Steven Rage's Blog, page 5

The 4th Anniversery of The OG-Super Kush …

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Available in Print and Kindle. Look for "PILATE: Director's Cut coming soon in Print from MorbidbookS

     Pilate: A Brutal Bible Tale

Steven Rage

Reviewed by Ashley Merrill

Disgusting, horrific, but oddly gravitating, this story follows the betrayal of Jesus in the bible, but in a dark fashion. Portrayed in a dark, frightening place called the Harbor, this book is filled with vampires, drug lords and plata, an extremely addictive and destructive drug. The story goes step by step along similar lines of the bible story, starting with Jesus finding disciples, and encompassing a following of drug addicts that are now becoming clean. The men and vampires that base their lively hood on selling drugs to these now clean men, are angered at the fact that this holy women has such a strong pull on everyone. They will do whatever it takes to see that order is restored and that plata continues to overtake the residents of the Harbor's lives.

Lines such as, "A plump grub dragged its bulk across the pupil of Herod's eye. The grub disappeared around the curve, back into the dark side of the socket. The grub left a long snotty string of bloody excrement in its wake (p. 178)," is enough to make even the strongest of stomachs curl. I asked myself many times why I continued to read the story, but found that the more disgusted I was, the more curious I was as to how far the author would take me.

Steven Rage delves into the dark side of humanity. He reaches into the sick and twisted recesses of our brain and feeds it, even though we try and deny that we may actually enjoy reading what he is giving us. He does an amazing job at keeping the reader interested and repulsed. I had a permanent look of sordid wonder on my face throughout the entire story. He takes you through Jesus' betrayal and what happens to Judas as a result of the betrayal. This is a story that you do not want to miss. It is not for the faint of heart or for people that would be offended that this story was reshaped in such a ghastly way.

I highly recommend this book to anyone who is in touch with their darker side and is willing to admit that we all crave the taboo and brutal side of humanity. It is a great story with a sick twist and is highly entertaining.

Ashley Merrill for: frontstreetreviews.com

'PHARMACIDE' by Steven Scott Nelson, RRT. and more!

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The hum-dingy-est ghost step-dad of all time …

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See, I told ya the Rev.'s a nice guy ...

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

"YOU MORBID WESTPHAL"

by

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

Come and visit the inmates at bizarrocentral.com


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


 
 
 
 
 
from Chapter 10:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

KINDLE version

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ghosts ghosting ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you stay a while?"

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

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

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

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

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

Tired of 'safe' horror? Look no farther! 'click'!

"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……

 

 

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UNDERGROUND Life in The Harbor.

If Only!

 

  My Last Meal and Testament:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Note: This book contains graphic violence, illicit drug use, non-consensual extreme sex, and potentially offensive material given the religious references. Through the sheer shock of his presentation of Short Stories and Novel Excerpts, Rage Primer forces readers to consider the alternatives, to look at the garbage in the streets, to see what is swept into the gutters at night right before all decent people awake to see another cleaned up version of the day.

  

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

Sincerely Yours,

CM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Paul Keres

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  -    Kindle Edition -

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An apocalyptic underground community known as 'The Harbor'

available in print and kindle

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

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

http://www.goodreads.com/stevenrage

'Th …more The three stories presented here are tied to an apocalyptic underground community known as The Harbor (two take place post, while the title tale goes down before all he…moreSep 19, 2010 Nick Cato 'The Place in Between" review:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 2010: You Morbid Westphal by Steven Rage 
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by Rhonda Wilson on Sunday, October 3, 2010 at 8:17am

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… 

Print and Kindle Editions!

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

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Following in the shadows of Pilate ... I dress quickly and leave the vault where I sleep my protected sleep. I head upstairs to the kitchen and open the refrigerator door. Inside the freezer there are a few frozen I.V. packs of consolidated red blood cells. I put one in the microwave to defrost it. The blood is normally used between my twice-weekly feedings. But now I am forced to use it to stave off the need for fresh blood. Packed cells do carry some oxygen, but there is no significant amount attached to red blood cells in this form. It is the oxygen I so crave. I park myself at a chair by the table. Juan comes in and sits with me. I remember the time Juan asked to be turned. I told him the truth. That there is no way to turn a human into a vampire, that vampires are born, not made. Vampires all house an inherited recessive genome that will spell the end of the lineage unlucky enough to sprout a nosferatu. Vampires can't reproduce. It's nature's way of not perpetuating a genetic mistake. Juan was greatly disappointed, as I recall. He wanted so bad to believe the mythos and legends. I, on the other hand, am quite glad the tales are fiction. The human herd would thin rather quickly if there were squads of vampires out there. Herod is trouble enough. I put nasal prongs into my nose and turn the oxygen tank on. The microwave beeps. I retrieve the defrosted blood and tear open the package. 4 Kindle Edition ...

