Steven Rage's Blog, page 7
September 9, 2011
Attention span of a gnat? Get 'flashed' by the Reverend! (#1)
'ONE TOO MANY'
I have awakened just now in my own bed, with a fine-ly feel. Strong. Right through the pain: old and new. Emoting well, despite last night's debauches, having had one too many at the pub, I feel foolish and need a quick fix. A few strong pain pills, some rich, sweet coffee and a trail of tears will triumph. But, when I tossed back the comforting down, I've noticed more than a few new modifications to my ongoing work of body art. Now that I'm standing, I've decided that they look just fine. I'm keeping them, thank you very much.
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August 4, 2011
'PHARMACIDE' novel… You are in the Right Place. Dig it:
***'CLICK'*** on my*** Hey, Kids! Time once again for "FuknPunch", the "Unemployed Child Care Clown" ! And Man I just tell ya.. FucknPunch just love Rages twisted melon. As one huge fan has said: "As a true connoisseur of the horror genre, I must admit I was verily disgusted and appalled by this piece of "Morbid" and I am certain that this was the author's intent. It takes a sincerely sick, drug-addled, putrified brain to come up with a world-view this demented. The "Reverend" must be very proud. If you enjoyed the Infernal trilogy by Edward Lee, then you will probably get off on these tales of another true hell where all rules no longer apply and the most profane things occur. I wish Reverend Rage a massive following so that one day my autographed copy might be worth something on Ebay." And that just about sez it all, fucknuts, so DIG IT, gut-sacks....
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Back Cover, "PHARMACIDE" by Rage
Image via Wikipedia
PHARMACIDE is a dark and suspenseful novel. PHARMACIDE is medical suspense, lab wrongdoings, murder, extortion, gang hits, versus my usual fare. There are no ghosts, demons, vampires, the Brood, Morbid, Shirk, re-incarnated Pontius Pilate, 'The Good Doctor', halflings, satanic blood rituals and absolutely NO ONE GETS RAPED by SATAN. No animals were hurt during the making of this manuscript. That means that at a PG or so rating, nearly anyone can have a nice big Fit of Rage. If you dig the NC-17 (or worse) dark scribbling good for you, my friend! I have shit-tons of gross, wet, dark, and dank smelly extreme fiction. Horror and Occult, Hardcore Christian, too. Thanks for coming. Enjoy!
Welcome! Here we begin with the synopsis of PHARMACIDE and then we dig right in. Keep going to newer posts and you will follow PHARMACIDE in order. Dig it:
"PHARMACIDE" A novel of dark suspense by: Steven Sott Nelson, RRT
"The Love of money is the root of all evil." -The Good Book
"We are all born to die. In the meantime, make money. Fuck a book." -
"PHARMACIDE"
"HIDING PLACES"
Let's begin near the end:
Just like blood in my mouth, I can taste the fear. This terror is a constant companion as I scan the lot. I need to find a place to hide on the quick. This place of concealment needs to be ten to fifteen years old. Too old to be protected with a car alarm, I'm seeking a functional tool, not a trendy fashion statement. I can't go arbitrarily jiggling on door handles, praying alarms don't sound. Otherwise, I get to see if I can outrun El Oso and his gun. Not wanting to give that a go, I move swiftly, hunched over, attempting to seek out the right car and simultaneously keep myself hidden from my relentless, armed pursuer. It will be a neat trick, if I can. I wouldn't lay odds on it, though.
I still can't believe this is happening to me. Running for my life in the dead of night is not at all what I had in mind when I accepted this gig.
Quiet as the dreams of sleeping ants, I skulk from parked car to parked car. Finally I strike gold. The '76 Buick I happen upon is perfect. The four-door sedan isn't even locked. The passenger-side front door opens louder than I am happy with, but I should be safe. I hope. I don't hear the big man anywhere near, so maybe. I do a fast and low survey and spot no one. Maybe, I think, just maybe. I don't expect to be fortunate enough to find car keys dangling with promise from the ignition. I'm not surprised to clock it empty. A just in case swift check of the underside of the visor and beneath the driver's seat, also prove fruitless. After one more look-see out to the dark lot, I slide, as quietly as I can, over the top of the front seat of the twelve year-old car. I thump down to the cold dark floorboard in the back. My heart is pounding staccatos in my head and my breathing goes in and out, raspy and quick. It is early January in the desert valley city of Phoenix. The very early morning air is freezing here in the Grand Canyon State capital. I am just settling down when the footsteps I've been expecting finally arrive. The path of El Oso's feet is light and sure. I hear him searching for me as he weaves his way through the staff parking lot of St. Anthony Medical Center. The lot is half-filled with cars, but vacant of people. I hear my adversary chuckle softly. "I know you're here, Doc," he says. "I know you're close by. You're so scared I can practically smell it." Well, he's got that right. My dizziness is increasing and I am as terrified as I have eve been. "Be a man and show yourself. You won't suffer," El Oso promises. "Not like she did. She was begging for the life of her child while I laughed in her face. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, mister big-time doctor." I'm doing the best I can to melt into the floorboard of the big sedan. My hands are trembling as I listen to the killer walk past me. "She whimpered for you, Doc. She cried out for you to save her, but you couldn't know that. Not when you run away like a scared rabbit, leaving her trapped in the wreckage and helpless at my feet." I hear El Oso's voice fading as he walks further away. I want so desperately to shout out how I had gone for help. That I didn't know what would happen. But I can't say a single word, no matter how rattled I feel. Instead, I bite down hard on my own fist until the pain flashes boldly. A pointless and impotent gesture, but I manage to draw a little blood. Pain should keep me sharp, if the rank fear won't. "Now here's a nice ride," I hear him say from a distance. "I bet is costs a shit-ton of Notes, though. After I finish the job and collect the rest of my money. Maybe I'll celebrate and buy myself one." I lie perfectly still and El Oso stops his wondering aloud. I wish he'd keep babbling. I couldn't give a rip about his window shopping, but I'm praying he ramps up his monologue again. The ensuing silence frightens me even more than his casual talk of violence has. When I can hear El Oso talking, I have a fair idea where the killer is, but now? Now, El Oso can be anywhere. The night continues on in its silence, all except for the distant wailing of an ambulance. As the siren fades, two beeps leak from my wristwatch, followed almost immediately by two more, signaling the two a.m. alarm. The shock of it jolts the devil out of me. I fumble with the watch's display face, dousing the remaining beeps. You have got to be kidding me, I think. I hope the killer can't hear it, but the alarm's about as subtle as an explosion. Sounds can travel far in the still, cold night air.
Shit.
–end 1st excerpt.
Go to NEWER POSTS to read more PHARMACIDE …
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July 26, 2011
Hickory Dickory Dock, This Chick Was Sucking My Clock …
Cover of PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale
The Place in Between by Steven Rage
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Hey You!
The Reverend thought you might like a sample of my new book, "The Place in Between". Go on and check it out, you've never seen the likes:
http://www.legumeman.com/samples%20and%2…
Rev. Steven Rage
View all my reviews Sep 19, 2010 Nick Cato rated it 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.
Review
It takes a sick, drug-addled, putrified brain to come up this demented. If you enjoyed the Infernal trilogy by Edward Lee, then you will probably get off on these tales of another true hell.
–nuff b. ess reviewed The Place In Between
Hardcore Horror & Bizarro Collide
'TPIB' is gross, disgusting, funny, horrific, and disturbing. Rage writes with his conscience thrown out the window.
–Nick Cato "nickyak" (Staten Island, NY United States)
nobody is more brilliantly repulsive than rage
there is an intelligence and his gift as a storyteller is being finely honed. rage is still gruesome, sickening, twisted, profane, disgusting, morbid, blasphemous.
–D. Gorman "Crystalline Structure Moon"
Not soon forgotten
With graphic scenes of violence, sex and torture Steven Rage's unique cadence and elaborate descriptions vividly animates every aspect of his writing. Read this book. You'll not forget.
–Mary Menzel "Reviewer – AllTheseBooks.com"
Steven Rage has written an enthralling horror tale!
–Harriet Klausner- (#1 REVIEWER) See all my reviews
Product Description
A new 3 novella collection of the darkest, grittiest, gruesome fiction to ever be released by LegumeMan Books.
Three cuts of bizarre hardcore horror from the macabre mind of the grim Reverend Rage. Three sordid tales of demons, revenge, botched suicide, organic narcotics, torture, halflings, freaks, vampires and a post apocalyptic society coming apart at its seams. Three trips to the dark side that'll leave you reeling… yet unable to look away.
