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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: The Murder of Jean Parris  (The Genesis Killers)
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FROM TxM6 Hyperfiction
THE MURDER OF JEAN PARRISH
(C) 2002 Sean Farragher


http://www.seanfarragher.com/txm6
http://www.seanfarragher.com <http://www.seanfarragher.com/>
http://www.seanfarragher.com/Joss




Friday, December 13, 1991

Abel fucked the ideal. Perfect death faced murder with pure victims.

Abel watched the soft breathing Jean Parrish sleep on his bed. One hour earlier
Abel had fucked her. Lilith made her brother Abel watch while Jean made Lilith
come.

While his sister raped Jean, Abel imagined that he spoke before a crowd in front
of a grand audience.

In the real world, Abel videotaped the sex and murder applauding his work at the
end of every take.

Standing at a blackboard in their surgery, inside the Death Factory as they called
it, Abel drew pictures of cunts and labia on a floor to ceiling blackboard. He
marked them in colored chalk and then disfigured them with actual blood.

Lilith often got angry with Abel for fucking up one of Lilith's drawing. Abel told
her it was terrible and he corrected two of the lines. Marking again on the board,
Lilith watched Abel and kept still. Wearing her neutral face she said nothing.
Abel spoke:

"Look dear sister at the lines of blood we have drawn. See how carefully marked
her figure drawn outside proportioned lines. See the crust of her cunt canceled by
X crossed lines. We are perfect artists Sister. Don't you agree? She's just
another slut you know. Nothing special here; Look at her cunt. See how you busted
it open with your fist. Yes, I love her dear sister and you hate her. She is
another mother humping her kid. Sister, please kill her.

Touching the still warm flank of Jean, Lilith made no marks inside her curves. She
fondled the vulva dressed in silk. Picking up a surgical knife, without removing
the woman's panties, she rubbed Jean's clit, pulling it up. Cutting away her
panties, Lilith leaned down and sucked the dead woman making her body shift not
from life, but the pressing of Lilith's own tits against the cooling body.

"Don't spank her yet, Sister," Abel spoke up, leaning over Lilith, fondling his
sister's tits as she rubbed circles into Jean Parris. "Rub her, sister, so she
comes alive. You have done it before, brought back the dead."

Nothing can show? Let me help you. Lift her underpants. Wedge her. Pull them
higher. Stand her on tiptoes. Up. Up. Make her stretch. Pause. What a lovely firm,
wet cunt. It's almost wilting deep is pursed as a melon.

Sister, now, that's it. Push her legs when she sits, carefully over my legs, let
my cock jam and rock her lips as I absorb her ardor.

See how her sins are reveal in her flesh, sister. "She is a like a flower busting
to show off, and when I push it back, -- yes, move them, understand how petals
turn. Tell her again on your toes. Do not rest. Careful, watch thy lust and lift
it to the sky above your hat; don't block the apparitions. No ghosts will blow me
or eat you unless they are fed your blood. Christ has risen. See the dick. Now,
don't kick. I tell you, no. Fold underwear over her cardboard displays.

Directing the surely dead woman from the future, Abel implored his sister to
recreate life.

Lilith, speaking into her brother's ear, feeling his nipples through his shirt,
pinching them, rubbing his cock deep into his pants has aroused him. Abel's cock
hangs out, drooping down, half hard.

"Please brother, let's feel her wet silk and aroma as you squat on her. Pee like a
woman brother. Pretend she can swallow it. We will do it for her. Afterward, go
inside, sample spinning candy first, play cards, and then release it, you know,
laugh from the stop of your toes, shake where your feet move, shuffle the point,
third position, point, up on toes, reach the bar, let your legs turn inward at the
calf, pirouette, and shimmer, wait for that bleeding jury to file out, announce
patience, and then when the truth banks out of the wave, inside the thigh, when
you swallow, just before your squeeze, inward, relax, squeeze, lift it, and when
you have opened your mouth, leaning over your belly pushing to admire the pink
lips, to separate the flushed pistil stigma the apex of the flowering mouth
quivering accepting come stigma style slender female phallus rising as a flooded,
choking mouth, ovary ovules to seeds from the stamen thread filament anther, prick
head, soft, tender, as always, there was the slight deformation of the clitoris,
as it bends backwards, doing angular tricks, elastic, turgid, sweet bitter outer
shell, relax and the let it shift to cover itself, monosexual, relief when you
sigh, there waiting, at the base, no up higher with a jolt that bumps your ass,
hurting as your ass ricochets over the handle bars. Do it all brother."

