Tag Archives: liveonnoevil

Spectrum City is Haunted part 6

WAKE

 

When the dreadlocked barista finished the journal of the man that cut his own face off, he finally understood that before the night was done, he wouldn’t have dreadlocks anymore.

The dreadlocked barista’s name was Cammy. Not even a nickname, his birth certificate literally read Cammy Day Martin because his mom was sick of having boys. He being the fourth in a row, Mrs. Martin had given up on hiding her need for a daughter and so decided her son Cammy would have to do.

Sewer didn’t care, though. That was the name the dreadlocked barista had given himself when he thought he was going to sing for a rock band in sixth grade. He never did find anyone interested in playing instruments for his vocals and so settled for singing acapella in videos he posted on the internet.

Fame was impossible, though. The only way to get famous on the internet was by whoring yourself, one way or another, and he had no desire in trying to win attention. After all, he deserved it. His voice was unique and all he needed was the right crew to stand behind him. As long as someone thought he was good enough, he would be good enough. Quality was all in the mind. It was an illusion like everything else. If only he could figure how to adjust others’ perception of himself. If he could change the illusion to fit his need, anything would be possible.

It was this stream of thought that brought Sewer to the motel. His parent’s basement was alright, except for when family came in town and he had to share it. He lied that he was staying with a friend and used his tips to secure a room for himself because his older brother, second in birth order, was intolerable just like his wife and twin sons.

The notebook was still in his brain. The video of Darren cutting off his face was uploaded, but still with no views. Even the music video versions with the edited footage were drawing nothing. He checked the tags, laying on the made bed of his motel with his laptop, cartoons playing on the muted TV. Nothing. No one had seen it. He’d checked the news, both paper and digital, and there was absolutely nothing. No one knew about the guy that cut his face off but for the people that were there when it happened.

Not enough, thought Sewer. People need to know. People need to see what I saw. People need to understand what it’s like. People need to know. SEVIL LIVES.

The statement was beginning to make sense. SEVIL LIVES meant that everyone lives and everyone dies and it’s all circular. SEVIL is to death as LIVES is to life. Death comes before life, which means that we continue forever in this cycle of death and life and death and on. That was why the guy cut his face off. He got it. He understood that death was the exact same as life. That if it’s all just a cycle, why not just keep recycling? Wasn’t it all just a game anyway? All that shit that you’re fed, all the terrible feelings wasted because feelings meant nothing in the first place, all the grief experienced needlessly because it was intangible and never even existed in the first place.

He changed the tags and renamed the video and turned on the shower, but then realized he didn’t want to get wet and that he kind of liked that he hadn’t showered in a week even though he could feel the slight layer of grime atop his skin. He stared at the mirror, looking at his face.

SEVIL LIVES, he thought. SEVIL LIVES, SEVIL LIVES, SEVIL LIVES.

He hated his nose. He hated his skin. He hated his glasses. He tore them off because it was the only thing of the three he could. He could see well enough without them, though the world did turn blurry, but that was nice. Actually, blurry was exactly what he needed.

He hated his ears, hated his eyes, hated his facial hair. He ran to his bag and began raking the razor over his face before he was even back to the mirror. He would get rid of it. His mustache was stupid. His goatee and neck hair were needless. He’d be done with hair because that would make him feel better.

He couldn’t see the red that started to trickle from his patchily shaved face until he remembered his dreadlocks and understood that those too would have to go. They weren’t his own, anyway. Tied in by some foreign and English illiterate woman because he thought it was cool and worth the money.

When his fingers couldn’t untie the fake hair from his real hair, he pulled, but it wouldn’t tear and so planned for the perfect time to make himself be what he couldn’t wait to become.

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Detective Michael Roe was getting drunk at The Track and that was okay because She understood.

The work of the day was complete, except for the last deed, and when he sat down at the bar he hadn’t been to in ten years, the bartender young and new, no one realized the significance of the glass of whiskey served neat, which he had to explain to the young girl, all tits and no bar sense because she cared more for tips than her craft, and he sipped it waiting for the sign for She that would come whenever She chose for it to because that was how all the signs of the day before came to him, like flashes of illuminated focus on the object of his deed with a strange feeling of desire and necessity to resolve whatever it was that She was showing him, and so far he’d done exactly what She needed and She said there would only be five because five was her number and with four already done, he was going to be as drunk as possible for the fifth.

