What in Hell Is up with Heaven: III A Fine Kettle of Fish...

By Christopher David Petersen

God and Satan go on vacation and when they return, their worlds are turned upside down. It’s now up to Satan and Jesus to balance the books before God discovers the mess. Heaven is being taken over by escaped thugs from Hell and Jesus must call on help to stop them. For Satan, things are much worse. With his souls count dangerously low in numbers, he devises a clever plan to save his own kingdom: he will create a new race of humanoids, then take their souls. His plan is as crafty as it is diabolical.
For Satan, all seems to go well... until his “ex-gal” begins to date God. With his jealousy running amok, his plan begins to unravel.
Grim tries to hold it together, but he has love issues of his own.
Jesus is running out of ideas and God is getting close.
Can Jesus stop Heaven’s takeover? Can Satan create his master race and stop God from falling head over-heals for his girl, all before God finds out about the crises in Hell? And what of this master race of Satan’s? Are they evil and destined for world domination? And how about the Grim Reaper? Is he in too deep? Will his love prove to be his downfall?

This is the exciting conclusion to the 3-part story. If you haven’t done so already, please read books 1 and 2 before reading this book (book 3).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher David Petersen
• Release date: May 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005358990

Christopher David Petersen

Christopher David Petersen (1963 - 20??). Born and raised in Connecticut. As a child, I was always daring and reckless. Never one to let common sense stand in the way of a great adventure, my bold feats of stupidity were legendary... Huckleberry Finn would have been proud."Surprisingly", that same spirit carried over into adulthood, as I sought out entertainment that included: scuba diving; ski Mountaineering; mountain biking; Rock, Ice and Mountain climbing; flying planes; golf, motorcycles, the stock market and of course, experimentation with various alcoholic refreshments.Later in life, writing became an extension of my deep desire to experience "new and exciting worlds". I have written several books, but none have been published through any formal channels... I've heard the process is long, painful and laborious, the thought of which sickens me. My foray into e-publishing came after a friend suggested my works could fetch dollars instead of dust inside my sock drawer... a righteous observation. My recent publications are the result of this advice. Further adventure/suspense novels are soon to be released.An engineer by trade, I have worked all over the U.S. and usually write in my spare time... that is when I'm not enjoying a bottle of Scotch and a quality cigar. I am a naturally long-winded individual, so writing is what happens when I can't get anyone to listen to me anymore...I love all kinds of genres but gravitate more towards suspense. There is nothing like the build up to a great climax... What a rush!

Book preview

What in Hell is up with Heaven: III

A fine kettle of fish…

Christopher David Petersen

Copyright 2022 Christopher David Petersen

Smashwords Edition

Chapter 1

Recap: Heaven…

Jesus waited for God outside the Pearly Gates. He stood with nervous apprehension as he looked out over the sea of clouds that stretched on for miles. In the previous month while God was away on vacation, he had implemented radical reforms that left Heaven in a state of chaos. Despite his best efforts to manage, his need to prove himself and his lack of experience ended in great failure. Heaven was now callous, indifferent and dangerous: a land secretly run by evil and dishonest souls and with his dad only minutes away from returning from his vacation, he knew he was about to suffer great humiliation and disgrace.

He noticed a disturbance in the cloud level far in the distance. Within seconds, he spotted it: the silhouette of a team of horses. Dread swept his body. Moments later, he could see the image clearly: God sitting in the driver’s seat of his luxury chariot, his long white beard wrapped around his face and trailing behind him; his white robe ruffling in the wind. Seated beside him was Stanley, a bigger dunce one could not imagine. Initially tasked as the chauffeur, he now sat beside God in the front seat of the chariot and desperately clung to the front bulkhead. Jesus stared with confusion for only a moment, then shook off the distraction. He had more important issues on his mind.

As he watched the chariot near, his mind raced. This was the moment he’d been dreading: the moment he would have to face his father and explain his failures. His knees weakened at the thought of it all and he took a seat on a bench on the opposite side of the sentries who stood guard against unwanted intruders.

