Steven Rage's Blog, page 9
March 28, 2011
Chills, Thrills and Blood Spills part 1
Cover of Dark Side of the Moon
Chills, Thrills and Blood Spills
A Listmania! list by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage "Is The Most Depraved Writer in Print. Recognize." (The Dark Side of the Moon …)
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The list author says: "Listed below are a veritable cornucopia of chills and thrills bloody entrail spills for your KINDLE and now PRINT. Dig it:
http://www.stevenrage.wordpress.com"
1. The Place In Between by Steven Rage
The list author says:
""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.""
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2. Belly: A Brutal Bible Tale by Steven Rage
The list author says:
"Jonah finds himself out of the frying pan, but firmly fixed in the fire. Then the Lord Herself starts dispatching Job's children. One at a time, until the Herod of The Harbor finally obeys."
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3. You Morbid Westphal by Steven Rage
The list author says:
"Born whole from the rectum of a dying patient, Morbid silently stalks the hospital's hallways, heinously dispatching the most helpless of patients and in the most painfully repulsive of manners."
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4. BELLY: A Brutal Bible Tale by Reverend Steven Rage
The list author says:
"Rage has created an incredibly creative and detailed, though disturbing world. Todd Fonseca, author of The Time Cavern.Please Note: Steven Rage's literary assaults contain graphic violence, illicit drug use, non-consensual extreme sex, and potentially offensive material given the religious references. Be forewarned! These Brutal Bible Tales are not for the faint of heart. NC-17."
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5. The Fall of a Blood Drinking Drug Dealer (PG-13 version) by Reverend Steven Rage
The list author says:
"Re-written from "PILATE" in first person, present tense, The Fall of a Blood Drinking Drug Dealer PG-13 version is where the Brutal Bible Tales began: Pontius Pilate is cursed. When given yet another chance to save the Earth's latest Christ, will the re-incarnated Pilate choose to protect Her? Or, will he wash his hands once again?"
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6. RAGE PRIMER by Reverend Steven Rage
The list author says:
"There is no good without evil. No heaven without hell. No God without the Devil. The correlation is as clear as fresh blood dripping down the side of a martini glass. Only those with a drive to read about blood, gore and mega violence should read his books, if any."
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7. The Place In Between by Steven Rage
The list author says:
"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."
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8. For All The Marbles by The Grim Reverend Rage
The list author says:
"Dark and twisted tales of exquisite violence, rough tricks, narcotics consumption, evil ghosts and drug-snuffling demons. Short stories from the Most Depraved Writer in Print. Recognize."
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9. rage primer: Dark Shit from the Most Depraved Writer in Print. Recognize. by Steven Rage
The list author says:
"RAGE PRIMER is a chilling stew of characters, situations and backgrounds that permeate my first half-dozen books. It is an introduction to my world and you are most welcome. Enter of your own free will."
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10. PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale by Reverend Steven Rage
The list author says:
"PILATE is a drug lord vampire in this re-telling of Christ's final days. When given yet another chance to save the Earth's latest Christ, will the re-incarnated Pilate choose to protect Her? Or, will he wash his hands once again? Be warned: The Harbor is wicked. The violence is graphic. The brutal terror is palpable."
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11. The Overton Window by Glenn Beck
The list author says:
"The Overton Window will educate, enlighten, and, most important, entertain–with twists and revelations
no one will see coming."
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12. Soul Identity by Dennis Batchelder
The list author says:
"Scott Waverly isn't like most people. He spends his days finding and fixing computer security holes. And Scott is skeptical of his new client's claim that they have been calculating and tracking soul identities for almost twenty-six hundred years. Are they running a freaky cult? Or a sophisticated con job?"
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13. Twilight in the Spaces Between by David R. Williams
The list author says:
"Twilight in the Spaces Between is about a disgraced policewoman who travels to the ancestral home of the serial killer who caused her downfall to take her revenge. He has escaped from prison. She knows he'll want to come home before he is captured. Believing her to be his fiancee she is welcomed."
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14. My Soul to Lose by Rachel Vincent
The list author says:
"She tries to convince everyone she's fine–despite the shadows she sees forming around another patient and the urge to scream which comes burbling up again and again. Everyone thinks she's crazy. Everyone except Lydia, that is. Another patient with some special abilities…."
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15. Darkfever: The Fever Series by Karen Marie Moning
The list author says:
"When MacKayla Lane, an ordinary young woman, travels to Ireland to track down her sister's murderer, she is sucked into an extraordinary world filled with ancient secrets, vampires, assorted Fae nasties and other tough-to-kill beings. In the process, Mac learns of her own unusual talents."
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16. The Angel Experiment (Maximum Ride, Book 1) by James Patterson
The list author says:
"Max and her young cohorts are soon forced to rescue one of their own—a girl named Angel—from a pack of mutant wolf-humans called Erasers. Wood nails Patterson's often adult-beyond-their-years dialogue with a jaded tone. But the result of this pairing makes Max sound more off-putting than cool."
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17. Magic Kingdom for Sale–Sold! by Terry Brooks
The list author says:
"After Ben Holiday purchased Landover, he discovered the magic kingdom had some problems. The Barons refused to recognize a king and the peasants were without hope. To make matters worse, Ben learned that he had to duel to the death with the Iron Mask, the terrible lord of the demons–a duel!!"
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18. Serial by Jack Kilborn
The list author says:
"Remember the twin golden rules of hitchhiking? # 1: Don't go hitchhiking, because the driver who picks you up could be certifiably crazy. # 2: Don't pick up hitchhikers, because the traveler you pick up could be raving nutcase. So what if, on some dark, isolated road, Crazy #1 offered a ride to #2?"
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19. Paranoia by Joseph Finder
The list author says:
"In another age, a genre thriller fairly required the brandishing of a weapon and blood smeared on the floor. Finder's latest is the archetype of the thriller in its contemporary form: e-mail is the means of communication and threat, industrial espionage among nasdaq competitors the field of violence."
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20. Manifold: Time by Stephen Baxter
The list author says:
"In this first volume in his Manifold trilogy, he combines both types of story, beginning with what appears to be the straightforward tale of Reid Malenfant, a millionaire industrialist who tries to circumvent a near-moribund NASA and start his own on-the-cheap space program. Things soon take a strange turn, however…"
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21. Elric: The Stealer of Souls by Michael Moorcock
The list author says:
"The result was a bold and unique hero–weak in body, subtle in mind, dependent on drugs for the vitality to sustain himself–with great crimes behind him and a greater destiny ahead: a rock-and-roll antihero who would channel all the violent excesses of the sixties into one enduring archetype."
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22. Assassin's Apprentice by Robin Hobb
The list author says:
"The bastard sons of kings play a noble role in fantasy: not only were King Arthur and Modred by-blows, but it is often suggested that Merlin himself came to power from the "wrong side of the bed." While Hobb's offering has a few too many illegitimate heirs backstabbing around.""
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Filed under: books, dark, fiction, FREE!!!, KINDLE and E-Readers, serial killers, small press, suspense, thriller, Uncategorized Tagged: Arts, Christ, Earth, Glenn Beck, Illegal drug trade, Karen Marie Moning, Motion Picture Association of America film rating system, PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale, Rachel Vincent, Reverend, The Place
March 27, 2011
MorbidbookS
Where to Turn When You Want to Make your Blood Boil and your chest Heave ...
PILATE is a drug lord vampire in this re-telling of Christ's final days. When given yet another chance to save the Earth's latest Christ, will the re-incarnated Pilate choose to protect Her, or will he wash his hands once again. Be warned: The Harbor is wicked. The violence is graphic. The sex is brutal and the terror is palpable. PILATE is not your parents' bible story....
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The Craziest hardcore horror shit available without a prescription ... Available in PRINT!
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.
Worth getting your hands dirty for!, Rage forces us to look at true sin, true villainy, and truly offensive images of alternative realities. ----J. Aguilera "MLA, Professional reviewer, writ...
Note: This book contains graphic violence, illicit drug use, non-consensual extreme sex, and potentially offensive material given the religious references. Through the sheer shock of his presentation of Short Stories and Novel Excerpts, Rage Primer forces readers to consider the alternatives, to look at the garbage in the streets, to see what is swept into the gutters at night right before all decent people awake to see another cleaned up version of the day.
Re-written from "PILATE" in the re-incarnated vampire's POV. Printed using a scroll-like Papyrus font and stylized into free-form Bible Verse, this is where is where the Brutal Bible Tales truly begins: Pontius Pilate is cursed to be a vampire: Life after life after life.
Through the sheer shock of his presentation, Rage forces readers to consider the alternatives, to look at the garbage in the streets, to see what is swept into the gutters at night right before all decent people awake to see another cleaned up version of the day.
Another visit to the Harbor…, October 24, 2010
By Ray Dittmeier
This review is from: The Place In Between (Paperback)
This is my third Steven Rage book, and I'm going to admit that I always have a hard time trying to figure out what to say about his work. The stories, the characters, the world it all takes place in–everything's so intense that it becomes difficult to figure out what elements to grab onto.
