The Whorehouse That Jack Built, by Kevin Sweeney

•October 12, 2015 • 1 Comment
Hello United Kingdom!Available now in Kindle and Print. Click on book cover for Amazon-UK...

Hello United Kingdom! Available now in Kindle and Print. Click on book cover for Amazon-UK…

“It was a whorehouse, but not one open to just anyone. To get there you had to be dying or insane. The services offered were all offered for the same price, which was everything you had. There were paths there that only those who had crossed the border into the Undiscovered Country could find, if they knew the landmarks to follow, the signs to watch for. Clem followed and watched and two days ago his mule had done died of exhaustion and it was just him and Lady keepin’ on who knew how and finally they came to a dead town with no name at twilight and a whorehouse with a sign above the door that Clem could not read: A SOILED DOVE IN A CAGE PUTS ALL HEAVEN IN A RAGE A whorehouse run by demons. A whorehouse that offered the greatest pleasures a man could ever want… in exchange for everything he had. Am I gonna do this? Am I really gonna… The cancer in his belly twisted spikes through his impacted bowels and in front of him lay Lady, a sacrifice. And Clem pushed that door open and stepped across the threshold.”



His disciples came to him, saying, “Explain to us the parable of the weeds of the field.” He answered them, “He who sows the good seed is the Son of Man, the field is the world; and the good seed, these are the children of the Kingdom; and the weeds are the children of the evil one. The enemy who sowed them is the devil.”

Matthew 13:36-43

The albino rode into town on a donkey.

The creature was descended from the ass that had carried the Virgin to Bethlehem, and was the only creature that could approach such a damned place as it now plodded wearily into.

The albino was neither dying nor insane, and had no place in that town without a name. He had business but no place. He recognized the town for what it was, for why it had no name; names belonged to things which had known life, and this town had never been alive.

The town of Nowhere.

As he had journeyed in he had noted the things left behind. First were the bodies, horses for the main part, though sometimes mules, who had died and been left to rot only a day or twos ride from the town. Mostly they seemed to have died through exhaustion, or failed hearts, though with one or two there were signs of violence, their owners making the insane decision to kill the valuable beasts and continue towards Nowhere on foot.

Closer to the town, as he followed the tracks of men who now walked and those tracks only lead in one direction, he had spied bundles of possessions, the kinds of things folks needed for long journeys, sleeping rolls and sacks of provisions, just left; some were spilled out upon the dirt of the trail, as if they had been dropped as their owners walked, discarded carelessly. Others had been carefully hidden behind rocks and stunted brush, as if the owners planned to return for them but never had.

The albino knew what these things meant. The divestment of earthly goods. As if this were a spiritual pilgrimage.

 The town was a U-shape, like a jawbone with the buildings as teeth. A saloon, a bank, a barbers, a general mercantile, a few houses in between them, ponderosa pine boards gleaming in the moonlight. They certainly looked like places of business and places where folks lived, but if you were to enter any of them you would step over the lintels of doorways onto dust, into rooms bare of even a stick of furniture. Motion pictures were years in the future, so one could not call it a set, could not use that as a reference point but that was all it was, a set, a reason for there being the one true place in town, a real tooth in a jaw set with hollow wooden ones.

The whorehouse. The Half-World.

The trail that lead to this town became the single street of the town that lead straight to the door of a three story parlour. It was a building as unremarkable as any of the others, with the sole difference that this one had life.

Sickly red light leaked from between pulled drapes.

In the dooryard was a fortune in coins and bills, scattered hither and yon, along with watches and rings and crucifixes and other discarded valuables. Not only the obvious items of value were found there, however, but objects that the albino recognized as closer to the hearts of men than even gold or silver; letters from loved ones long gone, mementos of childhood, spoils of war, souvenirs and scars picked up through a lifetime. Whatever was most valued was discarded at the threshold. That was the price of admission, but whatever was most valuable was the price taken inside.

The albino dismounted and hitched up the donkey.

He stood before the whorehouse, preparing himself spiritually for what was to come; he unzipped his pants and pulled out his immense snow-white penis, clasped his hands together in prayer around his cock, and muttered a rosary as he slowly masturbated.

“Hail Mary, full of grace…” picturing the Blessed Virgin, belly swollen with childe…

The albino had pure white hair cut into a monk’s tonsure and pink eyes that he shielded behind smoked spectacles. He was dressed like a gunfighter, an ankle length duster cloaking him. A dog’s collar of black and white at his throat said he was a man of the cloth no matter what the holsters at his hips might suggest… though a closer inspection would show those holsters were not filled with guns.

He got through a dozen Hail Mary’s before he came, blowing a cup of thick semen in fat gobs onto the coin scattered dirt of the dooryard.

He knelt and dipped two finger into the sticky fluid, then crossed himself.

Covered in spider-webs of his own spunk, the albino approached the door of the whorehouse… which opened to greet him spilling blood-light and screams of ecstasy. 


The inside of the whorehouse was the size of a city.

In my father’s house there are many mansions…

The door he entered was flanked by eunuchorns, creatures like minotaurs who had the heads of unicorns instead of bulls. As their name suggested, each of the massive beast-men had their horns snapped off and their genitals gouged out. Guards of the harem of Hell. It was they who had opened the door, and watched with hate-filled eyes as the albino strode without fear into…

The albino had once ridden through Monument Valley and the Half-World reminded him of that place of standing rock towers hundreds of feet tall only these towers were Babels given over to speaking the universal language of fucking and they stood not in a desert but a room the size of all the Earth.

The room he had stepped into was vast enough to contain buildings and yet was clearly still a parlour. The door he had stepped through was little more than a mouse hole, and he little more than a mouse, in a parlour whose floor was crowded with dozens of dolls houses… except they had no walls, were only the exposed insides of dolls houses, rooms open to view and in all of those rooms were being committed atrocities of love. In beds, on floors, against walls, straddling insane fuck-furniture, hung by hooks or chains or silk nooses, limbs entwining –legs, arms, tails, membranes, wings- teeth gnashing, biting, chewing, faces and cunts and anuses sucking and gushing and farting out weird fluids, gasps and moans and screams and croaking and laughter colored through and through with madness.

The air was thick with unholy incense and the stench of sweat and semen, heavy enough to leave a sticky glaze of moisture on the albino’s face.

“Welcome, pilgrim.”

Over stimulated, the albino came to his senses to realize he was standing in one of those rooms without walls, a reception room filled with chaise lounges and love seats, all occupied by voluptuous demons of both genders, incubi and succubi, lascivious lamia and perverse imps, rouged demon eyes

(the eyes of goats the goats go to the LEFT)

gazing at him as forked tongues played about lips and teeth. Hungry.

Scattered about the floor of the not-room were dolls houses, all of which were stripped of their walls. They seethed with movement, tiny doll movement. Microcosm and macrocosm. This room was a miniature of the greater room, and at the same time they were both the same room.

“As above, so below,” said the voice that had welcomed him, a Scottish accent, “Aye, and around and around forever, forever, forever.”

