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.
Chapters 1-4 of Novel
TxM6: Genesis Murders
Friday, April 10, 1992
TxM6 Chapter One:
Laurie Fallon raised
the intelligent alarm. Her whole
being bore down double sharp notes peeling
glass with
her shriek. Just like the movies Laurie thought
afterwards,
remembering how Peter Lorre's character
had murdered Myrna Loy in the never
finished 1933
movie "Taxi Murders Express."
The director Josef Von
Sternberg had stopped
production when Myrna Loy stand-in stunt double was
strangled on the movie set. No one was ever charged
with the crime
although some suspected Lorre.
It was another Hollywood murder that left
scars for
fifty-nine years.
ABDUCTION: "The Struggle for
Righteousness"
11:20 PM -- Friday, April 10, 1992
Outside the
Gables Bar set almost on the curb the
music inside blasted along River Road
Edgewater, New
Jersey almost to the Hudson River edge. It was an old
not too fancy but popular bar that featured live rock
music and
Wednesday through Saturday night female and
once a month Friday night male
strippers. It was a
pick up joint and a place for lovers.
Six foot
tall, seven months pregnant, twenty-six year
old Laurie Fallon dressed in a
modest too large dress
walked slowly from the bar to her car swinging the
keys. A one time exotic dancer and barmaid at the
Gables, she often
returned to chat with the affable
owner Lilly and several of the regulars.
Laurie was sad that night. Having fought with her man
Henry who was
now out of town, she didn't want to
return to their empty apartment. Not
even the swagger
of the male strippers lifted her spirits.
As she
stood on the curb she looked back at the Gables
as if she might return.
Laurie hated being indecisive.
Getting ready to cross to the other side, she
waited
for a lone truck to pass, and then stepped slowly
between the
parked cars to cross.
Suddenly a strong young man wearing a black ski
mask
grabbed her from behind by her neck and mouth.
Stalking her
from the drab spaces between his van and
the cab of a truck, he had missed
her mouth with his
gag. When she screamed, biting his fingers, he pulled
back, almost frightened.
Using that moment Laurie caught his face
with her
nails driving furrows from cheek to chest. His scream
was pity
by comparison to hers, but often those who
are abused as children stammer
when failure
accompanies a crime.
By her reaction Laurie captured
the man's ski mask
pulling it quickly over his head while suffering his
kicks and shrieking curses. Falling down against the
curb between the
street and the parked cars, she
scraped her knees and elbows, and her easy
dress
twisted by her legs, split wide, rode up exposing her
neatly
trimmed and shaved auburn pubic hair.
Pushing the wool mask between her
legs, Laurie hid it
there. As the short but solid man beat and kicked her
with his boot, she refused to release it. Turning her
back to the man,
twisting her body, leaning into the
curb, protecting the child she carried
from the blows,
Laurie drove that fetid disguise deeply against her
bare
sex.
As the earthquake continued inside, outside the man
had stopped
wondering what he could do next now that
the gag and ether were discarded.
In that second pause, Laurie reached for his balls.
Holding them in
her palm, she squeezed and in the next
instant bent over, he caught her
mouth square with his
boot. On impact Laurie released him.
Kicking
her endlessly in the back, grit under her
nails, the man's blood on her
mouth, Laurie realized
how much she wanted to live to save her child. At
that
turn in the battle, she submitted wondering why no one
had helped
her.
Losing the fight, Laurie's belly seven months fat with
child
stopped her short of escape. She fell back short
of victory breathless,
sabotaged by a gentler
instinct.
Quickly, taping arms, legs, and
mouth he gathered the
almost unconscious woman into his dirty white van.
Leaving quickly, the man later identified as one of
the infamous
"Genesis Killers" did not notice that
his ski mask had dropped from between
Laurie's legs to
the street.
THE DIRTY WHITE VAN
Inside the
van, bound and gagged, Laurie could not
watch the neon lights of the Gables
exotic dance club
shimmer in yellow and blue slivers against the cloud
of the river and New York City's skyline.
Just before man pulled out
into the traffic, a dazzled
movie clouded her eyes: captured by rough tape,
she
refused to concede.
