LET THE FOOLS WORK!
(Or: The Manifesto AGAINST the Blatant Corruption of FIFA-X)
A Sophistic and Extravagant Farce
LET THE FOOLS WORK! © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0
AUTHOR’S PROLOGUE
(A Critical Warning for the Resistance against the Mediatic Abuse of Sinister Corporations — Without a Drop of Conspiracy Theory)
Contemporary human beings suffer from a neurosis of categorization. We have been condemned to inhabit a cliché square where identity is reduced to a line on a business card: "I am my profession," we repeat like a self-deceiving mantra, while carrying the weight of other people’s expectations, the mortgages of hipster neighborhoods, and the systemic corruption of a world that rewards the cheater and punishes the naive.
This piece is not an office comedy; it is the record of a maniacal enlightenment. When Phil, an immaculate Process Auditor, discovers through the screen that the highest spheres of global soccer (the omnipresent FIFA-X) operate under the blatant logic of sophistry, brutal impunity, and absolute cynicism, he undergoes a mystical catharsis. Realizing that honesty is a profitable act of stupidity for those at the top (Dollar Factories), he decides to declare a Moral Embargo on his Labor Force.
His existential strike is radical: no home office, no dirtying shirts, no wearing shoes ever again. By erasing himself from the stage, Phil breaks the homeostasis of his household and forces the parasitic links of his food chain—his wife Grace, trapped in consumerism, and his brother-in-law Alphie, a New Age charlatan guru—to go out into the street and hustle.
Throwing his family into the free market of lies unleashes a delirious gold mine based on selling "Dehydrated Holy Water," while Phil erects himself as the absolute monarch of his own sofa: a secular saint with a crown of yogurt tubs and a leopard-print blanket cape, who rejects global corporate success simply because absolute power would require the ultimate horror of wearing shoes again.
A clear glass of crystalline water—without magic powders or divine blessings—to shake off the dust of routine and audit, once and for all, our own existence, which desperately needs inner growth... and we're not talking about tumors here. 😉
CHARACTERS
- PHIL (Late 30s): Exemplary employee, Process Auditor. Feared by everyone at work because he is incorruptible; he has sent several executives to criminal investigation. But inside, he carries the music (and it's Heavy Metal). Wears an impeccable formal suit, fully buttoned, perfect tie... but is completely barefoot. His attitude is not apathy, but a maniacal, almost mystical lucidity.
- GRACE (30s): His wife. Neurotic, trapped in the mortgage, social appearances, and fear of poverty.
- ALPHIE (Late 20s): Grace’s younger brother. Professional parasite, aspiring New Age lifestyle guru, dramatic; manipulates through emotional blackmail.
- THE TELEVISION (OFF-STAGE VOICES / CHORUS):
- THE ANNOUNCER: Sports journalist with a pomposity and obsequious voice.
- THE FIFA-X CHAIRMAN: The supreme bureaucrat. Cynical, pompous, and an expert in sophistry.
- REIMÁN: Super-star forward for the Cape Verde National Team. Spoiled, untouchable, neurotic, and narcissistic.
SETTING
The living room of a modest yet pretentious apartment in a gentrified neighborhood (like Brooklyn or Silver Lake). A large sofa sits in the center. A coffee table is crammed with pads of paper, used napkins, sharpies, empty Greek yogurt tubs, popcorn, and an electric fly swatter emitting a dim blue light. A massive TV set dominates the room.
SINGLE ACT
SCENE 1: The Embargo Theory
(When the curtain rises, the drapes are tightly closed, letting in only thin slivers of morning light. PHIL is on the sofa. He wears a full suit, tie done up to his collar, but is BAREFOOT. He has his legs crossed in a meditation posture, a notebook on his knees, writing at breakneck speed while eating Greek yogurt by the spoonful and alternating with popcorn. The TV is on at high volume).
TV (ANNOUNCER): ...Broadcasting live and exclusive from the headquarters of FIFA-X, the International Planet of Executive Soccer! The scandal escalates just three days before the World Cup Final. The sporting world holds its breath. Mr. Chairman, the AI slow-motion replay is undeniable: the head referee pushed the ball with his left hand into the box, tripped the opposing goalkeeper, and then blew through a straw to push the ball into the net, giving Cape Verde the winning goal. How do you respond to this blatant, flagrant, and shameless violation of world regulations?
