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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6:  Taxi Murders the Novel   Chapter# 107    NAM to Point Blank Virgina
Date: Thu, 13 Feb 2003 05:10:06 -0500
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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
in email. sfarragher@nj.rr.com

Chapters 1-80 are available at my site.
Updates will be posted at least weekly.

Thanks,
Sean

http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook

Taxi Murders the Novel -- Chapter 106   "Fucking Death"
One Politically Correct Eulogy
(c) 2003 Sean Farragher
sfarragher@nj.rr.com

http://www.seanfarragher.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com/Joss
http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook/


TxM6: Taxi Murders The Novel   Chapter #107
"NAM To Point Blank Virginia"


TxM6: Chapter 107


VIETNAM WAS REALLY ANOTHER
WAY STATION ON THE WAY TO
FUCK MOTELS COMPLETE WITH
BODY BAGS AND DRIED OUT RUBBERS


Journal of Henry Ezra Whitman

This is the land of Used to be Alive:
Weather Reports Journal,
Friday, January 27, 1968: 1740 Hours


"No Name" Ville near Pleiku,  South Vietnam

It is Late January 1968 a couple days before Tet. I had just returned from
some fucked up OPS where we took heavy casualties. We did not know that a
NVA battalion patrolling in the Highlands near the Laotian border was
about to hit us with the fucken screams of dung mommas and shit birds.

I was "short," rolling joints while I meditating set above stinking
55-gallon shit cans as a latrine. Half a football field away, in a recently
cleared field, yesterday's shit cans stank half consumed from incomplete
burning.

Looking at the smoke and the scatted gasoline cans, broken slicks, Huey
parts, I remembered Point Blank Virginia and Cindy Huston. I met her in
1965 two years before Nam. She was almost nine years older. She had two
kids, and a man who lived with her. He sold her ass. I was her pet. She
called me handsome. She believed I was a chameleon and my boyish charm my
venom. She told me that I was just like her, and that is what she did, but
I did it better, and when she came with me, she did not fake it.
Nevertheless, don't believe anything I say, she added, and I laughed and
actually didn't care as long as I could hold her and be her child, and that
perfect thought chilled as I said it almost believing I could be trusted. I
knew that I was a liar too. Every one lies, and when I said that once, and
her man, Pete, looked up from the TV asking me if he could suck me off, I
threw the pillow at him, and said fuck no, and Cindy said, you will do what
I need, Patrick. You Irish lad, she said, you are just like the Priest who
suck off the "boys" at the Port Authority. I know, she added. I know you
are not queer. I like that you are caught in my claws. After all, I am
Cindy that Lion at the Lincoln Park zoo in Chicago. I was named for her.
Mama told me that she read about a lion that killed a keeper for touching
her cub. Mama loved that lion. I did too when I learned about the first
time some man in the neighborhood messed with me and she found me under the
bed crying my underpants bloody and filled with come. She shifted the six
foot two, one hundred and ninety-five pound Rugby half back as if he was a
potted plant. She once said, as I stood outside hear the sunflowers,
dandelions and gone to see morning glory's that I was more beautiful in the
sun than the shade. She shifted my body and led me away. I let her. When
she slept in my arms on the nights when she did not have a man sleeping
over, she became my little girl. I became her child too. We cried and did
not fuck. She made me come. I helped her breathe. We were connected in a
bizarre constellation. In 1965, men were not sensitive.

Once or twice, I told her I would not come back. I told her this was my
last visit. She laughed and promised to take care of my life no matter
what. All I had to do was accept her, and accept passively her easy
placement in hard categories. I was a silly boy with slight male dreams. I
did what she said, because I felt safe with her. She directed my eyes, made
me want what she wanted. I filled her hole. She filled mine. The old Negro
as they were called then who lived there did not like women. He wanted me.
He told me I could have her, if he had me. I let him do me, but refused to
give back. She watched us, pleased. She wanted me, she said, life is not
what it seems, and I should get over it.

I didn't give it to him. When I came, I saw her. She made it perfect in
that perverse disorder.

When I got to Nam two years later, I was the man, but still the boy. I lost
that childhood on my first ops. Back in my hooch at stand down, I trembled
and cried. No one saw my loss.

Cindy once said when I grew up, she would have a harder time than I would
with the separation. She needed me more. She would be old, I would be
young, and in the usual way of the world, I would deny her.

I lived deep in visually abstract philosophy.

Graceful, taking the usual dump, I saw her. Her last name carved in clouds
was not a delusion. She became the sign over Hollywood. I remember in the
letters she wrote me that when I was there, in her bed, fucking her, she
insisted when we talked that I address her using her last name. Call me
Miss Huston, she said. I thought it more than odd, but I did it.