Moments later, God slowed the chariot in front of the Pearly Gates, directly in front of Jesus.

Heyyyy Jesus, you’re looking well, God shouted as he tugged on the reins, bringing the chariot to a complete stop.

Hi Dad, how was your trip? I missed you, Jesus said, giving God a great hug even before he exited the chariot.

So happy to see you too, Son, God responded with great emotion.

So how was it: the vacation? Jesus asked, simply.

God slapped his leg with great enthusiasm.

Son, it was probably one of the best things I’ve done in a long time. What a time we all had. So much fun. I feel like a new supernatural being. I almost didn’t leave. In fact, I told Red I was staying… probably thinks I’m still there. Anyway, it was only after everyone left that I thought it was kind of silly for me to stay there alone. My place is here, with the people. So, here I am.

Jesus’ mind raced. He’d been mentally preparing himself to tell his dad about the disaster the minute he saw him. Hearing how happy his dad was, he didn’t have the heart to tell him the bad news.

You know, Dad, I think you should go back for a couple more weeks. I got things handled here. It might be really good for you, Jesus said.

God stared at Jesus a moment, unsure about what he was feeling.

Jesus, is everything ok? I mean, are you doing alright? he asked, sincerely.

Of course, Dad. Doing just fine. Never been better. Everything’s ok. And why wouldn’t it be? It’s not like I’d do something radical when you were gone. Nope: everything’s great - status quo. In fact, everything’s so quo, I’d say it’s like you never left. Even more, if you decided to leave for another few more months, I can say without hesitation that the quo" would be exactly the same as it was since before you left. Personally, if I were you, I’d consider extending my vacation for at least another six weeks… or more if you felt so inclined. Not that I’m pushing you out the door… and certainly not because of some issues taking place. Nope, certainly not. Everything is definitely status quo. Yup… seriously status quo even," he rattled off in nervous succession.

God stared back strangely at Jesus. He grinned and said simply, Good to hear it, son.

Moments later, God’s mood changed. He became quiet and sullen, like a troubled soul in deep contemplation. Jesus could now see the saddened expression cross his dad’s face. He felt great sympathy for him.

Dad, you ok? You have a look I haven’t seen before. What’s going on?

Eh… nothing really, God replied.

"Dad, what’s going on?" Jesus now demanded.

God shook his head with apprehension.

You’re going to laugh, but I guess I’m feeling kind of in a rut and a bit lonely, he said in sadness. He stiffened his resolve and added, But it’s nothing. I’m fine.

Jesus stared with great concern.

Really, I’m fine, God added.

Jesus shook his head.

How long have you been feeling like this?

Eh… a few years, I guess. Nothing extended, really.

"Nothing extended? Jesus blurted in shock. Dad, I know time for us is infinite, but even still, a couple of years is not nothing. It’s something. Are you feeling depressed?"

God shrugged.

You want to talk about it? Jesus asked.

Not really, God responded, reluctantly.

What are you doing about it? You can’t just sit back and do nothing.

I was thinking about taking up a painting class… or maybe a poetry class, even.

Jesus shook his head in sadness. He wanted to help his dad but knew painting or writing poetry weren’t the answer. He knew there was a good and correct answer out there somewhere, but that answer escaped him at the moment. He needed time to think, and even more time to fix the state of Heaven.

Suddenly, Jesus smiled. Time: that was the answer. If he could get his dad away from Heaven, even for a short time, it would give him the time he needed to fix Heaven’s state AND solve his dad’s depression. He nodded to himself, smartly.

Dad, Jesus started, resolute in his posture. I think that’s EXACTLY what you should do, he stated firmly.

What? What exactly should I do? God responded with apprehension.

"Paint AND write! Jesus said with conviction. You’ve loved art ever since Da Vinci and you’ve always had a thing for writing, especially after the ten commandments, which I must say, is probably your greatest achievement, he said, laying it on thick. I think you shouldn’t waste another minute. You should immerse yourself in those activities: live those activities, be those activities, create another world for yourself. I think you’d come away with a new lease on life AND a couple new very healthy hobbies."

