Tag Archive: medical


“Fascinating and scary…”

By Ray Holland (Louisville, KY) – See all my reviews 
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.” 
'click' on image to get "YOU MORBID WESTPHAL" Direct From The Source!

‘click’ on image to get “YOU MORBID WESTPHAL” Direct From The Source!

 

~ Born whole from the rectum of a dying patient, Morbid silently stalks the hospital’s hallways, heinously dispatching the most helpless of patients and in the most painfully repulsive of manners. ~
In the meantime, in order to pay for his family and home that includes his ghost step-father Sammy and his pet aborted fetus Chip, Westphal has to ingest mounds of dangerous narcotics to get through his night shifts. Barely hanging on to his Care Tech gig by his fingernails, the last thing Westphal needs is to be accused of Morbid’s evil deeds. You, on the other hand, simply want to find some solace. Terminally ill from a virulent infection, and dependent on Life Support, all You beg for a peaceful and dignified demise. Shirk has other plans for You. The ancient drug-snuffling demon makes You relive all of your deadly and venial sins as he tortures You. Night after night. Until eternal Damnation comes calling.

 

'click' image to get You some: 'You Morbid Westphal' in Print and Kindle!

‘click’ image to get You some: ‘You Morbid Westphal’ in Print and Kindle!

“YOU MORBID WESTPHAL”

Chapter One

SHIRK COMES CALLING

 Pain Like Fire

It is getting colder than a witch’s titty in your hospital room. You can’t see him, but that’s how you always know. That God damned Shirk is here again.

Shirk stares his not inconsiderable malevolence and hatred at you. That you know without needing to see the rat bastard. You can sense his presence here and in the whole of the room. You feel that stare. You just know he’s going to fuck with you againShirk sits quietly, sniffing periodically, in a chair across the room from you. His presence is making the room temperature drop perceptively.

The demon chooses this moment to thrust his heavy compact body up from the chair. He strides right on over to you and sits on the edge of your death bed which gives creaky protest to his other-worldly weight. Tiny cries of please-please comes muffled from the roomy sleeves of his stained-sticky cloak. The hood is turned up, the blood red eyes burn from deep within a face that is as old as pain.

“Well, well, look at you,” Shirk derisively smirks. “Looks like you’re still all dressed up but can’t get it up to go,” he scoffs and flicks a sharp-nailed yellow finger at your useless pee-pee.

You can still feel the pain, however, and your silent scream makes the life support machine sound an alarm. Shirk looks at you, mock worry fleets past his thickly wrinkled-leather face. He puts an index finger to his lips, smiling, teeth a mad jumble of yellow and grey and whatever the fuck Shirk eats for lunch, and makes like you and he need to be quiet.

Shirk giggles scratchily to himself; being the star of his own show. He reaches in to his big wizard-sleeve and removes a tiny screw-top vial of opaque granules, the movement eliciting another round of please-please from the teeniest-tiniest little humanoid you ever did see. He was hugging the vial with all his might, staring with over-sized greedy bug-eyes through the clear glass at the wonderful drugs inside.

It was mucky all around the center outside of the vial wall where the horny wee gnome had, on countless occasions, blasted his gravy. So much so, it became a crusty railing in which the naked gnome didn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy staring at the drugs, mewling for more, until he gets it, gets balls deep on the scum rail and ejaculates on the vial wall. Then he will pass out with a blissful smile, hugging god in a death grip until he wakes up, begging for more.

Shirk plucks the 2 inch long pleading creature from the vial and holds him between the second and third fingers. On cue, the gnome opens his mouth as wide as he can. He slips out a long tongue and swipes it wet all over his face while Shirk unscrews the lid and dips the little spoon deep into the multi-gram vial. The gnome smacks and smacks at the potent Plata, gobbling up as much as it can before being placed whole up the demon’s nose. Shirk snuffles up the big bumpety-bump, before rinsing and repeating, snorting what the tiny fiend couldn’t get to.

Shirk screws on the top of the vial while the spoon licks the thick Plata paste off his face. Shirk lets the tiny gnome, who is already thrusting at the empty air, grab a tight hugging hold onto the drug vial. Then the little beastie begins to hump the wall, squeaking like a cricket. Shirk drops them both back down into his sleeve, breathing heavy with dark ardor.

Shirk’s eyes brighten with an orange fire smoldering beneath a red-embered glow. He starts moaning to himself, slow-dancin’, swaying to the music.

“Love this shit,” he states, shuddering, hand slipping up under, beneath his cloak, “it’s just balls to jerk off to.”

Jesus, no.

