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From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Cheap Movie Stars
Date: Fri, 20 Dec 2002 05:10:05 -0500
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CHEAP MOVIE STARS and the Cinema
(c) 2002 Sean Farragher



 From TxM6: Taxi Murders Sextet
http://www.seanfarragher.com/txm6
http://www.seanfarragher.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com/Joss




Helena Herrig and Malachi Mac Donagh
0989XMalachiandHelena.htm

Helena was elegant and cheap, graceful, and stumbling. What was once upon a
time vulgar one day might be genius another. On the third day art created
out of nothing became the firmament, saith the Lord.

"Oh, such bellowing," Malachi, sang at Helena pushing his hands onto her
shoulders until his fingers found her ears and mouth. Malachi penetrated
Helena as a baker pushes his fingers into the pies to make them breathe.

"Yipes," Helena screamed. "Fuck. Please take me home Malachi."

"To where," Malachi asked blowing his nose.

Malachi was hard and soft, loud and silly. Almost quiet in a careful light
he settled his spell on warriors.

He shook his naked ass to bump and invade Helena as she sang Carols on
first Christmas morning.

Staring into his eyes, and then staring back at the mirror mirror, Helena
carefully molded his cheeks wanting more than sex. Fondled first her
breasts, pulling them up, covering them more, she drove her chest into his
while she searched Malachi's hard belly, and resumed her stroking.

Carefully opening her eyes, she treaded thumbs onto his abdomen to
imagining a waterfall. On the other side of the river, broken petals from
scattered flowers rained as feathers and she sang, almost crazed, trying
out mad, stuttering finally "Hail the Director."
See the 432nd page of Malachi's book. What was that title? "My Daughter
Lost Me," Helena talked to everyone making no sense.

"Here are a few more lines"

"Who was turned away after dark, as pillow talk and spiked drinks. Mark the
Bible passages so I can understand what no one can figure out," Helena
danced down the slope of the porch playing in the dappled corner of her
fluid cunny"?




VOICE FROM THE FUTURE:

Where's the well, Helena asked at last. I was thirsty. Where's Sheila? What
happened to my grandchild? Who called, did you say? What happened to
Laurie?

They found her body on the taxi stand. I certainly hope not. What happened
to 1965? Where was 1992 after all"?

"Who's kidding who"? I never touched my kids," Malachi screamed. "Let's get
it straight. Just because my great grand parents were brother and sister,
doesn't mean. I was the one man who did not abuse Laurie. Even she says
that. OK, so what. Could I change what my kid did during Civil War? You
tell me how. Yes, I know. I married my second cousin, compounding the
alleged genetic flaw, but many folks marry second cousins, and that was a
fluke. Didn't know it until years later. Maybe, I am better for it. Can you
tell me that I am not"?

"Now, you can't hold me responsible for Helena or Luther, or Sheila, for
that matter," Malachi whispered hoping some one could understand. "I have
no idea who my children will fuck or not. I am not the one that was
corrupt. Get it straight."

"Malachi, dear," Helena spoke as if she had wanted to disguise her voice.



1965

Helena, 28 in 1965, lifted her head and opened her blouse, removing it,
pushing out her breasts, examining the nipples, provoking them, setting
them up, dropping them, and gauging their free fall. I love to bounce them
she thought, twisting around like a great Yankee slugger to follow their
curve. Afterwards, Helena washed her face, cleaning the sweat and dark eye
shadow from her eyes, turned from the room, and smiled back at Malachi who
had watched her ablutions.

She was a saint, he said, later, when the police came to anoint the dead,
himself included.

"Now, I am getting ahead of my story," Helena as narrator spoke. "It's not
the end of the novel, February 1993. I am locked backwards into 1965 and
1961 (the year Helena met Malachi), and I am a grown child at 18 playing
the vamp with Malachi who was a great cop -- not just an ordinary dick. He
had tremendous moods, Helena said. Some days he was burly, gentle, married,
and only 14 years older. I know he will be pleased, Helena said, speaking
in a high tone to herself, which I turned out so well.



DRUNKEN DREAM

Stretching the mirror Helena had grown, patting her ass, and stretching on
her toes to catch the sweep of her ankles and calves. How can I measure the
years? Where was my calendar after all?

