Steven Rage's Blog, page 8

In The BELLY of the Edmund Fitzgerald

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"BELLY: A Brutal Bible Tale" KINDLE, 2010 -- the sequal to PILATE!

An excerpt from the

Who'd Win in a Death-Match: Shirk the Drug-snuffling Demon or The Bloody Chick at the bottom of this page …

"Are you Westphal?" he asked sweetly."Yes," Westphal replied, and even before he could inquire as to what the motherfucker wanted, the dude punched him in the gut and then landed a good one on Westphal's cheekbone.Normally, that would have been the end of the fight. Westphal was more of a junkie than a fighter, but he was pissed all the way off.He surprised even himself, and jumped on the dude and began wailing away on him. He had the dude pinned down and was trying to beat him into the floor when he was pulled off by security. The dude got up, bleeding and all, and got in a solid kick to the chest which spelled the end to the confrontation and Westphal's employment at Harborside District Hospital.You ain't-uh workin' here no mo'.

via Who'd Win in a Death-Match: Shirk the Drug-snuffling Demon or The Bloody Chick at the bottom of this page ….

DARK SHIT FROM THE MOST DEPRAVED FICTION WRITER IN PRINT. SHOO …

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Check out the Grim One's new direction…or delve into the dark and dismal past…where it is colder than frozen shit down here underground…

About the Author:

"Reading steven rage is a little like being a mother who ran out of diapers even though you're locked in a room with a baby who has been living on nothing but 5-alarm texas chili. sure, there are times when you want to puke, but you can't help loving the baby anyway. yes, rage is still gruesome, sickening, twisted, gross, horrific, morose, profane, disgusting, morbid, blasphemous, shocking and repugnant. but these are not the only compliments i can bestow upon this promising new author. but we'll get to that bit later. the 3 short stories that comprise this book are pure rage. the first and last story bring us back to that familiar setting, the harbor. these stories have all the requisite characters and elements that you would expect if you've read steven's earlier work. there are vampire drug lords, addicts, whores, demons that crawl out of people's rectums, perverted sex and all the dregs of society in the darkest of dark settings and situations. they are well crafted extensions of his earlier work, and there is even an effort to tie some of the stories together. visiting this setting again was a blast! he really did have something to add that was compelling and kept the pages turning as often as it kept your stomach turning. he even threw in a few surprises like an artificially created chimp-man and a sexy chicken or two. the first story relies a lot on the modern street venacular again, while remaining intelligent and creatively devised. the last two stories were not so dependant on modern slang, as the lead characters were not the sort of (shall we say) 'sludge' that would need to speak that way. this allows a more clear visage of rage's ability to exhibit a writing prowess that is more accessible to a wider audience. the harbor stories do give rage fans a lot to be thankful for in expanding the previous stories with bizarre, twisted putridness. yet, my favorite story by far was the title story in this book. that is because rage steps away from the harbor and explores a new setting with a whole new disturbing set of circumstances. i truly believe that if rage continues to grow and expand and explore new horizons (especially in new settings), he can reach his full potential as a great writer. much as before, there is an intelligence to this dude's work. his gift as a storyteller is being more finely honed in this work. the fact that he has spent time working in a hospital is apparent, and it comes through in his stories. i can honestly say this is my favorite of anything i have read from him thus far. he's getting dangerously close to getting a 5-star review from me…..and that's not easy to do when writing something that is so far removed from 'ordinary literature'. so to sum up…..yes, this has all the disturbing, grotesque, alarming, horrible elements that you'd want to see in 3 strories by rage…it also has all the fine storytelling…..and he is growing and improving as a writer. i recommend this collection of stories, but i also recommend that you (metaphorically) stock up on diapers first. if he keeps expanding his horizons, he will be a supurb voice and visionary for our dark, backward, malevolent times…even if he remains the pessimistic, ignoble saint and demented sick ticket that we all know and love."

"Hmmm hmmmhmmm hmm hmmmmm hm hmmm!!"

"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."

'The Good Doctor' performing surgical rituals in The Harbor, deep under the frozen Earth.

"Our very first "live" guest was the Reverend Rage. That in no way impacts our choice to include this particular book, released through LegumeMan Press. "The Place in Between" is one of those reads that captures a lot of what bizarro is. Vivid landscapes? Of course. Memorable, out-there characters? You betcha! What about content?

This is Rage we're talking about here. You've got ghosts that enter bodies through…well…I'll let you find out about that. Rage's world is dark, visceral, and will leave the reader wide-eyed. The trio of tales here is as unique a collection as I've read all year. Feel free to take a look at our review of the book on this site, or stroll on over to our sister site – www.blogtalkradio.com/theauthorsspeakcom – and listen to the podcast with Rage. You'll find a little extra nugget or two. And, it's one of only three books I've revisited this year. Kudos, Rage."

The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

THE MOST DEPRAVED WRITER IN PRINT, MOTHERFUCKERS. RECOGNIZE.

'Click' the 'SHARE' and The Grim Reverend will forgive you of all your sinz …

Future RAGE Fanatic.

What the average RAGE fan looks like. Fucking Freak!

 

"Dark, beautiful, bizarro, and insightful–The Reverend does brilliantly. I'm an instant fan of Steven Rage. I can't wait to read more."

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Cover of PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale

Available in PRINT!

  5.0 out of 5 stars A wonderful step forward in Rage's career, October 30, 2009

By Matthew Revert (Melbourne, Australia) – This review is from: You Morbid Westphal (Paperback)

To be honest, Steven Rage's first book, "Pilate: A Brutal Bible Tale", only half-worked for me. There was certainly a compelling tale to be told but you had to cut through the style to get there. I accept that I may be in the minority here but that was my initial reaction. After the "adjustment period", if you want to call it that, Pilate really opened up and revealed a wealth on nearly realised potential. Rage was tantilisingly close to writing a great book. Flash forward a few years and an unsuspecting literary world is handed Rage's next book, You Morbid Westphal. Set in a hospital, the title of the book is derived from the three main characters. Born fully formed from a rather unpleasant orifice is Morbid. His game is to stalk the hospital wings and violently (very violently!) dispatching helpless patients. Next we have Westphal. He works nights at the hospital trying to support, what some my call, a rather dysfunctional family. With Morbid reeking havoc in this very unfortunate hospital, the one thing Westphal doesn't need is to be blamed for Morbid's actions. It would do his job no good. The "You" in this book's title literally refers to "you". You are a dying patient who wants to die as peacefully as possible. There are elements at work that want to prevent this from occurring. From the description above, you could be forgiven for assuming this is going to be a rather confusing story. I'll allay your fears right from start and assure you that Rage waves this tale brilliantly. The details of the story are lucid and feverishly entertaining. The hyper violence is contextualised in such a way as to avoid gratuitousness. The book is brief, clocking in at just under 140 pages, which gives You Morbid Westphal and element of frenzy. In this format everything works. It's hard to imagine the tone sustaining over a longer period. You Morbid Westphal is very highly recommended and a real treat for anyone who enjoys their fiction warped to breaking point and smeared in blood. Rage has applied all the lessons he learned with Pilate and written that great book!

