Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 14 -- The mistake.

By the end of the year I had copped a new thirty-nine Hog. I had blown Jo Ann ninety days after I got her. She was too possessive and she didn't really have the guts for a long stretch in the street.

I didn't cry when she left. While I had her, Chris kept her humping. I was thousands ahead of her when she slipped away from Chris in the street.i

A week later I copped a young whore that was a whiz in the street and was hip to boosting. She went ape over Chris. She'd go downtown and come home with shopping bags loaded with fine dresses and underclothes for herself and her sisters.

Later she hipped Chris to boosting. I let them go down together with a stud who drove for them. They filled my closet with beautiful vines.ii

Top got five years on a narcotics rap. The federaliii heat tricked him into a four-piece sale to an undercover agent.iv I sure missed him.v I hung out at Sweet's more than ever.

My name was ringing. The moniker Top hung on me stuck. Everybody was calling me Iceberg, even Sweet. Only I and the several peddlers I copped from knew that my icy front was really backed by the freezing cocaine I snorted and banged every day.vi

I pimped strictly by the book for the next three years. I traded in a Hog each year. I never had less than five girls in the family.vii

I moved out of Top's building and let the family stay there.viii I took a suite in a swank midtown hotel. I had the privacyix, the jewelry, and all the flash and glamour of a successful pimp.x

I had managed to solve the fast track. I was fast becoming one of its legends.

Top had gotten out.xi He was in Seattle with relatives serving out his short parole paper. Only one of his women stuck with him. The rest got in the wind when he fell.

The runt was still bottom woman. Ophelia was still hung up on her. Chris was proving every day she had the qualities for a bottom woman.xii

I noticed the runt was acting like she might be wearing thin fast. The other two whores I had had been stable mates. I copped them when their pimp shot an overdose of H.

I was at Sweet's when Pearl Harbor was bombed. I had stayed all night. I was still in bed.

The friendly brown snake had brought my breakfast. I was just finishing when Sweet walked into the bedroom. He sat down on the side of the bed.

He said, "'Berg, Uncle Sam just got his throat cut. The Slant Eyes just put the torch to Pearl Harbor. Whores gonna make more scratch now than ever before. 'Berg I got a feeling this Second World War is gonna hurt the pimp game in the long run."

I said, "Sweet, how do you figure that?"

He said, "You know a whore ain't nothing but an ex-square. A good pimp wears out a lot of whores in his lifetime. If there ain't no big pool of squares for the pimps to turn out, then stables gotta get smaller.xiii The defense plants are gonna claim thousands of young potential whores. Those square bitches are gonna get those pay checks. They'll get shitty independent. A pimp can't turn them out. The older square broads are going into the plants too. Thousands of them got teenage daughters. They'll have the scratch to fill the bellies of those young bitches. They'll put nice clothes on their backs. Why the hell should they whore for a pimp. They can pimp on Mama.xiv The worse thing is, those plants are inviting whores with strict pimps to split and square up. If the war lasts a long time, pimps will have to turn pussy to hold a whore.xv

"'Berg, ain't but one real Heaven for a pimp. He's in it when there's a big pool of raggedy, hungry young bitches."

The war was raging. The defense plants were grinding out war goods around the clock. Thousands of young and old broads were slaving in them.

As far as I was concerned, the pool was still full of fine fish. I had three original girls and three new cops.

It was December, nineteen-forty-four. Sweet was still pimping good for an old man. He was down to seven women, but this was great pimping for a stud his age. Top had settled out West.

I had held Chris, Ophelia, and the runt a long time. Since thirty-eight I had copped and blown sixty to seventyxvi whores and turnouts.xvii

The turn-over in turnouts was big. Some of them would hump for a month and split. Some a week. Others a couple hours before they cut out.xviii Sweet had been so right years ago. The pimp game was sure "cop and blow."

I spent Christmas day with Mama. She was really happy to see me. She hadn't seen me since thirty-eight. She cried as always when I left her.xix

The runt was getting tired and evil.xx Several of those turnouts she had run away from me.xxi All new turn-outs I was giving to Chrisxxii to polish in the street.

I started sending the runt to small towns near army camps. Some of them were out of state. Sometimes Ophelia went with her. A week before I met Carmen, the runt and Ophelia had come back from a weekend in Wisconsin.

