The Place in Between

by Reverend Steven Rage

  THE PLACE IN BETWEEN

  with two Harbor Stories

  by

  Reverend Steven Rage

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY

  LegumeMan Books

  Copyright © 2010 by Steven Rage

  Cover & Design © 2010 by The Spatchcock

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the express written permission of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law

  Freaks just love the Reverend...

  "It's gritty, and realistically crazy. It's gross in just the right amounts. The story is so eloquently presented that you're straight in it for the whole nail-biting ride. I'd say it's masterful. Dark, beautiful, bizarro, and insightful. The Reverend does brilliantly. I'm an instant fan of Steven Rage. I can't wait to read more."

  Kevin Shamel, author of Rotten Little Animals.

  "Like early Tom Piccirilli mixed with Edward Lee. Get on the Rage train while you can because I have a feeling that he'll be getting bigger with each new book".

  Jordan Krall, author of Fistful of Feet and Squid Pulp Blues.

  "You Morbid Westphal is not a book for the faint of heart. But if you're up for some of the hard stuff, you'll dig this".

  Garrett Cook, author of the Murderland series, Jimmy Plush and Archelon Ranch.

  "He weaves a world that is painted in black and white hues, where anything can happen (and often does), and is brutally visceral. You Morbid Westphal does for hospitals what Jaws did for beach getaways! Steven Rage is a masterful storyteller".

  Eric Mays, author of Naked Metamorphosis.

  "You Morbid Westphal is very highly recommended and a real treat for anyone who enjoys their fiction warped to the breaking point and smeared in blood".

  Matthew Revert, author of A Million Versions of Right.

  CONTENTS

  BLOOD AND BUBBLEGUM

  THE PLACE IN BETWEEN

  BAD NOTION TRAVELING POTION

  BLOOD AND BUBBLEGUM

  This one is for Alexander Thomas.

  Ein großes Gehirn und ein größeres Herz.

  Yr: 09.ACE.13x.02

  (The 9th year, After Cataclysmic Events, during the 13th Waxing Moon, on the 2nd Day.)

  Or, two weeks ago:

  Yeah, it was just another banner day here in The Harbor. We were deep underground where we waited as patiently as each of us knows how. The organic narcotics trade is what brought us here to this horrible place. Everything depended on the three of us getting in good with the nocturne. He held the keys to the kingdom, as it was, and only him. There just isn’t any other way to enter that world at the level we crave without his sanction, as well as that of the kingpin of all organic narcotics: The Good Doctor. We cannot go anywhere near The Harbor king. So, we were forced to wait outside that shoddy bar, around the corner of the long tunnel. It connected with The Harbor at all points, like an ersatz Main Street.

  Even beneath the ice-covered earth, it is still cold as frozen shit down here. The real fucked up part of the whole deal is that down here is considered comfortable. Compared to the Little Ice Age conditions on the surface, even seeing your own stinking breath plume out before you is considered downright toasty in comparison.

  This is where Juan and I found ourselves. We were both worried sick. Juan especially was taking it hard. Mary and the hen had gotten lost in the bar crowd. We were supposed to watch over her and protect them both. It was my fault, though. I had let Juan’s girl get past us.

  We were eyeballing the dimly lit tavern entrance. We were waiting for the two of them to emerge. I was getting more and more nervous by the second. I shouldn’t have lost sight of them.

  “These stupid fucking people, I’ve taken shits smarter than most of them,” I informed Juan by way of distraction. Juan didn’t answer me right away. Instead we watched the flotsam as it floated on by. They traveled down the tunnels and out of sight. Unfortunately, the stream of undesirables was continuous and it went on and on in both directions. And their smell was so rank it was cloying. “Hell, my shit takes shits smarter than these sad fucks,” I emphasized.

  “I’m sure of that,” the smart fuck finally said in response. Fucking college boy. I mean, if there were still colleges, I imagine the students would look like this motherfucker here. All clean cut and smart and shit.

  “It’s the main advantage of being born without a soul,” I told him, trying to explain. He says fuck-all, so I added: “And just look at them, why don’t you? They are nothing more than sheep being led by their bellies, their noses and their peckers. It disgusts me, it truly does.”

  “Says the guy that lives in my ass,” smart fuck added.

  “Watch your fucking mouth, Juan,” I warned him. Then, I’m forced to educate: “I’m not just some guy that lives up your ass; I’m an unholy shit monster!” I declared. “I was born of infection and despair and have counted coup on many of my enemies.”

  “So you keep saying, Morbid,” he acerbically replied.

  “Yeah, well… just keep it up,” I warned him. Probably futile, but. “You may just find your own self on the wrong side of my rage, pal.” I moved around in his colon and jabbed my fingers into his fucking pancreas and ran my nails down his ribs. He winced just like the bitch he is.

  “Alright, Morbid, shit! Just try and calm down, man.”

  I thought about it and decided to let it go for now. He’s just worried about Mary. So I only gave him the one more ‘flick’ on his inners to let him know what’s what. But that’s it. I can’t do too much more to him. I am dependent on him for protection and shelter. It would be cutting off my nose to spite my face if I did any real damage. As much as I am loathed to admit it, I know I need Juan. My survival on the outside is very limited, both in scope and time.

