Ah, I Want a Revolution
I-Myeonghun stopped trying to persuade anyone from that day on. No matter what he said, people just laughed it off. No one took his words seriously. He couldn't even call white "white." Even the bureaucrats and servants only admitted something was white after confirming it themselves when he pointed it out. If he called white "black," they'd reply, "Yeah, pitch black."
I-Myeonghun felt trapped in an unbreakable nightmare. But his mind didn't crumble. Louis XVI and a few officials with odd names propped him up, keeping his sanity intact. The job was grueling, and the boss was tough to endure, but his colleagues and bosses from other departments were decent enough. That was the life of a court jester for I-Myeonghun.
In the heart of autumn, when mornings and evenings had turned chilly, the markets along the Seine in Paris teemed with people. But this year, an unusual throng had gathered.
"Potatoes, one sack for 3 sols 19 deniers!"
"People need bread to live! Buy wheat, not potatoes like these!"
"Pickled turnips here! Pickled turnips from Brittany—no salt tax!"
With the harvest just wrapping up, all sorts of foodstuffs flooded the market.
"Lorraine iron bars for sale! Leftover from what His Majesty bought. The king himself uses these! No questions asked, just 5 sols per livre!"
Not just food—miscellaneous goods were up for grabs too.
"Hey, Jacques. You cash in all that steel from Lorraine?"
"Ugh, I've got mountains to sell. Don't talk to me."
They dumped their wares like trash, scraping together cash.
"I just finished cashing mine in. Poor bastards."
"You here to rub it in?"
"Nah, my shop's closing. Mind if I borrow your spot for a franc?"
"Damn, no choice. Kids! Expand the stall!"
With tax reform all but locked in, their only move was indiscriminate dumping. Historically, every French tax reform hiked the commoners' burden—not just rates, but creeping excise taxes on salt, soap, beer, like modern fuel or tobacco levies.
In this uncertainty over which goods would get gouged by conscienceless excises, people split into two camps.
"Screw it! Potatoes, one sack for 1 sol!"
"You mad bastard!"
Those swallowing losses to dump assets, and
"1 sol? Total steal. I'll take it all!"
"Thank you!"
"That guy's tanking the market!"
Speculators hoarding before excises hit.
"I'm Charles from Saint-Germain street."
"No cash? No talk."
Financial tricks like derivatives popped up, but in this hyper-volatile market, even basic credit got no traction. On the Seine markets, only spot goods and cash ruled.
What ignited the frenzy in French markets? France itself.
Reforms were usually just notices. All policies, not just taxes. Tax changes hit on collection day via surprise announcements from tax farmers.
But this time, officials came in person. They explained the tax overhaul and asked for opinions.
Taxes are going up soon!
Farmers called themselves ignorant rubes, but they weren't clueless. They thought things through. With soul-crushing excises like salt tax—hundreds of times the cost—they were tax-sensitive. They'd only been passive because reforms were result-only announcements. Now, with process revealed, they reacted as market players. That reaction fueled the dumping and hoarding madness.
They dumped goods so fast because their own crops felt cursed. Neighbor Joseph's potatoes looked fatter and fuller than theirs. Anxious smallholders hurled wares onto the market. Buyers held till prices bottomed, then gobbled everything.
Simply: sellers wanted out before taxes; buyers in before taxes. Money piled with first sellers, goods with final buyers—no real exchange. Full-time merchants started griping.
"Folks got no money."
"Then buy it yourself."
"Well..."
"Tsk. Sell cheap, it flies. You pricing too high?"
"Cheaper than you, at least."
"Make bank then. I'm off for a drink."
They grumbled but didn't protest. The dumping was visible enough. Pros bought wholesale from afar, sold later at break-even—pricier than panic sellers. They couldn't unload till the wave crashed.
"Hey, I know a way to make more cash. Want the tip?"
A voice cut through merchants regretting their stock.
"Huh? Oh, the jester His Majesty favors. Here to juggle in front of my shop?"
A ragged jester's outfit, thin white makeup. I-Myeonghun.
"Not quite, but I can sell your goods for you."
"Same difference."
"Nah. Crowds don't guarantee sales."
I-Myeonghun pulled a paper from his bosom and showed them.
"I walked this market, noting what sells for how much and how fast. Thoughts?"
"Oho!"
"Not free, of course. 10 francs. Add 5 more, I'll advertise your shop all over."
Merchants eyed the thinning crowds. Obvious their goods would rot otherwise.
"Greedy clown. Quit nagging and beat it."
Last pride as merchants—they bowed not to a jester. But
"Not interested? Fine, across the way. Plenty want it without you."
"Tch, sly fox. Here's 15 francs!"
Desperation wasn't his alone. Others forked over 15 francs, annoyed but compliant.
*
"Hm? What's that?"
Another merchant who'd sold him space returned.
"Ah, you. That noisy jester's hawking intel."
His stall's prices were up overall.
"Potato dip was temporary. Panicky farmers dumped; real value's higher."
"But didn't folks buy everything out?"
Contrary to his words, customers trickled in every few minutes, buying select items.
"No way everyone's broke. Someone sold, someone bought."
"Won't sell in time."
Yet customers swelled; his stall sold out before sunset.
*
I-Myeonghun, pouch heavy with gold, headed to a dim Seine alley. Thugs lurked there. Petty crooks, not worth police raids.
"Yo, the guy who tossed pocket money the other day? Back already? Sorry for bruising your leg, but my fist hurt too. Guess I need treatment fees..."
Among them, the thug who'd beaten him before.
I-Myeonghun silently scattered ten gold coins. They clinked.
Clustered thugs scrambled.
"I got it first! Let go!"
He watched their brawl from the alley mouth. It didn't last.
"Freeze, all of you! Movers first to get stabbed!"
Among unranked thugs, melee favored the deadliest weapon.
"You got a knife? So do I!"
But that worked solo. One drew, all did. Standoff dragged; I-Myeonghun stifled a laugh.
"What the—?!"
"Ten gold coins worth killing over?"
They hesitated. Even they saw stabbing recent "bros" for chump change as farce. But yielding meant loss—unclaimed gold was gone.
"Ah, true entertainment. Enjoy the show. Split the ten coins yourselves."
As the fight stalled, he turned his back dismissively.
"Grab that punk, strip him clean!"
"Sword drawn on trash like him?"
"On three, rush. Chasing him's the real win!"
"Bullshit!"
I-Myeonghun strolled back to Versailles Palace. Decent clothes today, market intel gained, revenge taken.
"Hey, I-Myeonghun! What's got you grinning?"
"Oh, nothing. Just toyed with some savages."
"Teased by a jester? Their egos must be crushed."
I-Myeonghun sang his way to Versailles. Crowded stagecoach, but whatever.
"Oof, that stench? Oh..."
Some laborers smelled him, faces falling. Whatever.
Ah, I want a revolution.
He yearned to see Louis XVI's cherished France crumble. Slaughter the bureaucrats who mocked him. Troll the citizens who scorned him. Pit them against each other.
I want to lord over these barbarians.
In the packed coach, no one understood Korean. He chanted revolution like a song.
I want to be president of a republic.
Riders dismissed it as jester antics, listening idly.
I want a world where all beneath me are equal!