Shutdown, Day 100

As I stroll through the haze that envelops a city still identifying as the U.S. capital, I notice how some monuments are just marred by graffiti. Even the once-pristine lawn is now sprouting weeds, and the trees and bushes, well, they’re looking a bit worse for wear.

It feels like Leviathan’s bureaucratic machinery simply… came to a halt. Or did it? Are there really no more IRS audits or EPA inspectors? It’s possible. I mean, a steady stream of grants used to fund about a third of state expenditure—those countless stipulations seem to be gone, but on paper, at least, the program is still alive.

Shutdown, Day 200

Anarcho-capitalists dream of a forthcoming utopia, but I can sense the edges of reality fraying in the flickering neon flickers of my black-market neural implants.

Is this what freedom feels like? Or has some sort of simulation taken over?

The military, once the austere guardians of the republic, was left unpaid for what felt like ages, and percentages of it started fracturing. Some enterprising leaders even proposed hiring them as mercenaries. In Virginia, one battalion sought out a tech mogul to defend a server farm, which looters misidentified as a food store. They called it a “protection service,” exchanging cryptocurrency for ammunition.

Meanwhile, Texas saw a golden opportunity. They decided active-duty troops stationed in the state could draw from an expanding treasury fueled by oil revenues, without needing federal funds.

Churches in conservative states were awash with untaxed income from tithes, redirecting resources to soup kitchens and orphanages. In Alabama, Rev. Clark famously proclaimed, “Where Caesar fails, the Lord will provide,” as congregations pooled funds to nourish the poor on community farms thriving without regulations.

But things took a grim turn in New York. Comrade Mamdani, a fervent socialist, surged to power, fueled by elite dissatisfaction and promising a workers’ paradise. “Seize the means!” his rallying cry echoed as crowds flooded Wall Street’s deserted towers. Yet with no federal relief, factories closed, supply chains disintegrated, and resources dwindled. Lines for bread wound through Manhattan, and people began trading precious heirlooms for meager scraps. Mamdani’s grand declaration of universal income faltered—seemingly empty promises don’t fill empty stomachs.

Shutdown, Day 500

Amid this chaos, liberals at the Reason Foundation took a stance. They declared a prime stretch of beachfront, the Santa Monica Pier, as their own sovereign territory. “It’s a voluntary exchange,” they insisted, as free-market chemists collaborated with shady syndicates in China to sell designer highs. Profits skyrocketed, drugs inundated the beaches, and euphoria made the shutdown feel like a blissful reprieve. A fleet of private yachts, equipped with missile launchers, patrolled the Pacific to “neutralize competition” from Mexican cartels. On the bustling sidewalks, illuminated by garish LED lights, countless willing sex workers, some missing vital organs, advertised their services. Was this really the pinnacle of capitalism? The ultimate triumph?

Dreams gradually morphed into nightmarish loops, reality distorting like some intricate origami. My implant malfunctioned nightly, looping a shutdown announcement.

Federal buildings became illegal squats, haunted by hollow bureaucrats trading classified info.

Countries reclaimed their independence. Local fortunes waxed or waned based on their capabilities. Without federal support, blue cities plead for help, while rural red areas thrived on untaxed income that fueled private charity efforts. Churches morphed into mini-welfare states, with bishops acting as CEOs, balancing faith and finances in a novel way known as “Faith-Based Efficiency,” which outperformed any government initiative.

As the military splintered further, unpaid sailors put submarines for sale on dark web markets, and pilots offered freelance services to agribusiness. However, in Texas, the oil-rich Republic nationalized its military and renamed it the Lone Star Corps, becoming a serious military force with whispers of territorial expansion and confrontations looming with the increasingly unruly southern cartels.

New York’s once-promised utopia crumbled. Mamdani’s regime attempted collective organization, but the “machinery” was nonexistent, with businesses shifting to tax havens. Hunger riots erupted across the boroughs, and workers occupied derelict warehouses, only to find them barren—the rats had even fled to New Jersey.

The Santa Monica Cartel, in cahoots with China’s Ghost Ship, dominated the West Coast’s drug trade. The addicts, enhanced by neuro drugs, became devoted consumers. Love turned into a commodity, and shutdown transformed into a manufactured euphoria. Their private fleet marauded cartel supplies and sunk rival ships. According to their manifesto, it all aimed at “market correction” to support a planned Seastead off the Malibu coast.

Yet in a recent dream, I glimpsed the jagged edge of a cord. Was it chaos or just programming? Honestly, I am not sure anymore.

Shutdown, Day 1,000

24 days ago, my implant malfunctioned, leaving me stranded in a euphoric reality—or was it?

The remains of the Federation retreated to the mythical DC, a wild land where survivalists traded relics.

The top-performing areas became territories; local folks restored roads while Red America cared for its poor through charities, farms, and numerous churches. Untaxed wealth birthed charity efforts, reducing poverty in the Bible Belt, where volunteers outnumbered those in need.

The armed forces transformed into an assembly of warlords, many leased to private firms to protect trade paths. But Texas emerged victorious. On its 1,000th day, the state-funded army crossed the Rio Grande at dawn, rolling into cartel territories with tanks and drones. Old dreams of annexing borderlands and dismantling drug empires were reawakened. Mexico City protested, but without U.S. support, its strength faltered. Texas privateers, allied with Santa Monica’s fleet in a precarious partnership, targeted cartel coastal safe havens, claiming resources in the name of free enterprise.

Mamdani’s vision disintegrated into an empty farce. The seizure of resources yielded nothing, and producers migrated towards friendlier environments. Ultimately, famine struck the forefront, drawing the masses toward the red sanctuary, where the church offered both bread and hope.

Meanwhile, Santa Monica glowed as a libertarian haven. The cartel collaborated with China to maintain inflated prices stretching from British Columbia down to Baja. They deployed a fleet to eliminate remaining threats in Mexico, celebrating their “uncapped advantage.”

Was the shutdown merely a fantasy, or had we awoken in someone else’s simulated reality?