Message-ID: <25946asstr$966942616@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: "seanfarragher" X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-MSMail-Priority: Normal Importance: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400 Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6 Sex Murder on GW Bridge Date: Tue, 22 Aug 2000 07:10:16 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: IceAltar, apuleius, dennyw From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel http://www.taximurders.com/ (updated August 13, 2000) TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only. Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher From TxM6: SEX MURDER ON THE GEORGE WASHINGTON BRIDGE 1050XGWBtraffic0222X Epigram: "Death's pleasure, sensitive, discreet, boundless; sea anemone bristles current, slows the war" 1931 No Traffic At the crush of the moon, gravity turns silvery water 'way from mortal streets. At near evening, above the grizzly Hudson River, within the grace and grate of famous and beautifully lewd, Memorial Bridge, ice sheets, slowly undone, are shattered by the switch and swat of the random beat of the flood. Above the river, there's the traffic within the bridge: sly solitary passage to New York. The Victim: Upon the bridge, kidnap victim Ellen Burke, 18, waited her vulva ravaged, but alive, the pulse of Hudson River drowning in her body, she shivered. Every hump of the stolen black Buick burned her hands as she braced resisting the warm hand between her legs until she closed it off -- but not entirely masking rage with masturbation. Wearing just underpants, Ellen reached down between her legs playing death, she moved the pea of clit, felt the sky peel twilight from silver span as Abel's hand pushed her neck free out the car door between the wheels and the soft slush flung at random between steel and clip clap of the tires head closed. When Ellen died she would never know why she recalled Abel's cock stuck between her lips. When she hit the cement, she frantically clutched at her empty hole and knew the wall between life and its absence. Friday Night Traffic Henry Ezra Whitman: January 7, 1992 Death was too cold tonight as Henry Whitman's uncertain taxi struggled through the stopped traffic on the upper level of the G.W. Bridge. Every where his cab rode, death kept up or pushed ahead. Tonight, on the bridge, an unknown woman with unknown story dies. Hit by truck and car, at right angles, cornered to her body, neither police nor doctors had covered her body. Nearly dead, her flesh and bone stained macadam blotted red where the woman's fine blond hair had rested on a towel before she was lifted to the gurney. Struggling with her life, the cops waited in this foul traffic for the helicopter. As the silver bird hovered like a drunken gull, pressed inward by spirals drawn through the onrushing fog and plumes from exhaustion and exhausts rescue falsely waited. The traffic stalled, and the helicopter unable to land, rose off the bridge constrained the pilot later said by air pressure rising from the wall of the irrepressible traffic. Whatever happened or didn't, one paramedic leaned over to the Cops, speaking softly, said, "might as well let the chopper leave, the woman's dead. Hate to have the man crash for nothing." ***** Rapid Visual Dissolve. Fate [Sic] To Absolute White, Then Gray Lately, rush hour, even in winter, seemed to be any time you passed across the span. Accidents, repairs, stalled cars, trucks, even the foolish rubber necking of oncoming traffic lowered or raised the temperature depending on the season. (No matter what, always uncomfortable). Tonight three left lanes were blocked by an accident or a stalled and unnatural sixteen wheeler. One ancient man dressed in pink shirt and black pants stood outside the logo strewn red, white and blue Marlboro cigarette truck. Obviously frustrated and fucked up, he banging his fist helplessly on the open mouth hood of the truck blocked by his car (or the car by the truck). The truck driver, in tee shirt, sat frozen by the front tire, head in hands, almost as prayer, stopped by the shift of his daily bread. Fate, like everyone waited for the Port Authority Police and their huge wreckers to move them along. The PA's beasts congregated behind their private access road to the left of the tolls, near Hudson Street's taxi dispatch office, wreckers invisible even now, when they were needed. All traffic moved to the right through a narrow corridor. Nothing could stop it passing thin, through early morning murder. What a connection, Henry marked it in his mental notebook, as he felt the taxi suddenly break free, bear right through one funnel and into another. I live at "Ground Zero," Henry thought. The bridge has a beginning. We all have a way of stepping aside, letting memory (or what we create as a passable truth) control who we are, and why we are helpless. -- 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: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+