Tag Archive: blog horror fiction


Kindle Edition!

 
FIVE

The demon walked slowly up and down the Unit.
He touched each patient and peeked over the shoulders
of the nurses as they charted their thoughts
and findings. Each time the demon stopped near one
of the nurses, or any of the other staff, they would
feel even colder than usual. If he stayed long enough,
the staff member would actually exhale a cold plume
of frigid air. They would get an almost overwhelming
urge to either fuck or punch the first person
they saw. The demon was a very bad influence. 
 

Kindle Edition!

  1350, anno Domini

The smell was the worst.
It assaulted like a living, breathing thing. The smell hung on clothing and hair. If you stepped out of the hospital, down to the shores of Mighty Thames, the cloud would stay with you. Not even the cold and bitter wind washed it away.
The vampire didn’t care about the stench. The dying came to the London hospital in droves. He cared for them as best he could. He was a physician honor bound to treat the victims of this vicious plague. And then he would eat them.

The physician’s rotund. He was of normal girth before the scourge came. The floodgates opened. Black Plague brought an endless stream of blood-filled vessels. Very few survived. The Plague was deadly like that.
The vampire bled as many as he could. Sometimes twenty a day died in this manner, all but dried husks. They were cremated in great funeral pyres. Flames licked the sky and the heavens turned a blind eye to the suffering below.
The physician plump, flushed pink, growing more so by the day. The more blood he drank, the more he wanted. After a time, he could no longer fit into his clothes. He had to have another suit made. He grew out of that one too. And still they came.

He finished her off with one last gulp. The physician dropped her to the rags-covered pallet. Her cooling body settled with ankles crossed, arms slung out either side. He looked at her a moment. She reminded him of – something.
The vampire settled back on the stool, studied his hands. They’re burning now. They were bright pink, almost red. The fingers were as plump over-stuffed sausages, hard and rigid. The hands felt on fire, fingers coarse to move. Each subsequent attempt became more difficult. He sweated all the time. The bloody sweat stained his latest suit of clothes, already ripping at the seams.
He stood slowly up, legs cramping. His knees were sketchy from the improbable weight. Crimson sweat popped out on his forehead. It made him look like he just swatted away a swarm of biting insects.
His eyes began to tear. The tears slow at first, then fast. The great drops poured forth from bulging eyes. His swollen face cascaded salt-bloody tears. He slapped tears away and both his ears spurt. Ejaculates of blood shot out ruptured eardrums.
The vampire/physician lay still in the ever-spreading pool of his own blood. His patients’ blood. His victims’ blood.
A small crowd gathered to gawk and they were disgusted by the scene. But what they saw was not the worst.
It was the smell. That was the worst.

 

Kindle Edition!

 Chapter Five

Carpe Diem, nigga:

Tacitus had his Herod’s lovely neck in both his hands and he was squeezing the life out. He was a wheezy oil rig pumping away on Salome’s plump spread thighs. Her moans quick now turned to garbled chokes.
The two of them were copulating in Salome’s bedchamber. The new Herod shuddered and then she began to fight. She tried to twist away from the tight grip Tacitus had on her neck. Her attacker responded to this by pulling out of her. He placed all his weight on her. His hard knees were on her slender feminine arms. There was nowhere for her to go. She flattened out on the bed and he squeezed all the more. Salome managed to slip an arm free. She reached up and grabbed a handful of his hair. Tacitus grunted with the pain, but kept squeezing until she went limp beneath him.
He released her neck and rolled off her. Tacitus stood beside the bed of his Herod. He was naked, breathing hard and dizzy. He caught his breath and the dizziness dissipating with the slowing of his vital signs. He looked down to her, the one he had craved more than his mother’s milk. Salome was still alive, but she moved not.
Tacitus dried off his shit. He dropped the come towel on the throw rug covered cement floor. Giant foot-shaped indentations peeked out from under carpet. There was no one left to explain their origin. Salome had told Tacitus that the Devil did it, but he thought it was bullshit. It was probably just some drug-addled memory from when she was her Uncle Herod’s Plata-addicted play thing.

Kindle Edition!

