Professional Documents
Culture Documents
The one publisher brave enough to try to publish this book backed off
because of problems with the IRS, So I am trying to make it
available through the net.
Paul Mahler
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BACK TAXES
A NOVEL BY PAUL MAHLER
(c) Copyright 1991,1992 Paul Mahler
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Preface
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CHAPTER ONE
I opened the letter. The letter said: "We have been unable to
resolve your account (see attachment), and our attempts to reach
you by telephone have not been successful. To eliminate the need
for a personal visit to your residence or place of business, send
payment in full and all delinquent tax due in the enclosed
envelope within seven days from the date of this letter." It was
signed "Chief, Research Group."
The attachment said: "We have previously written you asking for
payment of the Federal tax identified below, but we have no
record of receiving it. The tax is overdue, and the law
authorizes us to seize your property, wages, or other assets to
satisfy your unpaid tax. The total amount due includes interest
and penalty and should be paid immediately to avoid additional
charges."
$58,398.77.
It had to be a mistake.
I was scared and said, "I know I owe back taxes. There is no
question that I owe back taxes. But there is, I think, a question
of how much back taxes I owe."
It was like he didn't hear me. "Look, you didn't listen to what I
said. I owe about two thousand for that year. Here is a copy of
my tax return showing I owed about two thousand. Look at the
bottom line: 'Taxes due, eighteen hundred and ninety-five
dollars.'"
"Well, we can take your car and sell it and apply the proceeds to
the outstanding balance on your tax account."
"Wait a minute! We still haven't figured out how much I owe you
guys, and now you are going to take my car away. I don't see how
that makes any sense. I still owe more on the car than it is
worth."
"That's not our problem Mister. Hansen. You should discuss that
with the bank."
"We can take back your rent from your landlord each month and
apply that money toward your tax bill."
Officer Lincoln flashed his gold tooth in his first smile of the
day. "Your landlord will probably throw you out."
"Now that you get all my paycheck, my car, and my home, I might
as well move to another country."
He didn't even blink.
This was all I could handle for one day. I told him I needed a
day or two to think about all this and would call him back. I
left the Federal building and wandered into the fog.
Since they put in the underground, Muni has been running antique
streetcars on Market Street in the summer and during the
holidays. I was in no hurry. I had time even if I didn't have
money. I hopped on an old streetcar that must have been salvaged
from the Spanish-American war. I had my head leaning on the glass
watching things spin by and spotted the Libertarian Bookstore. I
got off at the next stop and walked back to the store.
I went through the IRS section and bought a few books and
pamphlets. I walked the rest of the way home. My apartment is
just above Castro Street, almost in Noe Valley.
I made myself a sandwich and opened a beer. After the news on TV,
I started reading the books and pamphlets.
One book interviewed an IRS agent. They asked if there would ever
be a tax revolt. He said, "No, because people who don't want to
pay taxes don't have to. People who make enough money, or people
who work in the underground economy, and people or organizations
with special interests don't pay taxes."
The books didn't cheer me up. I consoled myself by thinking
Revenue Officer Lincoln was having a bad day. No one can stay
angry for ever. Tomorrow would be better.
CHAPTER TWO
"Mister. Hansen, when you have been a revenue agent for a while,
you start to get a sixth sense for people who are holding out on
you. A sixth sense about people who are trying to cheat on their
taxes, or hide something. I know you are one of those people. I
can feel it. I can tell you are hiding something from me,
concealing money."
I got mad. "Look, this is bullshit. I owe you maybe four grand
with penalties and interest. You are trying to make me sound like
Al Capone. You won't tell me what I really owe."
"No."
He told me, "Call me when you know how you will pay us the money
you owe," and handed me his business card.
I took it and stumbled out of the office. Outside I put the card
in my jacket pocket. When I reached in I felt something else
there. I pulled it out and saw the bookmark from the Libertarian
bookstore. It had the address and time of the meeting. The
meeting was for later the same day.
I left the Federal building and headed for the nearest bar. I
found a cute place on the edge of the Tenderloin. The Tenderloin
is famous for ten-buck hookers, drunks, and great Vietnamese
food. We call it the "wine country." The neighborhood was as
depressed as I was. This is probably where I would wind up after
they took my apartment. A nice gutter in the middle of the wine
country.
