Steven Rage's Blog, page 13

More Rage shit to make you smile or hurl… or both!

The Good Doctor has come to get down ...

The Good Doctor teleported himself from his office at the hospital directly to the lab at home. Uncle Tug was waiting for him there with a pair of his favorite slippers and a red velvet smoking jacket. The Good Doctor tossed the Nehru jacket on the floor and shrugged off his shoulder holsters. He shot his lungs twice more before locking both 9mms away.

"Dr. Sir," Tug said, handing him the slippers.

"Thank you, Tug," The Good Doctor replied and put them on. He used Tug's shoulder to steady himself through the Uptown rush. "Tell me, Tug. Tell me about this salt."

"Dr. Sir. It all began when I was feeding the twins."

"I see," The Good Doctor replied. He listened to Tug's tale. At the end of the story he also said: "I see."

"I harvested and dried out some more tears," Tug told him and pointed the way, "It's over here."

The Good Doctor followed Tug as the chimp foot and knuckled his way over to the table where Trudge and Drudge's salt was kept. Uncle Tug already had a sample lined up, real thin and short.

"That small, Tug?"          

         

Under The Harbor...

"Dr. Sir," Tug said, "It is very powerful. Please be careful."

"I will, my Tug," he said to his foreman.

The Good Doctor snatched up a small pipette and snorted up the two thin lines. Immediately, he felt like it was almost too much for him to handle. He clutched the table, but it wasn't enough. He fell backward and into a chair that a quick thinking Tug had scooted into place just before The Good Doctor did his butt-thump. Tug got good and scared as his benefactor and lord seized rigid.

Tug patted The Good Doctor's face and called out to him. He heard not a thing. He was already on the other side of the veil:

* * * *

The Good Doctor's Butler and Farm Caretaker, Uncle Tugmunkee.

The Good Doctor found himself under a bright light. He was naked and strapped down to a gurney in the center of a cacophony of mayhem and violence. He was shivering with cold as he looked all about at the bloody spectacle. The Good Doctor had found himself immobilized and vulnerable in the midst of what appeared to be a full scale prison riot. The bad guys were winning, and by a fair share.

The Halfling that helped him dress for OR sidled up to him. Her warm red touch was so fine, so different from the brutality. While men were razing each other, whole limbs ripped off, shivs buried deep in flesh; she smiled so sweetly at him. The Halfling toyed with him and her eyes twinkled. They were in an oasis while the madness erupted. One especially unlucky prison guard was being gang-raped in his gaping neck wound. It must have killed him awhile ago. The coagulated blood had spread in a huge pool beneath the victim and attackers alike.

The Halfling lightly trailed her sharp claws down The Good Doctor's chest and belly, regaining his attention. It felt so fine. The trail of her claws split open spaciously. As they split, the deep scratches began to bleed. She, still smiling, made a tight fist on The Good Doctor's penis. She stroked him gently and expertly to a full throbbing tumescence. A small body part, a chewed off bit of an ear perhaps, rebounded off the backboard of The Good Doctor's forehead. He hardly noticed as he stared at the Halfling. She was in the muted half-lighted dusk, just beyond the circle of bright light. He strained to see her clearly. She stepped close to the gurney. She wanted to let him see her exposed and he was delighted.

"You are one of my true favorites," The Good Doctor told her.

"I know, Dr. Sir," she replied with sweet coquette. "You fashioned me so pretty, didn't you?"

"I sure did," he told her. "I pulled out all the stops on you."

"I am perfect," she stated simply and kissed soft his lips, still stroking, "and I know what you want, Dr. Sir."

The Good Doctor's finest creation ...

With her other hand she showed to him what's next. The Good Doctor began shivering anew from anticipation. She was going to do the very mania he had always longed for.

"How did you know?" he asked with the biggest grin. He was excited like a kid waiting in the rollercoaster line. The Halfling just shrugged. She tongue-tipped her fangs, a twinkle, twinkle, little star in her eyes. "Well, I surely do love you for it," The Good Doctor confessed as she began threading the catheter deep down into his erect penis.

The pressure The Good Doctor felt was intense. A catheter placed to evacuate the bladder is uncomfortable enough when flaccid. One inserted while erect made tears fall free from the eyes of The Good Doctor. The Halfling filled the cuff with fluid. She grabbed a firm hold on the base of his shaft. Then she commenced tugging it up and down, bringing the inflated cuff toward the tip of his winky-dink and forcing it back into its base. She kissed him while she did this and whispered words of love and admiration. And when he was ready to blow, right there at the very edge of his ejaculate, the Halfling pulled it free with an audible pop. The Good Doctor came so hard he passed all the way out. Seeing her smiling and holding the balloon-inflated catheter was the last image he held.

* * * *

Uncle Tug was agitated. He didn't want to disturb The Good Doctor, but he did not want him to die either. Confused, Tug reverted back to his countless millennia of imbedded genetic memory and trashed the lab. He found himself in the midst of a paper and cotton ball confetti storm when he heard the old man stirring. Tug knuckled over to him, real quick like.

"Dr. Sir, are you okay?"

"The Good Doctor groaned. Sitting slowly and carefully up, he came to. He glanced down embarrassed at his crotch. His impressive geriatric wood was crumbling. He was surprised to see his tailored trousers were wholly free of his expulsion. He looked to Tug with obvious surprise.

"That is the strangest part, Dr. Sir," Tug told him, "there is no ejaculate. That's why I had to feed the twins with Billy."

"Clearly this is a traveling potion the twins have concocted," he replied, sitting forward, "but I do not know how it works."

"Can you use it?"

"Oh, most certainly, Tug," The Good Doctor replied. "This will sell very well."

"Yes, Dr. Sir," Tug told him, pleased. He knew as his master smiled and winked at him he had done well.

The Good Doctor rose gingerly to his feet, a slight wince to the rise, with Tug's help. He walked over to the twins and scratched them behind the ears. They giggled with glee. He tapped his ear and waited for her to answer. She did.

"3D? You must come to the farm, post-haste."

"Important?" she asked.

The Good Doctor smiled, evoking the charming Halfling and their encounter together. He tickled the twins chin. "Oh, yes," he affirmed, "Of the utmost."

* * * *

There is more than one of us now. I can sense it. It is vague, but present. Now there is an Us. The other is not with me in this shell, but We feel the Us out there. Somewhere. We shall strive to merge. We will be patient. There is no rush, just the intense desire to unite. The need to become is almost crushing in its want. It's nice here, though. Warm and nutritious, the liquids and spongy tissues are enabling us to grow and mature. Yes.

 

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

KINDLE: The Fall of a Blood Drinking Drug Dealer

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Cover of PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale

         

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

 

                 

                       

                       

 

           

Hellified PG-13 re-mix!!

"The Fall of a Blood Drinking Drug Dealer

" (PG-13 version)               

REVEREND STEVEN RAGE

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.

Pilate: A Brutal Bible Tale Steven Rage Reviewed by Ashley Merrill

Disgusting, horrific, but oddly gravitating, this story follows the betrayal of Jesus in the bible, but in a dark fashion. Portrayed in a dark, frightening place called the Harbor, this book is filled with vampires, drug lords and plata, an extremely addictive and destructive drug. The story goes step by step along similar lines of the bible story, starting with Jesus finding disciples, and encompassing a following of drug addicts that are now becoming clean. The men and vampires that base their lively hood on selling drugs to these now clean men, are angered at the fact that this holy women has such a strong pull on everyone. They will do whatever it takes to see that order is restored and that plata continues to overtake the residents of the Harbor ' s lives. Lines such as, " A plump grub dragged its bulk across the pupil of Herod ' s eye. The grub disappeared around the curve, back into the dark side of the socket. The grub left a long snotty string of bloody excrement in its wake (p. 178), " is enough to make even the strongest of stomachs curl. I asked myself many times why I continued to read the story, but found that the more disgusted I was, the more curious I was as to how far the author would take me. Steven Rage delves into the dark side of humanity. He reaches into the sick and twisted recesses of our brain and feeds it, even though we try and deny that we may actually enjoy reading what he is giving us. He does an amazing job at keeping the reader interested and repulsed. I had a permanent look of sordid wonder on my face throughout the entire story. He takes you through Jesus ' betrayal and what happens to Judas as a result of the betrayal. This is a story that you do not want to miss. It is not for the faint of heart or for people that would be offended that this story was reshaped in such a ghastly way. I highly recommend this book to anyone who is in touch with their darker side and is willing to admit that we all crave the taboo and brutal side of humanity. It is a great story with a sick twist and is highly entertaining.

