The great battle for the imaginary pie

In a quaint little village called Cloutville, everyone believed in The Pie. The Pie was said to hold all the power, influence, and status one could ever desire. No one had ever seen The Pie, but legend claimed it existed—warm, golden, and freshly baked by the gods themselves. Naturally, this sparked chaos.

Every citizen wanted their slice, and the surest way to win one was to mimic the most successful Pie-hunters. If Karl wore a monocle and spoke in riddles, suddenly monocles and riddles became the thing. If Suzanne wore ethically sourced scarves and lectured on mindfulness, scarves and lectures swept the town like a plague. The people believed that if they just mirrored the right behaviors—or better yet, out-mirrored each other—they would earn their rightful slice of The Pie.

This made life in Cloutville complicated.

Take George and Greg. Both had a talent for dramatic hand gestures. Each one was convinced his flamboyant flailing was the key to Pie dominance. Soon, their hand-waving escalated into a rivalry so intense that townsfolk had to cross the street to avoid getting slapped. Meanwhile, Marty and Meghan turned passive-aggression into an art form, determined to out-subtle one another in pursuit of social clout.

Ironically, the greatest rivalries always seemed to erupt between people who were practically indistinguishable. The Pie-chasers didn't realize they weren’t just mimicking success—they were cloning each other like a parade of narcissistic peacocks. Each saw their twin as a threat, their doppelgänger as a thief poised to snatch The Pie from their grasp.

But The Pie wasn’t real. The “power” they clawed at was merely the illusion they’d collectively created—like a group of cats fighting over a patch of sunlight.

Over time, something strange happened in Cloutville: people stopped talking about The Pie. Not because they had outgrown their obsession with power, but because their fixation had splintered into a thousand petty feuds. The Pie was once the great unifier of their madness, but now it was forgotten—like a magician's misdirection, it had vanished while no one was looking.

Instead, the citizens turned their energies toward proving who had been right about The Pie all along. Gerald claimed The Pie was metaphorical, a symbol of personal enlightenment, and wore his monocle like a crown of wisdom. Susan believed The Pie was a divine reward for moral superiority and started lecturing on the virtues of sustainable yarn. George insisted The Pie could only be earned through rigorous hand choreography, while Greg swore that true Pie-seekers understood the power of subtle eyebrow raises.

Some even pursued degrees in Pie Studies, graduating with prestigious titles like "Certified Pie Philosopher" or "Master of Pieology." These self-declared experts would give elaborate speeches about The Pie’s righteous nature and its profound moral implications. They walked the streets with inflated pride, clutching scrolls of theoretical nonsense and correcting anyone who dared misinterpret their teachings. The irony, of course, was that their carefully curated expertise only made them more blind to the truth. Their clout wasn’t built on wisdom—it was built on convincing others they had mastered what could never be owned.

"Veruca Salt, the little brute, Has just gone down the garbage chute..."

—Oompa Loompa Song, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory

No one seemed to notice that The Pie had disappeared from their conversations entirely. Instead, what mattered most was defending their own interpretation. Every disagreement felt existential. The citizens stopped waving at one another in the street. Eye contact became a hostile act, an invitation to a philosophical duel. Arguments that began as casual debates escalated into lifelong grudges. Margaret once refused to pass Greg the salt because she'd overheard him say mindfulness was just "pretentious napping."

Meanwhile, the people of Cloutville clung to their illusions. They doubled down on their differences, convinced their rivals were somehow keeping The Pie away from them. They obsessed over proving they were right—not realizing they were already prisoners of their own narrow worldviews. Each person believed they were defending something precious, when in reality, they were guarding an empty space.

And so Cloutville spiraled into absurdity, a town where no one could remember what they were fighting for, only that the fighting itself felt far too important to stop.

As the townsfolk scrambled and shouted, these quiet few became onlookers—watching the madness unfold like spectators at a particularly chaotic puppet show. Yet they weren’t idle. Having glimpsed the nature of truth, they understood its quiet yet transformative power. Rather than wading into the brawl with raised voices and sharpened opinions, they chose a different path.

These were the ones who never cared much about The Pie—or the circus that surrounded it—and understood something the rest had missed. Power, influence, and status weren’t prizes to hoard or wield for personal gain. They were forces best observed from a respectful distance, like admiring the sun through a filter. Stare too closely and its brilliance would scorch your vision—an overwhelming blaze of truth too powerful to grasp directly.

They understood that real power wasn’t about conquest but alignment—with reality, with reason, and with values that could steady even the most turbulent of societies. They didn’t bark orders or flaunt their wisdom. Instead, they worked quietly to reignite what people had long forgotten—a childlike sense of wonder.

Rather than debate, they asked questions—questions that invited reflection instead of reaction. They knew that direct confrontation would only tighten the villagers' grip on their illusions. Instead, they planted ideas like seeds, patiently watering them with storytelling and playful banter. Bit by bit, their presence began to shift the air.

They reintroduced values that had once kept the village balanced:

Respect that didn’t depend on a shared ideology.

Kindness without the expectation of validation.

Higher truth is best discovered rather than declared.

These ideas spread quietly, bypassing pride and ego to stir something deeper in the townsfolk—a longing for connection and meaning that no illusion of power could satisfy.

In time, this quiet influence became louder than the clamor of Pie-chasers. The town’s obsession with power faded, replaced by something far more enduring—a community built not on illusions, but on the quiet strength of shared meaning and purpose. The Pie, once the town's golden idol, became nothing more than a forgotten metaphor—a symbol of what happens when people chase shadows instead of light.

"There’s plenty of money out there. They print more every day. But this ticket—there’s only five of them in the whole world."

—Grandpa Joe, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory

(Emphasizing the rare and invaluable nature of true wisdom in a world obsessed with status.)