Life is Wonderful

Through sheer effort, Greg got through the night, but the sets were short and perfunctory. After the last set, Steve came up to Greg backstage.

"What's wrong, man?" Steve asked. "You look like you're hurting."

"It's my fingers, I can't seem to get them to work right," Greg said. "And before you ask, I did not snort up tonight. Delilah had some place she had to go tonight, and I decided to stay away from it."

"Probably going to fuck some other guy," Steve said.

"I'm going to forget you said that," Greg said. "You really don't like her, do you."

"I'm sorry, Greg, but I'm worried about you," Steve said. "I've known her all my life, and I know what she's like. I'm still trying to figure why the hell she showed up here all of a sudden. Last I'd heard she was in Florida somewhere living the good life. She's never made a secret about how much she hates it here and how she never wanted to come back. Then, out of the blue, she shows up? And stays? I'm telling you, bro, something's not right about any of this."

"Well, I don't have time to worry about that," Greg said. "I've got to figure out what to do about my fingers before tomorrow. I'm going to see a doctor in the morning."

"Good," Steve said. "And Greg? Please, take what I've said to heart. I've really gotten to like you as a friend and I love playing with you. I don't want to see you get hurt."

"Thanks, man," Greg said.

Greg went to see a doctor, but they could find nothing wrong with his hands. Nevertheless, the pain got worse through the day, and he was genuinely worried about that night's challenge. He knew nothing about the fellow who'd challenged him, other than that he'd showed up out of nowhere the previous week.

When Greg finally met Damian, he felt a stab of fear roar through him. The man was tall, lean and he had an aura of menace about him, not to mention that he had a top-of-the-line instrument. Greg loved his old Fender, but compared to what Damian was carrying, it was awfully shabby.

Greg had tried everything he could think of to unlimber his fingers and play the way he was capable of playing. Most of the patrons knew what Greg was capable of, and they rooted him on when he took his turn.

But Damian was a whiz, his fingers flowing over the fretboard as he produced some awesome sounds. It was really no contest. Greg's fingers simply wouldn't work right. The judges had never heard Greg play before, and they left baffled as to how a player that bad could have played with the Bluesrockers for over a year.

Greg was in a daze when he left the club. The rest of the Bluesrockers had been sympathetic, especially Steve, but the rules were the rules, and Damian Porter was now the new leader of the band.

Greg stopped at a convenience store and bought a case of beer, then returned to an empty house. Delilah's things were still there, but she was nowhere in sight. Somehow, that made him feel better.

He spent the rest of the night and much of the next day drinking beer, snorting coke and smoking pot. He managed to get out that afternoon to grab a hamburger and some more beer. He returned to find Delilah waiting for him.

She was actually a little sympathetic, and more than a little horny after her two-day junket to Oxford to see an old college friend, so she decided to take Greg to bed to cheer him up. They each did a line and smoked a joint, then they got naked and got in bed.

And nothing happened. Greg simply couldn't get it up, no matter how hard he tried.

After trying for an hour, Delilah finally got pissed off.

"You're as worthless in bed as you are on stage," she sneered. "I'll bet that new guy... Damian? I'll bet he can give me what I need. Hell, I'll even leave you my stash. Give you something to remember me by. I can get plenty more where that came from. Damian told me he's got connections for the best stuff around."

She angrily gathered up her things and stormed out, laughing hysterically as she piled her things into the back seat of her car and drove off.

That had been Thursday. He had finally crashed around midnight that night, after drinking, smoking and snorting virtually non-stop, then got up on Friday and started all over again. He spent that day and night continuing his binge, unable to stop. He'd finally passed out around 2 o'clock in the morning.

He'd finally roused himself enough to fix a decent meal. But then he'd gone right back to his binge. At some point, he vaguely recalled calling his mother on the telephone and rambling incoherently about what had happened to him.

As he continued to work through what Delilah had left him to smoke and snort, he thought about what had happened. He'd had a good thing going with the Bluesrockers, the best thing he'd ever had. He'd felt like they had a chance at the big time, and he couldn't understand how it had all fallen apart so quickly.

He alternated between fits of self-pity over his situation, and blind rage toward the person he blamed, this Damian character. It was while rummaging through a drawer that he'd come across Delilah's pistol. He looked at it oddly, wondering if he could really use it, either on himself or Damian. Or both.

