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illustration by Édouard-Henri Avril.

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G R I M ! ! “There were special group areas to engage in any sort of Greek or Roman decadence. Pornos were filmed on premises. Orgies were easy to be had; coke rails the length of your leg, animal fucking, sucking, sacrifices, Black Magick. There was blood letting and drinking, skin branding and flesh removing. Anything, man. Just fucking anything.”  “YOU MORBID WESTPHAL”

by

The Grim Reverend Steven Rage Come and visit the inmates at bizarrocentral.com

 
 
 
 
from Chapter 10:

Westphal tuned out Sammy’s latest tall tale and began his mental list. It didn’t take longer than two shakes, because he could see the sugarplums as they danced in his head. He decided to help himself to a nice sampling of just about everything Steele had in his arsenal.
Westphal pulled up his mail and started writing out his order to send to Steele. He wanted some percs, comas, a lot of bitch, a taste of boy (this was the extra, he’d never tried heroin before). He also wanted a half ounce of meth, some phens, T-3s, a couple dozen rolls and some more MDMA powder (Steele’s shit is so clean), a handful of zans and vans, and more morphine tablets if he’s got ‘em. And top it off with a fat sack of mean green. He was happy because this shit should last him a good long time.
This made Westphal securely and supremely happy. He had his rent and utilities paid, enough available on his gas card to scoot the popcan around The Harbor, fresh bone marrow for Chip and even a little left over for some food.
He figured he could stock up on drugs and then he wouldn’t have to go to the motherfucker’s big, old rambling house for a while. Westphal did this whenever he could, with the certainty of dread that all real dope fiends had of getting eventually popped by Johnny Law. That would seriously fuck up his employment options.
Steele always had someone nearby the computer to take these orders, so Westphal sipped some more coffee and mixed and chopped and railed some more jet fuel, waiting for one of Steele’s clones to get back.
The drug dealer never hesitated to make Westphal smile. Steele was a hustla of the first order. He ran a string of businesses like a ghetto corporation out of his own home. He had several entrances and exits, many separate as well as common rooms. Whatever a deviant wanted, Steele could get.
He had drugs, of course, but also much more. If you wanted to get your dick sucked on, or get your shit fisted, cool. If you needed an Unwanted to adopt, his whores did a double business of that. There was no need to glove up if you didn’t want to. Most of his females were in a constant knocked-up state. He kept a druggie midwife working constantly to delivery the Unwanteds.
He had a lab set up with technicians harvesting blood marrow around the clock to sell to the exotic pet stores. There were big, softly lit rooms with music leaking gently out of invisible speakers hidden in the walls if you just wanted a place to get high and chill.
There were special group areas to engage in any sort of Greek or Roman decadence. Pornos were filmed on premises. Orgies were easy to be had; coke rails the length of your leg, animal fucking, sucking, sacrifices, Black Magick. There was blood letting and drinking, skin branding and flesh removing. Anything, man. Just fucking anything. 

KINDLE version

 All the different entrances and exits assured as much privacy as you wanted. You could hide out in the basement if you were on the lam, or deeper to the sub-levels where one can dally with the demons and the damned. There were ghosts everywhere and the Magic floating through the place was thick as a sage smudging.
Steele himself was as big and as tough as the cage-fighter he used to be, but sweet and gentle and accommodating if you kept your attitude and rudeness at the door. Westphal had personally seen Steele weep with a young junkie who just miscarried her Wanted baby. And he had also witnessed him crush the trachea of this stupid piece of shit that disrespected the bug guy in his own home.
Steele liked Westphal a great deal. Not only was Westie an obviously steady customer and source of income, but he never hinted on needing credit. He paid his freight up front and, most of all, Westphal was respectful and polite.
Westphal got a reply from Steele’s place and it was the big dude himself, which was unusual. You could imagine how busy the young Gotti was.
“What’s up, Westie?” he asked over the e-mail, “You feel up to a visit here?”
“Absolutely,” Westphal wrote back, “when’s good?”
“The PayToday just cleared your five NewGs and I can put your order together in about –oh, say 2 hours,” he replied. “That cool wit you?”
“Perfect,” Westphal told him. His head was popping off and he was feeling like a million pesos of good, “I’ll swing by then.”
“Can you stay a while?”
He stopped. That was a weird request. Westphal usually stayed just long enough to be cordial, but Steele knew he liked to do his drugging at home. He knew Westphal didn’t indulge in any of his other offerings. Too weird. What should he do, how should he respond?
“Sure, I guess so,” he replied to Steele. “Why, man, what’s up….problem?”
“No, dude, no problem at all. It’s just that my sponsor is here and he specifically asked me for an intro.”
“Okay, sure…but why? Did I piss someone off I didn’t mean to?”
“No way, nothing like that,” he promised. “He just knows you are a good customer and a good guyand Shirk sometimes likes to check out my favorites.” 

Tired of ‘safe’ horror? Look no farther! ‘click’!


“Shirk, huh? Is he….connected?”
“LOL, nigga!,” Steele wrote back. “Yeah, he’s connected, but not to the mob, he’s from That.”
Oh fuck, he’s from That? Westphal never fucked with the Dark. Drugs were enough trouble. He was barely hanging on as it is. What the fuck would a demon want with him? But he knew he couldn’t say no. Once you pollute your soul to a certain point, you had to do some bidding. He’s heard of this like everyone else, but he always thought he could keep skating out of range of Them. Fuck.
After no response: “You still there, dude?” Steele asked.
“Yeah, man, of course, just paused to do a bump,” Westphal lied.
“Well get your self together,” he said. “This motherfucker is the real Holyfield and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Oh, shit, thought Westphal. Now I am in it.
“See you in 2, brother,” Steele told him and logged off.
Westphal just sat there, trying not to be scared……

 

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 http://monsterlibrarian.com/bizarro.htm

Chapter Sixteen

GOING HOME

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

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