By Ravyn Crowe
People often joke that the IRS is heartless. Honestly, I’ve found that being an auditor requires not just a heart, but a healthy dose of skepticism and a tolerance for the utterly absurd. Today, however, was testing those limits.
I glanced up from my tablet and took a long, assessing look at the woman sitting across from me. Alyssa Kensington—twenty-three, perky, glowing with maternal joy as she gently bounced her two-month-old daughter. Beside her was Jenna, her radiant wife, calm and entirely unfazed by the situation.
“So,” I said, forcing a calm I did not feel, “Alyssa—let's recap the issue at hand.”
“Sure!” Alyssa smiled with an enthusiasm typically reserved for amusement parks, not tax audits.
“You initially filed your taxes this year as Alan Kensington. Age forty-three. Single male, occupation accountant. Correct?”
“Exactly!” Alyssa nodded, brightly. “But obviously, things changed.”
“That’s one way of putting it.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Mid-year, you became a twenty-three-year-old woman, married, occupation—” I glanced at my notes with a grimace “—Instagram Mom-Fluencer.”
“Yep,” Alyssa said, entirely unfazed. “It was kind of a surprise to me too. One night, I'm binge-watching true-crime documentaries with microwave dinners, and suddenly—bam! Prenatal yoga and organic smoothies.”
Jenna laughed softly, squeezing her wife's hand. “It was adorable watching her adjust.”
“It was traumatic,” Alyssa corrected, pouting adorably. “You try having swollen ankles without warning!”
“Ladies,” I interjected wearily, “Let’s focus on the audit, please.”
They both returned my look with wide-eyed innocence. I sighed.
“Your paperwork is immaculate. I admit that freely. Birth certificates, marriage licenses, amended returns—it’s all perfectly documented. Frankly, it’s impressive.”
“Thank you!” Alyssa beamed. “My previous self loved meticulous record-keeping. Guess that carried over.”
“The problem,” I continued delicately, “is that our IRS database can’t actually reconcile reality changing mid-tax year.”
“Oh.” Alyssa tilted her head thoughtfully. “Maybe the computers are just being stubborn?”
“Exactly!” Jenna chimed in helpfully. “Have you tried restarting them?”
I stared at them both, mouth slightly agape. “It’s not that simple. Our databases are extremely... robust.”
“Or dense,” Jenna muttered under her breath.
“I’m sorry?” I asked, eyebrows rising.
“Oh, nothing,” Jenna smiled sweetly.
But privately, I knew Jenna was right. My suspicion had been growing steadily: the IRS computer system was so rigid, so impenetrably dense, that even literal magic couldn’t squeeze through its electronic cracks. I couldn't say this aloud without being laughed out of the building, but after today, I believed it.
“Look,” I continued carefully, “I believe you experienced… something.”
“A magical transformation?” Alyssa offered helpfully.
“A highly unusual circumstance,” I clarified, avoiding the dreaded “M-word” that would trigger another automated form.
Alyssa leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s okay to say ‘magic.’ I promise we won’t tell your bosses.”
Jenna laughed softly as I shook my head firmly. “No magic. Just unusual circumstances.”
“Sure,” Alyssa giggled. “We can call it that.”
“So, here’s the issue,” I pressed on doggedly, trying desperately to remain grounded. “The property you owned—as Alan Kensington—still exists under your name, but your new identity never legally purchased it. The system is insisting that you’ve committed tax fraud.”
“But I have all the documents!” Alyssa protested earnestly, pushing a thick, meticulously organized binder toward me. “I even had them notarized twice!”
“And the system insists your baby appeared spontaneously, which affects your dependents and medical deductions,” I continued, desperately trying to ignore the implications of spontaneous child creation.
“Oh, trust me, she didn't spontaneously appear,” Alyssa replied dryly, bouncing Claire gently. “Twelve hours of labor say otherwise.”
Jenna sympathetically rubbed Alyssa’s shoulder. “She did great.”
My head throbbed, my career passing before my eyes. “Ladies, please. I don’t doubt your story—” (though I absolutely did doubt it, just silently) “—but my supervisor will require something more… plausible.”
Alyssa’s eyes lit up mischievously. “Maybe we can file IRS form 1040-WTF?”
“Excuse me?” I blinked, momentarily startled.
“Form 1040-WTF,” Alyssa repeated brightly. “Reality Adjustment Declaration? It’s new, for magical mishaps.”
“That’s not a real form,” I said flatly, though secretly I wished it was. It would certainly simplify my life right now.
“It should be,” Jenna insisted. “You can even have a box for ‘sudden pregnancy’ or ‘age reversal.’ Just check whichever applies.”
I slumped back in my chair, despair creeping in. Alyssa’s binder sat on the table like a small fortress of documentation. There was no fraud here—just an IRS system so bureaucratically dense that it would rather accuse reality itself of lying than accept a mid-year magical rewrite.
This audit wasn’t going anywhere positive, at least not today.
“Alyssa,” I finally said, defeat heavy in my voice, “Can you just promise me no more reality-altering events next year?”
“I promise!” Alyssa placed her hand over her heart. “No more magical transformations, at least not until Claire is potty-trained.”
I glanced suspiciously at Jenna, whose mischievous smile never faltered. “And you?”
“Oh, definitely,” Jenna agreed, grinning. “Unless we decide Claire needs a sibling.”
“You’re joking,” I said weakly, knowing full well they weren't.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Jenna leaned forward warmly, eyes sparkling with mischief. “We never joke about taxes.”
The sudden realization struck me harder than a penalty for late filing. If magic couldn’t penetrate the IRS computers, then maybe it wasn't a glitch at all.
Maybe our system was the final, stubborn barrier that reality couldn’t cross.
I rubbed my temples, exhaling deeply. This audit was going straight to supervisory review, flagged for special handling. Maybe they could reboot the universe, or at least my brain.
Either way, I knew one thing for certain: taxes were complicated enough without having to audit the laws of reality themselves.
End.