Hello,

This is a sample of my novel. The novel is about a computer 
attack on the IRS. 

The one publisher brave enough to try to publish this book backed off 
because of problems with the IRS, So I am trying to make it 
available through the net.  

Following are the first few chapters.  If you are interested in 
reading the rest, there is an order form at the end.   
Please feel free to copy this sample to as many places as you 
can.   

I hope you enjoy these chapters,

Paul Mahler

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

BACK TAXES 
A NOVEL BY PAUL MAHLER
(c) Copyright 1991,1992 Paul Mahler 


"Exciting from the first page. Sex, adventure, violence . . . . 
This book has it all." --Paul's accountant 

"This is a book that every taxpayer will want to read . . . and 
then have their friends buy it to read." --Paul's mother 

"A moving account of the destruction of the enemy of the American 
worker. The sex scenes are better than real life."--Paul's wife 

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

None of the characters in this novel are real. Any resemblance to 
any person, living or dead, is coincidental. 

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole 
or part in any form. For information address Paul Mahler, 1800 
Market St. #257, SF, CA 94102. 




"He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither 
swarms of Officers to harass our people, and eat out their 
substance."--The Declaration of Independence 



Preface

While the characters and events portrayed here are purely 
fictional, the events are based on actual case histories, court 
cases, and the real day-to-day procedures of the Internal Revenue 
Service. 

Some, who have read this novel, have suggested toning down some of the 
events, that they are preposterous or unbelievable. 

I only wish that I could still find these events preposterous. In 
fact, all the events that follow are all too possible. All the 
events described here are based on real people's real problems. 
The statistics, the case histories, the events are all real. 

Paul Mahler San Francisco, April 15, 1991 

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

Part One--Driving Me Crazy

CHAPTER ONE 

The last day before Christmas, after work, I found a letter 
waiting for me at home. It was an ugly reminder of two thousand 
dollars in back taxes I had never paid.

I was on unemployment two years ago and couldn't pay my taxes. I 
had to file without paying. I let it slide. The IRS didn't call 
me. I didn't call them. 

I looked at the letter wondering how much it would add up to. 
Taxes, interest, some penalty. I guessed four thousand dollars. 
Maybe forty-five hundred dollars.

I opened the letter. The letter said: "We have been unable to 
resolve your account (see attachment), and our attempts to reach 
you by telephone have not been successful. To eliminate the need 
for a personal visit to your residence or place of business, send 
payment in full and all delinquent tax due in the enclosed 
envelope within seven days from the date of this letter." It was 
signed "Chief, Research Group." 

The attachment said: "We have previously written you asking for 
payment of the Federal tax identified below, but we have no 
record of receiving it. The tax is overdue, and the law 
authorizes us to seize your property, wages, or other assets to 
satisfy your unpaid tax. The total amount due includes interest 
and penalty and should be paid immediately to avoid additional 
charges." 

$58,398.77. 

It had to be a mistake.

I called the IRS office on Golden Gate Avenue here in San 
Francisco. It took me a week to get them on the phone. It was the 
week between Christmas and New Years and the lines were always 
busy. When I got through, I got the run-around. 

Finally, I got William Lincoln, Revenue Officer, on the phone. I 
arranged a time to see him. I ended the conversation by saying, 
"Thanks Bill." 

He said, "You may call me Officer Lincoln." 

Revenue Officer Lincoln was corpulent. He had pants that wouldn't 
fit over a belly gone to pot and a shining gold tooth that 
flashed when he talked. He leaned back in his chair and squinted 
at me over a large pock marked nose that had never recovered from 
being seventeen years old.

I was scared and said, "I know I owe back taxes. There is no 
question that I owe back taxes. But there is, I think, a question 
of how much back taxes I owe." 

Agent Lincoln said, "Mister Hansen, you apparently owe a 
substantial amount of money and have made no effort to pay it. I 
am only authorized to collect money. If you feel there is some 
error in the computation of the taxes due, you may pay the amount 
in full and then file a request that the account be examined. If 
some mistake has been made, the extra tax that you pay will be 
refunded. Of course, no interest will be paid on the excess 
amount." 

It was like he didn't hear me. "Look, you didn't listen to what I 
said. I owe about two thousand for that year. Here is a copy of 
my tax return showing I owed about two thousand. Look at the 
bottom line: 'Taxes due, eighteen hundred and ninety-five 
dollars.'" 

He said, "Mister Hansen, the IRS will be happy to reopen your 
case once you have paid the fifty-eight thousand dollars. If, 
after paying, you are dissatisfied, you may file an appeal to 
have the file reopened. If we made a mistake, your excess payment 
will be refunded." 

I was starting to get angry as well as scared. "I have two 
problems here. First, it's not clear I owe the IRS fifty thousand 
dollars. Second, I would be amazed if I ever have fifty thousand 
dollars." 

He still wasn't listening. "Mister. Hansen, do you own a car?" 

"Well, yes. I have a Chevy that's about a year-and-a-half old." 

