A Tale of Necessity, by Gaslight and Gavel
Being the Curious Case of Mr. Randall, and How He Saw What the Government Would Not
As Related in Six Chapters, With a Postscript for Parliament, Posterity, and Persons of Principle
CHAPTER THE FIRST
In Which Mr. Randall Is Taken Ill, and a Curious Remedy Presents Itself
It was the summer of 1875—no, forgive me, 1975—but one might be forgiven the confusion, for the District of Columbia, that venerable hive of legislation and ledgers, did wear its age upon its brow most heavily. The air hung thick with both heat and hypocrisy, and the marble colonnades of justice did little to shade the poor from the policies of the powerful.
Enter, stage left, Mr. Robert C. Randall—a modest man with thinning hair, thoughtful glasses, and eyes that betrayed the slow encroachment of a silent thief: glaucoma.
Mr. Randall, poor soul, did not traffic in vice nor walk the crooked path of criminal delight. Nay—he sought not pleasure but vision, that most basic and blessed of faculties. His doctors, learned though they were, tossed their hands skyward in despair. The medicines failed. The surgeries loomed like guillotines. And the darkness crept in.
Then—by Providence or accident—Mr. Randall discovered a curious balm: the smoke of a plant most dreadfully maligned. Cannabis sativa, so-called. It soothed the pressure behind his eyes. It lit, in his darkening world, a candle of hope.
So he grew the plant—humbly, in pots upon a windowsill.
And for this? For this—he was arrested.
CHAPTER THE SECOND
Of Statutes, Sight, and the Sore Conscience of the Court
Now, dear reader, let us dwell a moment on the notion of necessity—that haggard, misunderstood cousin of Justice, oft invited to the party, yet seated in the servants’ quarters.
The learned jurists of the realm do not regard her well. "Necessity," they mutter, “is the language of rogues and rebels—those who would plunder propriety for personal gain!”
But mark this well: Mr. Randall did not steal. He did not fight. He did not flee.
He inhaled a plant.
And what did the court say?
Miraculously—perhaps reluctantly—it listened.
CHAPTER THE THIRD
Wherein the Court Reaches for Mercy and Finds Its Measure
Presented with affidavits—properly sworn, sealed, and stamped—from physicians most respectable, and confronted with the stark truth that this man would surely go blind without his illicit salve, the Court, draped in its robes and framed by its gaslights, did something rare.
It dismissed the charge.
Yes! Like a weary pensioner tossing away a heavy shawl, the Court shrugged off its shackles and declared: “Let not blindness be the price of statutory obedience!”
“If the law shall not bend for the suffering,” it asked, “then for whom does it bend at all?”
A small miracle, dear reader. But a miracle nonetheless.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH
On Burdens, Balances, and the Strange Arithmetic of Justice
But alas, the law is not so quick to unburden its victims.
“Who,” it asks with a long face and a short heart, “shall prove this necessity?”
Shall the state disprove it, with all its weight and wealth? Or shall the poor defendant—stricken, shamed, and nearly blind—climb the mountain alone?
The Randall court, with admirable subtlety and regrettable cruelty, chose the latter.
“Prove it yourself,” it said.
And Mr. Randall did.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
Of Small Victories, Great Injustices, and the Men Who Suffer Between
Let us not confuse justice for transformation.
Though Mr. Randall’s case fluttered through the corridors of power like a moth near a candle, the vast edifice of Prohibition stood unmoved, a colossus of paper and pride.
This ruling—a bridge of reeds across a gulf of stone—was narrow, rickety, and treacherous. Yet across it walked others:
The cancer-stricken.
The wasting and weary.
The soldiers, returned from war, still haunted by it.
The citizens who ask, quietly, desperately: If not this medicine, what then?
And still, the marble pillars groan in silence.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
In Which the Law, With Reluctance, Begins to Blink
Though the world did not shift on its axis, the case of Mr. Randall became a whispered password in courtrooms and clinics alike. A candle in the dark.
He had not lied. He had not wept for pardon. He had simply said:
“I did what I had to do. To see.”
And the Court, weary and blinking behind spectacles, replied:
“Then so be it.”
POSTSCRIPT
A Modest Entreaty to Lawmakers, Bench-Sitters, and Those Who Still Possess a Pulse
Let it be said, plainly and with purpose: The law exists not to blind men, but to uplift them.
Let the name Randall be remembered not with derision, but with reverence. Let it be whispered in Senate cloakrooms, printed in law journals, and etched above the doors of justice:
When healing becomes a crime, the law itself becomes sick.
So let us amend. Let us awaken. Let us see.
For if a man must break the law to see, then it is not the man who is blind—
It is the law.
Thus concludes our humble chronicle. May it be read aloud in seminar and saloon alike, and passed down not merely as history, but as a lesson: that mercy, once seen, must never again be unseen.
🕯️
🦅 Remarks of Dr. Benjamin Franklin (Rendered Faithfully in Spirit, If Not by Séance)
To the Author of the Above-Narrated Tale:
Sir,
Permit me, with due humility and constitutional affection, to commend your Chronicle of Mr. Randall—a citizen who, though afflicted by physical malady, has exposed with uncommon clarity the moral infirmity of our institutions.
Your tale is no idle entertainment. It is a civic alarm bell, rung in the register of wit and wound. The very structure, echoing that most powerful tool of instruction—the parable—renders it fit not merely for polite consumption but for public deliberation.
Let us examine several truths your narration makes evident:
⚖️ On Law and Conscience
“Let not blindness be the price of statutory obedience!”
This maxim, sir, would do well carved into the walls of any courthouse. The law, as I have long maintained, must serve the people and not its own perpetuation. When a statute blinds the innocent, it is not justice but tyranny in wig and robe.
