Rem
03-17-2011, 06:15 PM
Taxman
“So...why exactly am I here again?” Jim's voice sounded muffled to his own ears in the padded office. It had its own door and even a window, so he couldn't really see the need for such thick foaming on every available wall. He knew that taxmen were a little nuts, but this seemed more like the “asylum” kind than the “funny kid up the block” variety.
“Mr. Radcliffe,” the taxman spoke in a clipped tone, as if every syllable was a piece of income he'd have to report and he'd better note them all, “you are here being audited because you have failed to fill out form 37-B.219, section 4a, three times out of the past four years.”
Jim shook his head. “Look, that doesn’t make any sense to me. I've got an accountant, he does my taxes every year – Jack Bennett – why aren't you talking to him?”
The taxman – Tudai, his desk nameplate said – didn't bother to answer right away but instead grabbed a sheaf of paper from the top of a large stack. Most of Tudai's desk and half of his floor were covered in similar stacks of paper, some topping four or five feet and all looking like a good gust of wind would blow them over. Depending on what the taxman had to say, Jim might consider reducing the height of a number of them as a show of his displeasure.
A few moments passed while Tudai scanned the sheet. Finally he spoke, though his eyes didn't leave the high-bond printed paper. “Mr. Bennett is not responsible for these taxes, Mr. Radcliffe, you are. Form 37-B.219, section 4a is very clear – a simple declaration of intent to own and operate a business that has a reasonable profit making capacity with in the year specified and has an expectation to continue beyond the current tax calendar's duration.”
That didn't sound so bad – or that hard to fill out, all things considered – why had Bennett missed it?
“In addition, it contains a simple chart requesting a detailed analysis of all goods in an operating retail business including their height, weight and physical dimensions.” Tudai had a droning sort of voice, the kind that would put a man to sleep as easily as white noise from a softly humming fan, and Jim had to force himself to pay attention.
“Wait! What?” Words fell out as Jim's mind caught up with Tudai's words. This was nonsense! “You wanted me to weigh and measure everything in my store, every goddamned year?”
“No,” Tudai's voice was soft as he finally broke his gaze away from the page, “we wanted you to report said weights and measures.”
Jim kept his temper damped with an effort. He paid Bennett to deal with this nonsense because he hated taxmen and their rules, hated that a system for funding military operations had somehow become a way for an honest guy to get locked up for life. Didn't seem fair. Wasn't fair, really, but there was nothing he could do about it – which was why he hired Bennett!
“Fine,” he said, keeping his tone soft and squishy like the taxman, “what do I owe you? Will you take a cheque?” He forced a smile onto his face; maybe these suckers wouldn't notice if he post-dated.
“No, Mr. Radcliffe, we will not take a cheque, and the balance owing is,” Tudai grabbed for another sheet on his desk, sending one of the stacks into a ponderous swing that had no business righting itself on the wooden surface - figured that the taxman would catch a break, “one million, eight hundred thousand dollars and sixty eight cents.” Tudai glanced at the wall clock, which had just passed noon. “Sixty nine cents, rather.”
“WHAT?” The walls' extensive padding made a sudden horrific sense to Jim – this was utter madness. “Prove it, you leech! You thief – show me where you got that number – show me where it says I have to pay! That's three years of my life – three years I paid every red cent I owed you!”
Tudai shrugged. “I have all of the calculations right here, Mr. Radcliffe, if you'd care to see them. As for authority, the government has seen fit to grant us – special measures, shall we say – when dealing with amounts so large.”
The two bigger-than-average security guards in the lobby took on a host of potential functionality – Jim should have known better than to walk in alone. His shoulders slumped. There wasn't much he could do but see exactly what Tudai was willing to offer.
“Alright, taxman,” he said slowly, “what's your game?”
“No games, Mr. Radcliffe,” Tudai smiled - a thing more tooth than trite, “we are simply here to collect what is owed.”
Suited arms went wide, tightened smiles seemed to be everywhere as paper paffed and flew through the air. Tudai was gone.
Tudai was close.
Too close.
…
“I don't know, Jim - just one of those things modern medicine can't explain, I expect.” Doc Robertson was about the oldest sawbones the town had ever known, but he was still one of the best. “Your annual test results are same across the board everywhere else, but somewhere along the way you lost out on three years,” a smile crossed his wrinkled face, “either that, or I made a mistake. Happens to us old people.”
Jim shrugged; he didn't feel the loss now and really, he'd never miss it.
His phone buzzed as he stood up and made his way out of the office.
Taxes done, the message said.
Good old Bennett always came through on time – he might have lost three years but at least he wasn't going to get audited; he never wanted to so much as meet a taxman in person if he could avoid it.