Laurie did remember that she had screamed
silently
"No" as he shot her full of shit to make her ass
collapse. He
didn't hear, "don't hurt her."
As ends are often not righteous, Laurie
slept. Not
dead, living in transition for the next ten months,
Laurie
suspended her life within an odd assortment of
dreams and neurotic fixations
conjured to keep her
sane.
Later, when Laurie looked again at that
two-minute
skirmish, she marveled at the failed strength she had
struck
into the earth.
No meager Joan of Arc burned at the stake - Laurie
Fallon would survive.
NEXT MORNING
At 0932, Edgewater police
reported that an eyewitness
had come forward, known only as Rose, to
describe that
crime outside the Gables the previous night.
Without
that account no one would have immediately
known Laurie was
missing.
TxM6 Chapter Two
Saturday, April 11,
1992, 18:03:41
Yesterday, Antonio Corvino abducted Laurie Catherine
Fallon, seven months pregnant.
Abel Wrote:
"Nothing terrible
was expected. No spring fireworks,
sky jinx, portends in gray occurred.
No signs-truly, but the deadly thrust of Laurie's hips
full
pregnant, lascivious mouth painted red against
the concrete floor left my
heart beating faster. My
sister Lilith became very wet watching the girl's
performance.
I could tell. When Lilith opens her mouth and spreads
her legs when she observes, there is a slight tension
in the air. You
know that moment before lightning
strikes. At the end before I got into the
girl's face,
her fists were pushing deep into her own belly,
leaning
over, watching pain carve its own demon in the
black painted cement of the
garage floor.
I knew no matter how hard I tried to clean her stain
off the floor, it would remain as part of the shout of
pain made fact in
the atoms of silica, magnesium,
calcium, oxygen and hydrogen. No one would
ever break
the bonds. Blood stains leaked from the mouth as
spittle are
cruel that way."
Abel claims justification. He says she enticed had
seduced him. How absurd. He says his stalking compares
to the feeding
frenzy of the white shark. Meanwhile,
Lilith, at home, the dutiful housewife
salivates
imagining the tit and the blood spectacle when the
woman was
taken.
Later that night, at about 2 AM on the 11th of April
Laurie
dumped without ceremony on the hidden garage
floor at 1090 River Road,
Edgewater, NJ slithered out
of the tarp that bound her inside. First her
head
appeared. Her arms reached out. Tied, her arms bound
banged against
several empty boxes thrown near the
garbage can. As she moved, and Lilith
and Abel
observed, commenting on her inability to move well,
Laurie
freed her mouth from the gag and screamed
again.
Lilith calmly
walked over to the frightened woman and
kicked her full in the cunt with
boot telling Laurie
the next kick will hit the child.
Doubled up in
pain, Laurie held back, shook
uncontrollably clutching her sex. As she
shrieked
silently on the cement, Lilith leaned on her body
picking on it
like a huge bird, her talons and beak
snapping at tits, cunt, ass and
especially her
pregnant belly. Laurie, blindfolded, felt it all, and
as
she squirmed, crying out once, twice, and then
silent when Abel tired of the
suffering. It made him
uncomfortable. He shot Laurie up with just enough
morphine for her body weight plus a bit for being an
ex drug addict.
Abel always researched the medical history of his
victims. Had full
medical charts stolen from her Dr's
office?
Lilith annoyed at Abel
for putting Laurie to sleep
screamed at her brother. "This one you will not
let go
as that blond Parker bitch last year. They will find
us this time
if you are that fucken stupid.
"Don't get attached to her. As soon as
she delivers, I
will slowly suffocate the bitch and you help. Until
then, have your fun, as I will. Don't cross me, I can
kill you just as
easily as anyone."
End Day One: "Captivity of Laurie
Fallon"
FIVE YEARS EARLIER: 1987
TxM6 Chapter
Three
Gargoyles: The Herrig Estate
Journal of Henry
Whitman
Friday April 17, 1987
HENRY WHITMAN
Henry Ezra
Whitman, 45 years old, bespectacled with an
easy smile and cleft chin,
understood acceptance and
rejection. A tall muscular and artistic man, he
labored for 70 hours a week driving a taxi for Hudson
Street Cab Fleets.
