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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6 CJ Parker Escapes Murder.
Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2000 06:10:01 -0400
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Copyright (c) Sean Thomas Farragher All Rights Reserved
How CJ Parker Survived Another Genesis Murder
from TxM6 Hyperfiction Novel.
http://www.txm6.com
http://www.txm6.com/enfer/ (updated 9/14 2000)
http://www.farragher.com poetry site updated 9/14/00
From the Desk of the Managing Editor,
BERGEN SENTINEL: Peter Jackson Campbell
November 30, 1991; 20:33:10
Cindy Jane Parker: How I started with Father Terrance:
At the age of 20, I shot H and sold my ass. Got caught
in September 1982, two months in jail, got out
arrested, three more months, got the clap bad, some
girls getting real sick and screamed for days.
Three months into methadone program in late 1982, cold
and December, I started using again. Always used clean
needles. Never shared. Saved my life in retrospect.
Terrified I get AIDS when I learned the name from
Father Tabby. Getting ahead of my story.
In late 1982, back on the street, missed God
or what ever you call the rush, the heat. I was
twenty, drug addict since 14; did H for about two
years. Met Father Arthur Terrance Meehan, "Tabby,"
as I called him later hitchhiking the George
Washington Bridge late at night. Cold fucken rain
cab drivers too busy to help me cop for a blow
job or a quick fuck at their pad.
I called him my Priest said he was 49 going
on ninety. He had a hard body. He must have been
some wild handsome man who liked little girls
even then. "Can't help it," he'd say. "Pray for
deliverance."
What the fuck. He ain't no boy. Found out from
his Driver's license, he was 66. Good liar.
We're made from the same cloth, I told Shelly
Russell, 19 then, my sometime squeeze. Girl really
ran away from home when she was eleven. Been on
the streets long time. I was sixteen and pregnant
when I left home the last time.
Shelly made fun of my "too intense involvement,"
as she put it with a John. I later found out later
she was jealous and truly hated men.
"That's a terrible word, John," I said.
"OK," she said, "how about Pimp."
"I don't fuck for anyone but Tabby.
"Not yet. He's got to have an angle. you're really
living some fucked up mess, if you think."
Yes, Tabby was a regular "John" at first. He loved me
and I took him home to the motel first; knew he was
special. Had no pimp. Kept those fucks away.
arrests were hard, and this old man, with a dimple
and smile, who liked rough women, and kinky sex
said he wanted me to be his daughter. It was funky
because he was a priest too. I remember when I was
seven getting the host on my tongue, imagine now,
the come stains on my teeth. I called Tabby Daddy.
He called me Mother, and then licked my cunt.
After a few months of emergency rent money, drug
OD, arrests and a brutal beating by a cop, Tabby
moved me into his own place. Said he inherited
the money. Retired from Priest hood, but never
stopped being a Priest and sinner.
Tabby paid all the bills, and gave me money just for
being nice. What the fuck did I care. For a
while he brought me the pure shit. I shot up.
He prayed and sucked my pussy. I got clean.
Got a reason for clean now. We stopped fucking.
He said I was a Saint. "Save yourself. Leave me,"
I know a convent where you can clean up."
"I told him to fuck off, and got down opened his
fly and while he looked at the sky his knees
wobbling, I sucked his cock and empty him.
When we were done, he covered my body, licking
every place I opened. One morning I found him
sleep in my cunt his tongue trying to reach my ass
The fucker was good. He made me come almost every
time. Only women did it better, and they didn't
take care of my ass. So I was ahead I thought.
He worshipped me. Told me I was too good to defile
with his dirty mind. Refused to fuck for several
weeks until I caught him in the shower pumping his
meat and I leaned down and licked the scum from them
He almost collapsed on top, and I felt the heat
as a dark sky covering my bare breasts. I loved the
adoration. I pulled him inside, made him hard and
rode him until he came inside, screaming at God
to forgive him for fucking Mary, as he called me now,
his holy mother. He was mad but harmless and I loved
every word, look, touch and even when drunk when he
smacked my ass calling it his ass, I turned to him
and made him fuck me in the ass until open I felt
his fist inside, pushing at my cunt, and I came
in that deceit, in that lie, and I was humble grift
of dirty whore I said living his love forgiving Satan
He loved Satan. Confessed it. He loved little girls
with tiny cunts. He got drunk and told me how he made
them suck his cock when taking Eucharist, made them
holy he said. One little girl loved it too much and
told but no one believed her, Tabby was such a good
priest. I loved that he was dirty even wearing white.
