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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6 The Rape and Murder of Jean Parrish
Date: Wed, 4 Oct 2000 08:10:02 -0400
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Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction
http://www.txm6.com (updated 10/03/00)
http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 10/03/00)
http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon UPDATE: 10/04/00
http://www.farragher.com (Poetry updated 10/03/00)
TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher.
0575Xmurderjeanparrish.htm
Gadfly Report: The Murder of Jean Parrish
Friday, December 13, 1991
The man Abel fucked the ideal. Perfect death faded
murder with pure victims. The outside crust of her
sphere canceled the prim interior, he though. Just
another slut. Another quim to bust open. Another
sucked clean. Yes, I love her. She is mother.
No, marks inside her curves, please. [He tells
himself.]
Don't spank yet. [No evidence.]
Nothing will show? Lift her underpants. Pull them
higher. Stand now on tiptoes. Up. Up. Pause. Are the
creases firm, wet, and subtle and a deep mouth pursed
as a melon, swallowing her impulse, as you embraced?
No, watch it. Push her legs when she sit, carefully
over my legs, feeling the head against my thigh,
rocking her lips, spreading the careful ardor.
Prim sin revealed the flowers head and when you life
up, push it back, understand how petals turn, and then
on your toes, rest. Carefully, watch lust leaped above
your hat; don't block the apparitions.
Christ has risen. See the dick. Now, don't kick. I
tell you, no. Fold underwear over her cardboard
displays.
Let her feel the wet silk and the aroma as you squat,
and pee inside my hands. Afterward, go inside, sample
spinning candy first, play cards, and then release it,
you know, laugh from the stop of your toes, shake
where your feet move, shuffle the point, third
position, point, up on toes, reach the bar, let your
legs turn inward at the calf, pirouette, and shimmer,
wait for that bleeding jury to file out, announce
patience, and then when the truth banks out of the
wave, inside the thigh, when you swallow, just before
your squeeze, inward, relax, squeeze, lift it, and
when you have opened your mouth, leaning over your
belly pushing to admire the pink lips, to separate the
flushed pistil stigma the apex of the flowering mouth
quivering accepting come stigma style slender female
phallus rising as a flooded, choking mouth, ovary
ovules to seeds from the stamen thread filament
anther, prick head, soft, tender, as always, there was
the slight deformation of the clitoris, as it bends
backwards, doing angular tricks, elastic, turgid,
sweet bitter outer shell, relax and the let it shift
to cover itself, monosexual, relief when you sigh,
there waiting, at the base, no up higher with a jolt
that bumps your ass, hurting as your ass ricochets
over the handle bars.
Want sexual freaks?
Who Me?
Castrated?
No Sir. Is this the way you're supposed to be?
Good. That's a momentary interruption. Now, get back
within the flow. Feel the hot water against your palm,
and the cold against your breast. No, do the reverse.
Hot not cold. Whatever, don't just look, come out of
that projection, slide forward; the base ball bat was
out of control, hit the home run across the diamond as
the gate keeper waited to take you home I guess he
liked your tits. But you left on your own, and now
you're dead and have no rights for my child for this
attention. Do not hold up progress. I said fuck and
shit and cunt when he was balls up, in my territory,
and the woman seemed confused.
Getting her back, you see, I murdered her with these
simple, two-minute fake political speeches. Cotton
candy. None, this time, sorry.
Abel seemed confused as he walked around the woman
rubbing her cunt. He had ordered her to masturbate.
She did. Lilith would kill her for that. No matter.
Time to worry about death when it is death's hour.
Abel was pleased with his plans for Miss Parrish.
The Next Day:
In pursuit of the best Hot dog or the cleanest
hamburger I got hungry before my stomach gave up, and
we left the stage to better actors. Have you ever fed
yourself while murder danced?
No, actually, it, death lasted a lot longer. No, it's
not a finite point. Everything has process. Things
shut down as a sequence. Yes, you can interrupt it.
Sometimes, it reverses, on its own, and longer that
you can imagine, I have lots of rope and a rough
knife.
We can't take the terrible humidity any more. I know
we complaint too easy. Why piss and moan. Nothing
matters when the knife is pushed into the throat at
that point. Go just that far.
