TAXI MURDERS SEXTET TxM6; THE BOOK OF SHEILA Malachi
Mac Donagh (1923-1993) Family History Malachi’s DOB: Wednesday,
August 19, 1923
by Sean Farragher

Malachi Daedalus Mac Donagh was born eight years before the dear George Washington Memorial bridge opened. The GW bridge, a single roadway until 1962, was a far piece ahead of the plot. 1923 was early. Bradford, PA was not Fort Lee, NJ. The windows shake outside when the lapsed years collided like freight trains. Every where is ground zero some day or another.

"What unholy drivel," Malachi laughed at the meandering of his thought! Jeanne rested, turned her back to observe Malachias, shortened to Malachi, who Jeanne also called "Mike," as an easy charm, not to affront.

Jeanne was elegant and cheap, graceful, and stumbling, as opposites. What we had assumed was vulgar, another day would be genius or assumed by the creator as art.

Malachi was hard and soft, loud and silly, almost quiet in a careful light that settled on warriors. His naked ass was hard, a bump to invade, as Jeanne did that first morning, carefully molding his cheeks as men did, usually in careless first intimacy, fondled, shaped a lover's breasts- not accepting gravity as conspirator.

Jeanne searched the hard belly, resumed, she carefully opened his eyes to her practiced fingers as they treaded the abdomen to the source, sampling the flood as great water falls: flowers, broken petals descended across the movie scene.

"Hail the Director, Jeanne sang, "he will find the scene. Look how he has bent the page and assumed control. Consider Incest? Fathers consorted with daughters, and the Judge had no mercy. Intimacy. See the 432nd page of Malachi's book? What was the title? "My Daughter Lost Me."

"Here's a few lines," Laurie recites them.

"Who was turned away, now really, asked Val, after dark, as pillow talk with spiked drinks and marked passages, wet, limp pages, dappled in the corner of fluid cunny"?

VOICE FROM THE FUTURE as Voice Over. Where's the well, Jeanne 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 1964. Where was 1992 after all"?

"Who's kidding who"? I never touched my kids," Malachi screamed. "Let's get it straight. My great grand parents were brother and sister. OK, so what. Could I change that? You tell me how. Yes, I know. I married my second cousin, compounding the alleged genetic flaw. Maybe, I'm better for it. Can you tell me that I am not"?

"Now, you can't hold me responsible for Jeanne or Luther, or Sheila, for that matter? I have no idea who my children will fuck or not. I am not the one that was corrupt? Get it straight.

„Malachi, dear," Jeanne spoke, as if she had wanted to hide her voice.

Jeanne lifted her head and opened her blouse, removing it, pushing out her breasts, examining the nipples, provoking them, setting them up, dropping them, gauging their free fall. I love to bounce them she thought, twisting around like a great Yankee slugger to follow their curve. Afterwards, Jeanne 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," Jeanne as narrator spoke. "It's not the end of the novel, February 1993. I am locked backwards in 1964, and myself, Jeanne, is a grown child at 19 playing the vamp with Malachi. I know he will be pleased, Jeanne said, speaking in a high tone to herself, that I turned out so well."

Stretching the mirror Jeanne 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 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," Jeanne thought. "I am perfect."

See the seminal Flood, Malachi pledged speaking aloud as a poet might.

"Rivers of spermatozoa cling to the finger tips; resist the drip from the base of Jeanne 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 Jeanne affect the mal ease we assume befits any guest at his own funeral.

"Where was the 50s dance when I could have swung it," Jeanne asked, years later, when out of a more common plight, as dark fake eels pretended the deadly reform, Jeanne 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, Jeanne 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: "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, Jeanne, 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 Jeanne had been taught to hide. Young lady's don't show their underpants, when they sit down, the piano teacher frowned at Jeanne, at the recital, with parents beaming, and Luther certainly not embraced.

The year is 1964. Let's keep the record straight. Malachi is thirty four. Jeanne, nineteen. Malachi had married Carol Simms in 1950.

When he met the teenage Jeanne (1956) who had worked the diners off the highway starting onetime just after her thirteenth birthday, Malachi told Jeanne he loved his wife. Malachi and Carol have three children. Saints do not lie. Years apart don't matter.

Forget 1964 or 1956. 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 or not so innocent spirit cannot be forgiven.

"I was Born of it All," Jeanne 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, Jeanne said, "and I can do what the fuck I want. Jeanne mesmerized by Malachi, who had assumed Luther's mask, to provoke some great scene, isn't that what soap operas do, when the climax. the friction, conflict planned in each scene, exposed by fraud, or an empty stage, theater, audience, script. Who wrote that trash, you ask? Resolution. Ah. 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 JEANNE WORKING AS B MOVIE STAR.

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

"Where will I work next week," Jeanne asks her agent on the phone screaming at him? What soap? Aren't I a contract player? What the fuck is going on.

Calmer, Jeanne 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 Jeanne'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-two year old sex pot teen star Jeanne Herrig (playing 14 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.

Jeanne 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 Jeanne. 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, Jeanne 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. Jeanne 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, Jeanne laughed sitting down and becoming quite calm in a few moments.

Turning to the camera, Jeanne 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 ya know.

Jeannie 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 Jeanne had not lost interest.

Lighting up a cigarette, "We've come a long way baby, Jeanne 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.

GETTING BACK TO THE ACTUAL LAURIE FALLON WORLD: 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 loves Henry Whitman. Scene takes place just before Laurie will be abducted by Lilith and Abel. 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 not the first nor the last to be taken. Jeanne and Malachi are Laurie's mother and stepfather. Malachi is the only stepfather that did not sexually abuse his step daughter. 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. Jeanne never spoke about it. She set it up none the same.

II. Another voice apparently off stage, intones. "What an ass. Pretense? Who? Me, Jeanne or Malachi. -Got to keep the show moving after all. There's the trumpet flourish. Fanfare. Going ape for some bitch or dick that's me. Jeanne 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 thinks,? 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 cats. You know he had real tits, a cunt, balls, and a prick; No asshole though, and really not a transsexual, transvestite wannabe.

Hermaphrodite. Not really. Can't truly fuck himself. If the Gadfly was the real thing once, Jeanne 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, then falling silent. Jeanne lists his attributes, counting off her fingers, speaking them silently, moving her lips.

"Need a lip reader, here. Call Bill Watson's agent. He's good. See what he's doing now. Maybe he's available," the Sex Kitten warbles. Then continuing, Jeanne whispers, getting louder, "Man made in the image of the Spirit. Is the spirit the character, Gender? The art of coupling difference. 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 Jeanne 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, then white.

Enter Lady Mac Beth holding Laurie Fallon, the ninth Taxi Murders! victim, and our Sex Kitten, number one, with a 32 share, what a TV super star, the old woman, dressed as Lady Macbeth, really her mother Jeanne 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." And now Mac Beth's speech ends,

..."signifying nothing."

Repeat phrase: Lady Mac Beth did say: "Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What's done cannot be undone. 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 can't 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, talking to themselves.

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. "but 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's left. Can't see him.

He's 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, now Henry Whitman. Lover and murderer. Will the 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. But 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 don't take care of business. You take care of your business. What do you do"? -"Movie actress. Whee. They call you 'Sex Kitten.' I know. I saw you on PORN XX 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 of 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!"

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From Taxi Murders Sextet; Hyperfiction Novel TxM6
Copyright (c) 1999 Sean Farragher All Rights Reserved.
Role Play with the characters in the novel. http://www.egroups.com/group/txm6/info.html

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