Todd was walking in Pasadena on what the forecast said would be a beautiful sunny day in LA. But it wasn't, of course. It was foggy and there was a weird sense of uneasiness in the air. Todd could tell something was wrong. "Oh well" he though; at least it isn't raining.

CRACKKLE 

Lighting strikes somewhere nearby and the rain starts pouring down. Now drenched in rain, Todd makes a break for his apartment. 

In his apartment, Todd takes a bath, eats his lunch, and then settles down a bit and begins to feel a bit better. Perhaps he was just hungry or something. He goes to the sofa and turns on a TV, hoping to find a cheery sitcom on. 

RIIINNGG RIIINNGGG RIIIINNGGG 

Of course the moment Todd sits down, the phone rings. He quickly goes to answer it. 

"Hey Todd, it's Jimmy."

"Jimmy who? I know a lot of Jimmys" Todd laughs

"Jimmy, your accountant." 


Todd's eyes widen. "Oh fuck" he says to himself quietly but just enough for Jimmy to hear.

"Yeah...it's tax day." Jimmy replies, clearly also recognizing the difficult situation Todd is now in.

"Um...so how you doing on that?" Todd says hopefully. 
 

"How do you think I'm doing? You never gave me any info about what you do or how you much you make! I have nothing to report."

Todd knew he made a bad decision when he decided not to use the mob's accountant out of stubbornness like his work friends told him to but he now realized he made an even worse decision by not giving his accountant any info out of sheer laziness.

"Well, what can we do now? What about my new watch shop? Can we use that as a source of income?" Todd asks

"Eh, didn't it just open? It'll be difficult to try to say it made all your income. And "odd jobs" like you previously suggested won't be accepted as a source of income. Even then, there's no way we'll get an accurate total of all your actual earnings from your gambling and all the other stuff you do that I'd rather not know. The IRS can definitely find out and BOOM- Jail for you." 

Todd wasn't happy with this response, he mumbles a couple curse words to himself but then a lightbulb goes off in his head. He had an idea, a sinister one but it just might work. 

"I know what to do. I'm gonna kidnap the IRS." 

Jimmy, clearly just flabbergasted says "What? You realize the IRS is an organization not a person, right?" 

Todd grinning to himself says "Oh, don't worry about the little details. That part is up to me. You can just sit back and relax while I get to work." 

"But-" Todd hangs up on Jimmy, cutting him off.

First things first, Todd had to get some manpower to help him. The best place to do that is, surprisingly, the LA jail. You wait outside for people who got on the wrong side of the law to leave, which is quite a large amount of people. Then, you offer them some cash for a "quick job". But, you can't just ask anyone. Certain people have a kind of toughness in their eyes. If you can't find anyone with that toughness then someone with a craziness in their eyes will do as well. 

After 4 hours, Todd found three people and offered them $5,000 each to do the job. He wanted more but he didn't have a lot of time and three would have to do. The first person was a middle-aged Russian woman name Loretta who had been in and out of prison since she was a teen. She's a true gangbanger, as tough as they come. The next guy was a WWⅡ veteran named Brad. This is a man who was clearly traumatized by the war and drinks to solve that; he was out on bail for multiple assault charges after starting bar fights. And finally, there was Darren, a 19 year old who was trying to get into the drug-selling game but ultimately failed and ended up in jail.

Todd knew this little crew of misfits would be perfect for this job and kinda felt bad for them all. Maybe he'd give them 10k instead of 5 he thought to himself. First, they'd have to survive the few hours to come. 

Todd briefed them on the plan and supplied the four of them with machine guns which they hid in duffle bags.

As they entered the IRS building, it was bustling with loads of people trying to submit last minute taxes. The line had to be at least 30 people at each of the three counters. Security was pretty high, with at least 5 security guards around the building. The security guards don't seem to bat an eye at the four people with duffel bags oddly. 

The four of them bristly walk into the building and step onto the lines. They wait a couple minutes and then Todd counts down on his fingers:

One

Two

Three

"NOWWW!!"

At that moment, the four of them go to unzip their duffel bags but before they can move a muscle about ten IRS security guards, all armed with shotguns, are surrounding the four of them. 

"Oh shit" Todd says.

"I knew I shouldn't have done this fuckin' job." Loretta says angrily. 

The four of them put their hands up. 

The IRS guards take the duffel bags and don't seem to be concerned at all. Some of them even seem to be smirking and amused.

The guards make room for a scrawny elderly man in a suit to enter the circle. He had gray balding hair and glasses leaning gently on his nose. 

"Hello. What the fuck do you think you're doing?" 

"Uh...." Before Todd could answer, the man cuts him off.

"Let us go to my office, away from the public." The main gestures towards a door in the corner of the room and begins walking. 

Todd, hesitant for a second, doesn't move. But the guards start to gently push him and the others that way so he follows. 