Do the murder the girl, Lilith, please. Abel mocks Jean Parrish pretending that he
had tried to save her life.

"See, sister, she begs you for life by not breathing. We are such lovely sexual
freaks, don't you agree.

Pointing at Lilith who is sucking Abel's cock as he fondles Jean's tits turning
cold now exposed to the cold room.

"Who Me? Castrated? No Sir." Abel points to Jean as he shouts his speech. "Is this
the way you're supposed to be? Good. That's a momentary interruption. Now, get
back within the flow. Feel the hot water against your palm, and the cold against
your breast. No, do the reverse. Hot not cold. Whatever, don't just look, come out
of that projection, slide forward; the base ball bat was out of control, hit the
home run across the diamond as the gate keeper waited to take you home I guess he
liked your tits. But you left on your own, and now you're dead and have no rights
for my child for this attention. Do not hold up progress. I said fuck and shit and
cunt when he was balls up, in my territory, and the sister, the dead woman is
confused. She wants to speak. Help her sister, cut out her tongue."

"We are getting her back to life, you see, my sister. You murdered her with these
simple, two-minute fake political speeches. Don't you like her Cotton candy
underpants? I ejaculated in them to stain them for you my sister."

Abel walked around the woman rubbing her cunt, then her tits, then and her mouth.
He seemed confused as he babbled.

"How do you order a dead bitch to masturbate, sister?" Why had he ordered her to
masturbate?


The Next Day:

Continuing his double speak, Able announced, "in pursuit of the best Hot dog or
the cleanest hamburger I got hungry before my stomach gave up, and we left the
stage to better actors. Have you ever fed yourself while murder danced, my
 sister?"

No, actually, it, death lasted a lot longer. No, it's not a finite point.
Everything has process. Things shut down as a sequence. Yes, you can interrupt it.
Sometimes, it reverses, on its own, and longer that you can imagine, I have lots
of rope and a rough knife.

We can't take the terrible humidity any more. I know we complaint too easy. Why
piss and moan. Nothing matters when the knife is pushed into the throat at that
point. Go just that far.

No more, you see. What if the dead were truly cold and the chill you expected were
deaf and not measured.

You did laugh. I saw you. I stumbled over your fucked up copulating Ass.

I stumbled on come and dirty tissue papers, empty condom boxes, balloons from Mars
stuffed in your ears.

I stumbled on your baying crud and shifted the fake fire to cool blue and then
white-orange. Am I an invisible wall? Painted, the blood sticks. No, I realized
that was too easy. My sense of humor is just a warm up. No, listen. Murder was an
act of faith. Delusion? Dissolved. Blank? Look at me? Whole: I'm superstition or
cursed.

Dear Sister, kiss my hands, and as you do, my cock will come inside you.



Anthony Corvino Diary: (speaking to himself)

My journal imitates. What? Finish my thought. I have rambled, but could not
retrieve him. Who? -Tony. "It plays again on spindled tape. It reconstructed notes
assembled by Ness after the Valentine Massacre. How's that for ridiculous."

"Yes, I had set him up. Meet the man."

"Repeat it."

"Speak softly," he repeated.

"No agreements. If I had been talking about any another issue, say UN Aid for
Zebras. The theater will be blank. Am I the actor in this crazy stew?

