Steven Rage's Blog

LXIX

                                                                                                                                   

THE PHARISEES’ SILENT BUTLER was purring and content. They were together and comfortable on the plush couch. The legs of the couch immediately broke and the springs popped. The butler really hadn’t noticed.

At the moment, the two of them were alone in the Pharisees’ nicely appointed sitting room, high atop the Lake Shore hi-rise. A crust of ice snuggled the butler’s smile.

Cold puffs of curious evil fingered its way throughout the penthouse apartment. The cold climbed up the walls and explored hallways. It found rooms left long unused and cracks no human can locate. It was sentient, this cold, and it quickly covered all forty-one hundred square feet. It sealed off the penthouse from the outside world, thereby making the interior a tight, no leak bubble.

The butler pressed himself against the Mighty One’s chest. He massaged the head of Lucifer’s penis. It was thickening; responding to his touch. The butler-pet could see and feel the barbs as they sprang up all along the devil’s grossly elongated shaft. The barbs were inwardly curving scorpion tail stingers and were sharp at the hollow tips. Poison oozed slow and fetid out of the hypodermic points of the barbs. The long veins of his cock throbbed and pulsed with intricate rhythms at times, other times, nothing at all. The rhythm did not require a heartbeat to drum.

The Diabolous was a void inside. The human image was merely window dressing for his flock. With this image the chest cavity was an empty drum. The lungs were not needed and a heart would only get in the way.

The devil was gently running his icy fingers through the butler’s thinning black hair. He used his lightest touch to pet and caress and love on his most favorite little imp. The butler’s countenance was smooth to the touch and undisturbed. The butler was not, nor had he ever been human. Therefore he was immune to the devil’s infectious fluids. The butler’s human visage was merely a shell, like his master’s. The butler was really a small demon who has been with Satan since before planet Earth did cool. This demon truly liked the butler costume. The Pharisees knew what he was; a gift from the Most Hated. They allowed the demon to use his powers which he did to keep the penthouse always clean and quiet and very comfortable.

Hell, on the other hand, was not as pleasant.

 

LXXII

 

THE HIDDEN DOOR SLID open. Both Pharisees stepped out and saw the devil waiting for them. They instantly made themselves prone before god. They had been summoned by the Mighty One and he insisted upon the purity of nakedness. They lay side by side upon the floor. Short rips of air entering and exiting their lungs were expelling a fog of cold vapor. It went forth from the decay and rot of what remained of their mouths. The odor of their breath was nearly visible. The stench; a chicken left out all weekend and erupts of stink upon your return. The Pharisees knew this not. The cold power gave them reign over the diseases the Diabolous had bestowed. They felt, in fact, fabulous. Annas and Caiaphas Pharisee still saw themselves as beautiful.

The Diabolous had the Pharisees arise and come over to the couch. Satan patted the butler-imp affectionately and tousled its hair. It was soon curled up in the dented spot his master vacated and it groaned with delight. Bliss for the butler-imp is to be in the presence of the Most Hated.

The Pharisees came to the devil. They each placed a sweet, full mouth kiss on the devil’s anus. The two of them then licked the master thorough and clean.

The Pharisees were leaned limp over the back of their destroyed couch and displayed themselves to the Diabolous. They were presenting and were to mate with the Mighty One.

Dozens of crawly, bug filled boils and carbuncles exploded ripe and ready from their torsos like a string of putrid firecrackers. Their master positioned himself behind Annas Pharisee. The more ancient of the two will be filled and blessed by the Diabolous first.

 

The Pharisees successfully brought about El Cristo’s crucifixion and sacrifice. It is time now for the full reward: The Final Rite. The Pharisees were good stewards and shall be blessed by the Morning Star. They were to be laid open and defiled by the Diabolous. Then they will be blessed with power from their lord and benefactor with a power that they, themselves, can control and use as they see fit.

Their rancid and crumbling human shells shall no longer be required. They will be able to exist in nearly any form they wish. The Pharisees will be free to roam the Earth, unfettered by human weaknesses. They could be solid or they could be vapor. Not a true deity, they will only be in one place at any given time. They will, however, be able to project themselves to wherever at will. The Pharisees were going to have a lot of fun.

They were still both excited and frightened of The Final Rite. They were scared of the pain; they knew it would be enormous. The devil was going to rip their shit open, but that was the price of admission to this carousel. Their souls were the remainder and the Diabolous held the Note.

The Diabolous forced the head of his penis into Annas Pharisee. The first pair of weeping scorpion stinger barbs tore through his rectum. The old man screamed. Gurgling and spewing, the pain was sharp and wet.

Caiaphas saw his lover stiffen and contort. He knew it would be the same for him.

“Mercy!” a panicked Caiaphas implored, begged, “Have mercy on us, oh Lord!” he cried out.

The Diabolous merely looked across at Caiaphas and the Pharisee turned away in fear.

“Mercy,” the devil replied, derisively and with a scoff. He answered the request for mercy by shoving his bull of a cock to the hilt. Annas passed out, but you do not deprive the devil of his audience. The Diabolous slapped the bitch repeatedly until he revived and was full awake.

Annas came to as blood and whole sections of his gastrointestinal tract fell wet and lumpy out of his ass like spongy confetti.

Mercy, the Diabolous thought as Annas began screaming again. Mercy. Funny.

