The Place in Between

by Reverend Steven Rage

  In close to a decade, when I am fully grown, I will top out at around one and a half meters, but barrel-chested and weighing in at over 90 kilograms. I will walk upright and will be as quick as the dickens. I have small, but fully functional arms and hands. My fingers and thumbs (2 on my left, like Father) are webbed, as are my feet. I house claws instead of fingernails and toenails, with the obvious advantages therein. My IQ shall be hard to measure. My temper, I can already tell, still wet as I am from birth and Mother’s ministrations, is quick and unpredictable.

  I am The Good Doctor’s finest creation and an only child. The only one that will live, that is. I will see to that.

  I am an Antichrist like my Father and I am his Monster.

  I know that, without any doubts whatsoever, that Father and Mother will be wonderful parents. They will love me unconditionally. They will guide me and teach to me all that they can. They will provide all that I need to grow and thrive here in the harsh and unforgiving environs of The Harbor in the A.C.E. world. I already love them for it. I love them even more than my fully matured self will be able to adequately say. I look forward to growing and flourishing under their combined tutelage.

  I come from the tears that were quite real. Those that I will shed shall also be genuine. As factual as I am. I will be truly saddened on that forthcoming day. I will allow myself little regret, just sadness as I kill Mother and Father. And then I will eat them both.

  I will possess all of their knowledge and all of their wisdom. I will inherit all of The Good Doctor’s wealth, which is good. You know, one less thing.

  I am an Antichrist like my Father and I am The Monster.

  But I can Juggle, man. I can juggle like a motherfucker.

  …ad finem

  “Have a care; I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you shall curse the hour of your birth.” The Monster

  Mary W. Shelley

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The Reverend Steven Rage maintains that the hospital his alter-ego works night-shifts for is haunted. However, so many years of working in the dark with the sick and dying has skewed his reality in such a perverse way that even the brightness of day has become frightening to him. He probably thinks that's haunted. The Reverend further asserts that his writing of such bizarre, bloody and extreme fiction is conducive to his and everyone else’s well-being. Everyone should encourage him. And there is no proof Rage sleeps upside down in a sealed closet. Absolutely no proof at all.

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  Table of Contents

  BLOOD AND BUBBLEGUM

  THE PLACE IN BETWEEN

  BAD NOTION TRAVELING POTION