In the remainder of his daily life
he wrote poetry, loved his many children,
and madly
drove his life beyond even the memory of limitations.
Isn't
that what we all do?
TAXI YARD: 6 AM:
Before Henry left the taxi
yard, he clipped his watch
to the sun visor, stepped back out of the cab,
and
inspected it for spare, jack, tire iron, dents, dings
and cum stains
on the back and front seat.
Adjusting the mirrors, then looking back at
the rows
of yellow and beige cabs lined up evenly almost as if
a ruler
had been used on both sides of the narrow
parking spaces, Henry pulled
straight back breaking
clear.
Riding the circles of the steering
wheel, he begat his
day with the clean taste of burnt coffee and change
box, maps and one stale buttered roll. On the floor in
a cloth bag,
Henry carried a camera, tape recorder,
two books of poetry, a novel and a
notebook for those
scribbled images digested on the taxi stand
At
6:04 AM Henry passed the taxi stand on his way to
the time call. Smiling at
his the long faces of the
drivers, he passed them knowing he could be there
on
the stand tomorrow bull shitting with them how much
the driver had
paid off the dispatcher.
Don't have to be there until 8:00, Henry
thought. Take
the easy way to make sure. Morristown, NJ is about an
hour
from Fort Lee. Anything can happen on Friday.
Henry decided not to stop
at the diner for an egg and
bacon sandwich. Driving one handed, he wolfed
the
stale buttered roll that tasted like taxi throwing
half of it out
the window when the traffic stalled.
Henry usually rode the back roads to
avoid the terror
of morning traffic around the GW Bridge.
Falling
down Central in Palisade Park, he turned left
on Broad and right at Route
46. He was not surprised
that broken down Route #46 already had construction
crews lined up on both sides of the road. One old
timer told Henry that
he remembered when Route 46 had
opened. "I was a boy," he said, "in 1931.
Same year
the bridge opened. It was just the same then. It had
those
same bumps and the worst accidents. No one knew
how to drive then."
Looking at his watch and forward at the merging
traffic, Henry
relaxed. Congestion wasn't that bad.
Maybe I will have some time to really
look at this
place all the drivers claim is fancy. Like Joe said.
He called it a "piece of fucking work.
Taking Route #80 west off 46,
Henry intending to get
off 80 and back on 46 before I-287 traffic stopped up
like traffic outside the Meadowlands complex after any
sports
event.
Forty minutes early, Henry pulled up to the gate of
the Herrig
Estate. One solitary guard met dressed in
what appeared to be a historic
Nazi uniform stopped
him at the checkpoint. Raising his hands in that grand
gesture of STOP, the guard frowned when Henry ran his
cab to one inch of
the white wooded halt sign. It
actually said HALT with the rest written in
German. It
looked as if it was a prop for a Nazi movie.
Henry
laughed thinking what if I had just ran this son
of a bitch mother fucking
nazi border guard down.
Should have done it to Adolf Shickelgruber in 1923.
Henry was irritated and his mind leaped to other
violence. "I hate
anti-Semites, Henry lisped to
himself. Not a Jew, but I hate them.
They made the
world more horrible than it really is. Maybe they
didn't,
who the fuck knows, he thought. I hate what I
think when I meet them. Fucken
Nam.
Sometimes, when driving in New York City, Henry
imagined losing
the brakes and plowing into fifty
pedestrians at the cross walk.
Henry never fully reasonable or predictable was,
however, peaceful.
Worn down from Nam, He did think
the unthinkable, and he wondered why when
it was over,
and the outburst done, did he feel uncomfortable with
himself.
Many taxi drivers hoard mysteries. One of Henry's was
public. In 1986, just a year before, Henry had been
caught fucking an
eighteen-year-old college freshman.
She had been a student in one of Henry's
creative
writing classes at City. She claimed when caught (got
pregnant)
that although she loved him, she had fucked
him for good grades. Henry
simply said she had earned
it by her writing and I paid for the abortion.
"I can't help it," Henry told his best friend Aaron
about that time.
