Steven Rage's Blog, page 12

Rage shit, in PRINT … NOW!!

Please Note: The Grim Reverend Steven Rage's literary assaults contain graphic violence, illicit drug use, non-consensual extreme sex, and potentially offensive material given the religious references. Be forewarned! Brutal Bible Tales are not for the faint of heart. NC-17. These are NOT your parents' bible stories.

Available at Amazon.com

A leaner and much cleaner hellified re-mix of 'PILATE' [Paperback]:Product Description

Re-written from "PILATE" in first person, present tense, here is where the Brutal Bible Tales began: Pontius Pilate is cursed to be a vampire: Life after life after life. PILATE is a drug lord vampire in this re-telling of Christ's final days. When given yet another chance to save the Earth's latest Christ, will the re-incarnated Pilate choose to protect Her? Or, will he wash his hands once again? EDITED for a short PG-13 Harbor experience.

Get yours here at Amazon.com

Product Description

Short stories of darkness and dismay, snorting souls, Satan and the New Christ make a bet, Pontious Pilate is re-born a vampire, evil ghosts and wicked demons. Dark shit from The Most Depraved Writer in Print. Recognize.

 

goodcheapbiblefun!!

"BELLY" Synopsis:

Immanuel the Christ has some nerve. Jonah has already lost everyone he loves to Pilate the vampire and his Harbor drug violence. Jonah now trudges through his days staying as high on Plata as possible. He just wants to be left alone while he waits for his turn to die.

The Christ has other plans for him. She sends Her messenger, Pedro, to assign Jonah the very dangerous task of ordering the Herod to dismantle the Harbor's Plata trade. Jonah has a choice: fight or flight. He decides to run. But you can't run from God forever. As Jonah learns the hard way when the 'Edmund Fitzgerald' founders and goes down in rough seas, with the reluctant prophet on board.

Job is Satan's Chosen One and he doesn't take kindly to orders from some upstart prophet. Rather than acquiescing, Job thinks caving Jonah's head in with a tire iron is the best bet. Jonah finds himself out of the frying pan, but firmly fixed in the fire. Then the Lord Herself starts dispatching Job's children. One at a time, until the Herod of The Harbor finally obeys.

 

 

 

               

new from "MorbidbookS" ...

 

 

 

 

Coming in PRINT, realfuckinquicklike ...

 

 "RAGE PRIMER" Stories and Such by: REVEREND STEVEN RAGE

Thank you most sincerely for your interest in the work of RAGE. The following primer is a chilling stew of characters, situations and backgrounds that permeate my first half-dozen books. It is an introduction to my world and you are most welcome. Enter of your own free will …



IMAGES (pd) for possible use in new works …

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Hannah was disgusted by her mother. Hannah knew her mother would have let Terry's drug dealer rape her, too, if he would have lived long enough. Her mother would have been, Hannah was sure, too frightened to help even her own daughter. The men she couldn't blame. Her mother constantly gravitated toward the worst of them. Those men simply did the same things all pigs did. But Hannah's mother let them.

Terry's drug dealer didn't touch me though, huh Momma? I took care of that asshole my own damn self.

If Hannah wouldn't have injected Terry with a lethal measure of heroin while he was already passed out from his normal dose, she would have been next. She heard Terry and the medicine man discussing the disgusting details. Apparently, the two men were going to double-up on Hannah. Her mother was sitting right there, listening to the whole thing. She wouldn't have lifted a finger to help her daughter, or herself.

Feelin' down and dirty, feelin' kinda mean …

Image via Wikipedia

Once you start in on a serious drug collection, the tendancy is to push it as far as you can...Seriously, though 'FucknPunch' is in Europe getting his blood changed out. Pill-Man brings today's gruesome fiction sample.

* mean mug mo' thug…*

He was feeling down and dirty, feeling kind of mean.  The hermaphrodite he was fucking had a ball-gag deep in her mouth and it was securely fastened. The man turned to the girl's mom, smacked her two quick ones in the cake-hole. He shot his expulsion in her face and hair.  She exhaled the Plata smoke as she brought her mouth to the dude's lumpy cock and proceeded to clean it all off by using her teeth and tongue.

The man leaned back and watched her do this while he flipped up his feet and placed them on the hermie's back.  He closed his eyes as she exhaled her relief.  She began to cry pitifully.  The mom thought briefly about removing the ball-gag from her child's mouth, but instead she lit up another pipe of the Plata.

The man, himself, opted for a regular smoke.  He lit a custom made cigarette he kept in a rather ornate case nearby.  He inhaled the delicious Turkish blend, held it a moment and then blew out the plume.  He pulled his feet from the hermie's back.  He opened a small chest on the lamp table, removed a two gram bag and tossed it in the mom's direction.  The mother grabbed the dope, stuck it up her twat for safe-keeping.  Then she helped her kid get out of the gag and onto her feet.  She made to wipe the male from her face and hair.

"Do that shit on your own time," he told her.  "Now get the fuck out."

Once they left, Job's earthly father brought out his tray of his personal upstairs coke.  The lightly blue-tinged Peruvian flake was set on his lap.  He started chopping and lining up the coke, smiling. He leaned down and pulled up a finger-thick chalk line when the temperature became frigid in his living room in an instant.  Ice formed in the air, contrasting the warm, cozy heated room and snowflakes inexplicably formed and began to swirl all around. His heart began to thunder, the feeling familiar, but hard to sink his teeth into, it was from so long ago.

Mister Mo' Thug appeared in front of him.  Job's father's hair turned white from fright in an instant.  He dropped the coke straw.  He watched with mortal dread as he beheld the eight foot tall mean mug. His impossible weight cracked the floor beneath him.

"My Lord – "

He put up a stifling hand. "I need not your voice."  Job's father paled further as he sat dumfounded.  "Place your hand within mine," he said.

His servant did and he began with the pinky finger.  Mister Mo' Thug slowly and methodically bent all the fingers up one at a time. Each one broke with a gruesome wet snap.

Job's father dropped to his knees.  Beads of sweat sprang up from all over his body.  He cried out and mean mug hit him in his face, breaking a cheek bone and causing the man's face to swell and misshapen.

"Not a word." Job's father bit through his own lip, trying his failing best to keep quiet, to not further infuriate.  "The cur you sold me has let me down.  He stopped and looked down to the blubbering human. "I cannot exact my vengeance upon him, so it will now fall to you."  Mister Mo' Thug curled his hand into a fist.  He crushed Job's father's hand and twisted fingers into almost dust.  "And there will be things done to you," he said, "that ye shan't imagine." Mister Mo' Thug has always been an asshole. Most everyone agrees. Mother certainly does. The man's face was leaking blood unimpeded from his nose and his cry was stifled quickly by his remaining fist.  He shoved it down the human's throat.  Mean mug then went from the flat, pulpy ruined hand next to the man's wrist and on up to the forearm, crushing them both, before just tearing the fucker off at the root and dropping it beside the human's quivering, dying body.  Job's father looked down to the floor at his missing arm like it was something he should know, but couldn't quite place.

With Mister Mo' Thug's fist down the man's throat, his eyes threatened to bulge right out of their sockets. He reached all the way inside Job's father and pulled the human inside out. He flat out hated fucking losing.

