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The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

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Belly: A Brutal Bible Tale
By The Grim Reverend Steven Rage
Wednesday, December 08, 2010

Rated "R" by the Author.

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This is the follow-up to "PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale" and takes place about 3 years later...

 

"BELLY: A Brutal Bible Tale"

 

 

 

 

 

 

“BELLY: A Brutal Bible Tale” KINDLE, 2010 — SYNOPSIS: Immanuel the Christ has some nerve…
Please Note: The Grim Reverend Steven Rage’s literary assaults contain graphic violence,
 
“BELLY” Synopsis:
Immanuel the Christ has some nerve. Jonah has already lost everyone he loves to Pilate the vampire and his Harbor drug violence. Jonah now trudges through his days staying as high on Plata as possible. He just wants to be left alone while he waits for his turn to die.
The Christ has other plans for him. She sends Her messenger, Pedro, to assign Jonah the very dangerous task of ordering the Herod to dismantle the Harbor’s Plata trade. Jonah has a choice: fight or flight. He decides to run. But you can’t run from God forever. As Jonah learns the hard way when the ‘
Edmund Fitzgerald‘ founders and goes down in rough seas, with the reluctant prophet on board.
Job is Satan’s Chosen One and he doesn’t take kindly to orders from some upstart prophet. Rather than acquiescing, Job thinks caving Jonah’s head in with a tire iron is the best bet. Jonah finds himself out of the frying pan, but firmly fixed in the fire. Then the Lord Herself starts dispatching Job’s children. One at a time, until the Herod of The Harbor finally obeys.
—end synopsis—
Chapter Six
illicit drug use, non-consensual extreme sex, and potentially offensive material given the religious references. Be forewarned! Brutal Bible Tales are not for the faint of heart. NC-17. These are NOT your parents’ bible stories. Our hapless prophet gets his marching orders:
The steaming hot water pelted Jonah’s naked skin. He was sitting on the floor of his own shower, at home in Big City. Of that much he was sure.
Jonah stood gingerly, assessing as he rose. Jonah started with his feet. There were bruises on the tops of his feet and those were nicely matched by a motley bunch that rose all the way up to his deeply bruised ribs. Jonah moved just a touch and the pain sprouted like cancer. He dropped back onto his butt with a water-squash thump.
Jonah hugged his fucked ribs and choked out a bawl. Blood drops flew from his split swollen lips. Jonah’s tongue was mostly numb. A dead-nerved bit hung off the main body like a chunky comma. Despite this his tongue could easily still feel Jonah’s broken front teeth.
Jonah’s dead daddy, Amittai, paid a lot of money so his privileged ass could have perfectly straight and white teeth. They were the choppers of a televangelist and pastor. Jonah was being groomed to work with his very successful papa in the ministry.
If my dad could see me now, Jonah thought. Well, I’m just glad he could not.
Jonah probed his teeth and counted seven of the busted fuckers. Seven of his perfect camera-ready teeth were broken and ragged from that kid’s gun.
Jonah recalled it being shoved into his mouth, past his teeth –through- his teeth. Then the gunshot that should have killed Jonah just the same as the previous two should have, but it didn’t.
Now why was that, Jonah wondered.
Jonah clearly recollected being shot three times. The sounds, the deafening blasts and then he went wonderfully, thankfully blank. Which garners the obvious question which had just occurred to him, namely, why the fuck was he still alive and how in the holy hell did Jonah manage to make it back home?
Jonah was sitting there in the shower remembering the night. His usual guy was being processed into County and was looking at serious prison. All Plata still flows from The Harbor so Jonah thought he’d go to the source, just this once. Jonah planned on buying enough weight to hold his ass over until he can hook up with some new dealer in Big City. The Plata trade here was somewhat civilized. Unlike The Harbor where it was still the wild fucking west. He had found out first hand.
The shadow of something large came into view. Jonah watched with new fear as it reached for the shower door. A huge hand poked through the shower curtain and turned it off. Jonah gasped and backed his ass up to the tiled wall. A face appeared and peeked in at him. It was the big man with the long chin shit from The Harbor. He’s the one who seemed like he knew Jonah. Then the dude disappeared faster than modesty on Ecstasy.
