Steven Rage's Blog, page 14

'Pill-Man' has another freaky sick-fiction sample!

From 'THE PLACE IN BETWEEN', a 3 novella collection of the starkest, most            

         

[image error]

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.

graphic violence and blood laden fiction in PRINT.

DIG:            

 

     

             

 

               

         

"The motel room Sancho got for them was only

a few miles from base, but far enough away

to keep Del from knowing about it. She hoped. Luci

knew he'd kick her ass if she was discovered fucking

around on him again. But Sancho gave her uncut

virgin

shit. The most potent crack she had ever smoked.

She'd shake the vial until she heard the rock form.

It clink-clinked around and it'd make her wet. And

then when she was high, all she wanted to do was

fuck. Sancho was, after all, very handsome.

Luci had seen him for the first time at the
brig. He was striking. Even though Sancho looked like

he'd been to hell and back. She saw him coming out

as she was going in. Despite being underweight, covered

with bruises and a couple of chipped teeth, Luci

was blown away. Sancho was a wounded bird and

Luci definitely had the wounded bird syndrome. The        

      

               

         

Only when you are done fucking around with lame-ass horror. WARNING: extremely visual and graphic. Grown Folks only!

 

beaten young man looked downtrodden and lost, but

he still smiled a huge, charming smile when he saw

her in the out-processing area. Seeing him looking    

so forlorn made the maternal side of her swell. Luci

was coming to sign the paperwork so the military

could bury her 'father'. Well, sort of a de-facto stepfather:

He was sandwiched between her mother's 18th

and 20th boyfriend out of 30 or 40 something dudes

before her mother finally died years ago. Luci didn't

know why Rusty chose her as the next of kin:

"You have girlfriend, Vietnam Joe?"

"Don't need one, little yella sista. This dumb

bitch left us with her little tight daughter right

here. She's only half-gook, but slanty enough to get

the job done."

Maybe he still held on to those woefully pleasant

memories of gang-raping her when she was young.             

         

The Most Depraved Writer in Print. 'Click' to Recognize.

Her mom would be gone somewhere – usually at

work. Rusty would get himself nice and liquored up

and call over some friends. Then he would take her

down to the basement.

Rusty would shed his clothes, the criss-crossed

scars on his chest shining pale white against his red

flushed muscle and skin. He and his buddies would 

run trains on Luci like she was some gook whore

they were having fond fevered memories of.

Luci finished squeezing the store-bought douche

up her vagina, trying to rinse Sancho's seed out of

her. Vague bad memories of telling her mother about

being raped by Rusty and his buddies pushed their

way to the front of Luci's mind. Showing her how            

     

Morbid's RDA of vitamins, minerals, jejo, smack, X, weed and hash...

 

to douche properly was her mother's only response

when she told her about the attacks. They were bad

memories, for sure. But that mean old bastard finally

died. She had the paperwork to prove it.

Luci was going to surprise Del with the proceeds

of the life insurance she was sure Rusty would

have left for her, but there was nothing. A few bits

and pieces of personal effects and not even any

retirement

benefits. Rusty ended his military prison

sentence with a Dishonorable Discharge. He would

have lost any benefits Luci might have been entitled

to anyway. What a piece of shit. Fucking Rusty. His

last act was inconveniencing Luci, without even

leaving her anything in return. And when she finally  

"PHARMACIDE" is a work-in-progress.

 

signed all the paperwork and collected his dog

tags, she felt the most uncomfortably horrible feeling

she'd ever had. Her entire body felt ice-cold and her

thinking became muddled. Luci felt like she'd hurt

her back. It was like she had twisted it in some weird

way because her back never did feel right after that.

Then, for the first time in years, the thought of

cocaine became much, much more than the wistful

wishes she'd had since rehab. It became a powerful

lusting urge that morphed into a full-blown obsession.

It happened right there while she was holding

Rusty's tags and signing paper work. She left the brig

and saw the hang-dog handsome young man waiting

for her. Luci felt an instant relief when she saw

the former sailor. She just knew he'd be able to help

her with her desires. Luci was right on the money.       

The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

 

Sancho knew exactly where to go. It turned out to be

a very good thing that she'd kept her 30 mile drive

secret from Del, after all.

Christ, she thought, still squeezing the douche.

Imagine if Sancho knocked me up. Fuck! She knew

she should have made Sancho wear a raincoat,

but she always got caught up with the crack and

the cock. Luci couldn't help it. She tried what she 

felt was her best to kick the love of cocaine, but its

grip on her was fixed tight. She was fine, she had

thought, following her months of rehab. But not now.

It seemed that these days the monkey clawed at her

constantly. She couldn't escape its magnetic pull.

Luci realized now that even when she was in rehab,

she was merely going through the motions. Luci

knew Del would never understand. Hell, maybe he

couldn't. He was such a Dudley fucking Do-Right, he

probably couldn't even conceptualize doing anything

he wasn't supposed to. He was a Navy man, after

all, and he was comfortable toeing a straight line

and obeying direct orders. Luci chafed at the very

notion.

Out of the shower, Luci dried herself off and got

dressed. She waited impatiently for the anti-anxiety

pill Sancho had given her to kick in. She couldn't go

home and face Del this twisted but luckily Del never

came home early."

  …end twisted sample.


"Coming to the party?"



 

Filed under: Amazon, Amazon.com, Australian Books, Bizarro, books, brutal bible tale, dark, events, paranormal, ghosts, Extreme Fiction, fiction, FREE!!!, ghosts, hardcore christian, horror, KINDLE and E-Readers, occult, occult, occult fiction, paranormal, serial killers, small press, supernatural, suspense, thriller, torture porn, Uncategorized Tagged: A Nightmare on Elm Street, amazon, amazon.com, Arts, bizarro, cult, demons, DianeKruger, evil nerd empire, experimental, Family, Home, killers, Mother, occult, Online Writing, paranormal, Parenting, rage, Rape, Sancho Panza, vampires

*mean mug, mo' thug*

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…*

 

Filed under: Amazon, Amazon.com, Bizarro, books, brutal bible tale, dark, events, paranormal, ghosts, Extreme Fiction, fiction, FREE!!!, ghosts, hardcore christian, horror, KINDLE and E-Readers, occult, occult, occult fiction, paranormal, serial killers, supernatural, suspense, thriller, torture porn, Uncategorized Tagged: Family, Fuck, Home, Human, Little finger, Mother, Mug, United States

More Grist for the Mill 'FucknPunch's latest (11-18-2010)

Image by Steve Kay via Flickr

Time once again for "FuknPunch", the "Unemployed Child Care Clown" far-out fiction sample! Today We explore the post-apocalyptic Harbor . Everyone lives under ground to avoid the Little Ice Age conditions. Dig it!

The Grim Reverend's newest…The Place in BetweenBy The Grim Reverend Steven Rage an excerpt from the 3 story collection: "The Place in Between"

this excerpt is from the 1st novella in this collection, "Blood and Bubblegum":

"Blood and Bubblegum"

Yr:09.ACE.13n.10                                       

[image error]

Blood above and Bubblegum below...

