Danny grumbled in justified agony staring down at his bills, "You'll do good as a college student with scholarship they said, You'll be a genius in managing money they said, HOW am I supposed to be able to manage money IF I DONT HAVE ANY?!" Danny slammed his hands on the table heaving unnecessary oxygen.
Danny sat back down, the screen's light illuminating on his tired, eye bag tainted face. Staring at the Digital Deluge that is his goddamned Bills and Debts. His usually vibrant blue eyes were bloodshot and glazed over, the very picture of sleep deprivation. Then, in a moment of pure, caffeine-fueled brilliance (or perhaps a hallucination brought on by three-day-old ramen and 5 cups of coffee specifically named 'Death Wish').
Taxes, he's the King of the Ghost Zone/Infinite Realms for crying out loud, Death and Taxes were inseparable even in the Infinite realms. A sudden jolt of energy rushed through him with this sudden epiphany that struck his ever so tired and insomnia ridden mind.
Thus, the Royal Decree of Spectral Taxation(IRS of the Underworld funni) was born. It was a masterpiece of bureaucratic absurdity, a document so perfectly illogical it could only have been conceived by a sleep-deprived young adult-king. The decree stated, in no uncertain terms (and with surprisingly good grammar for someone running on who knows how many caffeine shots of espresso), that anyone who had ever shuffled off this mortal coil – biologically dead, not just "clinically dead" – was now a citizen of the Infinite Realms, and therefore, subject to income tax. Resurrection? Didn't matter. You died, you fucking pay. It was the law of the land… or, rather, the spectral fuckin plane.
Danny in his ever so glorious state of exhausted college senior broke student channeled his inner Sassy teenager that he hasn't used for a long while. He took a deep breathe and used his abilities to write as many letters as he can at the same time all stating the same sentences:
Of the infinite realms/Afterlife/Ghost Zone,
Hear in my reign I shall declare you a citizen of the infinite realms, welcome aboard to the Dead/Undead/Cheated Death Ghostly Train you Spectral Slackers now I shall inform you of your Duty as a citizen.
Taxes, Pay Them or Face my Wrath Upon thee that is your soul and your apparent undead & living life, I'm the King and you're commiting Tax Evasion and Tax Fraud, suck it up and deal with it you sucka.
From you Dearest, King Phantom."
Danny felt an intense wave of relief wash over him as he sent those letters. He also sent his 'Staff' to deal with them.
The Infinite Realms Revenue Service (IRRS) was promptly established. Not with some fancy office building, mind you, but a repurposed haunted library in the less-fashionable part of the Ghost Zone. Danny, ever the resourceful monarch, recruited the ghosts of some notoriously meticulous accountants — figures whose earthly lives were defined by their love of spreadsheets and their uncanny ability to find loopholes (though not this time, ya filthy suckers!). These spectral number-crunchers were unleashed upon the land, armed with nothing but spectral quill pens, ancient ledgers, and an insatiable hunger for overdue taxes.
Their first targets? The repeat offenders. The undead who’d played a game of death-tag with fate, escaping the Grim Reaper's grasp time and time again. Think Ra's al Ghul, mid-monologue about the glorious cycle of death and rebirth, when suddenly a ghost who looked suspiciously like a less-intense Phil Coulson materialized behind him. "Mr. al Ghul," the spectral accountant began, his voice a calm, measured baritone that cut through Ra's dramatic pronouncements, "we need to discuss your back taxes."
Ra's, who was in the middle of giving a dramatic speech to his assassin cult about the futility of mortal existence, was momentarily stunned. "Back taxes? What are you talking about?" he demanded, his voice laced with confusion and a hint of annoyance.
"Your tax bracket, Mr. al Ghul," the accountant explained, holding up a spectral ledger overflowing with numbers and dates. "You've been resurrected a rather impressive number of times. That means you owe a significant sum to the Crown."
"But I'm Ra's al Ghul!" he protested, his voice rising in indignation. "I'm practically a god! I don't pay taxes!"
"Actually, sir," the accountant said, his voice as smooth as a ghost's silk sheet, "you do. And quite frankly, it's long overdue."
