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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6: Imaginary Murder of Laurie Fallon During a Yankee Game.
Date: Sat, 30 Sep 2000 04:11:34 -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.

1092X 
The Imaginary Murder of Laurie Fallon
Imagined by Henry one drunken night.

THE SOAP OPERA MURDER OF LAURIE FALLON 
--GOD LOVES THE SOAPS-- What a fucken Headline.

"Why should I want to watch, a guest, a witness 
to murder? Voyeur or not, I cannot change the 
doctrine. When friends, beaten half to death, 
were captured by a coma."

Father Tabby, Letter to CJ Parker, 3/4/1993 
about his vision

 From The Gadfly's Leap Year Record, Wednesday, 
July 30, 1992, 03:53:07 AM today was 110 days 
after the abduction of Laurie Fallon Laurie was 
not murdered on 7/11/92 during the live 
broadcast of the New York Yankee Game on MSG 
Cable. It was all a hoax. Perhaps.

The Yankees had lost 5 to 3 in 12 innings, the 
Mariners scoring two winning runs at the top of 
the twelfth off the losing pitcher Habyan. His 
loss left him 3-3 on the season. Laurie Fallon 
took her last breath, first batter, bottom of 
the 6th, when Mattingly singled to left, rounded 
first. 3:53 PM exactly.

Right. That's me. I'm the other bitch. Not 
Laurie. I won't die. My sister won't whack me. 
I'm not the gentle intellectual, high model 
looking bitch with flowing red hair. 

No, I'm not easy, am I? How do I know? We all 
know the players: the Gables was the source. Why 
did it take the cops so fucken longer. Here I am 
the youngster again. Always want those ice cream 
cone tits, and hairless pubis. I shaved then 
too. Daddy made me.

What's the wager, you fuck? pulling off my 
sweater and jeans, and then falling sideways, 
legs bent up, slightly parted into dear bed. 
Need a bath, rushing water. The tub is a social 
calm. Making the water run over my heart. 
Feeling the pulse, the tickle, and the swoon, as 
my digital heart straight home, dark and light, 
open, a great wing, falling dark, as I pass 
upward. You bet, driving across the roadway. I 
pull my breasts up, fake the road soar warrior. 
I am drifted, as my blood pushes, and I can't 
string, and then darkness, like the song, the 
daring gas, as I pursue the feet, and the fall 
downward. There's the place of song, and then 
the dress. How is it calm, and then I push up at 
his chest, watch the curve of his mouth, or the 
falling pace of his hair, as ephemera, a ghost, 
dangerous, he comes as I do, sudden, my breasts 
are cupped and held. Nothing more while I rub 
myself together and then departs his steel 
hands, such a warm inside push, and then 
release. Three months into rehab. Got my squirt 
of juice, sweet mother fucking orange adieu. 
Great stuff, sweet water dries on my black 
scummy tongue. Love the loose talk. Get it, you 
shit. Feel the rush slowly, grabbing my skin, 
burning my mouth, letting my swollen breasts 
leak some darker grime. Most men got this thing 
for my tits. 

Had a baby last year. December 4, 1978. I was 
barely 16, and Matthew Aston Parker propelled 
from my cunt pissed a great storm.

Fuck that shit, getting high off Mother's milk. 
Guy would suck fifty bucks worth. Up in his high 
rise. I'd put my head down on his pillow, lift 
my bra, and he would nurse squeezing his hands 
open and closed, blinking his eyes. 

Usually his wife answered the door. She'd put 
the fifty in my hand, and pat my ass. She's sit 
in a chair near the bed and talk to me about all 
kinds of shit, not sex talk. Just shit people 
talk. Sometimes even politics. Seems her husband 
would like to run for Congress. Her family has 
money. When I am done, this asshole fucks his 
fat ass wife, begs forgiveness, promise never do 
it again. His wife laughs, and I let myself out. 
Sometimes three's a crowd, although I told the 
bitch if I stay and watch, it was an extra 
fifty, and if I joined in and did her, a 
hundred. Just watch, she said. I am a smart 
bitch. No matter how much money I fucked. 
Everyone did it sometime. 

Even my bible freak father fucked the eager 
girls in the church. He got them happy with 
incarnated Praise yea the Lord while he felt 
them up, or offered his cock as a sacrament. 
Standing blowjobs leaning against the wall. 

I once saw some shit do it to a fourteen year 
old. A friend of mine. He did it right in the 
sanctuary. Right before God's eyes. 

I came to the sanctuary looking for my keys, and 
there's this sweating shit, dropping his load, 
banging the child's ass into the wooden stairs 
near the organ. Pastor, dear father, didn't see 
me. I didn't stay around long after that. I 
certainly didn't go to church anymore. My father 
couldn't explain my absence. Actually, I was 
jealous of the bitch. Wanted to get even. Show 
him up.