From the Author
Also by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage:
"The Fall of a Blood Drinking Drug Dealer"
"Rage Primer"
"BELLY: A Brutal Bible Tale"
"For All The Marbles"
"The Place In Between"
"You Morbid Westphal"
"PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale"
AND LOOK FOR "PHARMACIDE" coming soon!!
By
nuff b. ess
"As a true connoisseur of the horror genre, I must admit I was verily disgusted and appalled by this piece of "Morbid" and I am certain that this was the author's intent. It takes a sincerely sick, drug-addled, putrified brain to come up with a world-view this demented. The "Reverend" must be very proud. If you enjoyed the Infernal trilogy by Edward Lee, then you will probably get off on these tales of another true hell where all rules no longer apply and the most profane things occur. I wish Reverend Rage a massive following so that one day my autographed copy might be worth something on Ebay."
Visit Rage anytime at stevenrage.wordpress.com
From the Inside Flap
Freaks just love the Reverend…
"It's gritty, and realistically crazy. It's gross in just the
right amounts. The story is so eloquently presented that
you're straight in it for the whole nail-biting ride. I'd say
it's masterful. Dark, beautiful, bizarro, and insightful. The
Reverend does brilliantly. I'm an instant fan of Steven
Rage. I can't wait to read more."
Kevin Shamel, author of Rotten Little Animals.
"Like early Tom Piccirilli mixed with Edward Lee. Get on
the Rage train while you can because I have a feeling
that he'll be getting bigger with each new book".
Pulp Blues.
"You Morbid Westphal is not a book for the faint of heart.
But if you're up for some of the hard stuff, you'll dig this".
Garrett Cook, author of the Murderland series,
Jimmy Plush and Archelon Ranch.
"He weaves a world that is painted in black and white
hues, where anything can happen (and often does), and
is brutally visceral. You Morbid Westphal does for hospitals
what Jaws did for beach getaways! Steven Rage is a
masterful storyteller".
Eric Mays, author of Naked Metamorphosis.
From the Back Cover
The Place in Between: When Del is sent pictures of his wife's latest affair, he reasons a .45 caliber bullet will answer his problems. To Del's dismay, that's only the beginning of his time spent wedged in the place in between. Luci's lover tortures Del relentlessly. Del wants to recover just enough to seek revenge on them both. Sure enough a demon shows up with her silky-sweet promises. Then the ambiance twists dark and cruel beyond anything any one of them could've imagined.
Blood and Bubblegum: It's colder than frozen shit down here in the dangerous tunnels of The Harbor in the post-cataclysmic world (ACE). Juan and I find ourselves here, in this horrible place because of The Good Doctor. His organic narcotics trade is booming. Juan, Mary and I want in. We have to find TGD and the nocturne, see if they will let us. We are down. We are hungry. And we are bringing Blood and Bubblegum to sweeten the pot. All of our dreams will come true. The only uncertainty is Mary and Juan living long enough to reap the rewards.
Bad Notion, Traveling Potion: The second day of the fifth waxing moon, in the 24th year, ACE. The frozen earth of The Harbor is in the grips of a new Little Ice Age. The human populace is down to just one-third. They are forced to exist in long, dank tunnels and cramped domiciles underground with The Good Doctor and his creations of Halflings and other freaks and geeks. TGD's latest organic narcotic discovery goes LIVE and becomes self-aware. The bad notion traveling potion makes meat puppet users do its unholy bidding. Then the monster decides to turn on TGD, the Creator. Not the best idea, this. But it sure is going to be fun to watch.
About the Author
Reverend Steven Rage maintains that the hospital his
alter-ego works night-shifts for is haunted. However,
so many years of working in the dark with the sick
and dying has skewed his reality in such a perverse
way that even the brightness of day has become
frightening to him. He probably thinks that's haunted.
The Reverend further asserts that his writing of
such bizarre, bloody and extreme fiction is conducive
to his and everyone else's well-being. Everyone
should encourage him. And there is no proof Rage
sleeps upside down in a sealed closet. Absolutely
no proof at all.
July 25, 2011
Know Your Rage!
Image via Wikipedia
The Author Speaks: The Reverend Steven Rage
3:54 PM PDT, July 1, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
The Author Speaks: The Reverend Steven Rage
It's a real shame that I know Steven Rage. He wouldn't want you to know that it's all an act. I mean, I hear about this writer, and he's got the online persona of a sinister master of the macabre. Then to meet him…you realize he's kind of bubbly. Or, maybe that's the comfort lure. Maybe that's the way Rage draws you nigh so that he can feast on your soul. I'm not sure. And that's one of the genius things behind the Reverend Steven Rage.
Only once before have I seen an author so become a caricature of a character (that author was Robert Tacoma, who spent years online cultivating a following as "Taco Bob", the possum farmer. He wrote illiterate message board posts, and humorous stories of life on the South Florida roadkill farm.) and Rage does it masterfully. As mentioned, I've met Steven Rage and I like the guy, but he's still a mystery. I guess that's why I like his books. There's a very distinct vibe that accompanies them – if you like it dark, dirty and (in some cases) downright gross, Rage delivers.
I had not read Steven Rage's first book – PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale
– when I met him. Sadly, I'd not read any of his stuff. During the early days of Naked Metamorphosis
Rage and I agreed to exchange manuscripts in a show of support. What an odd exchange. Rage had just released a hardcore, bizarro horror called You Morbid Westphal
. Naked Metamorphosis was a dark comedy of Shakespearean proportions. What an odd combo.
I loved "You Morbid Westphal". It was a dark noir that involved a demon and a ghost in a hospital. It was gritty. It was good. I went back and read Pilate. If James Morrow was known for his Bible Tales for Adults and the Godhead Trilogy, then Steven Rage will be known for his Brutal Bible Tales. As brutal, in fact, as the Old Testament. Rage is all…well, the rage right now. I had the pleasure of speaking to the truly unique character.
Eric Mays: Steven Rage, thanks for taking the time to chat. Before I go any further is "Rage" something I should be worried about? I don't want to fall prey to a whirlwind, blindsided chopblock.
Steven Rage: Rage is the name the Reverend writes under. It was either Steven Rage, or Steven Joyfully Larks About. Rage has a more little more POW to it, I think. Eric, you have nothing to fear. The Reverend has had all his meds today with no flashbacks, so no worries, my friend. That being said, I am under court-ordered obligation to advise you NOT to turn your back on me and don't make any sudden movements and everything's going to be okay. It's not a problem, really. It's just that some days are saner than others. On that note, maybe we should just get started before the meds do wear off.
EM: Umm…okay. None of that worries me. Let's see, you like to go by the moniker "Reverend", right? Is it true? Are you actually ordained, or is it more like the "Reverend" Horton Heat?
SR: Rage is a legally ordained minister, able to perform weddings, baptisms, as well as speaking directly to God. (by the way, Eric, the Big Kahuna's not too tickled with you lately, so…)
Functionally, the Reverend sought to lend an air of legitimacy to his fiction, since it congregates (hey, that's funny) in the realms of Bizarro-tainted Occult, Horror and Brutal Bible Tales. Rage settled on Reverend because the title he really wanted: "The God of Thunder and Rock n Roll" has already been taken. God damned Gene Simmons.
EM: Speaking of Gene Simmons (well, and the Rev. Horton Heat for that matter), the man swears he gets more Polaroids of naked people that any living person. I can see that. But, Rage, you've got to be rolling in fan mail of that ilk.
SR: Well, to tell the truth, it has been kind of dissapointing, thus far. The Reverend could have sworn that he would end up seeing more ass than a toilet seat at Lillith Fair. Sadly, that has not been the case. Mostly it has just been requests to intercede for readers with Satan, and/or writing advice. There have been a few marriage proposals. Mostly from women who are trying to emmigrate from former Soviet Bloc nations and lonely Grizzly bears who just want to cuddle and spoon the Reverend.
EM: Okay, getting down to business now. Your first book "Pilate: A Brutal Bible Tale". Sounds like a recipe for run-ins with those that take religion a little too serious. Regardless of the actual brutality within the actual Bible, people seem to see things like this as blasphemous and sacrilege. Any experience with lynch mobs?
SR: The Reverend has been threatened plenty, that's true. Oh, hell, some people just don't have a sense of humor. Granted, seeing Jesus of Nazareth re-incarnated as a 23 year old Latin female isn't everyone's cup of orange pekoe, but isn't that the point? To write something few have seen before. Rage thinks so. Fortunately, the Reverend has only been crucified on threads, so far. Time will tell. But it's all just tongue-in-cheek and devil-may-care, so fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.
EM: Are you a Catholic? Did you first start toying with this idea while sitting through mass?
