False Solutions

By Ed Oetjen

"But you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil for when you eat of it, you will surely die" (Gen. 2:17). Why would God put that troublesome tree in the Garden of Eden? He must have known the childlike Adam and Eve would give in to temptation, especially with that old serpent slithering around. Maybe that was the divine plan from the start for what would be the most interesting saga: an endless summer of Adam and family playing with docile lions and feasting on low-hanging fruit or a tortuous slog through centuries that eventually lifted humanity from hunter-gatherers to astronauts. This little book attempts to offer an alternate view of Satan in which he was not only a vengeful rebel against the cosmic divine will but unwittingly served as the restless, malcontented spark that ignited much of human progress through the ages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798886545920

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False Solutions

Ed Oetjen

Copyright © 2022 Ed Oetjen

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 979-8-88654-582-1 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-592-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Book 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Book 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Book 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Book 4

Chapter 1

Chapter 1 1/2

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 9 1/2

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 13 1/2

Chapter 13 3/4

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Book 1

Chapter 1

The divorce was finalized two weeks later, and after Mr. Phelps put out the contract on his ex, so was Mrs. (fourth) Phelps. They had been separated for years, and he had long suspected her of being unfaithful, therefore feeling justified. Besides, the one-time payment of $2,500 for the hit was much cheaper than ten years of alimony, Mr. Phelps explained to his attorney, and much more fun. But the local district attorney, the superior court judge, and twelve jurors were not amused. After a sensational trial that provided lead stories for the local Augusta, Georgia, TV news stations for a full month, Bernard Phelps was found guilty of first-degree murder and sentenced to life without parole.

Since there were no known children from his four failed marriages, a former exotic dancer named Michelle Goodself was the happy recipient of his three houses, nine cars, and six offshore bank accounts. In return for this largesse, Michelle promised Bernard that she'd wait for him, visit every Sunday, and start a letter-writing campaign to the governor on his behalf, urging clemency due to his many and varied contributions to the state's nightclub industry.

After this brief introduction, since the past shapes the future, it might be useful to give a quick but illuminating review of the earlier life histories of this little story's two most vital and interesting human participants.

Bernard was born as Bernard Wheeler MacPhelps in Augusta, Georgia, on April 29, 1931. He was a tenth­generation descendant of a Scottish family that had immigrated to Georgia in colonial times. His maternal grandfather had been Gen. Joseph Wheeler, the Confederate commander who for a few months in 1864 lead the valiant Southern forces that heroically but unsuccessfully opposed General Sherman's invasion of the state. Thus, our hero's middle name.

The MacPhelps clan displayed more than a fair share of Scottish shrewdness during their long sojourn in Dixie, and by the early twentieth century, they were one of the wealthiest families in Augusta. The city was the third largest inland port in the country in those days mostly due to the area's thriving cotton-export industry. No member of the MacPhelps family had ever worked in a cotton field, but they cashed in on the fiber as middlemen. Bernard should have grown up as a privileged, rich southern boy, but the Great Depression of the 1930s interfered. His father, Lucius MacPhelps, committed suicide in 1932 after the bad times forced the bankruptcy of his cotton trade and mercantile business interests.

Money was always scarce as Bernard's widowed mother struggled to raise her only son while working as a bank teller. She was an extremely religious lady who attempted to condition her son to fear God, resist the devil, and to depend on no man but himself. This last lesson was painfully reinforced by his father's surviving MacPhelps relatives who turned their collective backs on Bernard and his mother after the disgrace and death of Lucius. At the age of twenty-one, our hero shortened his last name to Phelps as an act of defiance against his coldhearted paternal clan. Bernard did, however, inherit a good portion of his MacPhelps forefather's earlier genius for business. Such natural talent is always more valuable than money as it is nonexpendable.

Poverty, a pious mother, natural intelligence, and a burning desire to prove himself were the four great driving forces in our hero's early life. After a brief stint in the navy, where he learned that his oversized ego would not allow him to work under superior authority, Bernard went into business for himself.

Unlike his father, he chose a field that thrived in good times and bad, the entertainment industry. He learned early that there was always profit in human gratification.

