For All The Marbles
Dark and twisted tales of exquisite violence, rough tricks, narcotics consumption, evil ghosts and drug-snuffling demons. Short stories from the Most Depraved Writer in Print. Recognize.
still demented after all these years, September 18, 2011
This review is from: For All The Marbles (Paperback)
as always, rage remains dark, demented, deranged, disturbing, dysfunctional, disquieting, demonic, diabolical, disrespectful, dirty, dangerously disruptive and all sorts of unwholesome descriptive adjectives. as always, i can not recommend him to absolutely EVERYBODY. his writing is for those who don't mind taking a trip into the darkest of dark recesses of our so-called civilization. he graphically explores and picks apart the ugly underbelly of society where drug abuse and nasty sex and demons lurk in every unkempt corner. my review for this little book will be similar to my reviews of a few of his others....because rage is still a sick and twisted little dude with a knack for telling disgusting, disturbing tales of human refuse and social debris. these 3 tales are all pure steven rage. over 3/4 of the book is a novella called You Morbid Westphal, which i already read....and i'll admit i may not have purchased this book if i'd known i already read 3/4 of it....but that's not a reflection on the story....it's a very good 4-star story on its own (my review of it is here on amazon). it's just that i already did it. but once i had this book, i figured 'what the hell/why not?' and i reread it. it was worth a reread! i enjoyed it the second time! as i've said in other reviews, rage has an intelligence in his writing, and an almost poetic cadre and feel to his sick, demented prose. he knows his modern street venacular and is proficient in medical and hospital procedures. i believe he has worked in a hospital before. sure, his books are sick and twisted, but he has a vivid and graphic imagination....and most of all, amid the sleaze, he is a talented writer. i would never make a steady diet of this bizarro fiction genre, but i do like to dive into the deep & dirty end of the pool sometimes as a break...a departure from the norms in literature. once again rage has delivered a respectable collection of 3 morbid, disturbing, disgusting tales that are sure to darken your spirit and abandon your hope for mankind. there is only one steven rage (thank god)...but also be thankful we do have the one and only. it's a sick world out there. but don't run away from it. embrace it with all its dysfunction. there are lots of demons, drugs, whores, sex, disasters and everything you need to get thru your day in this book.
and again, if you already read You Morbid Westphal, you may not need to get this book.....but if you haven't, this book stands quite well as a 4-star bizarro fiction carnival of depravity.
My Last Meal and Testament:
The Tourney officials organized the BINGO Cabaret and Mixer for us tournament players and volunteers. It was being held in the fancy-schmancy grand ballroom of the Bogota resort. It’s always a first-class wing-a-ding, and this year’s was no exception.
I was waiting in my hotel room. I was smoking a nice, fat, complimentary joint while receiving some complimentary head from a re-animated corpse. Although she was cold and blue and not much of a conversationalist, the formerly-living did suck one Hell of a good dick.
Now that the chamber of my geriatric love gun has been emptied, I could finish getting ready. The honor bar was unlocked. Inside were pills and powders and tiny syringes of clear fluids galore. They were all labeled by name, as well as action. I was trying to decide what all I wanted to imbibe. I was getting frustrated at all the choices. Usually, the only drugs I saw were the ones other people were doing. I racked my memory banks, but it had been so long, I don’t even recall what I used to like, besides weed. So, I chose the pragmatic route and took them all. I tossed a few random pills down my gullet. I laid out some of the powders and snorted them with a rolled Note until I started feeling really strange. I looked in the mirror and could hardly see my reflection. Between the drugs kicking in and my cataracts, my vision was seriously flawed. I saw my vague reflection morph into two and then I knew I was ready to go. I left my room and headed to the grand ballroom. When I got there, the Mixer was already in full swing.
It was a wonderful collection of the freaky and deranged. I could see that they had a cabaret show going full bore up on the main stage. On two side stages, amongst too many manned mini-bars to count, the fetish proms were located. Full humans, Halflings, Pit Demons, ghosts of the damned and the formerly-living zombies were filling up the ballroom. Folks were suspended from hooks piercing the flesh of their backs, spinning with their heads thrown back, in big circles above the crowd. A bright red demon girl with fake heavenly angel’s wings walked around, offering quick injections to the party-goers. The demon girl called the shots ‘angel kisses’. Judging from the animated reactions of the injected, the ‘angel kisses’ housed some really killer speed.
I was anticipating a kiss myself when my progress was thwarted. A huge bouncer type motherfucker stood as an impenetrable wall of blue and green scales. He looked at me with his giant yellow lizard eyes, having scanned my wrist. I started walking into to the festive fiesta and the bouncer stopped me cold.
“You not going in, Mr. Farr,” he growled. His breath smelled like fermenting piss.
“The fuck I’m not, Gargan!” I told him, right to his pierced nipples. Lizard-boy hadn’t a clue what I had to do to get here. There was no way he was going to stop me, no matter how big he was. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not brave. I’m not the rough and tumble type, but this gigantic ass clown was not going to keep Orlyn Farr from getting down on the get-down. I was bunching up, waiting for shit to escalate when he deflated me in an instant. Instead of answering, the behemoth handed me a note. It was handwritten on fancy, pricey parchment. I already knew who it was from, so I stepped out of line and opened the note. It read:
My Dear Mr. Farr,
I apologize for keeping you from the public festivities. You must understand,
Sir, I have a rather large investment in you, as per our agreement.
I cannot allow any public indiscretions, nor can I take any chances on you
getting injured or ill. I must insist you return to your hotel room, where a
private party is being prepared for you. If you do not comply, you will
automatically forfeit your portion of our contract, and you will be remanded
for an immediate opt-out.
Well, shitballs. Having no choice, I turned on heel to go back to my room. Once there, I went inside and saw that the cabaret had come to me.
A pretty young zombie man greeted me at the door. He stuck a needle in my thigh. I began smiling uncontrollably for the rest of the evening. We walked around the mostly zombie party.
They weren’t interested in eating or drinking, slugging or drugging, so there was more of everything than I could ever consume. But I gave it my best shot.
When I finally passed out, hours later, my testicles hurt from overuse and my head was swimming and spinning. I vomited most of the real animal flesh I’d gluttoned down.
The zombie boy helped me get into the big, comfortable, oversized bed. His cold kiss is the last thing I recalled.
The next day at high noon, the BINGO tournament began.
“The older I grow, the more I value Pawns.”