Can't keep your own house in order, so you are a 
real shit. At sixteen, after the birth of my 
kid, Matthew, I hit the road; caught a bus to 
Philadelphia. 

I was a virgin, truly. Immaculate conception and 
virgin birth. You can believe that, right, 
Peter. OK. I fucked around with my younger 
brother when I was fourteen. I seduced him. 

-You're still lying, the Gadfly spoke softly and 
his words were resonating.

-Fuck you too, Gadfly, CJ screamed. If I'm a 
liar, you made me that way.

The Gadfly laughed at the absurdity.

-Tell the truth, the spirit said. Please, it's 
important.

-OK. I get it. My father fucked me when I was 
eleven. I had an abortion when I was barely 13. 
And Matthew's father was my own father. Knew the 
record would catch up. Can't lie with the Gadfly 
in the wings. 

When I was ten and started to get tits, Dad and 
I didn't do nothing but look at each other. I 
did suck his cock, got it hard. Far as it spent. 
Learned fast with my preacher. 

When I left home, I did waitress work is hard on 
your legs and feet. I started to feel old. This 
old shit (must have been at least fifty, older 
than my dad) came in one day (what a load, 
Yuck), asked me out. Knew what he wanted young 
pussy to shake up his old bones one last fucking 
time. I whispered in his ear. Cost you fifty? He 
didn't argue, put fifty in my bra, and I gave 
him the best blowjob of his miserable life. 

He came in my mouth. I didn't let go. My first 
trick

Scared the fuck. I let go when I through he 
might have a stroke. His puffy eyes grabbed at 
my lips. His bulging veins emptied and each 
pulse, like a tender balloon, could not easily 
stop. Didn't want anyone to expire. Imagine, 
under you, humping, sweating like pigs, 
suddenly, this guy stops breathing. 

Shouted at the fuck and nothing happens. I tell 
you; you can't stand there with a finger up your 
ass and do nothing. I can't call the Police, so 
left the flea bag motel; other fucker deal with 
the shit. I am a smarter bitch. Like that make 
believe street talk, honey. Street savvy woman 
doesn't stop shit. I'd always sell my ass. Can't 
stop. Make it easy on me. Please. Don't fuck 
with my head. Why don't you sell your ass on 
street for nothing? 

Think of all the shit you get to suck up. Don't 
shoot $200.00/a day of shit into her body with a 
fucken needle when all I wants, beside  (even 
before she got hooked on drugs) is to not depend 
on anyone else. 

When I was a child, I would look at how my Ma 
hung on my father, worshipped him, dependent, 
when all along he would crawl in bed with all 
his daughters. 

Yes, I know I didn't call it dependent then, but 
I knew how my mother wanted more than taking 
care of us. Children stop you. I remember 
thinking how I never wanted any kids. Most of 
the time I want to be alone. There are times 
when I really don't like people. Street life can 
do that to you. All you see are selfish and 
scared men, who pay for an escape from their 
prison. He's drunk, away from his wife. Is there 
freedom in exposing your cock to a stranger, 
letting yourself go, allowing your feelings to 
control your actions. It would be wonderful to 
be with any man who wanted to share my daily 
life. Someone who knew how to give me space and 
love at the same time. I want to be with someone 
not just to take or use. Can I expose and choose 
my daily boredom. Before I began DETOX and 
methadone-REHAB, my life was drugs, making my 
nut, scoring, and then using. There's no choice 
in such a life. Straight people are tied to a 
similar cycle. They also have their prisons. But 
they can dream. There is some possibility for 
change. 

A hooker and heroin addict has very little time 
or energy for any activity outside the cycle of 
earn, score, use. Drugs have wasted my life. 
What do I really want, she asks. I want to run 
four miles a day, and feel like laughter once in 
awhile. I have a sharp, angular face softened by 
my mouth that upturns, curves, lifts top lip 
higher, suggests the invisible quiff, and the 
tongue behind the key. Striking figure. I 
possess the convoluted curves, as they softly 
rise not as a costume or mask. I am the 
invitation. I do become a mask. Takes on 
darkness. I lift outside while I bear his prick. 
Taming a wild beast, inviting, and refusing 
satisfaction. Yes, there is small risk of 
rejection by the parts we broadcast everywhere.

Amazing how the passage of fantasy and reality 
climbing the same rose trellis fall down fall 
down when they are connected by dots and not the 
riverbed and the lust of Alice in Wonderland.

What is the connection of CJ Parker and Laurie 
Fallon? They are the riverbanks and hell they 
win runs down the legs of their beaten sex. 
Henry revives one. God saves the other. Yes, I 
know. It is not the usual God who hates sex even 
thought God devised it as a casual explanation 
for nothing.

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