PHIL: (Pauses the spoon halfway to the yogurt tub. His eyes open with almost religious devotion) Listen to that, Phil... listen to that marvelous orchestration of deceit.
TV (CHAIRMAN): (Serene, deep, professional politician voice) Dear media friend and valued audience tuning in from your tiny, insignificant homes: you are falling into the error of elementary physics and social resentment. The referee's hand did not push the ball; the ball, in an unprecedented display of magnetic attraction, quantum gravity, and intrinsic justice, sought out the official's limb. The referee didn't commit a foul; he was a metaphysical conduit. FIFA-X does not tolerate cheating; FIFA-X manages the inevitability of success for those who pay the highest broadcast rights.
PHIL: (Writes frantically in the notebook, fascinated) "Manages the inevitability of success." Sublime! Magnetic attraction of the rulebook! What an absolute stroke of genius from organized crime!
TV (ANNOUNCER): But Mr. Chairman! All eleven players of the opposing team were red-carded, arrested, and blacklisted by Interpol after complaining that the ball was flat and that the referee was wearing a Cape Verde jersey under his uniform!
TV (REIMÁN): (Screaming, neurotic voice, shoving into the microphone) Nobody questions the untouchable Reimán about the air in his balls or the flow of his Swiss bank accounts! My mere presence on the pitch creates a microclimate of tactical perfection that alters the laws of physics and the IRS! Cape Verde doesn't win by cheating; Cape Verde wins because we are ontologically brilliant and we bought the rights to the truth! If reality doesn't match our victory, reality is bad-tempered and should be shut down for contempt! What are you looking at, fool? Truth is a concept for people without multi-million dollar contracts!
PHIL: (Leaps onto the sofa. Raises the notebook like the Ten Commandments) I accept the revelation! I accept the new gospel of shamelessness! (Screaming at the TV) Thank you, oh gods of cynical bureaucracy! You have opened my eyes!
(PHIL sits down abruptly, grabs a thick red sharpie, and crosses out the first page of his notebook with a huge X).
PHIL: (To himself, in a triumphant whisper) It’s over. Ten years as a Process Auditor. Ten years of being the perfect employee, the monk of compliance, the terror of executives embezzling corporate funds. A job no one in this damn company actually understands, but they fear it like HR on lay-off day. Ten years of being a healthy, immaculate worker, proud to pay my taxes on time, valuing myself for arriving five minutes before 8:00 AM. Astonished that I never, ever took a sick day! And if I got the flu, I’d show up wearing a mask to cough right onto the Excel spreadsheet! And everything for what? (Sings sarcastically) And everything for what?... To feed a system where the referee's hand is gravity and fraud is an exact science! If the owners of the world have no shame, why on earth should I? I have audited the processes of the universe, and the verdict is clear: honesty is not profitable. What are you looking at, fool? What the hell! The social contract is broken. I hereby declare, as of this instant, the Moral Embargo on my Labor Force, and I shut down my productivity due to a lack of ethical raw materials. I'm not going to the office anymore. And no, I am not apologizing... You hear me!
(Enter GRACE, in a huge rush, putting on an earring, carrying a knockoff designer handbag and a coat over her arm).
GRACE: Phil, for the love of God! Why is the TV on at full volume at five minutes to eight? You’re going to be late for work! Your boss called ten minutes ago on the landline. He asked if you were digging into something, if you were going to blow the whistle on some crook this week. He sounded genuinely panicked, do you understand? What if the boss is involved in something shady too?... Put your shoes on, come on! Hurry up!
PHIL: (Without looking at her, drawing a pie chart on the TV screen with his finger) Grace, tell my boss I know he’s running a dozen petty scams, altering stationery invoices and travel expenses. Tell him he thinks that if I catch him, I won’t say anything because he’s my "incorruptible boss." But let him know I’ve entered the Embargo Phase. Tell him not to worry, because I no longer care to audit him.
GRACE: Embargo? What are you talking about? So your boss is guilty? He steals, but just a little... and you're not reporting him? Right, because he's your boss! But what about us? Are we in trouble? Is the bank threatening to foreclose? Are they going to repossess the car?! Nooooo!
