Written by Douglas J. Silfies
Alex Wormsworth was the chief of the Tax Collection Agency for Smolensk when it happened, when he found a certain case on his desk. It wouldn’t have been the first time he stepped in to handle a case involving tax fraud or some other related crime, but that was usually due to the limited scope of his Agency, and usually he picked up said cases when everyone else was busy. He knew what case this was, he assigned it to Manfred Dosser, one of the people who are supposed to handle these open and shut cases, but now it was back on his desk and it had a note on it: “This went deeper than I thought.” He opened the file again, maybe there was something he missed? Something he didn’t quite pick up on the first read through. It certainly seemed open and shut from the onset, but after a while he began to realize something. This wasn’t an open and shut case, this person had help of some kind but it wasn’t clear where it was. All that was clear is that this James Sausman avoided his taxes through a tax haven called “Jebediah Island” and that this island, according to Manfred’s research, is supposedly a euphemism for one of the islands in a pond near the Bortslovakian Ducal Palace. Regardless of whether or not the enigmatic Jebediah Turner is buried there, that island apparently helped a man avoid paying his taxes. The first thing that Alex would need to do is speak to this James Sausman, and figure out everything he could from him. That was 4 years ago.
Now this issue has ballooned from a small tax evasion issue to an international investigation. It all felt like it happened so fast to Alex, those 4 years. He recalled when he questioned James Sausman, it turned up plenty of leads. Too many leads. Half of them lead to fellow users of the tax haven, but a bunch of overworked waiters and waitresses trying to get out of paying taxes on their tips weren’t that knowledgeable on who they were getting help from. They didn’t even recognize James. They all got their information through several different sources, a Damien here, a Baldwin there, Alex’s own name popped up several times even. However no one could get in contact with these people, apparently they had lost contact some time ago. Some of the other leads involved random uninhabited islands that he claimed were the mythical Jebediah Island. Jebediah Island being the one supposedly carrying the supposed dead body of Jebediah Turner, but the Ducal Palace in Bortslovakia isn’t exactly open to the public, let alone tourists, and any request by the Smolenskian government to gain access to the island to investigate has only been met with denial of Jebediah’s existence, accusations of being ‘one of them,’ and thinly veiled threats. With that island the only really concrete lead they have, the only thing left is to try and see where the paper trail lead. Which is where Alex was on the 5th of December 2277, following this trail.
The numerous twists and turns he went on took him most of the 4 years up to this point, and he was starting to lose hope after the 7th Alcoholics Anonymous meeting he ran into following these trails. This next paper trail however was different. The Slyde & Co. Barterhouse. It hasn’t been used for an auction in over 12 years, but has been rented out from time to time. It has its own server farm and internet access, so his hopes were high of finding something. Upon searching the building, not only did they find another Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, but they also found a disturbing note next to a broken broom in the janitorial closet.
“I write this final note in the janitorial closet of the Slyde & Co. Barterhouse. I have sealed the closet and sent my fellow workers to hiding place as a fear my time has come. I sent them with a cardboard box filled with everything I could research before I had to go into hiding, but I hope for them it isn’t too late. I must warn my fellow janitors of the fate that awaits us all: The Taxman. He appears as a silhouette just barely visible, watching you, waiting for you to earn nontaxable income, tips don’t count. My collector’s edition Dora the Explorer watch, which has never once worked for it was missing key components, now counts down to midnight. My hyper-realistic furby plushie cried exactly 666 liters of blood for 13.72 seconds. As I lay down my life and soul to save a few others, I pray for all souls of this world and the one beyond. May they all be safe from the Taxman and his bureaucracy. The scratching at the walls have stopped. He comes.”
There has been no record of this happening in the history of the property, this isn’t even an urban legend. At least, that’s what Alex believed at first. The last important thing they found was the next part of the paper trail, which lead into Bortslovakia. As the final year began, he felt like this whole thing was going to just be plucked out of his hands, and given to Borslovakian authorities with a polite request to continue the investigation, and hope that they didn’t take that as an insult. Then, something strange happened. While he was out at a local cafe waiting for someone, he received an email from the Smolenskian Judiciary. Checking it on his phone, he read the words that would change his life. “You have been accused of murder, kidnapping, falsification of evidence in a criminal investigation, opening of an unjust investigation, searches and seizures without a warrant, conspiracy against the Bortslovakian royal family, and tax evasion.” It took Alex a few minutes to process what was happening, the scale of the charges was something to behold in and of itself. He was ordered to return to the Grand Armory, the seat of the Smolenskian government, and face prepare himself for the coming trial.
