Monday, February 06, 2006

I'm back, with a story of my travels, sort of...

tap, Tap, TAP!

The butt of a flashlight against the glass woke her from a thick fog. Shivering in the front seat of a car she doesn't recognise, she tries to clear the cobwebs of a pain induced sleep. God, her head feels like shit. There is partially dried blood by her temple, it feels like corn syrup, thick and sticky.

tap, Tap, TAP!

She squints out the drivers side window, but she is blinded by the mag-light flash light. She feels around the side panel of the door, finds a knob and rolls down the window... she asks: "Can I help you?", feeling kind of stupid as it dawns on her that she is the one in need of help.

"Step out of the car Ma`am."

Feeling the door panel again for the latch, she nearly tumbles out of the car. It's cold, it is mostly dark, she is on a dirt road... there is nothing but pithy dusk, trees and dust for as far as her slowly adjusting eyes can see. Nothing looks at all familiar. The cold mist of a light rain starts.
Two men are by the car she came out of. Both dressed in dark business suits, one in black, the taller one in what looks like dark blue. The man in black quickly flashes a badge and askes what she is doing out here. The taller man walks back towards the Lexus that presumably belongs to the two men. It looks like he is on a phone.

Stunned. She doesn't remember anything since walking to the parking garage after burning the midnight oil at work. Tonight? Last night? She just isn't sure. She turns to look at the car, it isn't her's. This is an older white Lincoln, the trunk and drivers door open wide. She drives a Jetta.

"Ma`am, what's going on out here?" Asks the short one. The taller man steps back away from the Lexus, he moves quickly towards her with something shinny in his hands, handcuffs. Without saying a word, the tall one expertly turns her around and before she even has a chance to open her bruised mouth to ask a question, her hands were cuffed behind her back. She was being steered in the direction of their car. She shakes her head in an attempt to wake from this crazy dream, but the lightening bolt of pain underscores the fact that she is not sleeping. Before her head clears, she is in the back seat of the Lexus and the engine is starting. What kind of cop drives a frekkin' Lexus?

"What is going on? Who are you and what the hell is going on here?" She croaked through swollen lips. Her voice sounded authoratative in her head, outwardly, it was weak, pathetic even. The demand for an answer lost it's desired effect.

The front passanger, the shorter man in black responds: "We've got some questions for you, let's start with the easy ones... Where did the car come from and how did a dead hooker end up in the trunk?"

What the hell is he saying? "I... I have no idea what you are talking about, I want a lawyer!"

Both men laughed in sick unison. "A lawyer can't help you sweetheart, we aren't the police... You're going to pay for that bitch in your trunk though."

Blink, Blink... What the fuck is going on?

Except for the rhythmic drone of windshield wipers, the ride was absolutely silent. The dirt road gave way to pavement and eventually they reached the outskirts of the city. They exited the freeway towards the seedy warehouse district by the railroad tracks that run along the rivers edge. With the press of a button, a garage door on a large, unmarked steel building opens.
The Lexus pulls into a large open storage room like a plane in it's hanger. There are nothing but file cabinets, hundreds of them in tidy rows.

"We're with the government, the Oregon Department of Revenue to be exact. You've got to pay for what we found in that trunk back there."

"I don't know what you're talking about... I don't know anything about a body, and that's not my car!"

"Don't you know ANYTHING about the tax laws in Oregon, you dumb bitch? There is a dead hooker in the trunk tax in this State. Where the body came from is a police matter. The tax is our concern and you were the last person with that dead hooker... you've got to pay the tax!" The taller one goes on: "The dead hooker tax is $10,000 per hooker, you're lucky there was only one, those old Lincoln's have pretty damn big trunks. Payment is due immediatly, if you can't pay it tonight, we will freeze your assets, put a lein on your business and garnish a large portion of your husbands wages.
Good thing you've got that gash on your head, all signatures need to be in blood. We take major credit cards, so whadda want to do?"

OK so it wasn't a dead hooker tax that kept me away, despite the rumors, there were no FBI agents at all. There were no handcuffs.
It was the Dept of Revenue... we had to straighten out the matter of taxes owed after last year's audit. They meant business and had me scrambling for a few days, but it's worked out, kind of... at least I'm not hysterical anymore.
If you've ever dreamed of self employemnt... call me first ;)
By the way, does anyone know anyone who has ever been audited and not found to owe thousands upon thousands of dollars... why do they never find that they owe the auditee?
Seriously folks, try to avoid being audited, it's not as much fun as you hear...

Maybe I can sell the "Dead Hooker Tax" novel for 10G.

Oh and I'm back!

posted by addict @ 10:34 PM |

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