Okay, so, with that out of the way… With this new one, The Place in Between, Rage gives us three stories. Two return us to The Harbor, a dark, gritty world full of sex, violence, greed, cruelty, exotic drugs dealt by vampire dealers, people trying to screw one another over, and anything else you might expect to go hand-in-hand with all that. At first glance, this world seems comfortably far from our own, but on reflection, it appears uncomfortably close. To my mind, The Harbor (rather than the characters or the stories) is the focal point. It's more than a setting or even a character of sorts. It's a worldview (and one I can only hope is not the sum total of Rage's own real-life worldview).
The title story goes outside The Harbor and gives us a look at Del, a man who, when confronted with evidence that his wife was cheating, unsuccessfully attempts suicide and ends up confined to a wheelchair, unable to speak or even breathe on his own. And then he's released to the care of his cheating wife and her lover. To the outside world, they're a devoted wife and good friend. Privately, they taunt, torment and torture the helpless Del–until a demon shows up to help him. Ah, but it's not quite that simple: Rage starts the story out with the Euripides quote, "The gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children." And Rage weaves this theme into the characters' backstories, giving the story an extra dimension.
If you're already a Rage fan, this is a worthy addition to your collection. If you're not, I think it would be a good starting point–but only on a day when you're ready to be adventurous and deal with something that might come across as a bit confrontational.
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, 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, religion and spirtiuality, serial killers, sexy bleeding vampire pics, sexy mess, small press, smashwords, somebody bleeding, supernatural, suspense, the grim reverend steven rage, thriller, torture porn, Uncategorized, zombies Tagged: A Nightmare on Elm Street, amazon, amazon.com, Arts, bizarro, blood, books, Bubblegum, Business, Christ, Craziest, cult, demons, DianeKruger, Earth, evil nerd empire, fiction, ghosts, Graphic violence, KINDLE, legumeman, monsters, morbid, Online Writing, paranormal, PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale, Pontius Pilate, rage, Reverend, Satan, Short Stories, Short story, suspense, The Place, thriller, United States, Vampire, vampires
March 24, 2011
WELCOME TO THE GRIM REVEREND STEVEN RAGE'S BLOG. DARK SHIT FROM THE MOST DEPRAVED FICTION WRITER IN PRINT. SHOO …
A heartfelt bloody fucking WELCOME to all You Sick Freaks! Now listen up cuz this is critical. Dig: Once you reach the bottom of this page Each Visitor has to make a choice …
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Can't talk right now. My mouth is full and I'm 'all tied up'. Regardless, Rage is the Most Depraved Writer in Print. Recognize."
Go to: 'NEWER ENTRIES' to follow almost 20,000 words of my PG 'PHARMACIDE'.
OR … choose a much, much, darker path to tread.
Go to: 'OLDER ENTRIES' to The NC-17 (and that's being nice…) Harbor and other vile locales.
Go Right for PG Land…
Go Left for NC-17 Land…
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! 
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, 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, religion and spirtiuality, serial killers, sexy bleeding vampire pics, sexy mess, small press, smashwords, somebody bleeding, supernatural, suspense, the grim reverend steven rage, thriller, torture porn, Uncategorized, zombies Tagged: A Nightmare on Elm Street, amazon, amazon.com, Arts, bizarro, blood, Blue Valentine, Bubblegum, Business, Christ, cult, Dean, demons, DianeKruger, Dominion, drugs, Earth, Ebay, El Cristo, evil nerd empire, experimental, Facebook, fiction, Freddy Krueger, Games, ghosts, God, Heisman Trophy, horror, hospital, Jackie Earle Haley, John D. Carmack, killers, KINDLE, medical, Michelle Williams, monsters, morbid, Motion Picture Association of America, Motion Picture Association of America film rating system, NC-17, noir, occult, Online Writing, paranormal, PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale, rage, Reverend, Road rage, Ryan Gosling, Satan, serial killer, Short story, supernatural, suspense, The Place, thriller, Time Cavern, vampires, Violence and Abuse, Writer
March 18, 2011
"I said God damn, GOD DAMN, the PusherMan."
Dedicated with sick love and sweet hatred to the purveyors of fine illicit medicinals: Pilate, Steele, Juan, Tacitus, Theodosius, The Good Doctor and last but certainly not least, 3D (DrugdealingDonna)
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PHARMACIDE is coming ...
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The Good Doctor elbows deep ...
Shut your mouth, Nancy!
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Can't talk right now. My mouth is full and I'm 'all tied up'. Regardless, Rage is the Most Depraved Writer in Print. Recognize."
Filed under: bloody needle Tagged: Christ, El Cristo, God, Jesus, Nancy, PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale, Pontius Pilate, Tacitus
March 16, 2011
A tale that is, most definitely, not for the squeamish.
Image via Wikipedia
Pilate is a replay of the last days of Christ in modern times, in an uber-violent urban American locale. Pilate combines supernatural good and evil with the unflinching grit and decay of the American ghetto. Drugs, crime and violence come naturally in this fable, incorporating fascinating characters in raw and brutal themes. A tale that is, most definitely, not for the squeamish.
Pilate is the story of a street-level drug lord set in the brutally unforgiving streets of The Harbor. Pilate runs his drug-dealing business with all the advantages and ruthlessness of the vampire he is. Pilate and his assistants are making money hand over fist selling the potent Plata (silver in Spanish) to starving dope fiends. Things are lovely until El Cristo cures the addicted as Jesus cured the lepers.
Immanuel is a petite, twenty-three year old Latin female from The Harbor. She is known to her growing following as El Cristo: The Christ. Immanuel ministers unto her people as the Child of God. She is neither hokey, nor meek. Her power and authority are clearly seen. She is the modern manifestation of Jesus of Nazareth. Immanuel cures Plata fiends of their addiction as Jesus cured leprosy. After a couple of years Immanuel and her disciples cured so many fiends that those high up the drug food-chain (the Pharisees) began to take notice and made plans to have her silenced. There is too much money at stake to let some Messiah continue her depletion of their customer base. The Diabolous (Satan) comes to the Pharisees in a gruesome vision and orders the crucifixion (actual not metaphorical) of the tiny Christ.
Judas is the treasurer of Immanuel's growing ministry in The Harbor. He does not believe that Immanuel is any Messiah, so when the Pharisees offer Judas 30 grams of Plata to open his own shop, he jumps at it. All he has to do is betray the tiny Christ to Herod's dirty cops. Judas is a vampire. His own life does not end well.
Pedro (Simon Peter), on the other hand, is a true believer. He protects the Christ, but when down comes to down, Pedro, as the Christ predicts to him, three times denies he even knows her name. Plata, it turns out, is his true mistress.
Juan de Bautista (John the Baptist), is Pilate's second. He ends up with his head on a stick, by order of Herod and suggested by Salome.
Salome is Herod's niece and sexual plaything. Until she sees his throne and begins to, as a subplot, plan his demise and her ascension and control of The Harbor's drug trade. Salome suggests Juan's beheading, as revenge for Pilate refusing to submit fully to Herod's rule of his business. The vampire thinks it a swell notion.
Pilate is a ruthless, dangerous drug dealer. He is also Pontius Pilate reincarnated. Immanuel induces him to recall his former vampire lives from the latest (1970, AD) to his earliest (33, AD), when the risen Jesus comes to him and punishes Pilate for washing his hands by cursing him to become a vampire. By rejecting the blood of Christ, Pilate is made to live off the blood of humans. Life after life after life….
Immanuel waits 2000 years to give Pilate a chance to redeem himself. Once he understands that he is THE Pontius Pilate, what will he do with his last chance? If he delivers the Christ unto Herod as mandated by Satan and the Pharisees, he will be given back all the money and his business that Herod stole, plus Herod's place (more sub-plotting) at the top of The Harbor drug heap. If not, Herod will keep what he stole and Pilate will have nothing left but a price on his head. Nothing, that is, save his immortal soul. 2000 years have passed and time has finally run out. Which fate will Pilate choose?
END.
PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale is a fable about the power of forgiving the unforgivable. The passage of time will not diminish this power. God would wait 2000 years to save one immortal soul, even if that one soul belongs to Pontius Pilate.
the place in between, November 25, 2010
By
nuff b. ess
This review is from: The Place In Between (Paperback)
"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."
From Chapter 39…. The man standing before Judas was eight feet tall, if he was an inch. He stood there, watching the dead vampire. The man's stare made Judas feel he was a used car, bought for a song. He stood at the edge of the stand of trees.
"Who are you?" Judas asked, afraid. The obscenely tall man looked down at him.
"I am the Piper," Lucifer replied. "I am here to get paid."
With that the Mighty One turned on heel. Enormous footprints sinking inches into the grassy parkland followed him as he melted into the night. Satan went now to prepare a special spot for Judas Iscariot. A nice chilly spot shall be reserved for the damned vampire in the Pit of Despair. Where he shall be tormented: day and night, for all time. Until Judas begs for the pain like a warm glass of milk and forgets who he ever was.
A rustling came from the park trees, high up in them. Judas' eyes darted up and he saw them.
"Now is time," Judas heard them say. They tumbled down from the trees.
