What in Hell Is up with Heaven? II No Good Deed Goes Unpunished...

By Christopher David Petersen

After ions of hard work, God and Satan go on vacation for some much-needed rest, but they don’t go alone: Zeus, Poseidon Apollo and Pontius Pilot join them in their adventures in the Alaskan wilderness. Five men in a wilderness cabin: what could possibly go wrong? Suffice it to say, this will be no religious retreat.

In their absence, the Grim Reaper and Jesus are left in charge and both are long on enthusiasm, but short on experience. In short order, all hell breaks loose and leave the two scrambling to right their wrongs before the “boss” returns.

With his memories neatly stowed away and ready for work, Satan returns to Hell only to find his world turned upside-down. God returns with Heaven equally in trouble, but for the moment, Jesus is able to hide the truth from God.

The race is on. Can Satan fix his troubled world under the nose of God? And how long can Jesus hide his secret before God finds out?

Heaven and Hell are in big trouble and this is only the beginning...

This is book 2 in the 3-book series. Book 3 is the conclusion to the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher David Petersen
• Release date: May 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005550028

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: II

No good deed goes unpunished…

Christopher David Petersen

Copyright 2011 Christopher David Petersen

Smashwords Edition

Chapter 1

Time and chance collide for the unlucky. It has been this way since the beginning. You can neither plan nor can you pray… for your destiny has been decided by one: That rotten Satan.

The wind blew chaotically through his hair like a gnat in a wind tunnel. With hurricane-force winds buffeting his half-naked body, Satan clutched the control stick firmly and advanced the throttle far into redline. Seated in the open cockpit of his ultra-light plane, he flew with the precision and skill of a seasoned aviator.

Satan smiled contently and murmured a single word under his breath: "SPEECHLESS". With a slight chuckle, he reflected on the conversation he had just an hour earlier…

One hour earlier…

So Grim, what do you think? Satan asked the Grim Reaper with pride.

Well, no one will ever accuse you of not taking your job seriously, Grim replied bluntly.

"And what’s THAT supposed to mean?"

A white silk scarf? Really? Grim asked.

Hey man, it gets cold up there, he defended.

Cold? You’re not even wearing a freakin’ shirt, Grim blurted. And what’s with that ridiculous leather helmet and those bullfrog-looking goggles?

Satan stood defiant, his hands at his hips.

Well, if they’re good enough for the Red Baron, then they’re good enough for me, he replied proudly.

The Red Baron? You’re trying to emulate Manfred von Richthofen?

Manfred von who?

"Rickthofen… Manfred VON Rickthofen." Grim said with great certainty.

"Never heard of him. What was he… a shoe salesman or something?

"Shoe salesman? I think NOT! He was ONLY the most famous flying ace of World War One, heck, maybe of all time. He’s a true legend."

Couldn’t be much of legend if he was named after a comic strip character, Satan mocked.

"Holy Halos, boss! Sometimes I really wonder about you. The Red Baron from the Peanuts comic strip was written a full half-century after the REAL Red Baron, Manfred von Rickthofen, left his mark on history.

Well, I don’t know anything about this Manfred von Shoe Salesman guy, but if he was half the pilot you say he was, I’m sure he’d be dressed like this.

"Yeah, that and a shirt. Satan, you just look ridiculous. Not the sort of thing you’d expect from a representative from Hell. Maybe you should think about adding another garment to your ensemble?

One step ahead of you, Buddy, Satan replied with a grin.

Satan reached into his back pocket and pulled out a set of black, fingerless gloves. Donning them quickly, he twirled his hands in the air, then spread them out before him.

Ta-da… he said in true magician’s vernacular. How’s this?

"Speechless," Grim replied in simple resignation.

--- --- --- --- ---

Satan chuckled to himself at the exchange between him and Grim. Their conversation was a typical one, not unlike that of a married couple where the husband’s behavior is socially unacceptable and the wife corrects the impropriety. Turning serious now, Satan re-gripped the control stick and scanned the horizon. Far out in the distance, he spotted a glint of light that reflected off something metallic. Focusing hard, a contented grin spread across his face.