Usually operating at the extreme limits allowed by the law, the young Mr. Phelps brilliantly exploited every opportunity available to him. By age forty-five, he was a multimillionaire, owning a dozen establishments across Georgia and having business connections in Latin America and Canada.

Of course, most of his mother's religious instruction had to fall into the ditch along the road to his success, but this business was a tough man's game; results were what counted. Bernard felt even more justified knowing that his rapid rise to wealth and power was the sweetest revenge possible against the hated MacPhelps' side of his lineage. He bought his mother a beach house in Hilton Head and in general did all that his money could to assuage her disapproval of his conduct until her death in 1993.

As for the briefer but strangely similar life history of Michelle Goodself, she was born in Macon, Georgia, on September 16, 1972. She as a generally happy, intelligent, pretty child whose only wrinkle was a bad attitude against authority. Her parents usually indulged her, but her free spirit kept her in almost constant trouble when she began school. Teachers repeatedly warned that her defiant attitude was dangerously undermining her great potential.

All forms of prescribed punishment only made the problem worse. It required a constant pressure of threat and bribery by her parents to keep her in classes until she graduated from Bibb County Central High School in 1990.

Pretty little girls don't necessarily translate into beautiful women. Michelle did. She grew to be only one inch shy of six feet tall, with a very well-proportioned figure that made none of the lanky concession to the vertical that plagues some tall females. Her facial features suggested Scandinavian stock. Michelle had long, cascading golden hair that hinted at beams of sunlight streaming through the rocky fjords of Norway. Her eyes were as dazzling a cobalt blue as the cold waters of the Baltic Sea. Those eyes were framed in the type of perfectly symmetrical oval face that psychologists have determined is universally attractive. Her well-defined, arched, almost Roman nose gave her face a hint of strong character to complement its serene balance. Overall, she would have made a perfect likeness of the goddess Athena for a Greek temple. In the real world, she often had a very powerful effect on men, whether intentionally or not.

Ms. Michelle had scored surprisingly well on her SAT but demanded her right to postpone further education until she could see more of the bigger world. For a young lady who had grown up in middle Georgia and ached for excitement, the bigger world was Atlanta. She had a few friends from school there who took her in, but then reality settled. The friends expected Michelle to pay her share.

She tried a series of minimum-wage jobs, but they seemed to be a waste of her obvious charms. One of her Atlanta-savvy friends suggested that she try the Leopard Skin Lounge on Peachstate Street. The club always had openings for waitresses and other positions, and the pay was excellent.

For the first time in her life, Michelle let herself be led astray by others. She started at the Leopard as a cocktail waitress then was lured by the promise of big, easy money into the exciting world of exotic dancing. At first it was very uncomfortable, but the income was phenomenal. Within a few weeks, she had learned to accept the cost and chalked up the career change as a strengthening, life-altering experience. But the real altering experience was yet to come.

The nightclub that gave our Ms. Michelle such lucrative employment was owned by none other than our hero, Bernard. It was a beautiful fall night in 1991. In her year of performing at the Leopard, Michelle had become one of the club's star attractions. Our hero usually left the nightly running of his Atlanta establishments to site managers, but he was in town that night and had been hearing rumors about this new attraction. So on that fateful autumn evening, Bernard visited his club Leopard unannounced and was, as one could easily predict from the direction this narration has already taken, immediately smitten by Ms. Goodself. He did her the honor of deciding then and there that she was worthy of being the last great conquest in his checkered personal life.

With the club manager at his side to verify his identity, Bernard introduced himself to Michelle as her boss. She was not overwhelmed and responded by complaining that her dressing room was too small. Over the next few nights, Michelle successfully resisted Bernard's more risqué advances. But by that time, he was hopelessly hooked; some arrangement with her would have to be made. Sensing that she had won this battle of wills and had conquered the conqueror, Michelle agreed to accompany Bernard back to Augusta and become his personal assistant. The arrangement surprisingly endured. Over the next ten years, Michelle did bookwork for Bernard, attended college sporadically, accompanied him to events where her appearance was helpful, and occupied her own private suite at the Phelps town house. Some of Bernard's more vicious detractors rumored that all he got for his generosity was Michelle's gratitude.