The three demons hit the ground running. They converged on Judas' shoulders. One demon slid itself around to the vampire's face and grabbed hold of both ears. The demon shoved it in and furiously thrust the vampire's lipless mouth. The demon pumped maniacally, quickly ejaculating. Clumps of greenish/brown rocketed out Judas' nose. His muffled, gagging protest coincided with tree roots erupting from spongy earth. The tree roots slid up over his hands and feet. The roots tugged them tight to the ground.
Judas struggled in vain as the other two buried claws in his skull. They were going to drink of the soup his fatal stroke had cooked up for them. The demons planned to rip Judas to shreds and dig in his brains with their forked tongues.
As soon as they could pry the lid off.
…end.
vivid, explicit, inventive and engrossing…with fangs on it!, May 30, 2009
By
D. Gorman "Crystalline Structure Moon" – See all my reviews
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This review is from: PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale (Paperback)
"Overall, I found this to be a great, rather grizzly book with a fine grasp of horror, modern culture and even a certain reverence. Rage blatantly gawks at the darker side of our modern world and draws certain biblical parallels…using vampires. He adeptly mixes our current youth venacular with graphic, brutal horror imagery, a respectable dark poetic prose and a decisive intelligence. This is an author I'd like to see more of. The violence, and sex references are raw, explicit and he just holds nothing back. His grasp of the underside of our culture and the drug trade filter through in a gritty, unapologetic in-your-face prose. But he's not afraid to display an impressively morbid poetic side. The plot is well-thought-out. It is a grimly well paced thrill ride of horror and suspense. You just have to keep turning pages to see what happens next. His parallels to the modern story and the biblical text of the last days of Jesus are inventive and inspired, in a grotesque deformed sort of way. There is material here that I'm sure would cause religious conservatives to say, "There is blasphemy here that would make Jesus roll over in his grave (you know, if he hadn't already risen from the dead)!" Yet, there is a strong, revery that shows a certain connection to faith. Personally as an agnostic, I would have enjoyed the book more if Rage had avoided the religious connections and just stuck with a straight vampire story. But that's just my personal opinion. There is a religious connection that comes together as the book rolls along, but it is still a graphic, nasty horror tale with vampires, drug lords and even a little sex. Rage's command of story and pacing shows a lot of promise for the future. And although I'd like to see him stick to more strictly secular horror stories, this is a brutal, graphic author I'd like to see more from. As someone who enjoys graphic, explicit horror, I can strongly recommend this book…and keep 'em coming, Steven! Never let your fangs go dry!"
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March 14, 2011
Blood Sucking Hooker for the Empire …
"PILATE: A Brutal bible Tale"
430 anno Domini….excerpt from "PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale", Hardcore Horror by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage….
She remained alongside the famous Roman historian's house, next to the Salarian Gate. The house of Sallust was empty and darkened as the rest of sleeping Rome. She peered around the corner, watched slaves gather at the gate. The slaves were a gift, a gesture of goodwill from the army laying siege to Rome. Alaric gave the Roman Senate a gift of three hundred beardless slaves. He was impressed by their loyalty to the beleaguered Emperor in the West. Loyalty deeply admired by Alaric as displayed by the Senate during the long siege. Alaric's armies made camp outside the walls, but did not advance. He ordered attacks to cease. How could Alaric besiege those showing such fine bravery and conviction, his emissary stated. The fearsome general, over the last few days, continued his overtures to leave the city unmolested and in peace. Rome was desperate to believe. The slaves, who should be at home with their masters, began to consolidate. The Gate sentries suspected not a thing. Fools, she thought, all of them. She glanced down. The slave lay motionless between her bare feet. She slid a toe into his ear. She shoved it in deep, jiggled it about. The slave lay still. She kicked hard enough to break a rib or two and yet he lay still. The slave was dead. She cursed silently. It was such a waste. The teenage boy was a gift of Alaric, one of the three hundred the Senate was so grateful for. The boy spilled his guts in exchange for a quick fuck. She had to kill him when wet garbled cries erupted from the slave as she fed on him. She had her mouth clamped tightly the boy's bleeding groin. She neglected to enrapture him. The vampire had barely enough blood in her mouth to swish and taste before she was forced to kill him. She shut up his cries by squeezing his throat shut. He died, the blood turned foul and vulgar. It was worse than a rabid, dying dog. The vampire planned to never be that destitute again. Up until this night, that desperate and unpleasant thought was far from her. She hadn't pondered the ugliness of her past in a long while. Now it rushed forefront as she sucked bloody teeth clean, counting the slaves' growing numbers. The slaves were waiting for darkest hour, she knew. The dead boy at her feet told her so. He didn't know she was more than a concubine of the Roman Senate. She also spied for the Emperor in the East. Theodosius was the Roman Emperor in the East and the vampire girl's master. She was starved out of her mind. She attacked Roman soldiers returning from campaign. They had cart after cart piled high with spoils and plunder wrested from some barbarian land. The vampire was barely a teen and had not fed in days of wandering. She could smell them from miles away. She found them as a migratory bird locates its winter home, by instinct and a drive to live another day. She hid by the rode-way, saw them. She saw hundreds of bleeders marching through the dust. Theirs was blood that was hot and rich. She slobbered at the thought of all that blood. There were drams and drams of it, enough to save her life a thousand times over. She could hear them. Those strong hearts all beat, squeezing out fluid red in abundance. It was more than she could bear. She lost her head and attacked. Weakened by hunger and travel, the Romans captured her before anyone was pierced by her fangs, the talons harmless. She was forced roughly to the ground beside the Emperor's conveyance. The door banged open and the Emperor appeared. The vampire was explained to Theodosius. The Emperor ignored his first instinct to destroy the monster. But instead he looked deeper and noted how comely this drinker of blood. She lay unconscious, bound and secured. Theodosius called for a prisoner to be brought to him. The boy, almost a man, never made it to full adulthood. The Emperor had his men slice open the boy's throat. The prisoner held by ratty shift, lost his hot, fresh blood as it spilled the vampire's face. She enlarged her mouth far beyond explanation and fed on blood spilled. The prisoner emptied, body tossed aside. Theodosius closely scrutinized the vampire girl. He noticed that when she was flushed with blood, her skin deepened and pinked. Her breathing ceased. Long predator teeth slipped up in gums and her talons retracted, closing into scarred fingertips. Her face smoothed. Her body, the Emperor noted, was seasoning nicely into her fullness of time. Theodosius was inspired. He knelt beside her. He spoke softly while undoing her restraints. She gave him her hand. He lifted the girl to her feet. The Emperor led her to his four-walled, roofed transport. He had her clean herself as best she could, then lounge and rest. Theodosius gave the day's orders to his generals. When finished, he went to her. She was ready. The column of Roman soldiers resumed its march. The Emperor fucked the vampire girl for miles. Hymen ruptured. She drenched the Emperor's plush couch with purplish blood. He shouted for another slave and she healed as she fed again. The Emperor took the vampire girl in every way. She was strong and took direction well. She was a good girl. They camped that night beside the water. Theodosius ordered his royal tents erected. The Emperor meant to stay a few days. She joined him. She slept, fed again, and slept some more. She did not try to escape. There was a purposeful lack of guards, but no attempt. She might be the one. Indeed. Night fell and Theodosius sent for his best men. The vampire girl sat naked upon the couch and did watch them. She knew what was to happen. The man in charge will keep her as a pet, but first she had tricks to perform. The Emperor stood beside her, his men stared. He spoke softly to her. She gazed back at the staring men. She slowly spread wide a leg and showed the men her flower. She reached down and peeled back petals to display her pink. It was enticing and fresh. Theodosius studied his men. They have not enjoyed the softness of woman for a time and were enthralled by her. He whispered again. She fixed her gaze on a soldier that stood apart. He was a truly brave and worthy soldier. He was honorable by any standard. The soldier loved his children, the Emperor knew, and worshipped his beautiful wife. The vampire girl, not uttering a single word, brought the honorable man before her. He knelt and lapped at her cool thighs, worked lustily up until he did taste of her. The dagger point she used on his neck brought blood to the surface. The honorable and worthy man could not tell how he came to be before the vampire girl. He only believed he tasted the sweet because his
"PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale"
