Written Script, Town Treasurer

A Taxing Evening
Admiral Biscuit

This was the time of year Written Script hated the most—the time when he had to avoid the tavern, market, and bakery. His workdays often ran long, and by the time he’d neatened up his office and gone home, it was too late to go over to Golden Harvest’s house, so he spent the two weeks either cloistered in his office, or hidden in his house. She had an open invitation at his house, of course, but she usually preferred the to stay at the farm: with all her responsibilities, she was often up before the sun, and in bed well after moonrise.

He looked at the hourglass. One more turn, he thought, flipping it over, then I can go home.

It wasn't a bad job—not really. He'd been hoofpicked by Mayor Mare, which was quite an honor in and of itself. It gave him a leg up, if he wanted to make a career of it, and while the pay wasn't great, he normally only worked two days a week.

Except at tax time.

Because while ponies loved the services their tax bits bought, everypony thought their share was too high.

There were occasional mistakes. He caught some of them, and one could always go to a tax tribunal and make a case about the amount owed, but they rarely did. Ponies didn't think about their taxes until they were due, and Written Script had the misfortune during those times to be the face of the bureaucracy.

He ceased his ruminations as he heard hoofsteps in the hall. A moment later, a familiar gray pegasus walked into his office. “Mail,” she cheerfully announced.

“Put it on the desk,” he instructed, pushing a stack of papers aside to make her room.

She nodded and reached into her saddlebags, eventually passing over four mouthfuls of envelopes. “Do you have outgoing mail?”

Written Script nodded, and floated a stack of letters over to Postmare Hooves. “They're already franked, and arranged in alphabetical order.”

“Thanks!” She grabbed them out of the air and gently deposited them in her left bag. “It's that time of year again, isn't it?”

He nodded. “You did get your tax bill, didn't you?”

“Yes, I—oh!” She stuck her muzzle into her right bag and rummaged around, finally pulling out a stained envelope. “Funny, me forgetting to mail it, isn't it?”

I wonder if it officially counts as mailed? The stamp was never cancelled, but it was delivered by a postmare. I bet there's a rule about that. He carefully slit it open with his letter opener, deftly pulling out the bill and the check. “Since you're here, I can give you a receipt right now,” he offered. “If you want one.”

She nodded, one eye drifting to a town map with all the properties marked. “That's my house,” she said proudly, pointing a wing at a little yellow square off the center of town. “How come it's yellow?”

“Single-family properties are yellow, rental properties are blue, farms are tan, businesses are green, Crown-owned property is orange, and town-owned properties are gray,” he said automatically. Everypony who went into his office was curious about the map. “Each one gets a different color, because each has a different tax rate.”

“Oh. What about the stripey ones, along the edge of the map?”

Written Script didn't even look up from his ledger. “Cloudhomes. They have the lowest base rate, since they don't hook into any municipal services, like water.”

She got a distant look. “I used to live in a cloudhouse.”

He nodded politely and stamped the tax form, then slid it across the desk. “There you go. Good for another six months. Thank you!”

“Have a good day,” she said brightly, and headed out the door.

Why couldn't everypony be as cheerful as her? He slipped her check into his payments folder, and put her file back in the cabinet. He heard her mutter an apology, and braced himself for his next visitor.

Moments later, Caramel came through the door, with a neatly folded piece of paper clenched in his teeth. He walked right up to the desk and spit it out in front of Written Script. “How come I've got to pay for the fire department? They're volunteers.”

“Because their equipment costs money.”

“But they already own it,” he protested. “Besides, what do they need a fire engine for? All it takes is a pegasus or two to drag a cloud over, and put out the fire.”

“First, they took out a loan to buy the fire engine. I'm sure you remember the vote?” Keep your voice neutral, he reminded himself. “And they do get paid whenever they're on duty, and there is a caretaker for the station who cares for the equipment, and keeps the steam up in the engine.”

“I haven't had any fires, and if I did, I'd have Thunderlane get a raincloud to put it out.”

“That's your privilege, of course, but Thunderlane might not be available, or there might not be any rain clouds this side of Cloudsdale,” Written Script reminded him.

“I voted against the fire engine. Therefore, I shouldn't have to pay. All they do is take it out for parades.”

