Maluck sat in his car, turning the completely normal-looking penny over in his fingers.
‘Why the hell was this thing worth so much?’
He had seen glowing antiques, rare collectibles, and high-end appliances thanks to the Appraiser’s Lens.
But this?
This was just a 1982 Canadian penny.
Nothing fancy. No weird markings. No gold inlay. Just a boring-ass piece of copper.
But if the Lens had glowed hard, that made this thing special.
He pulled out his phone and started searching.
And that’s when he found it.
The Holy Grail of Pennies
In 1982, the Royal Canadian Mint was transitioning from 95% copper pennies to cheaper zinc-core ones.
Most of the new batch weighed 2.5 grams instead of the older 3.56 grams.
But somewhere, due to a minting error, a handful of the older copper pennies were struck with the new design.
How many exist?
Maybe three.
Last auction price?
Over $100,000.
Maluck stared at the penny.
‘No. Freaking. Way.’
The collector—a guy who clearly prided himself on knowing rare comics—had no idea his breakfast change was worth six figures.
That’s a lot of maple syrup!
Maluck let out a slow, satisfied breath.
“A penny for your thoughts? Mine are worth a hundred grand.”
He grinned.
Tonight?
He was celebrating.
***
Maluck sat in his car, staring at the check for $200,000 and the small, completely unremarkable penny that was somehow worth another $100,000 sitting in his palm. He had just turned an old comic book he bought for a buck, into more money than most people made in years.
This was awesome.
This was also a problem.
Maluck wasn’t an idiot. The tax man was a greedy, relentless bastard. And he had no intention of handing over half his winnings to the government just because they asked nicely. But how the hell was he going to explain hundreds of thousands of dollars suddenly appearing in his bank account?
Not reporting it? That was a one-way ticket to an audit.
And knowing his catastrophic luck, his auditor wouldn’t just be some regular tax agent. No, it would be the kind of guy who lived for this. Some CRA desk jockey who jacked off to tax codes and spent his evenings watching documentaries about financial fraud.
Yeah. No thanks.
That’s when it hit him.
A company.
Rich people didn’t pay taxes the same way normal people did. They moved their money through businesses, investments, and bullshit expenses that got written off as “business costs.”
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
Maluck grinned. He made a plan.
Step One: Create a company. Something generic and official-sounding, like “Maluck Holdings Inc.”
Step Two: Start “investing” in lottery tickets, collectibles, and casino runs—but now it was a business strategy.
Step Three: Write off every ridiculous thing he could think of as a “business expense.”
Flights to Vegas? Research trips.
Fancy hotel stays? Necessary for networking.
Buying high-end suits? “Professional image investment.”
Hell, even dinners with Chloe? Client meetings.
And best of all? Corporate tax rates were way lower than personal ones.
Maluck could pay himself a small salary, keep the rest inside the business, and avoid getting taxed into oblivion.
It was genius.
Of course, he had no idea how to actually do this.
Which meant he needed an accountant—preferably one with loose morals and a burning hatred for the government that rivaled his own.
Pulling out his phone, he opened up Sam’s List and, without much thought, typed out:
“Hiring an accountant that hates the government.”
Not surprisingly, nothing came up.
What did come up, however, were responses. A lot of them. None helpful. All mocking.
“Bro, just commit tax fraud like a normal person.”
“Did you try asking the CRA directly? Maybe they have a ‘Corrupt Accountants R Us’ department.”
“LMAO this guy thinks illegal accountants browse Sam’s List like it’s a used car dealership.”
Okay. Maybe he needed to be a little more subtle.
This time, he took his ad to a few different spots including finance forum, an encrypted chat group that he’d been invited to months ago, and even LinkedOut—the slightly more professional, yet equally soul-sucking version of social networking.
His new post read:
“Seeking an experienced tax strategist. Must be well-versed in deductions, loopholes, and creative financial solutions.”
Much better. Less blatant. More sophisticated.
Still, no response.
But at least less mockery.
[System Response] You’re finally thinking like a winner. Keep stacking that cash.
[System Task Issued] Find an accountant who can bend those tax rules so hard they squeak.
System Bonus: To be determined based on how much money you save and how little the government gets.
Warning: There’s a fine line between tax optimization and tax evasion. Make sure your guy isn’t dumb enough to get you audited… or worse.
Hint: The richer someone is, the less taxes they pay. Find out how they do it.
Maluck smirked.
Hell yes. Time to get rich and stay rich.
***
Maluck looked down at the check in his hand, then immediately pulled up his stat sheet.
Bad Luck Points: 42.
“Ugh,” he groaned. “That’s way too high.”
Forty-two BP wasn’t just flirting with disaster—it was straight-up making bedroom eyes at catastrophe. He could practically feel the universe sharpening a banana peel and setting up a series of unfortunate events just for him.
Nope. Not today.
He immediately activated the Fortune Tuner, ignoring the ka-ching of 25 Luck Points vanishing from his total.
His BP dropped from 42 to 0, and the were converted into 21 fresh, delicious Luck Points.
Was it a perfect exchange rate? No.
Did he lose out on this deal? Yes.
Was it way better than getting hit by a runaway ice cream truck or spontaneously having tinder from a smoker’s cigarette set his cheque on fire?
Absolutely.
With that out of the way, he took another look at his check. $200,000, crisp and clean. A beautiful sight.
Now all that was left was figuring out how to keep as much of it out of the government’s greedy little hands.
Which meant…
It was time to complete that System Task:
Find an accountant that will bend those tax rules so hard they squeak.
***
Maluck leaned back, cracked his knuckles, and burned all of his remaining LP on the Probability Charm.
What did he want? The best accountant.
Not just someone good at their job—he needed a financial sorcerer, someone who could make $200,000 of questionable income disappear faster than his dignity on an ice patch.
The charm activated, working its magic somewhere out in the universe.
Meanwhile, across Calgary…
Soi Sommer stormed out of the Canada Revenue Agency office, still gripping his box of belongings like it had personally insulted his mother.
He wasn’t fired for incompetence—oh no, he was the best damn accountant in that office.
His crime? Pissing off his boss.
More specifically, his boss’s girlfriend had made a pass at him during a company dinner. Soi, being a man of integrity (and also not wanting to possibly get herpes, she had some very sketchy cold sores), had politely turned her down.
She, being a vengeful harpy in designer heels, had spun the story differently.
This plus the fact that the same boss hated the fact that Soi was actually better at his job than he was had resulted in Soi being suddenly “habitually late” and was given a choice: take a demotion to junior tax auditor or resign.
Yeah. Like hell he was gonna take that.
Soi refused to go down quietly. He was a numbers god, a tax wizard, a financial war criminal in the making.
He just needed a new job.
Pulling out his phone, he started scrolling through SkewSearch, looking at job postings.
Most of them were boring, legal, and completely underwhelming.
Then, one listing stood out:
“Seeking an experienced tax strategist. Must be well-versed in deductions, loopholes, and creative financial solutions.”
Soi blinked. That was oddly specific.
He clicked on it.
The listing was… short. Almost suspiciously so.
No company name. No credentials required. Just a phone number.
This was definitely code for “I hate taxes & the government.”
‘Hey, that’s me perfectly,’ Soi thought.
Without a second thought, he dialed the number.
***