"She refused the money and had the
kid. She claims she never told the
school. She said
they found out from another student. She called the
kid
Henry. Wrote me that she wanted to always remember
what I had added to her
life beside the child. It was
a gracious letter, but I didn't answer it. I
figured
she would line up for her support payments like
everyone else.
She didn't, but then her family lives
in the Hamptons and she drove a
vintage Thunderbird.
No one really cared why Henry had fucked her. Henry
accepted responsibility and didn't argue or whine
about it. "I was
stupid for getting caught, he told
Aaron.
Despite the lunacy of sex,
war and the failure of
profit in a cab, Hudson Street taxi drivers liked and
respected Henry. Henry was a down to earth man with
brains, Frank told
Henry. "The guys like you" because
you don't make them feel like shit.
They just don't
understand why you are a cab driver.
Elected
President of the union one year, Henry lost it
the next when he won the
union held grand lottery and
kept the prize. Some members claimed he had
fixed it.
The charge was never proven.
Henry was a war hero. Served
in Nam as a combat Medic
for fourteen months. Local VFW and Legion hated
that
he turned the medals back to the soldiers who had
earned them. They
also hated that he refused to
participate in the marches and the benefits.
He told
them I go to East Orange on Vet days. I am there once
a month.
Send your boys down there with me, and I will
show them the heroes. "This
ain't WWII," He added.
Henry like many Vets made the pilgrimage to the
wall
to leave them there. Henry rarely talked about Nam,
but when one
asshole questioned his service there.
Henry took the fuck by the lapel and
screamed in his
face without hitting him, "I know fucken death. I
stuck
it, I cleaned it, and I bagged death almost
every day. Get the fuck out of
here before I forget I
can go to jail for blowing your brains
out."
Looking at the Gestapo guard talking on the phone,
presumably
to the fare, Henry hoped he had not made
this fucked up trip for nothing.
Using the double
speak of cab drivers, Henry thought, Shit I will wait.
I don't really care how long it takes. I am here on
time. Even if they
cancelled, I would get paid. At the
same time he was pissed and complained
every few
minutes hitting the steering wheel but not hitting the
horn.
Henry often made it through his driving shift
balancing patience
with irritation. Driving himself
out of madness, he would punch the dark
period at the
end of a softer line as he rolled within his taxi
toward
his own mind. These odd thoughts he collected
walking about he called
walkabouts after the tennis
player Goolagong.
Using this blank time
Henry filled himself with these
flights of insanity. As they were sometimes
self
destructive, Henry wrote them in the margins of his
poems as lonely
images forlorn and graphically
violent. They give tension to the poem or
story, he
once told a student. Why do I find it hard to lie and
stay
insane? Why can I not lie like anyone else?
What's kept me sane?
Certainly not this fucked up job.
Perhaps, It's my equal desire to be left
alone and to
be involved.
Stalled, almost at zero time, the
gatekeeper leaned
too far into Henry's driver side window and said.
"About two miles as the crow flies."
"Get the fuck out of here, your
breath stinks," Henry
rolled up the window.
The rent a Nazi cop had
no sense of humor. Mumbling
through the closed window he told Henry the
obvious
that he would have to wait but the family wanted him
to wait up
by the house.
"No shit." Henry laughed.
Hitting the gas too hard,
Henry raced through the gate
but not before the wooden barrier slammed down
into
the rear deck of the taxi just missing the rear
window.
THE
PROMISED LAND
Henry rode slowly into questionable domains. This
forest hidden from two major suburban highways drove
him slower.
Captured by the unkempt foliage, Henry
smiled at that improbable irony.
Imagine living in a
world so peaceful? Would it ever become ordinary?
Answering, he thought. It is good that we have islands
like this to set
us apart from the tedium of watching
the enfolding and its revival; all in
one long playing
record.
What if, Henry thought, magical fountains,
sprites,
and fairies emerged from beneath the grass carpets.
Alice in
wonderland would be tame. Just like Lewis
Carroll, Henry understood that
this place like Alice's
was not of this world. I do not feel invited and yet
I
have absolute privacy. Why am I not lonely here?
