EvilGuy Screws Irene. (No- not that way, you sicko.)

This one is kind of short. On the other hand, I think it's also really damn funny.

You might remember me doing taxes last year for Shirley Moocher. It's coming-up on that time of the year again. Once upon a time, Cousin asked me to do his taxes for the 2001 fiscal year. So, I drove-over to his house to get the requisite forms from him. Little did I imagine that I'd be having a bit of fun that night. Yes, I seem to be witnessing an odd amount of pleasure stemming-from bringing-about a woman's misfortune. A few years ago, I never thought that I would. EvilGuy just can't get enough, it seems.

Collecting Cousin's W-2 Form

I drove-over to his house with the intention of collecting his information from the last fiscal year. Three days before, he'd been fired from his day-job for (get this) showing-up late for work because he was in an extended fight with Rachel, his off-again, on-again lunatic of a favorite concubine. (Oh, the stories I've heard about her! Why are some women totally ready to destroy their boyfriends' careers and lives over the stupidest things? I've said it before and I'll say it again: the entire menstrual half of the country acts like they're royally f'd-up in the head or something!) So, he's really hoping to get a tax refund this year. Not to mention a new job.

Chuck, his room-mate's band's vocalist was in his house. As was his pulchritudinous, comely moll Irene. (EvilGuy briefly met them at a party some weeks before. In fact, she was guilty of being obscenely gorgeous while not paying attention to him on even the most casual basis. If you recall, she showed-off her new ring which she clearly got in exchange for being a none-too-bad-lay. Trading sex for sparklies, we can assume, is what she's mainly talented at. Like most women.)
And oh, did I mention? Chuck moved-in to Cousin's house two weeks ago after getting evicted from his old apartment for reasons that he refuses to discuss... Irene, being his live-in fuck-toy, had to move with him. A real house full of winners.

So, after walking-up the snow-encrusted walkway in front of the house, I knock at the door. Cousin answers, and he looks more disheveled and unshorn than normal.

"Hey... you okay?"

"I feel like hell." He groans. "I've been tracking-down job-leads all day. God, all because of that fight I had with fucking Rachel." He shakes his head.

"Yeah. That can be real tough." I reply. And I sympathize. Before getting fired, he was living paycheck to paycheck. Excepting of course the small level of drug-peddling he did on the side, that is.

Cousin gives me his forms, and I'm about to turn-around and go home when I hear a voice from inside the house. Irene and Chuck walk to the door as I'm turning-around.

Chuck says "Hey, dude."

I say "hey" back while pointedly not looking at Irene. I don't know what it is, but American women are starting to look totally revolting to me. If I were to look directly at her, I thought I might crumble into rock-dust like the Kraken looking at Medusa at the end of "Clash of the Titans".

"You're doing his taxes?" Irene asks, I nod curtly. "That reminds me... I need to have my taxes done, too." She looked at Chuck, expectantly.

"I'm not paying some accountant to do them for you." Chuck grumbled. Uh oh. Here it comes.

"NiceGuy, will you do them for me?" She asked.

"Uh... let me think abou- NO!" I sneered. Away, damn parasite!

"I'll pay you!" She insists.

Cousin and Chuck looked at me. Chuck made a 'come on, dude' face. Cousin made an 'I actually have to live with this bitch' face. I can feel the pressure; sheesh... fine! So sick of these women who refuse to use their own brains to get what they want.

"Fine, I'm doing this strictly for the money." If Chuck wasn't around to pressure me, I'd have told Irene to take a damn walk. But now... she makes me wait while takes a few minutes to find her W-2 forms. What utter cocky-doodle this is!

"I hope I get a refund. I could use the money." She says as she hands me her papers. I take them without a smile.

Great. More work to do.

So... that night, I added-up her income and withholdings. Simple enough. Based on her documents, she's worked what appears to be 5 crappy part-time jobs off and on over the past year. It's simply a matter of addition and subtraction. But then... I get to line 47 of the federal tax form. It's asking me if she got a $300 tax refund last year, as many Americans did. She didn't tell me, and I need to know because it'll affect the refund this year. I call Cousin's house.

Irene answers. "Hello?"

My lip curls in disdain as I hear her voice. It sounded like air leaking from a balloon. Oh how I hate you.

"This is NiceGuy. I need to know: did you get a $300 tax-refund last year? Sometime during June through September? You might qualify for the 2001 rate reduction credit if you didn't get one." Damn bitch.

"Uh... no, I don't think so."

"That's all. Bye." I was about to hang-up...

"Wait, wait! I forgot to say something... um... I didn't file my taxes for 2000. The forms from that year are in the pile I gave you."

What? I check. I didn't look at the dates on the W-2s when I did the math (who does?) and she's right. She worked 3 crappy jobs in 2001, 2 crappy jobs in 2000. The math I did was now wrong. I break my pencil in two.

"In 2000... you didn't... file?" I asked, barely able to contain my irritation.

"No. Does that matter??"

