Steven Rage's Blog, page 2
March 26, 2014
The Place In Between by Reverend Steven Rage
MorbidbookS, Extreme Fiction Publisher.:
Originally posted on The Taichung Bookworm:
Review: The Place In Between by The Reverend Steven Rage (Legume Man Books, 2010)
Let’s get this out of the way first: you are not ready to read this book. You might never be ready. So do yourself a favour and forget about it. This is a perfect storm of wrong. An unholy union of bizarro, relentless horror and unbounded, amoral imagination. The Reverend Steven Rage also goes by the moniker ‘The Grim Reverend’. There is reason for that, good reason. Stay away. Go and read Twilight 5: Return Of The Angsty Teen Vampire Underwear Models. Seriously.
Still here? Good, then we can begin. The Place In Between is a triptych of tales set around the fictional town of Harbour, two taking place after an unspeakable apocalypse, one just beforehand. The first tale, Blood and Bubblegum chiefly centres around Juan and the shit-demon which lives in his ass. Juan…
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Filed under: sexy bleeding vampire pics
Want A Tasty Sample of FREE -Range RAGE? You do? Sweet! :)
Now Dig This Here:
Some earlier Rage. Back before The Reverend got Grim. Courtesy of Legumeman Books! And if you’re still not convinced, here’s a nice review:
The Place In Between by Reverend Steven Rage
September 29, 2013 by Cannonball Jones
Review: The Place In Between by The Reverend Steven Rage (Legume Man Books, 2010)
Let’s get this out of the way first: you are not ready to read this book. You might never be ready. So do yourself a favour and forget about it. This is a perfect storm of wrong. An unholy union of bizarro, relentless horror and unbounded, amoral imagination. The Reverend Steven Rage also goes by the moniker ‘The Grim Reverend’. There is reason for that, good reason. Stay away. Go and read Twilight 5: Return Of The Angsty Teen Vampire Underwear Models. Seriously.
Still here? Good, then we can begin. The Place In Between is a triptych of tales set around the fictional town of Harbour, two taking place after an unspeakable apocalypse, one just beforehand. The first tale, Blood and Bubblegum chiefly centres around Juan and the shit-demon which lives in his ass. Juan and his passenger traverse Harbour’s cold and dangerous byways, taking care to avoid the demons spilling out of the mouth of hell while trying to rise above the pathetic, huddled masses around them. The one sure way to do this is through the drugs trade. Their key to entering is the mysterious Good Doctor and his patron, the Nocturne. Juan and his partner in crime hatch a plot, kidnapping a blood-offering which should secure their place in the Doctor’s good graces. The scenes which follow are… special.
The second story, the titular The Place In Between, is an altogether different beast. Set in a more familiar universe before things got weird, this is a tale of revenge which will tie your stomach in knots. Del is a man struggling with his wayward wife Luci, whose affinity for cocaine tends to land her in trouble far too often. Del, an upright Navy man, reaches his wit’s end when he finds that she has become ensnared by Sancho, a wicked piece of shit with whom he has unresolved business. After hooking Luci on crack and persuading her to perform all manner of acts on camera, Sancho sends the results to Del who has an understandable meltdown.
An attempted suicide leaves him completely paralysed, unable to to do anything but think, and he is placed in the care of Luci and Sancho, masquerading as an old friend. Del though life was bad before the gunshot. He was wrong. Unable to so much as breathe unaided he becomes Sancho’s plaything while his wife is further degraded. However, a near-death experience puts him in contact with a particularly vindictive demon who makes him an offer he can’t refuse.
FInally we have Bad Notion, Travelling Potion, returning us to the realm of the Good Doctor and his companions. Here the nature of the narcotics trade referred to before becomes clear. There are two main drugs available, analogues of opium and cocaine. Both are produced by a pair of conjoined creatures called Trudge and Drudge, a witless beast kept caged and which thrives only on semen, preferably the Doctor’s but man-goat will do in a pinch. The opiate is secreted by this mutant in the form of earwax while the cocaine is its dandruff. However, Trudge and Drudge harbour another secret – the salt of their tears, if ingested, will literally transport the user to a happier place. Unfortunately the creatures facilitating this transport are none to happy to see their services suddenly abused on such a huge scale.
