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The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

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Morbid's Big Date! new from FuknPunch.
By The Grim Reverend Steven Rage
Tuesday, November 09, 2010

Rated "R" by the Author.

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From "You Morbid Westphal"

 

“Morbid’s Big Date!” new from FuknPunch. (warning: hardcore)

Posted: November 9, 2010 by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage in Bizarro, Extreme Fiction,

  
 
Hey kids! It's time once again for "FuknPunch", the Unemployed Child Care Clown" far-out fiction sample!
 
 
Call it aftermath, she’s turning blue
Such a lovely color for you
Call it aftermath, she’s turning blue
While I just sit and stare at you

BLUE” – A Perfect Circle
 
Morbid stayed put until Westphal’s resuscitators vanished down the hall of Harborside District Hospital. He made damned sure they were far from the room before leaving his impromptu womb. Morbid waited inside his body, deep down in the gastro-intestinal tract, curled up in Westphal’s stomach.
God, he couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of this junkie loser piece of shit and now it was time. Imagine: trying to commit suicide like he was a fifteen year-old girl who was just dumped by the star quarterback. Jesus, Westphal was such a fucking pansy.
He stretched open the esophagus and slowly crept carefully past the breathing tube sitting securely in his trachea. The mouth was taped all to fuck, so Morbid was forced to seek the exit through Westphal’s nose, specifically the left nare. He squeezed ever so painful slow out of his nose, almost choking the new life out of himself in the process, but made all the way out.
He then sat
cross-legged and winded on Westphal’s chest, trying to catch his breath, taking the air in mellow and deep, thinking now only of her. Westphal may not be allowed to see her, but Morbid can do whatever he pleases and God help anyone trying to stop him.
She was all that remained, all he had left to accomplish before the three of them came together and commenced the final act of their atrocious play.
After placing Shirk’s syringe down in one of Westphal’s pockets, Morbid climbed off of him, over the bed rail and went again into the bathroom. Time bent its back in its unending circle, this time to clean the vomit and snot instead of fecal filth off of him.
Morbid cleaned as quickly and as thoroughly as his limited time allowed. He untied Westphal’s physical retraints and turned the intravenous sedation down way low. Morbid will need Westphal awake soon. Once he was, the junkie-fuck will know just where to go and just what to get. And then Morbid will let him know what he must do to square his debts and balance the books.
Having accomplished his self-cleaning and prepping Westphal, Morbid had his own agenda to satisfy, and fuck me was she gonna get the full-pull, I shit you not.
 
When your done fucking around with lame, stale bullshit horror, READ RAGE.
 