"Well, we can take your car and sell it and apply the proceeds to 
the outstanding balance on your tax account." 

"Wait a minute! We still haven't figured out how much I owe you 
guys, and now you are going to take my car away. I don't see how 
that makes any sense. I still owe more on the car than it is 
worth." 

"That's not our problem Mister. Hansen. You should discuss that 
with the bank." 

"How much do you pay in rent?" 

I told him, "Seven hundred fifty per month. Why?" 

"We can take back your rent from your landlord each month and 
apply that money toward your tax bill." 

"Wait a minute. I pay my rent. You go to my landlord and tell him 
it's really your money and take it. What does the landlord do?" 

Officer Lincoln flashed his gold tooth in his first smile of the 
day. "Your landlord will probably throw you out." 

"So, now that I don't have a job because I can't get to it 
without a car, and I can't take showers anymore because I don't 
have a place to live because you got me thrown out--how am I 
supposed to pay the fifty thousand dollars?" 

"Mister. Hansen, you owe us a great deal of money. How you 
propose to pay it is not really my problem. It is my 
responsibility to take any steps necessary to collect these 
taxes. I am authorized to take your car and your rent. I can even 
take your entire paycheck every week." 

"Now that you get all my paycheck, my car, and my home, I might 
as well move to another country." 
He didn't even blink. 

"Mister. Hansen, we have collection offices in every major city 
in any country you are likely to move to. We are happy to 
continue this matter in the country of your choice." 

This was all I could handle for one day. I told him I needed a 
day or two to think about all this and would call him back. I 
left the Federal building and wandered into the fog. 

Since they put in the underground, Muni has been running antique 
streetcars on Market Street in the summer and during the 
holidays. I was in no hurry. I had time even if I didn't have 
money. I hopped on an old streetcar that must have been salvaged 
from the Spanish-American war. I had my head leaning on the glass 
watching things spin by and spotted the Libertarian Bookstore. I 
got off at the next stop and walked back to the store. 

The place was full of pamphlets, posters, books and magazines. I 
asked the clerk, "Do you have anything about the IRS?" 
He said there was a whole section and asked me what my problem 
was. I told him. 

He told me, "You know, there is a group of people meeting 
tomorrow night. Maybe you should go." 

He wrote down the address on the back of a bookmark for me. I 
didn't think much about it and stuffed it in my pocket. 

I went through the IRS section and bought a few books and 
pamphlets. I walked the rest of the way home. My apartment is 
just above Castro Street, almost in Noe Valley. 

I made myself a sandwich and opened a beer. After the news on TV, 
I started reading the books and pamphlets. 

One book interviewed an IRS agent. They asked if there would ever 
be a tax revolt. He said, "No, because people who don't want to 
pay taxes don't have to. People who make enough money, or people 
who work in the underground economy, and people or organizations 
with special interests don't pay taxes." 

The books didn't cheer me up. I consoled myself by thinking 
Revenue Officer Lincoln was having a bad day. No one can stay 
angry for ever. Tomorrow would be better. 


CHAPTER TWO 

I got up late, hung over. I called the appointment clerk at the 
IRS office and made a two o'clock appointment to see Revenue 
Officer William ("Don't-Call-Me-Bill") Lincoln. 

At two, butterflies were running a track meet in my stomach. I 
did some quick breathing then went up to see the man. I hoped he 
had a good night's sleep. Maybe his football team won. He was 
ugly and unpleasant, but who knows, maybe he got laid last night. 
I said, "Good Morning."

He said, "Mister. Hansen, in our meetings you have been 
unhelpful. I don't feel that you are co-operating with me." 

"Wait-a-minute," I said. "I told you I owed you some money. I 
even filed a return, almost on time. I would love to pay you the 
money I owe. I would just like to know how much I really owe, and 
I don't see how it can possibly be fifty thousand dollars. I 
would love to pay what I owe. The sooner the better. You have 
been very effective. I am very scared. But I don't have fifty 
thousand dollars, even if I did owe you that much, which I 
don't." 

"Mister. Hansen, when you have been a revenue agent for a while, 
you start to get a sixth sense for people who are holding out on 
you. A sixth sense about people who are trying to cheat on their 
taxes, or hide something. I know you are one of those people. I 
can feel it. I can tell you are hiding something from me, 
concealing money." 

I opened my mouth to say something just as Lincoln said, "You 
leave me no choice in this matter. I am registering our tax lien 
with the county recorder. This will show up on your credit report 
immediately. You won't be able to borrow any money from now on. I 
am also going to attach your wages--all your wages. We will come 
and get your car. Then we will take your rent money back from 
your landlord." 

It sounded convincing. I didn't see how things could get worse 
until he said, "I am convinced you are concealing assets from us 
and have probably cheated on your taxes. I am going to request a 
full audit of all your tax returns for the last five years. If 
the auditors find anything wrong, you could go to jail." 

I got mad. "Look, this is bullshit. I owe you maybe four grand 
with penalties and interest. You are trying to make me sound like 
Al Capone. You won't tell me what I really owe." 