“The fire department averages three fire calls a month,” Written Script said. “They protect lives and property, and it only costs you a quarter mill to pay for that protection.” He glanced down at the paper. “In your case, that's one-and-a-half bits—three bits a year. Surely you can agree that having a fire department, available to anypony who needs it, is preferable to watching your home burn until rainclouds can be located.”

“They should keep them on hoof,” Caramel muttered. “That way, nopony would have to go looking.” He glanced down at the tax bill. “I used to pay less.”

“Before the bond was passed,” Written Script reminded him. “And when it's paid off, your tax rate will drop back to a sixth of a mill.”

“How much will that be?”

“One bit—you'll save a half-bit.”

“That's all? Why isn't it more?” He slumped his shoulders and reached into his saddlebags, pulling out a checkbook. “Can I borrow a quill?”

Written Script nodded, and slid a quill and inkwell over. At least he can't complain when he's writing a check, he thought hopefully. Unfortunately, his hopes were unfounded.

“How come I have to pay for the school? I don't have any foals.”

“Everypony pays for the school.” It's not a hard concept, he wanted to add. Everypony pays for services which benefit the community, whether or not they use that particular service.

“I don't think I should have to,” Caramel signed his check with a flourish, and slid it to Written Script. “It's not fair.”

“Having educated foals benefits the community at large,” Written Script said as he carefully wrote the property identification number on Caramel's check. “Princess Celestia said so, and the ponies of this town got together and built a schoolhouse, where everypony could learn together. You went to school, didn't you?”

“I didn't have to pay for it. It was free back then!”

He stamped the receipt harder than was necessary, and gave it back to Caramel. “Your parents paid taxes to send you to school, as did everypony else in Ponyville. That's why you personally didn't have to pay.”

“I still think it's too much.” He turned towards the door.

Written Script waited until Caramel had disappeared down the hallway before banging his head against his desk. Not for the first time, he wished he had a bottle of apple brandy in his drawer. He looked up at the hourglass—the sand was half-gone already. A few more irate taxpayers to endure, and then he could close his door, tally up the payments received, and notch off one more day.

He slid a hoof through his forelock, then straightened his uncomfortable necktie. Mayor Mare had insisted he wear something dignified, and the tie was one of the few items of clothing he owned. He jerked to attention as a mare came through the door.

“Did my taxes go up again this year?” Blossomforth tilted her head towards the yellow paper clenched under a wing. “Because I don't remember paying this much last year.”

His ears flicked back, and he cautioned himself yet again to be patient. “Cloudsdale re-valued properties, which they do every six years, so your home's valuation probably increased. I’m sure they sent a notice—they usually do.” How do ponies not know these things?

A look of uncertainty crossed her face. “I guess. Who has time to read that kind of thing?”

“It’s good that your property has increased in value,” he assured her. “It means it's worth more than it was, which in turn means that you have more equity in your home.”

“I guess if I was planning to sell it.” She slipped the bill out and smoothed it on the desk. “But I'm not, and the bank doesn't say that I owe more on my mortgage. So how can Cloudsdale say it's worth more?”

“You'd have to take it up with them. We simply tax based on the numbers they give us.”

“It's too much,” she grumbled. “It's easy for you to spend money; it isn't yours.”

Some of it is. I pay taxes, too. He reached into his desk and yanked out a stack of papers, dropping them on the desk with a flourish. “That's the budget for last year. It's public information; feel free to review it and suggest improvements.”

Blossomforth stepped back. “Nuh-uh. That's your job.” She pointed a hoof at her bill. “But it's not fair that I have to pay for weather—I make the weather.”

“Everypony pays,” he reminded her. “It not only covers the cloud patrols, but the factory workers, reservoir maintenance, and so forth. You can't do all that by yourself.”

“I should get a discount.”

He sighed. Every town paid the same rate; it was national law. The money went straight to the Crown, and in return, they got weather. Simple as that. He knew she'd learned that in school—everypony did. They just seemed to forget about it each time a tax bill came. “The rate is set by Equestrian law,” he informed her. “There's nothing I can do to change it. If you're upset, you should petition the Crown, or the Nobles' Council.”

“My house isn't even in Ponyville.”

