Seek the killer in you …

Today's Fact: Morbid is by far the most unique serial killer in all of literature. Recognize.






Book 29 & 78 of 2010: You Morbid Westphal by Steven Rage

YOU. Yes, “you”… are a poor soul in the hospital on your last legs. And as it is, you’ve “given birth” to one of the most horrible “people” ever possible…

These three characters, as well as a host of other interesting “people” make up Steven Rage’s You Morbid Westphal. Both the characters and story format are unique- Rage has created a one-of-a-kind voice with this novella, which has enough story to fill a full-length book. A large chunk of the story follows Westphal day-to-day as he suffers through many horrendous tasks at work, in his dreams, and even just trying to obtain more drugs along the way.

As soon as I read the final chapters of this book I was ready to re-read it. I ended up waiting a few months before doing just that, but after a second read, I would be more than happy to do so yet again… and again… and again… You Morbid Westphal is one of those novellas that never get tiresome, as you pick up something different with each read through. You Morbid Westphal is not for the faint of heart, as it is full of numerous crude scenes that Rage describes in graphic detail. For many seasoned horror/bizarro readers, this will be a plus, but for those that can’t handle things over the top, beware! Highly recommended!

Contains: Adult language, Adult Situations, Sex, Rape, Violence, Gore, Heavy Drug Use 


Review also posted at

Chapter Sixteen


Guts You Stem To Stern

You see now the one Westphal calls Morbid put the two-way down on the table beside your bed. He looks down at you and smiles. He glances up at the clock on the wall.“Watch this, junkie-fuck,” he tells you and points up to the clock. He straightens his finger at the minute hand, high up across the room. The minute hand moves in an instant to twenty minutes later.Morbid smiles brightly as Westphal stumbles in: mumbling incoherently. He makes it to the bedside and looks down at you, side by side with Morbid. It’s looking up at a frameless mirror, seeing those two together.“We’re all here,” Morbid replies, “Just the three of us devil may care Jolly Rogers.”Morbid immediately cocks back an elbow and just straight shoots out with his clenched fist, right into your waiting face. Stars as fireworks are detonating behind your tearing eyes.You blink through the pain, staring in revulsion and hate at yourself and yourself, standing there at your sick bed.Morbid winks once at you. He then spins clockwise and folds himself into Westphal, who’s stoned ass jerks and warbles with the possession of Morbid.Westphal’s trouncey-bouncey eyeballs snap forward, and then right down at you. He reaches into a pocket, retrieves a super-sharp scalpel, an O.R. swing-hook and some 4.0 silk stitching thread.“Time to go home,” he says and stabs you in the supra-sternal notch with the scalpel. He slices speedily distal downward, through hard sternum and thin flesh, to just above the navel. He guts you from stem to stern.You cry out, soundless, alarms silenced, as Westphal pulls you open wide, cracking open your ribcage as easily as a lobster’s tail. He shoves his head inside of you, followed by shoulders, arms, torso, and on and on until he is all the way in.Through the violation and searing pain, you feel Westphal turning over, closing the busted ribs like a coffin lid. Facing up, you feel him sewing you closed from the inside. The surgeon’s thread slides out through flesh and back in. Westphal sewing your gaping wound shut, as quick as a goose shits.Your heart, beating crazily, now gets the sharp point of Westphal’s internal scalpel. Fresh blood squirts full from your stabbed and torn cardiac muscle. You can feel and hear Westphal’s suckling sounds as he sups on the blood spilling out unimpeded from your broken heart.Your hold on sanity snaps completely as your blood pressure bottoms out. The alarm shrills again, the heroes summoned once more. They won’t make it. Not in time, anyways, and that is fine as a finger-fuckin’ to you. You lose your hold on life. As things go fast black and mute, you could swear you smell the sick twins of sulfur and sugar welcoming you to That.

WESTPHAL. Living with his ghost step-dad, Sammy, and his pet