Point Blank, VA and this no names Ville in country have too much in common.

Watching her name dance on the filed near the tree line, I was amazed by
the details. At first, I wondered if it were a reaction to heroin mixed
with weed. Then I heard her speak and when she danced as she did before we
had sex, she would touch my mouth with her breast, and while I sucked it
she called her child. It was absurd. She was small, tough, and beautiful
and I was large, full bodied, my cock pressed so deep inside I could feel
where she and I joined to the muscles of death.

Vietnam and Cindy had little in common. This extreme introspection had
happened before and it would happen again before I returned to the world.

At stand-down, it seems as well as being hungry for round eye sex. I was
lonely. Cindy saves me from boredom. When I visited the baths and the Asian
girls barely older than the children packed with explosive that the VC set
to the task of revolution.

When this girl woman washed my back, when I came in her mouth, when I
fucked her, breaking her in half, she bounced back graceful and asked if I
had some thing to help her sister who had the clap. In my mind, Cindy stood
over our twisting vines beating at my ass with a thick leather belt. I felt
every stroke and came when the imaginary buckle hit my balls on a wrap
around. When that Asian girl sucked my lovely cock, I laughed, and cruel, I
wished I could hold out longer to make her work harder. She said she could
do it "long time" and I was numb and could not come until she bit my neck
and the metal hit my balls.

When I lived in that past, I loved it all and recalled the mornings in
Virginia when I woke to Cindy sleeping and her kids pouring Corn flakes on
the floor. I got up and helped them while she slept. I made coffee for her
pimp. I was thoroughly domesticated.

Stepping back, retuned to Nam, I smelled the antiseptic of the motel where
Cindy and I and her old man had lived. I walked around the rooms and
gathered up the toys from her kids, put them away. I washed the dishes. I
threw out the trash, and then she came home drunk walked past the kids for
a moment and cried. Why are you so good, she asked? Taking her kids in her
arms I felt like we had a family until the black homosexual as he called
himself smiled walking through the door carrying groceries, setting them
down, and putting his hands on my shoulder suggesting that he would like to
have sex. Cindy smiled at us. I was not queer I told myself. I loved her.
When he came in my ass that first time while she held my hands, I looked at
her breasts, and she let her top down, and fed me her tit, and she fell
back on the bed while I sucked her milk. Will there be enough for Joey I
asked? Plenty, he eats what we eat now, and my tits are heavy and I need
you to make me feel where I begin.


1965

In '65 when I found the Paradise Cove trailer Courts; I not only loved
Cindy I walked within the circle of the old rusted Chevy's and even an old
Model T. I loved the red truck with no tires. I appreciated the anger of a
woman who understood the frailty of my beauty. I understood how we hid the
rage with daydreams, but I had no masks. I could be myself in those
fantasies. I was real there, and like Nam, I was real flying the canopy
with my guardian angel, Cindy.

I grew up with trash. In school, I discovered that I was not cut out to be
the gentleman my first semester at Columbia. I did not graduate from Bronx
Science or any of the other elite New York City High Schools. I did 1300 on
the Boards but I was an all county halfback with a mediocre High School
football team.

Not the grandsons and great grandsons of rich feudal lords from Scarsdale,
I adapted to survive.

I was not smarter, but I was more beautiful. I could run a hundred yards in
9.6 seconds.

I had played Rugby like all the Irish lads who grew up on a tortured field
just below the northern ring of Dublin.

I had no ambition, no passion when I was with her. I discovered that
comfort where I could just not want more. Took the pressure off.

In Nam, away from it all, I would hate that boredom. Yes, war is boring. I
know you don't believe that, but it is. Half way back to the world, I
discovered in that vision. My revived Point Blank.

In 1966, just before I went to basic at Fort Dix and he traveled to Fort
Brag, I brought my best friend Jimmy there. We were classmates in HS. He
attended UVA on a Golf scholarship.

Once a term I would shoot down to meet Eddy. Leaving New York and the
Lincoln tunnel I watched the backward traffic as it took off riding up the
horseshoe highway out of the Weehawken hills to somewhere else that became
the Meadowlands.

When he got to Point Blank, he hated it and passed on through it like a
mirage. He fucked the choirgirl Betty (Cindy had set them up) while I
adsorbed my last days there before basic. We were different boys.

Jimmy was bored at school, he said. He was glad he was going to Nam and not
grad school I was not. He told me that except when he played tennis or
golf, he wished he were back home in New Jersey watching TV and fucking his
girlfriend.