 

Two days ago:

Juan went back to the same dark shoddy bar, again.

And, again, he went without Mary. She stayed

away to tend to Bubblegum, keeping her stoned

and happy. The comely coop-chick still thought they

both had a sex crush on her. They let that cluck-fuck

fantasy remain intact. We decided that it would be

Only when you are done fucking around with lame-ass horror. WARNING: extremely visual and graphic. Grown Folks only!

prudent and to our advantage to keep from telling

her the whole truth. At least not until our hand was called. None of us ever mentioned me. Morbid is not everyone's favorite late-night radio talk show host. Of this I am quite aware.

"I want to shove it up her tiny stink-hole," I say,

by way of example. "Please tell me I can." I am not the politest of company. I don't really know of any unholy shit monsters that are. I guess that it kind of goes with the territory.

"Maybe," Juan told me, "we'll have to see how this whole thing plays out."

"Yes, we will," I agree. It's not easy being green.

"Let's not talk about that shit right now, Morbid,"

Juan replied, and rightly so. "Game faces, bro."

"Yeah," I say with all the forced bravado I could muster, "Let's bag us a vampire!"

Juan and I needed to find the nocturne in a bad way. Juan and Mary were in hock up to their eyeballs

keeping the hen high on Plata. This shit is crazy expensive. If we didn't rustle us up a steady source

of income soon, the goon squad would find us. That's bad, real bad. They will send more than enough knuckle draggers to see us that even I, the unholy shit monster, won't be able to save Juan and Mary. Motherfuckers are as serious as a heart attack when it comes to their wet, sticky cash money. And without Juan, I would be lost. The nocturne must be found.

This time we needed a face-to-face meeting. It's frustrating because we hadn't been able to locate the

elusive blood drinker. We could hardly believe it. All this time and work and we can't even find the nocturne. And once we do (heaven help us) the real work will begin. No wonder Juan was so edgy.

Other than this crap-awful bar down here amongst the dregs, we had no real clue of how to find him. Nobody knew the vampire, or where he cribbed or even how to contact him. It didn't matter, however. Juan wanted no-one but his Mary, him and me in on this plan.

The Harbor may be seen as nothing more than a dystopian ghetto shit hole, and it most certainly is, but we knew small town rules still applied. Everybody knew everybody's business down here in the great stinky half-frozen tunnels. Everyone knew who was zooming who. It's just like old Mayberry, but with a much higher body count.

Except in Mayberry, Andy and Barney wouldn't let you get the skin flayed off your body while fucking a dead dog for a 5K NewRupee auto-deduct.

"Fucking squares!"

We could tell no-one because we could trust no one.

One word of what we were planning and niggas might kill us simply because they hadn't thought of approaching the vampire Plata dealer first. Folks here in The Harbor can be vile, petty and vindictive. We needed to proceed with ample care. Everything seemed to be coming to a head. Once again, Juan made his way through the drunk and fucked-up bar crowd. He had been nervous as all hell lately. He'd been drinking more than he should and smoking super-strong hydroponic weed constantly.

Finally, after almost two weeks of this nervewracking shit, Mary had pleasantly surprised him with a handful of muscle relaxing pills, which he doled out to himself one at a time. The pills she gave him were the real and true thing, too. This was surprising. Pharmaceuticals were not on the list of over abundant items left behind. One can eat canned tuna and chili until your asshole bleeds, but not anything

of medicinal quality.

Mary smiled sweetly as she handed them over toJuan. She's a good girl, that Mary. She's a little penny pinching in the old fuck-sack for my taste, but still…

The pills helped Juan a great deal as he was forced to troll the same sleazy, sticky, loser filled tavern, night after fucking night, waiting for the nocturne.

He was worried the blood-drinker wouldn't show up. Juan and I were even more nervous that he might. But he had to. The three of us have everything riding on this scheme. Where the fuck is he? Juan did a quick, perfunctory head check of the patrons. He didn't see the nocturne anywhere around. It was just like all the previous times. If I didn't know any better, I would think the fucking vampire was avoiding us. If that's true , at least he knew we existed. That would be something, but we couldn't even assume that much at this point.

To make immediate matters even worse, Juan had to pee.

"Are you kidding me?" I asked, incredulous. "You know where we have to go to do that, don't you?"

"Yes, God Damn it! I know. Fuck."

I could feel his bladder filling uncomfortably. He had to go. If we didn't, Juan would have to find a place to piss right here in the bar portion of the saloon. This would cause us to be kicked out and never allowed back. With everything on the line, and with some growing

dismay, we pushed back, deep into the cave-like bar. We were headed toward the rear hallways, stairsand the toilets. This was where the realio-dealio tookplace.

The courage it takes just to approach the flesh curtains lent a moment of pause for even the hardest of the hardcore. It usually took a pensive person a lot of illicit drugs, a bucket of ethanol and a double-dog dare to even part the veil. Looking in is bad enough and we had to go inside. We had to part the curtains, enter That, and then locate us a toilet. All without getting ourselves detained, killed, or even

worse.

And what is worse than being killed, you ask?

Getting stuck down there and never being able to negotiate your way back out, that's what's worse than being killed. You'll see what I mean in a minute.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath to calm his nerves, Juan split the curtains of human skin. It was real flesh replete with freckle, scar and mole stains.

You pass through and you find yourself piercing the confines of That.

"Here we go!"

We entered the first hallway. Juan took the stairway down, following the signs to the bathrooms. Humans and Halflings alike were engaged in all manners of drug consumption and sexual congress. A young girl was tugging on folks, pleading with them all for the return of her hymen. Juan just shook his head. How the fuck should he know where her freshness seal is? Shit.

"Dumb-ass dead bitch," I commented. Like that was something to worry herself about back here. "Damn, I've taken shits smarter than this. "But I am repeating myself.

Juan stepped down about six more feet before he came to the first body. The male was long overripe, judging by the smell. He was a lovely shade of cyanotic blue. He was absolutely as dead as a door nail. But that didn't give the old woman with a bald, spotted scalp the right to straddle his below the knee leg amputation. We stopped to watch her do it. It was abhorrent, but like a train wreck, we could not pull ourselves away from the wretched sight. The old woman periodically coughed up mucousfrom the blow hole in her neck and onto her hand.

The old woman used it to further lubricate the dead fuck's stitched, blunted stump-cock. As Juan carefully and quietly passed her by, he noticed she was vaguely see-through.

"We got to go through Hell's Own asshole, just to take a piss?"

Ignoring my patter, "Hello?" Juan kept working his way down into the dark red smoke, until he finally reached the landing. There he saw a man with his hands tied behind him. A taut, tight rope of aborted fetuses pulled up the man's wrists. The babies were secured to each other by their own long, convoluted umbilical cords. A sulfur and sugar smelling pit- demon was feeding the rope of abortions through

a dog skull pulley. The man's mouth was buried on a firebrand. The acrid smoke curled from his burning mouth. The demon stared hard at Juan whilst he pulled on the rope. He dislocated the man's shoulders and kept pulling. The man never made a sound. Only his tears bore witness to his true pain.

