Threat

You have no rights which have been threatened. The law does not protect your rights, because you never had any - even and especially when you're afraid "anarchy" might undo your claim to three and a half bedrooms and job in academia.

There's already only anarchy, idiot.

Sure, now you're waking up to the fact that the pretenses which you've believed - especially the ones which allow you to justify the three and half baths and the State Police Benevolent Fund sticker on your bumper - were rights are just that. Pretend. Fictions. It is no credit to you that you're finally figuring it out. There are about three and half billion people, on any given day, who've already been living without that excuse to submit, and with none of the benefits attendant upon your submission. Their lives probably suck more than yours. And that's the point, isn't it?

Because there's already only anarchy, you fucking compromised piece of shit.

It's just that you've been on the side of the bullies for so long you've lost the ability to sort out that you're the one paying for the bullies, while the poor pay for your roads and your tax credits. And you're the cops' justification. You are their reason for being. Those are your democratic institutions, so-called, which demand cops for the protection of enclosed, private property. Those are your public educational systems, and your investments in biotech and solar energy, which produce and re-produce this system of control. A system, you full well know by now, that must forever expand, control, repress, export and co-opt, or it collapses.

You're a company man; you're a fucking client. Of course you know it. It's how you do business. It's what you teach the little kiddies when you teach them respect for the law, and merit, and being successful and well-adjusted in this world if degradation and misery.

And it's the anarchy of the wealthy that you've been pretending is law, order and a system of inalienable rights all these years. That's your republic. Those are your liberal institutions. It's your quaint little Methodist quilting club. It's the punitive, regressive taxes paid by the poor who've got no property and no stake from which to draw deductions. It's your groper frat boy son, taking advantage of three hundreds years of pillage, rape, slavery, labor breaking, oppression, war and imprisonment that funded the building of his campus experiment in alcohol poisoning. The mortar holding the bricks atop each other in his dorm room is the raw material of wasted human lives. That's  your legal title to 1.5 acres and a mailman who smiles at you: the death of millions.

You never had any rights. None of us do. Rights are lies. And you aren't under threat of losing them now, anyway, company man. You never will be, because you've already proven time and again that when the anarchy of the poor threatens to spill over into your shitty little life, you'll put your hand to the telephone and dial up the authorities. You've got your stake, and that means you get to pretend that law and democracy are real and that they'll take care of you. That you're better-than, because you've been bought and paid for.

And those fictions will protect you, for a price. Right up until they don't anymore, because you've joined the ranks of those who can no longer afford it. That's your angst. This is the source of your current worry.

It's also the intersection of the anarchy of the rich, and the anarchy of the poor.

It's an intersection famous for accidents and you, you fucking fuck - you're going to know what it's really like to feel the threat of loss and bewilderment, when your accident comes. Because the rich will triage you and the poor are going to remember that you've always called the cops.

Oh, happy day...