The Good Doctor’s sickest story yet.

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From The Grim One’s hardcore collection of fucked-up sick Bizarro scented fiction “The Place in Between”. This sample is from the novella, “Bad Notion Travelin Potion”.

Only when you are done fucking around with lame-ass horror. WARNING: extremely visual and graphic. Grown Folks only!

Note: Steven Rage’s books contains graphic violence, illicit drug use, non-consensual extreme sex, and potentially offensive material given the religious references. The fiction of RAGE has been called Torture Porn. What do YOU think?

Chapter TRIA:

 
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?”

“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…

* * *

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.”

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.

                                                                                                                                          …end sample.

Sick, Disgusting, Vile…and Genius, October 7, 2010
By Eric Mays “Bizarro Author of “Naked Metam… (Richmond, VA) – This review is from:  The Place In Between (Paperback)
 

Sick? Absolutely. Genius? Perhaps. Rage? All the way.We have a certain adoration for Steven Rage at the Authors Speak. He may be one of the sickest, most twisted writers writing today, but there’s a mad brilliance to his work. Reading one of his texts is like growing wiser while simultaneously suppressing the urge to vomit…

“FuknPunch”, the Unemployed Child Care clown shouts out!

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Hey kids! It's time once again for "FuknPunch



“Herod’s compound looms ahead, towering over The Harbor as a plague. Lights show, here and there, in the old refinery. The wind howls like the unseen demons that shriek throughout the complex. I hated this place I’ve brought the Christ to, but my masters demand such.
I look at Immanuel. Her wrists are bare once more. I sigh and shake my head. I exit the car, and come round to the passenger side. I open the door and help her out. She seem so small to me, deflated. I can no longer sense her abundant power. She is drained, leeched…ordinary.
Immanuel stands beside the car, saying nothing. Herod’s cops pull up and park behind Pilate. They file out of their vehicles. I see a small glint of shiny metal, the cuffs returning to Immanuel’s wrists. I look at her and she not back. She’s staring out of focus at the ground. She appears to be praying.
“Spare me this cup of suffering,” I hear her whisper. Immanuel then says: “Not by my will, but Thine, be done.” And then she is silent.
Herod’s cops align themselves in a concave wall in front of Immanuel and me. They do not take eyes off me, their guns only a quick snatch away. No matter what Matthias told the cops about the Pharisee-imposed truce, I know without a doubt that if I even so much as think about pulling more shit like I did at the chapel, they are going to punch my motherfucking card. Dear God in Heaven do the cops look like they wish I would. The police are all smiling to themselves knowing they would get their chance to give my vampire ass what they’re sure I got coming to me.
Sensing this, I grip Immanuel’s bicep. I very carefully proceeded through the hole they make in their cop wall. I guide a subdued Immanuel toward the entrance. The cops follow close behind us as we all enter Herod’s Compound.
Immanuel remains a passive prisoner as we make our progressive way through the layers of security to Herod’s Throne Room, deep in the sub-basement of the refinery. I know the bastard is waiting there for us there.
I am bringing the Herod of The Harbor Immanuel the Christ. I feel as though I am drowning a puppy, but tried my level best to shake it off. Thining like that will get me nowhere but dead. My entire existence depends on the next few hours.
Immanuel moves slowly, walking in her gallows gait like guilty prisoners whom have made their peace and are resigned to their fate. But, I know she hasn’t done a fucking thing to deserve what’s to be done to her. It is making my hands burn again.
We are nearing the Throne Room entrance. We can hear Herod’s laughter right through the

