This is completely a work of fiction, though it is based on some real ass events. I tried to handle this professionally, but my e-mail to the establishment in question received no reply. All names and locations have been changed to protect the innocent.
It was a dark and stormy night. The rain was coming down in sheets, as Our Hero made his way through the darkened streets to his destination, the Black Ewe. Upon arrival, he was hit with a grim reality…the lights had gone out thanks to some wack ass thunderstorm. There would be no quizzo on this night.
At least, that’s what your typical quizmaster would have said. But Our Hero, Ronnie Woodlimes, was no ordinary quizmaster. He was a man of steely resolve (as well as boyish good looks and devilish charm), and he was going to host a quiz on this night, dammit all to hell.
But where? The local hockey team, the Philadelphia Pliers, were playing in a Game 7, so most bars were going to be packed, with or without quizzo. Suddenly, like the lightning lighting up the night sky, it hit him.
“Le Coffee Bar!” Ronnie had walked by this bar (despite its name, it served booze, not coffee) on many occasions, seeing as how he also hosted a trivia event next door, at a place called The Irish Writer, and there was never anyone in it. He was sure it would be empty tonight.
He ran through the freezing rain, with little more to protect him than a 25 year old sportcoat he had purchased from a thrift store for a remarkably reasonable price. Finally, he arrived at Le Coffee Bar. He walked inside, where there were about 10 people, and a manager and a bartender at the end of the bar. Woodlimes approached them.
“I have a strange request, but I normally host quizzo at the Black Ewe. Tonight the lights went out, but I still have some people that want to play. Would you guys want them here?”
The manager eyed him warily. There had been a rash of counterfeit quizzos in town, and she didn’t want to get taken by some fast talking charlatan.
“What’s the deal?” she asked.
“Well, I should have like 20-25 people, so like $100?”
She thought about it for a few moments. The restaurant was, as usual, close to empty. After several seconds passed, she nodded her head and spoke, “Ok.”
Game on. However, only 15 people were able to make it through what had now turned into a monsoon. 15 others had tried to make it, but were swept away to their untimely demise by the flood waters.
And so, Ronnie had brought in 15 people through a monsoon to a nearly empty bar (one that was owned by the same people who owned The Scottish Pub next door.) Five more people, sitting at the bar, decided to join in. But due to the tragic deaths on account of the rainwaters, it wasn’t as many people as he hoped. And so, after the first two rounds, he approached the manager.
“Listen, it wasn’t as many people as I hoped, so just toss me $80.”
At which point she responded, “No.” She paused, then spoke slowly. “I thought you were paying us. We’ve had a couple of quizzos here before, and we’ve never paid people to host them.”
What? This woman had, in one fell swoop, destroyed the very tenets of capitalism.
One particularly radical view in Wealth of Nations was that wealth lay not in gold but in the productive capacity of all people, each seeking to benefit from his or her own labors…Adam Smith believed that the true wealth of a nation came from the labor of all people and that the flow of goods and services constituted the ultimate aim and end of economic life.
Our hero, in the midst of his labors as he heard these words, was taken aback. Had he misunderstood the very concept of capitalism? Had he been doing it wrong? Should he have been paying these bars all these years to let him ask his questions?
Flustered, Ronnie had a decision to make. Should he continue the quiz, or should he storm out into the rain? He looked at his hard, calloused hands, made tough as sandpaper by years of typing out trivia questions and holding microphones. They were the hands of a laborer, a cog in the mighty industrial system to which he belonged.
“I have to work,” he thought. “It’s all I know.”
And so Our Hero, knowing that he was not going to be paid for it, still trudged on, like a salt miner in Ancient Rome. And like a salt miner, dehydration was a major concern, so our hero ordered himself a beer (Our Hero was perhaps unaware that alcohol exacerbates dehydration).
The quiz went on, the manager disappeared, and a team named Dwight’s World won the quiz. Our Hero began to pack up his belongings. But alas, there was some unfinished business. The bartender came over to bring him his tab. He owed $6 on the beer. He had just brought Le Coffee Bar a couple hundred bucks in business in a monsoon and he was going to make -$6 for it (actually -$7, since Our Hero still left a tip. What a kind and caring man!) Dejected, he got ready to leave. Then suddenly someone at the bar spoke up.
“Hey, what’s that man in the knee socks, knickers, and a powdered wig doing out there in the rain?”
I turned around, and saw a sight that shook me to the core.
“Why that’s…that’s the ghost of Adam Smith!”
Someone at the bar yelled out, “And he’s got a battle axe!”
Quickly we scattered. Some people jumped out the window, others ran next door into the Scottish Pub, and several of us dove underneath a table. Adam Smith’s ghost entered the bar, a sneer of disgust on his ghostly face. He swung the battle axe, smashing bottles of liquor.
“I’m not as laissez faire as you people thought, am I?” he screamed at no-one in particular, then resumed his chopping of the bar.
He turned all the taps on, letting about $80 worth of beer pour into the floor. He walked over to the cash register, and split it in half with his battle axe. Change spilled out across the floor. He reached into the drawer, pulled out $6 and walked over to Ronnie, shaking like a leaf beneath a nearby table. He handed Woodlimes the $6, gave him a knowing wink, and then walked back out the door.
Our Hero was a bit upset, because it would have made more sense if he had given him the full $80, but he wasn’t going to argue with a ghost with a battle axe. (Which is a pretty good rule of thumb, if you ever find yourself in that situation.) Justice had been served, and everyone had learned a valuable lesson about capitalism: when you screw people over, Adam Smith’s ghost will smash up your shit. Or, at the very least, the person you screw over will write up some completely inane nonsense. Either way, you lose.
Also, I’d expect a question or two about Adam Smith next week at quizzo.
