Tag Archive: Harry Potter

Burn, Baby, Burn!


Products sampled from this guide:

 FREE KINDLE version, 4-25-12…FREE, I say!! 🙂

PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale,
is the story of Pilate, a drug lord vampire in this re-telling of Christ‘s final days set in modern times in a Midwest American ghetto. When given another chance to save the Earth’s new female Christ, will the re-incarnated Pilate choose to protect Her, or wash his hands in this life as in his first. Be warned: The Harbor is wicked. The violence is graphic and brutal. The terror is palpable. Pilate is not your parents’ bible story.

The Place In BetweenPRINT: When Del is sent pictures of his wife’s latest affair, he reasons a .45 caliber bullet will answer his problems. Del wants to seek revenge. Sure enough a demon shows up with her silky-sweet promises. Then the medical ambiance twists dark and cruel beyond anything any one of them could’ve imagined.Please Note: Steven Rage’s literary assaults contain graphic violence, illicit drug use, non-consensual extreme sex, and potentially offensive material given the religious references. Be forewarned …  Brutal Bible Tales are not for the faint of heart. NC-17.

Rotten Little Animals
Imagine you are a typical 13 year old boy, just glancing out of your bedroom window. Just daydreaming, drifting along, watching the neighbor lady with sugar MILF plums dancing around in your fevered little head, when something in the adjacent yard catches your eye. Something truly strange. A movie being filmed. With animals. By animals. Talking, acting, filming, directing. And just when your young mind begins to register the shock of that crazy scene, the animal production crew notices YOU. Oh, no. Humans can’t know that ALL animals can talk. Nature’s delicate balance will be thrown completely out of whack. It is the animal world’s only real Law and the film crew just broke it.

The boy must be silenced.

Therein lies the heart and guts of this wickedly funny Bizarro novella from newcomer Kevin Shamel. With Dirty Rat, Filthy Pig, Scaredy Cat and many other marvelous animal characters, Shamel paints his imaginary (we hope!) world of liquor guzzling, dope doing, coital fiending, ultra-violent animals that will make you show a wee bit more respect and love to Fido and Fluffy than you might normally give them.

The pacing of the story is superb and the descent into this mad world was just right. My hat’s off, once again, to the Bizarro folks at Eraserhead for another gem of a tale (tail?).

Kevin Shamel’s “Rotten Little Animals” is more fun to read than a barrel full of drunken monkeys and randier than a lab full of stoned test bunnies.

Now, if you will excuse me. The Reverend had better take his pit bull, Bennie, out for a nice long walk. You know… just in case.

“Here, Bennie! Daddy loves you…”

Jeez-O-Petes! I’m telling you, Eraserhead Press has such an uncanny knack for mining new writing talent. In Carnageland author David Barbee showcases his talent in a tale that kept me turning the pages and chuckling delightfully. BTW, have you ever seen the Reverend chuckle delightfully? It’s pretty Mary. Don’t tell anyone.

The alien invader, 898, has been assigned to violently soften up Carnageland prior to the full scale invasion. Carnageland is a world who’s inhabitants seem to mimic all of our favorite childhood stories. And not just Rapunzle and dwarves and flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz and whatnot, but also Bizarro versions of Peter Pan pirates and even ol’ Harry Potter and his pals.

898 has to slice and dice his way through these popular characters and many, many others (the wizches were superb). 898 must rid any and all opposition to the forthcoming invasion. It is 898’s first mission and he must succeed. Glory and a nice little promotion are on the line. 898 tackles his task with much vim, vigor and splattered bits and pieces.

My favorite ‘character’ in Carnageland has got to be 898’s weapon of choice: the DOOMSHOOTER! What’s so cool about this alien gun is that every foe encountered gets shot with a completely new, weird and wonderfully violent means of dispatch. All kinds of crazy things emerges from the business end of said Doomshooter. I don’t want to tell you all the awesome stuff that comes out… that was a big chunk of the fun for the Reverend. I don’t want to take that away from you. It would be a sin and awfully hypocritical of me, so…

For a reader as jaded as Rage, this fun Bizarro tale was a breath of fresh air.

Archelon Ranch
What happens to an author’s characters when their services are no longer required? Will they accept their increasingly anemic demise? Or will they break out and attempt to be something more?

This is the premise (at least my interpretation) of Bizarro Beef Cake Garrett Cooks’s Archelon Ranch.