2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:

4.0 out of 5 stars An Unholy Trinity, December 29, 2009

By Todd A. Fonseca (Minneapolis, MN) – This review is from: You Morbid Westphal (Paperback)

 

You live your final days lying in a hospital bed, unable to move or take of yourself while gritting through constant pain waiting for the madness to end. Unfortunately, your heinous deeds during life are coming full circle and sweet death continues to be stayed by the demons that torture you keeping you just this side of the living. One such demon, Morbid, spawned from you through some unholy means dispatches other hospital patients in gruesome fashion. Meanwhile, a male nurse named Westphal makes his way through life looking to make just enough money to score his next drug buy and take care of his ghost stepfather and pet unborn fetus. This is harbor hospital, and this is the end of your life. Rage's sophomore novel You Morbid Westphal takes place in the harbor similar to his first novel PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale. All of the graphic, disturbing and gruesome imagery Rage demonstrated his prowess at in the first book return in this offering. However, in this chapter, these elements seem a less gratuitous, a little more muted, and more securely woven into the fabric of a very disturbing tale. This novel is not for the faint of heart and is extreme in all ways imaginable – really, I'm not kidding. None-the-less, Rage is incredibly creative and talented. It's hard to fathom what hell might be like – unspeakable pain and agony – perhaps. But I think Rage paints a picture that drives home the concept of a living hell one must suffer due to their heinous choices in life. If the real thing is anything like this, one can only hope and pray for redemption and salvation. Rage parallels some biblical themes once again, though in an unholy bizarro fashion and throws in a twist at the end reminiscent of the 1987 movie Angel Heart [Blu-ray] starring Mickey Rourke, Robert De Niro and Lisa Bonet. For those who enjoyed Pilate – you will find an even better book in Westphal.

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

By Ray Dittmeier (Louisville, KY) -

(REAL NAME) Amazon Verified Purchase(What's this?)

This review is from: You Morbid Westphal (Paperback)

  This is a short book; you could read it in a single sitting, as I did–twice. Even so, Reverend Rage somehow manages to give us a story that has the scope of a full-blown novel without skimping anywhere. It's fascinating, scary, out-and-out repulsive at times, and even amusing in a few places. (I love Sammy, the crusty old ghost-dad who lives with Westphal.) The book tells an intricate story, dark and gritty and bizarre–I don't know if Rage claims them as influences, but it makes me think of Chuck Palahniuk and 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.

5.0 out of 5 stars The Reverend Rage Hath Come, May 5, 2010

By Kevin Shamel (Pacific Northwest) –

(REAL NAME) This review is from: You Morbid Westphal (Paperback)

Do you like to read a book where you're a character in it and you really sorta wish you weren't (but you still totally love that you are)? Do you like reading books that take you out of this world and into the weird, amazing, thoughtful world the author has ready? You won't find a more twisted, delicious, dark, and unique tale of the ups, downs, and insides of dying in some sort of peace than You Morbid Westphal. This is about angels, demons, and the fight for your soul. It's about people. Rage tells this story through obvious experience and thoughtful reflection on the world around him. He delivers a refined view of violence and gore, a bright shining bit of love and hope in the gristle and guts of death. He tells a frightening, gripping, original story that will suck you straight in, like it or not. And I'm pretty sure you'll love it. 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.

4.0 out of 5 stars Fuel yourself with RAGE, February 16, 2010

By David W Barbee (Georgia, USA) – This review is from: You Morbid Westphal (Paperback)

 

Reading this book, you get the impression that Steven Rage is actually a really nice guy. You feel like he's a guy with whom you can share a nice brewski and watch some kind of sports on TV. But beware, because underneath the everyman persona, Steven Rage is one sick man. The evidence of his twisted mind is You Morbid Westphal, a brutal noir tale of drugs and demons. Steven Rage shows us the life of Westphal, a male nurse who works twelve hour shifts and gets most of his nutrients from hard drugs. Westphal lives in a dillapidated apartment with his ghost stepdad and a pet fetus, the most economical companion of all. Through the story we get to see Westphal move about in the desolate town of Harbor, having casual run-ins with demons and drug dealers. Westphal's life sucks, but it's actually WAY worse than he thinks. If you're a fan of dark and brutal stories, I definitely recommend Rage's work. The narration is raw and blunt, but he's created very interesting characters to populate this dark and moody world. It never comes off as "shocking for the sake of being shocking." You Morbid Westphal is a fast-paced tale that winds itself up and releases with a deadly and violent twist ending. If you think you've got the stomach to see the brutal blackness squirming around in Steven Rage's mind, give this a read. After all, he's a very nice guy in real life.

4.0 out of 5 stars wonderfully warped, divinely demented, December 3, 2009

By D. Gorman "Crystalline Structure Moon" – See all my reviewsAmazon Verified Purchase(What's this?)

This review is from: You Morbid Westphal (Paperback)

when it comes to the grotesque and bizarre, rage thinks outside the pine box (casket, that is). this is a short but tasty little treat for those who like their literature to run on the sick and twisted side. as with his book about pilate, rage combines a knowledge of modern street/drug culture and slang with an intelligent wit and a lyrical sense of prose. although written in prose, it has a certain poetic flow that maintains the sick depravity you expect to see in rage's work. it's short, but complete unto itself. it doesn't need to be any longer than it is…and it almost comes off as reading like a morbid, morose, sick, demented, profane version of The Iliad and The Odyssey (in form, not in content). and it really is worth reading…if you like this kind of sick stuff, which I do. as i said, it's not just gross…there's an intelligence and a worthy writing style in rage's work. it's hard to explain. all i can say is: if i were ever to be reincarnated as another charlie manson, i would definitely want steven rage in my family. this is an inventive story of woe and regret and sex and things crawling out of notoriously uncomfortable body orafices that is not to be missed. if you like the demented and bizarre, give this short but tasty little number a try. it's like chicken eyeball soup with entrails for your shriveled, rancid soul.

5.0 out of 5 stars Steven Rage hits his stride and finds a home, December 1, 2009

By ellen "ellen in atlanta" (Atlanta, Georgia USA) – See all my reviews

(VINE VOICE) (TOP 1000 REVIEWER) This review is from: You Morbid Westphal (Paperback)

When you read this book, you may need to take a few hits of Plata or Valium to get through, or not, and experience the entire book, page by page, as Steven Rage intended it – to scare, to upset, and to start and keep you thinking.

There is a large ripple in the Evil Nerd Empire printing company universe. Steven Rage has found a home and a place for him to write to his heart's content and has a built in audience of horror readers who will want for more. Bravo that he's found a home for his readership – Steven Rage is a brilliant writer in his genre. Is a Steven Rage book for the ordinary reader??? No way. Every page is not for the faint of heart. It deals with lots of drugs, dead people, aborted fetuses, and someone like Westphal who works in a nursing facility and literary 'has his way' with the patients.

In order for more drugs, he appears in a 'porn' flick that is uneasy to read as it was for Westphal to participate in. Is this and other Steven Rage works for everyone? No. That is why I tell you I know the brilliance of the man, been a fellow writer in the first Shameless Shorts Short Story Anthology, and read his book PILATE on Harborside's modern version of Pontius Pilate and Jesus – brilliant, but violent, as the story was. He is talented and his audience is specific – one who understands that Mr. Rage pulls no punches, nor cushions any situations – it is what it is. You Morbid Westfal is not everyone's cup of tea. But for afficianados of the morbid, and horror, The Evil Nerd Empire Publishing has opened its arms and given Mr.Rage a forum for his talents, which are formidable. I look forward to more from Steven Rage.

 

5.0 out of 5 stars Brtual, November 28, 2009

By Garrett Cook "Bizarro Pulp Writer" (Warrenville, IL) – See all my reviewsThis review is from: You Morbid Westphal (Paperback)

You Morbid Westphal is not a book for the faint of heart. Do not give this to your ten year old. Do not try to teach it in seventh grade English. Do not read it if you don't want to be disturbed and excited. There are plenty of mildly horrific titles out there for those of you who think hot water is better than espresso or milk is better than whiskey. You Morbid Westphal explores a nasty situation in the life of a man who is surrounded by sickness and death and eager to escape the pain. It's a brutal indictment of drug addiction, healthcare practices and American decadence that is sure to leave you squirming. But if you're up for some of the hard stuff, you'll dig this.

