Forms — Buy W2

Arthur slumped against a display of staplers. "Is there nowhere else? A hidden stash? A back room? I’ll pay double."

"W2s," Arthur wheezed. "I need to buy W2 forms. Laser printer compatible. My employees... they need their copies. I need my copies. The government needs everyone's copies."

Arthur was a man of systems, but this year, the system had failed him. His printer, a temperamental beast from 2014, had chewed through his last batch of W2 forms like a hungry goat. Now, with the IRS deadline looming like a guillotine, he was on a desperate pilgrimage. He reached Aisle 4: . buy w2 forms

He fell asleep at his desk, his forehead resting on a pile of 1099s, dreaming of a world where everything was digital and the ink never ran dry.

He drove home in a trance, burst through his front door, and bypassed his sleeping wife to reach his home office. He didn't trust the printer anymore. He sat down with a fine-tipped black pen. He would hand-write them if he had to. Arthur slumped against a display of staplers

Kyle looked at Arthur—really looked at him—and saw the face of a man who hadn't slept since the fiscal year ended. He leaned in close. "Look, we’re out of the retail packs. But the manager keeps a 'damaged' box in the loading bay. Usually, it's just the outer plastic that’s ripped. Follow me."

Arthur fumbled for his wallet, handed over a twenty, and clutched the forms to his chest as if they were original Da Vinci sketches. He ran to his car, the cool night air hitting his face. A back room

Arthur jumped. Standing at the end of the aisle was a teenager named Kyle, whose nametag was pinned precariously to a vest covered in snack crumbs.