The voice was at his elbow. The albino looked down into a face he had memorised from the only known photograph taken of the subject. Marshall McGregor.

The architect of flesh.

The man was a dwarf and ugly as sin itself. Not only this, but obese and naked, his cock an enormous red horn that stood hard and proud from under rolls of hairy fat. The man was nearly as grotesque as some of the demon whore’s who were his concubines.

Born to a wealthy laird in the highlands of Scotland, McGregor’s soul was born as freakish as his body. A life of horrific excess funded by an early inheritance had laid the darkest of trails, a glistening slug trail that lead over a mountain of corpses, until finally he had made a deal with the devil-lord Arcimboldo.

“Many men of the church have stepped through mah door before now, pilgrim,” said the dwarf, grinning, “So, I suppose it’s a few bairns ye’ll be wanting tae fuck? We’ve got a cherubim kept to one side for preachers and priests, though the poor wee thing is a bit ragged around the arse these days.”

McGregor waddled to the middle of the parlour, holding his arms out as if to embrace his clutch of demonic whores.

“Or perhaps ye’d like to see a few more of me possibles first? Eh? Anything catch your eye? What’s your poison, pilgrim? Cunt? Cock? Something a little more… exotic?”

The albino said nothing.

The demon whores began to lazily rise from where they lounged, each approaching the albino one by one. They slid and leered and danced around him, displaying what they had to offer; enormous breasts studded with dozens of bleeding nipples, forked cocks, cunts lined with eyeballs. Beast headed whores, whores with translucent jellyflesh, whores of rusted metal and rotten wood. A demon with a face like a smeared painting whispered filth in his left ear, another who’s every head-hole was lined with white slug-bellies spoke sweetly in the other

The albino said nothing. The demons washed around him, an unmoving rock in a river of filth, foul waves washing over him.

McGregor was massaging the glans of his engorged penis, as big as a fist, sore and angry from overuse. An eyebrow crept up as the albino kept his peace.

“Now what’s this? Cat got your tongue there pilgrim? Having second thoughts? Because if ye are, well, too fucking bad; the moment you stepped through the door the pact was sealed. One night of pleasure such as ye won’t find this side of Paradise in exchange for every drop of blood, marrow, and semen in your body.”

A bulb of pre-come the size of a walnut appeared at the tip of the dwarf’s penis. He thumbed it up and into his mouth. He hummed in satisfaction before winking at the albino.

“And your soul, of course, but most folk who end up here have already forfeited that. So… what’s your poison pilgrim? Make a choice or I’ll choose for ye.”

A drowned corpse with antlers of coral offered sea anemone orifices. A charred corpse, smoke still coiling from empty eyeholes and anus, croaked of charcoal pleasures. A rot bloated corpse promised a gash overflowing with pus and flesh-grubs.

The albino said nothing, but his impassive gaze finally slid away from the tempters to settle on the smirking dwarf.

“Satisfy me,” said the albino.

McGregor stopped fondling himself.

“What’d ye say?”

The albino reached up with two fingers and pulled his smoked glasses further down his nose. His blood shot, pink eyes had no lines around them, making his age an impossible guess; did he not cry, did he not laugh?

“Satisfy me,” he repeated.

The architect of flesh licked his fleshy lips and regarded the albino with narrowed eyes.

“Are ye challenging me, ye gobshite?”

The albino then expressed the first hint of any emotion. He grinned, fast, bright, no real emotion, just a token facial expression by a creature trying to communicate in another species’ language.

“Just your whores. I’ve heard bold claims. I don’t believe them.”

“Ye what?”

“Your possibles…” the albino said, “Mediocre at best. My palm excites me more.”

McGregor rubbed at his jaw and blinked rapidly, realizing that he was being insulted, that his right to this corner of Hell was being disputed, mocked. He stopped rubbing and waved a long, knuckly finger at the albino.

“Ye cheeky shite…” he muttered, rage building, “Ye cheeky fucking shite! Ye come into mah house and ye talk tae me like that? I’ll fucking have your guts for garters ye cunt! I’ll skin ye with mah own fucking teeth!”

The demon whores shrunk back from his anger, though it was not directed at them.

The albino’s pink eyes gazed blandly over his smoked spectacles.

McGregor had threatened, but he had not moved. Of course not. A challenge had been issued, and he had no choice but to answer it. The supernatural world was constrained by laws as tightly as the world of men, just different laws. It was the reason haints could not enter a house unless invited… And why entering the Devil’s house placed him entirely at your disposal, for as host he was bound to his guests every whim.

Marshall McGregor had made his pact and become a subject of such laws.

“I seek release,” said the albino, “The standard bargain. My corpus for satiety. I doubt I’ll get it, judging these.”

McGregor ground his teeth.

“And if ye are unsatisfied by my whores? What stake do ye expect from me?” he asked slyly.

But the albino was slyer still. The grin returned.

“Nothing. Hell hates to forfeit. Hell will hold you accountable.”

McGregor bared his teeth.

“Ye cunt,” he spat.

“As you say.”

 McGregor rushed him, thundering forward on ponderous legs, his whole disgusting bulk in motion, his still erect cock bobbing. But he stopped short of actually touching the albino, his hands clutching at the air as if to rip him limb from limb.

The albino did not flinch.

Powerless, McGregor raged, every obscenity on his lips in a torrent of threats and promises and extravagant claims as to the albino’s future.

That gentlemen took it all with bland indifference.

The occultist eventually ran out of puff and stood glaring up in raw hatred at the man whom he had extensive, gruesome destinies planned for.

“Ye cunt,” he whispered.

The albino said;

“Satisfy me.”

McGregor turned and stalked away. One of his whores didn’t see the danger quick enough, and in a moment the heavy hipped creature with a sea horse head and tail was disembowelled. It was a reflex of anger, thrown away without thought.

No matter how comical his grotesque appearance, the dwarf was still one of the most dangerous humans on Earth.

The demon whores fell upon their sibling and ate her alive.

McGregor stomped on a dolls house and immediately, miles distant in the greater room, one of the massive buildings collapsed with a sound of thunder.

The albino was unmoved.

The architect of flesh finally reined in his passions enough to stop destroying things, and when he did inspiration struck him.

“Satisfaction is what ye seek, is it?” he asked, his back to the albino.

Above the sound of the whores eating, the albino said it was.

“And ye don’t think any of my possibles here are gonnae do the trick, is that it?”

“Any of them? All of them? None of them.”

McGregor turned around, and once more he was the courteous host.

“Sure, ye’d be a connoisseur of cunt then, and not just any pilgrim. Yes, ah see plain enough now! Ye will have to forgive me, its not like the sort of souls we’re used to here have what ye’d call refined pallettes. No, no, none of these possibles is suited to a connoisseur. Ah find myself embarrassed!”

The albino had been warned of this line of reasoning. It was a loophole for a demonic host to wriggle out of responsbility.

“And seeing as though ah can’t offer ye anything up to ye high standards, embarrasing as it might be, ah guess that means ye are…”

“I want the Vestals.”

McGregor’s act of gracious humility vanished in a moment.