Now back to the main story. Miss Michelle, a buxom, blond bombshell of enviable dimensions, was not accustomed to sitting home alone mourning lost loves, and that trait caused her happy arrangement with Bernard to take a tragic turn. Not a conventional turn into cheap afternoon carnality would be too mundane a route for the extraordinary characters of this narration, in which the narrator himself is the weakest link. No, these pages will endeavor to outline events and personal decisions by a few struggling souls that intertwined to produce an upheaval unparalleled in Georgia's history since Sherman marched to the sea, one that came very close to bringing down all of modern human civilization.

I am not a particularly religious person, but I acknowledge God for what he is, and he tolerates me for what I am, Bernard explained to the prison's part-time pastor, Don Infernwell.

Reverend Infernwell had been counseling at the prison for about six years, and while most of the inmates dismissed him as a flake, he and Bernard had developed a certain mutual admiration in the last few weeks based probably on a shared contempt for conventional religion. Don had more wrecked churches behind him than Bernard had failed marriages.

But he does expect you to financially help his authorized emissaries, interjected Don hopefully, and I would be willing to help circumvent normal channels if that's a problem. The reverend had hoped that since Convict Phelps could reasonably expect to spend the remainder of his natural life in Reedsburg Maximum Security Prison, the old criminal might feel compelled to make some atonement for his sinful past by channeling some of the huge fortune he had amassed toward the Almighty's direction. That direction in this particular case being represented by the good prison-pastor himself. What possible better use could there be for all that ill-gotten money? Bernard would never be able to enjoy it again, and any associates of his would only squander it on a frivolous, debauched lifestyle.

There is no problem, retorted the only con artist in the state who could appreciate the kindred shallowness of purpose behind the vain veneer of compassion that the reverend was now displaying, because there is no money, at least none that I can get to. All of my funds are now under the care and control of my ward, Michelle Goodself.

The good reverend's eyes raised at the mention of Bernard's female understudy. The statuesque Michelle's frequent visits to the prison on Bernard's behalf had become the stuff of legend over the past few months, very popular events with the inmates and staff. You are very lucky to have a friend as lovely, eh loyal, as Ms. Goodself, interjected Don, temporarily distracted from his selfish ends. I'm sure your affairs are safe with her.

A good many affairs are probably safe with her right now, responded Bernard with a solemn detachment that forewarned the good reverend against further probes into his favorite inmate's personal and financial life at that time. Somewhat dejected, Don at least had the decency to leave Bernard alone with his gloomy thoughts.

Due to his wealth and reputation, prison had been far easier on him than it had been on most other inmates. But it still left him with too much free time, time to brood over what Bernard considered the one true unforgivable sin: disloyalty, or in Michelle's case, infidelity. But what could the old man expect? With him locked up in a maximum-security prison and his very desirable, very young protégé out in a big world she had no real experience with before now, free to pursue every whim and to be pursued.

But Bernard's worry went deeper than his prison's stone walls. With his connections, his stay behind bars would be short in spite of the heinousness of his crime. But the confinement he dreaded most was that of his own aging body. From that, there could be but one escape, and in spite of months listening to Reverend Infernwell's platitudes, Bernard felt little cause for optimism in that prospect. Besides, with courage and brains, Bernard had always believed that he could find heaven enough to suit him right here on Earth until now anyway. Lately, he had been made to realize that money and power could hold a young woman's attention for only so long, and Michelle's was probably beginning to wane.

Georgia's eightieth governor had a big problem. A two-billion-dollar shortfall in a budget that technically was supposed to be balanced would be more than embarrassing; it could deny Gov. Leroy Blandon a second term in office and leave a very ugly stain on his otherwise spotless career in state politics. The Georgia constitution required that state spending never exceed income, but shortages happened almost every year and were covered by bank loans backed by next year's projected revenues. Some of this hidden debt dated back over one hundred years. But this was different; it was too big to hide with some tricky accounting.

Governor Blandon liked to think that he was too much of a pro to give into blind panic, but this problem had him very close to it. There was plenty of blame to go around, but his was the hand on the till, and he would by rights receive the brunt of the blast.

