Taxes Chainsaw Massacre: How To Handle The IRS
I sat in a dimly lit room, sweating, though it was unclear if that was a result of my nerves or the room's shockingly hot temperature. Special Agent Jarvis Ham squinted at me through a thick cloud of cigarette smoke across the long, oak table that separated us. At least, I think it was oak. I'm not great at identifying types of wood based on looking at it. One of those things I wish I was good at but I just never really dedicated the time to it, you know? That's the way it goes I guess. I discreetly rubbed my index finger along the side of the table. I don't know why. If I can't decipher what wood this is based on sight, what makes me think my wood-decoding mutant power lies in my hands? It does not. "I wonder if you realize," Special Agent Ham began, "just how much trouble you're in, son. " He took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly. "I can't divulge too many details until my partner gets here, but, boy, if trouble were cheddar, you could open up a cheese shop." "Uh huh," I said absently as I lowered my nose to the table, sniffing it as subtly as I could. Special Agent Ham didn't seem too concerned with my table-smelling; apparently being a tough, hardened, federal agent stereotype was very time consuming.
motherfucker, take the cake." I leaned in and lowered my voice to a delightful chirp. "What is this, oak? Come on, tell me, is this oak?" Before Special Agent Ham had a chance to answer, his partner, whose name I desperately hope is Special Agent And Eggs, entered the interrogation room, carrying a file and a small, unmarked bag. "Mr. O'Brien," he said emotionlessly, "I'm Special Agent Connor McCloud. Sorry to keep you waiting. I trust Agent Ham has kept you comfortable?" "He and I were just