L. Ron Gardner

JESUS AS AN OBJECTIVIST This is an excerpt from my just-published novel, "Kill Jesus: The Shocking Return of the Chosen One." What if Jesus returned and embraced Objectivism? My novel, which is a wild, erotic sui generis thriller, is about this very subject. The book is available at Amazon in Kindle and paperback. The excerpt below is from Jack Cohen's initial Objectivist Forum meeting (At this point in the story, Jack has not yet re-awakened as Jesus 2.0.)] Mary and Jack arrived at the apartment within a minute of each other. The front door was partially open, and they peered inside. The living room was small and sparsely decorated: a couch, a coffee table, a dozen open folding chairs, no artwork on any of the walls. Perhaps Brother Bill was a monk-like intellectual, Jack thought, maybe a Zen aficionado. The living room extended into the kitchen, where a dozen men and a couple of women were all standing, happily chatting and helping themselves to refreshments on a nearby folding table. As Jack knocked on the open door, a tall, balding, fiftyish-looking man came briskly from the kitchen. “I’m Bill,” he said with a vigorous handshake. “Welcome to the Objectivist Forum.” Jack and Mary followed Bill into the kitchen, where Orson immediately recognized them. “I told you Jack Cohen was coming tonight. And he’s wearing gloves because he knows we’re pariahs, untouchables.” Everybody laughed as they made their way into the living room to begin the discussion group. “OK,” said Bill. “Let’s start with the shutdown of State U. Any comments?” “Like I told Jack at school today, this is Atlas Shrugged coming true,” Orson immediately responded. “Government on every level has bankrupted our country, and the closing of the university is just a symptom of the underlying problem. We all need to drop out from the mainstream and form our own communities based on individual rights, individual property rights, and the free-trader principle. Universities should be privately owned enterprises, not state-run brainwashing institutions.” “State-run universities are a blessing for the economically disadvantaged,” replied Mary. “Without government involvement, poor people wouldn’t have a chance to move beyond blue-collar jobs. Universities would only perpetuate a rich, elite class, and class distinctions would be accentuated rather than dissolved. A state-run university benefits the ‘common good’ — and, unlike Rand, I do believe a true social common good can be identified.” “Spoken like a true liberal fascist,” interjected Robert, a smartly attired gentleman with Wall Street written all over him. “I don’t recognize your ‘common good.’ You and those of your ilk are the real elitists, using force — unconstitutional taxes — to steal my money and force me to contribute to state-run, left-wing, neo-Marxist universities that perpetuate the Mafia State.” He looked at Mary askance before continuing. “Judging from your attire, Miss, you can’t be more than twenty-one. Orson says you’re studying political science at State U; clearly you’re brainwashed and naive. Political science is an oxymoron, as is economic science. The State pushes this crap to further its own power, its own agenda. When they start teaching Ayn Rand and Murray Rothbard at State U, then maybe I’ll support it. But it should be my choice, not yours, if I want to support a particular university with my money.” “Please don’t take any of this personally,” said Bill to Mary. “You’re obviously bright and well-spoken, and it’s great to have someone here tonight to articulate the liberal position, even if you are a minority of one. If you feel you’re being ganged up on, let me know and I’ll call off the dogs.” “Thank you, Bill, but I’m not the least bit intimidated,” said Mary with a laugh. “I’ve read Rand and Rothbard, and I’m familiar with the Objectivist and Libertarian positions, some of which I share. Besides, it’s fun debating men who are old enough to be my father.” Then she cast her eyes on Robert. She was certain she’d seen him patronize the VIP Room at Sodom and Gomorrah, though probably under an assumed name. “By the way, sir, I’m twenty-three and a working gal, so I no longer qualify as a naive college student.” Robert smiled graciously, if not awkwardly, as if he suddenly recognized her, too. “Well, Mary, at least you’ve read and considered the right-wing arguments,” said Bill. “You’ve been brought to the water, so to speak, but no one can force you to drink. My hope is that you’ll eventually grasp the primacy of individual rights and awaken to the fact that when your collectivist ideals are forcefully — and I emphasize ‘forcefully’ — enacted, constitutionally guaranteed individual rights are violated, and this amounts to fascism on top of neo-Marxism. The egalitarian State that you envision may seem to benefit some, but it does so at the expense of others. To rational right-wingers, it is the height of hubris and irrationality for left-wingers like you to force your wasteful and ill-conceived social-engineering projects on those of us who abhor them. These government projects and programs are