Message-ID: <26205asstr$968242205@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: "Sean Farragher" 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 Death by BJ of Eddie Meyers Date: Wed, 6 Sep 2000 08:10:05 -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, english From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel http://www.taximurders.com/ (updated August 28, 2000) mirror site: http://www.txm6.com TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only. Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher. TxM6: Henry Whitman Review January 31, 1989, 07:01:23 Death of Eddie Meyers: Ghost Bridge Over Great River, Called Hudson. In 1609, Heinrich Hutson, and his mate John Colman, set sail on goodly ship far away the pristine cataract where blind sand and simple Ocean parted as one age passed by its nature to another. Like passing time on the taxi stand. Here we are at Another Chinese New Year: Is it the Year of the Snake again? I am again, another New Year night, another blessed night waiting for the black clock to automatically change my daily year closer to millennium: its one step past twelve and thy will be done. Herein, the instants opened, then closed and pitched beyond equator and that partial eclipse of the sun. Or is there sleep without life, although I am not dying. Can I live and not live, be and not be aware of dreams I conjured in Nam? Forget the impossibility of that physics. Forget the grunts. Forget the nasty delusion of life as great sailing ships caressed North River right before my eyes as I passed before the bridge. Enough of this crap about experimental history and riding the human spirit inside a man or woman to know them as they become in the next breath. Imagine if that were possible. Woody Allen my favorite non-ped created that idea in Sleeper. I love driving the cab too slow, too fast, I know the divided traffic lane spoke when my taxis forced the ancient truck through unopened doors. What a crash! No place to go and no sanctuary until my yellow cab exits off through the tunnels into gray lane of New York and London, suddenly to merge in a Technicolor dream, lost in mornings after midnight when the taxis rolled out fiery as material sun-ray clouds. Does this dream of death reflect into my ass, or am I too high in the cab, stoned as a great sun wheel and broken down in Apache Sand paintings drunken sot. Dear Jackson Pollack killed many a girl with his dear automobile. He was a great painter, and a lesser man if you believe the mysterious books where it was written down: his recipe for fame starts where "being part of the process of that spray of color mimics the whole body as the dry brush." Pollack was so intensely a part of the color when he was not painting he had to be insane and drunk. Dear Jackson, we are all part of that Ancient Game of Chance: the Sailing ship at flood. Here the unkempt wooden ships. Dip yellow main sail and easily cover steel frames and glass with a bare thin canvas haze. Can we reverse time, or did we? Easy does it. No fucking in the Garden of Eden. Stand by Jerusalem. We carry the lights to instant photograph of all the dear names etched in Black Marble at DC Vietnam Memorial. Can I dream again and live, or is combat death too soft and well hidden when I hide in some dead women's skin, covering in the dream, as if necrophilia were a status symbol for old dead grunts carrying home ten years after dying humping the last fucken hill before their tour was up. Smoking good shit and laughing jabbing the air, ten thousand violent taxi drivers lean against cab fender and gaze beyond the arch of aluminum bridges, and take in their mouth the great neon spirit tit and expire inside an aluminum cunt. Eddie Meyers Buys the Perfect Blowjob! February 19, 1991 It was thundering cold, blustery, raining snow and ice the day former lifeguard and US Marine Staff Sgt. Eddie Meyer's walked his last taxi driving tour. Sgt. Eddie courted death, snorting coke, fucking dime whores, doing anything in his power to die early. He insisted on risk multiplied by risk. And that frozen day, getting, what he called the perfect blowjob Eddie's heart quit as he shot into the child's mouth. Henry heard the story of the "blow by blow" directly from the girl. A week after Eddie died; he picked Judy up on a whim as she hitched across the GW Bridge. All of us knew about Judy. On the street runaway at 14, shooting coke at 15. She had a kid last year at 16; her parents' back in Ohio raised little girl. Judy couldn't take it so she returned to the streets two months later. She told the driver Fat Frank that she loved Eddie and only went back on the game, using her favorite British slang, when she lost her fast food job. "I would fuck Eddie just because," she said. I am sad he died. He always made me laugh. Others said that Judy was full of shit and that her pimp fucked with Eddie's drugs when Eddie got too close to Judy. Others, and there are always fifty stories for one truth say Judy fucked Eddie up when he refused to take her in his cab to cop. Truth is always fragile. Laurie seemed