The Taxening
Admiral Biscuit
This was the time of year Written Script hated the most—the time when he had to avoid the tavern, market, and bakery. His workdays often ran long, and by the time he'd neatened up his office and gone home, it was too late to go over to Golden Harvest's house, so he spent the two weeks either cloistered in his office, or hidden in his house.
He was sick and tired of it. Nopony should have to put up with the amount of horseapples he put up with.
The letters came first. The letters always came first. By Equestrian law, he had to mail out the tax bills two months before taxes were due, to give everypony time to come up with the bits, or to appeal the amount owed, if they chose to. That was the day he gave a whole box of muffins to the loyal mailmare, because that was the day when she had to deliver a letter to everypony.
And at first, the mailed-in checks gave him hope. Ponies who were on top of their civic responsibilities were first. Their checks were neat and timely, and their bank accounts held sufficient bits to honor the checks. As the months wore on, the checks became increasingly rumpled, and the penponyship more sloppy. Two weeks before T-Day (as he called it), the first checks with angry messages on the memo line began arriving in the post.
That was also about when the irresponsible ponies started drifting into his office, to gripe about what they owed and to try and cajole him into giving them a deal. That was when he began to drink apple brandy like it was water [1].
Drinking while on duty was technically against the rules, which is why he'd taken the Official Bottle home with him the night before. There was no prohibition about emptying it before he came to work, and he took full advantage of that loophole.
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[1]There was a long-standing arrangement with Sweet Apple Acres to pay their taxes in liquid gold (so to speak) for the benefit of the village treasurer. Additional bottles over the amount of taxes owed came out of his own pocket, but could be reimbursed as a 'job expense' on form 100-P.
♞ ♞ ♞
"This is outrageous." Blossomforth stormed into his office like a hurricane. The image was only made more apt by the stormcloud trailing behind her, punctuating her words with little flashes of lightning. "I moved my house out of Ponyville's airspace to avoid taxation, and yet I still got a bill in the mail. How can you explain that‽"
Written Script nudged his bottom desk drawer open and rested a hoof lightly on an unopened bottle before answering.
"All airspace over Equestria is owned by the Crown, as everypony who lives within the borders of our nation shares certain benefits and thus has certain responsibilities."
"Responsibilities." She spit on his floor, to tell him what she thought about responsibility. "I've got no water, no foals, no hospital bills, no weather, no bear patrols . . . so what am I responsible for?"
His eye twitched.
"Well?"
"This." Written Script used his telekinesis to yank open a file cabinet. By feel, he grabbed out a grey-bound tome that weighed more than any foal in town (except Snips). "This is the general budget for Equestria. Each village receives a complimentary copy as a provision of the Sunshine Act of 999, section 4." He tossed it in her direction. "And this." Another manila folder came out of the filing cabinet. "General weather fund. Here." Another stack of papers. "Monster control."
Blossomforth shrieked as the tome landed on her back, followed by a manila folder and a stack of papers.
"Rebuilding after unsuccessful monster control."
"CMC contingency fund.
"Special weather, unplanned.
"Re-election funds.
"Road and dam maintenance.
"Feral flower inspection.
"Discord-related damage, petty.
"Mane-dye for elected officials.
"Fire patrol.
"Not Otherwise Specified.
"Apple Brandy, for the purpose of taxation.
"Schools, Bars, and Public Houses, promotion of same.
"Tourism." He flipped a pamphlet across the desk. "Bribing the Canterlot and Manehattan newspapers to not report the latest monster attack for the purpose of tourism." That was a thick file. "The list goes on, Miss Blossomforth. For the good of our community, everypony plays her part, even if she technically doesn't live in our airspace."
She didn't reply.
Written Script leaned over his desk and studied the mountain of papers on the floor. Somewhere under that was a pony.
With no particular urgency, he began moving the files back to their cabinet. It wasn't until he'd removed Cursed Plant Contingency that he finally found what was left of Blossomforth. She was literally squished as flat as a pancake.
I've just murdered a pony, he thought. I should feel terrible. Especially since I kind of had the hots for her once.
He looked at her body again. He didn't feel terrible at all: he felt relieved. He'd shut her up. She'd never bother him again.
Written Script was still examining his conflicting feelings when he heard hoofsteps down the hall. I can't leave this here. He stuck a hoof under her stomach, neatly folded Blossomforth's mortal remains and slid them under the desk.
Just in time, too. He'd barely gotten in his seat, adopting his typical bored bureaucratic pose, when Derpy walked into his office, her saddlebags bulging with mail.
"Morning, Written Script!"
"Good morning, Miss Hooves," he mumbled with more cheer than he actually felt.
"I've got your mail." She nodded back at her saddlebags, then one eye drifted down towards the floor. She jerked, and took a step back. "What's this?"
"I can explain," Written Script said frantically, as the mailmare leaned down for a closer look. If I kill her, too, nopony will ever know. His eyes darted across the surface of his desk, looking for a weapon. He passed over a heavy brass candlestick and a vial of Despair Squid ink, finally settling on a sharp-toothed staple puller. He levitated it over the desk and was reading towards Derpy when she popped her head back up, a sheaf of papers in her mouth.
"You must have dropped this," she said, squinting down at the paper. "'Mane dye allowance for elected officials—' that sounds important." With a cheery smile, she set it on his desk, while he hid the staple puller behind his back.
"Eh, ha, yeah. I must have. Going through last minute budget reviews, you know. Making sure that our town is using every tax bit properly."
"That's very important." Derpy set two mouthfuls of mail onto his desk.
"It is." He squared up the budget form she'd just given him and set it in his inbox, to be dealt with later. "Government should be accountable to the ponies who it serves."
