The Misadventure of God's Lapdog

By J.S. Ingrim

Since the HERO knows he will be going to Hell, he attempts to convince Heaven's gatekeeper by telling him the story of the last job he did for GOD. Will it be enough to enter Heaven?
GOD asked Satan to find him a hitman. One capable enough to kill six fallen angels and retrieve the Light that DEATH and her allies stole from GOD to take over humanity. Satan chooses a man doomed for Hell, one with a shattered heart and a near-broken mind. The somewhat insane hitman turns out to be a heroin addict, one with ghosts haunting his mind and is definitely not a fan of GOD. After Satan threatens the HERO's love interest, the HERO accepts the job, but only to save the woman he loves. The HERO then informs the gatekeeper of ABIGAIL, the owner of his broken heart, and why she left him. In the form of a Golden Retriever, GOD then meets the HERO in Los Angeles to begin their misadventure.
The HERO then bumps into an old companion and gives him a reason to quit the job. Already close to the edge, a single push makes him lose the little faith he had in humanity and chooses to go to Hell. With no other alternative, GOD reveals a secret to the HERO, giving the HERO a reason to trudge forward. But the HERO begins to wonder if he should retrieve the Light for GOD, after discovering several things along the way that make wonder if he is on the right side of good.
Will the hitman defy GOD’s demands? Will GOD vaporize the hitman for his insults? Will GOD turn the HERO into a dog and make him a bitch? Not even GOD knows, but the HERO will not get past Heaven's gate. Will he? Nahhh.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.S. Ingrim
• Release date: Mar 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463054352

Book preview

Chapter 1: Ignoring the Gatekeeper

I opened my eyes and awoke on my feet, nothing but clear blue sky above me. Pain still gnawed at the place of impact, a sensation that had reverberated through my chest before I closed my eyes as my final breath left me. Only fresh air surrounded me, no smog to clog my lungs, not that it mattered anymore. Beneath my feet, a white smoke seemed to represent the ground, and for a second, I thought I stood atop dry ice.

My hands rubbed against my black tailored suit with a baffled look about me as I wondered if anything was a miss. Everything from my all-black outfit was on me, but it was no longer perfect. A hole in my dress shirt ruined it after a bullet ripped through with no remorse. It missed my tie by a couple of centimeters to my left. I moved my finger toward the hole, and then the memory of the intense pain made me quickly put my hand to my side; even the memory in my mind hurt. My guns were on me, all four of them, which I thought was weird. Only my black sunglasses were not on me. They were not in my jacket's inner pocket, but where I was sure to go, the sun wouldn't bother my eyes.

I knew where I was, I just never thought I'd be up there, not after everything I had done in my life, especially after the job I had just failed. A job that God depended on me to do. And yes, he's a guy, unfortunately. Why am I not in Hell? Unless God had planned ahead of time, just in case, I failed him. A punishment for my failure as each second passed by and reminded me of where I would end up. It was one last prank for my incompetence, one last moment of torture before I am sent down south by my new judge, jury, and executioner.

The sound of an exhaled breath made quickly turn around. My sudden movement disturbed the smoke at my feet and sent some of it upward before it dissipated the higher it went. A large gate caught my eye as it loomed ahead of me, meant to stop those before it; I doubted that even a catapult could lob me over it. As sunlight struck its metallic surface, the reflected golden light shimmered on my face; I placed my hand above my eyes. I wouldn't have called it beautiful, mostly because it separated me from eternal happiness, but it was certainly not an eyesore. The walls of the gate spanned as far as my eyes could see to either side; where it ended, I didn't care, I knew there wasn't another way in there.

Even closer to me stood a man preoccupied with his extreme lack of labor, held up only by a golden podium that he leaned on for support. He stood less than seven feet away. His gray hair let me know he was old…ish, more so with the white robes he wore; he slowly waved at me. Judgment day was upon me, but my fear of dying further delayed my short trot to meet the one who would decide where my soul will spend eternity. I looked down at my feet and wondered how I could stand firm on the puffy smoke. I hesitated to walk towards him as the fear that I would plummet through the smoke, straight down to Hell, grew. It felt solid, but I still took steps at a snail's pace.

I didn't see wings on the old man, so I knew he was no angel, or he was hiding them from my sight. If he was an angel, I was glad I couldn't see his true form because my asshole tended to get moist in the presence of male angels. And no, I'm not gay, but around a male angel, I felt like I was. I saw a hefty square-like object on top of the podium; the sides of it gave off the same reflective color as the gate, but feebly faint. As I reached the podium, and my hands began to tremble. I knew why I was in front of him. With a shiver in my tone, I said to the old man, You…you must be Saint Peter.