SR:
Rage was baptised and raised by Lutherans. The followers of Martin Luther maintain a number of similarities to the Catholics, but it is more like Catholic Lite. A few less rituals that the original flavor. The Reverend was Born Again and baptised a second time. This time by the Southern Baptists. The first baptism, maybe it didn't take, don't know… not too sure about the second one either, come to think of it.
Anywho, since that time Rage has read the Holy Bible cover to cover at least five times and has studied the different philosopies and practices of Protestants, Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormons, Green Magic, Black Magick, Satanism, Tao de Ching, Astrology, Yoga and The Secret. Rage is still searching for answers.
As far as the idea behind PILATE and other Brutal bible Tales, Rage always felt that the Bible has a wealth of incredible stories, but they were written, sorry to say, like shit. Boring as all get-out. So the Reverend thought he could do better, giving the stories some much needed teeth.
At this time I have re-written in modern times the fictional setting of The Harbor and placed there the stories of Jesus Christ, Pontius Pilate, Jonah, Job, Herod (several of those fuckers) Judas, Simon Peter, John the Baptist and Mary Magdalene. Rage is proud of these works. Sad to say, he does not expect his writing to be the topic of Sunday School or church lectures anytime soon.
EM: A year, or so, later, you put out "You Morbid Westphal". Now, this is reads like M. Night Shymalan on pure meth – it's an extreme ghost story with twists and turns aplenty, just cranked up to eleven. You've got ghosts and you've got demons and you've got hospitals – three of the things that freak people out. I'm assuming you're not serving as a volunteer up at the local Pediatrics wing, right?
SR: Rage is also Registered Respiratory Therapist and Instructor. The Reverend has been working in hospitals and teaching RT forever. That's probably the reason why the violence and carnage have such a visceral reality to it. Rage knows what death looks like. Dying is never pretty when seeing it up close. It's never like in the movies, never nice.
That being said, the Reverend kind of tumbled into all this. He doesn't really want to work in critical care, or be a minister, or even write. What he really wants to do is direct. Amateur porno would be fine.
Or maybe a game show host.
Maybe work with Lepers, blind kids, things like that.
Rage originally wanted to be a showgirl, but he was cursed with freakishly narrow ankles.
EM: I'm sure your ankles are fine. You would have made a fine showgirl. Your medical knwledge, though, is interesting. You have an intriguing take on demon birth (I'm not sure if I'm holding back because I didn't use the words SPOILER ALERT or if I'm just trying to keep things cleanish). Do you really think that's where demons come from?
SR: Well, it's not called the Demon Hole for nothing, mi amigo. The Reverend can show you, if you'd like.
E M: That's okay. When you were writing "You Morbid Westphal" what kind of cult like following were you envisioning for yourself. Let's face it, Rage, your name lends itself to a cult following.
SR: Nothing too grandiose. The Reverend was thinking of a more simplified existence as the Undisputed Heavyweight Prophet of the Compound (let's get it on!). The tax-exempt church shall be dubbed: "Our Eternal Lady of Perpetual Pain, Suffering, Problem Gambling and Skin Disorders-(Reformed)".
We shall be housed deep inside a de-comissioned missile silo in the Dakota wilds. It will be so much fun! There will be all sorts of activities, besides the televangilism that will pay the bills. Oh, yes! We'll have skin-branding, blood-letting and animal sacrifices. Tuesday Evenings with Satan, taffee-pulls, Prairie Dress Modeling Thursdays and chili cook-offs. Lesbian Mystery Swap Saturdays, Yahtzee and Scrabble tournaments. There will even be classes on how to fashion a hash-pipe out of the human skulls of heretics. More fun than you can shake a dead-cat-on-a-crucifix at!
Wanna join? It's easy! All's it takes is a few drops of your blood and your undying loyalty. Oh, yeah, and Beelzebub will have to mount you at some point. Rage won't lie: that shit hurts.
By the way, how are y'all fixed with modern weaponry? You pretty savvy around semi-autos, shoulder mounted missile launchers, infra-red binocs, motion detectors and such?
Just planning ahead, just planning ahead.
Can anyone run a still?
Grow bud-smoke?
Psych-shrooms?
We'll need baby-sitters, too.
EM: Nobody likes to be mounted by Beelzebub. It's true, as for the rest…well, I guess only time will tell.
I'm not going to sugar-coat it, Rage. You are knee deep in depravity. I'm joking, of course. Because you are the sick man you are, I'm curious, what do you read that scares you? Or are you going to try and pass of that you're a Jodi Picoult or Nora Roberts fan.
SR: When the Reverend reads for pleasure, which is as often as possible, he is always craving that BAD-ASS factor. That's the goal. That and getting elbows deep in depravity. Reading horror is difficult because, sorry to say, nothing scares Rage as much as his next thought. Therefore reading for him is a relentless quest for stories that will make the goose bumps rise. Simple as that. That goes for music and film as well.
When craving a hot shot of depravity, the Reverend melts a big, bent spoonful of Jordan Krall's fiction.
That shit makes Rage happy.
EM: Jordan Krall does, obviously, rock! So, what's next? I feel we've got to keep this cult alive, man! I hear you've gotten in with Buckets O' Guts press, right? I think I heard that you're also writing a little something about quadriplegics and dancing, or something of the sort. Tell me a little more about the future.
SR: Rage is hoping to get in good with several different presses, Buckets O' Guts being one. The Reverend is really quite insecure and requires constant validation from a variety of sources. There's a couple dark and depraved novellas being shopped around currently. We'll see.
What Rage is truly jazzed about is "LegumeMan Books", a newer press out of Australia. This house is being gracious and ballsy enough to publish "The Place in Between" and "Blood and Bubblegum" together come Fall 2010. It will be, hands down, the craziest shit in print, Rage kids you not. Now the cult of Rageosity will be below the equator as well as above. Frightening, yes?
The Reverend is also working on some short Bizarro-esque fiction and will be continuing his work on a more traditional full-length novel of medical suspense titled: "PHARMACIDE". There's hope to being done with that big bastard in about a year. It will be 4 to 5 times the size of "You Morbid Westphal". Looking forward to where that takes us.
Then it will be back to the well (or cesspool). Penning gruesome Bizarro horror occult novellas and Brutal Bible Tales are the Reverend's first loves. Rage does what he can, but the Dark will remain placid for only so long. It must be fed the blood of the Innocents! (maniacal laughter).
Oh, Cheese-n-Rice! Did the Reverend say that last part out loud? Truly sorry, Believers. He has got to get this shit straight. When sound comes out, Rage is talking. When it's not, he's thinking…
The Reverend is a fun guy to chat with. And, if you're ever in the wild and you bump into him, please give him a drink. He's an even better drinking buddy. Hands down, this was a fun one.
You may think that the Reverend Rage is a little out there and too good to be true (or too bad, depending on perception). He's real and he's closer than you think. For example, he's one of those authors who loves to chat with readers (of all genres) online. You can visit Steven Rage at his page on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Steven-Rage/e/B002BLNAEO. The Rage loves getting suggestions and seeing reader feedback. Actually, that's a challenge for you Authors Speak readers. Read Pilate or You Morbid Westphal and then zip to the Rage Page and tell the Reverend what you thought.
You can also visit Rage at: http://www.authorsden.com/stevenrage.
June 14, 2011
Orlyn Farr is betting his own life "FOR ALL THE MARBLES" Parts I & II. (hardcore!)
Hi Kids! I'm 'FuknPunch' the 'Unemployed Child Care Clown'! The Grim Reverend is gracious enough to give all youz Sick Freaks some brand-spanking fucking new hardcore fiction tale.
Image via Wikipedia
SYNOPSIS:
Orlyn Farr is going for FOR ALL THE MARBLES.
After the Cataclysmic Events (ACE), the populace fled the surface to live under-ground. With Ice Age conditions complicating a return to the surface, whole townships formed anew. With limited space, sundries and foodstuffs available, overpopulation soon rears its ugly head. To continue living past the mandatory declining age of 60 annums (thirteen moon cycles), senior citizens must have the financial resources or the political clout to pay for Rx Medical and a luxuriously appointed flat in top-of-the-line Care Centers like Paradise Acres. If you don't have the scratch, you can opt-out. Most seniors choose this option. They quietly accept a hot-shot of Morphine and a final visit above ground. The treacherous white-out conditions on the surface will freeze you solid in a few time-ticks. Or try being a Big Winner. Beg, borrow, or steal enough Federal Reserve Notes and Teleport to the Annual Sixth Decade Tourney. The Big Winner gets Rx Medical and a flat at Paradise Acres. Along with all the lime gelatin, fellatio and potent narcotics your old ass can gobble. If you lose, well… you should have opted-out. But not our stalwart adventurer.