“Ye what? The… how the fuck do ye…” the dwarf’s eyes narrowed. The past decade of endless debauchery had addled his wits, so that only now it dawned on him to ask the question that mattered; “Who… what are ye?”

The albino’s sickly eyes sparkled.

“Your questions,” he said, “Who, what, don’t matter. Why… I have been sent by the Sisters of the Immaculate to end what you began in Whitechapel.”

The albino was normally a man of few words but he had prepared these for some long time as he tracked the occultist to the very edge of the frontier gleaning clues from whispered talk around campfires and hog ranches and missions until his final tip from a Pinkterton agent gutshot and dying in delerium had lead him here to the very edge of manifest blasphemy.

“I’m here for a sexorcism.”

The albino’s filthy poncho fell from about his shoulders to reveal that he was naked underneath except for a pair of spurs and holsters that held not guns. He was coyote-lean and moon-pale, his sinews a map of bite scars, his back furrowed by claws in ecstasy. A rosary of razorblades wrapped around his right wrist. Between his legs hung heavy his circumcised cock, a rope fist-knotted at the end; it was enormous, though more shocking still was the colors of it. Rainbow hued, from root to bell head, all seven shades from red through to violet.

McGregor had bound demons to his whim and now was bound himself by the lore of the land; he could not refuse the custom of any who crossed the threshold willing to trade. Even if they came asking for the rarest of pleasures, pleasures that he kept for himself, and even then only indulged lightly.

 Forget the exaggerated sex between its thighs, this sickly looking creature wouldn’t survive Mary, let alone the others.

McGregor grinned to himself. Then he began to laugh. His laughter grew from deep chuckling into great bales that rolled about the not-room. The demons who ate of their kind leered up with bloody mouths and joined the laughter, teeth claggy with smouldering flesh, screeching and hooting like beasts.

“Ye come here wantin’ for the Vestals… a pasty wee ferret-faced fucker like ye? By Christ, the Sisters aren’t what they were if they’re havin’ to recruit the likes of ye! Ye may be as big as a fuckin’ donkey, but the Vestals…” the dwarf stopped laughing with a snap, “I’ll have ‘em save ye skull so’s I can shit in it.”

If the albino took note of the threat he showed nothing, just gripped his cock with both hands and began to work his inches, impatient. He swiftly began to stiffen, to swell.

“Fancy talk’s finished. Where’re the whores?”

   The dwarf’s face turned red, then beetroot; his mouth opened and closed like a fish, unable to find anyway to express what seethed within him.

   And then his color cleared. His eyes darkened.

   “Alreet,” he said, and clapped his hands, twice.

In a moment everything was different, as if they were in a theatrical production and a scenery change had been called; the skeleton architecture of the room and the Hell-Whores themselves were whipped away up into the darkness until the albino and the dwarf stood alone and exposed surrounded by doll houses on the floor of the vaster room filled with mansions.

The dwarf stooped and picked up one of the dolls houses and the albino recognised it as a replica of the outside of the Half-World.

“D’ye want a wee peek at what’s tah come?” asked McGregor with a sneer. He lifted the roof of doll whorehouse and tilted it towards the albino, who caught a glimpse of five miniature rooms; one was a squalid garret, another inside of a redskin’s teepee, and yet another was the inside of a backwoods shack, filled with bizarre taxidermy. But what were the last two rooms? The glimpse gave only impressions, one of an Egyptian tomb, and the other a cave with crude paintings on the walls…

The dwarf snapped the lid down and dropped the model building on the ground at his feet and at once an entire building dropped silent from the darkness above to land behind him. The effect was disconcerting indeed, as if an elephant had plummeted to Earth only to land as softly as a feather. More disconcerting still was the fact that it was the building they were already in, the Half-World.

(as above so below)

McGregor grinned.

“Ye ever seen those Russian dolls preacher? Little wooden things they are, one nesting snug inside the other, and another inside that, and another inside that, and on and on.”

The door to the Half-World opened. No light spilled out, but shadow did, as if it had substance.

The dwarf’s eyes never left the albino who was striding past him, titanic rainbow hued cock swinging.

“Five vestals, preacher,” said McGregor, “That’s what ye asked for, and that’s what ye’ll get. For yer flesh, for yer blood, fer yer seed and yer soul. And when they’ve finished with ye…” the albino paid no notice, disregarding the dwarf, who became incensed, “Wha’, hoy, ye divn’t DARE ignore ME ye cunt! HOY! Ye cheeky gobshite, ah’ll fuckin’…

The albino was already at the threshold. How many Hell-Whorehouses had he sexorcised? How many of their owners had made tedious

speeches about how they were going to defecate in his hollowed skull, and wipe their rectums with the ragged remains of his soul?

Not slowing, without ego and so without fear, he stepped into the darkness as the dwarf raged behind him in the vastness of the outer room;


The door closed and the silence of the darkness was deafening.


Within the house was a ruin of a parlour room, cold, dark. The roof was long collapsed to expose a sky full of constellations never seen upon Earth. The door he had passed through was one of six that lead into and out of the room.

The parlour was the kind of room in which gentlemen would pass the time waiting for their favorite soiled dove to become available, reading, smoking, or dreaming of what was to come.

This ruined room was strewn with broken furniture, scattered books. Upon one wall hung a sampler in a shattered frame. Whores had to pass the time too. Needlework kept clever hands clever.

The albino gazed around the room, and saw each door had a name burned upon it, or scrawled in chalk, fingered in blood, carved with a bone knife…

Mary Maggie Darling.


Grandma Spuckler.



The albino’s gaze settled once more upon the sampler hanging crooked upon a wall of rain warped boards. His eyes favored the pale glow of the alien constellations, adjusted easier to it then to candles and gas, and by weird starlight the albino read this message picked out in stitches:

The PARABLE of the LOCK & the KEY

The LOCK that can be opened with many keys is a Very Bad Lock.

But the KEY that opens many locks is a Very Good Key.

A key turned. A lock opened. A door began to open and within it was darkness into which the albino walked naked.


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FREE Extreme Fiction ANNNNND… FREE Kindle from ‘MorbidbookS’. Enjoy!

•May 1, 2015 • Leave a Comment


Morbidbooks is a grotesque Bizarro ballet where the most profane things occur. An impious and perverse dwelling of dark revulsion.  A cozy cottage where torture porn and brutal bible tales are devised.  A quiet place to relax and spin tales of depravity and wickedness. A halfway house for the disturbed where rules no longer apply.  A safe haven for deviant serial killers to hatch their wretched schemes.  Bring your pets.  The tasty ones are always welcome.

All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.”