Fate often pops up as unsolicited as a cold sore. Just as the good governor was morosely brooding over his daunting problem, a junior staff assistant stuck her head into his open office and timidly announced that a Ms. Michelle requested his ear about a matter about which he was already aware. Leroy groaned inside. Michelle called every week, pleading for gubernatorial intervention in the case of her mentor, benefactor, Bernard Phelps. Publicly, the governor and Bernard were old friends. Bernard had financially supported several of Leroy's campaigns for office, and Leroy had helped cut through bureaucratic hurdles whenever Mr. Phelps wanted to open a new establishment.

Privately, Leroy would like to see Bernard rot in prison or better yet meet with some unfortunate accident that would silence the old felon forever. He knew too much. But not being able to deny her charms or persistence, the governor of Georgia got on the phone with a show girl from Macon to discuss the case history of a career criminal from Augusta who had just murdered his wife. Strange bedfellows.

Michelle's arguments where neither new nor articulate. She wanted Bernard to be out of prison, and, of course, Bernard wanted to be out of prison. The rules that govern ordinary people and hold society together should not apply to them. That was the gist of their argument. Still, Leroy had to admire the loyalty of such a woman to a man three times her age who had no reputation as a gentleman. How did Bernard do it? Amazing that his talent for high finance should extend to personal relationships.

Then the fatal thought hit His Excellency.

Both the governor and the convict were in very difficult spots, requiring extraordinary solutions. Each had a problem that his counterpart was uniquely and ideally suited to alleviate. How could random circumstances produce such a situation? Leroy, good Southern Baptist that he was, believed they could not. But he wondered whether this opportunity came from above or below.

The question facing him for the first time in his life with such clarity was whether he would sell his soul for two billion dollars. Would he dance with the devil to save his career and reputation? Would he lie with dogs? Would he sing with Satan to keep high office? Would he meld with Mephisto to stay under the Gold Dome? Yes, yes, he would. Georgia needed this money. As her governor, obtaining it was his duty.

The paperwork took time. First the transcript of the case of the State of Georgia v. Bernard Phelps was reviewed by the governor's legal staff for possible technical errors in the trial proceeding. Several were found in the way in which the judge allowed prosecution witness testimony to be admitted as evidence. Third-party murder cases were very difficult to prove, and in their overzealousness to get a conviction, both the state and the judge had been sloppy in what they had allowed in. That would be the grounds for gubernatorial intervention. After Bernard provided documentary verification that the required funds were being circuitously transferred into the state treasury, the deal was sealed by his sentence being commuted from life to time served.

There were protests. The Faustian deal between the governor and Mr. Phelps might have gone unnoticed by the public at large if some of the more hostile Atlanta newspapers had not picked up on the story and printed it.

The most conservative of them held up the episode as another example of bad good old boy politics in the Democratic-run statehouse, of justice being served for lunch in the governor's mansion, of compassion going to the highest bidder. Privately, Governor Blandon was annoyed and angry by these ignorant charges, but he publicly ignored them, knowing that they would soon blow away like milkweed seeds in the wind, gone and forgotten.

The sky never looked bluer, the air never smelt fresher, than when one just emerged from incarceration. Especially when one beat the system by serving only months on decades Those were sensations and achievements that only a very limited few ever relished, and for Bernard, the triumph was made more enjoyable by the sight of Michelle waiting for him in the release zone. She was in a red dress and leaning against her matching hue 2002 Corvette. Life could be good. To appreciate the good, one had to drink in some of the bad, and Bernard had done enough of that through the years. Now he was determined to put all the bad behind him permanently, to make the years he had left the best of his checkered life, if only the law and Michelle would cooperate.