Orlyn Farr is betting his own life FOR ALL THE MARBLES.
'Click' here to get this crazy shit …
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from "The Place in Between"
"FOR ALL THE MARBLES"
PART I
Hedging My Bets. Spilling The Beans:
I just turned 60 annums old. The BINGO tournament in Bogota is less than a month away and I hadn't a pot to piss in. I was forced to live with my kids and their kids in a cold, cramped domicile. It was underground in The Harbor and it forever smelled like stale cabbage and unwashed flesh.
When my son looks at me, I can tell he looking forward to me opting-out. Neither of us can pay the after 60 tax, for it is purposefully prohibitive in cost. We had no political connections. I suspected he'd already spent my Death Insurance he'll get when I go up top and freeze to death. He also looks at my corner, and I can read his face like an open book. It was filled with thoughts on renting my corner to a relative that actually had the funds to pay for it.
There's no place I can run to, so I was planning on just going in early, opting-out, and getting it over with, when the message came in. It was coded and secret, which was strange all on its own. I have never in my fairly pointless time on this frozen shitsicle of a planet got an important message like that one. I couldn't receive it at home. Instead, I must make way through The Harbor's tunnel system to the Postal Center. There, after I give them a drop of blood from one of my fingers, I can retrieve the momentous message.
I left immediately for the Postal Center. Once there, I had my wrist scanned for the legal bar-coding chip we legal Harbor citizens have for ID. My finger tip was punched for the blood sample. It naturally beeped at my age, locking me into the security pod until the machines sorted it out. It unlocked, seeing that I have a month left to live, and allowed me to proceed to a private viewing station. I went inside the station and secure-locked the sliding door with my thumb-print. I centered myself in front of the screen. As I did so, it lit up. A beam of light scanned a bust shot of me, no doubt a redundant security measure. Whoever I was about to talk to wanted to make very sure I was who I said I was. In a moment it was done. An old human woman came on the screen. She had to be every penny of 80 annums old. I've never seen anyone that old before. Not in person, anyway. She must be important in a way I can't comprehend. She looked pretty healthy too. Her eyes were clear and sharp and she had a full head of hair. When she smiled, I could see that the woman had all of her teeth. It all must have cost her a fortune. The only thing wrong was the hissing of medical gases and the slight blue tinge to her lips.
"Greetings, Mr. Orlyn Farr, I am Chess Master," she began. "You are 60 annums old. Have you made your final arrangements? Have you found your peace?"
Stupid, I know, but I started laughing. There's just no way it could really be her. Ever since she took over, Chess Master ran everything in The Harbor. And she probably wasn't limited to just our shit hole. I'd never seen an image of her. I don't know anyone who has. Yet, she was supposed to be here, conversing in secret to Orlyn Farr, a guy who can't even pay for one more year of his ridiculous life. No way. And then I got scared, for what if she is who she says she is? What the fuck do I do then? Begging would be a good start. I stifled my laughter like it never was.
"Greetings to you, Chess Master," I replied, not knowing any of the protocol for this sort of deal.
"I can see from the blood that has drained from your face, that you believe me?"
"Um, uh, well – yes, I do." I stammered like an imbecile. She seemed to take it in stride.
"Good, because I don't have any time to waste, Mr. Farr,"
"Yes, Sir," I replied.
"Then answer my question, Mr. Farr: have you made your final arrangements?"
"No, Sir, I haven't." I frowned. The realization I guess just hit me with full force right then. "I mean, I can't afford the tax, so I guess I will have to opt-out. I'm far too old and sick to run."
"What about your family, Mr. Farr? They can't pay the tax for you?"
"No, they can't, Sir. Painfully, though, I don't think they would, even if they had the means."
"You don't get along with them?" Chess Master asked me.
I thought about it, but only for a moment. I said: "I think I take up valuable space that my son could get rent for."
"He's probably counting your Death Insurance too, I'd imagine."
"Yes," I said plainly. "Opting-out is for the best, I'm sure."
She said nothing for a moment. Chess Master was looking down at something, below my view screen. Checking on something, she seemed to be.
"Have you considered BINGO?"
"You mean the tournament in Bogota, Sir?"
"Yes."
"I couldn't even afford to take a bicycle taxi to the Teleport Station, let alone the whole package, Sir."
"What if I was willing to sponsor you, Mr. Farr? I'll go further and say that since time is such a concern for me, I can tell you, in complete confidence, of course –"
"Of course, Sir," I replied. I was quite intrigued by then.
"Good. What if, in addition to sponsoring your costs, I was to insure that you win?" she asked.
I'll tell you some truth: a dropped pin could have been heard. I stared at her bluing lips and how they had darkened as she spoke. Chess Master was keeping her composure intact, but I could see she was suffering. Her lips lightened as she breathed in the medicated mist.
"How can you do that?" I asked Chess Master, the fear of her momentarily lapsing. "You can't do that, no one can." I insisted.
"My dear fellow," she hissed, angry. "You'll find that there is nothing I can't do. There's no move I can't make and there is no game I can't win. I say the word and you will be sent to Bogota where you will win the BINGO tournament. Your reward will be anything and everything your little heart desires."
Something tiny, hope I suppose, began building inside me. It started to swell to the point where I could think of nothing else. She is promising me the moon and the stars. Strangely, I knew she could deliver the goods.
But, what, I wondered, did she want in return? I had absolutely nothing to bargain with. What did she want?
"What do you want in return," I went ahead and asked her. "You must know that I couldn't possibly have anything you would want or need, Sir."
"On the contrary, Mr. Farr, you have exactly what I need," she explained. "Or, rather, your granddaughter, Vanessa has."
"Vanessa? Sir, she's only 6 annums old, she's barely started school."
"I'm aware of her age, Mr. Farr," she replied, testily. "I need her because my heart is failing and she is my exact genetic match."
The clouds parted and the angels sang. I got it, but could I do it?
"I see," I managed.
"Yes, well, time is of the essence, Mr. Farr, which is why you are being made this exclusive offer. I'm afraid there is a great deal of work yet to be done, so I will need your answer, straightaway."
"By when," I asked "a few days?"
"Sorry, no," she replied. "I'm afraid I need your answer right now."
I thought about it, I'm not ashamed to say. I even thought about saying no. But, in the end, there's no I in TEAM. But there is one in BINGO.
I told Chess Master where little Vanessa could be found.
"Chess can be described as the movement of pieces eating one another."
Marcel Duchamp
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Orlyn Farr has some big decisions to make ...
PART II
My Last Meal and Testament:
The Tourney officials organized the BINGO Cabaret and Mixer for us tournament players and volunteers. It was being held in the fancy-schmancy grand ballroom of the Bogota resort. It's always a first-class wing-a-ding, and this year's was no exception.
I was waiting in my hotel room. I was smoking a nice, fat, complimentary joint while receiving some complimentary head from a re-animated corpse. Although she was cold and blue and not much of a conversationalist, the formerly-living did suck one Hell of a good dick.
Now that the chamber of my geriatric love gun has been emptied, I could finish getting ready. The honor bar was unlocked. Inside were pills and powders and tiny syringes of clear fluids galore. They were all labeled by name, as well as action. I was trying to decide what all I wanted to imbibe. I was getting frustrated at all the choices. Usually, the only drugs I saw were the ones other people were doing. I racked my memory banks, but it had been so long, I don't even recall what I used to like, besides weed. So, I chose the pragmatic route and took them all. I tossed a few random pills down my gullet. I laid out some of the powders and snorted them with a rolled Note until I started feeling really strange. I looked in the mirror and could hardly see my reflection. Between the drugs kicking in and my cataracts, my vision was seriously flawed. I saw my vague reflection morph into two and then I knew I was ready to go. I left my room and headed to the grand ballroom. When I got there, the Mixer was already in full swing.
It was a wonderful collection of the freaky and deranged. I could see that they had a cabaret show going full bore up on the main stage. On two side stages, amongst too many manned mini-bars to count, the fetish proms were located. Full humans, Halflings, Pit Demons, ghosts of the damned and the formerly-living zombies were filling up the ballroom. Folks were suspended from hooks piercing the flesh of their backs, spinning with their heads thrown back, in big circles above the crowd. A bright red demon girl with fake heavenly angel's wings walked around, offering quick injections to the party-goers. The demon girl called the shots 'angel kisses'. Judging from the animated reactions of the injected, the 'angel kisses' housed some really killer speed.
I was anticipating a kiss myself when my progress was thwarted. A huge bouncer type motherfucker stood as an impenetrable wall of blue and green scales. He looked at me with his giant yellow lizard eyes, having scanned my wrist. I started walking into to the festive fiesta and the bouncer stopped me cold.
what to choose …
what to choose ...what to choose ...