When the Rite has been settled Satan shall allow the Pharisees a few hundred years of respite and enjoyment of their newly rewarded powers. Then Satan will have them delivered, like Judas, to the bowels of his Hell. The Pharisees will then spend the remainder of Time skimming the floating slick of waste in the fetid, cold sewers of filth and despair. They will learn to wail and gnash their teeth in regret and agony. In time, they will come to believe that Hell is where they have always been as the memories of life elsewhere fades away.

The Pharisees will cease to accept the very notion of existence outside of their eternal prison. They shall shiver and heave in the thick frozen darkness, every moment cursing their fate. The one they bit into, whole and unyielding.

Welcome home.

The Devil’s correct. Humans are funny.

 

THE END .

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For All The MORBID-RAGE that’s fit to print (MbS Catalogue)

 

MOST OF ALL

By The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

 

Right Now:

        Scarecrow was on his way home from his weekly PTSD group therapy session when he saw the lights flashing and the siren sound.

The cop that pulled him over was the homeliest female Scarecrow had ever seen. She looked like she’d have 5 o’clock shadow at noon. Her eyes were both the same shape (round) and color (brown), but only the one eyeball seemed to track Scarecrow. And the police officer did not say anything. She just stood there with her hand on the butt of her Gloch and stared hard.

“Did I do something wrong, officer?” he asked her. She responded by tugging the gun free from its hip holster with one fluid motion and shooting Scarecrow between his shirt-button eyes.

A mushroom cloud of wet straw erupted from the right side of Scarecrow’s stuffed head and splattered the passenger door window, sticking there.

With a wicked smirk she insisted to the deader n dog-dirt Scarecrow: “There is no God but Allah…”

 

A Few Years Back:

The Apache swooped down to the Afghani poppy fields. Scarecrow saw women and children scraping ooze from the round orbs.

Scarecrow considered his Lt. with a sneer. They both knew the score. But following orders is the soul of soldiering, so they finished the sweep of the adjacent valley. Finding nothing of interest the Apache banked a turn, heading back from whence they came. The soldiers inside began to lock n load as the bird evened out.

The pilot waited for the Lt. to give the go ahead. She hit ‘play’, getting low enough to finger a gopher’s asshole. Their war-song, ‘Drowning Pool’s”: ‘Bodies’ filled the valley, loud enough to rattle Scarecrow’s popcorn kernel dental work. The music was supposed to stop the enemy with a demon’s dread, but mostly it was just good mood-music for combat.

Scarecrow primed himself at the edge of the copter, leaning out a touch, surveying the fast moving ground for Bad Guy. The Apache’s gas-propelled Harvester armaments were hot and trained for a strafing run. They flew over the poppy fields and all the dead women and children. They lay broken upon the rocks, their red life blackening and caking beneath a quiet, careless sun.

Scarecrow regarded the Lt. “Your turn, ‘Crow,” he ordered, “Time for harvest.”

Scarecrow nodded. His strong bull’s heart hammered soundly in his straw-filled chest. His hands steadied, his vision narrowed and he saw Bad Guy.

The Apache, still low, came quickly upon three running for the hills. Suddenly, the cheekiest of the three monkeys turned. He hurled religious insults, racial slurs and a sturdy stream of bullets from his garage-sale AK-47.

The Harvester launched a chewing thresher at him. It shredded Bad Guy like so much newsprint. The kibbles & bits & bits blew out and up and floated in the hot, still air. It hung there for a moment before becoming a fleshy, soggy wet ticker-tape parade.

They dropped their weapons and raised hands high in surrender. Scarecrow stepped off the lander. His palms were forward in a ‘no harm’ gesture. Scarecrow smiled his most charming smile. A rusty chain slinked out behind him. The two captives smiled nervously as the straw-man neared. He unsheathed a miniature sickle. It had a wicked concaved curve. Strong, multi-folded layers of steel enabled the sickle to puncture a car door and skin grapes. There was a hole in the center of the handle.

Scarecrow freed it from the scabbard on his back. It whistled in a sharp upward arc, stopping only when it bit and stuck in the hard boned ribcage. Bad Guy’s countenance turned to alabaster.

Scarecrow clipped the chain’s hooked end securely to the eye-hole of the sickle. The man toppled to the dirt.

The Apache rose, dragging him. He seemed to be re-animated as he was borne up until there was an inch or two of air below his tippy-toes. The Apache hovered there as the soldiers had them a spate of crossbow practice.

The remaining prisoner was shaking uncontrollably as Scarecrow approached him.

“What’s up, buttercup?” Indicating his arrow bestrewn comrade twisting as each arrow hit him. “Some fun, right?”

The prisoner turned to Scarecrow and replied, “Huh?”

“Fuckn knew it, bro,” smiled Scarecrow, “Where you really from?”

The prisoner shook his head in denial. But Scarecrow knew that wasn’t just English, but in fact, American English so he grabbed the prisoner’s scrotum and tugged.

“Fuck!” spat the faux Afghani in perfect American.

“Try again,” encouraged Scarecrow.

“Liberty,” he stammered, “Kansas.”

“A very long way from Auntie Em’s farm,” noted Scarecrow. “So, what’s a corn-fed Midwesterner doing in this god-forsaken pile of rubble?”

“There is no God but Allah,” the prisoner began.

Scarecrow finished: “And Mohammed is His prophet. Yeah, I got it, I got it. But did either give you leave to slaughter those innocents?”

“Th- th-“

Scarecrow stuck his sidearm into the prisoner’s eyeball, popping the lens out. Bad Guy began to scream, so Scarecrow simply grunted a quick tug and the prisoner’s reproductive system came free as a whole. Just like scooped-out catfish guts.

