Message-ID: <26840asstr$971435402@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 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400 Importance: Normal Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6: Taxi Dispatcher Murder by Sex Fiend Date: Fri, 13 Oct 2000 07:10:02 -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, IceAltar Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction http://www.txm6.com (updated 10/03/00) http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 10/04/00) http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon (UPDATED 10/04/00 http://www.farragher.com (Poetry updated 10/04/00) TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only. Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher. 0759X Henry Taxi Walkabout Txm6: Hyperfiction Novel Henry Whitman Weather Report June 3/4, 1989: Faking the Headlines? "TAXI DISPATCHER BLOOM MURDERED; DECORATED VIETNAM WAR HERO SOUGHT"! 130 Vietnamese Refugees Drowned Fishing Boats Collide in South China Sea off Malaysia with Japanese Super Tanker" NYT, 8 March 1989. June 3/4 1989, "Tiananmen Square," Beijing, China. 100,000 Students protest in China More Than 700 Dead! One of the above headlines was true. All of them were false. Contradiction. True, but not. Words are rarely a sufficient compensation for memory. Taxi drivers forget calls. They work at remembering it all. But the harder most of them work at it the more they forget. It is easy to do. Turn a corner and some truck son of a bitch cuts you off and you had it in your mind. 24 Waverly. Then you think maybe it is 240 Waverly Place. You call the dispatcher back and you forget. Dispatcher says later. "Hey brains for shit. WRITE down the fucken calls." FOUR CAR, HENRY You south? 7 th & WASHINGTON, HOBOKEN. FOUR CAR, GET THE NY HILTON" CHECK. (I got a name, asshole, Henry asked himself under his breath and not to the dispatcher, Geoffrey Bloom, on the air), GOT A NAME GEOFFREY? GOT A NAME GEOFFREY? ONE MORE TIME. FOR WEST COAST RADIO STATIONS FOR THE DEAF GOT A NAME GEOFFREY? VIETNAM, near Dak To Henry Whitman Sp5c Medical Aidman Vietnam Fourth Infantry Division September 1967 to October 1968 HENRY WHITMAN: Another minute of airtime. Silence. Black skies. Behind the Point Man. "Fucken LT. always puts our asses up there," heard the grunts humping against their breath. "Fucken West Point", they say. "Not supposed to be here. Radioman one-step behind. First Squad Sgt. keeping us tight. Where's that goddamn sniper. Must be there. Heard a round. Green and white tracers into the tree line. Return fire. Sniper there! FUCK! Arm grazed. Son of a Bitch. Shit. Where's the fuck. Mortars. INCOMING! INCOMING! Fucken GOOKS. Humping the ruck up the cliff. Black earth and death again. Misery. Wet. Water. Steam. Jiggers. Fucken blood. Mine? GOT A NAME GEOFFREY? SEE THE DOORMAN WHAT, BETTER NOT BE ANOTHER SCREWED UP CALL WHERE YOU BEEN, SLEEPING GEOFFREY? JUST GET THE CALL, AND SHUT THE FUCK UP. NO CURSING ASS HOLE FUCK YOU TOO NO CURSING ON THE AIR. (Another voice.) CHECK "Fucked up that faggot dispatcher," I told that black fuck, PE*TER JACK*SON CAM*PBELL [Henry said the name with mock respect stringing out the name, emphasizing each syllable], from the Sentinel. He's my doppelganger, and he said I was right. What a fuck. I know he's been with me since the Point; he told me to leave, and was right, although, sometimes, when I ride this cab, and he didn't protect me from the bitch, you turned me in for fucking her at school, when I gave her an honest grade. She got a B in cock sucking and A in Creative Writing. I dumped her. So what, I told the Dead. She's eighteen. That's old, I joked. He didn't think it was funny. What do you want me to do, lie? So I was fired from City. GADFLY: It's possible you have a corrected but distorted picture of my life now. I am not the bad boy I pretend to advertise, part of my defense mechanism. I really do care for women, and respect them, and see them as more than objects, and in my life with their art, music, child making, poetry, fiction, history, politics, I am their peer, when they are mine, if you follow. My prick has another sensibility I suppose, and I do apologize I when it's in my interest, but no one believes it then, my humanism. You are a crass SOB, anyway, we're getting away from the cab ride, and the