Free The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning by Helgason Hallgrímur Page A

wife was in a car crash? Hope she’s OK.
    “Yeah. Thank you,” I say with sorrowful eyes, like a bad actor in a stupid commercial.
    “You must miss her very much.”
    Oops, there went my wife. This is like watching a thriller movie backwards.
    “Yeah, you bet. It’s hard being alone.”
    “And you don’t have any children with her?”
    Wow. That’s a tough one.
    “Eh…No, I don’t think so.” Fuck. That was terrible. “I mean, no. Not technically.” Don’t ask me what I mean by this. I have no idea.
    He drives on in silence. He doesn’t ask any more questions. It’s quite uncomfortable. Does he suspect anything? I break the silence by going back to the start of the conversation, women and work.
    “But Gunholder, she works in a café?”
    “Yeah. I am giving her time. She has time to think. When I was thirty year old, I was on the street. I was drinking. I didn’t see the light. When the wine goes in, the brain goes out.”
    I take a good hard look at him. Not so holy after all.
    We visit his friend’s church in the neighboring town of Cop War. It looks more like an aerobics gym than a regular church, and the smell of sweat fills the air. His friend’s name is shorter than either of my hosts,’ but it’s much harder to say. Written as Thordur, it sounds like “Torture” when they try helping me out. He has a round face with round glasses and a full, biblical beard. The only modern thing about him is his long hair that he anoints with blessed gel. Actually, he reminds me a bit of my broad-faced father, bless his soul. Goodmoondoor tells me that Torture appears on his TV channel every day. It shows: His speech is loud and clear, as if he were still on camera. He doesn’t let go of the Bible the entire thirty minutes, holding it in his hand like a holy hammer. Once or twice he pounds it into the air as if he were nailing his theses to the front door of his church. His views are unorthodox and extreme, his language more colorful than most.
    “People sometimes ask me if you need to be circumcised to enter into heaven. I tell them no. There is no need to. It’s not about the genitals, but the heart. The question is: are you ready to open up the foreskin of your heart and let in the light of the living God?”
    The fire of homophobia rages in his eyes. When I look deeply into them I see, through the flames, a skinny gay fellow nailed to a cross belting out “I Will Survive.” Father Friendly adds fuel to this fire, while Toxic remembers his night with Andro.
    “We used to have this gay guy at our congregation in Virginia,” I say. “But after I ripped the ring out of his earlobe with pincers, he went from GAY to OK.”
    Goodmoondoor looks at his bearded friend like a small boy, and Torture laughs like the devil himself, answering in his fine English:
    “ Heh, heh . That’s the way to do it. Brand them by the balls!”
    Friendly gets carried away. “Or use them as fire extinguishers. I once had an altar boy who looked way too feminine for his age. I had to teach him a lesson. So I used him for putting out candles. With his mouth. I used to tell him, ‘Better to blow the light of the Lord than the dick of darkness!’”
    They both stare at me for a moment before they start laughing like two middle-aged fraternity brothers having a chance meeting in a hotel lobby forty years later. “The dick of darkness! Ha ha!”
    “Father Friendly was very good on TV last night. Did you see him?” Goodmoondoor asks his friend.
    “Yes, I saw him. He’s an excellent footman in the army of God,” Torture says and puts his right hand on my shoulder. The arm of fire.

CHAPTER 10
MOJA ŠTIKLA
    05.20.2006
    The days go by. I slowly adapt to exile existence. It’s going OK. I’m getting used to the silence and the brightness, as well as the sterility of the house, but the cold is more difficult to handle. It’s the coldest May of my life. Still, everywhere they talk of the loveliest spring.
    “We are happy if