Job's father was still breathing and conscious while Mister Mo' Thug's imps climbed on him.  One imp fell wildly in love with the human's severed arm, it being still warm, and consummating this with a love act, rubbing hard on the bone with his own.

The others perched on Job's father, jacking off into and feeding on the wet inners.  They climbed up his pooper and plucked at his exposed heart and lungs, tearing and ripping.

* mean mug mo' thug…*

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Here it comes …

Where to go for, well ... Bad Ass Books!



 

Chapter Nineteen

   

                                   

What the fuck Amittai was doing in The Harbor:

Amittai closed his eyes as the door to his office shut slowly on its automatic hinges. The minister and televangelist took on more than he should once again. He always seemed destined to absorb completely the pain and distress of his flock.

This had already cost him his marriage to Jonah‟s mother years before. She‟d left Amittai with nary a backward glance and never a phone call or letter since. He still loved her and sincerely hoped she had found whatever it was she was searching for.

Amittai rose and went to the ornate window overlooking a setting Big City sun. He was worried about his accountant‟s despicable foible. It had him sorely troubled. However, he was even more concerned about his son‟s dual announcement of marriage to a pregnant harlot and his incredibly short-sighted decision to throw away his religious education.

Jonah was always hardheaded. As his father, Amittai realized all of his own shortcomings and how they tainted Jonah‟s decisions. The minister knew that sacrificing time with his wife and children for the sake of his ministry cost him them both.

She took the children that were young enough to still be at home with her when she left. Jonah was the eldest and the only one to stay with his father following the uncontested divorce. But by that time neglect had already sprouted bitter fruit. Jonah ignored his father. In turn Jonah‟s father threw himself even more into his ministry. The blame was shouldered squarely by Amittai.

The minister believed with whole heart of God‟s Great Plan for the redemption of all mankind. He believed that the Heavenly Father has a plan for all of His children. He loves us and protects us from evil. This Amittai supped on to sustain his faith in the Almighty during these dark times.

The Lord God had a plan for Amittai. Most of his life could be counted successful. The few failures of the televangelist however were huge. The loss of his own family while preaching family values never ceased to leave a foul taste of hypocrisy in his mouth. This failing will never allow his healthy, wealthy ministry to cancel it out.

Still, Amittai felt assuredly that his eldest son was tossing onto the dung heap his future and his many God-given gifts just to be with some little slip of a girl. As nice as Rebecca seemed to be nothing was more important than studying the

Word. To lead one‟s own flock of believers. How can marrying a pregnant girl, one who probably got herself knocked-up on purpose, equal this most Holy Calling?

The irony of these thoughts completely escaped Jonah‟s father.

Amittai knew that there was no stopping Jonah from the boy‟s chosen path. Amittai was helpless in this regard and it made him feel truly bad. He did not know what to do. He felt like an empty, useless shell. He was a failure as both a parent and a pastor.

To make himself regain some semblance of balance and control he instead turned his mind back to his wayward accountant. He picked up the embezzler‟s hand written note of confession and studied it carefully. Amittai sighed.

My God, he thought, so many problems.

It happened all of a sudden and all at once. He was responsible for the misdeeds of all beneath him and took his charge seriously. Always, always, it fell to him.

He lit a match and touched the orange flame to the sheet of the accountant‟s evil confessed misdeeds. The suicide note caught fire and was quickly engulfed. It burned to ash. There was no need to display his dead employee‟s sin to the world. He would deal with this himself. For ALL have sinned and fell short of the Glory of God. Amen.

The dead accountant had spelled out in gruesome detail all of his sins to the suicide note that lay in ash on Amittai‟s desk. It told of

investing in Plata. It told of washing dirty money. It spoke of sins enormous. It spoke of names he had never heard before: Juan de Batista and a Pilate. These names came to Amittai straight out of the Holy Bible, but residing and doing dirty business in The Harbor. Amazingly it‟s only a short drive from his Big City offices and home.

Amittai rose immediately. He decided in an instant that he needed to go to The Harbor and confront them both. He was going to get to the bottom of this sordid business. He will allow no stain on his precious ministry.

* * * *

Amittai arrived soon after in The Harbor. He sought out Pilate and Juan. He needed to confront the men his accountant had dallied with. He had a cell phone number from the dead man‟s personal effects. Amittai used it to secure an appointment with Juan de Batista. He met this man at a park beneath the big old trees.

The two men spoke briefly as the sky darkened. They spoke mostly of inconsequential pleasantries. And then, without so much as a brushing of a sound, Pilate took Amittai from behind. He fed complete on the televangelist. Pilate left him bloodless and dead with a broken neck.

Juan and Pilate tossed Jonah‟s father like so much trash into a dumpster. Juan called the police to report the body as they walked away…

 

There are vampire drug lords, addicts, whores, demons that crawl out of people's rectums, perverted sex and all the dregs of society in the darkest of dark settings and situations.

Nobody is more brilliantly repulsive than rage, September 7, 2010 By D. Gorman "Crystalline Structure Moon" – See all my reviews Amazon Verified Purchase(What's this?)

This review is from: The Place In Between (Paperback)

"reading steven rage is a little like being a mother who ran out of diapers even though you're locked in a room with a baby who has been living on nothing but 5-alarm texas chili. sure, there are times when you want to puke, but you can't help loving the baby anyway. yes, rage is still gruesome, sickening, twisted, gross, horrific, morose, profane, disgusting, morbid, blasphemous, shocking and repugnant. but these are not the only compliments i can bestow upon this promising new author. but we'll get to that bit later. the 3 short stories that comprise this book are pure rage. the first and last story bring us back to that familiar setting, the harbor. these stories have all the requisite characters and elements that you would expect if you've read steven's earlier work. there are vampire drug lords, addicts, whores, demons that crawl out of people's rectums, perverted sex and all the dregs of society in the darkest of dark settings and situations. they are well crafted extensions of his earlier work, and there is even an effort to tie some of the stories together. visiting this setting again was a blast! he really did have something to add that was compelling and kept the pages turning as often as it kept your stomach turning. he even threw in a few surprises like an artificially created chimp-man and a sexy chicken or two. the first story relies a lot on the modern street venacular again, while remaining intelligent and creatively devised. the last two stories were not so dependant on modern slang, as the lead characters were not the sort of (shall we say) 'sludge' that would need to speak that way. this allows a more clear visage of rage's ability to exhibit a writing prowess that is more accessible to a wider audience. the harbor stories do give rage fans a lot to be thankful for in expanding the previous stories with bizarre, twisted putridness. yet, my favorite story by far was the title story in this book. that is because rage steps away from the harbor and explores a new setting with a whole new disturbing set of circumstances. i truly believe that if rage continues to grow and expand and explore new horizons, he can reach his full potential as a great writer. much as before, there is an intelligence to this dude's work. his gift as a storyteller is being more finely honed in this work. the fact that he has spent time working in a hospital is apparent, and it comes through in his stories. i can honestly say this is my favorite of anything i have read from him thus far. he's getting dangerously close to getting a 5-star review from me…..and that's not easy to do when writing something that is so far removed from 'ordinary literature'. so to sum up…..yes, this has all the disturbing, grotesque, alarming, horrible elements that you'd want to see in 3 strories by rage…it also has all the fine storytelling…..and he is growing and improving as a writer. i recommend this collection of stories, but i also recommend that you (metaphorically) stock up on diapers first. if he keeps expanding his horizons, he will be a supurb voice and visionary for our time…even if he remains the demented sick ticket that we all know and love."