No more, you see. What if the dead were truly cold and
the chill you expected were deaf and not measured.
You did laugh. I saw you. I stumbled over your fucked
up copulating Ass.
I stumbled on come and dirty tissue papers, empty
condom boxes, balloons from Mars stuffed in your ears.
I stumbled on your baying crud and shifted the fake
fire to cool blue and then white-orange. Am I an
invisible wall? Painted, the blood sticks. No, I
realized that was too easy. My sense of humor is just
a warm up. No, listen. Murder was an act of faith.
Delusion? Dissolved. Blank? Look at me? Whole: I'm
superstition or curses.
Anthony Corvino Diary: (speaking to himself)
My journal imitates. What? Finish my thought. I have
rambled, but could not retrieve him. Who? -Tony. "It
plays again on spindled tape. It reconstructed notes
assembled by Ness after the Valentine Massacre. How's
that for ridiculous."
"Yes, I had set him up. Meet the man."
"Repeat it."
"Speak softly," he repeated.
"No agreements. If I had been talking about any
another issue, say UN Aid for Zebras. The theater will
be blank. Am I the actor in this crazy stew?
I am Abel. No, am I a fool? What odd things we shout.
Who is thought and how do we gauge action. I am just
the swirl of clouds. Put your fist through it, in and
out. Do it several times a day, and then more, and
uneven, we watch. It all seemed true at the time.
Applaud death.
She was stuck between the phases until I let her go.
Just a brief pause, and then easily as a shift of
shoulder to force the hand up, and it was done, she is
dead, no, not immediately, but after a pause, perhaps,
a folding of knees. I cut her fucken throat. That was
no miserable delusion. She bleeds. What the fuck? What
was true?
Tony:
Out of the mind, she came down the stairs. A half
dressed, undressed, undressing model with cheap skin
from a broken down Broadway porno show.
No, the woman with no tits is dead. I met her in
Charleston. Out of these fact, what?
No, drained from the river. Lies. Arms were broken.
Cunts were snapped. Legs paused. No rink a dinky
computer folly? What was the action, man? You mean you
do it for nothing. Blood shocked them. I got them hot
and bothered. Fucken A-. I fucked her when her throat
was lush with blood leaking down the center of her
tits. I reached up and felt the slippery sheen. I
rubbed the blood on my face. I drank it as a silly
gleam came into the eyes of my sister. She was
sharpening the knife. I thought about how easy it
would be to reach up and fuck my dear lovely sister.
Her thighs were trembling. She had just come. Making
my little girls dead does it for her. Why are you
trembling dear Lilith I think the question without
actually saying a word. Lilith nods. I know and she
understands what we dream at a moment like now when
the air freaks the blood. Gathering up the tortured
flesh we food fight it to oblivion.
EIGHT WOMEN AND CHILDREN MURDERED
Bergen Sentinel Headlines, December 15, 1991
Carefully Watch your Block. Step Lively
FATHER TO MAN CALLED ABEL
Lieut. Col. James Albert Caine IV
West Point 1962; Oxford 1964
What a headline! HA! Christmas madness. Great
Shopping. Celebrate. What? Loss. I consider Christmas
an uneasy spectacle. What trails we lead. Each life
caused another circle to swallow its tail. No remorse.
Murder began with Abel. I knew him. He's an accident
that was born out of a tempest.
Consider Pol Pot. Or some other ass smirked. Murder
was an expedient solution. Not unlike your President
Kennedy? He assassinated Diem. Didn't really pull the
trigger. Did it. Not unlike me, I suppose.
I set Zippo to tender villes, blue brains to cerulean
sea at the bottom of darkling death. The child had no
eyes, and her hands were stumps. Set to flares. He
struck at and rounds grazed the tree. I answered,
point blank, shoot, and when they turned him over, his
gun had jammed. What an escape? Beats game arcades and
hand held push me pull yea, and then what a fucken
apocalypse. It is a map for a bare victory for life.
The women were dead, and I turned the page, examined
something else, pushed on, or keep score. Score one
point for serial murderer. I do not think this uneasy
truce is silly. What can I capture with mental cloth?
Can I protect my own eyes from the blinding.
