The sewermen versus the assassins

The sewermens guild hadn't become the most powerful professional organization in the city by giving up. They had won over the city a shithole at a time, house by house, block by block, sewer by sewer. They had taken care of dead dogs and cows when they didn't need to, they had gotten rid of unexplained bags with strange protrusions without as much as raising eyebrows. They had cleaned up the city, turned that cesspit that had been compared to the deepest stinkiest pits of hell to a metropolis that knew how to take care of its waste. The drains were a revolution, trade had taken off, inward pilgrimages were off the roof, children could play in public without the fear of contracting deadly diseases. They had cleared the swamp.

So when the assassins claimed the helm of the body running the city, they were quite pissed. Offing a man wasn't hard, any sewerman worth his salt could punch the living lights out of any man or woman. Let those throat-cutters carry three months worth of nightsoil from a family of six around their body, that is the true test of a leader the true measure of bravery. Nay, those pansies dare not get as much as touch another man's waste. They put in gloves everyday, afraid of accidentally touching any other hand that was not theirs. No, the assassins wouldn't be allowed to climb the political ladders. Mitigatory actions would be taken.