"OK. Look at the clear gray translucent slime; Laurie in 1992 spoke the
lines like a poem. "Slugs between mouth and hands. Swollen mud on the
Prairie Rivers as the flood drifts and heals the unsociable stains."

"Got to get to work. "Will meet the man of my dreams" as the song goes.
What bullshit," Helena thought. "I am perfect."

"Mark down the seminal flood," Malachi pledged aloud as a poet might.
"Rivers of spermatozoa cling to the finger tips; resist the drip from the
base of Helena chin, as cleaning it, the tickle was texture sliding wet
through the alley crushed as the molten equator pulled apart from distinct
gravity as the flattened core, dull, de tumescence restored balance."

Dark fires helped Malachi and Helena affect the mal ease we assume befits
any guest at his own funeral.

"Where was the 50s dance when I could have swung it," Helena asked in 55,
when out of a more common plight, as dark fake eels pretended the deadly
reform, Helena swirled in and out of her partner's plotting arms, slipped
down to shimmy under his legs, rafting up, held down from escape by the
rock 'n roll cleats, drifting with Bill Haley and the comets. I'm gonna
rock around the clock, Helena laughed remembering how the year 1955 fell
down, when her Luther taught her what that church word "sin" meant when he
dragged the ten commandments down from the Hollywood Hills.

"I swallowed the sexual family, Malachi speaking as a poet again said in
1992: "and then the germ and mitochondrion remnant, as one holy flag were
restored by King Phosphorous, as his four abreast strut rested, asleep,
when the comets flamed as a swoosh at once when the holy child, Helena,
throaty, immaculate, demons exorcised, scattered the uneasy gestures,
pleasure as a sonnet, broken down, without form, plied open for Uncle
Luther as he took what Helena had been taught to hide. Young ladies do not
show their underpants, when they sit down, the piano teacher frowned at
Helena, at the recital, with parents beaming, and Luther certainly not
embraced.

The year is 1963. Let's keep the record straight. Malachi is twenty-seven.
Helena was always fifteen to Malachi. Malachi had married Carol Simms in
1957.

When he met the teenage Helena (1962) who had worked the diners off the
highway starting just after her fourteenth birthday, Malachi told Helena he
loved his wife. Malachi and Carol had three children. Saints do not lie.
Years apart do not matter.

Forget 1964, 1965 or 1957. Where's 1999 or any days earlier. No George
Washington Bridge (ground zero) was necessary. No books of etiquette are
thrown for Moses to pluck from imagination. Codify what? They fucked. What
do we mean by unclean spells? Malachi could not know their next thirty
years. Certainly, incest was despair. No one condones it. Child abuse (and
19 may be a child) is even a greater loss, as the theft of innocent spirit
cannot be forgiven.

"I was Born of it All," Helena smiled at Malachi wondering what her
sexually abusive grandfather Luther would have said, had he been alive to
stop her. That shitten fuck is dead, Helena said, "and I can do what the
fuck I want. Helena mesmerized by Malachi, who had assumed Luther's mask,
to provoke some great scene: isn't that what soap operas do?

Each scene becomes the next moment of unresolved tension. No body ever
comes. When the scenes quit, move on to another venue, the pace of the
drama changes. One character played by another man or woman suddenly
becomes the off stage voice.

"Bill Right now being played by John Wrong."

Yes, the most literary of soap opera fans never ask, "Who wrote that
trash."

Resolution. Ah, I see. Next case. Continue the motion.

Next scene. Conflict, resolution. Move it on. Let's go. Pick up the pace.
Watch out. Step Lively. Subway doors will close. Separate. Ripped apart.
The hands are the first vise, then the arms, and souls, finally, heads
stretching, throats screaming, black passion, and the lens by the magic of
some double rail "soused up" go cart smoothly (too easily) passing from
scene to scene, and then the jump dissolve: future from past; he from she;
brother and sister; father and daughter; mother and son; lover and loved,
and all the in-betweens.


CUT TO HELENA WORKING AS B MOVIE STAR (1965).

"THAT'S A WRAP," DIRECTOR SCREAMED. "ALL FIVE LINES REPORT TO WARDROBE.
YOU'VE BEEN CANCELLED. REPEAT MESSAGE TWICE. AUDITIONS FOR THE NEW PARTS
WILL BE SCHEDULED. YOUR AGENT WILL TELL YOU. GOOD AFTERNOON AND GOOD LUCK.

