The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning

rest in peace. —Vladimir Fedorov (1932–2006).”
    I do the mummy, lying on my back, totally still, like Fedorov in his grave. Every small movement brings pain. When Goodmoondoor drops by, I ask him for some aspirin.
    “A spring?”
    “No, aspirin. Medicine. Painkillers.”
    “Oh, I understand. No, I’m sorry. We don’t have it. The Lord is our painkiller.”
    And then once again that stupid smile of his. I’m in Amishland.
    They didn’t dare touch my jeans, so I wear them to bed. My cell phone is still in the right pocket and from time to time I can hear Gun calling. The phone’s vibrations have a strong appeal to its neighbor, at the other side of the pocket wall, but I’m too weak to be able to bring it out and even if I could, I wouldn’t want to answer. I don’t want her to see me now.
    It’s probably afternoon when Torture arrives. He enters the white room like a doctor, with a small briefcase. The combed back hair and the thick Lennon glasses are in place. He looks me straight in the eye and speaks to me in the most commanding voice of God himself.
    “You are the sinner of sinners. You must know that. You have killed the messenger of God’s holy scripture, the holy bringer of the living Word. You have committed the worst of crimes. Are we in agreement on this? Do you admit to your crime and sin?”
    The mummy nods.
    “Could you please put your holy confession on your satanic tongue?”
    “Yes. Yes, I confess. I am sinner,” the Elephant Man weakly issues through his thick rubber lips.
    “And a killer.”
    “Yes. Killer.”
    “You are the true murderer of Father Friendly, our beloved brother and savior of millions, so help me God?”
    “Yes. I killed Father Friendly. It was…not good.”
    “It was NOT GOOD? No, you were not even worthy of being in the same room as he. My dear friends here, Guðmundur and Sigríður, are risking a lot for saving your lost soul. And me as well. We are all taking a great risk. You should know that. They risk their jobs and they risk their reputation, their TV station, their house, their car, their everything.”
    The good couple is standing behind him, with big eyes and proud lips.
    “But saving one soul into the Kingdom of heaven…Saving one soul, even though it’s the most sinful one, as yours truly is…Saving one soul is worth every jeep, every house, every job. Like true believers in the faith of the living God, they do believe in love and forgiveness of the highest kind. Following the good example of Jesus Christ, they’re willing to offer their love and forgiveness, even in the face of their most vicious enemy. So you should know that you owe your life to them for the rest of your days and for the rest of all time. For heaven knows that kindness offered in the face of evil, at the risk of one’s life, is a gift that lasts forever, for all time. A gift that cannot be returned, so help me God. Let us pray.”
    They pray for me and my lost soul. To claim it back I have to lie here for seven days and seven nights, and during this time I must fast. I’m allowed one glass of holy water per day. Only by removing the needs of the body will the soul come forth, Torture assures me as he stitches up the cut on my forehead with a knitting needle and heavy string. It reminds me of when my father stitched my small leg wound in the back of an old school bus our first night of the war. The same silent and forceful concentration on the broad, bearded face. Goodmoondoor helps Sickreader keep the bleeding away from their church-white linen.
    “For he opened up his wounds and let the blood of Christ, his Savior the Lord, flow from the heavens and into his flesh…” Torture murmurs as he ties the knot on my forehead.
    Fasting would be OK if I didn’t smell their cooking downstairs. It’s the story of the perfume and the boner all over again. I take small sips from my glass of water, trying to make it last throughout the day. Torture is a tyrant. There is absolutely nothing left in my stomach except the broken tooth, gnawing away at my guilt.
    Thanks to that, my Torture Therapy is going pretty good. I’ve had time to peek through every hole that I’ve made in people’s lives. In my mind I have followed all my bullets down people’s throats, into people’s heads, and up people’s rectums. And fueled with regret, I’ve played them all in reverse, making them return to source. By making a hundred holes in my head, I’ve made it a showerhead: all my