Message-ID: <26840asstr$971435402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Sean Farragher" <seanfarragher@msn.com>
X-Original-Message-ID: <NEBBKECCILIDDPJFHMPOGEPKCLAA.seanfarragher@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
X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400
Importance: Normal
Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6: Taxi Dispatcher Murder by Sex Fiend
Date: Fri, 13 Oct 2000 07:10:02 -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/Year2000/26840>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, IceAltar
Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction
http://www.txm6.com (updated 10/03/00)
http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 10/04/00)
http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon (UPDATED 10/04/00
http://www.farragher.com (Poetry updated 10/04/00)
TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher.
0759X Henry Taxi Walkabout
Txm6: Hyperfiction Novel
Henry Whitman Weather Report
June 3/4, 1989:
Faking the Headlines?
"TAXI DISPATCHER BLOOM MURDERED;
DECORATED VIETNAM WAR HERO SOUGHT"!
130 Vietnamese Refugees Drowned
Fishing Boats Collide in South China Sea off
Malaysia with Japanese Super Tanker"
NYT, 8 March 1989.
June 3/4 1989, "Tiananmen Square," Beijing,
China. 100,000 Students protest in China
More Than 700 Dead!
One of the above headlines was true. All of them
were false. Contradiction. True, but not. Words
are rarely a sufficient compensation for memory.
Taxi drivers forget calls. They work at
remembering it all. But the harder most of them
work at it the more they forget. It is easy to
do. Turn a corner and some truck son of a bitch
cuts you off and you had it in your mind. 24
Waverly. Then you think maybe it is 240 Waverly
Place. You call the dispatcher back and you
forget. Dispatcher says later. "Hey brains
for shit. WRITE down the fucken calls."
FOUR CAR, HENRY You south?
7 th & WASHINGTON, HOBOKEN.
FOUR CAR, GET THE NY HILTON"
CHECK.
(I got a name, asshole, Henry asked himself
under his breath and not to the dispatcher,
Geoffrey Bloom, on the air),
GOT A NAME GEOFFREY?
GOT A NAME GEOFFREY?
ONE MORE TIME. FOR WEST COAST RADIO STATIONS FOR
THE DEAF
GOT A NAME GEOFFREY?
VIETNAM, near Dak To
Henry Whitman Sp5c Medical Aidman
Vietnam Fourth Infantry Division
September 1967 to October 1968
HENRY WHITMAN:
Another minute of airtime. Silence. Black skies.
Behind the Point Man. "Fucken LT. always puts
our asses up there," heard the grunts humping
against their breath.
"Fucken West Point", they say. "Not supposed to
be here. Radioman one-step behind. First Squad
Sgt. keeping us tight. Where's that goddamn
sniper. Must be there. Heard a round.
Green and white tracers into the tree line.
Return fire. Sniper there! FUCK! Arm grazed. Son
of a Bitch. Shit. Where's the fuck. Mortars.
INCOMING! INCOMING!
Fucken GOOKS. Humping the ruck up the cliff.
Black earth and death again. Misery. Wet. Water.
Steam. Jiggers. Fucken blood. Mine?
GOT A NAME GEOFFREY?
SEE THE DOORMAN
WHAT, BETTER NOT BE ANOTHER SCREWED UP CALL
WHERE YOU BEEN, SLEEPING GEOFFREY?
JUST GET THE CALL, AND SHUT THE FUCK UP. NO
CURSING ASS HOLE
FUCK YOU TOO
NO CURSING ON THE AIR. (Another voice.)
CHECK
"Fucked up that faggot dispatcher," I told that
black fuck, PE*TER JACK*SON CAM*PBELL [Henry
said the name with mock respect stringing out
the name, emphasizing each syllable], from the
Sentinel. He's my doppelganger, and he said I
was right.
What a fuck. I know he's been with me since the
Point; he told me to leave, and was right,
although, sometimes, when I ride this cab, and
he didn't protect me from the bitch, you turned
me in for fucking her at school, when I gave her
an honest grade. She got a B in cock sucking and
A in Creative Writing. I dumped her. So what, I
told the Dead. She's eighteen. That's old, I
joked. He didn't think it was funny. What do you
want me to do, lie? So I was fired from City.
GADFLY:
It's possible you have a corrected but distorted
picture of my life now. I am not the bad boy I
pretend to advertise, part of my defense
mechanism. I really do care for women, and
respect them, and see them as more than objects,
and in my life with their art, music, child
making, poetry, fiction, history, politics, I am
their peer, when they are mine, if you follow.