Entering the
estate, Henry crept along the road as a
peaceful horse and rider searching
for easy ground and
a safe entry. He had heard about the Herrig mansion
from other drivers and had anticipated the expanse of
its landscape.
This was larger, more formidable. Like
walking inside Louis XIV's private
garden. It was the
forest primeval. Imagine what you would encounter, if
a man had transported plants and buildings whole from
his past in
Germany
Advance driver gossip as usual had underestimated the
place.
If it didn't have tits and ass, most of the
drivers were not interested.
They might even think you
were queer if you collected wild flowers and read
philosophy and poetry while in the holding pen called
the taxi
stand.
Living within the plastic taxi, pines crossed and the
images
flickered. Henry marched back to the late 1940s
English movies of Alfred
Hitchcock. Rebecca and
Notorious were the fare that made you think and want
to fuck almost at once. These movies unlike the Herrig
mansion seemed a
misplaced metaphor that passion for
wealth and dark sexual
obsession.
If I walked inside too long, Henry laughed, I might
discover the year 1887. It could just as easily been
2088. Inside
anything, you never seem to understand
all of it at once.
What did I
expect? Should I have imagined foxes
running after hounds? Might be
wonderful if I could
make what I do in these next few moments last longer
than good sex or a bad movie.
Why does this place remind me of death?
Why do I think
of myself falling under the thunder of horses? There
is
that gasp of fraud I felt in Nam. Something here is
also a lie. When I
jumped off the transport plane,
dropping easily on to the tarmac, I thought
I was
already dead.
Knowing that heat Henry felt the rot within
death
before dying. Perhaps if I die, I will not die, he
told one SGT
who laughed at the medic philosopher as
Henry was called.
Opposite I
know, but that could be the way out of
becoming another blind
statistic.
Some wag started calling Henry Plato until Henry
smacked
the fuck alongside the head and they rumbled
in the usual fist up your ass
army kick him in the
balls street fight.
Fear never stopped Henry. He
stepped into it. Death is
that moment when you have no thought. You are
there
pissing and moaning and in the next breath you are
spit stains and
a hand full of paperwork sent back to
Headquarters.
I do not want to
leave, Henry thought. Gathered it all
in breathing the scent of rare flowers
and happy
insects, He knew he must walk in this garden and
possess at
least a moment at its center.
Turing progressively inward, Henry felt the
pull of
circle and its gravity. He wondered if the turning
would end. Or
was this a romantic heaven and a hell
around the corner. Where is
perfection?
She was magnificent, Henry thought intentionally using
the female pronoun to describe the Herrig place.
Just like a great
show girl: this place is just too
fucken beautiful for any ordinary man. How
can you
imagine fucking her? Yes, at that moment she going
down on you
and your fingers are milking all parts of
her at once.
Imagine a
remote wilderness just off a major
Interstate Highway. Also imagine that
every square
foot had been planned. Each tree, shrub and weed had
been
bought, nurtured and backed up, replicated
hundreds if not thousands of
times. What a marvelous
obsession, Henry thought. How many beautiful detail
can one-person know?
Turning, his circle decomposed, Henry rode the
"peaceful loops" inside towards the main house like a
captured serpent
thrown into a large fish tank. He
felt every hidden eye record his position.
He played
each step stage by stage.
Drunk on multiple colors of
green and red, umber and
sienna, Henry stopped for a second time along the
side
of the road to ride himself backward out of the
quagmire.
Far beyond the gate now, Henry rode for what seemed
like miles
without change or any sense of destination.
Turning around, he backtracked.
Everything old inside
the foliage seemed new.
Lost in green texture
he stepped out of the cab amazed
that he could be lost on a road without
turns.
Taking five, military style, squatting by the front
tire, he
sucked on long grass and watched two rabbits
fucking. Henry wondered. Who
will believe that? Who
ever notices when rabbits fuck? Am I dead? Could this
be nightmare heaven?
Looking up at the gray thick April sky Henry
shrugged
his shoulders as if to ask for directions or more of
anything,
but his request didn't include the rain that
had started. It was cold
shower. February was still
here, Henry thought, turning lights and
windshield
wipers on at once.
