Archive for December, 2010


Hi Kids! I'm 'FuknPunch' the 'Unemployed Child Care Clown'! Today we see RAGE get interviewed by Eric Mays, the Host of 'The Authors Speak'. Let's see if he says anything stupid ...

The Author Speaks: The Reverend Steven Rage



The Most Depraved Writer in Print. Recognize.

“It’s a real shame that I know Steven Rage. He wouldn’t want you to know that it’s all an act. I mean, I hear about this writer, and he’s got the online persona of a sinister master of the macabre. Then to meet him…you realize he’s kind of bubbly. Or, maybe that’s the comfort lure. Maybe that’s the way Rage draws you nigh so that he can feast on your soul. I’m not sure. And that’s one of the genius things behind the Reverend Steven Rage. Only once before have I seen an author so become a caricature of a character (that author was Robert Tacoma, who spent years online cultivating a following as “Taco Bob”, the possum farmer. He wrote illiterate message board posts, and humorous stories of life on the South Florida roadkill farm.) and Rage does it masterfully. As mentioned, I’ve met Steven Rage and I like the guy, but he’s still a mystery. I guess that’s why I like his books. There’s a very distinct vibe that accompanies them – if you like it dark, dirty and (in some cases) downright gross, Rage delivers. I had not read Steven Rage’s first book – PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale – when I met him. Sadly, I’d not read any of his stuff. During the early days of Naked Metamorphosis Rage and I agreed to exchange manuscripts in a show of support. What an odd exchange. Rage had just released a hardcore, bizarro horror called You Morbid Westphal. Naked Metamorphosis was a dark comedy of Shakespearean proportions. What an odd combo.
I loved “You Morbid Westphal”. It was a dark noir that involved a demon and a ghost in a hospital. It was gritty. It was good. I went back and read Pilate. If James Morrow was known for his Bible Tales for Adults and the Godhead Trilogy, then Steven Rage will be known for his Brutal Bible Tales. As brutal, in fact, as the Old Testament. Rage is all…well, the rage right now. I had the pleasure of speaking to the truly unique character.”

Eric Mays: Steven Rage, thanks for taking the time to chat. Before I go any further is “Rage” something I should be worried about? I don’t want to fall prey to a whirlwind, blindsided chopblock.

Steven Rage: Rage is the name the Reverend writes under. It was either Steven Rage, or Steven Joyfully Larks About. Rage has a more little more POW to it, I think. Eric, you have nothing to fear. The Reverend has had all his meds today with no flashbacks, so no worries, my friend. That being said, I am under court-ordered obligation to advise you NOT to turn your back on me and don’t make any sudden movements and everything’s going to be okay. It’s not a problem, really. It’s just that some days are saner than others. On that note, maybe we should just get started before the meds do wear off.

EM: Umm…okay. None of that worries me. Let’s see, you like to go by the moniker “Reverend”, right? Is it true? Are you actually ordained, or is it more like the “Reverend” Horton Heat?

SR: Rage is a legally ordained minister, able to perform weddings, baptisms, as well as speaking directly to God. (by the way, Eric, the Big Kahuna’s not too tickled with you lately, so…)

Functionally, the Reverend sought to lend an air of legitimacy to his fiction, since it congregates (hey, that’s funny) in the realms of Bizarro-tainted Occult, Horror and Brutal Bible Tales. Rage settled on Reverend because the title he really wanted: “The God of Thunder and Rock n Roll” has already been taken. God damned Gene Simmons.

EM: Speaking of Gene Simmons (well, and the Rev. Horton Heat for that matter), the man swears he gets more Polaroids of naked people that any living person. I can see that. But, Rage, you’ve got to be rolling in fan mail of that ilk.

SR: Well, to tell the truth, it has been kind of dissapointing, thus far. The Reverend could have sworn that he would end up seeing more ass than a toilet seat at Lillith Fair. Sadly, that has not been the case. Mostly it has just been requests to intercede for readers with Satan, and/or writing advice. There have been a few marriage proposals. Mostly from women who are trying to emmigrate from former Soviet Bloc nations and lonely Grizzly bears who just want to cuddle and spoon the Reverend.

