Message-ID: <40527asstr$1043064604@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: "Sean Farragher" X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-MSMail-Priority: Normal Importance: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1106 X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Sun, 19 Jan 2003 20:07:19 -0500 Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Taxi Murders the Novel New Chaper 4 Drugs and Sexual Fantasy on the Taxi Stand Date: Mon, 20 Jan 2003 07:10:04 -0500 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, gill-bates TxM6: Taxi Murders the Novel -New Chapter Four- Taxi Stand: Topography (c) 2003 Sean Farragher sfarragher@nj.rr.com NEW & UP AT MY SITE TxM6: Taxi Murders the Novel Chapters 1-70 http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook http://www.seanfarragher.com http://www.seanfarragher.com/hyperfiction http://www.seanfarragher.com/Joss New Chapter 4 Sexual Fantasy on the Taxi Stand Topography of Fixed Space George Washington Memorial Bridge Fort Lee, NJ: North Marginal Road & Lemoine Avenue Wednesday, September 3, 1986 WALKABOUT JOURNALS Henry Whitman. "On the Light" Street signs, stage directions, voices on the cabstand beckon. I am riding the merry go round wasting on the stand for the next call. That fucken stand is too lovely. It rides above the topography of all living space: rivers, palisades and highways are more than paths. Great and minor bridges collapse. Ferry boats, buses, trucks (of all sizes), taxicabs, stop signs, automobiles (intake and exhaust), bicycles, all media, and tens of millions of individual human schemes rush the wall screaming darkness inside our fat or emaciated hands. Half fingers flap over the edges of rock crevice. Throw up a ball. Nothing falls. Taxi men dream their own demise. When I wait on the taxi stand for the next flow of bucks, I reach that ache and almost ejaculate when the radio says pick up in the city, go to Newark, Kennedy, La Guardia. Cash is. Taxis are the last great world of cash marking plenitude. Nothing falls when you throw it up. That is the precipice of the imagination. My mind is Henry. I am that decisive squeal of thought that the tires blow out when you turn the corner too fast. How do I get here? The voices ply me with sex seducing intentions: yes, taxi drivers dream to be paid. Yes, I like to exaggerate everything and when a stranger leans in my cab and asks the question I would never answer. "Do you know when is the next bus"? Answering the sublime. I tell him, seriously, and of course he walks away shaking his head "How do we get anywhere? Can we find our hands let alone our feet? What do we know that is truly ordinary?" Simple answers sometimes void important questions. Do you agree? Glad you do? Each day has our monotonous tone. The taxi stand mirrors itself, a recession, back stepping to the driver, waiting at the edge of the curb for the stagecoach to stop, effortlessly, pulling away from the curb, in the great dust storms of the Depression, great Oklahoma dust bowl, dark movie without skin. Can anyone find America? The question was a cliché. Can we forget the myths, the prurient nationalism, firecrackers and tracers, flares to guide the incoming above the treelike: Francis Scott Key assembles the parody. What is my patriotic ruse, or where and when do I stop? Am I always a marine? The Corps. What can I measure when I massage the short hairs from beneath my soft palm high within my bunk? I pretended my exploitation. My jerk off spun without film. I admired the slope bitches' tiny tits. When the women fell, the AWOL soldier danced across her mat. Immersed in daily come, the young woman's bed was bare when he forced her mouth to suffer his cock. She was not a child. He knew what he felt. She was old, wiry, tough, but her skin was softer than her infant's mouth sucked my male nipple. Vestigial and erect, she is a blossom within the black heart of the dyed daisy. All my buddies watched, as they gathered as stones on a slate walk encircling the flagpole of the gate, finding the bar across from the burial ground, outside headquarters. In my mind, I dressed her death with fright. She died as I passed over the open door of her protest. No, she did not say no, but yes, wanting the script I held. Falling shrapnel caught my neck she died taking the full impact of the frag thrown by some Vietnamese who finally met truth and showed herself as the hero. Finally, someone steps up and I almost die. She is no longer invisible and fully accessible she carries a child and they both die when, in the confusion of the events, the Captain turns his weapon on both of them emptying the clip. I will remember her years later when we walk along the Hudson River shoreline south of the Point. I moved the water, as if my God speak. That was ten years before she died, but in the moments after the assault (as it was termed by the Army) I was confused in time. Wouldn't you be scared and unable to show it, you suddenly sit down and look out beyond the concertina wire and simply breathe? I stretched my hand backward then forward as I recalled it all learning that Laurie had been taken and as a flow, when heroes parade out of bounds I wished I could have stopped all the death. Am I being paid back? Is this