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Message-ID: <43222asstr$1057277402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Taxi Murders  Murder 'Cross the Bridge --no sex
Date: Thu,  3 Jul 2003 20:10:02 -0400
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More Taxi Murders:
http://www.seanfarragher.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com/hyperfiction
http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook

Murder 'Cross the Bridge
 From TxM6 By Sean Farragher


Henry drove the bridge 20 times every day. East and West the span creaked
under him. He told a fare from the Midwest. Someday it's gonna drop, and the
fare said, I hope not today. Don't worry, Henry replied, I'd catch you.

Murder waited for Henry back in Manhattan at 174th and Amsterdam Avenue
'cross the bridge. Violence perpetrated by persons unknown: the body had
been there for at least a week.

Street blew tire. Cab quit. Henry looked for bricks to make certain the cab
didn't roll. He cursed the shit kicking garbage as he walked the perimeter.
He knew that when he changed the tire, he disturbed the universe. Henry
didn't do anything wrong. You can fuck up the universe just by standing in
the right spot. Woman must have been dead a week," the police report said
later. He had told the cops that her skin was black tar and her hair was
white.

Henry saw more but kept it private. Upon discovery, he immediately called
the taxi dispatcher and the police did their work. Henry couldn't drive any
more that day. Sgt. in Charge, just a Cop really, told him the remains were
some woman they knew as "Alice."  Street person he said. Probably died from
the cold, Cop said snickering.

"Cold," Henry said, "It's fucken May." Henry asked an impertinent question.

"Really, then why was her throat cut?"

The cop told Henry to get the fuck out of there.  "Hey, dumb ass, we might
be looking for a patsy, and nice plumb white boy would be perfect," the Sgt.
laughed.

Am I innocent?

Henry mocked himself and imagined his body as some omniscient
sphere growing huge in the sky. He liked to exaggerated. Henry fought
depression, he once told a fare with an elaborate personal surrealism.

Our bodies die easy. Suffering leads to suffering. Nothing new. Henry spread
his philosophy over the front seat of the cab.

Henry knew the NYC and PA police patrolled the exits and persecuting drug
addicts and dealers: cops attacked and the drug war in the trenches was
longer, harder fought, and more costly than Vietnam. Lawyers profit. Judges
kept their jobs; why do we work so hard to enforce what seems obvious and
absurd. Drugs kill. Drug enforcement is useless. What else is new?

"I don't use heroin or cocaine myself, never did," Henry postured to some
random fare over the front seat in his cab.

"Enforcement's useless," Henry continued. "Drugs increase with each
decreased attack. Laws against them don't work.

Make it legal like cigs. Fucken A. Henry shook his head and drove on
speeding the cab into the funnel of the bridge out of Manhattan. He told
another fare that he could smell the stink for a month. It was worse than
Nam, he told this Vet, who happened to be a fare. In Nam, the bodies were
usually fresh kill unless you dug up a NVA graveyard.





(c) 2003 Sean Farragher
Poetry and Fiction Web Site of Sean Farragher
http://www.seanfarragher.com/

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