He’s right. It does. It even has a window which looks out onto a forest which isn’t there. There’s a big wide desk underneath that window, where I can spread out my papers and really get into the work ahead.
I sit down at the table, breathe in what suddenly appears to be cabin air. There is a touch of smoke to it, a hint of fire coming from the fireplace which is crackling merrily behind me.
“If you do not do good work, I will turn this into a prison cell.”
“I intend to do good work, Mr. Terrible. I have always done good work. Your threats are unnecessary. But thank you, I really like the decor. It’s a thousand times nicer than my real apartment.”
“I’m sure it is. I will leave you to painstakingly read every word in the regulations as you humans need to do in order to absorb information.”
“How does your species do it?”
“We absorb information simply by being in the presence of it.”
“That explains why you're unable to do accounting. It’s about hard numbers, not about generally absorbing a presence. This requires concentration and dedication. I will need to be absolutely precise in every calculation or you could end up…”
Terrible turns around and walks through the wall, his scaled form disappearing through solid oak.
He’s rude as hell, but I don’t care. I have regulations to read. There’s so much to learn. I go ahead and open the tax code. From the first page, it is complex, and even more intrinsically arrogant than any I have seen before.
THIS IS A GUIDE FOR THOSE PREPARING TAXES.
NOTE THAT FAILURE TO PREPARE CORRECTLY WILL RESULT IN DEFENESTRATION.
Is this some kind of translation error? I’m sure that Terrible isn’t infallible. He could easily have pulled some of the wrong words out of the ether. Defenestration is not a common penalty when it comes to taxation, but I have heard of some places where death is the consequence for failure to file. It’s all part of the thrill of accounting. When millions, or even trillions of dollars are at stake, there I am.
The code starts properly on the following page:
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a warrior king in possession of a fortune must surrender at least thirty percent of it to the proper authorities.
King Tyrant returns, making my loins tremble. I have been engrossed in the tax code, but the moment he comes walking through the wall I feel the energy shift.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to a place without doors, and I know I’ll never work out how to walk through walls. I don’t have the same command of matter and existence these aliens do. I don’t have the same command of anything.
“Hello, sire,” I say, lowering my eyes. I can’t look at him. The last time I saw him he was inside me, making me squirm with such an intense orgasm I can feel it rippling through me again just thinking about it.
“Tania,” he says, my name sounding so exotic on his tongue. “I’ve brought my tax records. They’re organized by year, and itemized by type.”
Just when I thought he couldn’t get any sexier.
I turn to see the accounts. It’s too much to expect he’d have them organized with the little tabs I like, but I appreciate his effort. It can’t be easy ravaging a captive, doing battle with Martians, and then compiling your financial records in a succinct and usable manner.
Unfortunately, his version of usable tax records and mine is very, very different.
“Here are my accounts,” he declares.
He dumps another box down. I open it and see a small cluster of brightly colored shells and stones.
“Do these magically turn into actual numbers if you touch them in a certain way, or…”
“They do not.”
“What do they do?”
“They are pretty,” King Tyrant declares.
“O… okay. But being pretty doesn't make them accounts. It makes them more like craft supplies. I need records of your expenditures and income in the format of numbers written down on a piece of paper.”
“My income is vast, and arises from the plunder of ships, colonies, and worlds broken beneath my scaled fists.”
“I’m going to need that itemized, along with any associated costs so we can claim against it.”
King Tyrant raises his voice in a furious snarl which reverberates through the room, making every atom in his presence quake. “How does one itemize troves of treasure spread across sixteen galaxies? How does one itemize the weeping of fallen enemies!?”
“You shouldn’t have to pay tax on the weeping of fallen enemies.”
“Oh,” Tyrant says, brightening. “That’s good news.”
“It is… oh…” I check the Tremendous Intergalactic Tax regulations. “Actually, there’s a ten percent levy on weeping from fallen enemies, which can be paid in wailing at the time the return is made.”
“Bastards,” he snarls. “They leave no avenue of satisfaction untouched. They seek to take through creeping regulation what I earned through honor, valor, and cruelty.”