sad when Henry told the story to Aaron and Angela later that night. Sure, Judy could be lying, Laurie said, but I have been there, and I know the kind of shits that Eddie Meyers can become when he stoned and can't cum. Then again, all I gave her was a free ride to the city. I didn't even wait, Henry said. I didn't get or ask for a BJ. Laurie is this you? I know you are not fucken jealous. Judy got out, and looking almost dead herself, pushed her head back into the cab, through my open window, and asked me if I would wait while she copped. Said told me, smiling, kissing me on the cheek; that "if I waited she would give me what she had given Eddie." I laughed at her, and sped off, and I could see she was laughing as well. I wondered why I let her kiss me on the cheek. Henry loved his stories called them his shadows. He saw the good Sgt. of the movie Platoon as the perfect ghost. He was dead before he lived; Henry thought when he learned how Eddie had died. Saying that, they he remembered how they shared war stories, and the war itself. Yes, I believed what Eddie said. If he lost some of the details what the fuck. Eddie would slap Henry's back after each story, and carefully ask Henry why the fuck he drove a cab. Eddie would add, finally, yea I know you got fired for fucking some underage student, but what's the other reason. Man, you're out of place here, but hen again, being out of place, fits. We're all out of place, so you might as well enjoy it, and he would offer Henry a hit, or a line and Henry would carefully accept the joint and refuse the coke. The last thing Henry remembered. That New Year, just before Midnight, on the taxi stand, three cabs behind Eddie on the stand. Eddie was looking at his box of photos. He kept them with his cash in the cab. They were the usual ones. Pictures of Eddie as a lifeguard, in Nam, in uniform. Eddie would always say, look how handsome I was then, as he fingered his past. Here's my son. Wasn't he great? I miss him, he would add. Why did he die? Why did I buy him that fast car so he could kill him self. I told him not to race that fucken car. Eddie rambled like this all the time. Most of the drivers ignored him. Henry couldn't, but when Eddie, called the taxi stand "His patient rest before that moral hour soon to come." Henry saw Eddie the poet and he remembered how he also called the GW Bridge, his righteous black ocean to "Never-never land." Just like Tinker bell, he said, and he would snap his fingers, and laugh, letting his body shiver. If I could only twinkle, he said, how I could get laid. And the other drivers, Henry included, would laugh at the show, waiting like Eddie, for their last call, caressing the bridge, called it their righteous ocean. So Myths are born. Two hours after death Eddie was more than a drunken ghost riding the bridge? I never saw him, but some did. Sure, I believe them. One driver protested the claims saying how cans a ghost get stoned and drunk. How can a ghost get blown, and you know, the man said, if Eddie were really a ghost he would have a circle of whores to service him. Would be free, the man, would protest, right. I remember Eddie that one summer night. He was in back of a broken down cab with a Spanish hooker. She was fucking him. The girl looked about 20 but was probably 14. Eddie was banging her not caring if I watched, and the bitch, was spread out on the back seat, half stoned, almost asleep, oblivious to the grunts and groans, as Eddie pushed his body into her furiously trying to keep himself hard after he came. I know I am a sicko but I watched the whole thing. Eddie said later that the girl asked if I would be next. I told her No, that you were a queer, and she said, laughing back, that her brother would do him for twenty. Somehow, Eddie was never off course. He raged for the coke and pussy. He died having his dick sucked, and Henry added, telling Aaron the story, you know if I have to die, why not in the saddle. Aaron, always the comic, retorted, bet you fucked the girl too. Don't bullshit me Henry; I know you never turn any ass down. Reprise Simple setting: a taxi man and a cold silver bridge. Commentary will not mitigate delusions. I shared Eddie's steps, if not his choices as we complete each passage between the spans. As we travel we examine our listening and speaking. We notice the pauses and inflection of speech; compare it to the pauses in the flood below where the river changes. We not the distance we would fall if there were no bridge. We watch the dark collect us, and then as we ride, always-in fear and trembling as one philosopher said. When we ride that bridge between tower and glory (or failure) we find that common incidence of pleasure and pain. ------- Comments appreciated seanfarragher@msn.com More American Adventures in erotica and other works by Sean Farragher: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Sean_Farragher/ Sean Farragher Poetry Site: http://www.farragher.com (updated 9/4/2000) TxM6 Sites: http://www.taximurders.com http://www.taximurders.com/enfer http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+