Product Description:

A new 3 novella collection of the darkest, grittiest, gruesome fiction to ever be released: "The Place In Between"…. 'The Place in Between': When Del is sent pictures of his wife's latest affair, he reasons a .45 caliber bullet will answer his problems. To Del's dismay, that's only the beginning of his time spent wedged in the place in between. Luci's lover tortures Del relentlessly. Del wants to recover just enough to seek revenge on them both. Sure enough a demon shows up with her silky-sweet promises. Then the ambiance twists dark and cruel beyond anything any one of them could've imagined. 'Blood and Bubblegum.: It's colder than frozen shit down here in the dangerous tunnels of The Harbor in the post-cataclysmic world (ACE). Juan and I find ourselves here, in this horrible place because of The Good Doctor. His organic narcotics trade is booming. Juan, Mary and I want in. We have to find TGD and the nocturne, see if they will let us. We are down. We are hungry. And we are bringing Blood and Bubblegum to sweeten the pot. All of our dreams will come true. The only uncertainty is Mary and Juan living long enough to reap the rewards. 'Bad Notion, Traveling Potion': The second day of the fifth waxing moon, in the 24th year, ACE. The frozen earth of The Harbor is in the grips of a new Little Ice Age. The human populace is down to just one-third. They are forced to exist in long, dank tunnels and cramped domiciles underground with The Good Doctor and his creations of Halflings and other freaks and geeks. TGD's latest organic narcotic discovery goes LIVE and becomes self-aware. The bad notion traveling potion makes meat puppet users do its unholy bidding. Then the monster decides to turn on TGD, the Creator. Not the best idea, this. But it sure is going to be fun to watch.

The Reverend thought you might like a sample of my new book:

http://www.legumeman.com/samples%20and%2…

Enjoy!!

The Grim Reverend Steven Rage 

Under The Harbor, Ice Age above.

Coming in PRINT, really fuckin' soon!

coming soon in print ...

 "For All The Marbles" includes the following short stories:

1. For All The Marbles"

2. Scores of Cores

3. Not by Half

4. Blasphemy

5. The Senate's Plaything

And also …

The sequal to PILATE, Finally (3 years later ...)

 

The much leaner and much cleaner version of PILATE. G'head, you can give it to yer kidz, fer Goodness sakes!



The Reverend thought this was funny. This was written way back when I was still trying to sell to the 'straight' press. Not so lucky!

This series will feature biblical icons as main characters in a modern re-telling of their Old and New Testament stories. The series, like the Bible itself, is intense, elaborate and exceedingly violent.

All the fables in this series are set in the same location of The Harbor, a fictional Midwestern American ghetto that is based on a genuine locale. The Harbor is a former steel refinery town that is now in the midst of a third generational, post-industrial decline. Steel has mostly left The Harbor. Despair and squalor has taken root in this place that has been largely forgotten by the outside world. No one is watching when the darkness begins to flourish.

To be specific for the series, the illegal drug that is vastly sold and voraciously consumed is called Plata. Silver in Spanish, Plata has been conjured up by NELSON and its origin thoroughly explained in PILATE, the first installment. Methamphetamine-hydromorphone (Plata), is a central aspect to the commerce that keeps the modern economic wheel of The Harbor spinning round and round. Plata is integral to all the fables and is a constant throughout the series.

Each fable is a story in and of itself. What makes it a series, what will inspire our beloved READERS to ingest the series in its entire, is the prodigious use of bridge characters. These characters intermingle in The Harbor and bring flavor, familiarity and continuity to the series. A series, but not sequels.

It is not yet known how many fables will be in this series, but there will be at least four. The first one is PILATE. JONAH is the second installment. Research is complete and JONAH is being written as you read this. JOB is slated as the third fable in the series and is being plotted as JONAH is being written. JOB, the character, will be first introduced in JONAH.

PILATE, JONAH and JOB are written in past tense, third-person subjective with varying points of view. The tales are crafted powerfully, with calm authority and a strong voice. They are, most definitely, not for the faint of heart. These fables are dark and vicious tales of evil kings and dirty cops. Heavenly forgiveness and eternal damnation. Lusting vampires and throngs of wicked demons. The powerful Hand of God and the Devil's diseased Kiss. And the blood. It is everywhere. No punches are pulled. The graphic violence and human ugliness are laid bare for all to see.

The fables defy catagorization, but rather incorporate the very best intensity, grit, and artistic violence of several fictional genres. Biblical Horror is one possible way to describe this series of fables. The fables have all of the biblical accuracy of "Prophecy", the drug culture of "Belly", the gritty urban decay of "New Jack City", as well as the artful dogmatic evil of "Hellraiser" and the over-the-top violence, retribution and decadence of "Scarface". PILATE, JONAH and JOB make liberal use of these fictional elements to form a truly unique and original body of work.

The Blood Drinker rises … Pilate's Got Cake to Push.

Available NOW in KIndle. PRINT coming soon ...

The runner ended his call and shoved the phone deep down in a pocket of his hoodie.

"I talked to his Second, Juan. He say Pilate gonna come now," the boy warned the dirty cop. "And he gonna come hard."

"Let him bring his ass down here," bragged Theodosius, "save me a step. He'll get what he's come for, on the real. Meantime," he continued, "Herod wants me to get hold of him. I'll have my boys pay his lair a visit, see what we see."

Pilate's runner stood and waited. He felt regret for what he was doing, but what the hell, he thought. It's a dog eat dog world, you know, and it's better to get paid then to get dead.

"Where's his hole at, where he lay?" Theodosius asked and the boy told him. "You sure it's his?"

"Like I say, I followed the girl, Mary, this one time. She's not too bright, this chick, she never even looked for a tail. I followed her and she led me to the old church. I have a feeling Pilate has other places where he stay, but that's the only one I know of for sure."

"Alright," Theodosius said and peeled the boy off a few hundreds. "I want you to vanish for a week. Then you can come back and run for me."

"A clocker?" the boy asked, disappointed, "still? What happened to a promotion, man? That's what I expected."

"To me, to my way of thinking, you ain't done anything. You just jumped sides and dropped loyalty at the first chance you got." He grabbed the boy by his shirtfront. "My offer's the only one on the table right now, which makes it the best offer on the table. And that's better than catching a bullet in the back of your head. Which is just what the vampire's gonna do when he catches wind of this. So, concerning your short-term safety, hooking up with my crew is the only choice you have. Or am I wrong about that?"

He put his hands up in surrender. He quickly agreed with the logic as well as his terms of employment. His head started nodding so obsequious fast now that Theodosius thought the boy had a bobble spring in there.

"Good," Theodosius said. He released the boy. "Now go, and don't come back for a week."

The runner nodded once and ran off. Theodosius watched him go. He was reveling in his new spirit of industry. He turned and went back to his crew, where he paused to rub his hands together in greedy anticipation.

"This is going to be a night to remember," he told them. They all agreed. Theodosius sent four of his big-ass, bad-ass dirty cops to the old church to see if they can locate the elusive blood drinking drug dealer. That Pilate was a specter. His exploits and ruthlessness were so ingrained and legendary in The Harbor, that Theodosius doubted very much he even existed. And if Pilate did exist, he's sure the gruesome vampire tales were way overblown.

