Message-ID: <26357asstr$969066607@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: "Sean Farragher" <seanfarragher@msn.com> X-Original-Message-ID: <NEBBKECCILIDDPJFHMPOCEBHCJAA.seanfarragher@msn.com> MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-MSMail-Priority: Normal Importance: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400 Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6 CJ Parker II Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2000 21:10:07 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/26357> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: apuleius, RuiJorge Copyright (c) Sean Thomas Farragher All Rights Reserved from TxM6 Hyperfiction Novel. 0235xagad.doc 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 December 1, 1991; 04:25:10 BERGEN SENTINEL': Peter Jackson Campbell. Confessions of CJ Parker as told by her as the Spirit, Grace, as witness from her silence inside body of Christ on earth, as CJ healed after being beaten to almost death and back again by Antonio Corvino, the Man Called Abel, and his sister, Maria Theresa Corvino, Lilith. Herein more the tale: Meet Cindy Jane Parker another of Abel's Victims. Written as I recorded it. The Gadfly takes no position on these matters. What do we learn? Nothing. What will change, nothing? "Am I nuts," The Gadfly said the words to test the recording device, and then laughed. Probably. (A disembodied voice) "Who said that," saying it like he knew the name. Am I paranoid? Not important." "Now, Are you listening? (Anonymous female character. Older woman with a dark sensitivity and grit.) "No, you're wise and profoundly order at the next chicken fricassee special." "See what this seminar means? (The voice again)" "What time does it start (another anonymous voice, higher in pitch, younger, sweet, ethereal)?" "Who said anything about a fucken seminar, the Gadfly is cross? Henry, is that fucken you, screaming. Come here if your have anything to say." "Henry. Who the fuck is that? (The un-named voices agree say their names walking out into the room having materialized as Faith and Chrissy)" "Not me. (Another unrecognized spiritual voice from Brooklyn) "Who the shit? Thought so." "You're supposed to know, really everything the male voice said and then added, "Fuck you, Peter." The Gadfly, who was not alarmed by the sequence of strangers preferred more orderly arrangements of the flow of voices when he was invisible himself. He appears and starts to pace the floor. Too many, he thinks and moves away. Unhappy until he notices Henry skulking around his Editor desk. "Nope, it's not that snot," the Gadfly snickers. He knows who is there, but wants to play, "Who the fuck, now? Identify: man, woman, hyn? Answer somebody? Shit. It must be Henry Whitman." Voices whispered, "why get unglued? (Voice #4 likes #3 talks to #2 and then dark voice #1. We have a small cast and have to double parts. We are all females except for Henry. He is standing at your desk. He is not invisible, can't be." "Who the fuck said? Henry why the fuck you have to play games here." Henry walks around to Peter Campbell, AKA the Gadfly a notorious muck raking journalist on the Sentinel Bergen County's only original newspaper. Does it matter Henry speaks up close to Peter's ear. Let's get on. What the fuck am I doing here? OK." Think good, kindly thoughts like Patricia Murphy, saying, "dear one, don't get your trousers in a twist, Henry thought waiting for Peter to speak. Suddenly that sweet voice, Chrissy, whispers, "honey, her name is CJ, OK. Means Cindy Jane, and has no utters, no cunt. What good does she expect," the voice lied. "OK, CJ, now I can forget. OK, who is master of ceremonies? " "Frivolous answer, of course," Peter who had been taking the measure of Henry answered. "Acting does it," voice #1 said, brisk, moving away, her voice, animated, visible and redundant. The voices in unison claim their territory and the cacophony makes Henry and Peter close their hands over their ears from the torturous sound. "No earthly bound fragrance. No guidepost, the taller, older more mature female, Faith answered. After you used me Henry, just like any slut. I even let you fuck my heart brought you inside it, to feel it soft, better than a vulva smarmy and moist. Imagine how you felt. How could you. And Peter, you let fucken him." Henry answers, "what the flying fuck you talking about. I don't even know you. How could I used you." Chrissy, the sweet little girl, about the same look at Faith, but clearly less experienced, or hiding it, says, "You did Henry, and you fucked my head too. And now you are about to fuck over Laurie." Look, I am a taxi driver. My girl friend Laurie is many years younger. I love her more than she cares. Now, what am I supposed to do. She's pregnant, and tells me