Bøger af Steven Scott Nelson

He had to have her the moment he saw her trachea ring. Six months later she was his lovely wife. He performed his duties as a husband and she as a wife. He tolerated a house filled with references to her late first husband and the children they had together. He put up with her prudish ways. He waited. He was patient. He planned. He was adaptable. He was rewarded over the course of a week in her basement. He turned his perverse sexual fantasies of worms and maggots and her lovely crusty trachea ring into a gruesome reality.

CARGO CONTAINS: Space-wrecked on Venus by Neil R. JonesFor All the Marbles by Rev. Steven RageTony and the Beetles by Philip K. DickAcid Bath by Vaseleos GarsonThe Butterfly Kiss by Arthur Dekker SavageThe Moon Destroyers by Monroe K. RuchFrom some of the giants of the Golden Age to the darkest of dystopian noir, MorbidbookS SciFi Anthology will take you from hopeful space travel to living hand-to-mouth in the despair beneath the Earth.Welcome to your future.

New from MorbidbookS: Where Everything Bleeds, comes an instant collector's specimen and a certain stunner. Be the first freak on your block to acquire this singular and unexpurgated exquisite culling of The Grim Reverend Steven Rage's favorite 'meds'. Enjoy this one-of-a-kind vivid look into the twisted mind of The Most Depraved Writer In Print as he captains you through the intoxicating stain of his wicked imagination. Included are numerous Photos, Paintings and Illustrations embellished with dramatic grayscale that enhance these iniquitous and magnificent Dark Fantasy fables. Beginning with a complete novella of Pontius Pilate re-incarnated as a blood drinking drug dealer in the Midwest's most notorious ghetto. The Harbor is a similar, howbeit much darker version of Mayberry. If Andy, Barney Opie and Aunt Bea resided in a drug infested, post-industrialized urban Hell-Hole with a sky-high body count, that is. Come see and enjoy the vampire's journey to horrific self-discovery. A evil and foreboding locale, folks are murdered there for less than nothing and, oh yeah: vampires feed there, too. A place where drugs are slung, deals go down and Pilate alone, once again, stands between the profoundly wicked machinations of the organized crime power structure and the death of a reincarnated Immanuel. Will he wash his hands in this life as he has done from the beginning and down through the ages? His drugs, his money and his very life at stake. Not to mention his soul. But life is full of tough choices. Especially if you are the modern dope-slinging version of the ancient Roman Prelate. Next comes a sick and twisted story of the Black Death. During the height of England's Bubonic Plague an ancient Evil Force strolls into London-Town in the form of a would-be doctor. It could smell the blood from miles away, wanting only to help. At the hospital where he cares for the victims of this Black Death, the ill come to him unimpeded. They arrived and fell by the scores. With the help of his ever-faithful assistant, Sightless Agnes, a most ravenous cares for them all. Eating his way through an entire hospital, he treats them until there is nothing left. Nothing save their empty eye sockets, a few pounds of leeched bleached bones and some bolts of old dried-out flesh-leather parchment. But the eyes? The eyes of the dead? Sightless Agnes keeps for herself. Seems Fair. And then our adventures continue: Inky nefarious figments of playing God. Ride with The Reverend as you dally with malevolent spirits, pet aborted fetuses, carnal ghosts, evil grandfathers, hospital-hall hunting serial killers and, oh so much more. Finally culminating with another full novella. It is a maddening peek behind The Good Doctor's post-apocalyptic Harbor dug deep underground, beneath the bitter frozen Earth and bear witness to a society ripping at the seams. A not-so-safe haven where monsters and demons dally with the remaining humans. One of the last makeshift asylums left on this planet. Jesus has come, gathered his favorites and loading them into the moving van bound for Forevermore, has skipped out on the rent without a word nor nary a backward glance. Leaving the world to Damnation like an absentee slum-lord while Hell itself has opened wide, belching its denizens forth. The doomed and damned can now come and go as they please. A stronghold where lifeblood is bought for a song. This incredible edition is replete with all The Ragiastic elements you have come to expect from The Grim One. Proliferate drug-consumption, non-consensual extreme intercourse and all the profane creatures that go bump in the night. Get in, grab hold and hang on. This rare sui generis tome shall delight the monstrous aberration in everyone.

This riveting tale of Alice Carroll -- a drug-addled, bipolar wreck of a narrator -- combines poetic prose against a nightmarish backdrop of drugs, lies, and madness. This nonfiction novella opens with a rather ordinary scene of Carroll's 21st birthday and rapidly progresses throughout the months of the year into a story colored with excessive drug use, careless decision-making, exorbitant lying, and the drama & chaos that ensues from the combinations of such during any social interactions with friends, family, and foe. This well-written memoir is a work of art that generates writing styles from a variety of authors, often reminiscent of David Foster Wallace, through the unique utilization of footnotes, as well as Jean Paul Sartre, with diversions into the realms of existentialism, and William S. Burroughs, with references to habitual drug use as "The Routine" and undertones of the junk equation. I would highly recommend this book to anyone interested in the junkie subculture, creative nonfiction writing, or simply an individual who can appreciate a finely written piece of prose. A must-have for the bookshelves of a diverse batch of readers, " 21: Real True Shit" is sure to keep the pages turning with surprise twists of fate through and through until one reach the rather bitter end.

The hands of the girls were inside of each-others zip front grey boiler suits and they sat in the blood from where Sonny's face collided with the surface. The brunette had a finger smear of it next to her mouth. "You two sluts put each other down and go tell Moira that Sonny's done. I'm coming in, just got a little business to attend to first." The two girls jumped to attention with a crack of sixteen roller skate wheels on the hard tile floor. They straightened themselves up; wiping away saliva and smudged pink lipstick; zipped up their clothes and teased their hair back into shape with black glossed finger nails. The two girls sounded off in unison, "Yes sir, Sergeant Tea-pot." As the two started to leave the big blond grabbed the shoulder of the red head and pulled her back. "Not you Fire-Crotch, all this fucking blood has got me going." She started to unbuckle the belt on her camouflage hot pants. "Down you go, bitch!"

I'm feeling down and dirty, feeling kind of mean, so I give those fans my middle finger. Those poor bastards go nuts. My team looks at me in awe. My coach frowns and the opposing one begins to furiously scratch out new plays. The Warface is feeling her oats tonight and they all know they're in for a deep snag. I see our opponents and I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards. Their fans can't help them. Their coach can't help them. I'm going to run them off their own track in front of their own fans and there is not one thing they can do about it. I see my counterpart positioning herself on the outside line. I've got my eye on her and I've got her number. She is going nowhere. I'm going to body check her narrow ass off the track and into the third row. I hear the second whistle sound. The jammers are starting to move behind us as I veer toward her. I lower my right shoulder. She sees me at the last second. I smile as her eyes open wide. I get speed, lean in deep and hit her. My jammer, Brute, slides up my left side. I see the opposing jammer shimmy through the wall and I give chase. Silly rabbit, no one gets past the Warface. Not tonight they don't.