It was a Thursday night at a speakeasy in Menlo Park, the kind of place that used to pretend to be exclusive but now mostly served VCs looking for privacy from their own portfolios. Mr. X, as usual, had gathered his favorite cast of economically anxious optimists—Jimmy the angel investor, Logan the startup whisperer, and tonight’s guest of honor: a congressional liaison named Liam, who was trying to explain the “AGI Dividend Act.”
“So let me get this straight,” Jimmy said, nursing a glass of Pappy he didn’t pay for. “You want to tax the bots?”
“Not just bots,” Liam replied. “All autonomous systems. Self-training models, synthetic labor, robo-traders—anything that generates value without a human in the loop. The revenue goes toward a universal stipend for displaced workers. We’re calling it an AI Dividend.”
“Cute,” said Mr. X. “Like Social Security, but for the unemployed-by-design.”
Liam smiled weakly. “You could call it that, yes.”
Logan jumped in. “And you’re surprised VCs hate it? You’re basically proposing a tax on innovation.”
“Not innovation,” Liam said. “Automation. There’s a difference.”
That line earned him a few blank stares.
Jimmy leaned back, exhaling the slow satisfaction of a man who believes he’s already won the argument. “Look, if people get paid to do nothing, how will they find purpose? Work gives life structure.”
“That’s rich,” said Mr. X. “Half your founders are professional hobbyists with cap tables.”
Liam, sensing an opening, went for it. “Maybe purpose doesn’t come from labor anymore. Maybe it comes from freedom—the freedom to build, to learn, to create without the constant fear of obsolescence.”
“Right,” Logan said. “And they’ll use that freedom to start TikTok channels and OnlyFans accounts.”
Laughter rippled across the table. Liam didn’t flinch. “Or,” he said quietly, “they’ll start companies that replace you.”
The table went still for a beat too long. Jimmy adjusted his Rolex. Mr. X raised an eyebrow.
“That’s the thing about revolutions,” Liam added. “They never look like mutinies until they’re profitable.”
Later that night, walking back to his Tesla, Mr. X remarked, “It’s poetic, really. Capitalism trying to buy its conscience with passive income.”
Jimmy nodded. “Poetic—and tax deductible.”
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