Life is Wonderful

Author's note: This will be my 100th submission to Literotica. Over the past four-plus years, it's been a pretty wild ride, and I appreciate all of those who have commented on my work – good, bad or indifferent. I've tried to share some of my life, some of my fantasies and tried to write stimulating stories that make people think.

For my 100th story, I decided to have some fun and write an erotic take-off on the classic movie, "It's A Wonderful Life." Some of you may find parts of this story silly or sacrilegious, but just remember this is a fantasy, and it's all in good fun. It is long, but I think if you stick with it, you will enjoy it.

Before I get into the story, I would specifically thank the following people who have made an impact on my writing: My wife, for keeping me sane and providing me with some pretty juicy fantasies; Paws, for continued love and support; Rick in the Great Northwest, for having one of the dirtiest minds around; Randy in Atlanta, no I haven't forgotten about you; Emily in New York, hope you're doing well; Richard in Memphis, for critical comments; Peggy, Patricia, Lexie and Soccer Mom, for being there.

Finally, I want to offer a special prayer and thanks to Anne in California. I know it's been a rough couple of years for you, and I still think about you a lot. I hope you've found some happiness and peace in your life. Lord knows, you deserve it.

------

Marie Booth was a firm believer in the power of prayer.

She wasn't a particularly religious person, and she'd done some things a lot of church-going people probably wouldn't do. But in her 30 years, it had been her experience that every time she got down on her knees and really prayed, prayed hard and prayed for specific things, her prayers were always answered.

She unlocked the door to her small apartment in a quiet section of Clarksdale, put her purse on the sofa and went into her darkened bedroom. She didn't bother to turn on the light, but fell right down on her knees. Tears streamed down her face as she began to pray for Greg Baldwyn.

Marie was a waitress at the Crossroads Tavern, a popular music club several miles out of town, not far from the legendary crossroads of Highway 61 and Highway 49 where Robert Johnson was reputed to have sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the ability to play timeless, incendiary blues on the guitar.

Sometimes, the Crossroads hosted a big-name blues artist who had come to Clarksdale to pay homage to the birthplace of the genre in the Mississippi Delta. But otherwise the house band was a hot local group called the Bluesrockers, and Greg Baldwyn was the lead guitarist.

Or he had been the lead guitarist until a mysterious stranger had showed up, and suddenly Greg's life had fallen apart. He'd lost the ability to play, and with it his place in the band and the hottie girlfriend that had come with it.

Marie had been to Greg's house after leaving work, and she had been shocked to her core. He was drunk and high – a condition in which she'd never seen him – he had a loaded pistol, and he was talking dangerously of murder and-or suicide.

He'd basically chased her out of his house, so now she was on her knees praying for his salvation.

She wasn't the only one. Greg's mother, a devout Catholic from Louisiana, had been working her rosary overtime praying for her son's deliverance. So had his sister, brother, friends and even his bandmates, who had come to genuinely fear the stranger who had stepped into Greg's role as bandleader.

They all asked for the same thing: salvation for Greg's soul, a restoration of his talent and some kind of dealing with the man who had turned his life upside down.

Marie also asked for something else.

"And please, Lord, let him see me, and know how much I love him," she prayed. "I've never wanted anyone like I want him, and I know I could please him if only he could see what I have to offer. Please, Lord?"

Marie was a nice-looking woman with short dark hair and a quiet personality. She was decently built, with a trim little body that she kept in good shape.

But her looks, body and personality had been no match for Delilah Jones, a stacked, aggressive brunette who had moved in and knocked Greg off his feet.

With a heavy sigh, Marie said her amens, then stood up and began to get ready for bed. She'd done her part; now it was in God's hands.

------

God was in his workroom, with the large crystal bowl in the center of the room that allowed him to see anything that was happening with his people anywhere, any time.

He was, of course, the God of all the living creatures in all the planets in all the solar systems in his creation, but he had always had a special fondness for the leading species of the out-of-the-way planet its inhabitants called Earth. He had even sent his son to them for the remission of their sins and to offer them eternal life in his heavenly abode, but only if they believed in him.

But they had always been a contentious, willful species, and most of them never made it past the golden gates that guarded entry into heaven.

