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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6  Cheap Movies 
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 From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel
http://www.taximurders.com/

TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher


0989XMalachiandHelena.htm
Helena Herrig and Malachi Mac Donagh

Helena was elegant and cheap, graceful, and stumbling as 
opposites. What is vulgar one day, she said might be genius 
another. And on a third day may be assumed by the creator as 
art. Helena may not have been classy but she was smart and 
knew the streets. 

Malachi was hard and soft, loud and silly, almost quiet in a 
careful light that settled on warriors. His naked ass was 
hard, a bump to invade, as Helena did that first morning, 
carefully molding his cheeks as men did, usually in careless 
first intimacy, fondled, shaped a lover's breasts- not 
accepting gravity as conspirator.

Helena searched the hard belly, resumed, she carefully opened 
his eyes to her practiced fingers as they treaded the abdomen 
to the source, sampling the flood as great water falls: 
flowers, broken petals descended across the movie scene.

"Hail the Director, Helena sang, "he will find the scene. 
Look how he has bent the page and assumed control. See the 
432nd page of Malachi's book. What was the title? "My 
Daughter Lost Me."

"Here's a few lines," Laurie recited them.

"Who was turned away, now really, asked Val, after dark, as 
pillow talk with spiked drinks and marked passages, wet, limp 
pages, dappled in the corner of fluid cunny"?

VOICE FROM THE FUTURE as Voice Over.

Where's the well, Helena asked at last. I was thirsty. 
Where's Sheila? What happened to my grandchild? Who called, 
did you say? What happened to Laurie? 

They found her body on the taxi stand. I certainly hope not. 
What happened to 1965? Where was 1992 after all"?

"Who's kidding who"? I never touched my kids," Malachi 
screamed. "Let's get it straight. Just because my great grand 
parents were brother and sister, doesn't mean. I was the one 
man who did not abuse Laurie. Even she says that. OK, so 
what. Could I change what my kid did during Civil War? You 
tell me how. Yes, I know. I married my second cousin, 
compounding the alleged genetic flaw, but many folks marry 
second cousins, and that was a fluke. Didn't know it until 
years later. Maybe, I am better for it. Can you tell me that 
I am not"?

"Now, you can't hold me responsible for Helena or Luther, or 
Sheila, for that matter? I have no idea who my children will 
fuck or not. I am not the one that was corrupt. Get it 
straight.

"Malachi, dear," Helena spoke as if she had wanted to 
disguise her voice.

1965

Helena, 28 in 1965, lifted her head and opened her blouse, 
removing it, pushing out her breasts, examining the nipples, 
provoking them, setting them up, dropping them, gauging their 
free fall. I love to bounce them she thought, twisting around 
like a great Yankee slugger to follow their curve. 
Afterwards, Helena washed her face, cleaning the sweat and 
dark eye shadow from her eyes, turned from the room, and 
smiled back at Malachi who had watched her ablutions.

She was a saint, he said, later, when the police came to 
anoint the dead, himself included.

"Now, I am getting ahead of my story," Helena as narrator 
spoke. "It's not the end of the novel, February 1993. I am 
locked backwards into 1965 and 1961 (the year Helena met 
Malachi), and  I am a grown child at 18 playing the vamp with 
Malachi who was a great cop -- not just an ordinary dick. He 
had tremendous moods, Helena said. Some days he was  burly, 
gentle, married, and only 14 years older. I know he will be 
pleased, Helena said, speaking in a high tone to herself, 
that I turned out so well.

DRUNKEN DREAM 

Stretching the mirror Helena had grown, patting her ass, and 
stretching on her toes to catch the sweep of her ankles and 
calves. How can I measure the years? Where was my calendar 
after all?

"OK. Look at the clear gray translucent slime; Laurie in 1992 
spoke the lines like a poem. "Slugs between mouth and hands. 
Swollen mud on the Prairie Rivers as the flood drifts and 
heals the unsociable stains."

"Got to get to work. "Will meet the man of my dreams" as the 
song goes. What bullshit," Helena thought. "I am perfect."

See the seminal Flood, Malachi pledged speaking aloud as a 
poet might. 

"Rivers of spermatozoa cling to the finger tips; resist the 
drip from the base of Helena chin, as cleaning it, the tickle 
was texture sliding wet through the alley crushed as the 
molten equator pulled apart from distinct gravity as the 
flattened core, dull, de tumescence restored balance."

Dark fires helped Malachi and Helena affect the mal ease we 
assume befits any guest at his own funeral.

