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Live On No Evil – JULY 2016


Live On No Evil is coming to Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing July 26, 2016.

I’m excited to the point of ridiculous so instead of communicating that through as many obscenities as I can fit into one sentence, I’ll instead tell you why this book means so much to me.

This novel started out as a way of venting my frustrations with our modern slave culture while working as a Target employee. By the end it evolved into an attack on the god of the Bible and all of the inherent evil I have personally experienced through religion and the disease of thought that is Christianity.

When I began, I had no plans for what the book would become. One of the things I shy away from when writing is creating outlines. Nothing of this book was edited until each of the four handwritten notebooks it took to finish were completed. The Moleskins I wrote them in were holy. No mistakes were made because every stroke of the pen, intentional or not, was destined to be there. That’s how seriously I treated these books. I was creating gods and demons and they were real because I had allowed them to be. Not only in this book, but manifesting themselves in my own life as well. Truth didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I believed and the story would find itself. The gods would show me who they were. The demons would make themselves known. The book already existed, I just needed to physically add it to this plane of existence.

That’s exactly what happened and that’s exactly what is still happening. These gods started out as The Neon Three. I then realized that there was in fact six of them and that these three were only half of The High Six. The further I wrote, the more I realized that these entities already existed in my previously unpublished book Mammoth, I just didn’t know it yet.

I made a divination deck that involved the gods of The High Six, The Neon Three included, and began to use them to speak to me. Every color I see, every number sequence, every look, word, tooth, eye and nail, everything is The High Six and their attempt to communicate.

I actually believe this is true because I choose to. Why the fuck not? I think God and the devil are both evil. So why not create my own gods? My own devils? Fuck it. I’ve known I was going to hell since I was three years old and couldn’t keep my eyes closed during prayer. So until I get there, all because I have rejected Jesus Christ from my heart because God is most definitely not good, I’ll keep writing about my gods and hope that maybe one day they do become real and really do save us from the nightmares of both heaven and hell.


Jeremiah Israel


Live On No Evil is a spiritual horror novel about aliens, demons and an extra dimensional god entity named Sahasa that has come to earth to provide human beings with a third option between heaven and hell.

Backpack is an eight year old boy who has found his only friend in a mysterious alien entity named Blue. After failing at saving the live action role playing obsessed Forest from murder at the hands of deceptive demons, Backpack must save the notorious ‘Pet Threat’, Spectrum City’s animal serial killer, from a similar fate. In order to complete his induction into the loyalty of Sahasa, Backpack must find the one who will defeat the Library Labyrinth to stop an alien attack that will destroy Spectrum City.

Live On No Evil JULY2016!!!!!!

Oh and shit, check out the PMMP website and buy a book for Sahasa sake!!!!!!



Live On No Evil, or L.O.N.E., is a novel I’m trying to pimp out to publishers right now. This is the mock up cover I made when I was considering self publishing. Below is an excerpt of one of my favorite parts. It may very well be the most evil thing I’ve ever written:

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No dreams was how Manson Feverjean slept. The noises in his severely trashed hotel penthouse suite fooled him into thinking he was dreaming as they barely rose him above unconsciousness. The drugs quickly pulled him back below until there were hands pulling at him. His head outweighed the strength of his neck, his whole body. The speaking was there but far like underwater whale moans. Even if he could move his head, his eyes wouldn’t open and so he left himself like a beached jellyfish all out of sting for the hands that kept at him and the sounds he couldn’t make sense of.

The hands wrapped him in the sheet, piss and whiskey soaked, and carried him out that way like a cocoon coffin.

It was one hell of a binge. When Lucas had never shown up, Manson got to drinking. It wasn’t enough and since Lucas had all the good stuff, never letting Manson administer anything himself, he went to the hotel phone to call his old hook up. Not remembering a name, let alone a number, he put on a pair of shorts which were actually just boxers because he didn’t know the difference. He slipped on cowboy boots made of real alligator and a fox fur coat, also real with skulls for shoulder pads.

Behind sunglasses, necessary under the serious Luminaut City sun, he walked away knowing his will would find him. And it did. A troop of fans began to follow the normally reclusive superstar and as they walked, joints were passed and pills were swallowed between scribbled and illegible autographs that reopened the stitches in his bandaged hand.

They led him to a club where his flaccid dick was sucked by multiple females that interchanged once their jaws grew tired from a line longer than the one outside to be let in. He snorted mounds of Trap off the tips of switchblades that were raised to his nostrils. Needles punctured his skin sending his veins and then brain into an insane rollercoaster rush.

This temporary revival sent him into a violent fury of destruction, flipping tables, throwing glasses and punching women. He was escorted out from there and went on to the next, repeating the process and leaving a wake of thankful bar and club owners who felt blessed with his presence and the impending publicity, sure to make the damages all well worth it.

This lasted through the morning and next day until the sun went down and he was dragged back to his hotel where it continued. The drugs, sex and violence raged on and with the help of more uppers, Manson pushed through, never really sleeping, just mentally checking out until he noticed someone else fallen into unconsciousness.

Each one he personally kicked awake. “No sleep,” was all he’d say, all he did say, communicating otherwise by pointing or throwing whatever was close.

He chased the last of the departing crowd down the hall with silverware, stabbing a naked ass with a fork, not sure whether guy or girl, and returned to find his door locked. He kicked his scaly boots against it until someone came up with a key and he pulled them in too and ripped off her hotel work uniform only to find a dick in the place of the pussy he was going to rape and so just kicked and kicked at it until it was so bloody and smushed and split that it kind of did look like a pussy, sideways though it was, and so he did rape it and laughed as he kept yelling, “No sleep! No sleep!” at the crying and dying hotel bag boy who was employed illegally, having been driven across the border in a box, but also because he was thirteen and paid only in room and board, working all of his waking hours in Luminaut City and dying with arguably the most famous dick in the world inside his lacerated pelvis.

Once he came, Manson Feverjean showered off the blood and other accumulations of filth and passed out drinking a bottle of whiskey and peeing all over himself.

He wasn’t lucky that Tommy Motts’ people found him before the police could, though he came to believe that he was after they cleansed him of his addictions over the next few days and brought his mind and body back to working health. He wasn’t lucky at all to be a part of Baphom’s latest film production and was wrong in thinking it was God that had intervened to save him from himself.

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Sin seriously,

Jeremiah Israel