Guncare

 The offices of Data Analytic Marketetic Normalisations were always shadowy and quiet.  The founder and CEO, Jeremy Diseased-Rat, preferred it that way though the rumours about it being because of a near-permanent hangover were quashed whenever they started up.  Reception was currently manned by a short, dark-haired man who was so thin that his suit would have hung better on a coat-hanger.  He was sat behind a curved zebrawood desk with two monitors and six phones in front of him and two photocopiers, an actual fax machine and some sinister black boxes with tiny blinking white lights behind him, and as Jeronica walked into the reception area to greet her clients he was holding forth, to their appalled fascination, on the subject of his keto diet.

“The key is fasting and then purging,” he said, making a gesture with one hand that caused Madame Celeste to raise an eyebrow so severely her eye twitched below it.

“Thank you, Ronald,” said Jeronica, cutting him short.  “I believe that Margoyle and Stephanotte are waiting for correspondance on the futures of Soft Furnishings in Antique Japan.  Perhaps you could check your inbox and see if they’ve arrived yet?”

“Oh no, they defini—“ started Ronald, only to be cut off by the discrete ping of an email arriving.  “Ah, well—“

“Excellent,” said Jeronica.  She turned to her clients: Madame Celeste, Dr Enogi and Terrence Pennifrock.  “Have you been offered refreshment?”  There was no overt censure in her voice but Ronald’s shoulders stiffened instantly anyway.

“Yes, thank-you,” said Dr. Enogi, a tall, dark-skinned man who was standing up.  “Though I doubt I, personally, will feel like eating again any time soon.”

Madame Celeste rose next, holding a glass of iced water.  “Your water is excellent,” she said as though commenting on the weather.  “I assume you import?”

Jeronica inclined her head slightly.  “We have a concession,” she said.  “We did a little work with the Fiji water brand some years back and in turn they provide us with a few bottles when they can spare them.  Mr Pennifrock, would you like anything else?”

Terrence was still sitting down and pressing a stubby, reddened finger down onto crumbs on a small plate with an intricate design painted around the edge.  When he had gathered all of them, he put the finger in his mouth and sucked it clean.

“I’m good,” he said in a broad drawl.  “Your pastries are amazing, darlin’, but if I eat too many I’ll put on more weight and the wifey won’t be happy.”

“My name is Jeronica, Mr Pennifrock,” said Jeronica with more than a little ice in her tone.  “I would become unhappy were I to be referred to in any other way.”

Whatever Terrence might have replied, his words were silenced by Madame Celeste’s gaze.  He met her eyes with his own and there was a moment of tension and then they both backed down together.

“This way, please,” said Jeronica and escorted them at a stately pace down a dimly-lit corridor.  On either side were wood-panelled walls, broken at intervals by doors and smoked-glass windows.  The floor was heavily carpetted and even Terrence, stamping his feet down as he walked, failed to make much more noise than the wind makes when blowing through long grass.  At the third door Jeronica waved a hand and the doors slid back silently admitting them into Meeting Room Gauze.

When they were all seated around a small beechwood table set with notepads, Mont Blanc pens and a carafe of still water Jeronica leaned forward very slightly, rested her hands flat on the table, and said, “Guncare.”

There was hesitation as Terrence and Dr Enogi looked at each other, and then Madame Celeste nodded.

“Yes,” she said.  “I had heard you were good.  The best, even.  I hadn’t expected that you would know our intentions before we even spoke them.”

“We’ve been anticipating this development for a while,” said Jeronica.  “Our future division considers this to be a strong natural development of current trends and had identified certain groups as the most likely to take the initiative.  We are, of course, extremely pleased that you are choosing to.”

“What do you consider ‘Guncare’?” asked Dr Enogi.  He was sitting perfectly upright and watching Jeronica the way a mongoose watches a cobra.  His hands were also on the table, but his fingers were interlaced and his two signet rings, both tourmalines, were resting against the tabletop.

“Healthcare mediated by guns,” said Jeronica.  “Our estimation is that access to reliable healthcare in your country is currently only available for certain strata of your society.  While this has worked for quite some time, and may continue to work for a while longer, it is inefficient and does not provide enough control over who has access to the healthcare and when.  Naturally, universal health coverage is desirable—“

“Sweden,” said Terrence with a sneer.

“— perhaps.  But to reach that, compromises must be made.  And since gun-ownership is a key principle of your society—“

“The right to arm bears,” said Terrence.

“— indeed,” said Jeronica, who was aware that Terrence’s second company had done exactly that, “we perceive that a move to guncare, where gun ownership and licencing provides fast-track access to healthcare, is not only natural, but desirable amongst a good 38% of the population already.  With a number that large, elevating it to a majority is quite straightforward; we have done similar things in the past for, for example, the Sweden problem.  There is an easy lead in for most people simply by noting that people who own guns are more likely to need emergency access to healthcare, and that by being licenced to own a gun they are already registered with the state, thus ensuring that tax-payers are prioritised for medical provision.”

Madame Celeste had been nodding along in each of Jeronica’s pauses.  Now she smiled, though it was the cold smile of an aunt informing unloved nephews and nieces that her will disinherited them all.

“Licencing is not… precisely… the key point,” she said.

“Please go on,” said Jeronica.

“Well,” said Dr Enogi, glancing at Madame Celeste as though to ask permission to interrupt her.  “Licencing might be a way to sell it initially.  We can downgrade it to membership later.”

“I… see,” said Madame Celeste.  “That might work.  But yes, ultimately we would prefer people to purchase membership in, say, a national society that promoted safe gun ownership and responsible behaviour.”

Jeronica drew a marble-white notepad to her and picked up a pen.  In careful, highly legible script she made a note on the pad and then carefully ignored the other three people reading what she’d written.  “For the sake of argument,” she said, “say something like the National Rifle Association?  Privately owned, so that changes to the membership regulations are not subject to governmental scrutiny?”

“For the sake of argument,” repeated Madame Celeste, a faint smile passing across her face and then being replaced by her familiar stony demeanour.  “We understood that might be difficult.”

“Not at all,” said Jeronica.  “In fact, it might ease a couple of other sticking points.”