Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I work for the cleaners, but it's not what you think

Episode Date: February 4, 2022

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responsible. The conditions apply for the cleaners, or at least I used to. You're not supposed to know what that is, and I'm not supposed to tell you. The world is filled with things that aren't supposed to happen. Yet, here we are. You probably think I'm full of shit. That's because we're really fucking good at what we do. Concealing your past isn't about hiding it. No. If you really want to keep a secret, you've got to play a Jedi mind trick so fucking well that people can hear the secret and actually believe they're choosing to reject it off their own free will. Just like you are right now.

You can sit there staring at your screen as I tell you everything, or at least as much of everything that needs to be shared in the moment. And there's not a goddamn thing I can say to make you believe the truth. You were designed that way. We're that fucking good. On January 31st, 1976, a fight broke out in a shithole bar in Phoenix, Arizona. The fight got ugly. A knife appeared from somewhere,

and a dirt bag named Ernesto got stabbed to death. We never hid that fact. Yet you were unaware of it until this moment. That knowledge has been laid out for all the world to see, which is precisely why no one noticed. You're familiar with double jeopardy, right? You can't get tried twice for the same crime, even if you react to your not guilty verdict by jumping on the table and screaming.

I skull-fucked her to death, you turd muffins. That's a problem, right? Do you really think that the U.S. government, an entity that put a magical flying machine on the goddamn moon, 66 short years after the invention of the airplane, was unable to solve said problem? How is it that drug kingpins and mob bosses don't regularly ransack nice suburban homes? If one out of 10,000 individuals was willing to reign chaos upon society, don't you realize that it would be enough to create anarchy?

Aren't you grateful for the cleaners? In 1966, the U.S. Supreme Court overturned a conviction in Miranda v. Arizona. It was no secret that Miranda, a career criminal, had kidnapped an 18-year-old girl and raped her to his heart's content. But the police had done something equally as shitty by giving the guy a get-out-of-jail-free card.

What to do? In a totally unrelated story, Ernesto Miranda spent most of the following decade behind bars, just as he had spent much of his time on earth. But when he got out again, the man dived right back into the crime that had determined the course of his entire life. That life was cut short by a mysterious knife in a seedy Phoenix bar in 1976, making everyone just a little safer. It's funny how things work out. I was driving through Hell's Kitchen in the middle of the night a couple of years back.

Tim sat in the passenger seat. He was a quiet fellow. You know that building dates back to 1913? I asked him casually. There's a lot of history in this neighborhood. Yep. Used to be extremely dangerous, even by New York standards. There was a time, a few years back,

when I'd never drive through here at this time of night, not a chance. The air was cool, and my hand was hanging outside of the window. Not even in my 1999 Toyota Corolla. I patted the exterior door. Still, I make sure to stay safe by driving the Blue Beast. Both flashy cars and extremely shitty ones attract attention. But this? This car is a wallflower.

I looked over at Tim and smiled. And you know that wallflowers have the most poisonous blossoms. I pulled my unassuming car into an unassuming lot next to a very boring warehouse. I got out, opened Tim's door, unbuckled his seatbelt, and wrapped my arms around his chest. No one noticed me as I dragged him from the car and into the nearly abandoned building. Tim didn't speak a word of protest

as I helped him into the polyethylene drum. My butthole puckered just by getting near the damn sulfuric acid, but he didn't even twitch. I sighed behind him. Bye, Tim. Thanks for listening. Sorry you were such a piece of shit. His left eye sizzling. as the acid rolled over it, then melted like an ice cube before slipping deep into his skull.

It was completely gone before the unblinking right eye was even touched by the stuff. In the moment before his head melted, it almost looked like he was winging at me. No one came looking for Tim. And in a story that I assure you is totally unrelated, experts continued to be shocked by ever-dwindling crime rates in New York City. Like most people, I rarely used to question my own morality. After all, no one could ever raise two armies to fight each other if both sides spent much time considering who was objectively right. We think that our actions are justified because we do them, and not vice versa.

I didn't question why I needed to clean. I just picked up the paper files. I worked, and a sack of cash would be waiting in a drab looking back within the hour. Considering that I had a choice was discomforting, so I decided not to consider it. It's really fucking hard to deal with how deep I'd gotten into case 1913 before I finally stopped to think. I found myself in the apartment, watching her, as though I had arrived by magic. There was no thinking before that juncture. I had been led by routine.