"Where was the 50s dance when I could have swung it," Helena 
asked in 55, when out of a more common plight, as dark fake 
eels pretended the deadly reform, Helena swirled in and out 
of her partner's plotting arms, slipped down to shimmy under 
his legs, rafting up, held down from escape by the rock 'n 
roll cleats, drifting with Bill Haley and the comets. I'm 
gonna rock around the clock, Helena laughed remembering how 
the year 1955 fell down, when her Luther taught her what that 
church word "sin" meant when he dragged the ten commandments 
down from the Hollywood Hills.

"I swallowed the sexual family, Malachi speaking as a poet 
again said in 1992: "and then the germ and mitochondrion 
remnant, as one holy flag were restored by King Phosphorous, 
as his four abreast strut rested, asleep, when the comets 
flamed as a swoosh at once when the holy child, Helena, 
throaty, immaculate, demons exorcised, scattered the uneasy 
gestures, pleasure as a sonnet, broken down, without form, 
plied open for Uncle Luther as he took what Helena had been 
taught to hide. Young ladies do not show their underpants, 
when they sit down, the piano teacher frowned at Helena, at 
the recital, with parents beaming, and Luther certainly not 
embraced.

The year is 1963. Let's keep the record straight. Malachi is 
twenty-seven. Helena, fifteen. Malachi had married Carol 
Simms in 1957. 

When he met the teenage Helena (1962) who had worked the 
diners off the highway starting just after her fourteenth 
birthday, Malachi told Helena he loved his wife. Malachi and 
Carol had three children. Saints do not lie. Years apart do 
not matter.

Forget 1964, 1965 or 1957. Where's 1999 or any days earlier. 
No George Washington Bridge (ground zero) was necessary. No 
books of etiquette are thrown for Moses to pluck from 
imagination. Codify what? They fucked. What do we mean by 
unclean spells? Malachi could not know their next thirty 
years.

Certainly, incest was despair. No one condones it. Child 
abuse (and 19 may be a child) is even a greater loss, as the 
theft of innocent spirit cannot be forgiven.

"I was Born of it All," Helena smiled at Malachi wondering 
what her sexually abusive grandfather Luther would have said, 
had he been alive to stop her. That shitten fuck is dead, 
Helena said, "and I can do what the fuck I want. Helena 
mesmerized by Malachi, who had assumed Luther's mask, to 
provoke some great scene: isn't that what soap operas do? 
Each scene becomes the next moment of unresolved tension. No 
body ever comes. When the scenes quit, move on to another 
venue, the pace of the drama changes. One character played by 
another man or woman suddenly becomes the off stage voice. 
"Bill Right now being played by John Wrong." 

Yes, the most literary of soap opera fans never ask, "who 
wrote that trash." 

Resolution. Ah, I see. Next case. Continue the motion. 

Next scene. Conflict, resolution. Move it on. Let's go. Pick 
up the pace. Watch out. Step Lively. Subway doors will close. 
Separate. Ripped apart. The hands are the first vise, then 
the arms, and souls, finally, heads stretching, throats 
screaming, black passion, and the lens by the magic of some 
double rail "soused up" go cart smoothly (too easily) passing 
from scene to scene, and then the jump dissolve: future from 
past; he from she; brother and sister; father and daughter; 
mother and son; lover and loved, and all the in-betweens.

CUT TO HELENA WORKING AS B MOVIE STAR (1965).

"THAT'S A WRAP," DIRECTOR SCREAMED. "ALL FIVE LINES REPORT TO 
WARDROBE. YOU'VE BEEN CANCELLED. REPEAT MESSAGE TWICE. 
AUDITIONS FOR THE NEW PARTS WILL BE SCHEDULED. YOUR AGENT 
WILL TELL YOU. GOOD AFTERNOON AND GOOD LUCK.

"Where will I work next week," Helena asks her agent on the 
phone screaming at him. What soap? Aren't I a contract 
player? What the fuck is going on? 

Calmer, Helena hears that yes, she has a contract and a new 
movie will be shot in three weeks, but she will have to do 
some hard core in it. OK she says. How much more, and the 
smile on Helena's face makes it all too clear what went down. 
"At the end she says, screaming just a bit softer, "I want at 
least two story lines in between the crap. Got it."

