Necessary Evil and the Greater Good

by Adam Ingle

  By Adam Ingle

  To my father,

  who will never get to read this.

  And my mother,

  who will.

  Necessary Evil and the Greater Good

  Adam Ingle

  Copyright 2014 © Adam Ingle

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Afterword

  About The Author

  Credits

  Chapter 1

  The Beginning of The End

  They sat in silence watching the sun as it peeked over the horizon of the planet Earth. They had done this a thousand times before, but this one felt different – or it would, in retrospect. To say this was the first day of the rest of their lives was both cheesy and not entirely accurate. If anything, this was the last day of their old lives. A semantic argument, perhaps, but to the Angel and Demon sitting on the solar array of a GPS satellite slowly orbiting over Australia, it was an important detail.

  “Someday soon this will all be a twisted, agonizing Hellscape of pain and suffering,” said Mestoph as he made a grand sweeping gesture across the Earth from sunrise to twilight.

  The pristine blue oceans, the puffy clouds, and the green and brown smudges of land all began to glow red and boil away. Great arcs of fire lined the mountain ranges as the rocks themselves began to burn. Even from ten thousand miles up, they could see the waters swirling and dancing in frenzied, boiling excitement. Explosions pocked the surface of the Earth, fluming up and making tiny mushroom clouds.

  Just as Australia was being left a dark grey-black ruin of ash Leviticus sighed, snapped his fingers, and the illusion returned to normal. Mestoph just smiled.

  Mestoph was short for Mestopholes, a bastardized version of his son-of-a-bitch father’s name: Mephistopheles. Mephisto was one of the greatest demons Hell had ever seen. He had brought misery, pain, suffering, and death to humans for thousands of years. He was especially well known for getting humans to willingly sign their souls over to Satan in exchange for worldly delights and granting wishes. There were always catches to the deals that the humans either were too naïve to comprehend the ramifications of, or simply didn’t care. Mestoph, on the other hand, wasn’t well known for much of anything, other than not living up to his father’s name. Being the spawn of such an ancient and revered Demon as Mephisto came with a few perks, like free refills in the Hell Industries cafeteria and plenty of slutty little Hellbound groupies, but it also came with more than its share of expectations.

  When Mestoph’s father opted for early retirement at the age of 10,000, people started to expect big things from him – especially Satan. The unfortunate truth, for both Mestoph and Satan, was that he just didn’t have it in him. Mestoph was a son-of-a-bitch in his own right, but so was every other Demon in Hell. Mestoph didn’t have his father’s hate, anger, and rage. And Mephisto would never have been caught enjoying a sunrise with his Angelic best friend.

  “Agonizing Hellscape of pain and suffering?” asked Leviticus. “Is that the official Hell Industries PR copy, or are you getting sentimental?”

  This was a game they often played. Mestoph would try to get Leviticus to condemn humanity to a Hellish ruin, while Leviticus would try to get Mestoph to admit that he secretly enjoyed roller skating or hot chocolate. Mestoph wasn’t going to bite this morning. Instead, he continued to watch the sunrise until he couldn’t tolerate the light. The bright rays of the rising sun reflected off of his dark, almost black skin and he closed his eyes for a moment to take in its warmth. When he opened them again, he stared into the glimmering sun; there was nothing this bright and beautiful in Hell.

  To an observer, it would have looked as if two normal human friends were watching a peaceful sunrise –albeit in outer space. Mestoph was a dark black man with his black leather trench coat draped over the solar panel behind him while Leviticus was an olive skinned man in a crisp, clean, baby blue ankle-length thawb. The difference was that a normal human wouldn’t be able to feel the warmth of the sun in space, or hear the person next to him gasping for the air that was rushing uncontrollably out of his lungs, but since they were not of this plane, the rules didn’t really apply to them. At least some of the rules didn’t.

  Just before Mestoph figured blindness would be inevitable and permanent, he slid a dark pair of sunglasses on and smiled, brushing his tightly braided dreadlocks behind his shoulders. Leviticus, being an Angel, was used to the constant and unyielding glare of God’s aura. There was also the actual Holy Light that lit Heaven in a permanent hour-before-sunset glow at that angle that blinded people driving down the interstate after work. On top of that there were the unusually oily and glistening Angelic beings and all the other really obnoxiously bright things that seemed to inhabit Heaven in an unexplainably high density.

  “I’ve been working on a plan,” said Mestoph.

  Leviticus arched a single brow but said nothing. He knew that Mestoph would, slowly and in his own time, spit out whatever it was he had been scheming. They had been doing these sunrise meetings for over a thousand years, and about once a century or so, one or the other of them concocted a harebrained plan to get the best of God, Satan, or both. Inevitably, “getting the best of” meant some kind of con to get exorbitant amounts of money or vacation time on Earth. More often than not, these plans would fall apart before they had ever gotten off the ground. The few that did manage to get anywhere always ended with them getting caught early on or overlooking some seemingly inconsequential detail that would cause them to fail so spectacularly that the failure itself—and the resulting shame and embarrassment—was considered punishment enough. That was if their grand scheme even registered on anyone’s radar.