"Can I go to school here?" I ask. "It looks like they get to play Level 10 reindeer pain games. Yeah…

Downtown is where the fun's at, sugar-kitten."

We finally reached our stated destination. Lucky us. The restroom was filthy and crowded thick with

men pissing. Trannies were sucking dick, their johns holding cash above their bobbing head as a promise.

Drugs were being snorted, deals going down. Some nigga was desperate enough to tie his shit off in this

horrid crapper in one of the door-less stalls, flicking up a vein, trying to feel for a bump to target his

needle.

"Gross."

Juan went into one of these stalls. A passed out fuck, pockets having already been turned out, was slumped over to the side. His head planted firmly into the feces smeared wall. Juan considered trying to wake him or dragging him off the seat. Instead, it was most expedient to simply pull out his pecker and piss on the motherfucker. He wouldn't care.

Juan was just shaking it and zipping up when he sensed someone. He looked up and right into the face of the old man with the big mass of dreadlocks. It was the same polished slumming dude that was trying to holler at our Bubblegum. He smiled cruelly at Juan. His jumpy nerves made him cringe.

"You sure you want this, dear fellow?" asked mister fancy dreads.

"Want what?" Juan retorted, confused. The old guy is human, not a vampire, not a demon. That means dreadlocks teleported himself here. Other than the Indian Army, Juan had never met anyone who could afford teleporting. Juan figured if someone teleports themselves into this shit hole, Juan had better pay attention to what dreads was saying. At least dreads didn't have to go back up through all that shit to get to the bar again. Juan and I would.

Oh, well.

"Are you sure you want to meet the blood drinker?" he asked Juan.

"What's it to you?" Juan wanted to know, getting wide with the cunt out of a deep-seeded need to not kowtow. It was ingrained and had gotten Juan intotrouble many times.

"Don't get smart with me, young man," he admonished.

"I am The Good Doctor. I am the king. I am also the nocturne's supplier. You need to be extraordinarily sure of what you wish for."

"Why's that?" Juan asked, a bit more politely. He'd heard of the king, but had never seen him in person. I have to admit, he was pretty fucking impressive.

And I am an unholy shit monster! We don't impressthat easily.

"Because it may just come true ," The Good Doctor stated. And then he winked out.

Before we could recover from that shock, a cold hand dropped solidly on to Juan's shoulder from behind. It was strong. The talons growing out of the split fingertips dimpled Juan's coat, punctured the cloth, and pressed into his flesh. Juan was surprised at how much it hurt. He sucked it up though andstood tall.

"When you wish upon a star…" Softly, to myself, I said this.

"You got balls hunting me," the nocturne told him. He squeezed a little more and made Juan hurt a lot. "But do you have the heart?"

"Makes no never mellow mind who you are…" Even softer.

"I'm not after you, we mean you no harm."

"What do you want then?"

"We wanted to meet you," Juan told him.

"You and the girl you were with?"

"That's right. I was hoping to speak with you."

"And you are?" the vampire asked with a bit more pressure. It was getting bad, the pain, but Juan knew a test when he felt one. Juan told him their names and intentions. He did not mention the unholy shit monster that lives in his ass. "Services?" he asked, "What services?"

"Whatever you need, you know, help," said Juan, arm going numb, fingertips tingling unpleasantly.

"You two want to help me sell drugs?"

"Yes, exactly," Juan replied.

"And what, exactly," the nocturne mockingly replied, "makes you think I won't kill your uninvited asswhere you stand?"

"Because we would not dare to seek you outempty handed, Sire," Juan told him.

"Stop the ass-licking sire shit, I don't like it," the nocturne warned, "And it will not help to keep you,or your Mary alive. Or even that freak you keep holedup inside you."

"Hey!" Rude fucking vampire.

"Shush, Morbid," Juan scolded. He said, "What shall we call you then?"

"Nothing yet," he said. "What do you have for me?"

"We have an offering."

"Offering? What kind of offering?"

"Blood," Juan stated, "a continuous stream of it."

The nocturne smiled then. "Yes," he replied, "That might do."

"I can take you to Mary, where she is being keptfor you. And then we can bring her to where you stay."

"And this token of your esteem is in hopes that you and Mary can work for me, with me? Is that

right?"

"Yes, exactly," Juan agreed. "We can be of great value and help. We can assist and protect you."

"What do you hope to gain and I expect the truth from you," the nocturne advised with one more, tiny squeeze, "Your life, where you stand, depends on it."

Juan did not have to think, Mary and his motivations had never changed. "We want in," he said simply, "And you are the way."

"The Truth shall set you free," I added.

The vampire was silent as he removed his painfully frigid grip from Juan's shoulder, blood seepingnow from the talon punctures. Juan could feel him moving close to whisper in his ear.

"Well now, seeing as the three of you now work for me," the vampire said, "I guess you should call me Pilate."

We're in, thought Juan.

We are!

We were.                                                                                   … end sample                                                   

Uncle Tugmunkee from "Bad Notion Traveling Potion"

Filed under: Amazon, Amazon.com, Australian Books, Bizarro, blog radio, books, dark, events, paranormal, ghosts, Extreme Fiction, fiction, FREE!!!, ghosts, hardcore christian, horror, KINDLE and E-Readers, occult, occult, occult fiction, paranormal, radio, serial killers, small press, supernatural, suspense, thriller, torture porn, Uncategorized Tagged: A Nightmare on Elm Street, amazon, amazon.com, Arts, Asshole, Billy Idol, bizarro, blood, books, Bubblegum, Business, cult, Damnation, demons, drugs, experimental, fiction, Food and Drug Administration, Freddy Krueger, Fuck, Fucking Austria, ghosts, Health, horror, hospital, killers, legumeman, Mary, Mayberry, monsters, morbid, New York City, noir, occult, Online Writing, paranormal, Programs, rage, Satan, serial killer, Shit, supernatural, suspense, Talk radio, thriller, United States, vampires, Yes (band)

New from 'FuknPunch'! (11-16-2010) Kindle Love.

[image error]

Cover via Amazon

 

               

 

             

Time once again for "FuknPunch", the "Unemployed Child Care Clown" far-out fiction sample! Today Job embraces his Father Lucifer. Sharp wet pain ensues. Dig it!

 

* mean mug mo' thug…*

Read PILATE on Kindle and on the cheap.