story. But one last syllable about the Gadfly, he's just as phony a chauvinist as I am, no, was? HENRY: Yes, he has his own life too. No sycophant or parasite. He writes blessed pornography under the pseudonym, Wren Stephens, and as editorial page editor and the author of three times weekly syndicated political/social/arts criticism/crime columns, he wields a heavy knife or rope or gun or whatever which way (sorry Clint) you want to get it done. The Gadfly leads a busy life protecting my life, watching all the action, my perpetual voyeur, making me a damn good exhibitionist. He also helps keep an eye on my brethren (he tells me he can't provide perfection there, and he's sorry got to abide by union rules, he jokes, non interference in the works of other recursive spooks); he did a fine job in Nam, kept me the fuck alive [but not Jimmy]; he truly saved my ass four or five times [He told me when we landed in San Fran after my tour. Back to the world with a flourish, he said. You know you're dead five times. Five deaths, and many more to come. You better praise my ass, he said, when they give you your medal, and I did, although most laughed, and I wrote a book, and it wasn't published, no one believed it. One editor said this is a Pulitzer Prize book, that won't be published. Why, I asked. Why, you fuck, my buddy screamed in his face, silently, as spirits can do, making him wince inwardly. The powers to be won't let it happen. They don't want the truth. Who the fuck are they, I asked. You know, the gadfly said. Others like myself, the gadfly was solemn. I knew it wouldn't become too well known. The Gadfly was actually depressed for two months, after that failure for recognition, but he snapped out of it. And I have had many a poem published, and many a book, and many a prize, and even fame and now some infamy, due to my publication, but my best book, a work of nonfiction can't be published, so what. And I'm the one who writ the words, made the paragraphs, structured the idioms, recalled. No you're not, he said. I am. You fuck. You're a dummy without me, he said. I got angry and actually shut if off for about six months, until making love with some beautiful fifteen year old, who came on to me first, and all, if you believe it, I let the gadfly watch, to curse him. The Gadfly doesn't approve of the ladies I fuck. No, he's not gay or bisexual. He likes the ladies too. He hopes I could become more or less appropriate, as he says, you know, fuck you too, that I got to be there, imitating my street talk mode. You could at least forget the teenyboppers. I can't help it if I appear younger than my years, and the ladies are willing to pay me fore it. I am joking, of course. No, not really, the fuck, would retort. Melody is what I call memory. All that harmony which is what I call memory integrated with the rhythmic bones, and intervals proscribed by whatever convention I design. Words are fluid, more liquid than music. Silly statement. If we can breathe through inert halogen polymers, then we can breathe words, music, the smoke of each lesion we fester and heal, like epiphany and nightingales. He's a sporting bird, and I am, well, carrion, which is how it should be, I suppose. Getting out of memory into the structure of real present dangerous living. Here I am, back to the beat. Hear the rhythms, watch the ass, balls, cunt, tits, cock, and even the clit and glan if you can get down to it, tingle dangle. Little Richard I love you. Great columnist tells the truth. Told me he doesn't hate white boy heroes. I told him. Yes, it must have been my other face. Maybe, it's Henry, and he's got a black ass. Only kidding, Henry laughed at himself. Giving fake interviews with the press? Where am I going? Back in country. The Gadfly: Has Henry Whitman murdered Geoffrey Bloom at the dispatch office? Is Henry my killer too? What wonderful mimicry? The art of Serial Murder. Who is that character, Murder, now? Where's Edward? HeShe. Tee He. Bad fucked up lines. Rachel, get your redesigned clit and cunt ready. Angela, Laurie, Chrissy, listen up. It's Howdy Doody Time, and I' not fucken Buffalo Bob Smith! "SOMETIMES A GREAT NOTION," stealing another line. I could get away with greasing that fucken Geoffrey, Henry thought, as he pushed his steel can through the Lincoln Tunnel tolls to the Hilton. Not quite two days after