I don’t know, God responded, wanting to take Jesus seriously, but feeling embarrassed if he did.

Jesus sensed his dad’s inner turmoil.

Dad, you need this. I’m signing you up for classes right now and I’m not taking no for an answer, he stated firmly.

God thought about Jesus’ words. At first, he sloughed them off as well-meaning, but overzealous nonsense. But then he reconsidered. Why NOT paint and write? He’d been depriving himself of enjoyment for eons while managing the super-universe (natural and supernatural worlds). With Jesus in charge, he thought, maybe he DID have time to take on some new hobbies. Lord knows it would be good for him… and the mere fact that he IS the Lord AND he knows, only confirmed it in his mind.

You know, Son, you’re right and I think I’ll take you up on that. Sign me up, he said, grinning with a measure of relief.

Jesus stared back in disbelief. It was a longshot. He hadn’t really expected his dad to actually go through with it. A wave of relief swept over him. He had bought himself some time.

Recap: Hell…

Grim heard Satan’s chariot pull up outside their office building. From his second-floor window, he watched as Satan stepped off the chariot and waved the driver away. Instantly, he was consumed by anxiety. This was the moment he’d been dreading.

A few months before, all was fine in Hell. Satan ran his organization like a well-oiled machine. Upon leaving for his Alaskan vacation with God and the other immortals, he had instructed Grim on how to maintain their status quo. Although Grim disagreed on several points of management, he assured Satan all would be fine upon his return.

Shortly after Satan’s departure, Grim implemented a program of kinder and gentler operations. He felt a more pleasant atmosphere would produce better results. It was a miscalculation that cost him dearly…

Grim, what on Earth is going on here? Satan shouted from across the room.

Boss, maybe you better sit down for this.

"NOOOO… not the "you better sit down speech? Those are the worst? he said, now taking the seat next to Grim. Just tell straight out: are we still in business?

Yes Boss, still in business, but…

"Oh shit, here it comes. Nothing good ever comes after a but. Once you hear it, all that’s left is a big steamy pile of turd. He slapped his hand on the desktop and said, Ok, lay it on me. Let’s have it, and don’t leave out any details."

We’re down twenty-five percent in productivity and thirty percent in personnel, Grim stated bluntly.

Satan stared a moment in disbelief. Slowly, his breathing changed: it quickened and became shallow. As his breathing increased rapidly, his eyes widened and began to roll back in his head. Gurgling sounds echoed from the back of his throat and he seemingly began to swallow his tongue. A great gasp rushed from his throat as he gasped for air. He instantly clutched his neck and flung himself to the floor.

Grim, this is it, he blurted with great exaggerated emotion.

Satan now convulsed on the floor, his arms and legs flinging about wildly. He rolled over and over, from one side to the next and back again. He bellowed loud guttural groans and began to speak in foreign tongues as if possessed by demons… other than himself.

He barked out loud groans of pain, utterances like: "Arrrrgg; Uggghh; and Mommmmy."

Slowly, the convulsing ceased and the moaning became heavy breathing. He stared up at Grim, reaching with one hand and clutching his heart with the other.

Grim… water. I need water, he said in a shallow hoarse tone, reminiscent of a dying man. "Please, just a drop."

Grim sat in his chair, arms folded and annoyed. This wasn’t the first time he watched his boss act out such a spectacle. He shook his head.

"Please? Really? he said with great disgust. When do you ever say please? He grabbed the folder off his desk that contained Hell’s recent numbers and waved it in the air. Can we get back to work?" he shouted.

Satan nodded simply and returned to his chair… as if nothing happened.

For the next two hours, Grim outlined the mess he created. Satan struggled to maintain control, but listened and held his temper.

Unbelievable, Satan roared. They tricked you into sending our most valued workers to Purgatory?

Grim nodded and said, I’m afraid so. I heard that those workers were then transferred to Heaven.

