2. White Conference Army
John Galt lunged, but Franklin Roosevelt was too fast. He whipped out a remote control, and as soon as he pressed the button, four giant mechanical arms sprang from the walls and took hold of the bootstrap-inator. To his horror, John saw that the arms were labelled "UNDER PUBLIC OWNERSHIP."
"Forsooth!" Galt cried with gusto as he pummelled the wheelchair-bound socialist, but it was much too late, for the robotic arms with little poofy white cartoon gloves at the end had lifted the Bootstrapinator high into the sky where a magnetic magnet clanged against the metal of the device and whisked it away faster than a societal dreg to the welfare office.
"Nice try, Johnanson, but you can't defeat the power of my New Neo-Deal," Roosevelt said, chuckling liberally as he did so. "No man is an island, and no business is safe from my policies. First the Bootstrapinator, then all private business! MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!"
"¡Mi amor!" screamed Francisco. "¡We must escape!"
Galt did not want to leave. He did not want to believe that this was happening, that his precious bootstrap-inator had been taken from him by the government. But the facts of this situation did not care about his feelings. Shedding a single tear, he followed Francisco out of the warehouse and into the starry night.
Was the trickster god of handouts hiding in wait in my own multi-complex mansion property for that opportunity? Did he guess the passcode to disable the alarm on the gold chain tripwires? He couldn't have stepped over them so easily at his usual power level, but with my bootstrap-inator, he'll surely be unstoppable.
"¿Mi amor?" Francisco asked. "¿What is troubling you?"
"Nothing, Francisco. Get your big, meaty, strong hands off of me; I'm fine. How did that freeloader get past my defences? Did he crowd-source some kind of spy operation, that crippled nincompoop?" John spat on the ground and cursed the fowl gods that would allow such a flawed, imperfect being to rise above a beautiful creature such as himself.
Francisco placed a gentle hand on John Galt's cheek
"You cannot blame yourself, mi amor," whispered Francisco. "The government is muy esneaky. They were bound to find out eventually. Come closer, Johnanson. Let me wipe those tears from your eyes."
As Francisco comforted the esteemed capitalist, John galt stared up into the full mooned night, furious fire and fiery faith overflowing in his betroubled heart. He could see a dark darkness on the horizon, and not just because it was nighttime. As he stared off into the abyss, his tears falling upon Francisco's muscled shoulder, he could say but one word: "American… Dreams… don't die..."