The New Cleaner

PROMPT: PRIM AND PROPER ENGLISH KIKI FINDING WORK IN AMERICA
DEADLINE: MAY 21

	A man, and a feathered, dog-eared woman are having a chat in a dark corner of a bar.
	“So, you're interested in being a Cleaner.”
	“Yes. I saw your ad online. Shame it was buried under so much fluff.”
	“Our customers prefer that we remain discreet. This isn't something you can use to make a name for yourself. It's a private, no-strings-attached service, and it ends when you leave the scene.”
	“If it's discretion that you want, I can handle that. No one will even know I was there.”
	“Excellent. And your tools?”
	“Right here.”
	The dog-eared woman pulls out a number of utensils from the pocket of her apron: dusters, gloves, dust pans, cans of compressed air, travel bottles of window cleaner, rubbing alcohol and multi-surface cleaner, microfiber cloths, a small handheld vacuum cleaner, and an energy shot.
	The man raises his scarred brow. “That's quite the kit.”
	“I have more at home, but these are my emergency tools.”
	“I can appreciate someone who knows how to carry for travel, but you don't seem to understand where you're working.” The man chuckles, sliding a small, metallic object across the table. “You're in America. Expect the unexpected.”
	The woman takes the hunk of metal, and examines it closely. The feel and weight were unfamiliar, but the image is unmistakable. “Is this a gun?”
	“Hey, don't mock it just 'cuz it's small. That's a thirty-two. The NAA Guardian, to be precise.”
	“Is it really that dangerous out here?”
	“This is the land of opportunity. There's plenty to go around, and people will take it whenever they get it, even at the expense of others.”
	“I guess that makes sense...” She trails off, gawking quizzically at the pistol. “So, do I need a license for this?”
	“That's debatable. Do the job right, and you'll never need one.”
	“What about training?”
	The man takes the gun back, pulls the slide back, and cocks the gun with a satisfying click. “If they get close, you point, then pull the trigger. Maybe someday I'll have time to show you a thing or two, but for now, that's all you need.”
	“Alright.” She murmurs as she nervously takes the gun back from the man, and slides it into the pocket of her apron, along with the rest of her tools. “So, am I hired.”
	“Well, I did give you a firearm.”
	“So, what now?”
	“Wait for it.”
	A waiter approaches the table with a platter of onion rings. After setting the food down, he looks suspiciously toward the dog-eared woman. “Enjoy your meal.”
	As the waiter walks away, the man pulls a small slip of paper out from within the greasy pile of fried onions, and reads it. He then pulls out his phone, and types something out, before sliding it over to the woman. The phone displays the image of a young man, no older than his mid twenties.
	“Looks like you're lucky. This guy looks like he'll be an easy clean.”
	“What's his name?”
	“You don't need to know. What you do need to know is his address, right here.” He swipes the image up to reveal an address, alongside a bulky chunk of text:

		CLEANING REQUESTED BY FORMER GIRLFRIEND. MOTIVE: RECENT BREAK-UP,
		SUSPECTED ADULTERY. CURRENTLY UNEMPLOYED. THREAT LEVEL GREEN.
		 PAYMENT UPON DELIVERY OF PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE. COMMISSION
		UPON COMMITTMENT: $500. COMMISSION UPON COMPLETION: $22,500.

	“Requested by former girlfriend? Suspected adultery?”
	“Pretty common.”
	“How strange.”
	“How so?”
	“Cleaning for an adulterer? I'd much rather clean while he's still, y'know, faithful.”
	“And here I thought a Brit could never scare me.”
	For a moment, the woman was confused by his reply, but figured it was merely an expression, and carried on. “I guess I'll be off, then.”
	“Good luck.”

