Night. Stars dot the skyline, illuminating it however faintly with the warmth and brightness that only a long dead corpse can provide. Hundreds of thousands of light years away, exploding, growing so bright, and then dying out forever. With only a whimper, a weak last hurrah if you could even call it that. Though it's at night when I see things the clearest. It's at night when the Lord calls upon me to do his work. And like any devout man, I aim to please. Anything else just wouldn't be worth the effort. Oh, and the effort's always there; for if I didn't take pride in this endeavor, if I didn't put forth my full effort, how could I ever call myself a good man? He calls out to me in his time of need, He needs me to carry out his will, and every single time He does, I'm right there to answer him. To carry it out. To make sure His will be done.

My hands are steady underneath the nearly transparent latex gloves that help shelter me in a blanket of anonymity, a necessary precaution when you're in the business of cleaning up the Earth and giving sinners their all expense paid, one way ticket back to whatever twisted realm of oblivion spawned them with heresy in their hearts and blasphemy on their tongues. How I'd love to rip these gloves off; to really feel the divine instruments that aid me in the task of draining sinners of the lives they don't deserve to have, but alas I must keep them on. Though I do the greater good, dispense the truest of justice, look after the needs of the mightiest being in all of existence, most will still see me as some kind of monster. As if I'm on the level of the scum I scrub off the face of the earth. It's a thankless job, and even though the ignorance of the masses ensures I'll always have to hide out in the shadows, I cannot think of a more fulfilling life for me to lead. I can go home and sleep soundly at night, knowing that I'm in the right. Never having to question myself the way so many others have to on a daily basis.

Pressed against the wall of the apartment of my newest target, I hold my breath hostage, air ready to escape but trapped behind my teeth. I don't make a sound, not wise to startle them so soon, especially when the best part of the night has yet to even begin. Oh, but it will. And in that intimate moment, when the Lord looks down on me with a smile and the blood flows like boxed wine down the back of a vagrant's throat, when His will is done, my trial passed with flying colors (or color; red), I'll find peace. For tonight, that is.

My gloved hands open and close rapidly, the frantic, manic urge growing inside of me, bellowing like a wolf howling at the moon. The same urge that forces me to leave place of hiding for only a moment, to peek out around the corner and check on my target; the next soul to feel the full fury of the Lord channeled through my pious hands. Good. He's seated on the couch of his main room, back to me, eyes straight ahead and focused on the TV tuned into some NewsCorp station that recycles the exact same lines as all the others and masquerades like its giving an original perspective, as opposed to the corporate owned views being preached in actuality. Sheep, he is. A heretic sheep, requiring a baptism by fire; to have his blood cleansed through its spilling. Though they'd be reluctant to admit it, those whose lives my Lord places in my hands are lucky. Through my actions, they come closer to salvation than they ever would have alone.

My target, Christopher Ramos; a well built man whose upper body is almost entirely covered in various tattoos, shifts into a sitting position on the couch and presses a button on his remote control to increase the TV's volume. Excellent. The droning voice of the insipid, incompetent reporter regurgitating rubbish information makes my skin crawl, and drives me towards clutching onto my tool belt tightly. I can't stand too much more of the stalk; the wait is over.

With a deep breath, I pivot around the wall, hand closed tightly around my belt to keep from giving myself away with rustling. Short, trudging, creeping steps bring me from my hiding place behind the wall to behind the couch, while bent knees and a bowed head assure me that my shadow doesn't poke into his line of sight. I stop, crouched, directly behind the soda and my target, but touching neither. Sifting through the compartments of my belt, careful not to make a sound, I pull out a rag and a half full container of chloroform. Steadily, I pour out the liquid onto the rag, figuring the more the better, before inching closer to the sofa, raising my arm, and jamming the soaked rag into Ramos' face. He struggles at first, thrashing and clawing at my arm. Soon however, the fight ceases as he drifts off into unconsciousness, affording me enough time to prepare.

Chuckling, I strafe around the sofa until I'm on the other side, inbetween the couch and a coffee table and looking down at Ramos' slumped over body. Reaching into another compartment, I pull out a roll of duct tape and tear a large strip off, sticking it over his lips and cheeks. Next, I take out a length of nylon rope, and, pulling both of Ramos' arms up so that they rest on his chest, tie his wirsts together and knot the rope tight. So tight that I think I may be cutting off circulation. Oh well, not like he needs it.