We were not the usual jocks. He hated football and I was just not quite a
world-class runner who had learned Rugby while a boy living with my
grandmother in Dublin. He was a curious men and not easy to understand. He
said he actually hated Golf, but continued at it, because they said he
could make a living chasing the fucken ball into the tiny hole. He also
lied and said that Golf was sexual; he really didn't like to play it that
much. That confession seemed odd, but Eddy and I were always changing our
life.

I should talk. I let a homosexual use my ass so I could make love to his
wife. She called him her pimp, but they married and had two children.

When Jimmy and I got together, we often wished that the other one were not
there. We were not faking anything, really; we liked each other, but we
knew our differences. I would manage to find ways to upset my boredom with
trouble.

Jimmy and I exchanged many letters about Nam. He said in one of them that
he I could get in more trouble in an hour than most did in a lifetime; he
missed it and "running the highway," he said.

Eddy told me that he was about to ship out for Nam. He wrote that he wished
he had never earned his commission. That I was right, he wrote in not
becoming an officer and a gentleman by right of God and Act of Congress.

I became a brown bar to get laid, he said, and shit, I am not into sex, but
I am mesmerized by the power. He joked about his ambivalence in a letter I
received just before OCS.

Eddy was KIA six months later. I got his last letter the day I was
discharged. Eddy and I turned 23 in country.

Back in '65, we were just college boys with weapons in hand. We did not
mean to cause harm. We did not plan on dying and we knew we had no choice
but to serve.

"Draft dodger" was not word either of us knew, and had we known what might
happen, we would have studied it, and I believe had the courage to change
our life. Both our dads had served in WWII. His dad had died in Korea.

During my last trip to Point Blank VA, Eddy spent a day with Cindy and I.
Cindy introduced him to a sweet innocent girl Betty who pretended to be a
virgin. Not a hooker, Betty sang in the choir. She was 19 and knew Cindy
from the local church.

Cindy and the girl seemed too close, he told me. I like her, he said, but I
really don't want to see her again. I told him that Betty and Cindy were
lovers. He couldn't handle it, but he laughed, and said he understood. Just
like buddies, he quipped. I stayed the week of my last leave with the
girls. When I left, I vowed to return for the unusual mixture of visual
beauty of rural Virginia juxtaposed to American trash.

Just before I left Fort Bragg on the way to Nam, I spoke one last time to
Cindy. She promised she would write and she did. I sent her two letters;
she sent me three. I never answered the last. I believed that I would not
out-live Vietnam, and when I did, I didn't believe I was alive.


II.

Danger raced the long legged twenty-year-old man from New Jersey, named
Henry. He walked through the lanes of the Highways to reach what he called
the back door of life. Sometimes, he hitchhiked, he said. "When I did, I
carried a large canvas roll strung over my shoulder. Inside I kept my cock
and my diary of the legend of Cindy Huston."

As he passed down the roads, not really contemplating the maps, he
shouldered the weight without any pain or complaint.


In Nam Henry continued the story. She traveled with him on every OPS, long
or short. He wrote to her daily in that book. He didn't send it. He
promised himself he would give it to her when he met her back in the world,
and if he did not, he wrote that she should receive as his next of kin all
his possessions.

Henry Whitman was a boy who would became in the usual way of war, a man
bloodied with war and poetry and the falsity of memory. Henry rolled fast
into the games of war. He played them well, but he was always the boy
curled up with Cindy, and she fed him her milky tit. His dad was her pimp
who would sometimes be there watching them. He never touched Henry, and
rarely spoke to him.

"When I was twenty I loved everyone, he told his "bro" in his unit, a
frightened medic who loved to pull rank, and was later discharged with
company punishment for incompetence and dereliction of duty

"It is the way the world really is," Henry would ask the guys just before
going out into the jungle. There was nothing to say. Most just stared back
and said, shit, I have to pee. No one every talked about shit or pee, and
how soldiers sleep or eat when close to combat. Absurdity breeds the
absurd; Henry said when he was lost in his head.

Henry sitting on the famous throne of his shitter rolled a line of joints.
He was getting used to the stink of feces and rotten pee, and the smell of
napalm and smell of burning jet fuel. Licking the joints, he set them to
dry. He placed them in a trimmed and exact line that resembled a military
graveyard. He said that rolling joints took his mind off the shit that he
could not squeeze out. He really didn't plan to smoke them, he added. "I
give them away. I just want to make them behave."

He refused he continued to be crushed by "a winsome desire to always be
real."

"I want to be a ghost but alive," he wrote to Cindy.

Suddenly one of the joints rolled on the shit house floor. Henry picked it
up, brushed it off; he might smoke it first. That way I do not have to
worry about germs.

Saying the word "germs," Henry laughed doubling over almost in pain and
then he panicked. Getting up he stared inside the toilet, wiped his ass.
Picked up the joints he rolled he held them in his hand giving them to one
of the guys on shit cleaning detail.