EM: Okay, getting down to business now. Your first book “Pilate: A Brutal Bible Tale”. Sounds like a recipe for run-ins with those that take religion a little too serious. Regardless of the actual brutality within the actual Bible, people seem to see things like this as blasphemous and sacrilege. Any experience with lynch mobs?SR: The Reverend has been threatened plenty, that’s true. Oh, hell, some people just don’t have a sense of humor. Granted, seeing Jesus of Nazareth re-incarnated as a 23 year old Latin female isn’t everyone’s cup of orange pekoe, but isn’t that the point? To write something few have seen before. Rage thinks so. Fortunately, the Reverend has only been crucified on threads, so far. Time will tell. But it’s all just tongue-in-cheek and devil-may-care, so fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.

EM: Are you a Catholic? Did you first start toying with this idea while sitting through mass?

SR: Rage was baptised and raised by Lutherans. The followers of Martin Luther maintain a number of similarities to the Catholics, but it is more like Catholic Lite. A few less rituals that the original flavor. The Reverend was Born Again and baptised a second time. This time by the Southern Baptists. The first baptism, maybe it didn’t take, don’t know… not too sure about the second one either, come to think of it.

Anywho, since that time Rage has read the Holy Bible cover to cover at least five times and has studied the different philosopies and practices of Protestants, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Mormons, Green Magic, Black Magick, Satanism, Tao de Ching, Astrology, Yoga and The Secret. Rage is still searching for answers.

As far as the idea behind PILATE and other Brutal bible Tales, Rage always felt that the Bible has a wealth of incredible stories, but they were written, sorry to say, like shit. Boring as all get-out. So the Reverend thought he could do better, giving the stories some much needed teeth. At this time I have re-written in modern times the fictional setting of The Harbor and placed there the stories of Jesus Christ, Pontius Pilate, Jonah, Job, Herod (several of those fuckers) Judas, Simon Peter, John the Baptist and Mary Magdalene. Rage is proud of these works. Sad to say, he does not expect his writing to be the topic of Sunday School or church lectures anytime soon.

EM: A year, or so, later, you put out “You Morbid Westphal”. Now, this is reads like M. Night Shymalan on pure meth – it’s an extreme ghost story with twists and turns aplenty, just cranked up to eleven. You’ve got ghosts and you’ve got demons and you’ve got hospitals – three of the things that freak people out. I’m assuming you’re not serving as a volunteer up at the local Pediatrics wing, right?

SR: Rage is also Registered Respiratory Therapist and Instructor. The Reverend has been working in hospitals and teaching RT forever. That’s probably the reason why the violence and carnage have such a visceral reality to it. Rage knows what death looks like. Dying is never pretty when seeing it up close. It’s never like in the movies, never nice.That being said, the Reverend kind of tumbled into all this. He doesn’t really want to work in critical care, or be a minister, or even write. What he really wants to do is direct. Amateur porno would be fine.

Or maybe a game show host.

Maybe work with Lepers, blind kids, things like that.

Rage originally wanted to be a showgirl, but he was cursed with freakishly narrow ankles.

EM: I’m sure your ankles are fine. You would have made a fine showgirl. Your medical knwledge, though, is interesting. You have an intriguing take on demon birth (I’m not sure if I’m holding back because I didn’t use the words SPOILER ALERT or if I’m just trying to keep things cleanish). Do you really think that’s where demons come from?

SR: Well, it’s not called the Demon Hole for nothing, mi amigo. The Reverend can show you, if you’d like.

EM: That’s okay. When you were writing “You Morbid Westphal” what kind of cult like following were you envisioning for yourself. Let’s face it, Rage, your name lends itself to a cult following.

