Experience “Laugh To Death”

•November 28, 2014 • Leave a Comment
Image hyperlink to amazon Kindle :)

Image hyperlink to amazon Kindle :)

But the first time he stepped into a ring with his charmingly bashful persona, reminiscent of his idol Charlie Chaplain, all of Carlton’s worries were erased. Salero was worth every penny. Children sat at the end of their seats, delighted and entranced by this strange and unthreatening creature. Adults chuckled at his antics. America had been taken by storm by this combination of Chaplain, Marceau and Grock. He danced, sang, played the violin, juggled and clowned his way into their hearts. And at the end of every show, when the last of the cotton candy and popcorn had been consumed and the entire company stood across all three rings with their hands linked for a final bow, they cheered the loudest when Salero jumped from his car and ran across the floor, breaking through the center of the line and falling to one knee in the triumphant pose of a matador.

Behind the scenes, Salero wasn’t quite as beloved. In fact, in a world that is known for its freaks and where everyone is accepted as family, the word was that some of the show people were talking about Salero in some very unkind terms. The other clowns didn’t like him. Never before had a clown actually been a headliner in the show. He didn’t perform with them during their three or four brief appearances in the show. He worked alone, and his stage time was at least five times what theirs was. He didn’t make up and dress in Clown Alley with the rest of them. A special curtained dressing room was always set up for him wherever they performed and the wardrobe department assigned him a dresser for his personal use. A dresser for someone who wore the same baggy suit ten times a week! It was ridiculous. Why did he need a dresser? Didn’t he put his pants on one leg at a time just like the rest of them? Some of the other clowns began to wonder.

The acrobats and flyers didn’t like that his acts encompassed both acrobatics and trapeze work. They considered it undignified that a clown was performing such skills. In the hierarchy of the circus, such things were unheard of. The tightrope walker who walked the inclined wire to get to his platform high over the rings was insulted that a clown was now performing the same skill as a part of his clowning routines. Never before had anyone but the ringmaster sung, and yet Salero had a musical number in the show where he sang and played three instruments.

And worst of all, he spoke to no one.

Dig “Middle Age RAE of Fucking Sunshine”

•November 28, 2014 • Leave a Comment
image hyperlinked to Amazon Kindle :)

image hyperlinked to Amazon Kindle :)

Rae is the local jiz-recycling plant. Society thinks every other person who has been at the receiving end of a violent sexual assault is always interested in more. Most of us here in the support group can testify that statement is false but no one listens to us. On the rare occasion when someone does, the absolute opposite of what we say is recorded.
Last week Sally won a trip to the cinema from the radio station. She was taken in the toilets by three of the employees. This week she has to sit on one of those inflatable doughnut cushions popular with haemorrhoid suffers. Rae is a giant bleeding haemorrhoid blocking the anus of our lives but there is no doughnut ring cushion to make sitting down any less painful. Sally has the underlying smell of stale popcorn about her still, underneath the combined odours of piss and shit.
We’ve reached the end of our tolerance of doing nothing except sitting around in our support group drinking weak tea and exchanging medications and Rae-related horror stories. We’re going to do something about Rae. It is about the only thing we can do to benefit humanity.
We’ve had enough of being told we don’t know what marriage means because our lives bore some slight resemblance to Rae’s or we had one thing in common with her – notice the past tense. It is always the past and never the present or the future. In our support group it is the distant past of our miserable existences. But the authorities and society don’t care. Once you’ve been bathed in Rae’s filth there is no bleach strong enough to cleanse it away.
Rae shouldn’t be allowed to continue in her existence. None of us would hurt our children but we aren’t allowed to know their post-adoptive names. Or even the area of the country they are living in. It isn’t our fault Rae took the decision to drown everything she has ever let fall out of her gaping vagina (there was no pushing involved there).
We’ve been pushed too far by Rae and the people who agree to marry her with the belief that this time she has changed and the nuptials will last beyond two weeks. She is never going to change. She doesn’t have it in her. And she doesn’t think she does anything wrong; it is everyone else with the problem.
She has left behind a trail of very broken people (and drowned infants and gassed colleagues): All those husbands and wives and their partners before she snatched them away in the ripples of devastation.

