The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning

getting restless. I lift the small cigarette up to my lips and inhale.
    Here we go.
    I bend forward, pretending to put the cigarette out in the stiff moss with my left hand while reaching into my pocket with my right. Niko immediately shouts and steps forward, pointing his gun downwards, toward my head. Quick as a fox on fire, I dive to my right, rolling on the harsh lava floor, and he shoots. The bullet bouncing off lava rings in our ears. And before he even realizes I’m holding a gun, its bullet is buried in his upper right arm. His scream is muffled. Radovan immediately reaches for his tool, but receives a bullet instead, in his right wrist. He screams out loud. As Niko grabs his gun from the wounded arm with his left one, I’m back on my feet, pointing the pistol at them and screaming:
    “DROP IT! DROP THE FUCKING GUN!”
    Niko looks at me with bewildered eyes. “What the fucking fuck?” He now has the piece in his left hand.
    “I SAID DROP IT!”
    Blood drips from their wounded arms. Radovan is still wearing his sunglasses, looking quite ridiculous, like some wannabe mobster in a Russian B movie.
    “DROP THE FUCKING GUN!”
    For some mystical reason I use the English word “gun” here, instead of the Croatian pistolj. It makes me think of Gunnhildur. The thought distracts me and Naughty Niko sniffs out the weakness expertly. Before I know it, he has raised the gun against me. We strike simultaneously, like the spiritual twins we used to be. My bullet lands in his gun-holding left arm. His scream is less muffled now. I try to swallow mine. A streak of strange warmth shoots down my groin, in the direction of my left thigh. The warmth then turns into fire. It’s like when a match is being lighted. First there is the strike and then there is fire.
    It’s a typical left-hander. He aimed for my heart but got the bladder. But mine was on target. He’s as good as armless. As well as Radovan, after another one from the PP9. Suddenly I’m aiming for arms only. I’ve fired fucking four shots and still no one’s dead.
    My friends’ faces are tormented by pain, as mine must be too. Their hands hang lifelessly beside them, freshly slaughtered piglets, blood dripping from their hoofs. I have my small gun aimed at their heads now and after some more shouting, Niko drops his big Desert Eagle. I order him to give it a kick and then quickly bow to pick it up. It seems to take me forever to get back up, though. The pain in my groin is of groundbreaking proportions. Holy shit.
    I put Niko’s gun in my pocket.
    I order Radovan to come closer and open his jacket for me, but he can’t, of course, with his hands. I carefully approach him, my eyes going between him and Niko every two seconds, and open his black Armani jacket with my left hand. His weapon rests in the inner pocket. A silver Smith & Wesson. But as I grab it, the stupid Hulk tries to push me away with his elbow. Niko uses the opportunity for coming at me, head first, like some crazy hornless ram. I put him out with a simple “elblow,” something I perfected in Torture training this winter. With Niko down, Radovan doesn’t risk any more tricks, and soon I have two guns in my pocket and the third one in my hand.
    I fish the car key out of Radovan’s pocket and then silently wait for Niko to come back to his senses. I order them both to crawl down into the mini-canyon. This takes some time. Still wearing the sunglasses, Radovan looks more and more ridiculous, heading for a comic death. I tell them to lie down, facedown, biting my lips from the pain. Something is leaking down my left thigh. Feels like I’m peeing with my balls.
    This is wartime all over again. Shouting at people in Croatian with a gun in my hand and a leaking leg. The driver’s bulky torso takes up most of the space in the lava coffin. Next to him, Niko looks like a slim virgin wife about to be buried with her husband, eyes screaming: “Please, fuck me instead!”
    “FACE THE FUCKING EARTH!” I shout, sounding a bit too nervous.
    I lower my gun. I’ve got two asses in sight. Two rectums screaming for lead. There is nothing else to do. Munita’s killers will have to face the fridge. On fucking Fridge Island. I’m about to pull the trigger when there is a sudden breeze in the otherwise still spring night. I swiftly look around but see nothing. Nothing coming, nothing going. There’s just this sudden breeze, blowing across the lunar lava field, pushing up the good moon