This is a nightmare. Down twenty-five percent in productivity and thirty percent in personnel, he blared. He stared at the floor and shook his head in disbelief, then leapt to his feet. Let me think a minute, he said with determination.

He now paced back and forth. This was where Satan was in his element. Smoke literally emerged from his ears as his brain worked overtime to create a solution. Grim sat and watched the activity with great interest. Back and forth Satan paced. As an idea came to him, he paused, thought it through and stored it in the back of his mind for later comparison. Minutes later, he came to a stop. A slow wily grin crossed his face.

You got something, Boss?

Satan grinned.

I’ve been saving this idea in the back of my mind for eons. It’s complicated, but it’s as clever as it is diabolical.

I’m listening, Grim responded.

Eons ago, after G created mankind, I had kicked around the idea of creating my own world of beings. I thought it would be fun and interesting.

"AND illegal," Grim blurted.

"Yeah, G has a strict policy: no alternate life forms permissible. It’s in the small print, but it’s there and he enforces it, he said, turning very serious momentarily. Anyway, I had worked out all the details: the DNA structures, the body dynamics, even the personality types. It’s all been sitting in the back of my mind just waiting for the right moment… and this is definitely the right moment."

Grim raised his hand as if in school and asking permission to speak. Satan nodded with approval.

Boss, these will be living humanoid beings. You can’t just stick them in Hell.

Exactly, Satan responded. "Once we’ve created these Roids, we simply eliminate them: problem solved. No more deficit in souls. They’re our property, so they’ll come straight to us."

What’s a Roid? Grim asked.

"It’s what I’m calling them. They’re humanoid, which sounds a lot like hemorrhoid. So I just call them Roid for short, which is the perfect name for creatures living on Uranus."

Seriously? That’s the best you can come up with: Roids? Don’t you think that’s an overplayed joke? Grim responded, unamused.

Grim buddy, you’re missing the clear distinction. That tired old joke is when someone pairs hemorrhoids with Uranus. I’m not doing that. I’m pairing Roid with Uranus. It’s completely different. It’s basically a brand-new joke I just invented.

Grim shook his head with disgust.

Boss, that’s the most delusional thing I’ve heard you say in months. Seriously, they are the exact same thing.

Are not.

Are too.

Yeah… well, your bones look yellowed and scaly.

Boss, you’re just being childish now, lashing out irrationally.

Yeah… well, I used your scythe to shave my back hair.

Grim stiffened in his chair and glanced nervously over to his cherished scythe. A wave of relief swept over him upon seeing the steely blade gleaming unmolested on its specially designed stand. He glared back at Satan with discontent.

That wasn’t funny, or nice.

Grim buddy, you always say the nicest things to me.

Boss, you’re so twisted.

Satan sniffed a moment, then wiped a faux tear from his eye.

I love you too, Buddy, he said, patting Grim on the shoulder.

Grim stared a moment, trying to digest the odd exchange. He finally gave up and continued on with their previous conversation.

So you’re just going to kill these Roids and send them straight to Hell? That’s your recovery plan?

Pretty much, Satan retorted casually.

Grim shook his head once more.

Beyond being illegal, I’m thinking God will consider it too barbaric and determine it completely off-limits, he responded.

"G CAN’T know about this, not even after it’s all done. If he ever finds out, we’re in BIG trouble. Understood?"

Grim shrugged, unconvinced.

Boss, I’m worried. There’s no way you’re going to get away with this. God is far too clever and far too intelligent. You and he spend a lot of time together, and something like this is going to monopolize your time. He’s bound to notice you missing and he’s going to ask questions.

Satan knew Grim was right. This was a problem. He stood for a moment and began to think. Suddenly, he smiled.

I got it! he blurted. The last night in Alaska, G opened up to me about how he was feeling like he was in a rut. We talked at great length about it, in private. He mentioned that he was going to stay in Alaska and write or create pottery or some kind of crap like that. I told him I could fix him up. He didn’t say no. If I can fix G up with a girl, that’ll keep him distracted long after we’re done. Love: it’s the perfect distraction.