My prick has another sensibility I suppose, and
I do apologize I when it's in my interest, but
no one believes it then, my humanism. You are a
crass SOB, anyway, we're getting away from the
cab ride, and the story. But one last syllable
about the Gadfly, he's just as phony a chauvinist
as I am, no, was?
HENRY:
Yes, he has his own life too. No sycophant or
parasite. He writes blessed pornography under
the pseudonym, Wren Stephens, and as editorial
page editor and the author of three times weekly
syndicated political/social/arts criticism/crime
columns, he wields a heavy knife or rope or gun
or whatever which way (sorry Clint) you want to
get it done.
The Gadfly leads a busy life protecting my life,
watching all the action, my perpetual voyeur,
making me a damn good exhibitionist. He also
helps keep an eye on my brethren (he tells me he
can't provide perfection there, and he's sorry
got to abide by union rules, he jokes, non
interference in the works of other recursive
spooks); he did a fine job in Nam, kept me the
fuck alive [but not Jimmy]; he truly saved my
ass four or five times [He told me when we
landed in San Fran after my tour. Back to the
world with a flourish, he said. You know you're
dead five times. Five deaths, and many more to
come. You better praise my ass, he said, when
they give you your medal, and I did, although
most laughed, and I wrote a book, and it wasn't
published, no one believed it.
One editor said this is a Pulitzer Prize book,
that won't be published. Why, I asked. Why, you
fuck, my buddy screamed in his face, silently,
as spirits can do, making him wince inwardly.
The powers to be won't let it happen. They don't
want the truth. Who the fuck are they, I asked.
You know, the gadfly said. Others like myself,
the gadfly was solemn. I knew it wouldn't become
too well known. The Gadfly was actually
depressed for two months, after that failure for
recognition, but he snapped out of it. And I
have had many a poem published, and many a book,
and many a prize, and even fame and now some
infamy, due to my publication, but my best book,
a work of nonfiction can't be published, so
what. And I'm the one who writ the words, made
the paragraphs, structured the idioms, recalled.
No you're not, he said. I am. You fuck. You're a
dummy without me, he said. I got angry and
actually shut if off for about six months, until
making love with some beautiful fifteen year
old, who came on to me first, and all, if you
believe it, I let the gadfly watch, to curse him.
The Gadfly doesn't approve of the ladies I fuck.
No, he's not gay or bisexual. He likes the
ladies too. He hopes I could become more or less
appropriate, as he says, you know, fuck you too,
that I got to be there, imitating my street talk
mode. You could at least forget the
teenyboppers. I can't help it if I appear
younger than my years, and the ladies are
willing to pay me fore it. I am joking, of
course. No, not really, the fuck, would retort.
Melody is what I call memory. All that harmony
which is what I call memory integrated with the
rhythmic bones, and intervals proscribed by
whatever convention I design. Words are fluid,
more liquid than music. Silly statement. If we
can breathe through inert halogen polymers, then
we can breathe words, music, the smoke of each
lesion we fester and heal, like epiphany and
nightingales. He's a sporting bird, and I am,
well, carrion, which is how it should be, I
suppose. Getting out of memory into the
structure of real present dangerous living. Here
I am, back to the beat. Hear the rhythms, watch
the ass, balls, cunt, tits, cock, and even the
clit and glan if you can get down to it, tingle
dangle. Little Richard I love you.
Great columnist tells the truth. Told me he
doesn't hate white boy heroes. I told him. Yes,
it must have been my other face. Maybe, it's
Henry, and he's got a black ass. Only kidding,
Henry laughed at himself. Giving fake interviews
with the press? Where am I going? Back in
country.
The Gadfly: Has Henry Whitman murdered Geoffrey
Bloom at the dispatch office? Is Henry my killer
too? What wonderful mimicry? The art of Serial
Murder. Who is that character, Murder, now?
Where's Edward? HeShe. Tee He. Bad fucked up
lines. Rachel, get your redesigned clit and cunt
ready. Angela, Laurie, Chrissy, listen up. It's
Howdy Doody Time, and I' not fucken Buffalo Bob
Smith!
"SOMETIMES A GREAT NOTION," stealing another
line. I could get away with greasing that fucken
Geoffrey, Henry thought, as he pushed his steel
can through the Lincoln Tunnel tolls to the Hilton.