"You not going in, Mr. Farr," he growled. His breath smelled like fermenting piss.
"The fuck I'm not, Gargan!" I told him, right to his pierced nipples. Lizard-boy hadn't a clue what I had to do to get here. There was no way he was going to stop me, no matter how big he was. Don't get me wrong, I'm not brave. I'm not the rough and tumble type, but this gigantic ass clown was not going to keep Orlyn Farr from getting down on the get-down. I was bunching up, waiting for shit to escalate when he deflated me in an instant. Instead of answering, the behemoth handed me a note. It was handwritten on fancy, pricey parchment. I already knew who it was from, so I stepped out of line and opened the note. It read:
My Dear Mr. Farr,
I apologize for keeping you from the public festivities. You must understand, Sir, I have a rather large investment in you, as per our agreement. I cannot allow any public indiscretions, nor can I take any chances on you getting injured or ill. I must insist you return to your hotel room, where a private party is being prepared for you. If you do not comply, you will automatically forfeit your portion of our contract, and you will be remanded for an immediate opt-out.
Sincerely Yours, CM
Well, shitballs. Having no choice, I turned on heel to go back to my room. Once there, I went inside and saw that the cabaret had come to me.
A pretty young zombie man greeted me at the door. He stuck a needle in my thigh. I began smiling uncontrollably for the rest of the evening. We walked around the mostly zombie party.
They weren't interested in eating or drinking, slugging or drugging, so there was more of everything than I could ever consume. But I gave it my best shot.
When I finally passed out, hours later, my testicles hurt from overuse and my head was swimming and spinning. I vomited most of the real animal flesh I'd gluttoned down.
The zombie boy helped me get into the big, comfortable, oversized bed. His cold kiss is the last thing I recalled.
The next day at high noon, the BINGO tournament began.
"The older I grow, the more I value Pawns."
Paul Keres
"It's cold as frozen shit here beneath The Harbor. The new Little Ice Age has begun."
Print and Kindle Editions!
May 18, 2011
Fuck The Police! Print is DEAD!! Free Sample of "The Place in Between'!!! Why Not?
In the future, the remainder of the human populace will flee Underground.
Hey You! The Reverend thought you might like a sample of my new book, "The Place in Between", a revenge tale like you have never seen and 2 twisted tales set in the future 'Little Ice Age'.
Go on and check it out, you've never seen the likes.
For some of the most extreme and entertaining shit out there!
FREE Sample of "The Place in Between". Holy Shitballs!!
The Place in Between by Steven Rage Sep 19, 2010 Nick Cato rated it 4 stars
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.
Inevitable …
It is coming …
'PHARMACIDE' coming soon …
May 17, 2011
You shall Never be as Nasty as 'You Morbid Westphal' wanna be
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The Craziest hardcore horror shit available without a prescription ... Available in PRINT!
Hey kids! It's time once again for "FuknPunch", the Unemployed Child Care Clown" far-out fiction sample!
Call it aftermath, she's turning blue
Such a lovely color for you
Call it aftermath, she's turning blue
While I just sit and stare at you
"BLUE" – A Perfect Circle
Morbid stayed put until Westphal's resuscitators vanished down the hall of Harborside District Hospital. He made damned sure they were far from the room before leaving his impromptu womb. Morbid waited inside his body, deep down in the gastro-intestinal tract, curled up in Westphal's stomach.
God, he couldn't wait to get the fuck out of this junkie loser piece of shit and now it was time. Imagine: trying to commit suicide like he was a fifteen year-old girl who was just dumped by the star quarterback. Jesus, Westphal was such a fucking pansy.
He stretched open the esophagus and slowly crept carefully past the breathing tube sitting securely in his trachea. The mouth was taped all to fuck, so Morbid was forced to seek the exit through Westphal's nose, specifically the left nare. He squeezed ever so painful slow out of his nose, almost choking the new life out of himself in the process, but made all the way out.
He then sat cross-legged and winded on Westphal's chest, trying to catch his breath, taking the air in mellow and deep, thinking now only of her. Westphal may not be allowed to see her, but Morbid can do whatever he pleases and God help anyone trying to stop him.
She was all that remained, all he had left to accomplish before the three of them came together and commenced the final act of their atrocious play.
After placing Shirk's syringe down in one of Westphal's pockets, Morbid climbed off of him, over the bed rail and went again into the bathroom. Time bent its back in its unending circle, this time to clean the vomit and snot instead of fecal filth off of him.
Morbid cleaned as quickly and as thoroughly as his limited time allowed. He untied Westphal's physical retraints and turned the intravenous sedation down way low. Morbid will need Westphal awake soon. Once he was, the junkie-fuck will know just where to go and just what to get. And then Morbid will let him know what he must do to square his debts and balance the books.
Having accomplished his self-cleaning and prepping Westphal, Morbid had his own agenda to satisfy, and fuck me was she gonna get the full-pull, I shit you not.
When your done fucking around with lame, stale bullshit horror, READ RAGE.
Morbid was all ready to seek out his quarry. He went to the door to Westphal's hospital room, opened it just a touch, and looked carefully all around, making sure the coast was clear. After making sure it was so, Morbid crept down the long empty hospital corridor with one of your useless IV bag poles dragging behind him.
Whenever he encountered a staff member he made sure he looked strong on his feet, but mumbled nonsense to himself. The staff smiled absently at him, resuming their focus on whatever brought them his way.
He found her room, way down at the end of the long hall. He pretended to take a long drink at the water fountain there, waiting for a couple of technicians to quit yapping about their respective weekend exploits and move the fuck on. When they finally did, Morbid was at her door and finally alone. After spying no one about, he spun into her room.
Mrs. Fussbudget lay sleeping. He was so very happy to see her again.
Leave her alone.
Morbid knew, without a doubt; that she wouldn't be.
Please, make him leave her alone.
Morbid saw the old woman, lying still and unmoving in her hospital bed. She was completely alone, no relatives anywhere to be seen. Since Westie got shit-canned from her room, they all thought that their precious grand-mama was as safe as a virgin in a nunnery. Oh, well: the best laid plans of mice and men.
She had eyes closed, a tube in her throat. Mrs. Fussbudget's face was soft, sleeping peacefully. She was recovering marvelously now, her breathing triggering the machine, augmenting her placid flow of air.
The vast network of deep wrinkles attested to her longevity, her hard fought time on this Earth. They ran from under salt and pepper wig. Morbid longed to touch them, to run his fingertips down through the grooves. He wanted to trace them down from her eyes to her cheeks and further to the jowls. Follow them down to her blow-hole and circle it around, around again and around.
Instead, he just stared at her. Morbid thought she was just lovely. He was tempted to rush in, but not yet. Not before it's perfect. Morbid must first ready himself.
He went quickly out, while Mrs. Fussbudget was still snoozing peacefully, and checked the hallway one more time. It was quiet, none about. He re-shut the door to her room and made a bee-line for the bathroom. Morbid shut and locked the door.
The light was so harsh and the mirror unbecoming, but both were necessary. Morbid brought out his small kit. He laid out the vials of powders he got from home, and his multi-dose bottle of normal saline and a short syringe with its tiny, ultra-sharp needle he took from work.
Morbid knocked out a bit of both white powders, added a third bit of finely ground blue powder, and put them all in a wide-mouthed empty vial. He squirted a couple milliliters of saline onto the three powders, prepping two, maybe even three doses. Morbid sealed the top and shook the holy hell out of it.
Morbid knew the potent mixture would not completely dissolve and there was no time or opportunity to provide the melting powers of heat. Instead, he rolled up a 'two-by-two' clean gauze pad and stuffed it into the opening of the mixture vial.
Morbid removed the cap and stuck the needle into the impromptu filter. He pulled back on the plunger, sucking up light blue liquid into the syringe. Then he turned back to face the mirror and the bright light.
Morbid shook with longing. He knew Mrs. Fussbudget lay sleeping and waiting. He needed to step it up a bit. He opened up his mouth wide, lifted the furry fungoid tongue. Morbid saw the blue veins, leaning into the mirror. Morbid slid the sharp needle under his tongue, through the pink flesh and into a waiting vein. Morbid pushed in his medicine. He pulled out the needle, held his head back.
Here comes the train…
With ears ringing and doll eyes growing, Morbid packed up his goody bag. He worked through the rush, humming through his noise, happily swallowing blood, the horrible pain fading, crawling back under its rock. He put all the necessaries neatly away and was ready to do the light fandango, takes two to tango, dance of morbid love.
