After delivering this morning's packages, after shopping for #3, The Diplomat, and leaving his bottles at his suite in the Hotel Bolesław Chrobry, after cooking lunch for Scarlett and myself, after eating lunch and washing the dishes, we're finally ready to take revenge to the next level.
"What's our next step?", I ask.
"The Boss, the Banker and the Shareholder were all clear about who's the real criminal in my story: it's the taxman. We have to go to the tax office, find a way to kidnap him, find a deserted place to take him to, and finally, find some nice sharp tools to torture him like he tortures every citizen in this country."
"That sounds like a lot of work. Are we going to work for the taxman? There's a cheaper solution. Your neighbour Barbara told us the taxman came here, for a chat with the former tenant of this flat. She even has his card. We can call him and ask him to come over. In the kitchen, you can find all the sharp torture instruments you'll need. Cut him into pieces in the bathroom; we'll turn the shower on, and all his blood and guts will disappear in seconds, without a trace."
"What will the neighbours think when they hear the screaming?"
"They'll think you're paying the tax in flesh. Half of the self-employed women here work in the adult entertainment business. They know the only two certainties in life: death and being screwed by the taxman. If you can't avoid it, you might at least relax and enjoy yourself. They call it «income tax» because they ask the taxman to come in, the taxman comes in a few minutes and the—"
"I get it, Red. No need to explain what V.A.T. stands for either."
Vagina and anus are the official medical words, but I'm not sure if it's appropriate to use them in conversation with an educated lady: "The T stands for Tongue, not Tits, by the way."
"I'm not interested in hearing the other synonyms for «income» the taxman uses to screw the working class. I'm interested in nailing the motherfu—"
"Not just mothers. He also screws fathers, children, grandparents, everyone."
Scarlett is not in the mood for my poor jokes. She knocks on the door of her neighbour Barbara and returns with the taxman's phone number. With her smartphone, she calls the number, waits for half a second, and answers: "If I want to pay my taxes, how many forms and papers do I have to fill in? And where can I get those forms?"
The speaker answers: "For payments, you don't have to fill in anything, Miss. We already have sent one of our best men to visit you. He will be at your front door any minute."
"Don't you need the address?"
"This is the twenty-first century, Miss. Every incoming phone call is scanned, recorded and localised by the most advanced technology tax money can buy. When the caller uses the sacred word «pay», the location is automatically sent to the closest tax collector. Usually, he'll arrive within five minutes after we take the call. If the pizza delivery boy can do it, why not the tax office? Haven't you noticed our advanced system of speeding tickets? All we do is place our cameras in every place where traffic passes by, and our system does the rest: register the speed, read the number plate, localise the owner, print the fine, and send it via the mail. When it comes to collecting money, you can count on us. The only two sure things in life are death and paying taxes, but we make sure we're first. Of course, we also claim half of your heritage after you pass away."
"Thank you very much for your information, Miss, but I have to go now. There's someone at the door."
"You're welcome, Miss. We hope to hear from you more often."
Scarlett gives me a nod of understanding. I take my Makarov in my left hand and hide it behind me. She steps out of sight as I open the front door. A decent-looking, skinny man smiles at me and sticks out his bony claw with sharp nails: "Good afternoon, Sir. You called our office with an emergency, so we came right away. Can I come in?"
I let the taxman in, close the door behind him, lock and barrel to avoid that he escapes, and show him the living room: "Please, take a seat."
He smiles friendly: "We prefer cash, but if furniture is all you have, we can always make an arrangement."
"I meant to say: «Please, sit down.»"
I make myself clear by showing the gun.
Scarlett appears from behind the bathroom door, waves at the friendly smiling taxman with a kitchen axe and smiles back: "I have a declaration to make. It's a declaration of love: I would very, very, very much love to do to you what you do to others. In the ancient Middle Ages, we had thieves and robbers. They gave us a choice: your money or your life. Now, we have a government that takes care of those thieves and robbers: they hire them to collect the taxes. Too bad, the taxman isn't as friendly as the thief he once was; the taxman takes all your money, without asking, and doesn't leave you a life either. That's exactly my way of doing business with you…"
"You're hired, Miss. I see you have all the qualities we need. I only need your signature. From now on, you work for me. You can start right away."
Scarlet is surprised. So am I. We thought this man would wet his trousers, seeing an armed woman, desperate, dangerous, and full of revenge. He's not afraid. He's happy to see her: "I'm always happy to see a professional criminal. They make the best tax collectors. Usually, in neighbourhoods like Jungleland, it's nothing but petty larceny. Hardly interesting, if you ask me: they don't even earn enough to pay for my bus ticket when I come here to collect the taxes. But you're different. You're a woman who never gives up. We can send you to an orphanage and you come back with twice as much as the child benefit we paid them. We can send you to a home for the elderly and you come out with all their silver teaspoons, gold teeth and diamond earrings. You make a dead man come… I mean, you can make a dead man pay income tax."
Scarlett is not impressed: "Quite right, Sir. You're going to be that dead man, and I'm going to let you pay for what you did to me."
"Impossible. I collect. I don't pay."
