Mythic Picnic

@MythicPicnic

Oct 31

Nathan Pettigrew@NathanBorn2010

Oct 26

New Picnic Call! Theme is “Creative Nonfiction vs. Straight Nonfiction.”
The Picnic pays $25 USD for 350 words, including title and bio. Deadline is 11/8. Feel free to send your true stories to: mrpettigrew@yahoo.com

Mythic Picnic

@MythicPicnic

11h

Nathan Pettigrew@NathanBorn2010

Nov 1

My debut Tales from Terrebonne drops on 11/10! Print edition links coming soon, but Kindle's up for pre-order!
Thank you @RobSmith3, @VictorDeAnda & the entire RHP Team! Special thanks to @KellieScottReed and @CW_Blackwell!!
amazon.com/dp/B0HPYJK796

Mythic Picnic

@MythicPicnic

11h

Mythic Picnic

@MythicPicnic

Oct 31

We’re calling the new MM “Sips of Truth”, inspired by a 1762 quote by author Denis Diderot:

We swallow greedily any lie that flatters us, but we sip only little by little at a truth we find bitter.

Send your human-created NF/CNF to @NathanBorn2010 by Nov 8th. Pays $25
⬇️

Mythic Picnic

@MythicPicnic

3 May 2025

Mythic Picnic

@MythicPicnic

26 Aug 2023

STRAW MAN

by Robert Bonnett / @RoBonnett79
#MythicPicnicTweetStory
_

I’m not really sure how to tell this story but I guess I should start at the beginning, back in 2009, back when I started a new position in the IRS bankruptcy unit and first saw the woman who would soon lead to me facing up to twenty years in federal prison.

But the day started out pretty much like any other Monday in the Oakland federal building except it was a Tuesday because I had called in hungover the day before. Plus there was a window boarded up in plywood. Word in the aisles was that someone had launched a homemade rocket at the federal building from the roof of the parking garage across the street. Another happy IRS customer, I guess.

Luckily the rocket maker had apparently attended the Wile E Coyote school of rocketry so it just cracked the window and then fell to the ground, crushing a brand new illegally-parked Mercedes SL63 AMG, owned by an infamous local tax attorney, with a vanity plate that read: THNXIRS

And then there was a matching pair of agents from TIGTA – the Treasury Inspector General for Tax Administration – strolling through the rat’s maze of powder blue cubicles and they grabbed Billie, the group secretary. Most Americans fear or hate the IRS, if not both, but the guys the IRS fear and hate are TIGTA, not to be confused with Tigger. Bouncing is what Tiggers do best. Pouncing is what TIGTA did best. I didn’t know what Billie had done, or if it had anything to do with the rocket man, but it must’ve been pretty bad to get snatched up by TIGTA.

I watched TIGTA take Bille away and then sat down behind my cubicle walls and laid my head on my new desk. I remember being tired. So fucking tired. I hadn’t been sleeping much at the time, I remember that. It’s not an excuse for anything, just a fact. I take full responsibility for what I did later. But that was one of the reasons I’d called in sick that first Monday. Plus, Monday was a bad day to begin something new, though Tuesday wasn’t shaping up so hot either.

Monday also has the highest number of suicides, followed by Sunday and Tuesday in a near tie. My sister Marian's had been on a Sunday. Ten years and two days from that Tuesday in 2009. I don’t count all the days anymore so maybe that’s progress.

Next thing I remember is a ringing phone waking me up. I thought at first it was news of yet another death in the family. But there was nobody left to die. I probably should’ve just let the phone ring — things would’ve turned out differently if I had — but I answered it.

“My friend said you could help me,” a woman’s voice said.

“Who’s your friend?” I asked.

“She told me not to give her name.”

The IRS doesn’t exactly encourage revenue officers to help people who call up out of the blue with a reference from a mysterious friend. If a case wasn’t assigned to you, then you weren’t supposed to work it. I’d been warned about that more than once already. But it was hard to turn your back and say no, tell them to call the IRS 800 number where they would wait three or four hours for an answer that might very well be wrong.

I heard footsteps coming toward me down the aisle so I told the woman to call me back in an hour, hung up the phone, twirled around in my chair, and stared innocently at the man standing in my cubicle entrance.

“Guillermo Rojas,” he announced. “Call me Gill. I’m president of the union. I wanted to invite you to join up.”

