Super Gus Suffers A Tax

By John Leatherman

Tax auditor Wanda Leechwell scowled at me over the stacks of receipts on her desk. “Mr. Montes, I appreciate that you were able to substantiate the amount listed under ‘Other Expenses’ on your return. But I fail to see how any of these purchases have a legitimate business purpose.”

I squirmed in my chair, clutching my lucky penny—which wasn’t at the moment, being the only cash I had on me. “Really? Can you give me an example?”

She held up a carbon copy. “Let’s start with the largest. A two-ton order from Glassy Knoll Glaziers?”

“Well, glass is always cheaper in bulk. Ask any accountant.” I grinned. To say more would reveal my secret identity. My mind flashed back to my contentious confrontation with the Yellow Yodeler that walloped all windows within the west warehouse ward.

Leechwell squished her lips together and shuffled through the pages. “Then you have damage estimates in here for smashed sidewalks, crushed cars, liquefied lampposts…” Sighing, she peered over her thick-rimmed glasses at me. “Perhaps if you explained to me the nature of your business.”

“Oh, there’s no nature in my business. I only operate within the city limits.”

Leechwell tapped my Schedule C. “Under ‘Business Category,’ you selected ‘Other.’ Under ‘Business Subcategory,’ you selected ‘Other.’ And under ‘If Other, please explain,’ you wrote, ‘See above.’” She groaned. “Can’t you be more specific? What exactly do you do?”

I hesitated. “I would call it… ‘aggressive consulting.’ It’s hazardous. Nobody will cover me, so I’m self-insured. Therefore, all damages are legitimate business expenses.”

“Hmm.” Scowling, Leechwell tapped her pen on the desktop. “I’ll have to consult my supervisor.” She punched the intercom on her phone. “Mr. Bloodmore, could I have a word?” No reply. “Mr. Bloodmore? Craven Bloodmore?”

I gave her a dismissive wave. “Oh, no need to get him involved. I’m sure he’s busy, uh, serving the taxpayers. But I assure you, if you go through all those receipts, you’ll see they’re all for business-related repairs.”

Red lights flashed from ceiling sensors, and a shrill alarm screeched.

I raised my hands. “Okay! Okay! Except for the bill from my landlord for a new microwave! I honestly believed you could use it for dry cleaning!”

Leechwell dove to the floor. “No, that’s a special alarm for Unrecaptured Dividend!”

“How could that be?” Confused, I paged through my return. “I didn’t itemize my distributions this year.”

From below her desk, Leechwell pleaded. “You don’t understand—we’re all in danger! Unrecaptured Dividend is a criminal mastermind in a ten-foot robot suit who plunders tax offices!”

I leapt to alertness. “Did you say he attacks our tax? Is that the facts? That’s tacky to the max, so don’t hold me back!”

Before Leechwell could detract from my tax protection tactics, I charged toward the door.

***

In the outer office, auditors and taxpayers scrambled to safety as the money-mad mech man flattened furnishings and file cabinets to pursue a path to the portal on the far wall—the internal revenue vault.

Ducking behind the debris from dozens of demolished desks, I ripped off my street clothes, then leapt out in my purple-and-orange super suit and cape. “Don’t make a fuss, it’s Super Gus!”

That’s correct, I’m Arnold Montes, alias Super Gus. It’s called a secret identity.

As the villain violently vandalized the vault door, I strode forward. “Unrecaptured Dividend, it’s time you paid the penalty for excess withdrawals!”

“Aren’t you a-door-able?” The robust robot ripped off the heavy door and flung it at me as he lumbered inside.

Crushed against the wall—but cushioned by my cockroachium composition—I crept out from behind the slab of steel. “It’s safe to say that hurt.”

I vaulted into the vault, where Unrecaptured Dividend’s vacuum attachment sucked up slews of sawbucks, torrents of twenties, and bundles of Benjamins. The digital tabulator on his chest flashed figures mounting into the millions.

“Cap-Div,” I charged, “you’ve gone unchecked, but I’m going to cash you!”

“This should change your mind!” He raised his right arm level and cocked the wrist; a muzzle emerged, then fired a cannonade of coinage.

I fell to the floor—prickled with nickels, stymied with dimes, and mortared with quarters. But not any pennies. Hmm. Was that a coin-cidence? Perhaps it mint something.

Cap-Div returned to suctioning scrip, and into the current of consumed currency I cast my lucky Lincoln. He froze, the tabulator flashing “ERROR.” Checkmated with the challenge of changing a penny, he couldn’t make cents of it. Sparks sprayed, the suit short-circuited, and he slumped into a stupor.

I leapt up. “A penny for you’re caught, Cap-Div!”

Vaulting to the vanquished villain, I ripped off the headpiece and revealed a bald, square-jawed unconscious man. “Great Gus-busters, Unrecaptured Dividend is really… uh…” I shrugged. “Whoever this is.”

Wanda Leechwell crept up beside me, stared at the villain, and gasped. “Boss?”

I winced. “It’s Mr. Bloodmore?” I checked myself. “Er, not that I could ever randomly guess your boss’s name, since you’re just some Wanda—I mean, woman—whom I’ve never met before…”

Jaw hanging in disbelief, she stepped back. “Is this why you couldn’t tell me your business, Mr. Montes?”

I sighed and dropped my gaze. “I hope this can stay between us.”

Straightening, she raised her hand as if taking a pledge. “Sir, as the newly acting director of this facility, I can assure you that this agency will maintain its unwavering commitment to ensuring the confidentiality of the tax records under our control.”

“Thank you, Ms. Leechwell.”

She cleared her throat. “Having said that, I reviewed your past returns and determined that your superhero work has not shown any net income in the last five tax years. Therefore, it does not qualify as a profit-making venture, and I would refer you to Government Publication 404.86.23-X, ‘Hobby Losses’…”

It all worked out, though. Wanted in multiple jurisdictions, Unrecaptured Dividend reaped me rewards totaling $555,000.

Or $159.78 after taxes.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Leatherman writes fiction, humor, and the monthly “Word Weasel” grammar column for Word Weavers International. He has won or placed in numerous writing contests. He has written book reviews for Christian Retailing, scripts for Shoestring Radio Theatre, and word games for International Puzzle Syndicate. A freelance writer, editor, cartoonist, and puzzle designer, Mr. Leatherman maintains a secret identity as a Central Florida software consultant with two kids.

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