“So...why exactly am I here again?” Jim's voice sounded muffled to his own ears in the padded office. It had its own door and even a window, so he couldn't really see the need for such thick foaming on every available wall. He knew that taxmen were a little nuts, but this seemed more like the “asylum” kind than the “funny kid up the block” variety.
“Mr. Radcliffe,” the taxman spoke in a clipped tone, as if every syllable was a piece of income he'd have to report and he'd better note them all, “you are here being audited because you have failed to fill out form 37-B.219, section 4a, three times out of the past four years.”
Jim shook his head. “Look, that doesn’t make any sense to me. I've got an accountant, he does my taxes every year – Jack Bennett – why aren't you talking to him?”
The taxman – Tudai, his desk nameplate said – didn't bother to answer right away but instead grabbed a sheaf of paper from the top of a large stack. Most of Tudai's desk and half of his floor were covered in similar stacks of paper, some topping four or five feet and all looking like a good gust of wind would blow them over. Depending on what the taxman had to say, Jim might consider reducing the height of a number of them as a show of his displeasure.
A few moments passed while Tudai scanned the sheet. Finally he spoke, though his eyes didn't leave the high-bond printed paper. “Mr. Bennett is not responsible for these taxes, Mr. Radcliffe, you are. Form 37-B.219, section 4a is very clear – a simple declaration of intent to own and operate a business that has a reasonable profit making capacity with in the year specified and has an expectation to continue beyond the current tax calendar's duration.”
That didn't sound so bad – or that hard to fill out, all things considered – why had Bennett missed it?
“In addition, it contains a simple chart requesting a detailed analysis of all goods in an operating retail business including their height, weight and physical dimensions.” Tudai had a droning sort of voice, the kind that would put a man to sleep as easily as white noise from a softly humming fan, and Jim had to force himself to pay attention.
“Wait! What?” Words fell out as Jim's mind caught up with Tudai's words. This was nonsense! “You wanted me to weigh and measure everything in my store, every goddamned year?”
“No,” Tudai's voice was soft as he finally broke his gaze away from the page, “we wanted you to report said weights and measures.”
Jim kept his temper damped with an effort. He paid Bennett to deal with this nonsense because he hated taxmen and their rules, hated that a system for funding military operations had somehow become a way for an honest guy to get locked up for life. Didn't seem fair. Wasn't fair, really, but there was nothing he could do about it – which was why he hired Bennett!
“Fine,” he said, keeping his tone soft and squishy like the taxman, “what do I owe you? Will you take a cheque?” He forced a smile onto his face; maybe these suckers wouldn't notice if he post-dated.
“No, Mr. Radcliffe, we will not take a cheque, and the balance owing is,” Tudai grabbed for another sheet on his desk, sending one of the stacks into a ponderous swing that had no business righting itself on the wooden surface - figured that the taxman would catch a break, “one million, eight hundred thousand dollars and sixty eight cents.” Tudai glanced at the wall clock, which had just passed noon. “Sixty nine cents, rather.”
“WHAT?” The walls' extensive padding made a sudden horrific sense to Jim – this was utter madness. “Prove it, you leech! You thief – show me where you got that number – show me where it says I have to pay! That's three years of my life – three years I paid every red cent I owed you!”
Tudai shrugged. “I have all of the calculations right here, Mr. Radcliffe, if you'd care to see them. As for authority, the government has seen fit to grant us – special measures, shall we say – when dealing with amounts so large.”
The two bigger-than-average security guards in the lobby took on a host of potential functionality – Jim should have known better than to walk in alone. His shoulders slumped. There wasn't much he could do but see exactly what Tudai was willing to offer.
“Alright, taxman,” he said slowly, “what's your game?”
“No games, Mr. Radcliffe,” Tudai smiled - a thing more tooth than trite, “we are simply here to collect what is owed.”
Suited arms went wide, tightened smiles seemed to be everywhere as paper paffed and flew through the air. Tudai was gone.
Tudai was close.
Too close.
…
“I don't know, Jim - just one of those things modern medicine can't explain, I expect.” Doc Robertson was about the oldest sawbones the town had ever known, but he was still one of the best. “Your annual test results are same across the board everywhere else, but somewhere along the way you lost out on three years,” a smile crossed his wrinkled face, “either that, or I made a mistake. Happens to us old people.”
Jim shrugged; he didn't feel the loss now and really, he'd never miss it.
His phone buzzed as he stood up and made his way out of the office.
Taxes done, the message said.
Good old Bennett always came through on time – he might have lost three years but at least he wasn't going to get audited; he never wanted to so much as meet a taxman in person if he could avoid it.