Not quite two days after Henry's "thought," on
June 5, 1989, at precisely 3:12 AM, Geoffrey
Bloom was murdered in his Hudson Street taxi
office, in a manner consistent with Henry's
story. Henry was never accused of the crime. He
was on the road when it happened. He clearly
could not, and did not do it?
Geoffrey Bloom was murdered, the police and
Prosecutors said, by the three-time loser, Mark
Colon Steigers, a.k.a. "Stump," "Buzzface," and
"chickenhawk," "Reams, during the commission of
felony armed robbery." All the nicknames were
well-deserved prison handles. Steigers had been
convicted three times for arson in Britain, and
as an illegal alien, here, he beat up a John,
who had ruined one of his whores. He said, there
me property. If he wanted to mess with her that
badly, he should've paid up front. Had no money,
the bloke. Cunt couldn't work for a week. He
fucked her ass bloody, and beat her. I beat her
too, but I never upset the job, know what I mean.
Other prison monikers were "Chickenhawk," for
his love of young boy convicts, and his brutal
manner of fucking their ass and mouths. Steigers
had a huge cock, like that Holmes character in
the XXX flicks.
"Buzz face" was another, for his pocked marked
face. Small pox not acne. Steigers, one prison
official, known for his love of anything
British, said that Mark Steigers, born in
London, was almost an icon from the nineteenth
century British Navy. One fellow arsonist and
sweet heart, said, after Mark Colon's murdered
by unknown assailant. Some say, a disgruntled
female prison guard. More likely some spirit out
to avenge Geoffrey, or to cover up Henry's
gadfly crime. No gadfly has ever been a
criminal, the Gadfly bragged to all asunder.
Mark Colon spent 25 of his 40 years in prison,
reform school, or foster homes. He never loved a
woman without hurting her. He never loved a man
without getting off on his pain. I love cats, he
said. Only cats, and they won't let me keep one.
Think I'll fuck the bitch. Never, I would
protect that pussy snatch like me own mother,
father, sister and brother. Then Mark would
smile, now, that I'm dead I can say, well, brag,
I murdered them too. Fucked them up, good. My
sister really screamed in that fucked up fire.
Serves the bitch right, refusing to suck me off.
Considering all of it, you know what, I didn't
do the fuck. I left him beaten, just a bruised
jaw, where I pistol-whipped him. He was alive.
Never shot the fuck. Some body set me up. How
they found that old weapon of mine, and planted
it there. I lost that piece ten years ago, just
before I got out of the Royal Marines. Served in
Nam, you know, part of a special UN observer
contingent. Actually, I was a spy, until I
fucked up. The prison rep, and record, all made
up. I killed me mum and dad but the other
things, Nah.
In summary, Mack, Chicken Hawk Steigers did not
murder the night time taxi dispatcher Geoffrey
Bloom, although accused, convicted (after which
he quietly bragged (to cell mates only) about
the murder he didn't commit to increase his
prison rep.), and sentenced to life plus twenty
years, he died in prison, his only home, weeks
before he would have been released due to
substantial errors by the presiding Judge,
Milton W. Alders, who later admitted, as part of
his plea bargain, to jury tampering, and general
malfeasance; a spirit entered, he said, and I
could not resist. Everyone laughed, like you, he
said. The truth is fucken funny. At least I will
not due any time. Wouldn't last too long, even
in solitary. Screws don't like judges, every
one's jealous, you see. That was one of the
Gadfly's favorite lines. Can you imagine the
Gadfly as judge and jury! Not completely, as a
matter of laughter high on the meter.
Paranoid? Getting back to it, and out of the
fantasy and its recursive shadow, Henry said to
himself and out loud (in an empty cab), I am in
the wrong position for this call, Henry thought
to himself. Never got a job to the city from
Hoboken?
Fucking Bloom never gives out city calls from
the south unless he's backed up, and we're slow
as shit. Yellow Cabs lined up on the stand
around the fucken corner. Why? Must be playing
with my head again? Had to be? Am I a joke or
not? Fucken West Pointer, star man, hero,
paranoid. What a fucken joke. Am I crazy? Know I
am James Albert Caine.
It's true. I could have murdered the fucken
dispatcher. I know this is not a hallucination,
although everything does have a flat field and
no colorno dimension. There's no green. Fuck!
Ever since "Nam" I love and hate green. Don't
dream about it though. Epiphany everyday. Green
is more than gray or red.
