THE POET GNAWREATE AND THE TAXMAN

Dave Freer

He was short, balding, and cadaverous. The latter was a lot more typical of my usual clientele than the short and balding part. Mind you, as I always say, it takes all sorts to make an underworld. Vampires with bad breath, werewolves with mange, overweight sylphs crying into their Bloody Marys—I get them all. For some reason they come and tell me their troubles. Being the late-day barman at the Open Crypt Bar and Grill has its downsides, but the tips are good.

I’d never had quite such a cheery customer, nor one with a seersucker jacket in a loud check, neatly pressed trousers and argyle socks before. Nor one with two such large demons as bodyguards.

“You look to be very good spirits today, sir,’’ I said, polishing glasses as he helped himself to peanuts from the bar.

“Oh, I am,’’ he said, smiling jauntily, revealing a gap where he should have had a front tooth. “It’s another lovely day. Mind you, I haven’t always been happy about being undead.’’

I nodded. “I always thought there might be some advantages to being dead. Takes a bit of getting used to, though, sir.’’

He tasted his martini. Smiled again. The missing tooth was very distracting. “When I was alive people always told me I’d be better off dead.’’

“In one sense they’re completely wrong,’’ I said grumpily. “Being dead has been a financial disaster zone for me, except from a taxation point of view.’’

He sniggered, as if enjoying some private joke. “They said nothing was sure except death and taxes.’’

“Well, looking at us, they were wrong about that, too. Another drink, sir?’’

He looked at his pocket watch. “So hard to keep track of time these days. Yes, I’ll have another. After all, I’ve got time to kill now,’’ he said, showing that despite having lost a tooth, he still had good solid long canines. We both laughed, and I wondered if he was a vampire. Mostly they’re more aware of appearances, though.

I poured. It was a slow morning. No one else was in the place except for an old hobo zombie quietly falling apart into his beer at the far booth. They came in to keep cold, and they could nurse a beer for a full hour. I mean, I understand. There but for the job go I. I just wish they wouldn’t shed so much. My martini-swigging customer’s two demons were drinking vodka to keep their spirits up, but they hardly counted. It was just the two of us, chatting. “One of the problems,’’ I said, “about being undead is that your sense of time goes to hell in a handbasket.’’

He chuckled. “You’ve got to keep up with progress, barman. These days I believe it goes FedEx. Faster, cheaper and more reliable. They deliver or arrange delivery anywhere.’’

“Ah. Well, I daresay. Hell has always been avantgarde, if you take my meaning, sir. When I joined the ranks of the undead we only had the Pony Express.’’

“Mine began further back still. But I try to keep up. Fascinating developments in my old field.’’

“And what was that, sir?’’ I asked out of politeness. He was going to tell me anyway. They always did. You’d be surprised how many were in real estate.

“I was a tax collector,’’ he said, suddenly looking like a predatory bird.

“Oh.’’ Once I might have shied away. But the undead don’t feel quite the same way about things that trouble the living. “Don’t see a lot of your kind in here.’’

He shook his head. “Mostly they go straight to hell. It’s being damned that often. But I got unlucky.’’

“Unlucky?’’

“Yes.’’ He nodded thoughtfully. “You know, certain professions should be exempt from taxation. They contribute so much to the whole of society that it is unnecessary to tax them. Or at least damned stupid to do so. Writers, dentists (when you need one, no one is more valuable), and … er, witches.’’

“And bartenders. No one appreciates how much fine psychological counseling we do. Still, I’ll agree. You don’t want to interfere with witches. Or writers. I write a bit myself under a pen name, sir,’’ I said tentatively. One never knew when someone might become a new reader.

“True. Bartenders are undervalued. When your glass is full, that is,’’ he said, meaningfully.

I refilled his glass. “On the house, sir. I had a brush with a witch myself once.’’

“Thank you. Yes, you’d think people would be more careful, but we never were. So what do you write?’’

“Fantasy, sir. Bit of horror every now and then. They say that you should write what you know,’’ I said, and licked my canines.

“For art, catharsis, or money?’’ he asked, steepling his fingers.

“Money,’’ I admitted. “Not that there is much in the short fiction market nowadays. But it’s an unliving, when I add it to my pay here. It’s not like I have to keep body and soul together like those poor mortals trying to do it. And there’s a certain satisfaction in seeing your pseudonym in print.’’

He nodded. “Money is at least an honest reason for trying to sell it. Your problem really lies in the marketing. You can get rich from writing, if you have some really innovative marketing.’’