The office was relatively large and filled with art. The elderly man sat at a big black chair at a large desk in the center of the room. Four armed guards remained in the room, ready to shoot at any moment. 

"Who is the leader here?" the man asks.

 "Me." Todd replies, trying to sound confident. 

"Who are you? A wiseguy?" the man asks.

"Something like that." 

"Well, you are a fucking idiot. You don't mess with the IRS. We're the biggest fucking mafia in the country. What do you want?" The man says smugly.
 

"Well, I made a mistake and didn't file my taxes or keep records for it. I was hoping to get you guys to let me off on this one." Todd says. 

The man laughs "Well, you've got guts, I'll give you that. But, I can't just let you off. You ever sell cocaine?"

Todd nods slightly, trying not to incriminate himself

"The coke dealer my men and me use just upped the prices a lot. Frankly, we're all unhappy. I figure a guy like you can help me out a bit and get us cheap prices. I get you off for taxes this year and you get us cheap blow, sound good?"

Todd thinks for a second. Could this be a trap? Finally, he realizes he has all his cards on the table and no other options so he replies "Yes, deal."

The man smiles "Good, I'll need 30 lbs a month, starting today. Oh, and make the first month free." His smile turns into a sinister smirk. 

Todd sighs "Fine." 

As Todd walked out, he knew he had a lot of work ahead of him. He had to pay the three people he hired and he'd have to get 30 lbs of coke in a few hours. But more importantly, Todd thought about one thing. Next year, he'd make sure his taxes were paid on time and give his accountant the right info. 

In the shadowy underbelly of Chicago, where whispers of deals and echoes of gunshots linger in the air, there existed a formidable force known as the Feel Good Inc. Led by the enigmatic Godmother Ketamine, they ruled with an iron fist. But amidst their power and wealth, there was one law they dared not defy—the taxman's.

For years, the Feel Good Inc had operated under the radar, their illicit gains hidden in the depths of offshore accounts and buried in the concrete foundations of casinos. But as the IRS tightened its grip, the pressure mounted on Ketamine and her trusty associates. They saw the taxman as just another rival, one whose demands they couldn't simply brush aside with threats or bribes.

Ketamine gathered her top advisors in the dimly lit backroom of their headquarters, a smoke-filled den where the scent of cigars mingled with the tension in the air. "We cannot continue to ignore this," she declared, her voice a low growl that commanded obedience. "The taxman will not be satisfied until he bleeds us dry."

“Let me take care of him” bellowed Don Seanie, Ketamine’s ruthless righthand man.

“For once, violence might not solve this one Seanie” she nods in appreciation. “Anyone else got a suggestion?”

The room fell silent. Finding a solution proved elusive. Every scheme they devised seemed to unravel at the slightest scrutiny. Forging documents, laundering money through legitimate businesses, even intimidating auditors—nothing seemed to deter the relentless pursuit of the taxman.

Desperation set in among the ranks of the Feel Good Inc. Some whispered of betraying their principles and seeking amnesty, while others advocated for more extreme measures. But Ketamine remained resolute, her steely gaze unwavering as she pondered their next move.

Then, in a stroke of brilliance, a plan began to take shape—one that would test their cunning and resourcefulness like never before. They would create a network of shell companies and front organizations, each one a maze of deception designed to confound even the most determined auditor.

Under the cover of darkness, they set their plan in motion. Accounts were opened in far-flung jurisdictions, paper trails meticulously fabricated, and false identities constructed with painstaking detail. The web they wove was intricate and impenetrable, a labyrinth of lies that would shield their ill-gotten gains from the prying eyes of the taxman.

But as they reveled in their newfound success, a nagging doubt lingered in the back of their minds. Would their deception hold up under scrutiny, or had they merely postponed the inevitable reckoning? Only time would tell, as the shadow of the taxman loomed ever larger over the growing empire of the Feel Good Inc. And in the murky depths where law and order held little sway, the battle for supremacy raged on, with taxes becoming just another front in the age-old struggle for power and control.

It was just another day in the city of Angels, and Jazz tended to the bar like any other Monday morning. Los Angeles seemed bogged down today, like the smog from New York was paying a paternity visit to all major cities in the west coast; perhaps that was why his boss Desquarius Jr. bawled at him for half an hour about not replacing one of the chairs. Regardless, Jazz was assigned to overtime and rush hour with no extra pay, so he was quite bitter about it, but at least he could make drinks. It wasn’t all bad.

And then, whether from out of the smog clouds way up high or the rush of thoughts or voices constantly running around in his head, an invisible lightning bolt roars from the heavens and strikes his head with a thunder only he could hear, raising his hair on end.

It was tax day, and he hadn’t filed.