He turned off the light and left the bathroom, closed the door.
She was still sleeping as he came to her.
"Mrs. Fussbudget," Morbid whispered in quiet honey croon. His jingling fingers a-tingly, "I just want you to taste me."
She awoke and blessed Morbid with a quickly fading smile. She vigorously shook her head in the negative, reaching for the nurse call button.
"Looking for this?" Morbid asked her, holding it just out of her reach.
Mrs. Fussbudget began to cry and the way she defiantly balled up her arthritic fists made Morbid joyfully soar on eagle's wings.
He showed her what he held in his other hand. It was a big suction hose line and the negative pressure was sucking on full. Morbid, with a viper's speed, attached the suction to Mrs. Fussbudget's open trachea tube and began to suck the life right out of her.
"I think I love you, madam," he admitted to her as she punched and flailed at him with all of her might. "I'm going to show you just how much."
Mrs. Fussbudget finally quit flailing and carrying on so. She was turning blue and cold and still. Morbid removed the suction from her airway.
With one quick tug of the string, his scrubs dropped to the floor.
"Now that you decided to behave yourself," he told her, "we can begin."
Morbid lifted himself up over the rail and into Mrs. Fussbudget's bed. He lifted her gown. He ran his fingers upward. Morbid was glad that she was still warm. He began to work her over.
Oh my God, you sick fuck.
REVIEW: 5.0 out of 5 stars "Fascinating and scary", June 20, 2010
By Ray Dittmeier (Louisville, KY) – See all my reviews
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This review is from:
You Morbid Westphal (Paperback)
"This is a short book; you could read it in a single sitting, as I did–twice. Even so, Reverend Rage somehow manages to give us a story that has the scope of a full-blown novel without skimping anywhere. It's fascinating, scary, out-and-out repulsive at times, and even amusing in a few places. (I love Sammy, the crusty old ghost-dad who lives with Westphal.)
The book tells an intricate story, dark and gritty and bizarre–I don't know if Rage claims them as influences, but it makes me think of Chuck Palahniuk and Philip K. Dick collaborating on a horror novel–set in a world of drug dealers, prostitutes, porn producers and otherworldly beings. This world, as well as the story, is well-realized and full of the kind of detail that makes it feel authentic. Everything is extremely vivid.
Westphal, the central character, is a drug-addicted loser who's just one screw-up away from losing his job at a hospital, and who finds he's gotten in over his head with his drug dealer. In fact, I would imagine most of us know, or have known, at least one Westphal in real life. There's much more to it than that, but talking more about the various threads and themes in the story would be running the risk of giving away spoilers.
Suffice to say it's a story full of imagination and weirdness, a story that invites you to give a little thought to what it takes to maintain some control over your life, and to take a look at your capacity for good and evil. "
"It takes a sincerely sick, drug-addled, putrified brain to come up with a world-view this demented."
"Coming to the party?"
May 13, 2011
"One bullet at a time .. what's your rush now, Everyone will have His day to Die"
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the sequal to "PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale". Available in PRINT and KINDLE ...
"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."
Need the Os ... 'click' on me mug for a chance at a FREE copy of BELLY: A Brutal Bible Tale
After some time had passed, Salome finally got used to the shrieks. The cavernous room was as dark as pitch, invisible at the ceiling. Salome, when she thought about it, reckoned the ghosts and demons and whatnot came from near the inky top. They swooshed around her a bit, but most of the cold and creaky groans floated up top.
The pale blue vampire baby latched onto Salome's milk-leaking breast. The baby simultaneously suckled blood and breast milk. Salome cooed a sweet lullaby, drooling out of her toothless mouth. Daily Plata was provided for her, always.
She sat a plush divan, the lights in the nursery were purposely turned down low for baby Saul's sensitive undead eyes. The pain from the baby's boring fangs piercing her breast, numbed from her daily cocktail treats.
She sang to her young charge, beautiful melodic nonsense. The vampire clutched at her and purred.
Salome had no clue as to how long she'd been trapped in the nursery. She never saw Tacitus, the man who de-throned her and took her teeth and crown. Salome only saw short glimpses of nurses and handlers. Salome was expertly shot up before she even needed it. She was sky high all the time. The Plata high and this little vampire baby had narrowed her life down to a very thin focus. It surprised her with its comfort, almost from the beginning it did.
Salome had simply come to with the vampire baby latched onto her, looking up in trust at her with his yellow eyes.
Salome called him Saul and wanted to give him her last name of Sinister. She chuckled. Saul Sinister was a great name for a vampire and she hoped she would live long enough to see the baby grow.
She knew it was Tacitus' child, but she didn't care that the baby came from the back-stabbing fuck. She didn't care. She was too smart to think she could swim beyond the shores of her Plata cove. Salome was trapped and damn well knew it. She was being monitored two four seven.
Salome had thought briefly about strangling the son of Tacitus. After all, it wasn't hers. You know, pay shit head back in spades, but she never did. She found that she couldn't. Salome fell too hard. She thought she'd been in love before, but she was wrong. Not until now.
Salome resumed her lullaby as the baby fed on her milk and blood. His tiny talons were scratching at her, making her bleed, silent and unfeeling. As Salome smiled and fell head over heels. She knew she would now fight to the death anyone whomsoever would try and take baby Saul away from her. Just let them try.
The demons swooped and danced with the ghostly damned as she found out how much in love one can truly be. But where the hell was her shot?
It was the almost complete lack of sound that reached Salome's consciousness. Saul was feeding, like usual, at her breast. The Plata and whatever else she was being given was beginning to wear off. Salome got up off her duff and did a good Ozzy pain-killer shuffle over across the room. She tried the door, not surprised that it was thoroughly locked and secured. Salome realized with a growing sense of alarm that it was definitely past time for her dose. What the fuck, she thought. This is not good. Ever since the former Herod was locked up in this demon-shrieking bitch of a gloomy nursery, Salome always got her shot before needing it, really while she was still wonderfully stoned. This was unusual. This was worrisome. She tried not to panic, but she could feel it building.
"Come on," she said, staring at the locked door and biting her bottom lip.
Tired of 'safe' horror? Look no farther! 'click'!
May 12, 2011
A touch of the Spun Monkey …
A Worthless Nobody
No one cares, No one wants me, I'm useless, Pathetic, A worthless nobody.
Wandering these empty streets, Looking for what I know,
Does not exist. My hearts ceases to beat, So I reach inside
myself, And pull it out.
I hold it at eye level, And open my mouth, I scream,
I FUCKING HATE YOU!!!! YOU ARE WORTHLESS,
YOU PIECE OF SHIT, I throw it against the wall, And
watch it burst, I utter a small chuckle, And fall to the floor,
Smiling, At the fact that, Im finally free.
Free from the shackles, That once bound me to the wall,
Free, At last.
I close my tired eyes, Never to open them again.
-Victoria Borowski
CROWDED MALL
My boy had to pee. The crowd was thick, pressing in on us from all sides. We could not move, let alone leave to find a porta-potty.
Getting quite concerned, my boy began moaning. His eyes teared up. It tore at me.
So, I picked my little man up and held him close. Whispering in his ear I said:
"Go potty, son. I will clean us both up later."
My boy complied. His smile had made it most worthwhile.
I hugged him all the more.
He hugged me back. It was a delightful day, despite the wet.
-Sol T. Nutz
EAT AT JOE'S
The replication of errant cells proliferated in Joe's body. By the time any symptoms were noticed, Joe's prognosis was nil. With only a few weeks of life remaining, Joe emptied out his bank accounts. He visited a gun and ammo shop downtown. The Arlington movie theater stood solid, right next to the gun shop. He left to go next door. Joe bought a ticket and slipped inside. He took a seat behind a laughing man. "I swear on all that is holy, if that bald old fuck doesn't shut his fly-trap, I'm gonna stab him in the left ear." Joe didn't find the film amusing at all. He grimaced as he fondled the loaded revolver. Joe destroyed the cancer. It just wasn't his.
A man who was completely innocent, offered himself as a sacrifice for the good of others, including his enemies, and became the ransom of the world. It was a perfect act.
CASTING COUCH
There is no business like show business. You know this. You seek your fame and fortune in the usual ways.
The agent promises to make you a star and have your name up in big, bright lights.
"What are you willing to do," ponders the agent.
"Anything and everything," you reply, "even if it means sleeping with you."
"I see," the agent replied. "Take your clothes off then."
You comply. Your penis is even partially erect.
You try to hide it in your lace silk panties, but can't. Your testicles dangle free.
The agent does not even care. -Al Dente
Hell
I welcome death, With open arms, I embrace it strongly. Life is nothing but a fable.
