Leo left Salt Lake City when he was fifteen. Though that is not where he is from. Even for a good wager, he would not tell you the name of his mother or father. All he had inherited from the past was his given name and a lust for the trades. He worked many professions- first in manufacturing, then in city maintenance. In an industrial zone of Los Angeles, he had run for corporate city council and won. One local politician remembered the post-election gala, and Leopold Konig, in particular. “It was the way he danced.” She recollected with a demeanour reflecting the fleeting reminiscence. “It didn’t matter who was there, his opponents even- he always offered to dance with them. He was affable beyond his means.” Another said: “To this day I’ve never met someone without eyebrows convey so much in a damn jig of their leg or a wave of their hand. He baffled the locals and politico's alike.”

Leo grew. And he did not stop growing. Time moved quickly for him, and by the age of thirty-five he looked near fifty. He moved to Flint, Michigan, already wealthy, and left wealthier. He moved to Virginia, ‘a grandson of the Coal Wars.’ After a stint in mining, Leo went west again. Leo has an impressive resumé: laid rail spikes, laboured in the construction of dams, worked security detail for gold mines, survived California politics, and dug Virginia coal. Now, Leo sweeps the floors of Kentucky’s premiere shopping destination. “I fit in here. And I like people watching. There’s plenty of different tradesmen here to watch at work.” Leopold said during a Louisville city council meeting. “And besides, a man should have more than one trade. Specialization is for insects.” Leopold worked the evening shift, and when the lights went out and the mist rolled in, he finished his routine and disappeared into the maintenance corridors. Then the sounds of panic, of shouting, of broken doors, of escape and return. The janitor smiled.

Leopold seemed entirely unphased by the supernatural occurrences. So long as they had some modicum of reality to them- a humanoid body, that of a sea creature or bird- he could fathom it. Most of what the Mist offered could somehow be justified in the Janitor's imagination. The evening the West Loading Bay was brutally assaulted by what the Janitor described as "A Bull and a Demon" was when he met his demise. Ever concerned about 'The Mall,' his concerns were well founded when a bull-sized spawn of satanic fury sliced through the loading bay garage door and three steel shelves as though they were melted butter. After alerting the mall, Leopold and Jack split on the upper floor. The last sounds of the Janitor were the emptying of a .45 magazine, a triumphant wallop, laughter, and then silence. The Janitor's corpse wandered the Mall. When he bled out, his arms, legs, and torso had each lost a dozen pounds of flesh. Behind him, the sawed off legs of the Demon. He was smiling.

The Janitor was humanity's civilized conflict personified. Civilized conflict is dead. Now exists only conflict for The Mall.