"Is that like a climax, mister, the twenty-eight year old sex 
pot aging teen star Helena Herrig (playing 18 for the soft 
core market) asked when her Madonna like crew gathered around 
for donuts and coffee, and she modeling a skimpy blue string 
bikini without bottom that she thought she was supposed to 
wear in the next scene.

Helena is there to get off on being the star. She also, if 
truth is known, loves to show off her cunt. Sitting there, 
legs apart, she will open her lips after spitting on her 
hand.

Can't really walk naked down the street, and well acting and 
rehearsal are just that, but the vamp, some nickel and dime 
porn star (who had marketed her youthful body for three years 
to the legal teen market, liked to show it off. She had told 
her best friend, Lee, last year that she loved it when folks 
looked at her. When some even turned her head away, she loved 
it more.

"I had one," she said pretending to be Helena. I am a mimic, 
of course, and then standing up stage, on her mark, presses 
her hands to ceiling, and rolling her knees, tits front, ass 
back. T & A at its best like 1940s on the stage pretended to 
be a cross between Gypsy Rose Lee and Valerie Perrine.

"Where's Lenny Bruce," you fucken faggot, Helena screamed at 
one of the assistant to assistant directors as she stepped up 
and down on one foot like a spoiled child dancing down from 
the steps to the raw earth. Helena loved being carted from 
one scene to another. "All I have to do is show off my tits 
and they come around," she smirked. Have you seen my costumes 
and props?

She laughed. Make me look like some hooker, you know. Imagine 
if I had to cart all this shit around from set to set. Fuck 
no, Helena laughed sitting down and becoming quite calm in a 
few moments.

Turning to the camera, Helena laughed, catching the cue, "I 
saw him at Carnegie Hall one fucken winter in 1962. What a 
shitten blizzard. Slow down. Get it under control. OK. There 
were no political jokes then. Only politics get it. Not even 
fucked up sex. Well, always some kid getting shit on by a 
step dad. Had a few of them myself. All those pretend games 
then, Bruce caught it you know. 

Helena plays it up now. Starting to sing in some rock down 
melody "Mr. Just cool it," the Sex Kitten lips synchs the 
words. "Watch those hands. Come on Baby. Let me shut you 
down," the lyric continued long after Helena had not lost 
interest.

Lighting up a cigarette, "We've come a long way baby, Helena 
sings mocking the rock and roll singers she loved or so she 
said, and then pointing the lit cigarette at some young 
handsome extra as he walked by, giving him this look, she 
smoked but the guy used to her tease said nothing back 
smiling at her but ignoring her too.

GETTING BACK TO THE ACTUAL LAURIE FALLON WORLD: 1992 again 
Laurie Fallon is 26 and has natural red to auburn hair. Poet 
and stripper, hooker and college student, drug addict and 
clean Laurie loved Henry. Scene takes place just before 
Lilith and Abel will abduct Laurie. Demon and human, the half 
brother and sister have deluded themselves that they can 
become media giants by abducting pregnant women, abusing 
them, filming the scenes, and while this abuse continues, 
they film it all and force the participants to keep a journal 
of the whole experience. Laurie is neither the first nor the 
last to be taken.

Helena and Malachi are Laurie's mother and stepfather. 
Malachi is the only stepfather that did not sexually abuse 
his stepdaughter. For that restraint, Laurie loves him as 
Laurie's mother encouraged her live in mates to do what they 
will with her children. She never said it was Ok. Helena 
never spoke about it. She set it up none the same.



Another nightmare

after ten minutes of peace.

Another voice apparently off stage, intones. "What an ass. 
Pretense? Who? Me, Helena or Malachi? "Got to keep the show 
moving after all." There's the trumpet flourish. Fanfare. 
Going ape for some bitch or dick that is me. 

Helena was my momma. Yes Sir. She could fuck em all on a dime 
after all was said and done."

CRASH. BANG. RATTLE. Old car pulls up and out falls a 
handsome, well-dressed African American, as they are called 
now, Laurie introduced.

The Gadfly is a spirit and human. He assumed the body of a 
heroic Lieutenant who had died in Vietnam in 1968.

"Sounds like the Gadfly making another androgynous entrance, 
in drag, what else, Laurie thought. No, not this time, I 
guess. Sometimes his gender was indeterminate, I forget that, 
but then he dressed up as a broad last week, at the Audubon 
tryouts. Wanting to be bird on Broadway like those stupid TS 
Eliot lesbian cats. You know he had real tits, a cunt, balls, 
and a prick. No asshole though, and not a transsexual, 
transvestite wannabe. 