  This plan would assuredly be no different, but it was tradition and tradition must be upheld. The truth was that the limited chance of success was probably the only thing that kept them going. If they were to actually succeed, they would probably be just like a dog that suddenly regretted ever catching that car it was always chasing.

  “We’ve spent our entire lives working toward The End of the World, and we’re no closer than we were the day you and I met,” Mestoph said. He paused and let out a little sigh. “I’m tired—and I’m fairly certain you must be too—of busting our asses for something I’m not sure I even believe in and definitely don’t care about anymore.”

  The End of the World was the ultimate goal of both Heaven, Inc. and Hell Industries. Each wanted to have the upper hand and the most souls when the time came, which meant that both sides spent an unbelievable amount of time and resources toward thwarting and stalling the plans of the other. Progress toward
The End of the World therefore stalled to a near halt. Humans kept on living their lives, oblivious to the fact that their fates and immortal souls were nothing more than a tiny percentage point in the seemingly eternal struggle for market share dominance by the Higher Powers. At current count The End was 1000 years overdue, and there was no longer any time wasted on calculating an ETA (or Estimated Time of Apocalypse), not even a symbolic one for the sake of morale. Nowadays, the End of Times version of the Doomsday Clock permanently flashed 12:00 like the VCR that still sat on top of the television at just about everyone’s grandmother’s house.

  “So I’ve been working on a plan to get us kicked out of The Afterlife, but not banished to T or C for Eternity, with enough money to get us settled and just wait out the eventual End,” said Mestoph after another brief pause.

  Leviticus looked at Mestoph with his head still slightly tilted, thinking about what he had said, especially the “T or C” part. T or C was the tiny town of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. This was the physical point on Earth in which Purgatory was located. It was not, contrary to popular opinion, in New Jersey. This wasn’t quite the normal once-a-century plan that they cooked up. This one was serious and sounded like it could get them in serious trouble. The thought of spending the rest of humanity’s existence in T or C was worse than an eternity as a slightly disgruntled cubicle jockey. Mestoph was right, however, in that he too was tired of it all. Being an Agent of Heaven, a fancy title for an employee of Heaven Inc., was different than residing in Heaven. It wasn’t Eternity in Paradise; it was a job— a boring and tedious job of late, and one he couldn’t just quit. Mestoph was in the same boat down as a Shadow for Hell Industries.

  Heaven and Hell, for the most part, worked just like humans imagined. Each person’s version of Heaven or Hell was a little different, and within reason it was catered to them when they arrived. As such, a masochist wouldn’t spend an eternity being whipped and beaten in Hell since they’d enjoy that far too much. On the other hand, a masochist in Heaven could get a little taste of pain—or a big one if they wanted—whenever they felt the need. A big, sprawling pleasure or pain palace with a population higher than anyone would care to count doesn’t run itself. As a result, both Heaven and Hell were run by giant, bureaucratic conglomerates. They both had Boards of Directors, but unlike most businesses they had little ultimate power. They had power only in so much as God or Satan let them. They each had Marketing, Public Relations, Research and Development, and even Human Resource departments. If it was found in your average Fortune 500 Company on Earth, it was probably implemented to some degree in the Afterlife. Despite all the manpower and nearly unlimited resources, neither Heaven nor Hell had a lot of direct influence on humanity or Earth nowadays. This wasn’t always the case, as a quick scan of the Old Testament would prove.

  Leviticus thought for a moment longer and then looked seriously at Mestoph. “Alright, what did you have in mind?” he asked.

  Marcus realized he was staring at her again. Despite knowing this, he couldn’t stop doing it. He had been coming to this coffee shop nearly every day for over a year, and yet he rarely said more than three sentences to Stephanie, the raven-haired, elfish barista who was the object of his desire. He liked everything about her: from the fact that she was so short that she barely came up to his shoulders—and he was by no means tall—to the geeky thick-rimmed rectangular glasses that framed her almost too large eyes that were striated with bands of green and gold. Her dark hair flowed just past her shoulders like an obsidian river. On warm days, when the coffee shop had the windows open and the fans on, he could smell a hint of jasmine. He knew it was probably her shampoo or maybe even some lightly applied perfume, but in his mind he liked to imagine that it was her natural scent.

  “Hi, Stephanie. How are you doing?”

  One.

  I can do it this time, he thought.

  “I’m good, Marcus. How are you?”

  “Not too bad, just need a little morning Joe before work.”

  Two.

  His palms began to get clammy, and he could feel anxiety rising up in his gut as his stomach began to tighten.

  “Well, here you go. Ready for another day,” she said with a smile that made Marcus want to grab her and kiss her.

  “Thanks, have a good day.”

  Three.