 CreateSpace eStore:

List Price: $12.95
6″ x 9″ (15.24 x 22.86 cm)
Black & White on Cream paper
326 pages
ISBN-13: 978-1481917902 (CreateSpace-Assigned)
ISBN-10: 1481917900
BISAC: Fiction / Fantasy / Dark Fantasy

~Pontius Pilate is cursed to be a vampire. Life after life after life.~ And for the Plata dealing Pilate, his life is more like a death sentence. His only chance surviving is to keep on selling his monthly quota of Plata. This new man-made narcotic is a potent speed-ball designed to amp up the user, while also numbing the conscience into euphoric oblivion. To nullify the pain. To stifle the torture. To run and to hid from all the anguish inside. PILATE is a drug lord vampire in this re-telling of Christ’s final days. When given yet another chance to save the Earth’s latest Christ, will the re-incarnated Pilate choose to protect Her? Or to save his drug business, his money and his friends, will the modern day Pilate instead choose to wash his hands of the whole ordeal? Pilate shall have to allow the torture and death of a Holy Person in order to save his very own life. ” For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” This is a truly Brutal Bible Tale. A dismal post-industrial future. A look at man defiled and in decline. Evil has arrived and Dominion has been taken by the damned, the demons, vampires, vicious ghosts and strange halflings. The cast-aside by-products of all the debauched rampages and scientific sins against nature. Sex, drugs, and broken souls are the only trade commodities left.


PILATE:  Director’s Cut (nice fat excerpt)

By The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

For MorbidbookS. Everything Bleeds.

I                                                                   666 )0( XXX


THE NIGHT WAS THICK AND DARK like the solitary madness of a cloistered monk. The watcher was grateful for the darkness. Because of this he could hide himself completely in the safety of the deep shadows as he gazed upon his unsuspecting quarry. The woman he spied was very pregnant and completely alone. She appeared only a moment ago from around the corner of the gas station. The woman was holding her ponderous bulk and looking all about. From the way her legs were pinched uncomfortably together, it was clear the woman had to pee.

It made the nocturne smile and his yellow eyes light up. He was the spider waiting for the fly to show up and show up she did. She even brought an appetizer with her.

The woman located the toilet and went inside. Her man was on the other side, trying to get help for their car from a closed and shuttered service station. The one watching her knew the station was closed because he was the one who owned it. Her man was getting more and more frustrated out there on the unseen side. The watcher knew he was there because he could smell human blood from a good ways off…

The woman left the restroom. She was making her way back to her man and their broke auto, when the watcher divided the darkness like dusty drapes and emerged from the other side. He came up behind her, grabbed her and spun her around. When she saw his teeth drop the woman screamed.

With lightning speed her attacker pulled her roughly to the ground where she lay helpless on the flat of her back. He straddled her, placing his solid weight on her arms. He raised his right hand and talons sprouted from rent fingertips. Before she even blinked, he buried those talons in her belly and ripped it viscously unfastened and exposed. He tore open the wrapping paper impatiently to get to the squirming present hidden inside.

The woman heard the noise of pounding feet. Her husband was coming. She glanced over her shoulder to the darkness. Both the woman and her attacker could hear her man running hard around to their dim side of the station.

The nocturne dug into her abdomen and removed a fully formed baby boy. He lifted it. He clamped his mouth onto the baby’s face. The nocturne bit and pulled it off, the whole face, all the way down to the wet fascia. The blood he slurped and sucked from the baby emptied the boy in no time. Then he drew up blood from the mother, using the baby’s umbilical cord as a conduit.

The noise of her man arriving brought the blood drinker’s head up. Skidding to a stop before him, the woman’s man stared at the gruesome scene. Pilate watched him carefully. Quickly the nocturne determined that the frightened and clean-cut young man was no real threat. The attacker removed his face from the man’s baby. Blood dripped in sheets down his face and shirt front, splashing warm onto the black asphalt. His eyes were yellow and the teeth were sharp and deadly.

Pilate looked to the man. He stood in shock at the gruesome tableau, shaking some. He saw his wife on the ground and knew not what to do. There is no karate in the world that specializes in vampire attacks. The blood drinker lifted the baby skyward and presented it as a joke offering to the father.

“Welcome to The Harbor,” the nocturne said with a cruel jaunt, “Do yourself a favor and try the veal.”

II                                                                 666 )0( XXX


THE BARTENDER WATCHED AS HE APPEARED right in front of him. He was just schlepping the usual drink orders from the usual fucked-up Harbor crowd and then the blood drinker was right there in front of him.

“What’s up, nigga?” He said to the bartender.

The shock was wearing off fast, out of necessity. Harbor Rule#1: Never let the nocturne know you’re scared.

“Nothin’ man, just grinding mine, you know how it is,” the bartender replied. “What is it? What you need?”

“It’s time to for you to re-up,” the blood drinker replied. He put the dope package on the bar top. The bartender grabbed it and placed it beneath the bar.

Motherfucker’s early, thought the bartender. But he didn’t actually say anything. He was trying his level best to survive this encounter. Not going to be easy, though. I don’t have what he wants.

He looked up and right at the blood drinker. The bartender appeared confused. He shook his head and tried a smile. Pilate was not amused.

“It’s the first of the month, man.”

The bartender stupidly shook his head in the negative, again. Pilate began to get pissed off. Which brings us to Harbor Rule # 2: Never make the nocturne mad. Even if he’s out of line, you won’t care if he graciously apologizes to you later on. You will be far too busy being dead to accept it.

The bartender’s heart started chugging. “Look, man,” he began, “I haven’t gone through all my stock yet. You’ve got to give me more time.”

Even as he uttered this sentence, the bartender regretted it.

The bartender did have logic on his side. He mistakenly thought that would mean shit to Pilate. It did not.

“Just give me the fucking ferria you got,” demanded Pilate. The bartender reached beneath the bar and removed an envelope filled with cash money. It wasn’t full, but it was close. Unfortunately for the bartender, almost full won’t mean shit to Pilate, but all the same…

Pilate looked at it, gauged its thickness and knew it was light.

“You’re short, motherfucker.” Pilate calmly relayed this oversight to his bar-side dealer.

“I know, man, I really do. But you see that’s what I was trying to explain to you: I still got shit left to move from last time. What you give me here is just gonna sit uncut for at least a week. It’ll take longer than that to move the product I’ve got.” He waited for a response. When he didn’t get one he added: “Shit ain’t moving like it should. Niggas be broke these days.”

“That’s not it,” Pilate replied. “It’s not economics, asshole, it’s something else, something bigger than money.”

“What’s that mean?” the bartender asked.

“Never you mind about that, negro,” he said. “Just do your job and get me my flow.”

“I’ll try, Jefe, but you can’t get blood from a stone, you know.”

Pilate appeared to be thinking on that one. It didn’t matter though. The blood drinker had dope to flip and the bartender was standing in his way and wasting his time.

Which brings us to Harbor Rule # 3 …

“I’m sure you’re right, but that’s a ‘YP’.”

’YP’? What’s that mean?”

“That means it’s your problem, bitch, not mines.”

No man would ever dare say disrespectful mess like that to the bartender. He was a former cage fighter. He was as big and bad as any Harbor motherfucker can be. Right now none of that held water. The bartender was scared more deeply than he’s ever been.

Pilate the blood drinker was no man. He didn’t give a hairy fuck what the mammoth albino had to say.

The bartender was willing to try. He made to comment further and Pilate stopped him cold. He leaned over the bar. He stared daggers of yellow into him, stopping the bartender in his tracks.

