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gimp-suit (used, don’t
ask) and the other strained to keep a wobbling half-drunk Franco upright. Three
wheels jarred against the rim of the kitchen portal, Franco frisbeed the
spaghetti mess into the sink, shot-putted the boxers into the overflowing
laundry basket and stuffed the squeaking squealing PVC gimp-suit into the
washing machine. With a stamp he flipped the skateboard into one hairy hand and
whirled, skimming it sideways into the living room where it connected with the
contents of the coffee table and efficiently blitzkrieged the surface of
fifteen fungus-filled coffee cups, a pirated SONY Playstation 1000 Platinum
with half its optic-wiring hanging free, and a pair of plastic devil’s horns,
in red. There was a clatter and crash of smashing cups. The table was clear.
The skateboard landed neatly on three wheels and squeaked into a corner.
     
    Franco put his hands on his hips
and grinned. He nodded to himself in appreciation. “Looking good, looking fine.
Hey hey, they don’t call me Franco ‘Efficient House Husband’ Haggis for
nothing!”
     
    Melanie the tax inspector arrived
at the door. She looked fit to be sick. She was pale and red-faced at the same
time, and her knees wobbled beneath her finely-tailored bamboo-strand suit. It
was only then Franco noticed her rather smart briefcase was in fact a
rather smart SIM-skin briefcase. SIM-skin! Triple-class.
     
    “Sixty-nine floors, and no lift?”
panted Mel, attempting to regain her lungs. “Are you insane?”
     
    “Keeps me fit.” Franco puffed out
his chest. “I’m a very fit bloke, I am. Not many men get to my age and can do
the things I can do.” His voice dropped to a conspiratory level. “It has been
said in some circles,” he paused, for effect, “that I’m a sexual athlete.” He
beamed again, stepping back, as one sandal nudged a vomit-stained cardigan
under a cupboard.
     
    Mel wheezed, leaning against the
wall. “What was that squeaking sound? Like... rubber, or something?”
     
    “Mice.”
     
    “And the crash of crockery?”
     
    “Neighbours. Would you like to
sit down?”
     
    Franco hurried to the sagging,
split, bulbous example of his colourless stain-riddled settee. He grabbed the
three porn mags (“Inside This Month’s Issue We’ve As Much Praxda Pussy And
Alien Ass As You Can Pan-Handle!”) and stuffed them down a crevice filled
with old crisp packets. Franco sat down, back erect, hands on his knees like a
naughty schoolboy. Mel stared at him, long and hard, suspicion gleaming in her
eyes, then hobbled to the settee and took a seat at the opposite sagging end.
     
    Franco’s eyes scanned his
apartment in horror. It was the first time he’d ever truly looked around.
And he’d never realised he lived in such a dump.
     
    Mel clicked open her SIM-skin
briefcase. Shuffled through a ream of metal documents. Then looked sideways at
Franco. He beamed amiably at her.
     
    “By my calculations, you owe
rather a lot of money.”
     
    Franco frowned. “But... I’ve been
off the grid for a long time now.”
     
    “I’ve estimated. We’re good like
that.”
     
    “So... you don’t know where I’ve
been, don’t know what I’ve been doing or what I’ve been earning—but you can
still estimate my annual income and taxation on what you think I may have
possibly might have earned?”
     
    “Yes. I extrapolated from your
early army career earnings, plus those monies accrued whilst in Combat
K. Earnings which you also failed to declare and pay relevant tax.” She smiled.
It was neat.
     
    “How do you know about Combat K?”
Franco’s voice had dropped low, and to anybody who knew him, levelled out at a
dangerous tone. His brain was already working out distances to the nearest gun,
bomb, or gun/bomb combo. Survival instinct was using his brain as a punch-bag.
Sobriety ripped out his kidney and beat him with it.
     
    “I’m from the Quad-Gal External
Revenue.” Mel smiled a teeth smile. “I know