The Cleaner

The gleam of the pistol gave Alex an almost godlike feeling. He knew he held the power to take life in his hands. He knew he held in his hands, a device of staggering simplicity yet undeniable lethality. He was trembling.

The apartment was in bits. The walls were cracked and peeling, pipes rattled violently whenever water ran. The bed didn't even deserve such a glorious name. His so-called bed was a mattress lying on the ground; it had been thoroughly soiled and probably the former home to the addicts of modern day's vast array of chemicals. There was a single rickety wooden chair, just about ready to collapse. It was one of the very few apartments on this block that had a private bathroom. The bathroom was about the size of Alex himself. Though the toilet itself contained no water, it was full to the brim with vomit and other undesirable bodily fluids brought on by those who actually had the eloquence to use the toilet bowl, rather than the floor to expel the unwanted wastes. Used syringes lay in a corner, swept there by whatever lethargic cleaner graced this hellish dump. To top it off, a faint niggling scent of urine hung in the air.

Alex sat on the floor, cross-legged with his back lying against the wall least likely to crumble under his weight. Before him on the floor lay several tools of his trade. A blade, slightly rusted at its base and wrapped in insulating tape at its hilt, presumably to stop it from falling apart. A pistol, a Beretta to be exact, Walther PPK, and a small roll of duck tape. Various blackened rags and canisters of oil were also lying before him. The Beretta lay in three parts on the floor, its clip and its slide had been removed, allowing Alex to clean it, and the gun itself, now inoperable without the other two essential parts. In his hand he held a Walther PPK, a small pistol, easy to conceal. He had loaded the Beretta with hollow-point bullets (bullets tipped with a gas rather than a solid metal) which create a mild explosion when entering a body as the air pressure changes. He used these when he was feeling particularly morbid.

The knife stood out from the two pistols. The pistols were well maintained, clean and perfectly accurate. The blade however, had aged considerably. It was Alex's lucky knife; it was with this blade that he had made his first kill. He still remembered vividly the rush he got from driving the blade into the guy's neck. The knife was brand new then. That was seven years ago. Some Italian guy had given him fifty bucks to knife some bum who hadn't paid him some money he owed. The Italian guy's name was Leo; apparently he was a drug dealer on his way to big bucks. Alex had done a few more jobs for Leo. He had done mostly bums and other addicts who couldn't pay Leo the money. "Nobody messes with Leo", Alex had said before each kill. He'd also done a few rival dealers; Leo paid him more for them guy's, since they were more likely to have weapons themselves. Leo also gave Alex his first gun, a rusted revolver with a crooked aim.

He used it to do Leo when another dealer offered him five hundred bucks to get rid of him. It had taken two shots to kill Leo, he'd forgotten the revolver had a crooked aim, and subsequently blew Leo's ear off with his first shot. He finished him with the second though. He had become quite the killer since then. He was stealthier, more accurate, quicker. He'd also started getting bigger jobs, ranging from dealers to the drug lords themselves. And here he was now. His employer offered him twenty-five hundred to get rid of a drug lord called "Li'l Rex". He'd asked for half now, but his employer refused. He explained that it was needed to buy weapons, but he'd still refused. Alex usually would have declined the job due to this stubborn refusal, but for twenty-five hundred bucks...

Alex took a thick black cylinder from the floor. It reflected the light with an almost frightening dullness. It was a silencer; the cylinder was packed with thin metal mesh that would absorb the sound of the shot. He screwed the thick black cylinder to the tip of the Walther with a thin whine, quickly tightening it until it would no longer turn. He took a hold of the slide between his forefinger and his thumb. He drew it back with a satisfying click. He let it go, blinking as it snapped back into place. Carefully, he placed the gun on the stained brown carpet.

Taking up the insulating tape, he began to unravel a strip of black tape. He cut the tape with his teeth. The roll of tape thudded to the floor. With his free hand, he picked up the Walther and pressed it against the underside of his left forearm. He angled his arm so that the gun wouldn’t slip off. He carefully removed the duct from his teeth, trying not to let the Walther slip off it’s place. Slowly and cautiously, he wrapped the tape around the PPK, securing it to his arm. Not too tight, he wanted to be able to pull it free easily. Alex shook his arm a bit, testing the tapes holding power. It was good.

He took up the dismantled Beretta, sliding the slide into place atop the weapon, and slipping the clip into the handle. He placed this on the ground with an almost cautious motion.
He stood, reached for his dirty leather jacket and slipped it on. Bending down, he tucked the Beretta into his belt at his back, and the blade into his boot. He checked the Walther, just to make sure it was securely in place.
He stood once more, heading for the cracked door. Alex grabbed the doorknob; it turned awkwardly with a disheartening crack. He left the door open behind him. He had only rented the room as a place to prepare himself. There was no point in preparing in luxury when this place would suffice. He paced down the creaking stairs, past several waste bags and rats swimming with disease, to the main entrance. He looked back at the building, a lighted sign, reading 'Ashe Family Hotel' hung above the door, though the only functioning letters were the H and E of Ashe, the L in Family and the L again in Hotel.

Alex began to walk down the street, adorned with tramps and refuse, towards 49th Street.

Many men will die on this night.