I am Abel. No, am I a fool? What odd things we shout. Who is thought and how do we
gauge action. I am just the swirl of clouds. Put your fist through it, in and out.
Do it several times a day, and then more, and uneven, we watch. It all seemed true
at the time. Applaud death.

She was stuck between the phases until I let her go. Just a brief pause, and then
easily as a shift of shoulder to force the hand up, and it was done, she is dead,
no, not immediately, but after a pause, perhaps, a folding of knees. I cut her
fucken throat. That was no miserable delusion. She bleeds. What the fuck? What was
true?


Tony:

Out of the mind, she came down the stairs. A half dressed, undressed, undressing
model with cheap skin from a broken down Broadway porno show.

No, the woman with no tits is dead. I met her in Charleston. Out of these fact,
what?

No, drained from the river. Lies. Arms were broken. Cunts were snapped. Legs
paused. No rink a dinky computer folly? What was the action, man? You mean you do
it for nothing. Blood shocked them. I got them hot and bothered. Fucken A-. I
fucked her when her throat was lush with blood leaking down the center of her
tits. I reached up and felt the slippery sheen. I rubbed the blood on my face. I
drank it as a silly gleam came into the eyes of my sister. She was sharpening the
knife. I thought about how easy it would be to reach up and fuck my dear lovely
sister. Her thighs were trembling. She had just come. Making my little girls dead
does it for her. Why are you trembling dear Lilith I think the question without
actually saying a word. Lilith nods. I know and she understands what we dream at a
moment like now when the air freaks the blood. Gathering up the tortured flesh we
food fight it to oblivion.



EIGHT WOMEN AND CHILDREN MURDERED

Bergen Sentinel Headlines, December 15, 1991

Carefully Watch your Block. Step Lively

Father to Man Called Abel:

Lieut. Col. James Albert Caine IV

West Point 1962; Oxford 1964

What a headline! HA! Christmas madness. Great Shopping. Celebrate. What? Loss. I
consider Christmas an uneasy spectacle. What trails we lead. Each life caused
another circle to swallow its tail. No remorse. Murder began with Abel. I knew
him. He's an accident that was born out of a tempest.

Consider Pol Pot. Or some other ass smirked. Murder was an expedient solution. Not
unlike your President Kennedy? He assassinated Diem. Didn't really pull the
trigger. Did it. Not unlike me, I suppose.

I set Zippo to tender villes, blue brains to cerulean sea at the bottom of
darkling death. The child had no eyes, and her hands were stumps. Set to flares.
He struck at and rounds grazed the tree. I answered, point blank, shoot, and when
they turned him over, his gun had jammed. What an escape? Beats game arcades and
hand held push me pull yea, and then what a fucken apocalypse. It is a map for a
bare victory for life. The women were dead, and I turned the page, examined
something else, pushed on, or keep score. Score one point for serial murderer. I
do not think this uneasy truce is silly. What can I capture with mental cloth? Can
I protect my own eyes from the blinding?



ABEL:

Lilith says the Gods will blind our eyes if we do not perform sacrifices. I refuse
to kill. I will watch her do it. I cannot put the knife to a throat. Lilith slides
it easily down her chin. How wonderful that fat rubbed apart. Shall I suck it from
her throat?

What if I had murdered the women? Beyond contemplation. Who would you praise?
Yourself. Les autres. Who was that other face? Who, soldier or liar? Who lies
easily under the stairs carrying his life around in filled canvas bags?

What was lost on death but a sudden fire? Pajamas and sandals. VC no, he said, and
the shot I heard 'round the world caught this person in his uneasy pace. Military
precision. Taught at the Point. What is murder? Yes, I know the act of killing,
taking a life, terminating lively connections that unsettle us and make the
barrier uneasy.

We imbue our social conscious with dark circles. Interior pools to reflect silver
and have a passing memory that carefully call it comedy. I was no fool in this
dank comedy. Mirage. A leaf of clouds. I should not judge him. Abel realized when
newspapers glared backward in the hot sun. It's hard to read the fine print in
this fucken heat. I am clipped. What do I want now? What's more, can I want?

