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     | |      c   o   m   m   u   n   i   c   a   t   i   o   n   s     | |
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  ...presents...               Pulp Philosophy
                                                         by SHADESHIFTER
                                                         5/1/1998-#353

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Just a little story about what happens to Socrates after he speaks to
Thrasymachus in Plato's _Republic_...


        Thrasymachus had Socrates' arm pressed up against his back, and
forced him into the center of the Agora.  Thrasymachus threw him down, and
tied him to the chair, which, oddly enough, had been waiting for them.  From
his toga, Thrasymachus withdrew his 9mm.
        Socrates' eyes widened.  "Fuck!  Don't do it, man!"
        Thrasymachus remained unaffected by the plea for mercy.  "Are you
finished, fucker?"  Placing the gun an inch from Socrates' forehead, he
knelt down beside him.
        "Look, man, you can have my ten yoke of oxen.  You can have my
virgin daughters.  My pomegranate orchard.  Anything.  Just let me go,
and I won't tell a fuckin' soul about this."
        Thrasymachus looked at him awkwardly.  "You like pomegranates?
Shit, motherfucker, I hear they got a fuckin' all you can eat special
going on pomegranates where you're headed."  He smiled.
        "Don't do it, man.  Thrasymachus, be fair."
        This struck a nerve with Thrasymachus.  He said, contemplatively,
"Fair?"
        "Yeah.  Fair.  Think about my wife and kids, man."
        He removed the gun from Socrates' face, and sat next to him,
frowning. "Would you say that to be fair is the same thing as to be just?"
        "What?"
        "Well, I'm just a dull, wandering street philosopher, so I don't
quite understand where you're headed with your line of reasoning.  Perhaps,"
he began, as he motioned with the gun, "you could further elucidate your
theory of justice."
        Socrates cocked his head to the side.  "My theory?  Of justice?"
        "Yes.  You do have a theory on it, don't you?"
        "Well..."  At the present time, he did not.
        Thrasymachus shrugged his shoulders.  "Perhaps, then, you'd like to
hear my theory."
        Socrates' eyes brightened.  "Oh, yes!  Of course.  You have a
theory?"
        Thrasymachus sighed as he spoke.  "Well, yes, I have been thinking a
little about justice.  Not, of course, so deeply as could a wise sage like
yourself," he said.  "But I've had a little idea, an insignificant, but
troubling, idea.  It's been bothering me a bit, and I thought that maybe
someone as smart as yourself could help convince me that it is wrong."
        "Of course.  Anything I can do to help," replied Socrates, not
really picking up on Thrasymachus' sarcasm.
        "So you'd like to hear my theory?"
        "I'd be honored," he said.
        "My humble little idea goes something like this."  Thrasymachus
roared, "Justice is only the will of the stronger!  What do you think about
that, you sophist fuck?"  Caught in the rage, he punched Socrates in the
face, consequently breaking his nose and knocking him out of the chair.
        Socrates replied only with a few burbled sounds, as his face bled
profusely, his toga undergoing a crimson transformation.
        "Come on!" he screamed.  "Come on, motherfucker, you wanna try to
disprove my theory, you weak little fuck?  Yeah?  Yeah?"  Thrasymachus shook
violently.  "Shit, I think I feel a proof coming on!"  He raised the pistol
to meet the cowering Socrates, and emptied the clip into his body.  "Why,
thank you, Socrates.  You've certainly opened my eyes!"


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