Hermaphrodite. Not really. Can't truly fuck his own ass hole. 
If the Gadfly was the real thing once, Helena interjected. 
What we all knew, the Sex Kitten speaking as a professor of 
embryology wags aloud. "You see it happens before gender 
differentiates internally at 33 days, and externally at the 
seventh and last embryological week (20 -mm) in uterus.

True hermaphrodites are rare in the human species."

"The Gadfly was not human," first speaking aloud, and then 
falling silent. Helena lists his attributes, counting off her 
fingers, speaking them silently, and moving her lips.

"Need a lip reader, here. Call Bill Watson's agent. He is 
good. See what he is doing now. Maybe he's available," the 
Sex Kitten warbles. Then continuing, Helena whispers, getting 
louder, "Man made in the image of the Spirit. Is the spirit 
the character, Gender? The art of coupling difference. Is 
human kind God or Godlike?

"Ordinary fare, now really," the Gadfly perks up.

"Who the fuck asked you, the Sex Kitten, exposing her left 
breasts, to scratch the red marks where the elastic binding 
cut her skin. 

"We're a Changeling," the gadfly speaks like a used car 
salesman. "More than a shape shifter as demon, serpent, hawk, 
owl, or sphinx. Saints? God? Goddess?

"What mother fuckers! We are what ever the scene or the 
director needs in under five lines or less," the Sex Kitten 
said, removing her underpants, checking for crotch stains, 
sniffing it, and then dropping it, now fully naked, she 
retrieves a mirror from a table, and folding it down, between 
her legs, she sits down, to examine, fold by fold, her sex, 
opening the fluffy lips, and then inserting a tampon, and 
removing it, inserting and removing snails, and toads, and 
then a baby doll, moving to the Gadfly, on the floor, ass 
bumping, giving birth to plastic adult toys, directing the 
Gadfly and Helena while wiggling her ass, ordering him to 
help her pull out the infant, a girl, of course, as if this 
last object, was a replacement for death, a reprieve, 
penance.

The Sex Kitten's self examination continued for five minutes. 
"I know the scene's too long, but I wish I had a magnifying 
glass, there's a surprise inside there for you, pointing to 
the open, pink vulva, underneath the tampon, but you take it 
out, you must smell it first, licking the cotton, as if it 
were a sacred dolly. See, she says, the spirit, yours is 
there inside my cunt, you bet. Let's pause here for a 
commercial."

SCREEN GOES BLANK

Resumes without Gadfly. The part of the Gadfly is being 
played by.... Entrance delayed. Who said that. The director. 
Not now, Gadfly. 

EXIT

The Gadfly leaves the empty stage, looking as if he had lost 
his mammoth double DD breasts, and no longer sporting a human 
cock, the size of an ass. No vagina, forget the clitoris, as 
the great instigator walks off, inhaling his skin as a prop, 
stage left, leaving death behind to swoon and then, inside a 
series of blood curdling screams to rage punctuated by a 
crying new inborn infant, as if his innards had form and 
could be raised upon the stage as a hunk of beef let down 
from its hook, split, dressed, and cold. Now, living.

Death had awakened as the Gadfly's shadows kept pace with 
technical changes; we forbear, translucent, transparent, and 
then white. 

Enter Lady Mac Beth holding Laurie Fallon, the ninth Taxi 
Murders! Victim. Call her Sex Kitten, number one. Her show 
earned a 32 share. What a TV super star, the old woman, 
dressed as Lady Macbeth, really her mother Helena Herrig, 
washes her period piece hands, her classic dream walk, on 
stage, in the round, at Stratford, in the year of our Lord, 
1600.

Lady Mac Beth staggers, dreams, then her words, as her pitch, 
an appeal to blank sleep she marked down in verse and fakery, 
while Lady Mac Beth, now off stage, screams, and then Sexton 
becalms Mac Beth, "The Queen, my Lord, is dead." Now Mac 
Beth's speech ends, ..."Signifying nothing." 

Repeat phrase: Lady Mac Beth did say: "Come, come, come, 
come, give me your hand. What is done so complete. To bed, to 
bed, to bed. [Exit]."

