death and taxes
Death and Taxes, in which John and Ronon drink beer and discuss tax forms. For siegeofangels's economic. stimulation. package. comment fest.
*
Apparently Sateda had combined sales and income tax, with different kinds of items taxed at different rates--but that was somehow also influenced by the type of job and the total income of the taxee.
'Taxee' wasn't a real word, but it amused John.
"There was always talk about revising it," Ronon shrugged, swirling the contents of his mug so that a little sloshed out onto his knuckles. "Somehow the revisions always made it worse. The last year," and John couldn't help but wince a little at that, although he followed Ronon's lead and didn't let it show, "it was almost three steda thick. Made me glad to be in the army, since we only had to do the short form."
"And how thick was that?" John had a feeling he was being set up for something, but he didn't care. Ronon talked about Sateda so rarely, a little bit of teasing wasn't even worth consideration. He took a sip of his own beer, felt it go down smooth and bitter and clear pale brown, and didn't let himself think about losing the planet that had produced it.
He'd say it was funny how it took going to another world, another galaxy, to make him appreciate home, but it really wasn't.
Ronon silently measured out about two inches with his fingers, and John just about choked on his beer. Jeeze--he was never complaining about the IRS ever again. "Don't take this the wrong way, buddy, but that's seriously screwed up."
"Yeah." And Ronon grinned, even though his world was dead and ash. "But it sure was fun to complain about."
*
Apparently Sateda had combined sales and income tax, with different kinds of items taxed at different rates--but that was somehow also influenced by the type of job and the total income of the taxee.
'Taxee' wasn't a real word, but it amused John.
"There was always talk about revising it," Ronon shrugged, swirling the contents of his mug so that a little sloshed out onto his knuckles. "Somehow the revisions always made it worse. The last year," and John couldn't help but wince a little at that, although he followed Ronon's lead and didn't let it show, "it was almost three steda thick. Made me glad to be in the army, since we only had to do the short form."
"And how thick was that?" John had a feeling he was being set up for something, but he didn't care. Ronon talked about Sateda so rarely, a little bit of teasing wasn't even worth consideration. He took a sip of his own beer, felt it go down smooth and bitter and clear pale brown, and didn't let himself think about losing the planet that had produced it.
He'd say it was funny how it took going to another world, another galaxy, to make him appreciate home, but it really wasn't.
Ronon silently measured out about two inches with his fingers, and John just about choked on his beer. Jeeze--he was never complaining about the IRS ever again. "Don't take this the wrong way, buddy, but that's seriously screwed up."
"Yeah." And Ronon grinned, even though his world was dead and ash. "But it sure was fun to complain about."