historical revenge? I really did not want that Vietnamese woman to die. No, I would not have died for her. What good would that do? I wanted the small fate of escape. Drawing the imperfect and deadly skin from wall, the maps imperfectly unfolded. We picked the course, and let what we cleansed and absolved rested forever as words between the chapters. -Can I denounce the hero? Can I accept what I did or didn't do? Can I forget my weakness? Am I not good enough? My racket. There's no ruse. I am not dishonest. I just flail at my eyes when confronting the wall. The city left behind. I know the steps I take. I watch myself walk and lie. There's progress, and I do know how to make my speech perfect. I can convince you. I love it. Making lives genuine through some bitter absorption. What I brew I glean. We are the other part of speech. We can be object or subject as noun. There's action. We love. I possess what I did. It absolves whatever wrong or right I practice. "Who did I murder?" "No one. I saved life. Never kill. " Some might say I tore her face with four rounds. The blood felt good on my hands. Her hair twisted in my mouth; I tore at her breasts, doubled her cunt with my fist. The progress towards renunciation is a passive first step towards collecting deadly details. I love to watch. That's the passion. I dig inside marking the sidewalk with graffiti. I torture words as a long sideways look back down the past road inside out and stepping up on the high mountain. I pass the catch of throat when she comes. Each list of the dead is more perfect. Walking down the steps. Finding the basement where murder kept her secrets. No, her is not correct? No gender. What we do is what we speak, all out of the ordinary. But we pass the curb. Keep the centerline inside our hands. We treasure safety, watch the courses we fabricate, notice the accidents, the steps out of bounds. Each progress keeps our fragile prick in our hands. It's not sex, just the distance. We keep death, or the swallow of the heart, the last push, when the miracle strikes the home run, then abruptly we turn, forget first or home, even Bud and Lou, or the exchange. We presume life, and then the cab careens off the icy bridge, and in the instant between our self-murder: the conspiracy of the street and the muscle. Arms pull. Brain stops. The bridge welcomes, and we, or I, arrive more alive than dead, and for that motion, of surprise or disdain, we are satisfied with death, and then life is less special, or we presume our life more valuable than those who lose. War fabricates death, but life is the end of struggle. Firefights, dust off, then safety. What we design, the progress of the ride to JFK or LAG or NWK is a miracle. We never know when it will end. Do we? What drugs we are: rage catches in the sky. Waiting for the rocket ship, the blue skin, the Martian hero, and the background to special storms. We infect space; great wings above the mirror. I stare inside. Watch my face, the caricature, and the mask I market from the front seat of any car. My taxi swims within the blood, as the sunrise, quick, invades heat to settle the late morning boredom. The afternoon is sleep. When we die we pass along the lake as the spirit dissipates what we have remembered (true or not). Fabrication is important. I am there. Again. It is 1960, and beautiful Theresa, the only child, great artist of loons, fox, and lamb. We made love, as spiritual whim, and created, every lazy afternoon the hand is closed over the sex, as the mouth handles the harp. Yes, our mouths were soft, her breasts, mostly nipple, swollen, pear. Sensitive, perfect arms raised above where we came in. Can I escape? I don't want to leave the stage. The fares collect and interrupt the fanfare. My Erotic dream is hers. My hardon, though the course we assumed, is caught in hand, eclipsed, married within the autumn sienna and the violet water surface of ducks, when the gargantuan masks take over. I want nothing more than to return with her. What we do is what we remember, and I can laugh. I know there will be little return, but I keep it. The memory absorbs my sex. She catches me. I marvel at what the dream spins from the fake skin of the garish street. I marvel at dreams. I do. I wish for a voice to take hold of my hand. Then the light changes, and I walk past the next street forgetting where I can go, or what would have been. There is a voice. It climbs when I come. Simple sex restores it. She didn't know how hard three steps lost from the track would be, forget restoration or remembrance. I take her dreams. I am what she talked. Do you see my face, as I hold yours thirty years later? Gladly, it speaks. The voice of life and then the happy silhouette: Mr. Death, as a poet friend once imagined. Mr. Death or Ms. Death is asunder. What else is there? Do I catch my life, or do I stop. I can't stop. I have passed home, too far alone, too many hot landings with the perpetual whine and wheeze of MEDEVAC'S at the party. Is death, murder, suicide a market barometer for perpetual force dangling on the easy side of the first law of thermodynamics? Nothing created disappears. Nothing invisible. Recent improvements in my personality have evaluated the wish the lie and dream after Marshall Foch. Cliché. Poems drift. I