She’s got everything I need: some Pills~in~a~Little ~Cup…

•September 23, 2014 • Leave a Comment
'Click' to git-it.

‘Click’ to git-it.

By D. Gorman “Crystalline Structure Moon”See all my reviews

as always, rage remains dark, demented, deranged, disturbing, dysfunctional, disquieting, demonic, diabolical, disrespectful, dirty, dangerously disruptive and all sorts of unwholesome descriptive adjectives. as always, i can not recommend him to absolutely EVERYBODY. his writing is for those who don’t mind taking a trip into the darkest of dark recesses of our so-called civilization. he graphically explores and picks apart the ugly underbelly of society where drug abuse and nasty sex and demons lurk in every unkempt corner. my review for this little book will be similar to my reviews of a few of his others….because rage is still a sick and twisted little dude with a knack for telling disgusting, disturbing tales of human refuse and social debris. these 3 tales are all pure steven rage. over 3/4 of the book is a novella called You Morbid Westphal, which i already read….and i’ll admit i may not have purchased this book if i’d known i already read 3/4 of it….but that’s not a reflection on the story….it’s a very good 4-star story on its own (my review of it is here on amazon). it’s just that i already did it. but once i had this book, i figured ‘what the hell/why not?’ and i reread it. it was worth a reread! i enjoyed it the second time! as i’ve said in other reviews, rage has an intelligence in his writing, and an almost poetic cadre and feel to his sick, demented prose. he knows his modern street venacular and is proficient in medical and hospital procedures. i believe he has worked in a hospital before. sure, his books are sick and twisted, but he has a vivid and graphic imagination….and most of all, amid the sleaze, he is a talented writer. i would never make a steady diet of this bizarro fiction genre, but i do like to dive into the deep & dirty end of the pool sometimes as a break…a departure from the norms in literature. once again rage has delivered a respectable collection of 3 morbid, disturbing, disgusting tales that are sure to darken your spirit and abandon your hope for mankind. there is only one steven rage (thank god)…but also be thankful we do have the one and only. it’s a sick world out there. but don’t run away from it. embrace it with all its dysfunction. there are lots of demons, drugs, whores, sex, disasters and everything you need to get thru your day in this book.
and again, if you already read You Morbid Westphal, you may not need to get this book…..but if you haven’t, this book stands quite well as a 4-star bizarro fiction carnival of depravity.