He immediately backed up in the fear that managed to pendulum from might get hurt to gonna die badly in a humming bird heartbeat. Pilate leaned in further.

He said, “This here business runs by the law of supply and demand, nigga. This simply means that I supply you with dope on the first of each month and I demand you pay me cash on the barrelhead at the same time. It’s not when I can, motherfucker, it’s the first of the month. You feel me? It’s not rocket science, punch-bag.”

The bartender got him. Afterward he stared scared at Pilate. He watched the nocturne as he fingered the umbilical cord the sick fuck had around his neck. It looked like a dying kerchief. After the bartender clocked that gross shit, he felt Pilate alright. He felt him right down to his very core. The bartender nodded his head, scared out of his mind. Pilate was controlling him, building the fear. He would not let the bartender go until he understood to his fullest extent. He didn’t want to have to have this conversation again.

Now that he got the bartender’s attention, Pilate asked: “Isn’t your baby-momma pregnant again?” Pilate asked him. The bartender nodded the once. “I’m afraid I’ve developed a taste for veal,” the nocturne explained, still fingering the umbilical cord. “Come up short again and I’ll be forced to pay your loved ones a visit.”

Pilate saw the bartender’s crotch. He sneered at it. The bartender glanced down. He saw the small wet stain as it spread out large and all over the front of the bartender’s pants. He understood.

Pilate released him at about the same moment he heard his name being whispered, way in the back of the bar. A young human couple was sitting there looking at the blood drinker and talking about him.

The nocturne turned quick to stare right back at them.

The bartender was still soaking his shorts. As impressive as his standing record is, all his cage fight wins mattered none at all. At least not while the motherfucker stood pissing down his leg in fright like he was.

III                                                                       666 )0( XXX


JUAN AND MARY KNEW THAT PILATE was a blood drinker and they were smart enough to be afraid. Even still, they were dying to meet him. He had it all and they wanted in.

The couple sat in the bar sipping cocktails, just as they had done every evening for almost two weeks straight. They watched him appear. Just appear, man, right out of thin air over by the bartender.

The nocturne handed the nigga a package which vanished beneath the bar top in an instant. It wasn’t a pattern, exactly, not one that could be fingered by them, but they knew he would eventually show up because the dealer had to deliver his drugs. Juan and Mary knew if they were patient and waited long enough, Pilate would show.

The small, tightly wrapped package should be Plata if they knew their guy, which they did. The bartender handed the vampire an envelope; cash, most certainly.

Pilate peered inside the envelope, checked the denominations, gauging the thickness. He didn’t count it though. The blood drinker didn’t need to. No one in their right mind would be stupid enough to butt-fuck the drug dealing nocturne. Even so, he looked like he could use the help of a couple of down motherfuckers like Juan and Mary. You know, to help with the day to day. The young couple just needed a way in.

Pilate looked at the bartender. He said something Juan couldn’t begin to hear across the distance of the bar and the slow, deep throb of the hard Thug Love gangsta shit blasting forth from the DJ’s station nearby. Whatever it was must’ve scared the god-fuck outta the dude, cuz he stepped back and put his hands up in surrender and fear. The bartender backed up a quick two-step as Pilate leaned in, his long tightly curling hair spilling in a wave, obscuring his face. The menace in the gesture and what he must have said was full and uncomfortable like a dildo on a church pew.

The bartender looked frightened bad, dropping his arms and folding his hands. He lowered his head, nodding in supplication, staring at his feet. His quaking Juan could see even from across the room. The nigga was a big dude, too, really more imposing than even the blood drinker. But the poor, scared fuck was not and the nigga threatening him was.

“My God,” Mary said, watching the scene with Juan, “You ever see that big fucker scared before?”

“Only now,” he replied. “It’s interesting though.”

“For sure,” she spoke, took a quick sip of her cocktail. “We are looking at the right dealer to hook up with, that’s clear.”

Juan nodded his agreement, noting how Pilate stood straight and then in one quick movement, turned to look right at him.

“Fuck,” spat Juan, his own fear bursting within. That nigga’s eyes were yellow and backlit. They looked like a night hunting panther’s, glowing as they were at Juan.

Then, just like that, he disappeared. As quickly as he came, the blood drinker vanished. Juan turned quick to Mary. She was still glancing that way. He opened his mouth to speak and saw the color vanish from her face. Her lips quivered and her eyes grew wide. She then backed up and Juan turned to see.

And there Pilate was, standing right in front of Juan and Mary’s table. Speechless, they stared at the vampire and he right back. His long hair did nothing to obscure the yellow eyes and prominent teeth. The umbilical cord around Pilate’s neck they could not place. They both knew it was organic, though. It smelled of decay, bad tidings, and dead blood.

No one said a word. And then, without a single word, Pilate dissolved on the spot, gone without a trace. There was some displacement of air, a slight cold whoosh and that was it.

It was a few moments before Juan and Mary could breathe and the bartender, they could see, was even more fucked up by his encounter than they. From where they perched, they could see the bartender shaking like he had wet hair in a meat locker. He turned to the racks of liquor behind him, ignoring customers coming up. He poured himself three big shots of top shelf tequila, slugging them back, one after the other. When finished, he pinched the bridge of his nose, shut tight his eyes, leaned on the ledge running below the bottles. He collected himself with a final big breath, straightened and went back to work.

“Wonder what was said,” Mary mused; shaking her lonely ice cubes at a passing barmaid and was ignored. “Just when I really need one, you bitch!” she yelled after and was still shunned.

Juan handed her his mostly full drink and she threw it back.

“Jesus, who knows what he said,” he muttered, thinking. “I mean, shit, baby, motherfucker didn’t say even a word to us and I feel like climbing into a hole and pulling the earth in after me.”

“Exactly,” she agreed. “Whatcha think, Papi? Should we just forget it?”

Juan wondered that very good point for a moment, then said: “He sure is scary, for real,” he told her, “but he’s our way in.” Mary nodded in agreement. “And once we are in,” Juan continued, “We won’t have to be afraid of anyone else, baby. Not in the whole of The Harbor.”

“We’d be the big-dick daddies, for sure.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “If he doesn’t kill us first.”

“Still,” she said, “It’s clear he needs our help.”

Mary pushed Juan’s now empty glass away and reached into her purse. She pulled out and lit a thin, pre-rolled blunt of half tobacco and half homegrown mellow kush.

“He shouldn’t even be here,” Juan mused, “it’s not safe.”

Mary pulled hard on the blunt and nodded.

“Shorties or even the two of us should be flippin’ shit, not the top dog.”

“That’s for sure,” she said, handing Juan the blunt. “How are we gonna hook him, though?” she asked.

Juan smoked and thought. He knocked ash on the already very dirty bar floor. “I was thinking of an offering.” Mary looked at him closely. “A gift,” he said.

“I don’t know,” she responded, taking back the blunt. “I mean, just giving the motherfucker a sandwich won’t do it,” she countered, “He can hunt whomever he wants, true?”

“Yeah, but he’s exposed and shouldn’t be.”

