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Tempokai

Tempokai

The Overworked One
Joined
Nov 16, 2021
Messages
1,396
Points
153
 
Tempokai

Tempokai

The Overworked One
Joined
Nov 16, 2021
Messages
1,396
Points
153

"The IRS vs. Sergeant Bill: A Death Too Convenient"​


In the deepest, most paper-piled depths of the Internal Revenue Service headquarters—a place where joy goes to file a W-9 and never returns—someone, somewhere, in a dimly lit cubicle, cracked their knuckles over a spreadsheet dated 1969.


"Hold up," muttered Clive Worthington, Level 8 Tax Reaper and proud owner of three cat-themed mugs and zero human empathy. He squinted at his screen, where an unpaid sum of $137.42 danced mockingly next to the name: William ‘Bill’ Hendershot. A fine, upstanding citizen, born in 1947, drafted in '67, and—according to military records—heroically faceplanted into a rice paddy in ‘69 courtesy of a Viet Cong bullet.


Dead. Hero. American legend.


But to the IRS?


A tax-dodging little punk.


Clive clicked open his software: "Corpse Collection 5.0 – Post-Mortem Audit Module." He slapped on his government-issued headset, which somehow still had a wire despite it being 2025, and contacted his supervisor.


“Director Penumbra? We’ve got a rogue filer.”


The voice on the other end was more ash than sound. “Is he alive?”


“No.”


“Delightful. Those are the best kind. No defense attorneys. Proceed with retrieval.”


Clive grinned the way only someone who once audited a soup kitchen could. “Target: Vietnam. Operation: Ghost Receivables.”



Chapter One: Nam Flashbacks and Paper Trails


You’d think the IRS would outsource international field work to, say, the CIA or at least a Starbucks intern with a GPS. But no, Clive insisted on flying there himself, citing “spiritual synergy with the tax code.” He arrived in Vietnam armed with a manila folder, a calculator that could survive a nuclear blast, and a Level 4 Paranormal Permit—a little-known form that allows IRS agents to hunt ghosts.


Clive’s first stop? The exact rice paddy where Bill had eaten a bullet and his unpaid taxes had begun their wicked, interest-accruing afterlife.


He stood over the muddy patch and shouted into the void, “William Hendershot, in accordance with Form 13-4B, subsection 7A, I am invoking your fiscal resurrection.”


The wind howled. Frogs croaked. A distant villager sneezed.


And then—because of course this happens when bureaucracy is invoked correctly—a spectral shimmer in the air twisted like bad CGI, and from the mud rose the translucent figure of Sergeant Bill Hendershot: 22 years old, sporting a helmet, a confused scowl, and a face that said I didn’t even get a proper funeral, and now this?


Bill looked down at himself, then up at Clive.


“…The hell is this?”


“Sir,” Clive said with the enthusiasm of a man who microwaves fish in the office kitchen, “you are delinquent on your 1968 income taxes. Including penalties, accrued interest, and emotional damages to our accountants, your total comes to $7,439.12.”


“I DIED IN VIETNAM.”


“Yes. How convenient. Death: the last loophole.”



Chapter Two: The Audited Afterlife


Naturally, Bill protested. He ranted. He raved. He quoted Lincoln. He even tried to float through Clive in a display of ghostly defiance, but Clive merely shivered and said, “Spooky. Still taxable.”


Bill demanded to speak to a higher authority. Clive arranged a Zoom call with the Department of Ghost Finance, a windowless sub-agency that exists in a metaphysical cubicle farm where lost socks and unpaid child support also reside.


The Ghost Department informed Bill that unless he could provide adequate proof of income stoppage due to “confirmed permanent death,” the taxes were valid.


“But I have a gravestone!”


“Photoshop exists.”


“My body’s in a casket!”


“Plausible tax shelter.”


“I HAVEN’T EARNED A DIME SINCE ‘69!”


“Yet your debt grows. Fascinating, isn't it?”


Bill tried to escape back to the afterlife, but Clive whipped out Form 666-L—a “spiritual lien,” anchoring Bill to the Earth plane until the debt was resolved.


“How do I pay it?! I don’t even have corporeal hands!”


“You can Venmo.”



