Message-ID: <26623asstr$970470601@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Sean Farragher" <seanfarragher@msn.com>
X-Original-Message-ID: <NEBBKECCILIDDPJFHMPOAEHNCKAA.seanfarragher@msn.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain;
charset="iso-8859-1"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
X-Priority: 3 (Normal)
X-MSMail-Priority: Normal
Importance: Normal
X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400
Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6: Honesty is a Rash Political Thought like Blowjobs
Date: Mon, 2 Oct 2000 03:10:02 -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/Year2000/26623>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, apuleius
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.
0044Xbhry Katherine Dahan Victim.doc
TxM6 Hyperfiction Novel
Journal of Henry Ezra Whitman
Murder of Katherine Dahan
"Perfect Systems"
Friday, October 4, 1991
Honesty is a rash political thought like blowjobs.
Why worry about cause and result.
There's no perfect system. Fuck ethics! What goes down
was. Can't explain it. I guess murder won. Didn't they
kill those girls and cut off their tits.
Henry wrote these lines and the ones that follow in
his taxi notebook. Phrases buzzed his mind as he often
told the drivers on the stand when they questioned him
about why he carried so many pens, notebooks and books
with him.
"Shit," Henry would answer. "Look in the bag. There is
a camera a voice tape recorder. I come prepared to use
my waiting time in this piece of shit cab."
Speaking about gooks, Henry wrote. "I still hate them.
I do not want to see their slanted fucken eyes. I
dream about them. I don't give a fuck if they are
Japs, Koreans, Vietnamese or some bottle sucker washer
from some whorehouse in Manila. Now, if they are
cunts, that's different. Henry would speak this way on
the stand to the other drivers just to keep his rep up
with them. Henry never spoke that way, nor really
cared about gender or nationality. He believed in
himself and the easy roads of bigotry and prejudice
were deeper mind fucks. Actually, no one really knew
what Henry believed. He may have been a fucken racist
bigot. He was. If you pretend to be honest, then the
image is a lie.
Who were they? What if someone had asked that question
before slaughtering millions of souls? Perhaps for
penance we should help them hide the bones of the dead
to preserve their ancestors.
I know how Aaron would have answered, Henry thought.
Aaron was an artist and Henry's companion. Aaron was
married to Angela, and Henry and Aaron shared the
woman when Angela wanted more than an adventure. Aaron
would not have called anyone a name or mocked his or
her nationality. When Aaron confronted bigotry, he
stared it down. It disgusted him and he let the person
know who tested his character. Aaron didn't kick
anyone's ass. He would look at the fellow or gal and
stare them down. Aaron's long disdainful silences were
masterpieces.
Aaron's presence was physical and ethereal as speech
becomes.
When Aaron spoke, you listened just to hear the spaces
within his voices. We have no program, Aaron could
say. He would never have called anyone a racist or
sexist name.
What the fuck do ... you mean, Aaron asked, stunned
when he heard Henry go off on some black taxi driver
who cut him off going on the stand. Henry was angry.
"Drivers should stick together. This nigger just cut
me down, Henry said.
Aaron looked at Henry. "I am surprised at you."
"Why, you think I care about niggers when they cut me
off just as easily as white trash."
One thing Henry liked to do on the taxi stand. He
wrote down recent phone and general conversations. He
recorded them in his notebook as testimony.
Suddenly, I could hear it, Henry wrote in Notebook
#63.
"All we said. Always abstract. Intellectual. You had
to really be there on your toes. Can't measure an
atom, or design a mathematical function to describe
perfectly a single electron as it waves it name or
form across the arch of any bridge. What the fuck can
you know?"
Henry bridged to murder. Recent press story about the
murder of Katherine Dahan had caught his eyes.
"Simplistic, you bet, to continued monologue. Murder
(or do you mean a more general death) sets arguments,
draws warriors around opinions to leave rhetoric as a
great political river in topography too bare for
results. They really mean victory. Men murder men
murder woman murder each other. Blood drawn from
fists, from the darkened slights we have arranged,
just as we walked away from a fight or larger
struggle. No, the disturbance is just. We are right,
aren't we, I asked no one, as I set near the black
stone Vietnam wall memorial in DC. Now, that's a
marker for wounded darling nation screwed with
metabolic frags?
"We are the fucken friendly fire. No one else is out
there. Hands slit brains for games and sport as the
Brits said on the line defending Belgium from the
Huns; as the Huns did, dissecting the Hapsburg state,
dissolving Ottoman maps still, in 1896 or 1996, in
disarray.
Murder owns war owns innocent indifference. If you
don't know what you have done, then you can't make out
good let alone atone for evil. What is history- but
one future? We abstract meaningless paths. Too much
territory, I know, as I paste newspaper photograph of
another murder victim in my memorial book. What number
ten or nine? They're not sure. Depends on whose
account. Genesis killer Abel says one thing; task
force another. Always jargon. Task Force, now that's a
gem. Says we're doing something. Building language for
self-importance. Got to know the players now. Still,
they don't know the fucken body count or they lie.
Graves Registration did in Nam. Ten Gooks was twenty.
A hundred dead were a thousand. Our dead or wounded
were casualties. No one really dies in the fabric of
the imagination, Henry wrote drawing a picture of a
cunt in the margin of the notebook.
