Twenty questions again. How he hated it.
If at least people asked directly it would be a clean death. These oblique questions were torture. He’d tried evasion. “I work for the government.” It didn’t help, just drew the painful process out.
Unfortunately, he was a bad liar: he’d stammer or choke. He blushed to recall the amazed and unbelieving looks. “I work for a business consultancy”, whatever that meant. Once, in a panic, “I’m a funeral director.” Well, everything was better than the truth.
The shifty looks. The mumbled excuses.
My name is Peter and I am a tax inspector.
This week’s challenge from T.Mastgrave: Taxes.