Emperor confirmed it. The soldier remembered nothing. Theodosius was pleased. The Emperor sent the honorable and worthy man away to dream of his family. Those remained were treated to favors. She rode them all, without complaint. The daylight burned away the dark and she then slept. He sent his men away and he watched her slumber. It was akin to the interned. Her sleep appeared eternal. She did not stir, nor did she breathe. She was cold to the touch. Watching the vampire girl sleep was like watching the dead. She didn't look a demon in this state. When she wasn't feeding, when there was no blood upon her, she looked to be simply a girl on the verge of becoming a woman. She was clever, though, deadly and quick. The vampire girl could learn things of import. If he got her used to safety and comfort, this urchin could be a courtesan of highest station. She could be taught which anxiously spilled information was drivel and which was gold. The vampire girl could keep a sharp eye on Rome for him. Learn what plots were being hatched and by whom. Through her judicious use, the Emperor would strengthen and consolidate power. She could kill for him, when needed. He had to laugh. The vampire girl could assassinate whoever got in the way. It was perfect. Romans were, mostly, too sophisticated to believe in blood drinkers. Especially a young shapely one they regularly fucked. The vampire girl could help Theodosius greatly. She could foreshadow his march on Rome. The vampire solved so many dilemmas. She fit so perfectly his plans. He decided she fell into his lap as divine providence. She must be a gift from the Son. Theodosius took a small contingent of guards, trod down to the river. He went into the water. He immersed himself in it, as mandated by his new and interesting religion. He kissed a cross of burnished wood and thanked the Nazarene for all. He asked for forgiveness of sins. The Emperor especially thanked Him for the vampire girl. Mysterious workings, most assured. The Emperor finished the Christian ritual and made his way to the tents and the vampire girl. The thought of her slender budding body stiffened him. Theodosius smiled to himself as he entered the tents. She was awake and waiting for him. She was a good girl. He disrobed. The Emperor stood naked. He spun an index finger in a tight circle. The vampire girl rolled over onto hands and knees. She looked over her shoulder at him. Smiling, she arched her back and spread her knees. The Roman Senate, he thought, won't know what hit them. The vampire girl grew under the Eastern Emperor's guidance and tutor. Except for the simple wooden idol kissed as he prayed, she was comfortable and secure as promised. She had her own quarters and fed on slaves at will. The idol made her hands burn, so she averted her gaze whenever near. She made ready and sent to Rome. She was a gift to the Senate from Theodosius, the Emperor of the Eastern Empire. The Senate, once tasting of her, did thank the Emperor most profusely. Theodosius, upon hearing the flowery proclamation, laughed his royal ass off. The dead boy at her feet was no slave. He confided this as he grunted and sweated on top of her. He bragged about it. He told her none of the boys were really slaves at all. Alaric, outside the city with his armies, was playing the Senate. The boys were soldiers in Alaric's army. And now they were massed at the Salarian Gate. Soon they would rush unsuspecting, drowsy guards and overwhelm them. After the guards are dispatched, the slaves will open the Gate. Alaric and his armies will pour through and sack Rome. The vampire girl had to admit, a devil of a good plan. She learned about it much too late to warn Theodosius. Not in time, anyway. It would take days to send a message that far away, even if peace ruled. In a few moments, all will be chaos. There will be no message of warning from her. A glut of slave/soldiers clustered together in the darkness. They hid from the guards. They had daggers cleverly concealed. The vampire could hear their plans. It was nearly Dark Hour. She heard stirring and hushed movement from outside the walls. She turned and disappeared into the dark night. The sounds of men fighting, dying at the Gate came from a distance. She scaled the wall, peeked over the top. A soldier stood watch near a group of placidly cropping horses. The guard leaned against the wall, right below the vampire. She was a preying mantis anxious to savor his fluids. Her eyes yellowed. The guard's blood teased her. Fangs fell and talons pierced the wall. She went over, scaled silently downward the outer side. The vampire inched stealthily toward the unwary guard, creeping like a hunting spider. The vampire halted inches above the crown of his helmet, eyes yellow and shining. Saliva, pink and slick, dribbled cool from her, splattered the back of his neck. The soldier reached the spittle and wiped some free. He brought it around and peered closely at it. He couldn't place it, absent suitable light. He felt he was being watched. The guard quickly scanned the immediate area. He was at the ready, but saw nothing save his brethren in the distance and horses beside him. Then, to satisfy a strange but insistent urging, he glanced upward. His breath caught at what he saw. She smiled at him and his heart almost stopped. Her talons split the anterior chest wall and gripped his ribs like handles. She pulled the guard off the ground. His heels hit the wall spasmodically as she fed. When finished, she dropped him to the ground. The vampire girl remained inverted on the wall until the fresh blood suffused her core. Then it spread glowing warmth throughout her body. She hit the ground. Vampire signs died down. Flushed and full. Inside, Rome erupted with violence and strangled cries. The vampire outside the walls, walking carefully away as the dying city was raped. It was time for her to change loyalties. She saw Alaric's tents up ahead, not far. She smoothed her hair. She pinched up her nipples until the hard gems strained her tunic. She tightened fabric to accentuate the curve from waist to hip. She ran a finger between thick downy lips of her vulva. The vampire dabbed wet scent wherever her pulse pounded close to the skin's surface: behind ears, base of throat, the soft sparse fur under her arms. She wondered how many of Alaric's men she would have to fuck. Did not matter, she wasn't afraid of them. Theodosius, the Emperor of the Eastern Empire taught her well. He taught her to thrive. The tents neared. She was mostly free of blood. She could hear men laughing with triumph. Rome, all knew, would now fall. She saw Alaric emerge from the tent, surrounded by his men. The conqueror saw her. The vampire smiled seductively and came to him. In Gaul, almost eight centuries later, the vampire finally died. She fed once too often in the same place. She paid for it with her long life. Frankish peasants pinned her throat to a mud wall. She bled out around the farming implement impaling her. They curiously watched as she died without struggle. They piled wood and hay around her feet. The blaze set, fire raged. Still there was no struggle. The vampire traveled vast distances, crisscrossing the centuries since leaving Rome. She witnessed and experienced many great and horrid things. She killed more humans than anyone could count. She could have lived many more years, could have taught survival as an art form. But she tired of it, all of it. She grew weary from the living of life and the taking of it. She tired of it until she despaired. She was finished. What shall be done next, when all has been? There was nothing left for her, save the one. She allowed herself to be captured by the Franks. Her suicide was all she had left to do. And it was a triumphant one.
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March 13, 2011
"DOWN GOES WESTPHAL"
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The Craziest hardcore horror shit available without a prescription ... Available in PRINT!
Chapter Thirteen
"DOWN GOES WESTPHAL"
Be Seeing You
Westphal awoke in his bed. Sammy was there, looking on with concern.
"I was dreaming of kittens," he told the ghost. "There were dozens of them and they were eating me."
"I don't know about no cats," Sammy told him, indicating all the bandaged wounds on his thighs, belly and chest, "But somethin' sure as shit was biting da fuck outta you. What was it?"
"I got in over my head, don't worry about it," Westphal replied, sitting himself up in bed. "I went over to Steele's and got dosed."
He looked down at all the bandaged bites. They hurt like crazy, but they looked clean. Sammy did a nice job of first-aid.
"What time is it, anyway?" Westphal asked.
"It's early afternoon, Westie," Sammy replied.
"Early afternoon, then why the fuck you wake me up, Dad?"
"Because when they dropped you off, it was yesterday, Son," he explained. "I woke you up cuz I know how you feel about yer job."
What?
"I've been sleeping for a whole day?"
"Yeah, kid," Sammy told him, "A whole day."
"Shit, man, I gotta go to fuckin' work?"
"Yeah, if you still want it."
Of course he still wants his gig at Harborside District. They would all be lost without the money.
"Did you see a package when they dropped me off?" he asked, and then: "And my car?"
"They're both here, Westie," Sammy replied. "The car's in yer spot and da package I put under da sink where yous keeps yer medicine."
"Thanks, Dad," Westphal replied with great relief.
He had to get ready for work and needed the extra extras. He asked for the coffee. While Sammy went to put the pot on, Westie gingerly stood up from the bed and made his way over to the bathroom.
He kneeled with a painful grunt and found the bundled package under the sink. God bless, Sammy!
Westphal opened the bubble wrap lined manila envelope and saw the goodies inside. All the powders were labled and the pills as well. And on the top of all the drugs he ordered, Westphal saw a syringe with a note wrapped around it.
He unwrapped the package and read the note: "Take me with you. Save me for later. You'll need it! Shirk."
Shirk. Now he was beginning to remember the film and the demon and Shirk. But he was on his feet, with his crazy memories of getting sucked by a beautiful demon. He also had a big, even generous buffet of powerful and dangerous drugs. Coffee was brewing and he still had his job to go to.
So Westphal grabbed some percs and popped them for the pain. Knowing they would make him sleepy, he went to his desk and snorted up some pre-work enthusiasm.
Then he showered, having Sammy re-do his bandages.
When he walked out to the popcan, he thought the bullshit was behind him.
Westphal's boss, Mr. Whistlebottom, was waiting for him when he walked through the entrance to Harborside District Hospital. Oh, shit.
"What's up?" asked Westphal as soon as he saw him.
"Let's go to my office," he said and Westphal followed him as they wound their way around and down to Mr. Whistlebottom's office, next to their department in the basement.
We're always underground, huh Westie?
Once they were in and seated, Westphal let his boss get started.
"You won't be taking care of Mr. Mandiddle anymore."
"Why's that?" Westphal asked, hoping not to show his exultation.
C'mon, Westie, you know why.
"The patient is deceased."
Westphal felt a punch to his gut, remembering the filthy scrubs he had Sammy burn. He began to wonder why he really did that, instead of washing them.
"Did you need to go over my notes, or?" he let it hang. Mr. Whistlebottom looked at him a moment.
"No," he replied, "We already did, but you weren't even here, were you?"
"No," Westphal said a tad to quickly, "I mean; when did the patient expire?"
Expire. Just like milk gone bad.