ABEL:
Lilith says the Gods will blind our eyes if we do not
perform sacrifices. I refuse to kill. I will watch her
do it. I cannot put the knife to a throat. Lilith
slides it easily down her chin. How wonderful that fat
rubbed apart. Shall I suck it from her throat?
What if I had murdered the women? Beyond
contemplation. Who would you praise? Yourself. Les
autres. Who was that other face? Who, soldier or liar?
Who lies easily under the stairs carrying his life
around in filled canvas bags?
What was lost on death but a sudden fire? Pajamas and
sandals. VC no, he said, and the shot I heard 'round
the world caught this person in his uneasy pace.
Military precision. Taught at the Point. What is
murder? Yes, I know the act of killing, taking a life,
terminating lively connections that unsettle us and
make the barrier uneasy.
We imbue our social conscious with dark circles.
Interior pools to reflect silver and have a passing
memory that carefully call it comedy. I was no fool in
this dank comedy. Mirage. A leaf of clouds. I should
not judge him. Abel realized when newspapers glared
backward in the hot sun. It's hard to read the fine
print in this fucken heat. I am clipped. What do I
want now? What's more, can I want?
I want to know what will happen each day. My
transcript spoke riddles. No logical progression or
bleeping transitions. Parts did not hold. Other days,
I was clearer, meticulous.
GADFLY ON TONY:
Speaking with himself warbled softly over the house
phone with Abel who listened and then didn't. No sound
passed this way, he said later. Tony continued his
monologue.
Tony read the Jackson column four times. He clipped
whole pages, carefully folding them and then inserting
between the back of a large bound 9 x 12 inch black
binder that he had taken down from the desk shelf.
The Question: no rational universe, right. Then why,
how could you?
Abel: The Murder of Jean Parrish:
LILITH SPEAKS INSIDE MY BREATH
"Why kill anyone? I know that may seem a simple
question, but I need to know"?
I liked the way those brown limbs smiled just before
Jean knew it was done. Imagine if this were a trial
how different. I heard Tony shit while we waited for
an open John. Brown crap that's medium soft. Can I
take a poll?
The telephone was an unkempt umbilicus. I hated it.
Banged the receiver. What could I do, Jackson writes
of the moment. Hates larger pictures. Get it cold.
First time. No return. No pick up later.
Listen, I told her I could not pull it tight. Hate
metallic telephone chords. Nothing would scare Tony?
Henry? They insisted on a pay phone. More difficult to
record. Find a way. Exactly reproduced. I listened and
questioned, the Gad Fly continued, and he promised to
print whatever I said.
The Gadfly:
Abel said he would tape our conversation, and he knew
we would do the same. He threatened not to call again
unless the printed transcript reflected exactly what
he had said. I agreed. I answered with the prepared
statement: I am not the publisher of the Sentinel nor
its Managing Editor. The publishers, Tom Thorton Wells
and Marilyn Thorton have assured me that you will be
treated more fairly than you deserve. [Editorial
content suppressed].
One condition. The managing editor requests that you
not use profanity, and we will not print the names of
innocent people. How about a novel? Otherwise, it will
be exactly what you said? We will not camouflaged poor
grammar, Romeo said to Abel, remembering what he had
said during the telephone negotiations he had with
Abel. Jackson told this story in a side bar that
accompanying the Alias Abel transcripts.
Abel:
Amazed, I laughed at what Jackson claimed as ground
rules. It works both ways. If you want to look good,
be careful how you speak. Use good old American
English. What a joke. I actually laughed. I imagine
Jackson wonders why he negotiates such arcane points-
considering the circumstances.
Be on guard, indeed. I had just described murdering.
Should I worry about grammar?
The Gadfly:
Somehow, underneath it all, it didn't seem like it
would matter to Abel? He's educated and polished, but
not embarrassed by grammatical confessions He could
insist on mistakes. That's it. When the copy comes
back, I will mark superficial grammatical changes, on
purpose, make subtle errors. That way Abel would lose
something. No typographical errors, and Abel could
shout back or I will take my wagon and go home. Too
bad, Abel, you need us as I need my advertisers
smiling. The profit motive, American enterprise needs
you, ass hole. All killers are welcome really, as long
as they have cold cash. No credit cards.