The prisoner was unconscious as Scarecrow rifled his pockets and found an expired driver’s license. The prisoner was actually a Dorie Gale, from Liberal, Kansas. The photo beheld a cleaner cut version of the dying man.

Scarecrow unhooked the human piñata. He was left to rest in peace and fuck bloody all those promised virgins waiting anxiously in the Virgin Promised Land.

Scare crow rode the chain back up to the awaiting Apache.

 

Return To Now:

The cop finished the mantra: “And Muhammed is His prophet, peace be unto him.” She holstered her weapon and retrieved the spent shell which had skittered and spun to a stop nearby.

Sgt. Dorothy Gail absently scratched at where her reproductive organs used to be. She leaned down into Scarecrow’s car window, staring at his dead face. Mice began evacuating the driver’s body, pulling some straw stuffing out as they egressed.

And in a mock whimpering pout, Dorothy told Scarecrow: “And I think I’ll miss you most of all.”

 

END

MorbidbookS on Kindle Only $2.99-$4.95!

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‘CLICK’ for MorbidbookS on Amazon.com.

 

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

- D. Gorman “Crystalline Structure Moon” – See all my reviews

‘click’ IMAGE for MbS titles in Kindle & Print.

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‘click’ on book cover image for Amazon Kindle!!

~ A DIRTY SHAMEFUL DEVIL OF A SECRET…

Something that two men share. A legacy that will shock you to your very core. One that is created not out of madness, but of the purest desire. Take a vivid journey into the mind of the killer and his biggest fan. Do you believe in evil? See the knife plunge. Lap at the wounds. Do you still? There is no rational meaning or pretty words that will hide away the darkness that the words of this found journal creates. Inside is the real truth. And it can set you free. Watch all you want. Taste what you dare not have. But once you see, you are in collusion. Keep reading and the guilt will stain. No longer can you feign innocence. The change is as permanent as it is wretched. Perhaps you should just walk away. This shit right here is a MorbidbookS blunt. You dig?

5.0 out of 5 stars Fantastic First Book!, June 3, 2014


By
Amazon Customer – See all my reviews

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This review is from: Legacy (Kindle Edition)
This is not a genre that I normally read, so keep that in mind as you read the review. This is a great book! The character evolution is nicely paced, and the book itself keeps you guessing from beginning to end. I’m looking forward to reading more stories from Michael Noe!








2 of 2 people found the following review helpful
4.0 out of 5 stars Legacy, June 5, 2014


By
Wanda K Greathouse – See all my reviews

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Verified Purchase(What’s this?)
This review is from: Legacy (Kindle Edition)
Really enjoyed reading this book. I was excited to find out there will be a second part hopefully real soon.








1 of 1 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Slicing and Dicing, July 19, 2014


By
The Amazing TimTam – See all my reviews

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Verified Purchase(What’s this?)
This review is from: Legacy (Kindle Edition)
loved it!! it was gory and bloody and traumatizing!!! not for the faint of heart but totally worth the read. If you’re looking for a good slasher book to read, look no further!








4.0 out of 5 stars Family Values Done Right!, October 29, 2014


By
JO “JO” – See all my reviews

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This review is from: Legacy (Kindle Edition)
Michael Noe GOES THERE. Legacy is a series of journals written by a mysterious killer who likes shopping at Wal-Mart and drinks blood from his victims’ wounds. The brutal recountings of how and why he kills are rather disturbing and leave nothing to the imagination. And this is a good thing, folks! Remember that you’re reading a slasher novel.

The story flowed and was consistent. Maintaining a steady pace throughout, and not going overboard on descriptive filler, I didn’t find any boring parts and also didn’t think it was too short at just over 100 pages.

The influences from Richard Laymon and Edward Lee and evident here and well used.

I had to step outside of my own comfort zone to read this one, but I’m glad I strayed from what I know for long enough to read this. It was refreshing to see this kind of madness on the pages of a book, but in such a controlled and thoughtful way. It was a little American Psycho, a little Blood Games by Richard Laymon, and just an all around fun time that you might feel a little guilty about having. Four stars for someone who isn’t a slasher enthusiast, but no doubt five stars for someone who is.













5.0 out of 5 stars Dark, violent and stylish debut., December 16, 2014


By
Amazon Customer – See all my reviews

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This review is from: Legacy (Kindle Edition)
Legacy, a dark and unflinching dip into the murderous mindset, is a brilliant and focused debut from author, Micheal Noe.

Told in the form of journals, this short, sharp and nasty work really gets under the skin, in it’s portrayal of madness and it’s corrosive effect on the psyche.

I’ve always loved stories written in this form. It gives the work a real intimacy, and when utilized properly, it can produce some startling effects. Noe understands that to delve into the mind of evil, you have to go dark, yet maintain that accessibility. He walks the line very well.

The influences are clear, Richard Laymon among them, yet Noe finds his own voice amidst the chaos. Legacy is a love letter to splatterpunk horror, and something more…it’s a wide-eyed look at a psychopath, told with a keen brutality and real edge.

Slasher fans and fans of real life crime will love it every bit as much as those of us who revel in splatterpunk. It’s dark, gory, mean-spirited, and has a plot that draws the reader into the narrators mad, mad world, and leaves you wanting more.

A great debut.


5.0 out of 5 stars Five Stars, February 23, 2015


By
wink – See all my reviews

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This review is from: Legacy (Kindle Edition)
Legacy is a GREAT book!!! Had to keep reading it! Mr. Noe has a talent for writing!!!


