Kapitel 63: Chapter 63: Residents and Police Officers
A street sweeper, as the name suggests, is a professional role that refers to urban sanitation workers responsible for cleaning and collecting trash and transporting it to designated collection points.
However, in some less reputable corners, there is a group of people who also call themselves street sweepers.
These street sweepers of a different kind, however, are responsible for a more unconventional type of cleaning – even cleaning up crime scenes for assassins, erasing evidence, and removing obstacles.
They often receive a considerable fee from assassins or bounty hunters.
Recalling the phone call introduced by the fearsome assassin, York reached for his cell phone and dialed a number.
"Hello, Old Boys Cleaning Service, what do you need cleaned?"
York glanced at the dirt at the door. He was unfamiliar with the world of assassins and unsure how to express himself - whether to mention the body directly or use some other euphemism.
After some thought, York calmly said,
"Animal organs and some humanoid flesh, uh, and rotting tomatoes, yes, lots of ketchup..."
"Hmm?"
Clearly, York's words momentarily puzzled the receptionist at Old Boys Cleaning Service.
York's brow furrowed slightly, doubt creeping in about the company's professionalism.
Fortunately, the receptionist quickly responded, "Alright, sir, can I have your address?"
York's expression softened as he gave his address and confirmed the location,
"...Pluto Church..."
"Pluto Church? Alright, sir, our cleaning crew will be there shortly. Please wait, and thank you for calling."
Hanging up, York felt relieved, but the thought of the furniture inside still made him rub his face in distress.
"Ah, I need to close tomorrow and go out to shop."
Just then, hurried footsteps sounded, more chaotic and frantic than before.
York's heart stirred, but he didn't reach for the SHAK-12 beside him. Instead, he looked toward the doorway about ten meters away.
After seven or eight seconds, exclamations arose.
"My God! What happened here?"
"..."
A group of armed people appeared at the door – old, middle-aged, and young men, each holding their own shotguns and rifles, rushing in with anxious expressions upon seeing the blood and dirt spilling outside.
"Is Father York alright?"
"..."
As their worried remarks fell, they suddenly saw a tall priest in robes sitting on the steps, smiling at them.
"Father York?" They were all dumbfounded, faces filled with confusion.
"Yes, good evening, everyone."
Seeing these people in their pajamas, ready for action, and their anxious faces, a warmth filled York's heart.
These were mostly residents near the church. Even without his past life's perspective, just the fact that he, as a priest, had prompted armed American citizens to come to his aid was quite an achievement.
"Huh?"
The crowd, momentarily stunned, hurriedly put away their guns, as if firearms were a sin in the priest's presence.
"Father York, are you alright?"
The leader, an elderly man with a classic cowboy demeanor, didn't even question the unrecognizable corpses on the ground, instead first inquiring about York's well-being.
York shook his head, smiling. "Mr. Woodrow, I'm fine. Thank you for your concern."
Looking around at everyone, making eye contact, York spoke earnestly.
"Thank you all for coming. Pluto Church will forever remember this night when brave souls faced danger for its sake..."
The words were exaggerated but heartfelt. The faithful crowd exchanged glances, their eyes shining with pride as if they had truly defended something significant.
"Father, you're too kind." The leader, Woodrow, clenched his shotgun tightly, coughed to draw attention to the mess and corpses at the entrance, showing no concern for the reasons behind it.
"Do... do you need our help with this?"
York continued to shake his head, saying gently, "I've already called a cleaning company."
Understanding the American way, the crowd nodded, with Woodrow looking surprised but accepting.
"Alright, then shall we leave?"
"Yes." York smiled and made the sign of the cross.
"Good night, everyone. May the Lord be with you."
The crowd responded in kind,
"Good night, Father."
"..."
Watching Mr. Woodrow and his group leave, York reflected on the events, feeling a touch of emotion.
He was appreciative and would remember their actions.
But it wasn't just about Mr. Woodrow and his group. Soon after their departure, the glaring lights and sirens of police cars appeared.
York squinted at the distant red and blue lights, not panicked.
This was typical in America; whenever something happened, civilians would call 911 after ensuring their safety.
For Woodrow and his group to come armed was unusual and, in a way, a testament to York's effectiveness as a priest.
"Lord, please remember my labor!"
Murmuring to himself, York walked towards the door. As he reached it, three police cars had already parked across the street, with officers emerging in bulletproof vests, pistols, and even two holding rifles – a full complement of standard police gear.
What surprised York was that the group was led by familiar faces – Officers Beck and Jeffrey...
"Be alert! Stay safe!"
Jeffrey, taking charge, signaled his team to advance towards the church.
His expression was serious, but he didn't believe the priest would be in danger. A man who could face demons would be more than a match for mere mortals.
He was very clear-headed.
As expected, the robed priest was already standing at the church door waiting for them.
"Stop!"
Jeffrey made an instant decision to halt.
His fellow officers exchanged glances, understanding the situation as they saw the priest, and stopped.
"Beck."
Jeffrey signaled to Beck to take charge here.
Beck nodded in understanding.
Seeing this, Jeffrey holstered his Glock 19 and approached the priest...
"Officer Jeffrey?"
Watching the entire scene, York greeted Jeffrey with a calm smile as he approached.
"Why are you here?"
Given Jeffrey's responsibilities, he should have been in downtown New York, not in the suburbs.
Jeffrey glanced at the blood and remains by the door, avoiding questions about it, and broached another subject.
"Uh... Father York, I've taken over Chief Boris's position."
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