Fucken dispatcher just sent me on one bullshit
"no call" at the Hilton. All the way to the
city, never gives me a bone. Like the one last
night. All the way to Kennedy and the fuck had
it wrong. Oh, you made a mistake. The call was
for tomorrow night. Oh, you're sorry. Take the
tolls off your sheet? OK. Shit. Never, not even
a fucken bone. Why now, that scumbag, it better
be real. Fucken kiss his ass.
See what the fuck I mean, you shits. It's all-
blank. No pages. Letter home to the world like
Dear Diary or Dear Mother Fucken Slopes, or Dear
Mom or Dear Death or what it really is, as fake
commentary, Dear Taxi Murders Readers. This
letter, entry in dairy is a fantasy. Didn't
really happen? Not entirely sure. What is real
or not? Certainly not life, you fuck. Can't stop
'em all. INCOMING, INCOMING"!
"What do I love about murder," Henry asked
himself?
Read this! Makes me cream in my pants to know I
did it. Me, FUCKEN POET AND WAR HERO. What a
laugh. Front-page fucken news. Shit, Looking
into the time machine? HG Wells, shit? No one
fucks with me. Crap. Sure. "Fucken King of the
Beasts." I'm it. Just think I'll make it out of
this fucken shit bag body bag once upon a time.
Where are the round eye bitches, waiting to fuck
me. I want a parade. Shit, no motherfucker can
spit on me. I'll waste their ass. No one better
fuck with me, you stupid fucks.
Let 'em rag your ass and you'll have to pick up
the goddamn pieces. Great ass. Need more time to
get it done? Shit. Didn't have to die you fuck.
I didn't do it. Bomb went off. The fucks blamed
me. Fragged that fucken LT., they said. Shit no.
I'm the LT.
I stopped it. No one cared. Full of shit and ten
klicks east fucken woolly eyes can get caught in
the foul and shit eating humid fucken air and a
scrawny chicken cooked in its feathers, muddy,
skinless, sweet like great tits.
Hot motherfucker. You believe it. Shit no.
Bustin caps. Got it. Asshole Whack Him Good!
Fucked Up. Shit! Do him you fuck.
Watch Henry. Stole the fucken .45 from some
asshole ARVN Capt. No, not the one I did, some
other asshole. Henry Cunt Lapper "me moniker,"
as my great grand pop told me.
Your moniker is what you really are, POP POP
said. I like to suck pussy, so you know what
follows. Got the name in Nam when this buddy
came in the hooch and saw me sucking this peach
fuzz slope.
Didn't they teach you how to Boom Boom back
where you came from, he said? Daddy didn't teach
you right, laughing his pair off. Just fucked
the bitch myself. Fuck her and shut up. Now do
it. Yes Sir. Popped a good one. Like sucking
dick. You one wild motherfucker cunt lapper,
Henry. Grand Pop taught me a lot. My Dad always
fucked up and fought with my Mom. Fuck came at
me with a knife. Drunk as a skunk he tried to
fuck me up. He threw me around the room, cracked
my knee, and fucked up head. Almost made 4F.
Shit. Air Force Academy Said I had a busted ear.
No, Sir. Pulled strings at the Point. Army Brat.
Special Medical Letter.
Army didn't give a shit. Send me to Nam and a
body bag when it's over. Who needs a fucken ear?
Loved jungle crotch rot in a way. Every day was
new shit. You know how it always seems wrong
when days are always the same. In country most
times deep shit. Little fucken chance for ghost time.
Getting back to fucken Pop. My mother stepped in
front, and the queer fuck backed down. That was
the only time. Fucked up.
Saw Pop beat two guys to death when I was in
second grade. Beat them bloody. Got away with
it, the shit.
What a grand day, Pop said, when we were in the
big one. The big one is always the last shit
you're in. He loved war; fucken crap, he said
that fucken Hitler shitten Grubber. Should have
got that Commie fuck Joe Stalin when I had the chance.
Pop told me over and over about the troubles and
how he and his buddy, Sean, fucked up the Brits,
as he used to say.
Had to leave Eire. Sean fucked em, and then
Grand Pop came here, already grown, drove a
delivery truck for some Irish goon squad.
One thing Grand Pop always said. How he loved
becoming a Yank, and fighting the fucked up
Germans in the Big One he said. Fought with the
69th in '18. Said he wished he could have fought
the Limy, nor Jerry. But took me orders, as you
will do, he said himself.
Henry Whitman became a Yank. No returned Yank,
he said. Never go back. Too good here.