 

 III

Mr. Big Winner:

I’m the lucky one.
My knees popped and cracked as I stood victorious. I stood too quickly, too excited. I forgot to hold my breath. I took in a big one to let loose my WHOOP. The sedative in the foggy mist made me swoon as soon as it touched my wet lungs. I could barely rebel out my victory yell. Hands grabbed hold of me from all directions. They belonged to the Halflings that made up most of Chess Master’s goon squad. Hands are a bit too generalized. Nevertheless, I witness a cacophony of swirling flurry of flesh, feathers, fur, claws and scales. In a furious rush a protective shield is forced roughly over my face. One of the more expensive dental implants in my mouth has been loosened in the exchange. I tried my level best not to choke on it as they try to hustle my old ass out of the gaming hall.
The goon squad surrounded me on all sides. The swarm of players de-crying their fate got shakily up from their places before the BINGO screens. Dozens of them began hurling themselves at us. The goons hit the oldies with neural disruptors, making them vomit and shit themselves. The biggest goons used their thick and strong iguana tails to snap at and toss bodily the other geezers out of our way. The weakened geriatric bones of these hapless players shattered on contact. It was soggy and gruesome to hear. Their screams were deafening. If I’d still had a heart, it would have been wrenched right out of me.

Kindle Edition!

 

 III

“DR. JONATHAN PENDER”

Three-point-Zero

Pender stood in line at the SaveCo pharmacy near his home and waited his turn. It was near noon and there were still several people ahead of him. He was beginning to feel trapped and his ragged nerves were protesting. It was well past his time. Pender was afraid the shakes that were ramping up would become severe enough to be noticed. He was embarrassed by his circumstances and was constantly trying to hide it from people.
I‟ve got to get a handle on this, Pender thought. The line really isn‟t that long.
Pender glanced over the top of the ten people in front of him to the customer service counter beyond. It might as well be one hundred miles away. He could feel a big pussy-fat panic building. Pender still had his emergency Quaalude left. It rested down at the bottom of his right front trouser pocket. He thought that right this very minute would be a darn good time to use it. Pender thrust his hand down deep into his pocket, retrieving both a candy mint and the pill. The both of them he popped in his mouth. He chewed them together rather loudly and with great relish. Just the thought of how the pill will soon relax him made Pender visibly content.
Pender glanced around at the customers milling about. He wondered how many of the respectable-looking people had a drug habit as nasty as his.
I hope a lot of them, he thought. The line for prescription refills had shortened by one person. I‟d hate to be the only one. A decade of higher education and advance training costing nearly one hundred thousand Notes and worth infinitely more, Pender mused wryly. All so I can become a god damned junkie. I have become the butt of my own stupid joke.

 

A beastly happy Herod is presented with the severed heads of Pontius
Pilate and Immanuel Christ. But he doesn.t see Michael as he stalks toward him
with a purposeful grimace and a terrible sound. He grips the hilt of his fiery
sword and pulls it free, still moving. Herod looks up and sees a pissed off
archangel bulling through his china shop. Herod.s smile fades into confusion as
Michael raises his sword. The archangel slices a downward arc at him. Herod is
still trying to gauge the level of danger as his torso is split from right neck to left
waist. He separates top from bottom, slides apart and drops dead to the floor with
two separate thuds.

The blood and filth-stained cops stand dumbfounded. Pleading silent, they
stare fearfully at Michael. He sheaths his Retribution, the flame dying as he does
so. Michael notices the men. They are quaking now as children that are being
taunted by bullies. The angel lets loose the hilt of his sword and points to both
pieces of Herod, bleeding all over the Compound floor.

“Repeat Offender,” he tells them.

And then Michael winks out, just as She instructed. Leaving the cops
unmolested, forgiven and unharmed.

For God still loves this world.

Inexplicably, She does.

When One is weary of Lame Shit …

 

      

The Craziest hardcore horror shit available without a prescription ... Available in PRINT!

  

      

              

  

Hey kids! It's time once again for "FuknPunch", the Unemployed Child Care Clown" far-out fiction sample!