KIAs meant killed in action. Acronyms disturb the
dice. Who were the wounded? They don't know if
Catherine Dahan is number seven or eight. Ask her? She
likes to ride in cabs. Found her body in the trunk of
Car #4. Bill Drexler found her. Opened his taxi trunk
to check for a spare. Five thirty AM. Almost morning.
Drank his coffee anyway. Need a drink. Why I asked
him. Never saw a dead person before? Not even a wake?
No that's different. They're fixed up.
Don't stink. She was dead at least four days. Stink
shows all. I laughed. Too bad you didn't have a chance
in Nam, I laughed. I was in the service, he said
defensively. I was protecting Germany from neo Nazis.
Said it as a joke. Just like that. Yes, it was plain
up front taxi dribble.
He said the trunk wasn't locked. Couldn't be a driver,
Drexler added. Cops questioned Bill for twenty hours.
Told him he was lying, tried to trick me. Good thing I
was out with the guys drinking. With some babe until
work. Work her up, dragged her ass down to the
station.
"She was scared. I am not a killer," he said. Bill's
girl friend wasn't sure, but Bill was home. Yes, he
was fucking me, she said. "Want to check my cunt?"
She yelled the dirty phrase at the cop. "How do I know
who you fucked this bitch lady cop yelled back at my
girl friend. Leave me alone." You're not worth it she
said when we left. Don't call.
"Fucken dead cunt cost me a bitch, can you believe
it."
"Usually not," I said.
Easy to open the trunk, ignoring the driver-victim.
"You should have seen her cunt," cop said.
He stuffed it with a plastic cock, and shaved the
hair, and all. Dressed it with lipstick. There was
fucken Polaroid's everywhere, and get this: He had
letters. I
Bill read one while he waited for the cops. Something
about Vietnam, the letter said. You were there, right
Henry.
Yes, Henry answered.
"What does this all have to do with Vietnam, the guy
was truly fucked up. Lost a bitch and I did nothing
wrong. Fuck it. Plenty to go around, I guess. Sure
liked her. At least she told the fucken truth. My ass
would have been grass had she lied, and said I was not
at her place, Bill thought.
Maybe she'll call later, who gives a fuck. The dead
cunt was dressed in plastic. Her tits cut out, Bill
continued, face up. Placed like a womb, dressed in
plastic bags, open to expose the artistry? The drivers
loved it. Bill was a star, the hero who did nothing
but open a trunk. Great risk, right. Opening a trunk.
What can anyone do? Count the missing you fuck, Henry
said.
Fourteen? Four? Seven? Eight Bill answered the
drivers. He was their hero for the hour.
Henry continued to write in his taxi journal.
"All of them would lie to mark the bitch druggie. She
was also pregnant. She had no record. Honest woman.
Worked as a bartender. No drugs. Got it on good
authority? How many are gone. Four, no three was one
answer.
Find the bodies, Henry thought?
"Who the fuck cares how many that shit claims? Ten.
Twenty. Does it matter? If it is more than one then it
is truly fucked up. Dissect murder to stop it.
Analysis solves problems. Right. What does
understanding mean? Nothing, really. Explain death. OK
if you're not the victim. Tell her the number. Think
she cares?"
"Where do I keep my place, I asked myself, as I threw
the newspapers away, under glass, not intended for
retrieval? I know. Keeping score is important. Body
counts, essential. Newspaper headlines contribute to
murder."
"What if I measured the sky inside and out, and
planned the parties like a planned the black crust as
a monuments grown from routine deaths."
Henry measured the sky inside and out. He planned the
black crust as a monument grown from routine deaths.
He did this out of some perverse habit to help those
who are the most fucked up dick heads in the fleet.
"Are we," Henry asked, "just angry misplaced silly
childhood crayons? Are we anointed with teachers who
want an easy lesson plan today, so they let the kids
play with the crayons at will. That way the teacher
can nurse her migraine.
Am I Henry wrote, "anointed by simplistic gods with
too obvious an erotic palette?
"Raw sex is not violence! Rape is not sex; it's
terror, and another marker, compulsion is a foil for
lust. What else is left, where's love," Henry Whitman
rhetorically asked.
While Henry watched the rooms evolve into some safer
more free of stress, He created his latest epiphany:
in that few short seconds before dawn, when the
artificially lit nighttime GW bridge as a portal
opened and closed shrunk and expanded all the victims
won passage homeward.
One morning after that acceptance, Henry saw the sky
respond.
After a calm rain and a clearing, the calm, not as
calm as when it started, sky turned gray and green
with a peach as the subtle over color on the
terminator's horizon line.
Henry spoke quickly to himself, using this speech
memory to hold what he thought for later.
"My notebook is my sacred fire," Henry sputtered
laughing. I did see my taxi on fire, Henry wrote. I
did see death and little ports on the top for eventual
escape.
What's next, Henry asked himself?
There's another fare at the foot of the bridge plaza.
Hope so! Fucken A as his grunt buddies lit up another
bong, and we let it go, diddy-bopping away.
"That is what we pretend. We do love our ghost-time,
walkabouts. We remain foolish to wastrels.
"You bet motherfucker. If I could have prevented
Katherine's death, I would have stopped her. We are
always too late when it comes to death as a suffering
human soup with ultimate loneliness as boon."
--
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. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+