Henry's "thought," on June 5, 1989, at precisely 3:12 AM, Geoffrey Bloom was murdered in his Hudson Street taxi office, in a manner consistent with Henry's story. Henry was never accused of the crime. He was on the road when it happened. He clearly could not, and did not do it? Geoffrey Bloom was murdered, the police and Prosecutors said, by the three-time loser, Mark Colon Steigers, a.k.a. "Stump," "Buzzface," and "chickenhawk," "Reams, during the commission of felony armed robbery." All the nicknames were well-deserved prison handles. Steigers had been convicted three times for arson in Britain, and as an illegal alien, here, he beat up a John, who had ruined one of his whores. He said, there me property. If he wanted to mess with her that badly, he should've paid up front. Had no money, the bloke. Cunt couldn't work for a week. He fucked her ass bloody, and beat her. I beat her too, but I never upset the job, know what I mean. Other prison monikers were "Chickenhawk," for his love of young boy convicts, and his brutal manner of fucking their ass and mouths. Steigers had a huge cock, like that Holmes character in the XXX flicks. "Buzz face" was another, for his pocked marked face. Small pox not acne. Steigers, one prison official, known for his love of anything British, said that Mark Steigers, born in London, was almost an icon from the nineteenth century British Navy. One fellow arsonist and sweet heart, said, after Mark Colon's murdered by unknown assailant. Some say, a disgruntled female prison guard. More likely some spirit out to avenge Geoffrey, or to cover up Henry's gadfly crime. No gadfly has ever been a criminal, the Gadfly bragged to all asunder. Mark Colon spent 25 of his 40 years in prison, reform school, or foster homes. He never loved a woman without hurting her. He never loved a man without getting off on his pain. I love cats, he said. Only cats, and they won't let me keep one. Think I'll fuck the bitch. Never, I would protect that pussy snatch like me own mother, father, sister and brother. Then Mark would smile, now, that I'm dead I can say, well, brag, I murdered them too. Fucked them up, good. My sister really screamed in that fucked up fire. Serves the bitch right, refusing to suck me off. Considering all of it, you know what, I didn't do the fuck. I left him beaten, just a bruised jaw, where I pistol-whipped him. He was alive. Never shot the fuck. Some body set me up. How they found that old weapon of mine, and planted it there. I lost that piece ten years ago, just before I got out of the Royal Marines. Served in Nam, you know, part of a special UN observer contingent. Actually, I was a spy, until I fucked up. The prison rep, and record, all made up. I killed me mum and dad but the other things, Nah. In summary, Mack, Chicken Hawk Steigers did not murder the night time taxi dispatcher Geoffrey Bloom, although accused, convicted (after which he quietly bragged (to cell mates only) about the murder he didn't commit to increase his prison rep.), and sentenced to life plus twenty years, he died in prison, his only home, weeks before he would have been released due to substantial errors by the presiding Judge, Milton W. Alders, who later admitted, as part of his plea bargain, to jury tampering, and general malfeasance; a spirit entered, he said, and I could not resist. Everyone laughed, like you, he said. The truth is fucken funny. At least I will not due any time. Wouldn't last too long, even in solitary. Screws don't like judges, every one's jealous, you see. That was one of the Gadfly's favorite lines. Can you imagine the Gadfly as judge and jury! Not completely, as a matter of laughter high on the meter. Paranoid? Getting back to it, and out of the fantasy and its recursive shadow, Henry said to himself and out loud (in an empty cab), I am in the wrong position for this call, Henry thought to himself. Never got a job to the city from Hoboken? Fucking Bloom never gives out city calls from the south unless he's backed up, and we're slow as shit. Yellow Cabs lined up on the stand around the fucken corner. Why? Must be playing with my head again? Had to be? Am I a joke or not? Fucken West Pointer, star man, hero, paranoid. What a fucken joke. Am I crazy? Know I am James Albert Caine. It's true. I could have murdered the fucken dispatcher. I know this is not a