The voice on the radio told her to do it. Told her to take the gun to the room on the second floor where the man with the plastic hand lived. He’s an evil magician, the voice told her. He does dark deeds in the dark of night.
She was a superstitious woman. Her grandmother, a devout Catholic, had told her terrifying tales of the demons that inhabited living men. Especially men like the man with the plastic hand. Men who lived alone in cheap motels. Men who drank alcohol straight out of the bottle. Men who expected women to do their laundry. Men who paid women to dance. Men like her father.
It’s your duty, the voice said, to take action against filth. So she let herself into his apartment. She took her cleaning equipment straight into the bathroom. The man with the plastic hand only allowed her to sanitise his nest once a week. It always stank of stale cigarettes, unwashed laundry and rotting food. She grabbed a cloth from her cleaning kit and wiped down the lone chair in the room. Then she fetched the bible from the drawer next to the bed. She sat down on the chair to wait for him, bible in one hand, gun in the other.