I didn’t want to talk about innovative marketing, since the boss nearly fired me for selling copies of my self-published collection to late morning drunks. It was going so well, too, until one of them was sick on my magnum opus and I got a little … upset with him. Do you know how hard it is to dispose of undead body parts? They keep trying to wriggle back together, fingers digging their way out of wet concrete, legs hopping out of the seething acid. “So you tried to tax a witch, did you, sir?’’

He shook his head. “Worse. Taxing witches is just … well, look at me. It was something I would never have considered doing. However, I was misled. You see, Miss Maggie Inplank was not just a witch. She was a witch, a dentist, and a writer of sorts. A poet.’’

“Very touchy, those,’’ I said sympathetically. “Like to feel their work is being taken seriously. And it just doesn’t sell.’’

“Hers sold very well. She had her marketing perfected,’’ he said sourly.

I had to admit I was interested. I still had 982 copies of my book cluttering up my coffin. Anything that could sell poetry … “And how did that work, sir?’’

“Very well. She always sold at least one copy, and at times up to a dozen of them, to everyone she quoted her book to.’’

Enlightenment dawned. “They paid her to stop? I’m surprised you were the only one cursed undead. Poets don’t appreciate that attitude.’’

He shook his head. “No, she did far worse to me than being merely cursed to spend all eternity on earth. Being undead was a sort of side effect of what happened to me. They were all very polite, really. Even me … at the time. In a manner of speaking. I did say she had three professions, didn’t I? She used that fact. She had one of those modern dentist’s chairs. With restraints. Modern back then, I mean. Nowadays they don’t use them much, but back then it was the most essential mod-con any dental practitioner could own.’’ He took a long pull of his drink. Touched the gap in his teeth. “No one went until the pain was close to unlivable. Anesthetic was half a bottle of gin.’’

I reflected that he was well on the way to being anesthetized now. But it was a neat trick if you could get customers with money as a captive audience, and half drunk to boot. “Well, some poetry—and I wouldn’t want to say this in public—is not too bad, you know. I’ve got some Yeats… .’’

He shuddered. “Aches. I had those, too. Believe me, her epic iambic octometric dithyrambs were enough to cause them, even if the tooth hadn’t kept me awake for a week. Her sales pitch went something like this. First she tightened the straps on my wrists and ankles. Then she said ‘Open wide.’ She said it with this mighty big pair of long handled pincers in her right hand, so I was fairly nervous about complying … and as soon as I did it, I realized the pincers were a feint. I was so busy watching them that I hadn’t been aware that in her other hand she had a handful of rags. She shoved them between my jaws so I couldn’t bite. ‘And now to soothe you,’ she said, ‘a quick recital of my latest ode. You’ll enjoy it. It has great literary merit, not like that tosh written merely to entertain.’ I tried to protest. ‘Uunghh!! Mo oofff,’ I said. ‘How kind of you!’ she said. ‘It’s not everyone who is in a position to get a personal recital from me, you know.’ I certainly did know. What I didn’t know, she soon told me. ‘It’s been very well received. And not just because my brother Henry is the local magistrate. Hanging Henry they call him. Mind you,’ she cackled, waving the pincers in my face, ‘He’s never had to hang anyone twice for not honoring their signed contracts,’ she said, exchanging the pincers for a book order form. Then she took up a slim puce calfskin-covered volume and began to read to me.’’ The former taxman shuddered, and took a long pull at his drink.

“Ah.’’ I said. “Puce calfskin, eh. Covers make a lot of difference.’’

“A padlock would have been a good addition to that one. Anyway, after some twenty generations … well, minutes, she paused, closed the book reluctantly, and said: ‘Inspiring, isn’t it? I’m glad you agree. Now, I can have this rotten tooth out fairly painlessly in a moment … I hope. I’m sure you’d like to order a copy of my book first, though. It always steadies my hand, knowing that I’ve made another fan. Of course, a copy for your mother … and they make great presents for your extended circle of friends and relations. There is a slight discount for orders of over twenty copies. Let me hold the order form for you. I’ll put the quill in your hand. How many would you like?’ she asked me.’’

The taxman shook his head sadly. “Does ‘Uonnnne! ’ sound like ‘a dozen’ to you? Well, it did to her. And true enough, she had the tooth out in two shakes of an ant’s whisker. I hardly felt it happen. Just the sudden relief.’’

“An aching wallet is a great distraction,’’ I sympathized.

“Yes. But she really was good at it. A compensation for the poetry, I thought. I should have suspected magic. But once the pain stopped … I started wondering.’’

“About poetry?’’