Marie showed up at Greg's door a little after 1 o'clock in the morning, after the club closed that Saturday night.

"Greg, please, let me in," she said loudly as she banged on his door. "Please, it's Marie. I need to talk to you. It's urgent!"

Greg finally shuffled to the door and Marie was momentarily taken aback when she got a look at him. He was shirtless, with a pair of dirty shorts all he was wearing. His hair was disheveled, he was filthy, his eyes were red and unfocused and it looked like he hadn't shaved in days.

But what stunned Marie was the casual way he was carrying around the pistol he held in his hand. She wanted so much to go to him, to hold him, but something in his demeanor held her back.

"Nice to know I've got friends," Greg said bitterly as he motioned for Marie to take a seat.

"Oh, Greg, that's not it," Marie said. "This guy who took your place, Damian, he's a devil. He told the others in the band if any of them came to see you, they'd be out of the band. God, it's awful. He said he'd know, and they believe him. Everyone's terrified of him. Everyone was backstage after the show Thursday – and I'll tell you about that in a minute – and he'd gathered them together to set down the new rules. In the midst of it, a mouse scurried by. How he even knew it was there was beyond me. But he stopped everything, bent down and caught it, then crushed it with his bare hands."

"And this is my problem how?" Greg slurred.

"Greg, please, don't wave that pistol around like that," Marie said. "You're scaring me."

She looked around and was appalled to see the beer cans and beer bottles strewn everywhere, and the open bags containing what was left of the cocaine and weed Delilah had left him, a supply that was starting to dwindle rapidly.

"OK, so he's a tyrant who's cruel to small animals," Greg said dully. "What's that got to do with me?"

"You've got to rescue the band, Greg," Marie said frantically. "You have to stop him. Damian's got them playing mostly headbanger stuff, and some really sick stuff too. Nobody can keep up with what he's doing, and some of the guys are threatening to quit if this keeps up."

"Look, my interest in and concern for everyone at that place ended when I was dumped," Greg said. "But I will say this. One way or another, the problem of this Damian and-or the problem of Greg are going to be solved. Tonight. Somehow, that cocksucker ruined my life and he's going to pay for it. And if I can't play any more, I might as well shoot myself. Wanna see me do it?"

Greg put the gun to his head, and Marie screamed, "No!"

"Then I suggest you get on your pony and ride," Greg said, removing the pistol from his head. Then, just before she hurriedly reached the door, Greg called out to her; "Have a wonderful life, Marie."

After she was gone, Greg shrugged his shoulders, walked to the refrigerator, pulled out another beer, popped the top and took a big gulp. In spite of his anger, Greg knew he couldn't kill anyone. It just wasn't in his nature.

And besides, he thought glumly, if this Damian really was a devil of some sort, how could he kill it?

He sat back down with the pistol in his hand and mulled it over. Shit, he thought, better just to end it now, put himself out of his misery. He was worthless as a guitar player – the only thing he'd ever really loved in his life – and he was worthless as a lover, as Delilah had so cruelly put it.

He broke open the chamber of the revolver to see if it was fully loaded, and it was. With tears streaming down his face, he put the barrel to his head and was about to pull the trigger when he heard a loud commotion in his garage, like something – or someone – was barging around in the dark knocking over boxes and other stuff he'd had lying around.

"Gads!" he heard a melodious female voice exclaim.

Greg held the pistol in front of him as he walked warily toward the entrance to the garage. He opened the door carefully and called out.

"Who's there?" he said, then switched on the light.

He was confronted by a woman, but she didn't look like any woman he'd ever seen. She was beautiful, with golden hair that fell in curls down past her shoulders and merry-looking eyes. Then he saw she was dressed in a strange-looking white gown of some sort, a gown that in no way hid a very curvy figure.

"Who the fuck are you, and how did you get in my garage?" Greg snarled.

Clarissa picked her way through the tumbled-over boxes and made her way to the door. Greg was so stunned that he just let her push on past him and enter his house.

"I don't think I invited you in, and you didn't answer my question," Greg said.

"If you will come in, sit down, put that gun away and listen, Greg, I'll tell you everything," Clarissa said.

Greg sighed and shuffled drunkenly over to where he'd been sitting. He put the pistol on the table next to the sofa, took a swig of his beer and looked over at the blonde woman, who had seated herself on one of his kitchen chairs.

