Blameless in Abaddon (Godhead, Book 2)
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In this "funny, ferocious fantasy" (Philadelphia Inquirer), God is a comatose, two-mile-long tourist attraction at a Florida theme park-until a conniving judge decides to put Him on trial in The Hague for crimes against humanity. A New York Times Notable Book of the Year.
nervously twisted a cuff button on his blue seersucker suit. He was a smiling, disheveled gnome, his light brown hair frothing outward in a manner that evoked the second visiting potentate in Jonathan Sarkos’s Nativity movie. “Until Newsweek called my book a ‘theodicy,’ I’d never even heard that word.” To Martin, the rabbi’s modesty seemed wholly genuine, his humility totally without guile. He would not enjoy dismantling this nice man’s worldview. “Nevertheless, you ended up tackling some
again make God’s material form the Main Attraction at Celestial City USA, offering solace and inspiration to millions of disheartened pilgrims around the world.” Martin felt as if someone had stuck a needle in his Port-A-Cath valve and injected his soul with strychnine. Torvald rapped his Christmas gavel on the bench with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “The Court stands adjourned until November thirteenth, when it will hear opening statements in International 228: Kingdom of Liberia versus United
fault.” Mounting the gazebo steps, Martin glanced at the Scrabble board. The dinosaurs’ word choices bespoke a morbid state of mind. DOOM, DESPAIR, PLAGUE, DAMNNATION. NOTHING. “Gallimimus, correct?” asked Saperstein. “Correct,” said the female. She sounded more cultured than her mate, carefully shaping each syllable in the manner of a Boston aristocrat. “Call me Vivien.” “My name’s Lawrence,” said the male, cleverly obtaining a Triple Word Score by appending NESS to NOTHING. “We aren’t
hundred degrees, aimed the prow toward his wife’s truck, and began to paddle, churning against the onrushing flood. Ten minutes later he reached the Ranger. The driver’s door bore a cracked and peeling painting of a deliriously happy springer spaniel encircled by the words KENNEL OF JOY. Martin propped his elbows on the frame of the shattered window, eased forward, and peered inside. Corinne’s corpse, thank God, was gone. A glass bowl occupied the driver’s seat. Several inches away, a crayfish
remember.” An emphatic silence suffused Suite 300. They pulled off their shoes, climbed into bed, and slid beneath the coverlet, Patricia’s head resting on his chest, her nose pressed against the valve. Martin curled his arm around her neck. The gentle cadence of her breathing, so unlike the raucous pounding of the heart-lung machine, combined with the opiate rush of the Roxanol to soothe his jangled nerves. She began to sob. “Dear Patricia,” he whispered. “Dear, dear Patricia . . .” “So