The first month I was clean I bought him whores to
fuck his brains and suck my cunt. He watched their
mouths and laughed when they mocked him behind his
back. I made the girl suck his cock. Forced her
down, not that she refused, just made her do it,
realized I love the fuck, and wanted her to do him
right while I watched.
Well I learned two months later, Tabby did want
something. Shelly was right. Not a bad thing really
but something for himself beside sex. He wanted a
child. He promised to take care of us. Where the
fuck did I hear that song before. Momma and Daddy
tunes at home. New Boyfriends came and gone there
all would promise until they got tired of fucking
mom, me and my younger sister. Then they split.
Well, I can give him a chance. So far he's done it
right. What the fuck maybe god is good. He did
start in a terrible way. Making rules. Well they
weren't bad rules. Just uneven ones, the kind that
show me to be the greedy whore, and him the savior.
"First, I must get better," he said. "You'll be my
niece, and you will come to me in your time
of trouble, and I will do what a Priest does. No
abortion. Have the child. No adoption. I'll support
you as my family. Many Priests do it for a family
member in trouble. You can even live with me."
I agreed. I actually wanted his child. He smiled.
Maybe. Not so sure now, I got scared. A child would
be nice. I got some money, he said. What a mixed bag,
I said. What happened? I am human he said. Care too
much for you to use you.
"Let me be the judge of that."
"Your body can't take it now," he said.
Later, and he smiled as if he really liked the idea.
"We are all children of God," he said, laughing.
I was not religious, and as far as I was concerned he
was a very generous man, who respected me, might lead
towards another life. I wanted to be done with it since
my sister's death from bad smack in 1982.
I am not sure of my motives, or his. At first, I
didn't give a fuck, and what he wanted. I knew that
answer. Simple. He wanted my young body and was
willing to give (not just pay) more than I can
imagine.
Father Tabby believed me, and I wanted him more, and
eventually through his commitment, as he called it, he
was a strange wall, I thought, and let it be.
TABBY'S SERMON ON MY MOUNT.
He told me that life was his search. He said he
desired resistance. Fight back, now, he said. Let me
rape you. He was drunk. I was terrified. He stopped
when he came inside. No, I said. I will have your
daughter, and it will be a holy mother, a virgin
daughter, for your whims, I said. I knew my Johns now.
I felt lost. He was not what I dreamed, but more, no,
less. I was confused. I loved it when he hurt.
I said I would give myself willingly as his wife. Can't
leave the priesthood. Can't renounce vows he said.
I wish it were different. I told him you really don't
want it different, or it would be. That it was OK.
What he wanted was not bad. Good. I said. You helped.
Gave more than money. You loved. Took responsibility.
Why do you try to save us all.
"How many," I asked?
"The world," he said.
"Are you Christ," I asked?
He refused to answer. "That's blaspheme," he chastised.
"No," I said, "not if it's true."
Now that I remember it, you just appeared on the bridge.
I had never saw you come off the bridge at the bus station
before, walking outside on Fort Washington and 178th right
there were the cop car sits to wait for us to sell or score.
Tabby, You arrived out of the dust.
"I am your angel, he said. "Not Christ. You are. I am the
fallen. Had the name Zero. No one had every heard my signs.
No book. Not even Enoch. I had been kept away.
"Why," I asked?
"I was defective. I wanted sex. Women and men, all kinds of
freaks. I wanted them to drool when I cut off their necks
and left them dead. They all came back. Spirits can't die.
I wanted to come into the sea and find my semen as a lake.
"No," I said. "I need to know why you are lying, making
this up? Don't mock what you have done."
"Who the fuck are you," He paused. "You are the Lord."
When he said that Tabby fell to his knees became completely
quiet. I looked down, transformed into light then dark space.
For a moment I was blind, saw nothing, and then sight perfect,
and I fell on my knees too. I remember his hands on my face,
and less tender, he handled my sex, making me cry out and bite
my lips with pleasure I had never felt before deeper like a glow
of sex, and I was satisfied without fucking, touching, just
the visual swirl. Perfect. He did this once before, I
remembered. I was drunk. I fucked him. He blossomed. Perhaps
it is just great drugs, and I climbed in his mind and fucked
his mouth rubbing my cunt there finally a physical come that
left my heart stopped and alive.
I thought I was dead. I believed it was true what he said.