I watched Mildred Cunningham, 82 years old, shuffle from her. kitchen to the living room so that she could rest. Nothing more. She just needed to sit down. I stared. The choke cord was dangling from my fingers. A nine millimeter sat heavily in my pocket, and I was totally obscured in her broom closet. That's when I wondered, why? Why am I about to take the last couple of years from someone who wants nothing more than a quiet place to sit and rest? Mildred sat and breathed and nothing more. It was the saddest thing I think I'd ever seen. I walked out of the closet, gave her a smile and a nod, and disappeared out the door.

She smiled vaguely back. It's amazing what you can convince people as normal when you act like there's nothing wrong. Fear galvanizes some of us and cripples others. You can't ever know how you'll react, because most people never taste fear in its rawest form. That kind of terror drenches every thought, every moment, every sense. It enhances the moment in a thousand unpredictable ways. The only assurance is that it cannot be ignored. You can't just walk away from being a cleaner.

I will always be one, which isn't entirely a bad thing. The first men were set to intercept me as I exited the building. They waited for an hour before realizing I'd given them the slip. They found me in Schenectady. I was hiding under Whipple Bridge, my Glock, sitting nearby, and a bottle of Mr. Daniels in my hand. The first one had snatched my Glock away before I could turn to face him. You look like a hobo, Agent Kew, he sneered. I expected more.

The observation was efficient. Young, maybe 21, eager to prove himself, standing off to the side so that I wouldn't turn 180 degrees around. He didn't even look down at my pistol as he aimed it at me. He didn't give the bottle of Jack a second glance. I looked devastated. I knew this because I could see it reflecting in his eyes. He didn't look anywhere but at me.

I've cultivated this look through meticulous forethought, I sighed, brushing some of the the dust off my trench coat. How many assignments have been illegitimate? I asked miserably. Illigitimate? He shot back. You killed people for a living agent. Whatever lies you told yourself have become your truth.

I stared down at the bottle. I've been able to convince myself of the best lies I've ever written. I sighed. But Dolores about to do something that can never be undone. I glanced back up at him. You're going to do it with my own Glock? I leaned away as he took a step closer. I watched where his eyes didn't look.

What would you tell someone just before they shuffle off their mortal coil? I've always had so many questions I wasn't allowed to ask. He squeezed the trigger as my heart raced in fear. My Glock exploded as I spun around and splashed the contents of my bottle into the face of the man who had been hiding behind me. He screamed as the liquid coated his stupe. He was too distracted to stop me from leaping back to use him as a human shield. I assumed the first man wouldn't dare shoot at his friend while sulfuric acid was melting off his face.

But it turns out the first man was a shitty friend. I ducked in behind the face-melter as he screamed inches from my ear, stealing the glock he was hiding in his waistband. He was hard to use as a human shield, because he was jittering all around, and globs of unholy skin and sulfuric acid goop were flying out. that Goop were flying every which way, but I held him just steady enough to get five seconds of human shield use out of him. You set me up with a gun ready to explode, you piece of shit?

The first man screamed as he produced a second gun and aimed it at me. My human shield screamed louder as blood exploded from his leg. You shot your dying friend in the knee, and I'm the piece of shit? Pop, pop, pop, how'd you know we were coming for you? This douche nozzle was not focused on the task at hand. I threw the bottle high into the air. He looked up for half a second. I pushed his bleeding friend away from me and shot into the air.

The acid bottle exploded just above the first man's head. Oh, did he scream? In response to your earlier question, I heaved, I'm very good at what I do. The local police initially figured that it was either gang violence or a domestic dispute. When the hobo in the dirty trench coat approached them to offer his eyewitness account, They dismissed him. Serious police work has no time for raving schizophrenics.

I turned away from the two men I'd killed as the cops shoot me from the scene. I'm good in a pinch and objectively better than they were that day. I believe I still am. I've tricked myself into believing that fact just strongly enough to make it true. But the past never goes away, any more than the back of your skull disappears because you can't see it. I've always dealt in fear, sure that I was in control of my drug. That's the kind of self-assurance that keeps people from realizing how much trouble they're in

until it's far too late. Now I need that drug to keep me alive. My circulatory system pumps a continuous stream of fear through every part of me. And that's the only reason I'm still alive. That's how this whole shit show began. It's not the reason that's the reason that I'm still alive. And so many people died, but it's the reason those particular people died. My name used to be Agent Q, but now I'm nobody at all.