“Something that is poetry to me, anyway. It seemed this was a major stream of taxable income. I was foolish enough to say so when she let me out of the chair.

He sighed. “She screamed at me. ‘What? You want me to PAY YOU!’ It was a sweet moment. And then she waved the discolored and rotten tooth in my face. ‘What do you think this is?’ People often seem to take taxation so hard.”

“Unreasonable of them,’’ I said. “They seem to want something back for it, too.’’

“A ridiculous idea. But I must admit that as I thought her merely a writer and a dentist, and I had no need of a dentist right then … I was a little flippant. ‘A considerable relief,’ I said to her. ‘I paid you for that. You insisted on money upfront … but it appears to me that you are, according to my records, not paying any taxes on your second stream of income. There will have to be fines and penalties levied… .’ ” He sighed again. “I should have noticed the danger signs. The thunder before the lightning. But I didn’t. I was thinking of those twelve copies of Selected Poems by Maggie Inplank that I had just bought.’’

“Well, most of us have twelve relations we don’t like… .’’

He wasn’t listening to me. He just continued his tale. “She was incandescent, and I must admit I was enjoying it. ‘Relief!’ she said. ‘Don’t you think works of literary merit are worthy of tax relief? It’s my duty to educate and uplift readers with my art. You are looking for trouble.’ With my tooth in one hand and her little puce book in the other … the Poet Gnawreate hung over me like a dark cloud. But in my line of work you get rather used to threats. They come just before pleading. I probably shouldn’t have made my little jest then. But people always found me so droll. They always used to laugh at my little jokes. ‘Well, perhaps for something of merit. But not your potty poetry. And there is a special clause about uplifting for profit … a haha …’

“Well! In an instant, her hair stood out straight. Her bun swirled up into a great fan, all by itself. I nearly died right there, and saved myself a great deal of trouble, because one hairpin plunged a full two inches into the oak of the chair and pinned me there by the ear. Her face went very white. She raised her arms and a dark nimbus formed around her. I stopped thinking it was a joke right then … and realized just how right she was about trouble … but it was too late to tell her. She held my tooth and her book aloft.’’

“For bitter and for verse, I damn you with my curse, In sooth, in truth I bind you with this tooth, The hole, your soul my toll, until I see it whole.’’

“I see what you mean about the poetry,’’ I said, pouring him another drink.

“It got worse. She put the tooth back. And I found I was shrinking. Stiff-backed, limp-leafed. Bound into a collection of three epic poems: Malocclusion, Caries, and Decay. Doomed and trapped there until I could give her the whole tooth… .’’ He shook his head. “I was undead with a toothache … and not even able to get some relief from it by actually dying. Being undead goes on longer than being alive does.’’ He downed his drink.

I poured him another. The boss could take it out of my salary if he liked. “But you plainly got out,’’ I said, feeling my own jaw in sympathy.

“Eventually. It took me two hundred years. Still,’’ he said, smiling, showing the gap in his teeth, “things are looking up. I’m enjoying being undead without the ache. And I got the time knocked off eternity, because I’ve already had two hundred years of damnation without relief. No relief from pain and none from the poems. I don’t know which was more agonizing.’’

“So how did you break free?’’ I asked, curious. That was plainly a powerful spell. It could be a trick worth knowing.

“More luck than skill,’’ he admitted. “You know, life as a haunted limited edition folio of three epic odes by a literary poetess of the early nineteenth century was not an easy one. I had to be read to communicate—by moving the letters around. Otherwise I was limited to eerie, tortured moans and a bit of poltergeist work. I was part of the Poet Gnawreate’s estate. She died a wealthy woman, thanks to her clever marketing and tax-free status. Childless and unmarried, though, so the estate had to be divided among her relations.’’

“So what happened?’’ I asked, curious.

“Well, the cousin who inherited me, together with her house, didn’t last the night. Old Maggie found my moans a pleasure to listen to. He didn’t. He was planning to burn all her books. But I ran him off by midnight. He froze to death,’’ said the tax man with some satisfaction.

I nodded. “No finer feelings. Should have been more sensitive about literature. If he’d read you …’’

“Yes … but it took a while to find anyone ready to do so. More people write poetry than read it, alas. I saw more of New England than I wanted to. In display bookcases. On shelves in kitchens. Above smoky fireplaces. In some damp chests. I must have been responsible for half the reports of haunted houses in America. No one ever looks at old books as source of ghosts. I was thrown away once … but retrieved by an upwardly mobile scavenger. Mostly people keep old leather-bound books, they just don’t read them. I did trips out west, and even a voyage to Bermuda. Pleasant climate. Hell on books. My pages got quite foxed, and it lowered my moan an octave. That was quite nice in its way. I could shake walls when the tooth was really driving me mad.’’