SR: Nothing too grandiose. The Reverend was thinking of a more simplified existence as the Undisputed Heavyweight Prophet of the Compound (let’s get it on!). The tax-exempt church shall be dubbed: “Our Eternal Lady of Perpetual Pain, Suffering, Problem Gambling and Skin Disorders-(Reformed)”. We shall be housed deep inside a de-comissioned missile silo in the Dakota wilds. It will be so much fun! There will be all sorts of activities, besides the televangilism that will pay the bills. Oh, yes! We’ll have skin-branding, blood-letting and animal sacrifices. Tuesday Evenings with Satan, taffee-pulls, Prairie Dress Modeling Thursdays and chili cook-offs. Lesbian Mystery Swap Saturdays, Yahtzee and Scrabble tournaments. There will even be classes on how to fashion a hash-pipe out of the human skulls of heretics. More fun than you can shake a dead-cat-on-a-crucifix at!

Wanna join? It’s easy! All’s it takes is a few drops of your blood and your undying loyalty. Oh, yeah, and Beelzebub will have to mount you at some point. Rage won’t lie: that shit hurts.

By the way, how are y’all fixed with modern weaponry? You pretty savvy around semi-autos, shoulder mounted missile launchers, infra-red binocs, motion detectors and such? Just planning ahead, just planning ahead. Can anyone run a still?

Grow bud-smoke?


We’ll need baby-sitters, too.

EM: Nobody likes to be mounted by Beelzebub. It’s true, as for the rest…well, I guess only time will tell.

I’m not going to sugar-coat it, Rage. You are knee deep in depravity. I’m joking, of course. Because you are the sick man you are, I’m curious, what do you read that scares you? Or are you going to try and pass of that you’re a Jodi Picoult or Nora Roberts fan.

SR: When the Reverend reads for pleasure, which is as often as possible, he is always craving that BAD-ASS factor. That’s the goal. That and getting elbows deep in depravity. Reading horror is difficult because, sorry to say, nothing scares Rage as much as his next thought. Therefore reading for him is a relentless quest for stories that will make the goose bumps rise. Simple as that. That goes for music and film as well.When craving a hot shot of depravity, the Reverend melts a big, bent spoonful of Jordan Krall’s fiction.

That shit makes Rage happy.EM: Jordan Krall does, obviously, rock! So, what’s next? I feel we’ve got to keep this cult alive, man! I hear you’ve gotten in with Buckets O’ Guts press, right? I think I heard that you’re also writing a little something about quadriplegics and dancing, or something of the sort. Tell me a little more about the future.

SR: Rage is hoping to get in good with several different presses, Buckets O’ Guts being one. The Reverend is really quite insecure and requires constant validation from a variety of sources. There’s a couple dark and depraved novellas being shopped around currently. We’ll see.

What Rage is truly jazzed about is “LegumeMan Books”, a newer press out of Australia. This house is being gracious and ballsy enough to publish “The Place in Between” and “Blood and Bubblegum” together come Fall 2010. It will be, hands down, the craziest shit in print, Rage kids you not. Now the cult of Rageosity will be below the equator as well as above. Frightening, yes?The Reverend is also working on some short Bizarro-esque fiction and will be continuing his work on a more traditional full-length novel of medical suspense titled: “PHARMACIDE”. There’s hope to being done with that big bastard in about a year. It will be 4 to 5 times the size of “You Morbid Westphal”. Looking forward to where that takes us. Then it will be back to the well (or cesspool). Penning gruesome Bizarro horror occult novellas and Brutal Bible Tales are the Reverend’s first loves. Rage does what he can, but the Dark will remain placid for only so long. It must be fed the blood of the Innocents! (maniacal laughter).

Oh, Cheese-n-Rice! Did the Reverend say that last part out loud? Truly sorry, Believers. He has got to get this shit straight. When sound comes out, Rage is talking. When it’s not, he’s thinking…

The Reverend is a fun guy to chat with. And, if you’re ever in the wild and you bump into him, please give him a drink. He’s an even better drinking buddy. Hands down, this was a fun one.

