Death and taxes

Most of the mail was junk, but when wasn't it?

The Old Navy was new, just like the plaza it sat in. The concrete had only been poured months ago, but empty storefronts had filled, and the place had done steady business since. It's location was perfect, right at a crossroads on the main island in the chain. It hired locals and put money back into the community even while it brought them clothes at decent prices. Thusfar Circe's efforts in the islands had gone well.

The little old lady paused at an ivory envelope of higher quality then the others; it was addressed to her personally. She opened it and frowned down at the single line written on the letter.

Pay me what I am owed, it said.

She glanced at the store cash before shuddering. When the little... Thing that owned this place had talked about profit in their store meeting, her eyes had lit up like someone trying to push pamphlets on religion they'd written themselves. Instead she took fifty dollars and three dimes from her purse and sealed it into the envelope, planning to get rid of it on her way to the bank.

All over the islands, it was a similar scene. Some didn't recieve their letters, and weren't billed; others didn't pay, and were marked. Beth grumbled to herself in the dark as she slipped in seven dollars and a shiny rock.

It took another day and a night for them all to disappear into the post office, but once they were all gathered together, the money and checks inside burst into flame. One or two bounced off the table, but as the others burned white, a winged woman pulled herself from the fire and then turned to yank her scythe out as well. With a wave of her hand Coin dispelled the flames before sighing deeply and looking for a mirror to check herself in.

Finding one in the ladies room, she drew back in disgust at her shameful appearance. It had been a last ditch effort to come back from limbo, but by calling in all her finances she'd managed to buy her way out. That bright-eyed little squid had cost her dearly.

Wings folded around her like a wounded bird, she met her own eyes as she fixed her hair, noting the bags and the hollow, hungry look. Without debt owed to her, she felt famished and unfulfilled, like a VCR reminder next to a DVD player.

"...I need a real vacation after that one. I wonder if Trash still has a spare room?" She mused, before making a face at talking to herself like some cretin.