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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6: Billy, Helene and Daughter, Laurie Fallon, 15
Date: Sun, 24 Sep 2000 12:10:05 -0400
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Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction
http://www.txm6.com (updated 9/16/00)
http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 9/17/00)
http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon
http://www.farragher.com (Poetry updated 9/20/00)
TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher.
0002j Helene and Billy Reese 9/24/00
The Book of Herrig: Helene & daughter, Laurie 15
Sunday, 12 January 1992, 16:35:21
"Billy"
William Reese Smythe, Billy, as he was usually called,
or 'Reese,' by his male friends, at 6 foot one was
movie star handsome.
Uncultured and lanky, an impure man Billy's
translucent blue eyes and dirty blond Robert Redford
hair left most women on first meeting dazed and
uneasy. He was what you might have called in the
1950s the universal white trash ladies man: muscular
and fit, but not too much; intelligent and a good
liar, but not formally educated; and while he seemed,
at first, athletic, assured, robust in his manners,
and just down home white boy arrogant, he was also
doubtfully "vulnerable." and love to use crude
language to intentionally get under your church
going mother humping nigger loving skins,
so he said, smiling, picking a scab from his arm.
I ain't no churchman, but either are yo'all. You're
all fucken queer for Jesus, he said. Well I'm a better
pervert, and if I had cause, I'd take it up the ass
before I prayed in or out of church for your
forgiveness, Shit, I should forgive yo'all. You sure
have fucked up rules and nothing's fair.
The biggest liar is the lawman. Man, if I were a
nigger, I'd burn his ass and then his fucken town
before I'd ride in the back of the bus or go to second
rate schools. I'd never kiss his ass, that's fez sure.
Shit, I know I ain't educated, but I is smart, and can
at least read and write better than most white folks
who didn't go to a Yankee college or half a dozen
southern schools taught by southern gentlemen. They're
the worst assholes. They lost the fucken war gave into
the Yankees. Now, they lost their niggers, and instead
of fighting back, they whine like drowned rats.
Shit. Fucken genteel shits. What can a mother fucking
southern good old boy do with the likes of yo'all,
when you kiss white ass, and pray to a nigger loving
God. My grandmas would have rather slit his own
throats than kiss a nigger man. Now, I sees it
everywhere up north in the cities. Shit, it'll be here
soon. It's all right for white men to fuck niggers,
always been done, got to improve the fucken race, but
there ain't no need or excuse for any white woman to
fuck a nigger.
Shit, you fucks are crazy listening to the rich folks
and their fairy tales. Don't you know they want you to
kiss their ass for a dime, and let them fuck your ass
for a dollar- that kind of shit keeps you down on the
fucken farm so you can't fuck up Paris or white
Charleston? Shit, they even wrote a screwed up song
about it when my Daddy was 'cross the sea fucking up
the Huns during the war to end all fucken wars. What a
fucken laugh, my pappy used to say. What assholes, we
become, daddy, you fucken misbegotten sons of a
bitches; ain't got any pride. If you did, you wouldn't
let those northern do good fuck ye up?
Like cheap cologne, Billy lingered too long in the
cuts and bruises, and his insufficient disguises dull
murmur to what passed for the spirit of the good old
southern gentleman and the parsimony of the tired
southern soil and the madness of share cropping
slavery.
Well, air conditioners, fertilizers, women's rights
and those more general civil rights that protect men
and children as well as cripples, faggots and women,
opened the southern highway to the Yankee white boy
come home back to Mama lately southerner who liked the
way old black folks knew their place. These old guard
didn't complain as they knew that this mostly white
migration, south, was matched or a response to black
migration, north into the cities
New law cured the southern gentleman of any lingering
notions of the white man's burden and his absolute
racial hegemony.
Billy like the good old boy farmer was a bogus, a
piece of shit clouding up the past with a dreary after
taste and finally a sad flowery funeral without
godliness or gentility.
When Billy spoke at large at a picnic, or in the
pulpit, as a lay preacher in The City of God
Pentecostal and Reformed Church, or to one person,
although what he said, was usually racist and
ignorant, when you really listened, there was nothing
but loose air and not even a false front of
camaraderie for a solid buttress.
When Billy spoke, it was like watching former
President Regan doing his favorite fast walk shuffle
new conference, just an "off the cuff" briefing to the
press that was as confused as CIA policy in Russian at
the time of the fall of the Berlin wall.
Life was seemingly like a failed play, when Regan or
Billy in drag explained El Salvador or the Iraq-Iran
war. Billy spoke in a cloud, as did Regan before the
Alzheimer's disease stopped his memory and cut off his
lies.
