Men in Block
copyright © 2004 by Robert L. Blau

Rural setting.  A car stops outside a farm house.  Two men, H & R, get out.

R:  I'll do the talking, kid.

R knocks.  A woman answers.

R:  FBI, ma'am.  We're here to investigate your alien encounter.

Woman eyes them skeptically, but motions them inside.

Woman:  No one believes me.
R:  We will, ma'am.

R crosses fingers.

Woman:  Well, first, I saw this bright light in the sky.  Then this UFO comes crashing down in my front yard, and this alien gets out.

R:  What did the alien look like, ma'am?
Woman:  Just like anyone else, but he was all scrunched over and squinty-eyed, like he wasn't used to seeing sunlight.
R:  Hmm.  Anything else?
Woman:  Yes.  He asked me for coffee.  'Put sugar in it,' he said in this alien kind of voice.  And 'more coffee.'  He killed a whole can of Maxwell House.
R (turning to H):  Put on your sunglasses.

H does as instructed.  R takes a ball peen hammer out of his pocket and bonks the woman on the head.

R:  Standard issue nogginizer.  She won't remember a thing in the morning.

R produces an electronic gizmo such as one might find at Radio Shack and scans the room with it.  Lights of various colors flash on and off.

R (muttering):  Not red.  Not red.  Please not red.

The gizmo glows a bright red.

R:  Damn!
H:  What is it?
R:  You know what kind of life form craves coffee and leaves a red ink trail, tiger?

H shrugs.  R flips open a cell phone and dials HQ.

R:  We've got a tax examiner.
H:  So, we don't like tax examiners?
R:  Tax examiners thrive on bureaucracy, kid.
H:  So what's the move?
R:  With the TE in town, we watch the tax preparers' offices.


A tax preparer's office.  The TE stumbles in.  A tax preparer is stapling a tax return.

Tax preparer (perkily):  Can I help you?
TE (in a gravelly, sleep-deprived voice; attempts to sound ingratiating, but just sounds weird):  Oh.  I'm looking for a form .  A set of instructions, really.
Tax preparer (still perky):  Can you be more spe-CI-fic?

Tax Preparer bangs second staple into top of return, making return almost impossible to read past first page.

TE:   O-o-o-oh.  Don't do that.
Tax preparer:  Do what?

She whacks in third staple, making return completely impossible to read past first page.

TE (starting low and rising):  Gr-r-r-r-r-r.

Tax preparer's eyes bug out in terror.  Fade to black.

H & R are looking at the tax preparer's staple-riddled body.

H:  Hey, this one got all stapled to death.
R:  So, what do you think, slick?
H:  The TE?
R:  I think it's time to consult a tax professional.
H:  We ain't gonna interrogate no dog, are we?
R:  No, nothing like that, sport.

H  & R enter a tiny, cramped room lit by a single, unshielded light bulb.  There are stacks of paper everywhere.  In the back, sits a wizened little gnome who is poring over a subset of the massive paper stacks.

H:  This is the tax professional?
R:  Yeah.  This is the IRS Obfuscator.  Any time someone starts catching on to IRS rules or regulations, he muddies them up some more.
Obfuscator (squinting):  Hi, R.  What's  up?
R:  There's a TE running around stapling people.  What do you know about that?
Obfuscator:  Not a thing.
R:  Not a thing, eh?

R whips out a cigarette lighter and threatens the stacks of paper.

Obfuscator:  Wait!  Wait!  The TE is looking for 'the Simplified Instructions.'
H:  What the heck are 'the Simplified Instructions?'
Obfuscator:  Some guy wrote up instructions in simple English on how to fill out a 1040.
R:  If the TE gets hold of that, we're straight out of a job.
H:  That is serious.
R:  Where are these 'Simplified Instructions?'
Obfuscator:  I have no idea.
R:  No idea, eh?

Flicks Bic once more.

Obfuscator:  No!  No!  Don't!  I really don't know where they are.
R:  Hmph.  Ok, there's nothing more here.

H & R exit.
Another tax preparer's office.  Enter the TE.  Again, the tax preparer is stapling returns.

TE:  O-o-o-oh.  You're getting the attachments out of sequence.
Tax preparer:  What?
TE (low growl):  You've got a Sequence 47 before a Sequence 43.  And you have the Sequence 9 after the 43.  Someone's going to have to pull that all apart and put it back together again.
Tax preparer (cheerily):  Not my problem!
TE (starting low and rising):  Gr-r-r-r-r-r.

Tax preparer's eyes bug out in terror.  Fade to black.

H & R are looking at the next body.

H:  Now, the problem with this guy is that his liver is in his nose, and his kidney is in his right foot.  Seems like someone just pulled him all apart and put him back together the wrong way.
R:  Ah, never mind, sport.
H:  Never mind?  Whattaya mean, 'never mind?'
R:  Just got a call from the obfuscator.  
H:  And?
R:  He just completely redesigned the 1040.  Let's go home.