	The woman takes her leave from the bar, and hails a cab. After giving the driver her target's address, the car begins its slow roll down the busy streets of Monstergirl City, USA.
	“You from the UK?” The cab driver asks spontaneously.
	“I guess the accent gave it away?” The woman smirks.
	“Liverpool, right?” The driver takes a sip from a large styrofoam cup. “My wife's from there, too.”
	“Oh, what a coincidence.” She giggled. “I came down here to look for a job.”
	“Did you find one?”
	“Why, yes. I'm working with a group of cleaners now. Told me to take care of an adulterer.”
	The driver suddenly tenses up, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the veins in his knuckles began to bulge. “A cleaner, huh? A cleaning Kikimora. Man, that's funny. No offense.”
	“None taken. I do wonder why that's funny, though.”
	Sweat was beginning to fall from the driver's forehead, and into his eyes.“Well, Kikis are like, maids, right?”
	“Of course. We make exceptional servants, and excellent cleaners. Wouldn't you agree?”
	“Y-yeah.”
	“So, would you mind explaining why the joke was funny? I'm afraid the differences in colloquial are puzzling me.”
	By now, the driver was shivering in a pool of his own sweat, his hands squeaking as they slipped across the wheel. His eyes were trembling, and bloodshot. “W-well, I, uh... never mind.”
	“Is everything alright?”
	“Oh, yeah, absolutely ma'am. Anyway, we're here.”
	“That was fast. Thank you for your service. How much do I owe you?”
	“Oh, nothin'! Not a thing! First ride's always free!”
	“Really? Thank you so much!”
	The Kikimora leaves the cab, and it speeds off back into traffic. She looks a little ways down the street, and recognizes one of the buildings at a nearby intersection. Her target was well within walking distance. It was rather foolish to hail a cab. Then again, she didn't really have a map, or even a working cell phone.
	Keeping the embarrassment in the back of her mind, she made her way up to the door, and knocked.
	And knocked.
	Rang the doorbell a few times, too.
	But alas, there was no answer. At risk of being rude, she tried the door knob. The door was already unlocked.
	“Hello? I've come to clean. Your ex sent me.” She calls out to the dark, dry hallway.
	Assuming that no one was home, she made her way inside. There were take-out boxes and bottles of cheap liquor strewn about the floor. Dust speckled everything, even the litter. The whole place reeked of cooking oil and booze. It was easily the worst mess she had ever seen, and this was only the living room. She sighed, and began by picking up the refuse that  was beginning to stain the beige carpets. It all smelled cheap, and loaded with preservatives. And it was always these styrofoam trays, never a plate or bowl, or even silverware. He hadn't had a home-cooked meal in weeks.
	The beverages were almost entirely 40 ounce bottles of inexpensive malt liquor, sometimes not even completely finished. There was no air freshener in the world that could rid the carpet of the thick stench of alcoholic fermentation.
	Three trash bags later, she was finally ready to dust and vacuum. She flipped the switch to her trusty handheld vacuum, only to have it briefly roar and shut off on its own immediately after.
	“A power outage?” She muttered to herself.
	Suddenly, she heard someone groaning from another room.
	Her posture suddenly tightened up. “Hello?”
	Another groan, although more this time it was more pronounced. It was coming from a small room to the side of a hallway in the back. Nervous, she pulled the pistol out from the pocket of her apron, and approached the hallway.
	“Are you the owner of this house?”
	“...Patty...”
	“Actually, my name is Tabitha. I was sent here to clean this house. Are you the owner?”
	“Patty, is that you?”
	“I've already told you, my name is Tab-”
	“Oh, thank God... thank God... I'm so sorry...”
	“It's nothing, really. Just doing my job. Can I come in?”
	“I thought you were gone for good... I'm so sorry...”
	Tabitha pushes the door inward, revealing a man sobbing on the floor next to a bed and a large pool of vomit. She set her pistol down, and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Are you ok? Do you have a phone? We need to call an ambulance.”
	The man looks over her face with his glazed-over eyes, smiling. “Patty, it really is you... I'd recognize that blonde hair anywhere. I'm so sorry.”
	“I've told you already, I'm not Patty!”
	“I know you probably hate my guts right now. That's fine, really. I've really done it this time. But, I never told you everything.”
	“Now's not the time to feel guilt, you idiot! We need to get you to a hospital!”
	“Just, hear me out, okay? It's the least I can do.”
	Tabitha, sensing that he wasn't on the precipice of death, composed herself. “Alright. Go ahead and get it off your chest. But, we need to get you to a hospital afterward.”
	“That's fine. Patty, Izzy is dead.”
	“Izzy?”
	“Long time friend. He pulled me out of a tough spot. We haven't been talking much since, but he'd been on my mind.”
	“What happened?”
	“Heart attack. He'd been showing signs of it for a while. But, I thought he was healthy enough to get through it. We all did. So, we just kept moving along, without a second thought. Then, it happened, all while he was out on vacation. He sat in the hospital for weeks, before his family pulled the plug. I started thinking about everything he did for me, and how I wasn't even there to be there for him when he was on his last legs. I kept telling myself that he'd be back, that this was just another part of his crazy story. When I heard the news of his death, I broke down. I realized just how little I had followed his example. I'd always been struggling, even after everything he did for me. I was taking better care of myself, but I still needed everyone else around me, supporting me all of the time, all because I was too damn scared to handle my own damn problems. So, I pushed everyone away. I got lonely, real lonely. I started falling back into the same pattern I was in years ago. I knew what drinking did to me, so I pushed you away, too. I didn't want you to see this side of me. You probably thought I was seeing someone else. But, I was right here, all this time, trying to drink myself into a coma.”
	Tabitha could feel the anger welling up within her. She bit her lip. “Is this what Izzy would want? For you to die like this?”
	“Probably not. But, it doesn't matter. We're not going to the same place. So, it's better this way. Everyone else has already gone, Patty. You should do the same. I'd rather die alone.”
	Tabitha struck him across the cheek. It took a moment for the hit to register with the man's conscience.
	“...Patty?”
	“If you're going to die, then die. Don't make such a scene of it. But, if you don't realize how much your friends cared, how much they wanted you to live...” She struck him a second time. “You even pushed them away, all because you wanted to die guilt-free. Because it was easier than trying to climb back out of the hole you were in, huh?”
	“...I'm sorry.”
	“No, you're not! Even now, you probably want to die. But you don't even realize what that will do to your friends, do you? The burden you feel for Izzy right now, they're all feeling it too. Imagine the weight on their shoulders when they find out they couldn't even save you. Then what? What will you do to atone for that? Do you really think they'll ever forgive you? I lost a friend to that same selfish line of thinking, years ago. I'll never get to know if they even felt better for it. I'll never have closure, or a chance to say I'm sorry. Is that really fair?”
	The man remained silent.
	“If you really care about everyone else, about Patty, about Izzy, you'll tell me where your phone is, so I can stop you from making the worst mistake of your bloody life.”
	“The...bathroom.” The man falls unconscious, but his breathing was steady and low.
	After gently setting him down, Tabitha runs into the bathroom, and finds a smartphone. She places an emergency call to the 911 service.