Theodosius and his crew already were accepted as replacements for Pilate's people by the junkies that stood restless-waiting on the corner. The fiends lined up in a jumpy queue, anxious for their dinner. They didn't care who fed them, as long as they got their Plata and got high on the quick. Or else the marching bugs will start running beneath their skin again, tickling and itching where not one of them can reach.

Theodosius smiled. Drugs were slung. Customers left happy while a seemingly endless wave of Plata fiends kept coming to the corner in a steady stream.

The sun slid silky toward the horizon.

Chapter One

The insistent noise from the intercom burns a hole in my sleep. I press the button: "Trouble?" I ask through the hidden speaker.

"Yeah, Pilate," my Second tells me, "Big trouble." Juan relays what our runner just said.

"I'll be right up," I reply.

I release the intercom button and lay back on the bed. I am ravenous and beginning to get short-tempered because of it. I keep my eyes closed a little while longer, but the brief respite does not make me feel any better. Now I have to go to the spot to deal with this before I can feed. It's been three days since I had last fed and that brings me right up to the edge.

I rise. My cold skin is nude and beginning to prickle with hunger, my normally absent breathing is making itself known.

I dress quickly and leave the vault where I sleep my protected sleep. I head upstairs to the kitchen and open the refrigerator door. Inside the freezer there are a few frozen I.V. packs of consolidated red blood cells. I put one in the microwave to defrost it. The blood is normally used between my twice-weekly feedings. But now I am forced to use it to stave off the need for fresh blood. Packed cells do carry some oxygen, but there is no significant amount attached to red blood cells in this form. It is the oxygen I so crave.

I park myself at a chair by the table. Juan comes in and sits with me. I remember the time Juan asked to be turned. I told him the truth. That there is no way to turn a human into a vampire, that vampires are born, not made.

Vampires all house an inherited recessive genome that will spell the end of the lineage unlucky enough to sprout a nosferatu. Vampires can't reproduce. It's nature's way of not perpetuating a genetic mistake. Juan was greatly disappointed, as I recall. He wanted so bad to believe the mythos and legends. I, on the other hand, am quite glad the tales are fiction. The human herd would thin rather quickly if there were squads of vampires out there. Herod is trouble enough.

I put nasal prongs into my nose and turn the oxygen tank on. The microwave beeps. I retrieve the defrosted blood and tear open the package. I proceed to squeeze the warmish goo into my open mouth, swallowing all 500cc of the blood at once.

I concentrate on pulling in supplemental oxygen through my nose. What is efficient for humans; is woefully inadequate for vampires. The blood I consume and oxygen I inspire will increase my deficient oxygen levels a mere twenty percent. If I relax, this treatment's enough to quench my need for fresh blood until the following day. Then I will have to feed. If I find myself under extended duress, my oxygen reserves will swiftly evaporate. This will leave me weak and vulnerable.

"I'm going to check it out," I say at last. I was getting so very hungry. I turned the tank off and remove the nosepiece. "I'll feed before my return."

"Okay," replies Juan. "Do you need us?"

"No," I state and rise. "I'll return soon enough and we'll discuss what I find when I do. Mary will give me some rows and we'll figure all this crazy shit out together."

Juan nods, looking like he is feeling better with the return of our routine. We always discuss business while Mary gives my long hair some nice tight cornrows.

I study Juan's face, sensing his concern. "I'll bet it's the quota," Juan states. He looks up at me. He suggests, "Maybe we should cash some in, you know, catch us up with Herod. Get him off us for a while, give us time to figure this out; negotiate a different price or some of the other ideas we talked about."

I have considered dipping, but I still must decline. I am stubborn about Herod's quota demands. I feel that the hit Plata is taking should be shared by all in the organization, not dumped solely at our feet.

"Don't worry," I reply instead, "I'm sure it's nothing, some sort of misunderstanding. We're only, what – thirty grams short for this whole year? I sincerely doubt that we can get moved without notice, without a word over an ounce. What is it we push, forty-five, fifty zees a year? And Herod is getting pissed off over one?"

"Doesn't seem likely," agrees Juan.

"Anyways as long as it isn't approved by Herod, his flunkies will see the light. I'll bet they's nothing more than a bunch of dumb cowboys playing dress-up. We shouldn't worry about it too much. Herod will have to be a raving lunatic to bounce me. Look at how much money he gets from us," I smile, "you'd think he'd be happy."

I can feel from my tongue that my partially starved state is making the sharp fang tips poke out of my pink-gummed smile. "I'm sure it's nothing," I repeat, then get up to leave.

Juan follows me down to the basement of our old abandoned church. This is the place were Mary, Juan and I call both home and work and have been doing so for going on five years now. Juan watches me as I leave out the back door. I turn to him, smile once. I easily leap over the tall property wall and then disappear into the mushrooming dusk. Ready for anything and down for whatever.

Chapter Two

It is late dusk in The Harbor and the shadows are deepening quickly. I am within the yawning gloom of a crumbling vacant building and I stare with great interest at the group manning my corner. The drug runners, their dealer, and the cops protecting them stand my spot. I choose with my yellow eyes the dealer. This dirty cop will die first. I can smell his blood. I think he smells delicious.

I crouch in the deepening shadows and gaze in silence at the police officer and his entourage. The mortal isn't wearing a uniform, but I have no trouble making him. The cop's name is Theodosius and he's one of Herod's up and comers.

I begin to breathe deeper as the hunger for oxygen-rich blood grows strong. Breathing is pain for a vampire – a not so subtle reminder of physiologic need. My need is food and I'm going to need it real soon.

Theodosius is standing my spot, talking animatedly with other cops. He has a whole grip of his young toughs milling about and acting tough.

The cop's crew have shut my doors and opened up their own shop. They are taking money out of my pocket and none of my runners are anywhere to be found. And with the presence of Theodosius, there is no doubt of Herod's blessing. Enraged; my jaw clenches and bites. A thin string of brackish blood slides down my chin.

"I'll have Herod's teeth for this," I grunt, "hanging from my neck."

It's time to take care of this miscarriage of ghetto justice. I yawn deeply, stretching out the stiff muscles in my back. I step with purposeful noise from gloomy shadows to dying sunlight.

The mortals turn to look. I listen as I pull back my tightly curled hair into one long ponytail. I am just out of earshot, for a mortal.

Theodosius and crew catch my movement from the darkening shadows. They could see me, but just barely.

"Who's that?" Theodosius asks. I stand straight as a runner answers his boss: "That's Pilate," he say.

"Are you sure?" Theodosius snaps, gripping the boy's shoulders.

The boy sneaks a quick peek over to me and I stand waiting. My eyes, I know, are twin orbs of murky yellow. They are backlit like a beast.

"Yeah," little dude replies, "that's him."

"Pilate," he mutters real low, "Oh, no."

But, vampire hearing brings it crisp to me, where I wait for more.

"Never thought I'd see him," the runner says, "I wasn't even sure he's real."

The dirty cop's fear he cannot hide. That, more than anything else, decides it.

"I'm gonna give him what he come for!" Theodosius declares, fear exploding. He shoves his right hand beneath loose fitting coat, finds his weapon and pulls it.