Questions we might have asked of the nearly dead,
sometimes, are we dead before we die? Is that possible
given the political plans and agenda as set forth by a
newt?
Is that an amphibian, Grandma? No, that's you wang,
son. Old bad joke, sad to know. Why dost thou snicker,
dear newt we might ask? Really, Billy's an actor after
all.
You know true speaker is dead; He suffered a
miscarriage last year, and the fetus aborted was
raised up to fulfills the creed of all good white men
and born again niggers.
But at curtain calls, all you heard about the play or
the playwright were rude comments or some bluster
about how some of the actors fumbled the dialogue. And
who is that director? He did a terrible job, what
boring blocking, and the back lighting was too dark,
dismal, but that actor, what's his name, the one with
the cleft in his chin, he had such a sexy mouth, one
woman said, putting on her own deep red lipstick,
rubbing her instrument into her lips, pushing,
penetrating each pore, fucking the skin, making it
shine and blush, exposing nostrils as vulva and tongue
as clit.
Women notice my mouth first, Billy said, then my ass,
followed by my luminous eyesores I know some good
words. My teacher taught me that one. She said look
into my cunt, Billy, and smile at your reflection,
that's a luminous cunt, dear boy.
Billy often told friend and foe alike that the curves
and flutter of his soft mouth stirred women like the
lines of a woman's hip, or the upsweep of a firm
breast stirred him. And when Billy's mouth opened,
usually under a haze of cigarette smoke, flicking his
ash, as men did, the cigarette cupped backward inside
their yellow stained fingers, most women took two
steps forward, one back, startled by how Billy made
them wary and yet, strangely intimate, and although he
didn't intentionally pose; it just appeared that way,
and for those who had no imagination, well, they
suffered because Billy said that bravado of love
poetry was insulting and demeaned that pure southern
woman and her good works for the suffering children
and their impoverished parents.
Overheard at the Gainesville, Fl. diner, where Helene
Mae Herrig worked, after the terrible fire that killed
three of her children and maimed another, a slightly
plump, big titted middle age, three time divorced
cashier, said, after running down the woman for her
choice of men, drinking, excused Billy in an off hand
way, that was certainly not complimentary, "you could
call Billy almost a Donald Hall, you know, the Academy
Award winning actor who was convicted last year for
the statutory rape of an fifteen year old girl, and
then was himself raped with a broom stick and then
murdered by prison guards. Remember how the guards
claimed there was a prison escape, and the actor was
shot taking a female officer hostage. All bullshit,
man. A deranged screw that blamed the actor for his
daughter's rape and pregnancy executed the slob.
The man was in prison. Get it. The only way the
pedophile could have fucked her was if the Guard
brought the slut to the prison, and set them up in the
infirmary. Pure and simple. All bullshit.
A curious allusion, for Billy like Donald Hall had
spent several years in prison before and after the
1976 fire for selling drugs, burglary, car theft,
pandering, child molestation (sold pornographic
photographs and movies of children having sex with
adults and other children), and contributing to the
delinquency of minors.
In a sense, what the rotund waitress had said, could
have been taken as prophecy, for Billy would also,
many years later, die in prison, in 1989, when a
jealous inmate and Billy's former lover (a raging
Queen), stuck a shim in his gut and then cut the
fuckers throat, because Billy had sucked some black
dude's cock (reportedly for protection) one summer
evening while armed guards watched from the parapet
that extended over the prison yard.
Most women, and some men, who knew Billy (in prison or
out), would have done anything to keep the man's
affection. Others like teachers, principals, cops,
prison guards, army sergeants, uncles, husbands,
mothers and the boy friends of his victims wanted to
kick the shit out of him, and then fry him in old
Sparky.
"I want to really fuck him up," one woman said, when
she learned Billy had gotten her fourteen-year-old
daughter pregnant a second time. Not that Billy was
responsible for the first grandchild. That didn't
matter to the woman, who should have known that first
grandchild was by way of her own much younger brother,
who while visiting two summers ago, had fucked the
girl, paying her for sex, one ice cream cone for a
blow job. Two 45 records for half and half, and a new
sweater earned an over night stay and at least three
good fucks if he could handle it. The old guy
practically croaked making the attempt, but the girl
didn't care. My fucken grandfather popped me when I
was ten. Shit, you'd think I would mind. I hope the
guy settles in Florida. I'll fuck him any time. Too
bad I got pregnant. Shit, I don't really care, after
all. He said I could stay with him, if I liked. Nah
can't do it, I told him. Don't want no prison guards,
I said. You just another fucked up daddy hoping to pop
his daughter's cherry.
