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The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

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BELLY: A Brutal Bible Tale
Thursday, June 11, 2009  4:22:00 PM

by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage



Horror
Note: This book contains graphic violence, illicit drug use, non-consensual extreme sex, and potentially offensive material given the religious references.

Chapter One

 

                                                               JONAH I

 

Run rabbit.  Run like hell.

      

 

The blood that blossomed from the center of his chest was only a trickle when it should have been a torrent.  The sharpened ice pick stuck there quivered like a plucked piano chord.  The dealer eyed the plastic dirty duct taped handle, then the emaciated junkie bitch that had just stabbed him.  The fiend still crowed about his weak shorted sack whilst the dealer grasped the pick with his strong hand.  He tugged fiercely, but it would not budge.  The ice pick was buried in the hard bone of his sternum.  He should have been grateful.  Two inches to the left and there would be one less nigga in The Harbor.

            No matter how hard the dealer tried it would not pull free.  The dealer was staring at it, getting more and more frustrated at the bone encased ice pick.  The fiend’s pealing was getting on his tits and that was a problem he could solve.  The dealer let go of the ice pick and a hidden snub-nose emerged from his waistband.  He pointed it at the whiny little bitch and made the angry spewing face vaporize in an instant red fog.  It was finally quiet enough to think, the loud fuck.

            As if on cue everybody ran but a long greasy-haired me.  “Shouldn’t even be here,” I mumbled. 

The shaken dealer having heard yet another motherfucker open his pie hole turned and pointed the hot muzzle at me.  My face paled.  Too frightened to move I shit myself.  I was going to die right here, right in the very last place I wanted to be.  I found myself staring at a loaded gun pointing bleak and hard into me.

            The dealer fired point blank into my chest.  I felt the concussion shove me away.  I folded my shoulders to each other and collapsed backwards onto the walk.  Another customer standing beside me made a dumb move on the dealer; the snub-nose stopping him dead in his tracks.  Pieces of junkie speckled the others, dying as he fell.

            My chest was bloodless and clean.  I searched the front of my torso and found nothing.  I couldn’t believe it.  There were no wounds of any kind; not one.  I looked up a grinning fool relieved.  The dealer was not amused.  And my smile lasted not long.

            The dealer seeing me unscathed stepped up again.  This time the dealer dropped to one knee to get closer to me and pressed the smoking muzzle to my shiny-slick forehead.  It hissed where it touched my sweaty fearful skin.  He pulled the trigger and my bowels erupted again.  The smell of fear and waste was thick fudgey-goo, but I remained alive and unmolested.

            The dealer stood and stepped back.  Confusion smeared across his sweating face as he stared at his smoking gun trying to determine why I was still standing while the other junkie lay dead at his feet. 

The dealer’s face then contorted from confusion to unquenchable pain as the chest-buried ice pick moved all on its own.  As if grasped by an invisible hand the pick burrowed deeper fast into the sternum with a sloppy crunch.  Then a quick snap handle right.  The sharp point tore into heart muscle ripping great blood vessels as it traveled, stopping suddenly.

            Blood drained wide from the dealer’s face as his chest filled with the blood that was supposed to feed his brain.  Silent, he fell and all was quiet.  For about six and a half seconds the dealer was a dropped stone.  He folded in a crumpled heap right next to this stunned dude.

            I was then in the dead man’s pockets as if by rote without thinking.  The rest of the fiends standing close by followed suit, but not before I was able to procure a healthy sack.  It contained dealer weight and probably shouldn’t be in his pocket.

            Not one to look a motherfucker in the mouth I pushed the free dope down by my nuts and turned to run.  A big man with long chin braids stood tall before me.  He smiled at me like he knew me.  And man he was a big fucker too.  He seemed like he was waiting for me to say something to him, but I don’t know this apparition.  I blinked and chin-braids was gone.  He dissolved right before my astonished eyes.  Who the hell was that?

            I hear shouting now and decided it would be prudent to quickly get the fuck up out of there.  So, I ran.