He always heard the prayers of the believers, though, and sometimes even he had trouble filtering out the truly needy from the cacophony of petitions that came through his prayer receptacle.

That wasn't a problem tonight, though. He was getting a lot of requests about one Greg Baldwyn, a 35-year-old man said by his friends and loved ones to be a decent man who had been led astray, then waylaid by someone who may well be an agent of the Dark One.

Any time God saw the hand of Lucifer at work with his chosen people, it caught his attention. Sometimes, the cases were so hopeless that even God could do nothing.

But if there was a chance to save a soul and inflict a defeat on the enemy, God was determined to take it. And for that he had his soldiers, the AAF, the Angel Armed Forces, under the command of Joseph, his first and still his most dedicated general.

Whenever divine intervention was called for, it was troops of the AAF that were sent down to do the dirty work.

They didn't always succeed, especially if they were sent to do battle with one of the devil's minions. Many an angel had returned from a sortie on Earth soul-weary and needing care at the highest level. That was usually the job of Jesus, whose limitless healing powers made him invaluable in restoring an angel into an effective warrior.

Moments after sending out his celestial message, God looked up to see Joseph striding confidently into the workroom. He quickly brought Joseph up to speed on the Greg Baldwyn case.

"It looks like tonight is his moment of truth," God said. "This is one I'd like to not lose."

"I agree," Joseph said. "There must be something about this man that he would attract the attention of the Dark One."

"Who is up on the rotation?" God said.

God saw suicide as a mortal sin, one that bars a soul from entry into heaven, because it usurped his role in the order of life and death. However, prevention of suicides, by the protocol of heaven, was not the work of the higher echelon angels. They were the task of those who had reached the rank of second-class, which denoted efficient domestic duty.

Reaching Angel Second Class was relatively easy, but getting past that rank and earning one's wings, was more difficult. Once an angel reached second class, they fell into the rotation for service on Earth, where they performed the hard work of soul saving.

One of the requirements for angels to earn promotion to Angel First Class and get their wings was to prevent someone from taking their own life, thus saving their soul.

The rotation was quite rigid, and when an angel came to the top of the rotation, they were sent, regardless of who or what they were. If an angel failed in their task, they were sent for rehabilitation and placed back at the bottom of the rotation. It might take as many as two generations by human reckoning for an angel to work back to the top of the rotation.

Joseph consulted his duty roster, which he carried with him everywhere he went, and his face fell.

"Oh my," he sighed. "It's the tavern owner's daughter. You know the one. Clarissa Goodbody."

"Oh dear," God said. "She's been a bit of trouble, hasn't she."

"I'll say," Joseph said. "The last time we sent her on a mission, not only did she not save the subject, but she also sent his wife plunging off the building with him after the stock market crashed in 1929. And that wasn't the first time."

"How many times has she been down?" God asked, a bit perplexed.

"This would be her seventh time," Joseph said.

"You mean she's been down six times and STILL hasn't gotten her wings?" God said. "What is her problem?"

"The same one that got her here in the first place," Joseph said. "She's a sweet girl, but she's, well, she's too easy, and she's not real bright. She's ... She's very sensual, very pretty and very horny, all the time. So when she gets back to Earth that's all she wants to do."

"Refresh my memory, how did she get here?" God said.

"Oh, you remember when the Dark One sent that woman to Salem back around 1690 and created such mayhem?" Joseph said. "Clarissa got caught up in that. She attracted the attention of a married farmer, they were caught, um, fornicating in his barn by his wife, who accused her of being a witch, and she was hung. Poor thing was only 16, but she looked 20. The thing that saved her soul was that she refused to forsake you. Even on the gallows, she professed her faith."

"Hmmmm," God exclaimed. "Well, the humans consider seven to be a lucky number, so maybe Clarissa's seventh try will be the one that gets her her wings. Send for her, and give her the story of Greg Baldwin, so she knows what she's doing. Who knows? Maybe her particular, um, talents are just what it takes to win this one. I'll be in the study. Keep me appraised."

"Yes, Lord," Joseph said.

