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Message-ID: <43209asstr$1057201805@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Taxi Murders  NAM/ Mf  
Date: Wed,  2 Jul 2003 23:10:05 -0400
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(c) 2003 Sean Farragher
For more taxi murders: http://www.seanfarragher.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook
http://www.seanfarragher.com/hyperfiction

WEATHER REPORTS: Staff Sgt. Robert P. Kelley
Enter the Fucking War Zone, Troop!"
22 May 1967, Vietnam.
Revised 2003

What the fucking weather tonight bitch I asked, as I scratched my ass
soaking in la steam du bain.

"Wash my asshole I tell the bath house whore whose cooze is bare.

I sleaze the steam, and nuts tighten (expand & contract like the after shock
of a bitchen come holding your thumb in her thing when she leaps yelping for
the rafter.

When she holds my snake, I fuck her mouth beaucoup. She blubbers and
swallows.

I no spit, she brags, icing the head clean, licking number one blow job, you
like GI, she asks, hurt good now. I look and her cum stained face. She could
be any candy grabbing kid hawking quarters at the big top back home in Pepsi
land. I sound off.

"This is the Land of Used to Be Alive"!

"What you mean Soldier. You not happy?"

"I beaucoup happy little girl. Do it again."

"How long cock sucky," she asks. You pay more. OK Joe?

All conversation between Grunts and gooks plays out like dreams where words
have several meanings depending on the level of threat.

Suck me again, I order. I don't give a fuck what it costs.

75 lb. VC woman/girl of ancient Siam and France laps at my cock and the
pressure of my fingers presses on her skull.

"No hurt please," she shakes her head. "Me give number one blowjob."

I push harder, but she scratches my cock with her teeth.

"Fuck."

My flat hand smacks her down into the bath. She screams before sputtering in
the water. I grab my holstered 45 the belt wrapped to my left shoulder to
keep dry.

Mama San races in after her scream.

"You tell this cunt if she bites again, I'll blow her brains out."

"No chargee, GI, no hurt my girl."

I holster my 45.

Sex was a harsh song for Grunts at stand down, but I loved the phony
veracity of childhood gook whores. In defense of nothing, I was stoned and
delirious. I couldn't help but lose it and I was deeply enchanted with the
welling up and de tumescence.

"Me sorree," she said. "I didn't mean to hurt. You too big, GI, and my mouth
too small. Come fuckee for free."

I handle her pussy. "You look smaller there," I laugh but push two fingers
inside and lift her up.

Where we fuck, I ask?

"I have room. I am sorry I hurt."

"How old are you"

"I have fourteen years," she spoke in French not knowing I understood. When
she talked, she sputtered, but didn't miss a stroke.

Hands on my flanks, she puckered again and played my dick ribs like a
vibraphone.

You come fuck next time. I tell where. We go long time.

"Lookee. No VC," she whispered, half gasping, peering into my sighs, high
voice garbled by dick jammed clean at her throat, thinking I might beat her
ass afterward. Finally, I quit, and my balls ache. I am done. She pull back,
dropped my prick, defended her cunt and tits crossing arms and legs, hurt.

"No VC here," she pleaded quickly and pulled her self up by strong tight
arms using a reverse one arm push back. I sat on the edge of the bath with
fake smiles as she spread her legs on the edge of the ancient wooden tub to
opened her hairless cunt where she displayed her pink soul of inflamed
wings, clit, hood and my come.

She looked clean, no clap, I surmised, good.

I would shoot beaucoup penicillin and had reasons to fuck her sweet ass
again tomorrow, a freebie.

I was not careless and the scratch on my cock didn't matter. I liked this
one. She wore her pregnant nipples like a badge but they were smaller than
lemons.

Iris, Irene, whatever, Aileen, Justine, or Louise de Fou (name changed daily
to confound MPs) appeared 15 or less by round eye stats and tables but she
was seventeen, no, dix huit ans, she said. Fifteen by her own addition? Who
the fuck knew?

"I was twenty-five -not almost fifty. In the year 2030 will it matter?" I
asked wondering if she understood.

"-Who the fuck cared."

Not many. I pretended when it helped, and then nothing.