“My name is Pedro. Get dressed,” the stranger told Jonah. “Meet me in your living room. We have a matter to discuss.” Pedro added, “I told you I’d see you later.”
Jonah sat for a moment puzzled. He did not fear the big stranger. He saw the dealer get killed. He saw the stranger appear and then he disappeared. He saw the pick move on its own accord. The big motherfucker must have killed him. No one else could have.
That means I am still breathing because of this stranger. Jonah felt that he should at least thank Pedro. If he had meant Jonah any harm it would have already been done.
Jonah finished towel-drying and went into his adjacent bedroom. He pulled himself on a pair of oversized faded jeans, a wife-beater and a warm Big City Staleys football sweatshirt. Jonah opened a drawer and grabbed a pair of socks and there she was: Plata.
The dead dealer’s bag of Plata was cleaned of Jonah’s feces and lay smiling right there in front of him. And the drugs were sitting right next to the ten grams worth of cash Jonah took into The Harbor to procure said same. Certainly a few pieces of dog shit had to die for Jonah to get both drug and green, but hey, score.
Fuck them, Jonah thought. His eyes were gleaming now at the money and the Plata. Yes. Fuck them all.
Jonah whistled low and under his breath. He couldn’t think of any reason why he should have to deal with all this shit sober as a judge.
Jonah carefully spilled a sample onto the dresser. He looked closely at it and saw at once why so many niggas were on his shit for this particular bag of dope. Jonah rolled a disposable lighter over the Plata and it crackled hard. That meant that it was barely cut. It was maybe even uncut. He’d never had virgin shit before.
Jonah carved out two smallish lines. He was thinking that the dead dealer’s salable shit was elsewhere. It’s only by blind luck that Jonah happened upon a courier bag and that dead motherfucker should not have had it. He was probably intending on carving a bit and stepping the hell out of it. Selling the cut-up version to keep all for his own self, the sneaky bastard. He just got caught up with the corner more than likely. If that junkie wasn’t so busy crying about his weak sack he would have kept on going to someplace quiet and private to take his piece off the top.
No wonder he was so pissed and quick to pull out his gun. If the street dealer would have been caught by his superiors stealing, his goose would have been for sure cooked.
Fortunately for Jonah, he lived in Big City and only went to The Harbor on a whim. No one there knew his name or where he lived. Except the huge fucker what was waiting for Jonah in his living room. But if that dude was part of any drug crew he would have killed Jonah. No question. He would’ve taken the Plata and the money and damn if they weren’t both here.
Jonah decided it was past time for a personal taste test. He plucked up a length of drinking straw. Jonah blasted up the two lines. Right away he knew his guess was correct and this shit was intended to be stepped on a gaggle of times more before reaching the corner dope shop junkie customers. The Plata was better than any Jonah has ever had. That’s with even paying the premium prices. He closed his eyes, smiling. Jonah realized with a quick heft in his hand he must have either side of an ounce. He had close to 30 grams of essentially pure uncut Plata.
And sweet Jesus was it good. This Plata rush made Jonah grab the dresser for support. It tickle-teased his brain; like the soft tongue of a sweet angel licking the underside of Jonah’s cock.
Aye, Dios mio, he thought.
Jonah glanced up from the dresser and caught his lank dirty haired reflection in the mirror. A couple years growth of unwashed hair and a few weeks worth of scraggly beard fit like puzzle pieces to Jonah’s shrunken cheeks and haunted eyes. He smiled feral and his busted grill completed the picture of a worn out homeless street addict. Jonah is thankful that he is not, despite his slovenly appearance, homeless.
Thanks to his father’s foresight, Ammitai’s few hundred thousand in life insurance, investments and the post-probate like went to Jonah. His father still posthumously sold his books on the forthcoming Rapture and the Tribulation to follow fairly well. The royalties also, all went to him. Which meant that even though Jonah is a junkie, he’s a fairly well off junkie, his one hundred dollar a day Plata habit was covered. The monster was regularly fed. He was killing himself, but he was financially secure. Jonah’s cup is half full.