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‘CLICK’ ON EITHER BANNER IMAGE FOR THE DARKEST OF DARK FANTASY, BRUTAL BIBLE TALES, TORTURE-PORN, SPLATTERPUNK, MAGIC REALISM, BIZARRO, SCI-FI AND MORE …

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http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002BLNAEO

ratory Therapist and Instructor. The Reverend has been working in hospitals and teaching RT forever. That’s probably the reason why the violence and carnage in his stories have such a visceral reality to it. Rage knows what death looks like. Dying is never pretty when seeing it up close. It’s never like in the movies; it’s never nice. That being said, the Reverend kind of tumbled into all this shit. If truth be known, he doesn’t really want to work in critical care, or be a minister, or even write. What he really wants to do is direct. Amateur porno would be fine. Or maybe become a game show host. Perhaps work with Lepers, blind kids, things like that. Rage originally wanted to be a showgirl, but he was cursed with freakishly narrow ankles, so he had to pursue other means.http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002BLNAEO

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~ Born whole from the rectum of a dying patient, Morbid silently stalks the hospital’s hallways, heinously dispatching the most helpless of patients and in the most painfully repulsive of manners. ~

In the meantime, in order to pay for his family and home that includes his ghost step-father Sammy and his pet aborted fetus Chip, Westphal has to ingest mounds of dangerous narcotics to get through his night shifts. Barely hanging on to his Care Tech gig by his fingernails, the last thing Westphal needs is to be accused of Morbid’s evil deeds. You, on the other hand, simply want to find some solace. Terminally ill from a virulent infection, and dependent on Life Support, all You beg for a peaceful and dignified demise. Shirk has other plans for You. The ancient drug-snuffling demon makes You relive all of your deadly and venial sins as he tortures You. Night after night. Until eternal Damnation comes calling.

‘click’ to get yours …

“YOU MORBID WESTPHAL”

Chapter One

SHIRK COMES CALLING

 Pain Like Fire

 

It is getting colder than a witch’s titty in your hospital room. You can’t see him, but that’s how you always know. That God damned Shirk is here again.

Shirk stares his not inconsiderable malevolence and hatred at you. That you know without needing to see the rat bastard. You can sense his presence here and in the whole of the room. You feel that stare. You just know he’s going to fuck with you againShirk sits quietly, sniffing periodically, in a chair across the room from you. His presence is making the room temperature drop perceptively.

The demon chooses this moment to thrust his heavy compact body up from the chair. He strides right on over to you and sits on the edge of your death bed which gives creaky protest to his other-worldly weight. Tiny cries of please-please comes muffled from the roomy sleeves of his stained-sticky cloak. The hood is turned up, the blood red eyes burn from deep within a face that is as old as pain.

“Well, well, look at you,” Shirk derisively smirks. “Looks like you’re still all dressed up but can’t get it up to go,” he scoffs and flicks a sharp-nailed yellow finger at your useless pee-pee.

You can still feel the pain, however, and your silent scream makes the life support machine sound an alarm. Shirk looks at you, mock worry fleets past his thickly wrinkled-leather face. He puts an index finger to his lips, smiling, teeth a mad jumble of yellow and grey and whatever the fuck Shirk eats for lunch, and makes like you and he need to be quiet.

Shirk giggles scratchily to himself; being the star of his own show. He reaches in to his big wizard-sleeve and removes a tiny screw-top vial of opaque granules, the movement eliciting another round of please-please from the teeniest-tiniest little humanoid you ever did see. He was hugging the vial with all his might, staring with over-sized greedy bug-eyes through the clear glass at the wonderful drugs inside.

It was mucky all around the center outside of the vial wall where the horny wee gnome had, on countless occasions, blasted his gravy. So much so, it became a crusty railing in which the naked gnome didn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy staring at the drugs, mewling for more, until he gets it, gets balls deep on the scum rail and ejaculates on the vial wall. Then he will pass out with a blissful smile, hugging god in a death grip until he wakes up, begging for more.

Shirk plucks the 2 inch long pleading creature from the vial and holds him between the second and third fingers. On cue, the gnome opens his mouth as wide as he can. He slips out a long tongue and swipes it wet all over his face while Shirk unscrews the lid and dips the little spoon deep into the multi-gram vial. The gnome smacks and smacks at the potent Plata, gobbling up as much as it can before being placed whole up the demon’s nose. Shirk snuffles up the big bumpety-bump, before rinsing and repeating, snorting what the tiny fiend couldn’t get to.

Shirk screws on the top of the vial while the spoon licks the thick Plata paste off his face. Shirk lets the tiny gnome, who is already thrusting at the empty air, grab a tight hugging hold onto the drug vial. Then the little beastie begins to hump the wall, squeaking like a cricket. Shirk drops them both back down into his sleeve, breathing heavy with dark ardor.

Shirk’s eyes brighten with an orange fire smoldering beneath a red-embered glow. He starts moaning to himself, slow-dancin’, swaying to the music.

“Love this shit,” he states, shuddering, hand slipping up under, beneath his cloak, “it’s just balls to jerk off to.”

Jesus, no.

“Slip a finger in my ass,” he says, “Second knuckle, hit that sweet spot…”

Jesus, please no.

“But I won’t!” Shirk exclaims with a hearty laugh, looking down at you. “Say!” he says, flicking you again, “You ever try it, junkie-fuck?”

Beside the sharp pain in the shriveled head of your doolittle, you can not answer, as Shirk already knows. The airway tube has the cuff inflated and is taped securely down your throat, keeps your shit from vocalizing at all. The breathing machine hums smoothly and expertly, filling your wrecked lungs with pressurized gases to keep your wracked ass alive.

