Death and Taxes
DEATH AND TAXES
by
Sansoucy Kathenor
*****
Death and Taxes
Copyright © 2012 by Valerie D. Kirkwood
Table of Contents
Death and Taxes
Captive Audience
A Walk on the Wind
The Book of Fate
The Castle-O-Lantern
Catspaw
Hunting Licence
Involunteer
Other books by Sansoucy Kathenor
Death and Taxes
“Mr Zemp,” said the tax lawyer, a smooth, middle-aged man named Ptyual, who wore a suit although suits had gone out of fashion, “we want our money.”
“My money,” snarled Zemp. “You can’t tax a dead man, and I’ve been dead for two years.” He picked up his empty beer can and waved it airily. The can was always empty, but he liked its familiar feel in his hand, just as he liked his sloppy jeans and his fluorescent tee shirt advertising the Lunar Bouncers, who hadn’t won a game in a decade.
“Of course we can tax you,” said Ptyual. “As soon as the creation of zombies was legalized, the revenue laws were changed to include the new status. You are earning money, therefore you owe tax.”
Zemp turned to Jellek, the third man sitting in the rock star’s expensive suite. Graying and a bit tubby, Jellek wore the latest business-casual style, a track suit with a tie stenciled on the top half. He also wore an almost perpetual smile. “Jelly, are you going to let this blood-sucker get away with mopping out my money?”
“Well now, Zemp, baby, you can’t really say he’s stealing it. We had to get you legal status before you could go back on the stage, and once you’re legal, they’ve got their claws into you.”
“Same as you have,” growled Zemp.
“Only fifteen per cent for me, sweetheart, and I earn it. It’s not always easy to book a zombie. You’d be surprised how many people won't even consider – ”
”Okay, I’ve heard it all before.” Zemp thumped his can down. “If you let this guy take all my money, there won’t be any fifteen per cent for you.” He lifted the can again and waved it in triumphant logic.
Jellek mumbled, “I get mine off the top.”
“Yeah, but if they take their ninety per cent of what’s left, it won’t be worth my while working. Then there won’t be any at all for you to skim off.” He turned back to Ptyual. “How do you expect me to live on just ten per cent of – of – whatever it is he leaves me?”
“Ten per cent of eighty-five per cent,” Jellek supplied, always on top of figures.
“We don’t expect you to live on it, Mr Zemp,” said Ptyual smoothly, “since you are, as you’ve pointed out, dead. You no longer need food or shelter, and your expense account covers your stage costumes – ”
”And what am I supposed to wear on the street?”
“The current laws allow you to wear anything at all – or nothing at all – Mr Zemp. And since you don't feel heat or cold, clothes are purely a vanity purchase for you now, and do not come under the living-equivalent deduction allowance. Furthermore, since there has, in many instances, ceased to be much difference between what you rock singers wear on the stage and what your fans wear on the street, you could use your costumes for street wear with only a slight decrease in your living-equivalent allowance.”
“Ice out, man! You want me to look like those freaks?”
“But they have made themselves look like you, Mr Zemp.”
“Like my stage – What’s it called, Jelly?”
“Your stage persona, baby.”
“So – you tax gougers want me to look like a freak?”
“As to that, Mr Zom – Zemp, we have no preference whatsoever.”
Jellek leaned forward and gave his client his most persuasive look. “See here, Zempie boy, why don’t you let it all go? We – er – you make enough that even eight point five per cent lets you live – I mean exist – in luxury. And you know no one ever wins out against the tax guys, so you’ll have to pay it in the end; and the more fuss you make, the more interest they pile on. Cut your losses and give the man a thumbcheck now.”
Zemp slammed his beer can down again, so hard he squashed it. “Now see what you made me do!”
“Here – have a full one, baby: makes more noise when you whack it around.”
“Hey, you’re right. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“The empty one was symbolic, sweetheart. Look, you know it’s just this particular guy who rubs you the wrong way. So pay up, and just to show what a big man you are, give him a ticket to your next concert – front row center!”
Ptyual sniffed. “I never attend rock concerts, thank you.”
“Now, Ptyual, baby, you gotta bend a little, too. Besides, it’ll look good on your ceevee to be able to say you’ve sampled popular culture – you know, a man of the world, and all that? Promise us you’ll come. Tell you what, we'll throw in half a dozen backstage passes for you to hand out, too; you’ll be the neighborhood hero. Just so long as you use that ticket yourself.”
“Hmph. Very well, if it will get this case straightened out.”
“Right. Now – Zemp? Just put your thumb here – I've got the check all made out ready for you. Everyone agree that’s the right amount? Great. Here’s your ticket and the passes, Mr Ptyual.”
Jellek saw the tax man out the door of Zemp’s suite, and came back rubbing his hands.
“What are you so happy about?” grumbled Zemp.
“You’d have had to pay in the end, baby. This way you can get your own back on our Mr Ptyual.”
“Yeah? How?”
“Have you forgotten the effect of your amps on front row center? And I,” added the manager with satisfaction, “get a twenty per cent finder’s fee for bodies in suitable condition for zombie-ing.”