I want to know what will happen each day. My transcript spoke riddles. No logical
progression or bleeping transitions. Parts did not hold. Other days, I was
clearer, meticulous.



GADFLY ON ABEL:

Speaking with himself warbled softly over the house phone with Abel who listened
and then didn't. No sound passed this way, he said later. Abel continued his
monologue.

Abel read the Gadfly's column four times. He clipped whole pages, carefully
folding them and then inserting between the back of a large bound 9 x 12 inch
black binder that he had taken down from the desk shelf.

The Question: no rational universe, right. Then why, how could you, murder dear
Sister?





LILITH SPEAKS INSIDE ABEL'S BREATHING

"Why kill anyone? I know that may seem a simple question, but I need to know"?

I liked the way those brown limbs smiled just before Jean knew it was done.
Imagine if this were a trial how different. I heard Tony shit while we waited for
an open John. Brown crap that's medium soft. Can I take a poll?

The telephone was an unkempt umbilicus. I hated it. Banged the receiver. What
could I do, Jackson writes of the moment. Hates larger pictures. Get it cold.
First time. No return. No pick up later.

Listen, I told her I could not pull it tight. Hate metallic telephone chords.
Nothing would scare Tony? They insisted on a pay phone. More difficult to record.
Find a way. Exactly reproduced. I listened and questioned, the Gad Fly continued,
and he promised to print whatever I said.



THE GADFLY:

Abel said he would tape our conversation, and he knew we would do the same. He
threatened not to call again unless the printed transcript reflected exactly what
he had said. I agreed. I answered with the prepared statement: I am not the
publisher of the Sentinel nor its Managing Editor. The publishers, Tom Thorton
Wells and Marilyn Thorton have assured me that you will be treated more fairly
than you deserve. [Editorial content suppressed].

One condition. The managing editor requests that you not use profanity, and we
will not print the names of innocent people. How about a novel? Otherwise, it will
be exactly what you said? We will not camouflaged poor grammar, Romeo said to
Abel, remembering what he had said during the telephone negotiations he had with
Abel. Jackson told this story in a side bar that accompanying the Alias Abel
transcripts.



ABEL:

Amazed, Abel laughed at what Jackson claimed as ground rules. It works both ways.
If you want to look good, be careful how you speak. Use good old American English.
What a joke. Abel actually giggled as he read. Telling the Gadfly, who he couldn't
see, "I imagine Jackson wonders why he negotiates such arcane points- considering
the circumstances of how sex is murder and incest bliss."

Be on guard, indeed. I had just described murdering. Should I worry about grammar?



THE GADFLY:

Somehow, underneath it all, it didn't seem like it would matter to Abel? He's
educated and polished, but not embarrassed by grammatical confessions He could
insist on mistakes. That's it. When the copy comes back, I will mark superficial
grammatical changes, on purpose, make subtle errors. That way Abel would lose
something. No typographical errors, and Abel could shout back or I will take my
wagon and go home. Too bad, Abel, you need us as I need my advertisers smiling.
The profit motive, American enterprise needs you, ass hole. All killers are
welcome really, as long as they have cold cash. No credit cards.

As soon as I spoke, the theme and the literary would take precedence for a moment
over awkward constructions. Like fiction, Abel replied. Don't use profanity, or
threaten anyone, and the transcripts will accurately reflects the homogeneity of
mush collected from rainwater (early 1960s) to measure radioactivity. Collect a
week of food or a month of milk from WI or NJ. Take a sample. Extract it with
acid. Add CS and ST carriers, and then count the radiation we eat and drink. CS
137 is wonderful stuff. Potassium family. One electron in outer shell. 1960s test
bombs some clean and dirty. Fucken 55 gallon tubs. One week's food homogenized and
concentrated. After the bomb dropped, we measure the losses. Some will take years.
How about 10,000 lives. Measured increase. No scientific. No papers to explain.
Amazing' science. What are acceptable casualties? How many carcinomas were OK?
Yes, ST 90. Chemically just like calcium. Inorganic pain. Dioxin let to bleed
across the grunts mouth, ears, eyes, and prick, in the terror of his death. Clean
up the bodies. No Agent Orange or blue. Questions and response.