That and hopefully drown out the terrible sounds of karaoke coming from the bar stage.

X                            X                            X                            X                            X                            X

Sewer had the karaoke stage of The Track set up with his video camera pointing toward where he wouldn’t be singing as well as his phone propped up and recording when he took the mic from the karaoke DJ. Before that, he went around to other karaoke singers and told them he’d pay them if they videotaped his performance. It was a lie, but most did anyway and he was confident that even if this did lead to his death, his performance would make it to the internet.

Saturn Warship, his favorite band’s hit song, “Generation Vex” played and when the words scrolled across the screen, instead of singing into the microphone, he dropped it to the stage, making feedback ring through the speakers, and missing the lyrics as they became highlighted with no one singing them.

Cast the spell, never tell, wash me down, wishing well.

Sewer took the butcher knife that was tucked into his baggy torn jeans at his back waist and raised it above his head. He used his other hand to hold up his dreads and then wasted no time in slicing underneath his skin, relieving his scalp from the connection to his skull. Blood formed and then ran down his face and he went straight back from the middle of his forehead, over his dome to behind his neck.

There was an uproar but the music kept playing and the people Sewer paid kept videotaping. The ones he didn’t pulled out their phones and began videotaping too, putting themselves in the frame and showing the excitement play out behind them.

Cast the spell, never tell, wash me down, wishing well.

Sewer finished with the first strip of skin, pulling it away from his head and then dangling it by the finally free dreadlock in front of him like a raw slice of bacon tied to a rat tail. Blood dripped and then he helicoptered it into the crowd before digging the butcher knife beneath another flap of skin and matted hair roll. He continued ridding his skull of concealment and got four strips in before the blood covered his face and he was on his knees, weak as the song was nearing its end.

Cast the spell, never tell, wash me down, wishing well.

Sewer crumpled into the floor as the final cymbal on the song rang and the words scrolled out of view to the left of the screen. Sound was gone and the silence felt heavier than any of the noise ever did. He closed his eyes and laid face down on the stage until neon yellow light crept underneath his eyelids.

The voice, which he couldn’t make out before, kept repeating itself. He wasn’t able to discern that it spoke only five times.

“She wants you. She wants you. She wants you. She wants you. She wants you. ”

X                            X                            X                            X                            X                            X

Mark Chambers woke up with his eyes already open. His body was frozen and the stone table beneath him was cold, though he couldn’t feel it or anything else.  He thought it might be a dream until he saw the masks over him. The chants were loud and familiar. He could have joined in, the foreign words ingrained in his brain, but only if fear hadn’t crippled his already numb mouth.

He saw knives and could tell that his skin was being separated, but it didn’t carry any of the sensation he expected. More chanting and then there was drinking and when the masks came off, he didn’t recognize anyone.

He was pulled off the table so that just his upper body was lying flat against it with his ass up and the backs of his toes on the ground. Then he was moving, back and forth with his face mushing against the stone as a palm cupped his ear and squished the other into its hard surface.

The little girl was right. His plans of suicide to avoid rape were foiled. They wouldn’t stop, he knew, until the whole congregation had their turn. He was weak with the loss of blood, passing in and out of consciousness. The longer it took the more the sedative wore off, and as he regained his body’s ability to feel pain, to scream, to struggle, he was tied at the wrists and ankles. The pull of the ropes levitated him in the air as hands at his thighs guided his torso into performing the ritual he himself had victimized so many others with, so many times.

There were more knives, more cuts, more blood and then there were whips and eventually he could see himself in his own dripping blood that created a reflecting pool beneath him.

While the other faces were unrecognizable, his was as it always was, but he still didn’t see it as his own. His distorted features, wrenched into desperate agony, were just as nomed as the rest.

Live On No Evil – JULY 2016

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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.

Sin-seriously,

Jeremiah Israel

PS: I AM SO FUCKING EXCITED FOR THIS GODDAMN BOOK!!!!!!

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!!!!!!

L.O.N.E.

LONEfire

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

The Chameleon 004

The Chameleon

The following is an excerpt from Book 4 of LIVEONNOEVIL entitled Master Reset:

Gordo looked out over the water and the garden beyond. “In the name of Sahasa,” proclaimed Gordo, “Chameleons, I command you, bring me to the Garden.” Around him they appeared from nothing and took his body across the water, through the hanging vines and over the floating lily pads to the entrance where they dissipated as his feet touched the soft ground. He walked, but this time obeyed the winding path, following all of the twists and turns even where it would have been easier to skip ahead by passing through the veil of vines and shrubs.