Be the first freak on your block to acquire this singular and unexpurgated exquisite culling of The Grim Reverend Steven Rage’s favorite ‘meds’. Enjoy this one-of-a-kind vivid look into the twisted mind of The Most Depraved Writer In Print as he captains you through the intoxicating stain of his wicked imagination. Included are numerous Photos, Paintings and Illustrations embellished with dramatic grayscale that enhance these iniquitous and magnificent Dark Fantasy fables. Beginning with a complete novella of Pontius Pilate re-incarnated as a blood drinking drug dealer in the Midwest’s most notorious ghetto. The Harbor is a similar, howbeit much darker version of Mayberry. If Andy, Barney Opie and Aunt Bea resided in a drug infested, post-industrialized urban Hell-Hole with a sky-high body count, that is. Come see and enjoy the vampire’s journey to horrific self-discovery. A evil and foreboding locale, folks are murdered there for less than nothing and, oh yeah: vampires feed there, too. A place where drugs are slung, deals go down and Pilate alone, once again, stands between the profoundly wicked machinations of the organized crime power structure and the death of a reincarnated Immanuel. Will he wash his hands in this life as he has done from the beginning and down through the ages? His drugs, his money and his very life at stake. Not to mention his soul. But life is full of tough choices. Especially if you are the modern dope-slinging version of the ancient Roman Prelate. Next comes a sick and twisted story of the Black Death. During the height of England’s Bubonic Plague an ancient Evil Force strolls into London-Town in the form of a would-be doctor. It could smell the blood from miles away, wanting only to help. At the hospital where he cares for the victims of this Black Death, the ill come to him unimpeded. They arrived and fell by the scores. With the help of his ever-faithful assistant, Sightless Agnes, a most ravenous cares for them all. Eating his way through an entire hospital, he treats them until there is nothing left. Nothing save their empty eye sockets, a few pounds of leeched bleached bones and some bolts of old dried-out flesh-leather parchment. But the eyes? The eyes of the dead? Sightless Agnes keeps for herself. Seems Fair. And then our adventures continue: Inky nefarious figments of playing God. Ride with The Reverend as you dally with malevolent spirits, pet aborted fetuses, carnal ghosts, evil grandfathers, hospital-hall hunting serial killers and , oh so much more. Finally culminating with another full novella. It is a maddening peek behind The Good Doctor’s post-apocalyptic Harbor dug deep underground, beneath the bitter frozen Earth and bear witness to a society ripping at the seams. A not-so-safe haven where monsters and demons dally with the remaining humans. One of the last makeshift asylums left on this planet. Jesus has come, gathered his favorites and loading them into the moving van bound for Forevermore, has skipped out on the rent without a word nor nary a backward glance. Leaving the world to Damnation like an absentee slum-lord while Hell itself has opened wide, belching its denizens forth. The doomed and damned can now come and go as they please. A stronghold where lifeblood is bought for a song. This incredible edition is replete with all The Ragiastic elements you have come to expect from The Grim One. Proliferate drug-consumption, non-consensual extreme intercourse and all the profane creatures that go bump in the night. Get in, grab hold and hang on. This rare sui generis tome shall delight the monstrous aberration in everyone.

The beads of blood were absorbed by her hair…

•September 14, 2014 • Leave a Comment
'click' to get your Drug-Dealing Blood-Drinker ON :)

‘click’ to get your Drug-Dealing Blood-Drinker ON :)

 

