I let out a long sigh.
This has to be a joke. Something they tell the new guys to jerk them around. “Collect taxes from cryptids” my ass, this is straight up workplace hazing. They even sent Jim along to keep me company - he’s probably going to film this for the office christmas party or something. Well… I guess I may as well play along. “So, how am I supposed to contact Bigfoot? Just shout into the woods?”
“Yes, actually. This is where we’ve found him the past few years, so he’s probably still living here. And he prefers ‘Mister Squatch.’” Jim’s advice doesn’t make this feel any less like a prank.
“Mister Squatch? You have to be kidding me… EXCUSE ME? MISTER SQUATCH?” I bellow, “WE’VE BEEN SENT TO CONTACT YOU ON BEHALF OF THE IRS!” I can’t believe I’m out here making a complete fool of myself.
And then it happens.
A rustle in the bushes, followed by snapping twigs and shaking branches moving fast through the underbrush. Jim bends down and opens his briefcase - why? Why did he even bring a briefcase to the middle of the woods? Suddenly, the movement in the bushes stops as it reaches a clearing, and I see something massive race towards the trees on the far side. Suddenly, it stumbles, tripping and tumbling as it falls, wrapped in a net.
A net? Where did a net come from in the middle of the woods? And then I see Jim’s empty briefcase, and the empty net gun in his hand. Laying in the middle of the clearing is the Bigfoot, and now I have to treat this like it’s normal and actually collect his taxes. Before I can even react, though, Jim is starting to untangle Bigfoot. “Look, Mister Squatch, I keep telling you, if you just pay your taxes, we won’t have to keep hunting you down like this. You know the drill, pay up or we’ll start telling the tabloids about where you live. You remember how annoying that was last time, right?”
“Yeah…” Bigfoot talks!? I’m not even sure if I’m at work right now, or if the CIA guys in the next office over slipped LSD into our coffee again. “I still keep it in the cave by the creek, just take what I owe you and leave me alone.”
“Glad we could settle this easily.” Jim cuts him free, and turns to me. “Let’s go get the money. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover… Our next stop is in West Virginia. Say, how do you feel about bridges?”
I feel like I need a new job.
Digging through the files; I couldn’t get my head around how S. Quatch could claim no reportable income but wanted to claim back taxes paid as he was trying to write off tens of thousands of dollars worth of hair care expenses… I know this would be a tough nut to crack.