Point Bank, VA -- Late June 1970.

Having just returned from Nam, half dead, I spent two months in a hospital
getting new chemicals and getting over older ones.

When I left the hospital that first day I was hungry for more than sanity.
I wanted more than the ordinary round eye sex.

Recalling the Point Black fuck motel from college before Nam, I pushed my
life in that direction and before I knew it I was halfway down the Jersey
Turnpike passing exit 9 going too fast and wondering if I ever would stop
racing towards that wall where it might all end.

Something about the Jersey Turnpike and its unusual scenery that made me
feel right at home.

When I reached Paradise Cove trailer Court early the next morning I fell in
love with its mixture of trash and dirty history. Paralyzed by the broad
crimson and gray lights of the sunrise, I stood at the edge of the
mountains, looking down the path, and I hoped I would never leave.

Back in 1964 my buddy Eddie and I had seen nothing there, and we left,
after both of us dipped our peckers, but I told him, that I had to stay,
play it out, so I might not return.

Cindy Huston's trailer court kept me sane back in 1964. I was not sure what
would happen now. I had hoped for the best, and then I remembered Cindy's
life and compared it to my own sad lives in Vietnam.

Passing through the Baltimore Tunnel, six years later, I was hot to be
alone. I needed to breathe that fetid American air and gaze on worn down
beauty of mountains and hills of tits and ass.

I wanted pure sex and pure nature without any pretense of love and
affection.

I just wanted cunt.

After fourteen months of Hopalong Cassidy or MASH in slicks (helicopters)
in Nam, I was ready to get lost not just in America but in her vital muddle
of cheap sex, fast food, monster movies and women with an attitude you
could really nail.

I wanted the truth of the world. I had had it with being in country. How do
you know the truth about the time before I squeezed out rounds or cut
zappers from concertina wire, kicking them into a hole?

I certainly was the universal kid back then, and after the real life war
movies (I remembered Audie Murphy played himself in WWII), I sensed that
death and sex were easy companions. Murphy never had any, and in NAM, real
and imaginary sex is all that I wanted in my mind or my mouth.


PARADISE COVE MOTEL

When I imagined the cove back in Nam, I would ride past the Gas Station and
Motel signs in a souped up Vette.

In my fantasy, I liked the back roads from way back when I was a white boy
college "ask now what your country can do for you boy." I liked reaching
into the grit leading you inside the fucken place.

I imagined I was in the old south riding on horseback down a dirt rode to a
dark cabin where you might get a place to sleep, some burnt steaks, and
beer. If I was lucky, I'd find a slut to rag and scratch my back in a
steamy bath made up with hot with kettles of boiling water carried through
the room to an old iron tub. I realized the bathhouses of Nam had cut into
my memory.

She would be big titted and sassy. We would not talk much (again like in
Nam), as she was hard to understand

I'd have tough hands and worn skin that she would praise while she kept
inside her revulsion.

In Nam, fantasy reaches into fake dialogue spoken to break out of silence.
No need to really speak. It is all grunts. That is the origin of the
draftee grunt name. In Nam I did, out of some desire to be different,
imagined I was tender with Cindy just as I was biting the back tender with
the slope whores who washed my back and sucked it dry.

I know I imagined that intricate bullshit of fake and real, and I made into
a mantra for my sore dick and swollen balls. That way I could fuck for
years without stopping. Right. If I could twice, that was great. We make up
the lies are selves. What shits is that the lies are not necessary. No one
expects you to fuck forever.

Back in VA, my mind would reach forward to a blank wall. I remember wanting
to know the future. Now, that I have had it, I hide so deep the truth will
be discovered a billion years from now.

At first when I rode into the falling trees, the white washed mansion hangs
back from the roadway and detail cannot be easily seen.

Believing the ads (about Nam and Virginia) I had expected grand vistas and
a toy model of the Appomattox Park Court House, east of Lynchburg, where
Ulysses S. Grant surrendered to Robert E. Lee in 1865. You have seen the
picture in history books.

Riding down the VA trail, I had expected lyrical graciousness and the dry
painted mouth of a too young matron reclined in her pout, wanting to be
served rather than a servant. I wanted that mouth to take my cock in layers
like I would suck her cunt finding the inside of the vulva without sucking
the outside just a casual exploration of the rings of her ass and when she
moved on my lap I knew it was living.

Riding up the blind gray skyline, up the hills, my car pushing grease, I
entered the time lock of another daylight soap opera where sex was the
morning page of a national fuck you paper like Screw or some silly tabloid
with the fake of head of an infant attached to a goat with electric dildoes
suspended from its ears.

