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

Chapter Three



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




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.”