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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6: Imaginary Murder of Laurie Fallon During a Yankee Game.
Date: Sat, 30 Sep 2000 04:11:34 -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.
1092X
The Imaginary Murder of Laurie Fallon
Imagined by Henry one drunken night.
THE SOAP OPERA MURDER OF LAURIE FALLON
--GOD LOVES THE SOAPS-- What a fucken Headline.
"Why should I want to watch, a guest, a witness
to murder? Voyeur or not, I cannot change the
doctrine. When friends, beaten half to death,
were captured by a coma."
Father Tabby, Letter to CJ Parker, 3/4/1993
about his vision
From The Gadfly's Leap Year Record, Wednesday,
July 30, 1992, 03:53:07 AM today was 110 days
after the abduction of Laurie Fallon Laurie was
not murdered on 7/11/92 during the live
broadcast of the New York Yankee Game on MSG
Cable. It was all a hoax. Perhaps.
The Yankees had lost 5 to 3 in 12 innings, the
Mariners scoring two winning runs at the top of
the twelfth off the losing pitcher Habyan. His
loss left him 3-3 on the season. Laurie Fallon
took her last breath, first batter, bottom of
the 6th, when Mattingly singled to left, rounded
first. 3:53 PM exactly.
Right. That's me. I'm the other bitch. Not
Laurie. I won't die. My sister won't whack me.
I'm not the gentle intellectual, high model
looking bitch with flowing red hair.
No, I'm not easy, am I? How do I know? We all
know the players: the Gables was the source. Why
did it take the cops so fucken longer. Here I am
the youngster again. Always want those ice cream
cone tits, and hairless pubis. I shaved then
too. Daddy made me.
What's the wager, you fuck? pulling off my
sweater and jeans, and then falling sideways,
legs bent up, slightly parted into dear bed.
Need a bath, rushing water. The tub is a social
calm. Making the water run over my heart.
Feeling the pulse, the tickle, and the swoon, as
my digital heart straight home, dark and light,
open, a great wing, falling dark, as I pass
upward. You bet, driving across the roadway. I
pull my breasts up, fake the road soar warrior.
I am drifted, as my blood pushes, and I can't
string, and then darkness, like the song, the
daring gas, as I pursue the feet, and the fall
downward. There's the place of song, and then
the dress. How is it calm, and then I push up at
his chest, watch the curve of his mouth, or the
falling pace of his hair, as ephemera, a ghost,
dangerous, he comes as I do, sudden, my breasts
are cupped and held. Nothing more while I rub
myself together and then departs his steel
hands, such a warm inside push, and then
release. Three months into rehab. Got my squirt
of juice, sweet mother fucking orange adieu.
Great stuff, sweet water dries on my black
scummy tongue. Love the loose talk. Get it, you
shit. Feel the rush slowly, grabbing my skin,
burning my mouth, letting my swollen breasts
leak some darker grime. Most men got this thing
for my tits.
Had a baby last year. December 4, 1978. I was
barely 16, and Matthew Aston Parker propelled
from my cunt pissed a great storm.
Fuck that shit, getting high off Mother's milk.
Guy would suck fifty bucks worth. Up in his high
rise. I'd put my head down on his pillow, lift
my bra, and he would nurse squeezing his hands
open and closed, blinking his eyes.
Usually his wife answered the door. She'd put
the fifty in my hand, and pat my ass. She's sit
in a chair near the bed and talk to me about all
kinds of shit, not sex talk. Just shit people
talk. Sometimes even politics. Seems her husband
would like to run for Congress. Her family has
money. When I am done, this asshole fucks his
fat ass wife, begs forgiveness, promise never do
it again. His wife laughs, and I let myself out.
Sometimes three's a crowd, although I told the
bitch if I stay and watch, it was an extra
fifty, and if I joined in and did her, a
hundred. Just watch, she said. I am a smart
bitch. No matter how much money I fucked.
Everyone did it sometime.
Even my bible freak father fucked the eager
girls in the church. He got them happy with
incarnated Praise yea the Lord while he felt
them up, or offered his cock as a sacrament.
Standing blowjobs leaning against the wall.
I once saw some shit do it to a fourteen year
old. A friend of mine. He did it right in the
sanctuary. Right before God's eyes.
I came to the sanctuary looking for my keys, and
there's this sweating shit, dropping his load,
banging the child's ass into the wooden stairs
near the organ. Pastor, dear father, didn't see
me. I didn't stay around long after that. I
certainly didn't go to church anymore. My father
couldn't explain my absence. Actually, I was
jealous of the bitch. Wanted to get even. Show
him up.