“Slip a finger in my ass,” he says, “Second knuckle, hit that sweet spot…”

Jesus, please no.

“But I won’t!” Shirk exclaims with a hearty laugh, looking down at you. “Say!” he says, flicking you again, “You ever try it, junkie-fuck?”

Beside the sharp pain in the shriveled head of your doolittle, you can not answer, as Shirk already knows. The airway tube has the cuff inflated and is taped securely down your throat, keeps your shit from vocalizing at all. The breathing machine hums smoothly and expertly, filling your wrecked lungs with pressurized gases to keep your wracked ass alive.

“Did ya?” he asks, you say fuck-all. “Cuz if you never have, you don’t know what you’re missing or I’ll suck you straight!”

Hydromorphone-methamphetamine hydrochloride, if you didn’t know, had the lovely sounding Trade name of Duradilauderal. It had an even cozier street name of Plata which is Spanish for silver and slang for folding money. The popularity for Plata was just beginning to be a prairie fire in the Midwest when your body had already wore out. Like a roofied starlet, the party went on without you.

“Probably the only drug you didn’t abuse, if I remember correctly,” shared Shirk.

Too true.

“Sometimes,” Shirk admits, “You stupid fucking humans do mange to come up with something worthwhile.” For emphasis, Shirk pats your skinny stump of a thigh. Then he trails his cold, wrinkly demon fingers up your leg to where the scars of Lilitu’s love bites began. He laughs as he remembers the night she made them at his behest. They were numerous and deep and all over his belly and chest as well.

“That was fun, huh?” Shirk asks. Seeing that you do remember, he chuckles afresh.

Fuck you, asshole.

“But this one is new,” he says and bends to closely check on your latest surgical procedure. This one involved removing the bottom half of your left leg. Your thigh draws to a close in a tightly stitched below the knee amputation. It was recent and still hurts. He gets in real close and smells it. He rises, wincing in mock sympathy.

“You got the gangrene, huh? Too bad, buddy, it smells like liquid shit.” Shirk states flatly, “I’m sure they had no choice but to chop it the fuck off and –Bam! No more leggy for Greggy!”   There is still no response from you. “Bet that must’ve hurt like a mo-fo, butterbean,” he says with a nice stump smack.

Blood and light yellow serous fluid splatter the already dirty bed sheet. You howl silently as the pain like fire hits a big nerve cluster and heads north. You break into a sweat, teardrops roll unimpeded down your sunken cheeks and the alarms sound again.

“Anywho,” Shirk resumes with a comic sigh, “I guess I’d better stop playing with you, before the babysitter comes in and catches us.” He gets up, smoothing his cloak, looks back down to you. He says: “Stick around,” laughing at your restraint. “The Fat Lady’s warming up.”

Yes, I know this. Jesus-fuck, just go away!

“She’s coming to dinner, baby cakes,” Shirk warns you, “And grand-mama’s hungry.”

Piss off.

“Tell the old bat I said hi.”

God you hate that fucking guy 

 

Chapter Two

NOT BY HALF

Narrowing, Closing Down

You hear Shirk laugh to himself as he walks through the wall, unimpeded. A huge blocky slab of ice forms in an instant and he is gone.

The near-dark he leaves you in is fogging up from the ice melting and the hospital’s industrialized environmental heat control kicks on and ramps up.

Hell for you begins in the here and now, in your sickbed. You don’t need some snarky visiting evil jinn coming in here, constantly fucking with you and reminding you. You know how you got here, that’s for sure.

It is here you started planting your sins. It is right in this spot where you have watched with joy, in the bits of clarity, their budding fruits. You looking down and smiling as they piled high. The silent cries and screams and pleading troubled you not. You enthralled at restraint, too weak to fight back, aware of how wrong it was. She could not understand why you were doing all those horrible things to her.

Now the spill has covered you, laying still and unmoving yourself. Chemical restraints they call it, keeping you drifting in and out of consciousness, fleeting as a swirling passing breeze, then back down to the deep dark warm nothingness.

Because you cannot be baby-sat 24/7, strong leathers make sure you stay put, if you accidentally throw off the chemical shackles. If you ever try to heave yourself over the safety rails and truck right on out of this place. No way, Jorge, just forget about it; ain’t happening. You are here, my friend, for the duration. The Big Man says so.

This is why you are wrapped in your sick bed, dying slow, perfectly still, alert in this moment. Not surprisingly, you seek your only form of comfort. You search for the dark cloth to pull over this pesky alertness, but then you feel something under the covers with you.

Oh, fuck, not again…

Through the foggy dim light, cold drizzle falling soft on your bits of exposed skin, you see her.