*He straightened himself as he placed his hands on a large book and said, I am; speak your name.

Is this Heaven?

*In a serious tone and straight face, he said, No, it is your mother’s vagina. Speak your name.

I was caught off guard by his response; I didn't expect him to be an asshole too! But, I knew why I was in front of him, so I did not want to amplify his mood. I'm guessing you'll be the one to judge me now.

*He deepened his voice a bit and said, Speak your name.

Do you need it to judge me?

*He rolled his eyes, then said, Speak your name.

My name…well, that's a bit complicated. You see, my mother named me after my father, who she said was a nobody, so…yeah. I don't even know what he looks like, let alone know anything about him, not even his real name. The only thing my mother told me about him was that he didn't want anything to do with me. She was adamant about that. But—

*If you believe you will get sympathy from me, you are sorely mistaken.

No-no, I was not thinking that… I'm just telling you a bit about myself…things that made me into the man I am—was. For example, my mother treated me more like a nuisance than a son. Would you have grown up to be a good person with a mother like mine? I mean, she didn't abuse me, she never even hit me once. She just…was never there for me. She worked a lot, so I was home alone most of the time without a cute babysitter to drool over.

*How unfortunate; your name.

She kept me fed and clothed, but even with that, it didn't make her a good mother. But I wouldn't call her a bad one…to her face. I just wished she had shown me some love once in a while, but…it's too late now because she's—

*As he rolled his eyes again, he sternly said, Please, just speak your name so we can go our separate ways.

With desperation, I just need you to hear me out; it won't even take long, please. I'm hoping that my story will convince you that I don't belong in Hell, and after you hear it, you can judge me, and I will accept your decision, not that I'll have a choice. Will I?

*Listen, you are not the first to dread judgment, and you’re not the first to attempt to delay it either, so, let’s get this over with, shall we.

What was I saying, I said as Peter slowly let out his breath, "Oh yes, my mother. The second worst thing that bothered me about her, she always forgot to buy toilet paper, and if I reminded her, she would still forget. What kind of mother forgets to buy that? Instead of me using the money that I would…acquire, from her purse to purchase candies and porn magazines, I'd use it to buy toilet paper! I know that's messed up, and that was just a part of my screwed up childhood! The first thing I didn't like about my mother, her green eyes. Even as a child, I could see the sadness within them, a deepened regret of ever having me. It wasn't as if I had had a choice in being born. She was the one who spread her legs for the asshole that didn't want me in the first place, and she had the balls to look at me as if I had ruined her life. I mean, now she can say that I did, but not before! There were times I heard her cry in her room…and I wished I could comfort her, but…my existence was the reason for her tears.

"But thanks to the wonderful name she gave me at birth, I got into many fights in school, all because the bullies picked on me over my ridiculous name. I had somewhat of an anger issue…sorta. I spent my childhood defending myself and others against bullies, and I wouldn't even win the fights. Still, at least I gave them someone else to pick on, instead of kids that wouldn't try to defend themselves. And every time I got my ass kicked, something within me would tell me not to be like them because only cowards prey on the weak. However, from my school activities, I would not last long in any school. With the indifference my mother had for me, she never said anything about it. We also moved around a lot, mostly because of my fighting, which forced my mother to put me in many schools, but I wouldn't last longer than two months in any of them. All the moving gave me the chance to live in thirty-one states. Ultimately, I ended up in Florida, where I turned eighteen and left my mother to lift her burden.

Apart from moving a lot, the many bullies that I had faced as a kid were a big part of the reason that I had no friends when I came of age. I wasn't looking for any, even though one did find me, but I killed him. You might call me anti-social, but I wouldn't, I'd call myself…aware, because I was aware of humanity's potential dark side. My childhood and adult life were proof of what the majority of people were, evil and or untrustworthy. In life, I only trusted five people. But in death, you're the first. So forget about my name—

*I will not. Peter said.

—for now, and listen to the story that brought me to your presence. The reasons I am here facing the gates of Heaven after I attempted to complete a job for Satan. Well, God told Satan to find someone, and then Satan forced me into doing it, so it was for God. This story is about my life, how I went from being content, surpassing happiness, wanting to die, and then wishing I had never been born. And yes, a woman started my downfall, when she caused a killer to see the light, just before she extinguished his. So with my heart broken beyond repair, and my mind lost within its own deepened lunacy. The condition I was in gave Satan a path to use my deteriorated skills for God's task.