 

5.0 out of 5 stars Like early Tom Piccirilli mixed with Edward Lee, November 10, 2009

By Jordan Krall "fan of bizarro, horror, noir, a… (Noir Jersey, USA) – See all my reviewsThis review is from: You Morbid Westphal (Paperback)

I read and liked this author's first book PILATE. It was an impressive debut. But when I got this one, his second, I knew I had to expect more from Steven Rage. When reading novels, I always expect more from later books (and therefore am a little tougher when reviewing them) and I didn't want to be disappointed. I was far from disappointed with this book. Like another reviewer said, Rage's first book, the style often got in the way of the story. With YOU MORBID WESTPHAL, Rage made sure to cut things down to the bone and tell the story more directly while still keeping his unique voice. The plot sort of reminds me of early Tom Piccirilli horror novels. There's a certain ambiguous occultism involved that's very intriguing. There is also some hardcore grossness that is also reminiscent of Edward Lee. Not to say that Rage has imitated them, I just get that feeling from this book…..which is a good thing. My only criticism is the length. If this is the first in a series of books, then the criticism is negated. But if it's a standalone, I'm just a little bit disappointed in not finding out more about some of the minor characters. They are all so interesting. Also, the ending is good and wraps everything up but I was hoping for something a bit less traditional. It still worked well and was a satisfying ending. The setup of the book was unique, with each chapter being from a different point of view (You, Morbid, & Westphal). It might confuse people at first but then you get into it and it flows nicely. Overall, this is an improvement over Rage's last book and is worth a read if you like bizarre horror novels. Get on the Rage train while you can because I have a feeling that he'll be getting bigger and bigger with each new book.

 

5.0 out of 5 stars All the Rage – You Morbid Westphal, November 3, 2009

By Eric Mays "Bizarro Author of "Naked Metam… (Richmond, VA) – See all my reviewsThis review is from: You Morbid Westphal (Paperback)

The concept of "You Morbid Westphal" shouldn't have worked at all! There's no way it was supposed to. I've seen some experimental fiction like this before and watched as it plummeted into the abyss face-first leaving irate readers in its wake. This is supposed to be that sort of book…

…but it succeeds…beautifully.

For starters, the title You Morbid Westphal is setting up the three main characters. You…as in you…yes, you, Morbid, a malicious little beastie, and Westphal, who's just trying to get through the graveyard shift at the hospital you're in. These are the three main characters and they share the piece in circular stories. The "you" portions of the book read like a "Choose-Your-Own-Adventure" book…placing you right in the action. You're responsible for birthing Morbid. You're not going to have a very good night. You're experiencing it as it unfolds. This style is not my typical fare, but I was captivated by it. I loved seeing what havoc was unfurling around my world. Meanwhile you get the other two stories (obviously connected). One follows Morbid as he indulges his macabre whims and the coke-addled Westphal. Should you find yourself in a hospital, pray it isn't this one. In fact, I'm not above the cliché…I'll say it: You Morbid Westphal does for hospitals what Jaws did for beach getaways! Steven Rage is a masterful storyteller. He weaves a world that his painted in black and white hues, where anything can happen (and often does), and his brutally visceral. I realize that this is a horror tale…I guess you could call it that. It's got more emotion than your typical horror fare. I felt the emotional rollercoaster travel from repulsed to humored to moved and back again. And the end…well, I'm not the one to spill the beans, but rest assured, you'll not know what is in store for "You" until you reach the final pages. My biggest complaint with the book was the length. I craved more, which is a wonderful thing, and wanted to see more of the story fleshed out. I make no bones about it…I'm a longer fiction type person. But I never dismiss a solid story, and this was certainly that. The fact that I wanted more should attest to the quality. Too, at first I was a little confused with the circular-style storytelling. It's a three ring circus…not a crazy train that has too many clashing storylines…but in the beginning it is a little confusing.** Please keep reading, though. In the end it's worth it all and Steven Rage does bring it together nicely. If you like your horror visceral pick this up. I don't think you'll be disappointed.

The Monster Librarian Digs RAGE ... so should YOU!

   You Morbid Westphal by Steven Rage, reviewed by 'The Monster Librarian'

YOU. Yes, "you"… are a poor soul in the hospital on your last legs. And as it is, you've "given birth" to one of the most horrible "people" ever possible…MORBID. Born from "your" rectum, Morbid dispatches many other patients in the hospital in extremely horrendous and painful ways. However, the main suspect of these murders isn't Morbid, but instead… WESTPHAL. Living with his ghost step-dad, Sammy, and his pet aborted fetus, Chip, Westphal works as a night shift nurse, getting stuck with all of the worst patients. All those that no one else wants to fool with. Just to get through the day, Westphal has to dope himself up with the strongest narcotics possible and that doesn't always help make things easier. These three characters, as well as a host of other interesting "people" make up Steven Rage's You Morbid Westphal. Both the characters and story format are unique- Rage has created a one-of-a-kind voice with this novella, which has enough story to fill a full-length book. A large chunk of the story follows Westphal day-to-day as he suffers through many horrendous tasks at work, in his dreams, and even just trying to obtain more drugs along the way. As soon as I read the final chapters of this book I was ready to re-read it. I ended up waiting a few months before doing just that, but after a second read, I would be more than happy to do so yet again… and again… and again… You Morbid Westphal is one of those novellas that never get tiresome, as you pick up something different with each read through. You Morbid Westphal is not for the faint of heart, as it is full of numerous crude scenes that Rage describes in graphic detail. For many seasoned horror/bizarro readers, this will be a plus, but for those that can't handle things over the top, beware! Highly recommended!

Contains: Adult language, Adult Situations, Sex, Rape, Violence, Gore, Heavy Drug Use

Review by Rhonda Wilson

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

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

Chapter One

The insistent noise from the intercom burns a hole in my sleep. I press the button: "Trouble?" I ask through the hidden speaker.

"Yeah, Pilate," my Second tells me, "Big trouble." Juan relays what our runner just said.

"I'll be right up," I reply.

I release the intercom button and lay back on the bed. I am ravenous and beginning to get short-tempered because of it. I keep my eyes closed a little while longer, but the brief respite does not make me feel any better. Now I have to go to the spot to deal with this before I can feed. It's been three days since I had last fed and that brings me right up to the edge.

I rise. My cold skin is nude and beginning to prickle with hunger, my normally absent breathing is making itself known.

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. I proceed to squeeze the warmish goo into my open mouth, swallowing all 500cc of the blood at once.

I concentrate on pulling in supplemental oxygen through my nose. What is efficient for humans; is woefully inadequate for vampires. The blood I consume and oxygen I inspire will increase my deficient oxygen levels a mere twenty percent. If I relax, this treatment's enough to quench my need for fresh blood until the following day. Then I will have to feed. If I find myself under extended duress, my oxygen reserves will swiftly evaporate. This will leave me weak and vulnerable.

"I'm going to check it out," I say at last. I was getting so very hungry. I turned the tank off and remove the nosepiece. "I'll feed before my return."

"Okay," replies Juan. "Do you need us?"

"No," I state and rise. "I'll return soon enough and we'll discuss what I find when I do. Mary will give me some rows and we'll figure all this crazy shit out together."

Juan nods, looking like he is feeling better with the return of our routine. We always discuss business while Mary gives my long hair some nice tight cornrows.