"Where will I work next week," Helena asks her agent on the phone screaming
at him. What soap? Aren't I a contract player? What the fuck is going on?
Calmer, Helena hears that yes, she has a contract and a new movie will be
shot in three weeks, but she will have to do some hard core in it. OK she
says. How much more, and the smile on Helena's face makes it all too clear
what went down.  "At the end she says, screaming just a bit softer, "I want
at least two story lines in between the crap. Got it."

"Is that like a climax, mister, the twenty-eight year old sex pot aging
teen star Helena Herrig (playing 18 for the soft core market) asked when
her Madonna like crew gathered around for donuts and coffee, and she
modeling a skimpy blue string bikini without bottom that she thought she
was supposed to wear in the next scene.

Helena is there to get off on being the star. She also, if truth is known,
loves to show off her cunt. Sitting there, legs apart, she will open her
lips after spitting on her hand. Can't really walk naked down the street,
and well acting and rehearsal are just that, but the vamp, some nickel and
dime porn star (who had marketed her youthful body for three years to the
legal teen market, liked to show it off. She had told her best friend, Lee,
last year that she loved it when folks looked at her. When some even turned
her head away, she loved it more.

"I had one," she said pretending to be Helena. I am a mimic, of course, and
then standing up stage, on her mark, presses her hands to ceiling, and
rolling her knees, tits front, ass back. T & A at its best like 1940s on
the stage pretended to be a cross between Gypsy Rose Lee and Valerie
Perrine.

"Where's Lenny Bruce," you fucken faggot, Helena screamed at one of the
assistant to assistant directors as she stepped up and down on one foot
like a spoiled child dancing down from the steps to the raw earth. Helena
loved being carted from one scene to another. "All I have to do is show off
my tits and they come around," she smirked. Have you seen my costumes and
props?

She laughed. Make me look like some hooker, you know. Imagine if I had to
cart all this shit around from set to set. Fuck no, Helena laughed sitting
down and becoming quite calm in a few moments.

Turning to the camera, Helena laughed, catching the cue, "I saw him at
Carnegie Hall one fucken winter in 1962. What a shitten blizzard. Slow
down. Get it under control. OK. There were no political jokes then. Only
politics get it. Not even fucked up sex. Well, always some kid getting shit
on by a step dad. Had a few of them myself. All those pretend games then,
Bruce caught it you know.

Helena plays it up now. Starting to sing in some rock down melody "Mr. Just
cool it," the Sex Kitten lips synchs the words. "Watch those hands. Come on
Baby. Let me shut you down," the lyric continued long after Helena had not
lost interest.

Lighting up a cigarette, "We've come a long way baby, Helena sings mocking
the rock and roll singers she loved or so she said, and then pointing the
lit cigarette at some young handsome extra as he walked by, giving him this
look, she smoked but the guy used to her tease said nothing back smiling at
her but ignoring her too.


1992 Again


Laurie Fallon is 26 and has natural red to auburn hair. Poet and stripper,
hooker and college student, drug addict and clean Laurie loved Henry. Scene
takes place just before Lilith and Abel will abduct Laurie. Demon and
human, the half brother and sister have deluded themselves that they can
become media giants by abducting pregnant women, abusing them, filming the
scenes, and while this abuse continues, they film it all and force the
participants to keep a journal of the whole experience. Laurie is neither
the first nor the last to be taken.

Helena and Malachi are Laurie's mother and stepfather. Malachi is the only
stepfather that did not sexually abuse his stepdaughter. For that
restraint, Laurie loves him as Laurie's mother encouraged her live in mates
to do what they will with her children. She never said it was Ok. Helena
never spoke about it. She set it up none the same.



ANOTHER NIGHTMARE

Another voice apparently off stage, intones. "What an ass. Pretense? Who?
Me, Helena or Malachi? "Got to keep the show moving after all." There's the
trumpet flourish. Fanfare. Going ape for some bitch or dick that is me.
Helena was my momma. Yes Sir. She could fuck em all on a dime after all was
said and done."



CRASH. BANG. RATTLE.

Old car pulls up and out falls a handsome, well-dressed African American,
as they are called now, Laurie introduced.