As soon as I spoke, the theme and the literary would
take precedence for a moment over awkward
constructions. Like fiction, Abel replied. Don't use
profanity, or threaten anyone, and the transcripts
will accurately reflects the homogeneity of mush
collected from rainwater (early 1960s) to measure
radioactivity. Collect a week of food or a month of
milk from WI or NJ. Take a sample. Extract it with
acid. Add CS and ST carriers, and then count the
radiation we eat and drink. CS 137 is wonderful stuff.
Potassium family. One electron in outer shell. 1960s
test bombs some clean and dirty. Fucken 55 gallon
tubs. One week's food homogenized and concentrated.
After the bomb dropped, we measure the losses. Some
will take years. How about 10,000 lives. Measured
increase. No scientific. No papers to explain.
Amazing' science. What are acceptable casualties? How
many carcinomas were OK? Yes, ST 90. Chemically just
like calcium. Inorganic pain. Dioxin let to bleed
across the grunts mouth, ears, eyes, and prick, in the
terror of his death. Clean up the bodies. No Agent
Orange or blue. Questions and response.
You are responsible for your own integrity. How silly,
Jackson admonished himself.
-"If you deviated from his record," Abel said (which
he had also transcribed), he would not communicate
further if the transcript deviated from ..."
-What, I asked myself.
-"When Abel laughed about the murder, I cringed,"
Jackson wrote. For a moment I felt as if my life had
no other reasonable choices.
An odd intrusion, I read.
James Albert Caine IV:
I love Fairfield, Pennsylvania, near Gettysburg. That
was one first life. I spent many summers raised within
that southern PA swarm. An important tactical theater.
Living near Gettysburg, as a historical chant.
"I die with them too you know," Abel wrote and James
keeping his notes and not just transcribing what he
read of the Abel transcripts published in the
Sentinel.
I don't need interpretations on analysis as I
continued to leap over fences on the horse ridden
during that first charge up the hill when my right
foot caught pulled the horse over the rails, jumping
easier, and then panting, reminding himself, I had no
horse, and no lead anywhere.
James read the Abel transcript further on wondering
what other connections.
-"I don't kill there, Abel answered. That's right. I
liked black and blue sex even then so I brought this
woman there, showed her the far away cemetery.
-"Later, I killed her, but not in Fairfield. I died
there, you know, Abel kept repeating certain phrases
as if speaking about death set him above it. James
said them back as he read, almost a litany.
Abel recorded it all, and I wrote my second generation
of cunning as if I was overhearing an important
political conversation. Like the ones he imagined
President Teddy Roosevelt had with George Walbridge
Perkins, Vice President of New York Life.
Perkins reported to John A McCall that he had been in
an important position to make it all happen for our
interests. Teddy Roosevelt received the nomination for
Vice President. William McKinley would be shot, [EX
POST FACTO] James laughed. What irony. Like OUR
murders. The public's right to know spelled out to
conserve what truth must seize. Truth is sex, James
wrote in the margin of his newspaper.
-"Transcripts plagiarize history, they don't rewrite
nothing;" I jotted his words down hard in deep black
felt marker. I was not angry why did I pretend grief?
I didn't know her, this black Jean Parrish, Mum, No
one deserved death, but I don't really care; how do I
keep of his digressions?
Rewriting history, now that seemed like fun. Forget
simple murder and the sloppy seconds of getting off on
violence and the bluster of suffering. It all seemed
irrelevant and out of space, even to James as any
character he could occupy the throne for more than a
day or two.
Peter Campbell, the editor, was passive in this
process. True, he asked the questions. Even Abel was
passive to Tony. I write this marginalia as a
catharsis, and it seemed right. Very useful. I am not
passive. I am not on the end of the food chain. I
nurture myself, and it seemed a useless literary game
to make certain the punctuation flowed beyond the
meaning from the page.
How far I wrote as excerpted notes no one would read
unless: {PAUSE] I showed up at the trial and
proclaimed myself accessory before or after the face,
[YOU TELL ME] and then I demanded justice AGAINST HIM.
It all seemed useless and an absurd literary
adventure. A useful one, that WAS true. But a trial
and then a quest. The usual Chivalrous adventure out
of the golden knight fag parade from the old college
review of some backward name. That's what I READ here.
