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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6:  Billy, Helene and Daughter, Laurie Fallon, 15
Date: Sun, 24 Sep 2000 12:10:05 -0400
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Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction
http://www.txm6.com (updated 9/16/00)
http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 9/17/00)
http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon
http://www.farragher.com  (Poetry updated 9/20/00)

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

0002j Helene and Billy Reese 9/24/00
The Book of Herrig: Helene & daughter, Laurie 15

Sunday, 12 January 1992, 16:35:21

"Billy"

William Reese Smythe, Billy, as he was usually called, 
or 'Reese,' by his male friends, at 6 foot one was 
movie star handsome. 

Uncultured and lanky, an impure man Billy's 
translucent blue eyes and dirty blond Robert Redford 
hair left most women on first meeting dazed and 
uneasy. He was what you might have called in the 
1950s the universal white trash ladies man: muscular 
and fit, but not too much; intelligent and a good 
liar, but not formally educated; and while he seemed, 
at first, athletic, assured, robust in his manners, 
and just down home white boy arrogant, he was also 
doubtfully "vulnerable." and love to use crude
language to intentionally get under your church
going mother humping nigger loving skins, 
so he said, smiling, picking a scab from his arm. 

I ain't no churchman, but either are yo'all. You're 
all fucken queer for Jesus, he said. Well I'm a better 
pervert, and if I had cause, I'd take it up the ass 
before I prayed in or out of church for your 
forgiveness, Shit, I should forgive yo'all. You sure 
have fucked up rules and nothing's fair. 

The biggest liar is the lawman. Man, if I were a 
nigger, I'd burn his ass and then his fucken town 
before I'd ride in the back of the bus or go to second 
rate schools. I'd never kiss his ass, that's fez sure. 
Shit, I know I ain't educated, but I is smart, and can 
at least read and write better than most white folks 
who didn't go to a Yankee college or half a dozen 
southern schools taught by southern gentlemen. They're 
the worst assholes. They lost the fucken war gave into 
the Yankees. Now, they lost their niggers, and instead 
of fighting back, they whine like drowned rats.

Shit. Fucken genteel shits. What can a mother fucking 
southern good old boy do with the likes of yo'all, 
when you kiss white ass, and pray to a nigger loving 
God. My grandmas would have rather slit his own 
throats than kiss a nigger man. Now, I sees it 
everywhere up north in the cities. Shit, it'll be here 
soon. It's all right for white men to fuck niggers, 
always been done, got to improve the fucken race, but 
there ain't no need or excuse for any white woman to 
fuck a nigger.

Shit, you fucks are crazy listening to the rich folks 
and their fairy tales. Don't you know they want you to 
kiss their ass for a dime, and let them fuck your ass 
for a dollar- that kind of shit keeps you down on the 
fucken farm so you can't fuck up Paris or white 
Charleston? Shit, they even wrote a screwed up song 
about it when my Daddy was 'cross the sea fucking up 
the Huns during the war to end all fucken wars. What a 
fucken laugh, my pappy used to say. What assholes, we 
become, daddy, you fucken misbegotten sons of a 
bitches; ain't got any pride. If you did, you wouldn't 
let those northern do good fuck ye up?

Like cheap cologne, Billy lingered too long in the 
cuts and bruises, and his insufficient disguises dull 
murmur to what passed for the spirit of the good old 
southern gentleman and the parsimony of the tired 
southern soil and the madness of share cropping 
slavery.

Well, air conditioners, fertilizers, women's rights 
and those more general civil rights that protect men 
and children as well as cripples, faggots and women, 
opened the southern highway to the Yankee white boy 
come home back to Mama lately southerner who liked the 
way old black folks knew their place. These old guard 
didn't complain as they knew that this mostly white 
migration, south, was matched or a response to black 
migration, north into the cities

New law cured the southern gentleman of any lingering 
notions of the white man's burden and his absolute 
racial hegemony. 

Billy like the good old boy farmer was a bogus, a 
piece of shit clouding up the past with a dreary after 
taste and finally a sad flowery funeral without 
godliness or gentility.

When Billy spoke at large at a picnic, or in the 
pulpit, as a lay preacher in The City of God 
Pentecostal and Reformed Church, or to one person, 
although what he said, was usually racist and 
ignorant, when you really listened, there was nothing 
but loose air and not even a false front of 
camaraderie for a solid buttress. 

When Billy spoke, it was like watching former 
President Regan doing his favorite fast walk shuffle 
new conference, just an "off the cuff" briefing to the 
press that was as confused as CIA policy in Russian at 
the time of the fall of the Berlin wall. 

Life was seemingly like a failed play, when Regan or 
Billy in drag explained El Salvador or the Iraq-Iran 
war. Billy spoke in a cloud, as did Regan before the 
Alzheimer's disease stopped his memory and cut off his 
lies. 