Don Infernwell was furious. All his months of ministering to Bernard's spiritual needs had not netted him a nickel. Even Reverend Infernwell did not hope to gain the whole world, but he deeply felt he deserved better profits than this. His favorite convict did not even seem appreciative. The good reverend was in no mood to turn his other cheek. It was that vixen Michelle's fault. The Jezebel had so completely ensnared Bernard with her sinful charms that he had lost sight of the need to store up heavenly treasure by filling the Reverend Infernwell's treasury on Earth. Her influence would have to be neutralized, and the reverend believed he discovered a means of achieving that end from his many soul-searching sessions with Bernard. The old ex-convict was obsessed with the matter of Michelle's fidelity. From what he had seen of her, the reverend could not doubt that Mr. Phelps had good cause to worry. That would be the angle of attack.

Of course, intruding into the sordid private life of a fallen angel was well beneath the dignity of devout minister of God, so Don decided to enlist the professional help of someone accustomed to rooting around in the gutter. He looked through the local real yellow pages under private investigators, but all those listed there were either too expensive for the Reverend Infernwell's limited budget or were reluctant to get involved in third-party cases.

On a hunch, the holy man then went to a nearby bookstore to find one of those detective magazines that listed scores of self-styled investigators who would do most any type of disgusting work for a comparatively cheap rate. He found what he was looking for in the back corner of Bob's Books and Novelties in a section that featured row after row of such filthy, vulgar, shocking publications as Badboy, Pentup, and Goodtimes. Is this what he had fallen to? In a fit of self-disgust, the good reverend was near to returning his detective magazine to the shelf and leaving when a strange urge came over him. Giving in to temptation, he picked up a Pentup and flipped to the centerfold. Shocking! Absolutely shocking! How could anyone let their daughter do that? Still, the young lady's pose did stir those primal urges. She even reminded Don of a girl he had known in high school. She had had no morals, but at that time, neither did he. What a great, sinful time they had together!

Just as he was getting lost in a beautiful reverie, Don heard his name. Reverend Infernwell, is that you? It's quite a surprise seeing you here! called a familiar voice, somewhat mocking.

With intense mortification, the reverend recognized the voice's owner as that of a guard he knew well from the prison. The holy man muttered that he was doing research for an article he was preparing on pornography. He put the Pentup back on the shelf, excused himself, and with what little professional pride he had left, marched with his detective magazine to the checkout desk.

This embarrassing scene made him angry again, and he decided to pursue his original plan against that she­devil, Michelle. Using the ad listings in the magazine, Don soon found an appropriately shady and cheap investigator, Gus Holmes, who operated out of Milledgeville, and hired him to hound Michelle Goodself day and night until enough damaging dirt could be found to destroy her connection with Bernard. In a way, the holy man rationalized, he would be doing the old convict a favor.

Chapter 2

In the black pit that was the eternal abode of the ancient source of all evil, Satan himself brooded over his fallen state. For ages, he had dealt with kings and popes over the fate of empires and the souls of millions. Men who ruled continents came to him with tribute for his favor.

With such minions, the course of history could be bent by the evil one's designs. Now the kings were all gone, the popes were thin shadows of their former selves. In the present age, earthly power was held by businessmen whose vision never went beyond their own balance sheets. No imagination. The church was dominated by likewise limited ministers. The modern world from top to bottom was controlled by little men with little minds in little boxes.

There was no room to work on a grand scale anymore. Despite the warnings of TV evangelists, the modern world was not being consumed by evil, Satan fumed; it was being consumed by mediocrity. But there were still bright spots. One of the brightest was in the southeast corner of the United States. Our hero, Bernard, had been attracting Lucifer's attention for many years, and his latest maneuver was probably his most interesting. In one stroke, Bernard had gotten out of jail and put the state governor in his hip pocket. Even the master of all evil envied that one. Maybe with a little help and encouragement, the old Georgia felon could be inspired to even greater feats.

As the devil's luck would have it, one of his more hyperactive, petty foot soldiers, the good Reverend Infernwell, had already weaseled his way ever so slightly into Bernard's confidence, with his usual selfish intent.

The politician, the minister, and the crime boss; now all that was needed was the right nudge from the dark domain to send this fallen trio into heights unmatched since Hitler, Mussolini, and Stalin did hell's work on Earth. Or was the old menace being overly optimistic?

Realistically, none of the trio mentioned above were big-time operators, not for a devil anxious to move on a global scale. But there was potential in the three, maybe, if the three men had Lucifer's personal