Medieval Fascism (p377-p384)

(Setting:  Frustrated by his continued failure to set himself up as Emperor of America, the Head Honcho decides to travel back in time to Medieval Europe, based on the spurious assumption that fascist tyrants were more welcome back then).

"Let's get back to business. I’m going to a time and place where rulers are rulers, peons are peons, and everybody accepts the difference", said the Head Honcho.

"Can the Book take you to a different planet?"

"Of course", sniffed the Honcho haughtily. "This book can increase wealth simply by increasing taxes. The difficulty of interplanetary travel pales in comparison. But, space travel won't be necessary for me to find my nirvana. I can simply go back to medieval Europe and become a feudal baron, with my own castle, fiefdom, and serfs."

"Why would that be nirvana?"

"The only thing wrong with our bureaucratic feudalism in Washington is that Americans are uncooperative vassals. Medieval European vassals were much more submissive. They even believed in kings and queens."

"You should do a temporary flashback, just in case things go badly."

"Can the book do that?", the Honcho asked eagerly.

"Sure. It can send you backward in history for a specified trial period of time. If something dire happens, your return home is as certain as the Great Society was to eliminate poverty."

"Count me in!" The Honcho executed the temporary flashback instructions in the Time Travel chapter and was transported backward in time to a Medieval castle perched atop a forested hill overlooking what would someday become Germany. He had been magically transmogrified into a royal baron, replete with exquisite clothing, a vast assemblage of doting vassals, and a castle with great towers, alabaster figurines, and walls of polished marble. He found himself sitting on a gleaming throne holding a golden scepter.

A submissive vassal who looked amazingly like But Sir! approached him. "Sire, a serious matter requires your attention. An angry band of fiefs murdered the Royal Tax Collector. We need another agent to gather revenue for the barony. The Royal Lifestyle, the Royal Orgies, the Royal Wars, and the Royal Graft, Greed, and Corruption are draining the Royal Treasury."

"The IRS has a million tax collectors!", the Baron blurted. "Just order another one to empty the serfs’ pockets."

"But Sire!", exclaimed the But Sir! look-alike, "It's not that simple."

A familiar rage broiled in the Baron’s innards. "What’s so fornicating complicated?"

But Sire! cringed. "First, I’ve never heard of the IRS. Second, we're mired in the Dark Ages, so we aren’t civilized enough to use millions of people to empty our pockets. We had only one tax collector, who is now dead."

The Honcho moaned. Forgetting what had been invented yet was a pitfall of time travel. He searched his memory for the tax collecting methods used in Medieval Europe. Surely, they must have already discovered the beauty of taking from the rich and giving to the poor, in order to buy political support from the masses. Then it hit him: Robin Hood! Surely, Robin Hood was a familiar name, and his philosophy a familiar ploy, even to these unsophisticated political Neanderthals. The Baron triumphantly declared aloud, "Bring me Robin Hood to serve as the Royal Tax Collector!"

"But Sire!", exclaimed But Sire!. "That's impossible!"

The Honcho clenched his massive fists. "How can it be impossible? I’m the royal tyrant!"

"Robin Hood is just a mythical character whose legend has been passed down via folklore", explained But Sire! patiently.

"Are mythical characters exempt from conscription into my service?"

"Sire, it appears so."

"Pray tell, why?"

"Because.....mythical characters don't exist, sire", explained But Sire! carefully.

"Find out which of these mythical characters profess not to exist, and I'll have them boiled in oil! Be quick about it, knave!" he snarled through clenched teeth.

"Sire, I know the answer already", squeaked But Sire! nervously. "They all profess not to exist."

"My God!", exclaimed the baron. "This is worse than I thought. If the mythical characters turn against me, it won't be long before everyone is swept up in the riptide of insurrection!" Beads of sweat bubbled on his huge forehead. "I need names, knave! If we can capture one of these mythical characters, my agents can infiltrate and destroy this infant conspiracy."

But Sire! was learning how to deal with his demented leader. "That’s easy, sire. Robin Hood is one of the conspiratorial mythical characters."

"Holy Grail shit!", shouted the Honcho. "I almost hired that insurrectionist bastard as my Royal Tax Collector! Capture Robin Hood, squire, and don't return until you do!"

Thus, But Sire! was tasked to apprehend someone who didn’t exist. Fortunately, he had a friend named John the Mischiever, who was a seditious knave that looked exactly like Freeman. But Sire! went to him for advice. "I'm in a quandary", he said miserably. "The baron ordered me to capture the mythical Robin Hood."

"You're really fornicated!" said John the Mischiever. "Not only is he mythical, he doesn't even exist! I'm glad I'm not in your tights. I’ll bet the baron is boiling a cauldron of oil for you as we speak."

"You arsehole!", swore But Sire! "I need advice, not sarcasm."

John the Mischiever rubbed his chin pensively, looking alternately confused and bemused. Then he shouted, "Eureka!"

"What? What?" implored But Sire! impatiently.

"We'll bring Robin Hood into existence magically. Here's how it’ll work. The Royal Treasurer will print cartloads of paper money, backed only by the baron's bluff that they might be worth something. This will give the baron immense purchasing power. It will also cause inflation, which will push wealthy people into higher tax brackets, so that the baron can collect even more taxes from them. This inflation magic will accomplish everything that the mythical Robin Hood is famous for. The baron will steal from the rich and give some of the stolen wealth to the poor to buy their support and keep them quiet. If you can show the baron the effects of this unseen inflationary Robin Hood, he won’t care that you didn’t physically apprehend him."