wish for integrity. Did you know I discovered the first face of the moon? Imagine the moon as her cunt stripped bare, losing layers of dust, deranged. The pit of her hole serrated. The corps is drained and the marsh of her lips is frozen tundra. Have you ever fucked a decaying corpse? No, a recent death does not count. It has to be cold and her cunt stiff like meat dropping hard out of the floor from the freezer. Before you can turn your head, there's another geography. Imagine Ft Lee altered. The taxi stand, the bridge misplaced. The dust blew away the flesh, and the skeleton underneath spindled until you hear at the cab window, a man, albino. I need a ride, lost my money. It was stolen, he said. Have the police report back at my desk. You can trust me. I'm good for it. Would you take me across the bridge? I need to get to Kennedy in twenty-five minutes. Do you think I can make it? No, I need a police escort? Is that possible in America? Connections. Marks. Dimensions underneath the box; invisible question. Watch me. Smack. You like it. Harder. Hit me. No, yes, turn around. Please, the darkness spins inside out. Black eyes speak as I twist my necklace. I am here to on the stand with you. Am I memory? Please, keep it quiet. I told you not to stare. Yes, I'll do it. I know I've been bad. Don't watch me. You don't care. What the fuck were you doing with her in your cab last night. Sneaking by. Avoiding pain. Seeking abuse. Loving bullshit. Stuff a twenty in my pocket. Blow you man. Fuck you. Another 20. Thanks. Now get the fuck out of here, before I piss in your face. Lady, do you have to take twenty minutes to decide where you're going? Music on the sidewalk is a riddle when you step up looking for the notes in your mouth or hers. Kick you in the ass. Piss on her tits. Shit, I wouldn't touch her ass. Shit. You got to be kidding motherfucker. Do you get high? Pieces of silver, sold ass, borrowed cigarette, missing wallet, my husband-wife beat me up. Can I ride around for a few hours with you? I need to think. Want a blowjob for ten bucks? Got some blow? Got an old lady? Need a place to crash for a few days? Want to buy a genuine Rolex for fifty bucks? No, how about twenty and I will let you handle me any way you desire. No. What will you give? Get out of my face you fuck. I don't want your shit watch. Hustle me, hustle you. Driver, do you have change for a $100? I'm sorry; I know the fare's $2, but I'll get the money from my mother, boyfriend, neighbor inside! Sometimes, they're telling the truth. Who knows? Not going to take the loss. If I don't get paid, then I got no meal money later. Comes out of my tips. What do you mean I have to leave my license with you? No, I don't have one. What's in my purse? Fuck you too, asshole. No one goes in my purse. All I got are cigarettes and condoms. No ID. It gets you fucked up it you carry it around with you. Lets the dicks know you are too real. "What do you mean? I can't leave the cab? How do I fucken get you the money. What do you mean, asshole? You' re not calling the police. I'm sure my boyfriend will pay. I'll just go inside for a moment. Please take me to Morristown for 15 bucks and a blowjob. 50 miles for fifteen, you're sick, man. I ain't paying you no fifty bucks to get there. Shit, that's two and half dicks full of shit. "I ain't your fucken brother. What do you think this is a charity cab? No, I won't take you there. Fuck No. I don't give a shit what color you are. I'm not going there. Racist shit. No, I won't wait while you score? Yes, we take American Express, and Visa and MasterCard. You bet. Must get approval on the card first, Sir. Sure. You want to pay cash now. OK. That will be fifty up front. You don't have it. Hope you like to walk? Sir, do you think we're Social Services here? We don't take welfare vouchers. No, I don't speak Spanish. No. No. Oh. Shit, that's English? If you want, I'll try that plastic again, maybe. No, OK, Sorry, could use the good fare. Fuck no. I can't use a genuine leather attaché case. Tell you what. I'll take you to the Path for the case. Good. Now, what the fuck you doing wearing a 2000-dollar suit if you have no cash or plastic." "Another story. Got all night. Your wife cleaned you out! What else is new, fuck? Join the club. What the fuck. Man, we all got problems. " "Do you know where I can buy some coke? You shitten motherfucker. Why are you busting my balls? Fuck Morristown. What the fuck is your hustle, man?" "No, I don't," the fare said. Always no. "See that guy down the line. He'll take you for fifty. Ex cop. No, I'm not bullshitting you. See that asshole, yes. Just ask the fuck?" "Stupid shit. Got to get a good fucken call. No Chinks here tonight. Maybe, those Ridgewood suits will, or that Oakland Gook. I had him twice in a month once. Book 50 bucks in an hour and a half. Great call. Fuck." WHO'S NORTH OF THE BRIDGE (Dispatcher on Cab Radio)? Repeat, ...WHO'S NORTH OF THE BRIDGE? No Answer. FIRST UP. FIRST UP. WHO'S SLEEPING ON THE STAND? 18-4, ON THE LIGHT. GET THE A&P 4 CAR. LADY'S A GOOD CUSTOMER. DON'T LET HER ICE CREAM MELT. for More TxM6 http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook/ End -- 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: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+