Two Sets of Rules, Zero Consequences
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| Parody |
Two Sets of Rules, Zero Consequences
They tell us the vault was “cleaned for safety,”
a janitor God with a federal badge,
bleach on the truth, mop water swirling names
down a drain that leads nowhere.
Then—ta-da—here’s the folder they let you see,
a highlight reel of horror,
just enough rot to make your stomach flip
but not enough to break the furniture.
Read it, they say.
Gasp on cue.
This is transparency.
This is justice adjacent.
Now clock in.
Because if this is what survived the shredder,
what was so radioactive it needed gloves, silence,
a locked room and a shrug?
What crimes were deemed too important to inconvenience
important people?
No arrests.
No indictments.
Not even the courtesy of a fall guy.
Just a press release and a pat on the head:
See? We showed you something.
Be grateful.
Be tired.
Be quiet.
There are two sets of rules—
one carved in marble for the rich,
one scribbled in pencil for the rest of us.
But here’s the trick:
they don’t play by either.
They play by delay.
By fog.
By the math of outrage divided by rent.
And every day with no consequences
is a confession written in invisible ink,
screaming:
We know.
They know.
And they think you’ll swallow it
and ask for more crumbs.
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