*Peter slammed his hand on the podium and yelled, Please, sir! Cease your procrastination at once! I do not wish to hear your story! He lowered his gaze, and with agitation in his eyes, he calmly said, Just speak your full name, or if you want, hum it, tot it, I don't care. I just have to hear it come out of your mouth or the odorous hole between your cheeks. Then, I will open the gates behind me or a hole under your feet, and we can part ways forever.

I stared at him for a few seconds. I said, But I know you're busy, so don't worry, I'm not going to tell you my entire life story, just the parts on how I found love, and the job I tried to do for God…well, for Satan or whatever. I do hope that my story convinces you that I don't belong in Hell…because I don't want to go down there…because fire hot.

*Saint Peter placed his elbows on the podium, and with his right hand under his chin, he said, This must be a prank on me, it must be.

* * *

You asked me for my name— *(Yes I did, but you're deaf, Peter said.) —but what you should've asked was who I was. *(Or you’re ignoring me.) I’m not ignoring you; I'm just not listening to your words. Where was I…had you asked who I was, I would have told you, not my name, but what my childhood made me, what my career turned me into, which was the reason Satan forced me to do one more job. I was a hitman, an assassin, a killer of men. And women, too, because I believed in equal rights. If a man could receive two bullets to the head and two to the heart, the same went for a woman. I was not a sexist either, so I treated agenders like both a man and a woman.

Yeah, I was an asshole, and I knew it, but the people I killed were evil, so they deserved to die before natural causes claimed them. Not only did I kill many, but I also hurt lots more with the evil that fell by my actions as hundreds, if not thousands, felt the loss of a loved one in their hearts. However, I also knew that thousands, if not millions, would not feel future pain after I killed one evil being. So it evened out, I guess. I never thought it right, but I slept better with the knowledge that I had helped more than I hurt. Was I wrong to do such a thing; to take a life without the due process of the laws of man? I didn't think so.

I never saw a law cry when a child's life ended because of the action of a criminal. Laws didn't cry when a young man died at his job when a criminal decided to kill him after he got the money from the register. Or for a sister, after someone beat and raped her to death. Why didn't laws cry? Because they are not real, and they cannot truly protect anyone. And try as they might, the police can't be everywhere at once. What laws try to do is to protect future victims, not prevent a victim, by removing the criminal from the streets, that's it. But that's where I come in. So if laws were nothing but written words in the minds of the criminals I killed, then I had done no wrong. Because then, there was nothing to protect my prey from me, just like nothing had protected their victims.

Yes, I was the best there was, but I would not give my two years in training the credit for my success. I would give that award to my senses, and not the standard five. Before I destroyed my mind with drugs, I felt I had extra senses. I knew it because when I was on the hunt, I would know how many bodyguards were around the target, and how many of them were a threat before I even saw them. They let me know when to hop, skip, and jump away from a situation that would have gotten me killed. How good were my senses when I met the woman who would kill me? They missed that one.

Now, I'm dead…I mean, I'm speaking to you, so I'm alive, my body is dead, just not my soul, but you already knew that. A soul? What the fuck! I didn't even think Heaven and Hell were real, much less a soul! But, they are, as I found out. And guess where I'm going. If you're thinking Heaven, you're an idiot… But I doubt you thought that, since I told you I was a hitman…probably should have left that part out. *(You think, Peter said.)

But with the story you’re about to hear, I’m sure you would’ve figured it out. Yeah, I’m pretty sure I'm going to Hell, to fry for eternity for all of my sins, like Satan himself put it. I also met God; he's an asshole, a much bigger one than I ever was. *(I doubt you’ll be entering Heaven.) Yeah, I know, for killing bad people, well, that’s not the real reason. But I never gave it much thought about the people I killed, well, not the men at least or the women. Nah, that's a lie. The faces of those I killed traveled with me in my deranged mind. I tried not to think of them, but it was hard not too, especially when I would see one from time to time on the face of another person, haunting me. At least nightmares never woke me up, so I had that at least. But I think my mind was not well; sometimes, I would wake up as if I had not slept in days. Daydreams, on the other hand, I did have, and after my heart fell victim to a woman, it pushed my mind over the edge to the bottomless pit of drugs.