The runt and the other five girls were with me when I copped the seventh girl.

She was almost a perfect copy of the runt at eighteen. She had a prettier face than the runt had at eighteen. Her features were more regular. Time and street had bulldogged the once cute Peke face of the runt.

We were at a cabaret. Carmen was behind a twenty-six game table in the barroom. I left my table and went to the john. I passed Carmen on the way. She gave me a strong lick.xxiii

On the way back I stopped and tossed a quarter on her table and rolled the dice trying for a score of twenty-six. I hit twenty-six, so I bought us a drink with the score. I stood beside the table and quizzed her. She was from Peoria. She'd been in town a week.

We had old Party Time in common. She had met him up in Peoria where he was still living. He had a whore in a house up there. She had worked in the same house. She had run off from her pimp and she was wide open for a fast cop.

We rapped for fifteen or twenty minutes. I could tell she went for me. She looked at the clock. It was almost closing time. I invited her to have breakfast at the family's pad.

We'd had breakfast.xxiv I was leaving with Carmen. I was going to my place to put her under contract.xxv The runt followed me outside to the hallway. She called me.

I gave Carmen the key to the Hog.xxvi She went toward the elevator. I didn't move toward the runt. I said, "Bitch, you wanna rap to me, come to me."xxvii She had a tight evil look on her face. She walked slowly up to me. Top was right. These bottom broads, when they started to rot, really funked up a stud's skull.

She said, "You ain't thinking about bringing that bullshit bitch into this family are you? That phony bitch ain't shit."xxviii

I said, "What the hell. You mean you're gonna turn down a chance to larceny a new bitch away. You stinking bitch, nobody tells me what bitch to have. You got the nerve to crack some bitch is phony. I had to almost croak you to make you real."

I noticed two of the latest cops were in the open door. They were eyeballing down the hall at our show.

She shouted, "Nigger, you were a raggity nowhere scarecrow until you got me. You didn't have no wheels. You muscled me for mine. Nigger, I'm the bitch that made you great. Without me, right now you'd go to the bottom fast as shit through a greasy funnel."

I made a bad mistake. I shoulda maybe used Top's jellied skull technique to get rid of her.xxix Instead I left-hooked her hard as I could against the jaw. There was a pop like a firecracker going off. She fell to the carpet in a quiet heap. I kicked her big rear end a dozen times. I walked to the elevator. I looked down the hall. I saw Ophelia and Chris dragging her toward the apartment.

The runt got her broken jaw wired up. She split with Ophelia.xxx Chris said she tried to take two of the newer girls with her too. I had made a pimp's classic blunder. I had blown a tired bottom bitch in the rough.

Carmen was an easy cop. A pimp wants everybody who can hump his pockets fat. He's in real clover when he cops a fine young whore who wants him. Carmen really wanted me. She was starting with Chris.

Six months later Sweet called me early in the morning. His voice was laced with excitement. I jerked erect in bed.

He said, "'Berg, I got a wire the F.B.I is nosing around some of the broad lock-ups.xxxi They're quizzing whores. Your name has been cracked more than once. It looks like they already got a solid beef to go on. It's my guess they're trying to build a five or six count rap against you."

I said, "Sweet, I bet it's that stinking runt. Christ! Sweet, I've sent her and Ophelia across state lines a dozen times since the war started.xxxii They're trying to ram a white-slave rap into me, Sweet. What would you do?"

He said, "I would give one of those nice sweet jokers on the West Side expense scratch and a ball-peen hammer. I'd tell him as soon as I read they was found in an alley with their skulls caved in he could get a cinch two grand. It would be easy to trap 'em. They're whores. He'd be just another freakish trick wanting to party with two whores. Tell you what, 'Berg get them whores outta that crib over there fast. Move outta your pad today. Go groundhog. Switch your whores to new stomping grounds. Stay outta the street after you move. Call me when you get outta there."

He hung up. I thought, "I'm a sucker. I shoulda destroyed the runt Top's way."

I had moved the stable and myself to new pads by seven that night. Chris, my new bottom woman, was the only one in the family who knew the reason for the move.

I took the Hog and put it in a garage I rented from an old widower. The garage was behind his house in a respectable neighborhood.

I got a cab to one of my stuff connections. I was going underground. I had to have at least a piece of stuff. I had copped and was walking down the street looking for a cab.

