"I have been spat on, kicked, punched, pushed down, my hair yanked, and had a gun pulled on me. I have been called Nazi, Gestapo, pig. I've had doors slammed in my face and once somebody tried to run me over with a car. I go home at night and my wife tells me I drink too much and don't get enough sleep. I haven't spoken to my parents in two years. My friends from college don't call me anymore. Three years ago, every strand of hair on my body, from the top of my head to those little hairs that grow on the top of my feet, fell out. Just fell out. I was bald all over. I looked like I was made of wax. So I bought a toupee and the first thing I noticed was how much nicer people were to me, since they assumed I was undergoing chemo. Then one day my hair just started growing back, and it came in black. Before it fell out it was brown. Now it's black - You are exceeding the speed limit, Allison. You get a ticket on this job and I'll write you up. I'll fire your ass. You are a federal officer. Henceforward you will be held to a higher standard. And, while you are under me, you will be held to the highest standard. Be proud of what you do. Be proud you're a revenue officer. Not some number-cruncher, not some fucking accountant or CPA who can't make it in private practice. You are a revenue officer. There are only ten thousand others like you in the whole country, and you are the best of the breed. The United States has the most efficient tax system in the world, because of one thing. Don't forget the fourth protocol - You're turning right in less than a hundred feet; signal your turn. Make known your intentions. Always make known your intentions. Hate surprises. Surprises will get you killed. The highest award a revenue officer can receive from the government is named after the only revenue officer who was killed in the line of duty. Ambushed by a protestor. A few years back they actually put it to a vote whether ROs should carry guns. The overwhelming majority voted it down. I don't think I need to tell you how I voted."
"No one likes to hear this, but your neighbor is not your friend. All I had to do was flash my commission and I got the life story, down to whom the wife was seeing on the side and what sort of parties they threw. Your neighbor is going to tell the IRS where you work, how long you've worked there, what kind of car you drive, what kind of jewelry you wear, what kind of valuable collections might be stored in your attic, what kind of people you associate with, and where your kids go to school. If you've moved from another city or state, they'll tell us where you're from, how long you've been at your present address, and if you have any plans for moving in the future. Drink a little too much? Seeing a psychologist? Faking a disability? We'll know. And most of the time, we won't even have to ask."
"I could not expect all protestor cases to be resolved easily. The vast majority of tax protestors are middle-to-lower class tradesmen with little or no college education. Many are retirees exercising their constitutional right to be royal pains in the ass. Only a few are hardcore, paramilitary, separatist types bent on the destruction of the government. Most protestors are merely gullible saps who have fallen on hard times and are conned by unscrupulous promoters into parting with money they don't have for a tax avoidance "product" that doesn't work. Consequently, when the case came to me, there were few assets to seize and what I could seize had minimal value. The goal, however, was never full payment of the tax. The goal was compliance. The goal was changing a protestor's heart and mind. Like the early missionaries plunging into the darkest corners of Africa, I was charged not so much with collection as with conversion. It was not enough for them to obey Big Brother. They must love him."