You are responsible for your own integrity. How silly, Jackson the Gadfly
admonished.

-"If you deviated from his record," Abel said (which he had also transcribed), he
would not communicate further if the transcript deviated from..."

-What, I asked myself.

-"When Abel laughed about the murder, I cringed," Jackson wrote. For a moment I
felt as if my life had no other reasonable choices.

An odd intrusion, I read.



JAMES ALBERT CAINE IV, Father of Abel:

I love Fairfield, Pennsylvania, near Gettysburg. That was one first life. I spent
many summers raised within that southern PA swarm. An important tactical theater.
Living near Gettysburg, as a historical chant.

"I die with them too you know," Abel wrote and James keeping his notes and not
just transcribing what he read of the Abel transcripts published in the Sentinel.

I don't need interpretations on analysis as I continued to leap over fences on the
horse ridden during that first charge up the hill when my right foot caught pulled
the horse over the rails, jumping easier, and then panting, reminding himself, I
had no horse, and no lead anywhere.

James read the Abel transcript further on wondering what other connections.

-"I don't kill there, Abel answered. That's right. I liked black and blue sex even
then so I brought this woman there, showed her the far away cemetery.

-"Later, I killed her, but not in Fairfield. I died there, you know, Abel kept
repeating certain phrases as if speaking about death set him above it. James said
them back as he read, almost a litany.

Abel recorded it all, and I wrote my second generation of cunning as if I was
overhearing an important political conversation. Like the ones he imagined
President Teddy Roosevelt had with George Walbridge Perkins, Vice President of New
York Life.

Perkins reported to John A McCall that he had been in an important position to
make it all happen for our interests. Teddy Roosevelt received the nomination for
Vice President. William McKinley would be shot, [EX POST FACTO] James laughed.
What irony. Like OUR murders. The public's right to know spelled out to conserve
what truth must seize. Truth is sex, James wrote in the margin of his newspaper.

-"Transcripts plagiarize history, they don't rewrite nothing;" I jotted his words
down hard in deep black felt marker. I was not angry why did I pretend grief? I
didn't know her, this black Jean Parrish, Mum, No one deserved death, but I don't
really care; how do I keep of his digressions?

Rewriting history, now that seemed like fun. Forget simple murder and the sloppy
seconds of getting off on violence and the bluster of suffering. It all seemed
irrelevant and out of space, even to James as any character he could occupy the
throne for more than a day or two.

Peter Campbell, the editor, acting, as the GADFLY was passive in this process.
True, he asked the questions. Even Abel was passive to Tony. I write this
marginalia as a catharsis, and it seemed right. Very useful. I am not passive. I
am not on the end of the food chain. I nurture myself, and it seemed a useless
literary game to make certain the punctuation flowed beyond the meaning from the
page.

How far I wrote as excerpted notes no one would read unless: {PAUSE] I showed up
at the trial and proclaimed myself accessory before or after the face, [YOU TELL
ME] and then I demanded justice AGAINST HIM. It all seemed useless and an absurd
literary adventure. A useful one, that WAS true. But a trial and then a quest. The
usual Chivalrous adventure out of the golden knight fag parade from the old
college review of some backward name. That's what I READ here. Literary
misadventure published in a secondary county newspaper.

In 1900, I was there with George Walbridge Perkins. I heard the voices, and read
the boasting letter that Perkins typed to McCall. Can you believe it, James asked
himself. James was truly there at the Republican National Convention.

I have always lived in books and journals. What's real that I sense the death Abel
made? I felt my kinship. Took aim and fired. I was there inside his skin, in that
ville; one more mark on my weapon. Kept

Abel closes to history. A great part of my life involved these inexact
replications of historical trauma.



