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Message-ID: <43211asstr$1057205404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Eddie Meyers Part IV
Date: Thu,  3 Jul 2003 00:10:04 -0400
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Taxi Murders -- Walkabouts
The Murder of Eddie Meyers?
Taxi Cab Walkabout

(c) 2003 Sean Farragher

http://www.seanfarragher.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook
http://www.seanfarragher.com/hyperfiction



December 21, 1989

Eddie Meyers lived inside the whirlwind of a natural junkyard. He slept in
old cars piled on top of each other, and for pocket change, booze and drugs
drove a taxi for Hudson Street Cabs.

Eddie stunk or smelled like cheap cologne. He always had some blow, and
young hookers who worked their ass.

He told me once when he was in a better mood that he walked in shit and
slept there too. "I even fuck in it." He called it his bedroom, but he said
it was also a trap. It was easier than giving your money away to some slut
wife or fucked up kids.

Last December, three days after a terrible snowstorm, Eddie had a bad night.
The cabs sucked, he said. That meant he made just enough for some blow. His
girlfriend Lois would have to score her own.

When he came up the stairs to the taxi office for check-in, I knew there
would be trouble. Taxi Drivers always complain they are being fucked. Often,
it is true.

Eddie stood there smoking a cigarette shifting on one foot to the other. He
tried to stare me down.

"You miserable cock sucker I want to bust your ass," he shouted.

"You know there is no smoking in the office," I offered.

He stubbed the cigarette out on the window as if to rub it in my face.

"Fuck you, he said. Check me in or suck my dick."

"Where are the taxi keys," I asked.

"I gave them to Joe, my relief."

Eddie knew that was against the rules, but I let it go. At this point, I
wanted rid of him.

"Where's your sheet?"

"Look, don't give me any more shit, I will just leave."

"Look, the faster you give me your sheet, the quicker we are both out of
each other's face."

"Asshole," he screamed, but he threw the money and the sheet on the floor
and left. I was pissed but I knew better than to make an issue out of it. I
was glad he was gone.

Perhaps, I felt some guilt. It was true. I had been fucking him on calls. I
did not normally do that, but today I didn't want to be there. When I am in
my selfish mood, I could fuck anyone up.


*****

Half an hour later, I got a phone call on the private taxi line that only
credit card customers use. It was Eddie.

"Watch your ass."

I looked out the window and he stared back from a pay phone that the drivers
used at the near corner.

"I told him that I had to report all threats."

"So fucken report me."

Eddie smirked and then I saw briefly some girl who he held. It looked as if
she was trying to get free. He slapped her, and he dragged her over to his
private junkyard.

If you look out the back window office to the right side of the taxi yard,
Eddie's cars sat nose to nose and when he wasn't there, he covered them with
a tarp. You couldn't walk by the place and not puke. His place stunk of
gasoline and garbage, but he got away with it because the owner, another
Vietnam Vet like Eddie, looked the other way. Cops did too. Eddie was the
local war hero, and got away with much of the shit. People just left him
alone. It was rumored that he had a cache of weapons in his car, and that he
threatened to use them if anyone messed with him.

One night I watched him rape some girl. She sat on his lap and banged his
back cursing in Spanish that she hated him, and that he was a queer old fart
for raping her. When they stopped, it was obvious she had cried.

Later, I learned her name was Lois and she was eighteen, but looked younger.

"Aren't I a nice guy," Eddie said later. I let her sleep in the back seat of
any old car.

The next time Eddie checked in I told him: rape a girl in plain site and I'm
calling the County Cops. Fuck the locals. I pointed at him through the
glass. There was no mistake. He laughed in my face and said.

"You do that you mother, and I will rape your ass.

The next morning they found Eddie dead. His heart had been cut open, and his
balls and dick was stuffed in his mouth. I tasted blood. I felt it run down
my hands. My bones cracked. I knew I would not get out of this in one piece,
and when I did, I was amazed. Police said that the boyfriend of one of his
whores must have done it.

I did not say a word about what I had done.

When I heard the girl scream, I called one of the drivers into the office
who hated Eddie more than I did to dispatch cab and take time calls.

I snuck out the back way. I was on a mission. I always kept a baseball bat
next to the desk when I dispatched. I took it with me, and I set out to
rescue the girl. No more shit, I said to myself.

Eddie was sleeping. I manacled him with cuff links, and handcuffs, and I set
the girl free. She had been tied to the front seat of the car, her tits hung
out, and her sex was exposed. She smelled of come.

When I fried Eddie with the bat, the girl picked up and old tire iron and
beat Eddie.

When she cracked his skull, I knew we were in trouble, but I never could
imagine that I had become Eddie and I was the one dead.

Why did my head hurt? Slowly, inside Eddie's space, I had become the man.
The five foot zero girl had beaten me to death. I could not resist her.
Every night after that the girl and I prowled for kidnapped druggies, street
hoes and dealers to fuck up. That's was the point of justice.

Last night we had stalked three other dealers and raped them. I knew I was a
ghoul. We couldn't be seen by them. It was easy justice. No one could stop
us.

Every morning, I remembered that the girl had murdered Eddie, and that I
knew nothing about any other stories. I didn't realize I was dead. I didn't
know I lived my stories while I slept. Justice was served in our heads.

What I didn't tell the cops was that I had raped the girls with Eddie. I
couldn't escape. He crowded my action. I never liked the man. When my father
beat me up every morning, I would beat Eddie up. When my mother sucked my
cock, Eddie would beat my mother into the ground. It was too obvious a
circle.

I lived in terror until my heart stopped. I guess I was 46. It was 1986 and
there was too much shit in the street to make a living driving a taxi.

When this happens "I walkabout," and take leave of my mind. I become the
victim of a miserable murder. I love it when I first touch death. It calms
me. It is better than sex. I can smell the blood for days on my hands. I
even dream in crimson, and when I come I leave my calling card.







XXX

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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