Jesus died for my sins and I drank some beer. Sunday mornings; I can’t be bothered to give one half-digested shit to be perfectly honest. I feel the tip of my cigarette slowly moisten at the touch of my lips as I inhale (sweet nicotine, my one true love, never leave me) deeply. My lungs are a clogged chimney and I relish that fact as I exhale. “Time to get to work.”, Zeek, my partner, slurs through the vapors of last night’s bender (Tequila Nights at the Cinco de Mayo cantina is always a terrible and a great idea). “No rest for the wicked, and we’re all out of aspirins too.”, I shoot back and Zeeke just gives me a you’re-so-fucking-hilarious-at-5AM look as we step out of the hovervan with our repogloves. The slight hissing of acid rain greets us while we make our way to the client’s apartment building. Ex-client would be more accurate since he stopped paying his monthly fee; that’s when they call me and Zeek to get back whats the company’s. In the end, you don’t skip on paying, it’s just good for your credit line, or health. A blues version of ‘La Cucaracha’ plays when I press the buzzer to apartment 11, cute. Zeek is less than impressed, “Goddamn it, this guy’s already going to make a lot of noise as soon as we collect, I don’t need this shit; head hurts.” An electric hum, a flash of blue and the buzzer’s fried alongside with the door’s lock. “You know they’re going to dock that out of your pay, right? No public property collateral.”, I always have to remind him twice per job, surprised he hasn’t brought down a building yet. “They can add it to my tab.”, one swift kick and he turns the front door into kindling. Sunday mornings, gotta love them. “Guys, guys, as I told your customer service rep -who happens to be an asshole, for the record-, I don’t have the cash right now, but in a week’s time I will have more than enough to pay what I owe plus interest!”, he smiled at us like he was sharing some juicy gossip; they always try to stall and weasel out of us collecting. It gets old real quickly. The sound of teeth shattering into pieces is one that I never get tired of hearing. It’s sort of an odd crunching sound, usually mixed with the wet noise of spit and blood, mostly from the poor bastard whose jaw just got punched. Zeek was done listening, but the other guy wasn’t done talking, though we could not understand everything, “Mogguerfuscher, you broke mah teefh! Dag fuggin hurtsh!” “Mr. De Salmo, my partner is a man of few words and no manners, but the reality of the situation is that you have not paid your dues. They don’t call us to negotiate with the clients. We only come to collect. That, as they say, is that.”, the guy just lay on the ground where Zeek had floored him, blood dribbling from his now-swollen mouth, a face of shock on his face. Poor bastard, but we had a job to do. “No, no, u canf, waiff! I’ll haff da moguey for neff weeg, pleash!”, he was on tears, I’m surprised he hadn’t pissed himself yet. I looked at Zeek and nodded. He slowly walked over to the man with his arms stretched and the palms of his hands pointing straight at the man, his repogloves had begun their work, shinning blue as energy coursed through them; De Salmo began to scream. A deep electrical hum filled the room and made me grit my teeth (never liked that noise), then a blinding blue flash mingled with De Salmo’s screams. When I opened my eyes all that was left was De Salmo’s dried up body, now looking like a mummy who had been dressed with a sleeveless undershirt and some stripped boxers. “Got his soul in storage?”, Zeek showed me the back of his glove and I saw the SOUL COMPARTMENTS legend with six lights that were red, a seventh was an emerald green. Guy was in the bag. “Well, that’s that then. Want to get some breakfast, Zeek?”, he grunted, “Fucking Sunday mornings.”. I hear that.