Officer Green Comes to Collect

“You’ve got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?” Clint Eastwood

It was Saturday night about midnight. The house was dark, tomb quiet, one small lamp casting eerie shadows upon the white wall. Others slept, I read. The door suddenly exploded violently, glass and wood splinters hurled wildly throughout the foyer. The man burst in…he had a very large gun in his hand!

The gun flashed with a dull glint as he swung it side to side. He was a hulking Neanderthal, a genetic freak, a giant. The room overflowed with his massive bulk, his eyes glittered wildly, lips in a frozen sneer. His movements were slow, deliberate, robotic, as if programmed from some remote laboratory. His clothes reeked of stale cigarette smoke and garlic, his hair hanging in greasy dreadlocks.

In a primordial knee-jerk reaction I leapt from the sofa, the lamp crashing to the floor. The lamp’s green glow, strange and frightening, accentuated the intruder’s size, enlarging his ominous heft. He seemed everywhere. The dogs howled with a plaintive lamentation at the malevolent apparition.

“What the .... Who are you, what are you doing here?” my quivering voice stammered. I was assaulted, out-sized and out-gunned. It’s my house, I had rights…I thought.

“You can run but can’t hide,” he growled. “Pay up.”
“Pay up what,” I demanded?
“Your fair share of Carbon Footprint Tax, that’s what.”

The confrontation had startled and confused me, but the adrenaline surged, my courage surfaced. “Man, are you mad, a lunatic, an escapee from a meth house or carnival sideshow?” I shouted, supposing this to be intimidating. I was wrong.

He stood within inches of my face ~~ his hot breath the rancid odor of rotten fish. “I’m the Carbon Footprint Collector…Treasury sent me to collect what you owe,” he hissed, each word emphasized by his fist pounding my chest. The gun swung side to side, up and down.

“You got proof to back up your stupid and ludicrous accusations, you moron? Maybe you’ve got the wrong house. And look what you’ve done to my door, you genetic abnormality. You’ll pay for this destruction, you degenerate swine.” This aboriginal slug was no competition for my circumlocution. But logic and humor were wasted on cave dwellers.

Maybe this was all a spoof, a TV role-playing exercise to entrap honest citizens by the local law. So what the heck, I’ll play along, have a little fun. “OK, Bruno, let’s suppose I do owe something. How did you find me?”

“Your number is plugged into a GPS device which tracks you, sucker. It’s flawless. You’ve been under surveillance while we assessed your ‘carbon footprint.’ The Internal Carbon Shakedown Ministry has computed the amount of CO2 greenhouse gases you have emitted. We tax your very breath, a tax called ‘Cap and Trade.’ You owe for the last two years of emissions and your existence on American soil. So pay up, or I’ll ….”

“What,” I laughed, “you’re taxing me for a ‘carbon footprint,’ you stupid parasite? If this is some kind of joke it’s not funny.”
Maybe it was my tone, or calling him stupid, but something set this troglodyte off. He shoved the .44 mag pistol between my eyes, reminding me that it is the most powerful hand gun known to man. With his free hand he ruthlessly seized my neck. Was my time up?

But just then……“Wake up, you’re snoring, jerking in your sleep… you’ve knocked over the lamp again. You’ll have to pay up now for sure.”

“What? Where’s Bruno, the gun, your door?” my sleep-induced stupor questioned. “Now, now, you’re dreaming again. Pick up the lamp, go back to sleep.” Ahhh a sweet voice, no gun. Sleep resumed.

Look, Carbon Footprint taxes are coming, get ready. My advice? Breathe sparingly, and lay off of pepperoni pizza before bedtime.


Bud Hearn
June 4, 2009