"Belly: A Brutal Bible Tale" KINDLE

Image via Wikipedia

"BELLY: A Brutal Bible Tale" KINDLE, 2010 — SYNOPSIS: Immanuel the Christ has some nerve…

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.

 

"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.

—end synopsis—

Chapter Six

 Our hapless prophet gets his marching orders:

The steaming hot water pelted Jonah's naked skin. He was sitting on the floor of his own shower, at home in Big City. Of that much he was sure.

Jonah stood gingerly, assessing as he rose. Jonah started with his feet. There were bruises on the tops of his feet and those were nicely matched by a motley bunch that rose all the way up to his deeply bruised ribs. Jonah moved just a touch and the pain sprouted like cancer. He dropped back onto his butt with a water-squash thump.

Jonah hugged his fucked ribs and choked out a bawl. Blood drops flew from his split swollen lips. Jonah's tongue was mostly numb. A dead-nerved bit hung off the main body like a chunky comma. Despite this his tongue could easily still feel Jonah's broken front teeth.

Jonah's dead daddy, Amittai, paid a lot of money so his privileged ass could have perfectly straight and white teeth. They were the choppers of a televangelist and pastor. Jonah was being groomed to work with his very successful papa in the ministry.

If my dad could see me now, Jonah thought. Well, I'm just glad he could not.

Jonah probed his teeth and counted seven of the busted fuckers. Seven of his perfect camera-ready teeth were broken and ragged from that kid's gun.

Jonah recalled it being shoved into his mouth, past his teeth –through- his teeth. Then the gunshot that should have killed Jonah just the same as the previous two should have, but it didn't.

Now why was that, Jonah wondered.

Jonah clearly recollected being shot three times. The sounds, the deafening blasts and then he went wonderfully, thankfully blank. Which garners the obvious question which had just occurred to him, namely, why the fuck was he still alive and how in the holy hell did Jonah manage to make it back home?

Jonah was sitting there in the shower remembering the night. His usual guy was being processed into County and was looking at serious prison. All Plata still flows from The Harbor so Jonah thought he'd go to the source, just this once. Jonah planned on buying enough weight to hold his ass over until he can hook up with some new dealer in Big City. The Plata trade here was somewhat civilized. Unlike The Harbor where it was still the wild fucking west. He had found out first hand.

The shadow of something large came into view. Jonah watched with new fear as it reached for the shower door. A huge hand poked through the shower curtain and turned it off. Jonah gasped and backed his ass up to the tiled wall. A face appeared and peeked in at him. It was the big man with the long chin shit from The Harbor. He's the one who seemed like he knew Jonah. Then the dude disappeared faster than modesty on Ecstasy.

"My name is Pedro. Get dressed," the stranger told Jonah. "Meet me in your living room. We have a matter to discuss." Pedro added, "I told you I'd see you later."

Jonah sat for a moment puzzled. He did not fear the big stranger. He saw the dealer get killed. He saw the stranger appear and then he disappeared. He saw the pick move on its own accord. The big motherfucker must have killed him. No one else could have.

That means I am still breathing because of this stranger. Jonah felt that he should at least thank Pedro. If he had meant Jonah any harm it would have already been done.

Jonah finished towel-drying and went into his adjacent bedroom. He pulled himself on a pair of oversized faded jeans, a wife-beater and a warm Big City Staleys football sweatshirt. Jonah opened a drawer and grabbed a pair of socks and there she was: Plata.

The dead dealer's bag of Plata was cleaned of Jonah's feces and lay smiling right there in front of him. And the drugs were sitting right next to the ten grams worth of cash Jonah took into The Harbor to procure said same. Certainly a few pieces of dog shit had to die for Jonah to get both drug and green, but hey, score.

Fuck them, Jonah thought. His eyes were gleaming now at the money and the Plata. Yes. Fuck them all.

Jonah whistled low and under his breath. He couldn't think of any reason why he should have to deal with all this shit sober as a judge.

Jonah carefully spilled a sample onto the dresser. He looked closely at it and saw at once why so many niggas were on his shit for this particular bag of dope. Jonah rolled a disposable lighter over the Plata and it crackled hard. That meant that it was barely cut. It was maybe even uncut. He'd never had virgin shit before.

Jonah carved out two smallish lines. He was thinking that the dead dealer's salable shit was elsewhere. It's only by blind luck that Jonah happened upon a courier bag and that dead motherfucker should not have had it. He was probably intending on carving a bit and stepping the hell out of it. Selling the cut-up version to keep all for his own self, the sneaky bastard. He just got caught up with the corner more than likely. If that junkie wasn't so busy crying about his weak sack he would have kept on going to someplace quiet and private to take his piece off the top.

No wonder he was so pissed and quick to pull out his gun. If the street dealer would have been caught by his superiors stealing, his goose would have been for sure cooked.

Fortunately for Jonah, he lived in Big City and only went to The Harbor on a whim. No one there knew his name or where he lived. Except the huge fucker what was waiting for Jonah in his living room. But if that dude was part of any drug crew he would have killed Jonah. No question. He would've taken the Plata and the money and damn if they weren't both here.

Jonah decided it was past time for a personal taste test. He plucked up a length of drinking straw. Jonah blasted up the two lines. Right away he knew his guess was correct and this shit was intended to be stepped on a gaggle of times more before reaching the corner dope shop junkie customers. The Plata was better than any Jonah has ever had. That's with even paying the premium prices. He closed his eyes, smiling. Jonah realized with a quick heft in his hand he must have either side of an ounce. He had close to 30 grams of essentially pure uncut Plata.

And sweet Jesus was it good. This Plata rush made Jonah grab the dresser for support. It tickle-teased his brain; like the soft tongue of a sweet angel licking the underside of Jonah's cock.

Aye, Dios mio, he thought.

Jonah glanced up from the dresser and caught his lank dirty haired reflection in the mirror. A couple years growth of unwashed hair and a few weeks worth of scraggly beard fit like puzzle pieces to Jonah's shrunken cheeks and haunted eyes. He smiled feral and his busted grill completed the picture of a worn out homeless street addict. Jonah is thankful that he is not, despite his slovenly appearance, homeless.

Thanks to his father's foresight, Ammitai's few hundred thousand in life insurance, investments and the post-probate like went to Jonah. His father still posthumously sold his books on the forthcoming Rapture and the Tribulation to follow fairly well. The royalties also, all went to him. Which meant that even though Jonah is a junkie, he's a fairly well off junkie, his one hundred dollar a day Plata habit was covered. The monster was regularly fed. He was killing himself, but he was financially secure. Jonah's cup is half full.

Jonah's reflection regarded him like a failing grade on an important exam. He decided to ignore the mirror and its accusations. He left the bedroom to go and greet his benefactor. Jonah brought some of the potent Plata along for the ride.

Pedro stood tall, waiting for Jonah in the living room. The place had been dusty and cluttered since he moved in after everyone had passed. It was just Jonah and the monkey on his back. The two were drifting through the days as high as possible. Jonah was just waiting for his turn to die.

It smelled sour in the East LakeShore 700 square foot co-operative that Jonah had also inherited from his father. A frosty breeze blew in from a window that Pedro had opened to dissipate the stench.