We manifest plenitude, he repeated, and I fell under his spell
again, delivered, and made into a servant, his lover, and
his disreputable whore. Why did he offer me old silver coins?
It was more but less than the Bible, only it happened.
"Out of the empty dark, not black," he spoke.
I call myself Gadfly. I am Peter Jackson Campbell.
I saved you. I write for the newspaper. I am Henry
Ezra Whitman, and a transsexual Rachel. I am Jimmy Caine,
and I have been terrible sins and pains. I want my soul
pure like your clear fluid sex that yields such shuddering.
Do you understand?
"Yes, but I want you no matter," I said. Details will clean
up as the driving rain stops that loneliness provokes.
"No," he said. "You were like sheep lost and had found yourself. I
just helped your first step and you perfected grace and made great
sex the wall for us to hang our bones and carrying screaming pain
and pleasure with the holy grail in hand as proper Lords of reign.
I laughed at him then and now. Sometimes, He's much older;
almost seventy and no he's younger, like Peter or half
as old as that funky Henry. He changed appearance at will.
Out of the sequence, don't try and figure it, I had
Tabby's daughter; we named her Eileen Mary Casey. She
was born Good Friday, April 20, 1984.
I loved her and him, wanted to be with them, not
apart, lonely.
"You are a good father," I said. "Not just a Priest or a
Daddy."
He told me that we could be friends. He left. That
year, he went back to the street on his search and I
followed with my camera. Unusual. Platonic but not. No
sex and then every day. Confusing. Other whores. Made
me watch. Or I wanted it. We did it together. No
drugs. I was clean, an artist. Crazed. I left him in
1987, took my daughter. Moved to Montreal with a
dirty rich man, who fucked me over? I got free, and
then I moved back, and found a ordinary the man who
beat me to that dark death, almost, and Father
Tabby read what Peter wrote and found us, and there
was peace, for a moment, and then unanswered
questions, no recriminations.
Told him how a year or two after. Aileen sent to
foster home in Detroit. Back and forth. Year or two
later, really off the juice and smack, even off
Methadone, Father Tabby had moved on. He kept our
daughter. He sends money. Visits. I was lonely.
Chronology is confused. My head hurts, Peter. No more.
Let me rest. OK.
[Two Hours Later].
On July 26th, about 1 AM, I met a guy at this bar
called Gables. Great place. All the freaks, druggies,
hookers, cops, and mad folks hang out. Add in a few
poets, comics, strippers, philosophers, pimps, and
cross dressers, and you have what is known as a fucked
up assemblage.
When I met him. Called himself Antonio. Couldn't
remember it until now. Knew he was bad, but clean,
wanted to fuck with him. Could handle anyone, I
thought.
Told him I had a second baby. Still nursed her. He
kept looking at my hard tits, and I knew that was his
button. Could he come to diner, he asked. Thought
that was weird, so up front, but I figured, give him
a chance. I lied. I told him I left Aileen, 8, and now
Lenora, who was not quite six months with my mother.
I lied. No need to tell about Father Tabby and Mother
Theresa. I forgot to mention I had a second daughter
this year, not by Tabby, but this fuck, I met here,
named Henry. Hadn't learned that was just another voice
of the Gadfly. Didn't realize the sequence or what would
or did happen. Not confused. Really the way time actually
is. Just hunting and pecking. No linear progression.
Gadfly had taught it, proved it, but fuck that mind
stuff, need some fun.
We went out into his van to make out he said, and he
strangely asked if we could pick up my kids, go on a
trip, he loved kids, and all. Fuck no, I said.
I refused to pick up my daughter. Tabby and Theresa
would have not let it happen anyway. Something just
didn't register. But if I had been alone, and I did
get her, they would have been hurt too in harm's way.
Love that phrase, harm's way. Military men have good
hands. Take Henry. Even that faggot Tom, who I love
dearly. Children and I would both be dead now.
As it was, Antonio went nuts, when I refused,
smacked me around, strong like I had never known.
The Gadfly heard, but didn't leave, said it was time.
He didn't know the magnitude of the evil. I thought
you knew everything, I asked after it was over, and I
was better, almost. He said not when other spirits.
Was Abel a spirit, I was surprised. No. But under
that protection. You gods are fucked up. You didn't die,
and were not really hurt, as I healed you, changed you
back from where, and you learned a lesson about some
terrors. I told Antonio. Don't have to rape. I pretended
to like it. He got more violent. I woke up in the
hospital. I thought I was dead. I felt.