The Place In Between is a very wrong book on many levels. The worlds it creates are dire, grim beyond belief. There are no happy endings, no morals, no reasons. The stories just are. Reading them was like passing a car wreck and feeling my gaze drawn to the scattered corpses despite my best intentions. This is not a book to read if you are in a negative state of mind or if you are of even a vaguely sensitive disposition. However if you’re made of sterner stuff it’s bloody hilarious in a way which may well make you hate yourself. You’ll feel dirty afterwards, you may actually want to take the book into the shower with you and scrub it clean, but I bet there’ll be a little smirk somewhere. Admit it. You love it.
Filed under: sexy bleeding vampire pics
March 10, 2014
‘HIGH TIMES’ lyrics in the OG HEBREW: ‘Can Thoust Diggeth THAT?!’ Sayeth the Lord.
Cypress Hill’s classic ‘HIGH TIMES’ lyrics in the OG HEBREW: ‘Can Thoust Diggeth THAT?!’
‘click’ on my shit to dig my favorite ‘scrolls’. playa …. shoooo…. Now this is some baaaaaad weeeeeeed ……
In case you can’t read Hebrew:
http://youtu.be/oobg_INTpU0
הפעם הראשונה שאני מכה את העשב שהייתי צעירה
להשתעל עדריאות, מתוח , חזרה ב’81 הולך לבית הספר, לא פרץbuddah מאחוריהיציע… מתקרבלרמה גבוהה , לא תמכורבוריתלמורים תיק ניקל , תיק ניקל, אגורהלאגורה מפרקים לא ימכורלדבשים למצוץ אותו כמונטיף קרח אחרים רצו40 אבל רציתיהעשב בעוד כולם רצים החוצה, אני פלנטין הזרעים שלי Homegrown , בוגי החצר האחורית , אני עדיין מסטול יש צמחי העשב שלי גבוהים יותר מהפינה של הטלפון שלך אני זוכר כשאני יכול רק לקבל sess באותם ימים עכשיו אני rockin כי שוקולד תאילנדי, בואשוהאובך מרדדיםאחד שומן, להעביר אותו לצד השמאל לא מול אבל אני שונא את זה כשהם לא לוקחים את הזרעיםבוטים חבורה של קהה רולים הן כמו טירונים בתחום Spillindookies המזוין צמח עשב עם שום מיומנות אני צריך לכתוב ספר , איך לגלגל אותו ולאחר מכן להעביר אותו להדליק אותו , לגדל אותו , למכור אותו ולאחר מכן לחלק אותו מר Greenthumb , ד”ר ויד , אני ממשיך לתת לאיש העשב מה שהם צריכים נכון אמנם, לנשוף את העשן המזוין שלך למעלה בשמיים ולקבל גבוה עם הבאנג שלך או פילדלפיה או Dutchess שלך תן לי אור [פזמון : ] תפוס את העשב עד , לארוז אותו , לשים אותובצינור זה קל למעלה, מעשןקערה , אנו Puffin זכות ורית לשים את האצבע על החורולהחזיק אותו באח קח שאיפה , זה מספיק , ולהעביר אותו למקום אחר קבל את שק גראס, מעשן אותו, עד שכל זה נעלם אין מקקיםבמאפרה, מעשנים את כל הפצצה אני USTA להוציא כסף אבל עכשיו אני מגדל אתהיבולים אבל אני שונא את זה כאשרהחזירים לזרוקפשיטה על המקום הוא אמר פעם שאני מעשן כל כך הרבה עשב , על ידיאחיו כי אני נראה כמוהכושי על עטיפת זיג זג אולי אני USTA נראה כמושהדרך חזרה, כאשר כאשר כושי שלי Sen Dog היה סביב sippin על חן בואוחרוזים הזבוב לחנוק אותך עםהריח של הבואש יש לנו את הכיסוי גבוה טיימס מראה לך כיצד לגלגלבוטה קילו רובע, ליש”ט רבעון , קילו לרבע Makin טיולים למקסיקו רץ עד הגבול שערות ארוכות , ראשים קירחים, צמותוסלעים פאנק ילדים בכל הצבעים להיות Puffin אותוהבלוק יש לי את העשב על מנעול עם כלשיטות הידרו התקשר אליי גורם נפוח אני מאקיןולוקחשיא להיט מכת העשן המזוין שלך למעלה בשמיים ולקבל גבוה עםהבאנג , פילדלפיה או Dutchess , תן לי את האורSee More
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March 1, 2014
Who’d Win in a Death-Match: Shirk the Drug-snuffling Demon or The Bloody Chick at the bottom of this page …
For Kindle Edition
Chapter Thirteen
DOWN GOES WESTPHAL
Be Seeing You
Westphal awoke in his bed. Sammy was there, looking on with concern.