"On my right," I could hear the tour guide say "is the almost West Virginia
trailer park, Paradise Cove, owned by Cindy Huston, as it rises along the
ridge line where State Highway #311 and Craig County Road #18 cross."

As I heard the voice of the imaginary fucken tour guide trail off into what
passed for rock music, I knew the motel was still there. All my days in
Nam, I recalled it, and the silken shaved cunny of Cindy.

I needed to know that my life-sustaining dream in Nam existed. I had to
tell Cindy that she had saved my fucked up life.

Cindy had written me two letters when I was in country. In the first, she
told me how sorry she had been to hear that I was going to Vietnam and how
brave I must be and in the second months later, received just after my R&R,
when I almost lost it and ran too far away.

When I opened that second letter, I knew she had led me alive again. In
that letter, she told me how she had hoped I would come again to dwell, as
she put it, inside my hospitality. That letter seemed more an advertisement
from a high-class whorehouse and not a broken down mansion in the middle of
nowhere Virginia.

What the fuck did I care. It was a love letter from home and it did not
cost me an allotment or empty promises.

I remember telling one of the guys in my squad how I looked forward to
breaking down the walls with fucking when I got there back in the world. I
screamed at this deep dark wonderful black soldier as we were advised to
call them, not that I needed that advice, that I intended to fuck myself
into kingdom come without dying. I told him how I would fuck that whore so
hard the earth collapsed underneath the building.

I remember the Sgt. who over heard what I had said respond. "Fuck, son,
you'd be lucky to get out of tomorrow the way this shit sticks to our ass."

Back in the world, all I thought about was getting me some, but now as I
travel in this 5&10 American paradise cove the garish street front of a
racetrack car parking lot brought me back to the sink hole brothels of
Thailand.

Back mid-tour, I wondered how I would live, or how I could die. I played
the Stones as my car headed inside under the broken sign marked the motel.
I remembered being drunk with two slope bitches and I seriously thought of
getting drunker and then fucking them dead just before I blew my own brains
out with the .45 I always strapped against my ankle when I was wearing the
usual civilian dress of too loud shirt, slacks and comfortable shoes on
leave.

I am not sure why or how I made such a connection. The war in Vietnam
should have nothing to do with this sleaze bag motel and it curved driveway
leading up to a hill that descended on the other side to an open clearing
about half the size of a football field.

FAST FOOD MOTHERFUCKER

There, sitting astride two greasy chicken and rib fast food station, Cindy
Huston's trailer park had two large neon lights flashing, blowing over the
halo, shaking the TV lights set up I imagined to mark the first
Presidential speech ever given by a dwarf while he sank deep to the elbows
in the largest twat ever known. OK, so I like to exaggerate.

Almost hidden by more than fallen tree arms, vines and thick briars, the
trailer parks was closed in and then off by heavy, ancient brown bark maple
and some water oak.

Without cars and trailers, it could have once had the appearance of country
estates with wide open drive and a large iron gate that had tumbled down
like those old great haunted Hollywood movie monuments to the Northern free
the slaves tyrants who with Sherman on his march politically had lost the
great southern war.

Just as toys at night seem to have many textures from gray to sometimes
grief, my map of one fuck motel sat within the clutter of small plastic
fences, and cannibalized stock cars. I still called it mythical knowing the
perfect memory always has some flaws.

Perhaps, it was my malaise and the fake joy I felt sloshing away in the
worn out cunt of some twenty-five-year-old hooker who had been selling her
worn pubic lips for ten years six years ago.

Down the dirt road, where half naked colored children danced easily as an
anachronism, a tin roof train station leaned far to the river side of the
road way, marking its aged white doors, as heaven open and automobiles and
motorcycles stopped your eyes as you reached up towards the black face of
the sky before a storm.

The dead train station stood in the fast lane without tracks or equipment.
More than a relic or a statue, it marked the place where last summer in
1869 or was it 1870 Jake Wells shot himself to death while attempting to
murder his wife's female lover, Anne Short. Anne was smart. Anne turned
that gun back on the man, bending the steel pipe as a great Wrestler might
break the ropes falling to his death beside the bald headed woman he
brought with him to the match. She screamed so loud when the half nelson
broke his wrist and the bleach blond with the speckled tits tumbled off the
canvas into the mud bath while the men and ladies cheered drinking bourbon
and salt.

Yes, Driving down death in NAM I played with History and her mighty come
quick schemes. I thought anything to stay alive. In my mind as I rode those
ten yards towards Cindy's open door in good old 1969 I thought, oh God
prepares me for thy heaven oh Lord. Show me how to open my pants and preach
the last words before I fall to my death out of sight of Jesus, my dick
numb and my lips fully engaged in sucking pussy.