	The man wakes up in a hospital, next to a blonde, dog-eared woman. “Who are you?” he asks with all the clarity of an amnesiac.
	“My name is Tabitha. I'm going to be working as your maid from now on.”
	“Thanks, but I don't have any money.”
	Tabitha glances at her cell phone. “Don't worry. Someone else already paid for it. But, I do need a place to stay. May I use your guest bedroom?”
	“Uhh, sure.”
	“Excellent. One more thing.”
	“Yes?”
	“You'll need to change your name...”

	A few hours earlier, beneath a boxing gym, a grizzled old man with a massive, jagged scar on the right side of his forehead is speaking with a middle-aged woman.
	“So, he's dead?” The woman asks.
	“Of course. She made quick work of him.” The scarred man smirks, handing her a manila folder. “Even sent the photos from his phone.”
	The woman opens the folder, and peers through the contents. “How gruesome. It's hard to believe this was discreet.”
	“Oh, believe me, it was. She did a real good job of cleaning up afterward.”
	“And the body?”
	“Atlantic stew. The chunks have probably been swallowed up by catfish by now.”
	“Serves him right.”
	“So, are you gonna pony up or what?”
	“Don't worry, I've got the money right here.” The woman sighs, throwing a small plastic trash bag onto the table, filled with hundred dollar bills.
	“Alright, that's that then. Pleasure doing business with you.”
	The woman stands up silently, and walks away. The man pulls out his cell phone, and starts fiddling with it.

		THIS IS THE CLEANERS. YOUR COMMISSION WILL BE DELIVERED TONIGHT
		HOWEVER, DUE TO CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING YOUR LAST MISSION,
		WE WILL NO LONGER SEEK YOUR SERVICES. YOUR CLEANER ID HAS BEEN
		TERMINATED.

		With all that said, I wish you the best of luck with him. He could really use
		a gal like you. Make sure to change his name, though. I don't want this to
		come back to me.

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