When I was horny. Twice a day. When I could, I did what I could and never
looked back. I never raped. Always more or less willing, and script or cigs
changed hands.

By my daily grind, Iris was pussy that is all and a small mouth, and an
unbelievably large asshole, and a backside to beat silly with rope or
paddles if that was your thing.

Not mine; to be honest, mostly, I preferred gentleness (I am not a liar),
almost, compared to some old grunts and West Point motherfuckers. I heard
lying stories you couldn't fucken believe. One King size grunt like to slice
clits and pussy lips for a sandwich. He would save them, preserved in gin.
Of course, he was all talk and full of shit.

Made a drunken heroine, he joked, cooking tit and ass literally over Sterno
sprinkled with angel dust and hash.

Yes Sir, no problem Sir, right away Sir, we, great American heroes beat the
shit out of whores and stuffed their cunts with fire crackers, lighters, and
fluid; light em up, and they, bound and gagged, would scream like slope
soldiers dropped from a Huey.

Deadly shit like that. After all, they were dirty snaking Commie mother
humpers and we were the glory and the stars and stripes.

Right? We lost brother grunts to children selling soda pop. No one thought
it odd or gave a fuck. One dead slope or less did not matter. One strangled
or throat cut VC whore (minus tits for trophy).

Who the fuck kept score in-country, or could claim to be righteous when they
fucked children to brag how they were kinder than Romans or south African
buggers.

We paid them off in nickels and dimes. Each cunt got her due. Sure? Who paid
for what was free when you considered the full affect of napalm. Crispy
Critters and hot dogs. Crispy critters and.

Here I was. Specialist 4. Medic. College graduate do gooder. Ask not what
your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country, bull
crap.

Turn the page quickly here or I am too far up your ass. Now look, I am doing
hard time earned combat badge in the Highlands, two silver stars.

But on stand down, still cherry but not too virgin at least three Special
OPS to reinforce Special Forces in Laos; yes, more to come; my ass getting
battle hard and, you might laugh now, really skinny. More, I was
twenty-five, horny and healthy-wanted poontang or something approximately
more thrilling than jerking off waiting for incoming.

"Did it matter?" I liked her look, so what if I itched. Shit.

Afterwards, I would promise her salve, daily needles, and laugh at me,
knowing she could not know why I thought like a doctor when I opened up a
foggy pussy. Could be I was wrong.  Could be yeast or bacterial? Who the
fuck knew?

Alternatively, maybe cunt leeches. You know what I mean.  Pussy grubbers
with long thick dicks beat small cunt to death with a wicket stick and a
rubber.  Not that I wore one. Hypocrite. I know I gave speeches about VD but
whom wants to feel nothing, got it feel nothing like some freak that kills
children.

"My brother good catholic, hate VC," she leaped down, suddenly, after I let
go, falling back into the tub like any teenager at a summer swimming hole,
shrieking and splashing my face until I smiled and caught her ass in my
hands, grabbing at tits, as the smoke from my chest and the longing, aroused
I pushed into her cunt, then switching found her ass, leaning her back
against the submerged stool, I was fucked up, as I came, almost twice,
pulling back wanting more, to tease.

"I no Buddhist, Moi catholic; Sister Maria loved, said I good girl, when I
kissed her Cross. She put god in her pussy for me. I had seven no eight
years when Sister shook like Jesus did on the cross."

Iris, suddenly stopped laughing, spoke clearly, now, as she licked my dick
clean.

I no lie she said, Nun made me love her, many times, over and over.

I imagined Iris, at eight gamouching holy clits until the ache hurt, and It
made me hard, and I turned her ass so I could fuck her there from the top.

"No Fuckee ass," she pushed at my face.

No fuckee there. Hurt too much.

I kissed her mouth from behind her head. She bit my tongue. I slapped her
face. She stopped fighting, but when she felt my cock push at her ass she
struggled but I did it quickly rubbing her ass with spit. I had to avenge
horror and furor I felt.

I was surprised. It slipped in easily and she didn't scream, but glared at
me afterwards, but when I have her extra money before I left, she asked me
to come back again.

I knew when I fucked her ass hole hard as I could I was angry. What you
think afterwards is never guilt free. I knew I had raped her, and I
understood that when I came I wanted to kill her. I wanted to kill all the
fucken gooks who kept us in this terrible hole.