"You’re a genius!" exclaimed But Sire!. "But are there any pitfalls to this scheme? Every scam you conjure up has dangerous side effects."

"There is one minor risk", confessed John the Mischiever. "Inflation will push everyone into higher tax brackets, including the serfs, who might get pissed off enough to revolt against the baron, storm his castle, and hang the rogue and his ministers from a tree."

"How do we prevent that minor risk from happening?" asked But Sire! acerbically.

"Start a war", said John the Mischiever nonchalantly.

"I don't get it."

"You dolt! Even the court jesters understand this one. The Baron can use the fabricated war as a pretext to rally the serfs behind his rule and his Ism. War will also justify higher taxes, a bigger baronial bureaucracy, and an expanded defense department. When the war is over, the surviving serfs will be grateful they weren’t killed, so they'll forget about the higher taxes, the bigger bureaucracy, and the bloated defense complex."

But Sire!’s splendid report thrilled the Baron. Not only was Robin Hood doing great work for the barony, his altruistic philosophy laid the foundation for a military adventure. However, he feared the Archbishop might not approve, so he sent But Sire! to get the religious figurehead’s blessing.

When But Sire! arrived, the Archbishop was distracted by a new sport he was inventing, which he obliquely called "golf". He fanatically struck at a small spheroid with sticks that he periodically threw in puerile disgust. But Sire! earned the Archbishop’s gratitude and support for the war by suggesting that digging a hole in the ground to serve as a target for the little white ball might spice up the game.

But Sire! reported back to the Baron that the Archbishop supported going to war, with a few caveats. First, the Archbishop wanted lots of soldiers killed, so that he could sermonize about how wonderful the kingdom of heaven is compared to the dangerous real world. Second, he wanted his share of the new taxes in the form of increased tithes. Third, when the soldiers were done fighting the Baron’s war, he wanted them to retake the Holy Land from the Saracens. After all, they were fighting for his ism as much as the baron’s.

The Honcho eagerly agreed to these stipulations, because the ghastly carnage of war beckoned like a temptress. It was exhilarating to know that anonymous people would die defending his rule and his Ism. It didn't bother him that they sacrificed themselves out of ignorance, fear, or conditioned worship of the political and religious order of things. He picked a neighboring barony at random from a map and declared war on its unfortunate inhabitants, using a nearly forgotten territorial dispute as a pretext. As the war escalated, the serfs forgot about the inflationary ravages of the invisible Robin Hood, and the Baron achieved daily orgasm with the reports of battlefield casualties.

Then, in a rare but illuminating moment in man’s history, the naked soul of the species was briefly unmasked of mythology and isms. In the heat of a particularly gruesome conflict, the flag bearers of each barony got carried away by the emotion of slashing swords and skewering lances and charged each other. They collided and fought, and their banners became tangled and indistinguishable from one another. This confused jumbling of the baronial flags stunned the combatants of both factions, as if a sorcerer’s spell was abruptly broken. Warfare unexpectedly ceased. Swords hung idly in the hands of bewildered soldiers. Mesmerized jousters looked at their lances without recognition. They looked like dancers after the band suddenly stopped playing in the middle of a heretofore irresistible tune that had choreographed their steps since time immemorial.

With no flags to kill for and therefore no Isms to die for, the soldiers now saw each other as fellow individuals involved in a common struggle for survival and fulfillment on an inimical planet suspended in a mystifying cosmos. Battlefield enemies intermingled, conversed, and gradually came to know each other. They soon discovered that through trade, cooperation, and friendship, they could achieve an existence far superior to the one that previously guaranteed them only a hero's mortal bon voyage if they sacrificed their lives dutifully to some omnipotent purveyor of myths. Once the flags were destroyed and the Isms deconditioned, they no longer had a reason to kill each other.

The Baron was crimson with rage when he heard of this astounding pacifism. How dare the ungracious serfs abandon their duties and commingle with the enemy? Their ordained reason for living was to die for the barony and the bishopric. There was territory to be won, riches to be plundered, souls to be herded to heaven, and royal and priestly lifestyles to be maintained. Demonstrations of anarchy and agnosticism couldn’t be tolerated! The Honcho knew that the Baron had to quell this nascent insurrection immediately. If such disobedience were tolerated in this millennium, successive centuries of evolving liberty would make life as a modern senator impossible for him.

The two combating barons hastily dispatched fresh squadrons of flag bearers to the stymied battlefield. The pacified serfs were startled from their reverie by the flag-bearing reinforcements galloping toward them. Old passions suddenly flamed anew. Loyalty to barons welled up again in the souls of the soldiers. Sense of duty once again gripped them as the sorcerer's spell seized their hearts. The cosmic bandleader struck up his tune in mid-measure, as if the dance had never been interrupted. While the baronial flags fluttered proudly, swords were unsheathed, lances were hefted, and hatred ruled the day once more. A charge was sounded. Human carnage ensued. This time, the flag bearers refrained from despoiling their holy banners. They stood silhouetted on the ridge, like religious icons atop temples, watching paternalistically as vassal slaughtered vassal. When the sun finally set on the bloody plain littered with carcasses, only Death emerged victorious.

Unfortunately, the Head Honcho couldn’t bask in the glory of Death's victory. The cosmic clock pacing his temporary intrusion into Medieval Europe triggered the magic of the "Book of Liberal Policies, Marxist Economics, and Other Occult Phenomena" to whisk him back to 20^th century Washington.