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By The Grim Reverend Steven Rage
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Rated "R" by the Author.
Note: Steven Rage's books contains graphic violence, illicit drug use, non-consensual extreme sex, and potentially offensive material given the religious
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Time once again for "FuknPunch", the "Unemployed Child Care Clown" far-out fiction sample! Today Job embraces his Father Lucifer. Sharp wet pain ensues. Dig it!
Read PILATE on Kindle and on the cheap.
Job was driving and Tacitus
rode shotgun as they made their way out of The Harbor and toward Big City. Ovid
sat in the back on the passenger side. He had with him a carry-all containing tools to get in if needed. The main ones being a tire iron
euphemistically referred to as the Judge and Ovid’s stupid might. They were going in to the Pharisees
penthouse. Suddenly Job felt a strange sensation tickling the hairs on the back of his neck
. “Don’t turn around,” Mister Mo’ Thug told him. He obeyed, but snuck a glance over to Tacitus. He was deep in thought and noticed nothing. “The Pharisees are not waiting for him, Job. It was all just a ruse to get both of you there. We need you two in the same place at the same time. We were never going to crown Tacitus anything, let alone Caesar.” Job silently asked a question in his head. And then Mister Mo’ Thug spelled it all out. “Can you do this?” Somebody’s been sitting in my chair, Job thought darkly. He glanced over at Tacitus. And that motherfucker is still there. But not for long. That made Mister Mo’ Thug smile. * mean mug mo’ thug…* The door to the Pharisees penthouse was open when they arrived. Ovid went in first, just in case. Job and Tacitus followed close on the heels of the big, albino mongoloid henchman. The place was fucking opulent. They noted marble floors and high ceilings in this, the main area. Job looked up and saw a multi-tiered chandelier
. It appeared to him like a cut crystal wedding cake. It would hold a body, Job wagered. It would do. He shivered just a little with delight. He followed Tacitus to the center of the room. Tacitus stood in the center of the floor, with his hands on his hips. “Where to begin?” he asked, rhetorically. “Maybe we should have brought more men.” Job agreed and opened his phone. He called the compound back in The Harbor. Job ordered two car-loads of cops. He gave them directions. “And get here on the quick,” he added before hanging up. He had about 30 maybe 45 minutes until the armed, loyal to Tacitus motherfuckers show up in a swarm. Job better have his ducks snapped-to and in a tight fucking row by then. “We’ll have to search this whole place,” Tacitus said, pretty much to himself. Get him before they come, Mister Mo’ Thug whispered in Job’s mind. A long, serrated hunting knife appeared in his hand. Job closed his grip tight around it. He stared at his Herod’s back. Job walked briskly towards him.
* mean mug mo’ thug…*
Tacitus felt himself get grabbed. The Pharisees, as invisible ghosts, held him tight. His arms were pressed firmly to his sides. Something undetectable and thick pressed down his throat. It made it hard to breathe and impossible to vocalize. Job came up from behind Tacitus. The Herod could not move, the Pharisees had him secured. Not even when Mister Mo’Thug appeared in front of him, could Tacitus move. The temperature of the room became frigid. Tacitus could see his own breath exhale plumes. His frightened breathing into the cold fairly crackled with the quick change in temperature. Job stepped up to his Herod, stabbing him with an inward arcing plunge. The inners of Tacitus fell forward in a lumpy, organic ball. They were threatening to unravel and spill out, leaking all over the handsome marble floor. Blood and fecal bile splashed a wide radius. “Let me help you with that,” Mister Mo’ Thug replied and went to the injured man. He reached into Tacitus’ open belly and tugged free a few long links of colon
. He looped a section and placed it over the wounded man’s head and his paling face. Tacitus, silent and shaking now with shock, saw his own colon fastened in a loose noose and tightened about his neck. The phantom Pharisees were in a giggling free-for-all as they hefted him up from the ground. They passed him up to the chandelier. Mister Mo’ Thug hovered while he strung out another section of Tacitus’ bowel. He wrapped this part around the chandelier proper. The Pharisees let go of Tacitus. He grabbed the colon that was rapidly escaping his abdomen, while crashing down en route for the floor below. Tacitus fell a couple of yards until he squeezed the colon snaking out of his torn middle and coming to a stop, suspended by his own anatomy. He began to choke as his neck took the weight of his body. Tacitus was on the verge of passing out. Mister Mo’ Thug glided down to where Tacitus hung suspended. The man’s muscles were straining and his face was getting all purple and shit. “Hell’s Bells!” he exclaimed to Tacitus, “You can’t breathe. You’re choking, friend.” Mister Mo’ Thug grasped one of the choking man
’s fingers. “Let me help,” he said and bent it back until it broke. The pain made Tacitus mislay his grip. The colon slithered between his loosened, slippery hands. He dropped closer to the floor, while another few feet of bowel sectioned and stretched itself out. Tacitus tightened his grip. The bowel noose tightened with it. The chandelier popped and shook as he stopped abruptly. Hanging there, he choked himself once more. “My goodness, that kind of back fired, didn’t it?” He floated down to the man’s new location. Mister Mo’ Thug found another one of Tacitus’ fingers. “Let’s just try that again,” He twisted and popped the knuckles right out of their sockets. The new explosion of pain was horrific. Tacitus loosened his grip on his middle. He plunged toward the floor. His bowels
slid out of him fast, like shit through a goose, before squeezing and stopping shy of crashing. He hung a meter or so above the floor. The noose around his neck was a hungry python, squeezing and choking him. Mister Mo’ Thug sank down to him. “You must be tiring of this, you poor fellow,” he sympathized. Tacitus could say nothing at all. Not even when his tormentor found another one of his fingers. “One more time,” He pulled on the finger, real nice and slow like. It broke loud and wet.
— end sample.
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