The Taxman

Audio version available here.

The taxman approached the house with no little trepidation.

And oh, there was such a good reason for this trepidation. This little taxman, you see – Smithly was his name – he drew the short straw. And any tax collector, no matter how large or brave they were, would hold their briefcase with shaking hands as they approached the Wizard Thompson’s house. But the Wizard owed a million dulcs to the city, the mayor promised the citizenry streetcars in the last election, and it was tax season.

So that is why Smithly made out his will, kissed his wife with a passion he hadn’t felt since their wedding day, and headed out to this eyesore of a residence with many long forms, pens, notices, and other special things.

He stepped up to the door. The bronze knocker was in the shape of some many-tentacled thing, which can’t have been an octopus, because it had too many tentacles. He did not use the knocker. The constabulary had provided the tax collectors with many interesting and stomach-twisting accounts of what happened to those who used the knocker. Instead, he took an iron rod out of his briefcase and beat it against the door, ready to flee at the first sign of dimension-warping death.

It did not come. The door opened into a perfectly mundane hallway. There was no one on the other side.

Smithly stood there for could very well have been for hours and ages, his knees knocking together like hands clapping. His teeth chattered, his muscles went taut. The only reason he didn’t sweat was because he felt so very cold. Eventually, he moved forward – not by steps, but by millimetres, like an overgrown caterpillar.

He reached the threshold. A shock raced through his bones, paralysing him, stilling his shaking and all other movements save his breathing. He couldn’t even blink, poor man! Even when a speck of dust fell right upon his eye!

“WHO DISTURBS MY SOLITUDE?” boomed a voice from everywhere.

Smithly felt his jaw loosen, not enough so that he could open his mouth wide for a full-bore yell. He gave it an admirable try, though.

“THAT’S ENOUGH OF THAT.”

The pseudo-yell shrunk into a squeak.

“NOW TALK PROPERLY.”

“M-Mr. Charles Smithly from Municipal Revenue. I’ve come to see about your taxes.” He swallowed, hugely. “...or maybe even have you pay them...”

The ground opened up beneath him. Smithly fell, something big smacked him on the head, and everything went so terribly dark.

~

When he came to – which wasn’t all that long afterwards, actually, somewhere between thirty and sixty seconds – he was bound to a chair with invisible chains in a lamp-lit room. There was a table before him. On the other side sat the Wizard Thompson.

Honestly, the wizard wouldn’t have looked to impressive to you or I if we’d been ignorant as to his grand status. Just a middle-aged man, even if he were really plenty older than that, with a big nose and an only moderately competent attempt at a beard. He didn’t even dress that oddly, unless button-down shirts, suspenders, and ties suddenly became dreadfully passé in the time since Smithly approached his house. The ornate gowns and cloaks a wizard was entitled to were not for him, as they were a bit of a hazard in his line of work.

“Now,” he said with a voice that was not so booming, but quite deep all the same. “You must be able to tell me a reason why anyone would weep over the death of a taxman.”

Smithly considered this. Having not been killed yet, he’d calmed down a touch, but he knew his answer had to be good. “My wife would miss me a bit,” he said. “And her parents like me, which I understand is not a certainty with in-laws. Also, I think I’m a pleasant fellow to have drinks with and I’ve never made a collection in anger.”

The Wizard Thompson grunted, but he did nod, which Smithly took as a promising sign. “And?”

“I’m kind to animals.”

“Then why don’t you have a dog?”

Panic rose. He was spying on him! Has he been spying on him? They did say that he could see anything that went on in the city; maybe he had a watch on all the tax collectors, just for these moment, and... Oh, just tell the truth! “My wife sneezes whenever they’re about.”

“Good, good. Now, just one more question... Why should I pay your taxes?” And here the wizard’s expression became terrible indeed and Smithly thanked his lucky gods that he had the good sense to take care of his necessities beforehand.

What should he tell him? The city needed streetcars? The Wizard Thompson could teleport at will.

Civic duty? He always did like to remind them all how many times he saved them from devilspawn and what have you.

Because everyone else had to pay them and damnit, he should have to as well? He also liked to remind them all how much he wasn’t like ‘everyone else’.

Mr. Charles Smithly was small and not very brave, but he had a job and felt he did it moderately well and that if he didn’t pull this one off, someone else would pull the short straw. It would keep going, on and on and on, until this city had no tax collectors. On that day, the city would be rubbish.

“Because if you do,” decided Smithly. “If you pay the full million, I’ll do something for you.”

“Do what?” asked the Wizard Thompson, leaning forward.

“Anything. Anything you name.” There. The only possible solution. “But we’ll have to sign a contract, if you please.”

The wizard smiled, not at all nicely. “Agreed.”

~

Have you ever heard of an hoxform? Oh, you educated readers must have, but I must provide an explanation for children or the ignorant: an hoxform is the product of a drunken tryst between a cobbler and an imp. Yes, I know, it doesn’t seem that dreadful. But it’s like vanilla and cumin, which are fine and innocuous enough tastes on their own, but combined together makes one reach for the minty toothpaste. An hoxform smells bad, looks worse, has runny bits all over it and relishes the eating of belly buttons. If you think this doesn’t sound serious, consider that these hoxforms possess large mouths and even larger teeth.