You may think that the Reverend Rage is a little out there and too good to be true (or too bad, depending on perception). He’s real and he’s closer than you think. For example, he’s one of those authors who loves to chat with readers (of all genres) online. You can visit Steven Rage at his page on Amazon: The Rage loves getting suggestions and seeing reader feedback. Actually, that’s a challenge for you Authors Speak readers. Read Pilate or You Morbid Westphal or The Place in Betwwen or any of his KINDLE titles and then zip to the Rage Page and tell the Reverend what you thought.

You can also visit Rage at: OR you can comment right here!

For titles ...

'PHARMACIDE' by RAGE coming soon ... for a 'sneaky-peek', look to your LEFT and ye shall see 12 posts for 'Pharmacide'. Dig it!

'The Good Doctor' from "The Place in Between".

"Rage Primer', KINDLE edition only 99 cents!

"Pills in a Little Cup", KINDLE edition is only 99 cents, big spender! 😉

The PG-13, shorter, first person KINDLE version of "PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale".

'Click' on the frozen north to get FREE sample of "The Place in Between"!

Dark, mad, crazy as a fuckin' bed-bug shit from the Most Depraved Writer in Print. Recognize.

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

PILATE: A BRUTAL Bible Tale, Undiluted, foul and profane original in KINDLE format! Read PILATE in Print, or on Kindle and on the cheap.

PILATE: A Brutal bible Tale, Outskirts Press, 2008



The Good Doctor has come to get down ...

The Good Doctor teleported himself from his office at the hospital directly to the lab at home. Uncle Tug was waiting for him there with a pair of his favorite slippers and a red velvet smoking jacket. The Good Doctor tossed the Nehru jacket on the floor and shrugged off his shoulder holsters. He shot his lungs twice more before locking both 9mms away.

“Dr. Sir,” Tug said, handing him the slippers.

“Thank you, Tug,” The Good Doctor replied and put them on. He used Tug’s shoulder to steady himself through the Uptown rush. “Tell me, Tug. Tell me about this salt.”

“Dr. Sir. It all began when I was feeding the twins.”

“I see,” The Good Doctor replied. He listened to Tug’s tale. At the end of the story he also said: “I see.”

“I harvested and dried out some more tears,” Tug told him and pointed the way, “It’s over here.”

The Good Doctor followed Tug as the chimp foot and knuckled his way over to the table where Trudge and Drudge’s salt was kept. Uncle Tug already had a sample lined up, real thin and short.

“That small, Tug?”     


Under The Harbor...

“Dr. Sir,” Tug said, “It is very powerful. Please be careful.”

“I will, my Tug,” he said to his foreman.

The Good Doctor snatched up a small pipette and snorted up the two thin lines. Immediately, he felt like it was almost too much for him to handle. He clutched the table, but it wasn’t enough. He fell backward and into a chair that a quick thinking Tug had scooted into place just before The Good Doctor did his butt-thump. Tug got good and scared as his benefactor and lord seized rigid.

Tug patted The Good Doctor’s face and called out to him. He heard not a thing. He was already on the other side of the veil:

* * * *

The Good Doctor's Butler and Farm Caretaker, Uncle Tugmunkee.

The Good Doctor found himself under a bright light. He was naked and strapped down to a gurney in the center of a cacophony of mayhem and violence. He was shivering with cold as he looked all about at the bloody spectacle. The Good Doctor had found himself immobilized and vulnerable in the midst of what appeared to be a full scale prison riot. The bad guys were winning, and by a fair share.

The Halfling that helped him dress for OR sidled up to him. Her warm red touch was so fine, so different from the brutality. While men were razing each other, whole limbs ripped off, shivs buried deep in flesh; she smiled so sweetly at him. The Halfling toyed with him and her eyes twinkled. They were in an oasis while the madness erupted. One especially unlucky prison guard was being gang-raped in his gaping neck wound. It must have killed him awhile ago. The coagulated blood had spread in a huge pool beneath the victim and attackers alike.