“I was dreaming of kittens,” he told the ghost. “There were dozens of them and they were eating me.”
“I don’t know about no cats,” Sammy told him, indicating all the bandaged wounds on his thighs, belly and chest, “But somethin’ sure as shit was biting da fuck outta you. What was it?”
“I got in over my head, don’t worry about it,” Westphal replied, sitting himself up in bed. “I went over to Steele’s and got dosed.”
He looked down at all the bandaged bites. They hurt like crazy, but they looked clean. Sammy did a nice job of first-aid.
“What time is it, anyway?” Westphal asked.
“It’s early afternoon, Westie,” Sammy replied.
“Early afternoon, then why the fuck you wake me up, Dad?”
“Because when they dropped you off, it was yesterday, Son,” he explained. “I woke you up cuz I know how you feel about yer job.”
What?
“I’ve been sleeping for a whole day?”
“Yeah, kid,” Sammy told him, “A whole day.”
“Shit, man, I gotta go to fuckin’ work?”
“Yeah, if you still want it.”
Of course he still wants his gig at Harborside District. They would all be lost without the money.
“Did you see a package when they dropped me off?” he asked, and then: “And my car?”
“They’re both here, Westie,” Sammy replied. “The car’s in yer spot and da package I put under da sink where yous keeps yer medicine.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Westphal replied with great relief.
He had to get ready for work and needed the extra extras. He asked for the coffee. While Sammy went to put the pot on, Westie gingerly stood up from the bed and made his way over to the bathroom.
He kneeled with a painful grunt and found the bundled package under the sink. God bless, Sammy!
Westphal opened the bubble wrap lined manila envelope and saw the goodies inside. All the powders were labled and the pills as well. And on the top of all the drugs he ordered, Westphal saw a syringe with a note wrapped around it.
He unwrapped the package and read the note: “Take me with you. Save me for later. You’ll need it! Shirk.”
Shirk. Now he was beginning to remember the film and the demon and Shirk. But he was on his feet, with his crazy memories of getting sucked by a beautiful demon. He also had a big, even generous buffet of powerful and dangerous drugs. Coffee was brewing and he still had his job to go to.
So Westphal grabbed some percs and popped them for the pain. Knowing they would make him sleepy, he went to his desk and snorted up some pre-work enthusiasm.
Then he showered, having Sammy re-do his bandages.
When he walked out to the popcan, he thought the bullshit was behind him.
Westphal’s boss, Mr. Whistlebottom, was waiting for him when he walked through the entrance to Harborside District Hospital. Oh, shit.
“What’s up?” asked Westphal as soon as he saw him.
“Let’s go to my office,” he said and Westphal followed him as they wound their way around and down to Mr. Whistlebottom’s office, next to their department in the basement.
We’re always underground, huh Westie?
Once they were in and seated, Westphal let his boss get started.
“You won’t be taking care of Mr. Mandiddle anymore.”
“Why’s that?” Westphal asked, hoping not to show his exultation.
C’mon, Westie, you know why.
“The patient is deceased.”
Westphal felt a punch to his gut, remembering the filthy scrubs he had Sammy burn. He began to wonder why he really did that, instead of washing them.
“Did you need to go over my notes, or?” he let it hang. Mr. Whistlebottom looked at him a moment.
“No,” he replied, “We already did, but you weren’t even here, were you?”
“No,” Westphal said a tad to quickly, “I mean; when did the patient expire?”
Expire. Just like milk gone bad.
“Day before yesterday,” he was told, “but it wasn’t due to his illnesses.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Mr. Mandiddle did not die of natural causes. He was murdered in a horrific way,” Mr. Whistlebottom stated flatly.
“Murdered?” Whestphal replied, the fear beginning to balloon in him. “Murdered, how?”
The boss picked up a piece of official looking paper. It looked like a coroner’s report. Mr. Whistlebottom read from it. “The patient was strangled to death by purposeful and forceful placement of a foreign object, occluding the trachea, leading to anoxic death.”
“Somebody strangled Mr. Mandiddle?” Westphal asked in a squeak. He nervously shifted his position and felt a panic coming on. “Who did it?”
“The police don’t know yet,” he said, staring at Westphal, watching him begin to shake a little. “Are you alright there, Westphal?”
“Yeah, sure, of course,” he told him. “Umm, uh what was he strangled with?”
“Well now, that’s the really strange part of the story,” he said, “It was with his own diseased rectum.”
“What?” asked Westphal, “Are you playing with me?”