hallucination, although everything does have a flat field and no colorno dimension. There's no green. Fuck! Ever since "Nam" I love and hate green. Don't dream about it though. Epiphany everyday. Green is more than gray or red. Fucken dispatcher just sent me on one bullshit "no call" at the Hilton. All the way to the city, never gives me a bone. Like the one last night. All the way to Kennedy and the fuck had it wrong. Oh, you made a mistake. The call was for tomorrow night. Oh, you're sorry. Take the tolls off your sheet? OK. Shit. Never, not even a fucken bone. Why now, that scumbag, it better be real. Fucken kiss his ass. See what the fuck I mean, you shits. It's all- blank. No pages. Letter home to the world like Dear Diary or Dear Mother Fucken Slopes, or Dear Mom or Dear Death or what it really is, as fake commentary, Dear Taxi Murders Readers. This letter, entry in dairy is a fantasy. Didn't really happen? Not entirely sure. What is real or not? Certainly not life, you fuck. Can't stop 'em all. INCOMING, INCOMING"! "What do I love about murder," Henry asked himself? Read this! Makes me cream in my pants to know I did it. Me, FUCKEN POET AND WAR HERO. What a laugh. Front-page fucken news. Shit, Looking into the time machine? HG Wells, shit? No one fucks with me. Crap. Sure. "Fucken King of the Beasts." I'm it. Just think I'll make it out of this fucken shit bag body bag once upon a time. Where are the round eye bitches, waiting to fuck me. I want a parade. Shit, no motherfucker can spit on me. I'll waste their ass. No one better fuck with me, you stupid fucks. Let 'em rag your ass and you'll have to pick up the goddamn pieces. Great ass. Need more time to get it done? Shit. Didn't have to die you fuck. I didn't do it. Bomb went off. The fucks blamed me. Fragged that fucken LT., they said. Shit no. I'm the LT. I stopped it. No one cared. Full of shit and ten klicks east fucken woolly eyes can get caught in the foul and shit eating humid fucken air and a scrawny chicken cooked in its feathers, muddy, skinless, sweet like great tits. Hot motherfucker. You believe it. Shit no. Bustin caps. Got it. Asshole Whack Him Good! Fucked Up. Shit! Do him you fuck. Watch Henry. Stole the fucken .45 from some asshole ARVN Capt. No, not the one I did, some other asshole. Henry Cunt Lapper "me moniker," as my great grand pop told me. Your moniker is what you really are, POP POP said. I like to suck pussy, so you know what follows. Got the name in Nam when this buddy came in the hooch and saw me sucking this peach fuzz slope. Didn't they teach you how to Boom Boom back where you came from, he said? Daddy didn't teach you right, laughing his pair off. Just fucked the bitch myself. Fuck her and shut up. Now do it. Yes Sir. Popped a good one. Like sucking dick. You one wild motherfucker cunt lapper, Henry. Grand Pop taught me a lot. My Dad always fucked up and fought with my Mom. Fuck came at me with a knife. Drunk as a skunk he tried to fuck me up. He threw me around the room, cracked my knee, and fucked up head. Almost made 4F. Shit. Air Force Academy Said I had a busted ear. No, Sir. Pulled strings at the Point. Army Brat. Special Medical Letter. Army didn't give a shit. Send me to Nam and a body bag when it's over. Who needs a fucken ear? Loved jungle crotch rot in a way. Every day was new shit. You know how it always seems wrong when days are always the same. In country most times deep shit. Little fucken chance for ghost time. Getting back to fucken Pop. My mother stepped in front, and the queer fuck backed down. That was the only time. Fucked up. Saw Pop beat two guys to death when I was in second grade. Beat them bloody. Got away with it, the shit. What a grand day, Pop said, when we were in the big one. The big one is always the last shit you're in. He loved war; fucken crap, he said that fucken Hitler shitten Grubber. Should have got that Commie fuck Joe Stalin when I had the chance. Pop told me over and over about the troubles and how he and his buddy, Sean, fucked up the Brits, as he used to say. Had to leave Eire. Sean fucked em, and then Grand Pop came here, already grown, drove a delivery truck for some Irish goon squad. One thing Grand Pop always said. How he loved becoming a Yank, and fighting the fucked up Germans in the Big One he said. Fought with the 69th in '18. Said he wished he could have