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“Scrub, she was nice.”

“She sure was, Pickles, she sure was.”

Pickles and I left there faster than we came. We went back to the tavern and pounded them down as fast as they got poured.

My back was to the wall, as always, so I saw Sweet Jane come in. She looked upset and went straight to the bar and the neat Scot got a Scotch neat. I went to her and saw tears in her eyes.

“What’s wrong doll? Come over and sit with us.”

“When I turned in Mr. Llewelyn’s file without finding any discrepancies, I was reprimanded. I objected, then was suspended. It finally got to quit, fire and up yours.”

“Good for you. It will turn out all right.”

“I feel better already. Why do they call you Scrub?”

“Because, unfortunately, that’s what I do. I clean metals in the plant over in Weewauk on the pickle and scrub line.”

Pickles laughed till beer flew out his nose. “It’s a helluva lot better than being called Pickles.”

“Sounds as good as my job ... my former job. Only I pickled and scrubbed a lot of good folks.”

“Pickles and me hope to be full-time bike builders soon.”

Pickles piped up, “We’re doing it now. I would have told you before, but Scrub said forget it during our meeting.”

I booted the big lummox under the table.

“I hate to tell you this, but “Weasel” reopened your file after I closed it. That’s why I quit. It was the final straw. He’s gunning for you.”

“Why would he do that?”

“The system wants numbers. All government reduces itself to one petty bureaucrat wagging his tail for the next just as petty bureaucrat up the ladder. Forget everything you learned about morality and honesty.”

She was making a lot of sense.

“I get you. At the top of the heap, you’ve got Big Petty wagging his tail for the polls while he diddles some aide laughing how he dodged the draft. Man, I thought the Who said we won’t get fooled again.”

“We fooled ourselves into hear no evil and see no evil. Evil by polls. Evil by spin. Evil by PR.”

“The Puerto Ricans in on it too?”

“No, Pickles, PR - public relations.”

“Evil by bureaucracy. Evil by indifference. Evil by inanity.”

‘Whoa, kitten.” She was heated and Pickles was half-asleep.

I bought another pitcher. “I’m glad I didn’t pay my taxes.”

“Throughout this system is not one iota of integrity, nor one shred of common sense. If a little slips in, it’s quickly rooted out.”

Pickles looking a little glazed burped, “My head’s pickled.”

“How about I take you for a ride tomorrow so you can blow that bureaucratic stink off? I’ll take you out to our shop.”

“Sounds great, Scrub.”

Pickles added, “I don’t feel so good. Can we go home?”

We did go riding and she loved it. Said she hadn’t been on a bike since she was twelve and her daddy would take her. When we finally got to our derelict gas station, she laughed, “No wonder you were impossible to audit. This place is a mess. Let me help you with your tax case and cleaning this place up.”

We spent days together cleaning and organizing the place. Jane worked in the office, while Pickles and I cleaned out all the old automotive crap. Finally, Jane came back from town with a surprise.

“I got paint and paint brushes for all.”

“I don’t think I like this, Scrub. This reminds me of pickling and scrubbing.”

Jane was a pretty determined little gal so we went along with it. Damn, the place turned out pretty sharp, mostly white with Harley black and orange trim.

A month later Pickles got a summons and we all rode over to the federal district court in North Weewauk. By then, Jane had figured out the taxes for the bike business. What with capital investment, depreciation, legitimate deductions and a bunch of other stuff I don’t remember or understand, we owed bupkes. Course, we still were guilty of not filing.

It worked so well for us last time that we first hit the tavern to stoke our courage. By the time we got to court, Pickles was ready to open a super-size can of whoop-ass on the entire government of this here United States of America.

The mutant weasel spoke first outlining how we had fraudulently avoided business taxes. He said our only assets were our motorcycles and they should be seized and auctioned off to pay our penalties.

Pickles groaned, then got up and made this magnificent speech about a guy inventing a wheel and pickling and scrubbing till he went crazy. Then Pickles used a word that kind of resembled “entrepreneur” and waved his hands and blubbered on the flag about how he wanted to fight for his country and some quack tried to stick his finger up … and on and on. I truly thought Pickles was going to blow a head gasket. The court officers were moving in on him, reaching for their sidearms. The judge waved them back.

Pickles went on about life, liberty and not tightening down oil filters too much. He misquoted Thomas Paine, Willie Nelson, Millard Fillmore and, for some reason, Nolan Ryan. Damn, it didn’t make no sense, but the judge must have been impressed … at least with his sincerity.

The judge listened intently to Pickles’s babblings and saw that IRS weasel for what he was. Shooting at a poor, harmless overgrown tuna crammed in a little itty-bitty barrel that he couldn’t even turn around in. He got pissed and lectured Weasel for wasting the court’s time and harassing a fledgling entrepreneur only he smiled and pronounced it like Pickles did.

“Mr. Llewelyn, I commend you on your passion and wish you well in your enterprise.”

Pickles looked back at me and Jane and smiled, “Mr. Llewelyn. That’s me.”

We got fined a C note each but were free. We went back to our tavern to celebrate. Jane slid an envelope across the table. I looked in it. There were telephoto shots of a yard sale.

“So?”

“Look closely.”

“The mutant weasel. Why would I want a photo of him?”

“Those are from eight summer weekends in tax year 2023. He probably made all of $200 for his efforts. So little money that it didn’t make it on to his own 1040.”

“Well, hell that ain’t nothing.”

“You don’t understand. Live by the picayune; die by the picayune.”

“Honey, I’d be too ashamed to drop a dime on some friggin yard sale.”

“Scrub, call it justice. You want him to know how it feels to be squeezed. This is the way to do it. It’s fitting.”

“So these get to his fellow sadistic weasels and he’ll be sucking up canal water?”

“Scrub, they eat their own. For him it’s the ultimate pickle and scrub.”

“Then, baby, let’s tear up his pea patch.”

I guess Weasel fudged his shorts big time. They demoted him and, after a bunch of customer service classes, he was out at one of the metal desks fighting his weasel nature by trying to be nice to the taxpayers.

Pickles and me are aces. The bike work is going so good that we done hung up our rubber aprons and quit pickling and scrubbing. Jane’s designing bike clothes and jewelry. She uses the office part of the gas station for retail and all together we got a nice little operation.

I like to look out from the bay to see her gluteus cuteus backside pointing in my direction as she leans over the counter showing jewelry. At the end of the day, we all go out back to a picnic table and split a 12-pack while we watch the sun go down. One more thing. Jane also manages our parts inventory and keeps our financial records straight. Yep, me and Pickles are each getting a big tax refund this year. I might just use mine for a romantic trip to Hawaii. That would be with Sweet Jane. Pickles has to sit that one out.

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