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Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6 Sex Murder on GW Bridge
Date: Tue, 22 Aug 2000 07:10:16 -0400
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From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel
http://www.taximurders.com/ (updated August 13, 2000)
TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher
From TxM6: SEX MURDER ON THE GEORGE WASHINGTON BRIDGE
1050XGWBtraffic0222X
Epigram:
"Death's pleasure, sensitive, discreet, boundless; sea
anemone bristles current, slows the war"
1931 No Traffic
At the crush of the moon, gravity turns silvery water 'way
from mortal streets. At near evening, above the grizzly
Hudson River, within the grace and grate of famous and
beautifully lewd, Memorial Bridge, ice sheets, slowly undone,
are shattered by the switch and swat of the random beat of
the flood. Above the river, there's the traffic within the
bridge: sly solitary passage to New York.
The Victim:
Upon the bridge, kidnap victim Ellen Burke, 18, waited her
vulva ravaged, but alive, the pulse of Hudson River drowning
in her body, she shivered. Every hump of the stolen black
Buick burned her hands as she braced resisting the warm hand
between her legs until she closed it off -- but not entirely
masking rage with masturbation.
Wearing just underpants, Ellen reached down between her legs
playing death, she moved the pea of clit, felt the sky peel
twilight from silver span as Abel's hand pushed her neck free
out the car door between the wheels and the soft slush
flung at random between steel and clip clap of the tires
head closed. When Ellen died she would never know why she
recalled Abel's cock stuck between her lips.
When she hit the cement, she frantically clutched at her empty
hole and knew the wall between life and its absence.
Friday Night Traffic
Henry Ezra Whitman: January 7, 1992
Death was too cold tonight as Henry Whitman's uncertain taxi
struggled through the stopped traffic on the upper level of
the G.W. Bridge. Every where his cab rode, death kept up or
pushed ahead.
Tonight, on the bridge, an unknown woman with unknown story
dies. Hit by truck and car, at right angles, cornered to her
body, neither police nor doctors had covered her body.
Nearly dead, her flesh and bone stained macadam blotted red
where the woman's fine blond hair had rested on a towel
before she was lifted to the gurney. Struggling with her
life, the cops waited in this foul traffic for the
helicopter. As the silver bird hovered like a drunken gull,
pressed inward by spirals drawn through the onrushing fog and
plumes from exhaustion and exhausts rescue falsely waited.
The traffic stalled, and the helicopter unable to land, rose
off the bridge constrained the pilot later said by air
pressure rising from the wall of the irrepressible traffic.
Whatever happened or didn't, one paramedic leaned over to the
Cops, speaking softly, said, "might as well let the chopper
leave, the woman's dead. Hate to have the man crash for
nothing."
*****
Rapid Visual Dissolve. Fate [Sic]
To Absolute White, Then Gray
Lately, rush hour, even in winter, seemed to be any time you
passed across the span. Accidents, repairs, stalled cars,
trucks, even the foolish rubber necking of oncoming traffic
lowered or raised the temperature depending on the season.
(No matter what, always uncomfortable).
Tonight three left lanes were blocked by an accident or a
stalled and unnatural sixteen wheeler. One ancient man
dressed in pink shirt and black pants stood outside the logo
strewn red, white and blue Marlboro cigarette truck.
Obviously frustrated and fucked up, he banging his fist
helplessly on the open mouth hood of the truck blocked by his
car (or the car by the truck). The truck driver, in tee
shirt, sat frozen by the front tire, head in hands, almost as
prayer, stopped by the shift of his daily bread.
Fate, like everyone waited for the Port Authority Police and
their huge wreckers to move them along. The PA's beasts
congregated behind their private access road to the left of
the tolls, near Hudson Street's taxi dispatch office,
wreckers invisible even now, when they were needed.
All traffic moved to the right through a narrow corridor.
Nothing could stop it passing thin, through early morning
murder.
What a connection, Henry marked it in his mental notebook, as
he felt the taxi suddenly break free, bear right through one
funnel and into another. I live at "Ground Zero," Henry
thought. The bridge has a beginning. We all have a way of
stepping aside, letting memory (or what we create as a
passable truth) control who we are, and why we are helpless.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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