I stare intently, sensing the group's growing concern. It makes my head swim. The delicious smells of this fearful herd bombards my senses. I can hear their hearts' increased force and speed, the way they're doing little trip-hammer dances in their collective chests. The lungs suck in air to saturate hemoglobin in the blood with volumes of oxygen. This oxygen is what makes my mouth water. My pupils dilate. The murky yellow surrounding the black holes grow in intensity.

The rich, heady scent clouds my reaction and bullet-spit from the cop's concealed auto pistol cuts a furrow through my left shoulder. The stream of rapid fire bullets pulverizes my muscle tissue as I am already leaping backward and down into the gloom.

I then run, unseen, across the street from those shadows. I stop and watch as a second quick spray tattoos the old brick façade of the crumbling Boys and Girls club, the one where I was standing a moment ago.

Firing stops. I squat behind a stripped sedan, to the right of Theodosius' crew. They were looking left at the cement dust kicked up by bullets and still hanging as a cloud. I lower my face and fold my hands together as if in prayer. I welcome the exquisite pain of the lengthening fangs and the pointed growth of talons as they split my bleeding fingertips. The blood shimmers from where I'd been shot.

Then I stand.

One of his runners spins around and beholds me. My smile, full on, the teeth long and sharp, I display in an open mouth. The boy's eyes roll up in his head. He faints dead away. He crumples to the ground just as Theodosius turns and raises his weapon at me again.

I close the distance of twenty feet in the blink of an eye. First I am beside the wrecked sedan and the next instant I'm six inches from Theodosius. The cop's face is vacant. Comprehension as of yet has not set in. The runners follow their leader's arm as it arcs, staring where I'd been beside the car.

Before anything registers, I sink my talons deep inside the mortal. Theodosius glances from my yellow vampire eyes, to the already healing shoulder, to my fingers sunk in his very own belly.

"But…" Theodosius manages. I ignore him. Instead, I behold the crew and pull all of their attention to me. It is magnetic and they cannot begin to resist.

I scan the group and glean the herd's weakest, easiest to control. I locate the little dude and turn to him.

"Shut your eyes," I whisper to the young lad, not even old enough to drive, "but stay alert." The rest of the crew I order quiet stillness. "You do not witness," I tell them.

The boy's eyes are closed as commanded and I refocus my hold on him. The boy stands tall and rigid, at attention.

"Why are you here?" I ask him.

"Herod say you missed the quota three months in a row, so he give this spot to Theodosius."

"Impossible," I angrily reply, "this here my spot. I brought it to Herod. It belongs to me." My voice is getting raspy, dry and painful. "He can't give away what don't belong to him."

The boy is shivering. He's so very healthy with lots of bright red life inside, sludgy-thick with oxygen. My patience is dangerous thin. My hunger's getting deep, clawing at me. Soon it will uncheck. Heaven help the poor slob's who's dumb enough to still be near me when the other shoe drops.

"When this happen?" I snap.

"Yesterday," chokes the boy. His tears are welling and his lips quiver.

"Be calm," I advise and I gotta say the boy did try. The others were nothing more than standing clay statues: ignorant, motionless and awaiting their next command.

Now I am boiling with a powerful rage. The monthly quota the boy was talking about is missed by only a few grams of Plata. This powerfully synthetic heroin-meth mixture makes slaves of users and normally has hordes of fans. In the last few months, however, the trend reversed. Now they are getting pissed because their pockets aren't as swole as they once was.

The missed quota does give me pause, but it's not validation for losing The Harbor's most lucrative spot to peddle drugs. Even short, my crew is still pushing more cake than any, so Herod's logic is suspect.

The boy waits silently. Only the chattering of his teeth can be heard as the darkness snuffs out the dusk. And what lies beyond pale streetlight glow succumbs, becoming deep shadow.

"Open your eyes and see," I command. All of the attention the boy can muster is aimed at me.

The boy, my captive audience, is spellbound in stunned silence as I lift the rapidly dying Theodosius, my talons seeking spine. I find it and grasped the hard, knobby bone, lifting still. My left hand reaches over Theodosius' back. I pierce his rib-cage muscle with my three-inch talons, below where the neck joins his spine. I grab hold tightly.

I bring his torso to me. I bite below where the left and right sides of his ribcage meet in the center. I chew gobbets of flesh and spit them onto the cracked sidewalk at my feet. I punctured a big artery with my pointed tongue. I raise Theodosius above my head and I let my jaw unhinge. I am a predatory snake. I twist the mortal like he's a wringing, soggy rag. A huge bucket of blood from his ruptured abdominal aorta spews forth in an orgy of velvet fluid. The spine pops bubble-wrap staccatos. I twist and drain Theodosius of every last drop of his living blood.

I finish. My breathing abates, as does the mortal I empty. I drop the limp bag of bones to the dust and ease my lower jaw back into place. The blood delivers oxygen to my starved body. Subtle, steady euphoria ripples from the center of my chest and on out to every square inch of my cold, hypersensitive skin.

I calmly suck the remnants of the dead cop's blood from my fingertips as the talons recede. The crew waits.

I speak. "Tell Herod," I say, "Pilate does not get replaced."

The boy waits. I nod. The boy turns and runs fast out of sight. His untied sneeks left empty from where he jumped out of them.

This is it, the way mess like this go down. There is nothing left for me here tonight. I have got myself plenty of trouble now. Shit.

I start walking away. When I near the periphery of deep shadows, I raise a hand above my shoulder. As if on cue, the crew scatters. They dissolve into darkness. They are shelter-seeking roaches escaping the instant kitchen light.

With my shoulder mostly healed and flush with blood and oxygen, my breathing is no longer required. The carrion: I left that Theodosius piece of shit where it fell.

I need to return to my lair. Juan, my Second, and Mary Magdalene await my return. I need to confer with Juan and shed these bloody clothes. I want Mary to braid my hair before continuing my nightly rounds. Where I stay mostly out of site, sitting in my car, hidden from everyone I can. Let the growing legend build itself. Occasionally I've got to come out like tonight. It will, assuredly, add another volume to my ruthless and wicked cred, but will also stir up a swirling shit-storm with the powers that be.

My runners are missing and they need locating. Plata still has to be flipped and I need to plan. Herod will not let this go unchallenged. I shall have to try the Pharisees myself, go on up past Herod. I need to see what I can salvage out of this mess.

I step over the bodies of Theodosius and his unconscious runner. I melt into darkness.

The night is my ally. It swallows me whole.

Morbid Fact Du Jour …

[image error]

Seek the killer in you …

Today's Fact: Morbid is by far the most unique serial killer in all of literature. Recognize.

 

 

 

 

 

Book 29 & 78 of 2010: You Morbid Westphal by Steven Rage

YOU. Yes, "you"… are a poor soul in the hospital on your last legs. And as it is, you've "given birth" to one of the most horrible "people" ever possible…

These three characters, as well as a host of other interesting "people" make up Steven Rage's You Morbid Westphal. Both the characters and story format are unique- Rage has created a one-of-a-kind voice with this novella, which has enough story to fill a full-length book. A large chunk of the story follows Westphal day-to-day as he suffers through many horrendous tasks at work, in his dreams, and even just trying to obtain more drugs along the way.

As soon as I read the final chapters of this book I was ready to re-read it. I ended up waiting a few months before doing just that, but after a second read, I would be more than happy to do so yet again… and again… and again… You Morbid Westphal is one of those novellas that never get tiresome, as you pick up something different with each read through. You Morbid Westphal is not for the faint of heart, as it is full of numerous crude scenes that Rage describes in graphic detail. For many seasoned horror/bizarro readers, this will be a plus, but for those that can't handle things over the top, beware! Highly recommended!

