Message-ID: <40549asstr$1043212202@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: "Sean Farragher" X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-MSMail-Priority: Normal Importance: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1106 X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Tue, 21 Jan 2003 19:26:44 -0500 Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Taxi Murders the Novel Chapter Five Nam, Porn, Taxi Freaks REVISED Date: Wed, 22 Jan 2003 00:10:02 -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: hecate, gill-bates REVISED! MODERATORS PLEASE POST THIS VERSION I SENT AN EARLIER VERSION BY MISTAKE TEN MINUTES AGO. SORRY Sean If you have missed any parts of Taxi Murders the Novel, they are archived on ASSM --Google and at my web site. I welcome feedback. Chapters 1-70 are available at my site. Site is updated every few days: http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook Taxi Murders the Novel -- Chapter 5 NAM, PORN and Taxi Cab Freaks (c) 2003 Sean Farragher sfarragher@nj.rr.com http://www.seanfarragher.com http://www.seanfarragher.com/Joss http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook Taxi Murders the Novel Chapter 5 Mr. Death's Walkabout YOU ARE MY OBJECT OF PERFECT DESIRE Friday, 3 January 1992 1123 Hours HENRY: Mr. Death, you have a true name (and identity); state it. Show us your playfully obscene and obviously flawed state of mind; speak. My voice lives in yours or mine. It escapes like magician without curses but finds a blank wall. How shall we hide? There are no buses this late at night. How can we reach the cliff to jump from the top of the towers of the bridge? What is the significance of suffering? What is the secret of murder? Is it like the mystery of sex as an inappropriate and little used subset of harm? Do we love just as a token? Can we ever give full value for when we do not lie? You could discover your own name and the face of death as I write it now. I ache. There is a back and forth farce. This is not a comedy but a stale face without fictional intent. I wander and peer in your window; you shrink back, are palsied. My tales antedate your dreams dear Abel. My tales precede your collection of immodest cruelty. How dare you hurt life. I know you cannot understand how human beings feel, love, put themselves in another person's skin. You have no capacity for empathy. Like a mad animal you kill for no reason. You are not even a predator. You know no balance with life of any kind. Should we study you or exterminate you, or both? Are you alive? If you do not have a conscience can you be sentient. Are you the rock that killed Abel. Are you Caine and am I your father, brother, or some distant life form without any duration in your mind, and I cannot be so afraid as to treat you like you treat others. Perhaps that is my great weakness. What would the whole world be like if no one felt responsible and a connection with life beyond their own self and ordinary needs. If our nightmares are a rigorous mayhem imposed by circumstances we cannot change, then how do we wake? We have been dispatched, manumitted, enslaved, conscripted. Mind, body, and all intense desires pull us apart. Unconditional affection and love show us we are whole. I write this note for our tidal aches. Here in are some ugly tall tales. I will deny them with a snicker and say, well its all fake. It is not. Nor is it real. It is the fiction of all experience made to appear as a mirror reflecting the motion of the orbits. In Country, we were these dreams as they passed (or should I say pissed), what I believed in as 1960s beatnik, driven to Hell. I remembered the zipped, unzipped body bags. We violate terror with this jocular tease. You can not stop what several million Vietnam Vets learned, much more than WW II Vets can bullshit. The story might be easier in the third person. Let me shift to my interior mind and cast the foil to reflect the passion as a Red River uncoiled into cock and cunt and that dear porn we call the sleaze of merriment. God I love porno for its honesty. How easily the hand slides up and down on your cock and you are at mercy in that orgasm she lingering over you like a cloud. You watch ghosts. Hers linger on the knob putting her tongue in the pee hole, fingering your ass like a gay mad man who raped you in prison, but that was imagined, and in an earlier life. Here we are sinners and great heroes of dirty, nasty, dishonest, and fraudulent and sometimes illegal sex. We gather here on the taxi stand wondering who the fuck the next call will offer up for our amusement. Think of this next time you step into a taxi: he/she will not harm you. They might laugh to run away from their loneliness. They might sing to hear you cringe. They might even not know where you are going, or what language you speak, but they will ogle you straight or gay, lesbian or lipstick queen, and when you are fucked with their mind, you will be the object of perfect desire. for more TxM6 go 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 | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+