not only unproductive and anathema to a free marketplace, they are also immoral, violating the sovereignty of individuals who are forced to pay for and participate in them.” “I hear you, Bill,” said Mary. “But you’re ignoring the social contract: the need for a humane society to compassionately uplift those who are less fortunate. Your neo-Darwinian ideals are liberating on one level, but fail to consider man in a larger, integral social context. We’re all interconnected, but you just want to focus on the individual, not the whole. Thus, from my perspective, the right-wingers are the ones who are guilty of dropping full context.” “No, you do not hear me,” said Bill disapprovingly. “All I can hope is that you eventually will.” Paul Goldman, a handsome, thirty-ish fellow wearing khakis and a green cardigan sweater, asked to change the subject. “I’m eager to ask Jack about his father and the Federal Reserve.” “Honestly, Paul, I really don’t know much yet,” said Jack, without waiting to hear the question. “Being just nineteen, I’ve been mostly occupied with school and sports this semester. But I am well aware of the criticism of the Fed, and I intend to study the matter in detail this summer, so I can talk about it intelligently.” He waited a beat. “Then I’ll confront my father.” “Fair enough,” laughed Paul. “Perhaps we’ll have a chance to speak again.” “Excuse me,” said a disheveled middle-aged man in dungarees, “but I want to make sure that Jack reads the right stuff.” Identifying himself as “Jim,” he was a familiar caller to certain late-night radio talk shows. When he wasn’t swearing that the Fed “was the biggest rip-off scam in history,” he would spout off on some conspiracy theory or another before the host inevitably cut him off. He recommended that Jack start with The Case Against the Fed by Murray Rothbard and The Creature from Jekyll Island by G. Edward Griffin. “Those two books are oldies, but goodies,” said Jim. “Once you read them, Jack, you’ll hate the Fed as much as I do, and you’ll want to string your old man up along with his fuck-face boss, Greengold.” Jack measured his words carefully, knowing full well that every eye in the room was on him. “Jim, I seriously doubt that I would ever want to hang my dad — but if the Fed is as evil as you and others say it is, then I could see myself working to get rid of it. Maybe I’ll bring my dad here to discuss the subject after I read the books you recommend.” “Dream on, kid,” snarled Jim. “Your old man wouldn’t show up here if we had a harem of hookers waiting for him. He’s a pawn of the banksters, and he knows it — and he also knows that when we grilled his ass, he’d be squirming like a toad and looking for a loose floorboard to hide under, along with the rest of the cockroaches.” For a moment Jack was speechless. It was bad enough that this nut job was in his face. But the thought he might actually be right was too much. “Jim, I appreciate your passion, I really do. Let me do my homework first, then we can discuss remedies.” “Fuck my passion and fuck remedies,” snapped Jim with the aggression of a pit bull. “The Fed has to go, now! This country is bankrupt and ready to default, and when you realize the Fed is the culprit, printing — really counterfeiting — endless ‘greenbacks,’ making the dollar virtually worthless, we need to take the bastards out — and that includes your old man!” Bill, fearing the discussion might escalate into something nasty, opened the sliding glass doors to the patio and called for a ten-minute break. Jack waited for Jim to leave with the rest of the group before breathing a sigh of relief. ***** The first thing Jack noticed when he stepped onto the patio was the cigarette Mary pulled from her purse. “And you call yourself a health nut,” he scolded her. “You eat organic food, yet you pollute your body with cigarettes.” Mary took a deep drag then blew the smoke directly in his face. “Jack, you’ve been brainwashed,” she replied, laughing as he recoiled from the air attack. “Smoking is good for you, believe it or not. In fact, the longest-lived people in the world are known to have been smokers.” Seeing that he was stupefied, she blew another stream of smoke in his face and laughed again. “And since you’re dying to know how that could be possible, I’m going to tell you: They smoke pure organic tobacco — which is what I smoke. I have a machine at home that rolls them perfectly.” She took another drag. “Oh, occasionally, I’ll smoke a commercial cigarette, but most of the time I smoke my own organic ones. Besides, I only smoke a half-dozen per day. I might be a bad girl, but I take good care of my body — real good care!” Jack was about to reply when once again he found himself in the presence of Crazy Jim. Now that he had a good look at the man, something about him seemed familiar. “Jack, I just want to congratulate you for taking my shit like a man. I got right in your face, but couldn’t submit you.” He extended his hand in friendship. “Jim Mulligan.” Suddenly a light bulb went on. “Jim Mulligan, the great mixed martial arts champion?” “Yep, that’s me. I’m amazed that you