Come to papa, he said out aloud.

He scanned the mini-instrument panel in front of him. Moving from left to right, he focused on each instrument, digesting its reading, then moving onto the next one in series. Having read each of the five instruments, a puzzled expression crossed his face.

Huh, that’s strange. Where the heck is it? he uttered under his breath.

Once again, he quickly scanned through the instruments, his face now growing ever more confused and angry as he realized the object of his search was missing.

He searched the open cockpit around him. The tiny plane consisted of a few metal tubes as supports, some wires used for the controls and a triangular-shaped wing above his head made of cloth that was suspended by several more tubes.

Looking around the airy structure, with his frustration mounting, He reached for the mic.

Satan to Hell… over, he yelled into his mic.

He listened for a moment, but hearing only static, he repeated his message.

Satan to Hell… over. Come in Hell… over.

Still, there was only silence.

Satan to Hell... over. Grim, pick up the damn mic… over, he yelled over the whine of the tiny lawnmower engine.

Seconds later, the deep ghoulish voice of the Grim Reaper bellowed from the speaker mounted near Satan’s head.

Yeah Boss, what’s up, Grim responded.

Grim, I’m trying to find the button for the tractor beam. Any idea where it’s located? … over.

Satan waited momentarily for Grim’s responses. Growing increasingly impatient, he repeated his question once more.

Grim, where’s the damn tractor beam… over!

Tractor beam? Boss, I don’t understand. What do you mean, tractor beam? Grim replied, his voice now filled with confusion.

The tractor beam thingy… you know: push a button and a huge ray beam shoots out and sucks things back to you… over.

Boss, I think you’re confused. There’s no such thing as a tractor beam, Grim replied.

Preposterous! Satan blared, Of course they exist. I saw one just yesterday on the TV…. over.

The television? Don’t tell me you were watching Star Trek again? Grim asked with exasperation.

After a slight pause, Satan replied, No… maybe… Ok, I might have seen a couple of episodes… over.

First of all, could you stop saying over"? It’s really annoying. And second, Star Trek is a made-up TV show, so there’re no such thing as tractor beams. It’s all make-believe."

Grim listened to the pause as Satan processed the info.

Ok, no tractor beams… check. Switching to manual, Satan said in monotone pilot jargon.

Switching to manual? Everything on that little death trap is manual. Boy, you really are getting into character, aren’t you Boss? Grim teased.

Hey, I don’t tease you when you’re bleaching your skull or sharpening your scythe. Cut me a little slack, will yah. I’m just enjoying myself, he replied, carrying the light banter further.

I’ll have you know that studies have shown that a bleached skull adds thirty-eight percent more terror than one that is dull and lifeless. And my scythe needs to be razor-sharp for obvious reasons, Grim rebutted.

Pfft… Obvious reasons. When’s the last time you used that thing for something other than slicing a sandwich? In fact, I think I saw mustard on the blade just this morning, he teased.

That’s just not true. My scythe is used for one thing and one thing only… Hold on a minute, Grim said abruptly.

A momentary pause in their conversation caused Satan to chuckle to himself. He knew what was coming next.

"Oh My God! Grim blurted into the microphone. Boss, there’s mustard and lettuce all over the blade. How many times have I asked you not to use my scythe as a knife?"

Satan anticipated Grim’s response and the sound of his complaint sent him into a fit of laughter. With Satan’s contagious laugh bellowing through the speaker, Grim too began to laugh. As they both regained their composure, Satan returned his focus to the more serious matter at hand.

Ok my luminous friend, opportunity is slipping through our fingers while we carry on like a couple of old ladies; time to get back to work, he said in a more serious tone.

Ok Boss. So, will you be home for dinner? Grim asked, now moving their exchange to its final conclusion.

