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Dear Agent Sands:
I would count it a personal favour if you would visit the Internal Revenue Service's headquarters in DC and extend a little "inter-agency co-operation."
Take El. Take the rest of the Secret Underground Guild of Maraichi Pistoleros too. Tell them to bring their guitars.
Sincerely,
Elspethdixon
[/fandom speak] Seriously, Those people are fucking insane. How in God's name do they come up with all those forms, instructions, and weird-ass rules? "If line 37b is $103,051 dollars or less, multiply it by 22.76%. Write the result in line 40. Subtract line 40 from line 32. Divide by the square root of line 37a. If the result is less than $7,801.38, see form 1279D, the long version."
Thank God I don't have to do this again until next year, and thank everybody from baby Jesus on down that I only have to file Federal forms and not State ones this time round.
I would count it a personal favour if you would visit the Internal Revenue Service's headquarters in DC and extend a little "inter-agency co-operation."
Take El. Take the rest of the Secret Underground Guild of Maraichi Pistoleros too. Tell them to bring their guitars.
Sincerely,
Elspethdixon
[/fandom speak] Seriously, Those people are fucking insane. How in God's name do they come up with all those forms, instructions, and weird-ass rules? "If line 37b is $103,051 dollars or less, multiply it by 22.76%. Write the result in line 40. Subtract line 40 from line 32. Divide by the square root of line 37a. If the result is less than $7,801.38, see form 1279D, the long version."
Thank God I don't have to do this again until next year, and thank everybody from baby Jesus on down that I only have to file Federal forms and not State ones this time round.
From:
no subject
Sands: Look, sugarbutt, the IRS is far, far nastier and more persistent than the CIA. If I don't wipe out a few tax records, auditors will come for me.
El:...
Sands: Which means no sex, you jackass.
El: *loading guns*
From:
no subject
*knocks on door*
Agent Fuckwit (IRS): "Can I help you... sirs?"
Sands: "Yeah, I'm Agent Bill Fox and this is Agent Elliot Scully." *waves hand in El's general direction* "FBI."
El: *flashes Ramirez's old badge, too quickly for it to be read*
Sands: "We're here to check the files on a certain S. J. Sands."
Agent FW: "And your, um, associates?" *looks dubiously at Lorenzo and Fideo.*
Lorenzo: *sneers*
Fideo: *watches Agent FW intensely, possibly checking his aura--or he might just be drunk*
Sands: "They're undercover. Now, be a good little door flunky and let us in."
Agent FW: "I'm sorry sir, but this is all very irregular, and we don't generally allow guitar cases inside the-"
El: *glares at Agent Fuckwit*
Agent FW: "Right this way, sirs."
*The S.U.G.M.P. (and their Agent) follow Agent Fuckwit into the building, the three mariachis flanking Sands. They jingle. People poke their heads out of cubicles to see what's up, and several women are unable to tear their eyes away from El's legs*
Agent FW: *Opens an extremely large filing cabinet. Shuffles papers. Puts them back. OPens another drawer. Shuffles those papers. Closes it.* "This will just take a minute. All of our files are organised alphabetically by Library of Congress number, and cross indexed accoring to the phase of the moon." *shuffles more paper* "Ah. Here it is." *holds out a thick file folder*
El: *nudges Sands*
Sands: *reaches out with his left hand and takes the folder, somehow managing to avoid knocking over the cup of coffee sitting on the edge of the desk right next to the file cabinet*
*Holds folder up at chest level and aims his sunglasses in it's general direction. Opens it*
El: *nudges Sands again*
Sands: *Turns folder right side up* "You sure this folder is the right Sands?"
Agent FW: "Yes. Sands, Shel-"
Sands: *interrupts very quickly, cutting Agent Fuckwit off mid-word* "Yeah, yeah, okay."
Lorenzo: *leans in over Sands's shoulder to read top paper in folder. Appears to be stiffling a snigger*
Sands: *closes folder and places it on the desk--again, missing the coffe mug by millimetres--resting both gloved hands on top of it* "Seems like everything's in order."
*beneath the edge of the desk, a third, ungloved hand slips the papers from the folder back to El, who slides them into his guitar case.*
Agent FW: *is looking at Sands's shades, and doesn't notice the transfer* "That's all you needed?"
Sands: "Some of us don't need to make copies in triplicate in order to remember things, fuckwit."
Agent FW: *looks irritated* "If you're done here, hotshot, I've got work to do." *looks at shades again* "Don't you have trouble seeing when you wear those indoors?"
Sands: "No."
*the S.U.G.M.P. (and their Agent) turn to go. As they do, Lorenzo's guitar case brushes against the coffee mug and knocks it over, spilling coffee all over the desk, including the Sands file.*
Lorenzo: "Sorry."
Agent FW: *snatches up file. Every piece of paper in it is soggy and blurred to the point of illegibility* "Look what you did!"
Sands: "Hey, he said he was sorry. Just say the guy had everything filed right and paid up, and no one will ever know the difference. Do an audit on some rich Wall street mogul, and keep everyone distracted with his expense account. Nobody will ever check this Sands guy."
Agent FW: *incoherent splutters*
Sands: *smirks* "So, we done here?"
El, Lorenzo, & Fideo: *nod in unison*
Sands: *not waiting for an answer* "Peachy. Let's blow this dump."
From:
Sands vs. the IRs, part III
*Sands, El, Lorenzo, and Fideo walk away down the street. There is a muffled explosion behind them. They do not turn around.*
El: "That went surprisingly well."
Sands: "Hey, I can plan, you know. Just because one thing fell through on me once doesn't mean that I'm not six times smarter than any of you glorified lounge singers."
*they walk another half-block*
Lorenzo: "Sheldon? Your name is Sheldon?"
Sands: "Shut the fuck up or I'll gut you with an ice-cream scoop."
Fideo: *to El* "So, you want to leave them and go find a bar?"
From:
Sands vs. the IRs, part IV
Fideo: I get you. See you tomorrow, then.
Sands: What? What the fuck did you call--urk.
El: *holding Sands by throat* Lorenzo, stop complaining and go get laid, or something.
Lorenzo: But he bit me!
Sands: *industriously twining around El to relieve pressure on neck* Well, it's not like I meant it.
El: *shoving Sands into wall* You better not have.
From:
no subject
*dies right there*
From:
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And then, of course, there's the guitar cse full of guns, which is just nifty for some inexplicable reason.