I had read in one of the pamphlets that I was entitled to see 
speak to a supervisor if I was having a problem with a revenue 
agent. 

"I want to talk to your supervisor." 

"No." 

I hesitated. "I am entitled to talk to your supervisor, please 
get him." He left the room for a minute. He came back in smiling 
and said, "I have discussed this matter with my supervisor. He 
doesn't want to talk to one of my taxpayers." 

At least the buck I spent on the pamphlet was tax-deductible 
because it wasn't helping me much.

"Well, come and get me, asshole, because there is no way I am 
ever going to find fifty thousand dollars!" 

He told me, "Call me when you know how you will pay us the money 
you owe," and handed me his business card. 

I took it and stumbled out of the office. Outside I put the card 
in my jacket pocket. When I reached in I felt something else 
there. I pulled it out and saw the bookmark from the Libertarian 
bookstore. It had the address and time of the meeting. The 
meeting was for later the same day. 

I left the Federal building and headed for the nearest bar. I 
found a cute place on the edge of the Tenderloin. The Tenderloin 
is famous for ten-buck hookers, drunks, and great Vietnamese 
food. We call it the "wine country." The neighborhood was as 
depressed as I was. This is probably where I would wind up after 
they took my apartment. A nice gutter in the middle of the wine 
country. 

After a few beers, I looked at my watch and saw five-thirty. I 
fished out the bookmark, and there was the address in the Western 
Addition and the time--six o'clock. If I didn't hurry too much I 
would get there just at six. I took the bus, then the shoe 
leather express, to a flat across from the projects--deep in the 
Western Addition. I wouldn't have had the courage to walk around 
here without the beers. This wasn't a good place for a skinny 
programmer to be without track shoes or a gun. 

I rang the bell and got buzzed in through the security gate. 
Upstairs at the door I said, "Hi, Joe sent me." The guy at the 
door looked me up then down then let me in without saying 
anything. 

The meetings was in the living room of a flat that had seen 
better days. The flat was carved out of what had once been a 
fancy Victorian house. An old building that had seen its share of 
faded dreams. 

I looked for a seat, saw one in the back, and sat down behind 
this really great looking lady. No one would see me next to 
anyone that good looking. I would get lost in the rug or the 
wallpaper. 

Someone named Jim Samuelson stood up, introduced himself, and 
said this was a meeting of "Citizens for Just Taxation." 
"The United States began in a revolt against unfair taxation. 
Where have we come to?"

"On average, thirty-four percent of what everyone makes goes to 
Federal taxes. Except for the rich who don't pay much. He pointed 
out the fifteen per cent of the gross national product went 
directly for taxes. Another fifteen percent went to pay for tax 
collection. This included paying IRS agents, accountants, CPA's, 
attorneys, and the like."

"Over a million people don't pay any taxes at all. They are  were 
tax dodgers, or conscientious objectors, or didn't want to pay 
for guns and bombs." 

Samuelson ended the meeting by soliciting donations and pointing 
to pamphlets at the back that were for sale. I felt I already had 
a corner on the pamphlet market. I didn't donate, I was saving my 
money for the IRS. 

I was getting ready to fade back out to the street when much to 
my surprise the hot-ticket blonde, the one I hid behind, who 
looked even better standing up and facing my direction, said 
hello. This was a surprise as good looking girls had developed a 
blind spot for me in Junior High. 

She introduced herself, told me her name was Susan and asked if 
she could buy me a drink. 

We took her car to a fern bar near the opera house. It was quiet. 
The in-crowd had been avoiding it for the last few months since 
the big coke bust. I ordered a beer, she asked for white wine. 
Susan asked me where I was from, what I did, and how I felt about 
all this trouble with the IRS. The beers made me more glib than 
usual, and I told her everything. 

I got tired, and we called it quits. She offered to drive me 
home. I said, "Sure," and we left. 
As we pulled up in front of my flat, she asked me for my phone 
number. She added, "Maybe we could get together for another drink 
some time." 

I gave her my number, but no one that attractive would ever call 
me again. But I would rather fantasize about her than Officer 
Lincoln. 


CHAPTER THREE 

Susan called and invited me to dinner. No accounting for taste. I 
never expected a call. I said yes. Maybe my luck was improving. 
Susan lived downtown at the base of Nob Hill, on Bush. I told her 
seven and asked what to bring. I said I could bring anything that 
didn't have to be caught, cleaned, or cooked. She said to bring 
wine. 

Even though the IRS was after me, I still had to work for a 
living. I worked at a printing company. We had just bought the 
newest fanciest laser printer to replace our older laser printer. 
My job was training it to be useful. 

We did high-volume custom printing. We took computer tapes and 
printed from them. We did the telephone books for the telephone 
company, for example. Telephone books for large multi-nationals 
headquartered in San Francisco. Catalogs. Big books that would 
change frequently. 

My work never got me laid but I liked it. After computers I was 
interested in Monday Night Football--and beer. Maybe Susan liked 
football. 

On the way over, I stopped at a big liquor store. I don't know 
much about wine, so I bought something that was red and cost 
twelve dollars.
I rang the bell. She buzzed me in and I trudged up three flights 
of stairs.

She was dressed in a shift kind of thing. She had misplaced her 
bra somewhere. She looked even better than I remembered. 
Susan was five-five, maybe one hundred and fifteen pounds and 
blond. I would wait until after dinner. If she could cook I would 
propose over dessert. 

Well, could she cook. Pasta, salad, and a killer triple chocolate 
layer cake from Just Desserts. The wine disappeared, even though 
it turned out to be the wrong color. Susan said how much she 
liked it. I assumed she was being nice.

Our conversation turned to the IRS. Her father had been in big 
trouble. That was why she was at the meeting. 
He got a letter like mine. His letter said he owed fourteen 
hundred dollars. He didn't think he owed it. He had paid all his 
taxes, he had filed on time. So he wrote a letter asking for a 
meeting. The IRS never wrote back, just kept sending dunning 
letters. 

He was afraid they would come after his bank account. So he wrote 
to the bank and told them not to give the IRS any money without a 
court order. 

The bank said, "Sorry." if the IRS came after his checking 
account they were going to give it to them. They had to, it was 
the law. Next month, the bank turned fifteen hundred dollars over 
to the IRS

Pop was a farmer--stubborn. He thought nobody was guilty until 
proven guilty. He figured no one should take his money without a 
court order. Acting as his own attorney he filed a suit against 
his bank. 

Pop owed half of a farm-equipment loan for a new tractor. Because 
the bank took the money out of his account without his 
permission, he wrote saying he wouldn't be paying the note 
anymore. 

In the first week of July, the court issued an order for the bank 
allowing the tractor to be taken. 

Susan showed me a news clipping from the Little Forks, Herald. It 
said: "Yesterday morning, on the Fourth of July, Deputy Samuel 
Dick and Deputy Jim Frost of the Little Forks Sheriff's 
department went to Donald Cherry's farm twenty miles south of 
town. they took a truck with them planning to take his tractor. 
They said he hadn't paid his loan." 

"Sheriff Johnson said the deputies arrived at the scene at 11:30 
a.m. The deputies claim they met someone at the sight who said 
Cherry didn't want the equipment moved. They were told Cherry had 
a gun and knew how to use it." 

"The deputies hitched the tractor to the truck and started back 
to Little Forks. One Sheriff's car was ahead of the truck. 
Another was behind it." 

"Miller said Cherry's car approached the convoy from behind. 
Cherry passed the rear car and the truck. Cherry cut in front of 
the truck, forcing it to pull over." 

"The deputy in the front car pulled across the road, blocking it. 
Cherry had his wife Jane and daughter Susan in the car. he jumped 
out and exchanged words with the deputies." 

"The deputy in the front car told Cherry, over the loudspeaker, 
to get back in his car and leave quietly. Cherry refused. The 
deputy than said he was under arrest, that he should raise his 
hands and stand quietly." 

"Cherry refused the order and got back in the car. He drove 
toward the deputy's car which was still blocking the road. The 
deputy claimed to see something that looked like a pistol in 
Cherry's hand. No pistol was found in the car." 

"The deputy ordered Cherry to halt, but he kept driving. The 
deputy fired two rounds from his twelve-gauge shotgun into the 
Cherry car. Mr. Cherry was taken to the hospital where he died 
shortly after arrival. Mrs. Cherry was treated for minor wounds 
and released. The daughter was unharmed" 

"Cherry had no criminal record." 
Susan told me how terrible it was. Her father would have never 
fired at a sheriff's deputy even if he had a gun, which he 
didn't. He had not been expecting any violence. That's why he 
took his wife and daughter.

Susan said her father believed in his country. He couldn't 
believe the IRS could take his money without a court trial. He 
thought he was a free man living in a free country. 

It wasn't over. Susan and her mother were charged with attempted 
murder. If they hadn't charged Susan and her mom for a felony, 
the deputies couldn't justify the shooting. Susan left rather 
than face the charges. She was still on the run. 

I didn't know that nobody, a creditor, the federal government, 
another citizen, a foreign power, has the right to seize property 
without due process of law--except the IRS. The President would 
have to declare martial law to get away with something like this. 

I didn't know what to say. "That must have been incredible 
horrible." She started to cry.I put my arm around shoulder to 
comfort her. She cried and cried.

After the crying we talked and talked until the small hours of 
the morning. I finally looked at the time and said, "I should go 
home, it's late." 

Susan said, "Don't go, please, it's so nice having you here." 

The next thing I knew, we were kissing. I said, "Gee maybe we 
should stop for a while." Susan started unbuttoning my shirt. The 
next thing I knew, we were headed to the bedroom. 

Susan sat me down on the edge of the bed and said. "Don't go 
away." I wasn't going anywhere. 

She disappeared. When she came back, she had on even less than 
before. She lit some candles, she said they made her feel sexy. I 
didn't think she needed help. 

She took off all my clothes, slowly. She pulled back the covers 
on the bed and pushed me on my back. I tried to grab her, but she 
pushed me back on the bed and asked, "Do you like being tied up?" 

I didn't know, I had never tried it before. 

I was too excited to say no. She reached into the nightstand and 
pulled out some ribbons. She tied the ribbons around my wrists, 
and my wrists to the headboard. Then she tied my ankles to the 
foot-board.

She said, "You've been verrrry naughty. Susan is going to have to 
punish you. 

She took out a huge feather and started stroking it up and down 
my body. I was going bullshit. I was dying to grab her, and 
couldn't. 

I couldn't believe how much fun this kinky stuff was. Next she 
brought out an ice cube and started working me over with it. This 
left me gasping for air. 

She was telling me what to do the whole time. I loved it. Then 
she started kissing me all over. My lips, neck, down my chest. 

Then a blow-job. I don't know why the call it a blow job, she 
wasn't doing much blowing. 

She grabbed my balls in one hand. She started squeezing. Just as 
I came, she broke a vial of something under my nose. I found out 
later it was a "popper," amyl nitrate. It was intense. It felt 
like a NASA moon-shot. 

I had never been tied up before, but I couldn't wait to try it 
again. It even made me forget about the IRS for a while. 


CHAPTER FOUR 

Susan was up early. She said she had things to do. I didn't know 
where she worked. I didn't know if fugitives worked for a living. 

I showered and dressed, went out for coffee, then went home. 

I wouldn't have believed Susan's story about her dad a few weeks 
back. After my own visits with Revenue Agent Lincoln, anything 
seemed possible. 

From that night, Susan and I spent all our free time together. We 
had much in common. I liked being tied up. She liked tying me up. 

We both disliked the IRS. 

Susan was working for a political organization. This explained 
the odd hours she worked. She said they knew she was in trouble 
with the IRS and the law. 

I hadn't seen my accountant yet. I was hoping the IRS would go 
away if I ignored them long enough. It was only January 
seventeenth, I didn't think anything would happen fast. 

I had been spending nights at Susan's. That morning I was 
supposed to drive to Sunnyvale to see a client. The client had 
custom printing needs and I would have to do some programming for 
them. I had to see them to estimate a job. 

I was running late to work. I went downstairsand opened the front 
door. I didn't see my car. 

I figured my car had been towed. It would cost me one hundred and 
twenty dollars, to get it back with the fine and the towing. I 
remember a friend saying they would take Mastercharge so I could 
get it out even though I didn't have the cash. 

I hoofed it down to the city towing lot. It was depressing, there 
was a long line of people trying to get their cars out of hock. 

It took me 45 minutes of standing in line to get up to the bullet 
proof window and see the cop-in-a-box. 

He said they didn't have my car and asked why didn't I just call 
first? He told me they didn't have any record of my car and that 
the street I had parked on wasn't a tow-away zone anyway. He 
asked me if I would like to file a stolen vehicle report. I told 
him no, that I think I knew who had it. 

I would have to let my boss know so they could get someone else 
to attend the meeting in Sunnyvale. I took the bus to the office. 

When I got there, Lois, the receptionist, said the boss had been 
looking for me and wanted me to meet him in accounting 
immediately. 

On the way to accounting I was trying to think about what to tell 
Larry about my missing car. When I got there he was in the 
controller's office. He didn't even ask about Sunnyvale. 

The controller spoke first. "I received a notice of levy today 
form the IRS ordering us to pay all your salary to the IRS. We 
are supposed to give them ALL your salary. Christ, what have you 
done?" 

"I tried to go to bat for you. I was called by some guy named 
Lincoln. He said you owed them a lot of money. He said I should 
give all your pay to them or I could be in a lot of trouble 
myself." 

My boss, Larry, said, "I have talked it over with one of the 
vice-presidents here. We don't have any choice, we have to let 
you go. We don't know how you could have gotten into this much 
trouble with the IRS. What are you going to live on when the IRS 
is taking all your pay? How can you do any work for us?" 

"You have been a great employee. You have done a great job, we 
are all pleased with your work, but we're going to have to let 
you go. I'm sorry." 

I couldn't believe it. My legs couldn't either. They buckled 
under me as I tried to stand up. Larry got me some water, told me 
again how sorry he was, and that as soon as I could stand up he 
would help me clean out my desk. 

There was one small carton of junk in my desk worth taking. I 
took it outside and caught the bus. Nobody asked for an 
explanation--it was just goodbye. 

When I got to my apartment, I found a bright pink notice stapled 
to the door. It was a notice of levy from the IRS and said that 
everything I owned had been "confiscated by the United States 
Government." I took it off the door, folded it up and put it in 
my pocket. The door was unlocked. I went inside. Everything was 
gone. The place had been picked clean. They had even taken the 
beer out of the refrigerator. I found a note taped to the 
refrigerator from my landlord asking me to see him as soon as 
possible. Something about having to give my rent money to the 
IRS. 

I dumped a few papers that were left into my box and left it in 
the bedroom. There were a few clothes they didn't take still in 
the closet. I left. On the way out I saw that there were letters 
in my mailbox. I opened the box and got them out. They looked 
like bounce notices from the bank. They were bounce notices from 
the bank. 

I use my personal computer to balance my checkbook. I have never 
bounced a check. When I opened the envelopes I saw all my checks 
were bouncing. I could guess who had the money that used to be in 
my checking account. 

No car, no job, no apartment, no money. All in one morning. 

I did have a dollar, so I took the bus to Susan's. She was home 
when I got there. She took me inside put me on the couch and gave 
me a beer. I told her about my morning. She said, "Those 
bastards. Someone should get those bastards. Don't worry, you can 
stay with me." 

I was shell-shocked. I spent most of my time sleeping or 
drinking. Susan tried her best to cheer me up, but couldn't 
really. 

I spent that next week feeling sorry for myself. Only Susan kept 
me going. I felt uncomfortable that Susan was supporting me. I 
had been staying at her place, eating her food, letting her take 
me to the movies. She had been so nice to me and I didn't see how 
to repay her. 

I told her this over breakfast. She was quiet for a bit. 

Thinking. She said, "I should introduce you to the people I work 
with. They may have a job for you." 

I asked her, "Why would they want to hire me?" 

She told me, "It's not really a job. We all get some money, but 
it's not really a job. I'll tell you more but you have to keep it 
secret." 

I told her, "I won't tell anyone anything. I'm so pissed at the 
IRS I don't care if it's illegal." 

She told me, "It is." 

It was my turn to take a pause. I could tell that knowing what 
she was doing could get me into even more trouble. At least up 
'till now I hadn't broken any laws. Sure, I was in a bad spot, 
but maybe I could still get it fixed. 

I told her, "I would like to do whatever you think is best." 

She said, "This will work out just fine. Your going to get an 
opportunity to fight back." 


CHAPTER FIVE 

I was angry, but it came with a wierd sense of freedom.  Life had 
never held surprises like these. I Went to college because my 
folks thought I should; I Studied computer science because my 
advisor thought it was a good idea.  I Got a job.  I Did what 
you're supposed to do. I Worked. I paid most of my taxes. 

I had a quiet predictable life. A nobody landlord, a mediocre 
job, a broken stereo. A car that I didn't own. I told Susan that 
I was ready for anything. 

Susan went to talk to her friends about me. She came back happy.  

She said, "I talked with everyone. They already knew we are 
dating. Everyone wants to meet you tonight.

After dinner we went to a house in the Haight-Ashbury. That 
neighborhood has changed even though some of the people are still 
trapped in a time-warp. The old head shops have been remodeled to 
sell coffee beans and imported cheese to yuppies. 

The group was nondescript--until they talked.  They all had an 
axe to grind. We were talking serious tax protestors here. There 
were six people, four men and two women, beside Susan and me.  

One of the men, Steve, started talking to me. "This group is 
dedicated to the elimination of the IRS. We believe that 
politicians have ignored the Constitution and sold out American 
workers and the middle class. 

"Taxes have transformed American workers from free men to slaves. 

You think slaves wear leg-irons and are confined and beaten?  A 
free man owns what he produces and a slave doesn't. 

"In the Middle Ages, serfs gave over to their lord twenty-five 
percent of everything they produced. In return, they received 
protection. How does a serf gving up twenty-five percent differ 
from the American worker who gives up thirty-five percent? 

"Increasing taxation, driven by Government greed and incompetence 
has made slaves out of America's working people.  By 1972, 
Government expenditures equaled eighty-three-point-five percent 
of the total gross product of all U.S. manufacturing, all U.S. 
agriculture, all U.S. Mining, all petroleum and natural gas 
production, all U.S. communications, and all electrical, gas, and 
sanitation services--combined!  By 1979, the IRS had over eighty-
seven thousand employees, and spent well over two billion dollars 
to collect the equivalent of two thousand and eighty-three 
dollars from every person in America. 

"Over sixty percent, over one and a quarter billion dollars, of 
the revenues the IRS collect are budgeted to enforcing 
collection: collection procedures, auditing, investigating, and 
prosecuting. This is the harassment and intimidation of American 
taxpayers. Even more money is wasted on lawyers, accountants, and 
record keeping needed to feed the IRS bureaucracy. 

"In order to allow the IRS to enforce the collection of usurious 
taxes, politicians have sold our constitutional rights down the 
river. 

"The IRS extorts people into waiving their constitutional rights. 
By demanding a signed return, they force you into perjury." 

"The IRS has IRS courts, where most of the judges are ex-IRS 
employees. The IRS maintains their own hit list. The IRS has over 
three thousand armed agents. They enlist the aid of the FBI and 
local police forces as they see fit." 