Can't keep your own house in order, so you are a
real shit. At sixteen, after the birth of my
kid, Matthew, I hit the road; caught a bus to
Philadelphia.
I was a virgin, truly. Immaculate conception and
virgin birth. You can believe that, right,
Peter. OK. I fucked around with my younger
brother when I was fourteen. I seduced him.
-You're still lying, the Gadfly spoke softly and
his words were resonating.
-Fuck you too, Gadfly, CJ screamed. If I'm a
liar, you made me that way.
The Gadfly laughed at the absurdity.
-Tell the truth, the spirit said. Please, it's
important.
-OK. I get it. My father fucked me when I was
eleven. I had an abortion when I was barely 13.
And Matthew's father was my own father. Knew the
record would catch up. Can't lie with the Gadfly
in the wings.
When I was ten and started to get tits, Dad and
I didn't do nothing but look at each other. I
did suck his cock, got it hard. Far as it spent.
Learned fast with my preacher.
When I left home, I did waitress work is hard on
your legs and feet. I started to feel old. This
old shit (must have been at least fifty, older
than my dad) came in one day (what a load,
Yuck), asked me out. Knew what he wanted young
pussy to shake up his old bones one last fucking
time. I whispered in his ear. Cost you fifty? He
didn't argue, put fifty in my bra, and I gave
him the best blowjob of his miserable life.
He came in my mouth. I didn't let go. My first
trick
Scared the fuck. I let go when I through he
might have a stroke. His puffy eyes grabbed at
my lips. His bulging veins emptied and each
pulse, like a tender balloon, could not easily
stop. Didn't want anyone to expire. Imagine,
under you, humping, sweating like pigs,
suddenly, this guy stops breathing.
Shouted at the fuck and nothing happens. I tell
you; you can't stand there with a finger up your
ass and do nothing. I can't call the Police, so
left the flea bag motel; other fucker deal with
the shit. I am a smarter bitch. Like that make
believe street talk, honey. Street savvy woman
doesn't stop shit. I'd always sell my ass. Can't
stop. Make it easy on me. Please. Don't fuck
with my head. Why don't you sell your ass on
street for nothing?
Think of all the shit you get to suck up. Don't
shoot $200.00/a day of shit into her body with a
fucken needle when all I wants, beside (even
before she got hooked on drugs) is to not depend
on anyone else.
When I was a child, I would look at how my Ma
hung on my father, worshipped him, dependent,
when all along he would crawl in bed with all
his daughters.
Yes, I know I didn't call it dependent then, but
I knew how my mother wanted more than taking
care of us. Children stop you. I remember
thinking how I never wanted any kids. Most of
the time I want to be alone. There are times
when I really don't like people. Street life can
do that to you. All you see are selfish and
scared men, who pay for an escape from their
prison. He's drunk, away from his wife. Is there
freedom in exposing your cock to a stranger,
letting yourself go, allowing your feelings to
control your actions. It would be wonderful to
be with any man who wanted to share my daily
life. Someone who knew how to give me space and
love at the same time. I want to be with someone
not just to take or use. Can I expose and choose
my daily boredom. Before I began DETOX and
methadone-REHAB, my life was drugs, making my
nut, scoring, and then using. There's no choice
in such a life. Straight people are tied to a
similar cycle. They also have their prisons. But
they can dream. There is some possibility for
change.
A hooker and heroin addict has very little time
or energy for any activity outside the cycle of
earn, score, use. Drugs have wasted my life.
What do I really want, she asks. I want to run
four miles a day, and feel like laughter once in
awhile. I have a sharp, angular face softened by
my mouth that upturns, curves, lifts top lip
higher, suggests the invisible quiff, and the
tongue behind the key. Striking figure. I
possess the convoluted curves, as they softly
rise not as a costume or mask. I am the
invitation. I do become a mask. Takes on
darkness. I lift outside while I bear his prick.
Taming a wild beast, inviting, and refusing
satisfaction. Yes, there is small risk of
rejection by the parts we broadcast everywhere.
Amazing how the passage of fantasy and reality
climbing the same rose trellis fall down fall
down when they are connected by dots and not the
riverbed and the lust of Alice in Wonderland.
What is the connection of CJ Parker and Laurie
Fallon? They are the riverbanks and hell they
win runs down the legs of their beaten sex.
Henry revives one. God saves the other. Yes, I
know. It is not the usual God who hates sex even
thought God devised it as a casual explanation
for nothing.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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