The story is told from Clyde‘s POV. Which is interesting being that Clyde is Bernard’s brother. Bernard, not Clyde, is the annointed protagonist in this tale. Bernard doesn’t appreciate it though. Archelon Ranch is Bernard’s destiny, but Clyde’s going there too. Whether Garrett Cook (the author and therefore god of this book) likes it or not. Cheeky monkey!

Filled with weird characters such as self-aware headgear, rabid dinos, gilawalruses, a self-absorbed Rev. (may the plot preserve us), randy cannibal Suburbanites and the worst shopping mall you have ever been to.

Archelon Ranch is a crazy weird tale penned by the crazy weird Bizarro pulp-smith Garrett Cook and all he wants is a little Objectivity.

Here’s a little taste of the pasta sauce: “There is no future for the drowned, no body for this casket. There are no attendees for this funeral. There are no readers for these poems.”

Shoot, son! That’s some gorgeous filth right there.

And ain’t you glad he did.

You Morbid Westphal
when it comes to the grotesque and bizarre, rage thinks outside the pine box (casket, that is). this is a short but tasty little treat for those who like their literature to run on the sick and twisted side. as with his book about pilate, rage combines a knowledge of modern street/drug culture and slang with an intelligent wit and a lyrical sense of prose. although written in prose, it has a certain poetic flow that maintains the sick depravity you expect to see in rage’s work. it’s short, but complete unto itself. it doesn’t need to be any longer than it is…and it almost comes off as reading like a morbid, morose, sick, demented, profane version of The Iliad and The Odyssey (in form, not in content). and it really is worth reading…if you like this kind of sick stuff, which I do. as i said, it’s not just gross…there’s an intelligence and a worthy writing style in rage’s work. it’s hard to explain. all i can say is: if i were ever to be reincarnated as another charlie manson, i would definitely want steven rage in my family. this is an inventive story of woe and regret and sex and things crawling out of notoriously uncomfortable body orafices that is not to be missed. if you like the demented and bizarre, give this short but tasty little number a try. it’s like chicken eyeball soup with entrails for your shriveled, rancid soul.

It is Mr. Shatner’s world and we are just in it. There are more William Shatners in Shatnerquake than you can shake a light saber at. My personal fave was the Rescue 911 Shatner, telling all who will listen that this is really happening.

For the Real Shatner, the convention was just one of many he has had to endure. All was going just swell until the worshippers of Bruce Campbell decide to set off a ‘fiction bomb’ with the intention of wiping from the face of the Earth the very existence of Shatner. Instead, the convention is filled to the breaking point with every character Shatner ever played, including himself, himself and even himself. A veritable Shatnerpalooza ensues with convention nerds getting the same dose of violently comic Burk madness as do the Campbellians and the many Shatners themselves.

I was fortunate enough to see the mad hatter in action, doing his one-man Shatnerquake reading/slash/show at the BizarroCon in Portland last year. It was every bit as zany and cool as he is. I laughed my fool head off.

The book is just as fun. Treat yourself to the madcap mayhem as only a Bizarro Brutha like Jeff Burk can do.

Get your Uhura all dolled up in her shortest red uniform dress and set your phasers to stun. Shatnerquake…is…energized!

Piecemeal June
A lovely work of art, bundled with body parts and glued together with secretive secretings. Taking place between two worlds, this debut novella from noir freakmunster Jordan Krall takes the reader to places, perhaps they should not want to go. Fast-paced and in your face, “June” has got it goin on and on and on until all her parts are in one place. Everybody wants June, but whom will she choose when all is said and dead and bludgeoned? Read this tasy bit of crumpet and see if you can keep it down. Try Krall’s “Squid Pulp Blues” available now and “Fistful of Feet” coming soon!Squid Pulp Blues

Murderland Part I – H8
This review is from: Murderland Part I – H8 (Paperback)
This first installment is a thrilling ride through the post-modern American landscape. Serial killers are idolized as pulp heroes, more popular than sports, film and music icons. Jeremy hunts these bloody memebers of the new famous and their potential victims, all while posing as a mild-mannered part-time pharmacist. Jeremy has everyone fooled until he leaves out his incriminating journal…
Garrett Cook’s Murderland series starts off with a big bang boom, baby. Looking forward to the next one!!

Squid Pulp Blues
This review is from: Squid Pulp Blues (Paperback)
Kids these days. But making sure your drugs are free of tentacled marine-life aside, things just keep getting stranger and stranger in Thompson, NJ. Three stories linked together, Jordan Krall’s Squid Pulp Blues is a crime and fun-filled creep-coaster ready to satisfy all your noir, dirty-diaper and midget hooker needs. Check out Piecemeal June and Fistful of Feet coming soon.Piecemeal June



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

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 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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