The preparation needn't take much longer. Soon he'll be facing the Lord's wrath and he'll crumble before His might. I know it. Looking back down at Ramos' body, I see he's already in good position. To complete the pre-salvation ritual, I pull his legs out so that they lay straight, hanging off the armrest on the other side of the couch. Then, I grab the instrument that strikes my arbitrary fancy; a three pound miniature sledgehammer, and slap him hard in the face with my free hand.

He comes to, groggily for a moment before realizing the situation he's found himself in and ripping violently, fully awake. He tries to sit up, but my free hand presses down on his throat and keeps him pinned. I raise the hammer above my head, and aim for his nose before slamming it down with as much force as I can muster. Crack! That's the sound of Ramos' nose flattening into his skull. A thick stream of dark, deep red glorious blood pours from what's left of his nose down his face as his eyes bulge wildly, almost out of his skull.

"Mister Ramos," I say, in my most collected voice, as if I were conducting small talk with a lifelong friend. "Do you acknowledge your sins?"

A look of confusion crosses his blood soaked face as he glares up at me, wondering how many screws are loose in my head. He'd be surprised to find the answer's none, and that I'm only performing the Lord's will. They always are when I tell them. When I decide to tell them, that is. I don't think I'm going to afford Mister Ramos the luxury. Something tells me he'll only abuse the privilege. Speaking of him, he shakes his head - no. Of course. I sigh, line up my strike, and drop the hammer down across his face once more. Crunch! There goes his facial bones. Now his skin sags, sinking into the pits left behind by the shattered bits of his cheekbones. The blood that hasn't escaped down his throat pools up in the pits of broken, tenderized flesh.

"Do you acknowledge your sins, Mister Ramos?"

He nods - yes. Of course he does, even though I know he has no idea what he's supposed to be, what was the word I used for it? Acknowledge. That's it! He nods yes, ignorant of what he's saying yes to. I smile, a sincere grin before clearing my throat.

"Do you repent? Do you beg the Lord's forgiveness?"

Again he nods. Furiously. I look up to the ceiling, to the heavens. Nothing. No sign. I look back down to Ramos.

"Sorry," I say, raising the hammer again. "You turn a blind eye to Him in life; He turns a blind eye to you in death. Welcome to Hell."

And I drop the hammer one final time. Like an encore of sorts. Squick!

There go his brains. And there goes the gnawing, primal urge. Washed clean as I snuffed out the life of another sinner. Again, His will is done. And for now, I am at peace.

So, not bothering to clean up any bit of the body, I make my way out of Ramos' apartment the same way I came in; through his bedroom window.

Another perfect getaway.

***

Darkness. Pitch blackness. Not even the light of the stars shine through the thick curtains that covered Luca's windows, not that he wanted it to. No, he was fast asleep; the first real sleep he had in days, be it through the aid of sleeping pills and just a dash of alcohol. Health factors weren't as important to him as getting some fucking rest. So, when his obnoxious, blaring ringtone began to reverberate throughout his apartment, bringing him out of the drug induced slumber, he rubbed his eyes with middle fingers, silently cursing the name of whoever sought fit to call them at this hour, though there was no way they could know that. Lazily, he let his hand flop down on the his nightstand, in the general direction of the phone's shining light. After a series of failed attempts at grabbing the phone, his hand drops right down atop it and he snatches it up in his shaky hand. Flipping the thing open, he presses the receiver up to his ear and groggily mumbles to whomever was on the other end:

"What the fuck?"

"Ah, Luca," came the Organizer's calm, albeit authoritative voice on the other end of the line. "Glad to see you're awake."

"I wouldn't fuckin' be if you didn't call so cut the shit and get on with it."

"Very well. We found another body."

"Fuckin' A. That's the third one this month. Who?"

"Ramos. At his apartment."

"Ah, shit."

"We'd like you here right away."

"Of course you would. Lemme get in the shower and I'll be over."

He didn't wait to see if that was okay with his de facto boss before hanging up the phone, forcing himself out of bed, and down the hall towards the bathroom. It would have to be, he reasoned. And as he made his way towards the shower, he couldn't help but wonder who it was picking off his colleagues.

Though, part of him didn't really want to find out.