His mind reeled like he had been struck over the head with a bar stool. The bottle of Vermouth almost slipped out of his hand, but his reflexes kicked in and he grabbed the neck of the bottle and set it down on the countertop. The bar was quiet, but voices swelled in his head like an unholy choir, their meanings indecipherable and indistinct. He set his bottle down, motioned to Gyokko to shut the bar down, and rushed outside. As he approached his car, Akaza turned the ignition and the vehicle roared to life, prompting Jazz to enter the car and turn to his driver.

“Office. Now.” And they were off.

They sped down the streets of Hollywood, not like they would be arrested; Jazz had most of them coppers in his deep pockets. They made it to The Line HQ and Jazz hurried to his small office on the second floor and promptly sat down. He addressed his secretary, Lisa.

“How much we owe the office?”

She took a moment to mull over the records before snapping the booklet closed. “Close to $5m, I’m afraid.”

“And the three tax collectors are a wolfish bunch. “ Jazz demurred. Lisa was quite accustomed to his rambling. ”Samuel Changretta, Jay Goldberg, and Daniel Lamond are head officers of the Hollywood branch, and they are a nasty bunch. They wouldn’t stop short of snuffing people to collect their taxes.”

Jazz looked over at his Lisa, a smile stretching his mouth from ear to ear. “But what if.. we took the snuffing to them? Make them disappear in what would appear to be an accident, an unfortunate happenchance where the three sleep on in the depth of Abaddon..”

Lisa picked up the telephone and dialed a number before putting the piece to her ear. Yes, that would work.

On his way out, Doma touched his shoulder briefly and whispered "err of the side of caution" before Jazz made it to the car. It was a small gesture, but it got him thinking. Killing the three of them wouldn't be a good idea, that would cause too much suspicion to the IRA. Doma was right, killing three government officials wouldn't be a wise idea, and paying them out was out of the question. What if..

And then the idea came. And, oh, was it going to be fun.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Two weeks later, Jazz sat in his office, sipping a cup of hot chocolate. Lisa walked in with a sheaf of papers and sets it down on Jazz's desk and takes a seat on the corner of his mahogany table.

"Did you hear about the tax officers?" she asked him, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear and trying to suppress a smile.

Jazz sets his cup down and smiles at her. "What happened?"

"Someone stuffed corks up their asses and rammed toilet paper into their mouths and ears. They say it was an organized attack by the Italians, but who knows, really?" She smiled again, propping herself with her right hand and leaning over slightly.

Jazz simply smiled, taking a draught of his now-cool chocolate. "Yes, who really knows.."

Ah Thursday, one of my favorite days of the week, and I don't mean paying taxes....

In a room full of grumpy faces, what am I to do? laugh? smile?...All I can do is remain straight faced so as to not annoy my boss. Normally they are all ok with a little light humor but today it seemed different, almost as if they have something important coming up? It could be the next drug or gun lot coming in or even some altercation with another crew...the whole city of Chicago was aware that both Detroit and Philly recently lost crews and subsequently got new crew leaders...what do they like to do? Set the tone and establish their presense to all the neighbouring cities. My only hope is they show a little more self-respect than the Detriot scum - They are only good for two things, hookers and Grain Alcohol.

**The boss shouts at me again as I day dream of spending money from my an upcoming major pay check from recent crew activities. I've been working hard and can only hope he will give me a little bonus**

"Get out of my meeting room and go and file our DAMN taxes!! They are due, and if they are filed late you are certainly not getting a bonus".

Little did the boss know, I was extremely professional with filing my taxes and they were often filed early. I wont tell him they are finished yet as i always like to run them by an accountant friend. Maybe he will be in Detroit... I need to collect some Grain Alcohol as well for the Mulberry Bar, this business deal will give me more consistent income as well as my crews work.

**I begin to walk away from the meeting room when an argument seems to break out amongst some of the members of the crew**

****BANG!! BANG!! BANG!! BANG!!**** 

Gun shots ring and the commotion intensifies.

"God dammit!..." says one voice.

"What the hell!..." says another voice.

It seems like one of the crew is seriously injured and maybe even dead, a Goomba leans over the injured Earner and politely explains they cannot go to the hospital because of some problems in the past with the boss. Luckily as a Goomba he knew a little about gun shot wounds and was able to apply pressure directly to the wound to stop the blood from flowing from his body. It is completely unknown what the reason for the gunshots were and they seemed to come from nothing.

The crew boss yells at all the crew members to tidy up and get the hell out as he raises him arms almost in disarray at the behaviour of his mobsters.

In this short written piece I have depicted a cool mafia scene with a group of mobsters in discussion, although I am not descriptive about what is being discussed, the constant narration throughout sets the tone that something is coming, whether they needed to go as far as violent scenes of gun shots in another story. For now the most important aspect to take away is the characters response to sorting the taxes, the interesting link between ability to file taxes and use of an account for reassurance is a way to again introduce the character into a more senior role with confirmation from a close associate.

First time in a writing contest, thanks for setting this up Kittie!