The Gadfly is a spirit and human. He assumed the body of a heroic
Lieutenant who had died in Vietnam in 1968. "Sounds like the Gadfly making
another androgynous entrance, in drag, what else, Laurie thought. No, not
this time, I guess. Sometimes his gender was indeterminate, I forget that,
but then he dressed up as a broad last week, at the Audubon tryouts.
Wanting to be bird on Broadway like those stupid TS Eliot lesbian cats. You
know he had real tits, a cunt, balls, and a prick. No asshole though, and
not a transsexual, transvestite wannabe.

Hermaphrodite. Not really. Can he truly fuck his own ass? If the Gadfly was
the real thing once, Helena interjected. What we all knew, the Sex Kitten
speaking as a professor of embryology wags aloud. "You see it happens
before gender differentiates internally at 33 days, and externally at the
seventh and last embryological week (20 -mm) in uterus.
True hermaphrodites are rare in the human species."

"The Gadfly was not human," first speaking aloud, and then falling silent.
Helena lists his attributes, counting off her fingers, speaking them
silently, and moving her lips.

"Need a lip reader, here. Call Bill Watson's agent. He is good. See what he
is doing now. Maybe he's available," the Sex Kitten warbles. Then
continuing, Helena whispers, getting louder, "Man made in the image of the
Spirit. Is the spirit the character, Gender? The art of coupling
differences rubs the diverse calls of race and religion. Don't forget
sentiment. Is human kind God or Godlike?

"Ordinary fare, now really," the Gadfly perks up.

"Who the fuck asked you, the Sex Kitten, exposing her left breasts, to
scratch the red marks where the elastic binding cut her skin.

"We're a Changeling," the gadfly speaks like a used car salesman. "More
than a shape shifter as demon, serpent, hawk, owl, or sphinx. Saints? God?
Goddess? "What mother fuckers! We are what ever the scene or the director
needs in under five lines or less," the Sex Kitten said, removing her
underpants, checking for crotch stains, sniffing it, and then dropping it,
now fully naked, she retrieves a mirror from a table, and folding it down,
between her legs, she sits down, to examine, fold by fold, her sex, opening
the fluffy lips, and then inserting a tampon, and removing it, inserting
and removing snails, and toads, and then a baby doll, moving to the Gadfly,
on the floor, ass bumping, giving birth to plastic adult toys, directing
the Gadfly and Helena while wiggling her ass, ordering him to help her pull
out the infant, a girl, of course, as if this last object, was a
replacement for death, a reprieve, penance.

The Sex Kitten's self examination continued for five minutes. "I know the
scene's too long, but I wish I had a magnifying glass, there's a surprise
inside there for you, pointing to the open, pink vulva, underneath the
tampon, but you take it out, you must smell it first, licking the cotton,
as if it were a sacred dolly. See, she says, the spirit, yours is there
inside my cunt, you bet. Let's pause here for a commercial."



SCREEN GOES BLANK

Resumes without Gadfly. The part of the Gadfly is being played
by....Entrance delayed. Who said that? The director. Not now, Gadfly.



EXIT

The Gadfly leaves the empty stage, looking as if he had lost his mammoth
double DD breasts, and no longer sporting a human cock, the size of an ass.
No vagina, forget the clitoris, as the great instigator walks off, inhaling
his skin as a prop, stage left, leaving death behind to swoon and then,
inside a series of blood curdling screams to rage punctuated by a crying
new inborn infant, as if his innards had form and could be raised upon the
stage as a hunk of beef let down from its hook, split, dressed, and cold.
Now, living.

Death had awakened as the Gadfly's shadows kept pace with technical
changes; we forbear, translucent, transparent, and then white.

Enter Lady Mac Beth holding Laurie Fallon, the ninth Taxi Murders! Victim.
Call her Sex Kitten, number one. Her show earned a 32 share. What a TV
super star, the old woman, dressed as Lady Macbeth, really her mother
Helena Herrig, washes her period piece hands, her classic dream walk, on
stage, in the round, at Stratford, in the year of our Lord,



1600.

Lady Mac Beth staggers, dreams, then her words, as her pitch, an appeal to
blank sleep she marked down in verse and fakery, while Lady Mac Beth, now
off stage, screams, and then Sexton becalms Mac Beth, "The Queen, my Lord,
is dead." Now Mac Beth's speech ends," Signifying nothing."

Repeat phrase: Lady Mac Beth did say: "Come, come, come, come, give me your
hand. What is done? To bed, to bed, to bed. [Exit]."