Jonah’s reflection regarded him like a failing grade on an important exam. He decided to ignore the mirror and its accusations. He left the bedroom to go and greet his benefactor. Jonah brought some of the potent Plata along for the ride.
Pedro stood tall, waiting for Jonah in the living room. The place had been dusty and cluttered since he moved in after everyone had passed. It was just Jonah and the monkey on his back. The two were drifting through the days as high as possible. Jonah was just waiting for his turn to die.
It smelled sour in the East LakeShore 700 square foot co-operative that Jonah had also inherited from his father. A frosty breeze blew in from a window that Pedro had opened to dissipate the stench.
“It’s unhealthy in here,” stated Pedro.
“Maybe,” Jonah replied, “but I’m cold.” He hugged myself and moved over shivering to the window. “I don’t dig being cold.”
“Then move down south to the desert,” suggested Pedro, “but for now,” the big motherfucker said, puffing up, “leave it be.”
Jonah stopped and considered the mass of motherfucker standing before him. He wisely let it go.
“Alright,” Jonah acquiesced, “since you saved my ass back there in The Harbor, I do owe you that.” Jonah went back over to the couch, dropping some more Plata on a well-used ceramic platter. “But I don’t care how fucking scary you are… and indeed you are, but that’s all you’re going to get from me.”
Pedro chuckled at the balls on Jonah the little junkie-fuck. Pedro wondered where he got the stones from and if he could back up his mouth. Pedro could not figure out what the Christ saw in Jonah. He said: “I saved your life and carried you home.” He regarded Jonah chopping up some dope. “I even brought back your tits and washed them off,” indicating the Plata Jonah sliced into thin lines. He snorted up one. “Just so you’d have a something pretty to suck on.”
Jonah lifted his head from the Plata, pinching back a sneeze. He was feeling good and stupid brave now.
“Thank you very fucking much,” Jonah replied sarcastically and added: “Now if you can only fix my grill.”
“Sure thing,” Pedro said as easy as pie. And the pain, sure and fierce, crowded Jonah’s mouth like an expanding fist.
Jonah cried out. He got up and bounced the walls of the hallway back to the bathroom. The pain of an all at once teething parted the veil of Plata and made itself screamingly known.
Jonah removed his hands from his mouth. At first he expected to see a vomit of blood and dentistry because it hurt so much. Instead Jonah discovered that he now had a mouthful of his original teeth. In the mirror the teeth glared back at him. They were un-straightened and unbleached.
Jonah stretched wide his lips and opened wide his mouth. There were no fillings or crowns to be seen. Nothing manufactured was in his mouth. The teeth were solid and strong. They were off-white and fairly crooked. They were the teeth Jonah was given when born.
Jonah finished rinsing out his mouth. The pain began to subside. He turned off the bathroom light and left. Jonah went back to Pedro to ask him about it. This was some crazy shit.
Jonah went back to the living room and resumed his spot on the couch. He asked the man.
“God always leaves you with a way to recall his Grace,” Pedro told him. “See?” He showed Jonah the lumpy purple jugular scars on both sides caused by years of hardcore Plata shooting in his neck. This was way back, years ago, before Immanuel had rescued him. Before he became Her favorite disciple, leader of the Apostles and the Rock on which Immanuel’s church was built. He pointed to the old scars of his long-dead life and said: “These here scars are mine.” He pointed to Jonah and his new, old teeth, “and those are yours.”
Jonah sat back on the couch and thought.
“Go ahead,” Pedro encouraged, “ask me your big question”
“Okay,” Jonah replied, sitting forward. “Why am I not dead?”
Pedro looked to Jonah with no smile.
“I was shot to death,” he said, “Three fucking times, buddy. I am supposed to be dead. I know this. I mean I’m obviously,” Jonah continued, gesturing to himself and then the Plata sitting before him, “all fucked up, but I’m not that far gone.”
“You were shot, but you aren’t dead because you have yet to serve your purpose, Jonah,” explained Pedro, “She will not let you die. Not until you have played your small part in Her Father’s grand scheme.”
Jonah stared at Pedro, trying to digest it. He nodded a little I see, but clearly he didn’t. Not at the time.
“What purpose?” Jonah asked, “What part could I possibly have in this grand scheme?” He leaned forward and began furiously chopping, “What kind of bullshit scam are you trying to run on me, man?”
