THE CLEANERS

For another life’s end, another life goes on. This was Garcian Lovelace’s philosophy, a way to excuse himself and absolve himself of the guilt that was permeating in his mind. The tall, dark-skinned gentleman was in the nicotine-laced laundromat, crouched upon the floor. He looked closely, inspecting the cleaner as it spun around his clothing from the previous day, a handgun on the top of the machine, the gun being juggled ever-so slightly by the machine's loud, ever-powerful cycle. Behind him was his close associate and workmate, Greg Anderson, the ‘yin’ to his ‘yang’. The two were ‘cleaners’, a duo of assassins in the underbelly of the city. Garcian thought back to earlier in the morning, as his mind drifted away.

“So, Garcian, my friend. I heard you got yourself in quite the mess as of late,” Greg said, chuckling, tapping his foot as he watched Garcian’s eyes gaze upon the cleaner.

“Don’t worry. Cleaning is just a part of the job; there’s no need to worry about me,” Garcian said, frowning at Greg, before standing, pointing at the cleaner. “What does this machine and I have in common, Greg?”

“You both clean up messes?” Greg mused jokingly, clearly enjoying this question.

“Yes, my compatriot. This machine does what I do daily.” Garcian then heard a gentle jingle, signaling that the washing machine had finished its cycle for the clothing inside. Garcian then turns back to the machine and pulls out his clothes. They were casual clothes, a stark contrast to the suit he was currently wearing. It made Garcian stand out—but then again, so did Greg, with him also wearing a similar suit. They stared at one another, Greg still tapping his foot, knowing full well that Garcian couldn’t get away from the deaths that loomed over the atmosphere, haunting him like a ghost of vengeance.

“Hmm, you know… I think you have a point about cleaning. A great one, at that,” Greg said and then laughed, his emotions managing to keep him grounded in the face of somebody who couldn’t face him properly. “But let me guess, Garcian. You’re too scared to admit you murder for money. You only do it for that reason alone, yet you forget that the reality of the situation is much more in your favor.”

“You’re getting on my nerves, Greg. I suggest you stop getting ahead of yourself.” Greg then finally turned, placing his clothes on top of the washer.

“For an assassin, you’re quite the reserved gentleman,” Greg muses as he walks toward Garcian. Greg scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Just what is going on in your mind?”

“You really wanna know? You’re just a sociopath with a gun. Just like the rest,” Garcian said, sneering afterward. “Sorry to say, but our perspectives differ greatly, and you just happen to disregard everything I stand for.”

“Oh, poor Garcian, you really don’t get it, do you? You and I, we just serve a simple purpose in the grander scheme of the underworld. Don’t you realize it, Garcian? Where is your place, truly?” Greg then got into Garcian’s face, a twisted grin on his face, as if he enjoyed seeing Garcian’s interpersonal suffering. “You’re just a poor, sad, strange little creature who acts on impulse and emotion. You don’t need that, Garcian. You need me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Greg. Horribly wrong.” Garcian then suddenly pulled a dagger from his suit pocket and gutted Greg with all his might, as if Greg were some paltry fish being given its last rites. Greg gasped and coughed, stumbling back and falling over onto his side, immediately seeing how this was going to go down. “I don’t need you, not one bit.”

“Y-you think this will solve anything?! They’ll have your head for killing me,” Greg said weakly, coughing blood slowly oozing from his mouth as he looked up from his prone position, his stomach clenched. The wound was a problem for Greg, as he found it increasingly difficult to stand. Before he knew it, however, Garcian walked to the washer, grabbing his handgun from the top of it. “You know how our boss is. You’ll learn to regret this.” Greg continued, clearly trying to talk his way out of the situation, just like every other time he was in this situation. Little did he know, he had run the patience of a man who had no mercy left to give, a stark difference from the ‘gentleman’ he knew. The mask had slipped, revealing Garcian’s inner motivations of revenge and hatred. His disposal of Greg was only the first step of his inevitable warpath.

“Sure. Let’s suppose they find you. But let me ask. How will they find me if your body’s stuck in a lonely laundromat? I’d say it’s a fitting final resting place for someone like you,” Garcian said with a slight frown, clearly not in the mood, as if he were dreading this. “I do apologize for this, though. I don’t mean to take more lives than necessary, but you know how I am. Sometimes, a killer has to kill to survive." This would be the last thing that Greg heard from Garcian’s lips before the gun was fired, setting the soul of Greg Anderson free to the underworld, a new kind of underworld, where the pits of despair await him. Garcian’s redemption, much like the path he laid out before, was coated, if not utterly smeared in blood and guts, Greg’s twisted words ringing true to Garcian’s plight as a killer and a thrill-seeker, as Garcian realized how far he was willing to go, just to be set free from his chains. A perpetual cycle of violence to never be stopped, Garcian found himself in the pits of a metaphorical hellscape, never to escape, just like the wash cycle of a laundromat.

Anthony Brideson hails from North Port, Florida, originally from New Jersey. Studying creative writing at Full Sail University. Outside of writing, Anthony spends his time analyzing fiction in various kinds of media, but also enjoys various hobbies, such as video games and anime.