The Polish Program (LSD, #2)

15. The Taxman

The Taxman

After delivering this morning's packages, after shopping for #3, The Diplomat, and leaving his bottles at his suite in the Hotel Bolesław Chrobry, after cooking lunch for Scarlett and myself, after eating lunch and washing the dishes, we're finally ready to take revenge to the next level.

"What's our next step?", I ask.

"The Boss, the Banker and the Shareholder were all clear about who's the real criminal in my story: it's the taxman. We have to go to the tax office, find a way to kidnap him, find a deserted place to take him to, and finally, find some nice sharp tools to torture him like he tortures every citizen in this country."

"That sounds like a lot of work. Are we going to work for the taxman? There's a cheaper solution. Your neighbour Barbara told us the taxman came here, for a chat with the former tenant of this flat. She even has his card. We can call him and ask him to come over. In the kitchen, you can find all the sharp torture instruments you'll need. Cut him into pieces in the bathroom; we'll turn the shower on, and all his blood and guts will disappear in seconds, without a trace."

"What will the neighbours think when they hear the screaming?"

"They'll think you're paying the tax in flesh. Half of the self-employed women here work in the adult entertainment business. They know the only two certainties in life: death and being screwed by the taxman. If you can't avoid it, you might at least relax and enjoy yourself. They call it «income tax» because they ask the taxman to come in, the taxman comes in a few minutes and the—"

"I get it, Red. No need to explain what V.A.T. stands for either."

Vagina and anus are the official medical words, but I'm not sure if it's appropriate to use them in conversation with an educated lady: "The T stands for Tongue, not Tits, by the way."

"I'm not interested in hearing the other synonyms for «income» the taxman uses to screw the working class. I'm interested in nailing the motherfu—"

"Not just mothers. He also screws fathers, children, grandparents, everyone."

Scarlett is not in the mood for my poor jokes. She knocks on the door of her neighbour Barbara and returns with the taxman's phone number. With her smartphone, she calls the number, waits for half a second, and answers: "If I want to pay my taxes, how many forms and papers do I have to fill in? And where can I get those forms?"

The speaker answers: "For payments, you don't have to fill in anything, Miss. We already have sent one of our best men to visit you. He will be at your front door any minute."

"Don't you need the address?"

"This is the twenty-first century, Miss. Every incoming phone call is scanned, recorded and localised by the most advanced technology tax money can buy. When the caller uses the sacred word «pay», the location is automatically sent to the closest tax collector. Usually, he'll arrive within five minutes after we take the call. If the pizza delivery boy can do it, why not the tax office? Haven't you noticed our advanced system of speeding tickets? All we do is place our cameras in every place where traffic passes by, and our system does the rest: register the speed, read the number plate, localise the owner, print the fine, and send it via the mail. When it comes to collecting money, you can count on us. The only two sure things in life are death and paying taxes, but we make sure we're first. Of course, we also claim half of your heritage after you pass away."

"Thank you very much for your information, Miss, but I have to go now. There's someone at the door."

"You're welcome, Miss. We hope to hear from you more often."