I STOOD IN LINE, as patient as the other taxpayers, my fined out forms and my cash gripped hotly in my hand. Cash, money, the old fashioned folding stuff. A local custom that I intended to make expensive to the local customers. I was scratching under the artificial beard, which itched abominably, when the man before me stepped out of the way and I was at the window. My finger stuck in the glue and I had a job freeing it without pulling off the beard as well.
`Come, come, pass it over,' the aging, hatchet-faced, bitter and shrewish female official said,, hand extended impatiently.
`On the contrary,' I said, letting the papers and banknotes fall away to disclose the immense .75 recoilless pistol that I held. `You pass it over. All of that tax money you have extracted from the sheeplike suckers who populate this backward planet.'
I smiled to show that I meant it and she choked off a scream and began scrabbling in the cash drawer. It was a broad smile that showed all of my teeth, which I had stained bright red, which should have helped her decide on the proper course of action. As the money was pushed towards me I stuffed it into my long topcoat that was completely lined with deep pockets.
`What are you doing?' the man behind me gasped, eyes bulging like great white grapes. `Taking money,' I said and flipped a bundle at him. `Why don't you have some yourself.' He caught it by reflex.