"It's unhealthy in here," stated Pedro.

"Maybe," Jonah replied, "but I'm cold." He hugged myself and moved over shivering to the window. "I don't dig being cold."

"Then move down south to the desert," suggested Pedro, "but for now," the big motherfucker said, puffing up, "leave it be."

Jonah stopped and considered the mass of motherfucker standing before him. He wisely let it go.

"Alright," Jonah acquiesced, "since you saved my ass back there in The Harbor, I do owe you that." Jonah went back over to the couch, dropping some more Plata on a well-used ceramic platter. "But I don't care how fucking scary you are… and indeed you are, but that's all you're going to get from me."

Pedro chuckled at the balls on Jonah the little junkie-fuck. Pedro wondered where he got the stones from and if he could back up his mouth. Pedro could not figure out what the Christ saw in Jonah. He said: "I saved your life and carried you home." He regarded Jonah chopping up some dope. "I even brought back your tits and washed them off," indicating the Plata Jonah sliced into thin lines. He snorted up one. "Just so you'd have a something pretty to suck on."

Jonah lifted his head from the Plata, pinching back a sneeze. He was feeling good and stupid brave now.

"Thank you very fucking much," Jonah replied sarcastically and added: "Now if you can only fix my grill."

"Sure thing," Pedro said as easy as pie. And the pain, sure and fierce, crowded Jonah's mouth like an expanding fist.

Jonah cried out. He got up and bounced the walls of the hallway back to the bathroom. The pain of an all at once teething parted the veil of Plata and made itself screamingly known.

Jonah removed his hands from his mouth. At first he expected to see a vomit of blood and dentistry because it hurt so much. Instead Jonah discovered that he now had a mouthful of his original teeth. In the mirror the teeth glared back at him. They were un-straightened and unbleached.

Jonah stretched wide his lips and opened wide his mouth. There were no fillings or crowns to be seen. Nothing manufactured was in his mouth. The teeth were solid and strong. They were off-white and fairly crooked. They were the teeth Jonah was given when born.

Jonah finished rinsing out his mouth. The pain began to subside. He turned off the bathroom light and left. Jonah went back to Pedro to ask him about it. This was some crazy shit.

Jonah went back to the living room and resumed his spot on the couch. He asked the man.

"God always leaves you with a way to recall his Grace," Pedro told him. "See?" He showed Jonah the lumpy purple jugular scars on both sides caused by years of hardcore Plata shooting in his neck. This was way back, years ago, before Immanuel had rescued him. Before he became Her favorite disciple, leader of the Apostles and the Rock on which Immanuel's church was built. He pointed to the old scars of his long-dead life and said: "These here scars are mine." He pointed to Jonah and his new, old teeth, "and those are yours."

Jonah sat back on the couch and thought.

"Go ahead," Pedro encouraged, "ask me your big question"

"Okay," Jonah replied, sitting forward. "Why am I not dead?"

Pedro looked to Jonah with no smile.

"I was shot to death," he said, "Three fucking times, buddy. I am supposed to be dead. I know this. I mean I'm obviously," Jonah continued, gesturing to himself and then the Plata sitting before him, "all fucked up, but I'm not that far gone."

"You were shot, but you aren't dead because you have yet to serve your purpose, Jonah," explained Pedro, "She will not let you die. Not until you have played your small part in Her Father's grand scheme."

Jonah stared at Pedro, trying to digest it. He nodded a little I see, but clearly he didn't. Not at the time.

"What purpose?" Jonah asked, "What part could I possibly have in this grand scheme?" He leaned forward and began furiously chopping, "What kind of bullshit scam are you trying to run on me, man?"

Pedro moved closer and told him: "The Lord needs you," he explained, "She needs you to labor for Her."

"What exactly, big scary guy, do you want from me?"

"She needs you to speak to the Herod. She wants you to tell him that he must repent and amend his ways. He needs to stop the evil that he controls and he needs to do this immediately." Pedro stepped calmly yet closer. "You need to tell him. You need to make him understand that if he does not, he and his shall perish. That everyone and everything he holds most dear shall be utterly destroyed."

That little statement made Jonah stop his chopping. He stared open-mouthed at Pedro. "Speak to Herod? What the fuck is a Herod?"

"Herod is the king of The Harbor's drug trade," Pedro replied and pointed to the Plata on the coffee table. "He controls what you have before you. She wants it stopped."

"Let me see if I got this straight," Jonah said, "You want me to deliver a message to the motherfucker that runs The Harbor's Plata trade? You want me to tell him to stop?"

"Yes."

"And if he doesn't you want me to threaten him."

"Yes."

"To tell him that all his shit's gonna crash and burn if he doesn't stop selling all those gosh-darned drugs."

"Again," Pedro said, "Yes."

"You are talking about The Harbor, the place I just came from, right?" Jonah asked, getting more and more agitated by the minute. All of those horrible memories, that's why he tries to drown them out with prodigious use of Plata. "Well, fuck that shit. I cannot go back there, no way. I won't."

"You won't have to go there," Pedro told me. "The Herod will be coming here to Big City. In fact," he continued, "The king will very soon be a mere stone's throw away." Pedro pulled a small folded piece of paper from his pocket and placed it on the table before Jonah.

He unfolded it and saw an address Jonah could practically walk to, but that didn't mean two slippery-shits to him. "Well that's sure convenient," Jonah loudly retorted, "but I'm still not going."

"You must do what Immanuel wishes," Pedro stared blankly.

"I don't think you get me," looking up Jonah replied, "it doesn't matter where you want me to go, man. No matter what you say it's still The fucking Harbor, okay? You can't ask me to do this. I won't! Don't you understand? I lost everything there. Everyone that I love, you get me? And now you want me to go see the king of that place just because he's going to be up the block?"

"You must go," Pedro told Jonah. "The Lord commands it. Immanuel Herself commands it."

"Oh, Immanuel commands it? Like that means anything to me. Besides, didn't she get her little preacher ass tortured and killed three years ago?"

"Yes," agreed Pedro, "But She has risen from the grave. She has triumphed over Death. She is truly the Son of God," and Pedro leaned in closer to me, "She insists that you obey. And I advise you to be smart and hear ye Her."

Jonah stared hard at Pedro. He couldn't believe what the dude was saying.

Hear ye Her? Is he for real? Some fucking living dead girl is ordering me to go into the snake pit and just because this big fucker says so, I should do it. Oh, hell no! I ain't that fucked up.

Jonah started to laugh. Like a nervous reaction, he couldn't help or stop myself. Pedro looked like he was getting pissed off and that made Jonah laugh all the harder at the absurdity of it all.

Jonah bent to the coffee table, still laughing. He finished railing out his lines, trying to get back on track. Jonah snorted one up each side, trying to keep his laughing fit from blowing out the Plata.

"Look at you all official and shit," Jonah said to Pedro who didn't seem to like this one little bit. "In that case tell your Lord that my official response is no." He leaned back feeling the new Plata work magic on him. Jonah scratched at phantom itchy kisses at the base of his skull, laughing the more, "Hell, no!" he reiterated. "What the fuck you thinking, of course my answer is no. Shit," Jonah continued, "in fact, you can trot your ass back to wherever it is you come from, hombre. Tell the little bitch that she can bese mi culo. Tell her she can go fuck herself," he said, staring, "Twice."

Jonah bent to start working on another few lines. He wanted to obliterate this whole, awful ordeal.

Pedro simply stared at the little wreck of a man, this would-be prophet.

Darkening.

       

WTF You looking at? Just messing with you… WELCOME to My BLOG. The Grim Reverend Posts his Darkest Imaginings…

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"PHARMACIDE" is a work-in-progress.