“Did ya?” he asks, you say fuck-all. “Cuz if you never have, you don’t know what you’re missing or I’ll suck you straight!”

Hydromorphone-methamphetamine hydrochloride, if you didn’t know, had the lovely sounding Trade name of Duradilauderal. It had an even cozier street name of Plata which is Spanish for silver and slang for folding money. The popularity for Plata was just beginning to be a prairie fire in the Midwest when your body had already wore out. Like a roofied starlet, the party went on without you.

“Probably the only drug you didn’t abuse, if I remember correctly,” shared Shirk.

Too true.

“Sometimes,” Shirk admits, “You stupid fucking humans do mange to come up with something worthwhile.” For emphasis, Shirk pats your skinny stump of a thigh. Then he trails his cold, wrinkly demon fingers up your leg to where the scars of Lilitu’s love bites began. He laughs as he remembers the night she made them at his behest. They were numerous and deep and all over his belly and chest as well.

“That was fun, huh?” Shirk asks. Seeing that you do remember, he chuckles afresh.

Fuck you, asshole.

“But this one is new,” he says and bends to closely check on your latest surgical procedure. This one involved removing the bottom half of your left leg. Your thigh draws to a close in a tightly stitched below the knee amputation. It was recent and still hurts. He gets in real close and smells it. He rises, wincing in mock sympathy.

“You got the gangrene, huh? Too bad, buddy, it smells like liquid shit.” Shirk states flatly, “I’m sure they had no choice but to chop it the fuck off and –Bam! No more leggy for Greggy!”   There is still no response from you. “Bet that must’ve hurt like a mo-fo, butterbean,” he says with a nice stump smack.

Blood and light yellow serous fluid splatter the already dirty bed sheet. You howl silently as the pain like fire hits a big nerve cluster and heads north. You break into a sweat, teardrops roll unimpeded down your sunken cheeks and the alarms sound again.

“Anywho,” Shirk resumes with a comic sigh, “I guess I’d better stop playing with you, before the babysitter comes in and catches us.” He gets up, smoothing his cloak, looks back down to you. He says: “Stick around,” laughing at your restraint. “The Fat Lady’s warming up.”

Yes, I know this. Jesus-fuck, just go away!

“She’s coming to dinner, baby cakes,” Shirk warns you, “And grand-mama’s hungry.”

Piss off.

“Tell the old bat I said hi.”

God you hate that fucking guy 

 

Chapter Two

NOT BY HALF

Narrowing, Closing Down

 

You hear Shirk laugh to himself as he walks through the wall, unimpeded. A huge blocky slab of ice forms in an instant and he is gone.

The near-dark he leaves you in is fogging up from the ice melting and the hospital’s industrialized environmental heat control kicks on and ramps up.

Hell for you begins in the here and now, in your sickbed. You don’t need some snarky visiting evil jinn coming in here, constantly fucking with you and reminding you. You know how you got here, that’s for sure.

It is here you started planting your sins. It is right in this spot where you have watched with joy, in the bits of clarity, their budding fruits. You looking down and smiling as they piled high. The silent cries and screams and pleading troubled you not. You enthralled at restraint, too weak to fight back, aware of how wrong it was. She could not understand why you were doing all those horrible things to her.

Now the spill has covered you, laying still and unmoving yourself. Chemical restraints they call it, keeping you drifting in and out of consciousness, fleeting as a swirling passing breeze, then back down to the deep dark warm nothingness.

Because you cannot be baby-sat 24/7, strong leathers make sure you stay put, if you accidentally throw off the chemical shackles. If you ever try to heave yourself over the safety rails and truck right on out of this place. No way, Jorge, just forget about it; ain’t happening. You are here, my friend, for the duration. The Big Man says so.

This is why you are wrapped in your sick bed, dying slow, perfectly still, alert in this moment. Not surprisingly, you seek your only form of comfort. You search for the dark cloth to pull over this pesky alertness, but then you feel something under the covers with you.

Oh, fuck, not again…

Through the foggy dim light, cold drizzle falling soft on your bits of exposed skin, you see her.

The hand grasps up your leg, dark blue and crawling. The night-light glow, showing through the growing fog of melting ice, illuminated the bone-thin and veiny dead hand. Her old face comes into view. Her mouth is screaming silent. Her eyes are red and leaking, reeling you in, you stare hard at her as she grabs your crotch with her other hand. She tugs and pulls her way up, the tired green covers slipping past her wigless, spotted scalp, blue with death, hands icy on your bare stomach. You screaming noiselessly, the breathing tube keeping you alive placed through useless vocal cords. She uses the hair and loose skin on your withered chest for purchase. Your head is rigid and your neck too drugged and heavy to move. Her horrid breath is leaking out of the great black hole of her dead mouth as she reaches your face. She grabs hold of your life support connection and pulls the circuit from your breathing tube. She drags her dead, decaying self, one more tug and she clamps her hole of a mouth onto your breathing tube. She begins to suck on it, aspirating the life right out of your lungs.

The breathing machine alarms shrilly, but no one comes. You crash inside, darkening your peripheral vision, narrowing, closing down. Your heart thuds crazily in your chest. You lose your hold on consciousness and you lose, are lost.

Finally, as the only thing left of This is the faraway alarm of a cardiac arrest and the only thing so far of That is the scent of sulfur and sugar, the code team arrives.

They come wading in and save your sorry ass, again. They pull you away from That and back into Hell’s waiting room. Back to your bed, back to being resuscitated by a whole fucking squadron of scrub-clad heroes. Fifty bills an hour times twenty of these motherfuckers and you ain’t worth the scratch, brother, not by half.

