Clueless
A Star Wars SpamFiction by Encrypter
Disclaimer: Star Wars, Han Solo, and carbonite all belong to George Lucas. I really wish I were him.
The IRS, as I'm sure the average reader knows, belongs to the federal government of the United States of America.
Neither Star Wars, nor the IRS is used here for commercial gain, just to try to get a few laughs.
A middle-aged fellow in a suit and briefcase stepped in through the open doorway
"Mr. Solo?"
No answer was forthcoming from the stony-faced man. Nevertheless, Mr. Briefcase pressed on.
"My name is Peter Wilson. I'm from the IRS. According to our records, you have not paid your taxes for the last three years. Now, being a smuggler and all, and considering your current circumstances, I'm sure you think that you're exempt from this sort of thing, but let me explain a few things to you."
The expression on Solo's face was strained and unchanging, eyes clenched tightly, mouth frozen in an expression of anguish. It remained that way all throughout Wilson's 'good of the nation' speech. It was as if the man's voice were fingernails on a chalkboard somewhere deep in his cerebellum.
Wilson drew to a close; surely Mr. Solo understood the importance of paying his taxes, didn't he?
Solo stood stock-still as he had for the last five or ten minutes; the IRS man got no response.
"What I'm trying to say here, Mr. Solo," said Wilson, "is that if you don't make good on these back taxes, the federal government will prosecute. They'll take the sum out of your bank account, or if there isn't enough to cover it, they'll auction off your belongings."
He glanced momentarily at Solo's upraised hands with some discomfort. Most people had adverse reactions to his visits and explanations; he'd been warned that Han Solo was the sort of person who would most likely try to shoot at a problem rather than employ a more civilized method like negotiations, or even just cooperating. The fact that he was also known to carry a blaster and shoot people whom he didn't like was also well-documented.
But the silent, anguished man before him made no move towards resolving his problem. The hands still hovered in mid-air, staying away from his throat, but not going to his blaster.
Peter Wilson soon calmed down and decided to wait out the stony-faced smuggler. By the looks of things, he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon anyway; moving your feet is tough when you're encased in carbonite.
Stupid? Probably. Funny? I think so. Offensive? Only if you're IRS (or a dependent thereof).
This really isn't my fault. I was reading TFN's Humor page, something about the disadvantages of getting frozen in carbonite, and the IRS came up.
Wanna review? Go ahead!