My suicide will mean nothing to anyone.
I leave this world, Bound, On a journey,
Straight to hell.
I'll never see the angels,
I'll never feel happiness again, But that's ok.
I won't miss it at all. Pain, Is all I know.
I hope you'll remember me When I'm gone. Into oblivion I dive, Never to be seen again.
I won't miss any of you, So see you all in hell.
Victoria Borowski
The most valuable thing I have learned from life is to regret nothing.
- Somerset Maugham
Artist rendering of "Alexander: The Less Then Enthused."
We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.
- E. M. Forester
The Golden Rule: He who has the biggest stick on the playground, makes the rules.
JUNCTION
The Bluesman kicked up dust and pebbles as he skidded to a stop. He was at the intersection's edge.
The Bluesman did not crave just fame and fortune. He wanted to be a legend in his own lifetime.
A man appeared. He was eight feet tall, if he was an inch. He held all the cards. The wax he cut with the Bluesman was loved and adored by all who heard it.
The dice were loaded.
Two weeks later the Bluesman was dead of a lightning strike. It flashed out of a clear blue sky.
The house always wins.
But by then, the Bluesman was already a legend.
- Buck Naked
May 3, 2011
Grim Fiction for Grim Times From the Grim Reverend. Hmm, sounds Grim.
The Place in Between:
When Del is sent pictures of his wife's latest affair, he reasons a .45 caliber bullet will answer his problems. To Del's dismay, that's only the beginning of his time spent wedged in the place in between. Luci's lover tortures Del relentlessly. Del wants to recover just enough to seek revenge on them both. Sure enough a demon shows up with her silky-sweet promises. Then the ambiance twists dark and cruel beyond anything any one of them could've imagined.
Blood and Bubblegum:
It's colder than frozen shit down here in the dangerous tunnels of The Harbor in the post-cataclysmic world (ACE). Juan and I find ourselves here, in this horrible place because of The Good Doctor. His organic narcotics trade is booming. Juan, Mary and I want in. We have to find TGD and the nocturne, see if they will let us. We are down. We are hungry. And we are bringing Blood and Bubblegum to sweeten the pot. All of our dreams will come true. The only uncertainty is Mary and Juan living long enough to reap the rewards.
Bad Notion, Traveling Potion:
The second day of the fifth waxing moon, in the 24th year, ACE. The frozen earth of The Harbor is in the grips of a new Little Ice Age. The human populace is down to just one-third. They are forced to exist in long, dank tunnels and cramped domiciles underground with The Good Doctor and his creations of Halflings and other freaks and geeks. TGD's latest organic narcotic discovery goes LIVE and becomes self-aware. The bad notion traveling potion makes meat puppet users do its unholy bidding. Then the monster decides to turn on TGD, the Creator. Not the best idea, this. But it sure is going to be fun to watch.
Yr:09.ACE.12n.06
(The 9th year, After Cataclysmic Events,
during the 12th Waning Moon, on the 6th Day.)
About Three weeks ago:
Juan and Mary knew that their game was with
a nocturne and they were smart enough to be
afraid. Even still, they were dying to meet him. He
had it all and they wanted in.
The couple sat in the bar sipping re-hydrated
ethanol-squeezing cocktails, just as they had done
every evening for almost two weeks straight. They
watched the nocturne as he appeared. He just appeared
right out of thin air over by the bartender.
"Did you see that shit?" I asked. No-one answered.
The vampire handed the nigga a package
which vanished beneath the bar top in an instant.
It was unerringly the same routine as the last
three times. It wasn't a pattern, exactly, not one
that could be fingered, but they knew he would
eventually show up because the dealer always did.
He had to deliver
his drugs. Juan and Mary knew
if they were patient and waited long enough, the
nocturne would show.
The small, tightly wrapped package should be
Plata if they knew their guy, which they did. The
bartender, Steel Ovid, handed over an envelope; cash,
most certainly.
The nocturne peered inside the envelope, checked
the denominations, gauging the thickness. He
didn't count it though. The nocturne didn't need to.
No-one in their right mind would be stupid enough
to butt-fuck the drug dealing vampire. Even so, he
looked like he could use the help of a couple of down
motherfuckers
like Juan and Mary. You know, to help
with the day to day. The young couple just needed a
way in.
The nocturne looked at Steel Ovid. He said something
to him that Juan couldn't begin to hear across
the distance of the bar and the slow, deep throb of
the hardcore shit that passes for music these days.
It was blasting forth from the DJ's station nearby,
making conversation details dreadfully difficult to
discover.
Whatever it was must've scared the god-fuck
out of the dude, because he stepped back and put
his hands up in surrender and fear. The bartender
backed up a quick two-step as the vampire leaned
in, his long, tightly curling hair spilling in a wave,
obscuring his face. The menace in the gesture and
what he must have said was full and uncomfortable
like a dildo on a church pew.
Steel Ovid looked frightened, dropping his arms
and folding his hands. He lowered his head, nodding
in supplication, staring at his feet. Juan could see his
quaking even from across the room. The nigga was
a big dude, too, really more imposing than even the
vampire.
Steel Ovid was a huge, heavily muscled albino.
He had orange corn rows and was festooned with
homemade pre-Fall prison ink. Professional tattoos
displayed his fight wins. They were all over the place.
He was a big and scary motherfucker who had a
reputation for immense, visceral violence and the
hair-triggered temper to go with it. Folks were as
scared of Steel Ovid as if he was a blood-drinker
himself. But the poor, scared fuck was not and the
nigga threatening him was.
"My God," Mary said, watching the scene with
Juan, "You ever see that big fucker scared before?"
"Steel Ovid, no way," he replied, "Never. It's interesting
though."
"For sure," she spoke, took a quick sip of her
cocktail. "No doubt we are looking at the right dealer
to hook up with."
Juan nodded his agreement, noting how the
nocturne
stood straight and then in one quick movement,
turned to look right at him.
"Fuck," spat Juan, his own fear bursting within.
That nigga's eyes were yellow and backlit. They
looked like a night hunting panther's, or a mutated
tunnel rat, glowing as they were at Juan.
Then, just like that, he disappeared. Juan turned
quick to Mary. She was still glancing that way. He
opened his mouth to speak and saw the color vanish
from her face. Her lips quivered and her eyes
grew wide. She then backed up and Juan turned to
see.
"Fuck me!" I shouted from within Juan. I'd never
seen anything like it in my whole unborn life.
There the nocturne was, standing right in front
of Juan and Mary's table. Speechless, we stared at
the vampire and he right back. And then, without a
single word, the nocturne dissolved on the spot, gone
without a trace. There was some displacement of air,
a slight cold whoosh and that was it.
It was a few moments before Juan and Mary
could breathe. The bartender, they could see, was
even more fucked up by his encounter than they.
From where they were perched, we could see the
Steel Ovid shaking like he had wet hair in a meat
locker.
He turned to the racks of liquor behind him,
ignoring customers coming up. He poured himself
three big shots of pre-events, top shelf tequila. The
bartender, obviously being as nervous as all getout,
was slugging them one after the other. When
finished,
he pinched the bridge of his nose, shut
tight his eyes, leaned on the ledge running below the
bottles. He collected himself with a final big breath
and straightened up.
Steel Ovid went back to work just as the Authorities
came in to the bar. Everybody quieted right
down. They always do when the Indian Army came
a-calling. It happened every time.
It was as if the bar crowd was doused with a big
blast of frigid water. It was nearly silent.
A contingent of the Occupying Indian Army made
their way slowly through the bar. They were just
making their presence known, being sure to stay
away from the rooms in the back. The rooms in the
back led down stairways to the bathrooms
and other
dangerous locales. The Occupiers were smart enough
not to concern themselves with that area. They had
been thoroughly warned when they teleported to
The Harbor to do their mandatory tours.
The patrons hid any activity that was overtly illegal,
but were otherwise left unmolested and to their
own demise.
"Wonder what the blood drinker said to him,"
Mary mused as several soldiers passed. She shook
her lonely ice cubes at a passing barmaid and was
ignored. "Just when I really need one, you bitch!" she
yelled after and was still shunned. The Army Captain
looked back at her. Mary just smiled at him, as sweetly
as she could manage.
"Shit, girl," Juan told her, "have mine."
"She's going to get us tossed out on our ears," I
warned through gritted teeth.
Juan ignored my wisdom and tried some of his
own on for size. He handed her his mostly full drink.
Juan was dead right and Mary knew it. She shouldn't
be drawing any attention our way. She shut her trap
and threw the drink back. The Indian officer soon
lost interest when Mary calmed down. He turned
from us and kept moving away.