Chapter Three: War Crimes and Withholding


Clive dragged Ghost Bill on a whirlwind tour of former battlefield tax evaders. A French colonial officer who owed back wages. A Japanese soldier still unaware the war had ended—and taxes had begun. Even the ghost of Ho Chi Minh was audited briefly, before disappearing into a cloud of righteous socialism.


By the time they returned to the rice paddy, Bill had exhausted every possible defense.


“What if I haunt you?”


“Already haunted. I do taxes.”


“What if I reenlist and die again?”


“We don’t offer payment plans based on double death.”


At last, in a moment of spectral surrender, Bill muttered, “Fine. I’ll pay. But I’m deducting emotional trauma.”


“Denied,” Clive said without looking up.


Bill sighed. “Okay. Take it from my war pension.”


“You were declared MIA. There is no pension.”


“Use my GI Bill.”


“You are the GI Bill.”



Epilogue: Bureaucracy Never Dies


Having extracted the ghost-tax equivalent of blood from a stone—except the stone was a dead man’s legacy—Clive returned home triumphant. The IRS issued a press release stating that “no soul, corporeal or otherwise, is beyond the reach of financial accountability.”


They celebrated with a modest office party, where cupcakes were taxed at a luxury rate, and happiness was considered a non-deductible asset.


As for Bill? He was last seen haunting Clive’s office printer, jamming it every time someone tried to print a W-2. He now works part-time in Ghost Collections, helping track down other spectral scofflaws. Death, it turns out, may not be the end—but it is still subject to audit.



Moral of the story?


The only two certainties in life are death and taxes.


But only one of them respects boundaries.


The other will literally chase you across continents, into the afterlife, and back, just to collect $137.42.


So file your taxes, kids.


Or don’t.


Just be prepared to share a cubicle with Sergeant Bill when they send you back.
 
Navillus

Navillus

The Humble Cat
Joined
Jan 2, 2024
Messages
609
Points
133
Tempokai said:

"The IRS vs. Sergeant Bill: A Death Too Convenient"​


In the deepest, most paper-piled depths of the Internal Revenue Service headquarters—a place where joy goes to file a W-9 and never returns—someone, somewhere, in a dimly lit cubicle, cracked their knuckles over a spreadsheet dated 1969.


"Hold up," muttered Clive Worthington, Level 8 Tax Reaper and proud owner of three cat-themed mugs and zero human empathy. He squinted at his screen, where an unpaid sum of $137.42 danced mockingly next to the name: William ‘Bill’ Hendershot. A fine, upstanding citizen, born in 1947, drafted in '67, and—according to military records—heroically faceplanted into a rice paddy in ‘69 courtesy of a Viet Cong bullet.


Dead. Hero. American legend.


But to the IRS?


A tax-dodging little punk.


Clive clicked open his software: "Corpse Collection 5.0 – Post-Mortem Audit Module." He slapped on his government-issued headset, which somehow still had a wire despite it being 2025, and contacted his supervisor.


“Director Penumbra? We’ve got a rogue filer.”


The voice on the other end was more ash than sound. “Is he alive?”


“No.”


“Delightful. Those are the best kind. No defense attorneys. Proceed with retrieval.”


Clive grinned the way only someone who once audited a soup kitchen could. “Target: Vietnam. Operation: Ghost Receivables.”



Chapter One: Nam Flashbacks and Paper Trails


You’d think the IRS would outsource international field work to, say, the CIA or at least a Starbucks intern with a GPS. But no, Clive insisted on flying there himself, citing “spiritual synergy with the tax code.” He arrived in Vietnam armed with a manila folder, a calculator that could survive a nuclear blast, and a Level 4 Paranormal Permit—a little-known form that allows IRS agents to hunt ghosts.


Clive’s first stop? The exact rice paddy where Bill had eaten a bullet and his unpaid taxes had begun their wicked, interest-accruing afterlife.


He stood over the muddy patch and shouted into the void, “William Hendershot, in accordance with Form 13-4B, subsection 7A, I am invoking your fiscal resurrection.”


The wind howled. Frogs croaked. A distant villager sneezed.


And then—because of course this happens when bureaucracy is invoked correctly—a spectral shimmer in the air twisted like bad CGI, and from the mud rose the translucent figure of Sergeant Bill Hendershot: 22 years old, sporting a helmet, a confused scowl, and a face that said I didn’t even get a proper funeral, and now this?