wall. It is well-oiled, Herod’s evil. I can feel its thickness and depth. Herod is completely insane and his evil is true. I can feel all of the unseen things whipping all around us, their shrieks I can plainly hear. I do not fear the unseen, but with my crazy itchy hands being shredded by the talons that are making no difference whatsoever, I am getting scared at what I’m about to do.
It is becoming quite plain. Immanuel leans into me, bumping me slightly. And with that simple gesture, the burning has gone away. I now realize that this tiny preacher has scared Herod and the Pharisees. She means much more to them than even reversing the downward selling trend of Plata. This is not going to be a simple execution. It’s much more than a business decision to correct an errant bottom line. It is making my heart lurch. The Pharisees are going to allow Herod to have his wicked way with her. I remember the chapel parking lot. The police were ordered by Herod himself to damage Immanuel. I see that now. If the lower ranks were ordered to run a train of pigs on the little preacher, then what in holy hell does Herod have in store for her here and now?
Our group makes it to the Throne Room with Immanuel’s cuffs still fixed firmly in place, her head lowered. She slumps submissively and with trapped resign. She makes not a sound. Wicked hatred fills the entire vicinity. It settles into the cracks and dark corners like a steamed mist. If the Throne Room is entered, it can not be avoided. It seems to be waiting for us.
We stop at the threshold. The big iron door is closed and it gives to me the impression that it is breathing. I reach out for the long handle to slide the door open, but stopped myself.
This is wrong, I think. I turn back to the cops behind us. They have their hands on their guns, taking no chances. They’re aching for an excuse to end me. Immanuel remains impassive.
It is now, at this exact moment, while I am on the verge of handing her over to Herod, that I finally stop fixating on revenge. I stop worrying about the business that was stolen from me. I stop using grief as the spark for my vengeance and rage. And I finally stop brooding about my pilfered millions.
Even though it was in my best interests, I can’t refrain from thinking how off beam this shit is. This thing I’m helping to do to Immanuel is immoral and all the way wrong. I cannot rationalize it away.
I remove my hand from the door. I bend down and brush away the hair from Immanuel’s face. She is downtrodden, appears defeated.
“Who are you, little preacher?” I ask her, “Who are you, really?”
Immanuel then raises her head, straightens to her full height. A quick flick and hair falls behind her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes are full and gleaming at they stare into me. A fog forms around the two of us as her power heats the brisk, dank air. She looks right at me, straight and eye to eye.
“Know this, vampire,” Immanuel states, “I am the Son of God.”
Her hand cuffs open and fall to the floor.
Herod’s cops draw their weapons. The guns clear leather as one and I step between them and Immanuel. My back is fully exposed as I scoop Immanuel up and hugged her tight to me. I cover her and her heat hisses against my cold vampire flesh.
I grit my teeth as the fangs drop. The talons burrow into my arms enveloping her. I fully expect to be buffeted with countless bullets in the back for the tiny Christ, but they never come.
I hold on to her for a bit longer and was shaking with adrenaline when I finally put her down. I turn back and see Herod’s cops. The cops still have their guns tightly clenched in white-knuckled fists.
I feel an immense wave of relief, followed abruptly by confusion. Herod’s cops are on their backs on the floor of the passageway. They’re less than ten feet from the Throne Room door and almost posed in their positions. The cops are a triangle of heavy pins, knocked flat by a deaf bowler. It is a silent and deadly strike.
I look from the cops to Immanuel. She graces me with a miniature smile.
“That,” she says, indicating the fallen pins stacked neatly on the floor, “that has not been written.”
I glance back and see that they are, all of them, dead. I stare at her and see the hand cuffs gone again. I look at the door that separates us from the Pharisees desire. I think I see hope in her eyes. A choice now has got to be made. What’ll it be, nigga? Am I in or am I out? Make me decision and make it now. There are only seconds left.
I made mines.
I reach out for Immanuel’s hand. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I tell her with a harsh whisper.
Immanuel puts her naked wrists up before my face and the cuffs reappear. They close on their own with a snick-snick and snap into place. She lowers them and regards a nigga with her gaze.
“C’mon,” I repeat in a whisper both harsh and impatient, “what the fuck’s wrong with you, let’s go!”
“We stay,” she states emphatically, “The both of us.”
Immanuel’s words stunned me. She really isn’t leaving and I can’t leave her. I can’t believe this is happening. She really isn’t leaving. What possible reason can she have for wanting to stay? I am certain she knows what’s coming. She knows full well that they are going to kill her. Still Immanuel insists on staying. Why?
Their window of opportunity is closing fast.
“We can make it,” I plead. Motionless, she remains. “Why,” he try, “won’t you let me save you?”
“Why won’t you let me,” asks the Christ, “save you?”
Before I can consider that, the door slides open with a pounding metallic bang. There is Herod, himself. He stands in the threshold of the open door.
He bids us welcome.
And now we are too late.”

 

 

 

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

 

This is The real Harbor. This place gave me the idea for Herod's Compound.