 

Job was driving and Tacitus rode shotgun as they made their way out of The Harbor and toward Big City. Ovid sat in the back on the passenger side. He had with him a carry-all containing tools to get in if needed. The main ones being a tire iron euphemistically referred to as the Judge and Ovid's stupid might. They were going in to the Pharisees penthouse. Suddenly Job felt a strange sensation tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. "Don't turn around," Mister Mo' Thug told him. He obeyed, but snuck a glance over to Tacitus. He was deep in thought and noticed nothing. "The Pharisees are not waiting for him, Job. It was all just a ruse to get both of you there. We need you two in the same place at the same time. We were never going to crown Tacitus anything, let alone Caesar." Job silently asked a question in his head. And then Mister Mo' Thug spelled it all out. "Can you do this?" Somebody's been sitting in my chair, Job thought darkly. He glanced over at Tacitus. And that motherfucker is still there. But not for long. That made Mister Mo' Thug smile. * mean mug mo' thug…* The door to the Pharisees penthouse was open when they arrived. Ovid went in first, just in case. Job and Tacitus followed close on the heels of the big, albino mongoloid henchman. The place was fucking opulent. They noted marble floors and high ceilings in this, the main area. Job looked up and saw a multi-tiered chandelier. It appeared to him like a cut crystal wedding cake. It would hold a body, Job wagered. It would do. He shivered just a little with delight. He followed Tacitus to the center of the room. Tacitus stood in the center of the floor, with his hands on his hips. "Where to begin?" he asked, rhetorically. "Maybe we should have brought more men." Job agreed and opened his phone. He called the compound back in The Harbor. Job ordered two car-loads of cops. He gave them directions. "And get here on the quick," he added before hanging up. He had about 30 maybe 45 minutes until the armed, loyal to Tacitus motherfuckers show up in a swarm. Job better have his ducks snapped-to and in a tight fucking row by then. "We'll have to search this whole place," Tacitus said, pretty much to himself. Get him before they come, Mister Mo' Thug whispered in Job's mind. A long, serrated hunting knife appeared in his hand. Job closed his grip tight around it. He stared at his Herod's back. Job walked briskly towards him.

* mean mug mo' thug…*

Tacitus felt himself get grabbed. The Pharisees, as invisible ghosts, held him tight. His arms were pressed firmly to his sides. Something undetectable and thick pressed down his throat. It made it hard to breathe and impossible to vocalize. Job came up from behind Tacitus. The Herod could not move, the Pharisees had him secured. Not even when Mister Mo'Thug appeared in front of him, could Tacitus move. The temperature of the room became frigid. Tacitus could see his own breath exhale plumes. His frightened breathing into the cold fairly crackled with the quick change in temperature. Job stepped up to his Herod, stabbing him with an inward arcing plunge. The inners of Tacitus fell forward in a lumpy, organic ball. They were threatening to unravel and spill out, leaking all over the handsome marble floor. Blood and fecal bile splashed a wide radius. "Let me help you with that," Mister Mo' Thug replied and went to the injured man. He reached into Tacitus' open belly and tugged free a few long links of colon. He looped a section and placed it over the wounded man's head and his paling face. Tacitus, silent and shaking now with shock, saw his own colon fastened in a loose noose and tightened about his neck. The phantom Pharisees were in a giggling free-for-all as they hefted him up from the ground. They passed him up to the chandelier. Mister Mo' Thug hovered while he strung out another section of Tacitus' bowel. He wrapped this part around the chandelier proper. The Pharisees let go of Tacitus. He grabbed the colon that was rapidly escaping his abdomen, while crashing down en route for the floor below. Tacitus fell a couple of yards until he squeezed the colon snaking out of his torn middle and coming to a stop, suspended by his own anatomy. He began to choke as his neck took the weight of his body. Tacitus was on the verge of passing out. Mister Mo' Thug glided down to where Tacitus hung suspended. The man's muscles were straining and his face was getting all purple and shit. "Hell's Bells!" he exclaimed to Tacitus, "You can't breathe. You're choking, friend." Mister Mo' Thug grasped one of the choking man's fingers. "Let me help," he said and bent it back until it broke. The pain made Tacitus mislay his grip. The colon slithered between his loosened, slippery hands. He dropped closer to the floor, while another few feet of bowel sectioned and stretched itself out. Tacitus tightened his grip. The bowel noose tightened with it. The chandelier popped and shook as he stopped abruptly. Hanging there, he choked himself once more. "My goodness, that kind of back fired, didn't it?" He floated down to the man's new location. Mister Mo' Thug found another one of Tacitus' fingers. "Let's just try that again," He twisted and popped the knuckles right out of their sockets. The new explosion of pain was horrific. Tacitus loosened his grip on his middle. He plunged toward the floor. His bowels slid out of him fast, like shit through a goose, before squeezing and stopping shy of crashing. He hung a meter or so above the floor. The noose around his neck was a hungry python, squeezing and choking him. Mister Mo' Thug sank down to him. "You must be tiring of this, you poor fellow," he sympathized. Tacitus could say nothing at all. Not even when his tormentor found another one of his fingers. "One more time," He pulled on the finger, real nice and slow like. It broke loud and wet.

                                                                                                                     — end sample.

[image error]

Come here!!

For Rage in Print and Kindle.

Filed under: Amazon, Amazon.com, Australian Books, Bizarro, blog radio, books, brutal bible tale, dark, events, paranormal, ghosts, Extreme Fiction, fiction, FREE!!!, ghosts, hardcore christian, horror, KINDLE and E-Readers, occult, occult, occult fiction, paranormal, radio, serial killers, small press, supernatural, suspense, thriller, torture porn, Uncategorized Tagged: A Nightmare on Elm Street, amazon, amazon.com, Arts, bizarro, blood, books, Christ, clive barker, cult, dean koontz, demons, drugs, El Cristo, evil nerd empire, experimental, fiction, Freddy Krueger, ghosts, God, horror, Jesus, Julius Caesar, KINDLE, Lucifer, noir, occult, Online Writing, Ovid, rage, Roman, Rome, Satan, stephen king, steven rage, supernatural, suspense, Tacitus, thriller, United States, University of Minnesota, vampires

The Good Doctor rushes his balls off! FuknPunch's latest (11-15-2010) sick story!

Time once again for "FuknPunch", the "Unemployed Child Care Clown" far-out fiction sample! Today 'The Good Doctor' get's muey muey alto!

From The Grim One's hardcore collection of fucked-up sick fiction "The Place in Between". This sample is from the novella, "Bad Notion Travelin Potion".

Only when you are done fucking around with lame-ass horror. WARNING: extremely visual and graphic. Grown Folks only!

Note: Steven Rage's books contains graphic violence, illicit drug use, non-consensual extreme sex, and potentially offensive material given the religious references. The fiction of RAGE has been called Torture Porn. What do YOU think?

Chapter TRIA:

 

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?"

"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…

* * *

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."

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.

                                                                                                                                          …end sample.

Here's a review on how Badass The Grim One's shit be: 

Sick, Disgusting, Vile…and Genius, October 7, 2010

By Eric Mays "Bizarro Author of "Naked Metam… (Richmond, VA) – See all my reviews .This 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 John Waters 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.

  

If you like that, buy the whole fuckin' book:     

    

   

       

 

The Most Depraved Writer in Print. Recognize. 'Click' on this handsome motherfucker right here to get 'The Place in Between'.

