Mr. Smith awoke on the beach still in his suit. The last thing he remembered was the captain making some kind of announcement, and the masks dropping from the ceiling of the airplane. He sat up rubbing his head and looking around. There was no sign of any plane, or any other survivors except a piece of luggage that was equally as soaked as him. That’s right he thought, I held on to that suitcase for dear life. It must have carried me here. But where was ‘here’?

The water was crystal clear and filled with colorful fish. The warm ocean breeze told him that his place had made it at last to the Caribbean, where he was headed on a vacation before the crash. But there were no signs of human activity on the beach, nor any other island on the horizon that he could see. He was utterly stranded. If only I had some kind of a map. Now that would be something!

With a huff, Mr. Smith stood and brushed as much sand off his suit as possible, wet though it was. I’m an American, damn it! There’s nothing I can’t overcome! Mr. Smith went to open the suitcase which had carried him to safety. As soon as he touched the zipper he paused. Now who’s property is this? I can’t simply take something that isn’t mine, regardless of how much I may want or need it. He looked at the luggage tag, but the ink had become smudged and illegible. Without contact information, there was no way he could ask leave of the owner to make use of its contents, it wouldn’t be right to do so. In fact it would be theft.

There was nothing Mr. Smith hated so much as theft. In the course of his thirty-year career trading stocks, he had met hundreds of honest men engaging in honest business. But every so often there would be dirty hippies and communists protesting him and his colleagues from outside on the streets. Always they clamored for the government to tax his hard-earned dollars at ever-increasing rates. It was bad enough as it was, taxes being what they are. “What right has a man in Washington to take from me money that I earned through honest, hard work?” Mr. Smith used to ask of his colleagues. “None at all!” they would reply. “It’s theft is what it is. The right of a man to his own property is sacred.” He would say. “Well said old boy!” his colleagues would answer.

If he abandoned his principles now, he would be no less of a hypocrite than those dirty commies who say “You need to work hard so that I can take it easy on the government dime.” Real Americans didn’t abandon their principles when the going got tough. So Mr. Smith put down the suitcase. He could do without it.

Inland Mr. Smith turned and walked. The palm trees swayed in the wind were heavy with coconuts. Water was his first concern, of course. Without it he’d quickly go mad and die. In his suit he began to climb up a nearby palm. He was about halfway up when another realization dawned upon him: Say now, who owns these here coconut trees? Mr. Smith let himself fall to the ground and put a hand to his chin thoughtfully. Hmmm, I’ll look around for someone. Perhaps I’m not alone on this island and the owner of these trees is somewhere to be found.

Into the palmy forest Mr. Smith ventured. The sun here was causing him to sweat profusely, so he loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. Now if only I had an air conditioning unit. Now that would be something! He walked for hours, calling out “Hello? Hello? Is anybody there? I’d like to buy some of your coconuts!” The island seemed interminably large. He walked until the sun drooped below the horizon and night set in. The trees all around him sagged low with bunches upon bunches of coconuts. They looked so refreshing. I don’t need to steal to make my way in life. Never have, never will. The American Spirit will sustain me!

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Mr. Smith dug himself a shallow hole in the sand and settled in for the night. It was time to rest. Just as he was getting ready to drift off to sleep, there was a thud behind him. He turned over and saw that a coconut had fallen from a tree. There was already a crack showing in its husk. It would be awfully simple to give it a good whack on some rock and have a fresh drink...if only the damn thing had landed on my head. Then, perhaps, I’d have a good lawsuit on my hands. There’d be no end to the coconuts I could receive in a settlement of some kind. Somewhat shamefully, Mr. Smith placed his head beneath the palm tree and went to sleep.

When he woke once more, the sun was already hot and high. Mr. Smith’s lips were cracked and he was getting to feel lightheaded. That’s nothing to stop an American. No sir. Untouched by falling coconuts, he rose to his feet and prepared himself to find the owner of these trees – and soon. Once again Mr. Smith walked around, looking for someone who could point him in the right direction. He lost track of how many hours he walked.

Eventually Mr. Smith fell to his knees before some fallen coconuts. He hadn’t the strength to continue. Perhaps…I can...pay the fellow back...later. Mr. Smith, willing to make this one concession, reached for one of the coconuts in front of him.

Bang! An explosion rang out among the trees. Mr. Smith stopped his hand’s movement just as it brushed against the beckoning husk. Then he felt his gut. Oh, it was horrible, far more horrible than any other pain he’d experienced. Mr. Smith let out an agonized groan and fell over to the side.

Suddenly before him was a tall man in a precocious white suit with a blue shirt and red tie. His white hair and beard were scraggly, but appointed well around his gently wrinkled face. The man in the white suit was holding a beautiful AR-15 with an American flag draped from it. The barrel was still smoking. Mr. Smith wondered how he didn’t see the man before, or how he missed the very clear metal sign posted on one of the trees. It read: PRIVATE PROPERTY – ALL TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT

“This here is private property.” the man said. He tapped the sign with the barrel of his rifle. “Can’t you read?”

Through wheezing breaths and bloody coughs, Mr. Smith responded, “I apologize...sir...It wasn’t...my intention…to trespass…I had…nowhere...else to...go.”

“And how is that my problem? How does that give you the right to make use of my property? That’s no different than theft? Are you a thief, sir?”

“No sir. I’m no thief. I’m an honest, God-fearing, hard-working American. I just fell on some hard luck is all.”

“Really? Because to me you look like a no-good commie hippie squatter, sleeping on land that doesn’t belong to you. You should be ashamed of yourself. I’ll give you one chance to go on and get out of here, or else you will face your end here by the hand of Mr. Ayn Rand Paul Ryan, Founder CEO of Petit St. Jacques Island LLC.”

“I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Ryan. Only give me a minute to pull myself up.” Mr. Smith was struck by the charity of Mr. Ryan and was thankful for his understanding. With all his remaining strength, he pushed himself back up to his knees. When he tried to get to his feet, his wound gushed blood. He doubled over. Mr. Ryan began a countdown. “Five...four...three...” Mr. Smith put pressure on the wound and tried again, but he couldn’t get any further. “....two...one...” Now if only I had some bootstraps. That would be something!

Bang!