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PRAISE FOR THE GRIM REVEREND STEVEN RAGE:

4.0 out of 5 stars Hardcore Horror & Bizarro Collide…, October 30, 2010

By Nick Cato "nickyak" (Staten Island, NY United States) – See all my reviewsThis review is from: The Place In Between (Paperback)

"The three stories presented here are tied to an apocalyptic underground community known as The Harbor (two take place post, while the title tale goes down before all hell breaks loose).

In 'Blood and Bubblegum,' we're introduced to some seriously strange characters who are involved in an ever-growing organic narcotics trade, including protagonist Juan and a fecal-demon that lives in his rectum. This is by far the weirdest entry here, and features a fresh look at vampirism.

'The Place In Between,' shows that a revenge story can be done in a fresh manner: Del's wife Luci is having an affair with her drug supplier, Sancho. Sancho and Luci eventually manage to get custody of the invalid Del, and Sancho uses this as payback time from their navy days (apparently Del had done something to ruin Sancho's career). The story becomes an extreme torture tale, one that made me wince a few times…but Del manages to turn the tables via a Faust-ish deal with a demon. Rage also gives another fresh spin here on ghosts, making this a perfect blend of hardcore horror and bizarro goodness.

In the final piece, 'Bad Notion, Traveling Potion,' we return to The Harbor and learn more about The Good Doctor (responsible for creating drugs and mutants) and his created servant, the scene-stealing hybrid man/chimp, Tugmunkee. This one was a bit of a chore to follow, but in the end Rage brings it all together. While some people in the bizarro community frown upon stories centered around drug use, this one works as the "tripping" scenes are just a side-note to the real weirdness.

THE PLACE IN BETWEEN is gross, disgusting, funny, horrific, and disturbing, yet at the same time it's quite entertaining. Rage writes with his conscience thrown out the window (that is, if he had one to begin with), yet unlike some more extreme stuff I've read, he actually knows how to WRITE a story around the grue. I'm keeping my eye on this guy as he truly lives up to his last name."

5.0 out of 5 stars Another visit to the Harbor…, October 24, 2010

By Ray Dittmeier (Louisville, KY) – See all my reviews

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

"This is my third Steven Rage book, and I'm going to admit that I always have a hard time trying to figure out what to say about his work. The stories, the characters, the world it all takes place in–everything's so intense that it becomes difficult to figure out what elements to grab onto.

Okay, so, with that out of the way… With this new one, The Place in Between, Rage gives us three stories. Two return us to The Harbor, a dark, gritty world full of sex, violence, greed, cruelty, exotic drugs dealt by vampire dealers, people trying to screw one another over, and anything else you might expect to go hand-in-hand with all that. At first glance, this world seems comfortably far from our own, but on reflection, it appears uncomfortably close. To my mind, The Harbor (rather than the characters or the stories) is the focal point. It's more than a setting or even a character of sorts. It's a worldview (and one I can only hope is not the sum total of Rage's own real-life worldview).

The title story goes outside The Harbor and gives us a look at Del, a man who, when confronted with evidence that his wife was cheating, unsuccessfully attempts suicide and ends up confined to a wheelchair, unable to speak or even breathe on his own. And then he's released to the care of his cheating wife and her lover. To the outside world, they're a devoted wife and good friend. Privately, they taunt, torment and torture the helpless Del–until a demon shows up to help him. Ah, but it's not quite that simple: Rage starts the story out with the Euripides quote, "The gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children." And Rage weaves this theme into the characters' backstories, giving the story an extra dimension.

If you're already a Rage fan, this is a worthy addition to your collection. If you're not, I think it would be a good starting point–but only on a day when you're ready to be adventurous and deal with something that might come across as a bit confrontational."

5.0 out of 5 stars Sick, Disgusting, Vile…and Genius, October 7, 2010

By Eric Mays "Bizarro Author of "Naked Metam… (Richmond, VA) – See all my reviewsThis review is from: The Place In Between (Paperback)

"Sick? Absolutely. Genius? Perhaps. Rage? All the way.

We have a certain adoration for Steven Rage at the Authors Speak. He may be one of the sickest, most twisted writers writing today, but there's a mad brilliance to his work. Reading one of his texts is like growing wiser while simultaneously suppressing the urge to vomit. And, there's the funny, too. Rage brings the funny in a big way.

I'm no fan of shorter fiction. I'm not sure why, and I'm not sure why I feel the need to say that everytime I review a collection. I guess I say that because it speaks worlds when I do like a collection. "The Place in Between" is a brilliant collection of some of Rage's best work to date. And, if you're going to do short fiction, at least tie it together. Steven Rage does this flawlessly.

On the surface, the stories in "The Place in Between" are some classic noir pieces that we've heard before. If you've read Rage's previous works, well, you know the man has a few tricks up his sleeves. Rage pulls out all the stops to showcase his twisted reality in which these tales take place. The landscape itself becomes a character of his crazy brain, thus giving these somewhat familiar tales a whole new slant.

"The Place In Between" is the title of the strongest piece in the collection. Imagine a Fasutian tale that were written and directed by and David Lynch and you start to gather a little of where Steven Rage's mind is. The book feels heavily influenced by both talents – the seedy, dark, weird spliced with the scatological.

Go ahead and order it, folks. But be warned: this book is disgusting. You'll need a strong stomach to handle it. But the reward and payoff is huge. It's not gross for the sake of gross. It's dark fiction at it's finest."

4.0 out of 5 stars nobody is more brilliantly repulsive than rage, September 7, 2010

By D. Gorman "Crystalline Structure Moon" – See all my reviewsAmazon 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 (especially in new settings), 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 dark, backward, malevolent times…even if he remains the pessimistic, ignoble saint and demented sick ticket that we all know and love." 2.0 out of 5 stars the place in between, November 25, 2010

By nuff b. ess – See all my reviewsThis review is from: The Place In Between (Paperback)

"As a true connoisseur of the horror genre, I must admit I was verily disgusted and appalled by this piece of "Morbid" and I am certain that this was the author's intent. It takes a sincerely sick, drug-addled, putrified brain to come up with a world-view this demented. The "Reverend" must be very proud. If you enjoyed the Infernal trilogy by Edward Lee, then you will probably get off on these tales of another true hell where all rules no longer apply and the most profane things occur. I wish Reverend Rage a massive following so that one day my autographed copy might be worth something on Ebay"

Violent, Confrontational, and Fascinating, July 11, 2010

By Ray Dittmeier (Louisville, KY) – See all my reviews

(REAL NAME) This review is from: BELLY: A Brutal Bible Tale (Kindle Edition)

""Brutal Bible Tales" is a fascinating book. It's violent, confrontational, and might even be uncomfortable in places, depending on your sensibilities. Rage takes a selection prominent Biblical figures and and puts them in a contemporary world full of drug dealers, gangsters, pimps, prostitutes, perverts, and even vampires. But this is not just a facile, updated retelling of old stories, nor is it shock value simply for the sake of shock.

Rage uses the Biblical material as a starting point to tell his own stories. This book is well-thought-out, told in a distinctive and confident style that keeps the reader turning pages. If you want to complain that some of the sex and violence is gratuitous, I won't–I can't–argue the point. I'm not sure I'd want to say that "gratuitousness is the point" is ever a valid defense, but then again, I would insist that in a book like this it's better to go too far than not to go far enough.

The book gives us a new context for looking at this source material (if I may call it such), like a cynical Sunday school teacher telling the kids, "This is what these stories are really about." And maybe it is, if you can approach the book with no expectations and just let it be what it is–tales of greed, ambition, betrayal, cruelty–and ultimately, salvation. As I said earlier, this is not shock value simply for the sake of shock. But if it shocks you, maybe you needed to be shocked. "

"Like early Tom Piccirilli mixed with Edward Lee. Get on the Rage train while you can because I have a feeling that he'll be getting bigger with each new book". Jordan Krall, author of Fistful of Feet and Squid Pulp Blues.

"You Morbid Westphal is not a book for the faint of heart. But if you're up for some of the hard stuff, you'll dig this". Garrett Cook, author of the Murderland series and Archelon Ranch.

