The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning

armpits, the loudspeakers of smell. (If he is indeed working for the Feds, his would be the best disguise in the history of the Bureau. Very far from the Michael Keaton hairdos.)
    I really have to force myself through the fucking Old Testament. It’s got some nice stories and everything, but most of it is just pro-Israel crap about tribal feuds and boundary conflicts. How this-and-that Mr. Pushy pushed this-and-that Palestine or Philistine off his land. Pretty similar to what we have on the TV news today. Those guys are still stuck in the Old Testament; they should at least check out the new one. Jesus is OK, though I have a pretty hard time with the concept of handing over your sins and letting him deal with them. I find it kind of cheap. Plus he must be really busy. It’s like taking your trash to church and leaving it there, by the altar. Or maybe that’s the idea behind it all. The church as a recycling container. In a way, it’s not unlike the system we have at the Zagreb Samovar. There is this guy, Tomislav, called The Cleaner, who, every time needed, comes in to clean up our sins.
    I think God made a huge mistake in showing his face, his hand, or whatever it was that Moses saw on that mountaintop. He was just writing a check of trouble for the whole fucking region. Ten thousand years of trouble.
    It reminds me of that play I once saw at the HNK in Split. Senka was a big theatre fan and made me sit through all kinds of crazy things. One of them was this play from Poland where the author was sitting on stage during the performance, all the time shouting his commandments at the actors. I guess it was the first time I considered killing someone.
    You can’t fucking change your play after the curtain rises. And that goes for God as well.
    I never thought reading the Bible would make you angry. But maybe it’s meant to. At least when you think of Torture. God is like alcohol, I guess. The deeper you dive into it, the more you wonder if it was such a good idea in the first place. The more religious your country is, the more likely it is to see war. At least God never showed his face in Iceland. Olie tells me it wasn’t even created by him. No wonder it’s the most peaceful country in the world.
    “I thought you guys were all born-agains?” I ask him the day after.
    “Well, God is Sammy’s friend. He’s helped him a lot. He even bailed him out of prison and lent him some money to start this company and everything,” he says with a grin, while emerging from the fridge with a leg of lamb. “But as for me, I don’t know. After I killed this guy, for me it’s all just…” He pauses while he searches for the right word, then shakes his head and places the leg on the worktop. “…meat.”
    “Meat?”
    “Yeah. I love life and all that, but it’s all just meat to me.”
    “OK.”
    “Life is very simple. It’s just either dead meat or moving meat.”
    He picks up his knife. His favorite kitchen knife. He’s talking to it now. I’m just a bystander. It’s all between man and knife. Chien is out by the sink, washing the frying pans. Olie’s voice turns low, the small golden earring shivering against his cold looking cheek.
    “When I sliced this guy’s throat, it was…it was like seeing God, or something. I saw…I saw how life is. And it’s just…”
    He looks up now. He looks at me.
    “You know, we made love while he was still on the floor. It was crazy really, but it was like God.”
    I guess I picked the wrong weapon.

CHAPTER 27
LAVA OF LOVE
    06.25.2006
    I try to keep my life simple. After my clumsy sidestep at the strip club, I’m back on track. The power priest calls me every other day, checking up on me, giving me more reading tips, and inviting me to their great all-the-meat-you-can-eat Sunday lunch along with Goodmoondoor and Sickreader. They’re all so proud of me, they can’t take their eyes off of me, looking at me like the farmer at his most promising stud. I’m their guinea pig, the black rat turned white. Torture and Hanna’s kids, a silent girl and two younger boys with big eyes, look at me like the David Beckham of the worshipping world.
    I try to smile like the born-again blockhead I am. I’m even shaved close and sporting a short haircut done by Hanna. If I were wearing a tie and holding a Bible, nobody would open their door to me.
    “It’s so wonderful to know that you’re working and have a place of your own and everything,” Sickreader says, already sounding