“Also true,” Mary agreed. “Oh, shit, wait,” she said, looking back to the bar. “There’s our answer.”

Juan turned to where she was looking and saw a young comely Plata fiend. She moved slow and sexy through the crowd, touching many patrons, speaking slow with a naughty smile. On and on she went, looking for a daddy.

Juan smiled at Mary’s idea. They looked at each other.

“But if we gave him a gift that keeps on giving….” trailed Juan.

“We will need some cheese for the trap, baby,” Mary added, gesturing toward the now recovered bartender. “And I know where we can get it.”

Juan sucked on the blunt again, held it in. He loosed out a big plume and handed it back to Mary.

“Go and scoop her up,” Juan told her. “Ply the little cooze with drinks and a few lines. She doesn’t look like she shoots up.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Mary agreed, noting the fiend, “At least not yet.”

“Yeah,” Juan nodded, seeing where she was going. “Now you’ll get to use some of your long dormant EMT training, get her set up for the long haul.”

“Think she’ll go for it?” Mary asked, watching her get rejected and looking more and more anxious.

Juan stood to let Mary out of their booth. “Does it really matter?” he asked. “Little baby girl over there looks like she’d fuck herself with a pool cue for a taste of the Silver and we’re gonna keep her fucked up on Plata ‘round the motherfuckin’ clock.”

“And if she doesn’t go for it?” Mary insisted.

Juan smiled down at her. He said: “I think blood taken by force will taste just as good as blood given. Don’t you, my love?”

“Yes I do, you fucking gorgeous creep,” she replied, biting her lower lip, nostrils flaring. Juan knew she was getting wet.

He bent down quick to give her a kiss.

“Go fetch,” he ordered.

Mary went to the bar. The bubblegum was leaning against some older dude, trying to laugh at his lame shit. Keeping half an eye on punkin’ pie there, Mary got the bartender’s attention.

“Two Crown rocks,” she told him, placing the empty glasses on the bar top and pulled out some cash. She laid money down for the drinks.

When the barman served up her drinks, Mary smiled sweetly, wrote on a bar napkin.

“My phone number,” she told him, loud enough to be heard by anyone giving a shit. She handed over the napkin to the bartender. He picked it up and looked at it closely. He saw the two bills folded inside. He looked up at her, Mary smiling sweetly.

“I see a 2 here at the end of your digits….that right?”

Mary nodded, “Uh huh.”

She straightened and waited for the barman to make change. She turned slightly, saw the girl losing interest. The old dude actually thought she wanted another drink. But she didn’t. She had much bigger fish to fry. Bubblegum was getting increasingly anxious, no doubt her Plata high was wearing off and she was at the very beginning edges of panic. Mary could see she was ripe for plucking.

Mary got her attention.

“What’s your favorite color?” she asked the girl. The bartender turned back and gave Mary her overly lumpy change and her cocktails.

“What’s that?” Bubblegum asked, turning full to her.

Mary smiled back at her while counting her change. It was all there: two fives, two singles and a small zip-locked baggie holding two grams of hydromorphone-methamphetamine-hydrochloride. She let her new friend see the taut little yum-yum bag.

“I asked you, what’s your favorite color?” Mary repeated, “Silver, right?”

“Yeah, new best friend,” Bubblegum cooed, “Plata is my favorite color.”

“Well then.” Mary replied with a growing knowing smile, “Come with me and I will make all your dreams come true.”

Bubblegum immediately left the bar, following Mary without a moment’s hesitation.

IV                                                                           666 )0( XXX


JUAN WENT BACK TO THE SAME dark shoddy bar, again. And, again, he went without Mary. She stayed away to tend to Bubblegum, keeping her stoned and happy. The girl still thought they both had a sex crush on her and they let that fantasy remain intact.

Juan needed to find Pilate, this time, for a face-to-face meeting. Nobody knew the vampire, or where he cribbed or how to contact him. He just showed up in The Harbor one day, killed an independent cowboy that was slinging rocks, and took over his shop. Simple as that.

That was crack cocaine back then and he’s since graduated to Plata. He was hand-delivering it though, which was a huge risk for him. He needed a set-up that allows the blood drinker to run the show while dope gets flipped without it touching his hands. Pilate needed a spot to peddle, shorties to clock, a safe lair and Juan and Mary. He just didn’t know it yet. Juan was going to explain it to him as soon as he could be located. Which is much easier said than done.

It didn’t matter, however. Juan wanted no one but his Mary and him in on this plan. The Harbor may be a post-industrialized ghetto shit hole, but they knew small town rules still applied. Everybody knew everybody’s business: who was zoomin’ who. It’s just like Mayberry, but with a much higher body count.

They could tell no one; trust no one. One word of what they were planning and niggas might kill them simply out of hate because they hadn’t thought of approaching the vampire Plata dealer first.

It does not take much to get dead in The Harbor, son. I shit you not.

Once again, Juan made his way through the drunk and fucked-up bar crowd. He was nervous as all hell. He’d been drinking more than he should, smoking super-strong ghetto weed constantly. Finally, after almost two weeks of this nerve-wracking shit, Mary pleasantly surprised him with a handful of muscle relaxing pills which he doled out to himself; one at a time. It helped a great deal as he trolled the same sleezy, sticky, loser filled bar, night after fucking night, waiting for Pilate. He was worried the nocturne wouldn’t show up and even more nervous that he might.

Juan did a perfunctory head check of the patrons, seeing no Pilate around, had to pee. With some growing dismay, he pushed back, deep into the bar, toward the toilets.

The restroom was filthy and crowded thick with men pissing. Trannies were hard at work sucking dick. Their johns held cash above their bobbing heads as a promise.

Drugs were being snorted, deals going down. Some nigga was desperate enough to tie his shit off in this horrid crapper in one of the door-less stalls. He was flicking up a vein, trying to feel for a bump to target his needle.

Juan went into one of the stalls. Some passed out fuck, pockets having already been turned out, slumped over to the side. His head planted into the feces smeared wall.

Juan considered trying to wake him or dragging him off the seat. Instead, it was most expedient to simply pull out his pecker and piss on the motherfucker. He wouldn’t care.

Juan was just shaking it and zipping up when he sensed someone behind him.

A cold hand dropped solidly on to his shoulder. It was strong. The talons growing out of the split fingertips dimpled Juan’s coat, punctured the cloth, and pressed into his flesh. Juan was surprised at how much it hurt. He sucked it up though and stood tall.

“You got balls hunting me,” the blood drinker told him. Pilate squeezed a little more and made Juan hurt a lot. “But do you have the heart?”

“I’m not after you, we mean you no harm.”

“What do you want then?”

“We wanted to meet you,” Juan told him.

“You and the girl you were with?”

“That’s right. I was hoping to speak with you.”

“And you are?” the vampire asked with a bit more pressure. It was getting bad, the pain, but Juan knew a test when he felt one. Juan told him their names and intentions. “Services?” he asked, “What services?”

“Whatever you need, you know, help,” said Juan, arm going numb, fingertips tingling unpleasantly.

“You two want to help me sell drugs?”