"He weaves a world that is painted in black and white hues, where anything can happen (and often does), and is brutally visceral. You Morbid Westphal does for hospitals what Jaws did for beach getaways! Steven Rage is a masterful storyteller". Eric Mays, author of Naked Metamorphosis.

"You Morbid Westphal is very highly recommended and a real treat for anyone who enjoys their fiction warped to the breaking point and smeared in blood". Matthew Revert, author of A Million Versions of Right.

"Rage has created an incredibly creative and detailed, though disturbing world". Todd Fonseca, author of The Time Cavern.

"Steven Rage has written an enthralling tale". Harriet Klausner, #1 Amazon Reviewer. "

…a certain poetic flow that maintains the sick depravity you expect to see in Rage's work. If I were ever to be reincarnated as another Charlie Manson, I would definitely want Steven Rage in my family…it's like chicken eyeball soup with entrails for your shriveled, rancid soul". Donald Gorman, author of Paradox.

"…experience the entire book, page by page, as Steven Rage intended it – to scare, to upset, and to start and keep you thinking…brace yourself for one WILD ride". Ellen George, Top 1000 Reviewer and author of Thirst.

"His unique cadence and elaborate descriptions vividly animates every aspect of his writing". Mary Menzel, from AllTheseBooks.com

PHARMACIDE second posting…

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This is the second post of 'PHARMACIDE'. Marcos is still running for his life...

 

 

I press the tip of my wounded finger against my chest to attempt to stem the flow of blood, while zigzagging through the parked I try and convince myself that I am the only one who could have heard it, hiding as I am on the floorboard of the Buick. But I know I'm just fooling myself. That makes me all the more frightened.

The ER physician in me begins to note the rapid increase in all my own vital signs: heart rate, blood pressure, breathing frequency and depth. Panic breathing, I think as I begin to lose feeling in my fingers. My eyes dart from side to side. I can't believe I just did this stupid, stupid thing.

This is bad, Marcos, I think fearfully. So very bad.

Increased lung volume in a cold car with all the windows rolled up and the doors shut tight. I try to swallow and find that I cannot. I should have seen this coming. The realization of the danger I put myself in dawns huge on me.

I rise very slowly and carefully from the floor of the Buick. I look all around. It's just as I fear. I find myself already completely encased in a shroud of mist. My panic breathing has fogged over the windows so completely and quickly, that I now have zero visibility of the outside world, where an armed man is searching for me.

I hear a door open and nearly crap myself. I hold my breath and wait. A few seconds later, the distinct sounds of a car's engine fire to life in the hospital parking lot. Some lucky body gets to go home. Where, I'm sure, no one is trying to murder them. I lean forward and bring my left index finger up to the inside of the driver's side rear window. I want to clear myself a small spot, so I can see outside.

A bullet pierces the glass cleanly. It slices through the tip of my finger, right above the first knuckle. The power of the impact, as well as the shock of it, launches me backward and into the passenger-side back door.

Before my shoulders even make contact with the rear door, I'm already searching frantically for the door release. The blood from my severed finger spurts all over the car's upholstery. The panic in me nears a crescendo. I have to get out. There are two more spits from the gun. At the same time, I spy the foam-filled inners of the Buick's back seat as it erupts in a choking cloud. The fingers of my right hand find the catch on the door, my feet still scrambling. I hear a small clicking sound as the catch releases. The door flies open.

El Oso misfires as the car door hits him square in the chest. The impact knocks the killer down and I fall out of the Buick and on top of him. His handgun, complete with silencer; tumbles to the black asphalt and skids under an adjacent pick-up truck. The backward thrust keeps me going. It rolls me off El Oso and dumps me near the truck. I see the gun. I reach for it. Still on the ground, the killer kicks me savagely in the back of for my troubles. I pitch forward into the truck. My head hits the cold metal of the truck from the force of the blow. I turn and slide down the truck to the asphalt. Sitting there on the rough ground, the images in my vision begin to blur.

I discern the hazy outline of El Oso getting to his feet. He comes to me. Probably out of sheer frustration, the killer punches me in the face. The man knows how to hit and I haven't been in a real fight since junior high. I almost pass out, but don't. El Oso kneels over me, reaching for his lost weapon. Barely hanging on to my consciousness, I notice the bulge in El Oso pants, now only inches from my face. I clench my right hand into a fist and send it screaming into the killer's unprotected groin. This time, it's El Oso who crashes to the ground. I scurry to my feet, gasping, bleary-eyed and bleeding. I watch the moaning killer gently grasp his unfortunate injury while huddling himself in the fetal position. Quickly I check the parking lot, as well as this well-lit part of the hospital grounds, for any sign of help. I find none at all.

I take a quick look back down at the huddled mass and observe, with great dismay, El Oso's fist as it curls around his gun. He brings the silencer muzzle up slowly. He levels it right at my head. I leap to the side, just as El Oso fires the gun. I drop to the ground and roll behind another Buick, this one a Cutlass Supreme. I listen carefully to the killer getting to his feet. Not waiting another second, I begin to move in a crouch. I do this as rapidly and as silent as I can manage. I'm heading toward one of the oldest buildings on the hospital campus. I think I need to get inside. Clearly the parking lot was a dim-witted place for me to try and hide.

Even with the sharp pain that pulses relentlessly up my hand and arm, I still manage to work my way to the very edge of the lanes of parked cars. There are only a few open feet of distance between myself and the staff entrance of the old building. I feel as if I'm going to faint, but I can't. If I do, then I'm dead. Simple as that.

I can hear the killer. He is, apparently, still in pain. He curses too loud in Spanish as he hunts for me.

Good. Keep talking, asshole.

"Oh, you're going to get it now, Arellano," El Oso promises with a painful wince.

Maybe.

"But you've got to catch me first," I mumble to myself, momentarily pleased with my being able to inflict even temporary damage to the killer. I am so far from being a badass its ridiculous.

I'm a Healer, for Christ's sake.

I slant back against the grill work of the last car that stands between the staff entrance and me. I slide gradually up and around. I rest there, trying to catch my breath. I remove the rubber band Carolyn gave me from my wrist. I bind it tight below the wound on my finger, hoping to stanch the flow of blood. I just know the motherfucker can follow blood drops like bread crumbs. While resting, I see the killer. His back is to me and he's searching high and low, in and under the parked cars.

I want to linger a few moments longer while El Oso works his way further and further from where I'm hiding. I'm slowly but surely catching my breath, the spots before my eyes fading. My stressed heart is still thundering away, though it's probably more from raw fright now than from physical exertion. When El Oso seems to be far enough away, I begin my slow creep across the naked distance that lie between the car and the door. The few seconds it takes for me to cross the open ground feels infinitely longer. Halfway across I want to turn back, but I keep going. Soon I'm at the door.

— end excerpt 2. Go to NEWER POSTS for more…

WELCOME TO REVEREND RAGE'S BLOG OF FICTIONAL WONDERS (and shit)

'Click' here to begin, or hit the 'bloody tongue' to your left. Have FUN!! Coming This Friday, December 3rd, all day, loads of old and never seen before fiction. Come check out the Grim One's new direction...or delve into the dark and dismal past...where it is colder than frozen shit down her underground...

 

The Very Latest From The Reverend Steven Rage...

 

Friday...We Launch...

The Grim Reverend Steven Rage Blog http://www.stevenrage.wordpress.com

The Reverend on Authors Den http://www.authorsden.com/stevenrage   About the Author:….

The Reverend Steven Rage maintains that the hospital his alter-ego works night-shifts for is haunted. He states that due to so many years of working in the dark with the dying has so permanently skewed his reality in such a perverse way that the brightness of day has become frightening to him. Rage goes on to assert that writing such bloody and extreme fiction as he is wont to do is a necessary component that will be consistently conducive his healthy mental state of being. Otherwise, the lack of a suitable purgative may cause him become…untoward. ….And no one wants that.

