Message-ID: <26623asstr$970470601@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: Honesty is a Rash Political Thought like Blowjobs Date: Mon, 2 Oct 2000 03:10:02 -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: dennyw, apuleius Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction http://www.txm6.com (updated 9/16/00) http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 9/17/00) http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon http://www.farragher.com (Poetry updated 9/20/00) TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only. Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher. 0044Xbhry Katherine Dahan Victim.doc TxM6 Hyperfiction Novel Journal of Henry Ezra Whitman Murder of Katherine Dahan "Perfect Systems" Friday, October 4, 1991 Honesty is a rash political thought like blowjobs. Why worry about cause and result. There's no perfect system. Fuck ethics! What goes down was. Can't explain it. I guess murder won. Didn't they kill those girls and cut off their tits. Henry wrote these lines and the ones that follow in his taxi notebook. Phrases buzzed his mind as he often told the drivers on the stand when they questioned him about why he carried so many pens, notebooks and books with him. "Shit," Henry would answer. "Look in the bag. There is a camera a voice tape recorder. I come prepared to use my waiting time in this piece of shit cab." Speaking about gooks, Henry wrote. "I still hate them. I do not want to see their slanted fucken eyes. I dream about them. I don't give a fuck if they are Japs, Koreans, Vietnamese or some bottle sucker washer from some whorehouse in Manila. Now, if they are cunts, that's different. Henry would speak this way on the stand to the other drivers just to keep his rep up with them. Henry never spoke that way, nor really cared about gender or nationality. He believed in himself and the easy roads of bigotry and prejudice were deeper mind fucks. Actually, no one really knew what Henry believed. He may have been a fucken racist bigot. He was. If you pretend to be honest, then the image is a lie. Who were they? What if someone had asked that question before slaughtering millions of souls? Perhaps for penance we should help them hide the bones of the dead to preserve their ancestors. I know how Aaron would have answered, Henry thought. Aaron was an artist and Henry's companion. Aaron was married to Angela, and Henry and Aaron shared the woman when Angela wanted more than an adventure. Aaron would not have called anyone a name or mocked his or her nationality. When Aaron confronted bigotry, he stared it down. It disgusted him and he let the person know who tested his character. Aaron didn't kick anyone's ass. He would look at the fellow or gal and stare them down. Aaron's long disdainful silences were masterpieces. Aaron's presence was physical and ethereal as speech becomes. When Aaron spoke, you listened just to hear the spaces within his voices. We have no program, Aaron could say. He would never have called anyone a racist or sexist name. What the fuck do ... you mean, Aaron asked, stunned when he heard Henry go off on some black taxi driver who cut him off going on the stand. Henry was angry. "Drivers should stick together. This nigger just cut me down, Henry said. Aaron looked at Henry. "I am surprised at you." "Why, you think I care about niggers when they cut me off just as easily as white trash." One thing Henry liked to do on the taxi stand. He wrote down recent phone and general conversations. He recorded them in his notebook as testimony. Suddenly, I could hear it, Henry wrote in Notebook #63. "All we said. Always abstract. Intellectual. You had to really be there on your toes. Can't measure an atom, or design a mathematical function to describe perfectly a single electron as it waves it name or form across the arch of any bridge. What the fuck can you know?" Henry bridged to murder. Recent press story about the murder of Katherine Dahan had caught his eyes. "Simplistic, you bet, to continued monologue. Murder (or do you mean a more general death) sets arguments, draws warriors around opinions to leave rhetoric as a great political river in topography too bare for results. They really mean victory. Men murder men murder woman murder each other. Blood drawn from fists, from the darkened slights we have arranged, just as we walked away from a fight or larger struggle. No, the disturbance is just. We are right, aren't we, I asked no one, as I set near the black stone Vietnam wall memorial in DC. Now, that's a marker for wounded darling nation screwed with metabolic frags? "We are the fucken friendly fire. No one else is out there. Hands slit brains for games and sport as the Brits said on the line defending Belgium from the Huns; as the Huns did, dissecting the Hapsburg state, dissolving Ottoman maps still, in 1896 or 1996, in disarray. Murder owns war owns innocent indifference. If you don't know what you have done, then you can't make out good let alone atone for evil. What is history- but one future? We abstract meaningless paths. Too much territory, I know, as I paste newspaper photograph of another murder victim in my memorial book. What number ten or nine? They're not sure. Depends on whose account. Genesis killer Abel says one thing; task force another. Always jargon. Task Force, now that's a gem. Says we're doing something. Building language for self-importance. Got to know the players now. Still, they don't know the fucken body count or they lie. Graves Registration did in Nam. Ten Gooks was twenty. A hundred dead were a thousand. Our dead or wounded were casualties. No one really dies