know who I am. It’s been twenty years since I fought.” “I’ve got videos of your fights,” said Jack with a hearty handshake. “In fact, I’ve adopted some of your moves. I’m going to be a professional fighter myself. I’d love to have you come by the gym and watch me work out. And I know that my coach would also enjoy it.” He reached for his wallet and pulled out a card. “Here’s my phone number.” Jim took the card and turned toward Mary. “You’re a beautiful gal — beautiful inside and out. You’ve got balls and you’re unpretentious. I hope Jack knows how lucky he is to have a prize like you. And once you outgrow the liberal bullshit, you’ll be in a class by yourself.” “Thank you, Mr. Mulligan. That’s very kind of you. Every girl loves a compliment. But I’ve got to tell you the painful truth: Jack doesn’t want me as his girlfriend. He doesn’t even want to have sex with me.” “Dude, are you fucking crazy?” yelled Mulligan. “I’ve been around hot bitches my entire life, and this chick takes the cake. If I wasn’t married, I’d propose to her right now. You won’t find another body/mind/soul combination like hers on the entire planet. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Jack smiled, but not before shooting Mary a look that spoke daggers. “Jim, I love Mary, I really do. But what she didn’t tell you is that we just met today — and that I already have a regular girlfriend, one that I plan to marry.” “Dude, I don’t care if you’re Jesus and Buddha rolled into one,” said Jim with a friendly slap on the back. “You’re nineteen, and your hormones are raging. Before you know it, Little Jack is gonna end up in her pussy. Don’t bother fighting it. It’s going to happen.” “See Jack?” said Mary as she slithered next to him, pointing her index finger back and forth between his penis and her pussy. “It’s fate.” By now Paul Goldman had decided to join the conversation. “Looks like you’re caught between a hurricane and a tornado, Jack. If you need emergency medical help, here’s my card. I’m a doctor.” Jim laughed and playfully threw his arm around Paul’s neck. “Hey, buddy, join in the fun. I love these kids. And believe it or not, Jack is a martial-artist wannabe. After I mess up his face teaching him my moves, you can fix it for him.” Jim shot a wink at Jack. “Dude here is a facial plastic surgeon.” “I can see that,” said Jack, examining Paul’s business card. “Hopefully, I won’t need his services for a long time.” “Anything you can do to improve my looks?” asked Mary, striking different poses. “Not a thing, sweetie,” said Paul. “You’re a prototype, not a project. If all the women looked like you, I’d be out of business. I’d probably be a B.M., like Jim.” Jack looked quizzically at Paul. “What’s a B.M.?” “Bookmaker,” said Paul. “Someone who takes bets on sporting events — football, basketball, baseball, boxing, even mixed martial arts. Bettors have to lay 11/10 — $110 to win a $100 — and the extra $10, or 10 percent, is his commission, which he collects if the bet loses.” “Isn’t that illegal?” “Of course, it’s illegal, Jack,” said Jim. “But when your old man and Alfred Greengold flood the economy with trillions of dollars of greenbacks — literally creating them out of thin air, which amounts to counterfeiting — that’s legal. If that doesn’t tell you how fucked up this country is, nothing will. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Jim continued, “but your old man is nothing more than a puppet of the banking cartel, a servile member of the U.S. Government Mafia, the biggest racket on the planet. He and Greengold electronically create money and give it away to their buds, their fellow banksters. And the taxpayers get struck with the bill. It’s theft, plain and simple. Fact is, the Federal Reserve isn’t even federal; it’s a private, unaudited corporation, the banking cartel in drag, which systematically rips off the American people.” Jack’s head was spinning. He loved his father dearly, but once again he suspected that everything Jim was saying was true. He wanted desperately to go home and confront his father — but only after he educated himself on the Federal Reserve. To his credit, Jim Mulligan realized he had come down hard on Jack; after all, he was just a kid. “I’m sorry, Jack, I really am. I need to stop ragging on your dad. Enough’s enough. You got the message, and it’s up to you to do with it what you want.” “Thanks, Jim. It’s tough for me to digest what you’re saying, but I’m a truth seeker. And if my dad is culpable for screwing the country, then I have no choice but to deal with it.” Jack left that evening with a handful of books: the two on the Fed that Mulligan had recommended, plus another three from Brother Bill: Capitalism: The Unknown Ideal, Introduction to Objectivist Epistemology, and Objectivism: The Philosophy of Ayn Rand. “Once you read them, you’ll be armed and dangerous, a philosophic force to be reckoned with,” said Jim. “In fact, given you’re a genius, it wouldn’t surprise me if eventually you expand upon Objectivism and take it to a whole new level — and if you don’t, I’ll tighten my famous chokehold on you until you do!”