Pink was right. Arms was wrong. It was a labyrinth, but only where it mattered. It was where it began for him and where the end would begin. The chameleons lined the path of the garden labyrinth and blinked their bodies in and out of visibility. It wasn’t a long way to the middle, but the garden took him everywhere within it but there first. Closer in to the middle, the fruit was brighter, the grass as well, and with every step forward the light of the Garden became stronger until he was standing in front of the tree having touched nothing on the way there.

He approached the tree slowly and knelt before it placing his sword before its trunk. He closed his eyes, but before he could speak, from above he heard, “Yo ho, Gordo!” He looked up to see Disloyal Games sitting on a branch, feet dangling and orange juice dripping from his mouth into his beard. “I underestimated you,” he said and jumped down beside Gordo. “Tricky boy. Tall tales of a snake in the tree, huh? Very good. Had me fooled considering it’s what they all say, I can’t blame myself for trusting you, but blame is worthless. What do you say? Let’s let bygones be bigots and have some fun.”

“Yes,” said Gordo. “We shall.”

“Alright! Glad to hear it! ‘Bout time you had the sense knocked out of ya. What about we go flip Sahasa’s Table? That’s always a good time, but…no. We need something better. Let’s see, we could messy Ills’ Room of Not with a fruit fight or better yet, mix up Meade’s Kitchen, free everything in the Exhibit. You know I would say start with Arms. It’s a shame, though. The Dungeon grows and grows. Ya know Fast has taken over the Multimedia Room. That might be fun, but maybe too easy.”

“We’ll do better, but first you must wait. I must be prepared.” Gordo turned his head to gaze up the tree. “If it is of your will then take me. Sahasa, free me from this prison of lies and strip me of my afflictions. Make me new for You.”

Games took a step back, scoffed, thought of something to say, but then laughed harder and harder until he caught his breath and opened his eyes to speak. But he didn’t. Instead, terror and fear startled him backwards until he fell into a shrub of orange glowing flowers. The black snake was long and so dark, its body a terrible void that brought Games into a shudder, the likes of which he hadn’t experienced in ages.

He sat with the orange light of the flowers illuminating his face as the snake curled its upper body around Gordo’s neck. It pulled him into the air still supported by the tree and Gordo didn’t struggle as its body turned bright neon green. As the color intensified, so did the pain and then Gordo was kicking until all of a sudden he wasn’t and his skin turned pale, reflecting green from the light of the snake. He remained there still for another moment until the snake’s head drooped below his feet and its mouth opened revealing the void before dropping Gordo in to disappear.

The Kitten 003

The Kitten

The following is an excerpt from Book 4 of LIVEONNOEVIL entitled Master Reset:

Gordo made it out of the moss stone maze. He knew his way that much, but from there the three story maze still didn’t completely make sense. He knew it had been stairs that led to the series of doors that Games had used to get them to the Multimedia section, but every time he found stairs they seemed to lead to where he’d already been. Ends’ calculations and recordings had him on a set route, none of which gave him any clue of where to go. He came out by the Everstream and turned back but his mind was scattered. Lost. It had happened before.

He sat down. Sooner or later he’d hear someone. They could help him. Days could’ve passed. He just couldn’t tell anymore. He tried to remember, to picture the route Games had taken him on, but memories weren’t what they’d been before this. He could remember words, ideas, but it became harder and harder to picture them.

The fog in his head snapped away with the noise. Like a low rumbling with sharp clinks. He stared as the sound grew in volume and clarity. It was a cat and at the moment he realized he saw the pink glow turn a corner. It radiated love off its grey fur and its claws clicked off the brick. Over her fur, a field of pink energy danced and Gordo, in welcome disbelief, said her name.

“Hollow!” The kitten ran to him and was in his arms before he could stand. “You’re here!”

“Yes,” she said, her voice sweet, caring and a feminine feline in his head. “I’m here to give you a message. Pink has sent me.” She crawled up into his shoulder and rubbed her fur against the left side of his face. She purred in his ear, her whiskers tickling him and it sent a cool calm ecstasy throughout his body. “She wants you to look.”