Call it aftermath, she’s turning blue
Such a lovely color for you
Call it aftermath, she’s turning blue
While I just sit and stare at you

BLUE” – A Perfect Circle

Morbid stayed put until Westphal’s resuscitators vanished down the hall of Harborside District Hospital. He made damned sure they were far from the room before leaving his impromptu womb. Morbid waited inside his body, deep down in the gastro-intestinal tract, curled up in Westphal’s stomach.
God, he couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of this junkie loser piece of shit and now it was time. Imagine: trying to commit suicide like he was a fifteen year-old girl who was just dumped by the star quarterback. Jesus, Westphal was such a fucking pansy.
He stretched open the esophagus and slowly crept carefully past the breathing tube sitting securely in his trachea. The mouth was taped all to fuck, so Morbid was forced to seek the exit through Westphal’s nose, specifically the left nare. He squeezed ever so painful slow out of his nose, almost choking the new life out of himself in the process, but made all the way out.
He then sat cross-legged and winded on Westphal’s chest, trying to catch his breath, taking the air in mellow and deep, thinking now only of her. Westphal may not be allowed to see her, but Morbid can do whatever he pleases and God help anyone trying to stop him.
She was all that remained, all he had left to accomplish before the three of them came together and commenced the final act of their atrocious play.
After placing Shirk’s syringe down in one of Westphal’s pockets, Morbid climbed off of him, over the bed rail and went again into the bathroom. Time bent its back in its unending circle, this time to clean the vomit and snot instead of fecal filth off of him.
Morbid cleaned as quickly and as thoroughly as his limited time allowed. He untied Westphal’s physical retraints and turned the intravenous sedation down way low. Morbid will need Westphal awake soon. Once he was, the junkie-fuck will know just where to go and just what to get. And then Morbid will let him know what he must do to square his debts and balance the books.
Having accomplished his self-cleaning and prepping Westphal, Morbid had his own agenda to satisfy, and fuck me was she gonna get the full-pull, I shit you not.

When your done fucking around with lame, stale bullshit horror, READ RAGE.