  I can deal out a great deal of damage. Yes, sir, I can roll out a whole bus-load of manic mayhem. I can cause one unholy hell of a ruckus, but it takes a great toll on me. I can die on the outside, if I take too long. Whereas, once I’m safely ensconced inside, I can go on and on indefinitely. I must rein in my anger sometimes and recalling this hard truth sure does help.

  “Okay, Juan, I forgive you but watch it.”

  “Thank you, I will. What was it you were saying?” he asked. He was still peeking around the corner, waiting for his girl and the golden goose to come out. When she does, all of our dreams will come true.

  “I was just saying that there are things I want to do to each and every one of them. I want to peel them big. Just like a king-sized, under-ripe bright yellow-peeled banana. See if their fruit is sweet.”

  “Gee, that sounds like so much fun, Morbid, but we have to be careful and not act on every one of our bad impulses,” he explained to me. I don’t know who he thinks he’s talking to.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” I told him. “You weren’t born hardwired for violence, hate and havoc like I was. Fuck, man, my whole being is steered by bad impulses.”

  “That’s an honest assessment, Morbid,” offers Juan.

  “True enough, son,” I told the smart college boy. “I guess I’m merely wishing that I had a better class of folks to be around.”

  “Same here, buddy. Why do you think I went to that piss-hole dive bar across the way?” Juan asked me, craning his neck toward the tavern entrance. “I had to wade through that place, nearly every day for weeks looking for him. You were right there with me, Morbid. Do you think I did it for my health? ”

  “Right, I was there every step of the way, and of course I don’t think you did it just for shits and grins. Horrible wretches, they were, frequenting an even worse watering hole. The place was a disgusting pig-sty. Even so, I thought you s
hould have manned-up a little more than you did, my friend. You were kind of being a little bitch.”

  “Again, says the guy who lives in my ass. Why should I listen to you, shit dweller?”

  That motherfucker! He knows damn well I am a shit monster, not dweller. Cheeky bugger. Let it go, Morbid. Just let it go…

  “I’ll let that one go, Juan.”

  “Thank you, Morbid,” he replied. The sarcasm was thick, the prick.

  He should know better. But before I could respond adequately, Juan suddenly turned animated.”Oh shit, look,” Juan said, almost shouting with excitement. He was staring hard at the bar. “We need to get our game faces on now. It looks like they’re coming out.”

  Finally. Juan and I weren’t one hundred percent sure that Mary would be successful in getting the egg-layer to go with us.

  It is always touch and go when dealing with Plata fiends. They have to be played just right. But we both see Mary coming out, coop-chick in tow, her eyes always on our prize. This is how it’s done. This is how we are going to get in.

  We followed Mary and the egg-layer at a discreet distance. We didn’t want to startle her. The plan was to take the hen back to our place and get her wrecked out of her skull on Plata. Once the organically resultant hydromorphone-methamphetamine hydrochloride derivative butt-fucks her cranium, that’s when Juan and I are to move in.

  When they are high enough, the fiends will agree to anything. Even to being a nocturne’s continual source of sustenance. The egg-layer might even dig it. Hell, she might even suggest it.

  The both of us became wildly excited once Mary turned a corner and glanced over her shoulder at us. She winked once and smiled and we knew right then we had the carrot necessary to tempt the nocturne.

  We followed Mary and our prize, still at a carefully discreet distance, down through the main Harbor underground thoroughfare, and off into where the smaller tunnels of wheel-like spokes spread out. The dark cold and ever-present stink of bad hygiene and bad karma floated like sulfur incense in the still air.

  Another test: Juan had to taser one of the dumb-shits when they began to trail our ladies. This one had followed them just a little too close for our comfort. Looking at him step out of the gloom and fall in right behind them, we saw his desperate plan. It was evident in the quickness of his step and the unsheathing of a blade. There was no doubt to Juan and I that his heart and eyes were chock full of bad intent.

  Juan moved quickly. He came up behind the would-be attacker and zapped him with the taser, right in a fleshy spot on the back of the neck.

  He crumbled to the ground like so much ash. We stepped over him. We continued on our way without as much as a backward glance. Juan and I could hear the creatures as they were noisily slurping up the blood from their fallen comrade while it still flowed warm.

  The screams followed us as we turned a corner. The frightened sounds faded quickly. The muffled shout of the fallen became nothing more than a gurgle of fluids as something big tore into his throat. Then the hunter became the prey.

  That kind of shit happened all the time down here. It was just another banner day in The Harbor.

  We caught up to the two of them as Mary neared our domicile.

  Now for a little background:

  Just like everyone who was anyone, The Good Doctor used to reside in Bogota, Columbia. Just below the equator it’s still quite cold, but the sun shines brightly and reliably. If you dressed warm enough, you can still breathe fresh air and get the vital vitamin D, direct from the big golden orange-yellow source above.