I passed a barber shop. I got a glimpse of the white-spatted dogs of a joker in the barber's chair, next to the window.

I thought, "Geez, that square joker is pitiful. He ain't hip spats went out with high-button shoes."

I was walking fast. I had the sizzle on me. I needed a cab in the worse way. I was almost a half block from the barber shop. I thought I heard some joker yelling, "Run! Run!"

I looked back over my shoulder. A tall skinny stud in a barber's apron was on the sidewalk. His white spats flashed on his feet. He was screaming and flailing his arms like a minstrel clown singing "Mammy."

He was loping down the sidewalk. The out-of-fashion bastard was yelping," Son! Son!" He galloped by the neon lights toward me. His wrinkled brown-skin face changed colors like a chameleon.

He ran into me and clutched me like I was a winning sweepstakes ticket. He was panting and sweating like a whore on soldier's payday. I could smell witch hazel and the stink of emotion sweat. I saw white specks of barber's talc on the bald crown of his head. I couldn't see his face. He had it buried in my chest.

He was blubbering, "Oh son, precious son. Sweet Jesus answered an old man's prayer. He's let me see and hold my one and only son before I got to my heavenly rest."

I had the damnedest thought while he made love to me. I wondered if my skull had chipped any paint off that wall he threw me against when I was six-months old.

I stiff-armed him away. I stared coldly into his face. I saw a weak blaze of anger light his dull brown eyes.

He said, "God don't like ugly, son. You saw your father back there. You ignored me, didn't you?"

I said, "Shit no I didn't see you. I thought you had croaked. Look Jack, I'm happy to see you, but I'm in an awful hurry. See you around."

He said, "I did my part to bring you into this world. You ain't gonna treat me like a dog. Where do you live? You look prosperous. What's your line? Are you with some big company? Are you married to some nice girl? Do I have any grandchildren, son?"

I said, "You haven't heard about Iceberg Slim? He's famous."

He said, "You don't associate with black filth like that I hope."

I said, "Look Jack, I am Iceberg. Ain't you proud of me? I'm the greatest nigger that ever came outta our family. I got five whores humping sparks outta their asses."

I thought he was going to have a heart attack. The apron was quivering over his ticker. He was supporting himself against a lamp post. His face was gray in shock under the streetlight. I jerked my shirt and coat sleeves up past spike hollow.xxxiii I stuck the needle-scarred arm under his nose. He drew back from it.

I said, "Goddamnit Jack, what's the matter? Shit, I shoot more scratch into that arm a day than you make in a week. I've come a long way since you bounced my skull off that wall. Stick your chest out in pride, Jack. I been in two prisons already. Shit, Jack, I'm on my way to the third any day now. You ain't hip I'm important? Maybe one of these days I'll really make you a proud father. I'll croak a whore and make the chair."

I walked away from him. I caught a cab at the corner. The cabbie u-turned. I looked at my old man. He was sitting on the curb beside the lamp post. His white spats gleamed starkly in the gutter. He had his head on his knees. I saw his back jerking up and down. The poor joker was bawling his ass off.

I got home. I called Sweet. I banged a load of cocaine. It was the best I'd copped since Glass Top went to the joint.

Continued >>

———Thousands over ninety days only averages to 30-40 a night, which is so far below his 100 standard he shouldn't have kept her for a whole month. The correct statement is therefore not his preferred "I had blown Jo Ann ninety days after I got her" but rather "Jo Ann was never worth working, yet I was too lazy (or inept) to pressure her until she either stood up or disintegrated, so she just wandered off on her own power a few months later."

During those spurious ten weeks she still took up a bed, and the bed she took up isn't "a bed like any other", three bucks a night, nor is it "a bed in a posh pad", seven bucks a night or whatever they go for on the market. The bed she took up is a bed in this guy's stable, the land values are such that if she's not making the hundred she's got no business soiling those sheets every night, she needs a slower, cheaper outfit to more self-adequately wallow in.