“Yes, exactly,” Juan replied

“And what, exactly,” Pilate mockingly replied, “makes you think I won’t kill your uninvited ass where you stand?”

“Because we would not dare to seek you out empty handed, Sire,” Juan told the vampire.

“Stop the ass-licking sire shit, I don’t like it,” Pilate warned, “And it will not help to keep you, or your Mary alive.”

“What shall we call you then?”

“Nothing yet,” he said. “What do you have for me?”

“We have an offering.”

“Offering? What kind of offering?”

“Blood,” Juan stated,” “A continuous stream of it.”

The nocturne smiled then. “Yes,” he replied, “That might do.”

“I can take you to Mary, where she is being kept for you. And then we can bring her to where you stay.”

“And this token of your esteem is in hopes that you and Mary can work for me, with me? Is that right?”

“Yes, exactly,” Juan agreed. “We can be of great value and help. We can assist and protect you.”

“What do you hope to gain and I expect the truth from you,” Pilate advised with one more, tiny squeeze, “Your life, where you stand, depends on it.”

Juan did not have to think, Mary and his motivations had never changed. “We want in,” he said simply, “And you are the way.”

The vampire was silent as he removed his painfully frigid grip from Juan’s shoulder, blood seeping now from the talon punctures. Juan could feel him moving close to whisper in his ear.

“Well, seeing as you two now work for me,” the vampire replied, “I guess you should call me Pilate.”

V                                                                                  666 )0( XXX


PILATE’S MAIN LAIR WAS IN AN abandoned church at the very end of a lane of old houses. All crosses and signs of Jesus Christ had been long removed, the church itself still seemingly empty.

The grounds surrounding the church were littered with trash, the grass long dead, weeds proliferating everywhere. An ancient and twisted oak tree stood sentinel and it alone hinted at any life on the forlorn property.

The old church may have looked completely desolate, but it was not. Inside, Juan and Mary could see the den potential in the old church. It would never make the cover of Lairs and Gardens magazine, but the young couple began making preliminary plans as soon as they saw the place.

Meanwhile, the vampire was being shown his gift.

Bubblegum was brought into the church via the back. She didn’t fight them a bit as she was led down the stairs to an old bomb shelter Pilate used as his bedchamber (which was smart) but the door wouldn’t lock (which was not). Juan added it to his list of shit to do. He would have a bank vault door installed, as soon as possible, so Pilate could lock himself inside.

The nocturne had no family, friends or associates to lookout for him. He had no familiars or anyone to help him with his work or to keep him protected and safe. No one had the nigga’s six.

His almost complete lack of social graces attested to his lonely life. Juan doubted he ever had any friends.

But his new employees, Pilate’s new friends, were here now and they did not come to him empty handed. They had brought such a gift.

The pressurized intravenous line ran from the metal IV pole standing tall next to the girl’s bed. From there it used gravity as well as internal line pressure to run the fluid on down to the hen’s jugular vein in her pretty little neck. A 3-way stop-cock kept bubblegum’s precious blood from squirting all over Pilate’s bedchamber. Heparin and saline filled the taut IV bag and kept the blood from clotting and dying. The teenage girl had an oxygen mask on her face. A big green metal tank stood tall in the corner.

She was trussed up pretty like a nicely glazed holiday ham. She was in her late teens, a good bleeder, and lay on the blood drinker’s bed.

The blood drinker eyed her closely, savoring the sight and smell of her. She was moaning softly, pulling oxygen in and waiting for her drugs. She was gyrating gently against her soft restraints.

Her eyes fluttered, the dark lashes were moist. Her lips were slightly chapped, but the breath was sweet. She was beautiful. The hep-lock plunged into a vein in the back of her hand was new and bank. You could see it pulsing.

Mary tapped out bubbles caught at the tip of the syringe and shot the girl into another world.

“Oh, blessed lord,” she moaned. When the Plata hit her hardest, her mumbling ceased and the whites of her eyes glowed, the pupils hidden, staring at herself. She turned rigid, flushed. Bubblegum was rushing her little balls off.

The girl’s breathing quickened, her skin turning bright red with the swell of oxygen pounding her shores.

The nocturne smiled, then. He showed clearly teeth that lengthened as the grin spread wicked across his pale cold face.

“Take her,” Mary told him. “She is all yours now.”

Pilate bent to her. The girl was down for it too, slick saucy and sweet. For a blood drinker, it was the best kind of breakfast in bed.

Juan and Mary stood nearby, excited and happy. They watched their new boss and benefactor as he knelt before her.

They had done it. Mary and Juan were in.

They smiled and held hands as Pilate opened the IV stop-cock and began to feed, making everyone’s dreams come true.

For a moment, Pilate lost himself. The blood was that good. He thought the blood tasted just like sipping paradise must.


'click' to get your Kindle Drug-Dealing Blood-Drinker ON! Only $4.95 :)

                 “CLICK” on image above to get your Kindle Drug-Dealing Blood-Drinker ON! Only $4.95 🙂


~FREE NOVELLA EXCERPT “The Place in Between” .pdf by Reverend Steven Rage~:


What’s Eating Keegan The Vegan

Authored by Justin Hunter

Keegan is a late-night public access radio show host, sexual deviant, and militant vegan. He has grown tired of his vegan cause being treated with apathy by the portly, meat-gorging, residents of the small town of Breen Gay, Wisconsin.
The time is ripe for Vegan vengeance.
Keegan harvests roundworms from a local vagrant and mutates them using chemicals stolen from the meat packing plant. He infests the populace with the voracious, parasitic carnivores. Keegan knows that the only way for the people of Breen Gay to eliminate the parasites is to starve them of meat. It is with great expectation that he awaits the oncoming utopia of Veganism.
However, the mutant roundworms will not die easily. The problems for the people of Breen Gay have only just begun…

'CLICK' on image for your :) FREE KINDLE :) copy May24th-27th, 2015! Sweet!

‘CLICK’ on image for your 🙂 FREE KINDLE 🙂 copy May24th-27th, 2015! Sweet!


'CLICK' for MorbidbookS complete PRINT Catalogue.

‘CLICK’ for MorbidbookS complete PRINT Catalogue.

~Annihilated Human~

•April 27, 2015 • Leave a Comment
Humanity Is The Devil by Jordan Krall KINDLE

Humanity Is The Devil by Jordan Krall KINDLE

on April 2, 2014
Format: Kindle Edition
“Imagine a Gnostic injection of shocking violence–some of the most unsettling scenes I’ve read–stunningly captured in a maze of fragments and murder scene mind-rooms (the blinds are drawn///television static///duct tape serenade) of horror. Pure. Horror. Yes, this novel is a horror-show that leaves you withered and trembling. It’s a book about the human condition, a novel that plays like a manifesto, a Lynchian blog post from a secret forum, a tremor of the apocalypse. It might seem like I’m going a bit overboard, but once you enter this Krallian universe (let yourself be swept under by its blood-currents) you can’t walk away without being shaken. I’m jittery. At points, I had the experience of my own mass media-infected memories firing grainy news clips of American atrocities that hovered up between scenes, between words and story arcs–like, perhaps, the devil crept closer as the book progressed, but I took a deep breath and kept reading, sank further into this transmission of a most vile veil of the alien world (our American world). This is not a balm, it’s an attack.”