Questions we might have asked of the nearly dead, 
sometimes, are we dead before we die? Is that possible 
given the political plans and agenda as set forth by a 
newt? 

Is that an amphibian, Grandma? No, that's you wang, 
son. Old bad joke, sad to know. Why dost thou snicker, 
dear newt we might ask? Really, Billy's an actor after 
all. 

You know true speaker is dead; He suffered a 
miscarriage last year, and the fetus aborted was 
raised up to fulfills the creed of all good white men 
and born again niggers.

But at curtain calls, all you heard about the play or 
the playwright were rude comments or some bluster 
about how some of the actors fumbled the dialogue. And 
who is that director? He did a terrible job, what 
boring blocking, and the back lighting was too dark, 
dismal, but that actor, what's his name, the one with 
the cleft in his chin, he had such a sexy mouth, one 
woman said, putting on her own deep red lipstick, 
rubbing her instrument into her lips, pushing, 
penetrating each pore, fucking the skin, making it 
shine and blush, exposing nostrils as vulva and tongue 
as clit. 

Women notice my mouth first, Billy said, then my ass, 
followed by my luminous eyesores I know some good 
words. My teacher taught me that one. She said look 
into my cunt, Billy, and smile at your reflection, 
that's a luminous cunt, dear boy. 

Billy often told friend and foe alike that the curves 
and flutter of his soft mouth stirred women like the 
lines of a woman's hip, or the upsweep of a firm 
breast stirred him. And when Billy's mouth opened, 
usually under a haze of cigarette smoke, flicking his 
ash, as men did, the cigarette cupped backward inside 
their yellow stained fingers, most women took two 
steps forward, one back, startled by how Billy made 
them wary and yet, strangely intimate, and although he 
didn't intentionally pose; it just appeared that way, 
and for those who had no imagination, well, they 
suffered because Billy said that bravado of love 
poetry was insulting and demeaned that pure southern 
woman and her good works for the suffering children 
and their impoverished parents.

Overheard at the Gainesville, Fl. diner, where Helene 
Mae Herrig worked, after the terrible fire that killed 
three of her children and maimed another, a slightly 
plump, big titted middle age, three time divorced 
cashier, said, after running down the woman for her 
choice of men, drinking, excused Billy in an off hand 
way, that was certainly not complimentary, "you could 
call Billy almost a Donald Hall, you know, the Academy 
Award winning actor who was convicted last year for 
the statutory rape of an fifteen year old girl, and 
then was himself raped with a broom stick and then 
murdered by prison guards. Remember how the guards 
claimed there was a prison escape, and the actor was 
shot taking a female officer hostage. All bullshit, 
man. A deranged screw that blamed the actor for his 
daughter's rape and pregnancy executed the slob. 

The man was in prison. Get it. The only way the 
pedophile could have fucked her was if the Guard 
brought the slut to the prison, and set them up in the 
infirmary. Pure and simple. All bullshit.

A curious allusion, for Billy like Donald Hall had 
spent several years in prison before and after the 
1976 fire for selling drugs, burglary, car theft, 
pandering, child molestation (sold pornographic 
photographs and movies of children having sex with 
adults and other children), and contributing to the 
delinquency of minors. 

In a sense, what the rotund waitress had said, could 
have been taken as prophecy, for Billy would also, 
many years later, die in prison, in 1989, when a 
jealous inmate and Billy's former lover (a raging 
Queen), stuck a shim in his gut and then cut the 
fuckers throat, because Billy had sucked some black 
dude's cock (reportedly for protection) one summer 
evening while armed guards watched from the parapet 
that extended over the prison yard.

Most women, and some men, who knew Billy (in prison or 
out), would have done anything to keep the man's 
affection. Others like teachers, principals, cops, 
prison guards, army sergeants, uncles, husbands, 
mothers and the boy friends of his victims wanted to 
kick the shit out of him, and then fry him in old 
Sparky.

"I want to really fuck him up," one woman said, when 
she learned Billy had gotten her fourteen-year-old 
daughter pregnant a second time. Not that Billy was 
responsible for the first grandchild. That didn't 
matter to the woman, who should have known that first 
grandchild was by way of her own much younger brother, 
who while visiting two summers ago, had fucked the 
girl, paying her for sex, one ice cream cone for a 
blow job. Two 45 records for half and half, and a new 
sweater earned an over night stay and at least three 
good fucks if he could handle it. The old guy 
practically croaked making the attempt, but the girl 
didn't care. My fucken grandfather popped me when I 
was ten. Shit, you'd think I would mind. I hope the 
guy settles in Florida. I'll fuck him any time. Too 
bad I got pregnant. Shit, I don't really care, after 
all. He said I could stay with him, if I liked. Nah 
can't do it, I told him. Don't want no prison guards, 
I said. You just another fucked up daddy hoping to pop 
his daughter's cherry. 
Shit, I got you beat, and I didn't have to fake it, 
pretend to sleep. I jump your mother fuckin bones 
right in front of your sister. She pretended to be 
sleeping. I saw her eyes open at least three times, 
and I was only looking for a minute. The cunt knew I 
was fucking you. She must have got off on it. Shit, 
you got to love me. I want to settle in Florida by 
Miami Beach and be a rich kraut whores, fucking the 
Mafia to death for a diamonds, pearls, and rubies. 
Shit, I got my great dreams too, you know. I hate 
fucken Brooklyn too. Think I want to go back up there 
with all the other niggers. We sure are a lost fucken 
race, right. 

