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maid man

I’m on a roll!


The sound of my cellphone ringing woke me up from my fitful slumber; a regular occurrence in my line of work. I groped around beside my bed for it and answered it.


“We’ve got another job for you. 10 minutes.”


I groaned and glanced at my bedside clock. The glowing red numbers read 04:52. I stumbled out of bed and went for a quick shower. “10 minutes” meant that a car would be in front of my place in that exact amount of time, and I was to get into it. Or else.

What exactly was my line of work, you ask? Why, I was a cleaner.

But no, not that ordinary cleaner. I didn’t clean up after accidents or spills. Oh no.

You see, I work for the mob. And I had to clean up after, you guessed it, mob hits. Assassinations. Brains splattered over expensively wallpapered walls, blood-stained fur rugs, that kind of stuff. I didn’t really like it, but I didn’t have much of a choice. Besides, they paid me pretty well.

It wasn’t exactly the easiest job to get into, as one might expect. I’m pretty sure I puked during my first “job.” Who wouldn’t, really? It was some old geezer who apparently owed someone in the mob a good amount of cash and had been lying about not having any cash. Apparently they shot him with a shotgun in both legs and both arms before giving him a load of buckshot to the face. You wouldn’t really know just by looking at the body, though.

But yeah, I was never told the exact details. I just used to go in there and clean the place up. Scrub the walls, get rid of the blood and guts, re-arrange the furniture properly and so on. Sometimes I worked with two other guys, sometimes I worked alone. They usually assigned the jobs alternately to each one of us, although there were times where we had to work each and every day (or night), especially when the mob was doing some . . . ah, “spring cleaning.”


I had just finished putting my clothes on when I heard the tell-tale whistle from out front that told me my car had arrived. Haha, I sound like some bigshot, eh? “My car had arrived.” God damn.

I got into the backseat and we drove off. It was nearly always the same guy that picked me up, but I had never actually talked to him. I didn’t even know his name. His job was to pick me (and the other two guys whom I mentioned earlier) up and drop me off, and that was it. The guy probably had a day-job, come to think of it. I don’t think he even knew what it was that I did.

They operate on a need-to-know basis most of the time.

All of the time, actually.

The destination was a pretty posh mansion on the outskirts of the city. You know, that kind of place where all the rich people live. Huge swimming pools, walk-in closets, the works. I don’t know first-hand, of course. I’m just going by what I see on TV.

There were a couple of other cars parked nearby. I didn’t know it for sure, but I had a feeling that they were mob cars. The fact that they were all black, had four doors and were parked by the side of the road made them stick out like a sore thumb. After all, no-one parks on the side of the road when you have a 10-car garage. No one.

The gate was slightly open, and the front door was ajar. Nothing out of the ordinary. I stepped inside and was greeted by one of the guys. Called himself Sal.

“Up the stairs, first door on your right.”

“Okay, Sal. Thanks.”

I walked briskly towards the stairs, climbed them two at a time and entered the first door on my right. I expected a gory, grisly scene, but instead, what I got was a husband and wife bound and gagged in a darkened room.

Needless to say, I was surprised. I was about to head downstairs and ask Sal about it when, out of the shadows, three mob guys in suits and sunglasses stepped out.

“You must be wondering what’s going on here,” the first one said.

“Yes, you certainly must be,” the second continued.

“You’ve been a very loyal worker, and we would like to reward you,” the third one said.

Each of them had the grace of Hugo Weaving as Agent Smith in the Matrix films.

“In other words,” the first one continued, “you’re being promoted.”

“We know you must be getting sick of cleaning up after someone else’s handiwork,” said the second one.

I was, yeah. Pretty much.

“What’ll it be?” the third one asked, and opened up a series of briefcases, filled with all manner of projectile and melee weapons.

It took me a moment to piece it all together in my head, but then it dawned on me. I was going to be doing the actual killing!

I can’t remember what I felt exactly at that fateful moment. Perhaps I was excited. Perhaps I was scared. I’m pretty sure I pissed my pants right then and there. But I didn’t really have much of a choice. I certainly couldn’t say “no.” You never say “no.”


I could see the fear in the couple’s eyes as I looked over the tools on offer. I was spoilt for choice. I’d never killed a person then, no, but I felt as ready as I had ever felt in my life. It was my time.

It was quite a while before I could make my decision, but I finally managed to make up my mind. I went for something that was simple, trustworthy and wouldn’t leave too big of a mess. The ever-popular Colt 1911.

After all, I knew what it was like to have to clean up all the crap afterwards.

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