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Sermon from The Grim Reverend

 

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My fellow sinners,

Tie off, locate the bump. Lock and Load.

He's gonna gut you, my pretty….

Born whole from the rectum of a dying patient, Morbid silently stalks the hospital's hallways, heinously dispatching the most helpless of patients and in the most painfully repulsive of manners. In the meantime, in order to pay for his family and home that includes his ghost step-father Sammy and his pet aborted fetus Chip, Westphal has to ingest mounds of dangerous narcotics to get through his night shifts. Barely hanging on to his Care Tech gig by his fingernails, the last thing Westphal needs is to be accused of Morbid's evil deeds. You, on the other hand, simply want to find some solace. Terminally ill from a virulent infection, and dependent on Life Support, all You beg for a peaceful and dignified demise. Shirk has other plans for You. The ancient drug-snuffling demon makes You relive all of your deadly and venial sins as he tortures You. Night after night. Until eternal Damnation begins for YOU MORBID WESTPHAL, yet again.

 Get your freak on.  You know you want to.  For some wicked medicine…

Morbid just wants to taste you  

Go Ye and sin no more,

Reverend Steven Rage

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The Good Doctor's sickest story yet.

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From The Grim One's hardcore collection of fucked-up sick Bizarro scented 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.

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

By Eric Mays "Bizarro Author of "Naked Metam… (Richmond, VA) – 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…

Filed under: alternate history, Amazon, Amazon.com, Australian Books, Bizarro, books, Extreme Fiction, horror, KINDLE and E-Readers, occult, occult, paranormal, supernatural, torture porn Tagged: A Nightmare on Elm Street, amazon, amazon.com, Arts, BBC, bizarro, blood, books, Bubblegum, Catheter, Christmas, demons, DianeKruger, Doctor, Doctor Who, drugs, experimental, fiction, Freddy Krueger, ghosts, God, Good Doctor, harcore, hardcore, horror, hospital, killers, legumeman, List of The Sarah Jane Adventures serials, Little Ice Age, Lord, Lucifer, New York City, occult, Online Writing, paranormal, Place in Between, rage, Satan, Shopping, smashwords, supernatural, suspense, The Place, thriller, Torture Porn, Trudge, United States, Uptown, vampires, Video game, Wine tasting descriptors

It's Long, Strong and Down to get the Fiction On: Westphal makes his Drug Shopping List .

'Click' here to get this crazy shit …

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'!

"It takes a sincerely sick, drug-addled, putrified brain to come up with a world-view this demented."

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, cult, demons, drugs, entertainment, events, fiction, ghosts, horror, killers, KINDLE, monsters, morbid, news, occult, paranormal, PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale, serial killer, supernatural, suspense, thriller, vampires

It's Long, Strong and Down to get the Friction On: Westphal makes his Drug Shopping List .

Image via Wikipedia

 



$2.99 Kindle Wicked Love …

mdma, meth, heroin, green, zans and vans…

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'!

"It takes a sincerely sick, drug-addled, putrified brain to come up with a world-view this demented."

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: A Nightmare on Elm Street, amazon, amazon.com, Arts, bizarro, blood, Bone marrow, books, Bubblegum, Business, Christ, cult, demons, DianeKruger, drugs, El Cristo, evil nerd empire, experimental, fiction, Freddy Krueger, Fuck, ghosts, GlaxoSmithKline, God, Health, horror, hospital, Jesus, killers, KINDLE, Knick Knack Paddy Whack Westphal, legumeman, MDMA, medical, monsters, morbid, Nantucket Massachusetts, Nantuckett, occult, Online Writing, paranormal, Paul Westphal, PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale, Reverend, Sammy, serial killer, Shit, Shopping, Steele, supernatural, suspense, thriller, Tyreke Evans, UBS, United States, vampires, Verastem, Washington D.C., Westie, Westphal

Westphal makes his Drug Shopping List … it's long …

Image via Wikipedia

$2.99 Kindle Wicked Love ...

The spinning image is MDMA or Ecstacy. You never know what the side affects will be and shit …

'Click' here to get this crazy shit …

 

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'!

 

"It takes a sincerely sick, drug-addled, putrified brain to come up with a world-view this demented."

 

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: A Nightmare on Elm Street, amazon, amazon.com, Arts, bizarro, blood, Bone marrow, books, Bubblegum, Business, Christ, cult, demons, DianeKruger, drugs, El Cristo, evil nerd empire, experimental, fiction, Freddy Krueger, Fuck, ghosts, GlaxoSmithKline, God, Health, horror, hospital, Jesus, killers, KINDLE, legumeman, MDMA, medical, monsters, morbid, occult, Online Writing, paranormal, Paul Westphal, PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale, Reverend, Sammy, serial killer, Shit, Shopping, supernatural, suspense, thriller, Tyreke Evans, UBS, United States, vampires, Verastem, Washington D.C., Westphal