Title/Author: Halo and Goodbye by Simon Cooke
Category: Humorous Fantasy
Format: epBook

Author Profile

Simon Cooke lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, and works at the University of Canterbury Library in the Collection Services section which deals with purchasing and cataloguing books, mainly print items but, with a view to the future, the University is now looking into eBooks.

Simon has been writing for many years but didn't think seriously about publication until six years ago when he took a short story writing course and started to enter competitions.

In 2000, he won first place in the popular fiction category of the "Ripping Good Read" short story competition. The competition was organised by Stars of the South, a short story magazine now sadly terminated.

In the same year, he was placed 3rd and 5th in the AusWrite short story competition.
Since then he has concentrated on writing this novel but he has also had fiction for children published in the School Journal in New Zealand, and the School Magazine in Australia.

Book Price: £3.50

Synopsis

Darkness, an ancient evil, and Bezhaht, an ambitious angel, both seek to bring about the downfall of Heaven. The former, ever modest in its ambitions, hopes to destroy all Creation including lamb vindaloo and public holidays. The latter, a fully paid-up member of the Megalomaniac Appreciation Society, seeks to become Emperor of All Things. Both believe the following prophecy: “A man taken before his time on Earth is up, will step through the Pearly Gates and this step shall herald the End. Heaven shall fall and its battlements will crumble to the ground.” All the two dastardly fiends need is a candidate to get them the Heavenly access they require.

Colin Bricksford, a well-meaning but clueless idiot, is selected as the Chosen One and is killed in a contrived accident. Can it be that the prophecy will be fulfilled and all human kind will be doomed? Cess, a demon and servant of Bezhaht, disguised as an angel, convinces Colin’s ghost that he must journey to Heaven in the hopes of convincing the Powers-That-Be to sort out his untimely death. While Colin's only ambition is to get his life back, Cess finds himself getting to like the lad and he begins to question not only his mission but his existence as doer of evil deeds and spreader of discontent.

Taster ...

Watch.

Your vision reveals a waterless wasteland of rock. A sickly red light beats down upon black and lifeless hills. Is this Hell?
No, but it's an easy mistake to make. This is Limbo, the border between Heaven and Hell, where lost spirits walk without rest, clad in rags of sorrow and shod in countless selfish thoughts. Focus your gaze and you will see a craggy up-thrust of blackened rock that casts a shadow broad and deep upon the ground.

Listen.

You can hear voices coming from within the blackness.
“Ouch! That's my foot, Worthless Wretch!” The voice is strong and commanding, but soft as goose feathers. It floats down the spine of the listener and makes every cell tingle in ecstasy. It sings sweetly as if from the mouth of an angel, for angel is he: Bezhaht, Special Advisor to the Heavenly Council of Angels and, until now, Upholder of God's Law.

“Sorry, Master.” This voice is weak and crawly, but beneath the words can be heard the tone of one born in cunning and bred in the house of low deeds. When such a voice says “Master,” it means “Master for now.” There is a demonic edge to the voice, for demon is he: Cess, Demon of the Lower Realms, Regular Cunning Bastard.

There is a strong draft stirred up by mighty wings. A third voice speaks: “I answer your summons, oh Lord and Master.” It reverberates as if spoken down the length of a huge brass instrument, possibly a tuba. The voice sounds less angelic than Bezhaht, but angel still is he: Amahl, Sounder of the Horn of Justice, though Weak Willed Sycophant would be more appropriate.

“I shall not keep you long,” speaks Bezhaht. “We meet here so our plans will go undetected by His servants and His Guardians who watch with eternal vigilance. When last the angels fought for the throne of God there was great bloodshed and Satan was vanquished like a beaten cur. We shall not meet a similar end. God has vanished and the towers of Heaven and the land of humankind seek a master. I shall sacrifice myself to this task.” Bezhaht assumes a stance reflecting proud majesty with subtle tones of humility to fool the punters, which is rather pointless as it is dark and no one can see him. “Amahl, are our supporters ready?”

“Every one of them, Great and Powerful Lord. Our immortal hosts shall rise and smite our enemies, expelling them into the wastes where their footfalls shall not besmirch the golden pathways of ...”

“A simple 'Yes' will suffice.”

“Yes, Master,” suffices Amahl.

“And tell me, Drip of Satan's Loins, have you arranged things on Earth?”

“The Chosen One is close to his place of destiny,” says Cess.

“Good. Prepare for his coming.”
Cess listens as two sets of wings unfurl. Somewhere above him, beyond the shadow, angelic bodies soar toward Heaven, their forms causing the air to sing with wonder.

A short time later, an abomination slinks from the blackness, pustules abounding upon its back, ready to burst. There is the rushing sound of a vacuum filling. Cess vanishes.

But the shadow remains. And within the shadow is another presence, indistinguishable from the blackness. It is the quintessence of darkness. A message is sent to its brethren waiting impatiently beyond the light of the Universe.

“It begins!”

*

Introducing the Chosen One - the late Colin Bricksford. Not dead - just not on time.

It was Monday and he was stuck in morning traffic on the outskirts of London, a meeting deadline looming, his car teetering on the edge of auto-death, and the first splatters of rain speckling the windshield.

The young man was a swirling chaos of nerves dancing upon a glinting knife-edge. His boss, Mr Frobisher of Frobisher Financial, was closing a multi-million pound deal this morning and needed the documents that Colin had been working on almost without a break through the entire weekend.