Herod was standing when the vision subsided and he came to. The echo of laughter reverberated throughout the chamber. He was between throne and cross. He had arms raised in victory, could feel his wide smile. His robe was open, penis a diamond. Bloody semen clung in a knot to the material of the hem. Salome was sitting up, looking curiously at him.
Tacitus marched the messenger forward. Herod let his arms drop.
“Who the fuck this little bitch?” the
Mayor asked. He returned to the throne. Herod sat and Salome placed her head on his lap. His razor-sharp talons rapped her skull. It raised beads of blood that were absorbed by her hair. The blood painted thin red lines with dripped excess. She winced from the pain, but dared not move.
“This is one of Theodosius’ shorties,” Tacitus replied, “the one at
Flavius’ office.”
“Is Flavius here?”
“He brought us the boy and I dismissed him,” he said, “didn’t think you wanted someone like Flavius any deeper.”
“You thought right,” Herod replied, “nigga good where he is.” Herod gazed at the boy. “Why do you need to see me?”
The boy looked at him: “I got a message for
Herod.
Tacitus broke the boy’s nose with a lightening fast right cross. It caved in a loud crunch. Blood and mucous exploded from his face. The boy was going to collapse, but Tacitus would not let him. He held the boy up by his braids.
“This IS Herod, you stupid shit,” Tacitus countered.
“What’s your message, boy?” Herod asked, amused.
Pilate say he does not get replaced,” the boy stated thickly, no air moving. It was then he awoke.
The boy blinked and looked around, checked out his surroundings. How the hell did he get here? He’s heard of this place but just stories. It looked like a torture chamber, smelled worse. He glanced down at the plastic he stood on. He saw scrum puddle around his wet stocking feet. Half congealed shit all over his feet, made him want to vomit. He started to pitch forward. Tacitus had to hold him up again. The boy dangled from his braids like a drunken puppet.
“Where’s your boss, Theodosius, at?” Herod asked. “Tell me.”
The boy still felt sick. Waves of nausea and pain made thought difficult. The boy did not answer Herod. Tacitus tore the lad’s left ear off, tossed it to the quivering dog. The beast chomped just once, the cartilage wet and crunchy, and swallowed the treat down.
With Pilate’s spell now broken, the boy’s pain and shock intensified. His hand pressed the fresh wound. Sticky blood flooded his nose, cheek and neck. It dripped down his shoulders, back and chest. Great red drops mixed puddles on plastic flooring.
The boy sucked a great lungful of air. He fired a frightened, painful scream. Herod commanded him to stop all that shit, and renewed the spell. Now the boy belonged to him.
“That’s better,” said Herod. “Where the fuck is Theodosius?”
“He dead,” the boy replied, hands at sides, standing at attention. Blood flowed freely from where his ear used to be.
“Tell me how,” demanded Herod.
“Pilate did it,” he replied. “He drank him dry.”
Herod stayed silent a moment, watching the boy bleed.
“Pilate doesn’t know when to quit,” Herod said. He looked at his Second. “That twat needs to be taught a lesson.”
Tacitus nodded.
“An eye for an eye,” she told them, “
Old Testament style.”
Herod and Tacitus gazed at each other in surprise. They turned to look at her.
“What’s that?” asked Herod.
“Eye for an eye, reprisal,” Salome said. “Pilate killed one of yours. Even the score and kill one of his.”
Herod nodded, sure where she was going.
“You mean Juan de Bautista, don’t you?” Tacitus asked, Herod smiling now.
“That’s right,” she told him. “Bring Uncle Herod his head.”
Herod chuckled at the vicious cunt. “Yes,” he replied, “bring to me the head of
John the Baptist. Impale the bitch on a motherfucking stick.”
Tacitus acknowledged and left the room. Herod rose and came down from the throne. He stood before the rigid boy. He placed a hand on the boy’s neck. He began to gently kiss the ragged ear hole, speaking to him. Herod’s voice had a sing-song quality. He thrust the tip in and slowly ran an embe dded talon down the boy’s torso. The flesh and muscle split open. His entrails spilled out, hung in ropes to his knees.
“My favorites,” Herod began, honeyed voice soothing and kind, “are the sweetmeats.” Still grinning, he pushed his hand into warm bowels. “The pest of it is the choicest morsels always seem to be in the back.”
The boy shook. Herod dug deep into him, searching. “A-hah,” he found it. Herod plucked and removed the tiny organ, pulled it out. The boy shivered uncontrollably, losing color. Herod brought the tasty to his lips and took a bite. The boy stared at him.
“Oh, yeah,” Herod said, mouth dripping, “you can scream now.”

 

And finally ... 'click' here for more sick fun with MORBIDBOOKS :)

And finally … ‘click’ here for more sick fun with MORBIDBOOKS :)

‘WEIRD’ FICTION PUBLISHER FACEBOOK LINKS:

•September 13, 2014 • Leave a Comment
'click' for MbS

‘click’ for MbS

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YMWcover1

JESUS MAY NOT LOVE YOU …

•September 5, 2014 • Leave a Comment
:) 'click' for MbS titles on Amazon.com :)

:) ‘click’ for MbS titles on Amazon.com :)

 

:) Secreting the finest in DARK HORROR, EXTREME FICTION, URBAN NOIR, BIZARRO, TORTURE PORN, BRUTAL BIBLE TALES, SPLATTERPUNK, MYSTICAL SCI-FI, STREET LIT and more! :)

MorbidbookS, Where Everything Bleeds, is brought to you lovingly by
The Grim Reverend Steven Rage.
Always remember and Never forget … Jesus may not Love you,
but The Reverend always will. 
Now why in the Holy Hell is my glass empty?
Who’s The Reverend gotta fuck to get a cocktail around here?!  
Jesus-suck-me-sideways-Christ! 
'click' this shit for The Most Depraved Writer In Print's FACEBOOK Page.

