Steven Rage's Blog, page 16
October 14, 2010
The Monster Librarian reviews 'You Morbid Westphal'.
There were special group areas to engage in any sort of Greek or Roman decadence. Pornos were filmed on premises. Orgies were easy to be had; coke rails the length of your leg, animal fucking, sucking, sacrifices, Black Magick. There was blood letting and drinking, skin branding and flesh removing. Anything, man. Just fucking anything.
A 5 star review from 'MonsterLibrarian"
not too fuckin' shabby…
You Morbid Westphal by Steven Rage*New Review
Evil Nerd Empire, 2009
ISBN: 978-1-4392-5973-3
Available: New and Used
YOU. Yes, "you"… are a poor soul in the hospital on your last legs. And as it is, you've "given birth" to one of the most horrible "people" ever possible…
MORBID. Born from "your" rectum, Morbid dispatches many other patients in the hospital in extremely horrendous and painful ways. However, the main suspect of these murders isn't Morbid, but instead…
WESTPHAL. Living with his ghost step-dad, Sammy, and his pet aborted fetus, Chip, Westphal works as a night shift nurse, getting stuck with all of the worst patients. All those that no one else wants to fool with. Just to get through the day, Westphal has to dope himself up with the strongest narcotics possible and that doesn't always help make things easier.
These three characters, as well as a host of other interesting "people" make up Steven Rage's You Morbid Westphal. Both the characters and story format are unique- Rage has created a one-of-a-kind voice with this novella, which has enough story to fill a full-length book. A large chunk of the story follows Westphal day-to-day as he suffers through many horrendous tasks at work, in his dreams, and even just trying to obtain more drugs along the way.
As soon as I read the final chapters of this book I was ready to re-read it. I ended up waiting a few months before doing just that, but after a second read, I would be more than happy to do so yet again… and again… and again… You Morbid Westphal is one of those novellas that never get tiresome, as you pick up something different with each read through. You Morbid Westphal is not for the faint of heart, as it is full of numerous crude scenes that Rage describes in graphic detail. For many seasoned horror/bizarro readers, this will be a plus, but for those that can't handle things over the top, beware! Highly recommended!
Contains: Adult language, Adult Situations, Sex, Rape, Violence, Gore, Heavy Drug Use
Review by Rhonda Wilson
http://www.amazon.com/You-Morbid-West...
Morbid would skullfuck Freddy Kruger and use his lovely finger blades to clean Morbid's wretched teeth. So when you are done fucking around with your horror, get 'You Morbid Westphal'.
There were special group areas to engage in any sort of Greek or Roman decadence. Pornos were filmed on premises. Orgies were easy to be had; coke rails the length of your leg, animal fucking, sucking, sacrifices, Black Magick. There was blood letting and drinking, skin branding and flesh removing. Anything, man. Just fucking anything.
Morbid would skullfuck Freddy Kruger. So when you are done playing, get 'YMW'.
http://www.amazon.com/You-Morbid-Westphal-Steven-Rage/dp/1439259739/ref=cm_cmu_up_add_glance
There were special group areas to engage in any sort of Greek or Roman decadence. Pornos were filmed on premises. Orgies were easy to be had; coke rails the length of your leg, animal fucking, sucking, sacrifices, Black Magick. There was blood letting and drinking, skin branding and flesh removing. Anything, man. Just fucking anything.
October 12, 2010
Previous Post
"YOU MORBID WESTPHAL"
by
The Grim Reverend Steven Rage and brought to you by the crazy fucks over at 'Evil Nerd Empire'
Come and visit the inmates at bizarrocentral.com
an excerpt from "YOU MORBID WESTPHAL" from 'Evil Nerd Empire' books: http://www.evilnerdempire.com
from Chapter 10:
Westphal tuned out Sammy's latest tall tale and began his mental list. It didn't take longer than two shakes, because he could see the sugarplums as they danced in his head. He decided to help himself to a nice sampling of just about everything Steele had in his arsenal.
Westphal pulled up his mail and started writing out his order to send to Steele. He wanted some percs, comas, a lot of bitch, a taste of boy (this was the extra, he'd never tried heroin before). He also wanted a half ounce of meth, some phens, T-3s, a couple dozen rolls and some more MDMA powder (Steele's shit is so clean), a handful of zans and vans, and more morphine tablets if he's got 'em. And top it off with a fat sack of mean green. He was happy because this shit should last him a good long time.