"Jesus, who knows what he said," Juan muttered,
thinking, getting them back on track. "I mean, shit,
baby, motherfucker didn't say even a word to us and
I feel like climbing into a hole and pulling the earth
in after me."
"Scary motherfucker," I agreed.
"Exactly," Mary chimed in. "What do you think,
Papi, should we just forget it?"
Juan wondered that very good point for a moment.
Then he said: "He sure is scary, for real,"
he told her, "but he's our way in." Mary nodded in
agreement. "And once we are in," Juan continued,
"We won't have to be afraid of anyone else, baby. Not
in the whole of The Harbor."
"We'd be the big-dick daddies, for sure."
"Yeah," he agreed, "If he doesn't kill us first."
"Still," she said, "It's clear he needs our help."
Mary pushed Juan's now empty glass away and
reached into her purse. She pulled out and lit a thin,
pre-rolled blunt of half tobacco and half homegrown
Mary Jane.
"She's my main thing…" Nothing.
"He really shouldn't even be here," Juan mused,
"it's not safe."
Mary pulled hard on the blunt and nodded.
"Shorties or even the two of us should be flipping
shit, not the top dog."
"That's for sure," she said, handing Juan the blunt.
"How are we going to hook him, though?" she asked.
Juan smoked and thought. He knocked ash on the
already very dirty bar floor. "I was thinking of an offering."
Mary looked at him closely. "A gift," he said.
"I don't know," she responded, taking back
the blunt. "I mean, just giving the motherfucker a
sandwich
won't do it," she countered, "He can hunt
whomever he wants, true?"
"Yeah, but he's exposed and shouldn't be."
"Also true," Mary agreed. "Oh, shit, wait," she said,
looking back to the bar. "There's our answer."
Juan turned to where she was looking and saw
a young comely Plata fiend. The egg-layer moved
slow and sexy through the crowd, touching many
patrons, speaking slow with a naughty tongue lick
of her beak. On and on she went, clucking down the
bar, looking for a daddy.
Juan smiled at Mary's idea. And even I had to
agree. It was brilliant. They looked at each other.
"But if we gave him the gift that keeps giving…"
trailed Juan.
"We will need some cheese for the trap, baby,"
Mary added, gesturing toward the now recovered
bartender. "And I know where we can get it."
Juan sucked on the blunt again and held it in. He
loosed out a big plume and handed it back to Mary.
"Go and scoop her up," Juan told her. "Ply the
little coop-chick with drinks and a few lines. She
doesn't look like she shoots up."
"No she doesn't," Mary agreed, "At least not yet."
It was impossible to tell that from where they sat,
though. What with her little bent wings tucked up
against her large succulent white meat breasts. She
carried a small bejeweled clutch tight to her body.
"Yeah," Juan nodded, seeing where she was going.
"Now you'll get to use some of your long dormant
medic training, get her set up for the long haul."
"Think she'll go for it?" Mary asked, watching her
get rejected and looking more and more anxious."
Egg-layers weren't everyone's cup of orange pekoe,
apparently.
"I think she will."
Juan stood to let Mary out of their booth. "Does
it really matter?" he asked. "Little baby Bubblegum
over there looks like she'd fuck herself with a pool
cue for a taste of the Silver and we're going to keep
her fucked up on Plata 'round the motherfucking
clock."
"And if she doesn't go for it?" Mary insisted. Bubblegum's
feathers were bright shiny silver and hard
black. She kept them plucked so that all of her pay
parts were covered. She had a big plume of whispery
feathers, reminiscent of hair, as a cloud halo crown.
Mary thought she was sexy as fuck. She knew the
vampire would dig her, that's for sure.
"She'll go for it."
Juan smiled down at Mary. He thought Bubblegum
was sexy, too. He said: "I think blood taken by
force will taste just as good as blood given. Don't you,
my love?"
"Yes I do, you fucking gorgeous creep," she replied,
biting her lower lip, nostrils flaring. Juan knew
she was getting wet. Maybe the nocturne would let
them play some too.
"And me. She looks good enough to eat."
Ignoring yours truly again, Juan bent down quick
to give Mary a kiss. Her breath caught as he probed
her mouth with his teeth and tongue, finally ending
the kiss with a nippy ball of spittle which he launched
down her throat.
"Go fetch," he ordered.
Mary swallowed and smiled. She rose from the
booth.
As soon as she left, Juan ordered me to exit. He
tugged down his trousers and pooped me out. He
didn't have to tell me what to do, I already knew. I
was on point.
Mary went to the bar. Bubblegum was leaning
against some older dude, trying to laugh at his lame
shit. The guy had the biggest set of salt and pepper
dreadlocks I had ever seen on a pasty-face. His suit
was immaculate. He did not look like he belonged in
this shoddy watering hole, but he had that expression
on his face that fairly shouted slumming.
I stood on my own behind a thick support column.
The principles couldn't see me, but I could see
them. I could see the whole picture by checking out
the mirror that ran over the bar.
Keeping half an eye on pumpkin pie there, Mary
got the bartender's attention, while purposefully ignoring
fancy dreadlocks' stare.
"Two ethanol rocks," she told Steel Ovid, placing
the empty glasses on the bar top and pulled out
some cash. She laid money down for the drinks. The
motherfucker will know what Mary wants when
he sees the flash of cash. Paper money sales were
always frowned upon these days. The Occupying
Indian provisional government preferred patrons to
use their very traceable digital accounts, bar-coded
to a micro-chip under each legal citizen's left wrist.
Transactions using paper Rupees or the Federal Reserve
Notes that the United States – who's terra firma
The Harbor physically resides upon – is condoned,
but just barely. The standard exchange is a 2 for
1, making the insistent cash holder lose money. But
when one is purchasing narcotics, well… Everyone
looks the other way.
When the barman served up her drinks, Mary
smiled sweetly, wrote on a bar napkin.
"My phone number," she told him, loud enough to
be heard by anyone giving a shit. She handed over
the napkin to the bartender. Steel Ovid picked it up
and looked at it closely. He saw the two bills folded
inside. He looked up at her, Mary smiling sweetly.
"I see a two here at the end of your digits….that
right?"
"Clever girl, she is."
Mary nodded, "Uh huh."
She straightened and waited for the barman
to make change. She turned slightly, saw the girl
losing
interest. Dreadlocks seemed to actually think
she wanted another drink. Bubblegum was getting
increasingly anxious, no doubt her Plata high was
wearing off and she was at the very beginning edges
of panic. Bubblegum's head was doing the herkie
chicken jerk. She was unable to keep her head from
bobbing like she was seizing. Mary could see the
cluck was ripe for plucking. Mary got her attention.
The old man, smiling, turned away from them both.
"What's your favorite color?" she asked the girl.
The bartender turned back and gave Mary her overly
lumpy change and her cocktails.
"What's that?" Bubblegum asked, turning full to
her.
"She's so sweet," talking pretty much just to myself
at this point.
Mary smiled back at her while counting her
change. It was all there: two 5K New Rupee notes,
two 1Ks and a small zip-locked baggie holding two
grams of thick gummy ear wax Plata. She let her new
friend see the taut little yum-yum bag.
"I asked you, what's your favorite color?" Mary
repeated, "Silver, right?"
"Yeah, new best friend," Bubblegum clucked,
"Plata is my favorite color."
"Well then." Mary replied with a growing knowing
smile, "Come with me and I will make all your dreams
come true."
Bubblegum immediately left the bar, following
Mary without a moment's hesitation. I mistakenly
thought she was making a bee-line for the exit.
Damn, I hate it when I fuck up. When I got to the
exit and the two ladies were nowhere in sight, I got
scared.
"Shit!" I exclaimed through clenched jaws.
This was not good. I worked my way back the
way I came, but Mary and the hen were nowhere in
sight.
I hop over to Juan as hasty as a shallow thought.
I told him the deal and was up Juan's trouser leg and
in his ass in an instant. With a rough grunt, Juan
stood up and we both bolted after them.
We couldn't find Mary and the egg-layer anywhere
in the standing room only bar crowd.
Damn it all to hell! This is just fucking ducky. Now
I can't talk shit about the rest of the incompetents. I
really hate that. But not nearly as much as when I fuck up, which
I most certainly just did.
Maybe she went outside.
……end excerpt
Future looking mighty Grim …
Title:
The Place In Between
Author:
Reverend Steven Rage
Released:
01/08/10
Paperback:
240 pages
Dimensions:
203 x 127 mm
ISBN:
978-0980593860Available here: LegumeMan Shop
Amazon Read a sample
![[image error]](http://commons.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Sigil_of_Lucifer.svg){kind=link}