 

WARNING! Very Graphic Fiction, New from 'FucknPunch'!

[image error]

Image via Wikipedia

Time once again for "FuknPunch", the "Unemployed Child Care Clown" far-out fiction sample!

The Pharisees' silent butler was purring and content. They were together and comfortable on the plush couch. The legs of the couch immediately broke and the springs popped. The butler really hadn't noticed.

At the moment, the two of them were alone in the Pharisees' nicely appointed sitting room, high atop the Lake Shore hi-rise. A crust of ice snuggled the butler's smile.

Cold puffs of curious evil fingered its way throughout the penthouse apartment. The cold climbed up the walls and explored hallways. It found rooms left long unused and cracks no human can locate. It was sentient, this cold, and it quickly covered all forty-one hundred square feet. It sealed off the penthouse from the outside world, thereby making the interior a tight, no leak bubble.

The butler pressed himself against the Mighty One's chest. He massaged the head of Lucifer's penis. It was thickening; responding to his touch. The butler-pet could see and feel the barbs as they sprang up all along the devil's grossly elongated shaft. The barbs were inwardly curving scorpion tail stingers and were sharp at the hollow tips. Poison oozed slow and fetid out of the hypodermic points of the barbs. The long veins of his cock throbbed and pulsed with intricate rhythms at times, other times, nothing at all. The rhythm did not require a heartbeat to drum.

The Diabolous was a void inside. The human image was merely window dressing for his flock. With this image the chest cavity was an empty drum. The lungs were not needed and a heart would only get in the way.

Surrender, Dorothy.

The devil was gently running his icy fingers through the butler's thinning black hair. He used his lightest touch to pet and caress and love on his most favorite little imp. The butler's countenance was smooth to the touch and undisturbed. The butler was not, nor had he ever been human. Therefore he was immune to the devil's infectious fluids. The butler's human visage was merely a shell, like his master's. The butler was really a small demon who has been with Satan since before planet Earth did cool. This demon truly liked the butler costume. The Pharisees knew what he was; a gift from the Most Hated. They allowed the demon to use his powers which he did to keep the penthouse always clean and quiet and very comfortable.

Hell, on the other hand, was not as pleasant.

The hidden door slid open. Both Pharisees stepped out and saw the devil waiting for them. They instantly made themselves prone before god. They had been summoned by the Mighty One and he insisted upon the purity of nakedness. They lay side by side upon the floor. Short rips of air entering and exiting their lungs were expelling a fog of cold vapor. It went forth from the decay and rot of what remained of their mouths. The odor of their breath was nearly visible. The stench; a chicken left out all weekend and erupts of stink upon your return. The Pharisees knew this not. The cold power gave them reign over the diseases the Diabolous had bestowed. They felt, in fact, fabulous. Annas and Caiaphas Pharisee still saw themselves as beautiful.

The Diabolous had the Pharisees arise and come over to the couch. Satan patted the butler-imp affectionately and tousled its hair. It was soon curled up in the dented spot his master vacated and it groaned with delight. Bliss for the butler-imp is to be in the presence of the Most Hated.

The Most Hated

The Pharisees came to the devil. They each placed a sweet, full mouth kiss on the devil's anus. The two of them then licked the master thorough and clean.

The Pharisees were leaned limp over the back of their destroyed couch and displayed themselves to the Diabolous. They were presenting and were to mate with the Mighty One.

Dozens of crawly, bug filled boils and carbuncles exploded ripe and ready from their torsos like a string of putrid firecrackers. Their master positioned himself behind Annas Pharisee. The more ancient of the two will be filled and blessed by the Diabolous first.

The Pharisees successfully brought about El Cristo's crucifixion and sacrifice. It is time now for the full reward: The Final Rite. The Pharisees were good stewards and shall be blessed by the Morning Star. They were to be laid open and defiled by the Diabolous. Then they will be blessed with power from their lord and benefactor with a power that they, themselves, can control and use as they see fit.

Their rancid and crumbling human shells shall no longer be required. They will be able to exist in nearly any form they wish. The Pharisees will be free to roam the Earth, unfettered by human weaknesses. They could be solid or they could be vapor. Not a true deity, they will only be in one place at any given time. They will, however, be able to project themselves to wherever at will. The Pharisees were going to have a lot of fun.

They were still both excited and frightened of The Final Rite. They were scared of the pain; they knew it would be enormous. The devil was going to rip their shit open, but that was the price of admission to this carousel. Their souls were the remainder and the Diabolous held the Note.

Satan shall allow the Pharisees a few hundred years of respite and enjoyment of their newly rewarded powers. Then Satan will have them delivered, like Judas, to the bowels of his Hell. The Pharisees will then spend the remainder of Time skimming the floating slick of waste in the fetid, cold sewers of filth and despair. They will learn to wail and gnash their teeth in regret and agony. In time, they will come to believe that Hell is where they have always been as the memories of life elsewhere fades away.

The Pharisees will cease to accept the very notion of existence outside of their eternal prison. They shall shiver and heave in the thick frozen darkness, every moment cursing their fate. The one they bit into, whole and unyielding.

Welcome home.

The Diabolous forced the head of his penis into Annas Pharisee. The first pair of weeping scorpion stinger barbs tore through his rectum. The old man screamed. Gurgling and spewing, the pain was sharp and wet.

Caiaphas saw his lover stiffen and contort. He knew it would be the same for him.

"Mercy!" a panicked Caiaphas implored, begged, "Have mercy on us, oh Lord!" he cried out.

The Diabolous merely looked across at Caiaphas and the Pharisee turned away in fear.

"Mercy," the devil replied, derisively and with a scoff. He answered the request for mercy by shoving his bull of a cock to the hilt. Annas passed out, but you do not deprive the devil of his audience. The Diabolous slapped the bitch repeatedly until he revived and was full awake.

Annas came to as blood and whole sections of his gastrointestinal tract fell wet and lumpy out of his ass like spongy confetti.

Mercy, the Diabolous thought as Annas began screaming again. Mercy. Funny.

Humans are so funny.

                                                       …. end

If you dug that, you freak, get the whole fucking book. Available in print and Kindle at Amazon.com and everywhere extreme fiction is sold!

Live from the church of Satan

Read PILATE on Kindle and on the cheap.

The Most Depraved Writer in Print. Recognize.

A Brutal Bible Tale by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage


 

"Morbid's Big Date!" new from FuknPunch. (warning: hardcore)

Image via Wikipedia

 

 

 

           

   

           

                           

   

Hey kids! It's time once again for "FuknPunch", the Unemployed Child Care Clown" far-out fiction sample!

 

Call it aftermath, she's turning blue

Such a lovely color for you

Call it aftermath, she's turning blue

While I just sit and stare at you

"BLUE" – A Perfect Circle

Morbid stayed put until Westphal's resuscitators vanished down the hall of Harborside District Hospital. He made damned sure they were far from the room before leaving his impromptu womb. Morbid waited inside his body, deep down in the gastro-intestinal tract, curled up in Westphal's stomach.