Contains: Adult language, Adult Situations, Sex, Rape, Violence, Gore, Heavy Drug Use 

 

Review also posted at http://monsterlibrarian.com/bizarro.htm

Chapter Sixteen

GOING HOME

Guts You Stem To Stern

You see now the one Westphal calls Morbid put the two-way down on the table beside your bed. He looks down at you and smiles. He glances up at the clock on the wall. "Watch this, junkie-fuck," he tells you and points up to the clock. He straightens his finger at the minute hand, high up across the room. The minute hand moves in an instant to twenty minutes later. Morbid smiles brightly as Westphal stumbles in: mumbling incoherently. He makes it to the bedside and looks down at you, side by side with Morbid. It's looking up at a frameless mirror, seeing those two together. "We're all here," Morbid replies, "Just the three of us devil may care Jolly Rogers." Morbid immediately cocks back an elbow and just straight shoots out with his clenched fist, right into your waiting face. Stars as fireworks are detonating behind your tearing eyes. You blink through the pain, staring in revulsion and hate at yourself and yourself, standing there at your sick bed. Morbid winks once at you. He then spins clockwise and folds himself into Westphal, who's stoned ass jerks and warbles with the possession of Morbid. Westphal's trouncey-bouncey eyeballs snap forward, and then right down at you. He reaches into a pocket, retrieves a super-sharp scalpel, an O.R. swing-hook and some 4.0 silk stitching thread. "Time to go home," he says and stabs you in the supra-sternal notch with the scalpel. He slices speedily distal downward, through hard sternum and thin flesh, to just above the navel. He guts you from stem to stern. You cry out, soundless, alarms silenced, as Westphal pulls you open wide, cracking open your ribcage as easily as a lobster's tail. He shoves his head inside of you, followed by shoulders, arms, torso, and on and on until he is all the way in. Through the violation and searing pain, you feel Westphal turning over, closing the busted ribs like a coffin lid. Facing up, you feel him sewing you closed from the inside. The surgeon's thread slides out through flesh and back in. Westphal sewing your gaping wound shut, as quick as a goose shits. Your heart, beating crazily, now gets the sharp point of Westphal's internal scalpel. Fresh blood squirts full from your stabbed and torn cardiac muscle. You can feel and hear Westphal's suckling sounds as he sups on the blood spilling out unimpeded from your broken heart. Your hold on sanity snaps completely as your blood pressure bottoms out. The alarm shrills again, the heroes summoned once more. They won't make it. Not in time, anyways, and that is fine as a finger-fuckin' to you. You lose your hold on life. As things go fast black and mute, you could swear you smell the sick twins of sulfur and sugar welcoming you to That.

WESTPHAL. Living with his ghost step-dad, Sammy, and his pet

Sammy, the ghost step-dad …

Image via Wikipedia

 G R I M ! ! "There were special group areas to engage in any sort of Greek or Roman decadence. Pornos were filmed on premises. Orgies were easy to be had; coke rails the length of your leg, animal fucking, sucking, sacrifices, Black Magick. There was blood letting and drinking, skin branding and flesh removing. Anything, man. Just fucking anything."    

 "YOU MORBID WESTPHAL"

by

The Grim Reverend Steven Rage and brought to you by the crazy fucks over at 'Evil Nerd Empire'                  

 

Come and visit the inmates at bizarrocentral.com


 
an excerpt from "YOU MORBID WESTPHAL" from 'Evil Nerd Empire' books: 
  
http://www.evilnerdempire.com


  
  
  


from Chapter 10:  

Westphal tuned out Sammy's latest tall tale and began his mental list. It didn't take longer than two shakes, because he could see the sugarplums as they danced in his head. He decided to help himself to a nice sampling of just about everything Steele had in his arsenal.

Westphal pulled up his mail and started writing out his order to send to Steele. He wanted some percs, comas, a lot of bitch, a taste of boy (this was the extra, he'd never tried heroin before). He also wanted a half ounce of meth, some phens, T-3s, a couple dozen rolls and some more MDMA powder (Steele's shit is so clean), a handful of zans and vans, and more morphine tablets if he's got 'em. And top it off with a fat sack of mean green. He was happy because this shit should last him a good long time.

This made Westphal securely and supremely happy. He had his rent and utilities paid, enough available on his gas card to scoot the popcan around The Harbor, fresh bone marrow for Chip and even a little left over for some food.

He figured he could stock up on drugs and then he wouldn't have to go to the motherfucker's big, old rambling house for a while. Westphal did this whenever he could, with the certainty of dread that all real dope fiends had of getting eventually popped by Johnny Law. That would seriously fuck up his employment options.

Steele always had someone nearby the computer to take these orders, so Westphal sipped some more coffee and mixed and chopped and railed some more jet fuel, waiting for one of Steele's clones to get back.

The drug dealer never hesitated to make Westphal smile. Steele was a hustla of the first order. He ran a string of businesses like a ghetto corporation out of his own home. He had several entrances and exits, many separate as well as common rooms. Whatever a deviant wanted, Steele could get.

He had drugs, of course, but also much more. If you wanted to get your dick sucked on, or get your shit fisted, cool. If you needed an Unwanted to adopt, his whores did a double business of that. There was no need to glove up if you didn't want to. Most of his females were in a constant knocked-up state. He kept a druggie midwife working constantly to delivery the Unwanteds.

He had a lab set up with technicians harvesting blood marrow around the clock to sell to the exotic pet stores. There were big, softly lit rooms with music leaking gently out of invisible speakers hidden in the walls if you just wanted a place to get high and chill.

There were special group areas to engage in any sort of Greek or Roman decadence. Pornos were filmed on premises. Orgies were easy to be had; coke rails the length of your leg, animal fucking, sucking, sacrifices, Black Magick. There was blood letting and drinking, skin branding and flesh removing. Anything, man. Just fucking anything.

[image error]

ghosts ghosting ...

All the different entrances and exits assured as much privacy as you wanted. You could hide out in the basement if you were on the lam, or deeper to the sub-levels where one can dally with the demons and the damned. There were ghosts everywhere and the Magic floating through the place was thick as a sage smudging.

Steele himself was as big and as tough as the cage-fighter he used to be, but sweet and gentle and accommodating if you kept your attitude and rudeness at the door. Westphal had personally seen Steele weep with a young junkie who just miscarried her Wanted baby. And he had also witnessed him crush the trachea of this stupid piece of shit that disrespected the bug guy in his own home.

Steele liked Westphal a great deal. Not only was Westie an obviously steady customer and source of income, but he never hinted on needing credit. He paid his freight up front and, most of all, Westphal was respectful and polite.

Westphal got a reply from Steele's place and it was the big dude himself, which was unusual. You could imagine how busy the young Gotti was.

"What's up, Westie?" he asked over the e-mail, "You feel up to a visit here?"

"Absolutely," Westphal wrote back, "when's good?"

"The PayToday just cleared your five NewGs and I can put your order together in about –oh, say 2 hours," he replied. "That cool wit you?"

"Perfect," Westphal told him. His head was popping off and he was feeling like a million pesos of good, "I'll swing by then."