This made Westphal securely and supremely happy. He had his rent and utilities paid, enough available on his gas card to scoot the popcan around The Harbor, fresh bone marrow for Chip and even a little left over for some food.
He figured he could stock up on drugs and then he wouldn't have to go to the motherfucker's big, old rambling house for a while. Westphal did this whenever he could, with the certainty of dread that all real dope fiends had of getting eventually popped by Johnny Law. That would seriously fuck up his employment options.
Steele always had someone nearby the computer to take these orders, so Westphal sipped some more coffee and mixed and chopped and railed some more jet fuel, waiting for one of Steele's clones to get back.
The drug dealer never hesitated to make Westphal smile. Steele was a hustla of the first order. He ran a string of businesses like a ghetto corporation out of his own home. He had several entrances and exits, many separate as well as common rooms. Whatever a deviant wanted, Steele could get.
He had drugs, of course, but also much more. If you wanted to get your dick sucked on, or get your shit fisted, cool. If you needed an Unwanted to adopt, his whores did a double business of that. There was no need to glove up if you didn't want to. Most of his females were in a constant knocked-up state. He kept a druggie midwife working constantly to delivery the Unwanteds.
He had a lab set up with technicians harvesting blood marrow around the clock to sell to the exotic pet stores. There were big, softly lit rooms with music leaking gently out of invisible speakers hidden in the walls if you just wanted a place to get high and chill.
There were special group areas to engage in any sort of Greek or Roman decadence. Pornos were filmed on premises. Orgies were easy to be had; coke rails the length of your leg, animal fucking, sucking, sacrifices, Black Magick. There was blood letting and drinking, skin branding and flesh removing. Anything, man. Just fucking anything.
All the different entrances and exits assured as much privacy as you wanted. You could hide out in the basement if you were on the lam, or deeper to the sub-levels where one can dally with the demons and the damned. There were ghosts everywhere and the Magic floating through the place was thick as a sage smudging.
Steele himself was as big and as tough as the cage-fighter he used to be, but sweet and gentle and accommodating if you kept your attitude and rudeness at the door. Westphal had personally seen Steele weep with a young junkie who just miscarried her Wanted baby. And he had also witnessed him crush the trachea of this stupid piece of shit that disrespected the bug guy in his own home.
Steele liked Westphal a great deal. Not only was Westie an obviously steady customer and source of income, but he never hinted on needing credit. He paid his freight up front and, most of all, Westphal was respectful and polite.
Westphal got a reply from Steele's place and it was the big dude himself, which was unusual. You could imagine how busy the young Gotti was.
"What's up, Westie?" he asked over the e-mail, "You feel up to a visit here?"
"Absolutely," Westphal wrote back, "when's good?"
"The PayToday just cleared your five NewGs and I can put your order together in about –oh, say 2 hours," he replied. "That cool wit you?"
"Perfect," Westphal told him. His head was popping off and he was feeling like a million pesos of good, "I'll swing by then."
"Can you stay a while?"
He stopped. That was a weird request. Westphal usually stayed just long enough to be cordial, but Steele knew he liked to do his drugging at home. He knew Westphal didn't indulge in any of his other offerings. Too weird. What should he do, how should he respond?
"Sure, I guess so," he replied to Steele. "Why, man, what's up….problem?"
"No, dude, no problem at all. It's just that my sponsor is here and he specifically asked me for an intro."
"Okay, sure…but why? Did I piss someone off I didn't mean to?"
"No way, nothing like that," he promised. "He just knows you are a good customer and a good guy and Shirk sometimes likes to check out my favorites."
"Shirk, huh? Is he….connected?"
"LOL, nigga!," Steele wrote back. "Yeah, he's connected, but not to the mob, he's from That."
Oh fuck, he's from That? Westphal never fucked with the Dark. Drugs were enough trouble. He was barely hanging on as it is. What the fuck would a demon want with him? But he knew he couldn't say no. Once you pollute your soul to a certain point, you had to do some bidding. He's heard of this like everyone else, but he always thought he could keep skating out of range of Them. Fuck.
After no response: "You still there, dude?" Steele asked.
"Yeah, man, of course, just paused to do a bump," Westphal lied.
"Well get your self together," he said. "This motherfucker is the real Holyfield and he doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Oh, shit, thought Westphal. Now I am in it.
"See you in 2, brother," Steele told him and logged off.
Westphal just sat there, trying not to be scared……
"YOU MORBID WESTPHAL"
by
The Grim Reverend Steven Ra...