fought the Limy, nor Jerry. But took me orders, as you will do, he said himself. Henry Whitman became a Yank. No returned Yank, he said. Never go back. Too good here. I did. Vietnam, two tours. Fucken shit. Could have gotten a star if I had stayed in. My dad, too. He fought the Japs. Fucken Marine. Won DSC. I ain't bragging on myself, but I got em too, and then they busted me out. Said I was unfit. Fucken Major Stipple. Remember this name. Doctor Stipple had me after I almost beat this fucken nigger half to death. Why am I telling you all this bullshit? You don't need to know about me. I didn't kill the fucken whores and pimps. Why kill the fucken dispatcher? You asking me? Huh! Pumped up. Funny. Blowing every asshole to kingdom come. You speaking to me! Remember Taxi Driver. De Niro pointed to himself in the mirror, shit eating look. I love war movies. Great taste. Right. I know I'm not swift, but I ain't a dumb fuck. What the fuck do you know, asshole? You did. No shit. Kick some ass too. Vietnam. Shit. Rangers. Do you? Don't fuck with me. I'll fuck you up. I don't. Yes, got it I just fucked up this faggot dispatcher. Just his fucken ugly big nose flat face. I am inside the Taxi office and he's dead, bounced up from the floor. Whacked the asshole. Got it done. Fucken Bloom. Geoffrey boy. Hardly thirty. Shit. Motherfucker. Dead meat now. Really wired. Shit had it coming. Blew his fucken brains across the room. Did it right? Cool. Listen, you fucks out there. You got to know that no body could fuck you up. You fuck em up first. Don't let em shit on you. Got to be one up. Ten months, the fuck had his way. Thought I'd be cool. Let him go. Get up his ass like every other shit around here. Just the usual taxi bullshit. Drivers get it anyway it comes. Ask that fuck Clint. You know the movie. Any which way you can't. Fucked up title. Get you up and get you down. Mother fucken killer not going to get me again. Shit no. He's gone. And I'm smiling. Going to be sad, pretend, fuck. Did it better than now. Fucked em all up in country. Did it bad there. Fucken spooks and slopes. Shit bags. Hitler was right. The fuck. Kill niggers, SPICS and fags. Burn their ass. Shit. I know you think I full of shit. I am sometimes. You see my smile, scum bags. You out there in WKDW news land. Got some story for you. Call your 800 number. Fuck No. Fucken cunt on TV. Love to fuck her between her assholes. Shitten miserable witch. Laughing and perfect, wonder how she'd feel with my dick up her holes. Fucked this slope whore in Nam. Fucked her in the ass and then put my 45 up her hairless pussy and whacked her. Walked away. Two whores saw me. Said nothing. No body said a fucken thing to me. Kill the dispatcher. Shit. Easy. You don't believe my bullshit. It's true. Every one's a fucken bullshit artist. Hard to even know what I said yesterday. Fucken dispatcher is dead, no more Marlboro Lights and Fag water. No more graft. Doesn't matter. What's true is true. You know what I mean. Every day drivers get fucked you know what I mean? I didn't mean to kill him. Yes, I'll tell you. Up front. Reader, I blew his brains out. Took my blue steel .38, I walked in the office. Put it to his head. Made him beg for a second. And I whacked him, dropped the fucken weapon right there. Shit no. No numbers. No prints. How the fuck they find me? At 3 AM no one will know for a while. Put two slugs in his fucken brain. Boom Boom. Get the fuck out of there I said to myself. Miserable cocksucker. Six months I worked with the shit. Cheat me for last time. No, motherfucker going to get it over my ass no more. Shit No. I did it. Simple. Just like that Slope General did in Nam. Put the weapon to head, hands tied behind the miserable VC's back, straightened my arm, and pop. Instant Pulitzer Prize. Photograph shot 'round the world. Really did it. Waited until real late. No one in the dispatch office. Busy as shit. Told the asshole I had to get some receipts. That Pussy was leaning over the two-way radio, and I get him, "fucken A," between the eyes, and behind the ear. I was out of the office, back in my cab in less than five. Used a silencer. No rage. This one was planned. "Pre Medicated" the prick DA will say. Only silence on the cab two-way. Then the chorus: 18-7 do you read me? They're not coming out. 18-7 No one's here either at this call. Shit 18-7 did you say departures? 