"Day before yesterday," he was told, "but it wasn't due to his illnesses."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean Mr. Mandiddle did not die of natural causes. He was murdered in a horrific way," Mr. Whistlebottom stated flatly.
"Murdered?" Whestphal replied, the fear beginning to balloon in him. "Murdered, how?"
The boss picked up a piece of official looking paper. It looked like a coroner's report. Mr. Whistlebottom read from it. "The patient was strangled to death by purposeful and forceful placement of a foreign object, occluding the trachea, leading to anoxic death."
"Somebody strangled Mr. Mandiddle?" Westphal asked in a squeak. He nervously shifted his position and felt a panic coming on. "Who did it?"
"The police don't know yet," he said, staring at Westphal, watching him begin to shake a little. "Are you alright there, Westphal?"
"Yeah, sure, of course," he told him. "Umm, uh what was he strangled with?"
"Well now, that's the really strange part of the story," he said, "It was with his own diseased rectum."
"What?" asked Westphal, "Are you playing with me?"
"Not for a minute would I joke about something like that," he replied, "don't make that mistake again."
"Yeah, sure, I'm not joking either, Mr. Whistlebottom," Westphal tried to explain, "It's just that I guess I don't understand how that could happen. I mean I knew he had the necrotizing bug in his rectum, but how could he have been strangled by it?"
"The authorities claimed they found a pair of those long, curved forceps they use for tube placement on the floor, under his bed."
"Okay."
"Yes, so they initially determined that someone rather strong used the forceps to literally grab onto and forcibly removed his rectum and then, still using the forceps, forcibly stuffed it down Mr. Mandiddle's throat."
He shouldn't have been mean to you.
"Well, uhm, uh – that would certainly do it," was all Westphal could think to say. He was already thinking about how he could ask if there were any prints on the forceps without ass-squeak here getting suspicious.
"So, that's why you won't be taking care of that gem, anymore," his boss replied, showing just a hint of humanity. But then: "The other longer-term care patient we would normally assign has specifically requested to not be cared for by you."
"What? Specifically me? Who is it and what did I do to shit in their oatmeal?"
"First, you are not to use that language with me, ever."
"Sorry."
"Yes, you are," he agreed, getting far too steamed up for just that comment, "Have you taken care of a," glancing down at another piece of paper he didn't really need to see, "Mrs. Fussbudget?"
She's a beauty.
Westphal stared at him a moment, their eyes meeting. Westphal was getting dangerously near to panicking, but sucked it up.
He said: "No, I've never taken care of her."
"Ever been in her room?"
"No."
"Not even as part of an Urgent Response Team?"
Why would I lie, why would I lie?
"No, sir," Westphal replied, eyes starting to twitch uncomfortably, "Never taken care of her in any situation. I have never been in her room, and frankly, before now I doubt if I had even heard her name."
"Well, that's what I thought," he said, putting that piece of paper down and picking up another one. "But the family is quite insistent after she picked out your picture as the one who assaulted her."
"What happened to her?"
"The police and in-house consul made it clear that I was not to say, just that there is now an ongoing investigation." He looked closely at Westphal. "They also suggested that you be monitored closely."
Oh, fat-ass, did you just make the list!
"What the fuck does that mean?" Westphal asked, incredulously.
"What did I just tell you about that kind of language?"
"Just tell me what the hell is going on here, Mr. Whistlebottom." Westphal demanded, thoroughly red-faced and getting loud. "I suggest you come clean."
Mr. Whistlebottom was dumbfounded and his own faced darkened. It was with a considerable dose of effort that he kept his cool, Westphal could tell. He almost felt sorry for the paper-pushing fat fuck.
"You are hereby placed on suspension, dependant on the outcome of the police as well as our own in-house investigation."
"Starting when?"
Hi Kids! I'm 'FuknPunch' the 'Unemployed Child Care Clown'! The Grim Reverend is gracious enough to give all youz Sick Freaks some fucking hardcore fiction! You're Welcome, Freaks!
"Immediately," Mr. Whistlebottom replied and stood. "You can go home now. You will be paid 2 hours for coming in. Thank you."
Westphal waited a moment for more, but that was all there was. He was suspended, without pay, and for what? Just because some wig-wearing old battle-axe that's behind on her eyeglass prescription picked him out of a group of photos? Are they fucking serious? Well, fuck them, then, he thought, and the horse they all rode in on. I am out of here.
"I guess I'll just leave then," Westphal replied and high-tailed it to the office door.
"The hospital will call you to schedule time with the police," he shouted after Westphal.
"Fine," he said and opened the office door, where he was met by a large dude in civilian clothes.
"Are you Westphal?" he asked sweetly.
"Yes," Westphal replied, and even before he could inquire as to what the motherfucker wanted, the dude punched him in the gut and then landed a good one on Westphal's cheekbone.
Normally, that would have been the end of the fight. Westphal was more of a junkie than a fighter, but he was pissed all the way off.
He surprised even himself, and jumped on the dude and began wailing away on him. He had the dude pinned down and was trying to beat him into the floor when he was pulled off by security. The dude got up, bleeding and all, and got in a solid kick to the chest which spelled the end to the confrontation and Westphal's employment at Harborside District Hospital.
You ain't-uh workin' here no mo'.
PHARMACIDE is coming ...
Clean-up's gonna be a chore …
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March 12, 2011
Westphal makes his Drug Shopping List … it's long …
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Chapter Ten
"PAY DAY"
Knick Knack Paddy Whack
Westphal awoke some time just after noon in his bed. He sat up, panicked because he could not recall what had happened. But a quick peak over to the side showed Chip nestled snug as a dead bug and Sammy he could hear singing to himself somewhere on the other side of the bedroom wall. Then he looked down and surprised the fuck out of himself, for he was wearing his hospital scrubs and he had no business doing that.
He climbed out of bed, noting the blood and dried filth and fluids, disgustingly ripping them off and tossing them to the ground. They were so bad; he might very well have to get rid of them.
It's more complicated than that. You know you have to burn them, Westphal. Prison is a bad place to have to kick, bitch, bad dreams all up in my head, no lie…
To throw them away, at least, and he made a bee-line for the shower. Once inside the dirty stall, he doused himself with soap and shampoo, brushed the dog-fuck out of his teeth, making them bleed, rinsing with super strong peroxide, swishing and spitting foamy blood between his feet. And then finally trimmed all his nails, cleaned his ears, shaved until his skin bled, and then showered once the more. He still felt unclean, like something particularly bad had happened, but he didn't know what. But there was nothing he could do about something he could not remember.
Westphal figured that he probably just woke up in the middle of his sleep, thought he had to go to work, got dressed in his scrubs, and then vomited on himself. It's happened before, but he never felt like this. Westphal felt like he just jerked off in a confessional.
That's because you knicked and knacked, and paddy-whacked. You sure as shit gave that dog your bone.
As he began towel drying himself, Westphal called out to Sammy to start the coffee pot, deciding to drop it and get the fuck on with his day.
The ghost made the best cup on the planet, and never complained doing the little things around the house to make Westphal's life that much easier. He even cleaned up a bit, without asking, from time to time, but could not figure out how to use the fucking washing machine. That would have been a real boon.
"Got it goin', Westie," Sammy called out.
Westphal went through the ever-growing pile of dirty clothes, smelling each item to see which was the least offensive. He finally settled on some jeans, undershirt and a thick, warm flannel. He slipped on and tied the laces of a pair of well-worn hiking boots and sat at the adjoining desk.
Ask Sammy to do it, he won't mind.
"Hey, Sammy," Westphal called out, thinking, "Do me another favor, would ya?"
"Sure thing, whatcha need?"
"Looks like I puked on myself again and the scrubs are too far gone to salvage."
"You want I should take 'em down to the basement furnace and give 'em the old heave-ho?" He asked as he came in.
Westphal looked up at him. "Appreciate it," he told him.
Sammy scooped them up and dropped through the floor, ghosting his way, quick as you please, down to the basement.
Now you will be safe. Always listen to me, buttercup. Morbid is good and Morbid is wise. Dope now.
When Sammy left, Westphal pulled open the sliding top drawer of his desk and pulled out his plate of breakfast. He put it on the blotter in front of him, moving the computer keyboard a bit to the side and out of his way.
He mixed a little speed and a lot of cocaine together. Westphal turned the internet provider on while he chopped up the mixture, loving the ritual.
Sammy was back in a few short minutes, announcing his return from the kitchen. Moments later, he brought Westphal his perfect cup of coffee, saying the same thing he always did:
"I take my coffee the same way I like my women, Westie."
"Peurto Rican," Westphal finished; matching Sammy's smile with his own. "Thanks, Dad." Sammy pat him on the shoulder and left, singing about a girl from Nantuckett.
Westphal sipped at the cup. It was perfect. Then he bent down to suck up two fat lines, which were also perfect. He held his head back to let it soak in. He pinched shut his nose while he brought up his bank account. Westphal needed to see how much money he had available before he could ascertain how much and what kind of drugs he could get today from Steele.
This was always a little nerve-wracking for him. He had all his monthly bills on an auto-deduct, so he didn't accidentally find his addict-ass homeless. This was a good thing. Mistakes are made a lot when you are stoned all the time and Westphal long ago accepted the necessity of this pragmatism.