“Not for a minute would I joke about something like that,” he replied, “don’t make that mistake again.”
“Yeah, sure, I’m not joking either, Mr. Whistlebottom,” Westphal tried to explain, “It’s just that I guess I don’t understand how that could happen. I mean I knew he had the necrotizing bug in his rectum, but how could he have been strangled by it?”
“The authorities claimed they found a pair of those long, curved forceps they use for tube placement on the floor, under his bed.”
“Okay.”
“Yes, so they initially determined that someone rather strong used the forceps to literally grab onto and forcibly removed his rectum and then, still using the forceps, forcibly stuffed it down Mr. Mandiddle’s throat.”
He shouldn’t have been mean to you.
“Well, uhm, uh – that would certainly do it,” was all Westphal could think to say. He was already thinking about how he could ask if there were any prints on the forceps without ass-squeak here getting suspicious.
“So, that’s why you won’t be taking care of that gem, anymore,” his boss replied, showing just a hint of humanity. But then: “The other longer-term care patient we would normally assign has specifically requested to not be cared for by you.”
“What? Specifically me? Who is it and what did I do to shit in their oatmeal?”
“First, you are not to use that language with me, ever.”
“Sorry.”
“Yes, you are,” he agreed, getting far too steamed up for just that comment, “Have you taken care of a,” glancing down at another piece of paper he didn’t really need to see, “Mrs. Fussbudget?”
She’s a beauty.
Westphal stared at him a moment, their eyes meeting. Westphal was getting dangerously near to panicking, but sucked it up.
He said: “No, I’ve never taken care of her.”
“Ever been in her room?”
“No.”
“Not even as part of an Urgent Response Team?”
Why would I lie, why would I lie?
“No, sir,” Westphal replied, eyes starting to twitch uncomfortably, “Never taken care of her in any situation. I have never been in her room, and frankly, before now I doubt if I had even heard her name.”
“Well, that’s what I thought,” he said, putting that piece of paper down and picking up another one. “But the family is quite insistent after she picked out your picture as the one who assaulted her.”
“What happened to her?”
“The police and in-house consul made it clear that I was not to say, just that there is now an ongoing investigation.” He looked closely at Westphal. “They also suggested that you be monitored closely.”
Oh, fat-ass, did you just make the list!
“What the fuck does that mean?” Westphal asked, incredulously.
“What did I just tell you about that kind of language?”
“Just tell me what the hell is going on here, Mr. Whistlebottom.” Westphal demanded, thoroughly red-faced and getting loud. “I suggest you come clean.”
Mr. Whistlebottom was dumbfounded and his own faced darkened. It was with a considerable dose of effort that he kept his cool, Westphal could tell. He almost felt sorry for the paper-pushing fat fuck.
“You are hereby placed on suspension, dependant on the outcome of the police as well as our own in-house investigation.”
“Starting when?”
“Immediately,” Mr. Whistlebottom replied and stood. “You can go home now. You will be paid 2 hours for coming in. Thank you.”
Westphal waited a moment for more, but that was all there was. He was suspended, without pay, and for what? Just because some wig-wearing old battle-axe that’s behind on her eyeglass prescription picked him out of a group of photos? Are they fucking serious? Well, fuck them, then, he thought, and the horse they all rode in on. I am out of here.
“I guess I’ll just leave then,” Westphal replied and high-tailed it to the office door.
“The hospital will call you to schedule time with the police,” he shouted after Westphal.
“Fine,” he said and opened the office door, where he was met by a large dude in civilian clothes.
“Are you Westphal?” he asked sweetly.
“Yes,” Westphal replied, and even before he could inquire as to what the motherfucker wanted, the dude punched him in the gut and then landed a good one on Westphal’s cheekbone.
Normally, that would have been the end of the fight. Westphal was more of a junkie than a fighter, but he was pissed all the way off.
He surprised even himself, and jumped on the dude and began wailing away on him. He had the dude pinned down and was trying to beat him into the floor when he was pulled off by security. The dude got up, bleeding and all, and got in a solid kick to the chest which spelled the end to the confrontation and Westphal’s employment at Harborside District Hospital.
You ain’t-uh workin’ here no mo’.
Bloody Dertie Philthy Wee Hoor …
For Paperback Edition of ‘YMW’
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February 21, 2014
“FuknPunch” has another story to tell…
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.
‘click’ image for hyperlink to Amazon. Paperback and Kindle editions. Dig it.
‘click’ on Smiley for our Facebook Page. MorbidbookS. Where Everything Bleeds.