"Steven Rage spits out his view of a twisted world of that is deeply woven with the intricacies of a dark, drug-infested place ruled by evil forces. Rage explores the depths of sin, the way it stains our lives, and graphically illustrates the things we fear most. He forces us to look at true sin, true villainy, and truly offensive images of alternative realities. Rage creates a dismal post-industrial future, a look at man defiled and in decline. Evil has arrived. Dominion has been taken by those who walk as the damned, demons, halflings, products of debauched rampages and sins against nature. Drugs and broken souls are the only things of value. Life is more like a disease, and the only salvation is the right amount of Plata to numb the conscience and, if one is lucky, to bring on a cleverly disguised demise. Through the sheer shock of his presentation, Rage forces readers to consider the alternatives, to look at the garbage in the streets, to see what is swept into the gutters at night right before all decent people awake to see another cleaned up version of the day. He uses tradition to break tradition, to push the imagination in ways that are uncomfortable at the least and border on the offensive at worst. Yet, in doing so, he illustrates what real Love is. Rage has created an incredibly detailed and disturbing world of unique, creative, fast paced, brutal, dark, and bizarre novels that are not for the faint of heart."

The Good Doctor struts his shit…

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"The Place in Between" LegumeMan Books, 2010The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

 

 

 

 

 

The Good Doctor used to reside in Bogota, Columbia. Just below the equator it's still quite cold, but the sun shines brightly and reliably. If you dressed warm enough, you can still breathe fresh air and get the vital vitamin D, direct from the big golden orange-yellow

source above. The jungles have long ago vanished. Not done in by the Little Ice Age, the human populace took care of de-spoiling the entire continent before anyone knew for sure that the ice was coming. Afterwards, as ice was sliding down from the north, the Amazon River spread far and away, covering scores of square kilometers. The fresh water seeped into the spongy earth, essentially becoming a giant swampy lake. It was a vibrant Petrie dish, just waiting for the next wave of life. 

 

"Hello! I am such a HUGE fan of The Grim One! And boy-howdy does he give a good reach-around!"

When the cold of the Little Ice Age did come this far south, the terrain of the Amazon basin quickly

evolved into a sub-arctic zone. The boreal forest hosted abundant ferns and thick evergreen conifer

forests. There weren't enough humans left to fuck any of it up. So, in time, new animals and those that crawled out of the water were able to flourish in this brand new environment.

The United States on this side of the world, and New India (which finally absorbed Pakistan,

Afghanistan and every-other-stan that touched its borders), on the other side, saw the writing on the wall. As a last gasp effort, both of these remaining Superpowers used their increasingly de-valued wealth and still powerful military might to gobble up all the scattered hot spots around the globe. Any place that could in any way support life, be it on, or even under ground, was invaded and claimed. Any locals that remained weren't nearly strong enough to do anything about it.

The three cataclysmic events had happened so quickly and one right after the other. A little under

two thirds of humanity was wiped out. Human beings were that close to going under for good. It was a drastic reduction in human stressors but there was something good to come of it: there was

now plenty of space and scads of left-over durable commerce to be had for the taking.

The stunned remaining populace then spent the vast majority of its days, salvaging the shit-tons of

shit that was left behind. When they weren't busy laboring, they became gluttons, consuming the endless supply of man-made chow.

The automated factories kept churning out the processed foodstuffs, even after the dead, saved and

frozen were all long gone. And, in the case of The Indian-controlled Harbor anyway, the general public stayed as wonderfully stoned as humanly possible.

As the rest of the western hemisphere crumbled

beneath the events, the United States grasped the opportunity and invaded Columbia. They toppled Bogota, making the Old City in the New World the new US capital.

Only those with money and influence were allowed

to live there. The Good Doctor used to be blessed with both. Not anymore. The disgraced physician/

scientist had been banished to the true hinterlands, at the ass-crack of Lake Michigan. It was in the upper middle region of what used to be the continental United States of America.

The Good Doctor had got himself into some hot water down in the sunshiny below with the powers that be.  No-one knew exactly what he did to shite in the big bowl of proverbial oatmeal. It must have been both political and personal. He was banished and teleported to The Harbor.

He was allowed to bring with him only the two suitcases and a vastly diminished credit account of

Indian Rupees. The US official currency of Federal Reserve Notes is more stable and therefore more

valuable.

Teleporting The Good Doctor to the frozen north with barely the clothes on his back and second class currency was to be the ultimate insult. Of course The Good Doctor being the man that he is, he tucked up his long silver-grey dread-locks and went right to work taking over The Harbor. We were ripe for the plucking anyway, and soon after he began pumping out the organic narcotics, everyone

calmed right down and queued right up.

Even though it was a frozen stink-pit full of mouth-breathing dip-shits, The Good Doctor became

king of the dip-shits. It seemed to make him happy. You know the ancient saying: I'd rather be a king in Hell than a servant in Heaven? When The Good Doctor staked his claim, he made his stance literal.

He found a rusted-out behemoth of a steel refinery with its multi-level basements. His careful exploration revealed that at some time before the events, the refinery was a fully functional hospital.

He sealed the floor from the instant frozen death above and turned out any squatters. The Good Doctor transformed it into something rather palatial. Hell's Mouth Determining Hospital was born. At this time he lived on the grounds, to be near his work. The Good Doctor conducted his experiments.

People disappeared around that time and Halflings of all human-animal mixes emerged. Then the doomed and damned crawled up from the Great Pit. Since there was no god to stop them, they began living and breeding with the humans. The Good Doctor welcomed them all, and why not.

All sorts of creatures lived in The Harbor by this time, and with his blessing. The Good Doctor remained king. For it was just when an uprising of the pure humans had began in earnest that he bent double to the task of anesthetizing the populace with

his organic narcotics. He had test samples ready in just a few weeks time, less than one full lunar cycle.

The Good Doctor located the nocturne to deal the organic narcotics to the huddled masses. His illicit drugs were a smashing success. Almost the entire Harbor climbed on board. There were still a few holdouts that refused to capitulate and indulge in the new goodies. They were quickly and severely dealt with. The remaining resisters and dissenters were thrown out of the top hatches by The Good Doctor's goon squad, and into the bleak white-out conditions above. The rebels were all frozen solid before they could walk ten feet.

The Good Doctor had completely de-railed the brewing civil war. He did it without even one shot

being fired. He continued being the unofficial king of The Harbor. He did whatever he wanted, to whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Souls and Halflings and even some of the doomed and damned began to vanish at an alarming frequency.

No-one could do anything to stop The Good Doctor, though. To be honest, no-one cared enough

to even try. Everyone learned to steer a wide path around the king. It was much easier than coming up missing.

In The Good Doctor's defense, his drugs are stellar.

– end excerpt

UNDERGROUND..Life in the FUTURE Harbor.

If Only!

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'Horney Lil Devil' brings you The Reverend's latest installment of darkness. Dig:

My Last Meal and Testament:

The Tourney officials organized the BINGO Cabaret and Mixer for us tournament players and volunteers. It was being held in the fancy-schmancy grand ballroom of the Bogota resort. It's always a first-class wing-a-ding, and this year's was no exception.

I was waiting in my hotel room. I was smoking a nice, fat, complimentary joint while receiving some complimentary head from a re-animated corpse. Although she was cold and blue and not much of a conversationalist, the formerly-living did suck one Hell of a good dick.

