The Cleaning of Mr. Key

A Submission For Fictionistas May Flashy Fiction

It wasn’t Henry’s place to question.

He was, by all accounts, a trusted soldier for the association. A gatekeeper tasked with maintaining a solemn oath. No one batted an eye when he took his seat at the table. The fortune that was promised to this class was as much his as it was any of the other gatekeepers positioned around the circular desk.

But they were all mistaken.

He was an imposter, a poser. Someone not worthy of their affection.

He had broken their trust before they had even sealed his initiation.

The day’s meeting was to welcome a newcomer to their fold. Someone not ingrained into their ways. A ceremony seldom engaged. It usually took a two-thirds majority of the council to allow access to the conclave. 

Mr. Key, as he was to be known, achieved it with the recommendation of only one.

The slite would not go unnoticed, but it was not Henry’s place to question.

“Mister Insider! How lovely that our eyes meet once more,” said Mr. Craft.

How concerning it was for Henry to be handed a pseudonym that spelled out the obvious. A clue to his true identity. They found him intriguing, but they could not place exactly why.

“Craft,” Henry replied with a nod.

Nothing more was uttered. The attendees took their seats in prompt fashion.

Henry held his breath as he attempted to convince himself of his worth amongst the brotherhood. For this wasn’t just a meeting of Hollywood’s elite, of which he was very much an established elder. Rather, It was a gathering of the world’s leading assassins, tasked with keeping the balance between the democratically elected and those who reigned according to a parallel rule.

Henry was an assassin. He had killed for this committee.

First and foremost, however, he was an agent of justice. A decade had passed since the establishment of his mission, which was to infiltrate, monitor, and report any and all activities of the council to the authorities - in the name of justice. The agencies that still stood for the rule of law.

In that sense, despite his Academy Award, his vast fortune, his fame and status, his wealthy estate. When the good Lord came to collect Henry’s soul, he would be able to say, hand on heart, that he was a judicial detective.

It did not take long for a period of silence to fall when Mr. Bouncer arose to order. His towering frame befitting his moniker.

“I call this meeting of elite cleaners in the name of our forefathers.”

“Here, here.” A collective response ended the formalities.

“Brothers, we have a new recruit. We are gathered today to initiate this man into our fold and allow him access to our wealth. This man will be intricate in pushing our council into the next generation of those who will carry on our destructive legacy. He is the key to our survival… And so it is my submission that this man hereby be referred to as Mister Key.”

The conclave clapped enthusiastically as the twenty-something curly-haired heart-throb rose from his chair. Henry had seen his latest cinematic release. It was good, not great. Hardly a precedent-setting performance. Certainly, not one to allow early access on the recommendation of one councilor. 

It was not Henry’s place to ask questions.

“Brothers,” the boy began with both hands raised in praise.

“I have long been a fan of you all, and I know the rules. Forgive me, we are not to acknowledge our achievements outside of this room. But I have borne witness to your unique talents and expansive catalogues and I am in awe of each and every one of you.”

Once more, the room applauded his sentiments.

“But as I say, I know the rules,” He continued. “I am very familiar with the rules. A member cannot join the conclave without a two-thirds vote.”

The newcomer kicked away his chair and paced the room, circling the brotherhood like a vulture.

“I have a confession, this is not an initiating ceremony.”

The conclave looked amongst one another. The surprise was not welcomed.

“This is a gathering to flush out a mole. Now, I know that none of us are who we say we are. That’s the rule in a place like this, as I mentioned before, I know the rules.”

Henry felt a sear of pain shoot up his jaw, a result of his over-compensating clench.

“But one of us isn’t just who he says he is… That person is, in fact, acting against our better interests.”

On this sentence, Mr. Key stood still directly behind Henry’s chair. He placed his hands on Henry’s shoulders.

“Brothers, I thank you for your indulgence. But I must ask that we relieve a member of their duty before I ask for a two-thirds vote from you all.”

The boy patronizingly massaged Henry’s shoulders.

For Henry, it all manifested internally. 

His first kill. 

The mourning.

The sickness at having to court the friendship of these monsters.

The inability to look in the mirror.

All put in jeopardy on the word of an untalented twerp who hadn’t spent more than six months in the industry.

Henry stood.

“Take your hands off me,” he demanded. The boy did as was told.

“Brothers, we have all devoted our lives to this council. We have all made sacrifices for the honor of sitting in these seats. This conclave has survived hundreds of years of tradition. Are we all saying, on this day - whatever the date today is - that we are happy to let this Dirk Diggler walk in and upend our table?!”

Henry’s voice rose to crescendo. 

It was met immediately by a loud crack from a weapon hidden in the shadows behind the conclave. The smoke was visible amongst the lamps as Mr. Clean emerged. He was the only table member not seated.

“He knew the rules. He didn’t have two-thirds majority… and no one asked me to vote.”

He holstered his weapon and returned to the shadow.

Henry heard Mr. Key’s body slide down the wall behind him as he sat.

He realized, very quickly, that that was his first address to the council in over a decade. His first since initiation. He didn’t like to cause a fuss or draw any unnecessary attention to himself. 

He never did find out why Mr. Clean acted as hastily as he did to take care of Mr. Key. 

It wasn’t Henry’s place to ask questions.