‘click’ this shit for The Grim Reverend’s FACEBOOK Page. Everything Bleeds.

 

 FOR SOME FREE-RANGE RAGE, (cuz The Rev loves you):

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And finally ... 'click' here for the MORBIDBOOKS' Facebook Page :)

And finally … ‘click’ here for the MORBIDBOOKS’ Facebook Page :)

HUMANITY IS THE DEVIL by Jordan Krall

•September 5, 2014 • Leave a Comment
The Grim Reverend cordially invites you to meet the others ...

The Grim Reverend cordially invites you to meet the others …

 “As we experience the last death-rattle remnants of truly important and powerfully  subversive works, ‘Humanity Is The Devil’, the one-of-a kind anti-novel by Jordan Krall may very well stand alone with bloody fist raised on the dung-heap of fiction.” 

Trust The Grim Reverend. Rage never lies … unless he is absolutely positive he can get away with it. 

~A punch in the stomach.~ By Pedro Proença

This book left me stunned. A dark look into humanity’s psyche, “Humanity Is The Devil” is beautiful. That’s it, I can’t describe it better. It’s beautiful. It made me feel bad about myself while reading. And still, it’s beautiful. This book will reach down inside of you and grab your heart and it will squeeze it. And you will love every second of it.
“At its lowest: a beautiful verbal assault. At its highest: a masterpiece of reflection on a society controlled by extreme violence and utter chaos. It burrows down into your guts and makes a home like a scaring over friendly guest you’ve brought to bed. And like Burroughs at his most rebellious and Ballard at his most intelligent, Jordan Krall has created the literary equivalent of a hand grenade. And when it detonates no one will be safe for,
HUMANITY IS THE DEVIL.”
HUMANITY IS THE DEVIL is a deconstructed nightmare mixing David Lynch and snuff movies. The plot revolves around a central character, Seth, who is set about a crusade against humanity which, for him, represents pure evil. Through random killings he and his cronies try to accelerate the end of the world, in order to provoke and defeat the Demiurge, the false God that is ruling the earth. As in Burroughs, logical language is replaced here with cut-scenes – sometimes to be taken literally – that plunge the reader into an extreme experience. Both incredibly morbid and enthralling, HITD is a masterpiece of moral darkness and existentialist reflection upon our comfortable religion and morals.

Humanity is the Devil is a dose of brutal truth that nobody wants to hear but should realize. It is a snapshot of our collective consciousness damaging itself and reinventing itself over and over again in order to overcome the devils that we have created in the first place, thus creating more devils. Is there a way to break the pattern? Krall has provided commentary and interpretation; there is room for you to create your own antidote to overcome the poison the Devil promised Eve in the Garden of Eden. The devil has been with us since we left paradise; if we must acknowledge the Devil exists as reality or as nothing more than a metaphor, then its opposite—Heaven—must also exist. But humanity has left paradise. The Russian masters thought they had the answer to psychology, a form of science that was in its infant stage during their literary period, but Krall give us only this: “The black paint is peeling and underneath I can see the rainbow you splattered up there when you were a child, when you weren’t so morbid.”

The terror is real, and it is in everything at all times.

'click' the HITD cover to get the PRINT Version. See ... The Rev. done tol' you it was coming soon ... And now it's HERE! Dig it ...

‘click’ the HITD cover to get the PRINT Version. See … The Rev. done tol’ you it was coming soon … And now it’s HERE! Dig it …

AUTHOR BIO:

Jordan Krall writes apocalyptic literature as well as horror, bizarro, science fiction, poetry, and nonfiction. He also runs Dynatox Ministries.

For More KRALL ...

For More KRALL …

 
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