"The IRS collects massive amounts of information on private 
citizens. Any other agency would be prohibited from having this 
information. The IRS is willing to drive businesses into 
bankruptcy to collect taxes. The IRS can take all your property 
without due process of law. IRS procedures are designed to 
intimidate, harass, and suppress the individual. 

"The IRS goes to extraordinary lengths to prevent the taxpayer 
from seeking relief or redress outside the agency. They make it 
almost impossible for a taxpayer to be judged in a court of law 
by his peers. The IRS goes to great lengths to hide their abuses 
from the public. It protects itself by ruining the careers of 
elected officials who oppose them, destroying files that would 
prove IRS misconduct, and scaring the average taxpayer. 

"In enforcing the Sixteenth Amendment, the IRS has thrown away 
the First, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, Eight, Ninth, and Tenth 
Amendments to the Constitution. 

"The IRS encourages confrontations with tax protestors.  The IRS 
does not dislike tax protestors; it needs protestors to create 
fear in the mind of the average taxpayer. The The IRS encourages 
confrontations with the patriotic Americans who struggle against 
IRS tyranny. 

"Politicians have unleashed a bureaucracy of terror called IRS. 
This IRS has grown so powerful that even the politicians who 
created the monster are scared of it. No politician dares 
investigate it. When a politician is either brave enough, or 
foolish enough, to oppose the IRS, the IRS will harass that 
politician up to and including the rigging of elections. 

"Our organization is dedicated to the destruction of the IRS. We, 
like the American patriots who founded a country in rebellion 
against oppression and tyranny and excessive taxation, are 
fighting this modern tyranny and oppression. Like our ancestors 
before us, we are dedicated to the struggle for human rights and 
dignity granted to every American by the Constitution. We will 
defend this Constitution, with our own blood if need be, where 
the politicians are too weak to make a stand." 


CHAPTER SIX 

Other political groups provided our support and funds. 
Foundations gave money--like the Americans for Americans 
Foundation.  Liberals who had supported the anti-war groups of 
the late sixties kicked in money, surprising amounts of money We 
were even a non-profit, tax-free organization.  

The events team was always busy. The regular media wouldn't give 
us the time of day. They were afraid of the IRS, too. We weren't 
Republican or Democrat or large, so we didn't get media coverage. 

We worked with groups that focused on environmental or nuclear 
issues. When they held rallies or events, we supported them. 
Later, they would support us.

We were well organized. There was even a personal computer. I 
fell into working with the computer. I automated the mailing list 
for the newsletter and put fund-raising information into a data 
base.  

I stopped hearing from the IRS. They didn't have a forwarding 
address, and I wasn't going to give them one. I owed them money, 
so they claimed, but I hadn't done anything yet that was illegal. 

When I wasn't working or with Susan, I was at rallies.  

I remember my first one. We were protesting foreclosures of farms 
in the Midwest. We had been working to gain support for a 
noontime rally downtown. There was a terrific amount of work in 
organizing permits and speakers and sound equipment and all the 
million things needed for a political rally. 

More rallies were held over the months, more newsletters sent 
out. The day-to-day grind of political activism. When I signed 
up, I had thought every day would be an adventure. But, no, 
things moved slowly, and no adventure reared its head. 

We made a big push at tax time to send out extra editions of the 
newsletter. We tried to capture the interest of the popular press 
and television. The press and television wouldn't cover us. The 
best we could get was a few paragraphs in the "Bay Guardian." We 
couldn't even get into the San Francisco Chronicle, even though 
just about anything else could.  It was frustrating.  

Anyone I talked to would listen to my IRS horror stories then 
give me a polite brush-off. 

"You're kidding. They can't do that."  

If I hadn't experienced trouble with the IRS, I wouldn't have 
believed Susan's story.  

Nobody was interested in the IRS. Everybody was busy trying to 
file before the deadline on the fifteenth. The world got through 
tax time just as it always did.  

Except that I didn't file--I was finally breaking the law. 
People just kept on paying, thankful that the system left them as 
much as it did.  

Withholding taxes makes it easier for people to ignore taxes. 
People get used to withholding. They think in terms of what's 
left in each paycheck.  

There was a factory in the South, years back, that started taking 
all of a month's withholding out of one paycheck. This made it 
clear just how big the bite was. 

This didn't last long, and the IRS made it mandatory that 
withholding be taken out of wages as they were earned. A nice 
psychological buffer, withholding. Just think how people would 
react if at Christmas time the IRS said, "by the way, you owe us 
fifteen thousand dollars."  

The average taxpayer was complacent. I didn't see what we could 
do to blast away that average complacency. Mr. and Ms. Middle 
America were still dancing down the yellow brick road to April 
fifteenth. 

There are many tax protestors, perhaps millions. Some people 
don't file taxes and stay in the underground economy. Some brave, 
foolhardy souls file "Fifth Amendment" returns. These have names 
and a statement against paying taxes. Just an unsigned Form 1040 
with a note that says signing it would violate Fifth Amendment 
rights about self-incrimination. These folks were too loosely 
organized to be effective.  