The heroes bring you back, successful, slowing down. Just now noticing the cold water puddling their clever-stupid multi-colored crocs on their sore wet feet, wondering from whence this shit came.

Fuck fuck, dumb-ass donkey fuck, you think. I’m still here. Show some mercy and gives us some morphine, you fuckers, you yell in your mind. You need to go under, rest. Because you know they’ll be back. And so must she….

 

See Mo’ Evil …

Filed under: alternate history, Amazon, amazon kindle, Amazon.com, American Kindle, Australian Books, Bizarro, blog, blog writer, blood, bloody needle, books, brutal bible tale, christianity, dark, depravity, Extreme Fiction, fetish, fetish ball, fetish prom, fiction, FREE!!!, fuck the police, ghosts, giveaways, goodreads, Great Britain Kindle, hardcore christian, horror, kindle, KINDLE and E-Readers, masturbation, mature, mature audiences, medical suspense thriller, monster librarian, morbid books, nc-17, occult, occult, occult fiction, paranormal, religion and spirtiuality, serial killers, sexy bleeding vampire pics, sexy mess, small press, smashwords, somebody bleeding, splatterpunk, steven scott nelson, street lit., street literature, supernatural, suspense, the grim reverend steven rage, thriller, torture porn, urban, urban noir, zombies Tagged: amazon, amazon.com, cult, demons, drugs, experimental, fiction, ghosts, horror, hospital, killers, KINDLE, medical, noir, occult, paranormal, rage, Satan, supernatural, suspense, thriller, United States

“[Heroin in the Magic Now] will definitely leave an indelible mark deep within your soul!”-DIABOLIQUE MAGAZINE “HEROIN IN THE MAGIC NOW is a nightmare on acid. It is beautiful, deep and sad…”-Heather Omen, THE HORROR NATION “One of the most powerful and disturbing… yet incredibly entertaining things… I have read in decades…”-Michael Donner, CREEPERCAST.COM “HEROIN IN THE MAGIC NOW is a super edgy, blood-thirsty tale that made me uncomfortable and left me wanting more. I love this story!”-Zachary Walters, THE MOUTHS OF MADNESS PODCAST “What true horror is all about…”-SCARLET’S WEB “Terry M. West has created an unnerving horrific masterpiece…”-GEEKDOM OF GORE HEROIN IN THE MAGIC NOW is a dark and personal tale by Terry M. West. HEROIN IN THE MAGIC NOW explores pain and hell. The story is set in a dark make-believe New York. The Night Things have climbed onto our shores from the shadows and they are now part of the system. Gary Hack, a down on his luck exploitation film director with an appetite for heroin, finds himself working in the dangerous world of monster fetish videos. Gary is made an offer he can’t refuse by Johnny Stücke, an immortal crime boss. The video Johnny envisions could be the greatest zombie fetish film ever created. But it could also ignite an apocalypse that could destroy the city. HEROIN IN THE MAGIC NOW is original, startling and brutal. BONUS: Included with the first tale is a lengthy preview of HEROIN IN THE MAGIC NOW 2.

Steven Rage‘s review

Aug 31, 14 · 5 of 5 stars

bookshelves: dark-weird-and-bizarro-faves

Read in August, 2014
Heroin in the Magic Now

Review for Terry M. West’s “Heroin in the Magic Now”:

~GHOULS ON FILM. BLING OUT YOUR DEAD.~

“Undead to Rites. Dog Gone Gore Gag n Reel Time. Purple Johnny Rotten Walker Love Gun Gobble. Double Bubble Bottom Bukaki La La By-n-Buy. Ronnie James Dios Mio Money Maker Shaker. She’s a Dead Ringer Neck. Self-Loathing Lothario Selfie. OrgyGami Gummi Worm Rot. Hell’s Belles. Jenkum Binge. Drinker Dry. Lysergic Lex Luther In Deed (if Not in Thought). Jezus is the Reason for the Seizin’. Zesty Zombie Seasoning. Ouji Board’s Abyss Mall Stare. Fluff The Magic Dragon. Save the Neck for me, Clark. Dig it. Up. Ghouls On Parade. Bling Out Your Dead.”

- The Grim Reverend Steven Rage, Publisher, MorbidbookS. Author of ‘You Morbid Westphal’, et al.

‘click’ for Amazon!

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~ Pontius Pilate is cursed to be a vampire. Life after life after life. ~

And for the Plata dealing Pilate, his life is more like a death sentence. His only chance surviving is to keep on selling his monthly quota of Plata. This new man-made narcotic is a potent speed-ball designed to amp up the user, while also numbing the conscience into euphoric oblivion. To nullify the pain. To stifle the torture. To run and to hide from all the anguish inside. 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 to save his drug business, his money and his friends, will the modern day Pilate instead choose to wash his hands of the whole ordeal? Pilate shall have to allow the torture and death of a Holy Person in order to save his very own life. “For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” This is a truly Brutal Bible Tale. A dismal post-industrial future. A look at man defiled and in decline. Evil has arrived and Dominion has been taken by the damned, the demons, vampires, vicious ghosts and strange halflings. The cast-aside by-products of all the debauched rampages and scientific sins against nature. Sex, drugs, and broken souls are the only trade commodities left.