ABEL:

When I was thirteen, this neighborhood girl blew me. She was fourteen, and liked
to play the whore, he said. Came on to me. Told me to take my pants down and to
let her watch while I pee against the willow tree. The leaves covered our
shoulders. The brook beneath the swarms of hanging snakes (or so it seemed) made
the photograph that was not taken seem even more perfect when I learned how to
turn memory into photographic salt and a secondary trace of a magical perspective
called light on skin. She seemed marvelous as I watched her eyes cover my pee as
it fell naturally by the sway of the unnatural gravity of memory. What grievous
bliss conceded as my journal laughed from the edge to the blank next page waiting
for some sublime inspiration and a greedy pen?

I did. I always peed what I was told. Direct urgent blood and urine pissed against
the sky. It is easy to fall out of space. Is it just as easy to fall into it?

What a miracle we possessed all at once or twice, as terror rested, as a leeward
swirl away from the storm in the background of sailing ship masts (great Newport
regattas) where we hide from our history. Can we loose it, James asked himself,
writing a note in the margin, in deep blue ink, as a way of passing the time zones
and the unnatural warps we expose by what we conspire to inflict with imagination.

She watched, intent, and then sat down, and with two fingers plucked at my cock
until it was little boy stiff. She kissed it, leaning against my legs, and sucked,
swallowing first the head, then the shaft. I thought she might bite it off, so I
pulled back. I didn't trust her like I did my sister or Mom.



JAMES:

I don't believe Abel's transcript. I know Fairfield. Couldn't be Abel's home. Was
mine too? No! I had also grown up in Fairfield. James had moved away to Smethport
and then Kane when he was fifteen.

-"Some days, life's a coincidence," Abel spoke to Jackson, and the recorder
blinked its uneven answers one after another.

-"We are rare." That's what Abel said.

It fit, so I'll never doubt it. What are we, I looked up from the disheveled
newspaper and his full, hungry note book.

I remember how I told this driver about my family. I took Aaron, Laurie and Angela
there one weekend. I hadn't been back in Fairfield for thirty-five years.

I remember we went out drinking to some local bar. I tried to pick up some
ravished local wench for a party later. I told the girl the truth. She said she
was twenty-three, had done it with a couple of guys once. I am drunk, she said.
Sure you want to take advantage, and then she added. Hey, you guys got some
bitches, no, I don't think so, not tonight. I don't usually lose. But she walked
away.

Don't worry James, Much too young for me, Aaron laughed, as Angela and Laurie
joined us. Don't worry, James told Aaron, amazed by the free association of this
oblique conversation. Laurie and Angela will have plenty to say about us.

Aaron was amazed. You always manage to find someone. Angela liked her, when do we
go, she said. Aaron looked up. See where death is born, Aaron said, out of
nowhere. The girl said no.



LAURIE FALLON (future victim):

I heard her tell it in the John just before. She didn't see me. I was sitting in
the stall. I peeked out the door. I knew the shit immediately when I heard your
name, James, as I am grunted and pissing myself, half drunk, stoned, I was glad
actually that she didn't want to party. I would have gotten into it, but I wasn't
in the mood, and James she liked you, told her friend, I would have gone with
them, but who wants to fuck a bitch as I suddenly peed. I was glad she said no
after that. James agreed, and even Angela who liked women more than men, at times,
agreed.



ABEL:

I remember odd conversations when I read the Abel transcripts. I wonder if we
would have fucked Abel given the chance. Would he have tormented us? Can there be
mercy? I know he claims to have driven a cab. Have we seen him somewhere, I asked
himself, writing again, keeping track of the time and the murdered as if it really
mattered. It could. Reality spells its own virtual record like splits in time or
warps as they are inaccurately described. The Gadfly taught physics. He did. He
created it. He is God you know, sister. He is here in my hands and yours while I
make you pregnant again.








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