But the Fates conspired cruelly against Colin. All the safeguards he had put in place to ensure Mr Frobisher would receive the documents on time had let him down: his alarm clock went on strike so he over-slept and his fax had somehow become a shredder. His computer, once it had decided that, yes, it might be persuaded to switch on but only after it had dressed itself properly and had a leisurely computer breakfast of whatever it is computers have for breakfast, refused to let him have access to the files he so desperately needed. And the disc that contained his backup files had magically become blank. It hadn't been blank yesterday but it was now: wiped clean by whatever darling little computer gremlins had decided to visit.

And to top it all off, his fiancée, Clarissa, had phoned Colin when he was just out of the door and knocked the world out from under him; the Earth's crust, mantle, and core included. Their wedding was off and she gave him no reason other than the term irreconcilable differences, whatever the hell that meant.
Traffic moved forward a fraction. Colin's knuckles clenched white upon the steering-wheel, his eyes focused on the rear bumper of the car in front willing it to move.

He claimed three inches of road.

A knock at Colin's window broke his concentration and the car rolled back four inches.

“Sorry, sir,” said the policeman. “There's been an accident. You'll be delayed.”

A delay! Colin's nerves frazzled and spat. He reached for his cell-phone.

“Frobisher Financial, Kylie speaking,” said the sweet voice of someone not stuck in traffic.

“Colin Bricksford speaking. Please put me through to Mr Frobisher. It's an emergency.”

“Sorry, Mr Bricksford. Mr Frobisher gave clear instructions not to be disturbed. He's in a terribly important meeting.”

“I know. I'm supposed to be there, too, only I'm stuck in traffic. Please tell him I'll be delayed.”

“I'm sorry,” said the sugary voice. “Mr Frobisher is in a meeting. However, I'll be sure to tell him afterwards.”

“But it'll be too late then!”

“It's never too late,” comforted Kylie who had been reading her personal inspiration diary that had a saying for every day of the month. Colin's own diary might have said: “So long, buddy, you're as stuffed as a taxidermist's girlfriend.” Instead, it said: 'A rolling stone gathers no moss,' which wasn't much help.
“Look,” said Colin, “I'll give you anything you want: just interrupt him and give him my message.”

Unfortunately, Kylie was one of a dying breed. “Sorry, sir,” she said. “I can't be bribed. Have a nice day.”

There was a click as the phone went dead. Outside, a scooter whizzed by at full speed, mocking the cars and buses with its ease of passage. Colin dialled another number.

“Hello, Kevin Barrow here. Time's money and the clock's ticking.”

“Kevin!”

“Colin! Mate! Where are you? Mr Frobisher's begun the meeting without you.”

“I know,” moaned Colin. “I'm stuck in traffic. Please tell him I'll come as soon as I can. Tell him I have all the figures worked out.”

“Col, you're my best friend. For you, I could burst past his secretary, and save the day by explaining your absence.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“But I won't.”

“What?”

“It just so happens that I did the figures in case you didn't make it in to work this morning,” said Kevin.

“Why wouldn't I make it in?”

“Possibly because when I stopped off at your place yesterday to see how you were doing, I took the alarm mechanism out of your alarm-clock, adjusted your fax machine, deleted the virus-scanner in your computer and then installed a particularly nasty virus.”

“You bastard!”

“You would have done the same in my place.”

“No I wouldn't!”

“Well, maybe not, but what's done is done. It's not a personal attack on you. This deal could mean a huge pay increase and promotional prospects. Mr Frobisher should have asked me in the first place. I've been here longer.”

“He chose me because I could be trusted!”

“Trust only goes so far. Just like friendship. Now if you'll excuse me, Mr Frobisher's expecting me to bring him in the numbers.”

“Wait until Mr Frobisher hears what you've done!” shouted Colin.

“I doubt he'd be receptive. He's already very angry with you. I told him that when I saw you yesterday you were blind-drunk and sodomising an expensive rent-boy named Thomas.” There was a pause as Kevin waited for a reaction but Colin was too stunned to give him the pleasure. As if to push his friend over the edge, Kevin continued: “I also told him that you rang me up from the docks at six this morning to tell me you were having a five-way orgy with some Russian sailors and a carpet salesman from Hull.”

“You what!”

“And, while I'm being honest, I should tell you that I've been shagging your fiancée. She's a real goer, that one. Thinks I'm the best thing since sliced tofu. Mind you, anything would be better than you, Col, or should I call you micro-dick on a ten second timer?”

“You fucking bastard!” swore Colin.

“And Col, I'd appreciate it if I never heard from you again.” The phone went dead.

“Arrgh!” screamed Colin, thumping the steering wheel so forcefully it buckled. Red flares of rage exploded in his vision. It was fair to say that Colin wasn't taking it well.

It made him do something very stupid: something that certain Powers were hoping he would do.

Copyright © 2000 Simon J Cooke

Readers' Comments

I have just downloaded and read this epbook by Simon Cooke, staying up late to finish it. I thoroughly enjoyed the quirky, dark humour and the twists and turns in the plot. Simon is a worthy successor to Douglas Adams, in my view.  Geoff Wain, New Zealand

From what I've read so far I could confidently say: "Simon has a fantastic sense of humour, and if I saw this book on the shelves tomorrow, I wouldn't hesitate to buy it." Which is undeniable FACT...
But I wont. What I will say is: -dies laughing- :-)
I salute you sir! And hope to see more of your work soon. Lizabeta Melvin