Filed under: Bizarro, books, dark, events, paranormal, ghosts, Extreme Fiction, fiction, horror, KINDLE and E-Readers, medical suspense thriller, serial killers, suspense, thriller, Uncategorized Tagged: bizarro, blood, books, British Columbia, Business, Canada, Cape Fear River, dark fantasy, drugs, Emergency management, Fantasy, fiction, Fox, God, Hate crime, Health, hospital, killers, KINDLE, medical, medical drama, medical suspense, Minnesota, noir, Online Writing, paranormal, Pender, Pender County North Carolina, Pender Island, Port Moody, rage, serial killer, Shopping, supernatural, suspense, thriller, Tylenol, United States
February 6, 2014
MorbidbookS SciFi Anthology, by Steven Scott Nelson
MorbidbookS SciFi Anthology, by Steven Scott Nelson
CARGO CONTAINS:
Space-wrecked on Venus by Neil R. Jones
For All the Marbles by Rev. Steven Rage
Tony and the Beetles by Philip K. Dick
Acid Bath by Vaseleos Garson
The Butterfly Kiss by Arthur Dekker Savage
The Moon Destroyers by Monroe K. Ruch
From some of the giants of the Golden Age to the darkest of dystopian noir, MorbidbookS SciFi Anthology will take you from hopeful space travel to living hand-to-mouth in the despair beneath the Earth.
Welcome to your future.
Filed under: sexy bleeding vampire pics
Spun Monkey’s Digest by The Spun Monkey
Spun Monkey’s Digest by The Spun Monkey
Completely inappropriate humor coupled with dark poetry and flash fiction. It’s more fun than you can shake a dead kitten at.
Filed under: sexy bleeding vampire pics
October 14, 2013
It’s Long, Strong and Down to get the Fiction On: Westphal makes his Drug Shopping List .
Available in Paperback and Kindle. ‘Click’ the book cover to see for your own damn self…
Chapter Ten
“PAY DAY”
Knick Knack Paddy Whack
Westphal awoke some time just after noon in his bed. He sat up, panicked because he could not recall what had happened. But a quick peak over to the side showed Chip nestled snug as a dead bug and Sammy he could hear singing to himself somewhere on the other side of the bedroom wall. Then he looked down and surprised the fuck out of himself, for he was wearing his hospital scrubs and he had no business doing that.
He climbed out of bed, noting the blood and dried filth and fluids, disgustingly ripping them off and tossing them to the ground. They were so bad; he might very well have to get rid of them.
It’s more complicated than that. You know you have to burn them, Westphal. Prison is a bad place to have to kick, bitch, bad dreams all up in my head, no lie…
To throw them away, at least, and he made a bee-line for the shower. Once inside the dirty stall, he doused himself with soap and shampoo, brushed the dog-fuck out of his teeth, making them bleed, rinsing with super strong peroxide, swishing and spitting foamy blood between his feet. And then finally trimmed all his nails, cleaned his ears, shaved until his skin bled, and then showered once the more. He still felt unclean, like something particularly bad had happened, but he didn’t know what. But there was nothing he could do about something he could not remember.
Westphal figured that he probably just woke up in the middle of his sleep, thought he had to go to work, got dressed in his scrubs, and then vomited on himself. It’s happened before, but he never felt like this. Westphal felt like he just jerked off in a confessional.
That’s because you knicked and knacked, and paddy-whacked. You sure as shit gave that dog your bone.
As he began towel drying himself, Westphal called out to Sammy to start the coffee pot, deciding to drop it and get the fuck on with his day.
The ghost made the best cup on the planet, and never complained doing the little things around the house to make Westphal’s life that much easier. He even cleaned up a bit, without asking, from time to time, but could not figure out how to use the fucking washing machine. That would have been a real boon.
“Got it goin’, Westie,” Sammy called out.
Westphal went through the ever-growing pile of dirty clothes, smelling each item to see which was the least offensive. He finally settled on some jeans, undershirt and a thick, warm flannel. He slipped on and tied the laces of a pair of well-worn hiking boots and sat at the adjoining desk.
Ask Sammy to do it, he won’t mind.
“Hey, Sammy,” Westphal called out, thinking, “Do me another favor, would ya?”
“Sure thing, whatcha need?”
“Looks like I puked on myself again and the scrubs are too far gone to salvage.”
“You want I should take ‘em down to the basement furnace and give ‘em the old heave-ho?” He asked as he came in.
Westphal looked up at him. “Appreciate it,” he told him.