Shit, I got you beat, and I didn't have to fake it,
pretend to sleep. I jump your mother fuckin bones
right in front of your sister. She pretended to be
sleeping. I saw her eyes open at least three times,
and I was only looking for a minute. The cunt knew I
was fucking you. She must have got off on it. Shit,
you got to love me. I want to settle in Florida by
Miami Beach and be a rich kraut whores, fucking the
Mafia to death for a diamonds, pearls, and rubies.
Shit, I got my great dreams too, you know. I hate
fucken Brooklyn too. Think I want to go back up there
with all the other niggers. We sure are a lost fucken
race, right.
What else could the girl think, Billy said. She sat on
my lap and openly played, rolling her ass against my
thing while her Mama and I watched Mr. Dillon on black
and white Gun Smoke tip his hat and smile to Miss
Kitty.
A righteous whore if there ever was one, I told the
girl, Laurie, as she rocked against my hardon while I
fondled Helene's breasts as she slept, leaning against
my left shoulder while we sat on the large over
stuffed couch, pretending to snore.
Later, after Gunsmoke, Helene now slept in our
bedroom, after she had staggering through the kitchen
looking for ice cubes and more bourbon. She briefly
asked if Laurie was sleeping, and I said, yes, and she
closed the door, and suggested that she wanted to
sleep alone, and I could use the couch, or sleep in
Laurie's room. I doubt Helene knew that Laurie,
wearing only a short dress, and was truly bare ass,
pear exposed, legs open, fully asleep in my lap, she
shifted under my gentle fingers while I watched TV
news about a fucken prison riot and the murder of an
inmate in Texas.
Who the fuck cares about some slob who went to jail
for fucking some fourteen year old slut and then took
a knife from an equally fucked up miserable con. I
shut the TV and carried Laurie to her bed, where I
crawled under the covers and yes, I slept cradled with
Laurie and assorted teddy bears, and we slept.
In the morning, Helene woke about six, joining Laurie
and me in the girl's very large bed. Helene noticed
that Laurie was bare ass, and she helped the girl with
her underpants, careful, not to wake her, and then she
noticed I was buck naked and sported a half hardon,
which delighted Helene, as she rubbed it, making it
stiff, kissing my face, she turned to my neck, kissing
my throat, she whispered something curious: "I'm
jealous of my daughter's affection for you. I know
that now, but its OK as long as you don't ever leave
us, and I sat up, fully awake, not wanting to wake
Laurie, Helene and I rocked together, gently fucking
side to side while Laurie slept, woke up, leaned
closer to us, letting her sleepy head fall on my arm
while her mother rose above me, fucking furiously, no
secrets, nothing was hidden, as Helene came, riding my
wave, I felt Laurie lean into my neck as she
innocently played with her mother's breast dangling
and then falling into us, as we collapsed, the girl
crawled between us, and we rolled carefully around the
bed, feeling the heat, open legs, and the wet mouth of
her mother's open organs.
Years Later, an Inquest, of Sorts: Why did Mama let
him touch my body, Laurie asked years later. She
wouldn't have believed it, and I couldn't and didn't
know enough then to stop it. It was as natural as
eating, playing with his thing. Later, I knew it was
wrong. But then I didn't really give a fuck only
hating that Billy lied and didn't tell Mama that I was
his true sweetheart.
Fortunately, for most of his women, Billy never stayed
around too long. Unfortunately, for Billy, he never
faced the shattered glass after the assaults or
cleaned up the blood from the mattress after one of
his girl like sweet hearts bled to death after a
botched abortion.
Billy's abuse of women, sacred and profane, was
everlasting, and indelibly fixed in the circuits, and
each flaw, each transgression like a broken computer
chip or a missed lead, like any computer or human
virus, host and object, suffered equally, however, the
victims, unaware of the contagion, suffered the
possible AIDS like complications in silence, and now
Billy wonders how any one can fully isolate potential
victims from their predators. I guess, you can't,
Billy's smile, genuine, made sense if you looked at
the larger horizon accepting cause and result as
information and not morality.
Like many of us, Billy wasn't just simply a flawed
specimen. He spread misery too easily like typhus
after a flood inundated the reservoir, mixing septic
waste and clean water.
More than another Typhoid Mary, Billy rattled Bob
Dylan's doors, and then when no one answered with the
correct musical phrase, Billy walked away to break
down one door after another wailing his country music
Bad Lands music until nothing was left of the land but
ocean. And nothing was left of space, but space.
Nothing in life is sacred, Billy laughed. Philosophy
is dead, Man, he spoke the phrase softly, scratching
his left nipple blue tattoos and all.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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