"OK, I'm all ears," Greg said. "By the way, how do you know my name? I'd remember meeting someone who looked like you, and I've never seen you before."

"Oh, I know all about you, Greg, everything from the beginning to right now," Clarissa said. "My name is Clarissa Goodbody, AS2, and I have been assigned as your guardian angel."

Greg had just taken a drink of his beer, and he spewed it out in disbelief when he heard that.

"My guardian angel?" Greg said. "And what do mean, AS2?"

"Angel, Second Class," she said proudly.

"Wait a minute, you say you're an angel," Greg said. "Where's your halo, where are your wings?"

"Oh, haloes are only reserved for the saints, which I'll never be," she said. "And I haven't earned my wings yet. That's why I'm here. I have to save you from losing your soul so I can be promoted to Angel, First Class, and get my wings."

"Jesus, that bitch must have cut that blow with something," Greg muttered. "I'm hallucinating here. You say you're here to save me from losing my soul? What's that all about?"

Clarissa told Greg about Manny's deal with the devil, the petition that had brought about the arrival of Damian to Clarksdale.

"He's truly a minion of Lucifer," Clarissa said. "He's already murdered two girls in this area, but that's just his way of entertaining himself while he waits for you to do what he wants you to do."

"Which is?" Greg said.

"Kill yourself," Clarissa said. "Suicide is a mortal sin to God, because it's Man playing god, and the Good Book says, 'thou shalt have no other gods before me.' I'm not sure exactly how it works with this soul-selling business. You know, I'm not up on all the rules Lucifer has for his demons. But Joseph told me that when an innocent's soul is sold to the devil, the demon who is dispatched to take it can't actually take it. It has to be given. Once you commit suicide, you are denied the protection of God, and Lucifer is then free to take your soul."

"Joseph? Who's he?" Greg asked.

"You know, Joseph Joseph, from the Bible," Clarissa said. "He's the commander of the AAF, and he's a wonderful person."

"Joseph. As in the coat of many colors?" Greg said incredulously.

"The one and only," she said cheerfully.

"And what's the AAF," he asked.

"Why the Angel Armed Forces," Clarissa said. "Anyway, we've got to get you cleaned up, get you ready. We have a demon to do battle with."

"We?" Greg said.

"Yes, we," Clarissa said. "You have to reassert your position in your band, defeat Damian at his game, redeem yourself."

"Goodbody, huh?" Greg said drunkenly. "Maybe you could start by showing me that 'good body.' Maybe you can take care of this (and he grabbed his cock hard) and get it to work again."

"Oh, I don't know if that's allowed," Clarissa said.

She was definitely interested in doing just that, but she had promised Joseph before she left heaven that she would keep her hands to herself and stay focused on the mission. But maybe that was exactly what was called for here. She stood up and walked to the kitchen and appeared to be in an animated conversation.

"Well, Joseph, what do you think?" she whispered. "He needs his manhood restored before he can do anything else, and he needs someone to really love him. ... I promise, when I'm finished with him, I'll turn him over to Marie, better than ever. I'll make sure he sees that she's the love of his life."

She turned back toward Greg and walked slowly back toward where he was seated. She stood in front of him, then reached down and pulled the hem of her formless gown up over her head and tossed it aside.

She stood in front of him naked, her perfect breasts sitting high on her chest, her hips in proportion to her body, her legs slightly spread so that Greg could see the golden thatch of hair at her crotch.

Greg just stared in awe. There was almost a shimmering glow about her, and her skin seemed to be covered in glitter. His mouth was dry, and his cock was stirring.

Clarissa wanted to just jump on the lump of flesh she saw rising in Greg's shorts, but now was not the time. She was under orders not to do anything until he was clean and sober.

She bent down and met his lips and it was like tasting ambrosia. Greg lost himself in the most sensuous pair of lips he'd ever seen. He reached up to fondle her dangling tits, but Clarissa gently slapped his hands away.

"I'm going to show you just what an angel can do, but not now," she said, softly, gently. "I'm not doing anything with you until you're cleaned up, and rested. Come on, Greg, let's go to bed. You need some rest."

As if in a dream, Greg let himself be led from the sofa to his bedroom. Clarissa gently laid him on his bed, then climbed in after him. She lay down next to him, spooning her body to his, holding him in her warm embrace.