PHIL: No, Grace. The bank isn't foreclosing on us; I foreclosed on my utility. I have decided to embargo myself. I am removing myself from the board. I am erasing my presence... I will never step foot in that office again. I’m done being the corporate snitch, the process watchdog, because I discovered that everyone—from the FIFA-X Chairman down to the guy refilling the water cooler—cheats and gets paid for it.
GRACE: (Unable to process it, freezes mid-earring) What? Were you fired? Tell me you weren't fired!
PHIL: Fire the architect of truth? Impossible. I voluntarily retired from the circus of the naive. Look at the TV, Grace. Observe the elite. If the owners of the world thrive by denying the obvious and charging millions for deceit, working with integrity is an act of severe stupidity, a psychotropic sin. I’ve already paid ten years of moral dues in this house. Now it’s my turn to sit at the center of the system and design the ultimate strike.
GRACE: Phil, you’re hallucinating! We have a mortgage on this apartment! Maintenance fees! Electricity! The organic grocery bill! My anti-aging creams! We can't pay the bank with the little circles you draw on the TV!
PHIL: Need is a fallacious construct, my dear wife. If the historical provider suspends service due to force majeure—namely, the ethical decay of the universe—the burden of survival automatically falls upon the secondary link in the chain: you.
GRACE: Fallacious what... Me? But I’ve always made this household run!
PHIL: If I don't go to work, I don't dirty shirts. If I don't dirty shirts, there are no clothes to iron. If there are no clothes to iron, your domestic management loses eighty percent of its operational volume. Ergo: your position has been restructured due to low productivity. You are officially unemployed in the domestic sector and hired in the street-capital procurement division. Make me some eggs! Hard-boiled, no salt, just like my new philosophy.
(Enter ALPHIE in a fake silk bathrobe, hair messy, holding a cup of tea and wearing collagen eye patches).
ALPHIE: Please! It is impossible to sleep with all this noise... Why are you screaming? Grace, tell your husband to take it down a notch; he's ruining my morning alignment. Brother-in-law, you're ruining my slow wake-up, my morning financial chakra meditation.
PHIL: (Smiles with serene malice) Ah! The top parasite of the ecosystem! Come in, Alphie, take a seat in the assembly of the new order.
ALPHIE: (Dramatically offended) It’s Alphie! Hey, don't start, okay?... Al-phie! And I’m no parasite, I am a conceptual artist, a digital promise who will soon have the best Wikipedia entry in my niche. Alphie Torre-Torija... I can already see it... And hey, I see something very weird going on here... Grace, why isn't this man at work hunting down frauds committed by lazy millennials and Gen-Zers?
GRACE: Because he says he entered a moral embargo and now I have to support the house! He removed himself from the board... erased his presence, he's gone... And he's never going back to his office!
ALPHIE: (Gasping, clutching his chest) Unheard of! Pure, unadulterated selfishness! How miserable of you, Phil. Don't you know that the family is a sacred institution founded on economic division? You work hard, and the rest of us provide vital cohesion, deep emotional bonds, aesthetic inspiration for the youth! If you stop working, you destroy the clan's homeostasis. And that stresses me out! And if I get stressed, my IBS flares up! Do you want to be responsible for my irritable bowel syndrome? Do you want me producing foul gas? It's horrible, you know! I can't even stand it myself... Hey, what are you doing!
PHIL: (Gets up slowly from the sofa. Walks to the coffee table and picks up the ELECTRIC FLY SWATTER with both hands. He switches it on. The device emits a menacing hum and a harsh blue light: ZAP! ZAP!) Enough shamelessness from parasites. Crude sophists... It’s over. As they say back home: you two can get the hell out.
ALPHIE: (Jumps back, spilling his tea) What! Hey, don't be rude... Hey! What are you doing with that demonic gadget? That kills mosquitoes, flies, spiders... but it burns skin, stay back!
PHIL: This, my dear Alphie, is the behavior and process corrector. The judge's gavel that decides who gets to work, period, and starts bringing in cash to this house. Or else you pack up and beat it.
GRACE: Phil, turn that off... We're not bugs... You're going to leave marks on our skin... And I've spent fortunes on dermatologists...