Now that the chamber of my geriatric love gun has been emptied, I could finish getting ready. The honor bar was unlocked. Inside were pills and powders and tiny syringes of clear fluids galore. They were all labeled by name, as well as action. I was trying to decide what all I wanted to imbibe. I was getting frustrated at all the choices. Usually, the only drugs I saw were the ones other people were doing. I racked my memory banks, but it had been so long, I don't even recall what I used to like, besides weed. So, I chose the pragmatic route and took them all. I tossed a few random pills down my gullet. I laid out some of the powders and snorted them with a rolled Note until I started feeling really strange. I looked in the mirror and could hardly see my reflection. Between the drugs kicking in and my cataracts, my vision was seriously flawed. I saw my vague reflection morph into two and then I knew I was ready to go. I left my room and headed to the grand ballroom. When I got there, the Mixer was already in full swing.

It was a wonderful collection of the freaky and deranged. I could see that they had a cabaret show going full bore up on the main stage. On two side stages, amongst too many manned mini-bars to count, the fetish proms were located. Full humans, Halflings, Pit Demons, ghosts of the damned and the formerly-living zombies were filling up the ballroom. Folks were suspended from hooks piercing the flesh of their backs, spinning with their heads thrown back, in big circles above the crowd. A bright red demon girl with fake heavenly angel's wings walked around, offering quick injections to the party-goers. The demon girl called the shots 'angel kisses'. Judging from the animated reactions of the injected, the 'angel kisses' housed some really killer speed.

I was anticipating a kiss myself when my progress was thwarted. A huge bouncer type motherfucker stood as an impenetrable wall of blue and green scales. He looked at me with his giant yellow lizard eyes, having scanned my wrist. I started walking into to the festive fiesta and the bouncer stopped me cold.

"You not going in, Mr. Farr," he growled. His breath smelled like fermenting piss.

"The fuck I'm not, Gargan!" I told him, right to his pierced nipples. Lizard-boy hadn't a clue what I had to do to get here. There was no way he was going to stop me, no matter how big he was. Don't get me wrong, I'm not brave. I'm not the rough and tumble type, but this gigantic ass clown was not going to keep Orlyn Farr from getting down on the get-down. I was bunching up, waiting for shit to escalate when he deflated me in an instant. Instead of answering, the behemoth handed me a note. It was handwritten on fancy, pricey parchment. I already knew who it was from, so I stepped out of line and opened the note. It read:

  

My Dear Mr. Farr,
I apologize for keeping you from the public festivities. You must understand, Sir, I have a rather large investment in you, as per our agreement. I cannot allow any public indiscretions, nor can I take any chances on you getting injured or ill. I must insist you return to your hotel room, where a private party is being prepared for you. If you do not comply, you will automatically forfeit your portion of our contract, and you will be remanded for an immediate opt-out.

Sincerely Yours,

CM

Well, shitballs! Having no choice, I turned on heel to go back to my room. Once there, I went inside and saw that the cabaret had come to me.

A pretty young zombie man greeted me at the door. He stuck a needle in my thigh. I began smiling uncontrollably for the rest of the evening. We walked around the mostly zombie party.

They weren't interested in eating or drinking, slugging or drugging, so there was more of everything than I could ever consume. But I gave it my best shot.

When I finally passed out, hours later, my testicles hurt from overuse and my head was swimming and spinning. I vomited most of the real animal flesh I'd gluttoned down.

The zombie boy helped me get into the big, comfortable, oversized bed. His cold kiss is the last thing I recalled.

The next day at high noon, the BINGO tournament began.

"The older I grow, the more I value Pawns."

- Paul Keres

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"Pills in a Little Cup" - Kindle Edition – Kindle eBook (Nov. 24, 2010) by Reverend Steven Rage

Buy: $2.99

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Divinity Lost

Coming This Friday, December 3rd, all day, loads of old and never seen before fiction. Come check out the Grim One's new direction…or delve into the dark and dismal past…where it is colder than frozen shit down her underground…



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"BELLY: A Brutal Bible Tale", Kindle, 2010

Satan has brought to you an excerpt from "BELLY". Enjoy...

"BELLY: A Brutal Bible Tale"

Chapter One

Our hapless prophet finds himself in the

Wrong damn place at the wrong damn time:

THE blood that blossomed from the center of his chest was only a trickle when it should have been a torrent. The sharpened ice pick stuck there quivered like a plucked piano chord. The dealer eyed the plastic dirty duct taped handle, then the emaciated junkie bitch that had just stabbed him. The fiend still crowed about his weak shorted sack whilst the dealer grasped the pick with his strong hand. He tugged fiercely, but it would not budge. The ice pick was buried in the hard bone of his sternum. He should have been grateful. Two inches to the left and there would be one less nigga in The Harbor.

No matter how hard the dealer tried it would not pull free. The dealer was staring at it, getting more and more frustrated at the bone encased ice pick. The fiend's pealing was getting on his tits and that was a problem he could solve. The dealer let go of the ice pick and a hidden snub-nose emerged from his waistband. He pointed it at the whiny little bitch and made the angry spewing face vaporize in an instant red fog. It was finally quiet enough to think, the loud fuck.

As if on cue everybody ran but a long greasy-haired Jonah. "Shouldn't even be here," he mumbled.

The shaken dealer having heard yet another motherfucker open his pie hole turned and pointed the hot muzzle at Jonah. His face paled. Too frightened to move He shit himself. Jonah was going to die right here, right in the very last place he wanted to be. Jonah found himself staring at a loaded gun pointing bleak and hard into him.

The dealer fired point blank into Jonah's chest. He felt the concussion shove him away. He folded his shoulders to each other and collapsed backwards onto the walk. Another customer standing beside Jonah made a dumb move on the dealer; the snub-nose stopping him dead in his tracks. Pieces of junkie speckled the others, dying as he fell.

Jonah's chest was bloodless and clean. He searched the front of his torso and found nothing. Jonah couldn't believe it. There were no wounds of any kind; not one. He looked up a grinning fool relieved. The dealer was not amused. And Jonah's smile lasted not long.

The dealer seeing Jonah unscathed stepped up again. This time the dealer dropped to one knee to get closer to him and pressed the smoking muzzle to Jonah's shiny-slick forehead. It hissed where it touched his sweaty fearful skin. He pulled the trigger and Jonah's bowels erupted again. The smell of fear and waste was thick fudgey-goo, but he remained alive and unmolested.

The dealer stood and stepped back. Confusion smeared across his sweating face as he stared at his smoking gun trying to determine why Jonah was still standing while the other junkie lay dead at his feet.

The dealer's face then contorted from confusion to unquenchable pain as the chest-buried ice pick moved all on its own. As if grasped by an invisible hand the pick burrowed deeper fast into the sternum with a sloppy crunch. Then a quick snap handle right. The sharp point tore into heart muscle ripping great blood vessels as it traveled, stopping suddenly.

Blood drained wide from the dealer's face as his chest filled with the blood that was supposed to feed his brain. Silent, he fell and all was quiet. For about six and a half seconds the dealer was a dropped stone. He folded in a crumpled heap right next to a stunned Jonah.

He was then in the dead man's pockets as if by rote without thinking. The rest of the fiends standing close by followed suit, but not before Jonah was able to procure a healthy sack. It contained dealer weight and probably shouldn't be in his pocket.

Not one to look a motherfucker in the mouth Jonah pushed the free dope down by his nuts and turned to run. A big man with long chin braids stood tall before him. He smiled at Jonah like he knew him. And man he was a big fucker too. He seemed like he was waiting for Jonah to say something to him, but he don't know this apparition.

"See you later, Jonah," chin braids told him.

Jonah blinked and chin-braids vanished. He dissolved right before his astonished eyes. Who the hell was that and how does he know my name?

Jonah heard shouting now and decided it would be prudent to quickly get the fuck up out of there. So, he ran.

Jonah was out of there in a flash. He quickly skirted the nearby park, running hard. Jonah looked over his shoulder, his out of shape breathing making much noise. The dead dealer's shorties were hard on his ass. Skinny fourteen year-olds are fast and these little niggas had guns. They were gaining on him.