Literary misadventure published in a secondary county
newspaper.
In 1900, I was there with George Walbridge Perkins. I
heard the voices, and read the boasting letter that
Perkins typed to McCall. Can you believe it, James
asked himself. James was truly there at the Republican
National Convention.
I have always lived in books and journals. What's real
that I sense the death Abel made? I felt my kinship.
Took aim and fired. I was there inside his skin, in
that ville, one more mark on my weapon. Kept
Abel closes to history. A great part of my life
involved these inexact replications of historical
trauma.
Abel:
When I was thirteen, this neighborhood girl blew me.
She was fourteen, and liked to play the whore, he
said. Came on to me. Told me to take my pants down and
to let her watch while I pee against the willow tree.
The leaves covered our shoulders. The brook beneath
the swarms of hanging snakes (or so it seemed) made
the photograph that was not taken seem even more
perfect when I learned how to turn memory into
photographic salt and a secondary trace of a magical
perspective called light on skin. She seemed marvelous
as I watched her eyes cover my pee as it fell
naturally by the sway of the unnatural gravity of
memory. What grievous bliss conceded as my journal
laughed from the edge to the blank next page waiting
for some sublime inspiration and a greedy pen?
I did. I always peed what I was told. Direct urgent
blood and urine against the sky. It is easy to fall
out of space. Is it just as easy to fall into it?
What a miracle we possessed all at once or twice, as
terror rested, as a leeward swirl away from the storm
in the background of sailing ship masts (great Newport
regattas) where we hide from our history. Can we loose
it, James asked himself, writing a note in the margin,
in deep blue ink, as a way of passing the time zones
and the unnatural warps we expose by what we conspire
to inflict with imagination.
She watched, intent, and then sat down, and with two
fingers plucked at my cock until it was little boy
stiff. She kissed it, leaning against my legs, and
sucked, swallowing first the head, then the shaft. I
thought she might bite it off, so I pulled back. I
didn't trust her like I did my sister or Mom.
James:
I don't believe Abel's transcript. I know Fairfield.
Couldn't be Abel's home. Was mine too? No! I had also
grown up in Fairfield. James had moved away to
Smethport and then Kane when he was fifteen.
-"Some days, life's a coincidence," Abel spoke to
Jackson, and the recorder blinked its uneven answers
one after another.
-"We are rare." That's what Abel said.
It fit, so I'll never doubt it. What are we, I looked
up from the disheveled newspaper and his full, hungry
note book.
I remember how I told this driver about my family. I
took Aaron, Laurie and Angela there one weekend. I
hadn't been back in Fairfield for thirty-five years.
I remember we went out drinking to some local bar. I
tried to pick up some ravished local wench for a party
later. I told the girl the truth. She said she was
twenty-three, had done it with a couple of guys once.
I am drunk, she said. Sure you want to take advantage,
and then she added. Hey, you guys got some bitches,
no, I don't think so, not tonight. I don't usually
lose. But she walked away.
Don't worry James, Much too young for me, Aaron
laughed, as Angela and Laurie joined us. Don't worry,
James told Aaron, amazed by the free association of
this oblique conversation. Laurie and Angela will have
plenty to say about us.
Aaron was amazed. You always manage to find someone.
Angela liked her, when do we go, she said. Aaron
looked up. See where death is born, Aaron said, out of
nowhere. The girl said no.
Laurie:
I heard her tell it in the John just before. She
didn't see me. I was sitting in the stall. I peeked
out the door. I knew the shit immediately when I heard
your name, James, as I am grunted and pissing myself,
half drunk, stoned, I was glad actually that she
didn't want to party. I would have gotten into it, but
I wasn't in the mood, and James she liked you, told
her friend, I would have gone with them, but who wants
to fuck a bitch as I suddenly peed. I was glad she
said no after that. James agreed, and even Angela who
liked women more than men, at times, agreed.
James:
I remember odd conversations when I read the Abel
transcripts. I wonder if we would have fucked Abel
given the chance. Would he have tormented us? Can
there be mercy? I know he claims to have driven a cab.
Have we seen him somewhere, I asked himself, writing
again, keeping track of the time and the murdered as
if it really mattered. It could.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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