The defendant sat beneath a ancient artillery piece, one used in the defense of Smolensk itself during the Cumanian Civil War. Fitting symbolism, Alex thought, facing down complete obliteration with unwavering resolve. He had been sitting there for hours now, going through paperwork, waiting for his defense team to arrive, and rereading the email that was sent to him. As he sat there, he heard a voice from behind him. Quiet, barely audible with the din in the room, he could make out his name. He turned and saw a robed, hooded figure.
“Alex Wormsworth,” The figure repeated.
“Who are you?” Alex asked in a similar whisper.
“An observer, but one who has been ordered to intervene.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,”
“In time it will. For now I give you this one and only opportunity. Drop your investigation into Jebediah Turner.”
“Excuse me?”
“I will not repeat myself. Worse things have happened when people chased after that myth. The most dangerous being the Taxman.” That name was familiar to Alex, it was the one that the Janitor spoke of in his note.
“You misunderstand my investigation, I am interested in a tax haven called Jebediah Island, and I don’t think that’s the actual name--”
“‘Jebediah Island’ is not an island, it is indeed the home of your tax haven, though you haven’t truly learned the secret of Jebediah Island, not yet, and you never will. Cease this charade or Bortslovakia will make sure you do.” Alex wanted to retort with some witty rejoinder, or a rhetorical question, but he couldn’t find the words. Only now it was beginning to dawn on him the magnitude of what he had gotten stuck into.
“I’ll need to think about it,” Alex finally said
“Think quickly Mr. Wormsworth, the prosecution is a rather determined man. I do believe he’s on his way now. If you decide to take the recommended course of action, press this button.” The figure walks forward and places a button on the desk in front of Alex.
“Is this some sort of pager?”
“You could call it that. I trust you will make the right decision.” No sooner than when he leaves does the prosecution enter. The judge greets him, Alex is instead awestruck as to who he sees before him. The prosecution was none other than--
“Jon Tolowski, glad to see you could make it on such short notice.” The judge said to the man that Alex had up to now knew as James Sausman. Much to his delight however, his defense team arrived. Manfred Dosser lead the precession, and commanded the room like the former Staff Sergeant he was. He sat down next Alex, and the defense team circled around them.
“I see you’ve met Jon Tolowski,” Manfred said, his deep voice was grizzled with age and experience, both from battlefield and from breaking artillery recruits.
“Quite a few times before in fact.”
“Did the other one meet with you?”
“Who?”
“Don’t pull this 20-questions coy bullshit with me Alex, it never worked at boot camp and it still doesn’t. Now did he give you the chance to walk away?” Alex simply stared at Manfred, and hesitated upon answering.
“Yes,” He said, showing the pager-as-he-called-it.
“Good. Now press the button.”
“What?”
“We can’t win this case, if we try to fight it you would die of old age before we even get to the end of it, and this is the Borts suing you, you know they can clone you if they really wanted to just to keep this going and prove they were right.”
“Is it really that, extensive?”
“I would have brought with me a physical copy but I’ve had enough of logistics in my time in the Civil War to really want to do that. So here, take a look at this PDF.” He hands Alex a tablet.
“Holy Artillery, this thing is over 4 thousand pages”
“That’s only an eighth of the full set of evidence. Apparently you have a history of not listing your tips on your tax returns.”
“I don’t get tips,”
“You also apparently haven’t been paying us, when I checked the bank all my money was gone.”
“It’s all gone? What do you mean.”
“As of right now, I’m broke. I can’t even find any of my W-2 forms.”
“I thought you saved them.”
“I did. Someone is out to bring you down, Alex. As your employee -- as your friend -- I implore you to press that button.”
Alex looked at the button, and feels the red piece of plastic with his thumb, and with a deep breath he pushes it in. It clicks, then beeps. Then a flash and a loud crack is heard. Alex and his entire defense team scream at the close proximity to a comparatively mild flashbang grenade going off in Alex’s hand. As Alex’s vision returned, he noticed that he wasn’t holding anything anymore, and that his hand was completely fine. The rest of the defense team had stopped moaning, and were taking their seats. The tablet was also gone. Manfred checked his bank account on his phone.
