“I like paying taxes. With them I buy civilization.” – Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes
Patriot Imbaw swaggered up to the immigration counter, and pressed his paperwork through the little slot. “I need citizenship on this here Galactic Station ay-sap. How can we -ah- accelerate that process?” He had a greasy smile and greasy hair. In fact, just about everything about him could be described in terms of grease. It seemed like he perspired oily residue that had no origin in the equatorial realms of his waist.
“We must evaluate your situation, so your full honesty is appreciated.” Registration clerk Judi Bell began a trace. “Once verified, your employment assessment will begin.”
“Employment! I let my money do the work,” he laughed uproariously. “Money covers all bases. Look. I’m only moving here because there’s no taxes, understand?”
“Are you a legal shareholder of a corporate entity?”
“Naw, honey. I’m just rich. And I’m used to getting what I want, so shimmy-shake, darlin’.”
Aha. He was from one of the Greater Deregulations. “Sir, I’m afraid the exchange rate on your… riches… isn’t that spectacular. And regulations require that you maintain a state of employ.”
“Just find me a loophole, sweetheart. There’s a million Yahu’s in it for you.”
“Sir. You can not bribe me with Three Minutes.”
It went downhill from there. Rather rapidly.
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