The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning

thick-haired woman are standing, holding a sign that reads: FATHER FRIENDLY. I seem to be out of sync with myself (too many selves, I guess) for I make the huge mistake of stopping short in front of the fucking sign. And me, wearing the fucking collar! They make the obvious connection.
    “Mr. Friendly?” the woman smiles out in the more and more familiar sounding accent.
    I’m about to say no, when suddenly I spot two policemen standing further out in the hall, close to the exit. So, before leaving my lips, my no turns into a yes. And I’m done for. I’m grounded for the next few hours. I’m forced to be fucking Friendly.
    The killer becomes his victim.
    “Very nice to see you, Mr. Friendly. Did you have good trip?” the man asks me with a very strong Icelandic accent. I notice his bad teeth when he smiles.
    “Yeah, yeah, it was OK.” Suddenly I hate my own accent. Not very Virginian, I guess.
    “I hardly recognized you! You look even younger than on your Web site,” the woman says. Always a big smile.
    I have a Web site?
    “Oh? You…you saw me there?” I mumble.
    Fuck it. I’m a hitman, not a spy.
    “Yes, of course!” the woman continues. “But we have not seen your TV show.”
    My God. I have a TV show? I would like to see that.
    “You wouldn’t like to see that,” I say.
    “Oh? Of course! We would love to see that!” they both cry out loud like kids high on candy. They’re a happy bunch. God’s doing, I guess. They introduce themselves and their names are incredible. His is Goodmoondoor (must be his stage name) and her name is something like Sickreader. I wonder what their American nicknames would be. Goo & Si? Even “Tomo” was too long for the Yanks. The more people, the shorter the names. The less people, the longer the names.
    Suddenly Sickreader looks me down and asks:
    “Don’t you have any luggage, Father Friendly?”
    I pause for a moment.
    “No. The Word is my only luggage.”
    They laugh like happy cartoon hamsters. I feel like an actor who has just made an important step in the development of a new character. Hallelujah!
    They bring Father Friendly past the two cops (I give them a blessing look) and out on the parking lot where it’s as cold as the inside of a fridge. And me who was looking forward to the Adriatic Spring, chilling on the Riva, sipping pivo and watching the tightly jeaned asses sway by, with the sound of sandal-heels clicking against the white limestone tiles. Ah, the girls of Split…
    But, no. Instead I’m standing out in some polar parking lot collecting goosebumps and watching the reflection of my bald new self (I could, actually, pass for a priest) in the window of a silver Land Cruiser two strangers are indicating I should enter. The vehicle has already been blessed by the presence of the great Benny Hinn, they tell me. It seems Goodmoondoor and Sickreader are professional televangelists. They run a small, local Christian TV channel called Amen. Minutes later we’re rolling through the lunar park with the Goodmoondoor at the steering wheel.
    “We have many Christian TV show from America. Benny Hinn of course. And also Joyce Meyers, Jimmy Swaggart, and David Cho. And we also have our show, in Icelandic and also in English. We are on TV every night, me and my wife. Sometimes we are together and sometimes we are alone. You will see.”
    This is the Goodmoondoor speaking in his primitive English. His nice looking wife sits by his side and smiles to me in the backseat. Her husband continues:
    “So, what are you going to talk about tonight? What text are you going to talk from?”
    “Eh…Tonight?” I ask.
    “Yes. You will be special guest of my show tonight.”
    “On TV?”
    “Yes!” he laughs with all his crooked teeth, almost like a half-wit.
    “Uh…I see. I thought I…”
    I’m saved by my mobile. The screen reads “Niko” and without thinking I greet him in Croatian: “ Bok. ” Niko is Dikan’s personal assistant. The Number Two Man. He asks me where I am, and I tell him the inconceivable truth, stopping short of the fact that I’m sitting in a Christian All-Star vehicle on my way to my first TV mass. He tells me that me landing up here is not so bad after all (does he even know that Iceland is a country?) since things are getting serious after the big fuck-up. “You fucked up real bad, Toxic,” he says. The Fed-ups, as he calls them, have already been to the restaurant, and they’ve also broken into my place. They even visited