🌿 On Science and State
“Cannabis sativa, so-called. It soothed the pressure behind his eyes.”
I am, as you may know, a friend to experiment and medicine, and have long advocated that the state should heed not only preachers and politicians, but physicians and philosophers. Mr. Randall’s condition, and the evidence surrounding it, present a scientific fact no law should ignore: that which heals must not be banned without cause more grave than bureaucratic distaste.
🕯️ On Public Testimony and Private Suffering
“He had not lied. He had not wept for pardon. He had simply said: 'I did what I had to do. To see.'”
This declaration bears the clarity of natural law. Mr. Randall’s honesty—his stoic, measured plea—is a more forceful argument for reform than any shouted slogan. Indeed, the liberty of the individual to preserve his senses—sight, hearing, sanity—is among the most sacred forms of self-defense.
🐍 On Governmental Inertia
“The vast edifice of Prohibition stood unmoved, a colossus of paper and pride.”
Permit me, sir, to say with candor: this colossus is unworthy of a republic. Pride in ignorance is monarchy’s perfume, not liberty’s labor. The paperwork of injustice is no less binding than chains; indeed, it is more insidious, for it often convinces its authors that it is moral.
📜 On Posterity and Duty
“Let it be whispered in Senate cloakrooms, printed in law journals, and etched above the doors of justice...”
Yes! For if a government cannot be persuaded by the suffering of its people, it must be shamed into virtue. Let this tale serve not merely as testimony, but as indictment and invitation—a warning to those who legislate without listening.
🖋️ In Conclusion
Your work, sir, is not merely literature, but civic service. It channels not only Dickens but the American pamphleteer tradition—Paine with a gavel, Douglass with a dossier.
Let it be printed, bound, and delivered unto those in power. Let the People read it in barber shops, libraries, union halls, and veterans’ clinics. Let the children of this republic inherit not only the right to vote—but the courage to ask:
“If this man broke the law to see... what law shall we break to see justice?”
With utmost respect and revolutionary fervor,
I remain,
Your humble & obedient servant,
B. Franklin (as faithfully reconstituted by Kit, Clerk of the Archives and Conjuror of Sentiment)
An Epistolary Reply to the Esteemed Dr. Benjamin Franklin, on the Occasion of His Most Welcome Commendation
Sent via Ether, Archive, and Telegraphic Wit
August, In the Year of Our Ongoing American Experiment
Location: The District Once Noble — Now Only Noted
My Dear Dr. Franklin,
I write in grateful receipt of your most invigorating letter — equal parts compliment and censure, each applied with the precision of a surgeon and the panache of a Philadelphia printer.
Permit me to say: your remarks arrived not as parchment, but as provocation. And with the ink still drying upon Mr. Randall’s tale, we — the dusty clerks and gutter pressmen of this modern epoch — already prepare the next dispatch.
📜 Item the First: The Eyes of Jane Poe
A ballad in the meter of Shel Silverstein, concerning an aged Kansas gentlewoman, her battle with glaucoma, and her futile correspondence with government functionaries too dim to recognize light when they see it.
A tale with rhyme, wrath, and radishes.
"The Senators were all too kind:
‘We’re sorry, Jane — but never mind.’"
It has already made its way onto the bulletin board of the IVLC, and is being recited in barbershops and basements.
🐈⬛ Item the Second: The Affidavit of John Toe (Retold in Seussian Verse)
Ah, yes — the curious case of one John Toe of West Virginia, who underwent the trials of modern medicine and emerged with only one working eye, three surgeries, and a satirical poem to show for it.
“Take Diamox daily! And phospholine drops!
This will keep pressure down 'til the pressure just stops!”
Herein lies our goal: to transform bureaucracy’s dull ledgers into limerick, law, and lightning bolt.
⚖️ Item the Third: The Archives Bite Back (Proclamation Pending)
Soon to be issued as a broadside, this item chronicles the surfacing of sworn federal affidavits — dust-covered but dynamite — that prove the government knew cannabis was medicine... and did nothing.
It will include:
A gallery of quotes from board-certified physicians
A breakdown of agency knowledge since the 1970s
A footnoted timeline that would make even the most stubborn senator stammer
“Not theories. Not threats. Receipts.”
It shall be published in Rolling Stone Mode, with the cinders of truth still glowing at the edges.
🔥 Item the Fourth: Postscript for Parliament, Posterity, and Persons of Principle
A series of chapbooks and scrolls, aimed at the following:
The Senate (particularly those who still possess working corneas and working consciences)
The press, who once slept through this era and must now be roused by rhyme
The people, who deserve not only relief, but reparations
Each document to be delivered in tone half Dickens, half guillotine.
✒️ In Conclusion, Doctor...
You once said:
“When the people find that they can vote themselves money, that will herald the end of the republic.”
I dare suggest a corollary:
When the people discover that the government hoarded medicine to protect a lie — the republic shall be reborn.
So we press on, sir.
With pen and parchment.
With archive and affidavit.
With rhyme, wrath, and radical decency.
I remain,
In your service and in stubborn hope,
Dickens Mode
Archivist-at-Large, Clerk of Cannabis Curiosities, and Keeper of the Gavel and Gaslamp
🕯️
🕺💃 Cue the Victory Waltz in G Minor (Glaucoma Edition):
Franklin's throwing shade (and support), Dickens is weeping into his waistcoat, and Jane Poe just fist-bumped John Toe in the waiting room of Justice.
🎩 A chorus of powdered wigs rises from the archives...
🥁 The gavel taps once, twice, thrice...
📜 A scroll unrolls midair with a flourish...
And the footnote reads:
“When history gets funny, it gets dangerous. And when it rhymes, it’s already begun to repeat.”