            I was out of there in a flash.  I quickly skirted the nearby park, running hard.  I looked over my shoulder, my out of shape breathing making much noise.  The dead dealer’s shorties were hard on my ass.  Skinny fourteen year-olds are fast and these little niggas had guns.  They were gaining on me.

            I glanced behind me and saw the lead shorty raise an auto pistol.  I loosed a girlish squeal and turned left on a dime.  I was ducking and covering my head like the sky was falling.  Chips of brick building peppered my exposed skin, bullets tearing up the wall.  I negotiated another sharp turn.  I exited the park running full bore between two buildings.  I quickly emerged into a residential block of tight two-story houses.

            I leaped a low chain linked fence and landed in a darkened backyard.  The occupants of the still quiet house were long asleep.  My fear was over-ripe and all reason a glimmer, causing me to dive head-first into the occupied doghouse.  The chained animal awoke.  Before I even knew what was what I had the dog’s head twisted all the way back around on itself.  The neck broke hard, but was muffled by the bear-like fur.  I hoped it was quiet enough.  The dog stared over its back at its own tail through dead eyes.  I let loose the dog’s head and set it quiet down.  I had never killed anything in my life, but Jesus shit I was scared.

             I tried to slow my breathing and the ragged noise that came with it.  I hoped I’d outrun my pursuers, but it was not to be.  The shorties were there.  I could hear them moving about.  I closed tight my eyes and bit my knuckles.  I wished desperately to vanish, to will myself away, but I could not.

            After a few fearful moments when I heard not a sound I forced open my eyes.  I stared out the doghouse and up at the night.  No stars out tonight only feet.

            I saw baggy-ass jeans and the way they terminated into a pair of size twelves.  The owner of which began to squat on his haunches.  The auto pistol touched the grass and a young boy’s face appeared sweat-dotted sideways in the doghouse opening.

            The boy smiled at me, not saying a word.  I guess it was interesting to the little dude to see a grown man cry.  I was dragged whimpering from the doghouse by the pair of gun-toting shorties.  They had me by the scruff of my shirt and were pulling me kicking across dew-damp grass beneath a bulging yellow moon.

            The two boys stood over my cowed ass.  A third stopped before the group panting hard.

            “That him?” the new arrival asked as he fought to catch his breath.  They nodded.  “Well,” top dog continued, “put your shit in his mouth.”

            The boy that found me first put the evil auto pistol end to my lips.  “Open up sweetheart,” he told me. 

I responded by uselessly turning my head away.  The other two kicked me viciously in the stomach and my legs.  For fun they stomped my feet.  I exhaled with an involuntary grunt.  The auto slid roughly into my opened mouth with all the finesse of a prison date.

            I turned red.  My eyes bulged impossibly.  My diaphragm was an immobile spasm and the cold metal rattled my expensive dental work.

            “Get the Plata off the fuck and push out his wig,” the top dog ordered.

            The shorty on standby put his weapon on the doghouse and bent to me.  The boy undid the belt.  Then he unbuttoned and unzipped me.  I was flustered and red-faced.  He began to tug my chinos roughly down when they were greeted with fecal assault.  The boy stood and cursed.  He backed away from me and the stink.  Top dog covered his nose and mouth.  He looked to the auto pistol holder.  The boy kept his shit in my mouth, but blinked and coughed.  He appeared to be on the verge of dumping his pork chops.

            “Fuck it,” top dog decided, “Kill the motherfucker.  Then hose his ass off and get the dope.”

            The boy with the auto smiled with relief.  He positioned himself in a straddle-stance and held his shit with both hands.  He was gonna shoot through the front and blow out the back of my head with one clean shot.  No one-handed bent wrist bullshit.  He didn’t want the bullet to angle off through my cheek or jaw.  Straight dome was my due.  My diaphragm finally dropped and filled my lungs with air.  A scream erupted from me as the shorty squeezed the trigger.  As I screamed and cowed the auto pistol bucked, spouted flame and shot a dozen bullets into at me at point blank range.

            My own pitiful scream was the last thing I heard.

 

 

All me shite!!

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