Joseph turned when Clarissa entered the workroom. He looked her up and down, and once again understood why humans had trouble keeping their hands off of her. After all, he had been a man once, long ago, and he understood temptation. He could see that Clarissa, in all of her innocent glory, was a mighty tempting dish for vulnerable humans.

She had golden blonde hair, thick and curly, a truly beautiful face, with laughing blue eyes, and a curvy body that even the formless gowns that were the uniforms of angels couldn't hide.

"You sent for me, sir," Clarissa said, in a voice that reminded Joseph of a glockenspiel.

"Ah, Clarissa, my dear," Joseph said kindly. In spite of his frustration at her failure to get her wings, he was quite fond of Clarissa.

"Clarissa, how long have you been here?" he asked.

"Three hundred and thirteen years, eight months and 14 days," Clarissa replied immediately. "But who's counting?"

"And how many times have you been back to earth to get your wings?" Joseph said, a little more sternly.

"S-six," Clarissa said, a little sheepishly. "You know, people are starting to talk."

"I'm sure they are," Joseph said. "Well, it's time for you to try again, and I have an assignment that is of the highest importance. The Big Guy himself is taking personal interest in this one."

"Wow!" Clarissa said. "He must be some big wig."

"Well, we're not sure yet," Joseph said. "We're getting a lot of requests for intervention in the case of one Greg Baldwyn, in America. We've investigated and found he's salvageable. Your job is to save his soul and defeat the demon that has vexed him."

"Yes sir!" Clarissa said. "I've been doing a lot of praying, a lot of practicing. I'm ready, sir!"

"Not so fast, my dear," Joseph said. "You need to become acquainted with your subject. Come."

Joseph swept his hand over the crystal bowl and a picture emerged of Greg during one of his soulful solos with the Bluesrockers.

"Hmmmm, he's very nice-looking," Clarissa said as a slow smile creased her face. "Verrrrrry nice."

"Now, Clarissa, your job is to save his soul, not steal his heart," Joseph said. "I would think after all the fixes your libido has gotten you into over the centuries that you'd be a little more cautious. When you get your wings – if you get your wings – you can have all the sex you want with whomever you want. That's one of the privileges of promotion to AS1. But until then, you must stay focused."

"I'm sorry, sir, I'll behave," Clarissa said, but she still stared at the image of Greg with naked desire. It had been a long time since she'd felt the caress of a man, and she still ached for it, and probably always would.

"Pay attention," Joseph said. "We're going to start at the beginning, so pull up a chair and let's review this man's life."

------

Greg was born in central Louisiana, not far from Natchitoches (pronounced NACK-a-dish, for reasons unexplained). He had an older sister and a younger brother, and his father died when he was 6.

His mother may have been a devoted Catholic, but she'd caught rock-and-roll fever the night she watched the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show, and she had become a serious fan of rock and blues music.

He'd also had an uncle, his mother's brother, who was a blues aficionado. Whenever he came down from Natchez to visit, his mom would play the old standup piano that always seemed to be slightly out of tune, his uncle would play guitar and they would all sing rock and blues classics.

So it was that when he was 10, his mom gave him his own guitar for Christmas, a beginner's acoustic, and Greg was officially hooked. He bought a couple of instruction books so he could learn the basics, then taught himself the rest simply by listening and imitating whatever he heard on the radio, or on records and tapes.

Once he had mastered the acoustic, he saved his allowance until he had enough money to buy a beat-up Fender electric guitar and an old Peavey amp. From then on, the night would often be filled with the sounds of Greg playing in the upstairs bedroom he shared with his brother.

Greg was a smart man in many ways. His IQ was off the charts, but he was an indifferent student. His only real interest lay in playing the guitar, and as he grew into his teens he started playing in a variety of bands, but he never could seem to find one where he fit.

He was a bit of a loner, and somewhat shy around women, never mind Eddie Van Halen's famous comment that, "once I got good, I got all the pussy I wanted."

Clarissa watched all of this pass by in but a blink of an eye in the great crystal bowl. She winced when she watched his first fumbling attempts at having sex. He was so cute, and so utterly clueless at first that her heart went out to him.

Eventually, he figured out what to do, but he always seemed to be a sucker for a good-looking chick, especially if she had big tits.

