World of Warcraft short story in Fantasy and Science Fiction magazine

[Colonel_here]

April edition of Fantasy and Science Fiction

Render unto Caesar By Kevin N. Haw

Booming virtual economies in online worlds such as Second Life andWorld of Warcraft have drawn the attention of a U.S. congressional committee, which is investigating how virtual assets and incomes should be taxed.
— Adam Pasick, reporting from the Reuter’s Second Life bureau,
October 15, 2006.

WILLHELMIA BLOODFANG Elfbane, Grand Warrior Duchess of the Troll Army, Defender of the Defiled Realms, Scourge of All Fair Creatures, shifted her seven-foot frame nervously in the too-small chair as the Tiny Man decided her fate.
“You were saying, Ms. Elfbane?” the Tiny Man prompted. He didn’t look up from the thick sheaf of papers spread across the surface of his battered, government-issue metal desk.
“Er, ah, yes,” Willhelmia said, her voice raspy against the quiet office noises that were the only sound in the harshly lit gray cubicle. “So I normally wait for the Meaties — ”
“‘Meaties’? The human subscribers of the Game?”
“Yes. They, the knights and good wizards and that ilk, they climb Doom Mountain and face off with me. They come at me and smash and fight and, er, stuff.”
“And then?”
“Well, if they kill me, they complete the Troll Queen Quest — Hey! Doesn’t that — ”
“No, Ms. Elfbane,” the Tiny Man replied as he continued to scour Willhelmia’s file. “Virtual Death does not absolve taxpayers of their obligations.”
“Oh.”
“These subscribers, though, they pay for the privilege of logging in and fighting you in the Game?”
“Um, sure. Me and lots of other monsters.”
“Well,” the Tiny Man nodded, closing the folder with a note of finality. “You generate revenue. That makes you an employee.”
“But that means — ”
“Yes, you’re subject to withholding.”
“But, that’s crazy! I don’t even get paid!”
“Really? What happens to all the equipment of the heroes you defeat?”
“Well, er, I put it into my treasure horde.”
“So you work on commission.”
“But it’s virtual property. It only exists inside the Game!”
“But it can be sold or auctioned on any number of Internet sites to other human players. That makes it income — taxable income.” The Tiny Man paused for a moment, a frown creeping over his sallow face as he scratched his bald pate. “You know, if there’re fluctuations in value, you might be subject to Capital Gains as well. Hmmm.…”
“But, but…I’m Virtual!”
“Ms. Elfbane, if you feel you’re being singled out because of your minority status, I can assure you — ”
“No, it’s just I just can’t understand how you people think I owe $1673 — ”
“It’s $1724 with interest and the fine.”
“But I don’t have that kind of money!”
“With all due respect, I’ve heard that before.” The Tiny Man snorted.
“And before you start telling me about how you didn’t know you were subject to income tax or you didn’t think the IRS had jurisdiction in virtual worlds or any of those other excuses, I’ll remind you that I’ve heard all of those as well. You’re not the first Digital American I’ve audited, Ms. Elfbane.”
The trolless, whose interactions with humans were normally limited to screamed obscenities and mutual attempts at decapitation, found herself gnashing her fangs and reflexively reaching to the hip of her armored skirt. Alas, instead of finding the comforting weight of her favorite axe, the empty space brought back the humiliating memory of how the pudgy, glassy-eyed security guard in the lobby had confiscated the weapon. Not that killing one little Tiny Man would have helped, of course. From what she’d heard, this whole “Death and Taxes” thing had been going on for a lot longer and was invented by people much more devious than she could even fathom. She was out of her depth, she realized as she wiped the corner of her eye with a claw. But even as she tried to control her breathing, to count to ten as she had been advised to do before disemboweling anyone out in the Nondigital World, she felt frustrated tears streaming down the green scales of her face. Realizing it was no use, Willhelmia buried her face in her hands. It just wasn’t fair!
There was an awkward moment, the only noise disturbing the suddenly silent office being her gravelly sobs and the rhythmic “clang!” of her mailed fist smashing the steel plates of her skirt in frustration. Then, she saw movement in the corner of her eye and realized that the Tiny Man had left his perch behind his desk to offer a box of tissues. She accepted one and blew her nose with an echoing moose call that set the overhead fluorescent fixture swaying. “Thanks,” she whispered as faint half shadows rocked across the office.
“It’s okay.” The Tiny Man nodded quietly, standing on his toes to place a companionable hand on the spiked bronze plate covering the seated Willhelmia’s shoulder. “I understand. After all, we here at the IRS are not without sympathy.…”
She nodded, dabbing at her tears with the tissue as she stared down at the Tiny Man’s loafers. “…and I don’t see any reason why we can’t allow you to work off this
debt — ”
The words caused Willhelmia to snap her head up in surprise. He couldn’t possibly mean.… A look at the Tiny Man’s face, though, dashed that idea as she saw not the leer she’d been expecting (hoping for?) but instead the practiced, serious expression of a salesman making a pitch. Nevertheless, Willhelmia realized as she crumpled the tissue, if the Tiny Man had a way to square her debt with the IRS, it was worth considering.
“What,” the trolless asked with a wistful sigh that went completely unnoticed by the bureaucrat, “did you have in mind?”
“Well, Ms. Elfbane, it’s a special project from the Commissioner himself. You said you commanded an entire troll army, is that correct?”
The Internal Revenue Service recently began outsourcing debt collection activities to more aggressively pursue people who owe taxes. The IRS has already turned over to private agencies the names of more than 13,725 taxpayers who owe the government about $73.5 million.…
—Tom Herman, The Wall Street Journal, November 15, 2006 (paraphrased).