From the Department of Where Ideas Come From
I watched the final episode of The Walking Dead. Yes, there was zombie action, but the greatest horror was what people did to each other. I've always wanted to write a horror story, but I didn't want to use the usual suspects. Vampires. Werewolves. Zombies. Asparagus.
I wanted something bland and ordinary. Something appearing non-threatening at first appearance. Something or someone we face everyday or at least once a year.
The Tax Man. Everybody pays taxes. Sales tax. Gasoline tax. Income tax. If you don't pay, the consumer is penalized.
Was gazing upon a flimsy tax table? Was sitting in a dark room listening to the howl of coyotes? Did I smell the acrid burning of hair?
No, I was in the bathroom doorway on my way to the commode. The window was open. A pleasant breeze ruffled the curtain. Sun washed the gray driveway below. The faint laughter of children echoed in the neighborhood.
Then I thought...
The Tax Man will make you rich. But if you owe, you’d better pay or he’ll take a 50%...of everything. Your house. Your wife. Your life.
The Tax Man offers to make clients rich, but clients must be a steep tax. If they owe or refuse to pay, The Tax Man will pursue his clients for payments. Nothing will stop. Not death.
A poor guy shows up rich at his new school. Brags he won’t pay taxes on his new-found wealth. He’s warned about The Tax Man, but he’s not scared of a short, portly man, wearing wrinkled clothes and carries a shiny briefcase. But our poor guy turns up dead. Fifty percent of his body is messing. Literally sliced in half.
The Tax Man works on a sliding scale. He starts with 10%.
Want a tax break? Inform on others who owe.
How can the The Tax Man be defeated?
I envision a YA contemporary horror story.
What happens next? I have no idea. Perhaps I should step into the bathroom doorway again. Seek out the commode.
Or should I flush this idea down the toilet?