During those spurious ten weeks she still took up Chris' time, and Chris' time isn't free either. She's ten-twenty an hour to her tricks, she's ten-twenty an hour throughout. If Chris gets a pet then that pet'd better be cool enough, hip enough, top-of-its-class enough to justify the ten-to-twenty an hour attention its mistress is bestowing upon it, because she ain't got any other kind. People don't come with an off button, people aren't themselves for some limited interval a day only, to fall back into indistinct socialist morass upon the touch of the magic cutoff ; nor was Chimichurri a duck like any other. It was (truly and really, from experience speaking having myself been there and seen it) a duck in a million, by its personality an' demeanor, by its birthright and unmistakable substance, such as to justify its duck-in-a-milion situation among duckhood. Animals are hip to this whole scene, by the way, Nicole once got a fish that killed itself out of regret it wasn't cool enough to hang with her. That fish did the right thing.

Note incidentally and if you will this pimp-that's-really-a-whore's whorish propensity for making excuses. Are you willing to pass in silence over his failure, made all the more serious by his decided, stubborn ownership, if he offers in token exchange that "he had blown her" ? He's "harsh" on himself, he "takes responsibility", so why shouldn't you cut him some slack ? No ? That doesn't wash ? Well in that case, and just to show you he's got his mind on his money and money on his mind, he was thousands ahead of her!!! Which is just another way of saying bitch scammed him for whatever's left once you substract those "thousands" whatever $1`850 they actually were from the 12-13k he was supposed to have made off her. "Oh, she fucked me out of ten thousand dollars" ain't got the exact same ring to it, huh!

A chump's a chump ; they're born that way, and they die that way. [↩]Wait, wait, what the fuck. Didn't he see Glass Top dealing on the side ? If he dun wanna sell 'em then... why not gift 'em. Give every pimp he meets free suits, all the time. Keep a stash in the LaSalle, and after every introduction "Say, what size are you ? Alright, hang on." Become Iceberg Vines, why the hell not. Slim's too trite and worthless a cognomen anyways. They're fucking free, he gets them incoming at no great cost to him ; and they're the most expensive thing in the known world outgoing : they're a gift. Has this dumb bitch not read the structuralists, is he as unaware of Levy Strauss as any other two bit hooker ? Has the history of the world -- not of the damnably inconsequential colony over there, but of the world -- passed him without a ripple ? Nothing costs more than a gift, for it pays up in information, which is the superlative crystallization of money. Sweet wants to keep "a farm system" for bottom bitches all the while waiting passively for his son to come to him, by himself, on his own power ? What's more important than his own son, cuz money for sure fucking isn't nor could ever be, and he's insanely decided to hate the bitches hip enough, and hot enough, and smart enough and cool enough to live in his barracks and eat his gruel. Here's a ready, wide open farm system for sons, and Slim's too dumb to see it when presented on a silver platter -- well, guess what ? Nothing's more expensive than a gift, for it pays up in information, and Chris is on the other end of the line.

No ? None of that, no room for splendour and glory in his woodworm line of a destiny ? Fine, in that case why not fucking sell 'em, get a stable of small shop vineyards ? Neither ? In that fucking case do not let Chris get a driver for this purpose. Let her find something else, that's actually useful, there's nothing sadder than wasted potential. Chris' time ain't free -- and, if you're curious, the way Chris the beautiful young yellow broad turns into Chris the bitter hateful old whore is precisely through her giving her youth to her man to do as he will with and he not doing much. Just like with squares exactly. My bitches don't look back over three years and see the same shit, let alone fucking thirty! It burns their ass and bothers them immensely, this, because it's human nature to want to think "you're you" and "always the same" and all the rest of the bullshit ; but it burns and bothers the right way, just like anal. The alternative's unthinkably miserable, to say nothing of how it's nothing I'd ever permit. No, I don't turn them out, because you're too poor for anything like that ; but such circumstantial detail changes exactly nothing. Do you know what the number one thing they're crying about is, when they do cry ? This house being too fast. That's it, and it's precisely as it should be. I ain't slowing down for no-one. [↩]The story of the decay of our northern colonies flows from local law enforcement, the era of "the fix is in", to federal law enforcement, the era of scar tissue. Ever wonder why those 20s had jazz and these 20s have bitches that are cows ? Yes, that's very much why. [↩]And what do we learn from here ?

Nothing ? Nothing at all ? Our own life's just a series of disconnected events, things just happen and that's that ? Bitch. [↩]You're supposed to offer solace to the widow(s) of a fellow soldier fallen in the line of duty. What happened to Top's five girls ?