The Halfling lightly trailed her sharp claws down The Good Doctor’s chest and belly, regaining his attention. It felt so fine. The trail of her claws split open spaciously. As they split, the deep scratches began to bleed. She, still smiling, made a tight fist on The Good Doctor’s penis. She stroked him gently and expertly to a full throbbing tumescence. A small body part, a chewed off bit of an ear perhaps, rebounded off the backboard of The Good Doctor’s forehead. He hardly noticed as he stared at the Halfling. She was in the muted half-lighted dusk, just beyond the circle of bright light. He strained to see her clearly. She stepped close to the gurney. She wanted to let him see her exposed and he was delighted.

“You are one of my true favorites,” The Good Doctor told her.

“I know, Dr. Sir,” she replied with sweet coquette. “You fashioned me so pretty, didn’t you?”

“I sure did,” he told her. “I pulled out all the stops on you.”

“I am perfect,” she stated simply and kissed soft his lips, still stroking, “and I know what you want, Dr. Sir.”

The Good Doctor's finest creation ...

With her other hand she showed to him what’s next. The Good Doctor began shivering anew from anticipation. She was going to do the very mania he had always longed for.

“How did you know?” he asked with the biggest grin. He was excited like a kid waiting in the rollercoaster line. The Halfling just shrugged. She tongue-tipped her fangs, a twinkle, twinkle, little star in her eyes. “Well, I surely do love you for it,” The Good Doctor confessed as she began threading the catheter deep down into his erect penis.

The pressure The Good Doctor felt was intense. A catheter placed to evacuate the bladder is uncomfortable enough when flaccid. One inserted while erect made tears fall free from the eyes of The Good Doctor. The Halfling filled the cuff with fluid. She grabbed a firm hold on the base of his shaft. Then she commenced tugging it up and down, bringing the inflated cuff toward the tip of his winky-dink and forcing it back into its base. She kissed him while she did this and whispered words of love and admiration. And when he was ready to blow, right there at the very edge of his ejaculate, the Halfling pulled it free with an audible pop. The Good Doctor came so hard he passed all the way out. Seeing her smiling and holding the balloon-inflated catheter was the last image he held.

* * * *

Uncle Tug was agitated. He didn’t want to disturb The Good Doctor, but he did not want him to die either. Confused, Tug reverted back to his countless millennia of imbedded genetic memory and trashed the lab. He found himself in the midst of a paper and cotton ball confetti storm when he heard the old man stirring. Tug knuckled over to him, real quick like.

“Dr. Sir, are you okay?”

“The Good Doctor groaned. Sitting slowly and carefully up, he came to. He glanced down embarrassed at his crotch. His impressive geriatric wood was crumbling. He was surprised to see his tailored trousers were wholly free of his expulsion. He looked to Tug with obvious surprise.

“That is the strangest part, Dr. Sir,” Tug told him, “there is no ejaculate. That’s why I had to feed the twins with Billy.”

“Clearly this is a traveling potion the twins have concocted,” he replied, sitting forward, “but I do not know how it works.”

“Can you use it?”

“Oh, most certainly, Tug,” The Good Doctor replied. “This will sell very well.”

“Yes, Dr. Sir,” Tug told him, pleased. He knew as his master smiled and winked at him he had done well.

The Good Doctor rose gingerly to his feet, a slight wince to the rise, with Tug’s help. He walked over to the twins and scratched them behind the ears. They giggled with glee. He tapped his ear and waited for her to answer. She did.

“3D? You must come to the farm, post-haste.”

“Important?” she asked.

The Good Doctor smiled, evoking the charming Halfling and their encounter together. He tickled the twins chin. “Oh, yes,” he affirmed, “Of the utmost.”

* * * *

There is more than one of us now. I can sense it. It is vague, but present. Now there is an Us. The other is not with me in this shell, but We feel the Us out there. Somewhere. We shall strive to merge. We will be patient. There is no rush, just the intense desire to unite. The need to become is almost crushing in its want. It’s nice here, though. Warm and nutritious, the liquids and spongy tissues are enabling us to grow and mature. Yes.


Dark, mad, crazy as a fuckin' bed-bug shit from the Mot Depraved Writer in Print. Recognize.

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