Sammy scooped them up and dropped through the floor, ghosting his way, quick as you please, down to the basement.
Now you will be safe. Always listen to me, buttercup. Morbid is good and Morbid is wise. Dope now.
When Sammy left, Westphal pulled open the sliding top drawer of his desk and pulled out his plate of breakfast. He put it on the blotter in front of him, moving the computer keyboard a bit to the side and out of his way.
He mixed a little speed and a lot of cocaine together. Westphal turned the internet provider on while he chopped up the mixture, loving the ritual.
Sammy was back in a few short minutes, announcing his return from the kitchen. Moments later, he brought Westphal his perfect cup of coffee, saying the same thing he always did:
“I take my coffee the same way I like my women, Westie.”
“Peurto Rican,” Westphal finished; matching Sammy’s smile with his own. “Thanks, Dad.” Sammy pat him on the shoulder and left, singing about a girl from Nantuckett.
Westphal sipped at the cup. It was perfect. Then he bent down to suck up two fat lines, which were also perfect. He held his head back to let it soak in. He pinched shut his nose while he brought up his bank account. Westphal needed to see how much money he had available before he could ascertain how much and what kind of drugs he could get today from Steele.
This was always a little nerve-wracking for him. He had all his monthly bills on an auto-deduct, so he didn’t accidentally find his addict-ass homeless. This was a good thing. Mistakes are made a lot when you are stoned all the time and Westphal long ago accepted the necessity of this pragmatism.
The worrisome part came when he had to log-on to find out how much money was left for drugs. He was getting a little on the low side, especially the glass. It was going a lot faster lately and he couldn’t really put his finger on why. But he was stoned all the time, in one way or another, so he probably just did more than he realized.
Westphal looked at his bank’s page and almost choked. The account balance was huge. Okay, well not huge by the standards of most, but there was a lot more than normal for Westphal. He checked out the computer screen closely, making sure he was really seeing this and then it hit him.
“Fuck, yes!” he hissed, “Score!”
He sniffed his shit back severely and blinked his eyes. This means he can get everything he wants from Steele, not just fill in the cracks.
Westphal thought a minute, tapping his happy fingers on the desk, and going mentally over his wish list.
It was much more varied than his usual order and in larger quantity. He even added one extra item he normally never can afford, you know as a treat. Westphal felt like he was Christmas shopping for himself.
The extra money came from the double deposit he got this month for Sammy’s After Death Insurance and his third paycheck from work. He had forgotten all about it. They just happened to have both come in a few days apart and that meant money to spare!
Westphal scrolled down the paid side of his bank account, just to make sure none of it wasn’t going to get sucked up by bills. He smiled and pumped a fist skyward with delight, because nothing was due. He snorted up a little more dope and got Steele’s e-mail ready.
“Oh, baby, daddy’s gonna get stupid high,” Westphal told Chip.
“Good news, there, Westie?” Sammy asked.
“Hells, yeah, Dad,” he replied, “Both of my extra checks came in this week.”
“At the same time?”
“Oh, yeah!”
“Well, good for you, buddy!” Sammy called back with enthusiasm. “And that reminds me of the time we mistakenly got our housing allowance when we were already under way, so we hit this port off da Horn and found this Black gal dat had da pinkest snatch this side of Heaven!”
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….
Filed under: Amazon, amazon kindle, Amazon.com, American Kindle, Bizarro, blood, bloody needle, depravity, Extreme Fiction, fetish prom, ghosts, horror, kindle, monster librarian, morbid books, occult, occult, occult fiction, paranormal, serial killers, sexy bleeding vampire pics, sexy mess, somebody bleeding, street lit., supernatural, the grim reverend steven rage, torture porn, urban noir Tagged: Art, Arts, bizarro, blood, books, Christ, City council, cult, demons, Dope, drugs, entertainment, events, fiction, Fort Huachuca, Gender-neutral toilet, ghosts, horror, killers, KINDLE, monsters, morbid, news, occult, Oregon, paranormal, PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale, Portland Oregon, Portland Public Schools, Raytheon, Raytheon Missile Systems, serial killer, supernatural, suspense, thriller, Tucson International Airport, United State, United States, United States Under Secretary of the Army, vampires, Westphal
April 28, 2013
The Devil’s in You a Mile Deep!!