Almost dead now. Brain stopped. Limbs can't move.
Heart beats. I told him to get the fuck away from me
when I saw the burlap and the handcuffs, and the hood,
and the ball for a gag. I felt death. I shuddered,
similar to an orgasm, not that I could remember a dying
one. I am a good actress. I stopped thought of Father
Tabby, as I called him, I shouted his name, as the
creep tried to inject me with a drug, saw my tracks,
and he stopped.
I fell, or was pushed, and he hit my head with a pipe,
or I fell, guess I didn't fall three times. He said
his name was Tony. Told me he was a soldier on leave.
Handsome. Bullshit artist. Fuck it, I told myself, and
I got into his van, and when he closed the door, he
tried to kiss me, and as we talked, he invited me to
his back seat. I agreed, and then I stopped. Felt bad.
Like before a John beat me. Something in his eyes, or
maybe I choose no, as they say.
He beat me, and as I reached for the door handle, he
threw me outside. Hit me on the head with a pipe when
I dropped out of the floor, that's what it seemed.
Falling out of the door of an airplane. I floated. My
head hurt for an instant, and then nothing. The street
was frozen, and I was hot. Clear.
The cops found me alive and dead. Taken away, I
recover where I can't hear, speak, smell or taste. My
mouth hurts from the siphon and air down my throat. It
felt like a thin cock and I was thrown clear. Just
before he hit me I told him. I am whore asshole. Got
AIDS, you fuck.
I guess he forgot to lock it. I fell out, and he
rushed away, hitting me with the van, running me over,
and leaving me in the street, unconscious. I can't
tell about him. How did I escape? I did see a hand
unlock the door, and call me forward. He brushed my
hair like Father Tabby and sang with me in the street
keeping my breath clear. He didn't tell me his name.
What could I say? There's no voice but wanting my lips
to least purse my mouth and raise a bubble of sound.
Reaching across the room Father Tabby and Sister
Theresa. The fuck that beat me was gone, they said. I
have no idea, I said. Couldn't make the face come up.
Saw two, then a hundred. Every mother fucking John
appeared. All their faces. I couldn't stand it.
Finally, Father Tabby held my hand, kissed my cheek,
held me like a Daddy, and I absentmindedly reached for
his thigh, found his cock and balls, cupped them, and
he smiled. Daddy I said. No, he said, Father Tabby and
my wife, Sister Theresa. She'll be your mother. Take
you home. Suddenly, I noticed he was dressed in a
business suit and the woman he called Sister Theresa
was dressed in a blouse and slacks, and wore lipstick
and eye makeup. Had her hair done up. Looked about
forty-two. She said I am your mother, and, took me
into her arms, held my hand.
Next day, I met Peter. I fell in love. He was
handsome. He didn't try to seduce. My body was beaten,
and then that was the last thing on my mind. Later, he
refused, said it wouldn't be proper, wouldn't no
matter how much I gave signs, obliquely suggested.
Holding Aileen, I wanted Peter more. My new family. I
felt sore, beaten, and Terrible, as they prayed and I
wanted to speak and almost heard my voice again when
they were gone, and I was alone, and the room seemed
too small as the heart monitors and other junk made
their call, keeping all my numbers as some grit to
keep until I am dead seven years, as charts I subsist,
and Father is not there. He has no collar, and his
suit is gray, not black. I can't stop watching his
eyes. Loved to watch his eyes when he came.
Made him do himself, and I kissed his face, and he
came on my stomach. Did what I said. I was his bleach
blond angel, he called me lots of things after
spending his semen as Roman coins. Now, we're a
family. Two mothers, a father, and daughter. The
Gadfly visits. Says he was Peter, and would protect me
as the Devils do. Finding my youth, I was awakened
from a deeper sleep, a teenager, virgin, no tracks, no
record, only clean life with mother and father and now
my new sister, Aileen.
Worked for a dream, until that first night Mama came
to my bed, said she was restless, could she sleep by
her daughter. She did, and we cuddled. Next night,
Father came. It's always the same. Aileen crawled into
the bed last, and I held her like a mother, realized
that pretending and dreams are just masks for non-
living. Father and Mother are gone. Swept from the
dream. I am whole, who I am, will always be, artist,
photographer, writer, friend of the Gadfly and Peter.
Yes, I did meet Henry, Rachel, and Jimmy. Brought them
all back. But that's another story. Time for sleep,
Aileen. Good night.
----
Sean Farragher email
seanfarragher@msn.com
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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