"You'll pay with blood, sweat and tears."
"We only accept cash, cheques and bank transfers."
"You don't get it."
"I always get it. There's one for you, nineteen for me. I'm the taxman."
"I'll tear out your toenails."
"I'll tax your pliers."
"I'll cut off your fingers."
"I'll tax your knife."
"I'll prick out your eyes."
"I'll tax you for enjoying the view others don't have. That's luxury, which means double taxation, and you pay twice as much because you have two eyes."
"I'll cut you to pieces."
"The Law doesn't admit deductions. You'll have to pay back everything you cut out, and we also charge you a fine of 250%."
Scarlett doesn't know how to go on. "What do I do now?", she asks me.
The taxman answers: "You pay. If you drive a car, I'll tax the street. If you try to sit, I'll tax your seat. If you get too cold, I'll tax the heat. If you take a walk, I'll tax your feet. I'm the taxman. You're not working for anybody but me: overtime, Sundays, holidays, even when you're in your grave I'll be there, smiling, and leaving with the largest half of your heritage. You can never win. I'm the taxman."
Scarlett gives up. She can't face so much cruelty. I have to take over. We're a team. We play «Good Cop - Better Cop»: "There's been a mistake. This woman has just lost everything: her job, her house, her friends, her future, her life, even her faith and her good mood. This is what happens when people have nothing to eat for over a month: they get aggressive. Her financial position is zero, nil, nothing, nought, nada, niente. She's a nihilist."
Disappointment drips from the taxman's face: "So… I came for nothing?"
"I hope you can help me with some questions. My first question is: would you like a cup of coffee?"
"Coffee? Hm. The law doesn't permit employers to supply free food or beverages to their employees. It's considered payment with services. The value should be added to the salary slip as «income in kind»."
"This is black coffee. Like black money, there's no tax involved. We found the coffee in the garbage. The neighbours had already used it, but it still had some flavour left, so we took it out of the bin and brewed three more cups. I like to remind you: the neighbours paid their garbage tax, and we limited their garbage. That means we might even get a tax return for this coffee. But we are generous people and we don't want to give you extra paperwork."
"Hm. I see. In that case, I would love a cup of coffee. I'm only used to being offered all kinds of articles after visiting my clients, from shoes to bricks and boiling oil; usually, they throw them at me when I'm leaving. Being offered coffee is a completely new sensation. Meanwhile, I'll answer your other questions."
I serve the coffee (black, no sugar) and ask my second question: "What do you do with all that collected tax money? We know the law tells people to work hard and give generously to the poor, poor government that will do wonderful things with all those taxes. We scour the papers every day but… we can't find those wonderful things. Can you tell us why we have to make all those sacrifices?"
The taxman, happy with my coffee, which is much better than the liquid tar they serve at the tax office, explains: "Everything that goes with numbers is complicated. If you want a clear and easy answer, it's best to visualise the process: I'll need a 100-zloty banknote. Have you seen one lately? I know, there are more jaguars, pandas and zebras in this neighbourhood than 100-zloty banknotes; they are like an extinct species… Ah, you have one in your pocket. Thank you. Now, it will be as easy as 1 + 1 = 0.
Imagine these 100 zlotys are all the taxes we collected in a year. There are 38 zlotys income taxes, the VAT share is 33 zlotys, companies pay 18 zlotys profit tax, 8 zlotys are the taxes on alcohol and tobacco, and the remaining 3 zlotys are all the other taxes we invented. Did you calculate the total?"
"100 zlotys."
"Excellent. We've tried the system of people taking care of each other. We've asked the rich to be generous and share their wealth with the ones who need help from others. It didn't work. So we invented taxes, to force people to take care of each other. If you know a better way, please tell me."
"I would like to help you out with some ideas, Sir, but I'm afraid you're right. People only move when they get paid for it."
"And when they get paid, we take half. That's how it works. So here we have our 100 zlotys of tax money. If you don't agree with the spending, you object and we return the taxes to you. First, we spend 55 zlotys to pay the unemployed and the disabled people. The contributions of the workers are 40 zlotys, which is not enough to pay for the costs. So? Do we let those people die of hunger? Or do we pay the missing 15 zlotys out of our taxes?"
"We can't let them die, can we? We pay."
"We spend 52 zlotys on the sick and the elderly people: their pensions, and also the costs of hospitals, doctors, operations and medicines. The workers contribute 30 zlotys, so we either pay the deficit of 22 zlotys from the tax money or we let the old and the sick rest in peace a little earlier."
"No, those people have worked all their lives. We should pay their pension, and we should also take care of them when they are sick."
"Then we use 25 zlotys to pay for the education of our children, salaries of teachers, and costs of the school buildings. We could easily save that money and organize it like in America, where every child pays a contribution of US$ 20.000 per year to study. That way, we can save 25% of our budget. What do you suggest?"
"If parents like Scarlett have to pay such fortunes, only the rich can study, and the rest will be condemned to stupidity. An alternative would be to mortgage the future of our children with loans for studying, which is not a good idea either. I suggest we use the taxes."