“No problem with exorcists, then?’’ I asked. I’d had a brush with them myself once. That’s one of the problems of being undead. Everything eventually happens to you, and it’s very hard to live a regular life. Or open a bank account.

The tax man pulled a face. “One of them—a do-it-yourself fellow—thought I’d do for the book in bell, book, and candle. Give me a proper religious practitioner any day … that was close. It would have done dreadful things to me. I got him just in time with a poltergeisted tea-pot. I thought the cycle of haunting would never end. But eventually I ended up in a secondhand bookstore. I’d just about ruined the book-seller when a deaf dentist came in and perused his stock.’’

“It’s like shaking a piggy bank. Eventually you get a coin out.’’

“Yes. Mind you I’d gotten very tired of shaking, even shaking walls. But finally I’d struck the jackpot. Except he wouldn’t open the book. Just thought the title looked amusing, drat him. And I didn’t dare drive him mad or shake the walls. I had to modulate my moaning. I poltergeisted any other books out of the place. And he just kept buying more. It took me a full year to get every other book out of the house, before I could get him to open me. And then I could only alter my print in rhyme. You try doing that all the time. It’s like running in slime. It’s a crime… .’’ He sighed. “Sorry, one of the aftereffects of the spell. I’m a poem in remission.’’

“You got liberated, though.’’

“Eventually. It happened like this: picture the scene.’’

“My girlfriend has left me. My friends won’t visit. The cable company has refunded my subscription. I’ve lost four hearing aids this month. I have bought thirty-one paperbacks this week. Every one has gone missing. My life is mess,’’ said Dr Jim Edwards to the slim leather-bound book that was his sole companion in the house’s smallest room. “Malocclusion, Caries and Decay. Three epic poems by Maggie Inplank. If that doesn’t move me, nothing will.’’ He opened the book. He was one of those souls so conditioned to reading on the john that he found it nearly impossible to go without one.

“Your various problems are many,

Your pleasures are few, If help to me you render any, I’ll help you too. Awoooo.’’

“Good grief. And she got this published? What has it got to do with malocclusion?’’ said Dr Edwards, looking faintly nauseous.

“A hole in my tooth was my woe, And to the witch dentist I didst go, With a toothache in this book she trapped me, Set me free, I’m in pain pain pain pain, aieeeeeeee!’’

“I swear the letters moved. And what rot. It’s enough to induce constipation… . Holy mackerel! The toilet roll is levitating! Who the hell locked the door? Help!’’ And he tried to break the door down. It took him a while to look back at the floor. To the toilet roll, which had unraveled to form letters.

“HELP

BOOK’’

As he watched, “BOOK’’ turned to “LOOK’’ … and he pounded on the door frantically. There was no one else in the house, and it was a good solid door.

Eventually, desperation made him pull up his trousers and open the book.

“From this book of poetry,

You must set me free,

And liberated you too will be,

Ahhhhh, Aroooooooweee.

I’m in pain, pain, pain,

Please fix this tooth again.’’

He sat down on the only available throne. “A haunted book of poetry. With a toothache. I have finally gone crazy.’’ He reached into the pocket of his white coat, pulled out a vial, broke the top off, and poured it onto the pages. “Novocain. Just what every slim folio of self-published poetry needs.’’

“Thank you! Oh the wonderful relief,

The tooth has given me much grief.’’

“It’s talking to me. The damned book is talking to me.’’

“You and I never will be free,

Until whole is made the tooth that bound me.’’

“Oh, now I’m supposed to do a root canal on a poetry book? What about a simple extraction? I’ll tear your pages out until you let me go.’’

“Your death would be chilling

But a filling would be thrilling

And to let you free I’d be willing.’’

“And just how do you do a filling on a poem? Anyway, do you have a dental plan?’’

“Dental man, be a gentleman,

Help a poem without a dental plan

Or finish your life in the can.

Of letters I the tooth can make.

Fix it and remove the ache

And free I’ll let you break.’’

He felt in his pockets. “Open wide. Ah. I see the problem. You really should have taken better care of your teeth. First filling I’ve done with magic marker.’’

“Now in a pentacle the book you place,

Certain magic symbols you must trace,

Needs must I should go down to hell,

Make a deal with the devil, before all is well.’’

“I’m a dentist. Not a Satanist. There is a difference, you know.’’

“If rid of me you want to be,

You’d make haste

Not in idle debate, while waits my fate

My time do waste.

