Archive for November, 2010

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Time once again for "FuknPunch", the "Unemployed Child Care Clown" far-out fiction sample! Today Job embraces his Father Lucifer. Sharp wet pain ensues. Dig it!


* mean mug mo’ thug…*

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Job was driving and Tacitus rode shotgun as they made their way out of The Harbor and toward Big City. Ovid sat in the back on the passenger side. He had with him a carry-all containing tools to get in if needed. The main ones being a tire iron euphemistically referred to as the Judge and Ovid’s stupid might. They were going in to the Pharisees penthouse. Suddenly Job felt a strange sensation tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. “Don’t turn around,” Mister Mo’ Thug told him. He obeyed, but snuck a glance over to Tacitus. He was deep in thought and noticed nothing. “The Pharisees are not waiting for him, Job. It was all just a ruse to get both of you there. We need you two in the same place at the same time. We were never going to crown Tacitus anything, let alone Caesar.” Job silently asked a question in his head. And then Mister Mo’ Thug spelled it all out. “Can you do this?” Somebody’s been sitting in my chair, Job thought darkly. He glanced over at Tacitus. And that motherfucker is still there. But not for long. That made Mister Mo’ Thug smile. * mean mug mo’ thug…* The door to the Pharisees penthouse was open when they arrived. Ovid went in first, just in case. Job and Tacitus followed close on the heels of the big, albino mongoloid henchman. The place was fucking opulent. They noted marble floors and high ceilings in this, the main area. Job looked up and saw a multi-tiered chandelier. It appeared to him like a cut crystal wedding cake. It would hold a body, Job wagered. It would do. He shivered just a little with delight. He followed Tacitus to the center of the room. Tacitus stood in the center of the floor, with his hands on his hips. “Where to begin?” he asked, rhetorically. “Maybe we should have brought more men.” Job agreed and opened his phone. He called the compound back in The Harbor. Job ordered two car-loads of cops. He gave them directions. “And get here on the quick,” he added before hanging up. He had about 30 maybe 45 minutes until the armed, loyal to Tacitus motherfuckers show up in a swarm. Job better have his ducks snapped-to and in a tight fucking row by then. “We’ll have to search this whole place,” Tacitus said, pretty much to himself. Get him before they come, Mister Mo’ Thug whispered in Job’s mind. A long, serrated hunting knife appeared in his hand. Job closed his grip tight around it. He stared at his Herod’s back. Job walked briskly towards him.

* mean mug mo’ thug…*

Tacitus felt himself get grabbed. The Pharisees, as invisible ghosts, held him tight. His arms were pressed firmly to his sides. Something undetectable and thick pressed down his throat. It made it hard to breathe and impossible to vocalize. Job came up from behind Tacitus. The Herod could not move, the Pharisees had him secured. Not even when Mister Mo’Thug appeared in front of him, could Tacitus move. The temperature of the room became frigid. Tacitus could see his own breath exhale plumes. His frightened breathing into the cold fairly crackled with the quick change in temperature. Job stepped up to his Herod, stabbing him with an inward arcing plunge. The inners of Tacitus fell forward in a lumpy, organic ball. They were threatening to unravel and spill out, leaking all over the handsome marble floor. Blood and fecal bile splashed a wide radius. “Let me help you with that,” Mister Mo’ Thug replied and went to the injured man. He reached into Tacitus’ open belly and tugged free a few long links of colon. He looped a section and placed it over the wounded man’s head and his paling face. Tacitus, silent and shaking now with shock, saw his own colon fastened in a loose noose and tightened about his neck. The phantom Pharisees were in a giggling free-for-all as they hefted him up from the ground. They passed him up to the chandelier. Mister Mo’ Thug hovered while he strung out another section of Tacitus’ bowel. He wrapped this part around the chandelier proper. The Pharisees let go of Tacitus. He grabbed the colon that was rapidly escaping his abdomen, while crashing down en route for the floor below. Tacitus fell a couple of yards until he squeezed the colon snaking out of his torn middle and coming to a stop, suspended by his own anatomy. He began to choke as his neck took the weight of his body. Tacitus was on the verge of passing out. Mister Mo’ Thug glided down to where Tacitus hung suspended. The man’s muscles were straining and his face was getting all purple and shit. “Hell’s Bells!” he exclaimed to Tacitus, “You can’t breathe. You’re choking, friend.” Mister Mo’ Thug grasped one of the choking man’s fingers. “Let me help,” he said and bent it back until it broke. The pain made Tacitus mislay his grip. The colon slithered between his loosened, slippery hands. He dropped closer to the floor, while another few feet of bowel sectioned and stretched itself out. Tacitus tightened his grip. The bowel noose tightened with it. The chandelier popped and shook as he stopped abruptly. Hanging there, he choked himself once more. “My goodness, that kind of back fired, didn’t it?” He floated down to the man’s new location. Mister Mo’ Thug found another one of Tacitus’ fingers. “Let’s just try that again,” He twisted and popped the knuckles right out of their sockets. The new explosion of pain was horrific. Tacitus loosened his grip on his middle. He plunged toward the floor. His bowels slid out of him fast, like shit through a goose, before squeezing and stopping shy of crashing. He hung a meter or so above the floor. The noose around his neck was a hungry python, squeezing and choking him. Mister Mo’ Thug sank down to him. “You must be tiring of this, you poor fellow,” he sympathized. Tacitus could say nothing at all. Not even when his tormentor found another one of his fingers. “One more time,” He pulled on the finger, real nice and slow like. It broke loud and wet.

                                                                                                                     — end sample.

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Time once again for "FuknPunch", the "Unemployed Child Care Clown" far-out fiction sample!


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.

Surrender, Dorothy.

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.

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 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.
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 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.
Humans are so funny.

                                                       …. end

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A Brutal Bible Tale by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

“Vivid, explicit, inventive and engrossing…with fangs on it!”, May 30, 2009
By D. Gorman “Crystalline Structure Moon” – See all my reviews

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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