I study Juan's face, sensing his concern. "I'll bet it's the quota," Juan states. He looks up at me. He suggests, "Maybe we should cash some in, you know, catch us up with Herod. Get him off us for a while, give us time to figure this out; negotiate a different price or some of the other ideas we talked about."

I have considered dipping, but I still must decline. I am stubborn about Herod's quota demands. I feel that the hit Plata is taking should be shared by all in the organization, not dumped solely at our feet.

"Don't worry," I reply instead, "I'm sure it's nothing, some sort of misunderstanding. We're only, what – thirty grams short for this whole year? I sincerely doubt that we can get moved without notice, without a word over an ounce. What is it we push, forty-five, fifty zees a year? And Herod is getting pissed off over one?"

"Doesn't seem likely," agrees Juan.

"Anyways as long as it isn't approved by Herod, his flunkies will see the light. I'll bet they's nothing more than a bunch of dumb cowboys playing dress-up. We shouldn't worry about it too much. Herod will have to be a raving lunatic to bounce me. Look at how much money he gets from us," I smile, "you'd think he'd be happy."

I can feel from my tongue that my partially starved state is making the sharp fang tips poke out of my pink-gummed smile. "I'm sure it's nothing," I repeat, then get up to leave.

Juan follows me down to the basement of our old abandoned church. This is the place were Mary, Juan and I call both home and work and have been doing so for going on five years now. Juan watches me as I leave out the back door. I turn to him, smile once. I easily leap over the tall property wall and then disappear into the mushrooming dusk. Ready for anything and down for whatever.

Chapter Two

It is late dusk in The Harbor and the shadows are deepening quickly. I am within the yawning gloom of a crumbling vacant building and I stare with great interest at the group manning my corner. The drug runners, their dealer, and the cops protecting them stand my spot. I choose with my yellow eyes the dealer. This dirty cop will die first. I can smell his blood. I think he smells delicious.

I crouch in the deepening shadows and gaze in silence at the police officer and his entourage. The mortal isn't wearing a uniform, but I have no trouble making him. The cop's name is Theodosius and he's one of Herod's up and comers.

I begin to breathe deeper as the hunger for oxygen-rich blood grows strong. Breathing is pain for a vampire – a not so subtle reminder of physiologic need. My need is food and I'm going to need it real soon.

Theodosius is standing my spot, talking animatedly with other cops. He has a whole grip of his young toughs milling about and acting tough.

The cop's crew have shut my doors and opened up their own shop. They are taking money out of my pocket and none of my runners are anywhere to be found. And with the presence of Theodosius, there is no doubt of Herod's blessing. Enraged; my jaw clenches and bites. A thin string of brackish blood slides down my chin.

"I'll have Herod's teeth for this," I grunt, "hanging from my neck."

It's time to take care of this miscarriage of ghetto justice. I yawn deeply, stretching out the stiff muscles in my back. I step with purposeful noise from gloomy shadows to dying sunlight.

The mortals turn to look. I listen as I pull back my tightly curled hair into one long ponytail. I am just out of earshot, for a mortal.

Theodosius and crew catch my movement from the darkening shadows. They could see me, but just barely.

"Who's that?" Theodosius asks. I stand straight as a runner answers his boss: "That's Pilate," he say.

"Are you sure?" Theodosius snaps, gripping the boy's shoulders.

The boy sneaks a quick peek over to me and I stand waiting. My eyes, I know, are twin orbs of murky yellow. They are backlit like a beast.

"Yeah," little dude replies, "that's him."

"Pilate," he mutters real low, "Oh, no."

But, vampire hearing brings it crisp to me, where I wait for more.

"Never thought I'd see him," the runner says, "I wasn't even sure he's real."

The dirty cop's fear he cannot hide. That, more than anything else, decides it.

"I'm gonna give him what he come for!" Theodosius declares, fear exploding. He shoves his right hand beneath loose fitting coat, finds his weapon and pulls it.

I stare intently, sensing the group's growing concern. It makes my head swim. The delicious smells of this fearful herd bombards my senses. I can hear their hearts' increased force and speed, the way they're doing little trip-hammer dances in their collective chests. The lungs suck in air to saturate hemoglobin in the blood with volumes of oxygen. This oxygen is what makes my mouth water. My pupils dilate. The murky yellow surrounding the black holes grow in intensity.

The rich, heady scent clouds my reaction and bullet-spit from the cop's concealed auto pistol cuts a furrow through my left shoulder. The stream of rapid fire bullets pulverizes my muscle tissue as I am already leaping backward and down into the gloom.

I then run, unseen, across the street from those shadows. I stop and watch as a second quick spray tattoos the old brick façade of the crumbling Boys and Girls club, the one where I was standing a moment ago.

Firing stops. I squat behind a stripped sedan, to the right of Theodosius' crew. They were looking left at the cement dust kicked up by bullets and still hanging as a cloud. I lower my face and fold my hands together as if in prayer. I welcome the exquisite pain of the lengthening fangs and the pointed growth of talons as they split my bleeding fingertips. The blood shimmers from where I'd been shot.

Then I stand.

One of his runners spins around and beholds me. My smile, full on, the teeth long and sharp, I display in an open mouth. The boy's eyes roll up in his head. He faints dead away. He crumples to the ground just as Theodosius turns and raises his weapon at me again.

I close the distance of twenty feet in the blink of an eye. First I am beside the wrecked sedan and the next instant I'm six inches from Theodosius. The cop's face is vacant. Comprehension as of yet has not set in. The runners follow their leader's arm as it arcs, staring where I'd been beside the car.

Before anything registers, I sink my talons deep inside the mortal. Theodosius glances from my yellow vampire eyes, to the already healing shoulder, to my fingers sunk in his very own belly.

"But…" Theodosius manages. I ignore him. Instead, I behold the crew and pull all of their attention to me. It is magnetic and they cannot begin to resist.

I scan the group and glean the herd's weakest, easiest to control. I locate the little dude and turn to him.

"Shut your eyes," I whisper to the young lad, not even old enough to drive, "but stay alert." The rest of the crew I order quiet stillness. "You do not witness," I tell them.

The boy's eyes are closed as commanded and I refocus my hold on him. The boy stands tall and rigid, at attention.

"Why are you here?" I ask him.

"Herod say you missed the quota three months in a row, so he give this spot to Theodosius."

"Impossible," I angrily reply, "this here my spot. I brought it to Herod. It belongs to me." My voice is getting raspy, dry and painful. "He can't give away what don't belong to him."

The boy is shivering. He's so very healthy with lots of bright red life inside, sludgy-thick with oxygen. My patience is dangerous thin. My hunger's getting deep, clawing at me. Soon it will uncheck. Heaven help the poor slob's who's dumb enough to still be near me when the other shoe drops.

"When this happen?" I snap.

"Yesterday," chokes the boy. His tears are welling and his lips quiver.

"Be calm," I advise and I gotta say the boy did try. The others were nothing more than standing clay statues: ignorant, motionless and awaiting their next command.

Now I am boiling with a powerful rage. The monthly quota the boy was talking about is missed by only a few grams of Plata. This powerfully synthetic heroin-meth mixture makes slaves of users and normally has hordes of fans. In the last few months, however, the trend reversed. Now they are getting pissed because their pockets aren't as swole as they once was.

The missed quota does give me pause, but it's not validation for losing The Harbor's most lucrative spot to peddle drugs. Even short, my crew is still pushing more cake than any, so Herod's logic is suspect.