The Sex Kitten, naked but now wrapped in the floor length 
black lace shawl intentionally dropped by Lady Mac Beth just 
before last scene exit, leaned against the two by fours 
supporting the painted sets, watched last scenes, exhausted, 
she pulls herself up, bouncing her breasts, in an extra jolt, 
as all actors exit. She moves stage center, pulls at her 
infant like a wagon or a dog on a leash, as the infant 
screams trail off, louder, softer, first the wail of an 
infant, then weeping of a child, now as woman, a birth 
scream, finally, as death is loose, as a black cloud, like 
Witches and Warlocks, gathered, where the fluff of her last 
breath, strangled by Abel, death at nineteen in Fort Lee, New 
Jersey, left for dead on the taxi stand, corpse discovered at 
four AM by her much older lover, Henry, taxi driver and poet. 
Scenes flash, end to end, as if a year is compressed to a 
second. 

"Is that me at ninety four," Laurie (the reformed Sex Kitten) 
asks resurrected.

"That's me self," Laurie stage whispers, "just me as I am 
born, nothing more," and then pulling apart the dolls head, 
throwing stuffing here and there, the scene shifts back on 
stage, where the ghostly Sex Kitten, throws the flesh as 
Eucharist, first at the blank faced, immobile audience 
(probably fake) and then at the stage door security guards 
reality's ace). The burly men dressed in NY cop finest herd 
the Sex Kitten off stage, and then, the resisting, she thrown 
outside the blackened theater.

"Stop, you fucks," our Sex Kitten laughs, "thought it was 
real, didn't you. Fuck off. I cannot go out there. See, I got 
no fucken clothes on. Just this shawl. You want me to be 
arrested for decent exposure."

The Cops ignore her, as they gather in their own church bull 
shitting. 

The Gadfly, emerging from an invisible crack in the wall, 
ambles swiftly stage center, holding a full-length mink coat, 
"put this on," he says. "I know it's August, but it will keep 
you warm. OK."

The Sex Kitten, clearly Laurie now, passive, puts on the 
coat. "It is cold," she says, taking the Gadfly's arm, a 
gentleman with his lady. 

"I'll bet we'll be warm soon, you old coot," pulling the 
Gadfly's hand around her back, directing it to her ass, "now 
hold this, if you can."

The Gadfly, dressed now as a stage door Johnny, stops, hugs 
the Sex Kitten, wishing her well, throwing a kiss, and then 
waving, slowly, invisible, dissolved, back inside the crease 
in the stone wall between 44th and 45th on Broadway.

The Sex Kitten (Laurie) sits down on the curb, sticks out her 
thumb, trying for a pick up. Anything. I got nowhere to go. 
Henry has left. Cannot see him. 

He is dead, and so is Abel.

A black limo stops. Door opens. Throwing off her coat, 
letting it fall invisible, Laurie gets inside, helped by 
first a well dressed women, and then a man, as the Limo 
stops, and the chauffeur gets out, silently directed to 
retrieve the coat.

"There's nothing here," the chauffeur spits back, annoyed. 
"What the fuck you talking about"?

Camera close up. It's Abel, not Henry Whitman. Lover and 
murderer. Will death repeat?

Through the limo's open window, Laurie emerges, still white 
and naked, a living icon, "you see these well dressed fucks," 
she says "they want a threesome. Why not? It's Tuesday, July 
14, 1992, the day after death, and I have awakened. You know 
what. Nevertheless, the bitch says, she just wants to watch.

"Hope their Coke's good this time. Just worn off. I need 
more, OK. Lady, no, not that way, like this, no teeth, OK, my 
nipples hurt. I just finished nursing my baby.

"I'm pregnant with Henry's kid. You know this sex thing gets 
tiresome. After all, it can wear out if you do not take care 
of business. You take care of your business. What do you do"?

"Movie actress. well They call you 'Sex Kitten.' I know. I 
saw you on PORN XXX cable. "Shit Dogs" last season. You were 
OK, but I wanted to fuck that hunk of costar, what's his 
name, Brad Coffey. What an ass, would have done him for a 
line, you know."

"Blitzed. Fucked up, no, don't do that. Not my neck. Put it 
back to together. No, I am not Mary Queen of Scots, and we're 
not back in jolly, fucken England, you creep. Let me the fuck 
out of here. Weird fucks, you blokes. I'm coming!"

Helena Herrig and Malachi woke up from their dream. Malachi 
never took another drink. Helena died of liver cancer in 
1998.



More American Adventures in erotica and other works by Sean Farragher:

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Sean_Farragher/


Sean  Farragher

Poetry Site: http://www.farragher.com

TxM6 Sites:
http://www.taximurders.com
http://www.taximurders.com/enfer
http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon
http://www.taximurders.com/paradisio   (forthcoming)

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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