Harry Plotter looked about at his friends, Herownmoney Grandeur and Robbed Easily as they rode the Porkwarts Express back to school.
“My scar is tingling something awful,” moaned Harry, rubbing the site of his attempted craniotomy.
“Harry, does that mean He Who Must Not Be Slurred is nearby?” asked Herownmoney.
“You mean Valdobama?”
“Oi, don’t say it out loud!” cried Robbed.
“Sorry. Yeah, he’s around here somewhere, he and his Tax-Eaters.”
“What do they want, Harry?”
“Very simple, Herownmoney. They want control over the entire country. They can’t stand the magic of self-reliance and capitalism. They want to turn us into the Socialist Stoned, zombies that rely on them for everything, especially our health care. You know what they say. . .’If we control your health care, we control your life!’ “
Just then, the train arrived at the gates to Porkwarts, the secret school of governmental financial witchcraft. As Harry, Robbed, and Herownmoney approached the platform, Drecko Pelosifoy shoved them out of the way, and ran toward the castle, seeking out other Sliberalins like himself.
“Ha!” he shouted over his shoulder. “This year is OUR year! You Cashandmore Capitalists don’t stand a chance! We Tax-Eaters are going to turn you all into Socialist Stoned!”
“Just ignore him,” Herownmoney muttered. They raced up the hill, and soon entered their wing of the castle, bounding up the stairs to the dormatories of the House of Cashandmore.
At dinner that night, the Headmaster of Porkwarts, Ronbus Reagandore, addressed the students. “These are dark times. The Tax Eaters and He Who Must Not Be Slurred believe they have the upper hand. The majority of the populace has been swayed to their way of thinking, believing the promises of free health care and redistribution of magic.” There were hoots and catcalls from the Sliberalin table, but Reagandore ignored them. “You must be strong,” he continued, “since our adversaries are powerful indeed. Watch yourselves, lest you be tempted to indulge in the Dark Deficit Arts.”
The weeks and months passed uneventfully, though a sense of trepidation hung over Porkwarts. The students all knew the Final Battle would soon be upon them, and many were making side-wagers as to the time of Harry Plotter’s likely death. But others were quietly gathering in protest of the inevitable takeover, chanting various economic incantations and working hard in their Alchemy classes to create more gold to stash away for a rainy day.
It happened on a bright, sunny morning in late May. Harry, Herownmoney, and Robbed were headed toward their least-favorite class, Crisis Management with Professor Rahm Snapemanual, their heads bowed in anticipation of another tongue-lashing about their selfish, greedy attitudes.
Suddenly, right in the corridor, there appeared none other than Valdobama himself, surrounded by Tax-Eaters wearing black suits and narrow, unfashionable ties.
“Give it up, Harry!” howled Valdobama. “You have to share the wealth, you know, spread it around! Change is good! Give me all of yours! Yes you can!”
Harry quickly dropped his books, and plucked his magic HP 12C financial calculator from his Brooks Brothers robe. “Hey, Valdobama!” he cried, “did you know your plans will take more magic than has been used in the entire history of the world? We will be paying for you for the next thirty-nine thousand years!”
The Tax-Eaters snickered, brandishing black briefcases as shields. Valdobama simply laughed. “Harry, Harry, Harry. Do you think I really care about costs? Foolish little boy! This isn’t the chocolate-covered bat-wing concession stand at the Quidditch match, kid, this is the real world! Now join me and together we will rule over all of the sheeple, I mean we will stand with our brothers and create equality!”
“Join you? NEVER!” shouted Harry.
“We almost had you when you were a little baby,” chortled Valdobama. That scar on your head. . . all I wanted to do was remove your frontal lobes, but NOOOOOOOO. . .your dear mommy and daddy wanted you to be able to think for yourself. How droll. How middle-class. Why would they want that when we can do it for you? You see where their resistance got them. . .Audited!” Valdobama threw back his head and laughed haughtily.
Harry screamed in rage, and hurled the calculator at Valdobama’s head. It caught the still-burbling figure-head straight between the eyes, and lodged somewhere near his corpus callosum. He crumpled to the ground like a marionette with severed strings. The Tax-Eaters looked at each other, quickly shed their black jackets and briefcases, and ran off into the woods, where they debated tax codes until they all died of boredom. Drecko Pelosifoy was seen picking the pockets of the corpses for several weeks after the massacre.
The students and staff of Porkwarts gathered about Harry, and Robbed and Herownmoney escorted him to Professor Reagandore’s office. Harry walked in and shut the door, then sat down to face the great wizard across his disheveled desk.
“Well, Harry,” Reagandore began, “there you go again.” You have defeated Valdobama one last time. Congratulations, my boy.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Harry demurred, with his head bowed. He looked up at his mentor. “Sir, how did I do it? I’m just one guy. . .”
“Ah, Harry, you mustn’t underestimate the power of individual responsibility. You stood up and fought, instead of letting your personality fade into the Socialist Stoned. Valdobama had no way of protecting himself from that. You see, Harry, individuality is what the he and the Tax-Eaters feared most.” Reagandore scratched the orange hair on his massive pate. “With the magic of capitalism, one person can excel, can magically create wealth, and opportunity for himself and others. The Socialist Stoned simply sat around, contemplating their navels, waiting for Valdobama to deliver them their daily pittance. But thanks to you, Harry, that’s over now. So, let’s celebrate! Tax cuts for all!”
Harry gratefully shook Reagandore’s hand, and then ran out to join Herownmoney and Robbed. They hugged and then then laughed with relief and joy. They knew their future would now hold great promise. . .
But, a thousand miles away, in a dark, dank bunker, the last of the Tax-Eaters, Scabbers Biden and Narcissistica Clinton were holed up, plotting the revenge of the Socialist Stoned. . .
Please stay tuned for the next volume in the Harry Plotter saga, “Harry Plotter and the Chamber-Pot of Secrets.”