What else could the girl think, Billy said. She sat on 
my lap and openly played, rolling her ass against my 
thing while her Mama and I watched Mr. Dillon on black 
and white Gun Smoke tip his hat and smile to Miss 
Kitty. 

A righteous whore if there ever was one, I told the 
girl, Laurie, as she rocked against my hardon while I 
fondled Helene's breasts as she slept, leaning against 
my left shoulder while we sat on the large over 
stuffed couch, pretending to snore. 

Later, after Gunsmoke, Helene now slept in our 
bedroom, after she had staggering through the kitchen 
looking for ice cubes and more bourbon. She briefly 
asked if Laurie was sleeping, and I said, yes, and she 
closed the door, and suggested that she wanted to 
sleep alone, and I could use the couch, or sleep in 
Laurie's room. I doubt Helene knew that Laurie, 
wearing only a short dress, and was truly bare ass, 
pear exposed, legs open, fully asleep in my lap, she 
shifted under my gentle fingers while I watched TV 
news about a fucken prison riot and the murder of an 
inmate in Texas. 

Who the fuck cares about some slob who went to jail 
for fucking some fourteen year old slut and then took 
a knife from an equally fucked up miserable con. I 
shut the TV and carried Laurie to her bed, where I 
crawled under the covers and yes, I slept cradled with 
Laurie and assorted teddy bears, and we slept.

In the morning, Helene woke about six, joining Laurie 
and me in the girl's very large bed. Helene noticed 
that Laurie was bare ass, and she helped the girl with 
her underpants, careful, not to wake her, and then she 
noticed I was buck naked and sported a half hardon, 
which delighted Helene, as she rubbed it, making it 
stiff, kissing my face, she turned to my neck, kissing 
my throat, she whispered something curious: "I'm 
jealous of my daughter's affection for you. I know 
that now, but its OK as long as you don't ever leave 
us, and I sat up, fully awake, not wanting to wake 
Laurie, Helene and I rocked together, gently fucking 
side to side while Laurie slept, woke up, leaned 
closer to us, letting her sleepy head fall on my arm 
while her mother rose above me, fucking furiously, no 
secrets, nothing was hidden, as Helene came, riding my 
wave, I felt Laurie lean into my neck as she 
innocently played with her mother's breast dangling 
and then falling into us, as we collapsed, the girl 
crawled between us, and we rolled carefully around the 
bed, feeling the heat, open legs, and the wet mouth of 
her mother's open organs.

Years Later, an Inquest, of Sorts: Why did Mama let 
him touch my body, Laurie asked years later. She 
wouldn't have believed it, and I couldn't and didn't 
know enough then to stop it. It was as natural as 
eating, playing with his thing. Later, I knew it was 
wrong. But then I didn't really give a fuck only 
hating that Billy lied and didn't tell Mama that I was 
his true sweetheart.

Fortunately, for most of his women, Billy never stayed 
around too long. Unfortunately, for Billy, he never 
faced the shattered glass after the assaults or 
cleaned up the blood from the mattress after one of 
his girl like sweet hearts bled to death after a 
botched abortion.

Billy's abuse of women, sacred and profane, was 
everlasting, and indelibly fixed in the circuits, and 
each flaw, each transgression like a broken computer 
chip or a missed lead, like any computer or human 
virus, host and object, suffered equally, however, the 
victims, unaware of the contagion, suffered the 
possible AIDS like complications in silence, and now 
Billy wonders how any one can fully isolate potential 
victims from their predators. I guess, you can't, 
Billy's smile, genuine, made sense if you looked at 
the larger horizon accepting cause and result as 
information and not morality.

Like many of us, Billy wasn't just simply a flawed 
specimen. He spread misery too easily like typhus 
after a flood inundated the reservoir, mixing septic 
waste and clean water. 

More than another Typhoid Mary, Billy rattled Bob 
Dylan's doors, and then when no one answered with the 
correct musical phrase, Billy walked away to break 
down one door after another wailing his country music 
Bad Lands music until nothing was left of the land but 
ocean. And nothing was left of space, but space. 

Nothing in life is sacred, Billy laughed. Philosophy 
is dead, Man, he spoke the phrase softly, scratching 
his left nipple blue tattoos and all.

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