Driving again, pumping his foot from
gas to brake,
Henry turned at the sign he had missed the first time.
GARGOYLES
Driving up to the stables set back from the road,
Henry memorized the carved wood gargoyles that
decorated the window
frames. Henry would transform
them later into magical characters with their
own
language and original vocabulary. Henry took it all
it, saving it as
he did images written in notebooks.
If I didn't drive a cab, Henry mused, I
wouldn't know,
would I?
Poetry had odd sources. Henry saved the
images for
other reasons. I want those subtle textures that make
light
into film and words for display. Henry shivered.
Death lurks out about
that tree line there, and
pointed it out to himself, where he felt the
danger.
In this place of mind, Henry accepted that he might
never
know more about it what he would experience in
the next few minutes. I don't
want to leave before I
have one chance to at least know it from the inside.
I
don't want to be a cab driver here. I don't want to
serve these folks
and their palace guard. I want to
live here and keep it all.
The year
is 1887 not 1987, Henry imagined. I can't
write this down. I would have to
stop the cab and turn
on the tape recorder. I might reverse the spell if I
stopped even for a moment?
Superstitious, Henry feared that he never
understand
this place from the outside. Taking a chance on
changing the
present, Henry pulled his tape recorder
out, Henry wrote his mind.
Marking his life there, he replayed it laughing and
tense when he
heard his past speak carefully and with
precise diction his wonderful off
center lecture.
Something important would happen, Henry thought.
Later, when that turned out to be true, he realized
while listening to
the tape that he predicted it.
Yes, I want a cascade of trumpets and a
flourish of
drums as I enter. Henry loved grand entrances. At that
moment, he smiled and started to sing the Stars
Spangle Banner in full
voice laughing at the way the
ground and horizon waved him unsteady.
Stopping the
song before the finish, he realized if somebody saw
him
now, they might think him drunk.
Under his breath, in his thoughts,
Henry said without
bravado to himself, please sacred father, let me live
again what I feel right now. Just like Vietnam, I want
to be lost and
found in the same instant.
Suddenly jerking the cab easily around
three-
construction backhoes directly in his path, avoiding
them, Henry
saw a sick headline: TAXI DRIVER ARRESTED
FOR DRUNKEN DRIVING ON HERRIG
ESTATE.
I never step in shit like this; Henry laughed at his
good
fortune. He saw the spectacle of this call in all
its parts at once and
almost stopped thinking.
Yes, I know I was fucken lucky. I'd tell anyone
that.
This is how I get through life. Turning away to run
home to the
winding stairs of Coole and Yeats, driving
his mind deeper into the Herrig
maze he would
rediscovered with his Darwinian and pagan architect
not
the origin of the species but rather a future
tense imperfect passion for
indescribable disorder,
incest and abuse.
How did Henry know any of
this before it happened?
Good Question. He did.
What is anyone's
origin after all, Henry mused. How is
this seemingly perfect order, disorder
or stew for
robins and rodents?
FRONT DOOR
No one saw the
Herrig place as a whole. Henry flashed
back to his driving and the present.
I will write
about it. Make it into a corrupt movie about porn
stars and
political tricksters. Perhaps I can find a
unique President to be the
principal John. No, wait.
Why do I want to turn the classic into the
prurient?
Henry gripped the steering wheel and expertly turned
the paths
as they closed. Nothing will change here no
matter what I write. Beauty is
as innocence corrupted.
This place is more than a collection of living
objects. Nothing I do will alter the sequence of their
incorporation. Yes, I can say that. It is more than
any illusion
or trick. Just like the paintings my
friend Aaron paints. He created grand
abstractions
based on natural forms. He sometimes used a model, but
never painted her surface, but rather the interior. He
said he saw it as
a contrast of forces. Making these
floor to ceiling fifteen foot long
constructs and
larger, he bound his models inside the case of paint
and
paper. They were there, but not there. I caught
their eclipse, he said. The
Herrig place reminded me
of how and not just what he painted.