God, he couldn't wait to get the fuck out of this junkie loser piece of shit and now it was time. Imagine: trying to commit suicide like he was a fifteen year-old girl who was just dumped by the star quarterback. Jesus, Westphal was such a fucking pansy.

He stretched open the esophagus and slowly crept carefully past the breathing tube sitting securely in his trachea. The mouth was taped all to fuck, so Morbid was forced to seek the exit through Westphal's nose, specifically the left nare. He squeezed ever so painful slow out of his nose, almost choking the new life out of himself in the process, but made all the way out.

He then sat cross-legged and winded on Westphal's chest, trying to catch his breath, taking the air in mellow and deep, thinking now only of her. Westphal may not be allowed to see her, but Morbid can do whatever he pleases and God help anyone trying to stop him.

She was all that remained, all he had left to accomplish before the three of them came together and commenced the final act of their atrocious play.

After placing Shirk's syringe down in one of Westphal's pockets, Morbid climbed off of him, over the bed rail and went again into the bathroom. Time bent its back in its unending circle, this time to clean the vomit and snot instead of fecal filth off of him.

Morbid cleaned as quickly and as thoroughly as his limited time allowed. He untied Westphal's physical retraints and turned the intravenous sedation down way low. Morbid will need Westphal awake soon. Once he was, the junkie-fuck will know just where to go and just what to get. And then Morbid will let him know what he must do to square his debts and balance the books.

Having accomplished his self-cleaning and prepping Westphal, Morbid had his own agenda to satisfy, and fuck me was she gonna get the full-pull, I shit you not.

When your done fucking around with lame, stale bullshit horror, READ RAGE.

Morbid was all ready to seek out his quarry. He went to the door to Westphal's hospital room, opened it just a touch, and looked carefully all around, making sure the coast was clear. After making sure it was so, Morbid crept down the long empty hospital corridor with one of your useless IV bag poles dragging behind him.

Whenever he encountered a staff member he made sure he looked strong on his feet, but mumbled nonsense to himself. The staff smiled absently at him, resuming their focus on whatever brought them his way.

He found her room, way down at the end of the long hall. He pretended to take a long drink at the water fountain there, waiting for a couple of technicians to quit yapping about their respective weekend exploits and move the fuck on. When they finally did, Morbid was at her door and finally alone. After spying no one about, he spun into her room.

Mrs. Fussbudget lay sleeping. He was so very happy to see her again.

Leave her alone.

Morbid knew, without a doubt; that she wouldn't be.

Please, make him leave her alone.

Morbid saw the old woman, lying still and unmoving in her hospital bed. She was completely alone, no relatives anywhere to be seen. Since Westie got shit-canned from her room, they all thought that their precious grand-mama was as safe as a virgin in a nunnery. Oh, well: the best laid plans of mice and men.

She had eyes closed, a tube in her throat. Mrs. Fussbudget's face was soft, sleeping peacefully. She was recovering marvelously now, her breathing triggering the machine, augmenting her placid flow of air.

The vast network of deep wrinkles attested to her longevity, her hard fought time on this Earth. They ran from under salt and pepper wig. Morbid longed to touch them, to run his fingertips down through the grooves. He wanted to trace them down from her eyes to her cheeks and further to the jowls. Follow them down to her blow-hole and circle it around, around again and around.

Instead, he just stared at her. Morbid thought she was just lovely. He was tempted to rush in, but not yet. Not before it's perfect. Morbid must first ready himself.

He went quickly out, while Mrs. Fussbudget was still snoozing peacefully, and checked the hallway one more time. It was quiet, none about. He re-shut the door to her room and made a bee-line for the bathroom. Morbid shut and locked the door.

The light was so harsh and the mirror unbecoming, but both were necessary. Morbid brought out his small kit. He laid out the vials of powders he got from home, and his multi-dose bottle of normal saline and a short syringe with its tiny, ultra-sharp needle he took from work.

Morbid knocked out a bit of both white powders, added a third bit of finely ground blue powder, and put them all in a wide-mouthed empty vial. He squirted a couple milliliters of saline onto the three powders, prepping two, maybe even three doses. Morbid sealed the top and shook the holy hell out of it.

Morbid knew the potent mixture would not completely dissolve and there was no time or opportunity to provide the melting powers of heat. Instead, he rolled up a 'two-by-two' clean gauze pad and stuffed it into the opening of the mixture vial.

Morbid removed the cap and stuck the needle into the impromptu filter. He pulled back on the plunger, sucking up light blue liquid into the syringe. Then he turned back to face the mirror and the bright light.

Morbid shook with longing. He knew Mrs. Fussbudget lay sleeping and waiting. He needed to step it up a bit. He opened up his mouth wide, lifted the furry fungoid tongue. Morbid saw the blue veins, leaning into the mirror. Morbid slid the sharp needle under his tongue, through the pink flesh and into a waiting vein. Morbid pushed in his medicine. He pulled out the needle, held his head back.

Here comes the train…

With ears ringing and doll eyes growing, Morbid packed up his goody bag. He worked through the rush, humming through his noise, happily swallowing blood, the horrible pain fading, crawling back under its rock. He put all the necessaries neatly away and was ready to do the light fandango, takes two to tango, dance of morbid love.

He turned off the light and left the bathroom, closed the door.

She was still sleeping as he came to her.

"Mrs. Fussbudget," Morbid whispered in quiet honey croon. His jingling fingers a-tingly, "I just want you to taste me."

She awoke and blessed Morbid with a quickly fading smile. She vigorously shook her head in the negative, reaching for the nurse call button.

"Looking for this?" Morbid asked her, holding it just out of her reach.

Mrs. Fussbudget began to cry and the way she defiantly balled up her arthritic fists made Morbid joyfully soar on eagle's wings.

He showed her what he held in his other hand. It was a big suction hose line and the negative pressure was sucking on full. Morbid, with a viper's speed, attached the suction to Mrs. Fussbudget's open trachea tube and began to suck the life right out of her.

"I think I love you, madam," he admitted to her as she punched and flailed at him with all of her might. "I'm going to show you just how much."

Mrs. Fussbudget finally quit flailing and carrying on so. She was turning blue and cold and still. Morbid removed the suction from her airway.

With one quick tug of the string, his scrubs dropped to the floor.

"Now that you decided to behave yourself," he told her, "we can begin."

Morbid lifted himself up over the rail and into Mrs. Fussbudget's bed. He lifted her gown. He ran his fingers upward. Morbid was glad that she was still warm. He began to work her over.

Oh my God, you sick fuck.

 REVIEW: 5.0 out of 5 stars "Fascinating and scary", June 20, 2010

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

(REAL NAME)

 

 

Amazon Verified Purchase(What's this?)