Grim shook his head.

I don’t like it… not one single bit.

"Ahhh, you worry too much. I got it all figured out. What could possibly go wrong?"

Chapter 2

Heaven: God’s new hobbies…

Jesus stared out an open window and watched for any sign of movement in the cloud deck that seemed to go on forever. He squinted slightly to improve his vision. He pursed his lips in frustration, then glanced down at his watch: 8:35am. He shook his head.

He’ll be here, Son, God said, confidently. Maybe he got stuck in traffic.

Jesus glanced over to his dad and flashed a puzzled grin.

Dad, there is no such thing as traffic in Heaven, remember?

God grinned pleasantly and nodded.

He’s only thirty-five minutes late. I’m sure he has a good excuse, he responded.

Jesus stared at his dad a moment, ready to respond, but instead was amused by the sight: God seated in front of a large wooden easel, dressed in his standard fancy white robe, with a gray painter’s smock covering his torso. On top of his head, cocked to one side, was a painter’s cap, the kind that is so often seen in painters of the sixteenth century. In one hand, he held a paintbrush. In the other, he held a new pallet. God’s legs were crossed and one was swinging back and forth with happy anticipation.

Jesus smiled at his dad’s enthusiasm. Notwithstanding the need to buy time, this was a good idea he now felt. In his mind, he wished he had thought of it sooner.

What are you grinning at, Jesus? God asked.

Jesus shrugged.

I don’t know. I guess I’m just happy to see you so excited, he responded.

God nodded respectfully at Jesus, then turned toward his large white canvas and pretended to paint. Jesus grinned at the sight, then heard a sound outside the window. He glanced toward the courtyard in time to see a carriage rushing into the center and stop abruptly. A door was flung open and a gray-haired old man leaped out and stood in the courtyard. Dressed in heavy woolen black pantaloons, a dark green woolen overcoat and his quintessential painter’s cap, he was in Heaven as he was on Earth: a man unchanged – Leonardo DaVinci.

He reached back into the coach to retrieve his large leather satchel. He clutched the handle and pulled, but to no avail: the satchel would not fit through the doorway. Now more determined, he pulled even harder: tugging, shaking and jerking the satchel, but still it remained inside the coach. Leonardo now placed a foot up on the side of the carriage and pulled. Jesus could hear his loud groans as he strained to pull the stubborn bag free.

Blast! Leonardo roared in frustration.

Jesus continued to stare, mesmerized by the spectacle.

Leonardo, with both hands clutching the handle and one foot up on the side of the carriage, now leaped up and thrust his other foot against the carriage. With both feet off the ground, he heaved against the carriage walls and strained with great force. A split second later, the luggage folded and sprang through the doorway, hurling it and Leonardo unceremoniously to the ground. He rolled several feet, then quickly picked himself up, then kicked the satchel in anger.

Blast, he roared once again.

He glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then grabbed his satchel and ran toward the palace, disappearing from sight.

Jesus shook his head in disgust.

Terrific, he grumbled, sarcastically.

He now turned toward the door and waited. He heard loud footsteps climbing through the stairwell, as well as raucous banging of the walls, presumably caused by unwieldy luggage. Jesus glanced back at God. God shrugged with acceptance.

Leonardo sprung through the door and stared. He sized up Jesus, head to toe, then turned toward God and did the same.

Right then, you must be God, he shouted with great authority. We’re not here for tea, so enough of this sitting around. Let’s get started.

Jesus shot God a look of confusion, then anger.

"Look here, Bud… this is The Lord you’re talking to…" he blared.

God raised his hand to Jesus, cutting him off.

It’s ok, Jesus. I’ll take it from here, he said in calm tone. He stood and walked toward Leonardo, his hand extended. Leonardo DaVinci, I presume.

Of course, were you expecting someone else? Leonardo retorted.

He accepted God’s hand weakly and barely shook it once.