PHIL: Silence in the audit room! (Swings the swatter through the air. ZAP!) Since the outside world operates through the power of sophistry and the punishment of the naive, we shall apply the exact same doctrine in this house. As of this second, the housing, electricity, hot water, toilet paper, and Wi-Fi password are frozen under my jurisdiction. Whoever wants to enjoy the assets of this kingdom... will have to go out into the street, invent a credible commercial scam, and bring back monetary tribute.
ALPHIE: I can't work in the street! I am far too fragile for the traditional labor force. The asphalt destroys my aura. Too much noise.
PHIL: (Takes a step forward, buzzing the swatter near Alphie's ears. ZAP!) Your aura is going to toughen up through cold, hard reality, little brother. If the FIFA-X Chairman sold the idea that the ball seeks the hand due to magnetic attraction, you are going to go out to the gentrified plaza and sell the most absurd product you can think of. Apply your marketing of lies!
ALPHIE: (Cornered against the wall, sweating) Fine! Fine! I’ll invent something! I’ll host "Spiritual High-Fashion Walking" workshops in the park! I’ll tell hipsters that if they walk upright toward the north while thinking about money, they’ll attract quantum abundance from the universe. I’ll charge fifty bucks a session!
PHIL: (Nods coldly) Acceptable. Creative, deceptive, and completely devoid of real value. And you, Grace?
GRACE: (Crying with rage) I don't know how to lie, Phil! I was educated by nuns!
ALPHIE: Oh, Grace, don't play the saint! You lie to your scale all the time! Help me crush white chalk into little ziplock bags, and we’ll sell it as "Dehydrated Andean Spring Water." All we have to tell them is to add pure water to reconstitute it back to its original liquid state. Oh, miracle of physics! The vegans in the neighborhood will buy out our entire stock!
PHIL: (Smiles with Machiavellian pride) Powdered water... Brilliant. A scam with a origin story. The sophists attack. You have exactly three days. I’m granting you venture capital. (Pulls a hundred-dollar bill from his suit pocket and tosses it on the floor). Buy bags, chalk, and whatever you need to smell nice. Because if you come back here without cash... the electric fly swatter will be a sweet treat compared to the physical audit I’m going to run on you...
(PHIL zaps the swatter. ZAP! ZAP! Grace and Alphie scream in terror... snatch the bill off the floor, spray themselves with lavender room freshener to "smell like success," and sprint out the front door in total panic).
PHIL: (Settles back into the sofa, crosses his legs, grabs his notebook and yogurt spoon) May the force of sophistry be with you.
SCENE 2: The Empire of the Sofa
(Three days have passed. The drapes remain drawn, but the apartment has undergone an extravagant metamorphosis. Expensive flowers sit in makeshift vases made from yogurt tubs. PHIL wears the exact same suit, barefoot, but now wears a crown made of gold plastic tubs and a leopard-print blanket draped like a royal cape. On the coffee table, a MASSIVE GLASS JAR overflows with hundred-dollar bills. ALPHIE stands to one side, holding a burner with lavender incense and quantum copal to "purify" the profits).
(The TV remains on).
TV (ANNOUNCER): ...Breaking news! The commercial craze known as "Dehydrated Andean Holy Water" is taking the city's affluent neighborhoods by storm. Rumor has it that even sports celebrities are consuming it to cleanse their physical karma...
PHIL: (Blows on his yogurt spoon, pleased) Supply and demand... what beautiful poetry of charlatanism.
(The door bursts open. GRACE and ALPHIE stride in. They are dressed in flashy designer clothes, wearing brand-name sunglasses indoors, and carrying luxury shopping bags).
ALPHIE: (Falling dramatically to his knees before the sofa) Oh, Great Architect of the Self-Embargo! We bring the complete weekly quota! Two whole days of hustling in the park, but here is the cash, boss.
GRACE: Phil, it’s insane! We sold three hundred bags of crushed chalk this morning. People are lining up on the benches. It sells itself... They consider us saints of mountain holy water... From the Andes, from the Alps... we even have varieties with blue, yellow, and pink powder for different aura types. They asked us for franchises in Los Angeles and Miami!