Yeah, what are we having? Was that lamb I saw in the frig this morning? he asked with great anticipation.

It sure was. I was thinking of making a rack of lamb with mint jelly and new potatoes, Grim replied with pride.

Hmmm, I love new potatoes. As soon as I’m done here, I’m heading straight home… Satan: Over and Out, he replied.

--- --- -- --- ---

Satan scanned the horizon once more. Far out in the distance, moving from right to left, he spotted it: a cigar-shaped object. He watched for a moment as a tiny vapor trail exited from the rear of the plane. Holding his course and speed, he mentally calculated the point of impact.

Like shooting fish in a barrel, he said to himself.

His eyes narrowed as he became more focused. Shifting his black combat boots on the rudder pedals, he made minor corrections to his course. His face lost all expression and the intensity of his stare was piecing. Satan was now in his element. This was the job he was born to do.

Twenty miles, azimuth sixty degrees, he said under his breath.

He rechecked his gages, then adjusted his grip on the control stick and throttle level.

Ten miles, azimuth forty-five degrees, he murmured with controlled anticipation.

Satan squinted hard. He could now make out the detail of the plane. He could see the long wings and a vertical tail and could just make out the tiny windows that lined the side of the fuselage of the airliner. A great smile spread across his face the closer he neared.

Ever so slightly, the wing of the tiny ultra-light plane dipped slightly to the left. Satan immediately corrected with inputs to the right. As he stabilized his course, he noticed his airspeed beginning to slow. He pushed hard on the throttle, but it was already at its full forward position.

What the Hell? he shouted out over the whine of the tiny lawn-mower engine.

Quickly, he scanned the plane around him. Behind him, he saw the engine loudly screaming as it was being pushed to its breaking point.

Nothing out of the ordinary there, he remarked to himself.

He looked through the metal support structure below him. All was clear.

Huh, strange… where’s the drag coming from, he wondered quietly to himself.

He looked around at the triangular wing above him and there, at the leading edge of the wing, he saw it; two sandal-clad feet protruding out from the edge.

Hello Red? came a loud commanding voice.

As the sandal-clad feet momentarily disappeared, two sets of fingers replaced them. Satan watched with dread as God peered over the edge of the wing and glared directly at him.

What’s the matter Red, cat got your tongue? God said as he floated over the top of the wing and settled down in front of him.

G, man you really startled me. What the heck you doing out here? he asked nervously.

"I should ask you the same question… And sweet Jesus, what the Hell are you wearing. You look like a deranged version of Snoopy," he teased.

What do you mean? This is what aviators wear, Satan replied.

Ok, I’ll give you the goggles… and maybe even that silly leather helmet, but Damn Red, that white silk scarf has got to go. You look ridiculous. And besides, it might catch in the propeller and tear your head off… come to think of it, that might be a good look for you; you know, the whole Exquisite Terror thing you’re so big on, he teased.

We don’t subscribe to that Exquisite Terror campaign anymore. We are gentler, kinder agents of death, Satan said.

You’re kidding, God replied, taken aback.

We’ve had complaints, Satan responded simply, as he rolled his eyes.

Let me guess… Political Correctness, God said with great disdain.

You guessed correctly, Satan said, shaking his head in disgust. It seems there were a few that felt we needed to be more sensitive in corrupting the values of society. And don’t even get me started on humane soul collection. It just sends me right over the edge.

Jesus keeps reminding me of the new movement, how we have to be more sensitive to human beings. Frankly, I don’t get it. I’ll never understand the logic of some of these creatures. I give them the ability to use a higher percentage of their brain capacity and what do they do? They use it to enlighten" their world… becoming uppity and self-righteous. Whatever happened to the days when stoning and crucifixions were acceptable? An eye for an eye I’ve always commanded… but Nooo - my word is too good for them. They have to classify it as figurative and change the whole meaning… ungrateful bastards."

God paused a moment from his tirade, snatched one of his favorite cigars from inside his robe and asked Satan for a light.

