Халлгримур Хельгасон - The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning

Hit #51 was the Jersey thing. The family house. The fat little cheeseburger with the mustache who’d been hiding in his home out in the Jersey woods for more than a month. I sat in my car for two hours, until his wife and kids had left. Once he was on the floor, coloring the carpet with urine and blood, his wife came back. She’d forgotten something. “It’s me!” her voice rang out. She went straight for the kitchen, and I quickly ducked behind a sofa. While she ransacked cupboards and drawers, I managed to crawl over to the window, hiding behind the thick floor-length curtains. I didn’t want to kill her as well. Kids waiting out in the car and stuff. In fact, I’ve never killed a woman. (Well, except for the two old hags in ADV, but they had long ceased being women.)

Then I heard the woman enter the living room: “Hi, honey, I just…” And then some big time screaming.

I had to stand there for a fucking hour before I managed to escape. She screamed for half an hour and then just sat there for another, paralyzed, before she finally called the cops. I should have gunned her down as well. She might have been better off. Instead I ended up going to the fucking funeral, mostly to check out the widow. She was hot. Which was good. Beautiful women are quicker to recover from those things. This one looked like she could be on America’s Freshest Widow, and seeing that at least six handsome bachelors had shown up at the funeral made me feel better. Maybe I had just found the perfect ending for her cheating game.

My head’s full of heads. Screaming heads and silent ones. Munita’s hairy one appears again, always some ten feet ahead of me, making me walk a bit faster. I have to admit that there were times when I did actually ask for her head on a silver plate. And here it is. She breaks into a quirky smile, and suddenly I want to kiss her cold purple lips. But she keeps her distance, crossing the slip road ahead. I follow her. A big band of car horns plays me an angry tune.

Hit #56 was the Robert Redford look-alike, a muscular guy with a yellow tie, strong jaw, and gray hair. He took several minutes to die, in the back of our restaurant. I really felt like I had achieved something, taking down such an all-American face.

Hit #59 was the Polish porn producer out in Queens. An April day of low sun and long shadows. I had to wear a mask, as his girlfriend was there.

I walk up a small steep hill of grass at the side of the road. It takes me up on the overpass, the small concrete bridge that crosses the boulevard I’ve been walking the past hour. The cars drive faster up here.

Hit #63 was the small, shy Chinese guy on Canal Street. He seemed so lonely that he was more than happy to open the door to death.

Hit #68 is when I jump off the fucking bridge, saying a quick good-bye to Split.

I’m almost crawling as I finally reach the fucking house. Yes, it’s their house. I recognize the silver Land Cruiser. That must mean they’re home. I’m the only one who walks in this country. The bleeding seems to have stopped. But the tooth’s still missing. I must look like I’ve been hanging on a cross for a day or two. I’m out of breath when I ring the bell.

When I ring the fucking church bells.

Sickreader comes to the door and immediately slams it back on my broken nose. More church bells. Goodmoondoor’s face shows itself in the vertical window beside the door. The good old llama head with the long front teeth. As someone who has hitchhiked to the core of his own soul, he’s able to cut through the blood, sweat, and tears. He recognizes me and opens the door. We face each other: the toothbrushed and the toothcrushed.

“What is… What is to see you?” he asks. Must be some local phrase. “What happen to you? You are all in blood.”

“Hih….”

Talking hurts like hell. The tiny word burns my throat and cracks my skull. So I let my eyes do the talking. (They must look like two tiny wells in a mud pit.) I’m so fucking happy to see them! I even lose my balance and fall on my knees at their golden threshold. I reach out for his pants, but he moves back a little, his wife standing behind him. My sore, swollen hand touches his sock-covered toes, and I start wailing like a walrus with a broken fang.

“Goodmooh…” I can’t say more. The pain is too great. I have to put him through to my soul and let it finish for me. Its voice is deep and inaudible, like Barry White speaking under water. I hardly understand it myself, but it sounds something like: “…pleashe helph me.”

This is getting interesting. My soul is counting on good old Llama Face.

I’m almost lying on the hallway floor now, spreading my dirty sins on their white tiles. Take a good look at them, dear pastor. Take a good look at the filthy mess. Take it all and burn it in hell, or bring it to the cleaners in your beloved heaven.

There is some tiptoeing around the matter—I think I hear them whispering above my head—but finally I can sense that Mr. Good reaches out over my head and closes the door. He then helps me to my feet and leads me into the nearby bathroom. I can barely walk.

Sickreader washes my aching head and swollen face. I try not to look in the mirror, but it whispers to me that I look like the Elephant Man. I can hardly see with my left eye. My nose has doubled its size. Must be broken. As is the tooth next to the front teeth, on my left. Upper lip looks African. Still, most of the bleeding has come from the forehead. There is a cut above my left eye, going all the way up to the hairline. As Sickreader rinses the wound, it shines again. My right arm is deaf from the ache in my shoulder, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see some broken ribs if they had an X-ray camera in the house. Every breath brings pain. My right ankle feels twisted, like a semi-wet towel that somebody’s trying to wring with no success.

“Did you land in an accident?” the preacher asks.

“Uh-huh.”

It’s like talking to the dentist with your mouth full of fingers.

“Where?”

“Ah cah….” I mumble through broken teeth and swollen lips.

“In car accident? That is terrible. We have to go to the doctor… to the hospital.”

“But we have to clean him first and stop the bleeding. We cannot go with him like this in the car,” Sickreader says like a trained nurse, while carefully washing my forehead with a small towel.

“Noh,” I protest. “No ospitah.”

“No hospital? Why? It is clean. We have a very good health system. It’s the best in the world. Or, is it maybe against the laws of your church?” Goodmoondoor asks while raising his brows.

“You know he’s not Father Friendly anymore. This man killed Father Friendly. He’s a MURDERER,” his wife says with the face of Margaret Thatcher and the hands of Florence Nightingale.

Her less-intelligent husband pauses for a moment.

“Oh, yes. You are a criminal. We have to take you to the police also,” he then says.

I turn away from Sickreader and her towel to face the judge of my days.

“Pleahse. Shave me.”

He looks at me and then looks at his wife and then at me again. His face is one big indecision. Maybe he really thinks I’m asking for a shave. And I might actually need one. I try helping him out by suddenly leaning my ugly head against his breast (I can hear his pink shirt and blue tie scream out loud as my bloody forehead contacts them), folding my arms around him. He steps back a little, but I won’t let go, pressing my arms even harder around him. The most untoxic thing to do.

“Pleahse,” I wail into his womb, forgetting my pain for a minute. “They will khill me. Pleahse, I bheg you.”