I loved
watching Aaron create the first steps, Henry
thought as he watched the
falling maple pods litter
the lawn. First he coated the stretched canvas and
then marking the rectangular border with black and
white papers he
decorated the wet plaster paint like
footsteps caught in the middle of a
sudden volcanic
eruption. Aaron said about his painting. I am the
recording engineer. He happened fifty million years
ago.
April
17, 1987
Stopping the cab fifty feet from the main gate, Henry
took
one look back to watch for magical tree lines and
claymores in the boughs of
maples and oaks. If the
fare had noticed him lurking, they might think he
was
having trouble with the cab and call the company.
Henry moved
forward and lurked closer to the LZ.
Henry always said he never cared
what people thought.
He realized that was a lie. Just before pulling up to
the front door of the main house he decided that he
liked being there
and didn't want to fuck up the
possibility of future calls. He knew he
was a taxi
driver. That was his obvious role. He knew he had
little
control over when he could leave and where and
how far he could travel.
Finally, when Henry moved up, took his place at the
front door,
Henry that the Herrig place was
uncorrupted, authentic, and not fake. How
could such a
man love the Third Reich? It did not fit any model of
the
world outside. Yes, it is not a collection of
objects but form and force
compressed into one scheme
with multiple plots and infinite varieties of
color
and value.
Like Matisse, Henry recalled, the impossible in art
is
before and after the mark on the margin to note
accident. Is any
great art without accident?
Am I always at creation, Henry asked? I know
how death
tastes. Copper blood and Iron masks wrap around my
forearm
while I fought death in every firefight at
every LZ. I lost too many rounds
by default, but I
survived somehow.
The man was already dead but I
was too stupid to know.
There are steps in death. Knowing them as absolutes
is
too difficult for one person to decipher. Sometimes,
it takes two or
more. Then there are arguments, and no
one knows any answer.
HENRY
WHITMAN
Taxi drivers are great with the canned lines. Yes sir,
Henry
laughed as he continued to drive down the rich
man's driveway expecting to
find some old couple
arguing about a diseased heart monitor that would need
its batteries changed. He wondered pulling into
another circle to settle
down for the millennium wait.
Any yesterday, Henry was alone and mad.
April 17, 1987
might change that, but then again perhaps not. Being
fulfilled would certainly not corrupt his cynicism.
His questions made
for his answers. Henry would not
accept that extension and not limitation
for five
years. It would take love to excite that capacity.
Love would
start today. The journey from Gate to House
might be considered his first
test. Why is art
important and questions about art more significant?
Henry believed that the visual mind knew more than the
verbal. That
transformation from object to thought was
the one act of genius.
Pure
creation (genius) may be the chance recognition
of any accident. When we
select a word or a hue and
place it in a frame and note its combinations and
layers, perhaps that is like the selection of people
in our lives. We
never know whom we will find inside
where we complete the edges of where we
know and how
we were before we knew. How will it be later is always
the
bottom question.
Henry did not know today he would meet Laurie Fallon.
She had requested him when she called for a cab. She
knew that he
thought she was much too young and had
avoided her. She also knew from
Angela that Henry had
no idea that her family was rich and decadent. She
didn't care about that except as a mental aside.
Laurie was
depressed and strung out on cocaine and H,
uppers and downers, acid and
relaxants, lying and
fucking. She wanted death as she wanted a new coat.
Make my life whole she thought. How did Laurie know
that Henry would
save her life?
When she came out of the Herrig estate, Henry was
startled when he saw her walk down the steps. No one
was with her. No
one helped with the bags.
The land had bewitched him. That was what it
was.
Laurie lost no time and gathered him into her pocket.
Five
years later the man called Abel and woman called
Lilth would kidnap her.
During that time, Henry taught
Laurie poetry and he called her God; said she
spoke in
tongues. He taught what all the others had missed. At
the
beginning and the end he loved her poetry. He said
her poem, "Camera of
Myself," was the perfect poem. He
knew that because he was jealous of it. He
often had
said in the past that he could only be in love with a
woman if
he loved her poetry more than his. Henry
loved Laurie.
When they were
stoned, he would call out to Laurie,
insist that her name was Christ Tina or
Saint Chrissy
or Spirit Faith. He said that she was the fourth
daughter
of God. He would then refuse to name the
other three when Laurie challenged
him. He answered
you are all four.