I'm not even fucking kidding, "Listen, Top, here's ten grand, in cash, take it yourself or tell me what you want done with it. Top, you've got five broads, they're good earners, they don't belong with some two bit joker wasting their time. Give them to me, I'll run them. In five years they might not want to come back, when you're out you might not want them back ; but over those years they're good for a bale of cash. You can have as much as you want, for as long as you're in the can, week in, week out ; and when you're back I swear I'll do nothing else until you've built yourself a stable you're happy with again. Top, I'm here half because of you, I want you back half because of me. Shake it."

Asta inseamna demnitate da om, da smecher, da mafiot, da ceva. [↩]Bullshit. [↩]Isn't five two teams and a half ? [↩]I was of the same school of thought for many, many years (roughly his age) ; but I now much prefer to live in, and for many years have. On occasion they get insufferable enough I send them off, but it's indeed rare, and mayhaps becoming rarer. [↩]The great advantage of slaves over whores is that the very meaning of privacy changes, substantially, and the need for it shrivels, if not completely, then very close to it. [↩]I can't help but feel this "flash" rather empty and this "glamour" rather dry. I can pit my "bitches" in mock gladitorial combat against each other for no reason besides amusement (intellectual, or otherwise -- the combat, as the amusement). I can have an argument over insanely elaborate minutia of literary or any other manner of stacked, layered abstractions, any time, for as long as I care to (and precisely no longer). I waterboard for the fun of the challenge and the challenge of the fun. It's just...

To put it plainly, I wouldn't be a pimp if he paid me (what the fuck could he pay me in?!) while he couldn't be me if he wanted to. [↩]Top was never in to begin with, just serving the time some waffly white chick sentenced him to. [↩]Or at least she was proving every day Slim wanted her to. You ever seen The Roaring Twenties, by the way ? Because this joker's "he used to be a bigshot" level dumb. [↩]This ain't how pressure works. If he's right then stables will get bigger -- at the top ; and evaporate otherwise entirely. The world will go from a hundred pimps with an average stable of three to a dozen pimps with an average stable of twelve, for a net loss of over half the whores. That's how pressure works, though squares prefer calling it "consolidation". [↩]This horror's still ongoing, for the record, which is why none of you studs are pimps, and half of you "studs" are turning whore right and proper, drag &all. [↩]What's more : the plants will turn "nice clothes" into something quite unlike what it was before : accessible instead of inaccessible. They won't be the same nice, or for that matter nice at all ; they won't even be remotely the same clothes -- but a whore's a whore. Sweet's wrong, by the way, it's not the whore that's an ex-square. It's the square that's an ex-whore, and not even that ex at all : the square's a whore that's internalized a [dumb, ineffectual and necessarily misplaced] version of a generic pimp. She's conning herself, which is why she's poor and unhappy. As a factual matter even the dumbest, blindest pimp's still a better choice than the whore's own, secreted in her own head, for the simple reason that an outside observer, even if drunk and not paying attention, is still better navigation than plain ole dead reckoning. So, the whore's a whore, and she'll con herself : that the ugly clothes she's wearing are "nice" because "everyone else has the same ugly, might as well call it nice" and so following.

The "defense plants" aka federal power grab will "put on the market" (in the sense of force-flooding the market with) its own, watered down, ineffectual version of mass pimping ; that it won't be worth anything at all will pale in comparison to its costing almost nothing to produce, making the assholes "in charge" quite ready and willing to force it down everyone's craw. Thus the con game moves from a girl believing in a guy of her choice and his castles in the sky to all the girls believing the mandatorily-"chosen" central aircastle repository. Buy war bonds, pay your "tax" bonds, take "college" bonds, are you a first time home buyer bonds... there's gonna be bonds, and plenty of 'em, because bondage is bondage. Yes, the dumb daughters' bellies will be kept full, with ever shittier hoofpaste, for as long as you keep "believing in the future" and thereby conning yourself that #metoo and happy meals are a better deal than rides in the hog and coathanger whippings. They aren't, of course they aren't, they couldn't possibly ever be -- but a whore's a whore, she can sell herself on anything.

