Bartholomew “Barty” Carelton, a man whose nerves frayed faster than a cheap sweater in a washing machine, stared at the IRS auditor. Agent Perkins, a woman whose smile could curdle milk at fifty paces, was meticulously examining Barty’s meticulously organized (or so he thought) tax records. Barty’s palms were slicker than a freshly oiled bowling alley.
“Mr. Carelton,” Agent Perkins said, her voice as smooth as gravel, “we’ve been reviewing your deductions for… let’s call them ‘creative’ expenses. Specifically, the $12,000 you claimed for ’emotional support llama upkeep.'”
Barty gulped. He hadn’t anticipated this level of scrutiny. He’d justified the llama – a magnificent beast named Kevin – as essential for his “intense anxiety and crippling fear of public speaking.” He’d even attached a rather convincing (and entirely fabricated) therapist’s note.
“Kevin… uh… he’s… very supportive,” Barty stammered, his voice cracking like a poorly-constructed twig bridge.
Agent Perkins raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Mr. Carelton, we’ve also noted the $5,000 spent on llama-themed alpaca socks. And the $3,000 for Kevin’s custom-made miniature top hat.”
Barty’s face drained of color. He hadn’t expected them to delve *that* deep.
The questioning continued for what felt like an eternity. Agent Perkins dissected every receipt, every invoice, every questionable expense with the precision of a brain surgeon performing a delicate operation on a particularly stubborn gnat. Barty felt like he was being interrogated by a particularly stylish Gestapo officer with a penchant for accounting.
Finally, after hours of agonizing scrutiny, Agent Perkins leaned back, a flicker of something that might have been amusement in her eyes. She steepled her fingers and declared, “Mr. Carelton, we feel it is a great privilege…”
Barty’s heart leaped into his throat. Was this it? The moment of reckoning? The dreaded prison sentence for his alpaca-sock-loving, top-hat-wearing llama?
“…to have had the opportunity to review such… *thorough* documentation. Truly, your dedication to detail is inspiring. Your tax records are a masterpiece of… creative accounting.”
Barty blinked, utterly bewildered.
Agent Perkins continued, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “However,” she added, her voice regaining its previous sharpness, “we’re going to need to see proof of Kevin’s emotional support therapy sessions. And a detailed explanation of why he requires a miniature top hat.”
Barty slumped back in his chair, defeated. Kevin’s miniature top hat was now going to be the least of his worries. The privilege, apparently, was all theirs.