“Look where?” asked Gordo eager to obey.

“Everywhere,” she said and then jumped to the ground.

Gordo looked, but did not see. “Show me.”

“Your message is this: Follow the chameleons. They will lead you to Sahasa.”

Gordo looked around frantically. “Where? You have to show me!”

“Sometimes you have to know something is there before you can see it.” Hollow ran toward him and scaled his body up to his head which she leapt off of and passed through the rusty grate above. “I will miss you, love. Once you are free, so will I be and together we can live in a bond for Sahasa.” She leapt away passing through a bookshelf, her pink light leaving a trail behind her.

Follow the chameleons. He closed his eyes. Follow the chameleons Gordo, he said within. Sahasa, show me your chameleons.

The Beetle 001

The Beetle

The following is an excerpt from Book 2 of LIVEONNOEVIL entitled FURNITURE:

In time all your questions will be answered, Blue assured him from beneath his hat. Backpack could feel the beetle’s feelers against his scalp. They emitted slight waves of response that tickled his brain sending images and words in electric flashes.

Faster, Blue urged him. Do not think of your body. The pain is outside you. You exist only in your mind.

Backpack pushed through the discomfort. The pain in his side was sharp and didn’t fade until he ran up the stairs to his bedroom. With all his might he pushed his dresser in front of his door and then removed his hat and carefully picked the beetle from his scalp, placing him softly onto his bedding.

“Okay,” said Backpack. “I’m ready.” He focused on his breathing and willed his heart to slow.

You have many questions, but you must learn to accept them unanswered until you are truly ready.

The beetle vibrated as Blue spoke and currents of blue energy sparkled over its shell.

“I will,” said Backpack.

And that is why I have chosen you. Because you are willing.

Backpack nodded solemnly.

In order to understand what you are about to see you must give me your faith, solely and completely. Do you agree?

“Yes,” said Backpack.

You will experience terrible pain, but you must trust in me. There is no pain I haven’t experienced and I only ask what I know you capable of bearing.

“I trust you.”

Then take off your backpack and lay flat to the bed.

He did and the beetle rose above him with a vibrant electric fluttering of his wings.

Now clear your mind and open your mouth. Submit to me as I possess your earthly body. Be prepared, for what you see will change the course of events to come.

Backpack gulped. He closed his eyes and felt the tickle of the beetle’s feelers as he parted his lips. It stepped onto his tongue and the taste, distinctly metallic yet sour, faded as the beetle crawled further. It squeezed passed his uvula and he couldn’t help gagging. It pulled itself deeper, the intrusion was thoroughly invasive and he went stiff, thinking of himself like stone. Strong and unaffected.

The pincers were needle stabs inside him and it pushed its way passed his larynx and down his esophagus until it disappeared into his stomach. Relief lasted only a moment before he could feel his insides swimming in a whirlpool. He gasped in agony as it accelerated and then it wasn’t just his stomach, but his entire body. He clenched his eyes and squeezed his teeth, the spinning so fast he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Ringing in his ears rose until he was deaf. His mind pleaded to Blue, but then it was over and he was standing on his feet.

“Open your eyes,” his ears heard. He did and nearly burst into tears as he saw Blue, himself, just as he remembered him, standing before him.

He lunged forward and hugged him tight, feeling relief and security in the silence. “I’ve missed you,” said Backpack. He let go of the embrace reluctantly and Blue bent down to stare at him on eye level.

“I’ve brought you here to show you something very important about this world, but first you must understand, where we are is very dangerous.”

“Where?”

“I will answer only this question and once I do you must not ask anymore until we return. So little as a whisper could alter as much as a mountain.”

Backpack nodded, ashamed of his eager tongue and afraid to even swallow.

“We are in the past.”

Blue stood up and turned his body from him and for the first time Backpack noticed they were surrounded in nothingness. All he could see was himself and Blue. There was no dark, there was no light. Only them within an anti-mass of an empty eternity. The void.

“For example,” said Blue as he reached into empty space and grabbed it like a curtain, peeling it back. Blue held it open to the side and waved his hand to beckon him in.

Backpack walked right up to see between and recognized it immediately. It was him, asleep in his bed.

“And no, this isn’t a dream,” said Blue and disappeared behind the curtain as Backpack stepped into his own bedroom.