"Can you stay a while?"

He stopped. That was a weird request. Westphal usually stayed just long enough to be cordial, but Steele knew he liked to do his drugging at home. He knew Westphal didn't indulge in any of his other offerings. Too weird. What should he do, how should he respond?

"Sure, I guess so," he replied to Steele. "Why, man, what's up….problem?"

"No, dude, no problem at all. It's just that my sponsor is here and he specifically asked me for an intro."

"Okay, sure…but why? Did I piss someone off I didn't mean to?"

"No way, nothing like that," he promised. "He just knows you are a good customer and a good guy and Shirk sometimes likes to check out my favorites."

"Shirk, huh? Is he….connected?"

"LOL, nigga!," Steele wrote back. "Yeah, he's connected, but not to the mob, he's from That."

Oh fuck, he's from That? Westphal never fucked with the Dark. Drugs were enough trouble. He was barely hanging on as it is. What the fuck would a demon want with him? But he knew he couldn't say no. Once you pollute your soul to a certain point, you had to do some bidding. He's heard of this like everyone else, but he always thought he could keep skating out of range of Them. Fuck.

After no response: "You still there, dude?" Steele asked.

"Yeah, man, of course, just paused to do a bump," Westphal lied.

"Well get your self together," he said. "This motherfucker is the real Holyfield and he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Oh, shit, thought Westphal. Now I am in it.

"See you in 2, brother," Steele told him and logged off.

Westphal just sat there, trying not to be scared……

Bringing the 'Steele'.

Know Your RAGE …

 

Hi Kids! I'm 'FuknPunch' the 'Unemployed Child Care Clown'! Today we see RAGE get interviewed by Eric Mays, the Host of 'The Authors Speak'. Let's see if he says anything stupid ...

The Author Speaks: The Reverend Steven Rage



   

                                 

The Most Depraved Writer in Print. Recognize.

"It's a real shame that I know Steven Rage. He wouldn't want you to know that it's all an act. I mean, I hear about this writer, and he's got the online persona of a sinister master of the macabre. Then to meet him…you realize he's kind of bubbly. Or, maybe that's the comfort lure. Maybe that's the way Rage draws you nigh so that he can feast on your soul. I'm not sure. And that's one of the genius things behind the Reverend Steven Rage. Only once before have I seen an author so become a caricature of a character (that author was Robert Tacoma, who spent years online cultivating a following as "Taco Bob", the possum farmer. He wrote illiterate message board posts, and humorous stories of life on the South Florida roadkill farm.) and Rage does it masterfully. As mentioned, I've met Steven Rage and I like the guy, but he's still a mystery. I guess that's why I like his books. There's a very distinct vibe that accompanies them – if you like it dark, dirty and (in some cases) downright gross, Rage delivers. I had not read Steven Rage's first book – PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale – when I met him. Sadly, I'd not read any of his stuff. During the early days of Naked Metamorphosis Rage and I agreed to exchange manuscripts in a show of support. What an odd exchange. Rage had just released a hardcore, bizarro horror called You Morbid Westphal. Naked Metamorphosis was a dark comedy of Shakespearean proportions. What an odd combo.

I loved "You Morbid Westphal". It was a dark noir that involved a demon and a ghost in a hospital. It was gritty. It was good. I went back and read Pilate. If James Morrow was known for his Bible Tales for Adults and the Godhead Trilogy, then Steven Rage will be known for his Brutal Bible Tales. As brutal, in fact, as the Old Testament. Rage is all…well, the rage right now. I had the pleasure of speaking to the truly unique character."

Eric Mays: Steven Rage, thanks for taking the time to chat. Before I go any further is "Rage" something I should be worried about? I don't want to fall prey to a whirlwind, blindsided chopblock.

Steven Rage: Rage is the name the Reverend writes under. It was either Steven Rage, or Steven Joyfully Larks About. Rage has a more little more POW to it, I think. Eric, you have nothing to fear. The Reverend has had all his meds today with no flashbacks, so no worries, my friend. That being said, I am under court-ordered obligation to advise you NOT to turn your back on me and don't make any sudden movements and everything's going to be okay. It's not a problem, really. It's just that some days are saner than others. On that note, maybe we should just get started before the meds do wear off.

EM: Umm…okay. None of that worries me. Let's see, you like to go by the moniker "Reverend", right? Is it true? Are you actually ordained, or is it more like the "Reverend" Horton Heat?

SR: Rage is a legally ordained minister, able to perform weddings, baptisms, as well as speaking directly to God. (by the way, Eric, the Big Kahuna's not too tickled with you lately, so…)

Functionally, the Reverend sought to lend an air of legitimacy to his fiction, since it congregates (hey, that's funny) in the realms of Bizarro-tainted Occult, Horror and Brutal Bible Tales. Rage settled on Reverend because the title he really wanted: "The God of Thunder and Rock n Roll" has already been taken. God damned Gene Simmons.

EM: Speaking of Gene Simmons (well, and the Rev. Horton Heat for that matter), the man swears he gets more Polaroids of naked people that any living person. I can see that. But, Rage, you've got to be rolling in fan mail of that ilk.

SR: Well, to tell the truth, it has been kind of dissapointing, thus far. The Reverend could have sworn that he would end up seeing more ass than a toilet seat at Lillith Fair. Sadly, that has not been the case. Mostly it has just been requests to intercede for readers with Satan, and/or writing advice. There have been a few marriage proposals. Mostly from women who are trying to emmigrate from former Soviet Bloc nations and lonely Grizzly bears who just want to cuddle and spoon the Reverend.

EM: Okay, getting down to business now. Your first book "Pilate: A Brutal Bible Tale". Sounds like a recipe for run-ins with those that take religion a little too serious. Regardless of the actual brutality within the actual Bible, people seem to see things like this as blasphemous and sacrilege. Any experience with lynch mobs? SR: The Reverend has been threatened plenty, that's true. Oh, hell, some people just don't have a sense of humor. Granted, seeing Jesus of Nazareth re-incarnated as a 23 year old Latin female isn't everyone's cup of orange pekoe, but isn't that the point? To write something few have seen before. Rage thinks so. Fortunately, the Reverend has only been crucified on threads, so far. Time will tell. But it's all just tongue-in-cheek and devil-may-care, so fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.

EM: Are you a Catholic? Did you first start toying with this idea while sitting through mass?

SR: Rage was baptised and raised by Lutherans. The followers of Martin Luther maintain a number of similarities to the Catholics, but it is more like Catholic Lite. A few less rituals that the original flavor. The Reverend was Born Again and baptised a second time. This time by the Southern Baptists. The first baptism, maybe it didn't take, don't know… not too sure about the second one either, come to think of it.

Anywho, since that time Rage has read the Holy Bible cover to cover at least five times and has studied the different philosopies and practices of Protestants, Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormons, Green Magic, Black Magick, Satanism, Tao de Ching, Astrology, Yoga and The Secret. Rage is still searching for answers.

As far as the idea behind PILATE and other Brutal bible Tales, Rage always felt that the Bible has a wealth of incredible stories, but they were written, sorry to say, like shit. Boring as all get-out. So the Reverend thought he could do better, giving the stories some much needed teeth. At this time I have re-written in modern times the fictional setting of The Harbor and placed there the stories of Jesus Christ, Pontius Pilate, Jonah, Job, Herod (several of those fuckers) Judas, Simon Peter, John the Baptist and Mary Magdalene. Rage is proud of these works. Sad to say, he does not expect his writing to be the topic of Sunday School or church lectures anytime soon.