 

‘click’ to dig it

 

For Kindle:

 

‘click’ on my shit to dig my favorite ‘scrolls’. playa …. shoooo…. Now this is some baaaaaad weeeeeeed ……

 

Sick, Disgusting, Vile…and Genius,

He may be one of the sickest, most twisted writers writing today, but there’s a mad brilliance to his work. Reading his texts is like growing wiser …

–Eric Mays “Bizarro Author of “Naked Metam…

Sick Sick sick my kind of book!

Filled with sex and violence that’ll keep you turning the pages. With a vampire feasting on an embryo and many other dreadful acts you have to check out.

—-Kipp Poe Speicher “Kipp Poe Speicher” (Canton, Ohio)

Step Aside, Passion Of The Christ!

Rage does not down play the evils of today, and he re-enforces the fact that there is no good without evil (and vice-versa) in this thrilling tale. —-A. A. A. (Illinois, U.S.A.)

Brutally Good

Compound street violence and mega-violence of the most extreme horror variety and you get a story that any horror fan would eat up. I highly recommend it. —-W. D. Hanson “AKA Ichorous” (Clarksburg, MD USA)

vivid, explicit, inventive and engrossing…with fangs on it!

Rage blatantly gawks at the darker side of our modern world and draws biblical parallels, using vampires. He mixes respectable dark poetic prose. —-D. Gorman “Crystalline Structure Moon”

Filed under: Amazon, amazon kindle, Amazon.com, American Kindle, Australian Books, Bizarro, blog, blog writer, blood, bloody needle, books, brutal bible tale, christianity, dark, depravity, Extreme Fiction, fetish, fetish ball, fetish prom, fiction, freaks on a leash, fuck the police, ghosts, goodreads, goth, hardcore christian, horror, kindle, KINDLE and E-Readers, mature audiences, monster librarian, morbid books, nc-17, occult, occult, occult fiction, paranormal, print, print is dead, rap music, religion and spirtiuality, satire, serial killers, sexy bleeding vampire pics, sexy mess, small press, somebody bleeding, splatterpunk, street lit., street literature, supernatural, suspense, thriller, torture porn, urban, urban noir

‘click’ here to get this mad shit …

 

Orlyn Farr is going for FOR ALL THE MARBLES.

After the Cataclysmic Events (ACE), the populace fled the surface to live under-ground. With Ice Age conditions complicating a return to the surface, whole townships formed anew. With limited space, sundries and foodstuffs available, overpopulation soon rears its ugly head. To continue living past the mandatory declining age of 60 annums (thirteen moon cycles), senior citizens must have the financial resources or the political clout to pay for Rx Medical and a luxuriously appointed flat in top-of-the-line Care Centers like Paradise Acres. If you don’t have the scratch, you can opt-out. Most seniors choose this option. They quietly accept a hot-shot of Morphine and a final visit above ground. The treacherous white-out conditions on the surface will freeze you solid in a few time-ticks. Or try being a Big Winner. Beg, borrow, or steal enough Federal Reserve Notes and Teleport to the Annual Sixth Decade Tourney. The Big Winner gets Rx Medical and a flat at Paradise Acres. Along with all the lime gelatin, fellatio and potent narcotics your old ass can gobble. If you lose, well… you should have opted-out. But not our stalwart adventurer.

Orlyn Farr is betting his own life FOR ALL THE MARBLES.

PART I

Hedging My Bets. Spilling The Beans:

I just turned 60 annums old. The BINGO tournament in Bogota is less than a month away and I hadn’t a pot to piss in. I was forced to live with my kids and their kids in a cold, cramped domicile. It was underground in The Harbor and it forever smelled like stale cabbage and unwashed flesh.

When my son looks at me, I can tell he looking forward to me opting-out. Neither of us can pay the after 60 tax, for it is purposefully prohibitive in cost. We had no political connections. I suspected he’d already spent my Death Insurance he’ll get when I go up top and freeze to death. He also looks at my corner, and I can read his face like an open book. It was filled with thoughts on renting my corner to a relative that actually had the funds to pay for it.

There’s no place I can run to, so I was planning on just going in early, opting-out, and getting it over with, when the message came in. It was coded and secret, which was strange all on its own. I have never in my fairly pointless time on this frozen shitsicle of a planet got an important message like that one. I couldn’t receive it at home. Instead, I must make way through The Harbor’s tunnel system to the Postal Center. There, after I give them a drop of blood from one of my fingers, I can retrieve the momentous message.

I left immediately for the Postal Center. Once there, I had my wrist scanned for the legal bar-coding chip we legal Harbor citizens have for ID. My finger tip was punched for the blood sample. It naturally beeped at my age, locking me into the security pod until the machines sorted it out. It unlocked, seeing that I have a month left to live, and allowed me to proceed to a private viewing station. I went inside the station and secure-locked the sliding door with my thumb-print. I centered myself in front of the screen. As I did so, it lit up. A beam of light scanned a bust shot of me, no doubt a redundant security measure. Whoever I was about to talk to wanted to make very sure I was who I said I was. In a moment it was done. An old human woman came on the screen. She had to be every penny of 80 annums old. I’ve never seen anyone that old before. Not in person, anyway. She must be important in a way I can’t comprehend. She looked pretty healthy too. Her eyes were clear and sharp and she had a full head of hair. When she smiled, I could see that the woman had all of her teeth. It all must have cost her a fortune. The only thing wrong was the hissing of medical gases and the slight blue tinge to her lips.

“Greetings, Mr. Orlyn Farr, I am Chess Master,” she began. “You are 60 annums old. Have you made your final arrangements? Have you found your peace?”