I rang the bell and got buzzed in through the security gate.
Upstairs at the door I said, "Hi, Joe sent me." The guy at the
door looked me up then down then let me in without saying
anything.
The meetings was in the living room of a flat that had seen
better days. The flat was carved out of what had once been a
fancy Victorian house. An old building that had seen its share of
faded dreams.
I looked for a seat, saw one in the back, and sat down behind
this really great looking lady. No one would see me next to
anyone that good looking. I would get lost in the rug or the
wallpaper.
"Over a million people don't pay any taxes at all. They are were
tax dodgers, or conscientious objectors, or didn't want to pay
for guns and bombs."
I was getting ready to fade back out to the street when much to
my surprise the hot-ticket blonde, the one I hid behind, who
looked even better standing up and facing my direction, said
hello. This was a surprise as good looking girls had developed a
blind spot for me in Junior High.
She introduced herself, told me her name was Susan and asked if
she could buy me a drink.
We took her car to a fern bar near the opera house. It was quiet.
The in-crowd had been avoiding it for the last few months since
the big coke bust. I ordered a beer, she asked for white wine.
Susan asked me where I was from, what I did, and how I felt about
all this trouble with the IRS. The beers made me more glib than
usual, and I told her everything.
I gave her my number, but no one that attractive would ever call
me again. But I would rather fantasize about her than Officer
Lincoln.
CHAPTER THREE
Even though the IRS was after me, I still had to work for a
living. I worked at a printing company. We had just bought the
newest fanciest laser printer to replace our older laser printer.
My job was training it to be useful.
We did high-volume custom printing. We took computer tapes and
printed from them. We did the telephone books for the telephone
company, for example. Telephone books for large multi-nationals
headquartered in San Francisco. Catalogs. Big books that would
change frequently.
My work never got me laid but I liked it. After computers I was
interested in Monday Night Football--and beer. Maybe Susan liked
football.
She was dressed in a shift kind of thing. She had misplaced her
bra somewhere. She looked even better than I remembered.
Susan was five-five, maybe one hundred and fifteen pounds and
blond. I would wait until after dinner. If she could cook I would
propose over dessert.
Well, could she cook. Pasta, salad, and a killer triple chocolate
layer cake from Just Desserts. The wine disappeared, even though
it turned out to be the wrong color. Susan said how much she
liked it. I assumed she was being nice.
Our conversation turned to the IRS. Her father had been in big
trouble. That was why she was at the meeting.
He got a letter like mine. His letter said he owed fourteen
hundred dollars. He didn't think he owed it. He had paid all his
taxes, he had filed on time. So he wrote a letter asking for a
meeting. The IRS never wrote back, just kept sending dunning
letters.
He was afraid they would come after his bank account. So he wrote
to the bank and told them not to give the IRS any money without a
court order.
The bank said, "Sorry." if the IRS came after his checking
account they were going to give it to them. They had to, it was
the law. Next month, the bank turned fifteen hundred dollars over
to the IRS
In the first week of July, the court issued an order for the bank
allowing the tractor to be taken.
"The deputies hitched the tractor to the truck and started back
to Little Forks. One Sheriff's car was ahead of the truck.
Another was behind it."
"The deputy in the front car pulled across the road, blocking it.
Cherry had his wife Jane and daughter Susan in the car. he jumped
out and exchanged words with the deputies."
"The deputy in the front car told Cherry, over the loudspeaker,
to get back in his car and leave quietly. Cherry refused. The
deputy than said he was under arrest, that he should raise his
hands and stand quietly."
"Cherry refused the order and got back in the car. He drove
toward the deputy's car which was still blocking the road. The
deputy claimed to see something that looked like a pistol in
Cherry's hand. No pistol was found in the car."
It wasn't over. Susan and her mother were charged with attempted
murder. If they hadn't charged Susan and her mom for a felony,
the deputies couldn't justify the shooting. Susan left rather
than face the charges. She was still on the run.
After the crying we talked and talked until the small hours of
the morning. I finally looked at the time and said, "I should go
home, it's late."
Susan said, "Don't go, please, it's so nice having you here."
