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From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Lara Klein and CJ Parker  (1982)  Assault, smack, crack, rape and murder
Date: Fri, 27 Dec 2002 21:10:12 -0500
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 From TxM6 Taxi Murders Hyperfiction
Lara Klein and CJ Parker
(c) 2002 Sean Farragher
sfarragher@nj.rr.com


http://www.seanfarragher.com/hyperfiction
http://www.seanfarragher.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com/Joss



Drugs, Murder and Rape    October 17, 1982

Lara Klein half sister to CJ Parker died today. Her heart stopped by heroin
did not restart. God did not win. Pain earned the best score.

Lara, 15 had the street name "Baby" but Miss L refused to quit on life.
Collapsed and extended like a twist and shout accordion, Lara lived three
years as the child whore of a man who stole her from another. CJ could do
nothing about it. After all CJ had the same problem but a different pimp.

Lara was the stronger of the two sisters. She held CJ while the older
sister cried unhappy that she could not help Lara.

While Lara waited for the man to claim all she had earned, she sucked two
more cocks. Sucking does pay part of the premium.

CJ gave Lara more money before she left. Lara's pimp hated CJ. He did not
dare hurt CJ out of respect for CJ's pimp. Crime has unusual rituals.

Often, CJ wished she had the courage to simply take that working World War
II .45 she hid in her middle drawer covered with silk and raise it up on
his arm for balance and then simply blow the fuckers away one by one. Bet
you thought she wanted to blow her own brains out. Never, CJ would tell
you. "I will live no matter what."

Sometimes weakness breeds flights of Rambo foolishness. No one is a coward
or a hero unless they plot their daily bread.

 When CJ gave the money to Lara, CJ knew that Lara would give it to her
pimp. CJ reasoned perhaps that way Lara might be beaten more carefully if
not tenderly.

When Lara died, CJ Parker stopped shooting horse for a few extra hours and
for the 532nd time she quit making an act of resolution.

That was all the mourning that CJ could afford. "My body demands
attention," she said. Five hours later, sweating, feeling nausea, CJ sucked
two dicks in a half hour and was coming down two hours later pulling her
body literally off the floor where she caught ten minutes sleep.

"Need all the strength in the world," she said. Have a date with a man who
likes to suck shit out of my ass and then for every kiss I sustain with him
for five minutes or more, he pays me $500 per kiss. I must also pretend
that I don't smell it. If I screw up my nose once he gives me half the
money. When he smacks my ass while I suck him, I pretend it turns me on.

The 72-year-old man, Paul, paid five times the standard BJ rate. CJ didn't
have time to mourn her sister by pretending she was above that kind of fake
possession.

You can't always do straight blowjobs with a rubber you pull quickly over
the prick and beg the man by massaging his balls to stay sober and come
quicker.

Sometimes you have to put your ass on the ground, spread your legs, open
your cunt lips and let some man fill you with his stinking crap. By the
time he has done you twelve times on the two-week trip, you are sucking him
in the moonlight and loving his toothless jaw on your nipples.



On October 17, 1991 at about 2 AM

Mostly clean the reformed hooker CJ looked for an honest loving (I wasn't
back in the game or doing shit), as she put it, got myself raped, and
beaten almost to death, and back again."

"Every October 17th I remember my sister's death and mourn for my own
life," CJ thought as she dressed too quickly wearing the same dirty clothes
she had word last night. She knew she stank, but she needed to get out of
the house and shoot some photographs of dying animals. They make me feel
clean, she said.

Magical escape. The spirits saved me. Police came. True spirits gave me
back to life. Why me? The true spirits had enough of the game, the Gadfly
said. Time to stop Genesis.

No, I will remember and not remember Maria and her brother, Antonio.
Imagine, she said years later, fucked up by a bitch and her faggot pussy.
Couldn't pick them out. Showed the cops. No one could find them. Not really
criminals. No Rap sheet.

"I didn't do anything," CJ said. "I couldn't stop him. I was an old friend
of murder. Have I told you that before? One thing I know is true. Never mix
sex with dying, although after I shot death, I was weak in my thighs and
felt that sexual pulse that drives you mad unless you scratch it. I rubbed
it with some oil and put the long neck in a noose pretending to be
strangled. Able ordered me to die. He said, don't worry. No more fretting
over what you cannot control. I did not die.

Can you stop your breathing? Can you imagine how easy it would be if I
grabbed hold of your balls with my hand and rip your dick with my teeth
while I sucked it? When you came, I would mix the blood with the goop and
drive you madder as the ocean floor quickens and you bleed to orgasm. It
could be lovely, don't you think to die as amorphous pigment strewn as dust
in the universal sky.

It would be raping the abstract noun of your sex to make it into mud pies.
Taking your cock in my hand, I offer it to some higher force symbolized by
raising my arms. Taking your sex dropping into an industrial blender with
ph 6.6-phosphate buffer and blending it while you scream rape, would give
the freaks their orgasm. CJ listened to Abel as he carved letters in her
arm with a sharp hobby knife.

He's a good man. Let him alone, CJ said when interviewed after regaining
consciousness.

Abel is not as bad as some who would take without inflicting pain. Unless
you know the screams, you have not lived in the suffering. If you are able
to place yourself in an orderly arrangement of lives, then you can track
the crystalline faces you create by the tension between the fantasy and the
marked down letters of the actual event as recorded by some character we
name arbitrarily TRUTH.

"I wanted you to feel my heat. It felt perfect, CJ told her sister Lara.
Yes we possess the same waves. We speed into each other like blood into our
multiple hearts."

"I liked that line, CJ wrote to her dead sister with her mind acting as
pen. After I wrote it, I felt our skin and wanted to save the line for a
poem.

When I write you Lara I set what I feel down as words but when I write
something that seems perfect I am amazed by how we are layers of those
waves on the ocean of orgasmic beaches marking the placement of the harmony
and the necessary dissonance. Is that too sick my twin, Lara asks CJ?

Who wrote that, Lara asked her sister seeing how the words were ground as a
message in perfect typography on the painted sandy beaches?

"Lara, you were unconscious."  I called 911. I watched the self-beating. I
didn't hear all the layers of that action. I had no idea what truly
happened until the morning when I saw Lara cold and stiff.

I stood in your deadly circle Lara. I left confused about space and
sequence. I know I was there, but I didn't see, he said. Couldn't know how
the temporal displacement figured in the story of multiple murders and
darker sex where all that is given is stolen but gladly surrendered.

Tabby a good man, I told the Gadfly like a fool. I didn't know Tabby was
the Gadfly as all the spirits. He plays the multiple roles and never misses
a line.

Tabby always helped. No drugs. No sex. I liked him, had hoped he would
really care. Not take care. I can take care of myself. Just to be there and
talk. He called the cops. Right. When will he come and visit. I know he's
hurting about my return to the scum vats.

Police questioned Tabby, called him the defrocked Priest. They didn't know
you couldn't be "not ordained. "Tabby was wonderful 4x4 times. Good cop/bad
cop/switching, confusing. Want killers ass. [Do they really?

Can't pin it. No useable evidence. Certain as the forensic data, that he
did it.

No, never shall I pass this way without loss, CJ sang wanting Lara to come
alive on the spot and make her sisterly orgasm faster and harder. Who can't
remember lust? Was it us alone or all of them outside gathered in the
cathedral watching God stain the wall deep blood.

"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 12innings, 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 was 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.

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.











XXX

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