  The jungles have long ago vanished. Not done in by the Little Ice Age, the human populace took care of de-spoiling the entire continent before anyone knew for sure that the ice was coming. Afterwards, as ice was sliding down from the north, the Amazon River spread far and away, covering scores of square kilometers. The fresh water seeped into the spongy earth, essentially becoming a giant swampy lake. It was a vibrant Petrie dish, just waiting for the next wave of life.

  When the cold of the Little Ice Age did come this far south, the terrain of the Amazon basin quickly evolved into a sub-arctic zone. The boreal forest hosted abundant ferns and thick evergreen conifer forests. There weren’t enough humans left to fuck any of it up. So, in time, new animals and those that crawled out of the water were able to flourish in this brand new environment.

  The United States on this side of the world, and New India (which finally absorbed Pakistan, Afghanistan and every-other-stan that touched its borders), on the other side, saw the writing on the wall.

  As a last gasp effort, both of these remaining Superpowers used their increasingly de-valued wealth and still powerful military might to gobble up all the scattered hot spots around the globe. Any place that could in any way support life, be it on, or even under ground, was invaded and claimed. Any locals that remained weren’t nearly strong enough to do anything about it.

  The three cataclysmic events had happened so quickly and one right after the other. A little under two thirds of humanity was wiped out. Human beings were that close to going under for good.

  It was a drastic reduction in human stressors but there was something good to come of it: there was now plenty of space and scads of left-over durable commerce to be had for the taking.

  The stunned remaining populace then spent the vast majority of its days, salvaging the shit-tons of shit that was left behind. When they weren’t busy laboring, they became gluttons, consuming the endless supply of man-made chow.

  The automated factories kept churning out the processed foodstuffs, even after the dead, saved and frozen were all long gone. And, in the case of The Indian-controlled Harbor anyway, the general public stayed as wonderfully stoned as humanly possible.

  As the rest of the western hemisphere crumbled beneath the events, the United States grasped the opportunity and invaded Columbia. They toppled Bogota, making the Old City in the New World the new US capital.

  Only those with money and influence were allowed to live there. The Good Doctor used to be blessed with both. Not anymore. The disgraced physician/scientist had been banished to the true hinterlands, at the ass-crack of Lake Michigan. It was in the upper middle region of what used to be the continental United States of America.

  The Good Doctor had got himself into some hot water down in the sunshiny below with the powers that be. No-one knew exactly what he did to shite in the big bowl of proverbial oatmeal. It must have been both political and personal.

  He was banished and teleported to The Harbor. He was allowed to bring with him only the two suitcases and a vastly diminished credit account of Indian Rupees. The US official currency of Federal Reserve Notes is more stable and therefore more valuable.

  Teleporting The Good Doctor to the frozen north with barely the clothes on his back and second class currency was to be the ultimate insult.

  Of course The Good Doctor being the man that he is, he tucked up his long silver-grey dread-locks and went right to work taking over The Harbor. We were ripe for the plucking anyway, and soon after he began pumping out the organic narcotics, everyone calmed right down and queued right up.

  Even though it was a frozen stink-pit full of mouth-breathing dip-shits, The Good Doctor became king of the dip-shits. It seemed to make him happy. You know the ancient saying: I’d rather be a king in Hell than a servant in Heaven? When The Good Doctor staked his claim, he made his stance literal.

  He found a rusted-out behemoth of a steel refinery with its multi-level basements. His careful exploration revealed that at some time before the events, the refinery was a fully functional hospital. He sealed the floor from the instant frozen death above and turned out any squatters. The Good Doctor transformed it into something rather palatial. Hell’s Mouth Determining Hospital was born. At this time he lived on the grounds, to be near his work.

  The Good Doctor conducted his experiments. People disappeared around that time and Halflings of all human-animal mixes emerged. Then the doomed and damned crawled
up from the Great Pit. Since there was no god to stop them, they began living and breeding with the humans. The Good Doctor welcomed them all, and why not.

  All sorts of creatures lived in The Harbor by this time, and with his blessing. The Good Doctor remained king. For it was just when an uprising of the pure humans had began in earnest that he bent double to the task of anesthetizing the populace with his organic narcotics. He had test samples ready in just a few weeks time, less than one full lunar cycle. The Good Doctor located the nocturne to deal the organic narcotics to the huddled masses. His illicit drugs were a smashing success. Almost the entire Harbor climbed on board.

  There were still a few holdouts that refused to capitulate and indulge in the new goodies. They were quickly and severely dealt with. The remaining resisters and dissenters were thrown out of the top hatches by The Good Doctor’s goon squad, and into the bleak white-out conditions above. The rebels were all frozen solid before they could walk ten feet.

  The Good Doctor had completely de-railed the brewing civil war. He did it without even one shot being fired. He continued being the unofficial king of The Harbor. He did whatever he wanted, to whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

  Souls and Halflings and even some of the doomed and damned began to vanish at an alarming frequency. No-one could do anything to stop The Good Doctor, though. To be honest, no-one cared enough to even try.

  Everyone learned to steer a wide path around the king. It was much easier than coming up missing.

  In The Good Doctor’s defense, his drugs are stellar.

  Yr:09.ACE.13n.08

  (The 9th year, After Cataclysmic Events, during the 13th Waning Moon, on the 8th Day.)