List Price: $14.95

5.25″ x 8″ (13.335 x 20.32 cm)
Black & White on Cream paper
222 pages
ISBN-13: 978-0615985466 (Custom)
ISBN-10: 0615985467
BISAC: Fiction / Fantasy / Dark Fantasy
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.

Bumping Noses & Cherry Pie by Charie D. La Marr

•April 23, 2015 • Leave a Comment


The Bloody Book Blogger

Bumping Noses and Cherry Pie [Kindle Edition]
By – Charie D. La Marr


What is Circuspunk?
Circuspunk is a new sub-genre of punk/bizarro literature scene created by Charie D. La Marr aka Persiphone Hellecat aka Kotton Kandy — a former professional clown. The genre includes stories that take place in circuses, carnivals, midways, sideshows and also includes stories of birthday party clowns, freaks, magicians, circus animals and costumed characters. With some elements taken from her experiences in the world of clowns (she won’t tell which are true and which aren’t) the genre is a blend of truth and fantasy that takes in the usual bizarro mixture of fun, sex, satire and splatter. Also included in the genre are dark stories, Lovecraftian stories, noir stories and other variations and combinations of contemporary literary genre.

COULROPHOBIA: The fear of clowns

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Best of RAGE (2008-2014)

•April 22, 2015 • Leave a Comment

“If you’ve never had a chance to read the Reverend Rage’s work before this is the perfect opportunity. This contains a lot of novella’s and they explore the dark and gritty side of human nature. The best of these are the brutal Bible tales. These are tales that take key figures of the Bible and give them a darker harder edge. These are novella’s that are for those that like their fiction dark and edgy. If you’re a fan of Rev then you know what you’re getting into and for those who don’t think of it it as a chance to explore something dark and just a bit beyond you’re comfort zone. I can’t tell you what each and every novella is about but I can tell you that the Rev takes key elements from the Bible, and even the black plague and gives them a darker and more urban edge. These are tales infested with sex and perversion but just at the surface is Rev’s knack of storytelling. What he writes about fits into the elements of the story so what may appear shocking to us is just another day in the life of these characters.

The book itself weighs in at about 365 pages and is chock full of photos and illustrations. Morbid has put a lot of work into making this as pleasing to the eyeballs as possible. It seems as if Morbid is on the verge of breaking out and Pills In A Little Cup Gray Scale is a great addition to the growing list of titles that Morbid is putting out. The Rev has been around for a long time and now with this massive collection you get a chance to see what you’ve been missing. Is Rev insane? Depraved? Disturbing? Maybe, but it’s all about perspective. Rev is a writer after all and he explores avenues that mere mortals usually don’t tread. For fans of bizarro, and horror this is a must read.





Project Summary

Pills-in-a-Little-Cup: GrayScale Version

Authored by Reverend Steven Rage, Steven Scott Nelson

List Price: $12.95
6″ x 9″ (15.24 x 22.86 cm)
Black & White on Cream paper
356 pages
ISBN-13: 978-1496028136 (CreateSpace-Assigned)
ISBN-10: 1496028139
BISAC: Fiction / Fantasy / Dark Fantasy

~ New from MorbidbookS: Where Everything Bleeds, comes an instant collector’s specimen and a certain stunner. 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.~



“To say this book is disturbing is an understatement…”

•April 21, 2015 • Leave a Comment


Your Print Copy Is Lonely and Waiting for Rescue!

Your Print Copy Is Lonely and Waiting for Rescue!

“Like nothing you’ve read before”

on April 18, 2015, FOR:

 Review: Laugh To Death With the topic of episode 113 of horror addicts being Bizarro fiction I’ve got a couple of works of literature that are not your average reads:

Salero was born into a family of circus performers. They were all acrobats but Salero decided to go against the family’s wishes and become a clown. Salero worked hard and he won the respect of his family and several awards for being a clown. He joined a traveling circus that’s on a tour of America and he is the star of the show, but he doesn’t fit in with the rest of the performers.

Salero is the only one in the circus that travels with his own Italian sports car along with having half a train car as his living quarters. Salero is clown royalty and he is also a serial killer. Not just any serial killer either, he targets young women who have a fear of clowns and he likes to sexually torture them before finishing them off. He makes kids laugh by day and women scream by night and as he travels from town to town he makes sure he covers his tracks. His killing spree may be coming to an end though as two detectives from New Orleans are on the case and closing in.

Laugh To Death by Charie D. La Marr is like no book I’ve read. After spending 9 years as a clown, Charie has started her own genre called Circus Punk and Laugh To Death is as dark as Circus Punk can get. To say this book is disturbing is an understatement. I’ve never read sexual torture scenes that went on for so long. The Sex scenes are so descriptive and so unbelievable that even the most hard-core S and M fan may start squirming. Salero also psychologically tortures his victims as he rapes them which makes this book even more shocking.

When I read a horror novel I usually don’t like it when it’s obvious that the author is going out of his or her way to shock me. In Laugh To Death it’s pretty clear that Charie D. La Marr is pushing the reader to the breaking point and trying to see how much the reader can handle. Though for me unlike other books I’ve read where the point is to shock, I wanted to keep reading this one even though I found myself feeling sick to my stomach. I can’t even describe the most disturbing scenes because I would be embarrassed to write about it, but the writing is so good in this book that I kept on reading.

The story may be pretty thin in Laugh To Death but the complex characters kept me wanting more. Salero may be a sadistic killer but there are some great scenes where the author makes him seem compassionate. It was also interesting finding out what his victims’ feelings are and how they question their own feelings. The two detectives in the story have a lot of great conversations with each other that made this book better.

Despite its flaws, Laugh To Death is a book that has its moments. In particular it gives a detailed glimpse at what a serial killer might be thinking and what the victims might be feeling. Beware though, this book is 436 pages and I would say 70 percent of it is describing brutal torture scenes. I think this book could have been better with a little less description and if it was a 100 pages shorter. That being said I would love to read more books by Charie D. La Marr in the future.


“He didn’t bother to undress—merely unzipping his pants and shrugging them down before dropping on top of her and entering her fiercely. His grunts as he thrust hard into her were loud and vulgar. She struggled and writhed violently beneath him.
“No! You will not move. You say I am a fucking clown, and so I will be. And I will fuck you until I can fuck you no more. And when I am done, perhaps I will take you down to the cattle car and watch while the other clowns fuck you one by one until you are so full that their juices run down your thighs. You will learn to show respect for me. For my art and my craft.”

Pinning her hands to the bed, he entered her quickly and roughly. She screamed and spit in his face. He slapped her again and left her ear ringing as he wiped the spittle from her face and continued to pound her hard and fast.
“You hate clowns? Well you have a clown inside of you right now. How does that feel? A fucking clown is raping you and he’ll continue to do it until it pleases him to stop.”



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.

…… End of Excerpt.

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