The Sex Kitten, naked but now wrapped in the floor length black lace shawl
intentionally dropped by Lady Mac Beth just before last scene exit, leaned
against the two by fours supporting the painted sets, watched last scenes,
exhausted, she pulls herself up, bouncing her breasts, in an extra jolt, as
all actors exit. She moves stage center, pulls at her infant like a wagon
or a dog on a leash, as the infant screams trail off, louder, softer, first
the wail of an infant, then weeping of a child, now as woman, a birth
scream, finally, as death is loose, as a black cloud, like Witches and
Warlocks, gathered, where the fluff of her last breath, strangled by Abel,
death at nineteen in Fort Lee, New Jersey, left for dead on the taxi stand,
corpse discovered at four AM by her much older lover, Henry, taxi driver
and poet. Scenes flash, end to end, as if a year is compressed to a second.

"Is that me at ninety four," Laurie (the reformed Sex Kitten) asks
resurrected.

"That's me self," Laurie stage whispers, "just me as I am born, nothing
more," and then pulling apart the dolls head, throwing stuffing here and
there, the scene shifts back on stage, where the ghostly Sex Kitten, throws
the flesh as Eucharist, first at the blank faced, immobile audience
(probably fake) and then at the stage door security guards reality's ace).

The burly men dressed in NY cop finest herd the Sex Kitten off stage, and
then, the resisting, she thrown outside the blackened theater.

"Stop, you fucks," our Sex Kitten laughs, "thought it was real, didn't you.
Fuck off. I cannot go out there. See, I got no fucken clothes on. Just this
shawl. You want me to be arrested for decent exposure."

The Cops ignore her, as they gather in their own church bull shitting.

The Gadfly, emerging from an invisible crack in the wall, ambles swiftly
stage center, holding a full-length mink coat, "put this on," he says. "I
know it's August, but it will keep you warm. OK."

The Sex Kitten, clearly Laurie now, passive, puts on the coat. "It is
cold," she says, taking the Gadfly's arm, a gentleman with his lady.

"I'll bet we'll be warm soon, you old coot," pulling the Gadfly's hand
around her back, directing it to her ass, "now hold this, if you can."

The Gadfly, dressed now as a stage door Johnny, stops, hugs the Sex Kitten,
wishing her well, throwing a kiss, and then waving, slowly, invisible,
dissolved, back inside the crease in the stone wall between 44th and 45th
on Broadway.

The Sex Kitten (Laurie) sits down on the curb, sticks out her thumb, trying
for a pick up. Anything. I got nowhere to go.

Henry has left. Cannot see him.

He is dead, and so is Abel.

A black limo stops. Door opens. Throwing off her coat, letting it fall
invisible, Laurie gets inside, helped by first a well dressed women, and
then a man, as the Limo stops, and the chauffeur gets out, silently
directed to retrieve the coat.

"There's nothing here," the chauffeur spits back, annoyed.

"What the fuck you talking about"?

Camera close up. It's Abel, not Henry Whitman. Lover and murderer. Will
death repeat?

Through the limo's open window, Laurie emerges, still white and naked, a
living icon, "you see these well dressed fucks," she says "they want a
threesome. Why not? It's Tuesday, July 14, 1992, the day after death, and I
have awakened. You know what. Nevertheless, the bitch says, she just wants
to watch.

"Hope their Coke's good this time. Just worn off. I need more, OK. Lady,
no, not that way, like this, no teeth, OK, my nipples hurt. I just finished
nursing my baby. "I'm pregnant with Henry's kid. You know this sex thing
gets tiresome. After all, it can wear out if you do not take care of
business. You take care of your business. What do you do"?

"Movie actress. Well they call you 'Sex Kitten.' I know. I saw you on PORN
XXX cable. "Shit Dogs" last season. You were OK, but I wanted to fuck that
hunk of costar, what's his name, Brad Coffey. What an ass, would have done
him for a line, you know."

"Blitzed. Fucked up, no, don't do that. Not my neck. Put it back to
together. No, I am not Mary Queen of Scots, and we're not back in jolly,
fucken England, you creep. Let me the fuck out of here. Weird fucks, you
blokes. I'm coming!

Helena Herrig and Malachi woke up from their dream. Malachi never took
another drink. Helena died of liver cancer in 1998.





###

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