You mind, Red? he asked, bringing his cigar to his lips.

Absolutely, G, Satan said, extending his index finger.

With a little friction between his fingers, he ignited the tip of his index finger and held it up to God’s cigar. God took in a few long draws as the end began to glow a fiery red.

Exhaling a large cloud of smoke, he continued, "You know, in the olden days, I’d just send down a huge swarm of locusts or spread pestilence throughout a continent. That’s how WE got things done back then. Remember those days?" he said, matter-of-factly while flicking an ash from the end of his cigar.

Such good memories. I miss those days, Satan responded with a sentimental nod.

Good times… God nodded.

The two floated in silence, staring off into space as they reflected on their favorite memories.

Floating effortlessly in front of the speeding ultra-light plane, God continued to puff on his cigar. Satan, on the other hand, was not so casual. Shifting nervously in his seat, his eyes darted from God, to the airplane out on the horizon and back again. Satan’s plan to intercept the jumbo jet was now in peril.

Seeing Satan fidgeting, God began to take notice.

Damn Red, what’s the matter? Hemorrhoids acting up again? he asked with genuine concern.

Um… yeah, I think I’ve got a case developing, he lied.

God reached into his tastefully styled, white robe and pulled out a tube of salve.

Here you go. This should fix you right up, he said, handing the tube to his friend.

With his eyes still focused on the plane, Satan reached out with his free hand and took the tube of salve, shoving it in his pants pocket. Realizing his error, he quickly glanced back to God… but the damage was done. God looked across the horizon at the jumbo jet closing fast.

Hmm, working diligently today I see, he said, with a piercing stare. Don’t even think about.

"Whaaaat?" Satan whined.

How many millenniums have I known you? Did you really think you’re going to get away with it? he asked in half-joking tone.

Ahhhh G, come on… They’re on my list, Satan responded, now admitting his guilt.

But they’re not on mine. You can’t take ‘em, he responded in an authoritative tone.

Thinking quickly, Satan reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny silver coin. Flipping it into the air, he said, I’ll flip you for it: Tails they’re mine; Heads they’re yours.

They’re already mine you idiot. Why would I even think of gambling them away? he responded.

Watching the coin in the air, God quickly reached out his hand and snatched it as it fell.

"Heyyyy, that’s mine, Satan replied in a childlike manner. Give it back."

God scanned the coin and eyed Satan with disdain.

Uh-huh… just as I suspected. There’re no heads on this coin. Both sides are tails. Nice try, he said in condescending tone.

Huh? Well, what do you know about that? I wonder how that got in there, he said, quickly covering himself. Well, no matter. How about we cut cards for ‘em or maybe even draw straws? he offered as alternatives.

No, God responded simply.

Undeterred, Satan continued, Ok, no cards, coins or straws… how about dice? We could shoot dice for ‘em.

No, God responded dryly, now becoming slightly irritated.

Tiddlywinks?

No.

Odds, evens?

No.

Jax?

No.

Ok, what number am I thinking? Satan said, looking into the air, concentrating on his number.

Seriously?

Satan thought about the Lords ability to read minds. Yeah, that’s kinda lame. OK, Rock, Paper, Scissors?

No.

Nearest to the bull?

What’s that game?

Darts… the one closest to the bulls-eye wins, Satan explained.

Hmm, I love darts. Remember that time in Rome, we played the pope for his ring? God asked while staring off into space. He sighed a great sigh and continued, Yup, he sure was pissed…

So, you want to play darts? Satan asked with anticipation.

No.

Tic tac toe?

No.

Eenie meenie mynie moe?

No.

Musical chairs?

No.

G, be reasonable. There’s like a bazillion evil people on that plane just itchin’ to go to Hell. You know it. I know it. Why prolong the inevitable?

"Red, how many times are we going to act out this play? Back and forth we go: I catch you overstepping your authority and you try double-talking me into going along with your crazy nonsense. For once I’d just like