Jonah glanced behind him and saw the lead shorty raise an auto pistol. He loosed a girlish squeal and turned left on a dime. He was ducking and covering my head like the sky was falling. Chips of brick building peppered his exposed skin, bullets tearing up the wall. Jonah negotiated another sharp turn. He exited the park running full bore between two buildings. He quickly emerged into a residential block of tight two-story houses.

Jonah leaped a low chain linked fence and landed in a darkened backyard. The occupants of the still quiet house were long asleep. His fear was over-ripe and all reason a glimmer, causing Jonah to dive head-first into the occupied doghouse. The chained animal awoke. Before he even knew what was what Jonah had the dog's head twisted all the way back around on itself. The neck broke hard, but was muffled by the bear-like fur. He hoped it was quiet enough. The dog stared over its back at its own tail through dead eyes. Jonah let loose the dog's head and set it quiet down. He had never killed anything in his life, but Jesus shit Jonah was scared.

Jonah tried to slow his breathing and the ragged noise that came with it. He hoped he'd outrun his pursuers, but it was not to be. The shorties were there. Jonah could hear them moving about. He closed tight his eyes and bit his knuckles. Jonah wished desperately to vanish, to will himself away, but he could not.

After a few fearful moments when Jonah heard not a sound he forced open his eyes. He stared out the doghouse and up at the night. No stars out tonight only feet.

Jonah saw baggy-ass jeans and the way they terminated into a pair of size twelves. The owner of which began to squat on his haunches. The auto pistol touched the grass and a young boy's face appeared sweat-dotted sideways in the doghouse opening.

The boy smiled at Jonah, not saying a word. He guessed it was interesting to the little dude to see a grown man cry. He was dragged whimpering from the doghouse by the pair of gun-toting shorties. They had Jonah by the scruff of his shirt and were pulling him kicking across dew-damp grass beneath a bulging yellow moon.

The two boys stood over Jonah's cowed ass. A third stopped before the group panting hard.

"That him?" the new arrival asked as he fought to catch his breath. They nodded. "Well," top dog continued, "put your shit in his mouth."

The boy that found Jonah first put the evil auto pistol end to his lips. "Open up sweetheart," he ordered.

Jonah responded by uselessly turning his head away. The other two kicked him viciously in the stomach and my legs. For fun they stomped his feet. Jonah exhaled with an involuntary grunt. The auto slid roughly into his opened mouth with all the finesse of a prison date.

Jonah turned red. His eyes bulged impossibly. His diaphragm was an immobile spasm and the cold metal rattled Jonah's expensive dental work.

"Get the Plata off the fuck and push out his wig," the top dog ordered.

The shorty on standby put his weapon on the doghouse and bent to Jonah. The boy undid the belt. Then he unbuttoned and unzipped him. Jonah was flustered and red-faced. The boy began to tug Jonah's chinos roughly down when they were greeted with fecal assault. The boy stood and cursed. He backed away from Jonah and the stink. Top dog covered his nose and mouth. He looked to the auto pistol holder. The boy kept his shit in Jonah's mouth, but blinked and coughed. He appeared to be on the verge of dumping his pork chops.

"Fuck it," top dog decided, "Kill the motherfucker. Then hose his ass off and get the dope."

–end excerpt.

Happy Gobble-Gobble-Sweetmeats Day from Herod!!

Image via Wikipedia

Time once again for "FuknPunch", the "Unemployed Child Care Clown" far-out fiction sample! Today We explore The O.G. Harbor from good ol' 'PILATE". Just in time for Turkey Day. Dig it!

Herod was standing when the vision subsided and he came to. The echo of laughter reverberated throughout the chamber. He was between throne and cross. He had arms raised in victory, could feel his wide smile. His robe was open, penis a diamond. Bloody semen clung in a knot to the material of the hem. Salome was sitting up, looking curiously at him.

Tacitus marched the messenger forward. Herod let his arms drop.

"Who the fuck this little bitch?" the Mayor asked. He returned to the throne. Herod sat and Salome placed her head on his lap. His razor-sharp talons rapped her skull. It raised beads of blood that were absorbed by her hair. The blood painted thin red lines with dripped excess. She winced from the pain, but dared not move.

"This is one of Theodosius' shorties," Tacitus replied, "the one at Flavius' office."

"Is Flavius here?"

"He brought us the boy and I dismissed him," he said, "didn't think you wanted someone like Flavius any deeper."

"You thought right," Herod replied, "nigga good where he is." Herod gazed at the boy. "Why do you need to see me?"

The boy looked at him: "I got a message for Herod."

Tacitus broke the boy's nose with a lightening fast right cross. It caved in a loud crunch. Blood and mucous exploded from his face. The boy was going to collapse, but Tacitus would not let him. He held the boy up by his braids.

"This IS Herod, you stupid shit," Tacitus countered.

"What's your message, boy?" Herod asked, amused.

"Pilate say he does not get replaced," the boy stated thickly, no air moving. It was then he awoke.

The boy blinked and looked around, checked out his surroundings. How the hell did he get here? He's heard of this place but just stories. It looked like a torture chamber, smelled worse. He glanced down at the plastic he stood on. He saw scrum puddle around his wet stocking feet. Half congealed shit all over his feet, made him want to vomit. He started to pitch forward. Tacitus had to hold him up again. The boy dangled from his braids like a drunken puppet.

"Where's your boss, Theodosius, at?" Herod asked. "Tell me."

The boy still felt sick. Waves of nausea and pain made thought difficult. The boy did not answer Herod. Tacitus tore the lad's left ear off, tossed it to the quivering dog. The beast chomped just once, the cartilage wet and crunchy, and swallowed the treat down.

With Pilate's spell now broken, the boy's pain and shock intensified. His hand pressed the fresh wound. Sticky blood flooded his nose, cheek and neck. It dripped down his shoulders, back and chest. Great red drops mixed puddles on plastic flooring.

The boy sucked a great lungful of air. He fired a frightened, painful scream. Herod commanded him to stop all that shit, and renewed the spell. Now the boy belonged to him.

"That's better," said Herod. "Where the fuck is Theodosius?"

"He dead," the boy replied, hands at sides, standing at attention. Blood flowed freely from where his ear used to be.

"Tell me how," demanded Herod.

"Pilate did it," he replied. "He drank him dry."

Herod stayed silent a moment, watching the boy bleed.

"Pilate doesn't know when to quit," Herod said. He looked at his Second. "That twat needs to be taught a lesson."

Tacitus nodded.

"An eye for an eye," she told them, "Old Testament style."

Herod and Tacitus gazed at each other in surprise. They turned to look at her.

"What's that?" asked Herod.

"Eye for an eye, reprisal," Salome said. "Pilate killed one of yours. Even the score and kill one of his."

Herod nodded, sure where she was going.

"You mean Juan de Bautista, don't you?" Tacitus asked, Herod smiling now.

"That's right," she told him. "Bring Uncle Herod his head."

Herod chuckled at the vicious cunt. "Yes," he replied, "bring to me the head of John the Baptist. Impale the bitch on a motherfucking stick."

Tacitus acknowledged and left the room. Herod rose and came down from the throne. He stood before the rigid boy. He placed a hand on the boy's neck. He began to gently kiss the ragged ear hole, speaking to him. Herod's voice had a sing-song quality. He thrust the tip in and slowly ran an embedded talon down the boy's torso. The flesh and muscle split open. His entrails spilled out, hung in ropes to his knees.

"My favorites," Herod began, honeyed voice soothing and kind, "are the sweetmeats." Still grinning, he pushed his hand into warm bowels. "The pest of it is the choicest morsels always seem to be in the back."

The boy shook. Herod dug deep into him, searching. "A-hah," he found it. Herod plucked and removed the tiny organ, pulled it out. The boy shivered uncontrollably, losing color. Herod brought the tasty to his lips and took a bite. The boy stared at him.

"Oh, yeah," Herod said, mouth dripping, "you can scream now."

PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale, PRINT version.

Read PILATE on Kindle and on the cheap.

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