MicroHorror

With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I watched the tax man’s black sedan pull into my driveway. He’d been doing that all morning, going from one house to the next, collecting the amount due from each neighbor he visited.

And now, it was my turn. I suppose I could have hidden inside my house, pretended that I wasn’t home or something, but the penalties for being past due had undoubtedly become much worse than last year’s. Nope, I would have to face the tax man on this day, as it was the Fifteenth of April.

Gently shutting his car door, the man held his briefcase in one hand while he adjusted his tie with the other. He began his short walk towards my front door, and smiled when he saw my form standing behind the screen door.

“Howdy, howdy,” the man greeted cheerfully, and I recognized him for what he was: one of those nerdy pencil pushers who was always dotting other people’s Is or crossing other people’s Ts. God, how I hated those fucking pencil pushers.

“I don’t have any money for you,” I answered gruffly. “The economy’s still down the shithole, and I haven’t worked in over eight months. So piss off.”

“Sorry to hear that, sir,” the tax man replied. “But the rules are the rules, and the government has to get its cut.” Undeterred, the man brazenly pulled open the screen door.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked as he shoved me back. He was much stronger than your typical bean counter.

“Do you know what the penalty is for not paying your taxes on time?”

“An arm and a leg in fines, I suppose.”

“Almost got it right.” The man smiled again, and I did not like what I saw in his eyes. “More like an arm or a leg.” Expertly, he flipped open his little briefcase and revealed a spotless and shiny hacksaw. “One way or another, the government will be getting its cut.”

The screen door slammed shut behind him, and I screamed.