Message-ID: <42006asstr$1051081803@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: <sfarragher@nj.rr.com> From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com> X-Original-Message-ID: <DAEAJLKEENNEGEBLGNPHGENFDDAA.sfarragher@nj.rr.com> MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-MSMail-Priority: Normal Importance: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1106 X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Tue, 22 Apr 2003 15:47:57 -0400 Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Taxi Murders The Novel Vietnam Vet Eddie Meyers Date: Wed, 23 Apr 2003 03:10:03 -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/Year2003/42006> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, gill-bates (c) 2003 Sean Farragher Taxi Murders the Novel: Eddie Meyers http://www.seanfarragher.com http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook 1967-1989 We know Eddie's love story, and not just the bullshit that drivers patty-cake leaning near the fenders of their cabs assuming gaudy postures. They dress in froth, sweat, and summer blues, They dress easy in cut-off's ransacked quickly from their mother's supply of dirty dish rags or perhaps taken from the garbage dump out of some fuck you motel dumpster. We all sprout beer bellies, and are softer inside; we few now have dark forms that would find us locked up for good if we ever had the temerity to act on our wishes, lies and dreams. Some cabbies have strong arms. Some how they kept their muscles from some old ball team, long ago, when they were heroes of the hill. You know the bullshit stories they broadcast. Some of these tales were hopeful, and some had authority in that they actually happened, but after time, the facts were twisted, exaggerated. There could be, you say to yourself, that there was a kernel of truth, and now they are swill like I feel some time. I am Henry Whitman. I survived out of the bargain basement of Nam and was caught to tell the tales of a hero like Eddie. I really do this to create a new theology. I know the heat has twisted me both on the stand and in Nam, but fuck it, I can create a liar's fabric like anyone. I also love the mist of some business bullshit artist who comes my way to signal that I have crossed some line, and get out of here, you fucken loser. You were just stupid for going to Nam, and what the fuck do I care about veterans. Back in the world, and this seemed ironic, brutality has a seem, a place where the first cut bends the steely seed, and lets it sway, until the idea like the tides, resumed its cast, watching the eye stop. Wait for shouts we have sacrifice at our margins, and now and when, at the black heroic wall, where you and I have discovered silence, where we have flagellated ourselves to death and let the ocean disguise grass from sprouts, from crow, from sparrows and then there was a silent battle to withhold nourishment from the those whom we deem, by our stilted digression, lost You know Eddie's story: lies presented as some truth, curved into strips with some death, predicting for us or him where and if he could have lived without a final bill folded into smaller and smaller squares in his cigar box reliquary. We do carry the myths. We market them with Eddie. We beat them less honestly because we fool ourselves with truth, and loose homilies we have sacrificed one cheap thrill for the beatitudes or a dark but righteous H bomb mass. No more threat. Easy to kill. Along the road, against each fare or driver you pass, when you search around the corner for the heavier cars, and the anticipated steps, I look for all of Eddie. I have many names to carve on the black wall that are now also dead. Is there a place for them? I have wandered with them, waiting for the thin hands to stop the action, but I know my brain has stalled like a taxi, sometimes, at the worst passable places. It seems only taxi drivers over forty remember Vietnam. The younger ones knew only the war movies, or cryptic allusions and vague conversations. Actually, no one cared but other Vets. Perhaps Vietnam has had its fifteen minutes of Warhol fame. for More TxM6 stories go to http://www.seanfarragher.com/Hyperfiction ### -- 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> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+