Superclean
Caitlin Teasdale

It was a slow day at the Superclean when the Golden Weasel walked in. I had heard his name mentioned by my regulars. He was new in town, and he kept showing up at my clients’ places of business and making them look like idiots. He didn’t have a nametag or anything, but I knew exactly who he was as soon as his grimy knee-high moonboots crossed the linoleum threshold.
He was as sleazy as the name suggests, with long urine-yellow hair pulled back in a greasy ponytail. His eyes were small, rodent-like, and spaced too far apart on his sweaty face. He was almost too skinny, like he lived on cheese and small mice and the putrid air of the sewers.
I didn’t like him. But, I wasn’t paid to like customers. I put on my best shit-eating grin.
“Welcome to the Superclean! We keep your outfits cleaner than the streets! We also do design, alterations, and tailoring.”
He stopped in the doorway and looked at me with his little brown eyes. I noticed he had a small bit of goatee stuck to his chin, like a piece of brown lint. He set down the dirty brown duffel bag he brought with him.
I realized I didn’t look very professional. If the rumors were true, he was from Illectra City. He probably expected me to wear a suit and power pumps and have hair dyed a multitude of expensive colors. I probably fell short of his expectations: baggy shirt, jeans, and Mary Jane shoes. My hair wasn’t even an interesting shade of brown.
When he spoke, it was a little surprising. I would have pegged his voice on being deep and drawling, the kind that leaves you with goosebumps and the need to take a decontamination shower. Instead, he sounded like a regular guy, if a little heavy on the baritone. Dare I say, a little on the sexy side?
“Is this the right place? I was referred here by...a friend. I was told names weren’t necessary.” He pulled out a business card from his back pocket and handed it to me between two fingers. It was a Superclean business card, but there was a stamp on the back: a double ‘P,’ colored in bright magenta. Wow. I mean, it was a regular referral, but I wouldn’t have suspected this guy to run in the same circles as the Pink Poodle. She was one of my higher-class clients.
“Trust me, sir, the only name you need disclose is the one the city knows you by. Secrecy is almost as important to us as clean uniforms. I’m the owner, but you can call me The Cleaner.” I offered my hand instinctively, but automatically regretted it once his grimy hand came in contact with my palm. Ugh. As the name suggests, I’m kind of a neat freak. Common courtesy kept me from reaching for the sanitizer.
He smiled, and his teeth were impossibly white. He was a walking contradiction.
“I’m the Golden Weasel. I was wondering if you could assist me. I recently ran into a bit of trouble, and my costume has fallen in disrepair.” He opened up the duffel bag at his feet and withdrew the dirtiest piece of ugly polyester I had ever seen. He held it up by the shoulders and handed it to me.
As per protocol, I reached for my elbow-length rubber gloves. As soon as I was safe (you never know what type of radioactive byproduct superheroes these days get themselves in contact with), I held his uniform up for inspection.
Whoever designed it clearly had no knowledge of color theory. I would have expected it to be a nice Golden color (which his name implies) or at least a jewel tone. Instead, it was a drab grey color with...oh, my spandex...brown suede elbow pads. I carefully hung the monstrosity up on our Pending Rack. Then I reached under the counter and pulled out The Book. When The Book hit the counter, the table shook. If there had been any dust (which, of course, there wasn’t), it would have puffed out in clouds.
I turned the book towards him and opened it. Then I gave him a look.
“Is that seriously what you wear in public? I’ve seen grandmothers dressed better.”
His brow furrowed. He opened his mouth, but before he spoke, I pointed to a full-color glossy photo on the page. It was his friend, the Pink Poodle.
“I’ve designed suits for some of the greatest heroes in this city. Pink Poodle, to name one. You think anyone else could hand-stitch twenty thousand Swavaroski crystals to pink pleather in such a design?” I turned the page. “Here, The Great White : that lab coat of his is a pure white synthetic blend coated in a stain-resistant polyurethane that I designed specifically for my clients.
“This city is full of well-dressed Supers, and all of them have appeared at least once on the front page of the local newspaper purely because they look good—always—on camera. And you walk into my establishment with a costume that looks like it was made by a color-blind gym teacher and expect me to merely clean it? Honey, you’re lucky I don’t burn it out of spite.” I slammed the book in his face. He jumped.
“Um,” he looked at his pathetic costume, and back to me. “Can you make me something better?”
“That’s what I’m talking about. Now, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to take this out back and kill it with fire, and you’re going to get behind that curtain and take off any articles of clothing that you aren’t planning on wearing under your suit. Then I’m going to come back and take your measurements and your description of talents necessary to create a fully-functional suit. When I am done, you can pick up your commission in three days with a check for $300, more if you’re able, I won’t complain.
“Until that time, I need you to do one thing. No questions, no objections. I cannot stress how important this is to our business relationship.” I paused, for effect. In this business, you learn the effectiveness of a dramatic pause.
The Golden Weasel nodded, mutely. He had a lot to learn about this city if a Cleaner like me could shock him to silence.
“I need you to go home, wherever that is, and take the longest shower you’ve ever taken, until you’re so clean you sparkle. I don’t do business with people who smell like toe fungus. Deal?”
He squeaked out, “Yes, ma’am.”
I nodded, pointed him to the curtain, and picked up his “costume” in my gloved hand. This piece of work had a date with the incinerator out back. I smiled as politely as I could manage while my newest client shuffled off towards the changing area.
“We here at Superclean thank you for your business!”