  His mouth was a desert, his mind was a sandstorm. He walked off with his coffee and small bag of bread, and he waved back to Stephanie awkwardly.

  The status quo had been upheld—another three sentences in the books. He left Stephanie the Barista at the Bean Counters coffee shop, once again without having said a single word about how he felt, how he found himself thinking about her while he was working, or even a few words about the weather. Maybe tomorrow.

  Marcus left the coffee shop and found Sir Regi sitting with his little doggy-size goggles in the sidecar of his old 1942 Indian Scout motorcycle where he had left him. Sir Regi was a very well behaved dog, which was surprising given the typical nature of a Scottish terrier. Scotties were notoriously territorial, feisty, and stubborn dogs. Sir Regi, which was short for Sir Reginald Pollywog Newcastle III, had shown up sitting in Marcus’s sidecar one day after work with a note and a collar. The collar had borne his ridiculously long name, while the note had simply read “Your new dog.” There had been no one around, no one claiming the practical joke. He had always wanted a dog, but the commitment and responsibility had frightened him a bit. Marcus told himself that he would keep Sir Regi until he found the dog’s owner, but weeks and then months had gone by and no one had put up signs looking for a lost dog. That had been three years ago, and they had been best friends ever since.

  Marcus would vent his frustrations with life in general, and his non-existent relationship with Stephanie in particular, to the small dog. Sir Regi always sat listening with rapt attention and would often seem deep in thought and even frustrated on Marcus’s behalf. Marcus liked to think Sir Regi was frustrated with his inability to share his sage wisdom. Sometimes Marcus worried about the amount of personification he had bestowed upon Sir Regi over the years, but most of the time he was just glad to have a loyal friend who didn’t think he was completely pathetic.

  Sir Regi barked happily as Marcus walked over to the bike and tossed him a heel of day-old sourdough that Stephanie had given him. She always saved up leftovers for him, ever since Marcus had mentioned Sir Regi’s love for sourdough bread. The dog happily munched on it as Marcus rode to work.

  Sir Regi didn’t so much go to work with Marcus as he rode to the general locale where Marcus worked and hung out in the parks nearby. Marcus often found himself staring off into oblivion, thinking about the little dog-sized adventures that Sir Regi must have while he toiled away at work. Sometimes it would be as simple as figuring out where an enticing smell came from, and others would be as complicated as the Scotty being a high-ranking member of a secret dog adventurers group that protected ancient secrets and artifacts of canine lore and legend.

  When he wasn’t busy saving the world for all dog-kind, Sir Regi would meet Marcus at his motorcycle at noon and the two would have lunch together. Sometimes they would share a sandwich at a bench in the park across the street. When a coworker invited him to lunch, which honestly hardly ever happened, they would eat at a cafe or coffee shop where they could sit outside. Sir Regi would come with them and quietly eat whatever Marcus slid to him under the table. Today the weather looked like rain, so Marcus would probably eat at his desk, leaving Sir Regi to fend for himself. Sir Regi was a very resourceful dog; Marcus was convinced that the dog had a regular circuit of people that fed him while he worked, so he wasn’t too concerned.

  Marcus pulled the olive drab Scout into one of the midget-sized motorcycle parking spots in front of his office. It was an old motorcycle that had been through more in its life than Marcus probably ever would, so he didn’t think a little rain would hurt it. Marcus took off the old pair of WWI aviator goggles he wore
when riding, since the Indian Scout didn’t have an actual windshield, and Sir Regi pawed off the tiny pair he very obligingly wore as well. The two said their goodbyes, and Sir Regi bounded up to the park across the road as Marcus went in to his office.

  Marcus’s job, like most things in his life, was fairly mundane. He was a small cog in a large machine that developed custom financial software for other companies. The job of the cog named Marcus was to test obscure combinations of functions to make sure that when the software hit the real world it didn’t self-destruct because a woman with a lime green Volkswagen Thing tried to refinance a loan on a Friday the 13th by a Wisconsin girl named Bethany, or that the computer didn’t restart every time the girl in accounting pressed F12. Whenever he came across one of these rare bugs, which Marcus called Smurfs because of their near impossibility to catch, it was his job to find out why it happened and how to keep it from happening again.

  The quality of Marcus’s day could easily be discerned by the number of coffee cups in his trash can. On a normal, easygoing day he would have a max of three cups of coffee. One to get him started—usually the one Stephanie made him—and then two more late in the day to hold him over until quitting time. A bad day could have as many as five cups before lunch, with the rest of the day spent within close proximity to the coffee machine and its lukewarm, syrupy-thick burnt coffee at all times.

  It was currently a quarter till eleven, and Marcus had just thrown his fourth cup into the waste basket. Considering how mundane his job was on paper, it always amazed him how stressful it could be in reality. He had already uncovered two instances of what had been dubbed The Superman Virus, in which tiny fractions of each transaction would go unaccounted for. It was better known in the rest of the world as salami slicing or penny shaving, but Marcus liked “Superman Virus” better.