Message-ID: <25575asstr$965005804@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "seanfarragher" <seanfarragher@email.msn.com>
X-Original-Message-ID: <NEBBKECCNOEJHMGPDAFHMEDDCFAA.seanfarragher@email.msn.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain;
charset="iso-8859-1"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
X-Priority: 3 (Normal)
X-MSMail-Priority: Normal
Importance: Normal
X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400
Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6 Cheap Movies
Date: Sun, 30 Jul 2000 21:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/25575>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, dennyw
From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel
http://www.taximurders.com/
TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher
0989XMalachiandHelena.htm
Helena Herrig and Malachi Mac Donagh
Helena was elegant and cheap, graceful, and stumbling as
opposites. What is vulgar one day, she said might be genius
another. And on a third day may be assumed by the creator as
art. Helena may not have been classy but she was smart and
knew the streets.
Malachi was hard and soft, loud and silly, almost quiet in a
careful light that settled on warriors. His naked ass was
hard, a bump to invade, as Helena did that first morning,
carefully molding his cheeks as men did, usually in careless
first intimacy, fondled, shaped a lover's breasts- not
accepting gravity as conspirator.
Helena searched the hard belly, resumed, she carefully opened
his eyes to her practiced fingers as they treaded the abdomen
to the source, sampling the flood as great water falls:
flowers, broken petals descended across the movie scene.
"Hail the Director, Helena sang, "he will find the scene.
Look how he has bent the page and assumed control. See the
432nd page of Malachi's book. What was the title? "My
Daughter Lost Me."
"Here's a few lines," Laurie recited them.
"Who was turned away, now really, asked Val, after dark, as
pillow talk with spiked drinks and marked passages, wet, limp
pages, dappled in the corner of fluid cunny"?
VOICE FROM THE FUTURE as Voice Over.
Where's the well, Helena asked at last. I was thirsty.
Where's Sheila? What happened to my grandchild? Who called,
did you say? What happened to Laurie?
They found her body on the taxi stand. I certainly hope not.
What happened to 1965? Where was 1992 after all"?
"Who's kidding who"? I never touched my kids," Malachi
screamed. "Let's get it straight. Just because my great grand
parents were brother and sister, doesn't mean. I was the one
man who did not abuse Laurie. Even she says that. OK, so
what. Could I change what my kid did during Civil War? You
tell me how. Yes, I know. I married my second cousin,
compounding the alleged genetic flaw, but many folks marry
second cousins, and that was a fluke. Didn't know it until
years later. Maybe, I am better for it. Can you tell me that
I am not"?
"Now, you can't hold me responsible for Helena or Luther, or
Sheila, for that matter? I have no idea who my children will
fuck or not. I am not the one that was corrupt. Get it
straight.
"Malachi, dear," Helena spoke as if she had wanted to
disguise her voice.
1965
Helena, 28 in 1965, lifted her head and opened her blouse,
removing it, pushing out her breasts, examining the nipples,
provoking them, setting them up, dropping them, gauging their
free fall. I love to bounce them she thought, twisting around
like a great Yankee slugger to follow their curve.
Afterwards, Helena washed her face, cleaning the sweat and
dark eye shadow from her eyes, turned from the room, and
smiled back at Malachi who had watched her ablutions.
She was a saint, he said, later, when the police came to
anoint the dead, himself included.
"Now, I am getting ahead of my story," Helena as narrator
spoke. "It's not the end of the novel, February 1993. I am
locked backwards into 1965 and 1961 (the year Helena met
Malachi), and I am a grown child at 18 playing the vamp with
Malachi who was a great cop -- not just an ordinary dick. He
had tremendous moods, Helena said. Some days he was burly,
gentle, married, and only 14 years older. I know he will be
pleased, Helena said, speaking in a high tone to herself,
that I turned out so well.
DRUNKEN DREAM
Stretching the mirror Helena had grown, patting her ass, and
stretching on her toes to catch the sweep of her ankles and
calves. How can I measure the years? Where was my calendar
after all?
"OK. Look at the clear gray translucent slime; Laurie in 1992
spoke the lines like a poem. "Slugs between mouth and hands.
Swollen mud on the Prairie Rivers as the flood drifts and
heals the unsociable stains."
"Got to get to work. "Will meet the man of my dreams" as the
song goes. What bullshit," Helena thought. "I am perfect."