in the fabric of the imagination, Henry wrote drawing a picture of a cunt in the margin of the notebook. KIAs meant killed in action. Acronyms disturb the dice. Who were the wounded? They don't know if Catherine Dahan is number seven or eight. Ask her? She likes to ride in cabs. Found her body in the trunk of Car #4. Bill Drexler found her. Opened his taxi trunk to check for a spare. Five thirty AM. Almost morning. Drank his coffee anyway. Need a drink. Why I asked him. Never saw a dead person before? Not even a wake? No that's different. They're fixed up. Don't stink. She was dead at least four days. Stink shows all. I laughed. Too bad you didn't have a chance in Nam, I laughed. I was in the service, he said defensively. I was protecting Germany from neo Nazis. Said it as a joke. Just like that. Yes, it was plain up front taxi dribble. He said the trunk wasn't locked. Couldn't be a driver, Drexler added. Cops questioned Bill for twenty hours. Told him he was lying, tried to trick me. Good thing I was out with the guys drinking. With some babe until work. Work her up, dragged her ass down to the station. "She was scared. I am not a killer," he said. Bill's girl friend wasn't sure, but Bill was home. Yes, he was fucking me, she said. "Want to check my cunt?" She yelled the dirty phrase at the cop. "How do I know who you fucked this bitch lady cop yelled back at my girl friend. Leave me alone." You're not worth it she said when we left. Don't call. "Fucken dead cunt cost me a bitch, can you believe it." "Usually not," I said. Easy to open the trunk, ignoring the driver-victim. "You should have seen her cunt," cop said. He stuffed it with a plastic cock, and shaved the hair, and all. Dressed it with lipstick. There was fucken Polaroid's everywhere, and get this: He had letters. I Bill read one while he waited for the cops. Something about Vietnam, the letter said. You were there, right Henry. Yes, Henry answered. "What does this all have to do with Vietnam, the guy was truly fucked up. Lost a bitch and I did nothing wrong. Fuck it. Plenty to go around, I guess. Sure liked her. At least she told the fucken truth. My ass would have been grass had she lied, and said I was not at her place, Bill thought. Maybe she'll call later, who gives a fuck. The dead cunt was dressed in plastic. Her tits cut out, Bill continued, face up. Placed like a womb, dressed in plastic bags, open to expose the artistry? The drivers loved it. Bill was a star, the hero who did nothing but open a trunk. Great risk, right. Opening a trunk. What can anyone do? Count the missing you fuck, Henry said. Fourteen? Four? Seven? Eight Bill answered the drivers. He was their hero for the hour. Henry continued to write in his taxi journal. "All of them would lie to mark the bitch druggie. She was also pregnant. She had no record. Honest woman. Worked as a bartender. No drugs. Got it on good authority? How many are gone. Four, no three was one answer. Find the bodies, Henry thought? "Who the fuck cares how many that shit claims? Ten. Twenty. Does it matter? If it is more than one then it is truly fucked up. Dissect murder to stop it. Analysis solves problems. Right. What does understanding mean? Nothing, really. Explain death. OK if you're not the victim. Tell her the number. Think she cares?" "Where do I keep my place, I asked myself, as I threw the newspapers away, under glass, not intended for retrieval? I know. Keeping score is important. Body counts, essential. Newspaper headlines contribute to murder." "What if I measured the sky inside and out, and planned the parties like a planned the black crust as a monuments grown from routine deaths." Henry measured the sky inside and out. He planned the black crust as a monument grown from routine deaths. He did this out of some perverse habit to help those who are the most fucked up dick heads in the fleet. "Are we," Henry asked, "just angry misplaced silly childhood crayons? Are we anointed with teachers who want an easy lesson plan today, so they let the kids play with the crayons at will. That way the teacher can nurse her migraine. Am I Henry wrote, "anointed by simplistic gods with too obvious an erotic palette? "Raw sex is not violence! Rape is not sex; it's terror, and another marker, compulsion is a foil for lust. What else is left, where's love," Henry Whitman rhetorically asked. While Henry watched the rooms evolve into some safer more free of stress, He created his latest epiphany: in that few short seconds before dawn, when the artificially lit nighttime GW bridge as a portal opened and closed shrunk and expanded all the victims won passage homeward. One morning after that acceptance, Henry saw the sky respond. After a calm rain and a clearing, the calm, not as calm as when it started, sky turned gray and green with a peach as the subtle over color on the terminator's horizon line. Henry spoke quickly to himself, using this speech memory to hold what he thought for later. "My notebook is my sacred fire," Henry sputtered laughing. I did see my taxi on fire, Henry wrote. I did see death and little ports on the top for eventual escape. What's next, Henry asked himself? There's another fare at the foot of the bridge plaza. Hope so! Fucken A as his grunt buddies lit up another bong, and we let it go, diddy-bopping away. "That is what we pretend. We do love our ghost-time, walkabouts. We remain foolish to wastrels. "You bet motherfucker. If I could have prevented Katherine's death, I would have stopped her. We are always too late when it comes to death as a suffering human soup with ultimate loneliness as boon." -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+