Being meek, Maggie Inplank, I must seek

The last hurdle must be faced.’’

The dentist drew the pentacle and the circles nine, and the symbols of summonsing. He had to escape the bitter verse.

I’d heard a lot of tales here as the late-day barman at the Open Crypt, few with worse poetry, but not many stories in that league. “Worth a pint of gin, that yarn,’’ I had to admit.

“Ah, but it wasn’t over yet,’’ said the tax man. “I had my tooth, and the devil was not going to let me speak in verse, so he gave me a temporary body, but he didn’t have my soul. Maggie the witch had that, and I had to give her my now-whole tooth before she would set me free.’’

“His Infernal Majesty couldn’t have liked that too much. He’s never been too happy about the soulless undead.’’

“Too true. But I pointed out a few things to him. How taxation was second only to direct demonic intervention for presenting the temptation to sin, as well as generating huge amount of blasphemy, which is music to his ears. Then I made him an offer … so he let me speak to her. Released her from the awful torment by honest criticism, and literary award assessment on merit.’’

“I’m surprised she agreed to free you. You must have been one of her last remaining works in print.’’

“Well, you know what they say. Literary prostitution is more a case of haggling about the price—whether you take it in satisfaction, fame, money or all three, or just a get-out-of-hell ticket. I must say she looked a sight, her soul lashed with red pen. But she recognized me right away, in spite of my being in a borrowed body. The soul sees clearly. ‘You! You philistine! You called my work potty poetry!’ she screamed at me.

“ ‘I have the whole tooth for you,’ I said, doing my best to keep it friendly.

“ ‘Too late,’ she said nastily. ‘I’m dead and in the pit.’

“ ‘You could free me,’ I suggested.

“She hadn’t changed a bit. ‘No. Not unless you free me,’ she said. ‘I want my life back, and literary fame.’ She always drove a hard bargain, even on extractions.

“The Devil shrugged. ’It is a pity. It was a tempting offer you made me, tax man. But no one gets out of Hell.’ he said.

“I’d really got onto his Infernal Majesty’s level by now. We were kindred spirits of sorts, I suppose. ’Your Majesty, the literary arts? How many does that send to perdition?’ I asked.

“The Devil must have consulted his accountants via his bluefang, because a few seconds later he said, ’Many. But poetry less so these days. The smart damnation is into pseudo-intellectual angst-prose and shock-value sexual deviancy.’ His Infernal Majesty looked at me thoughtfully … and nodded. ’I suppose so. But she’ll have to change fields to the high-yield area, and operate under a pseudonym. I won’t have all writers thinking they can get away with this,’ said the devil.

“Miss Maggie looked sour. ’Well, I still won’t give his soul back. I’m a poet at heart. It’s the highest art, although I will admit literary prose can be very moving. And that’s a mended tooth, not the whole one.’

“ ’You may have custody of my soul,’ I offered. ’As long as you liberate me from the verse fate. Just think of all the wonderful sneering you’ll be able to do at lesser literary forms. All I want is to be free of the dusty, yellowed, foxed, lonely pages of Malocclusion, Caries and Decay.’

“She thought about it awhile. Then she turned to the devil. ’I’ll need glowing reviews …’

“The Devil smiled, showing long yellow fangs. He’d be needing her or my friend Dr. Edwards soon. And hell gets few dentists. ’I can even get you on daytime TV. It’s full of my employees,’ the Devil said.”

The tax man finished his drink. “And that was that. She’s a major literary figure now, sneering happily at fantasy and science fiction, last I heard. And here I am, too, free of her poetic justice. I believe she’s found literary fiction just as rewarding, with her fine grasp of marketing. And the Devil’s well pleased by the numbers she’s driven to perdition.’’

“And you?’’ I asked, looking at the demon bodyguards snoozing in the booth. “What price did he demand of you?’’

The tax man gave me his gap-toothed smile again. A very predatory happy smile. “We made a bargain—both parties got what they wanted. You see, I was able to point out that the soulless undead were technically his property. Heaven doesn’t want them. And thus, even if he was not able to claim their souls … they were subjects of his. Liable for taxation. Many of them work among the living with souls to part with, and hell doesn’t mind indirect taxation. I’ve got my old job back.’’ He looked at his watch. “Ah. The bank is open. I have to drop in on the ogre of a manager. Then I’ve got a shape-shifting toad at the local school board. We have a bloodsucking attorney on the list next, with a final visit to a banshee diva at the opera house. They’re in arrears.’’

He laughed. “I’m better off undead. But they aren’t, now that I’m here. Death may not be sure, but taxes are.’’

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