The problem with eating a square meal today out of a sold out dream of the future is that future never comes. Eventually the fake dries out, making their misery, their historical, substantial, omnipresent misery obvious to all. But before it became obvious to all it was still there ; before you knew you're missing a pimp you still were missing a pimp ; and so following. [↩]So basically he's copping a girl a month on average. [↩]Civillians that weren't yet awhoreaware. Awarewhore. How the fuck do you make this stand. [↩]There's this naive idea -- from Hayek maybe, I forget -- that romantic notions and conceits can't ever be dropped back out once they infect the whores' hivemind (meaning, not individual women's heads, but the "culture" or whatever you call it, their social milieu, whatever place their wail behaviour inhabits).

This is of course false, there's no such thing as linear processes in nature ; but it does come in cycles, and yes there was a massive move towards romanticism raging for two or three centuries now, slowly starting in the late 1700s and accelerating by degrees up to a peak about the turn of the 20th century. That's about the period, and yes it's dieing out ; but woe to the pimp of a hundred years ago, because he may well think "it's the plants doing it" -- the problem, fundamentally, was that the great flywheel of kink high was turning such as to make the broads -- dumb and smart alike, they're broads before they're anything else -- tend toward idealising "settling down" and raising some beta's regrettable, spurious offspring, and such nonsense.

It's self-obvious these days that the young runts are much more interested in what the next trick's cock will look & feel like than in what Husband Steve has to say on the 5`459th return home from work, who knows how his day had been. It wasn't anything even remotely like obvious in 1945. To put it plainly, the time of "those great pimps of the slave days" is churning back at hand, the "skull book" ready to be "written" anew and so on. [↩]But does she want to make some motherfuckin' money ? [↩]"She just had really high standards". [↩]"Why would he permit this ?"

"Because she's learned how to defend herself."

"Why would she use that knowledge to fuck things up ?"

"Because she's dumb."

"Why doesn't he get rid of her ?"

"Look, 'she knows how to defend herself' means something specific. She knows how to make each instance look dubious in such a way as to also look not worth establishing for a fact."

"Why doesn't he get rid of her on principle ?"

"He's not principled."

"So he's stuck with her then ?"

"Like all life's stuck with parasites, the flowers with the little sucking midges and the fish with the worms dangling from their branchia."

"There's really nothing he can do ?"

"He'll probably mothball her by degrees, form scar tissue around her, ear wax and lung calculi."

"Life is monstruous."

"So it is." [↩]The question of whether the runt turned evil because he poisoned her with Chris is never getting answered, is it. Too bad. [↩]Notice how he's absolutely never initiating. [↩]Aren't you curious what they had ? I'm curious what they had.

I've had chocolate American pancakes (as opposed to crepes) with pineapple, banana, raisins, confited figs, dried apricots, a drizzle of ginger molasses and I forgot what else. Hannah's managed to make them to my liking again, after managing once randomly off the cuff and then trying on a different day for hours to get them right again and not managing for the life of her. It's still a mystery exactly what in the complex ballet turns these superb chocolate pancakes into inedible clumps in my eyes ; maybe one day we figure it out. [↩]If this is what he uses all that "privacy" for he's dumber than he was at 19. [↩]"Is he insane, giving his car keys to some chick that just ran off from her pimp ?" Con men are some of the most trusting souls, at least by civvy standards. [↩]And what is wrong with "crawl here, bitch" ? [↩]"High standards", right ? [↩]Doesn't this bring to mind all the filthy misery of classical Euro families, the jockeying for inheritances, Eugenie Grandet-ing the old folks, isn't it Morometii through and through ?

People are what they are. "Novel" or "damned" or "antisocial" or "different", whatever else they may con themselves they're being... they'll stay as sad as they can ever be. There's no fixing this by books, "skull" or otherwise. [↩]Poor girl.

Hopefully they love each other. [↩]This guy's on top of the game, check him out. Spitzer didn't have a Sweet, putting this guy above at least some historical governors of New York. [↩]There's more than a dozen weekends in four years. More than two hundred, too. [↩]Inner elbow. [↩]

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Category: Adnotations

Monday, 19 October, Year 12 d.Tr.

Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 13 -- The Iceberg.

When she saw the pad she flipped. A pink silk dress from the trunk fitted her perfectly. After a bath and a shampoo she was again the gorgeous Chris I'd met at the Haven.

I gave her twoi "go" pills and took her to the street for the cut into Phyllis and Ophelia. It was midnight when I curbed in the block where they were working. They were walking together across the street. They looked over at the LaSalle.