The boy waits silently. Only the chattering of his teeth can be heard as the darkness snuffs out the dusk. And what lies beyond pale streetlight glow succumbs, becoming deep shadow.

"Open your eyes and see," I command. All of the attention the boy can muster is aimed at me.

The boy, my captive audience, is spellbound in stunned silence as I lift the rapidly dying Theodosius, my talons seeking spine. I find it and grasped the hard, knobby bone, lifting still. My left hand reaches over Theodosius' back. I pierce his rib-cage muscle with my three-inch talons, below where the neck joins his spine. I grab hold tightly.

I bring his torso to me. I bite below where the left and right sides of his ribcage meet in the center. I chew gobbets of flesh and spit them onto the cracked sidewalk at my feet. I punctured a big artery with my pointed tongue. I raise Theodosius above my head and I let my jaw unhinge. I am a predatory snake. I twist the mortal like he's a wringing, soggy rag. A huge bucket of blood from his ruptured abdominal aorta spews forth in an orgy of velvet fluid. The spine pops bubble-wrap staccatos. I twist and drain Theodosius of every last drop of his living blood.

I finish. My breathing abates, as does the mortal I empty. I drop the limp bag of bones to the dust and ease my lower jaw back into place. The blood delivers oxygen to my starved body. Subtle, steady euphoria ripples from the center of my chest and on out to every square inch of my cold, hypersensitive skin.

I calmly suck the remnants of the dead cop's blood from my fingertips as the talons recede. The crew waits.

I speak. "Tell Herod," I say, "Pilate does not get replaced."

The boy waits. I nod. The boy turns and runs fast out of sight. His untied sneeks left empty from where he jumped out of them.

This is it, the way mess like this go down. There is nothing left for me here tonight. I have got myself plenty of trouble now. Shit.

I start walking away. When I near the periphery of deep shadows, I raise a hand above my shoulder. As if on cue, the crew scatters. They dissolve into darkness. They are shelter-seeking roaches escaping the instant kitchen light.

With my shoulder mostly healed and flush with blood and oxygen, my breathing is no longer required. The carrion: I left that Theodosius piece of shit where it fell.

I need to return to my lair. Juan, my Second, and Mary Magdalene await my return. I need to confer with Juan and shed these bloody clothes. I want Mary to braid my hair before continuing my nightly rounds. Where I stay mostly out of site, sitting in my car, hidden from everyone I can. Let the growing legend build itself. Occasionally I've got to come out like tonight. It will, assuredly, add another volume to my ruthless and wicked cred, but will also stir up a swirling shit-storm with the powers that be.

My runners are missing and they need locating. Plata still has to be flipped and I need to plan. Herod will not let this go unchallenged. I shall have to try the Pharisees myself, go on up past Herod. I need to see what I can salvage out of this mess.

I step over the bodies of Theodosius and his unconscious runner. I melt into darkness.

The night is my ally. It swallows me whole.

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

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

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

The runner ended his call and shoved the phone deep down in a pocket of his hoodie.

"I talked to his Second, Juan. He say Pilate gonna come now," the boy warned the dirty cop. "And he gonna come hard."

"Let him bring his ass down here," bragged Theodosius, "save me a step. He'll get what he's come for, on the real. Meantime," he continued, "Herod wants me to get hold of him. I'll have my boys pay his lair a visit, see what we see."

Pilate's runner stood and waited. He felt regret for what he was doing, but what the hell, he thought. It's a dog eat dog world, you know, and it's better to get paid then to get dead.

"Where's his hole at, where he lay?" Theodosius asked and the boy told him. "You sure it's his?"

"Like I say, I followed the girl, Mary, this one time. She's not too bright, this chick, she never even looked for a tail. I followed her and she led me to the old church. I have a feeling Pilate has other places where he stay, but that's the only one I know of for sure."

"Alright," Theodosius said and peeled the boy off a few hundreds. "I want you to vanish for a week. Then you can come back and run for me."

"A clocker?" the boy asked, disappointed, "still? What happened to a promotion, man? That's what I expected."

"To me, to my way of thinking, you ain't done anything. You just jumped sides and dropped loyalty at the first chance you got." He grabbed the boy by his shirtfront. "My offer's the only one on the table right now, which makes it the best offer on the table. And that's better than catching a bullet in the back of your head. Which is just what the vampire's gonna do when he catches wind of this. So, concerning your short-term safety, hooking up with my crew is the only choice you have. Or am I wrong about that?"

He put his hands up in surrender. He quickly agreed with the logic as well as his terms of employment. His head started nodding so obsequious fast now that Theodosius thought the boy had a bobble spring in there.

"Good," Theodosius said. He released the boy. "Now go, and don't come back for a week."

The runner nodded once and ran off. Theodosius watched him go. He was reveling in his new spirit of industry. He turned and went back to his crew, where he paused to rub his hands together in greedy anticipation.

"This is going to be a night to remember," he told them. They all agreed. Theodosius sent four of his big-ass, bad-ass dirty cops to the old church to see if they can locate the elusive blood drinking drug dealer. That Pilate was a specter. His exploits and ruthlessness were so ingrained and legendary in The Harbor, that Theodosius doubted very much he even existed. And if Pilate did exist, he's sure the gruesome vampire tales were way overblown.

Theodosius and his crew already were accepted as replacements for Pilate's people by the junkies that stood restless-waiting on the corner. The fiends lined up in a jumpy queue, anxious for their dinner. They didn't care who fed them, as long as they got their Plata and got high on the quick. Or else the marching bugs will start running beneath their skin again, tickling and itching where not one of them can reach.

Theodosius smiled. Drugs were slung. Customers left happy while a seemingly endless wave of Plata fiends kept coming to the corner in a steady stream.

The sun slid silky toward the horizon.

Chapter One

The insistent noise from the intercom burns a hole in my sleep. I press the button: "Trouble?" I ask through the hidden speaker.

"Yeah, Pilate," my Second tells me, "Big trouble." Juan relays what our runner just said.

"I'll be right up," I reply.

I release the intercom button and lay back on the bed. I am ravenous and beginning to get short-tempered because of it. I keep my eyes closed a little while longer, but the brief respite does not make me feel any better. Now I have to go to the spot to deal with this before I can feed. It's been three days since I had last fed and that brings me right up to the edge.

I rise. My cold skin is nude and beginning to prickle with hunger, my normally absent breathing is making itself known.

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. I proceed to squeeze the warmish goo into my open mouth, swallowing all 500cc of the blood at once.

I concentrate on pulling in supplemental oxygen through my nose. What is efficient for humans; is woefully inadequate for vampires. The blood I consume and oxygen I inspire will increase my deficient oxygen levels a mere twenty percent. If I relax, this treatment's enough to quench my need for fresh blood until the following day. Then I will have to feed. If I find myself under extended duress, my oxygen reserves will swiftly evaporate. This will leave me weak and vulnerable.

"I'm going to check it out," I say at last. I was getting so very hungry. I turned the tank off and remove the nosepiece. "I'll feed before my return."

"Okay," replies Juan. "Do you need us?"

"No," I state and rise. "I'll return soon enough and we'll discuss what I find when I do. Mary will give me some rows and we'll figure all this crazy shit out together."

Juan nods, looking like he is feeling better with the return of our routine. We always discuss business while Mary gives my long hair some nice tight cornrows.

I study Juan's face, sensing his concern. "I'll bet it's the quota," Juan states. He looks up at me. He suggests, "Maybe we should cash some in, you know, catch us up with Herod. Get him off us for a while, give us time to figure this out; negotiate a different price or some of the other ideas we talked about."