The worrisome part came when he had to log-on to find out how much money was left for drugs. He was getting a little on the low side, especially the glass. It was going a lot faster lately and he couldn't really put his finger on why. But he was stoned all the time, in one way or another, so he probably just did more than he realized.
Westphal looked at his bank's page and almost choked. The account balance was huge. Okay, well not huge by the standards of most, but there was a lot more than normal for Westphal. He checked out the computer screen closely, making sure he was really seeing this and then it hit him.
"Fuck, yes!" he hissed, "Score!"
He sniffed his shit back severely and blinked his eyes. This means he can get everything he wants from Steele, not just fill in the cracks.
Westphal thought a minute, tapping his happy fingers on the desk, and going mentally over his wish list.
It was much more varied than his usual order and in larger quantity. He even added one extra item he normally never can afford, you know as a treat. Westphal felt like he was Christmas shopping for himself.
The extra money came from the double deposit he got this month for Sammy's After Death Insurance and his third paycheck from work. He had forgotten all about it. They just happened to have both come in a few days apart and that meant money to spare!
Westphal scrolled down the paid side of his bank account, just to make sure none of it wasn't going to get sucked up by bills. He smiled and pumped a fist skyward with delight, because nothing was due. He snorted up a little more dope and got Steele's e-mail ready.
"Oh, baby, daddy's gonna get stupid high," Westphal told Chip.
"Good news, there, Westie?" Sammy asked.
"Hells, yeah, Dad," he replied, "Both of my extra checks came in this week."
"At the same time?"
"Oh, yeah!"
"Well, good for you, buddy!" Sammy called back with enthusiasm. "And that reminds me of the time we mistakenly got our housing allowance when we were already under way, so we hit this port off da Horn and found this Black gal dat had da pinkest snatch this side of Heaven!"
Westphal tuned out Sammy's latest tall tale and began his mental list. It didn't take longer than two shakes, because he could see the sugarplums as they danced in his head. He decided to help himself to a nice sampling of just about everything Steele had in his arsenal.
Westphal pulled up his mail and started writing out his order to send to Steele. He wanted some percs, comas, a lot of bitch, a taste of boy (this was the extra, he'd never tried heroin before). He also wanted a half ounce of meth, some phens, T-3s, a couple dozen rolls and some more MDMA powder (Steele's shit is so clean), a handful of zans and vans, and more morphine tablets if he's got 'em. And top it off with a fat sack of mean green. He was happy because this shit should last him a good long time.
This made Westphal securely and supremely happy. He had his rent and utilities paid, enough available on his gas card to scoot the popcan around The Harbor, fresh bone marrow for Chip and even a little left over for some food.
He figured he could stock up on drugs and then he wouldn't have to go to the motherfucker's big, old rambling house for a while. Westphal did this whenever he could, with the certainty of dread that all real dope fiends had of getting eventually popped by Johnny Law. That would seriously fuck up his employment options.
Tired of 'safe' horror? Look no farther! 'click'!
"It takes a sincerely sick, drug-addled, putrified brain to come up with a world-view this demented."
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March 11, 2011
The Ghost and the Unwanted (hardcore, baby)
Image via Wikipedia
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"Book of the Year for 2009!" the grim reverend steven rage thinks …
Here we find Westphal at home with his ghost step-dad, Sammy and his pet aborted fetus, Chip.
"THE GHOST AN THE UNWANTED"
Favorite Non-Chemical Activities
After Westphal's night shift ended, he drove the pop can to the early opening pet store on the way home. He was shaking from the night spent with the marvelous Mr. Mandiddle and all the hospital staff laughing behind their hands at him. It was a predicament that he could do nothing about, so he tried to snort it off his mind as he drove, looking around through the tinted windows, taking slugs of after work tonic from a flask in between the coke bumps.
He needed to eat, passed several likely cheap drive-thru burger joints, but just could not get himself to do it. Instead he rubbed coke on his sore receding gums and shook some more.
He pulled into the nearly empty parking lot of the pet store, looking for some pregnancy bone marrow so he could feed his pet aborted fetus, Chip. Sammy he didn't have to worry about. He doesn't need to eat anything anymore. But Chip hadn't been fed in a few days, and as bad as Westphal wanted to go home and drink and pill himself into sweet oblivion, the baby needed to be fed.
There are two kinds of babies in The Harbor: the Wanted and the Unwanted. The Wanted are the live babies, planned or accidental, that are brought into the world and raised as children. The Wanted are fed, clothed, educated and loved. They go to school when they are old enough and taken to the doctor when they get sick. These ninos grow up to be adults, to be us.
The Unwanted, on the other hand, are the aborted babies. These ones, destined to be pets, are pulled gently from the mother, not suctioned into a canister. The mother needing cash money will sell her dead fetus to the exotic pet stores. They can command a healthy price and come in all the hues and sizes and of both genders. The hermaphros fetched the highest freak prices, usually going to the wealthy who like their poodles to be teacup sized and their bulldogs to have one testicle.
The Unwanted are purchased and cared for by people, usually professionals like Westphal, who want something to love, but don't want the responsibility of a live child. They are more expensive, but much easier to take care of than traditional pets like dogs, cats and even reptiles.
The Unwanted stay put. One never has to worry about them escaping your home, getting knocked up, or slithering out of their cage. They don't do a whole lot because, well, they're dead.
The beauty of taking care of an Unwanted is that the fetus only needs a small infusion of bone marrow derived from a pregnant human female once, maybe twice a week. This bone marrow is also sold by mom for profit.
The owner of an adopted Unwanted must feed it every few days and wipe the small snail track of meconium from their cute little dead bottoms and that's really the bulk of it. Their popularity with working professionals was soaring and Westphal had his Chip for years. They never grow any and never die since they are already dead.
Isn't Chipper cute?
They don't move very much at all unless you feed them the highest quality bone marrow culled from the healthiest, wealthiest moms who usually don't need the money. This highest quality pet food is super expensive and rare as hell.
Since Westphal's drug habits increased and his income decreased, he's had to settle for bone marrow from the crack and meth addicted mothers. That pet food was plentiful and affordable, but it did make the babies fart and twitch an awful lot.
The Unwanted babies needed to be feed a couple times a week, not really to keep them alive, they have no heartbeat or breathing, but to keep their wee bodies from decaying. So with so little care involved, the owner of an Unwanted can feed little Tommy and go out of town for a long weekend without the worry and inconvenience of a smelly rotting fetus stinking up your return and ruining your trip.
Just as there are some folks who neglect their dogs and cats and lizards, so do some Unwanted owners. But they are exotic and expensive, so most feed them the best bone marrow they can afford. They dress them up, coo at them and have photo albums filled with snapshots of the unmoving abortions, showing them off to friends and relatives.
Westphal arrived home and unlocked the door to the apartment he shared with Chip and Sammy. He let himself in. The stale funk of the apartment needed to be aired out in a bad way. It was the same thought he always had when he first came home from spending twelve or thirteen hours away. But he knew he probably wouldn't bother. By the time he mellowed out enough to deal with it, he was usually too out of it to care.
He put his over-night bag down by the sofa and headed straight for the kitchenette. He opened the freezer and pulled out the bottle. He picked up the nearby shot glass and had two quick ounces of Finland's finest. After slamming them back, he poured some more icy-chilled vodka over cubes in a fairly clean glass.
Westphal carried it over the thin, worn through trash covered carpet to the bedroom and the other side of his five hundred squares of feet-space.
Westphal placed his voddy and the packet of bone marrow on the night stand. He stripped out of his dirty scrubs, standing in his white-tighties and socks and nothing else. He felt like he could just disintegrate at any moment. He really should eat.
He could not find any clean underwear, but he was able to locate a clean t-shirt. The socks he wore to work were only a couple days old so he left those on. He grabbed the sweat bottoms he used as house pants. He grabbed up the bone marrow and went to the pet bed beside his own. Chip lay motionless.
Westphal filled the marrow pump and attached the new bag of pet food to the j-peg poking tiny out of Chip's abdomen.
Westphal squirted a little of the bone marrow onto his pinky finger. He gently brought it to the aborted baby's liver-colored lips. Chip move a little twitchy fetal twitch and began to suckle. This was one of Westphal's favorite non-chemical activities.
He loved the hell out of Chip. The Unwanted was the only thing his ex-wife's lawyers let him keep, which was fine. She and his replacement could keep the fucking Wanted kid, for all he cared.
Chip was all Westphal had demanded from that fucking high-toned bitch. Well, that and her untimely and painful demise. But she was alive and well and happy and you can't always get what you want.
Sammy could be heard out in the living room now, talking out of his ass in his usual long-winded diatribe, spit out at a mile a minute. Sammy appears whenever he wants, being a ghost, and Westphal somehow doubted he stuck around too much when he was working at the hospital. But you never can tell; ghosts do what they want, one of the few advantages to being one, Westphal imagined.
He suspected, though, that Sammy came in to check on Chip periodically while Westphal was out of the apartment, because he was always clean and sometimes the dead baby's position was changed. He knew Chip didn't move on his own. Westphal loved Sammy, too. Even being the pain in the ass that he was.