Susan sat me down on the edge of the bed and said. "Don't go
away." I wasn't going anywhere.
She disappeared. When she came back, she had on even less than
before. She lit some candles, she said they made her feel sexy. I
didn't think she needed help.
She took off all my clothes, slowly. She pulled back the covers
on the bed and pushed me on my back. I tried to grab her, but she
pushed me back on the bed and asked, "Do you like being tied up?"
I was too excited to say no. She reached into the nightstand and
pulled out some ribbons. She tied the ribbons around my wrists,
and my wrists to the headboard. Then she tied my ankles to the
foot-board.
She took out a huge feather and started stroking it up and down
my body. I was going bullshit. I was dying to grab her, and
couldn't.
I couldn't believe how much fun this kinky stuff was. Next she
brought out an ice cube and started working me over with it. This
left me gasping for air.
She was telling me what to do the whole time. I loved it. Then
she started kissing me all over. My lips, neck, down my chest.
Then a blow-job. I don't know why the call it a blow job, she
wasn't doing much blowing.
CHAPTER FOUR
Susan was up early. She said she had things to do. I didn't know
where she worked. I didn't know if fugitives worked for a living.
I showered and dressed, went out for coffee, then went home.
I wouldn't have believed Susan's story about her dad a few weeks
back. After my own visits with Revenue Agent Lincoln, anything
seemed possible.
From that night, Susan and I spent all our free time together. We
had much in common. I liked being tied up. She liked tying me up.
I figured my car had been towed. It would cost me one hundred and
twenty dollars, to get it back with the fine and the towing. I
remember a friend saying they would take Mastercharge so I could
get it out even though I didn't have the cash.
He said they didn't have my car and asked why didn't I just call
first? He told me they didn't have any record of my car and that
the street I had parked on wasn't a tow-away zone anyway. He
asked me if I would like to file a stolen vehicle report. I told
him no, that I think I knew who had it.
I would have to let my boss know so they could get someone else
to attend the meeting in Sunnyvale. I took the bus to the office.
When I got there, Lois, the receptionist, said the boss had been
looking for me and wanted me to meet him in accounting
immediately.
"I tried to go to bat for you. I was called by some guy named
Lincoln. He said you owed them a lot of money. He said I should
give all your pay to them or I could be in a lot of trouble
myself."
My boss, Larry, said, "I have talked it over with one of the
vice-presidents here. We don't have any choice, we have to let
you go. We don't know how you could have gotten into this much
trouble with the IRS. What are you going to live on when the IRS
is taking all your pay? How can you do any work for us?"
"You have been a great employee. You have done a great job, we
are all pleased with your work, but we're going to have to let
you go. I'm sorry."
I dumped a few papers that were left into my box and left it in
the bedroom. There were a few clothes they didn't take still in
the closet. I left. On the way out I saw that there were letters
in my mailbox. I opened the box and got them out. They looked
like bounce notices from the bank. They were bounce notices from
the bank.
I did have a dollar, so I took the bus to Susan's. She was home
when I got there. She took me inside put me on the couch and gave
me a beer. I told her about my morning. She said, "Those
bastards. Someone should get those bastards. Don't worry, you can
stay with me."
I was shell-shocked. I spent most of my time sleeping or
drinking. Susan tried her best to cheer me up, but couldn't
really.
I spent that next week feeling sorry for myself. Only Susan kept
me going. I felt uncomfortable that Susan was supporting me. I
had been staying at her place, eating her food, letting her take
me to the movies. She had been so nice to me and I didn't see how
to repay her.
I told her this over breakfast. She was quiet for a bit.
Thinking. She said, "I should introduce you to the people I work
with. They may have a job for you."
She told me, "It's not really a job. We all get some money, but
it's not really a job. I'll tell you more but you have to keep it
secret."
I told her, "I won't tell anyone anything. I'm so pissed at the
IRS I don't care if it's illegal."
She said, "This will work out just fine. Your going to get an
opportunity to fight back."
CHAPTER FIVE
I was angry, but it came with a wierd sense of freedom. Life had
never held surprises like these. I Went to college because my
folks thought I should; I Studied computer science because my
advisor thought it was a good idea. I Got a job. I Did what
you're supposed to do. I Worked. I paid most of my taxes.