Let us move on to the reason I'm dead. *(Hopefully it's the end of your story.) Maybe not the main reason, but a big, big part of the reason I'm dead. I was living in Los Angeles, where I received my contracts that earned me millions, and then I met a girl. She was the most beautiful Latina, Caucasian, Mexican, Asian; I didn't know what ethnicity she was. I didn't care; that girl lifted my heart to Heaven and then dropped it down to Earth. Guess what happened to it. *(I will not.) She basically killed me herself! Right after I lost her, I moved to Florida and started to use drugs. So, after a little over five years of my drug-induced trance, I finally overdosed on one of those cool drugs I was so into. Heroin, to be exact, at least, that was how I thought I died, it could've been my broken heart that finally gave up on life. After I died the first time, I became God's lapdog…sarcastically speaking, of course.

Chapter 2: You're Dead Meow

My story began almost six years ago when I met the woman who saved my life and destroyed it, before I met God and Satan, and fought the six angels. But before I speak of her, I want you to know of the job Satan forced me to take, which occurred less than a week before I met you.

I was in my last childhood home in Florida, in my darkened room, where the morning sunlight was not welcome. Thick, black cloth curtains covered my east window, stapled to the wall to create a barrier and impede the sunlight's lazy attempt to illuminate my life. If you could see in the dark, you would be able to observe that I was on an old bed in the southeastern corner, dead. I had everyday items in my room like clothes that hung out of an open drawer about five feet from my bed, a nightstand next to my bed, an old lamp on it. A single light bulb dangled from the ceiling in the middle of my room. The nightstand held an old lamp, one I had since I was a child; it needed a new bulb. It was nothing special; it was just a light and shade with a bendable metal neck connected to the base. My nightstand also held a tool from my old life that I had acquired after a junkie tried to rob me. But I also had it in case I would have to shoot my mom if she ever barged into my room while I masturbated…just kidding, I didn't masturbate. There was an old, boxy TV in my room, up against the western wall, but I wouldn't turn it on anymore, it reminded me of someone special every time a movie started. A few supermodels clung to the wall with tape, something I used to look at for inspiration before I fell asleep as a teenager. A few rock band posters were on them as well. But with my walls adorned with posters, they still felt empty, just like the rest of the walls in the house, and every other home I lived in, not even a painting. But with the light off in my room, you wouldn't be able to see all that.

The bald, skinny sack of shit on the bed was me. My muscle mass had me weigh in at over 230 pounds, but years of drug use, my muscles disappeared, and now I was at 160. Yup, that was me—wait, I forgot that you're not in my head, sorry. Okay, picture my skinny ass on a bed, dead—wait, scratch that. I had been dead for five days, so imagine my bloated, bald, skinny ass on a bed, dead, and ready to burst as my body continued to decompose.

I bet you're wondering why I was still in the room if I had died days ago, let me tell you. My fucking mother ignored the smell that came out of her only son's locked room! I couldn't blame her. My scarred face was nothing pretty to look at, even worse if I was dead. The scar on my face I was sure my mother gave me, and the one on my left hand, under my thumb. She had scars on her hands too, so I knew it was her that gave them to me. Oh, and I was living with my mother. Well, she was living with me.

Moments before someone came to collect my soul. I heard crying inside my mind as if I was in a dream. But I couldn't see anything but darkness, and I wasn't about to inject my vein with a needle for me to have heard saddened cries. Then the sounds of battle came. Clanging noises were filling the darkness in my mind, along with grunts and pleas for mercy, and then, silence. It might have been a dream; I wasn't sure. Even now, I don't know. Before that dream, it had been years without a single one, like twenty-some years or so. But dream or not, the cries stopped when a pair of assholes came to collect my soul, only they weren't there for that reason, but to extort. Fuckers were lucky I was dead.

It was about 7 am when I heard a man with a high-pitched, girlish voice speak, he said, Get up you piece of shit. So my soul got up. I mean, I got up. I sat upright on my bed and noticed that my room light was on; I might have left it on, I couldn't remember. I looked around the room for the source of the voice but found nothing. There was no clue for me to have thought that I was dead, like the smell of rotting flesh, so I didn't look down at my bloated body. The night before, I had injected myself with a dose of heroin, but I had a shirt on when I laid down as the warm medication spread through my veins. But when the voice woke me, I no longer had a shirt. Typically, after I got high on heroin, my comedown would be a bit brutal. Pain in my bones, even diarrhea or vomiting, sometimes two or all combined. But that morning, I didn't wake up with any withdrawal symptoms, I felt…normal, drug-free even.