“Oh Ancient and Glorious One I call to thee. From the age before the heaven and the earth were lifted to their places. In the time before time you have reigned,” spoke the human male. The room was dark candle-lit and smoky with thick waves of incense. Whispers and sudden muted shrieks were heard from the invisible forces. The gate opened wide. “Before there was light when darkness stained existence,” he called out. He unsheathed the dagger and presented it skyward. “You have reigned. Before the Sun and the Moon,” he said, “before the holy mother dried and gave forth life, you have reigned.” The noises through the spiritual door grew stronger and louder. The dark magic brought forth cold and palpable presence. A stab of raw fear clutched the human’s yammering heart. His breath fogged thick in front of him. “I call out to thee, oh Ancient One who threatens from Without. The Lord of Darkness, the Master of Chaos, the Unborn and Most Beloved. Come to me,” he called still, “The Dog God, the Dragon God, the Sea Monster, the Master of Magicians. I implore thee. Hear my plea. I pledge to you my life. I give to you my will, oh Mighty One, if only you make your presence known,” the father said. He sliced open his muscled chest. Blood dripped onto the male child splayed helpless before him. “I offer up my only son’s precious soul. To be your slave, work your will. To do as you please. I give him to you, oh Morning Star, oh Lucifer. Be there blessings to me. I beseech thee, Lord. In return I pledge eternal obedience to you. All the power and all the glory shall be unto thee and so it must be. Until the most holy day when you ascend the Ladder of Lights and ride in triumph through the gates of the Sacred City,” he proclaimed loudly. He paused a moment to catch his breath. “I await your command,” he continued, “I seek only to serve your whim.” He pointed the dagger tip downward and held the sharp blade aloft. He looked down at the babe before him. The room was chilly and full. He could feel unseen creatures slithering around him. They were touching his naked skin and tickling his middle, “A servant or sacrifice!” the bloody, wriggling infant’s father called out. He raised the sharpened dagger as high as he could above his son. He held it tight with clenched hands. He waited to plunge it deep in his baby’s breast.
“Spare him,” a voice behind the human commanded. He lowered the blade, but he dared not turn around. He knew the devil was there right behind him. And although he worshipped the Fallen Angel with all his heart and mind he did not want to face him. The Diabolous stood eight feet tall. He rose up through the portal of the chalked pentagram on the floor and stood before his quaking servant. “He shall be mine.”
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April 10, 2013
It’s Long, Strong and Down to get the Fiction On: Westphal makes his Drug Shopping List .
Chapter Ten
“PAY DAY”
Knick Knack Paddy Whack
Westphal awoke some time just after noon in his bed. He sat up, panicked because he could not recall what had happened. But a quick peak over to the side showed Chip nestled snug as a dead bug and Sammy he could hear singing to himself somewhere on the other side of the bedroom wall. Then he looked down and surprised the fuck out of himself, for he was wearing his hospital scrubs and he had no business doing that.
He climbed out of bed, noting the blood and dried filth and fluids, disgustingly ripping them off and tossing them to the ground. They were so bad; he might very well have to get rid of them.
It’s more complicated than that. You know you have to burn them, Westphal. Prison is a bad place to have to kick, bitch, bad dreams all up in my head, no lie…
To throw them away, at least, and he made a bee-line for the shower. Once inside the dirty stall, he doused himself with soap and shampoo, brushed the dog-fuck out of his teeth, making them bleed, rinsing with super strong peroxide, swishing and spitting foamy blood between his feet. And then finally trimmed all his nails, cleaned his ears, shaved until his skin bled, and then showered once the more. He still felt unclean, like something particularly bad had happened, but he didn’t know what. But there was nothing he could do about something he could not remember.
Westphal figured that he probably just woke up in the middle of his sleep, thought he had to go to work, got dressed in his scrubs, and then vomited on himself. It’s happened before, but he never felt like this. Westphal felt like he just jerked off in a confessional.
That’s because you knicked and knacked, and paddy-whacked. You sure as shit gave that dog your bone.
As he began towel drying himself, Westphal called out to Sammy to start the coffee pot, deciding to drop it and get the fuck on with his day.
The ghost made the best cup on the planet, and never complained doing the little things around the house to make Westphal’s life that much easier. He even cleaned up a bit, without asking, from time to time, but could not figure out how to use the fucking washing machine. That would have been a real boon.
“Got it goin’, Westie,” Sammy called out.
Westphal went through the ever-growing pile of dirty clothes, smelling each item to see which was the least offensive. He finally settled on some jeans, undershirt and a thick, warm flannel. He slipped on and tied the laces of a pair of well-worn hiking boots and sat at the adjoining desk.
Ask Sammy to do it, he won’t mind.
