MAGА Moves to Shut Down the Big Five Book Publishers
Virgil stood on the step ladder, twisting the last wire into place for the ceiling light of his new studio addition. The garage smelled of sawdust and fresh paint, the hum of possibility thick in the air. He had just about secured the final connection when he felt the now-familiar shift in the atmosphere—the slight temperature drop, the static on his skin.
The presences had arrived.
First came the Conservative, his voice like the creak of an old church pew. “This studio of yours, Virgil, it represents self-reliance, tradition. A man builds with his hands, and so he shapes the world around him. It’s a noble pursuit, but I wonder—why waste time on stories when you could be preparing for the coming societal collapse?”
The Liberal appeared next, smooth and assured. “Oh, please. Virgil’s creation is a testament to expression, to progress. He builds a space not for survival but for dialogue, for art. The pursuit of knowledge and intellectual expansion is what keeps civilization from stagnating.”
The Libertarian’s arrival was heralded by a scoff. “Both of you sound insufferable. Virgil is exercising his individual rights, free from interference, doing what he wants with his own property. Whether he writes, paints, or just sits in this space drinking whiskey, that’s his prerogative.”
Then, a fourth presence emerged. It was different—clumsy, heavy-footed, carrying the air of misfiring neurons and half-baked certainty. It spoke, loud and insistent, but with little coherence. “You know, Virgil, this whole setup—it’s rigged. The whole system. You think you own this place? That’s what they want you to believe! But it’s all about control. Like how the deep state controls books, man! Publishing is a scam! MAGA!”
Virgil sighed and stepped down from the ladder, rubbing his temples. “And here I thought I’d finish this wiring job in peace. Alright, what is it this time?”
The Conservative straightened his metaphorical tie. “The Gatekeepers of Culture, Virgil. The literary agents.”
The Liberal nodded. “Yes, the arbiters of the written word. They decide who gets heard and who remains in obscurity. They claim to filter for quality, but we all know how that really works.”
The Libertarian crossed his arms. “Middlemen, Virgil. That’s what they are. Just another group controlling access, skimming off the top, pretending they’re necessary.”
The Maga Presence interjected. “They don’t want people to think! They’re part of the machine, man! They only let in the stuff that brainwashes people—like, like, all those woke agendas! They’re keeping the TRUTH out!”
Virgil rubbed his face and muttered, “This is going to be a long one.”
Just then, Rachel entered the studio, surveying the near-completed work with approval. “Looks like you’re getting close,” she said with a smile, running her hand over the new desk. Then, having overheard her husband speaking about publishers, she added her thoughts:
“The life of a literary agent was one of ruthless efficiency. Daily, thousands of hopeful authors sent their queries, each believing they had written the next masterpiece. Literary Agents, in her benevolence, made a ritual of opening precisely zero of them.
It wasn’t that she didn’t care—it was that caring was for amateurs. Publishing was an industry of gut instincts and snap judgments. A single glance at a title, a whiff of a premise in the subject line of an email, and she knew. Like a sommelier who could detect a flawed vintage before the bottle was uncorked, the Literary Agents could delete a query with a level of precision that bordered on supernatural.
Between his breakfast latte and his afternoon power nap, he dedicated three minutes a day to checking the latest trends. AI-generated bestseller charts and TikTok virality maps guided his philosophy. Were mafia-themed romance novels hot this week? Good. If a submission didn’t contain a brooding billionaire with a penchant for emotional unavailability, it was dead on arrival.
Writers were always told to research agents before submitting. But agents? They prided themselves on not researching writers. The power dynamic was clear: agents had taste, writers had desperation. The machine churned on.”
Rachel dusted her hands off and left the studio, satisfied with her contribution.
The presences wasted no time diving in.
The Conservative smirked. “See? Structure and hierarchy. That’s how civilization maintains order. The strong decide what gets through, and the weak must accept it. Literary agents are simply reinforcing the values that keep the industry—and society—intact.”
The Liberal rolled his eyes. “No, what Rachel described is a symptom of a broken system. It’s not about quality, it’s about trends, about selling the lowest common denominator. It stifles creativity and pushes authors into restrictive molds just to survive.”
The Libertarian leaned against the wall, grinning. “You’re both proving my point. These agents are just another useless cog in a bloated machine. If an algorithm is making the choices anyway, why do we need them? Direct publishing lets readers decide for themselves.”
The Maga Presence was practically vibrating with rage. “They’re rigging it! They’re picking what the people get to see! They shut down REAL voices! We need to tear it all down and make books great again!”
Virgil sighed, looking at the exposed wiring still left to do. “And here I thought the hardest part of today would be running this last circuit. Turns out, the hardest part is listening to all of you.”
Unhappy with Virgil ignoring him the Conservative presence exhaled, his voice thick with both condescension and reverence for suffering. “Ah, but is this not the natural order? The strong, the disciplined, the patient—those who endure this process with dignity—these are the ones who deserve to be published. The market does not reward the weak, Virgil. It rewards those who understand that hardship tempers greatness. The foolish will chase trends, but the wise will endure, steadfast in their convictions.”
He adjusted his spectral cuffs and added, “Besides, what do these modern writers expect? That simply because they feel like an artist, the world should bend to them? Nonsense. If they wish to be recognized, they must suffer for it. That is tradition.”