The hand grasps up your leg, dark blue and crawling. The night-light glow, showing through the growing fog of melting ice, illuminated the bone-thin and veiny dead hand. Her old face comes into view. Her mouth is screaming silent. Her eyes are red and leaking, reeling you in, you stare hard at her as she grabs your crotch with her other hand. She tugs and pulls her way up, the tired green covers slipping past her wigless, spotted scalp, blue with death, hands icy on your bare stomach. You screaming noiselessly, the breathing tube keeping you alive placed through useless vocal cords. She uses the hair and loose skin on your withered chest for purchase. Your head is rigid and your neck too drugged and heavy to move. Her horrid breath is leaking out of the great black hole of her dead mouth as she reaches your face. She grabs hold of your life support connection and pulls the circuit from your breathing tube. She drags her dead, decaying self, one more tug and she clamps her hole of a mouth onto your breathing tube. She begins to suck on it, aspirating the life right out of your lungs.

The breathing machine alarms shrilly, but no one comes. You crash inside, darkening your peripheral vision, narrowing, closing down. Your heart thuds crazily in your chest. You lose your hold on consciousness and you lose, are lost.

Finally, as the only thing left of This is the faraway alarm of a cardiac arrest and the only thing so far of That is the scent of sulfur and sugar, the code team arrives.

They come wading in and save your sorry ass, again. They pull you away from That and back into Hell’s waiting room. Back to your bed, back to being resuscitated by a whole fucking squadron of scrub-clad heroes. Fifty bills an hour times twenty of these motherfuckers and you ain’t worth the scratch, brother, not by half.

The heroes bring you back, successful, slowing down. Just now noticing the cold water puddling their clever-stupid multi-colored crocs on their sore wet feet, wondering from whence this shit came.

Fuck fuck, dumb-ass donkey fuck, you think. I’m still here. Show some mercy and gives us some morphine, you fuckers, you yell in your mind. You need to go under, rest. Because you know they’ll be back. And so must she….

 

See Mo' Evil ...

See Mo’ Evil …

'click' here to get this mad shit ...

‘click’ here to get this mad shit …

 

Orlyn Farr is going for FOR ALL THE MARBLES.

After the Cataclysmic Events (ACE), the populace fled the surface to live under-ground. With Ice Age conditions complicating a return to the surface, whole townships formed anew. With limited space, sundries and foodstuffs available, overpopulation soon rears its ugly head. To continue living past the mandatory declining age of 60 annums (thirteen moon cycles), senior citizens must have the financial resources or the political clout to pay for Rx Medical and a luxuriously appointed flat in top-of-the-line Care Centers like Paradise Acres. If you don’t have the scratch, you can opt-out. Most seniors choose this option. They quietly accept a hot-shot of Morphine and a final visit above ground. The treacherous white-out conditions on the surface will freeze you solid in a few time-ticks. Or try being a Big Winner. Beg, borrow, or steal enough Federal Reserve Notes and Teleport to the Annual Sixth Decade Tourney. The Big Winner gets Rx Medical and a flat at Paradise Acres. Along with all the lime gelatin, fellatio and potent narcotics your old ass can gobble. If you lose, well… you should have opted-out. But not our stalwart adventurer.

Orlyn Farr is betting his own life FOR ALL THE MARBLES.

PART I

Hedging My Bets. Spilling The Beans:

I just turned 60 annums old. The BINGO tournament in Bogota is less than a month away and I hadn’t a pot to piss in. I was forced to live with my kids and their kids in a cold, cramped domicile. It was underground in The Harbor and it forever smelled like stale cabbage and unwashed flesh.
When my son looks at me, I can tell he looking forward to me opting-out. Neither of us can pay the after 60 tax, for it is purposefully prohibitive in cost. We had no political connections. I suspected he’d already spent my Death Insurance he’ll get when I go up top and freeze to death. He also looks at my corner, and I can read his face like an open book. It was filled with thoughts on renting my corner to a relative that actually had the funds to pay for it.
There’s no place I can run to, so I was planning on just going in early, opting-out, and getting it over with, when the message came in. It was coded and secret, which was strange all on its own. I have never in my fairly pointless time on this frozen shitsicle of a planet got an important message like that one. I couldn’t receive it at home. Instead, I must make way through The Harbor’s tunnel system to the Postal Center. There, after I give them a drop of blood from one of my fingers, I can retrieve the momentous message.
I left immediately for the Postal Center. Once there, I had my wrist scanned for the legal bar-coding chip we legal Harbor citizens have for ID. My finger tip was punched for the blood sample. It naturally beeped at my age, locking me into the security pod until the machines sorted it out. It unlocked, seeing that I have a month left to live, and allowed me to proceed to a private viewing station. I went inside the station and secure-locked the sliding door with my thumb-print. I centered myself in front of the screen. As I did so, it lit up. A beam of light scanned a bust shot of me, no doubt a redundant security measure. Whoever I was about to talk to wanted to make very sure I was who I said I was. In a moment it was done. An old human woman came on the screen. She had to be every penny of 80 annums old. I’ve never seen anyone that old before. Not in person, anyway. She must be important in a way I can’t comprehend. She looked pretty healthy too. Her eyes were clear and sharp and she had a full head of hair. When she smiled, I could see that the woman had all of her teeth. It all must have cost her a fortune. The only thing wrong was the hissing of medical gases and the slight blue tinge to her lips.
“Greetings, Mr. Orlyn Farr, I am Chess Master,” she began. “You are 60 annums old. Have you made your final arrangements? Have you found your peace?”
Stupid, I know, but I started laughing. There’s just no way it could really be her. Ever since she took over, Chess Master ran everything in The Harbor. And she probably wasn’t limited to just our shit hole. I’d never seen an image of her. I don’t know anyone who has. Yet, she was supposed to be here, conversing in secret to Orlyn Farr, a guy who can’t even pay for one more year of his ridiculous life. No way. And then I got scared, for what if she is who she says she is? What the fuck do I do then? Begging would be a good start. I stifled my laughter like it never was.
“Greetings to you, Chess Master,” I replied, not knowing any of the protocol for this sort of deal.
“I can see from the blood that has drained from your face, that you believe me?”
“Um, uh, well – yes, I do.” I stammered like an imbecile. She seemed to take it in stride.
“Good, because I don’t have any time to waste, Mr. Farr,”
“Yes, Sir,” I replied.
“Then answer my question, Mr. Farr: have you made your final arrangements?”
“No, Sir, I haven’t.” I frowned. The realization I guess just hit me with full force right then. “I mean, I can’t afford the tax, so I guess I will have to opt-out. I’m far too old and sick to run.”
“What about your family, Mr. Farr? They can’t pay the tax for you?”
“No, they can’t, Sir. Painfully, though, I don’t think they would, even if they had the means.”
“You don’t get along with them?” Chess Master asked me.
I thought about it, but only for a moment. I said: “I think I take up valuable space that my son could get rent for.”
“He’s probably counting your Death Insurance too, I’d imagine.”
“Yes,” I said plainly. “Opting-out is for the best, I’m sure.”
She said nothing for a moment. Chess Master was looking down at something, below my view screen. Checking on something, she seemed to be.
“Have you considered BINGO?”
“You mean the tournament in Bogota, Sir?”
“Yes.”
“I couldn’t even afford to take a bicycle taxi to the Teleport Station, let alone the whole package, Sir.”
“What if I was willing to sponsor you, Mr. Farr? I’ll go further and say that since time is such a concern for me, I can tell you, in complete confidence, of course –“
“Of course, Sir,” I replied. I was quite intrigued by then.
“Good. What if, in addition to sponsoring your costs, I was to insure that you win?” she asked.
I’ll tell you some truth: a dropped pin could have been heard. I stared at her bluing lips and how they had darkened as she spoke. Chess Master was keeping her composure intact, but I could see she was suffering. Her lips lightened as she breathed in the medicated mist.
“How can you do that?” I asked Chess Master, the fear of her momentarily lapsing. “You can’t do that, no one can.” I insisted.
“My dear fellow,” she hissed, angry. “You’ll find that there is nothing I can’t do. There’s no move I can’t make and there is no game I can’t win. I say the word and you will be sent to Bogota where you will win the BINGO tournament. Your reward will be anything and everything your little heart desires.”
Something tiny, hope I suppose, began building inside me. It started to swell to the point where I could think of nothing else. She is promising me the moon and the stars. Strangely, I knew she could deliver the goods.
But, what, I wondered, did she want in return? I had absolutely nothing to bargain with. What did she want?
“What do you want in return,” I went ahead and asked her. “You must know that I couldn’t possibly have anything you would want or need, Sir.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Farr, you have exactly what I need,” she explained. “Or, rather, your granddaughter, Vanessa has.”
“Vanessa? Sir, she’s only 6 annums old, she’s barely started school.”
“I’m aware of her age, Mr. Farr,” she replied, testily. “I need her because my heart is failing and she is my exact genetic match.”
The clouds parted and the angels sang. I got it, but could I do it?
“I see,” I managed.
“Yes, well, time is of the essence, Mr. Farr, which is why you are being made this exclusive offer. I’m afraid there is a great deal of work yet to be done, so I will need your answer, straightaway.”
“By when,” I asked “a few days?”
“Sorry, no,” she replied. “I’m afraid I need your answer right now.”
I thought about it, I’m not ashamed to say. I even thought about saying no. But, in the end, there’s no I in TEAM. But there is one in BINGO.
I told Chess Master where little Vanessa could be found.