“Jesus, Gilligan, we’ve known each other for five years,” I said. “I’m on your Christmas card list for Christ’s sake.”

“And you never send one back.”

“I gave it up for lent. And first day back in the hive you gotta pull your union sales shtick on me?”

“Technically, it’s your second day,” Gill said. “And since you did just escape management, you know even better that we need the union. You saw what happened to Billie?”

“I don’t need anyone’s help. Not for $50 a month especially. You know how much beer I can buy with that?”

Gill shook his head like a disapproving mother, which reminded me that he was over sixty. It scared the hell out of me that I liked Gill. Neither of my parents had seen the other side of fifty. Gill could go at any time.

“There’s good reason why the only people more afraid of the IRS than the general public are IRS employees,” Gill said. “To most, the IRS means loss of some income. To us it could mean loss of a job, maybe prison.”

I avoided Gill’s gaze by unpacking my box of stuff: green tea, fish oil, a Spider-Man glass to hold all my vitamins. Anything to try to postpone death. “What’d Billie do?” I asked. “Is she the rocket man?”

“I can’t tell you about Billie.”

“So you don’t know.”

“I know you weren’t here yesterday,” Gill said. “And you’re definitely a disgruntled employee. So maybe you’re the rocket man.”

I turned to scan for any lingering TIGTA special agents or office gossips. A Federal Protective Service cop with a German Shepherd was nosing around up by Billie’s cubicle, but he was too far away to hear. “Damn Gill, that’s how rumors get started! That’s how investigations get started!”

“Sorry,” Gill mumbled. After a moment of uncomfortable silence he asked, “What really happened anyway? Why’d you leave that cushy management job and come back to the hive?”

“Just didn’t like it,” I said. “Didn’t like being a babysitter.” I probably should’ve told him the truth. He was a pretty smart guy.

“Well, I’ll let you settle in,” Gill said.

I watched Gill walk away and that’s when I saw the woman at the fax machine. When she turned around, I saw her mascara was smeared, her eyes wet with tears.

“Damn, Bobby! First day back in the hive and already Mr. Blue Bonnett is on it, scoping out the local talent!”

My buddy Johnny Tucker was a blond haired, blue-eyed clone of the comic book Thor, and he was kind of an asshole even for back in 2009. That was probably why Gill was in such a hurry to leave. Gill and Tucker were my two best friends, probably my two only real friends, but they didn’t care much for each other.

Tucker twisted his mouth and appraised the fax woman with his head cocked to one side. “Not bad, I guess. She’s got a little Princess Jasmine thing going. Got that Kama Sutra shit. But she’s too old-fashioned looking for my taste. A little chubby. Kinda dark too.”

I told you Tucker was kind of an asshole.

“Don’t you wonder why she’s crying?” I said.

“No. Neither should you.”

“I’m just wondering.”

Tucker snorted out an overly loud laugh. “Don’t bullshit me, Bobby. I’ve known you since fifth grade. You and a crying woman is like a moth to the fuckin flame.”

The woman wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and walked away from the fax machine. When she was gone, I asked Tucker if he knew her name. He knew a lot of people. Especially women.

“I’ll tell you what, Bobby, she's probably one of them Honey Pots.”

“Honey pots?” I said. “Who are you, Winnie the Pooh?”

“Nah, like in spy movies and shit. The Honey Pot is the sexy spy bitch who screws up the hero spy dude. Maybe she’s here to trick people into breaking the law. Maybe she’s working with TIGTA. That shit happens.”

“Maybe you watch too many movies,” I said. “And too many cartoons. Anyway, you said she wasn't that good looking.”

“I meant she’s not good looking enough for me. But she could definitely be a Honey Pot for your little Pooh Bear ass.” Tucker turned to survey my cubicle. “So, this is what you left management for? You left an office with a door for a five foot cube?”

“You told me not to get into management in the first place.”

“I tell you lots of good shit, Bobby, and you ignore me.”

“Like what?”

Tucker stuck out one thick finger. “Like I told you not to go out with Kimi, and look how that’s working out.”

Middle finger. “And the stripper back in Fort Erie you tried to rescue from her wicked ways?”

Finger three. “And the lady in the parking lot who got her parking space ‘stolen’ and the guy kicked your ass?”