Westphal had inherited his dead step-dad, so there wasn't much he could do about it. After a while, he tolerated and sometimes even surprised himself by enjoying his company.
"Chip and I will be out in a minute, Dad," he called out, giving the cold, dead baby a quick kiss on the noggin.
"Take yer time, Westie!" Sammie shouted back.
He never whispered. Sammie communicated always in a rushed, hushed sort of high energy growl. He sounded just like the eight times married and divorced career Navy man that he was. His shock of white hair stuck straight up. His myriad of amateur tattoos showed all the way from wrist to collar, but would be covered by his dress uniform.
Westphal only saw him in it the once and that was the day they put his corpse in the ground. The ghost Sammy always wore the t-shirt and faded blue Dickies he preferred in his off-duty and retired mortal life. That and the Navy ball cap with his ship's designation he had every right to be proud of.
"Gotta pill up and head south," Westphal called in response.
Westphal left Chip alone for a moment and went into the adjacent bathroom. He opened up the big shoebox he kept under the sink. He rummaged around for some sedative pills. He found a bottle of morphine and one of generic Xanax; shook out a couple apiece. He swallowed them down with the iced vodka.
Westphal craved badly a fat line of meth or coke or both, but smartly refrained. It would have only gone to waste. Westphal was pragmatic as hell when it came to his drug abusing and one does not waste one's treats. That would be a sin.
Westphal wanted, no he needed to pass all the way out. He was tired from working all night. His nerves were so frayed and if he didn't drop all the way down and sleep the sleep of the dead, the horrible nightmares of being eaten alive would return with a vengeance. He was in no mood for that shit.
He needed to sleep long and hard. Then, when he wakes up, not needing to be on duty at Harborside District for another wonderful 48 hours, he can treat himself. He can line up some crank and coke with his wake-up coffee and jabber with Sammy for a good long while. Then, if he felt real good, he can go to his guy's house and stock up on his medicinal goodies.
Hearing Sammy ramp-up his jibber-jabber, Westphal went back to Chip. He scooped up his boy and snuggled and cooed at the dead baby. He changed Chip into a clean onesie, put on a new head cap, careful with his never going to knit and heal soft spot.
"How's my little buddy, today?" Westphal asked sweetly. The pump finished the feed of bone marrow, and he disconnected the port, closing it tight. "Did ya miss poppa, big boy?"
Westphal left the bedroom and went to the living area where Sammy was sitting his ghost ass on a bar stool, still yappin'.
"So I gives da little slope a good fuck up da keestuh and she's screamin' ta beat da band, I tell ya."
"Jesus, Sammy," Westphal admonished with a smile he could not help, "Do you have to talk that shit in front of the baby?"
Sammy just shrugged and kept on.
Sammy was Westphal's mother's fourth husband and Sammy, himself, married six more times after their divorce. He has scores of children, every hue of the rainbow, spread in ports of call all over the world. For some unknown reason, Westphal was his favorite kid, despite not even being biologically related.
He has been dead for seven years now and Sammy showed up at Westphal's doorstep soon after. Westphal's bitch-cunt of a wife had left a few weeks before and if truth be told, Sammy was a godsend. But now, he just would not leave.
Westphal applied for and got After Death Security payments for Sammie. The monies were automatically deposited in Westphal's lonely checking account monthly for the irritation of being saddled with a dead relative. Westphal bitched and moaned about Sammy much more than he was truly irritated by him. The money put a nice dent in Westphal's huge drug habit and Sammy's rapid fire bullshit became almost like white noise after a while.
"And then when I pulled out she farts a big wet one and shits all over mah knob, splatters stinky nip juice all over mah thighs and belly and then Westie, you won't believe it, I swear on my life, you know what she does?"
Westphal doesn't answer, he's cooing at Chip, smiling; starting to stop shaking so much. He was even getting a little hungry. He was thinking of phoning in an order of a pizza-pie with tomato and mushroom from Barney's. Besides, he's pretty sure he's heard this one before, just like all of Sammy's sexcapades: one long unending loop of debauchery. Sammy continued as Westphal opened his phone and texts the pizza order:
"She turns her little zipper-head around and tells me for fifty more bucks she'll lick me clean and guess what?"
"What Sammie?"
"Best fuckin' fifty bucks I ever spent!"
Jesus, that's a new twist. Every once in a while Sammy will toss in a new variation to his tales. You never know when or what it'll be. Probably bullshit, but it still made Westphal laugh.
"You're the tits, Dad," Westphal replied with a chuckle.
"Well, you got that right," Sammy agreed, "But did I ever tell you about da time we was fixin' tuh ship outta Gitmo after deliverin' those terrorists an' we only had a few hours tuh line up some pussy?" Without waiting for a response, Sammy continues: "Yeah so we're almost outta time and da only thing we could find was a goddamn trannie with warts on her man-cunt da size of gumdrops."
Westphal didn't answer, but Sammy didn't require that to continue this next sex story. He let Sammy drone on and on and he began to feel the opiates kiss him gently into a peace that was rare and precious. He smoothed Chip's brow and blew little zerberts at him.
While Sammy informed him that you never in your fuckin' cartoon life tell a Navy man how much to drink, Westphal felt himself relax. His stomach started rumbling and he felt himself getting nice and dozy.
"Hey, Sammy," he called out to the ghost, "If I fall asleep, get the door, will ya? I ordered a pie."
"Sure thing, kid," Sammy replied and moved over to the couch, "Let me put Chip back to bed for ya."
"Thanks, Dad," he told him with a smile he felt on his face. "It's already paid for, tip and all," Westphal said, beginning to slur a little.
Sammy scooped up Chip and gently took him right through the wall, both being dead. You heard Sammy telling the little guy goodnight.
Maybe it was a fucked up family, but Westphal loved them both very much. His eyes were closing as Sammy came back.
"Go ahead and curl up on the couch, buddy," Sammy told him, pulling a blanket from the closet and bringing it over. He put it on Westphal and even mussed his hair, like when he was a boy, a million years ago.
"Thanks, Dad," he said.
"Sleep if ya want to, Westie," Sammy assured him. "I'll wake yous up enough tuh get a couple slices down ya, if and when that idiot punk kid driver shows up."
"Love you, Dad."
"You too, kiddo," Sammy replied.
He smiled and thought of nothing bad. Then, for a while at least, Westphal surprised himself by being happy. And that was more than enough for him.
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March 6, 2011
PRISON SEX
Coming soon ...
[image error]
storyline for 'PHARMACIDE'
Six-point-Three
Inside, the complex of the Phoenix Tent City was made up of the abandoned department stores that used to anchor the once thriving Park Central shopping mall. The inmates and their dependents used these huge emptied structures to erect their individual dwellings.
Tent City was reminiscent of African or Haitian shanty towns but only indoors. These dwellings were constructed with whatever materials could be gathered and thrown together. There were no fires, cooking, or smoking allowed inside the mall buildings of any kind. Other than those fire-code restrictions (because the fire dept. would not respond) it was pretty much a free-for-all.
Electricity and running water were provided for Tent City by the city of Phoenix. The juice as it was called by the inmates was controlled by the Peacekeepers from inside their full-sized station. Because of this control riots by the inmates were extremely rare. If one was in the offing, all the Peacekeepers had to do to exert their authority is to shut off the juice. They would do this for even the slightest infractions. The inmates did not want that. They all got very used to having the juice.
The Peacekeepers station was manned around the clock. It sat right up against the high wall where the outer parking lot of the mall used to be. The station was as far away from the stench and mayhem of the main buildings as it could possibly be and still be on the grounds of the City.
Nutrition for the inmates was provided for once a day, delivered via big-bellied helicopters. The great gray machines would hover to within a few feet of the asphalt. The doors would open and the food would be dumped out. It was simple fare such as pre-packaged sandwiches, burritos, corn dogs, pudding, gelatin, breakfast bars, toaster-pastries. Pretty much anything that was slow to rot.
The Peacekeepers used to stand by during the food drops, but it was far too dangerous now. They used to sit outside their station, not to preserve order, but for their amusement. It was entertaining for them to see inmates beating the crap out of each other for stale bags of chips and greasy beef sticks.
It all changed in one day a while back. A teenager made the horrible decision to rush the helicopter as soon as the drop began. A mob of hungry inmates joined the pursuit as they too rushed the helicopter. The big machine veered out of control, its blades tilting toward the asphalt of the parking lot. As it struck the hungry horde, the shimmering blades sliced cleanly through a few dozen bodies before barely managing to level off and escape.
The carnage left behind on the ground was grotesque. Some of the bigger body parts were still spurting hot arcs of arterial red. That stopped no one.
Without missing nary a beat, the hungry inmates searched the immediate area for food. The helicopter had departed and the drop was terminated. The brave crowd turned to a raging mob. When the few bits of packaged food that made it off the helicopter were consumed, that's when shit turned real ugly.
Inmates over-turned the still bleeding body parts. When no more food could be had, they turned opportunistic. They fought over the warm body parts, even the bloody strands of clothing. Their faces were crimson and their eyes were mad. Those that were trampled were turned on as well. Shivs of all types came from all points. They cut into the flesh of both the quick and the dead.