its not mine. Fine. I have enough kids. Doesn't change how I feel about her. She says she is with me, now that we are together, no one else in her life. What do I care anyway. I am so nuts about her. Why are you making this insane statement that I fucked you and that other one there over. I never saw you or her." "Look Henry. You, Laurie, us, the Gadfly are all a part of a movie script written by some mad poet who believes he can write a classic novel filled with sex, mayhem, spirits, etc. He believes we will carry it forward into a great movie. We want that for him, so we are here to help all of us make it happen." "When do I win the Academy Award for Best Actor," Henry laughs. "Add in Director, Producer, and Best Movie, for a sweep. Who me, important? TxM6: The Murder of Laurie Fallon, when she doesn't die, and the author says it right up front. It is more than that. All the dead are important Henry says include you shades. That must be what you are. What did I fuck you over in our dreams. Is that it?" "What a sentimental and romantic slob," Faith said. "I love you Henry." "Becoming a fucked up liberal in my old age," now Henry, Peter laughs knowing that the improbable is Henry and his life. "No court date yet, Henry, we have to decide who you will screw in eternity." "Fuck No. You cannot stop me now. Just getting a run up. Hot as hell," Henry laughed, knowing his number was up. "Yes, we will," Faith added closing her backpack and putting away her 20th century slang dictionary. "Too large for number systems? Chronology? Yes, I got it, but it was used last year. Some are going to think no one really knows anything. And they don't," The gadfly was actually a nice person," Chrissy laughed putting her arm through Faith's The two girls/women looked very much alike. Both were Aryan blond, blue eyes, fourteen-year-old tits changing back to thirty year old sluts at a whim although ultimately were millennia older. "I am obscure as the Gadfly," Chrissy kissed faith. Faith speaking slowly under the ardent kisses of Chrissy took a deep breath, pulled up and said she wanted more later, but now, we need to help..." "Fuck yes. I am the fucken muckraker, insensitive corrupt seducer for evil (must be honest as goodness) and the psychology of crime, pain, and motherfuckers, just helps me get off," The Gadfly strutted. "If you believe there are socially redeeming values, here. What a fucken laugh, motherfucker. I am the King of the story. OK. I'll breakdown, and take care of some bit players. Here are the best-parts of it. And here is CJ's story and stop scaring Henry. You know and I know you cannot alter his life." The Gadfly's Report: CJ Parker did suffer, and what a shame. But she survived. Which is more important. She was, perhaps is some piece of ass. Not that tall. Beautiful fine features, Nordic, fine blond hair, large round brown eyes with sparks of blue, but built like a brick shithouse and seven months pregnant, how that fuck liked them. Large, soft tits, nipples, puffed out, swirling with movable innards of the growling fetus. Abel and Caine liked to feel life and know it, before death. Why not film birth and death in one cinematographic sequence. What, distorted? Think we can reconstruct it all. Sure like to try, you say. Just the facts, you say. Want the inside scoop. Fuck yes I do that I know. That's what the fucken book, Taxi Murder's about after all. Got to have some higher purpose mixed with graphic sex, rape, and incest. All separate categories. Add in the violence and the gore, the unspeakable treatment of children, and that's terrible, horrific, beyond any acceptable standard for human depravity, and yet it could have happened, and together, in the summary of this culture, has, in small bits and pieces, now assembled as one large roller coaster, for the opinion makers to absorb; at least, they will give lip service to reading the whole six volumes for the social purpose and not the dirty minds within, Taxi Murders, the hopeful "withering" spectacles which we leap, as heroes to revenge, and then when it fails, as it must, we are not reunited with what we had called our soul. Heathcliff had his face sewn sharply closed. Bitterness. Laurie too, would reap revenge but thrive. Terror. How different as we idle, awash, determinant. Now, what the fuck does that mean? Love to fuck with your heads, now. Fucking with heads equals the Gadfly? Too honest? Why not? Think I'm sexist. Well, I'm not. Neither man nor woman, nor am I HeShe, transsexual nor true hermaphrodite, I am the third sex, called Oxymoron. For the pun, for the absurdity, I am called the HYN generation. Get your Pepsi here, motherfucker? I keep losing the CJ Parker piece. Fine rack of cunt as one asshole said at the bar, when she walked up, slow, pushing out tits and ass, horny, pregnant, wanting