Susan went to talk to her friends about me. She came back happy.
She said, "I talked with everyone. They already knew we are
dating. Everyone wants to meet you tonight.
You think slaves wear leg-irons and are confined and beaten? A
free man owns what he produces and a slave doesn't.
"In the Middle Ages, serfs gave over to their lord twenty-five
percent of everything they produced. In return, they received
protection. How does a serf gving up twenty-five percent differ
from the American worker who gives up thirty-five percent?
"The IRS has IRS courts, where most of the judges are ex-IRS
employees. The IRS maintains their own hit list. The IRS has over
three thousand armed agents. They enlist the aid of the FBI and
local police forces as they see fit."
"In enforcing the Sixteenth Amendment, the IRS has thrown away
the First, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, Eight, Ninth, and Tenth
Amendments to the Constitution.
CHAPTER SIX
The events team was always busy. The regular media wouldn't give
us the time of day. They were afraid of the IRS, too. We weren't
Republican or Democrat or large, so we didn't get media coverage.
More rallies were held over the months, more newsletters sent
out. The day-to-day grind of political activism. When I signed
up, I had thought every day would be an adventure. But, no,
things moved slowly, and no adventure reared its head.
We made a big push at tax time to send out extra editions of the
newsletter. We tried to capture the interest of the popular press
and television. The press and television wouldn't cover us. The
best we could get was a few paragraphs in the "Bay Guardian." We
couldn't even get into the San Francisco Chronicle, even though
just about anything else could. It was frustrating.
There was a factory in the South, years back, that started taking
all of a month's withholding out of one paycheck. This made it
clear just how big the bite was.
This didn't last long, and the IRS made it mandatory that
withholding be taken out of wages as they were earned. A nice
psychological buffer, withholding. Just think how people would
react if at Christmas time the IRS said, "by the way, you owe us
fifteen thousand dollars."
Some of what we were doing, like not filing our income tax
returns, was illegal, but we weren't into any of the big stuff.
Nobody was shooting at us, and I didn't feel we were changing the
IRS.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Several months went quietly by. I was happy. A nice job, a nice
girl, a nice computer. I spent more time outdoors with rallies.
I can remember when it ended. It was my fault.
Everyone went on and on. I listened then dozed off into day
dreams. I was thinking about what I would do to the IRS if I had
the bucks. I had an idea. Patently simple. I batted it around
inside my head for a while. Held it up to the light, looked
underneath it. The more I thought about it the more it seemed
like a good idea.
I got out note paper and, while everyone else was talking,
started writing. The more I thought about my plan, the better it
looked. I starting outlining what would be needed: people,
machinery, supplies. Then I put times on everything and figured
what equipment and supplies would cost. It seemed like a
wonderful idea until I added up the numbers.
Nine to ten months and a bunch of money. I already knew that the
IRS had all the money. We kept getting enough to eke by, but this
involved serious bucks.
The guy snarled. "Oh Yeah? So what makes you so smart, asshole.
What would Mr. Programmer do?"
I said, "Look, busting the IRS would be duck soup. I could stop
them dead in their tracks. The trouble is it would be expensive."
Steve got up, walked over to me, looked me straight in the eye
and said, "I can probably get two hundred thousand dollars."
I told everyone my plan. They tried to poke holes in it, but the
more they listened, the more they liked it. Like all good plans--
and even if I say so myself, it was good--this plan was simple.
It was easy to the point of foolproof. You just had to have the
right idea, the right people, the right funding, and the right
equipment all at the right time. All of which we could get.
Except the money, maybe.
We went home for the night. When we got back home, she was
excited and a bit drunk. She loved my plan. We had more to drink
and headed for the bedroom. One thing lead to another, and before
I could say, "Blow up the IRS," I was tied to the bed frame.
Susan said, "You have been verrry, verrry, bad and I have
something special for you." She was talking with long r's again
so I knew I was in for a big treat. I won't tell you everything
she did, I'm far too shy, but just let me say it was great.
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Does our hero live or die? Does the IRS win or loose? Will
there be an IRS when our hero is done with his scheme? What is our
hero's plan?
If you are excited enough by the sample to fork out after tax
dollars to read the rest, please fill out the
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Paul Mahler
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