I blinked my headlights. They crossed the street and came toward me. The runt stuck her head through the window on Chris's side. Ophelia was stooping down, pinning Chris.

I said, "Both of you get in."ii

They got into the back seat. In the rear-view mirror I saw them look at each other, then at the back of Chris' head.

I said, "Phyllis, Ophelia, meet Christine. She's gonna work the street with you. She's tired of giving up fifty percent of her scratch. She wants daddy to have all she makes.iii I pulled her outta the whorehouse. What the hell, the whole family should be together anyway. Phyllis, I've told Christine a hundred times how great you are in the street. She's hip you know all the rollers and all the angles. I want you to take her under your wing out here for a week or so. I know there ain't a bitch out here that could pull her coat like you can. Now get outta the car and starve these other jokers' whores to death."

I watched them walk away chattering and laughing. It was like they were real sisters. I looked at my diamond-studded Longines.iv It was ten-after-twelve. How about it? I was twenty years old. I was living in a six-bill a month pad.v I had three young fine mud kickers. I was a pimp at last.vi

I tilted down the rear-view mirror. I powdered my face. I sat there gazing at myself. Finally I pulled off. I was going to Sweet's to report my progress. I didn't get much of a chance to rap to him.

Two rollers from Sweet's precinct were drinking and horsing around with two of Sweet's yellow whores. Sweet told them I was his son.

It tickled them witless when Sweet told them what Satan and his Demon had done to me. They told me not to worry. They would remember me and would wire the other precinct rollers not to roust me.vii

The rollers finally got crocked. The whores took them around the Chinese screen into bedrooms.

Then I said, "Sweet, I copped a beautiful yellow bitch tonight. I got her humping on the track with my girls. Sweet, the bitch is crazy about me. I know I'll hold her for years."viii

He said, "Slim, a pretty nigger bitch and a white whoreix are just alike. They both will get in a stable to wreck it.x They'll leave the pimp on his ass with no whore. You gotta make 'em hump hard and fast.xi Stick 'em for long scratch quick. Slim, pimping ain't no game of love. Prat 'em and keep your swipe outta 'em.xii Any sucker who believes a whore loves him shouldn't a fell outta his mammy's ass. Slim, I hope you ain't sexed that pretty bitch yet. Believe me, Slim, a pimp is really a whore who's reversed the game on whores. Slim, be as sweet as the scratch. Don't be no sweeter. Always stick a whore for a bundle before you sex her. A whore ain't nothing but a trick to a pimp. Don't let 'em Georgia you. Always get your money in front just like a whore. Whores in a stable are like working chumps in the white man's factory. They know in their sucker tickers they're chumping. They both gotta have horns to blow their beefs into. They gotta have someone to listen while they bad mouth that Goddamn boss. A good pimp is like a slick white boss. He don't ever pair two of a kind for long. He don't ever pair two new bitches. He ain't stuck 'em for no long scratch. A pair of new bitches got too much in common. They'll beef to each other and pool their skull, plots, and split to the wind together. The real glue that holds any bitch to a pimp is the long scratch she's hip she's stuck for.xiii A good pimp could cut his swipe offxiv and still pimp his ass off. Pimping ain't no sex game. It's a skull game. A pimp with a shakyxv-bottom woman is like a sucker with a lit firecracker stuck in his ass. When his boss bitch turns sour and blowsxvi, all the other bitches in the stable flee to the wind behind her. There ain't more than three or four good bottom women promised a pimp in his lifetime. I don't care if he cops three hundred whores before he croaks. A good pimp has gotta have like a farm systemxvii for bottom women. He's gotta know what bitch in the family could be the bottom bitch when mama bitch goes sour. He's gotta keep his game tighter on his bottom bitch than on any bitch in the stable. He's gotta peep around her ass while she's taking a crap. He's gotta know if it's got the same stink and color it had yesterday. Slim, you're in trouble until you cop the fourth whore. A stable is sets of teams playing against each otherxviii to stuff the pimp's pockets with scratch. You got a odd bitch. You ain't got but a team and a half. A young pimp like you is gotta learn not to cop blind. Your fourth bitch is gotta be right to pair with the third whore. She can't be no ugly bitch unless she likes pussy.xix She can't be smarter than the pretty bitch. She can be younger, even prettier, but she's gotta be dumber. Slim, all whores have one thing in common just like the chumps humping for the white boss. It thrills 'em when the pimp makes mistakes.xx They watch and wait for his downfall. A pimp is the loneliest bastard on Earth.xxi He's gotta know his whores. He can't let them know him. He's gotta be God all the way.xxii The poor sonuvabitch has joined a hate club he can't quit. He can't do a turn around and be a whore himself in the white boss's stable unless he was never a pimp in the first place.xxiii So, kid, rest and dress and pimp till you croak. I ain't had no rest in a coupla days. I think I'll try to get some doss. Kid, these skull aches are getting bad.xxiv Good luck, Kid. Call me tomorrow, late. Oh yeah, happy birthday, Kid. That rundown was a birthday present."