See the seminal Flood, Malachi pledged speaking aloud as a
poet might.
"Rivers of spermatozoa cling to the finger tips; resist the
drip from the base of Helena chin, as cleaning it, the tickle
was texture sliding wet through the alley crushed as the
molten equator pulled apart from distinct gravity as the
flattened core, dull, de tumescence restored balance."
Dark fires helped Malachi and Helena affect the mal ease we
assume befits any guest at his own funeral.
"Where was the 50s dance when I could have swung it," Helena
asked in 55, when out of a more common plight, as dark fake
eels pretended the deadly reform, Helena swirled in and out
of her partner's plotting arms, slipped down to shimmy under
his legs, rafting up, held down from escape by the rock 'n
roll cleats, drifting with Bill Haley and the comets. I'm
gonna rock around the clock, Helena laughed remembering how
the year 1955 fell down, when her Luther taught her what that
church word "sin" meant when he dragged the ten commandments
down from the Hollywood Hills.
"I swallowed the sexual family, Malachi speaking as a poet
again said in 1992: "and then the germ and mitochondrion
remnant, as one holy flag were restored by King Phosphorous,
as his four abreast strut rested, asleep, when the comets
flamed as a swoosh at once when the holy child, Helena,
throaty, immaculate, demons exorcised, scattered the uneasy
gestures, pleasure as a sonnet, broken down, without form,
plied open for Uncle Luther as he took what Helena had been
taught to hide. Young ladies do not show their underpants,
when they sit down, the piano teacher frowned at Helena, at
the recital, with parents beaming, and Luther certainly not
embraced.
The year is 1963. Let's keep the record straight. Malachi is
twenty-seven. Helena, fifteen. Malachi had married Carol
Simms in 1957.
When he met the teenage Helena (1962) who had worked the
diners off the highway starting just after her fourteenth
birthday, Malachi told Helena he loved his wife. Malachi and
Carol had three children. Saints do not lie. Years apart do
not matter.
Forget 1964, 1965 or 1957. Where's 1999 or any days earlier.
No George Washington Bridge (ground zero) was necessary. No
books of etiquette are thrown for Moses to pluck from
imagination. Codify what? They fucked. What do we mean by
unclean spells? Malachi could not know their next thirty
years.
Certainly, incest was despair. No one condones it. Child
abuse (and 19 may be a child) is even a greater loss, as the
theft of innocent spirit cannot be forgiven.
"I was Born of it All," Helena smiled at Malachi wondering
what her sexually abusive grandfather Luther would have said,
had he been alive to stop her. That shitten fuck is dead,
Helena said, "and I can do what the fuck I want. Helena
mesmerized by Malachi, who had assumed Luther's mask, to
provoke some great scene: isn't that what soap operas do?
Each scene becomes the next moment of unresolved tension. No
body ever comes. When the scenes quit, move on to another
venue, the pace of the drama changes. One character played by
another man or woman suddenly becomes the off stage voice.
"Bill Right now being played by John Wrong."
Yes, the most literary of soap opera fans never ask, "who
wrote that trash."
Resolution. Ah, I see. Next case. Continue the motion.
Next scene. Conflict, resolution. Move it on. Let's go. Pick
up the pace. Watch out. Step Lively. Subway doors will close.
Separate. Ripped apart. The hands are the first vise, then
the arms, and souls, finally, heads stretching, throats
screaming, black passion, and the lens by the magic of some
double rail "soused up" go cart smoothly (too easily) passing
from scene to scene, and then the jump dissolve: future from
past; he from she; brother and sister; father and daughter;
mother and son; lover and loved, and all the in-betweens.
CUT TO HELENA WORKING AS B MOVIE STAR (1965).
"THAT'S A WRAP," DIRECTOR SCREAMED. "ALL FIVE LINES REPORT TO
WARDROBE. YOU'VE BEEN CANCELLED. REPEAT MESSAGE TWICE.
AUDITIONS FOR THE NEW PARTS WILL BE SCHEDULED. YOUR AGENT
WILL TELL YOU. GOOD AFTERNOON AND GOOD LUCK.
"Where will I work next week," Helena asks her agent on the
phone screaming at him. What soap? Aren't I a contract
player? What the fuck is going on?
Calmer, Helena hears that yes, she has a contract and a new
movie will be shot in three weeks, but she will have to do
some hard core in it. OK she says. How much more, and the
smile on Helena's face makes it all too clear what went down.