Jesus glared at the scene with condemnation. God shot Jesus a look of resistance. Oblivious to the tension in the room, Leonardo forged ahead. He walked to the blank canvas and set his satchel down on a table next to it.

I’m assuming you have no prior experience, correct? he asked of God.

Jesus took a step forward.

When were you first diagnosed with brain damage? he spat.

Jesus, it’s ok, God said, desperate to diffuse the bizarre situation. I got this.

Jesus glared at Leonardo, then nodded to God respectfully and left… slamming the door on his way out.

Hmpff, Leonardo grunted. Such disrespect in the presence of greatness.

God stared a moment, unsure of who Leonardo was referring to.

Right… let’s get started, Leonardo said abruptly.

He opened his satchel and pulled out a deformed lemon. He reshaped it in his hands, sniffed it, then rested it on the table. Next, he reached in and pulled out a couple of tubes of paint. They too seemed to be dented and deformed. He laid them on the table next to the lemon. He then reached into his bag and pulled out several brushes. He stared at them with great concern.

"These are broken. Someone broke my brushes. Who would do such a thing? he roared. I turn my head for only a minute and someone sabotages my tools. He raised a finger into the air and continued: But I, the great Leonardo DaVinci, will not be undone. He reached into his jacket and pulled a brush out from inside. It was heavily worn and the bristles broken and uneven from heavy use. I guard my favorite brush close to my heart. I painted Mona with it, you know?"

God stared at it with great interest.

Mona Lisa? Fascinating, he said, sincerely. He pointed at the uneven bristles. All that from that scrappy-looking thing?

Leonardo stiffened with insult.

Scrappy? he shouted. Sir, I protest: this is an outrage. A great brush does not adapt to his master. The master must adapt to his great brush. This has created spectacular works of art. It is a great instrument of creation.

God shook his head at the puzzling logic, then shrugged.

Whatever Leo. Let’s get started, he said simply.

Leonardo, he corrected.

"The Lord," God shot back.

Hmpff, Leonardo grumbled, with disrespect. He pointed to the lemon on the table and continued. Now then: on this side of the canvas, I will paint an exquisite portrait of this lemon. You will make your weak attempt at the lemon on the other side of the canvas. Try to keep up… and hold all questions till we finish.

Hold my questions? God asked, now confused. But you’re here to teach. Questions are part of learning. What happens if I get stuck?

Great artists are never stuck. They forge ahead and create greatness, Leonardo responded bluntly.

Before God could protest, Leonardo opened several tubes of paint and mixed some colors. He immediately began to brush the canvas. Worried he would fall behind, God did the same. Leonardo painted the oval shape of the lemon in short order. He nodded smugly at his skill, then glanced over to God. For a moment, he stiffened with surprise: God’s lemon was far more exacting in its shape.

Hmpff, he grunted again.

He added more paint to this brush and now continued… faster. God rushed to keep up. He loaded his own brush with paint and applied several more brushstrokes. Glancing over at Leonardo, he could tell the great master was deep in his work.

Leonardo took a quick step back, nodded and stepped toward the canvas once more. He added more brushstrokes, then glanced over to God. Again, he stiffened with surprise.

Mimicking Leonardo, God stepped back, then quickly toward the canvas and brushed more paint onto his lemon. He now flicked his wrist with even greater dexterity, painting character into his portrait that even Leonardo hadn’t achieved.

Not to be outdone, Leonardo now painted feverishly. He mixed his paints with the skill of a chemist and applied them to the canvas with exacting talent. He nodded proudly to himself at his abilities as his lemon appeared rich with color and likeness. Glancing at God’s portrait out of the corner of his eye, he shook his head with jealousy.

Blast, he grumbled under his breath. Impossible.

He now stared at God’s lemon: exacting in color, shape and size. He could feel his rage boiling just beneath his skin. His hands shook and he now sweated. Compelled to succeed, he pressed on. He painted the tiny dimples of the lemon and a small sheen of reflected light off the top of the lemon, then stood back and smiled confidently.