Bill looked down at himself, then up at Clive.


“…The hell is this?”


“Sir,” Clive said with the enthusiasm of a man who microwaves fish in the office kitchen, “you are delinquent on your 1968 income taxes. Including penalties, accrued interest, and emotional damages to our accountants, your total comes to $7,439.12.”


“I DIED IN VIETNAM.”


“Yes. How convenient. Death: the last loophole.”



Chapter Two: The Audited Afterlife


Naturally, Bill protested. He ranted. He raved. He quoted Lincoln. He even tried to float through Clive in a display of ghostly defiance, but Clive merely shivered and said, “Spooky. Still taxable.”


Bill demanded to speak to a higher authority. Clive arranged a Zoom call with the Department of Ghost Finance, a windowless sub-agency that exists in a metaphysical cubicle farm where lost socks and unpaid child support also reside.


The Ghost Department informed Bill that unless he could provide adequate proof of income stoppage due to “confirmed permanent death,” the taxes were valid.


“But I have a gravestone!”


“Photoshop exists.”


“My body’s in a casket!”


“Plausible tax shelter.”


“I HAVEN’T EARNED A DIME SINCE ‘69!”


“Yet your debt grows. Fascinating, isn't it?”


Bill tried to escape back to the afterlife, but Clive whipped out Form 666-L—a “spiritual lien,” anchoring Bill to the Earth plane until the debt was resolved.


“How do I pay it?! I don’t even have corporeal hands!”


“You can Venmo.”



Chapter Three: War Crimes and Withholding


Clive dragged Ghost Bill on a whirlwind tour of former battlefield tax evaders. A French colonial officer who owed back wages. A Japanese soldier still unaware the war had ended—and taxes had begun. Even the ghost of Ho Chi Minh was audited briefly, before disappearing into a cloud of righteous socialism.


By the time they returned to the rice paddy, Bill had exhausted every possible defense.


“What if I haunt you?”


“Already haunted. I do taxes.”


“What if I reenlist and die again?”


“We don’t offer payment plans based on double death.”


At last, in a moment of spectral surrender, Bill muttered, “Fine. I’ll pay. But I’m deducting emotional trauma.”


“Denied,” Clive said without looking up.


Bill sighed. “Okay. Take it from my war pension.”


“You were declared MIA. There is no pension.”


“Use my GI Bill.”


“You are the GI Bill.”



Epilogue: Bureaucracy Never Dies


Having extracted the ghost-tax equivalent of blood from a stone—except the stone was a dead man’s legacy—Clive returned home triumphant. The IRS issued a press release stating that “no soul, corporeal or otherwise, is beyond the reach of financial accountability.”


They celebrated with a modest office party, where cupcakes were taxed at a luxury rate, and happiness was considered a non-deductible asset.


As for Bill? He was last seen haunting Clive’s office printer, jamming it every time someone tried to print a W-2. He now works part-time in Ghost Collections, helping track down other spectral scofflaws. Death, it turns out, may not be the end—but it is still subject to audit.



Moral of the story?


The only two certainties in life are death and taxes.


But only one of them respects boundaries.


The other will literally chase you across continents, into the afterlife, and back, just to collect $137.42.


So file your taxes, kids.


Or don’t.


Just be prepared to share a cubicle with Sergeant Bill when they send you back.
Click to expand...
No wonder the Joker is scared of the IRS-nyah. 1121
 
Azhurie_Mythephan

Azhurie_Mythephan

Quelk
Joined
Oct 16, 2023
Messages
156
Points
133
I am currently winning by being unable to sleep and grasping at straws for reasons why I would be winning, even though I am clearly not winning.
 
Shiriru_B

Shiriru_B

Book binge in progress.
Joined
Nov 1, 2020
Messages
356
Points
133
I am winning by writing about writing that has something to do with writing, maybe it's because I am writing that the writing needs to be written so that the writing can allow more writing also I am annoyed that writing has one "t" and written has two, messing up my writing when I want to type writing and annoying me when I have to write written when written feels more natural to write then the word "write".


Edit: Also waaaaaah that PFP is S tier, so nice.

Edit edit: @RepresentingSloth your PFP btw, forgot to mention it.
 
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