The feeding frenzy was finally halted when the Peacekeepers fired a .50 cal tri-mounted rifle into the crowd.
When the riot was over, the dead were everywhere. Most of the fallen had been chewed on, the diners slipping back inside with their prizes of rent flesh. Some of the bones were picked completely clean. The Peacekeepers were stunned and taken aback by the sheer ferocity of the hungry inmates. That's when the cops were approached by the Peoples Defense League.
The PDL was a well organized crew within the walls of Tent City. They masqueraded as a voice for the illegals. In truth, the PDL was a ruthless bunch of criminals who were in constant pursuit of Notes and power. They shared muscle with El Oso's LCM, one of the oldest street gangs in Phoenix. Their combined membership was imposing, both in raw numbers as well as the ruthlessness of the rank and file. Members of both the PDL and LCM were jumped-in for life. They were hardcore, loyal to a fault, and armed to the teeth.
The Tent City inmates feared the PDL, almost as much as they feared the Peacekeepers themselves. Together, with their street-gang LCM ties from outside, the cops and the thugs from the PDL were unstoppable.
The PDL was strong enough to put up a good fight against the Peacekeepers, but that would never happen. It wouldn't be cost-effective.
Following the helicopter incident, the cops and the PDL came together. At the well-guarded pow-wow, the two groups formed a mutually beneficial arrangement concerning the food drops. The PDL would peaceably gather together the daily drop of food. Then it would handle the distribution to the inmates for a price. The PDL split the proceeds of this venture with the Tent City Peacekeeping force.
The food distribution scheme worked out so well for the PDL. Their leadership approached the cops about other valuables such as day-passes, bus passes, food coupons and even the very rare and expensive medical vouchers. The Peacekeepers hated the housekeeping end of their jobs, so the PDL taking those burdens off the cops' hands was just what the doctor ordered.
The cops still maintained control of the illicit transactions. The gambling, dope, moonshine stills, prostitution and baby and organ trafficking remained under the Peacekeeper's thumb. That's still where the real Notes lay.
The Peacekeepers kicked a little back to the PDL. The gang preferred their weekly allowance from the Peacekeepers to be in the form of drink, drugs and access to sex. It was a strong system that worked smoothly with nary a hitch. The ones that suffered the most were the inmates and especially the young ones. However, it still ran well because hungry children make marvelous prostitutes and drug mules.
The cops kept certain areas of the old mall completely off-limits to inmates. That's were the legal citizens from the outside came to indulge in their red-light district-type desires.
Any drug you can name and a few that you can't are available. Mules move narcotics in and out. Vicious looking home-made weapons are stock-piled and guarded night and day. There is even a full nursery and play room set-up for customers.
KidzPlay is by appointment only of course.
It's been said that one could get whatever is desired inside Tent City. From a knob job to a newborn baby with eyes to match yours, you can get whatever your wretched little heart desires.
As with everything else, you must be able to pay.
Six–point-Four
Sara finally made it to the front of the line waiting to gain entrance. She walked toward the open gate on the east wall of Tent City. The fruits of her robbery and her mother's medicine were hidden as deep and well as any young girl possible could.
The duty officer was leaning against the wall. He was talking with one of the PDL thugs and smoking a salad bowl. The pungent odor of the Mexican pot and the Afghani desert hash hung to those two clowns like an aura of bad tidings.
The cop eyed her as she approached. He noted, "Been to the library again, young tongue?" The PDL thug chuckled as he reached for the ceramic pipe.
Sara ignored the both of them, as per her mother's wishes. She'd been told, time and time again, that talking back to them would only lead to trouble. And trouble, she knew only too well, they can do without.
"She's growing up good," she heard the cop remark as she was cleared for re-entry back into the land of the lost.
"Yes, sir," replied the thug from the PDL, "Put a couple more years on her and she'll be ready to gobble tricks like no one's business."
Sara began walking faster now, trying to get away from their voices.
"Why wait, that tight little ass will command a premium," was the last thing she heard them say.
"Just you try it," she whispered to herself. She turned a corner and their foul words were drowned out by the inmates. She was home.
Oh, goody, goody gum-fucking-drops…
Sara used a well worn mental path through the City to her mother's tatty camping tent. She began by going through the wide entrance to her building. The former store still had the smudged faint outlines of Robinson's-May above it. The smell assaulted her. Sara instinctively began breathing through her mouth.
Inmates were everywhere. Kids and dogs and even a few feral cats were running wild. The adults were scattered about in various stages of inebriation. Sara had to negotiate clumps of trash (some still moving) and around a seven year old child. She was dragging her legless stumps along the cold floor.
"Outta my way, muthafuck," she said to Sara who gladly obliged.
Sara turned to watch the child dragging her stumps. Her duct-taped palms were slapping the cement floor.
Sara almost fell over a crazy, toothless man who was desperately trying to holler at a rigid store mannequin. He was drooling, foul smelling and trying to convince the mannequin that she should date him by counting off his attributes. There weren't many, so it didn't take long. Sara had the misfortune to witness the old coot mounting the mannequin.
All kinds of love in the City…
Sara found the escalator. She rode it unmolested to the second floor. Their dwelling was located in an area that was reserved for the sick.
Their home was little more than a camping tent attached to a thin scrap wood frame. Cardboard boxes made the walls and being indoors, there was no need for a roof besides a sheet. And that was to keep the flying feces from hitting you while sleeping.
Inside the ten by ten foot structure was everything Sara and her mother owned in this world. It wasn't much. It consisted of a couple changes of clothes, two smelly sleeping bags, a tiny brown and white Chihuahua named 'Beto' and a few paperbacks books from the library.
Even with so little in the way of worldly possessions, either Sara's mother or herself had to be in the shack at all times. Or else their very little would become someone else's very little.
Sara came to the dirty sheet they used as a door. She saw Beto poking its nose through the bottom corner of the door. The tiny dog sniffed the air carefully. When he caught the scent of his master, he went through the sheet and sat at Sara's feet. Beto was facing the wrong way.
"Hiya, Beto," Sara said. The sound of his master's voice allowed him to turn and face her. The dog put up one paw and with his head tilted slightly back he shivered with excitement. Beto looked like a cicada attempting to mate with a porch light. Then the little dog peed on itself. "Aw, poor Beto," Sara said and picked up her little blind dog. She lovingly scratched his head and spoke to him, "Momma's home now little one. Momma loves you, yes I do."
Six-point-Five
Sara had found Beto when the blind dog was trying to cross a busy street. He heard the cars passing on either side of him and became confused. So, he put a tiny paw up to protect himself and peed.
Sara was ten years old when she saw the pitiful creature sitting in the middle of the street. She dodged the traffic to get to him. The cars honked their horns at her. She responded with vigorous one finger salutes at rear windows.
She let the small animal sniff her, before attempting to pick it up. The dog's eyes on quick inspection looked so weird, but she was standing in the middle of a busy street. She needed to get out of harm's way.
People in Phoenix can't drive for shit!
Sara left the surface street and found a small, shady park nearby. They sat and rested at an empty picnic bench. Sara placed the dog on the table. She eyed it carefully. The dog sat fearfully, but it didn't snap at her. Sara looked at the dog's face. It was shaking from fear, but Sara's used a soft, calming voice to reassure him.
The dog had its eyelids pushed all the way back into the ocular cavity. The dog's eyes were huge, bulbous and poking out. The eyes had tiny holes instead of pupils. They opened and closed, looking every bit like they were smacking kisses at Sara.
Sara noticed how the dog's huge eyes had tiny black spines when she peered in for an even closer inspection. They also moved independently of each while quivering about. When Sara reached out with a tentative touch, the dog's crazy eye burrowed deeper into the socket. The little dog yelped with pain as the eye dug in, heading for the brain it seemed.
The pupil winked at Sara rapidly and brownish yellow pus oozed out around the eye and down the dog's shivering face. Still he didn't bite, but Sara got goose bumps all over her body.
Shit, I know what this is. It was in a journal at the library. Oh, God, this is so gross…
Sara removed a bit of cloth and a pair of tweezers from her backpack. The little dog had mature botfly larvae wedged in its ocular cavity, instead of eyeballs. Poor little dude. They had to come out.
Talking continuously to the little dog, Sara got a firm grip on the larvae's kissing hole. Keeping the black spikes in mind, Sara pulled the little monster slowly out. The tweezers slipped briefly. The larvae tunneled fast, trying to tuck up its tail, but Sara grasped the alien beastie before it could disappear inside.
Centimeter by centimeter Sara pulled on the botfly, fighting against the brave little dog's fear and pain and Sara's own repulsion. The fattest part of the parasite larvae was deep inside, the black spikes digging in for purchase.
With a grunt, Sara pulled the botfly larvae all the way out. There was an explosion of pus, blood and the digested dog eye the botfly had been feeding on. The ocular cavity kept leaking foul-smelling infectious fluid, while Sara put the botfly on the table. It cringed at the bright light. The botfly spread its brand new wings to dry the gunk, preparing for departure. Sara trapped it. The extracted botfly was both longer and thicker than her thumb.
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