Just like I imagined that historical Anne, hands raised above my head in
chorus with all the other sinners, as the tender man died with his brains
baked and refried at the lunch house later that night and his wife beating
his ass home, his pants down over his ankles, tripping him up as she beats
his back.

Same man said he was hungry; the man lied to his wife. Creating this tall
tale, he told his wife that the women simply fed him some soup and just by
accident, a tit popped out. Can't help that now, can I darling?"

As I imagined the man trying to suck soup through a tit, or a straw, the
scream INCOMING hit dark black night. I thought rather than what happened.

They fed the poor hen pecked sap brains, Henry imagined.

They will lose the last chapter of the book. A new broad in full color will
creep over the hedge of the cliff exposing fur pie. Open legged and darker
she will lose the echo of her voice as an audio symbol and a visual sign.
Dreamlike, she will follow the musical notes like Daisy duck. You remember
how she bit Donald as they danced down some fucked up white lane middle
class asylum to a nowhere town.

 Inside the fantasy of the fake dream, in Nam or back in the world I heard
an ancient voice clamor for my skin as if the devil was my eyes.

Cindy appeared in the daydream as a star complete with Production Company.

Back home, in that place I imagined Cindy and I startled by the sinners
jerked off in the front pews. Further, the Pastor who looked like Bravo
Company's Captain joined up to sing the Hallelujah chorus while a great and
famous rock band from Alexandria sang all night before the bar maids came
out and personally gave blow jobs to each grunt/band member behind a screen
set up just for that purpose.

The women did it well; licking the tips after each grunt came. Making sure
she swallowed it all showing them the shine on her teeth, and making sure
every man was kissed with every soldier's leavings.

I saw it all, Henry imagined, waiting again for the light and return to the
place where he lost consciousness.

Back in another more mundane reality, riding into the Cove courtyard,
before getting out, I flashed back to a bar girl I had met in Saigon just
before DEROS.

She called herself Paradise, and when I tried to fuck her, I found she was
closed up with active clap. That is what life is like when filled with
disappointment. I knew better than to rape her fulsome cunt although some
horny Joe might have tried.

Back In Paradise, behind what appeared to be a working well (stink of
chlorine), beside the gray gas pumps long dry, and the necessary clutter I
felt all the sad mistakes of my life. I traveled back to the women I used,
the women who had used me, and in every empty gas tank, in every sun-baked
car, we like all of there were parked in fourteen directions.

Blocking this way in or out, I was stopped by all the bullshit paper work
to go home. I blocked pleasure with pain and then I blocked pain with
pleasure. I never kept the proportions right.

The walls of my body that kept my blood and flesh contained became lesser
symbols when I was not under fire or in harms way or any of the fucken
clich�s that are used by grunts when they go home to right their great book
on the heroic war. Right, what crap.

Inside the ferns, the plants, the body stockings that Cindy wore, I felt
the beat of the strike of the tires of her trailer. It had been there for
ten years without moving.  It was my cock suckee fun house hooch

All the wasted decorations as if the strutting garish clothing of 125th
Street and Lenox filled my memory like a pipe with cheap tobacco. It led to
another trailer park temple where Cindy Huston sucked and fucked for fun
and profit had her own vocabulary. Did she ever feel loved? Did I?

Crudely painted on almost door panel in the junkyard was that ancient
message: coloreds not wanted. The only good gook is a dead one.

Memory sure fucks you up because Cindy had a black lover, and two of her
kids were nothing but black.

Everywhere you rode, up and down the on the skyline, foul words prayed for
cheap sex and dirty books, dancing parlors and blowjob halls. Beneath this
holy canopy, two elderly white women argued, not too softly, about Jesus.
Would Jesus save us all from Hell if we allowed the coloreds to mix and
walk wit us without a by your leave.

Paradise Court trailer park named by some randy fool who later lost his
dick in a freak accident that had the whole town talking for weeks. Seems
the gentleman, if you care to call him that, drunk out of his mind fell
down between the screen door and the front door of the main house. As his
dick was flapping out of his pant, when he fell he caught it between the
hinge and the spring. The bitch that he chased, not liking the fuck much,
instead of helping him free himself, slammed the door hard on his cock. By
the time the cops got there, he had nearly bled to death. "I wasn't going
to touch his thing, no way," the bitch said, "not after the way he beat the
shit out of me last week. I wanted the motherfucker to die. Too bad he
lived. Left a piece of his dick in the door. He will not miss it. Who wants
to fuck the old coot anyway"?

How did it get the name Paradise? Good question.