Then I heard the girlish voice again, Can you see me now? I then turned my head to my right and saw the fucking devil himself! Are my eyes seeing this shit, or is it in my mind? The color of his red skin and glowing red eyes seemed brighter with the ultra-black two-piece suit he wore. I admired the outfit he wore; it looked good on him. That is the only nice thing I will ever say about that fucker. Satan's ebony horns absorbed the little light my room light emitted into their dark abyss. His menacing black wings folded up behind him seemed to have sharp edges; good thing he didn't try to intimidate me with them, that would have made me run and shit at the same time. He also had hair under his chin that formed an upside-down triangle, but the hairs on my balls were thicker than those on his double, chinned, ugly mug. He stood in front of my dresser, arms crossed, his curved horns less than a foot from the ceiling. I locked my eyes on him as if he was a pair of headlights. I said in my head, This has to be a dream. Nah, we don't dream, it's the drugs. Are you sure? We're positive, even though we don't feel high anymore. My mind is an idiot.

Then a dumb thought began to form in my distorted mind, and it was a dandy; should I reach for the gun on my nightstand? Yeah, how stupid was that? That notion loitered in my mind for a few seconds before I to dismiss it. There was no way in hell I would be able to kill the devil with a mere gun made by man, I mean if he was real. The feeble thought passed as he leaned on my dresser. I didn't know whether to run or pinch myself. My mind has to be fucking with me again. Either way, I would have shit in my bed, good thing I didn't need to go.

Oh, and I was kidding about Satan's voice sounding girlish, even though I think he's a bitch. You'll find out later why I hate that motherfucker so much, apart from that he's Satan. You know what… Yeah, his voice is girlish, keep thinking it so.

Then the fucker Satan said, Yup, he can see us.

Us? I said with astonishment. I was horrified to see the fucking devil, and to see two, well, that would be just fucking fantastic!

Damn it, wait a sec, he said as he turned to his right and looked toward my old TV. Hey, dog, he can’t see you, let him see you.

Then out of nowhere, a boy appeared on top of my TV. His hands were on his lap as he sat on the TV. The TV wasn't a flat screen; it was from ancient times; I had stolen—acquired it…in the 90s. The kid didn't say anything. He just set his stare on me with a blank look about him. Where have I seen that kid? Am I dreaming? I said. Shit, this better be a dream.

Nope, the fucker said. I refer to Satan as fucker because…well, because he is. You’re dead now, that is why we are here.

I lightly chuckled and said, Dead? Nah, this is a dream. Fuck, this better be a dream.

Really, so why is your real body ready to pop?

I looked down and saw myself coming out of my bloated body. My eyes opened to an extent I never thought possible. Son of a bitch! Please be a dream! Please be a dream! Why couldn't I smell my stinking corpse? Freaked out, I jumped off my bed and placed my hands on top of my head as I looked down at my dead body, then I yelled, What the fuck! And then I realized I was naked. Apparently, when I died, my clothes didn't die with me. I tried to cover my entire crotch with one hand while the other reached down to grab a towel off the floor, but my hand just went right through it. I started to freak out even more, which caused me to run toward the door, and then, when I tried to unlock it, my hand went right through the doorknob too!

The fucker said, See, dog, I told ya he’d run.

I looked back at the fucker as I started running. I passed through my door like a ghost, which I was, apparently. As I was running through the hallway, I felt a tugging sensation all over my body; it was slowing me down until I could no longer go forward. Then that same feeling started to pull me back towards my room, and no matter what I did, I couldn't defeat it. Try as I did, it was dragging my bare feet on the wooden floor. After passing through the wall, I saw the fucker with a smug grin on his ugly mug. It's strange how my body could go through walls, but my feet didn’t go through the wooden floor…very weird.

You are not going anywhere, the fucker said.

I felt a sob coming on, but I held the waterworks in check.What the fuck is going on? I yelled as I covered my dick with both hands. Yes, I needed both hands to cover it all, one was not enough, trust me. *(Sure.)

What’s going on is that I came up, and he came down, just to talk to you.

Talk…about what? I asked.

I have a proposal for you, a job since you were the best assassin on Earth.

If you think you have the balls to say no to the devil, then so do I. So with both of my balls literally in my hands, and my eyes focused on his red eyes, I boldly said, Alright, who do I have to kill? I forgot to mention, my balls shrunk when I first saw him.

Six angels.

My frightened expression slowly disappeared, replaced by an odd calmness, then I started to laugh. The idiotic notion that I could even kill one angel, let alone six, was hilarious! I mean, I was good, but I wasn’t that good! If he wanted me to kill an angel, I would need to be