Morbid was all ready to seek out his quarry. He went to the door to Westphal’s hospital room, opened it just a touch, and looked carefully all around, making sure the coast was clear. After making sure it was so, Morbid crept down the long empty hospital corridor with one of your useless IV bag poles dragging behind him.
Whenever he encountered a staff member he made sure he looked strong on his feet, but mumbled nonsense to himself. The staff smiled absently at him, resuming their focus on whatever brought them his way.
He found her room, way down at the end of the long hall. He pretended to take a long drink at the water fountain there, waiting for a couple of technicians to quit yapping about their respective weekend exploits and move the fuck on. When they finally did, Morbid was at her door and finally alone. After spying no one about, he spun into her room.
Mrs. Fussbudget lay sleeping. He was so very happy to see her again.
Leave her alone.
Morbid knew, without a doubt; that she wouldn’t be.
Please, make him leave her alone.
Morbid saw the old woman, lying still and unmoving in her hospital bed. She was completely alone, no relatives anywhere to be seen. Since Westie got shit-canned from her room, they all thought that their precious grand-mama was as safe as a virgin in a nunnery. Oh, well: the best laid plans of mice and men.
She had eyes closed, a tube in her throat. Mrs. Fussbudget’s face was soft, sleeping peacefully. She was recovering marvelously now, her breathing triggering the machine, augmenting her placid flow of air.
The vast network of deep wrinkles attested to her longevity, her hard fought time on this Earth. They ran from under salt and pepper wig. Morbid longed to touch them, to run his fingertips down through the grooves. He wanted to trace them down from her eyes to her cheeks and further to the jowls. Follow them down to her blow-hole and circle it around, around again and around.
Instead, he just stared at her. Morbid thought she was just lovely. He was tempted to rush in, but not yet. Not before it’s perfect. Morbid must first ready himself.
He went quickly out, while Mrs. Fussbudget was still snoozing peacefully, and checked the hallway one more time. It was quiet, none about. He re-shut the door to her room and made a bee-line for the bathroom. Morbid shut and locked the door.
The light was so harsh and the mirror unbecoming, but both were necessary. Morbid brought out his small kit. He laid out the vials of powders he got from home, and his multi-dose bottle of normal saline and a short syringe with its tiny, ultra-sharp needle he took from work.
Morbid knocked out a bit of both white powders, added a third bit of finely ground blue powder, and put them all in a wide-mouthed empty vial. He squirted a couple milliliters of saline onto the three powders, prepping two, maybe even three doses. Morbid sealed the top and shook the holy hell out of it.
Morbid knew the potent mixture would not completely dissolve and there was no time or opportunity to provide the melting powers of heat. Instead, he rolled up a ‘two-by-two’ clean gauze pad and stuffed it into the opening of the mixture vial.
Morbid removed the cap and stuck the needle into the impromptu filter. He pulled back on the plunger, sucking up light blue liquid into the syringe. Then he turned back to face the mirror and the bright light.
Morbid shook with longing. He knew Mrs. Fussbudget lay sleeping and waiting. He needed to step it up a bit. He opened up his mouth wide, lifted the furry fungoid tongue. Morbid saw the blue veins, leaning into the mirror. Morbid slid the sharp needle under his tongue, through the pink flesh and into a waiting vein. Morbid pushed in his medicine. He pulled out the needle, held his head back.
Here comes the train…
With ears ringing and doll eyes growing, Morbid packed up his goody bag. He worked through the rush, humming through his noise, happily swallowing blood, the horrible pain fading, crawling back under its rock. He put all the necessaries neatly away and was ready to do the light fandango, takes two to tango, dance of morbid love.
He turned off the light and left the bathroom, closed the door.
She was still sleeping as he came to her.
“Mrs. Fussbudget,” Morbid whispered in quiet honey croon. His jingling fingers a-tingly, “I just want you to taste me.”
She awoke and blessed Morbid with a quickly fading smile. She vigorously shook her head in the negative, reaching for the nurse call button.
“Looking for this?” Morbid asked her, holding it just out of her reach.
Mrs. Fussbudget began to cry and the way she defiantly balled up her arthritic fists made Morbid joyfully soar on eagle’s wings.
He showed her what he held in his other hand. It was a big suction hose line and the negative pressure was sucking on full. Morbid, with a viper’s speed, attached the suction to Mrs. Fussbudget’s open trachea tube and began to suck the life right out of her.
“I think I love you, madam,” he admitted to her as she punched and flailed at him with all of her might. “I’m going to show you just how much.”
Mrs. Fussbudget finally quit flailing and carrying on so. She was turning blue and cold and still. Morbid removed the suction from her airway.
With one quick tug of the string, his scrubs dropped to the floor.
“Now that you decided to behave yourself,” he told her, “we can begin.”
Morbid lifted himself up over the rail and into Mrs. Fussbudget’s bed. He lifted her gown. He ran his fingers upward. Morbid was glad that she was still warm. He began to work her over.
Oh my God, you sick fuck.

REVIEW: 5.0 out of 5 stars “Fascinating and scary”, June 20, 2010
By Ray Dittmeier (Louisville, KY) – See all my reviews
(REAL NAME)

Amazon Verified Purchase(What’s this?)

 This review is from:

You Morbid Westphal (Paperback)

 

“This is a short book; you could read it in a single sitting, as I did–twice. Even so, Reverend Rage somehow manages to give us a story that has the scope of a full-blown novel without skimping anywhere. It’s fascinating, scary, out-and-out repulsive at times, and even amusing in a few places. (I love Sammy, the crusty old ghost-dad who lives with Westphal.)

The book tells an intricate story, dark and gritty and bizarre–I don’t know if Rage claims them as influences, but it makes me think of Chuck Palahniuk and Philip K. Dick collaborating on a horror novel–set in a world of drug dealers, prostitutes, porn producers and otherworldly beings. This world, as well as the story, is well-realized and full of the kind of detail that makes it feel authentic. Everything is extremely vivid.

Westphal, the central character, is a drug-addicted loser who’s just one screw-up away from losing his job at a hospital, and who finds he’s gotten in over his head with his drug dealer. In fact, I would imagine most of us know, or have known, at least one Westphal in real life. There’s much more to it than that, but talking more about the various threads and themes in the story would be running the risk of giving away spoilers.

Suffice to say it’s a story full of imagination and weirdness, a story that invites you to give a little thought to what it takes to maintain some control over your life, and to take a look at your capacity for good and evil. “

"It takes a sincerely sick, drug-addled, putrified brain to come up with a world-view this demented."


"Coming to the party?"

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