With finger four he says, “And I’m telling you right now not to worry about the mysterious crying woman and that’s priceless goddamn advice right there. But I’ll bet my last bottle of beer you’ll ignore that too. Moth to the flame, Bobby, mark my words. Moth to the fuckin flame.”

#

So then I’m waiting for the mysterious caller lady to call back because I’m not sure exactly what my new job is. I’m supposed to have a meeting with the manager to tell me what the hell I’m supposed to be doing, something about bankruptcies, but I didn’t know shit about that.

Until then I’m just watching my dad’s pocket watch, a 1933 open-face Omega Swiss that my grandfather got while stationed in Germany, watching it spin away the seconds and minutes and hours of my life. That thing was worse than a birthday, that annoying annual reminder that yet another year had passed me by.

The lady finally calls and says the IRS is taking her money but she doesn’t owe any taxes, says someone must’ve stolen her identity. Says she needs to pay rent. Buy food. She’s got kids.

I ask if she’s in bankruptcy, because I know that much about my new job. She says she’s not in bankruptcy so I tell her to call the 800 number, because that’s what we’re supposed to do. Can’t work unassigned cases. That’s TIGTA trouble there.

But she says she’s already tried the 800 number several times. And then she starts crying. She says her sister just died of cancer and she’s taking care of her nephew too. I didn’t want to hear about cancer and dead sisters and mothers. I’d been working hard trying to bury my own memories on those subjects.

I meant to say, “no,” I swear to this day I did, but instead I said, “Okay, what’s your Social Security Number?” Working for the IRS you’re mostly cast as the villain in the story and I was just never comfortable in that role. Plus my dad and his stupid saying. “If you know what the right thing to do is, but you don't do it, then you’re a coward.”

Confucius may have said it originally, but I first heard it from my dad. I heard it then, in my mind, in my father’s calm but determined New England drawl. Problem is figuring out what the right thing is.

I typed her SSN into the system, which said she owed a lot of money for the prior year due to a big refund being reversed. She said she never got any refund, said her purse got stolen at the Home Depot a year or so back, said they must’ve stolen her identity.

Then the FPS cop and his dog came running past and into the elevator lobby. And then the emergency siren began to shriek and I thought, Oh shit, the Rocket Man is back!

#

With the shrill emergency siren echoing through the central stairwell, employees in orange vests and hardhats herded everyone in the building down four floors of crowded steps, where they made us stand and wait while the siren continued.

Ten minutes later they sent everyone back up to their original floor with bland assurances there was nothing at all to worry about, though they didn’t say what exactly we didn’t need to worry about or why the whole four-floor migration had occurred in the first place.

Then I’m back at my computer staring at neon green numbers on the screen, my right index finger hovering over the Enter key. The office smelled like half-burnt microwave popcorn, but I didn’t mind. Hell, I practically lived on the shit, two bowls a night with twice as many beers. My dad used to get on my ass about drinking every night, but in the end not drinking hadn’t helped him any. Nothing had. No one could. My mom, well, she only seemed drunk at the end, but she didn’t need alcohol to get there. Early Alzheimer’s took care of that.

I took a look behind me to make sure TIGTA wasn’t lurking there and then I tapped my finger on the Enter key. Such a simple seeming action. Neon green letters and numbers flashed up and down the screen until finally resolving into the message: Request Completed.

I called the identity theft lady but no one answered so I left a message: “This is Officer Bonnett at the IRS. It turns out someone did use your identity to get an illegal refund. You’ll get your full paycheck from now on and you’ll get a refund of any money already taken.”

“I don’t know anything about bankruptcy,” someone said from behind me. “But that doesn’t sound like it.”

I hung up the phone and spun in my chair to find Gill standing in my cubicle entrance. “I don’t know anything about bankruptcy either,” I said. “Except for the whole Lehman Brothers bullshit.”

Gill shook his head. “You know you can’t pull up anyone on the system who isn’t assigned to you.”

“You’re not going to scare me into joining the union,” I said. “Not over this. What I did was help a taxpayer. That’s my job.”

“No, your job is to work your assigned cases. You should’ve told them to call the 800 number.”

“I did. She did. But no one helped. They were taking her money and she didn’t actually owe. She’s an innocent person caught up in IRS bureaucracy. I had to do something.”

“Did you?”

“I did the right thing. After all ‘service’ is our last name.”

“Cute, Bob. But there’s a reason it’s our last name and not our first. And don’t think TIGTA will find you as amusing as I do.”

“I’m sure they have better things to do than give me a hard time for helping innocent taxpayers.”

“TIGTA would love to catch you at this. They have quotas too, like traffic cops and meter maids. A former TIGTA agent who got sick of the games told me. They even have undercover special agents befriend employees and try to get them to do something wrong.”

Gill looked down the aisle as my new manager, Richard Lyons, walked up and said, “Good morning, Guillermo. Is my new guy keeping you from your work, whatever that is?”

“I was just talking to Bob about joining the union,” Gill said.

“He shouldn’t need that, should he? Or did he get himself into trouble already?”

Gill raised his hands and backed down the aisle. “Nothing I’d know about.”

Lyons watched Gill walk away before turning back to me. “I need to see you in my office. Right now.” He turned and marched up the aisle, clearly expecting me to follow.

#

Lyons was tall and dark and handsome and he made me nervous simply by being all those things. Throw in what had happened with Billie. And now Gill’s rant about TIGTA. When we reached his office, he waved a hand at an empty chair as he sat behind his desk.

Out the window, across the port of Oakland, the Transamerica Pyramid poked up through the fog. To the left was the airstrip on the old Alameda Naval base, where the MythBusters did some of their busting of myths. They’d probably know how to make a rocket that actually worked.

“I used to think I had a nice view,” Lyons said. “But I was about 15 feet and a quarter inch of glass away from having a rocket in my lap yesterday.”

“They know who did it?”

“All they want to know about right now is Billie. You saw what happened to her this morning. I saw you seeing it.” Then Lyons asked, “What would you do if you had to find another job. A job outside the IRS?”

I thought, is this about the stolen ID lady? The system was monitored, true, but it looked for obvious stuff like pulling up a relative, or a celebrity, stupid shit like that. Plus it was the government after all. They didn’t work that fast. “I never thought about it,” I finally said.

“You should,” Lyons said. “Unfortunately, we both might be looking for new jobs soon. You’ve heard the rumors probably?”

I’d heard plenty of rumors — hell, the IRS’s tangled grapevine twisted through the entire organization like an invasive, serpentine weed — but I didn’t want to guess which rumor Lyons might be talking about so I gave him a noncommittal shrug.

“Why’d you step down from management?” He asked.

“I didn’t enjoy it.” He nodded as though satisfied with my stock answer but I could tell he didn’t believe me. He knew there was more to it.

“Even though you’re no longer a manager,” he said, “can I still trust you not to spread this outside my office?”

“Well, sir, I’d like to say you can trust me — and you can, don’t get me wrong — but I’m not sure what we’re discussing.”

“Philadelphia,” Lyons said. “The centralization rumors. You haven’t heard? I thought someone would tell you. Seems like that’s all they talk about lately. If only they’d do some damn work, some real work, something big, then we might have a chance here.”

Lyons got up and shut the door before sitting back down. “Anyway, there’s been talk about centralizing all Insolvency operations in Philadelphia. Now, with all these budget cuts, it looks like they are going forward with that in the next year. The perception up top is the Insolvency unit doesn’t do much. We collect a lot of money, but they think all we do is file a proof of claim with the bankruptcy court and sit back as the money rolls in.”

Lyons let out a sigh. “Truth is, that perception isn’t far off. All my people but you came up from clerks and secretaries. They don’t have an investigation background. That’s why I hired you, despite what happened in your last position, because you do. You were good at this kind of stuff once. That’s why you made management so fast. I figure if we dig up some fraud and abusive tax avoidance schemes, they’ll see there is some use for keeping this office staffed.”

I almost laughed. Here I thought Lyons was going to fire me but instead he needed a bloodhound to sniff up some business to save his job.

“I’ve got one other person here who shows some potential,” Lyons said. “She doesn’t know much except for the paperwork part of the job, but she’s bright. She lacks confidence, and she’s a little distrustful toward men, but who can blame her with all she has to put up with at home.”

I held up a hand and said, “This’ll work better if I do it alone. I don’t need any help.”

Lyons shook his head. “Having one person do something isn’t going to save our jobs. Don’t worry, she’s got brains. You teach her about the scams and she’ll help you with the bankruptcy part.” He pushed a yellow “missed call” message across the desk. “I got a call from a revenue agent up in Sacramento about a possible lead. Give him a call and go talk to Laila about it. She went home sick this afternoon, but she should be back in tomorrow.”