PHIL: Deposit the resources into the fiscal jar... And don't hide anything; I’m tracking you via GPS. Being the whistleblower on corporate scams at my old job came in handy... I know how to follow the money.
(Grace stuffs the glass jar with wads of cash).
GRACE: All right, you greedy bastard, I know you spy on us, you cynical, evil jerk... But well, I can't deny we live better and make more money than when you worked like a corporate slave, ahem... And speaking of which, Phil... I have something important to tell you... Yesterday, while you were doing your static meditation, your ex-boss came looking for you here at the apartment. He wanted to offer you the Vice Presidency of the company just to get you back to auditing everyone else's fraud. I told him you were busy ruling an empire from the sofa... and while I was at it, I sold him three bags of Powdered Water. He paid triple for it as an expense account charge!
ALPHIE: Phil, for the love of God, don't you dare put shoes on or get a real job ever again! If you go back to being a normal wage earner, the quantum magic ends for us. You gave us the gift of absolute audacity. You are our prophet of corporate cynicism!
(A sharp, authoritative, rhythmic knock at the door. Grace opens it carefully. A gloved hand delivers a gold envelope bearing the gleaming emblem of FIFA-X).
GRACE: (Reading the document with eyes wide) No way! Phil! It’s a decree from FIFA-X itself!
PHIL: (Unfazed, chewing popcorn) What does the high command of international athletic decay want?
GRACE: The player Reimán saw the TV news report on "Dehydrated Holy Water" and demands that you join immediately as Chief Advisor of Logic, Excuses, and Tactical Sophistry for the Final in Cape Verde! He wants to be canonized as a Saint—Saint Reimán of the Liquid Golden Ball and Powdered Water, blessed directly by the Pope! Check this out! They're offering you a net salary in Swiss francs, a penthouse in Monaco, another in Manhattan... a chauffeur-driven limousine, and an executive office with a jacuzzi at headquarters!
(A deathly silence falls over the room. Alphie and Grace look at Phil, holding their breath, mouths agape).
PHIL: (Gets up slowly, with monarchical calmness. Walks to the gold envelope. Takes it between his barefoot fingers. Looks at the multi-million dollar salary. Looks at the glass jar full of cash. Looks at his empty Greek yogurt tub... and smiles with intellectual superiority and bitterness). All that?... With an employee ID? Twenty-four/seven availability? And I’d have to wear formal calfskin dress shoes and tighten a Windsor knot around my neck to go out on the damn street every single day?
GRACE: Well, of course, Phil! It’s the pinnacle of global power! That’s how big corporations do it: flying private everywhere, polluting more than twenty tire factories. It’s success, Phil!
PHIL: (Tears the gold letter into four pieces with insulting slowness and drops them with contempt into the jar of money) What an absolute lack of macroeconomic vision. Accepting that position would force me to reintegrate into the system's machinery. I’d become a glorified employee, a cog dipped in gold. And a man with shoes is a slave man.
(PHIL settles back into the center of the sofa. Proudly adjusts his gold plastic crown, picks up his electric fly swatter like a royal scepter, and covers himself majestically with the leopard blanket).
PHIL: Tell the high executives at FIFA-X that their humble servant is in Permanent Moral Embargo. And as for you two... stop wasting time and get out on the street to sell more crushed chalk. The collective blessing and dehydrated faith industry is just getting started... it’s just getting started. If anyone is going to be canonized in this country, it’s going to be me, not that shameless fool Reimán. Cape Verde can forgive me, but I was destined for greatness, spiritual monopolies, and the higher designs of the Lord...
(Total silence. PHIL assumes the dignified posture of the "Saint of Dehydrated Holy Water." His gaze drifts into the infinity of absolute power as he cracks a sinister smile beneath his crown of yogurt tubs).
(ALPHIE and GRACE, completely dazzled and corrupted by fast money, kneel reverently before the gleaming saint in his leopard-print blanket cape).
(On the TV, a loud, feverish commercial turns on for a high-end electronic mosquito swatter. On screen, the player REIMÁN himself activates it in slow motion, zapping bugs left and right with a smug, narcissistic smile. The commercial music floods the room at full volume as the stage lighting shifts to dramatic blues and golds, marking a triumphant, ridiculous, and extravagant climax).
FINAL CURTAIN
