"Excuse me," piped up the lanky taxman, "is there an actual person living in this house?"
"I'm the resident," growled Charlene, the cigarette smoke thick against her lips. She was on her tenth stogie of the day, and the arrival of this bureaucratic bastard on her property was not a welcome sight.
The tax collector stared almost ominously at Charlene, then at her dilapidated home. What it lacked in aesthetics, she thought, it made up for in personality.