“Laila?”

“You haven’t met her yet? Oh well, you’re a trained investigator so you’ll find her. I’ll give you a clue: good looking Indian woman.” As I headed for the door, Lyons said, “And one more thing: stay the fuck out of trouble!”

#

I met Tucker at Hog Boyz that night. It seemed like the only people older than twenty-one in the place were me and Tucker, plus the sad sack of about seventy in his usual seat in the corner, nursing his beer and staring at the TV hanging behind the bar.

“Bah-Bay! Little boy blue! Bob-a-looooooo!”

And did Tucker have to yell across the whole damn bar like he was still one of these loud-ass kids? Actually, he was the loudest of them all, and the stares of the other patrons burned into my skin as I walked to Tucker’s table. The dead animals lining the walls also stared down at me with their dead marble eyes, reminding me I was just another animal who would soon be dead too. Why the hell did they have to stare at me? I didn’t kill them.

“What the hell, Bobby? Where you been?” Tucker paused to watch a waitress walk by. With her cut-off denim shorts and her tablecloth pattern shirt tied at the sternum and pushing up her boobs, it was hard not to stare. Western boots and a cowboy hat finished off the required uniform. I took off my suit coat and draped it over a wooden stool branded with a cartoon pig-girl wearing the same uniform as the waitresses.

“Got stuck in traffic,” I said. “Damn car was overheating too. Thought it might blow up for good this time.”

“Well now you’re two beers behind, so get cracking. Trivia starts in five minutes.”

I didn’t like people waiting on me when I could do something myself, so I went up to the bar and managed to navigate back to the table without too much beer being jostled out of the pitcher. “Why the hell we have to come here all the time,” I said. “This place smells like urinal pucks and sour beer served in the primate house at the zoo.”

Tucker filled our glasses and took a gulp of beer before responding. “Bullshit, Bobby. You hate it cuz it makes you feel old. I see it on your face every time you walk in. And you know what? You are old. Thing is, it’s got nothing to do with your age.”

Tucker pointed at the TV screen, where the first trivia question showed. “Alexander the Great,” he yelled. “Hit the B button, Bobby! Hit fuckin B!”

I pushed the B button on the table-top box and said, “Alexander conquered the whole known world by the age of like thirty. I’m pushing thirty and what’ve I done?”

“Aren’t you kinda young to be having a midlife crisis?”

“I'm twenty-nine now and I don't expect to reach fifty-eight, so I'm past midlife already.”

“C’mon, Bobby. If you’re gonna be so damned worried about dying all the time, how you ever gonna focus on living? You gotta live your life, no matter how long it might be. And speaking of living, check it out. That chick over there’s smiling at me.”

A dozen or so girls stood drinking and smiling and giggling at the bar. “Whoever you’re talking about, how do you know she’s not smiling at a joke? How do you know she’s not smiling at me?”

Tucker extended his arm toward the bar. “Go ask her.”

“Fuck you. You ask her.”

“Okay, I will,” Tucker said. He walked across the bar, talked to a cute blonde for a few minutes, and came back with an impish grin, the same grin I remember from the fifth grade onward.

I just shook my head. “Why the hell do all the women swoon over that goofy-ass grin of yours?”

“Don’t worry, little buddy, your woman is out there somewhere,” Tucker said. “Someone who likes grumpy-ass old men. See you tomorrow.”

Tucker headed back to the girl, leaving me alone at a four-person table. I looked over at the old guy at the corner of the bar and grabbed my coat and headed out into the parking lot. Maybe I’d focus on living starting tomorrow. After all, I had the bankruptcy unit to save.

#

Continued . . . / Straw Man / @RoBonnett79

Faye Brinsmead@ContesdeFaye

Jul 4

neologue@neologismpoetry

Jul 3

Issue #109 out now! Featured Poet @ContesdeFaye, supported by @SpencerKMBrown, Nancy Sobanik, Marie Isabell Matthews-Schlinzig, Saad Kayani, JD Aurelius von Béres, @Kiptain62, @ChrisVola, @_thatjeffreycat, Ethan Mershon, and Alison Lubar.

neologismpoetry.com/June-2026/