“Chess can be described as the movement of pieces eating one another.”
Marcel Duchamp

PART II

My Last Meal and Testament:

The Tourney officials organized the BINGO Cabaret and Mixer for us tournament players and volunteers. It was being held in the fancy-schmancy grand ballroom of the Bogota resort. It’s always a first-class wing-a-ding, and this year’s was no exception.
I was waiting in my hotel room. I was smoking a nice, fat, complimentary joint while receiving some complimentary head from a re-animated corpse. Although she was cold and blue and not much of a conversationalist, the formerly-living did suck one Hell of a good dick.
Now that the chamber of my geriatric love gun has been emptied, I could finish getting ready. The honor bar was unlocked. Inside were pills and powders and tiny syringes of clear fluids galore. They were all labeled by name, as well as action. I was trying to decide what all I wanted to imbibe. I was getting frustrated at all the choices. Usually, the only drugs I saw were the ones other people were doing. I racked my memory banks, but it had been so long, I don’t even recall what I used to like, besides weed. So, I chose the pragmatic route and took them all. I tossed a few random pills down my gullet. I laid out some of the powders and snorted them with a rolled Note until I started feeling really strange. I looked in the mirror and could hardly see my reflection. Between the drugs kicking in and my cataracts, my vision was seriously flawed. I saw my vague reflection morph into two and then I knew I was ready to go. I left my room and headed to the grand ballroom. When I got there, the Mixer was already in full swing.
It was a wonderful collection of the freaky and deranged. I could see that they had a cabaret show going full bore up on the main stage. On two side stages, amongst too many manned mini-bars to count, the fetish proms were located. Full humans, Halflings, Pit Demons, ghosts of the damned and the formerly-living zombies were filling up the ballroom. Folks were suspended from hooks piercing the flesh of their backs, spinning with their heads thrown back, in big circles above the crowd. A bright red demon girl with fake heavenly angel’s wings walked around, offering quick injections to the party-goers. The demon girl called the shots ‘angel kisses’. Judging from the animated reactions of the injected, the ‘angel kisses’ housed some really killer speed.
I was anticipating a kiss myself when my progress was thwarted. A huge bouncer type motherfucker stood as an impenetrable wall of blue and green scales. He looked at me with his giant yellow lizard eyes, having scanned my wrist. I started walking into to the festive fiesta and the bouncer stopped me cold.

“The fuck I’m not, Gargan!” I told him, right to his pierced nipples. Lizard-boy hadn’t a clue what I had to do to get here. There was no way he was going to stop me, no matter how big he was. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not brave. I’m not the rough and tumble type, but this gigantic ass clown was not going to keep Orlyn Farr from getting down on the get-down. I was bunching up, waiting for shit to escalate when he deflated me in an instant. Instead of answering, the behemoth handed me a note. It was handwritten on fancy, pricey parchment. I already knew who it was from, so I stepped out of line and opened the note. It read:

My Dear Mr. Farr,

I apologize for keeping you from the public festivities. You must understand, Sir, I have a rather large investment in you, as per our agreement. I cannot allow any public indiscretions, nor can I take any chances on you getting injured or ill. I must insist you return to your hotel room, where a private party is being prepared for you. If you do not comply, you will automatically forfeit your portion of our contract, and you will be remanded for an immediate opt-out.

Sincerely Yours,CM

Well, shitballs. Having no choice, I turned on heel to go back to my room. Once there, I went inside and saw that the cabaret had come to me.
A pretty young zombie man greeted me at the door. He stuck a needle in my thigh. I began smiling uncontrollably for the rest of the evening. We walked around the mostly zombie party.
They weren’t interested in eating or drinking, slugging or drugging, so there was more of everything than I could ever consume. But I gave it my best shot.
When I finally passed out, hours later, my testicles hurt from overuse and my head was swimming and spinning. I vomited most of the real animal flesh I’d gluttoned down.
The zombie boy helped me get into the big, comfortable, oversized bed. His cold kiss is the last thing I recalled.
The next day at high noon, the BINGO tournament began.

“The older I grow, the more I value Pawns.”
Paul Keres

%d bloggers like this: