Wooo! Yeahhh! Done! We actually finished our taxes on time for the first time ever! Now that I have my own small “business,” I can do the taxes in 15 minutes. “Snappers” Is great— not too clear, not too vague, just right. I think selling recycled rubber bands presents an excellent business model—we can stretch our resources really thin, and then let them snap back—we can do that over and over, and over. What could go wrong? Well, first of all ”Snappers” does not exist per se. Actually, we broker high end stolen goods. “Snapper” is a conduit, a front, a monetary laundromat.
I’ve been lying to the IRS for five years, ever since my bell-bottom pants factory in Bangladesh went bankrupt. The demand for bell bottoms Jeans had taken a big dive, and I couldn’t afford to retool to make skinny leg jeans. I was screwed. My workers tried to kill me when they found out the factory was closing. I barely escaped with my life when they made me into “Tiger Lunch” when they tethered me to a stake in the Chittagong Forest. But, I was saved by a moped rickshaw driver who followed the mob, hoping to get a fare. He saw me and he cut the rope just as a crouched tiger was moving slowly toward me. We jumped into the moped rickshaw moped and took off at full throttle. The driver had had his little engine turbocharged and could reach 30 MPH in seconds. We barely outran the tiger. He took a swipe at me and growled as we took off. His growl sounded like a giant ogre with a chest cold. It was almost scarier than being chased by him.
As we rode trough the jungle back to my hotel, the driver told me about his millionaire brother who had a front allegedly selling samosas wholesale around Dakkah. In reality, he fronted for a large Bangladeshi crime family “The Mohammadpur Sharks.” This got me thinking. My brother was a career criminal, he specialized in what he called “Ponzi and Run.” He targeted elderly people whose faculties were shrinking. He had no conscience, and neither did I. So, when I got back to the US, I set up the rubber “business” and contacted a number of my brother’s associates who needed a haven for their I’ll-gotten gains.
Then, I got a letter from the IRS. There were some “irregularities” in my tax returns. As instructed, I called Agent Carl Pickle. I assumed I was screwed, and that there would be a knock on my door at the end of the phone call. Agent Pickle in formed me that I had put the wrong Social Security number on my 1040. We fixed that, and went to the next “irregularity.” I had left a digit off my zip code. We fixed that and that was that! I thanked Carl and hung up the phone. “God bless America,” I yelled. Then there was a knock at my door. I opened the door and it was Tony Balls, one of my top clients. “What are you playing at numb nuts” he asked, making a face like he just swallowed a handful of Calabrian Chilies. I couldn’t think of what he was talking about. All I could say was “Huh?” “Your brother tells me you’re going flash—that you bought a Cadillac, had a patio built, and put a swimming pool in your back yard. What’s next Mr. Jerkweed, you wanna get caught? As my grandfather taught me, don’t hang out your dirty laundry.” I understood immediately. I shouldn’t look like I’m living beyond my means. I knew what I had to do. Tony Balls helped me out. My Cadillac was “stolen.” My patio was Jack-hammered into oblivion and driven away. My swimming pool was filled in and made into a garden with eggplants, tomatoes, zucchinis, and cucumbers. I gave Tony Balls a basket of vegetables from my firs harvest. It was the right thing to do.
Shortest Stories 