“Legally, it is. Ponyville's rights extend to cloud homes located within its airspace. You could move it, and then you would not owe us tax in the future.” He pointed to the bill which lay between them.

“Fine.” She began rummaging through her coin purse for bits. “But I'm going to move my house so I don't have to pay you any more.”

“That's your prerogative.” But you’d still owe somepony taxes, he mentally added. Maybe Cloudsdale, maybe the Crown.

While she was occupied counting her coins, he looked in his desk drawer in the hopes that a bottle had suddenly materialized, but no luck.

She triumphantly slid a small stack of bits across the table and snapped her purse back shut. Before he could even stamp her bill paid, she stormed out of the office, her tail swishing angrily back and forth. He sighed. There was a good chance it would be raining over his house again tonight.

On the other hoof, her departure was worth watching. She had a nice, trim body that was really easy on the eyes; if he didn't already have a marefriend, he'd certainly be after her.

Once he'd gotten his mind back out of the gutter, he looked back at his hourglass and watched happily as the last few grains of sand tumbled into the bottom. He could lock his door, sort all the checks, and maybe get home before dark.

He was halfway to the door when the miller came in, still covered in flour dust. She had her saddlebags strapped firmly around her barrel, and they were bulging. His ears flattened involuntarily.

“I'm not happy, either,” she mumbled. She reached back and set a ledger book crammed full of pink forms on his desk. “But you know how it is. Go through it and make sure I'm square.”

A provision of Equestrian law allowed ponies to pay in kind. In the miller's case, she could donate a certain percentage of flour to the Crown, rather than pay in bits. Most ponies didn't bother; the record-keeping was a huge hassle. Unfortunately for him, some of them did, and it was his job to make sure that their numbers tallied with the taxes owed.

He set his abacus on the desk and opened the ledger book while the miller took a seat. It was going to be a late night.

The moon was high in the sky when Written Script finally trudged to his front door. The raincloud positioned over his house had nearly run dry; only a fitful sprinkle fell on his head as he slogged along his front walk.

He shoved the door open, wiped his hooves on the mat, and dropped his briefcase. He felt like he'd run a mental marathon; it was hard to reconcile how exhausted he was, despite having spent the whole day sitting in his office.

His first stop was the kitchen. He didn't feel like making anything complicated, or even bothering with lighting a lantern. There was still some leftover butternut squash in the icebox that Golden Harvest had made him, and he cut off a generous piece. It wasn't worth warming it up on the stove, so he ate it cold and washed it down with half a bottle of red wine.

He set the plate and glass in the sink to deal with in the morning, and headed up the stairs to his bedroom with the wine in tow. There was a Berrow novel on his nightstand: he could read a chapter or two, maybe. It would help him unwind.

Written Script nosed open his bathroom door and frowned when the steady drip drip of the faucet caught his ears. Something was wrong with it—if it wasn't wiggled just right, it leaked. He'd almost brought it up when Silver Spanner was in his office, but like everypony else, she'd complained about her tax bill, and he was afraid if he mentioned it, she'd charge him twice what the job should be worth in protest. Besides, he'd lived with it for weeks, although it was odd that he'd forgotten to make sure it was off when he'd brushed his teeth in the morning.

A quick nudge with his aura, and the trickle stopped. He nodded in satisfaction and proceeded with his evening routine, making certain that there wasn't a single drip from the faucet when he was done.

He was halfway across his bedroom when he noticed the lump in his bed. He jerked back in alarm, and a faint squeal of surprise crossed his lips before he jammed a hoof against his mouth.

The spill of untamed orange hair should have clued him in right away, and he blamed his fatigue for his reaction. He let out a ragged exhale, gently set the wine bottle by the nightstand, and climbed into bed. His movements were slow and cautious; he had no desire to wake Golden Harvest. He knew she'd be up early; she had chores to do on the farm as soon as the sun rose, after all. Frankly, he was surprised that she'd even come over.

Written Script snuggled up against her warm barrel, and hooked a foreleg over her withers. She shifted into him, breathing out with a brief whuff. He kissed the back of her head and closed his eyes, losing himself in her comforting presence.

Author's Notes:

Inspired by real life! Click through to the blog!