Pedro moved closer and told him: “The Lord needs you,” he explained, “She needs you to labor for Her.”
“What exactly, big scary guy, do you want from me?”
“She needs you to speak to the Herod. She wants you to tell him that he must repent and amend his ways. He needs to stop the evil that he controls and he needs to do this immediately.” Pedro stepped calmly yet closer. “You need to tell him. You need to make him understand that if he does not, he and his shall perish. That everyone and everything he holds most dear shall be utterly destroyed.”
That little statement made Jonah stop his chopping. He stared open-mouthed at Pedro. “Speak to Herod? What the fuck is a Herod?”
“Herod is the king of The Harbor’s drug trade,” Pedro replied and pointed to the Plata on the coffee table. “He controls what you have before you. She wants it stopped.”
“Let me see if I got this straight,” Jonah said, “You want me to deliver a message to the motherfucker that runs The Harbor’s Plata trade? You want me to tell him to stop?”
“Yes.”
“And if he doesn’t you want me to threaten him.”
“Yes.”
“To tell him that all his shit’s gonna crash and burn if he doesn’t stop selling all those gosh-darned drugs.”
“Again,” Pedro said, “Yes.”
“You are talking about The Harbor, the place I just came from, right?” Jonah asked, getting more and more agitated by the minute. All of those horrible memories, that’s why he tries to drown them out with prodigious use of Plata. “Well, fuck that shit. I cannot go back there, no way. I won’t.”
“You won’t have to go there,” Pedro told me. “The Herod will be coming here to Big City. In fact,” he continued, “The king will very soon be a mere stone’s throw away.” Pedro pulled a small folded piece of paper from his pocket and placed it on the table before Jonah.
He unfolded it and saw an address Jonah could practically walk to, but that didn’t mean two slippery-shits to him. “Well that’s sure convenient,” Jonah loudly retorted, “but I’m still not going.”
“You must do what Immanuel wishes,” Pedro stared blankly.
“I don’t think you get me,” looking up Jonah replied, “it doesn’t matter where you want me to go, man. No matter what you say it’s still The fucking Harbor, okay? You can’t ask me to do this. I won’t! Don’t you understand? I lost everything there. Everyone that I love, you get me? And now you want me to go see the king of that place just because he’s going to be up the block?”
“You must go,” Pedro told Jonah. “The Lord commands it. Immanuel Herself commands it.”
“Oh, Immanuel commands it? Like that means anything to me. Besides, didn’t she get her little preacher ass tortured and killed three years ago?”
“Yes,” agreed Pedro, “But She has risen from the grave. She has triumphed over Death. She is truly the Son of God,” and Pedro leaned in closer to me, “She insists that you obey. And I advise you to be smart and hear ye Her.”
Jonah stared hard at Pedro. He couldn’t believe what the dude was saying.
Hear ye Her? Is he for real? Some fucking living dead girl is ordering me to go into the snake pit and just because this big fucker says so, I should do it. Oh, hell no! I ain’t that fucked up.
Jonah started to laugh. Like a nervous reaction, he couldn’t help or stop myself. Pedro looked like he was getting pissed off and that made Jonah laugh all the harder at the absurdity of it all.
Jonah bent to the coffee table, still laughing. He finished railing out his lines, trying to get back on track. Jonah snorted one up each side, trying to keep his laughing fit from blowing out the Plata.
“Look at you all official and shit,” Jonah said to Pedro who didn’t seem to like this one little bit. “In that case tell your Lord that my official response is no.” He leaned back feeling the new Plata work magic on him. Jonah scratched at phantom itchy kisses at the base of his skull, laughing the more, “Hell, no!” he reiterated. “What the fuck you thinking, of course my answer is no. Shit,” Jonah continued, “in fact, you can trot your ass back to wherever it is you come from, hombre. Tell the little bitch that she can bese mi culo. Tell her she can go fuck herself,” he said, staring, “Twice.”
Jonah bent to start working on another few lines. He wanted to obliterate this whole, awful ordeal.
Pedro simply stared at the little wreck of a man, this would-be prophet.
Darkening.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Reviewed by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage 10/31/2011
thank you, what a nice compliment!!
Reviewed by Nickolaus Pacione 10/30/2011
this is really demented man.


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