Morbid was all ready to seek out his quarry. He went to the door to Westphal’s hospital room, opened it just a touch, and looked carefully all around, making sure the coast was clear. After making sure it was so, Morbid crept down the long empty hospital corridor with one of your useless IV bag poles dragging behind him.
Whenever he encountered a staff member he made sure he looked strong on his feet, but mumbled nonsense to himself. The staff smiled absently at him, resuming their focus on whatever brought them his way.
He found her room, way down at the end of the long hall. He pretended to take a
long drink at the water fountain there, waiting for a couple of technicians to quit yapping about their respective weekend exploits and move the fuck on. When they finally did, Morbid was at her door and finally alone. After spying no one about, he spun into her room.
Mrs. Fussbudget lay sleeping. He was so very happy to see her again.
Leave her alone.
Morbid knew, without a doubt; that she wouldn’t be.
Please, make him leave her alone.
Morbid saw the old woman, lying still and unmoving in her hospital bed. She was completely alone, no relatives anywhere to be seen. Since Westie got shit-canned from her room, they all thought that their precious grand-mama was as safe as a virgin in a nunnery. Oh, well: the best laid plans of mice and men.
She had eyes closed, a tube in her throat. Mrs. Fussbudget’s face was soft, sleeping peacefully. She was recovering marvelously now, her breathing triggering the machine, augmenting her placid flow of air.
The vast network of deep wrinkles attested to her longevity, her hard fought time on this
Earth. They ran from under salt and pepper wig. Morbid longed to touch them, to run his fingertips down through the grooves. He wanted to trace them down from her eyes to her cheeks and further to the jowls. Follow them down to her blow-hole and circle it around, around again and around.
Instead, he just stared at her. Morbid thought she was just lovely. He was tempted to rush in, but not yet. Not before it’s perfect. Morbid must first ready himself.
He went quickly out, while Mrs. Fussbudget was still
snoozing peacefully, and checked the hallway one more time. It was quiet, none about. He re-shut the door to her room and made a bee-line for the bathroom. Morbid shut and locked the door.
The light was so harsh and the mirror unbecoming, but both were necessary. Morbid brought out his small kit. He laid out the vials of powders he got from home, and his multi-dose bottle of
normal saline and a short syringe with its tiny, ultra-sharp needle he took from work.
Morbid knocked out a bit of both white powders, added a third bit of finely ground blue powder, and put them all in a wide-mouthed empty vial. He squirted a couple milliliters of saline onto the three powders, prepping two, maybe even three doses. Morbid sealed the top and shook the holy hell out of it.
Morbid knew the potent mixture would not completely dissolve and there was no time or opportunity to provide the melting powers of heat. Instead, he rolled up a ‘two-by-two’ clean gauze pad and stuffed it into the opening of the mixture vial.
Morbid removed the cap and stuck the needle into the impromptu filter. He pulled back on the plunger, sucking up
light blue liquid into the syringe. Then he turned back to face the mirror and the bright light.
Morbid shook with longing. He knew Mrs. Fussbudget lay sleeping and waiting. He needed to step it up a bit. He opened up his mouth wide, lifted the furry fungoid tongue. Morbid saw the blue veins, leaning into the mirror. Morbid slid the sharp needle under his tongue, through the pink flesh and into a waiting vein. Morbid pushed in his medicine. He pulled out the needle, held his head back.
Here comes the train…
With ears ringing and doll eyes growing, Morbid packed up his goody bag. He worked through the rush, humming through his noise, happily swallowing blood, the horrible pain fading, crawling back under its rock. He put all the necessaries neatly away and was ready to do the light fandango, takes two to tango, dance of morbid love.
He turned off the light and left the bathroom, closed the door.
She was still sleeping as he came to her.
“Mrs. Fussbudget,” Morbid whispered in quiet honey croon. His jingling fingers a-tingly, “I just want you to taste me.”
She awoke and blessed Morbid with a quickly fading smile. She vigorously shook her head in the negative, reaching for the nurse call button.
“Looking for this?” Morbid asked her, holding it just out of her reach.
Mrs. Fussbudget began to cry and the way she defiantly balled up her arthritic fists made Morbid joyfully soar on eagle’s wings.
He showed her what he held in his other hand. It was a big
suction hose line and the negative pressure was sucking on full. Morbid, with a viper’s speed, attached the suction to Mrs. Fussbudget’s open trachea tube and began to suck the life right out of her.
“I think I love you, madam,” he admitted to her as she punched and flailed at him with all of her might. “I’m going to show you just how much.”
Mrs. Fussbudget finally quit flailing and carrying on so. She was turning blue and cold and still. Morbid removed the suction from her airway.
With one quick tug of the string, his scrubs dropped to the floor.
“Now that you decided to behave yourself,” he told her, “we can begin.”
Morbid lifted himself up over the rail and into Mrs. Fussbudget’s bed. He lifted her gown. He ran his fingers upward. Morbid was glad that she was still warm. He began to work her over.
Oh my God, you sick fuck.
 
 REVIEW: 5.0 out of 5 stars “Fascinating and scary”, June 20, 2010
By Ray Dittmeier (Louisville, KY) – See all my reviews
(REAL NAME)  This review is from:You Morbid Westphal (Paperback)
 
 
 
  
“This is a short book; you could read it in a single sitting, as I did–twice. Even so, Reverend Rage somehow manages to give us a story that has the scope of a full-blown novel without skimping anywhere. It’s fascinating, scary, out-and-out repulsive at times, and even amusing in a few places. (I love Sammy, the crusty old ghost-dad who lives with Westphal.)
The book tells an intricate story, dark and gritty and bizarre–I don’t know if Rage claims them as influences, but it makes me think of Chuck Palahniuk and Philip K. Dick collaborating on a horror novel–set in a world of drug dealers, prostitutes, porn producers and otherworldly beings. This world, as well as the story, is well-realized and full of the kind of detail that makes it feel authentic. Everything is extremely vivid.
Westphal, the central character, is a drug-addicted loser who’s just one screw-up away from losing his job at a hospital, and who finds he’s gotten in over his head with his drug dealer. In fact, I would imagine most of us know, or have known, at least one Westphal in real life. There’s much more to it than that, but talking more about the various threads and themes in the story would be running the risk of giving away spoilers.
Suffice to say it’s a story full of imagination and weirdness, a story that invites you to give a little thought to what it takes to maintain some control over your life, and to take a look at your capacity for good and evil. “
 
 
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