“I’ve got good news, I ain’t broke.”
“Something tells me I haven’t been gotten tips either.”
Throughout the trial the defense team ran circles around the prosecution, and practically humiliated prosecutor Samuel Terry. Jon Tolowski seems to have disappeared along with the tablet and the rest of the prosecution’s evidence. The main argument the prosecution had was a disturbance of peace due to the 8 different Alcoholics Anonymous meetings he interrupted and an attempt to pin the murder the Janitor in the Slyde & Co. Barterhouse on Alex as at best criminal negligence. The defense argued against the disturbance of the peace claim by stating that none of the members of the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings really cared. The murder was dismissed entirely as Slyde & Co. apparently never had a Janitorial staff, not to mention a note and a broken broom is hardly evidence to base a murder off of. The two broom parts weren’t even made out of the same wood. Alex was of course incredibly pleased with how this whole thing went. He was found innocent by the judge and the entirety of the jury, and he was even payed a compensation for the trouble of going through this insanity. He would even get the esteem of having been the defendant in the shortest court case in the history of the Smolenskian court system, only 47 minutes. However, despite all of these great things, none of it sat right with him. One second he was facing down an assault that would have seen him dead one way or the other. The next, the group that sued him (which apparently isn’t related to Bortslovakia at all) is now under threat of investigation for misuse of the Smolenskian court system and attempted judicial abuse. What was worse: only him and Manfred even actually noticed the changes. It was disturbing, there was clearly more going on and he was only scratching the surface. Some of the more ludicrous items in that evidence list he could barely remember. Not paying excise tax for a motor vehicle he doesn’t own, a sales tax on an insane number of books that don’t exist because he didn’t write them, this thing called a self employment tax. For one thing that isn’t even a legitimate tax in Smolensk, secondly he’s not self employed. He’s the head of the Tax Collection Agency. Being paid to lead a handful of people who’s entire job it is is to make sure people pay 5% of their income to the government on time is practically a constant vacation. That’s another one of the odd charges. He didn’t specify in multiple tax returns that he was on paid vacations and as a result hadn’t included said income. He’s fairly certain it’s not possible to make that kind of a screw up, especially considering he never went on vacation. This wasn’t exactly unique for him, Smolensk doesn’t have many landmarks other than the artillery pieces and forts, and the only nation bordering them that isn’t technically still at war with Smolensk is Bortslovakia themselves, and while they do have a thriving tourist industry, they also attract a specific kind of tourist. Alex was not that kind of thrill seeker.
As he was walking home, Alex was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable. Smolensk is in a rather cold climate, but for whatever reason he was sweating. In fact he was especially warm in his great coat. Overheating in a great coat is nothing new, people have been able to walk around in the middle of blizzards with nothing but a t-shirt beneath their coat and be rather toasty. This was different. It felt like he was inches away from a roaring bonfire.
“Mr. Wormsworth. I’m glad to see you took my advice,” Alex could barely move, let alone talk, but he knew who was talking.
“As is the whole of Bortslovakia. Your service is complete, and your mission a success.” Alex tried to ask what he was talking about, but could only manage a raspy gasp. It was then he discovered he couldn’t breathe.
“There is no need for words now Mr. Wormsworth, I am here to free you of your shackles, your time here in Smolensk worshipping artillery pieces has drawn to a close. It’s time to come home.” Suddenly the heated feeling was gone, and Alex could breathe again, but there was something wrong. He wasn’t Alex, he felt like his skin was some foreigners clothing, and that the fluids pumping through his veins were someone else’s blood. This fit of existential dread quickly passed and he remembered who he was. He turned to see the figure behind him.
“Manfred will find your disappearance suspicious, and demand an investigation be launched, and they will find that a certain group in Bortslovakia was responsible. Your work will continue there, because it’s time for you to come home, Mr. Turner.” Mr. Turner rose, stood tall and straight, and nodded.
“How many years this time?” Mr. Turner said.
“34. You continue to be an inspiration to us all.” The figure said. He lead Mr. Turner into an alleyway, upon turning the corner, they were gone.