I did. Vietnam, two tours. Fucken shit. Could
have gotten a star if I had stayed in. My dad,
too. He fought the Japs. Fucken Marine. Won DSC.
I ain't bragging on myself, but I got em too,
and then they busted me out. Said I was unfit.
Fucken Major Stipple. Remember this name. Doctor
Stipple had me after I almost beat this fucken
nigger half to death.
Why am I telling you all this bullshit?
You don't need to know about me. I didn't kill
the fucken whores and pimps. Why kill the fucken
dispatcher?
You asking me? Huh! Pumped up. Funny. Blowing
every asshole to kingdom come. You speaking to
me!
Remember Taxi Driver. De Niro pointed to himself
in the mirror, shit eating look. I love war
movies. Great taste. Right. I know I'm not
swift, but I ain't a dumb fuck. What the fuck do
you know, asshole?
You did. No shit. Kick some ass too. Vietnam.
Shit. Rangers.
Do you? Don't fuck with me. I'll fuck you up. I
don't. Yes, got it I just fucked up this faggot
dispatcher. Just his fucken ugly big nose flat
face.
I am inside the Taxi office and he's dead,
bounced up from the floor. Whacked the asshole.
Got it done. Fucken Bloom. Geoffrey boy. Hardly
thirty. Shit. Motherfucker. Dead meat now.
Really wired. Shit had it coming. Blew his
fucken brains across the room. Did it right?
Cool. Listen, you fucks out there. You got to
know that no body could fuck you up. You fuck em
up first. Don't let em shit on you. Got to be
one up. Ten months, the fuck had his way.
Thought I'd be cool. Let him go. Get up his ass
like every other shit around here. Just the
usual taxi bullshit.
Drivers get it anyway it comes. Ask that fuck
Clint. You know the movie. Any which way you can't.
Fucked up title. Get you up and get you down.
Mother fucken killer not going to get me again.
Shit no. He's gone. And I'm smiling. Going to be
sad, pretend, fuck. Did it better than now.
Fucked em all up in country. Did it bad there.
Fucken spooks and slopes. Shit bags. Hitler was
right. The fuck. Kill niggers, SPICS and fags.
Burn their ass. Shit. I know you think I full of
shit. I am sometimes. You see my smile, scum bags.
You out there in WKDW news land. Got some story
for you. Call your 800 number. Fuck No. Fucken
cunt on TV. Love to fuck her between her
assholes. Shitten miserable witch. Laughing and
perfect, wonder how she'd feel with my dick up
her holes.
Fucked this slope whore in Nam. Fucked her in
the ass and then put my 45 up her hairless pussy
and whacked her. Walked away. Two whores saw me.
Said nothing. No body said a fucken thing to me.
Kill the dispatcher. Shit. Easy. You don't
believe my bullshit. It's true. Every one's a
fucken bullshit artist. Hard to even know what I
said yesterday. Fucken dispatcher is dead, no
more Marlboro Lights and Fag water. No more
graft. Doesn't matter. What's true is true. You
know what I mean.
Every day drivers get fucked you know what I
mean? I didn't mean to kill him. Yes, I'll tell
you. Up front. Reader, I blew his brains out.
Took my blue steel .38, I walked in the office.
Put it to his head. Made him beg for a second.
And I whacked him, dropped the fucken weapon
right there. Shit no. No numbers. No prints. How
the fuck they find me?
At 3 AM no one will know for a while. Put two
slugs in his fucken brain. Boom Boom. Get the
fuck out of there I said to myself. Miserable
cocksucker. Six months I worked with the shit.
Cheat me for last time. No, motherfucker going
to get it over my ass no more. Shit No.
I did it. Simple. Just like that Slope General
did in Nam. Put the weapon to head, hands tied
behind the miserable VC's back, straightened my
arm, and pop. Instant Pulitzer Prize. Photograph
shot 'round the world.
Really did it. Waited until real late. No one in
the dispatch office. Busy as shit. Told the
asshole I had to get some receipts. That Pussy
was leaning over the two-way radio, and I get
him, "fucken A," between the eyes, and behind
the ear. I was out of the office, back in my cab
in less than five. Used a silencer. No rage.
This one was planned. "Pre Medicated" the prick
DA will say.
Only silence on the cab two-way. Then the
chorus:
18-7 do you read me? They're not coming out.
18-7 No one's here either at this call. Shit
18-7 did you say departures?
18-7, Geoffrey come in, you fuck
Geoffrey you on the fucken air
"Watch the cursing. You guys. What's going on?