After high school, Greg joined the Navy in hopes of finding a career in something other than music. But he was a lost cause as a sailor, and all his four-year tour taught him was that he wanted to make a living as a musician.

For awhile, it wasn't much of a living. He lived in New Orleans for awhile, trying to pick up gigs here and there. He was good, but his style wasn't readily accessible to any of the genres around the Crescent City.

It wasn't until he returned to his roots, back to the blues, that he finally found his niche. His uncle helped him get in with a blues band in Jackson, and he'd played there until the lead singer got busted for selling cocaine and the band broke up.

At loose ends, he'd driven one weekend to Clarksdale, just for the heck of it. While there, he saw a flyer for the Crossroads Tavern, and saw the come-on for the guitarist's challenge.

Every so often, the Crossroads would bring in a hot-shot guitarist, someone who'd paid the owner, Manny Jones, a hefty fee, who could challenge the lead guitarist of the house band, the Bluesrockers.

Manny had started the practice for two reasons: One, it was cash money that went straight into his pocket. Two, it was a way of cutting the ego of the nominal bandleader down to size, a way of keeping them in line.

Invariably, the lead guitarists would begin to ask for an increase in the salary, start to attain a following, and when that happened, Manny would bring in someone who could knock the leader off his pedestal, sending him packing.

Of course, Greg didn't know all of this at the time. He just thought it might be a novel way of picking up a job. So he'd scraped up the money for the fee, auditioned for Manny and was put in a slot.

At that time, the lead guitarist was a guy named Steve Dumas. Steve was a nice guy, and a decent guitarist, but Greg quickly figured out that he wasn't a true lead guitarist. His practiced ear had noticed that Steve's best notes were chords, rather than leads.

On the night of his challenge, Greg had plugged in his old Fender, which he had painstakingly rebuilt, piece by piece, and started jamming. It was pretty clear from the outset that Steve was no match for the searing leads Greg was playing.

Instead of playing standard songs, however, Greg started stretching out, getting the band to play some jam-friendly tunes so he and Steve could send the music soaring. As they did, he coached Steve into playing the fills, the rhythm parts, to complement his solos.

It was wildly successful. The Bluesrockers show that night was one of the band's epic performances, and when the vote came in, it was a landslide for Greg.

Steve Dumas was dejectedly heading toward the backstage door, with his guitar case in his hand. He'd grown to like playing with this band, in the short time he'd been the leader, and he'd especially liked the show that night. He was just about to the door, when he heard Greg calling for him to wait.

"Hey man, don't be so down, you're a great player, just not a lead player," Greg said. "In fact, you're the best rhythm guy I've ever played with. I've never had a second who picked up on what I like to do so quickly. We made some magic tonight, and I think we can do it again, every night. Let's get together tomorrow and play, just you and me."

"Are you serious?" Steve said. "I mean, I don't think Manny's going to pay for an extra guitarist. That's not how this thing works."

"Fuck him," Greg said. "Great art can't be bounded by cheap little men like him. Look at it this way. If we get to where I think we can go, in a year, two years tops, we can start getting some attention from some people besides the yokels around here. You want to stay in Clarksdale all your life?"

"Well, it is home, but..." Steve said.

The next afternoon, Greg got together at Steve's garage and that's where their partnership was cemented. They both just plugged in and started noodling, and before they knew it they were jamming hard.

The first hour, they didn't even play songs; they just let the music flow, making it up as they went along. Think Duane Allman and Dicky Betts, or Jerry Garcia and Bob Weir, and that's what Steve and Greg sounded like that afternoon.

After an hour, they took a break, then went back at it. This time they tested each other's repertoire of songs they knew by heart, blues standards and rock classics. They ended up jamming for four hours, until Steve's wife finally made them come in for dinner.

As Steve had expected, Manny balked at the new arrangement at first. But by the time the band made its presentation to the club owner, Greg had brought the rhythm section into the conspiracy, and they were all of one mind.

Manny was forced to accept a second guitarist, but he didn't like it, and Greg quickly figured out that he'd made an intractable enemy out of Manny.

As the new Bluesrockers gained an increasingly larger following over the next year, and Greg started to become the toast of the local music scene, Manny's hatred for the serenely confident guitarist grew by leaps and bounds.