Paul Smith may be the most uninteresting cleaner of all. A pencil pusher and office jockey, Paul lived his workaholic days in the comfort of his morning and evening commute. His eyes loved to flutter one way and another watching the green grass and green trees. He loved the idea of being a mountain man. Splitting wood and burning it in the open air, inhaling deep the mountain air with freshly made coffee. His log cabin behind him and a pop up tent village next to him full of unknown people all raving that the government was after their thoughts. 

The fantasy was ruined in that instance as the bus drove by a hobo town and everyone there was dirty and unkempt. All protecting their trash and each one claiming that they were better than the rest. Paul was disgusted by these people that asked for money anywhere they went and refused to work and contribute to society. These were people that only survived because they didn’t have the decency to roll over and die.

It may have been this line of thought that forced Paul’s hand to do what he did. He skipped out on work for this singular day. Instead of going to work as he should have, he went to his local sports authority and picked up a 9mm automatic pistol, something he had seen in the movies. He got ammo and two extra magazines. He also had a thought on how to get rid of the pop up tent city. He stopped by a liquor store and picked up a bottle of vodka. He went to a gas station and found some rags and a small zippo lighter.

This was his moment. With his gun loaded and the spare mags ready to go, Paul went back to where it all began. Three times he was accosted on the road by people that asked for any spare bills that Paul may have had. He gave each of them 75 cents, and the sound of their gratitude rang clear through the streets.

He walked back to the tent city that had disrupted his fantasy. He stuffed the rag in the bottle and lit the rag and tossed it into the middle of the tents. As he had expected, flames burst forth and like rats in the sewer, the homeless people scattered. The fire roared and with every person he saw, he shot. He felt like it was his purpose to cleanse the world of the filth that the bums made. Tents erupted one after another and then the grass nearby, a dead tree began to burn and soon, very quickly a house caught fire and next a neighborhood.

Paul saw his mistake but soon reveled in it. His laughter could be heard over the fire and the fire trucks that soon came. The policeman that tried to approach him was gunned down. Paul’s laughter was crazy and nonsensical. Soon he was bent double with laughter and gasping for air. It was nearly poetic that he was shot six times by other police officers. Paul Smith died and his home was burned down in the fire.