A true masterpiece, he blared.

Just as he was finishing, he glanced over to God’s work. God, now with two brushes going at once, added his final brushstrokes. Seconds later, he put his brushes down and smiled.

Done, God announced proudly. I can’t believe I was able to keep up. You lost me for a minute there, but I improvised with an extra brush. If I do say so myself, I think both paintings are almost identical.

Leonardo fumed with jealousy. He shook his head.

"Blast… anyone with any talent can see mine’s better," he retorted.

God cocked his head slightly and squinted with uncertainty.

I don’t know Leo. They’re both pretty close, he said. He leaned forward and sniffed his canvas. Looking back to DaVinci, he said, "But does yours smell like a lemon?"

"Address me as Leonardo… and what you do mean, smell? he shot back, confused. Of course mine doesn’t smell like a lemon. It’s oil paint. It smells like linseed oil. Are you mental or something?"

God sniffed again and nodded.

Yup, lemons, he said, simply.

Stand back, DaVinci ordered God with disrespect.

He placed his nose near God’s painted lemon and breathed in. Instantly, his eyes widened… then narrowed… with defeat.

How did you do that? he asked, his tone filled with both: condescension and curiosity.

Well Leo, when I fell behind, I missed some of your steps. I didn’t know what to do, so I just improvised… and added lemon juice to some of my colors. It helped them flow better and gave the right amount of texture.

Leonardo continued to stare at God’s painting. He leaned in and sniffed once more, then shook his head in disgust.

I blame myself for this, he snarled. Turning to God, he continued: "Next time, I’ll make sure you only follow my instructions."

"Whatever you say, Leo."

The Twain experience…

God stared proudly at his painting. He leaned forward and drew in a large draft of air through his nose.

Wonderful, he said to himself.

He ran his finger over the lemon and felt the texture of the paint, nearly simulating that of a real lemon. He nodded approvingly.

Leaning forward to inhale another whiff of lemon, his eyes furrowed. Something was off, something was definitely off. He cocked his head, puzzled and sniffed at the painting of the lemon once more.

"What is that smell? he said aloud. Smells like…"

His eyes widened and a slow grin crossed his face. Quickly, he stood and rushed to the window.

Cigars… smells like cigars. Twain, he said to himself.

In the courtyard, he watched an elderly white-haired man, dressed in a three-piece white suit, saunter toward the palace. His gate was loose and carefree, as if in a perpetual state of bliss. Clamped between his teeth, a large cigar smoldered with an even burn, sending wafts of exquisite tobacco aroma into the air. God smiled at the sight and waved.

Sam, up here, he shouted in delighted tone.

Mark Twain looked up and smiled through his clamped cigar.

Hey Lord, so good to see you again, he muttered through clenched teeth. Realizing the difficulty in speaking, he pulled his cigar from his mouth and continued: May I enter your humble abode? he asked with gracious respect.

It would be my greatest honor, sir. The door’s on the left, God shouted down.

"Shall I extinguish my cigar? Some do find it offensive," he asked politely.

Absolutely not! I find offensive, those who find cigar smoke offensive.

And I defend those who are offended by those who find cigar smoke offensive.

God scratched his head, then grinned at Twain’s logic. He waved him on forward, then backed away from the window and waited. Seconds later, a knock sounded from the doorway.

Samuel Clemens, it’s been a while, God said, extending his hand.

That’s Mark Twain, if you please, sir. I only go by Sam Clemens when I’m trying to escape politicians and creditors, he joked politely, shaking God’s hand vigorously.

God grinned at the characteristic Twain wit.

Mark pointed his cigar at The Lord’s breast pocket and shook his head disapprovingly.

I see your robe is missing a crucial element to its ensemble, he said cryptically.

God stared back with confusion, unsure where Mark was going with his observation.

Mark clamped his cigar in his teeth, then pulled back his suit jacket, now exposing his vest underneath. Inside his breast pocket was a small stash of cigars. He reached in and