Volume One...Issue One...September 27, 1999
Published by "The Wizard of Odd"
-AND NOW FOR TONIGHT'S TASTY MORSEL-
(-All items are the sole property of Wayne Brown. Use of my properties without my express written consent, is against the law!-)
"THE TAX COLLECTOR"
by Wayne Brown July 1981
(Copyright ©1981)
Toby giggled and squealed with delight, as his playmate nudged him through the brittle grass, towards the ram-shackle, clapboard barn. His seven year-old eyes sparkled with love for his ovine friend. Ariel had been born only a few , short months ago, and he was a fine specimen indeed. The child and the lamb, had quickly formed bonds of friendship in this lonely, tortured land. Other children were few, and far between, and adults did not make suitable playmates. This was a harsh country they lived in, and childhood fantasies and laughter, were a welcome change from the tears of poverty-stricken survival. They would cherish this time together, their happiness perpetuated by the eternities of youth. Romping across sallow fields, fording shallow brooks, and while one grazed, the other gazed at clouds crimson with the ash of another time and place. They were untroubled by the tasks of growing up, but the time would not be long, before the boy would face manhood, and the lamb would became a ram.
"Toby!...Toby!...Put Ariel in his pen and come in fer suppah." The boy's mother called, a touch of weariness evident in her voice. The day's labours had, as usual, been long and arduous. One could still see the beauty in her weather-worn skin and long, but dirty, blonde hair. She wiped her hands on her faded, checkered apron, and noting that Toby had obeyed, she stepped back into the primitive shelter that was their modest home. Her husband Jake, sat at a crude, oaken table, fumbling with his hand-carved pipe. Hands so hardened and blistered, they would never again, find the delicate skill needed to whittle another. His shoulders ached from the work in the fields, and his bones cracked with even the simplest movement, but other pains assaulted his senses this evening.
"'Morrow's the day, Clarisse...Taxman be here 'bout noon." A calloused hand brushed through grimey, greying stubbled hair.
"I know...I know. I...don't know how to tell 'im, Jake...Do we have to?...Can't we just...?"
"We got no choice. Yer know what's ta happen if 'n we don't give 'im up." He sighed with resignation.
"I know Jake, but...How can they be so cruel?...So heartless!?! What kind of men are they!?!" She wiped a tear with the corner of her ragged apron.
"Now Clarisse, if t'weren't for them, we'd have no life at'all. What with the Highwaymen, 'n crazies 'n such...We'd ne'er survive and yer know it! Besides...they only ask their due once every five years!"
"But Jake...HOW CAN THEY...?"
"That's enough, Clarisse!!!" He seldom used that tone, but when he did, she knew it was time to give in.
"Hi Ma!...Hi Pa! Didja see us today, huh, didja?" Toby's excitement did little to quell their mood.
"Sit down boy...I've got somethin' I gotta tell ya..."
Jake spoke slowly to his son, choosing his words carefully, so as to lessen the impact of his message. He wondered if the boy could possibly understand sacrifice, and what it meant to part with a loved one. He knew that in this savage land of theirs, children often grew more quickly into adulthood. He hoped this would be the case with Toby. He told him about the Taxman, and the reason for his visit.
"NO,NO!!! You can't let 'em, Pa! You gotta tell 'em NO!!!" The boy screamed desparately.
"I can't boy! Don't you understand? If I did what yer ask they'd kill us all!!!" He looked into the boy's pleading, tear-filled eyes.
"...But PA...!!!"
"NO BUTS ABOUT IT! Eat yer suppah and then get ready for bed!" Jake's harsh words served to still the boy's protests, but did little to slow his tears. The boy threw back his chair defiantly, and ran sobbing for the loft. As the boy climbed the ladder above to his bed, his father buried his head in his hands. Clarisse went to him, encircling him with her arms. They also cried, their tears burning, rubbing salt into their mutual pain.
The 'morrow would mark the second time since their wedding, that they would face the Tax Collector. Jake had resisted the first time, but in the end, the Taxman had taken his due...and three fingers from Clarisse's right hand. No, he knew he wouldn't fight this time. These Collectors would tolerate it only once, if at all.
The ominous, olive-drab, armoured half-track lumbered slowly into the yard. Rusty and worn springs, screeched like ravens encircling a kill. Six alert and uniformed storm-troopers leaped from it's back, heavily armed and menacing. They searched the yard frantically for signs of resistant hostility. Finally, their reconnaissance complete, they took up strategic positions and gave the all clear.
The passenger door creaked open warily, and the Taxman stepped down from the battered, dusty vehicle. He was tall and angular, with a cold, bitter face accented by a deep, purple scar running north-to-south, across his left cheek. His eyes were thin and beady, and his smile brought a chill to his waiting audience. He left the truck's door ajar and approached the family confidently, slapping his hand with a well-worn riding crop. Two of the storm-troopers were flanking him, on the right and left.
Jake, Clarisse, Toby and the lamb stood trembling in terror upon the porch of their dilapidated home. The Taxman spoke curtly and without compassion, his eyes studying Jake's for the signs of betrayal.
"It's time...You know why I'm here. Hand 'im over." His words cut through them like blades of ice.
Toby screamed and clutched desperately to the lamb.
"NO, NO, NO!!! You can't! I won't let you! Daddy...PLEASE!...STOP HIM!!!"
Toby's pleading, tear-filled eyes met his father's and despite Jake's earlier reservation, he faced the Taxman with one last vestige of courage, kindled by the sparks of their desperation.
"Can't you make an exception this time!?! Can't you take something else?...We've only got the one, and as you can see..."
Loud, metallic clicks suddenly resounded, as chambers were filled with lead and brass. The Taxman raised his hand. His wary soldiers stiffened in anticipation, training their weapons on the pleading father.
"You know the law. The Bishop has to eat. We show you enough charity as it is. If I had my way, we'd stop every two years, but then...I'm not the Bishop." He smiled sardonically, and then continued.
"Hand 'im over now, or my men will respond accordingly!"
Before the Taxman could improve on his threat, Jake went to the boy and separated him from the lamb.
"NO, NO, ARIEL, NO!!!" The boy's screams fell on deafened ears.
The Taxman reached down, and picked up his charge and then turned to the half-track. Satisfied that there would be no more trouble, his bodyguards hopped onto the back of the vehicle. The Taxman, clutching his struggling burden with strong, cruel hands, slammed the door and ordered the driver to go. As the truck left the yard, he yelled back to Jake...
"See you in five, hah, hah, hah!"
The truck backfired, belching a puff of black smoke as it lumbered down the road. Back on the porch, Jake and Clarisse could still hear their boy's pathetic screams. They looked down at their feet, tears already drying in the dusty heath...Ariel bleated, confused...and then nibbled on a shard of grass.
-The End-
(I have made some minor grammatical changes to the original MS. -Wayne Brown)
"THAT'LL BE $3.50 MAC!"
by Wayne Brown April 1979
(Originally published in "Great American Poetry Anthology" Copyright ©1988)
Placate the dischord of a civilised life, then...
...enjoin the harmony of the dying willows
Envision the dreams of autistic social workers
As they tred the paths of complacency
And ask for the change from their dollar
Caress the emptiness...the infinite...the void...
...and hold them tightly within the confines of the democratic thimble
Then prey, yeah pray...
The Renaissance Man is coming...
...I hope he's got cabfare...
-The End-
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