Chapter 3: The Coin of Contempt

Chapter 3: The Coin of Contempt

For three days, Leo lived in the blue glow of his laptop screen, a ghost haunting the machine. The digital firestorm he’d unleashed was burning hotter than he could have imagined. "The Gospel of a Tin God" was everywhere. It had been screenshotted and reposted, spawning a legion of memes. Finch's smug face was photoshopped onto pictures of Marie Antoinette telling the peasants to eat cake. His quote about the "well-trained monkey" was plastered over images of Rafiki from The Lion King holding up a baby Simba with a stethoscope.

The outrage was cathartic, the humor a testament to the enlisted tribe's ability to find comedy in the darkest corners of military life. Leo’s persona, The Enlisted Deviant, was being hailed as a folk hero. But as he scrolled through the endless threads, a sense of unease began to creep in.

The internet's memory was short. Outrage, no matter how righteous, was ephemeral. In a week, another scandal would break, another meme would trend, and Finch’s gospel would fade, buried under layers of new content. A few angry sailors would get a slap on the wrist for posting something unprofessional, the officers would close ranks, and Finch himself would likely just lay low until it all blew over. The bruise would heal. Leo wanted to leave a scar.

He stood up, stretching his stiff back, and walked over to a box labeled ‘MEMORABILIA.’ He cut the tape and pulled out a small, velvet-lined display case. Inside, nestled in custom-cut slots, were a dozen heavy, metallic discs: his challenge coins.

Each one was a piece of his history. The first, a simple bronze coin from Hospital Corpsman ‘A’ School, felt thin and insignificant now. Another, heavy and ornate with the insignia of the 2nd Marine Division, was a gift from a Gunnery Sergeant whose life he’d helped save. He picked it up, feeling its familiar weight in his palm.

In the military, challenge coins were more than just souvenirs. They were a currency of respect, a tangible symbol of belonging. They were presented by commanders for excellence, traded between members of elite units, and slammed down on bars to buy a round of drinks. They were proof you were there. You were part of the tribe.

An idea, cold and brilliant, began to form in his mind.

What if he could subvert that tradition? What if he could forge a coin not as a symbol of pride, but as an emblem of shared contempt? A physical object that couldn't be deleted or scrolled past. Something that could be left on Finch’s desk, in his coffee mug, on the seat of his car. A permanent, pocket-sized reminder of how the "flock" truly felt.

The smirk returned to his face, wider and more predatory than before. He sat back down at his laptop, the half-packed boxes and his quiet civilian future once again forgotten. He opened his design software, the blank digital canvas a fresh field of battle.

His mind was already assembling the pieces. This wouldn't be a dignified coin of brass and polished enamel. It needed to be cheap, gaudy, and insulting. He chose a pot-metal base, the kind that feels greasy to the touch and smells faintly of industrial chemicals.

For the obverse, the "heads" side, he imported Finch’s official portrait. Using his design tools, he exaggerated the sneer, sharpened the condescending tilt of the head, and flattened the image until it looked like a caricature stamped on a bottle cap. Around the rim, in a pompous, curling script, he inscribed the words: LCDR ALISTAIR FINCH, M.D., PH.D. And beneath the portrait, the title Finch had given himself: INTELLECTUAL & SOCIAL BETTER.

He then flipped to the reverse. This would be the soul of the coin. He sketched, deleted, and sketched again, until he had it. A chimpanzee, rendered in crude detail, wearing a stethoscope around its neck and a confused look on its face. It was the perfect visual representation of Finch’s insult. He surrounded the image with Finch's most damning quote, in stark, blocky letters: "A WELL-TRAINED MONKEY CAN LEARN TO DRAW BLOOD." And at the very bottom, where a unit motto would normally go, he typed the name of their new, defiant brotherhood: THE ENLISTED DEVIANTS.

He stared at the finished design. It was perfect. Vicious, personal, and deeply, deeply disrespectful.

Now came the obstacle: logistics. A digital post was free. A thousand metal coins were not. He couldn’t fund it himself, and he certainly couldn't use his own credit card. He needed a clandestine supply chain.

His fingers danced across the keyboard. He found an overseas manufacturer known for its discretion and rock-bottom prices. Then, he created a new, anonymous cryptocurrency wallet. The final piece of the puzzle was mobilizing the army he had already raised.

Under his Enlisted Deviant persona, he crafted a new post.

Subject: You wanted a voice. Let's give them something they can hold.

Body: Words on a screen disappear. The Gospel of our Tin God deserves a more permanent scripture. I've designed a little something to commemorate the occasion. I call it the Coin of Contempt. For the cost of a cheap beer, you can have one. For the cost of a six-pack, you can help arm the entire flock at Yokosuka Naval Hospital. All funds are anonymous. The first shipment goes directly to Japan. Let's make sure Dr. Finch can't turn a corner without seeing his own face.

He included the two images of the coin design and the cryptic address for the crypto wallet. He set a modest fundraising goal, enough for 500 coins. He hit ‘post’ and leaned back, waiting to see if the tribe would put their money where their mouths were.

He didn't have to wait long. The first transaction notification pinged within thirty seconds. Then another. And another. The numbers on the wallet’s balance began to climb, first in trickles, then in a torrent. It blew past his 500-coin goal in under an hour. By morning, there was enough money in the wallet to mint over two thousand.

The comments were a flood of fierce enthusiasm. “TAKE MY MONEY.” “Ordering 20 for my whole shop. We’ve all got a Finch in our command.” “This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Shipping to FPO, AP?”

Leo felt a profound sense of connection, a fierce pride in the community he was fighting for. This was no longer his private war. He was merely the armorer, forging the weapons for an army that had been waiting for a call to arms.

He contacted the manufacturer and placed the order for 2,000 coins. For the shipping address, he entered the details of a P.O. Box he had instructed Maya to rent under a pseudonym near the base. The final confirmation email popped into his encrypted inbox, the text stark and simple.

Order Confirmed. 2,000 Custom Units. Estimated Delivery: 10-14 business days.

Leo closed the laptop. The glow from the screen vanished, plunging the room back into near darkness. The digital weapon had done its job; it had sown chaos and united the troops. But now, a physical manifestation of their collective defiance was being struck from metal in a factory halfway across the world. Two thousand pieces of contempt, heading for one arrogant doctor in Japan. The haunt was about to get very, very real.