The Wizard Thompson had one penned into his third basement, in a magic seal that looked for all the world like a hopscotch game. This Smithly noticed as soon as he was led down after the signing of the contract, but he was much too polite to voice this.

Then he noticed the hoxform. He squeaked. His stomach reeled, despite its lack of contents. “I’m to kill that?”

“Yes,” said the Wizard Thompson. “I’m much too busy to do it myself, but obviously, I can’t keep it here forever – the stench of it! But rest assured, should you die, I’ll grant your wife a generous settlement. I’d romance her too, but as I said, I’m very busy. Now, you’ve got everything you need?”

All Smithly had was his briefcase filled with papers and things, the iron rod, fear, and a bit of a desire to give this wizard a smart smack on his big nose. “No.”

“Excellent.” The Wizard Thompson snapped his fingers and teleported out of the room.

And the hoxform was shambling outside the hopscotch square.

Smithly followed his first inclination, which was the same as the first inclination of any human with a lick of instinct, and that was to grasp the iron rod like a sword and back up into the farthest corner. To this would have been added a scramble for the high ground, but there was no high ground in the third basement. The wizard had not even the basic courtesy to have a sturdy bookcase he could clamber onto. Had he done so, Smithly might have had the leisure to tear some cloth off of his clean and professional outfit to stuff in his nose – the hoxform really did smell dreadful.

But he had to make do with breathing through his mouth.

The hoxform shambled closer, as hoxforms are wont to do. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth between those very large teeth, dripping syrupy saliva all over the nice, clean floors. Almost puppy-like, except puppies weren’t bipedal with mouths about level to one’s belly button. Also, puppies tended to be fluffy and not have skin like rough green violet leather. And their claws could be trimmed. And they didn’t have opposable thumbs.

Smithly dug his shoulders into the two walls. They absolutely refused to give way to a secret passage. His hands couldn’t seem to keep the iron rod steady for love or life and the hoxform, of course, lunged for the belly.

He struck the rod sharply over the creature’s head. Again. Again!

The hoxform slunk back and tilted its head at him, like a confused child. That head leaned back ever so slowly, then snapped forward, claiming the iron rod. It gulped it down and burped.

That was when the taxman screamed because really, that’s when almost anybody who wasn’t a wizard would have screamed. The hoxform screamed right back, which didn’t help at all.

Really, now! What else did he have! Just his silly, shiny briefcase, filled with miscellanea, and absolutely nothing else aside, because this damnable room was austere to the point of monkishness! Except... except... Wait, wasn’t one of its parents a brownie? And what did brownies particularly didn’t like?

Still screaming intermittently, because that seemed to keep the thing from coming any closer for the time being, Smithly put down his briefcase and shimmied out of his coat. It was a new coat. He’d just picked it up from the tailor’s the other day and it fit him nicely. He’d miss that coat, but it would be too sticky after this. He chucked it at the hoxform. It landed on its head.

The hoxform stopped its screaming – and so Smithly stopped his – and pulled the coat off of its head. It inspected it with its watery eyes and gave what seemed to Smithly to be very much like a grunt of satisfaction. It donned the coat with a flourish, the pus and whatnot oozing through, and the taxman silently mourned his fine coat. The creature proceeded to wander about the third basement, presumably to search for a mirror. It paid no heed to any other living things nearby, belly buttons or no.

Smithly pondered his next move. It was distracted, yes, certainly, but how was he expected to finish it off? I must remind the reader that it did eat the iron rod ably, which as a rule, no creature mundane or magical should cavalier about. But if it were suffering any ill effects from the act, it gave no indication.

He opened up his briefcase. Papers, papers, pens, pens. Nothing that could be reasonably expected to take out anything that was larger than an insect. Except...

Smithly took off all his clothes then, leaving on only his long johns for decency’s sake. All these articles – his shirt, his trousers, socks, and shoes – he trailed in front of the hoxform like candy. All these the hoxform donned, becoming more and more ecstatic the more clothes it put on.

Until, as the last shoe was crammed onto its over-large foot, it collapsed onto the floor in rapture. Smithly beat its belly with his briefcase until it regurgitated the iron rod. Then he switched his weapon.

~

Later, the Wizard Thompson inspected the taxman’s handiwork. “Inelegant,” he said. “But ultimately effective, and that’s the main thing, isn’t it?”

He filled the briefcase up with coins, allowed Smithly to wash his hands up, and gave him a pair of shoes. What a kind man, thought Smithly, in a bit of a daze as he shambled through the streets back to Municipal Revenue. Certainly not at all like the stories.

~

The next morning, Smithly’s supervisor called him into the office and looked very serious at him.

“Now Charles,” he said. “You did a very brave thing yesterday, no question, but there is a bit of a problem.”

Smithly’s hands shook again, his heart thumped loudly. “Whatever could it be, Mr. Garret?”

“We had a look at your deposit after dawn broke and it’s all gone, every last coin.”

His jaw dropped. He could just about manage a “Pardon?”

“Fairy gold, Charles. That’s what Thompson gave you.”

Smithly recovered from his swoon eventually and it was at that time that his supervisor offered him some basic but essential advice. “Next time,” he said. “Make certain you sign that contract in blood.”

~

The taxman approached the house with no little trepidation. In his briefcase, stoppered tightly and wrapped with a cloth, was a red-filled vial.