I have considered dipping, but I still must decline. I am stubborn about Herod's quota demands. I feel that the hit Plata is taking should be shared by all in the organization, not dumped solely at our feet.

"Don't worry," I reply instead, "I'm sure it's nothing, some sort of misunderstanding. We're only, what – thirty grams short for this whole year? I sincerely doubt that we can get moved without notice, without a word over an ounce. What is it we push, forty-five, fifty zees a year? And Herod is getting pissed off over one?"

"Doesn't seem likely," agrees Juan.

"Anyways as long as it isn't approved by Herod, his flunkies will see the light. I'll bet they's nothing more than a bunch of dumb cowboys playing dress-up. We shouldn't worry about it too much. Herod will have to be a raving lunatic to bounce me. Look at how much money he gets from us," I smile, "you'd think he'd be happy."

I can feel from my tongue that my partially starved state is making the sharp fang tips poke out of my pink-gummed smile. "I'm sure it's nothing," I repeat, then get up to leave.

Juan follows me down to the basement of our old abandoned church. This is the place were Mary, Juan and I call both home and work and have been doing so for going on five years now. Juan watches me as I leave out the back door. I turn to him, smile once. I easily leap over the tall property wall and then disappear into the mushrooming dusk. Ready for anything and down for whatever.

Chapter Two

It is late dusk in The Harbor and the shadows are deepening quickly. I am within the yawning gloom of a crumbling vacant building and I stare with great interest at the group manning my corner. The drug runners, their dealer, and the cops protecting them stand my spot. I choose with my yellow eyes the dealer. This dirty cop will die first. I can smell his blood. I think he smells delicious.

I crouch in the deepening shadows and gaze in silence at the police officer and his entourage. The mortal isn't wearing a uniform, but I have no trouble making him. The cop's name is Theodosius and he's one of Herod's up and comers.

I begin to breathe deeper as the hunger for oxygen-rich blood grows strong. Breathing is pain for a vampire – a not so subtle reminder of physiologic need. My need is food and I'm going to need it real soon.

Theodosius is standing my spot, talking animatedly with other cops. He has a whole grip of his young toughs milling about and acting tough.

The cop's crew have shut my doors and opened up their own shop. They are taking money out of my pocket and none of my runners are anywhere to be found. And with the presence of Theodosius, there is no doubt of Herod's blessing. Enraged; my jaw clenches and bites. A thin string of brackish blood slides down my chin.

"I'll have Herod's teeth for this," I grunt, "hanging from my neck."

It's time to take care of this miscarriage of ghetto justice. I yawn deeply, stretching out the stiff muscles in my back. I step with purposeful noise from gloomy shadows to dying sunlight.

The mortals turn to look. I listen as I pull back my tightly curled hair into one long ponytail. I am just out of earshot, for a mortal.

Theodosius and crew catch my movement from the darkening shadows. They could see me, but just barely.

"Who's that?" Theodosius asks. I stand straight as a runner answers his boss: "That's Pilate," he say.

"Are you sure?" Theodosius snaps, gripping the boy's shoulders.

The boy sneaks a quick peek over to me and I stand waiting. My eyes, I know, are twin orbs of murky yellow. They are backlit like a beast.

"Yeah," little dude replies, "that's him."

"Pilate," he mutters real low, "Oh, no."

But, vampire hearing brings it crisp to me, where I wait for more.

"Never thought I'd see him," the runner says, "I wasn't even sure he's real."

The dirty cop's fear he cannot hide. That, more than anything else, decides it.

"I'm gonna give him what he come for!" Theodosius declares, fear exploding. He shoves his right hand beneath loose fitting coat, finds his weapon and pulls it.

I stare intently, sensing the group's growing concern. It makes my head swim. The delicious smells of this fearful herd bombards my senses. I can hear their hearts' increased force and speed, the way they're doing little trip-hammer dances in their collective chests. The lungs suck in air to saturate hemoglobin in the blood with volumes of oxygen. This oxygen is what makes my mouth water. My pupils dilate. The murky yellow surrounding the black holes grow in intensity.

The rich, heady scent clouds my reaction and bullet-spit from the cop's concealed auto pistol cuts a furrow through my left shoulder. The stream of rapid fire bullets pulverizes my muscle tissue as I am already leaping backward and down into the gloom.

I then run, unseen, across the street from those shadows. I stop and watch as a second quick spray tattoos the old brick façade of the crumbling Boys and Girls club, the one where I was standing a moment ago.

Firing stops. I squat behind a stripped sedan, to the right of Theodosius' crew. They were looking left at the cement dust kicked up by bullets and still hanging as a cloud. I lower my face and fold my hands together as if in prayer. I welcome the exquisite pain of the lengthening fangs and the pointed growth of talons as they split my bleeding fingertips. The blood shimmers from where I'd been shot.

Then I stand.

One of his runners spins around and beholds me. My smile, full on, the teeth long and sharp, I display in an open mouth. The boy's eyes roll up in his head. He faints dead away. He crumples to the ground just as Theodosius turns and raises his weapon at me again.

I close the distance of twenty feet in the blink of an eye. First I am beside the wrecked sedan and the next instant I'm six inches from Theodosius. The cop's face is vacant. Comprehension as of yet has not set in. The runners follow their leader's arm as it arcs, staring where I'd been beside the car.

Before anything registers, I sink my talons deep inside the mortal. Theodosius glances from my yellow vampire eyes, to the already healing shoulder, to my fingers sunk in his very own belly.

"But…" Theodosius manages. I ignore him. Instead, I behold the crew and pull all of their attention to me. It is magnetic and they cannot begin to resist.

I scan the group and glean the herd's weakest, easiest to control. I locate the little dude and turn to him.

"Shut your eyes," I whisper to the young lad, not even old enough to drive, "but stay alert." The rest of the crew I order quiet stillness. "You do not witness," I tell them.

The boy's eyes are closed as commanded and I refocus my hold on him. The boy stands tall and rigid, at attention.

"Why are you here?" I ask him.

"Herod say you missed the quota three months in a row, so he give this spot to Theodosius."

"Impossible," I angrily reply, "this here my spot. I brought it to Herod. It belongs to me." My voice is getting raspy, dry and painful. "He can't give away what don't belong to him."

The boy is shivering. He's so very healthy with lots of bright red life inside, sludgy-thick with oxygen. My patience is dangerous thin. My hunger's getting deep, clawing at me. Soon it will uncheck. Heaven help the poor slob's who's dumb enough to still be near me when the other shoe drops.

"When this happen?" I snap.

"Yesterday," chokes the boy. His tears are welling and his lips quiver.

"Be calm," I advise and I gotta say the boy did try. The others were nothing more than standing clay statues: ignorant, motionless and awaiting their next command.

Now I am boiling with a powerful rage. The monthly quota the boy was talking about is missed by only a few grams of Plata. This powerfully synthetic heroin-meth mixture makes slaves of users and normally has hordes of fans. In the last few months, however, the trend reversed. Now they are getting pissed because their pockets aren't as swole as they once was.

The missed quota does give me pause, but it's not validation for losing The Harbor's most lucrative spot to peddle drugs. Even short, my crew is still pushing more cake than any, so Herod's logic is suspect.

The boy waits silently. Only the chattering of his teeth can be heard as the darkness snuffs out the dusk. And what lies beyond pale streetlight glow succumbs, becoming deep shadow.

"Open your eyes and see," I command. All of the attention the boy can muster is aimed at me.

The boy, my captive audience, is spellbound in stunned silence as I lift the rapidly dying Theodosius, my talons seeking spine. I find it and grasped the hard, knobby bone, lifting still. My left hand reaches over Theodosius' back. I pierce his rib-cage muscle with my three-inch talons, below where the neck joins his spine. I grab hold tightly.

