Archive for December 1, 2010


"Krazy Snake Guy" brings you todays fucked-up fiction sample. Dig:

Chapter Three

“MORBID IS BORN”

 

Fun To Watch Them Try

 

MORBID pushes the fingers of both shitty hands out of your rectum before pronating the hands, flipping them around. He grips the rim of your anus and pulls it all the way open. Morbid’s long, lank hair shows first, you blissfully unaware, narcotized following your Code Arrest into unknowing. Blood and snot-thick feces spilling shiny out as Morbid is born.

His head and shoulders start popping out, his hands on the hospital mattress, gaining purchase, pulling and squeezing all the rest of the way out of you. Born whole and ready to do what you no longer can.

Morbid lay between your leg and a half breathing heavy and wet. He spits filth out of his mouth and nose, wiping chunky green medicine shit out of his eyes.

Morbid eases himself gently and quietly over the safety side rails of your bed. He stands naked at your side, looking down at you.

He begins to laugh then. It is a slow and wet throaty chuckle at your expense; at your weak impotence.

“Now see what you made me do,” Morbid whispers to your passed-out ass. He ran filthy shit-snot fingers through your remaining strands of hair. “I don’t know why you think I’d stay away,” he tells you. “I have far too much to do and far too many patients to -hmm- well, look in on.” He explains, “And, well now just look at you, weakling. You are too sick to do shit, so I guess if our work is to continue it’s up to me.”

Morbid pats you on the head before turning away. He goes to the dirty isolation hamper and digs through the infectious linen, searching for something that is clean enough to wear outside of your room. He locates and selects a likely set of scrubs and a coverall. A pair of your unneeded hospital booties completes the outfit. Morbid scoops them up and heads toward your bathroom and the shower you would never use.

Not that Morbid minds the filth and foul odor he was born with, oh certainly not. But hospital people have nasty, territorial habits. They tend to stare at waste and stink covered creeps, ones with no business being there in the first place. And that simply won’t do.

Morbid showers himself clean in his birthday suit, the muck washing in soapy cascades off of him and down the drain. He did this while considering his evening’s assignment; his entertainment. And he had an idea of where he should begin.

Morbid liked to work with women the best, elderly women. He did not only indulge in the split tails, but that is his preference. They amused him because they had lived a great while, been party to the many varied experiences. They had a long, weary road kind of toughness to them. They were spunky, usually, and almost always fought back.

The old gals couldn’t begin to match Morbid’s strength and determination, but it was sure one hell of a lot of fun to watch them try.

Morbid got himself dressed, slipped on the booties and left you and your room behind him.

Looking for love in all the wrong places.

Chapter Four

 

FUSSBUDGET

 

Like Winter Warmth

MRS. Fussbudget was on the sunny side of eighty and was in the Skilled Nursing Facility unit of Harborside District Hospital to recover from her knee replacement.

She contracted a nasty pneumonia which required the placement of a trachea tube for easier breathing. It sat secured in the center of her throat, down by the notch. Now that she was feeling that much better, Mrs. Fussbudget decided she hated the trachea tube. It made everyone who came to visit stare at her like she had a neon sign flashing below her chin.

She battled also a blood born infection. The sepsis almost did the old girl in. She was in a coma for a month. The antibiotics had finally worked all their man-made magic on Mrs. Fussbudget. She awoke to feeling weak, but hungry, always a good sign.

The mechanically softened food was wretched: cold and devoid of flavor. The texture always reminded her of just how sick she’d become. But now, she’s so much better. Well enough to allow her family to begin plans on finishing her recovery with home health.

The family cherished Mrs. Fussbudget and they were anxious for her return. They were delighted to have her off the breathing machine and home, they were told, in only a few days.

They were all to be quite a disappointed lot. But life is nothing if not pain, suffering and loss. And why should they be immune.

She awoke to no family visiting, but there was a lone man standing by her bed. He looked down at her. His lecherous smile lingered on her, roving with his twitchy eyes, long after her smile faded like winter warmth. It made Mrs. Fussbudget uncomfortable.

“Grandma,” he asked the little old lady, “May I have a cookie?”

For the first time, Morbid reached out to her.

— end excerpt.

"Snake Mask" sez: 'Where's Mah Fuckin' Tongue?'