"At the end she says, screaming just a bit softer, "I want at
least two story lines in between the crap. Got it."
"Is that like a climax, mister, the twenty-eight year old sex
pot aging teen star Helena Herrig (playing 18 for the soft
core market) asked when her Madonna like crew gathered around
for donuts and coffee, and she modeling a skimpy blue string
bikini without bottom that she thought she was supposed to
wear in the next scene.
Helena is there to get off on being the star. She also, if
truth is known, loves to show off her cunt. Sitting there,
legs apart, she will open her lips after spitting on her
hand.
Can't really walk naked down the street, and well acting and
rehearsal are just that, but the vamp, some nickel and dime
porn star (who had marketed her youthful body for three years
to the legal teen market, liked to show it off. She had told
her best friend, Lee, last year that she loved it when folks
looked at her. When some even turned her head away, she loved
it more.
"I had one," she said pretending to be Helena. I am a mimic,
of course, and then standing up stage, on her mark, presses
her hands to ceiling, and rolling her knees, tits front, ass
back. T & A at its best like 1940s on the stage pretended to
be a cross between Gypsy Rose Lee and Valerie Perrine.
"Where's Lenny Bruce," you fucken faggot, Helena screamed at
one of the assistant to assistant directors as she stepped up
and down on one foot like a spoiled child dancing down from
the steps to the raw earth. Helena loved being carted from
one scene to another. "All I have to do is show off my tits
and they come around," she smirked. Have you seen my costumes
and props?
She laughed. Make me look like some hooker, you know. Imagine
if I had to cart all this shit around from set to set. Fuck
no, Helena laughed sitting down and becoming quite calm in a
few moments.
Turning to the camera, Helena laughed, catching the cue, "I
saw him at Carnegie Hall one fucken winter in 1962. What a
shitten blizzard. Slow down. Get it under control. OK. There
were no political jokes then. Only politics get it. Not even
fucked up sex. Well, always some kid getting shit on by a
step dad. Had a few of them myself. All those pretend games
then, Bruce caught it you know.
Helena plays it up now. Starting to sing in some rock down
melody "Mr. Just cool it," the Sex Kitten lips synchs the
words. "Watch those hands. Come on Baby. Let me shut you
down," the lyric continued long after Helena had not lost
interest.
Lighting up a cigarette, "We've come a long way baby, Helena
sings mocking the rock and roll singers she loved or so she
said, and then pointing the lit cigarette at some young
handsome extra as he walked by, giving him this look, she
smoked but the guy used to her tease said nothing back
smiling at her but ignoring her too.
GETTING BACK TO THE ACTUAL LAURIE FALLON WORLD: 1992 again
Laurie Fallon is 26 and has natural red to auburn hair. Poet
and stripper, hooker and college student, drug addict and
clean Laurie loved Henry. Scene takes place just before
Lilith and Abel will abduct Laurie. Demon and human, the half
brother and sister have deluded themselves that they can
become media giants by abducting pregnant women, abusing
them, filming the scenes, and while this abuse continues,
they film it all and force the participants to keep a journal
of the whole experience. Laurie is neither the first nor the
last to be taken.
Helena and Malachi are Laurie's mother and stepfather.
Malachi is the only stepfather that did not sexually abuse
his stepdaughter. For that restraint, Laurie loves him as
Laurie's mother encouraged her live in mates to do what they
will with her children. She never said it was Ok. Helena
never spoke about it. She set it up none the same.
Another nightmare
after ten minutes of peace.
Another voice apparently off stage, intones. "What an ass.
Pretense? Who? Me, Helena or Malachi? "Got to keep the show
moving after all." There's the trumpet flourish. Fanfare.
Going ape for some bitch or dick that is me.
Helena was my momma. Yes Sir. She could fuck em all on a dime
after all was said and done."
CRASH. BANG. RATTLE. Old car pulls up and out falls a
handsome, well-dressed African American, as they are called
now, Laurie introduced.
The Gadfly is a spirit and human. He assumed the body of a
heroic Lieutenant who had died in Vietnam in 1968.
"Sounds like the Gadfly making another androgynous entrance,
in drag, what else, Laurie thought. No, not this time, I
guess. Sometimes his gender was indeterminate, I forget that,
but then he dressed up as a broad last week, at the Audubon
tryouts. Wanting to be bird on Broadway like those stupid TS
Eliot lesbian cats. You know he had real tits, a cunt, balls,
and a prick. No asshole though, and not a transsexual,
transvestite wannabe.