"YOU MORBID WESTPHAL"
by
The Grim Reverend Steven Rage and brought to you by the crazy fucks over at 'Evil Nerd Empire'
Come and visit the inmates at bizarrocentral.com
an excerpt from "YOU MORBID WESTPHAL" from 'Evil Nerd Empire' books: http://www.evilnerdempire.com
from Chapter 10:
Westphal tuned out Sammy's latest tall tale and began his mental list. It didn't take longer than two shakes, because he could see the sugarplums as they danced in his head. He decided to help himself to a nice sampling of just about everything Steele had in his arsenal.
Westphal pulled up his mail and started writing out his order to send to Steele. He wanted some percs, comas, a lot of bitch, a taste of boy (this was the extra, he'd never tried heroin before). He also wanted a half ounce of meth, some phens, T-3s, a couple dozen rolls and some more MDMA powder (Steele's shit is so clean), a handful of zans and vans, and more morphine tablets if he's got 'em. And top it off with a fat sack of mean green. He was happy because this shit should last him a good long time.
This made Westphal securely and supremely happy. He had his rent and utilities paid, enough available on his gas card to scoot the popcan around The Harbor, fresh bone marrow for Chip and even a little left over for some food.
He figured he could stock up on drugs and then he wouldn't have to go to the motherfucker's big, old rambling house for a while. Westphal did this whenever he could, with the certainty of dread that all real dope fiends had of getting eventually popped by Johnny Law. That would seriously fuck up his employment options.
Steele always had someone nearby the computer to take these orders, so Westphal sipped some more coffee and mixed and chopped and railed some more jet fuel, waiting for one of Steele's clones to get back.
The drug dealer never hesitated to make Westphal smile. Steele was a hustla of the first order. He ran a string of businesses like a ghetto corporation out of his own home. He had several entrances and exits, many separate as well as common rooms. Whatever a deviant wanted, Steele could get.
He had drugs, of course, but also much more. If you wanted to get your dick sucked on, or get your shit fisted, cool. If you needed an Unwanted to adopt, his whores did a double business of that. There was no need to glove up if you didn't want to. Most of his females were in a constant knocked-up state. He kept a druggie midwife working constantly to delivery the Unwanteds.
He had a lab set up with technicians harvesting blood marrow around the clock to sell to the exotic pet stores. There were big, softly lit rooms with music leaking gently out of invisible speakers hidden in the walls if you just wanted a place to get high and chill.
There were special group areas to engage in any sort of Greek or Roman decadence. Pornos were filmed on premises. Orgies were easy to be had; coke rails the length of your leg, animal fucking, sucking, sacrifices, Black Magick. There was blood letting and drinking, skin branding and flesh removing. Anything, man. Just fucking anything.
All the different entrances and exits assured as much privacy as you wanted. You could hide out in the basement if you were on the lam, or deeper to the sub-levels where one can dally with the demons and the damned. There were ghosts everywhere and the Magic floating through the place was thick as a sage smudging.
Steele himself was as big and as tough as the cage-fighter he used to be, but sweet and gentle and accommodating if you kept your attitude and rudeness at the door. Westphal had personally seen Steele weep with a young junkie who just miscarried her Wanted baby. And he had also witnessed him crush the trachea of this stupid piece of shit that disrespected the bug guy in his own home.
Steele liked Westphal a great deal. Not only was Westie an obviously steady customer and source of income, but he never hinted on needing credit. He paid his freight up front and, most of all, Westphal was respectful and polite.
Westphal got a reply from Steele's place and it was the big dude himself, which was unusual. You could imagine how busy the young Gotti was.
"What's up, Westie?" he asked over the e-mail, "You feel up to a visit here?"
"Absolutely," Westphal wrote back, "when's good?"
"The PayToday just cleared your five NewGs and I can put your order together in about –oh, say 2 hours," he replied. "That cool wit you?"
"Perfect," Westphal told him. His head was popping off and he was feeling like a million pesos of good, "I'll swing by then."
"Can you stay a while?"
He stopped. That was a weird request. Westphal usually stayed just long enough to be cordial, but Steele knew he liked to do his drugging at home. He knew Westphal didn't indulge in any of his other offerings. Too weird. What should he do, how should he respond?
"Sure, I guess so," he replied to Steele. "Why, man, what's up….problem?"
"No, dude, no problem at all. It's just that my sponsor is here and he specifically asked me for an intro."
"Okay, sure…but why? Did I piss someone off I didn't mean to?"