The news spread like a spectral wildfire. Every magic user with a pulse (or lack thereof) was bombarded with frantic messages and letters from villains and heroes alike. Constantine, a man whose life was a constant tax evasion scheme, was sweating more than a swamp monster in a sauna. His phone was ringing off the hook with calls from panicked sorcerers, supervillains, and even a few surprisingly anxious superheroes who suddenly realized their immortality had a hefty price tag.
"John, this is a disaster!" the voice of Zatanna crackled through the phone. "What are we gonna do? I've been resurrected like, a dozen times! I'm practically bankrupt!" Zatanna exclaims through a panicked near broken voice.
"Don't worry, Zee," Constantine said, his voice laced with a touch of desperation. "I'm sure we can find a loophole. Or maybe a magic spell. Or… well, I'm sure I'll figure something out. Just… don't ask me to fill out any paperwork." John stammered out.
Meanwhile, the mortal world was experiencing its own brand of pandemonium. Danny, ever the practical (if slightly disorganized) ruler, needed someone to handle the "mortal side" of the IRRS. Enter Valerie Gray, a college student drowning in debt and working a soul-crushing fast-food job. She was the perfect candidate: equally broke, experienced with dealing with unreasonable customers, and possessing a "don't mess with me" attitude that could curdle milk.
"So, Valerie," Danny said, his voice a mixture of exhaustion and enthusiasm. "You're gonna be my human liaison for the IRRS."
"Liaison?" Valerie asked, raising an eyebrow. "You mean you want me to deal with the paperwork and the complaints from immortal beings who think they're above the law?"
"Pretty much," Danny said, shrugging. "You're good with people. You're good with money. And you're not afraid to tell someone to shove it when they're being a jerk."
"Okay, fine," Valerie said, a wry smile playing on her lips. "But I'm not going to be a ghost. I'm going to be your human representative. And I'm going to demand a salary that's commensurate with my skills and experience."
"Deal," Danny said, grinning. "You're hired!"
The IRRS waiting room became a bizarre spectacle. Vandal Savage, looking remarkably unimpressed, sat next to Felix Faust, who was attempting to conjure a distraction spell (which was promptly confiscated by a bored-looking Valerie). Red Hood, ever brooding, scowled at the paperwork in front of him, muttering about the injustice of it all. Valerie, an unflappable force of nature in a sensible cardigan, greeted them with a weary smile and a stack of forms. She had everything: birth certificates, death certificates (plural, in many cases), detailed records of villainous activities, and a surprisingly accurate estimate of their ill-gotten gains. "So," she'd say, her voice as sharp as a tack, "declare your income as a crime lord/dictator/sorcerer, sir."
The sheer audacity of it all was breathtaking. These immortal powerhouses, used to bending reality to their will, were utterly flummoxed by a bored college student with a penchant for paperwork. Their attempts at intimidation were met with Valerie's unwavering calm, her responses as dry as the Sahara Desert. They tried bribery, threats, and even a few poorly executed magic spells, all to no avail. Valerie was a force to be reckoned with, a bureaucratic ninja wielding a stapler like a samurai sword.
"Look," Vandal Savage said, his voice laced with annoyance. "I'm a thousand years old. Do you really think I'm going to let some college girl tell me what to do?" He scoffed, undeniably offended by everything that's Currenly happening around him and to everyone else like him apparently.
"Actually, Mr. Savage," Valerie said, glancing down at a spreadsheet. "You have a rather hefty tax bill. And if you don't pay it, we're going to have to take action. We're talking about a full audit, a potential lien on your assets, and possibly even a trip to the spectral prison. You really want to deal with that?" Valerie huffed
Vandal Savage, who had survived countless wars, conquered numerous civilizations, and even faced down the Justice League, was speechless. He'd never been so thoroughly intimidated by a young woman in a cardigan.
Bonus: what about joker? Joker is gonna pay his taxes undead or not, he doesn't want to go to jail or the nightmare realms. He is Joker. He is canonically afraid of The IRS. TAXES OF THE UNDEAD AKA THE INFINITE REALMS REVENUE SERVICES AKA IRRS an IRS with an Extra R. Pay your taxes. Or not.
Pull a Jack and Maddie Fenton.
My friend helped me with this, I'm done continuing this, have funsies.