Some of what we were doing, like not filing our income tax 
returns, was illegal, but we weren't into any of the big stuff. 
Nobody was shooting at us, and I didn't feel we were changing the 
IRS. 


CHAPTER SEVEN 

Several months went quietly by. I was happy. A nice job, a nice 
girl, a nice computer. I spent more time outdoors with rallies.  
I can remember when it ended. It was my fault.  

We were back from a rally at the University of California medical 
laboratories.  We were there in support of animal rights. 
The school board of directors was meeting, and we arranged a 
demonstration for them. A show of force by people who didn't have 
any force and wouldn't have used it if they did.  

It was successful. Ten of the animal rights activists were 
arrested for being disorderly in public and had their pictures 
taken by the TAC squad. I had been to so many demonstrations that 
I was on a first-name basis with the tac squad. 

Pro-animal support was far afield, but we owed favors. Someone 
had called in a political debt. 
There were print reporters and one television crew.  It looked 
like we might get press on this. 

We got back late. Everybody was tired. We decided to have supper 
together. Eating always cheered us up. We had home-made pizza--
vegetarian in honor of the day's activities. We had beer, too--my 
favorite after-demonstration beverage.  

I was digesting the pizza and reading a computer magazine. There 
was interesting new stuff. It always amazed mo to see equipment 
get smaller, faster, and cheaper. Gear that would have cost 
millions a five years back only cost thousands now. The new stuff 
does things the old gear would never do. 

It was a Tuesday night, and no interesting sports were on the 
tube. Everyone was lounging around waiting for the peppers on the 
pizza to wear off. A spontaneous meeting sent Steve into one of 
his eloquent tirades against the IRS. 

Everyone went on and on. I listened then dozed off into day 
dreams.  I was thinking about what I would do to the IRS if I had 
the bucks.  I had an idea. Patently simple. I batted it around 
inside my head for a while. Held it up to the light, looked 
underneath it. The more I thought about it the more it seemed 
like a good idea.  

I got out note paper and, while everyone else was talking, 
started writing. The more I thought about my plan, the better it 
looked. I starting outlining what would be needed: people, 
machinery, supplies.  Then I put times on everything and figured 
what equipment and supplies would cost.  It seemed like a 
wonderful idea until I added up the numbers.  

Nine to ten months and a bunch of money. I already knew that the 
IRS had all the money. We kept getting enough to eke by, but this 
involved serious bucks. 

I grew depressed again. My idea seemed like an adolescent 
fantasy. I started thinking what an edge in material and 
resources the IRS had over us.  

Only a couple of us were still sitting around talking. Finally, 
someone said, "We need stop the IRS. We need to stop the 
bastards. 

I responded, "You know, It's just a shame we can't do anything 
effective."    

The guy snarled. "Oh Yeah? So what makes you so smart, asshole. 
What would Mr. Programmer do?"  

I said, "Look, busting the IRS would be duck soup. I could stop 
them dead in their tracks. The trouble is it would be expensive." 

Steve said, "What's expensive?" 

I looked down at my scribbles and said, "About two hundred 
thousand dollars."  

Steve got up, walked over to me, looked me straight in the eye 
and said, "I can probably get two hundred thousand dollars." 

This is when my life stopped being easy I was about to make my 
first run-in with the IRS look like friendship day at a gay 
bathhouse. 

I told everyone my plan. They tried to poke holes in it, but the 
more they listened, the more they liked it. Like all good plans--
and even if I say so myself, it was good--this plan was simple. 

It was easy to the point of foolproof. You just had to have the 
right idea, the right people, the right funding, and the right 
equipment all at the right time. All of which we could get.  
Except the money, maybe. 

I had to spend a lot of time explaining the equipment I would 
use, how it would work, where you could get it. My idea was a 
technology trip. This required serious explaining to the troops. 

Most of these people couldn't tell a computer from a toaster. 
Susan, for example, had trouble getting Mr. Coffee to come on at 
the right time in the morning. 

It looked as if we could fuck the IRS if we could get the money. 
Steve said he would check about the money first thing in the 
morning. I thought two hundred thousand dollars, or more, was big 
money. I didn't see anyone giving it to a group like us. If we 
were the Republican Party, two hundred thousand dollars wouldn't 
be a big deal, but who would give it to us?  

We went home for the night. When we got back home, she was 
excited and a bit drunk. She loved my plan. We had more to drink 
and headed for the bedroom. One thing lead to another, and before 
I could say, "Blow up the IRS," I was tied to the bed frame. 

Susan said, "You have been verrry, verrry, bad and I have 
something special for you." She was talking with long r's again 
so I knew I was in for a big treat.  I won't tell you everything 
she did, I'm far too shy, but just let me say it was great.


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

Does our hero live or die?  Does the IRS win or loose?  Will 
there be an IRS when our hero is done with his scheme?  What is our 
hero's plan?

If you are excited enough by the sample to fork out after tax 
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