"It's your choice. Then we need 9 zlotys for police, prisons and fire department. If you can convince the people not to steal, not to drive drunk, not to fight, not to use drugs and not to have accidents, we can save that amount."
"We better pay the police, the firefighters and the prisons."
"There are 16 zlotys for all the town halls: money for libraries, sports clubs, public swimming pools, maintenance of parks and nature, cleaning and rubbish disposal, parties and summer fairs. They also support jobless, homeless, uninsured citizens, like your friend here, who have nothing. She can go to the Social Security office of her town hall and file for financial support."
"We know that, we appreciate the help, all those services are important, and we prefer to pay a few zlotys on tax money instead of losing all those parks and libraries and the fireworks at New Year's Eve."
"Fine. We spend 6 zlotys on roads and infrastructure plus environment, but we get a contribution of 7 zlotys from road taxes, environment taxes and petrol. We also spend 2 zlotys on foreign affairs, on projects to help the poor people in countries that are not as fortunate as we. Anything we can save here?"
"Nope."
"The next 6 zlotys are for the army. Do we fire those guns? Or do we fire the people who are trained to fire those guns?"
"If we fire all the soldiers… they join the army of unemployed, don't they?"
"That's right. We have to pay them, anyway. Nothing to save here, either. Then we pay 6 zlotys of interest. Every year, we spend more than we earn. We can choose to print more money, so it will lose its value faster, but we decided it would be better if we take a loan. That loan comes from the rich people, of course, because the poor don't have money. Therefore, we tax the rich less than we tax the poor, so the rich have money left to grant us the loan and…"
"No need to explain. I've studied economy. If you don't pay interest, you don't get a loan. You've invented inflation to make sure you never pay back the value you borrowed, but that's a problem for the rich. We pay the interest from our tax money."
"Fine. Did you calculate the total spending?"
"100 zlotys, checked and accounted for."
"But we forgot a few matters of minor importance. We pay 7 zlotys to various smaller funds, like subventions for farmers to help them compete against cheap imported products, contributions to inventions and scientific research, housing and costs of government itself, help for victims of natural disasters all over the world, just to name a few. But you already paid 100 zlotys in taxes, so I don't want you to worry about these 7 zlotys we have short: I pay them from my own pocket, and my pockets are always empty, so I will loan them from the first rich man I can find and make sure that our national debt will keep growing faster than the national economy. Is everything clear now?"
"Yes, Sir. Can you please give me back my 100-zloty banknote?"
"Is that your ultimate question?"
"Yes, it is."
"The answer is «no». Didn't you agree that every zloty of this banknote had to be paid? You even gave me 7 zlotys short. So you understand I can't return these 100 zlotys. I thank you for your time and your coffee, but now I really have to go because there are three blocks of wealthy workers waiting for me. Have a nice day, Sir, Miss."
Before we can close our mouths (they fell open by surprise), the taxman has disappeared.
"And now what?", I ask.
Scarlett is already working on the next step to justice: "Didn't you hear what he told you? Unemployment is a national disaster. It costs our society billions each year. The taxman is a small fish. We have to look bigger. We have to find the puppeteer behind the taxman. This is no longer just about me; this is about every unemployed person in Poland. Half a year ago, the government accepted a new law, to make it possible for companies to fire their employees whenever they want. Treesome firing me is a direct result of that law. The government called their measure «a necessary step towards the liberation of the market of free labour» and «an important tool to let Polish companies compete with cheaper products from other countries». That new law is known as the Sikorsky Law, named after the lady who took the initiative, Mrs Raissa Sikorsky, the Polish Minister of Social Affairs. She's the puppeteer behind the taxman; she's the evil brain behind our 20% unemployment and society's growing poverty. I want Raissa Sikorsky, and I want her to pay one drop of blood for every case of poverty she created."
That would help the Red Cross out of trouble for the next decade. I wonder if Miss Sikorsky has so much blood. She must be Dracula's mother.
I have my reservations about Scarlett's plan: "It might be complicated. We have to go to Warsaw and kidnap a minister from a highly secured building. When they find out she's missing, we'll have the secret service, the police and the complete Polish army looking for us. When they catch us, you don't have to worry about your rent anymore: a nice cosy 2x3-metre cell will be your residence for the rest of your life. Are you prepared to pay that price? Is your revenge worth the risk you have to take?"
"When I decide to go for it, do you help me?"
"I promised to help you, and I will help you, but, please, remember I have a courier job in the morning and a Diplomat to support in the evening. Going to Warsaw might be a bit complicated to explain to the ones who pay my salary. Do you want me to lose my job too?"
Scarlett sighs deeply.
I try to cheer her up: "Don't worry about it. It's a plan and we have time to work on the details. Revenge, according to the Chinese, is a plate that tastes better when it's served cold."
"What do the Chinese know about cooking?", Scarlett says.
A knock on the door.
"Did you order Chinese for dinner?", I ask.
Scarlett opens the door. It's Barbara, her neighbour, dressed in yelling yellow, ormolu orange and raging red spandex: "Aren't you coming? We are all waiting for you. Get dressed."
Scarlett's surprise is as big as her eyes: "Dressed for what?"
"Ladies' Night, of course."