Hermaphrodite. Not really. Can't truly fuck his own ass hole.
If the Gadfly was the real thing once, Helena interjected.
What we all knew, the Sex Kitten speaking as a professor of
embryology wags aloud. "You see it happens before gender
differentiates internally at 33 days, and externally at the
seventh and last embryological week (20 -mm) in uterus.
True hermaphrodites are rare in the human species."
"The Gadfly was not human," first speaking aloud, and then
falling silent. Helena lists his attributes, counting off her
fingers, speaking them silently, and moving her lips.
"Need a lip reader, here. Call Bill Watson's agent. He is
good. See what he is doing now. Maybe he's available," the
Sex Kitten warbles. Then continuing, Helena whispers, getting
louder, "Man made in the image of the Spirit. Is the spirit
the character, Gender? The art of coupling difference. Is
human kind God or Godlike?
"Ordinary fare, now really," the Gadfly perks up.
"Who the fuck asked you, the Sex Kitten, exposing her left
breasts, to scratch the red marks where the elastic binding
cut her skin.
"We're a Changeling," the gadfly speaks like a used car
salesman. "More than a shape shifter as demon, serpent, hawk,
owl, or sphinx. Saints? God? Goddess?
"What mother fuckers! We are what ever the scene or the
director needs in under five lines or less," the Sex Kitten
said, removing her underpants, checking for crotch stains,
sniffing it, and then dropping it, now fully naked, she
retrieves a mirror from a table, and folding it down, between
her legs, she sits down, to examine, fold by fold, her sex,
opening the fluffy lips, and then inserting a tampon, and
removing it, inserting and removing snails, and toads, and
then a baby doll, moving to the Gadfly, on the floor, ass
bumping, giving birth to plastic adult toys, directing the
Gadfly and Helena while wiggling her ass, ordering him to
help her pull out the infant, a girl, of course, as if this
last object, was a replacement for death, a reprieve,
penance.
The Sex Kitten's self examination continued for five minutes.
"I know the scene's too long, but I wish I had a magnifying
glass, there's a surprise inside there for you, pointing to
the open, pink vulva, underneath the tampon, but you take it
out, you must smell it first, licking the cotton, as if it
were a sacred dolly. See, she says, the spirit, yours is
there inside my cunt, you bet. Let's pause here for a
commercial."
SCREEN GOES BLANK
Resumes without Gadfly. The part of the Gadfly is being
played by.... Entrance delayed. Who said that. The director.
Not now, Gadfly.
EXIT
The Gadfly leaves the empty stage, looking as if he had lost
his mammoth double DD breasts, and no longer sporting a human
cock, the size of an ass. No vagina, forget the clitoris, as
the great instigator walks off, inhaling his skin as a prop,
stage left, leaving death behind to swoon and then, inside a
series of blood curdling screams to rage punctuated by a
crying new inborn infant, as if his innards had form and
could be raised upon the stage as a hunk of beef let down
from its hook, split, dressed, and cold. Now, living.
Death had awakened as the Gadfly's shadows kept pace with
technical changes; we forbear, translucent, transparent, and
then white.
Enter Lady Mac Beth holding Laurie Fallon, the ninth Taxi
Murders! Victim. Call her Sex Kitten, number one. Her show
earned a 32 share. What a TV super star, the old woman,
dressed as Lady Macbeth, really her mother Helena Herrig,
washes her period piece hands, her classic dream walk, on
stage, in the round, at Stratford, in the year of our Lord,
1600.
Lady Mac Beth staggers, dreams, then her words, as her pitch,
an appeal to blank sleep she marked down in verse and fakery,
while Lady Mac Beth, now off stage, screams, and then Sexton
becalms Mac Beth, "The Queen, my Lord, is dead." Now Mac
Beth's speech ends, ..."Signifying nothing."
Repeat phrase: Lady Mac Beth did say: "Come, come, come,
come, give me your hand. What is done so complete. To bed, to
bed, to bed. [Exit]."