"No Kiss," she screamed, out of breath, as I pulled out of her ass, no
coming, afraid I would beat her for refusing; "

You like blow job," Doc, she pleaded. No fuckee ass now, as the pain made
her face age, almost ancient like temples and Hindu gods playing with dick
like monkey.

"You better not scratch me this time." I laughed and put my hand on my
holstered 45 not that I would kill a gook bitch unless I felt threatened.

I knew she was full of shit. VC whores never kiss.  What did I know then? I
was cherry; still I was not a virgin, but I liked to kiss more than fuck
sometimes, but I was a weird troop, I knew that. Suddenly, she changed when
I said, OK no ass fuckee, now. We wait.

"I Know Doc," she said, calling me my secret GI name. You helped my cousin
in Ville far from the valley. He had lost his legs. You saved him and helped
my sister with baby. She has GI kid.  "Noire" fuckee.

I did not tell her it could not have been. I wasn't in country last year.
Some other Doc must have been. No, You good GI. My sister liked you.  Told
you to come back, and she would fuck you for nothing. You did not have
beaucoup dick like the Noire.

I laughed at her distinctions. Iris, her name for the day, seemed
frightened.

"I no fuckee Noire." You help Iris. Give many blowjobs and fuckee. I be your
girl, clean up.

"Shit," I said. "Why the fuck not." If I can, I will, I said, petting her
hair, and watching her chest, almost flat, and her belly round, heave, up
and down against my hand.

Four, five months, you too, I said. Patting the round swell, then playfully
milking her nipple, turned on by the rounded swollen aspect as if she were
my child, or my wife. Not that I had one then.

"Yes. Take care of Iris, I mean, Marie, no, Justine, Cher Henri," she
pleaded.

"How you know my name," I asked, surprised, intense but not angry.

"You good man;" Iris like you more than all GIs. I laughed aloud. I love
liars.

"You not hurt Iris, No."

I was almost moved, as I pulled her up, found her cunt, fucked her good, my
dick spread her almost naked lips, and coming, as I screamed, she felt
something, I knew it.

You come, I asked. Always, she lied. GI like my baby come. I be enfant, Oui.
Moreover, when she kissed my hand, or pulled at her knife, I felt death in
her hair as I banged away to kingdom come. Just did not give a fuck, really.

I was short, saved by the Gods. I don't know their names. Do you?

Last week. Same whore. Same "club." Bitch bit the hump's dick off. Then she
pulled a pin. All dead. His arms and her tits, his head and her cunt flung
everywhere, made a terrible collage, I thought, inspecting, filling out
forms and body bags.

Four humps and two righteous VC whore, that is what they said. Maybe she
just wanted to die. So be it mother fuckers I remembered my sad impotence as
I shook my fist at the gray sky through the murky green canopy.

Everyday it was so calm at LZ Bravo, near Dak To, 10 klicks from that
retirement home, and walk in the park, Base Station Echo, and like all
diddly-bopping fuck offs, just after insertion and just before killing.

I did Zippo runs and delivered two babies. I pulled them from cunt and set
them to breast to blow them to smithereens. I imagined the horror and walked
carefully thought of the slogans of the war sung by the hippies. I thought
of LBJ and that first protest march in Central Park in 1965. I marched. It
was a sunny day, and the war was that movie tone war that it would quickly
show.

I sang to myself: "How many children you kill today, dear LBJ."

You LBJ. You Politician. You're hated and yet I had learned to control fear
in NAM. Before I was in country, I couldn't tell life from death.

Death swam your way and you were amazed by its nasty but lascivious
affection. It clings to your dick, and its nails impale your legs. It sucks
you cock and the girl spits out blood with any rise in body temperature,
blood pressure, respiration and come.

During dry season the slopes hide, not giving it up, but the dust made smoke
with your eyes, and sometime the romance of death was lost in heat and bugs.
Or maybe and sadly, there was no poontang worth eating or dogs worth cooking
or too much grief. You never knew when a buddy would buy it. You didn't get
to know fucking new guys. You hated them except you realized they would be
in country after you left.




http://www.seanfarragher.com

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