By all that is right and good in the Universe, Rearden metal should be the sole intellectual property of Rearden Steel Rearden Productions Rearden Coal Rearden Life, Inc. Henry Rearden, CEO and 100% owner of Rearden Steel, has sent many cease and desist letters to the Uncyclopedia regarding the distribution of trade secrets about Rearden Metal. However, in accordance with the Freedom of Information Act, otherwise known as Directive 10-289, the U. S. Bureau of Central Planning has ruled any compliance with these cease and desist letters to be illegal.
Furthermore, as if this damned bloodletting of a man of productive genius who saved all of your asses from the Steel Shortage of 1951 wasn't enough, the very same U.S. Bureau of Central Planning has, in an unprecedented move in all of the history of the United States of America, worked a bill through Congress which applies only to one man, namely Henry Rearden, demanding that he, himself, "voluntarily" disclose the formula for Rearden Metal™ on the Uncyclopedia.
And so, God damn it, here he is doing it, because if he doesn't, well, they're going to sieze all of his bank accounts anyway. And they're going to reward his double-crossing chicken-legged worthless slot of a wife, Lillian, for selling him out. So, here, despite all of the legislation about trademarks and intellectual property this country has passed to the end of protecting, say, the investment represented by $120,000,000 of Henry Rearden's own hard-earned capital and the 10 best years of his life which he could have used to f*** stewardesses and supermodels but instead stayed awake 22 hours of every day reading about metallurgy and alchemy so that he could get rich by making all of your sorry, pathetic excuses for lives more bearable, Henry Rearden will, under penalty of the death of a wife who hasn't put out since the day they were married, ruin any chance he ever had of making his millions with those 10 years of his life like God intended, and tear himself a new asshole while he's at it, all so that you damned tree-hugging communists can have your mothering welfare-state and your State-funded art museums and you all can watch in joy as I, Henry Rearden, burn myself alive on the altar of your envy and fear, you common vultures.
How to make Rearden Metal (this is the God's honest truth, too)
How it all begain
It all started when I was sitting on my veranda one day thinking about how much it sucks to be married to a woman who does nothing but give your money to worthless charities and doesn't even have the decency to f*** her own God-damned husband. "Isn't it nice," she was saying, "to be married to a big-time Industrialist like you? Oh, that's right, you wouldn't know. All you care about is steel." "No," I had thought to myself. "All I care about is sex. I make steel so I can be rich, and that will lead to lots of sex, which I'm dying for, you b***h." I must have accidentally said this out loud, because she slapped my face and said, "Well, excuse me for trying to bring a little decorum into our home. For that, I'm going to demand that you hire me an interior decorator, you worthless excuse for a husband," and so I told her "Worthless excuse for a husband? You spend $13,000 of my money every God damned week, and you have the gall to call me worthless?"
Gayness Factors and Interior Decorators
But in the following seconds I realized something: I had always known that stock Iron bullion, if exposed to an ambient Gayness concentration of 73.344 kajillion tupperware parties per inch-squared, would glutenize and achieve a Young's modulus of 32 pied pipers, if the temperature of the charge were increased by about a thousand degrees, and if the charge card was Master Card. But, like anyone else who knows shit about steel, I had always thought that such a gayness factor would inevitably turn the Iron bullion cubes into Cambell's cream of mushroom soup and liquidate all of my assets at the same time.
But then I remembered that my worthless slot of a wife keeps insisting that British interior decorators actually have a gayness factor of zero, but each of them had a metrosexual coefficient of 1.21. This she learned from lazing around my house and watching episodes of Changing Rooms on that $500-a-month Satellite TV service she buys with my money after my mother told her about how cute Lawrence's ass is on that show. We still pay for the service, even though the b***h hasn't turned on the damned TV in three years.
Anyhow, I began experimenting with Metrosexual factors of 800-1400 queer-eyed-straight-guys-per-inch-squared and positioning them around the charges -- American Express this time -- in such a way that the constructive interference generated by catty disagreements over whether my blast furnaces would look better with floral print drapes or something even more gay adonized the essence of General Tso's Chicken in the hematite floes, thereby liquidating all of my competitors' assets and giving me the sensation of recieving oral sex from my mistress, Dagny Taggart of Taggart Transcontinental.
But this wasn't enough -- the metrosexuality present in the mixture did result in a decrease in the ass-sucking of the new resultant steel, but left one with the overall impression that perhaps this is all total bullshit.
The Final Solution
That's when I realized that if I was going to kill a lot of children with my product, like you all accuse me of wanting to do, I was going to have to use steel faeries. Steel faeries are not fairys in the same way that interior decorators are fairys, but they are The Final Solution to the Jewish Problem of deciding whether or not to accept a free ham. And there you have it: Metrozexuality, American Express, Steel Faerie Dust, and total bullshit, just like the idea that I don't deserve the billions of dollars I would have made if you had stayed the hell out of my way and let me give you ungrateful bastards the revolutionary new alloy that's fifty times as strong as steel and half the cost to produce, which I thought you deserved.
Ten years of my God-damned life, you bastards. Do you understand what that means? I saved your asses from the steel shortage. I was the only man who could sell you steel at a rate that allowed you to stay in business. And you know what? I lost millions. But it was worth it, damn it, to keep you all alive, so that when the crisis passed, we would all have enough of everything to go about business as usual. Now there's no way in hell I'm going to get those millions back, you bastards, because you whiny, lady-assed liberals are calling my ownership of the rights to Rearden Metal "unfair." You know what? It's the first competetive edge that's actually real, and not made up or enforced by pull-peddling politicians, since GM started making cars that weren't black. I spent 10 years of my life witnessing agonizing failure after agonizing failure. Ten years of brutal self-torture over something I didn't even know was possible. And now, now that I've finally succeded at formulating a metal that is 50 TIMES AS STRONG AS STEEL AND HALF THE COST TO PRODUCE, you, you who have ridiculed me, are taking it away by force. I didn't have to do any of it, you know. I could have stayed in the bottom of the coal mines where I started. But I had a dream. A dream of skyscrapers and dollar signs and BMWs and titties. And not only did I have that dream, but I had the strength to see it through. And now, after the ten best and worst years of my life, you take it away, because you don't want to have to pay me the billions I deserve for those ten years. Because the law of cause and effect, and the law of supply and demand, are a little too tough on you candy apple feel-good pinkos. I gave you the cheapest and best structural metal in history, and this is what you do to me. Well, you can all go to hell. And that's where you'll be, when you run out of real men to sacrifice to the whims of the masses.
Rearden Metal Today
Henry Rearden wishes his wife and everyone else to know that he is still sleeping with his productive-genius of a mistress, who puts Aphrodite to shame with both her looks AND skills in the sack, and plans to someday live out his dream of dying of a heart attack while f***ing Dagny's brains out right in front of Mrs. Rearden, because it would be the only moral thing to do.