The Sex Kitten, naked but now wrapped in the floor length
black lace shawl intentionally dropped by Lady Mac Beth just
before last scene exit, leaned against the two by fours
supporting the painted sets, watched last scenes, exhausted,
she pulls herself up, bouncing her breasts, in an extra jolt,
as all actors exit. She moves stage center, pulls at her
infant like a wagon or a dog on a leash, as the infant
screams trail off, louder, softer, first the wail of an
infant, then weeping of a child, now as woman, a birth
scream, finally, as death is loose, as a black cloud, like
Witches and Warlocks, gathered, where the fluff of her last
breath, strangled by Abel, death at nineteen in Fort Lee, New
Jersey, left for dead on the taxi stand, corpse discovered at
four AM by her much older lover, Henry, taxi driver and poet.
Scenes flash, end to end, as if a year is compressed to a
second.
"Is that me at ninety four," Laurie (the reformed Sex Kitten)
asks resurrected.
"That's me self," Laurie stage whispers, "just me as I am
born, nothing more," and then pulling apart the dolls head,
throwing stuffing here and there, the scene shifts back on
stage, where the ghostly Sex Kitten, throws the flesh as
Eucharist, first at the blank faced, immobile audience
(probably fake) and then at the stage door security guards
reality's ace). The burly men dressed in NY cop finest herd
the Sex Kitten off stage, and then, the resisting, she thrown
outside the blackened theater.
"Stop, you fucks," our Sex Kitten laughs, "thought it was
real, didn't you. Fuck off. I cannot go out there. See, I got
no fucken clothes on. Just this shawl. You want me to be
arrested for decent exposure."
The Cops ignore her, as they gather in their own church bull
shitting.
The Gadfly, emerging from an invisible crack in the wall,
ambles swiftly stage center, holding a full-length mink coat,
"put this on," he says. "I know it's August, but it will keep
you warm. OK."
The Sex Kitten, clearly Laurie now, passive, puts on the
coat. "It is cold," she says, taking the Gadfly's arm, a
gentleman with his lady.
"I'll bet we'll be warm soon, you old coot," pulling the
Gadfly's hand around her back, directing it to her ass, "now
hold this, if you can."
The Gadfly, dressed now as a stage door Johnny, stops, hugs
the Sex Kitten, wishing her well, throwing a kiss, and then
waving, slowly, invisible, dissolved, back inside the crease
in the stone wall between 44th and 45th on Broadway.
The Sex Kitten (Laurie) sits down on the curb, sticks out her
thumb, trying for a pick up. Anything. I got nowhere to go.
Henry has left. Cannot see him.
He is dead, and so is Abel.
A black limo stops. Door opens. Throwing off her coat,
letting it fall invisible, Laurie gets inside, helped by
first a well dressed women, and then a man, as the Limo
stops, and the chauffeur gets out, silently directed to
retrieve the coat.
"There's nothing here," the chauffeur spits back, annoyed.
"What the fuck you talking about"?
Camera close up. It's Abel, not Henry Whitman. Lover and
murderer. Will death repeat?
Through the limo's open window, Laurie emerges, still white
and naked, a living icon, "you see these well dressed fucks,"
she says "they want a threesome. Why not? It's Tuesday, July
14, 1992, the day after death, and I have awakened. You know
what. Nevertheless, the bitch says, she just wants to watch.
"Hope their Coke's good this time. Just worn off. I need
more, OK. Lady, no, not that way, like this, no teeth, OK, my
nipples hurt. I just finished nursing my baby.
"I'm pregnant with Henry's kid. You know this sex thing gets
tiresome. After all, it can wear out if you do not take care
of business. You take care of your business. What do you do"?
"Movie actress. well They call you 'Sex Kitten.' I know. I
saw you on PORN XXX cable. "Shit Dogs" last season. You were
OK, but I wanted to fuck that hunk of costar, what's his
name, Brad Coffey. What an ass, would have done him for a
line, you know."
"Blitzed. Fucked up, no, don't do that. Not my neck. Put it
back to together. No, I am not Mary Queen of Scots, and we're
not back in jolly, fucken England, you creep. Let me the fuck
out of here. Weird fucks, you blokes. I'm coming!"
Helena Herrig and Malachi woke up from their dream. Malachi
never took another drink. Helena died of liver cancer in
1998.
More American Adventures in erotica and other works by Sean Farragher:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Sean_Farragher/
Sean Farragher
Poetry Site: http://www.farragher.com
TxM6 Sites:
http://www.taximurders.com
http://www.taximurders.com/enfer
http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon
http://www.taximurders.com/paradisio (forthcoming)
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+