 

This review is from:

You Morbid Westphal (Paperback)

 

"This is a short book; you could read it in a single sitting, as I did–twice. Even so, Reverend Rage somehow manages to give us a story that has the scope of a full-blown novel without skimping anywhere. It's fascinating, scary, out-and-out repulsive at times, and even amusing in a few places. (I love Sammy, the crusty old ghost-dad who lives with Westphal.)

The book tells an intricate story, dark and gritty and bizarre–I don't know if Rage claims them as influences, but it makes me think of Chuck Palahniuk and Philip K. Dick collaborating on a horror novel–set in a world of drug dealers, prostitutes, porn producers and otherworldly beings. This world, as well as the story, is well-realized and full of the kind of detail that makes it feel authentic. Everything is extremely vivid.

Westphal, the central character, is a drug-addicted loser who's just one screw-up away from losing his job at a hospital, and who finds he's gotten in over his head with his drug dealer. In fact, I would imagine most of us know, or have known, at least one Westphal in real life. There's much more to it than that, but talking more about the various threads and themes in the story would be running the risk of giving away spoilers.

Suffice to say it's a story full of imagination and weirdness, a story that invites you to give a little thought to what it takes to maintain some control over your life, and to take a look at your capacity for good and evil. "

 

"Coming to the party?"

"FuknPunch" has another story to tell…

Image by anselmolsm via Flickr

Hey kids! It's time once again for "FuknPunch", the Unemployed Child Care Clown" far-out fiction sample! Sure to tickle your funny boner!

An 'excerpt', a 'snippet' (in no discernable order) from the forthcoming "PHARMACIDE" by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage. Dig:

"Three-point-Two:

Pender moved up to the counter and told her his name. Pender handed her his driver's license for ID and this month's coveted prescription from Dr. Fox. He had no clue as to who Dr. Fox was, or even if there really was a genuine Dr. Fox. All Jon Pender knew was that each month Hannah Bergh gave him a prescription for synthetic heroin, written by Dr. Fox, and each month he filled it. Lately, she'd also been giving him a variety of additional pills. He took them all. They subsidized his monthly usage enough to where he always had a nice drug collection at home.

Pender found he couldn't look at the frightened tech, or anyone else for that matter.

Damn it. I should have never gone to that interview.

Three-point-Three:

Dr. Jon Pender's home all through his medical school and most of his clinical training was a tiny, spotless studio guest cottage. The small cottage sat behind a two-story 1930s era home in the fashionably historic Encanto district.

Pender's home was thickly and thoroughly shaded year round by three stately oak trees. Nearly a dozen smaller Chilean mesquite and Chinese elm trees were also scattered around the nice property, adding additional layers of shade. It was peaceful and quiet all the time and Pender just loved it.

The DesMartins, an elderly couple that owned the property, stayed in the main house when in town. They wintered here in PHX, summered in their other home up north in Minnesota, and traveled in between. The couple had no children and therefore, no young grand kids running around, bugging the hell out of Pender. Half of the year the whole place was his. The DesMartins felt much better having the nice young doctor living on grounds and watching the place for them. It was the perfect place to live.

The cottage was only a few scant miles from both the medical school and St. Anthony. Most important, the DesMartins showed exceeding kindness by making sure the rent was low enough for Pender to afford. He had to live off the nine hundred Notes a month stipend he received as part of his Civil Service contract.

Pender walked through the front door of his quaint, but very snug domicile. He hung his coat on the rack by the light switch. He flipped it on and the room was sprinkled with the yellow light of two table lamps. The two combined were just enough to shed light on almost the entire cottage.

Pender went to the immaculate kitchenette. He left not so much as a single dirty dish lying around. He retrieved a diet soda from the refrigerator. The spotless tile of the kitchenette and the scrubbed pine of the living quarters perfectly complimented the floor to ceiling book shelf. It was also clean, devoid completely of dust and scattered papers. The shelf held many books, but they were all quite medical or scientific in nature. Placed firmly right up to the edge of the shelf there was an old roll-top style desk. It was also spotless.

The cottage could not boast a television, or stereo. It had one clock radio. The fold out couch-bed was currently encased in the room's only comfortable piece of sitting furniture. Pender never entertained guests, so the arrangement was well suited for his needs.

Pender went back into the living area and placed his gym bag on the floor. He sat for a moment on the couch and briefly closed his eyes. The pain from his knee was getting progressively worse.

Pender could not afford to take the time off from his residency program to go through surgery and rehab for his knee. He would have to join another class and wait for an opening, which could be anywhere. No, he'd gut it out with the pain killers and keeping active.

Pender just wished to God the Tylenol with codeine would kick in. Then maybe he could think about something, anything, else.

I need to take a second one, he thought. Pender gently placed his left heel on the scratched oval pine coffee table. He leaned forward and with a grimace began massaging his knee.

Pender extended his leg and stretched it as far as he could. The noise his knee made was crushing empty peanut shells. Whenever Pender humped the stairs at St. Anthony his knee would double-crack with every upward step. It was embarrassing when he wasn't alone.

He returned his leg to the table and massaged it anew. It was pissing in the wind, though. Nothing he did seemed to help. Only hiding the throbbing beneath the mask of pain pills gave to Pender any semblance of relief.

Pender was concerned with his growing use of such strong analgesics, but only as it pertained to his career. He could never write his own prescriptions. That would spell trouble with a capital BUTT that rhymed with FUCKED. No physician wanted that kind of disciplinary scrutiny.

His personal physician was making overtures of cutting down and eventually offing his supply all together. He tried not to panic. In response to this growing threat, Pender began squirreling away as many pills as he could. But he could see the bottom of the bottle and it was making him nervous.

Definitely, he decided. I'll take one more, just to make sure the pain doesn't get in the way of my interview.

Pender stood. He trudged to the bathroom at the rear of the cottage. He opened the mirrored medicine cabinet. Pender shook out another T3, thought about it, and shook out another. He downed the two pills with a paper cup of tap water. Pender sighed as he ran the shower. He stripped off his clothes, and with his knee still cracking and popping and hurting, he stepped under the tepid stream of water.

Pender arrived at the parking lot of the research wing of St. Anthony for his interview with time to spare….." end excerpt.

Hey! Let 'FucknPunch' know what you think of this unpublished novel (approx. 120,000 words)  http://stevenrage13@aol.com  Tell The Grim One what you think!

"FuknPunch", the Unemployed Child Care clown shouts out!

Image via Wikipedia



Herod's compound looms ahead, towering over The Harbor as a plague. Lights show, here and there, in the old refinery. The wind howls like the unseen demons that shriek throughout the complex. I hated this place I've brought the Christ to, but my masters demand such.

I look at Immanuel. Her wrists are bare once more. I sigh and shake my head. I exit the car, and come round to the passenger side. I open the door and help her out. She seem so small to me, deflated. I can no longer sense her abundant power. She is drained, leeched…ordinary.