It seems when the old fuck was shaking and crying he begged for paradise.
Some old black hooker stuck her head out the door, and said, that me hon.,
but I am not going to do anything for that bloody stump, no fucken way.
Everybody starting calling the camp Paradise after the memory of that old
coot. Cindy loved to make things fancy added the word COVE said it stood
for cunt. Of course it did and didn't.

Yea, I heard the old bastard had a son who died on the Battleship NJ on
December 7, 1941. We all have our prayers and our ways of being paid back
for sex and sin or both. Poor toothless cuss never knew one grand kid
except his nephew by marriage. He fucked him over for his social security
check each month.

Cindy is just an honest whore, working out of a trailer who believed and
rightly, so that she was God's chosen oral instrument.

Cindy's perfect gams walked her backwards and forward down the path to a
red brick house they say she earned by fucking some old rascal fifty years
ago. Soon after he died, they say she took up God's word, and never kept
company with any man or woman. A righteous sister the Baptist called her. A
motherfucker, some of the more sage black men sang when she sauntered by
the downtown store. Most believed she communed with Jesus.

Cindy did, and she avoided the bitch whenever possible. That was her
classic reply.

All the tales we could spin within this fierce land. We could forget sex
and the ordinary cat calls silly now when we mark them down, long after the
anger or the stench of Nam and its shitters. We could keep track of it as a
scroll of this ancient space, but the trailer park with its honest cold
light held Cindy Huston to her simple complaint:

"Just give me a hard man who will fuck my heart out, holy mother of Jesus,
please pray for me, my hands can stop my wandering lost in the million
cocks and come pots placed underneath my dripping ass and cunt. Let us
gather in the sheaves."

What an odd mixture I thought opening the car door from the inside of my
own pleasure.

There in the on coming headlights or the flare shifting down from the back
of the slick, I felt my easy opening for the darker lights that blinded
whenever Cindy danced. Parading her ass for an assortment of gents and
girlfriends, she made out at the bar, drank and smoked until she actually
had an orgasm right there with every one around. No one actually touched
her. She did this special act and got off. Was it true? Fuck no. I loved
the danger of her. It would get me up to go out on OPS into the hottest LZ
and just a foot or two off the ground, blood splattered, deadly rounds
snapping at the foliage, I came too, at least I did in my head.

I loved danger. It spoke as I watched from inside my invisible fancy this
handsome, long legged man walked through the lanes, carrying a large canvas
roll strung over his shoulder. The open and closed ends were undressed, and
if you knew that a sleeping woman was bound at the center, you understood
how each step seemed a struggle even as the man walked shouldering the
weight easy, without any pain or distance.

At that moment all you had seen before transformed, and the trailer park
opened like a pale dried flower bud shriveled from summer minding the stiff
humid air closed around Cindy Huston as she prepared to walk three steps up
the easy metallic stairs to the interior of the three room almost new
trailer she won playing hearts and flowers with some funky slut who prayed
for a pussy licking party and got cock in its place.

Cindy was tall, with easy laughing eyes, and a darker wall, and nothing to
stop her, but a closed hand that struck at her legs covering her, and
settling what she did as she covered her legs with lotion listening on the
telephone to some fucked up Yankee mother fucker banging her brain with his
come while he lead her from the top of the trail to the bottom as she spoke
louder than the first time, covering her orgasm, as the boy,

Henry, who came down the road, laughing at her antics, sad, as the least
sinner, she came down to the other side of the street, one tit free, and
the other open, sleazy, like some easy mother, her twenty year old daughter
still sucking, flicking the milk from the free tit across the room at some
Jack jerking off. She said weird shit for the, talking about let down and
orgasm. What the fuck did Henry know except he grinned at the spectacle of
her milk running tits down the wells of her tits while she ran him into the
fucking round fucking from the top.

Cindy pushed down took hold of her mouth in his hands and fucked his still
stiff cock deep into her spoils where she swallowed letting his prick stuck
by too good joy and pleasure, at the end it hurt, or seemed he might die as
the come raised from his fucked and dead cock leaked from his fist across
Cindy's tit. Knowing the orgy had started, Henry swallowed her tit more
candy and shaking it free, as Cindy put the full-grown man down like an
infant.

When she finished, and Henry slept she pushed her tits back into her shirt
and let them leak through making the cloth stiff and stinking of sour milk.

Cindy spoke without a pause, letting the mumble of the ear and the
electricity found in the soon to be soft, strike up the great hardon tale,
and easy Cindy pumping up her tits, fell down, kissed the ground where her
ass had held the great cock as statues from long ago making me come with
anticipation as the fantasy dissolved in the grime of dirty boots and
rubbers let loose in every frame.