"Yes, it should." Derpy looked back into her saddlebags, to make sure that she hadn't missed any mail. Written Script took the opportunity to move back slightly, so his hooves weren't resting on the late Blossomforth.
"But taxpayers have responsibility, too," he said. "They should be nice to their civil servants, or else . . . something bad might happen to them."
"I know." She pulled her head triumphantly out of her mailbag. "If you only knew the number of letters I got that were abused, with poorly-written addresses . . . and don't get me started about how ponies keep their mailboxes.
She set a crumpled, stained envelope on the desk. "That's, uh, my taxes. I'm real sorry about the envelope. It got kinda damaged when I fell down a well."
"Think nothing of it," he said magnanimously. "It's not the envelope that matters, it's the contents."
"I dropped the bill in the fireplace."
"Oh." He reached for a razor-sharp letter opener. "Well, that's okay. I have everypony's property identification number memorized. I don't really need that, just the check."
"Good thing I fished it out of the outhouse, then!" She waved at him and left his office, whistling cheerfully all the while.
After a moment's deliberation, Written Script tossed the unopened envelope into the fireplace. He still stamped his ledger book as PAID, though. In a circumstance like this, it was the thought that counted.
He sterilized his hooves with a splash of apple brandy, and then chased that with a swig of the same, just in case he'd somehow gotten anything nasty in his mouth. He didn't think he had, but it was best to be careful.
As he put the bottle back into his desk drawer, his hind hoof brushed up against Blossomforth again. I have to do something about her, he thought.
While he dithered, he went through the property book and stamped UNPAID—FORECLOSE on his copy of her cloudhouse's title. As he fed her personal records into the hoof-cranked paper shredder, inspiration struck.
"Boy, the government sure didn't skimp on these," he said to nopony in particular. He stepped back and wiped some sweat off his forehead. The shredder had done a heroic job of disposing of her body, although the contents of the collection bin were probably no longer recyclable.
♞ ♞ ♞
"I still didn't have no fires," Caramel said angrily. "Not a one."
"Uh huh." Written Script reflected on how he must look: his tie was askew, and his government-issued bottle of hooch was proudly on his desk. Half empty. "You still owe for the fire engine."
"Didn't go to the hospital once."
"Still owe taxes for it."
"Or the dentist, neither."
"I can tell." Written abandoned pretense and picked up the bottle.
"Don't got no foals, either." His face reddened just a touch. "Well, I don't know of none, anyway."
"Still owe for the school. Even if it didn't do you no . . . um, any good."
"I'm not paying," he declared, stomping his hoof down for emphasis. "You can't make me."
"Can't I?" A dangerous light flashed in Written's eye. "You haven't met Mr. Chompy."
"What."
"Say hello to my little friend!" Written jumped over the desk, a red Swingline™ stapler held proudly in his aura.
"What are you—ow! Hey, get that away from me!"
"Ah ha ha!"
"My leg . . . why would you do that‽"
"I'm going to keep doing it until you pay what you owe."
"Never!"
"It. Is. On." Written leaned forward and swung the stapler again and again, until only a quiet clicking could be heard. He let out a ragged breath and slumped over the prostrate form of Caramel.
"Are you done yet? Because that kind of hurt."
"No, I'm not done." Written Script reached with his TK for his desk drawer. "I'm just out of staples. Let me get re-loaded, and we'll continue."
♞ ♞ ♞
One hour and two boxes of staples later, Written looked down at his hoofywork. What was left of Caramel looked like a punk rocker who'd finally gone too far—every inch of the earth pony's body was covered in staples.
I can't put him in the paper shredder, unless I pull out all the staples first. Written poked him with a hoof, to make sure he was really dead.
He glanced around his crowded office. There weren't any places to hide a body, unless he emptied out a drawer in a filing cabinet and stuffed it in there. He couldn't do that, though; every single paper was vital to the continuing prosperity of Ponyville.
Finally, his eye landed on the ficus plant in the corner. With a fair amount of shoving and swearing, he was able to set Caramel up against the wall, propped up in the corner. He stuck the ficus plant in Caramel's lap, then held everything in place with a bit of Scotch tape and a few more staples for good measure.
He twirled his (very expensive) Swingline™ in his hoof like a cowpony might twirl a gun, and sauntered back to his desk, settling in for the next complainer with a smug sense of self-satisfaction and a swift swig of spirits.
Written Script hardly had to wait at all before the miller came struggling through the door, her bags bulging with account books. She dropped them on his desk with an authoritative thud, and glanced around the room.
"That's one ugly ficus you've got there."
"I was going to toss it on the dumpster on my way out," he said honestly.
"Well, that's enough small-talk. You know why I'm here."
"Yeah." He looked down at the dusty books. "Say, did you know flour dust is explosive?"
She nodded. "Of course I know that. That's why I have to pay through the snout for crystal lights instead of oil lamps, and do you think I can deduct them as a business expense?"
"So much for my witty quip." He yanked the cork out of his brandy bottle and splashed it on her, then struck a match on his hoof. Before she could react, he flung it at her.
With a flash, much like one of Twilight's teleportation spells, the miller was gone. Unlike Twilight's teleportation spell, she left a charred spot on the floor.
He dusted off his hooves, fed her ledger books through the paper shredder, opened a fresh bottle of apple brandy, and waited for the next complainer.
Author's Note
Special thanks to MSPiper and metallusionismagic, who literally pre-read this at the last moment because sometimes I'm a jerk and say, "Surprise! It's midnight, and I'm publishing in seven hours!"
By request of my readers, who wished that the jerks in A Taxing Evening had gotten their comeuppance.