"No way, nothing like that," he promised. "He just knows you are a good customer and a good guy and Shirk sometimes likes to check out my favorites."
"Shirk, huh? Is he….connected?"
"LOL, nigga!," Steele wrote back. "Yeah, he's connected, but not to the mob, he's from That."
Oh fuck, he's from That? Westphal never fucked with the Dark. Drugs were enough trouble. He was barely hanging on as it is. What the fuck would a demon want with him? But he knew he couldn't say no. Once you pollute your soul to a certain point, you had to do some bidding. He's heard of this like everyone else, but he always thought he could keep skating out of range of Them. Fuck.
After no response: "You still there, dude?" Steele asked.
"Yeah, man, of course, just paused to do a bump," Westphal lied.
"Well get your self together," he said. "This motherfucker is the real Holyfield and he doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Oh, shit, thought Westphal. Now I am in it.
"See you in 2, brother," Steele told him and logged off.
Westphal just sat there, trying not to be scared……
October 8, 2010
Blood goes quite well with some Bubblegum
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.
"I wanna shove it up her tiny stink-hole."
Juan needed to find Pilate, this time, for a face-to-face meeting. Nobody knew the vampire, or where he cribbed or how to contact him. It didn't matter, however. Juan wanted no one but his Mary and him in on this plan. The Harbor may be a post-industrialized ghetto shit hole, but they knew small town rules still applied. Everybody knew everybody's business: who was zoomin' who. It's just like 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.
"Fuckin' squares!"
They could tell no one; trust no one. One word of what they were planning and niggas might kill them simply because they hadn't thought of approaching the vampire Plata dealer first.
Once again, Juan made his way through the drunk and fucked-up bar crowd. He was nervous as all hell. He'd been drinking more than he should, smoking super-strong ghetto weed constantly. Finally, after almost two weeks of this nerve-wracking shit, Mary pleasantly surprised him with a handful of muscle relaxing pills which he doled out to himself; one at a time. It helped a great deal as he trolled the same sleezy, sticky, loser filled bar, night after fucking night, waiting for Pilate. He was worried the blood-drinker wouldn't show up and even more nervous that he might.
Juan did a perfunctory head check of the patrons, seeing no Pilate around, had to pee. With some growing dismay, he pushed back, deep into the bar, toward the back hallways, stairs and the toilets.
Juan split the curtains of human skin, replete with freckle, scar and mole stains, and pierces the confines of That. He 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 knows where her freshness seal is? Shit.
"Shit!"
Juan stepped down about six more feet before he came to the first body. The male was long dead, judging by the smell. But that didn't give the old woman with a bald, spotted scalp the right to straddle his below the knee leg amputation. She periodically coughed up mucous from her blow hole 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 gotta go through Hell's Own asshole, just to take a piss?"
Ignoring Morbid patter; –"Hello?"– Juan kept working his way down in to the dark red smoke, until he finally reached the landing. There he saw a man with his hands secure-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? It looks like they got some Level 10 pain downtown, Bubbie!"
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. Some passed out fuck, pockets having already been turned out, slumped over to the side, head planted into the feces smeared wall. He 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 again. The same polished slummin' dude that was trying to holler at their 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 meant anyone who could afford teleporting. He figured if someone teleports themselves into this shithole, 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 would.
"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 into trouble many times.
"Don't get smart with me, young man," he admonished. "I am The Good Doctor," he began. "I am Pilate's sponsor and protector. You need to be sure of what you wish for."
"Why's that?" Juan asked, a bit more politely.
"Because it may just come true," The Good Doctor stated. And then he winked out.
Just then 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 and stood tall.
"When you wish upon a star…"
"You got balls hunting me," the Nocturne told him. Pilate squeezed a little more and made Juan hurt a lot. "But do you have the heart?"
"Makes no nervermind who you be…"
"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. "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," Pilate mockingly replied, "makes you think I won't kill your uninvited ass where you stand?"
"Because we would not dare to seek you out empty handed, Sire," Juan told him.
"Stop the ass-licking sire shit, I don't like it," Pilate warned, "And it will not help to keep you, or your Mary alive."
"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 kept for 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," Pilate 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."
The vampire was silent as he removed his painfully frigid grip from Juan's shoulder, blood seeping now from the talon punctures. Juan could feel him moving close to whisper in his ear.
"Well now, seeing as you two now work for me," the vampire said, "I guess you should call me Pilate."
We're in, thought Juan.
We are!
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