Henry walked outside the porch watching the story imagined he had blown in
Cindy's ear softly cradled her head, turning her hair and the room was
bright and open. She had light hair and a darker smile hidden by the loose
curls cascaded down shoulders covering her huge breasts closed open when
she pushed her arms together, bending over, exposing almost the whole face
of the nipple, spreading the pace of pear, as an orbit colored with an
ancient flesh paint.

Henry, mesmerized at twenty stretched to almost fifty in his mind. He
realizes that whatever Cindy wanted, he would create. It was easy. After
all, she was a story and not flesh.

Reaching up, down, anything was easy too for the Lad, as Cindy called him,
and careful, for whenever the young woman (not really much older than
Henry) laughed, and the refreshment showed deeply, as the ample skin, and
mouth, at least as dark as the morning when nothing was closed.

Cindy had a strong chin, and angular jaw. Her eyes were round, open,
fraudulent and innocent turned on herself, with a speck of violet and
green. Just to show I am a liar, she said, about her eyes, staring into a
hand held mirror, as she turned quickly, placing the mirror face down on
her dresser. I can't stand you too, she spoke to herself about herself,
really smiling, convinced, and then pulling off tee shirt, stripping him of
his, and putting it on.

"You magical slut," Henry said, pulling Cindy back, gently twisting her
arm, like he had seen Gable do, not to hurt, but direct, assert, and then
throwing Cindy on the bed in one motion.

"Don't fucken play," Cindy's bald and black old man warned Cindy, fuck the
boy again. He paid twice.

Do it now, and no back talk, here, opening Cindy's robe, ripping off her
underpants, the black dude finger fucked Cindy two wide fingers, pressing
down and up, making her face tighten and scowl. Nothing else was said as
the bleak man brought Cindy to her knees for Henry.

Hard, he fucked her solid while Cindy's man laughed running his mouth about
young dudes being able to come without resting and that is good shit, and
he wished he was there again, fucking the college girls down by the
swimming pool where Whites still keep the coloreds out.

"I lie too easily," Cindy said, and she reached down, turned and the curve
of her hip pointed, as her legs open, falling on her back, allowing
muscular boy/man to fuck her openly, in front of anyone, not caring if
after he finished another fuck slapped his prick into her too loose quiff.
He came leaking. Cindy wiped it away, and another lover watched peeping
while she let it spill out sitting over the commode, Henry had his face
plastered against her pussy as Cindy peed. She was too drunk and fucked up
to care, At the end the boy stretched his finger into her stream, as she
stopped, he stopped it, the urine running down his forearm. He pushed at
the folds letting her soft parts glisten while Henry pushed past the ribs
to the other pelvis pushing his head back inside his mother-fucking vulva.
Cindy held him on his return to mother and life. She watched while he
licked and sucked at the swarm of sex making her pussy squeal with fifty
blasts of orgasm drawn down beneath the belly and another five drawn down
the spine to the toes and upward to her breasts and the circular drift
through her milky teats and back down as lifted up her own tit to suck her
own nipple clean off, coming through her teeth by God. She had the most
wonderful face at that moment Henry was born a second time.

"I like to watch men live," Cindy laughed.

At twenty-nine, Cindy was almost old, worn down, but Henry didn't care. Six
kids fuck up any one's figure. Henry was alive. That is all he knew. When
the slick picked him up shivering, suffering from heat prostration, and
hungry, fucked up with two rounds in the meat of his side, both passing
through, Henry knew that fantasy, mirage had saved him. Perhaps it was a
dream, but first chance back in the world he would find Cindy and tell her
how out of the black hole of Nam she was the guardian angel. She sucked
death away and I came waiting for the bird to sway hovering over the
landscape carried by brothers home.


ACTUAL POINT BLANK
AND THE REAL CINDY, ONE
ALTERNATIVE ENDING


Home to the world just two weeks and three months, discharged, Henry
Knocked at Cindy's door, He found nothing.

No one was there.

A passing man asked Henry his business as he walked back to his car. He
told Henry that Cindy ran off with a trucker last year. He said that the
trucker kicked her ass so much she finally took her own life.

The passing man added that he was sorry. Then said, he looked at Henry, and
wondered why he had said that.

Henry kicked up some dust and ran his car faster back down the road from
Paradise Cove, and half smiling to himself said well at least I knew her
when it mattered.

Stopping at a gas station, he threw the letters and the Cindy note books in
the trash. Half way out of the gas station, he raced back and picked them
out of the trash.

Henry wrote on the last page of the last book:

"How many grunts can say they were born again from the cunt of a whore
dreaming of the world while engaged in a hideous war.

Sure, they say it, but can they taste it like raw pussy, chicken or that
beer they made from human nuts in Nam."


For more Taxi Murders the Novel
http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook


END

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