Ugh! I threw the papers down on the ground. Hell yes, it matters! It means I have to download last year's forms, then calculate last year's taxes to see if you had any refunds, and find-out if you have penalties for not filing. And only then can I do the 2001 forms for you! Ugh, you've tripled the amount of time I'll have to spend on this- you fucking bimbo!

Rrrrrrrrrr!! That's it. NiceGuy aint doing your taxes. But EvilGuy is more than willing... Cackle.

Run for the Hills! Evil Tax Advisor on the Loose!

After politely hanging-up the phone, EvilGuy gets to work. Oh yes. Don't talk to me at parties and look what happens, ya dumb broad? He tented his fingers and smiled maliciously. Oooh, this is going to be sooooo funnnnn!!!

You say I'm being passive-aggressive? You bet your ass I am! I'd much rather smack the snot out of her with a fireplace-poker, but that's strictly verboten in this state. I have little recourse, as you can see. This is going to be very cowardly, sneaky and underhanded.

In other words, it'll be outrageously fun as all get-out.

Lesseee... the IRS isn't going to check the math of someone with such a low income. Oh sure, maybe if you under-report, you'll be fined... but it's not a crime to 'accidentally' over-report your taxes, now is it? And she's too damn ignorant to know her own ass from a Self-Employed Health Insurance Deduction. Let's see if I can't screw her nice and hard? Just the way she likes it, I'm sure.

Let's have a look at what damage I can do... ooh, penalties! This'll be a good place to start. Okay, rack-up $100 in federal penalties that she can ill-afford to pay. Bingo. Howabout state taxes from last year? That's a whole new set of penalties she'll owe- ooooh, too bad. Hmm, forget to subtract her standard deduction for last year- whoops, isn't that a pity? The artificially-large amount she owed last year will just have to carry-over into this year. Add that to the balance... oh, and she can voluntarily declare that she forgot to report interest income from a fictional savings account last year, that's another penalty- what a shame.

"Destroy, DESTROY! Muhuwahahahah!!" He chortled like Serpentor as he scribbled.

After about half an hour of evil accounting, EvilGuy reached for the phone. There were about 9 pages of filled-out forms sitting in front of him; she'd never be able to navigate through them all to check the accuracy of his work. So, the work being done, EvilGuy called Cousin's house. As the phone rang, he mused to himself how NiceGuy would never have enjoyed doing this sort of thing. What a loser he was.

"Hello?" Irene picked-up. EvilGuy winced at the flatulence of her voice-box.

"Hi... bad news for you... for state and federal, looks like you're gonna owe a tad over $450." (Tee-hee-hee!)

"God damn it! You've gotta be shitting me!" She shouted over the phone, aghast.

"Nope, not kidding. Last year's penalties suuuure add-up. That's just the way it goes sometimes." EvilGuy twirled his finger around the phone cord, barely able to contain his laughter. "But hey- it could've been a lot worse. I amortized your scheduled withholding payments until they expire next year- that saved you about a hundred bucks. And I even managed to get a forty-eleventeen shickelgruber-F insurance credit for you on line 52 since you haven't changed your dental policy since last April. Have you?" He pulled those last few sentences out of his ass entirely, but he sounded businesslike as he said it.

"Uh..." she sounded confused.

"Do you want me to explain how that one works? It might take a minute or two..." He bit his lip hard to stop from laughing. Gee, you're a dumb dipshit, aintcha?!

"Um, no, that's okay."

"Well, great! I'll drop-off your forms tomorrow. I even put postage on your envelope for you. My fee is forty bucks." Who's your daddy?

"Man! Four hundred-fiddy dollars?! That sucks! Well, thank you for helping me out..." She replied, sadly.

"No problem!" EvilGuy hung-up the phone and collapsed into laughter. "So stuuupid! Bwahahahaha!! Oh my God that was classic!"

Lie! Cheat! Betray! Pillage!

Dude, that was awesome! Just spiffy! Grinning to himself and giddy with glee, he put-on his coat and walked to the corner tavern for a cold beer. He placed his knit-cap at a jaunty, rakish angle and moved with an unusual bounce in his step, laughing like Lex Luthor might sound after sniffing airplane glue.

Hey, maybe I could do Shirley Moocher's taxes this year while I'm at it? That's it!! I could volunteer to do the taxes of every 'just friends' woman I know!! Financially sabotage 'em all nice and good. Eeeeeeexcellent...

"Bartender, one Sam Adams over here!"

Muhuwahahahah! I've gone completely MAD with power! My... my... tiny, ever so tiny, amount of power. I'm going straight to hell for this one, aren't I? Ahem. Gee, it'd be nice if I could lash-out in a way that was a little more... more... visible. Something a little more Rambo and a little less Mike Milken. You know, with more napalm, more maiming or more debauchery or something like that.

Still- that was pretty damn fun...

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"Nothing like revenge for getting back at people!"
"I dunno, vengeance is pretty good too." -- Lenny and Carl. "The Simpsons".

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