EM: A year, or so, later, you put out "You Morbid Westphal". Now, this is reads like M. Night Shymalan on pure meth – it's an extreme ghost story with twists and turns aplenty, just cranked up to eleven. You've got ghosts and you've got demons and you've got hospitals – three of the things that freak people out. I'm assuming you're not serving as a volunteer up at the local Pediatrics wing, right?

SR: Rage is also Registered Respiratory Therapist and Instructor. The Reverend has been working in hospitals and teaching RT forever. That's probably the reason why the violence and carnage have such a visceral reality to it. Rage knows what death looks like. Dying is never pretty when seeing it up close. It's never like in the movies, never nice. That being said, the Reverend kind of tumbled into all this. He doesn't really want to work in critical care, or be a minister, or even write. What he really wants to do is direct. Amateur porno would be fine.

Or maybe a game show host.

Maybe work with Lepers, blind kids, things like that.

Rage originally wanted to be a showgirl, but he was cursed with freakishly narrow ankles.

EM: I'm sure your ankles are fine. You would have made a fine showgirl. Your medical knwledge, though, is interesting. You have an intriguing take on demon birth (I'm not sure if I'm holding back because I didn't use the words SPOILER ALERT or if I'm just trying to keep things cleanish). Do you really think that's where demons come from?

SR: Well, it's not called the Demon Hole for nothing, mi amigo. The Reverend can show you, if you'd like.

EM: That's okay. When you were writing "You Morbid Westphal" what kind of cult like following were you envisioning for yourself. Let's face it, Rage, your name lends itself to a cult following.

SR: Nothing too grandiose. The Reverend was thinking of a more simplified existence as the Undisputed Heavyweight Prophet of the Compound (let's get it on!). The tax-exempt church shall be dubbed: "Our Eternal Lady of Perpetual Pain, Suffering, Problem Gambling and Skin Disorders-(Reformed)". We shall be housed deep inside a de-comissioned missile silo in the Dakota wilds. It will be so much fun! There will be all sorts of activities, besides the televangilism that will pay the bills. Oh, yes! We'll have skin-branding, blood-letting and animal sacrifices. Tuesday Evenings with Satan, taffee-pulls, Prairie Dress Modeling Thursdays and chili cook-offs. Lesbian Mystery Swap Saturdays, Yahtzee and Scrabble tournaments. There will even be classes on how to fashion a hash-pipe out of the human skulls of heretics. More fun than you can shake a dead-cat-on-a-crucifix at!

Wanna join? It's easy! All's it takes is a few drops of your blood and your undying loyalty. Oh, yeah, and Beelzebub will have to mount you at some point. Rage won't lie: that shit hurts.

By the way, how are y'all fixed with modern weaponry? You pretty savvy around semi-autos, shoulder mounted missile launchers, infra-red binocs, motion detectors and such? Just planning ahead, just planning ahead. Can anyone run a still?

Grow bud-smoke?

Psych-shrooms?

We'll need baby-sitters, too.

EM: Nobody likes to be mounted by Beelzebub. It's true, as for the rest…well, I guess only time will tell.

I'm not going to sugar-coat it, Rage. You are knee deep in depravity. I'm joking, of course. Because you are the sick man you are, I'm curious, what do you read that scares you? Or are you going to try and pass of that you're a Jodi Picoult or Nora Roberts fan.

SR: When the Reverend reads for pleasure, which is as often as possible, he is always craving that BAD-ASS factor. That's the goal. That and getting elbows deep in depravity. Reading horror is difficult because, sorry to say, nothing scares Rage as much as his next thought. Therefore reading for him is a relentless quest for stories that will make the goose bumps rise. Simple as that. That goes for music and film as well. When craving a hot shot of depravity, the Reverend melts a big, bent spoonful of Jordan Krall's fiction.

That shit makes Rage happy. EM: Jordan Krall does, obviously, rock! So, what's next? I feel we've got to keep this cult alive, man! I hear you've gotten in with Buckets O' Guts press, right? I think I heard that you're also writing a little something about quadriplegics and dancing, or something of the sort. Tell me a little more about the future.

SR: Rage is hoping to get in good with several different presses, Buckets O' Guts being one. The Reverend is really quite insecure and requires constant validation from a variety of sources. There's a couple dark and depraved novellas being shopped around currently. We'll see.

What Rage is truly jazzed about is "LegumeMan Books", a newer press out of Australia. This house is being gracious and ballsy enough to publish "The Place in Between" and "Blood and Bubblegum" together come Fall 2010. It will be, hands down, the craziest shit in print, Rage kids you not. Now the cult of Rageosity will be below the equator as well as above. Frightening, yes? The Reverend is also working on some short Bizarro-esque fiction and will be continuing his work on a more traditional full-length novel of medical suspense titled: "PHARMACIDE". There's hope to being done with that big bastard in about a year. It will be 4 to 5 times the size of "You Morbid Westphal". Looking forward to where that takes us. Then it will be back to the well (or cesspool). Penning gruesome Bizarro horror occult novellas and Brutal Bible Tales are the Reverend's first loves. Rage does what he can, but the Dark will remain placid for only so long. It must be fed the blood of the Innocents! (maniacal laughter).

Oh, Cheese-n-Rice! Did the Reverend say that last part out loud? Truly sorry, Believers. He has got to get this shit straight. When sound comes out, Rage is talking. When it's not, he's thinking…

The Reverend is a fun guy to chat with. And, if you're ever in the wild and you bump into him, please give him a drink. He's an even better drinking buddy. Hands down, this was a fun one.

You may think that the Reverend Rage is a little out there and too good to be true (or too bad, depending on perception). He's real and he's closer than you think. For example, he's one of those authors who loves to chat with readers (of all genres) online. You can visit Steven Rage at his page on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Steven-Rage/e/B.... The Rage loves getting suggestions and seeing reader feedback. Actually, that's a challenge for you Authors Speak readers. Read Pilate or You Morbid Westphal or The Place in Betwwen or any of his KINDLE titles and then zip to the Rage Page and tell the Reverend what you thought.

 

You can also visit Rage at: http://www.authorsden.com/stevenrage. OR you can comment right here!

For Amazon.com titles ...

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'PHARMACIDE' by RAGE coming soon ... for a 'sneaky-peek', look to your LEFT and ye shall see 12 posts for 'Pharmacide'. Dig it!

'The Good Doctor' from "The Place in Between".

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"Rage Primer', KINDLE edition only 99 cents!

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"Pills in a Little Cup", KINDLE edition is only 99 cents, big spender!

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The PG-13, shorter, first person KINDLE version of "PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale".

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'Click' on the frozen north to get FREE sample of "The Place in Between"!

Dark, mad, crazy as a fuckin' bed-bug shit from the Most Depraved Writer in Print. Recognize.

"BELLY: A Brutal Bible Tale" KINDLE, 2010 -- the sequal to PILATE!

PILATE: A BRUTAL Bible Tale, Undiluted, foul and profane original in KINDLE format! Read PILATE in Print, or on Kindle and on the cheap.

PILATE: A Brutal bible Tale, Outskirts Press, 2008