Standing next to her, out of time,
five years later,
Henry's hand reached up for what he knew. This time,
Laurie was not here. Abel had taken her captive.
TxM6:
Chapter Four
Abel and Lilith
Half brother and sister, Maria
Corvino seven years
older than Antonio had always dominated her younger
brother. The incestuous pair had slept with their
mother Victoria in the
same bed from Antonio's
infancy.
In 1986, one year before Antonio
left to study
medicine in England, Victoria married Maria and
Antonio in
a secret rite. While Abel was gone, once a
year, Maria and her mother
enticed men and one woman
to their bed. After sex with mother and daughter,
the
man or woman was murdered while he or she slept. No
one ever missed
them. All the male victims were empty
souls without roots or address. The
lone woman had
been a runaway teenager Maria had befriended. When the
girl got pregnant Maria murdered her jealous that
after a self induced
abortion she could not have a
child herself.
In 1989, Antonio
returned from the UK without winning
a diploma. Victoria knew she was dying
of cancer and
had summoned her son home. Once there, Antonio
promised
his mother he would start a family with his
sister. Maria had recently had
an operation to open up
her one remaining tube.
Just ordinary folks
Victoria made Maria promise to
always protect her brother. Victoria insisted
that
Antonio promise to obey his sister.
With Antonio present,
Maria murdered her mother while
she slept. They buried her in a crypt under
the
Palisades. After her mother's death, Antonio and Maria
took the
names Abel and Lilith.
In January 1990 Abel kidnap his first pregnant
woman.
He brought her home to his sister as a bound captive.
After the
woman gave birth, Lilith butchered the
mother and set all but one of the
children free.
Eleven women had died before Laurie abducted by Abel
in 1992 had turned the tables on Lilith, murdering the
Genesis killer,
and setting Lilith's child by Abel
free. The man, Antonio, self-named Abel,
an almost
doctor of some malignant Faustian will, knew how to
drug her.
In June Laurie's daughter Molly would be
part of the spoils that he and his
sister Lilith
schemed to free. Lilith believed that once the mother
was
dead, the child was safe. She told Abel that story
when he was
nineteen. When Abel was nine, she sucked
his cock. When he was twelve
she fucked him while
their mother shouted out suggestions for positions
having taken her own turn.
Years later, fucking, rocking back and
forth, Abel
held his dear half sister, seven year older, upon his
unfit
young prick that reached into her sex. While he
fucked, Abel imagined their
children gathered about
him. Lilith, on a different page, imagined the
mothers
tortured and mutilated and the children invisible.
Within
minutes after the attack, Abel drove the fan to
"the Factory," as he and
Lilith called it. Married by
their own mother the genesis pair wallowed in
their
extravagant cave. Lilith's great grandfather had
erected it in
1929 with blue stones he had carved from
the Palisades. This was three years
before the George
Washington Bridge opened to traffic.
The edifice,
hide out, holding pen, had been further
adapted to protect another maniac
relative paranoid
delusions of a nuclear blast derived from a 1960s Dr.
Strange Love charm.
Abel's Uncle surrendered to the hysteria until
being
arrested for the lewd fondling of children the
Bradford family
tree had unfurled. The Uncle, one of
Victoria's lovers had left it to his
favorite niece
when he was murdered in prison.
Dug into the
palisades, ventilated and provisioned,
Able and his sister took over the
building after their
mother's murder.
No one could have possibly
imagined the quiet house
and blue stones held life in contempt. No one could
imagine that the place of death was well within sight
of a police
station barely a football field down the
road. Fifteen murders were
committed there and no one
suspected the crypt behind the house set into the
palisades held the hearts and sexual parts of the
victims pickled like
old Lenin in the Kremlin.
Inside the far end of the cave, deep inside the
factory, Able and Lilith spent their minds plotting
the death of women
and freedom for the children using
their masks and totems to preserve their
self centered
"paradise." As the great prince and queen of
prurience,
they filled septic tanks with moldy green
body parts that their pain and
anger had surveyed.
--------
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Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher All
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