Geoffrey, you there"? Somebody better check the
office? Geoffrey come in!
"18-4, did you call North of the Bridge?"
Henry me self joins in. Just keep it normal, I
think. Wonderful gag, being dead. No one's
there. Empty safe. Waited for just the time when
I knew the fuck counted receipts. Got to stash
the bills. My hands are calm, dirty green.
Fucking smiling. Fucken LZ in Nam. Bastard slope
ARVN Captain wouldn't move fast enough. Stood in
the doorway, blocking it. Five seconds or more.
Going to get us all killed. The fuck wouldn't
move. Climbed over his yellow ass, and kicked
his ass out of the fucken chopper. VC did it.
"Pop. I couldn't stop smiling."
Bang his brains splattered on my leg. Took a
round later. Same leg. Think of that fucked up
Slope, the surprise.
The fuck lost it. Pushed at my arms. I held him
off, and then pop. No one saw it. My buddy was
dead too. Took one in the chest. Fucken Mick
dead, best NCO ever had. Three fucken tours, and
this shitten slope fucken yellow ass ARVN gets
him killed. Home in a body bag to save his slant
eye ass. Fucken shit. Got the fuck. Froze. Can't
stop. Got to get it done. So much to see at
once. Patton loved battle. Shit. Years after saw
the fucken movie with great George. Understood
death. I don't. No heroes in country. Realized
later heroes might have been home. Mixed bag, of
course. Glad I was there, and rotated back,
never to return. Terrible evil, am I the racist
motherfucker in my pretend greens and taxi
uniform. Taxi sloppy. I was spoony at the Point.
Spit shined shoes and Brasso inside of an old
tee shirt. Not the outside.
Get it right in the flame of battle. Killed the
fucken dispatcher. Just like in Nam. Killed the
motherfuckers first in my mind. First there, you
see. Got it done. Imagined death before leaping
into the maelstrom. In my mind. First step,
battle. Kill the dispatcher. What was next?
In country, no body ever thought that fucken LT,
Caine would buy one. No way. He had that special
halo. (I did.) We had good times, getting high,
smashed, drunk and all fucked up. [Standing
outside him].
Fought the fuck once. Kicked him in the ass.
Shit, can't do this. Fucked up, hate em all.
Shitten scumbag LT. fucken whores all of em you
know what I mean. Think I'm fucked up. You got
that one right.
Fucken shit. Got the mother fucken faggot. No
way, going to let some fucken LT. fuck me up.
Shit. Zapped the LT. Got 'em good. Never a
question. Fragged the fuck. Pop, pop and he's
done.
No let up. He, that Scumbag, sits in his chair.
Fucking you over. Get this call, sweetheart.
Fucken faggot. He's not talking to a broad. The
fuck wouldn't know what to do with a babe. Fuck
her in the ass first. Guess he couldn't get out
of the habit. Miserable fucken dispatchers.
Whining how he hates his job. Oh, how terrible
it fucken is.
You know what he means. His ass kissing cronies
get the good calls, and you get fucked with shit
calls or what is worse, bad calls. It goes like
this. Cutting in, dicking it up, making the time
worse than ever. That fuck. Kissing ass. No
more. He's dead meat. Shit. Got to get this
money out of here. When they find out. Hide it
at Alex's room. Fired last week. He'll be drunk
on his ass anyway. Shit. Motherfucker. They're
going to blame some poor fuck.
Ordinary City Call:
GADFLY: Cab #4 pulled up to the Hilton Hotel.
Well-dressed woman about 45 and a boy twenty
years younger slide into Henry's taxi. Woman
kisses the boy, pushing her almost bare tits
into his arm, so close to death and Henry's
dream was over.
The Colony, Fort Lee, driver.
Sure
Guess that dispatcher didn't fuck me up with a
"no call" after all, Henry thought, as he turned
up Hudson Street taxi #4 out of the Hilton's
circular driveway onto Sixth Avenue. Home in
twenty minutes, he realized. Last call. Going to
the Gables. Fucked up head. Need Tom's special
therapy. Get the Gables, Maybe even Rachel.
Drives me nuts, that bitch. Has a surgical cunt.
What the hell. Smells like, feels, like and
looks like a piece of ass. Best stripper ever
known? Can't believe her? Says she loves my old
ass.
Tongue works, right!
Loves to eat, I said, smacking my lips.
Never too old, honey. So sweet.
--
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. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+