I bring his torso to me. I bite below where the left and right sides of his ribcage meet in the center. I chew gobbets of flesh and spit them onto the cracked sidewalk at my feet. I punctured a big artery with my pointed tongue. I raise Theodosius above my head and I let my jaw unhinge. I am a predatory snake. I twist the mortal like he's a wringing, soggy rag. A huge bucket of blood from his ruptured abdominal aorta spews forth in an orgy of velvet fluid. The spine pops bubble-wrap staccatos. I twist and drain Theodosius of every last drop of his living blood.

I finish. My breathing abates, as does the mortal I empty. I drop the limp bag of bones to the dust and ease my lower jaw back into place. The blood delivers oxygen to my starved body. Subtle, steady euphoria ripples from the center of my chest and on out to every square inch of my cold, hypersensitive skin.

I calmly suck the remnants of the dead cop's blood from my fingertips as the talons recede. The crew waits.

I speak. "Tell Herod," I say, "Pilate does not get replaced."

The boy waits. I nod. The boy turns and runs fast out of sight. His untied sneeks left empty from where he jumped out of them.

This is it, the way mess like this go down. There is nothing left for me here tonight. I have got myself plenty of trouble now. Shit.

I start walking away. When I near the periphery of deep shadows, I raise a hand above my shoulder. As if on cue, the crew scatters. They dissolve into darkness. They are shelter-seeking roaches escaping the instant kitchen light.

With my shoulder mostly healed and flush with blood and oxygen, my breathing is no longer required. The carrion: I left that Theodosius piece of shit where it fell.

I need to return to my lair. Juan, my Second, and Mary Magdalene await my return. I need to confer with Juan and shed these bloody clothes. I want Mary to braid my hair before continuing my nightly rounds. Where I stay mostly out of site, sitting in my car, hidden from everyone I can. Let the growing legend build itself. Occasionally I've got to come out like tonight. It will, assuredly, add another volume to my ruthless and wicked cred, but will also stir up a swirling shit-storm with the powers that be.

My runners are missing and they need locating. Plata still has to be flipped and I need to plan. Herod will not let this go unchallenged. I shall have to try the Pharisees myself, go on up past Herod. I need to see what I can salvage out of this mess.

I step over the bodies of Theodosius and his unconscious runner. I melt into darkness.

The night is my ally. It swallows me whole.

Filed under: alternate history, Amazon, amazon kindle, Amazon.com, American Kindle, Australian Books, Bizarro, blog, blog radio, blog writer, blood, bloody needle, books, brutal bible tale, christianity, dark, depravity, events, events, paranormal, ghosts, Extreme Fiction, fetish, fetish ball, fiction, freaks on a leash, FREE!!!, ghosts, giveaways, goodreads, goth, gothic comment tag, Great Britain Kindle, hardcore christian, hip-hop, horror, images, kindle, KINDLE and E-Readers, masturbation, mature, mature audiences, medical suspense thriller, monster librarian, morbid books, nc-17, occult, occult, occult fiction, paranormal, print, print is dead, radio, rap music, religion and spirtiuality, serial killers, sexy bleeding vampire pics, sexy mess, small press, smashwords, somebody bleeding, street lit., street literature, supernatural, suspense, the grim reverend steven rage, thriller, torture porn, Uncategorized, urban, urban noir, zombies Tagged: A Nightmare on Elm Street, amazon, Amazon Kindle, Arts, bizarro, blood, books, Business, Christ, demons, drugs, El Cristo, experimental, fiction, ghosts, God, horror, Jesus, Jews, Judas Iscariot, killers, KINDLE, Mary, monsters, occult, Online Writing, Oxygen, paranormal, PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale, Police corruption, Pontius Pilate, print, rage, Red blood cell, Satan, supernatural, suspense, thriller, United States, Vampire, vampires

Grist for the Mill

Image by Steve Kay via Flickr

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

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

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

"Blood and Bubblegum"

Yr:09.ACE.13n.10

[image error]

Blood above and Bubblegum below...

Two days ago:

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

And, again, he went without Mary. She stayed

away to tend to Bubblegum, keeping her stoned

and happy. The comely coop-chick still thought they

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

fantasy remain intact. We decided that it would be

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

prudent and to our advantage to keep from telling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fucking squares!"

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

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

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

of medicinal quality.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

worse.

And what is worse than being killed, you ask?

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

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

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

"Here we go!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

needle.

"Gross."

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

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

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

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

Oh, well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you want then?"

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

"You and the girl you were with?"

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

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

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

"You two want to help me sell drugs?"

"Yes, exactly," Juan replied.

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

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

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

"Hey!" Rude fucking vampire.

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

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

"We have an offering."

"Offering? What kind of offering?"

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

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

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

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

right?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're in, thought Juan.

We are!

We were.                                                                                   … end sample

Uncle Tugmunkee from "Bad Notion Traveling Potion"

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The Good Doctor and his wicked, wicked ways.

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

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"The Place in Between" LegumeMan Books, 2010The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

The Good Doctor used to reside in Bogota, Columbia. Just below the equator it's still quite cold, but the sun shines brightly and reliably. If you dressed warm enough, you can still breathe fresh air and get the vital vitamin D, direct from the big golden orange-yellow

source above. The jungles have long ago vanished. Not done in by the Little Ice Age, the human populace took care of de-spoiling the entire continent before anyone knew for sure that the ice was coming. Afterwards, as ice was sliding down from the north, the Amazon River spread far and away, covering scores of square kilometers. The fresh water seeped into the spongy earth, essentially becoming a giant swampy lake. It was a vibrant Petrie dish, just waiting for the next wave of life.

"Hello! I am such a HUGE fan of The Grim One! And boy-howdy does he give a good reach-around!"

When the cold of the Little Ice Age did come this far south, the terrain of the Amazon basin quickly

evolved into a sub-arctic zone. The boreal forest hosted abundant ferns and thick evergreen conifer

forests. There weren't enough humans left to fuck any of it up. So, in time, new animals and those that crawled out of the water were able to flourish in this brand new environment.

The United States on this side of the world, and New India (which finally absorbed Pakistan,

Afghanistan and every-other-stan that touched its borders), on the other side, saw the writing on the wall. As a last gasp effort, both of these remaining Superpowers used their increasingly de-valued wealth and still powerful military might to gobble up all the scattered hot spots around the globe. Any place that could in any way support life, be it on, or even under ground, was invaded and claimed. Any locals that remained weren't nearly strong enough to do anything about it.

The three cataclysmic events had happened so quickly and one right after the other. A little under

two thirds of humanity was wiped out. Human beings were that close to going under for good. It was a drastic reduction in human stressors but there was something good to come of it: there was

now plenty of space and scads of left-over durable commerce to be had for the taking.

The stunned remaining populace then spent the vast majority of its days, salvaging the shit-tons of

shit that was left behind. When they weren't busy laboring, they became gluttons, consuming the endless supply of man-made chow.

The automated factories kept churning out the processed foodstuffs, even after the dead, saved and

frozen were all long gone. And, in the case of The Indian-controlled Harbor anyway, the general public stayed as wonderfully stoned as humanly possible.

As the rest of the western hemisphere crumbled

beneath the events, the United States grasped the opportunity and invaded Columbia. They toppled Bogota, making the Old City in the New World the new US capital.

Only those with money and influence were allowed

to live there. The Good Doctor used to be blessed with both. Not anymore. The disgraced physician/

scientist had been banished to the true hinterlands, at the ass-crack of Lake Michigan. It was in the upper middle region of what used to be the continental United States of America.