She gently massaged his temples, ran her soft hands over his face, and in seconds, Greg was sound asleep.

As soon as Greg was fully asleep, Clarissa got up, walked to the closet and found an old dress shirt of Greg's. She put it on and walked back to the main part of the house, looked around, then set to work cleaning up.

It was well past noon when Greg finally woke up. He shook his head and chuckled as he recalled the weird dream he'd had. He dreamed an angel had visited him. How absurd!

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard that same high-pitched voice from the night before.

"Well, it's about time you woke up," Clarissa said. "Do you always sleep this late?"

"Whuddafuck?" he mumbled as he fell back on his pillow. "I thought you were just a dream."

"Oh, I'll be a dream come true in a little while," Clarissa said in a sultry voice. "How do you feel?"

"Like a truck ran me over," Greg said. "But I'll feel better when I get some coffee and a little jolt of the good stuff."

"You mean the drugs that woman left you," she said. "Forget that. I threw all of that out. You need a clear head and a sober body if you're to regain your manhood so you can overcome Damian. You know that stuff is no good, that it will kill you.

Greg was angry at first, but then he realized she was right. He had been killing himself, killing the Bluesrockers with his sudden eagerness to get high.

He shook his head in disbelief as he struggled out of bed and got the coffeepot going. He still wasn't quite sure what to make of Clarissa Goodbody. She was gorgeous, he knew that. A little ditzy, yes. But an angel? He still had his doubts.

But as he drank his coffee and engaged Clarissa in conversation, it became pretty apparent that she was either what she claimed to be or a damn good actress who was seriously deranged.

He listened open-mouthed as she talked about her life in Salem, and her death, then she talked about all of the previous times she'd tried to get her wings.

Greg rolled his eyes when she told him about all of the times she had tried but failed to get her wings.

"Great, just my luck," Greg said a little bitterly. "God sends me a guardian angel, and I get the one who's the fuck-up."

"Greg, please, don't be that way," Clarissa said, her eyes filling with tears. "There are a lot of people who care about you. I care about you. I've watched your whole life go by and you have so much to offer, if we can just get past this."

Then she started fiddling with the buttons on the shirt she'd borrowed, and slowly unbuttoned it, then let it fall to the floor.

Greg stared at Clarissa's heavenly body, with her breasts rising and falling with her heavy breathing, the nipples hard and swollen with lust. He felt like he was under a spell as she slowly walked to him and gathered him in her arms.

They kissed deeply, passionately, and her hands roamed all over his body. She quickly had his shorts off and could feel his cock, which was swelling by the second.

Then she pulled away and turned him toward the bathroom.

"Go get cleaned up, and I'll be waiting," she purred.

As Greg showered, he tried to clear his head. Was Clarissa really an angel, or just another demon in disguise? As he shampooed his hair, he decided, "what the hell. She can't be any more of a devil than the last woman I had."

After his shower, he returned to his bedroom to a stunning sight. Clarissa was on his bed, on her side facing him, with her legs spread, giving him a good look at her juicy box, and she was twirling one of her nipples between her thumb and forefinger.

She just crooked a finger and beckoned him to join her on the bed. They came together like it was a dream, their lips touching tentatively at first, then with more and more passion. Their tongues jousted together as they lost themselves in lust, their hands roaming.

Clarissa managed to get Greg on his back, then started working down his body with her tongue. She stopped to lick and nibble on his nipples, which resembled BBs. As she did, her hand curled around his throbbing cock, and she slowly stroked it up and down, in the time-honored method.

She worked her mouth down his stomach, over his abdomen. She inhaled his fresh, clean scent, then slashed her tongue up the underside of his cock, lapping him like a cat laps at a bowl of cream, up, up, up, until she slid her tongue up even further, over his crown. She licked the tip of his cock, savoring the clear fluid that bubbled out of the hole.

Opening her mouth wide, Clarissa slipped her lips over the head of Greg's cock and sucked him in, slowly. Down his shaft, she sank his length into her mouth, until he hit the entrance to her throat. Then she pulled back and began to work her mouth up and down, very slowly.

Greg's eyes were squeezed shut from the sensations that were crackling from his cock to his brain. From a sheer technical standpoint, he thought, Delilah had been a more proficient cocksucker. But he'd often got the feeling that she was just masturbating him with her lips.