He was walking down the side of the gravel road, barefoot as usual. At 5' 10” he wasn't particularly tall, and at 148 lbs., he was fairly skinny. His dark hair was cut short and his skin is weathered by many long days out in nature. His well-worn boots were hanging by their tied laces over his shoulder along with his bright blue day pack and gold pan; his ensemble was completed by a light gray windbreaker, long sleeved shirt and denim jeans.

  The black sedan following him down the road was a minor annoyance, but as he was going to head away from the road and deeper into the wild in a few more yards, he decided to have pity on the G Men following him. He stopped, turned around and waited expectantly.

  The car stopped about 15' away and two men dressed in almost identical black suits stepped out into the crisp northern Arizona air. “Good morning Mr. Wilson, how are you this fine day?” the one on the right asked as he slowly advanced.

  “I've told you before not to call me by that name, Johan.” He responded.

  “Well, be that as it may, we at the Meta-human Enforcement Division have been instructed to be as specific as possible. I will, of course, make another note in your file.”

  “What brings you to MY little patch of paradise today?”

  “Well, aside from the bi-monthly check in, the IRS has been asking questions about your taxes again. Apparently, they have a new supervisor in the Meta division. He won’t leave well enough alone.” Said Johan, shaking his head.

  “And what does that mean for me?”

  “It means that we have to serve you papers and escort you down to Flagstaff for questioning. Please don't cause them trouble. Our agents are just trying to do their job.” Johan replied.

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  “Want to give me a ride home first? Or do we need to leave now?”

  “You still live on the way, so sure.”

  Three hours later, dressed in several thousands of dollars’ worth of business attire, Mr. Gregory “The Prospector” Wilson, former hedge fund owner and manager, was seated across a table from a shrewd looking MIRS agent.

  “So, Mr. Wilson, according to our records, even though you own 2,000 acres of prime resource rich land, have very expensive tastes, and reside in a luxury home, you claim that you don't have to pay taxes?” Agent Renalds asked.

  “Yup.”

  “You realize that we, and by we, I mean the MIRS, can seize all of your property, items, and home. Leaving you destitute, homeless, and penniless?”

  “Yup.”

  “And all you are going to say is 'Yup'?” Agent Renalds looked angry.

  “Yup.”

  “Fine! You are here by under arrest for tax evasion, conspiracy to commit fraud, and...”

  The door to the interview room opened, and 3 individuals entered. One, wearing an expensive looking suit and wearing a nearly shark grin, easily identified as a lawyer from Dewy, Cheatum, and Howe. The second wearing full combat dress and looking like what he was, a soldier. The third also wore a military uniform, with the bars and stars of a three-star general.

  The lawyer started, “Agent Renalds, on behalf of the United States, the US Military, and several unnamed government entities, you are here by ordered to cease and desist Mr. Wilson, AKA The Prospector, are hereby ordered to cease all conversation with the agent.” All while smiling politely, and dropping a folder in front of Renalds.

  “W, what are you doing!” Agent Renalds began. “I am interviewing a suspect in a tax evasion and conspiracy case! You can't just barge in here!”

  The general shook his head, “Actually we can, and are. Look at the documents. Then you will apologize to Mr. Wilson, and never speak of this again.”

  Agent Renalds looked at the documents. The folder was marked “Classified”. He read. He read more. His eyes bulged. He looked at Prospector. He looked at the papers. He looked back at Prospector.

  “You? You did this?!?”

  “Yup.”

  “...My humblest and most sincere apologies, Mr. Prospector, sir. I will make sure you are left alone for as long as I am in charge of my office.” Agent Renalds fled.

  “That's what, the third director I've had to deal with? Why can’t they keep the same one when administrations change?” Prospector asked.

  General McCalister, shaking his head, “I don't know. Probably something about politics.”

  The Prospector shrugged, “You guys want to go for burgers? My treat.”