The Good Doctor had got himself into some hot water down in the sunshiny below with the powers that be.  No-one knew exactly what he did to shite in the big bowl of proverbial oatmeal. It must have been both political and personal. He was banished and teleported to The Harbor.

He was allowed to bring with him only the two suitcases and a vastly diminished credit account of

Indian Rupees. The US official currency of Federal Reserve Notes is more stable and therefore more

valuable.

Teleporting The Good Doctor to the frozen north with barely the clothes on his back and second class currency was to be the ultimate insult. Of course The Good Doctor being the man that he is, he tucked up his long silver-grey dread-locks and went right to work taking over The Harbor. We were ripe for the plucking anyway, and soon after he began pumping out the organic narcotics, everyone

calmed right down and queued right up.

Even though it was a frozen stink-pit full of mouth-breathing dip-shits, The Good Doctor became

king of the dip-shits. It seemed to make him happy. You know the ancient saying: I'd rather be a king in Hell than a servant in Heaven? When The Good Doctor staked his claim, he made his stance literal.

He found a rusted-out behemoth of a steel refinery with its multi-level basements. His careful exploration revealed that at some time before the events, the refinery was a fully functional hospital.

He sealed the floor from the instant frozen death above and turned out any squatters. The Good Doctor transformed it into something rather palatial. Hell's Mouth Determining Hospital was born. At this time he lived on the grounds, to be near his work. The Good Doctor conducted his experiments.

People disappeared around that time and Halflings of all human-animal mixes emerged. Then the doomed and damned crawled up from the Great Pit. Since there was no god to stop them, they began living and breeding with the humans. The Good Doctor welcomed them all, and why not.

All sorts of creatures lived in The Harbor by this time, and with his blessing. The Good Doctor remained king. For it was just when an uprising of the pure humans had began in earnest that he bent double to the task of anesthetizing the populace with

his organic narcotics. He had test samples ready in just a few weeks time, less than one full lunar cycle.

The Good Doctor located the nocturne to deal the organic narcotics to the huddled masses. His illicit drugs were a smashing success. Almost the entire Harbor climbed on board. There were still a few holdouts that refused to capitulate and indulge in the new goodies. They were quickly and severely dealt with. The remaining resisters and dissenters were thrown out of the top hatches by The Good Doctor's goon squad, and into the bleak white-out conditions above. The rebels were all frozen solid before they could walk ten feet.

The Good Doctor had completely de-railed the brewing civil war. He did it without even one shot

being fired. He continued being the unofficial king of The Harbor. He did whatever he wanted, to whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Souls and Halflings and even some of the doomed and damned began to vanish at an alarming frequency.

No-one could do anything to stop The Good Doctor, though. To be honest, no-one cared enough

to even try. Everyone learned to steer a wide path around the king. It was much easier than coming up missing.

In The Good Doctor's defense, his drugs are stellar.

– end excerpt

 

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For the Finest in hardcore Street Lit.

The Official Grim Reverend Steven Rage BLOG Launch!

with The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

Date:
12/3/2010 – 12/3/2010


Time:
9:00am


Location:
http://stevenrage.wordpress.com


Category:
Horror


Summary:
Brought to you from The Most Depraved Writer in Print.


Details:
 
The Official Grim Reverend Steven Rage Blog
On Friday Dec. 3rd for this event, The Rev. will post in increments the first 10,000 or so words of my novel in progress: 'PHARMACIDE'. The new stuff is for a wider audience and has been viewed by NO ONE. So if you know my shit and are curious about my (possible) new direction to PG-land, check 'er out. If you prefer t…he dark and dank, ya Freak, ya… not to worry you can choose to go to NC-17 (and that's being kind)!!




Invite readers of the freaky word to visit Grimage's official blog.

Location: http://stevenrage.wordpress.com

Time:9:00AM Friday, December 3rd



"The Most Depraved Writer in Print". Recognize.

 

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

graphic violence and blood laden fiction in PRINT. 

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Once you start in on a serious drug collection, the tendancy is to push it as far as you can...Seriously though, 'FucknPunch' is in Europe getting his blood changed out. Pill-Man brings today's gruesome fiction sample.graphic violence and blood laden fiction in PRINT.

DIG:

"The motel room Sancho got for them was only

a few miles from base, but far enough away

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

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

around on him again. But Sancho gave her uncut

virgin

shit. The most potent crack she had ever smoked.

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

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

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

fuck. Sancho was, after all, very handsome.

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

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

as she was going in. Despite being underweight, covered

with bruises and a couple of chipped teeth, Luci

was blown away. Sancho was a wounded bird and

Luci definitely had the wounded bird syndrome. The  

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

beaten young man looked downtrodden and lost, but

he still smiled a huge, charming smile when he saw

her in the out-processing area. Seeing him looking

so forlorn made the maternal side of her swell. Luci

was coming to sign the paperwork so the military

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

He was sandwiched between her mother's 18th

and 20th boyfriend out of 30 or 40 something dudes

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

know why Rusty chose her as the next of kin:

"You have girlfriend, Vietnam Joe?"

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

bitch left us with her little tight daughter right

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

the job done."

Maybe he still held on to those woefully pleasant

memories of gang-raping her when she was young.

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

Her mom would be gone somewhere – usually at

work. Rusty would get himself nice and liquored up

and call over some friends. Then he would take her

down to the basement.

Rusty would shed his clothes, the criss-crossed

scars on his chest shining pale white against his red

flushed muscle and skin. He and his buddies would

run trains on Luci like she was some gook whore

they were having fond fevered memories of.

Luci finished squeezing the store-bought douche

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

her. Vague bad memories of telling her mother about

being raped by Rusty and his buddies pushed their

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

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

to douche properly was her mother's only response

when she told her about the attacks. They were bad

memories, for sure. But that mean old bastard finally

died. She had the paperwork to prove it.

Luci was going to surprise Del with the proceeds

of the life insurance she was sure Rusty would

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

and pieces of personal effects and not even any

retirement

benefits. Rusty ended his military prison

sentence with a Dishonorable Discharge. He would

have lost any benefits Luci might have been entitled

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

last act was inconveniencing Luci, without even

leaving her anything in return. And when she finally

"PHARMACIDE" is a work-in-progress.

signed all the paperwork and collected his dog

tags, she felt the most uncomfortably horrible feeling

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

thinking became muddled. Luci felt like she'd hurt

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

way because her back never did feel right after that.

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

cocaine became much, much more than the wistful

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

lusting urge that morphed into a full-blown obsession.

It happened right there while she was holding

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

and saw the hang-dog handsome young man waiting

for her. Luci felt an instant relief when she saw

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

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

The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

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

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

secret from Del, after all.

Christ, she thought, still squeezing the douche.

Imagine if Sancho knocked me up. Fuck! She knew

she should have made Sancho wear a raincoat,

but she always got caught up with the crack and

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

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

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

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

It seemed that these days the monkey clawed at her

constantly. She couldn't escape its magnetic pull.

Luci realized now that even when she was in rehab,

she was merely going through the motions. Luci

knew Del would never understand. Hell, maybe he

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

probably couldn't even conceptualize doing anything

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

all, and he was comfortable toeing a straight line

and obeying direct orders. Luci chafed at the very

notion.

Out of the shower, Luci dried herself off and got

dressed. She waited impatiently for the anti-anxiety

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

home and face Del this twisted but luckily Del never

came home early."

…end twisted sample.


"Coming to the party?"




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Blood Spills and Chills part 2

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