The Liberal presence sighed, shaking his ethereal head. “This is the sickness of capitalism in art. The novel was once an act of rebellion, a place where new voices could rise, challenging the norms. But now? Writers are forced to become brands, repackaging themselves over and over to fit whatever the industry believes will sell this month.”
He paced, his frustration evident. “A real writer should be able to write what they want, Virgil. Not what is dictated to them by soulless industry trendsetters who don’t even read books anymore! This—this is cultural rot. We should be funding independent literature, giving writers grants, creating public avenues for storytelling free from market forces. How can we expect great literature to be born when authors are trapped in a hamster wheel of irrelevance?”
The Libertarian chuckled, leaning against the wall with amused detachment. “You’re all missing the point. This isn’t about tradition, and it sure as hell isn’t about capitalism crushing the artist’s soul. It’s about personal responsibility. If writers are dumb enough to waste their lives chasing trends instead of just publishing their own damn work, they deserve what they get.”
He gestured wildly. “Seriously. It’s never been easier to self-publish. We’ve got Amazon, Patreon, Substack, direct-to-reader models—hell, even NFTs if you want to get weird with it. Writers who keep playing by outdated industry rules? That’s on them. No one’s forcing them to lick an agent’s boot for a chance at rejection. They’re choosing that suffering.”
The MAGA Presence lurched forward, nearly foaming at the mouth. “THIS is why EVERYTHING is broken! These agents, these publishers—they’re gatekeeping the TRUTH! They don’t care about REAL American values, about GOOD storytelling! They push their woke garbage, their liberal agendas, and they CANCEL anyone who tries to tell a REAL story about family, patriotism, masculinity!”
His voice rose to a fever pitch. “Writers are forced to pander to these people! Forced to betray their instincts! And WHY? Because the deep state publishing elite doesn’t WANT real stories! They want propaganda! That’s why they let the garbage in and keep the truth out! We need to take the whole damn system down!”
Virgil sighed. “So what you’re all saying is… the system is broken, but in four different ways.”
The presences nodded, each convinced they had made the most compelling argument.
Virgil stopped mid-step and turned back, his expression unreadable. “The consumer decides?” he echoed, his voice quiet but edged with something sharp.
The Libertarian shrugged, stretching his arms behind his head like he had just solved the equation of the universe. “That’s right. The free market determines what books succeed. Readers vote with their wallets. If indie authors write better stories, they’ll sell more. If the Big Five keep pushing garbage, they’ll collapse under their own weight.”
The Conservative nodded, smug. “Exactly. Let the best ideas win. No need to redistribute anything.”
The Liberal sighed, rubbing his temples. “That’s an oversimplification. Markets aren’t neutral. You know full well the Big Five have marketing budgets in the millions. They control distribution. They control review spaces. They make sure their books are the ones readers see first. A self-published author might write the next Moby-Dick, but if they don’t have the money to push it, it won’t matter.”
The Libertarian smirked. “So? If it’s good, people will find it.”
Virgil laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound.
“No, they won’t.”
Silence.
Virgil’s voice dropped, low and certain. “Readers don’t decide. Not really. They’re given a curated list of options, manufactured by corporations with one goal—profit. You think a reader goes into a bookstore, or logs onto Amazon, and just ‘chooses’ freely? No. They’re guided, funneled, manipulated.”
He took a step closer, his eyes locked on the Libertarian.
“Tell me, when was the last time you heard about a book that wasn’t on a bestseller list? One that wasn’t backed by a major publisher or a viral campaign? One that wasn’t ‘an event,’ or ‘a phenomenon,’ or tied to some already famous name?”
The Libertarian opened his mouth, then closed it.
Virgil pressed on. “It’s not about quality. It’s about who controls the shelves, who has access to media coverage, who gets the algorithm’s favor. The best books don’t win. The most marketed books do.”
The Conservative scoffed. “So what? That’s business. Adapt or die.”
Virgil narrowed his eyes. “And that’s exactly why capitalism is killing literature.”
The Liberal leaned in, intrigued. “Go on.”
Virgil spread his hands. “Imagine if publishing was built around spreading literature instead of hoarding success. If the focus was on making sure the best stories reached readers, instead of making sure only a handful of authors ever ‘made it.’ What if instead of gatekeeping and consolidation, the industry invested in finding more voices, giving more writers a chance, creating more access instead of bottlenecks?”
The Libertarian rolled his eyes. “That sounds like socialism.”
Virgil didn’t flinch. “Maybe it is. And maybe that’s exactly what we need. Because right now, your ‘free market’ is just a different kind of monopoly—a controlled pipeline where only the wealthiest, the luckiest, or the most connected survive.”
The Conservative scoffed. “And what, you want the government running bookstores?”
Virgil smirked. “I want an industry where a good book has just as much of a chance as a bad one. Where literature isn’t decided by marketing budgets. Where readers actually get to choose, instead of being spoon-fed whatever corporate publishing decides is ‘hot’ this season.”
The Idiot MAGA grinned. “Still sounds gay.”
Virgil exhaled. “You sound like a botched AI simulation of a human being.”
The Conservative checked his watch. The Libertarian scratched his chin. The Liberal looked thoughtful.
And Virgil, for all his rage, knew the machine would keep churning—because capitalism didn’t care about good ideas. It only cared about profit.