“Hey, Sammy,” Westphal called out, thinking, “Do me another favor, would ya?”
“Sure thing, whatcha need?”
“Looks like I puked on myself again and the scrubs are too far gone to salvage.”
“You want I should take ‘em down to the basement furnace and give ‘em the old heave-ho?” He asked as he came in.
Westphal looked up at him. “Appreciate it,” he told him.
Sammy scooped them up and dropped through the floor, ghosting his way, quick as you please, down to the basement.
Now you will be safe. Always listen to me, buttercup. Morbid is good and Morbid is wise. Dope now.
When Sammy left, Westphal pulled open the sliding top drawer of his desk and pulled out his plate of breakfast. He put it on the blotter in front of him, moving the computer keyboard a bit to the side and out of his way.
He mixed a little speed and a lot of cocaine together. Westphal turned the internet provider on while he chopped up the mixture, loving the ritual.
Sammy was back in a few short minutes, announcing his return from the kitchen. Moments later, he brought Westphal his perfect cup of coffee, saying the same thing he always did:
“I take my coffee the same way I like my women, Westie.”
“Peurto Rican,” Westphal finished; matching Sammy’s smile with his own. “Thanks, Dad.” Sammy pat him on the shoulder and left, singing about a girl from Nantuckett.
Westphal sipped at the cup. It was perfect. Then he bent down to suck up two fat lines, which were also perfect. He held his head back to let it soak in. He pinched shut his nose while he brought up his bank account. Westphal needed to see how much money he had available before he could ascertain how much and what kind of drugs he could get today from Steele.
This was always a little nerve-wracking for him. He had all his monthly bills on an auto-deduct, so he didn’t accidentally find his addict-ass homeless. This was a good thing. Mistakes are made a lot when you are stoned all the time and Westphal long ago accepted the necessity of this pragmatism.
The worrisome part came when he had to log-on to find out how much money was left for drugs. He was getting a little on the low side, especially the glass. It was going a lot faster lately and he couldn’t really put his finger on why. But he was stoned all the time, in one way or another, so he probably just did more than he realized.
Westphal looked at his bank’s page and almost choked. The account balance was huge. Okay, well not huge by the standards of most, but there was a lot more than normal for Westphal. He checked out the computer screen closely, making sure he was really seeing this and then it hit him.
“Fuck, yes!” he hissed, “Score!”
He sniffed his shit back severely and blinked his eyes. This means he can get everything he wants from Steele, not just fill in the cracks.
Westphal thought a minute, tapping his happy fingers on the desk, and going mentally over his wish list.
It was much more varied than his usual order and in larger quantity. He even added one extra item he normally never can afford, you know as a treat. Westphal felt like he was Christmas shopping for himself.
The extra money came from the double deposit he got this month for Sammy’s After Death Insurance and his third paycheck from work. He had forgotten all about it. They just happened to have both come in a few days apart and that meant money to spare!
Westphal scrolled down the paid side of his bank account, just to make sure none of it wasn’t going to get sucked up by bills. He smiled and pumped a fist skyward with delight, because nothing was due. He snorted up a little more dope and got Steele’s e-mail ready.
“Oh, baby, daddy’s gonna get stupid high,” Westphal told Chip.
“Good news, there, Westie?” Sammy asked.
“Hells, yeah, Dad,” he replied, “Both of my extra checks came in this week.”
“At the same time?”
“Oh, yeah!”
“Well, good for you, buddy!” Sammy called back with enthusiasm. “And that reminds me of the time we mistakenly got our housing allowance when we were already under way, so we hit this port off da Horn and found this Black gal dat had da pinkest snatch this side of Heaven!”
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….
Tired of ‘safe’ horror? Look no farther! ‘click’!
Filed under: Amazon, amazon kindle, Amazon.com, American Kindle, Bizarro, blood, bloody needle, depravity, Extreme Fiction, fetish prom, ghosts, horror, kindle, monster librarian, morbid books, occult, occult, occult fiction, paranormal, serial killers, sexy bleeding vampire pics, sexy mess, somebody bleeding, street lit., supernatural, the grim reverend steven rage, torture porn, urban noir Tagged: Art, Arts, bizarro, blood, books, Christ, City council, cult, demons, Dope, drugs, entertainment, events, fiction, Gender-neutral toilet, ghosts, horror, killers, KINDLE, monsters, morbid, news, occult, Oregon, paranormal, PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale, Portland Oregon, Portland Public Schools, serial killer, supernatural, suspense, thriller, United State, vampires, Westphal
