"CLEANING"

The Cruiser Inn motel, a community favorite budget hotel in Del Mar. It's the choice spot for drug deals or horizontal refreshments. Guests may catch something staying here, be it from the bed bugs or escorts, but you stay here to avoid catching a case, not for luxury. Thirty dollars a night is cheap for criminal's insurance.

It's morning, approaching noon. The sun bakes the single-story building's cracked walls and peeling baby blue paint. A maid is doing the rounds on a few rooms. Inside one, a vacuum cleaner is loudly sucking away, worked by a gray-skinned iguana. The machine is scuffed and yellowed. The iguana stands the vacuum upright next to the door, and flicks the switch underneath its handle to power it off. She picks up the device and carries it towards the door. Though, rounding the corner, she very nearly bumps into an arriving guest.

"Excuse me, miss." The guest says to the startled iguana before squeezing himself and his duffle bag past the maid's cart. He's a pine marten, with dark brown fur and a tan patch marking his neck, though the woman would only recognize him as a weasel and nothing more specific. Most Americans don't know what the hell a pine marten is, anyway. For a moment, the maid wonders why a weasel with a British accent is staying at the motel, but she's seen plenty of odd individuals staying at this place. The pine marten continues down the walkway, stopping at a room further down, and the maid resumes her work as if nothing had happened.

The pine marten now stands before Room 10, and is faced with the challenge of getting past the locked door. Luckily, the nice mouse at the front desk has lent him a key for this exact purpose. He retrieves the key - which is attached to a tag displaying the number ten - and inserts it into the door's lock. Turning the key, it unlocks the mechanism with a click. Funny how that works. The man twists the knob and swings the door open. It's freshly cleaned, though there's only so much you can do to clean a place like this. Water-damaged ceiling tiles, stains on the curtains, cracks in the drywall. I hate American motels, he thinks. This is only the second he's stayed at, and it's even worse than the one on the East Coast. He tries not to think about all the hoochies who have wrestled men in the bed, or the bed bug habitat living in the mattress. He's only here for the night.

He sets his duffle bag on the bed. Then he mulls it over and snatches it back up. Now he lowers it to the floor. Then he halts. He decides to place it on the dresser, next to the tiny television. I thought everything was bigger in America. Texas, actually, but that doesn't occur to the man. California is close enough to a Brit like him. The weasel zips the bag open, revealing its contents. Inside is a small amount of clothes, a long object wrapped in cloth, an olive-colored pouch, all topped off with a passport and folded map. He packed light so he can stay on the move. Everything else he brought is on him. His wallet, a letter, Pall Mall cigs, and a Ronson lighter. There is, however, one item on his person he procured in America, hidden underneath his cargo pants in his ankle holster. A Colt All American 9mm. It's trash. Rubbish. He should have known better and bought the Glock instead, but he sees it all as cheap plastic toys. Sitting at home back in Birmingham, under the floorboards of his flat, is his old Walther. A real gun.

Enough thinking about guns, it's time to clean one now. The man pulls the long object and pouch from his bag before sitting down on the bed. Beside him, he places the pouch and unwraps the other object. The cloth gives way to a Carcano short rifle - the very same his grandfather looted from a dead Italian in World War Two. British soldiers weren't allowed to bring home weapons like the Americans were, but this one's the exception. As he was told, his grandfather was the best in his squad, and his grandfather loved this rifle. So much, in fact, he wanted to bring it home, and it just so happened that his commanding officer was owed a favor by General Montgomery himself. His request to bring the rifle home was approved by Montgomery, which resulted in Churchill sending a hand-written letter allowing for possession of the rifle by him and his family. That letter sits in his pocket. The weasel's felt like a real tough bloke whenever he got the chance to flash it.

He's getting lost in his thoughts again. The man switches on the television, for background noise, and opens the pouch. It contains a rifle cleaning kit, including rags, a screwdriver, brushes, and a container of gun oil. The screen in front of him shows some news lady explaining the weather. The Carcano laying on his lap is an easy one to clean, and it needs just that. It's got dusty soil in it from previous test firing. He starts by removing the bolt and begins wiping down the rifle's internals. He needs to make sure to get the firearm completely dry. Greasing up your rifle helps it run, of course, but in the desert it only acts as a magnet for dust. It may be rough on the gun to run it dry, but enough dust sticking to it's insides will cause it to fail. The cleaning process is interrupted by a loud noise from the TV. He looks up. News Bulletin, it reads. Some politician must have looked bad during their last rally. The man changes the channel and looks back down at his rifle.

"-authorities are warning the suspects are still at large. We will have more details as they are made available. Again, for those just tuning in, an armed robbery occurred on a van leaving Palm Springs this morning." Says the newsman. The weasel stops cleaning his rifle and looks up at the screen. "No suspects have been identified. According to eyewitnesses, anywhere from three to five suspects could be involved. All are believed to be armed." Continuing to watch the broadcast, the man sets his rifle aside. Someone else beat him to it.