to fuck, meeting the sad Abel, his sister, Lilith, drinking seltzer hidden in the booth. Abel's date. His lady, everyone knew it. Always had her eye on him, wanting to mix with him. Knew she was on when he took, or she took, depending on point of view the bait. Laurie is gone now. Lilith is alive. Laurie is terrified having murdered her twin sister, so she thinks, when she was 11. Ariel died of natural causes, darling Laurie. It is written in the history of our caste. Time for an aside, or maybe, rashly, another introduction." Cindy Jane (CJ Parker) was beautiful Tall, blond, slender, high angular cheekbones, but with soft and delicate round eye features (mixture of American native Cherokee, Irish, English, Polish and Swede); now, emaciated, amorphous, worn out, with a still delicate demeanor. OK, you judge. No? Yes. CJ is the star here, in this segment; so enough of this BS. Here are more stats. Here she was (is): CJ. A.k.a. Grace, a.k.a. CJ, dear Cindy Jane Parker: DOB: August 9, 1962: (1) Pregnant seven times; (2) Three live births; (3) four abortions. She had her first abortion at 13. The last will be beaten out of her by Lilith, which she will not remember until years after the event. CJ's first child was named Matthew Aston Parker, was by her father, pregnant a second time at age 15, she had the child, left home at 16. Let her continue the narrative. CJ PARKER: My second child, Aileen Mary Casey was born Good Friday, April 20, 1984, and was 8 years in July 1992; she lived with her father, a Priest I called Tabby. We had a second daughter, a suckling until I got pregnant again by my Priest. Lenora Josephine Casey lived with Sister Theresa and Tabby. She was 17 months when at the edge of it all, I left the world, ran away to Gables, to get laid, as I put it, to get down, now that I felt death, as a shadow chase, and there, at the edge of it all, I knew I would meet him. I saw him look, for months now, when I worked there. I liked the grit and natural charm of the place. I liked the poets and the singers. I liked the women and the fags. Father Tabby wore his collar, and we made out. Theresa picked up some bloke, and they got it on in the booth, while our neighbors cheered. It was that kind of place. I needed the Gables that night. Need some younger arms. Not that Tabby didn't thrill. I needed to know I could seduce some poor fuck. Felt fat, and this handsome Abel came on, and I was smitten, last week, looking for him again, this week, saw my belly, left my tits soft, seven months, sticking out, pushing it out, sitting with my cunt almost exposed on the stool, leaning back, skirt pulled up, legs apart, he searched and bought me some soda, no wine, I'm pregnant, you're kidding he said, couldn't really guess. And then what I will describe happened. Beaten to death and back again. He did it. I remember now, that he is dead, and the suffering continues in the children he made, and the lives he stole, and my Aileen, Lenora, and the unborn child, I will always call Grace, a true spirit, was lost, beaten out, by Lilth, as she straddled my head, tired, Abel watched, the fetus abort. I should have died from that forced birth, but I didn't. I could have died from what seemed like all my blood on the ground. The spirits held me aloft, Breath for me, they whispered in my mouth, kissing so soft it tickled, and then restored, the blood returned by a miracle, the ambulance came and put be back together, so well the angels had done it, I can still get pregnant, and I am, but with Tabby. "My daughters by Tabby have their mother. They and my perfect Priest, and Sister Theresa watch the sunrise as we picnic by the sea, near Provincetown. The date, September 23, 1991: century over almost wanes. Even that spirit Grace, an infant and her mother, swarm as light round my hands, making them fly, as the waves cascade through the sandy dunes and the maggots consume the flesh but the spirit reveals and is one with the idea of it. My Life, that is in this soon to be year, 2000. Breathe, at least. Feel. How good that is to be alive? How lucky. Perfect, my father Priest lover had said. He died the year before. Date of Death: March 30, 1992. 7:23 PM Sister Theresa died with him. Hit by a bus. Crossing the highway. It was foggy. They had just dropped off our kids. They left them in a flash. No conversation. In a hurry, they said. Got to make a train. Bus hit them. Vaporized. No remains, no autopsy. Some said it was spooky, others, miraculous. Others still" the work of the devil. Life is Pure. Isn't it! Thank God. I can still smile. More than an amazing comic strip soap opera, right? That's my fucken life. Signed CJ Parker -- 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: <ckought69@hotmail.com> | | FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+