John walked down the dark back alleyways of the now-deserted city of Boston and pondered the state of the city. The night was cold, sending chills down his back and stabbing pain into his ears as the wind rushed between the tall but decaying buildings of the downtown. There were looters and moochers everywhere. Everyone wanted their "fair share" and no one wanted to put in the hard work and thought required to produce it for themselves. Some leeched off the work of others in drug fronts. Others took their bites in the form of "taxes," "licensing fees," and kickbacks in general. John sighed. Clearly Boston was a dying city, where the lifestyle of the moochers had robbed men of the will to produce—the will to live.

The people of Boston had no idea what they had done to themselves. So gradually they had decayed into the depths of sloth, larceny, and looting that they did not even recognize their situation as the travesty it was. They blamed "the rich" for not "paying their fair share." They blamed the bosses in their factories for profiting by providing the few jobs that were available to the otherwise destitute city.

John was so caught up in his thoughts that as he walked through the alley, he kicked and almost tripped over a rough looking man curled into a blanket. The man looked as though he hadn't moved in weeks, though the muscles in his arms tensed as John stumbled. The man roared at John, Hey! What the fuck do you think you're doing here? This is my fuckin' alley, and don't you go laying claim to my turf. I paid good money to my gubbermint friends to stake this turf out and I'll be damned if some old fart like you takes my turf!

John just stared at the moocher blankly. He was nothing more than yet another example of the looters that lived off other people's money. The man apparently had put agents of the law—or what was left of the law, anyway—on his payroll to use the strong arm of government to enforce his so-called "squatter's rights" over the country. Galt would have none of it. By what right do you attempt to enforce your claim?

The man was puzzled. He stammered for a moment, and managed a quizzical retort: Who is John Galt? John smirked and let out a Who, indeed? Before he turned and walked away. He had better things to do than discuss such matters with a moocher.

Soon John was standing in a nearly-deserted marketplace. It might have been Chinatown once, but now no one could afford to maintain the once-brilliant colors of their heritage. One grizzly looking boy brazenly tore at the siding of a former-restaurant with a crowbar, evidently planning on salvaging the wood. Off in the corner, in one of the few stores that was actually open for business, Galt could see that there was some sort of commotion. He approached so he could overhear.

All I'ma sayin' is that you hire me, Stu, and you'll neveh have to worry about any unprofitable competition in this neighborhood no more. I knows a goy, down there in city howl, and he can ram through whuteveh rules you need heah. Look Stu, dat bidniz over there, yer competition. Dey workin' in a two-story building. Now dat's just unfair, y'see? So city passes an ordinance "only one-story stores allowed." Yer golden! C'mon Stu, give it a chance.

John Galt almost gagged at what he heard. It was all he could do to chime in with a simple question. What sort of self-respecting American tries to force his competitors out of business through underhanded government force, instead of producing a superior product?

But things were not so simple in this run-down part of the city. The man had ample response at hand. What's it to you, pretty boy? Who is John Galt?

John smirked and moved on again. He had heard enough. This city was but a shadow of itself. The country, but a shadow of what it had been. The people's spirits were broken, and the stench of decay was everywhere. Every man Galt saw was living for the moment, lazily scrounging whatever was available could from whatever was around. But why should John care about any of that? What does it matter if the country should collapse upon its own twisted philosophies? And, perhaps most importantly, who is John Galt?

Sam found himself strolling down one of Boston's many near empty boulevards as his mind lingered over the current state of the city briefly before realizing he was hungry. This night was particularly cold and Sam was happy that he had the common sense to wear a heavy overcoat and hat so his ears and back would not get cold. Sam found himself stumbling over the down trodden everywhere as they huddled next to burning barrels. Everyone was hungry and yet no one wanted to cook. It seemed everyone had settled for cold cuts these days.

Sam's hunger was so consuming his thoughts that he almost stepped on a woman huddled under blankets and peeling back some foil to expose a familiar long roll. She takes a bit and Sam notices a pained expression flash across her face as she opens the roll and inspects it closely. "Mayo? They put mayo on it? I only use mustard! What is this Sammich?" A slight smile flashes across Sam's face as he continues down the street.

As Sam makes his way into an abandoned food court. There was a shop that looked to be a vibrant Hooters once but now sat vacant as no one could be found to man it's kitchen anymore. All over there were people gathering in any nook and cranny they could find to avoid the wind and eat their cold food. There was not a hot meal to be found in this city anymore. Sam noticed a man arriving at one of the burning barrels and began handing out food wrapped in wax paper to other people around the barrel. Sam made his way over.

One man unwrapped his wax paper revealing white bread. He bit into it and exclaimed, "What the fuck? Corned beef? I only eat corned beef on rye bread! What is this Sammich? Having unwrapped his wax paper to reveal toasted bread, another man takes a bite. "What the hell? What is this Sammich? Oh wait...it's a BLT and quite tasty!" Sam wonders off as the man finishes his BLT.

As Sam continued to walk he began to ponder what he had seen here today. The city seemed beyond repair at this point. After all it's hard to lure workers to a place where they can't even get a hot meal at the end of the day. Had it really come to this? Was there no one willing provide a hot meal even for those willing to work for it or those that can afford it? Are we doomed to never enjoy a pizza again? And, perhaps most importantly, what is this Sammich?

John walked down the streets of the seven cities taking in his surroundings. Everywhere he went things were quiet. Off to his right, a man ran into a post office and silently pointed his gun at the teller. The teller silently passed him the contents of the register and shrugged. The thief ran out of the post office without saying another word. John walked up to the teller to investigate.

Excuse me, sir, what just happened? John asked, confused about the low key response in the office.

The teller turned to John with a confused glare. What the fuck do you think just happened? I just got robbed.

But he didn't say anything to you. He just seemed to assume you knew the drill. Can things really be so bad that criminals don't even need to say a word through their entire life of crime? John was almost amazed that the looters and moochers had implanted their culture so deeply into the psyche of the nation so quickly. Then he remembered that the large mass of hungry crooks wasn't about to waste time with unnecessary pleasantries in this day and age. And what was less pleasant than talking to someone while you took their things?

The teller blankly looked back at John after the question. Who is John Galt? He shrugged, and went back to restocking his register for the next silent criminal.

What sort of self-respecting American tries to force his competitors out of business through underhanded government force, instead of producing a superior product?

My friend.... that sounds like a successful business with a very nice profit margin.

Why waste money and resources improving, when you can simply have the best product available.