18-7, Geoffrey come in, you fuck Geoffrey you on the fucken air "Watch the cursing. You guys. What's going on? Geoffrey, you there"? Somebody better check the office? Geoffrey come in! "18-4, did you call North of the Bridge?" Henry me self joins in. Just keep it normal, I think. Wonderful gag, being dead. No one's there. Empty safe. Waited for just the time when I knew the fuck counted receipts. Got to stash the bills. My hands are calm, dirty green. Fucking smiling. Fucken LZ in Nam. Bastard slope ARVN Captain wouldn't move fast enough. Stood in the doorway, blocking it. Five seconds or more. Going to get us all killed. The fuck wouldn't move. Climbed over his yellow ass, and kicked his ass out of the fucken chopper. VC did it. "Pop. I couldn't stop smiling." Bang his brains splattered on my leg. Took a round later. Same leg. Think of that fucked up Slope, the surprise. The fuck lost it. Pushed at my arms. I held him off, and then pop. No one saw it. My buddy was dead too. Took one in the chest. Fucken Mick dead, best NCO ever had. Three fucken tours, and this shitten slope fucken yellow ass ARVN gets him killed. Home in a body bag to save his slant eye ass. Fucken shit. Got the fuck. Froze. Can't stop. Got to get it done. So much to see at once. Patton loved battle. Shit. Years after saw the fucken movie with great George. Understood death. I don't. No heroes in country. Realized later heroes might have been home. Mixed bag, of course. Glad I was there, and rotated back, never to return. Terrible evil, am I the racist motherfucker in my pretend greens and taxi uniform. Taxi sloppy. I was spoony at the Point. Spit shined shoes and Brasso inside of an old tee shirt. Not the outside. Get it right in the flame of battle. Killed the fucken dispatcher. Just like in Nam. Killed the motherfuckers first in my mind. First there, you see. Got it done. Imagined death before leaping into the maelstrom. In my mind. First step, battle. Kill the dispatcher. What was next? In country, no body ever thought that fucken LT, Caine would buy one. No way. He had that special halo. (I did.) We had good times, getting high, smashed, drunk and all fucked up. [Standing outside him]. Fought the fuck once. Kicked him in the ass. Shit, can't do this. Fucked up, hate em all. Shitten scumbag LT. fucken whores all of em you know what I mean. Think I'm fucked up. You got that one right. Fucken shit. Got the mother fucken faggot. No way, going to let some fucken LT. fuck me up. Shit. Zapped the LT. Got 'em good. Never a question. Fragged the fuck. Pop, pop and he's done. No let up. He, that Scumbag, sits in his chair. Fucking you over. Get this call, sweetheart. Fucken faggot. He's not talking to a broad. The fuck wouldn't know what to do with a babe. Fuck her in the ass first. Guess he couldn't get out of the habit. Miserable fucken dispatchers. Whining how he hates his job. Oh, how terrible it fucken is. You know what he means. His ass kissing cronies get the good calls, and you get fucked with shit calls or what is worse, bad calls. It goes like this. Cutting in, dicking it up, making the time worse than ever. That fuck. Kissing ass. No more. He's dead meat. Shit. Got to get this money out of here. When they find out. Hide it at Alex's room. Fired last week. He'll be drunk on his ass anyway. Shit. Motherfucker. They're going to blame some poor fuck. Ordinary City Call: GADFLY: Cab #4 pulled up to the Hilton Hotel. Well-dressed woman about 45 and a boy twenty years younger slide into Henry's taxi. Woman kisses the boy, pushing her almost bare tits into his arm, so close to death and Henry's dream was over. The Colony, Fort Lee, driver. Sure Guess that dispatcher didn't fuck me up with a "no call" after all, Henry thought, as he turned up Hudson Street taxi #4 out of the Hilton's circular driveway onto Sixth Avenue. Home in twenty minutes, he realized. Last call. Going to the Gables. Fucked up head. Need Tom's special therapy. Get the Gables, Maybe even Rachel. Drives me nuts, that bitch. Has a surgical cunt. What the hell. Smells like, feels, like and looks like a piece of ass. Best stripper ever known? Can't believe her? Says she loves my old ass. Tongue works, right! Loves to eat, I said, smacking my lips. Never too old, honey. So sweet. -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+