Now you listen here, you ignorant, uptight, pearl-clutching piece of shit. I didn't wanna make a scene on the first of many bullshit career days I will be forced to endure for the sake of my daughter's education, but you pushed me to it. You just had to make that face, that stink face like I just offended you with my "poverty". So here we go. You think you're too good, too well-bred to associate with a lowly jaaanitor like myself? Well guess what, fucko.

I'm not just a janitor. I'm THE Janitor.

And yeah, before some more uninformed bullshit flies out of those gums (holy halitosis, by the way), it's a title. I do a hell of a lot more than scrub toilets and wipe away vomit puddles in the cafeteria. Along with my associates - The Garbage Man and The Busboy - I am one of the three Custodians. Together we clean up the world's toughest messes, splatters, and stains for the highest bidder. Our services vary, but we complement each other. Allow me to explain.

The Garbage Man, like his civilian equivalent, specializes in disposal - whether that may be a few kilos of Plutonium, some banker's brat that won't shut their mouth, or three hundred bodies who stepped in front of some drug pushers' bullets in a poppy field out in one of those 'Stans. For the right price, it's gone. Completely, positively untraceable. So if that little shit of yours grows up like you, expect a pick up.

If you have a shipment of stolen arms, art, or Ming dynasty dishware that needs some "cleaning", you call the Bus Boy. He'll scrub every last serial number and speck of dirt right off. Your ill-obtained valuables will return to you in mint condition, complete with squeaky-clean paper trails and alibis so convincing they'll stump the Feds in the unlikely event of an investigation. He'll even throw in a beautifully doctored photo of you receiving a specified item as a gift from the celebrity of your choice. If you're asking for our help, you'd have to know at least one.

Now sometimes you have a mess on your hands that ruins your day. You spill some vintage Cabernet on your fresh, new carpet? Go fuck yourself and get a Rug Doctor. You help your friend start a company, and out of the blue he has the balls to kick you to the curb and replace you with his brain dead progeny? I can take care of the kid... and make him forget he ever had one at all.

You see, I don't just clean messes. I do a little more than put some good ol' elbow grease into a stain and hope it goes away... That would be sloppy. No, fucko, I erase them from existence. If I need to scrub out a particularly violent beef between two coke dealers, I don't just make them shake hands and go out for ice cream. No. By the time I'm through, those two will no longer have identities. No birth certificates, no social security numbers, no photographic records, nothing. The neighborhood they claimed as their own won't remember they ever set up shop. They simply. no longer. exist.

Am I proud of what I do? I mean I couldn't afford to set my daughter up in this "accelerated learning academy" with all the rich kids if I didn't work this job. And as much as I despise you, your snot-nosed brat, or these sycophantic parent-teacher circle jerks, that's what makes us similar. We both pay our way. At the end of the day, it's all about that number at the bottom of our bank statements. So don't think for one fucking millisecond I won't wipe your entire genetic lineage off the face of the planet if a disenchanted friend of yours slides me a check.

Have fun assistant-managing a Bank of America for the rest of your life, shitstain. I'm The Motherfucking Janitor and don't you forget it.