Stupid, I know, but I started laughing. There’s just no way it could really be her. Ever since she took over, Chess Master ran everything in The Harbor. And she probably wasn’t limited to just our shit hole. I’d never seen an image of her. I don’t know anyone who has. Yet, she was supposed to be here, conversing in secret to Orlyn Farr, a guy who can’t even pay for one more year of his ridiculous life. No way. And then I got scared, for what if she is who she says she is? What the fuck do I do then? Begging would be a good start. I stifled my laughter like it never was.

“Greetings to you, Chess Master,” I replied, not knowing any of the protocol for this sort of deal.

“I can see from the blood that has drained from your face, that you believe me?”

“Um, uh, well – yes, I do.” I stammered like an imbecile. She seemed to take it in stride.

“Good, because I don’t have any time to waste, Mr. Farr,”

“Yes, Sir,” I replied.

“Then answer my question, Mr. Farr: have you made your final arrangements?”

“No, Sir, I haven’t.” I frowned. The realization I guess just hit me with full force right then. “I mean, I can’t afford the tax, so I guess I will have to opt-out. I’m far too old and sick to run.”

“What about your family, Mr. Farr? They can’t pay the tax for you?”

“No, they can’t, Sir. Painfully, though, I don’t think they would, even if they had the means.”

“You don’t get along with them?” Chess Master asked me.

I thought about it, but only for a moment. I said: “I think I take up valuable space that my son could get rent for.”

“He’s probably counting your Death Insurance too, I’d imagine.”

“Yes,” I said plainly. “Opting-out is for the best, I’m sure.”

She said nothing for a moment. Chess Master was looking down at something, below my view screen. Checking on something, she seemed to be.

“Have you considered BINGO?”

“You mean the tournament in Bogota, Sir?”

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t even afford to take a bicycle taxi to the Teleport Station, let alone the whole package, Sir.”

“What if I was willing to sponsor you, Mr. Farr? I’ll go further and say that since time is such a concern for me, I can tell you, in complete confidence, of course –“

“Of course, Sir,” I replied. I was quite intrigued by then.

“Good. What if, in addition to sponsoring your costs, I was to insure that you win?” she asked.

I’ll tell you some truth: a dropped pin could have been heard. I stared at her bluing lips and how they had darkened as she spoke. Chess Master was keeping her composure intact, but I could see she was suffering. Her lips lightened as she breathed in the medicated mist.

“How can you do that?” I asked Chess Master, the fear of her momentarily lapsing. “You can’t do that, no one can.” I insisted.

“My dear fellow,” she hissed, angry. “You’ll find that there is nothing I can’t do. There’s no move I can’t make and there is no game I can’t win. I say the word and you will be sent to Bogota where you will win the BINGO tournament. Your reward will be anything and everything your little heart desires.”

Something tiny, hope I suppose, began building inside me. It started to swell to the point where I could think of nothing else. She is promising me the moon and the stars. Strangely, I knew she could deliver the goods.

But, what, I wondered, did she want in return? I had absolutely nothing to bargain with. What did she want?

“What do you want in return,” I went ahead and asked her. “You must know that I couldn’t possibly have anything you would want or need, Sir.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Farr, you have exactly what I need,” she explained. “Or, rather, your granddaughter, Vanessa has.”

“Vanessa? Sir, she’s only 6 annums old, she’s barely started school.”

“I’m aware of her age, Mr. Farr,” she replied, testily. “I need her because my heart is failing and she is my exact genetic match.”

The clouds parted and the angels sang. I got it, but could I do it?

“I see,” I managed.

“Yes, well, time is of the essence, Mr. Farr, which is why you are being made this exclusive offer. I’m afraid there is a great deal of work yet to be done, so I will need your answer, straightaway.”

“By when,” I asked “a few days?”

“Sorry, no,” she replied. “I’m afraid I need your answer right now.”

I thought about it, I’m not ashamed to say. I even thought about saying no. But, in the end, there’s no I in TEAM. But there is one in BINGO.

I told Chess Master where little Vanessa could be found.

“Chess can be described as the movement of pieces eating one another.”

Marcel Duchamp

PART II

My Last Meal and Testament:

The Tourney officials organized the BINGO Cabaret and Mixer for us tournament players and volunteers. It was being held in the fancy-schmancy grand ballroom of the Bogota resort. It’s always a first-class wing-a-ding, and this year’s was no exception.

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

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

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

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

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

My Dear Mr. Farr,

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

Sincerely Yours, CM

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The older I grow, the more I value Pawns.”

Paul Keres

Filed under: alternate history, Amazon, amazon kindle, Amazon.com, American Kindle, Bizarro, ghosts, hardcore christian, horror, kindle, occult, occult, paranormal, religion and spirtiuality, serial killers, sexy bleeding vampire pics, supernatural, suspense, the grim reverend steven rage, torture porn, urban noir, zombies Tagged: A Nightmare on Elm Street, amazon, amazon.com, Arts, Bath Festival of Children's Literature, Begging, bizarro, blood, Board Games, Bogotá, books, Californication, Chess, Chess master, Diane Farr, Digi-Comp II, drugs, experimental, Federal Reserve Note, fiction, Games, Glossary of chess, Health care, horror, ice age, killers, KINDLE, Maker Faire, Marble, medical, monsters, Nicholas Nip, Nick Farr-Jones, noir, occult, Online Writing, Orlyn Farr, Recreation, Samuel Sevian, San Francisco, supernatural, suspense, The Girl Code: The Secret Language of Single Women (On Dating Sex Shopping and Honor Among Girlfriends), thriller, United States, United States Chess Federation