Immanuel stands beside the car, saying nothing. Herod's cops pull up and park behind Pilate. They file out of their vehicles. I see a small glint of shiny metal, the cuffs returning to Immanuel's wrists. I look at her and she not back. She's staring out of focus at the ground. She appears to be praying.

"Spare me this cup of suffering," I hear her whisper. Immanuel then says: "Not by my will, but Thine, be done." And then she is silent.

Herod's cops align themselves in a concave wall in front of Immanuel and me. They do not take eyes off me, their guns only a quick snatch away. No matter what Matthias told the cops about the Pharisee-imposed truce, I know without a doubt that if I even so much as think about pulling more shit like I did at the chapel, they are going to punch my motherfucking card. Dear God in Heaven do the cops look like they wish I would. The police are all smiling to themselves knowing they would get their chance to give my vampire ass what they're sure I got coming to me.

Sensing this, I grip Immanuel's bicep. I very carefully proceeded through the hole they make in their cop wall. I guide a subdued Immanuel toward the entrance. The cops follow close behind us as we all enter Herod's Compound.

Immanuel remains a passive prisoner as we make our progressive way through the layers of security to Herod's Throne Room, deep in the sub-basement of the refinery. I know the bastard is waiting there for us there.

I am bringing the Herod of The Harbor Immanuel the Christ. I feel as though I am drowning a puppy, but tried my level best to shake it off. Thining like that will get me nowhere but dead. My entire existence depends on the next few hours.

Immanuel moves slowly, walking in her gallows gait like guilty prisoners whom have made their peace and are resigned to their fate. But, I know she hasn't done a fucking thing to deserve what's to be done to her. It is making my hands burn again.

We are nearing the Throne Room entrance. We can hear Herod's laughter right through the wall. It is well-oiled, Herod's evil. I can feel its thickness and depth. Herod is completely insane and his evil is true. I can feel all of the unseen things whipping all around us, their shrieks I can plainly hear. I do not fear the unseen, but with my crazy itchy hands being shredded by the talons that are making no difference whatsoever, I am getting scared at what I'm about to do.

It is becoming quite plain. Immanuel leans into me, bumping me slightly. And with that simple gesture, the burning has gone away. I now realize that this tiny preacher has scared Herod and the Pharisees. She means much more to them than even reversing the downward selling trend of Plata. This is not going to be a simple execution. It's much more than a business decision to correct an errant bottom line. It is making my heart lurch. The Pharisees are going to allow Herod to have his wicked way with her. I remember the chapel parking lot. The police were ordered by Herod himself to damage Immanuel. I see that now. If the lower ranks were ordered to run a train of pigs on the little preacher, then what in holy hell does Herod have in store for her here and now?

Our group makes it to the Throne Room with Immanuel's cuffs still fixed firmly in place, her head lowered. She slumps submissively and with trapped resign. She makes not a sound. Wicked hatred fills the entire vicinity. It settles into the cracks and dark corners like a steamed mist. If the Throne Room is entered, it can not be avoided. It seems to be waiting for us.

We stop at the threshold. The big iron door is closed and it gives to me the impression that it is breathing. I reach out for the long handle to slide the door open, but stopped myself.

This is wrong, I think. I turn back to the cops behind us. They have their hands on their guns, taking no chances. They're aching for an excuse to end me. Immanuel remains impassive.

It is now, at this exact moment, while I am on the verge of handing her over to Herod, that I finally stop fixating on revenge. I stop worrying about the business that was stolen from me. I stop using grief as the spark for my vengeance and rage. And I finally stop brooding about my pilfered millions.

Even though it was in my best interests, I can't refrain from thinking how off beam this shit is. This thing I'm helping to do to Immanuel is immoral and all the way wrong. I cannot rationalize it away.

I remove my hand from the door. I bend down and brush away the hair from Immanuel's face. She is downtrodden, appears defeated.

"Who are you, little preacher?" I ask her, "Who are you, really?"

Immanuel then raises her head, straightens to her full height. A quick flick and hair falls behind her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes are full and gleaming at they stare into me. A fog forms around the two of us as her power heats the brisk, dank air. She looks right at me, straight and eye to eye.

"Know this, vampire," Immanuel states, "I am the Son of God."

Her hand cuffs open and fall to the floor.

Herod's cops draw their weapons. The guns clear leather as one and I step between them and Immanuel. My back is fully exposed as I scoop Immanuel up and hugged her tight to me. I cover her and her heat hisses against my cold vampire flesh.

I grit my teeth as the fangs drop. The talons burrow into my arms enveloping her. I fully expect to be buffeted with countless bullets in the back for the tiny Christ, but they never come.

I hold on to her for a bit longer and was shaking with adrenaline when I finally put her down. I turn back and see Herod's cops. The cops still have their guns tightly clenched in white-knuckled fists.

I feel an immense wave of relief, followed abruptly by confusion. Herod's cops are on their backs on the floor of the passageway. They're less than ten feet from the Throne Room door and almost posed in their positions. The cops are a triangle of heavy pins, knocked flat by a deaf bowler. It is a silent and deadly strike.

I look from the cops to Immanuel. She graces me with a miniature smile.

"That," she says, indicating the fallen pins stacked neatly on the floor, "that has not been written."

I glance back and see that they are, all of them, dead. I stare at her and see the hand cuffs gone again. I look at the door that separates us from the Pharisees desire. I think I see hope in her eyes. A choice now has got to be made. What'll it be, nigga? Am I in or am I out? Make me decision and make it now. There are only seconds left.

I made mines.

I reach out for Immanuel's hand. "Let's get the hell out of here," I tell her with a harsh whisper.

Immanuel puts her naked wrists up before my face and the cuffs reappear. They close on their own with a snick-snick and snap into place. She lowers them and regards a nigga with her gaze.

"C'mon," I repeat in a whisper both harsh and impatient, "what the fuck's wrong with you, let's go!"

"We stay," she states emphatically, "The both of us."

Immanuel's words stunned me. She really isn't leaving and I can't leave her. I can't believe this is happening. She really isn't leaving. What possible reason can she have for wanting to stay? I am certain she knows what's coming. She knows full well that they are going to kill her. Still Immanuel insists on staying. Why?

Their window of opportunity is closing fast.

"We can make it," I plead. Motionless, she remains. "Why," he try, "won't you let me save you?"

"Why won't you let me," asks the Christ, "save you?"

Before I can consider that, the door slides open with a pounding metallic bang. There is Herod, himself. He stands in the threshold of the open door.

He bids us welcome.

And now we are too late.

I have this dream you're blowing me…some kisses (via The Grim Reverend Steven Rage Blog)

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.

– Nick Cato

The Place In Between Reverend Steven Rage  Title: The Place In Between Author: Reverend Steven Rage Released: 01/08/10 Paperback: 240 pages Dimensions: 203 x 127 mm ISBN: 978-0-9805938-3-9Available here: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002BLNAEO LegumeMan Books is proud to announce the release of Reverend Steven Rage's The Place In Between'.The Place in Bet … Read More

via The Grim Reverend Steven Rage Blog