 

You Morbid Westphal, April 28, 2010

By Henry A. Giraldo “Dana” (Indiana) – See all my reviews

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

 

“This book will stab you in the guts and string your entrails from here to hell. Where Pilate was an age old story brutally told, YMW is a brutal story told with the voice of a dark angel who strips the reader down to nothing but the absolute truth about evil. Rage does this with voice, action and tight story telling. A natural storyteller, Rage moves us into the deeper and darker aspects of bizarro and horror, while not clinging to the restraints of the genre; in fact, not clinging to any restraints. While the plot gets laid out and moved quickly, the imagery and characters leave you jumping from peak to horrible peak with a ferocity that brings the reader back to the core of all that is horrible. Rage’s voice, true, clear and unpretentious, is what I like the most about his books and stories, as well as his sick and twisted sense of humor.

But his characters, who guide us to the depths of the plunge with their dark actions, somehow manage to inspire sympathy and understanding from their human characteristics. All of these aspects tie it together for a surprise ending that makes sense.

I recommend this book for anyone who has the guts to read it.”



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Coming This Friday, December 3rd, all day, loads of old and never seen before fiction. Come check out the Grim One’s new direction…or delve into the dark and dismal past…where it is colder than frozen shit down her underground…

"BELLY: A Brutal Bible Tale", Kindle, 2010

Satan has brought to you an excerpt from "BELLY". Enjoy...

“BELLY: A Brutal Bible Tale”

Chapter One

Our hapless prophet finds himself in the
Wrong damn place at the wrong damn time:

THE blood that blossomed from the center of his chest was only a trickle when it should have been a torrent. The sharpened ice pick stuck there quivered like a plucked piano chord. The dealer eyed the plastic dirty duct taped handle, then the emaciated junkie bitch that had just stabbed him. The fiend still crowed about his weak shorted sack whilst the dealer grasped the pick with his strong hand. He tugged fiercely, but it would not budge. The ice pick was buried in the hard bone of his sternum. He should have been grateful. Two inches to the left and there would be one less nigga in The Harbor.
No matter how hard the dealer tried it would not pull free. The dealer was staring at it, getting more and more frustrated at the bone encased ice pick. The fiend’s pealing was getting on his tits and that was a problem he could solve. The dealer let go of the ice pick and a hidden snub-nose emerged from his waistband. He pointed it at the whiny little bitch and made the angry spewing face vaporize in an instant red fog. It was finally quiet enough to think, the loud fuck.
As if on cue everybody ran but a long greasy-haired Jonah. “Shouldn’t even be here,” he mumbled.
The shaken dealer having heard yet another motherfucker open his pie hole turned and pointed the hot muzzle at Jonah. His face paled. Too frightened to move He shit himself. Jonah was going to die right here, right in the very last place he wanted to be. Jonah found himself staring at a loaded gun pointing bleak and hard into him.
The dealer fired point blank into Jonah’s chest. He felt the concussion shove him away. He folded his shoulders to each other and collapsed backwards onto the walk. Another customer standing beside Jonah made a dumb move on the dealer; the snub-nose stopping him dead in his tracks. Pieces of junkie speckled the others, dying as he fell.
Jonah’s chest was bloodless and clean. He searched the front of his torso and found nothing. Jonah couldn’t believe it. There were no wounds of any kind; not one. He looked up a grinning fool relieved. The dealer was not amused. And Jonah’s smile lasted not long.
The dealer seeing Jonah unscathed stepped up again. This time the dealer dropped to one knee to get closer to him and pressed the smoking muzzle to Jonah’s shiny-slick forehead. It hissed where it touched his sweaty fearful skin. He pulled the trigger and Jonah’s bowels erupted again. The smell of fear and waste was thick fudgey-goo, but he remained alive and unmolested.
The dealer stood and stepped back. Confusion smeared across his sweating face as he stared at his smoking gun trying to determine why Jonah was still standing while the other junkie lay dead at his feet.
The dealer’s face then contorted from confusion to unquenchable pain as the chest-buried ice pick moved all on its own. As if grasped by an invisible hand the pick burrowed deeper fast into the sternum with a sloppy crunch. Then a quick snap handle right. The sharp point tore into heart muscle ripping great blood vessels as it traveled, stopping suddenly.
Blood drained wide from the dealer’s face as his chest filled with the blood that was supposed to feed his brain. Silent, he fell and all was quiet. For about six and a half seconds the dealer was a dropped stone. He folded in a crumpled heap right next to a stunned Jonah.
He was then in the dead man’s pockets as if by rote without thinking. The rest of the fiends standing close by followed suit, but not before Jonah was able to procure a healthy sack. It contained dealer weight and probably shouldn’t be in his pocket.
Not one to look a motherfucker in the mouth Jonah pushed the free dope down by his nuts and turned to run. A big man with long chin braids stood tall before him. He smiled at Jonah like he knew him. And man he was a big fucker too. He seemed like he was waiting for Jonah to say something to him, but he don’t know this apparition.
“See you later, Jonah,” chin braids told him.
Jonah blinked and chin-braids vanished. He dissolved right before his astonished eyes. Who the hell was that and how does he know my name?
Jonah heard shouting now and decided it would be prudent to quickly get the fuck up out of there. So, he ran.
Jonah was out of there in a flash. He quickly skirted the nearby park, running hard. Jonah looked over his shoulder, his out of shape breathing making much noise. The dead dealer’s shorties were hard on his ass. Skinny fourteen year-olds are fast and these little niggas had guns. They were gaining on him.
Jonah glanced behind him and saw the lead shorty raise an auto pistol. He loosed a girlish squeal and turned left on a dime. He was ducking and covering my head like the sky was falling. Chips of brick building peppered his exposed skin, bullets tearing up the wall. Jonah negotiated another sharp turn. He exited the park running full bore between two buildings. He quickly emerged into a residential block of tight two-story houses.
Jonah leaped a low chain linked fence and landed in a darkened backyard. The occupants of the still quiet house were long asleep. His fear was over-ripe and all reason a glimmer, causing Jonah to dive head-first into the occupied doghouse. The chained animal awoke. Before he even knew what was what Jonah had the dog’s head twisted all the way back around on itself. The neck broke hard, but was muffled by the bear-like fur. He hoped it was quiet enough. The dog stared over its back at its own tail through dead eyes. Jonah let loose the dog’s head and set it quiet down. He had never killed anything in his life, but Jesus shit Jonah was scared.
Jonah tried to slow his breathing and the ragged noise that came with it. He hoped he’d outrun his pursuers, but it was not to be. The shorties were there. Jonah could hear them moving about. He closed tight his eyes and bit his knuckles. Jonah wished desperately to vanish, to will himself away, but he could not.
After a few fearful moments when Jonah heard not a sound he forced open his eyes. He stared out the doghouse and up at the night. No stars out tonight only feet.
Jonah saw baggy-ass jeans and the way they terminated into a pair of size twelves. The owner of which began to squat on his haunches. The auto pistol touched the grass and a young boy’s face appeared sweat-dotted sideways in the doghouse opening.
The boy smiled at Jonah, not saying a word. He guessed it was interesting to the little dude to see a grown man cry. He was dragged whimpering from the doghouse by the pair of gun-toting shorties. They had Jonah by the scruff of his shirt and were pulling him kicking across dew-damp grass beneath a bulging yellow moon.
The two boys stood over Jonah’s cowed ass. A third stopped before the group panting hard.
“That him?” the new arrival asked as he fought to catch his breath. They nodded. “Well,” top dog continued, “put your shit in his mouth.”
The boy that found Jonah first put the evil auto pistol end to his lips. “Open up sweetheart,” he ordered.
Jonah responded by uselessly turning his head away. The other two kicked him viciously in the stomach and my legs. For fun they stomped his feet. Jonah exhaled with an involuntary grunt. The auto slid roughly into his opened mouth with all the finesse of a prison date.
Jonah turned red. His eyes bulged impossibly. His diaphragm was an immobile spasm and the cold metal rattled Jonah’s expensive dental work.
“Get the Plata off the fuck and push out his wig,” the top dog ordered.
The shorty on standby put his weapon on the doghouse and bent to Jonah. The boy undid the belt. Then he unbuttoned and unzipped him. Jonah was flustered and red-faced. The boy began to tug Jonah’s chinos roughly down when they were greeted with fecal assault. The boy stood and cursed. He backed away from Jonah and the stink. Top dog covered his nose and mouth. He looked to the auto pistol holder. The boy kept his shit in Jonah’s mouth, but blinked and coughed. He appeared to be on the verge of dumping his pork chops.
“Fuck it,” top dog decided, “Kill the motherfucker. Then hose his ass off and get the dope.”

–end excerpt.

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