Cleanup in the Food Court
by Josh Vogt
Assassins don’t like quitters. So it came as no surprise when I detected three of them stalking my morning rounds. This career change from death-for-hire to mall janitor meant a significant pay cut, but gave me a peace of mind my former associates could never understand.
A few mall walkers and store managers clicked their heels over the tiled floors, but otherwise I was alone with the jackals.
I pushed my mop and squeaky-wheeled cart to the food court, then grabbed a spray bottle and rag and stepped onto the escalator to the second floor.
One shadow detached from his hiding place and followed me up. I looked back to see him raise a silenced pistol. He didn’t notice the razorwire I had stretched across the handrails until too late.
The legs somehow remained standing for a few seconds after the upper body was sheared away.
A second figure waited at the top, blade in hand. I hit him with a squirt from the bottle. He fell to his knees, clawing at his bubbling, melting face.
The last hunter emerged from behind a column and struck a martial pose. I dropped the bottle and threw the rag into the air. His gaze flicked between them, long enough for me snatch up some cutlery left on a nearby table.
Who knew a spork could be fatal? My third assailant toppled, nerve-dead before he hit the floor.
I retrieved my cart to clean up the mess.
After all, I’m just a janitor.