Martin, who takes better care of property: a renter or an owner?’
Thiel didn’t wait for an answer.
‘A renter doesn’t care about the property he rents, because he’ll be gone in a year. Democracy is like a four-year lease on power. And politicians are like tenants who pour oil down the sink. They know they won’t have to deal with the consequences. Consider the national debt. Every administration knew austerity was necessary. None did it. Why? Because nobody votes for austerity. Nobody votes to have their taxes raised and their services cut. So they all kicked the can down the road, borrowed more, spent more, and left the crisis for the next guy. A monarch would never do this, because the state is his. Not for four years, but for life. And his children’s lives after that. He treats the state like a family estate, because for all intents and purposes, that’s what it is. His children will inherit it after him.’
‘But what if his children are, like, retarded?’ Will asked.
‘An excellent question,’ Thiel replied, ‘traditional monarchies failed because their heirs were often too inbred to rule competently. Either that, or they had no heirs at all, which led to a succession crisis. Curtis realised that monarchy could be modernised by replacing the hereditary principle with shareholder ownership. Instead of the throne passing to the king’s incestous son, the monarch would be hired by a board of directors. The monarchy would be run like a corporation. This corporation would own an entire city, country, or—in the case of the McMonarchy—an entire continent.’
Without saying anything, Will walked to the bookshelf. He found a printed copy of Unqualified Reservations, published by Passage Press. He flipped through the book until he found what he was looking for, then read aloud:
‘The basic idea of Patchwork is that, as the crappy governments we inherited from history are smashed, they should be replaced by a global spiderweb of tens, even hundreds, of thousands of sovereign and independent mini-countries, each governed by its own joint-stock corporation without regard to the residents’ opinions. If residents don’t like their government, they can and should move. The design is all exit, no voice.’
He closed the book, then looked at Thiel. ‘How can someone exit the McMonarchy?’
‘Oh, there’s exit,’ Thiel said pleasantly. ‘You can exit from one franchise to another.’
‘But every franchise is exactly the same. Same menu. Same laws. Same everything!’
‘Not at all, Mr. Martin. Miami has the McTaco. New York has the McBagel. Texas has the McBrisket. Each franchise responds to the unique tastes of its region.’
‘But I don’t want the McTaco. Or the McBagel. Or the McBrisket. I want democracy! I want diversity! I want… Burger King!’
Thiel’s smile faded. ‘There is only room for one Burger King on this continent, Mr. Martin. And that King is Ronald McDonald. Curtis kept talking about dividing America into thousands of different states, each controlled by a different sovcorp. He wanted the McMonarchy to be just a patch in the patchwork. We couldn’t allow that. I couldn’t allow that.’
Will stared at him. ‘What do you mean, you couldn’t allow that?’
‘Curtis had to go.’
Will’s face went white. ‘You let me kill him,’ he whispered. ‘You wanted me to kill him!’
Thiel smiled. ‘Yes, Agent Brutus. Operation Ronald Regicide was a Palantir operation.’
Without warning, Thiel pressed a button on the desk. Two Palantir agents entered the room.
‘You asked how someone exits the McMonarchy, Mr. Martin. Let me show you.’
Will Martin was processed at the Biomass Rendering Facility in Arlington, alongside countless other normies. They were converted into biodiesel, which was used to fuel the McMonarchy’s fryers, grills, and delivery trucks. They powered progress. Served the community. And helped keep America lovin’ it.
Ba da ba ba baa.