My skull was reeling from his rundown on the way home. It was five A.M. when I got there. The runt and Ophelia were asleep. They were locked together like Siamese twins.xxv

I picked up my scratch off the dresser. It was two and a quarter bills.

I went and looked in on Chris. She was in bed reading a book.xxvi She looked up and put the book across her belly. She reached under the pillow. She gave me a roll of bills.

I checked it. There was six bits. It wasn't bad for a new bitch who got to the track late. She held out her arms. She was naked. I had to cop her some sleep wear.xxvii To avoid her arms I lit a cigarette.

She said, "Daddy, did I do all right?"

I said, "Chris, you made a start. It's like the first buck of that million you're gonna make. I oughta frame it like a sucker who's opened a new hot-dog stand. I want you to put that book down. Get some doss. I want you to take a fin to Leroy tomorrow.xxviii Hip him I'm your man now.xxix The family is gonna Cabaretxxx tonight. It's my birthday today. I'll get a rundown of your first night when I wake up. I'm gonna cop you a partner for the streetxxxi real soon, baby. Good night, Chris."

When I woke up, it was one P.M. I turned on my side. Two big brown eyes were looking at me. It was Ophelia. She started kissing my eyelids.

She said, "Daddy, you're so pretty. You got eyelashes just like a bitch's. Phyllis took Chris to visit that sucker in the shit-house. Daddy, can I kiss my candy?"xxxii

I said, "Christ in Heaven, ain't I got a whore in this family without a hot jib.xxxiii Go on bitch. Then get your kit and trim my toenails and paint 'em. We're all going to get pretty for my birthday party tonight."

She said, "How old are you, Daddy? I bet you're nineteen."xxxiv

I said, "Bitch, I'm a hundred-and-nineteen. I just got a pretty baby face."xxxv

Chris and the runt got back from Leroy around three P.M. Chris had a serious look on her face.

I said, "Well how did he take the news? Did he hang himself from the bars before your eyes?"

She said, "Daddy, he fell apart. He would have killed me if he could have reached me. He cried like his heart was broken. He said he was going to kill you wherever he saw you. I feel bad, Daddy. He really upset me. I'm going to lie down.

I thought, "That square chump is sure a whingding. I'm gonna put the hurt to him fast if I run into him."xxxvi

We partied at a swank white joint near the Gold Coast. We got home at four A.M. I was sober. The whores were stoned. I went and got into my bed. I dozed.

An hour later I woke up. The three whores were crowded into bed with me. They were stroking and kissing me all over.

Mr. Thriller sure ached to be a circus performer. I was having trouble convincing Mr. Thriller he had to take only one at a time. He was a pimp not a freak.

The ring-master put the show on and stayed cool. It was eight o'clock before I got to sleep.

It was a month before I copped the fourth whore. She was a cute tiny seventeen-year-old broadxxxvii, about Chris' color. The stable had brought her home from a coffee joint at closing time. They took their breaks there.

The little broad was a waitress in the joint. She was curious about the whore game. She was wild to wear flashy clothes. She thought I was rich when she dug the pad. The excitement in her eyes hipped me I could make a fast cop.xxxviii

I took her into the living room. I cracked her into saying she'd be my woman and stop slaving for thirty a week.xxxix

Then I gave her the pitch to tie the knot. She was sitting in a chair. I stood looking down at her. Her eyes never left my face. It was maybe like a rattlesnake charming a robin.

I said, "Jo Ann, I gotta congratulate you.xl You're not only lucky, you're smart. You knew when you saw me that I was going to be your man, I'm hip that you were just waiting to meet me. You have wanted since you were a little girl to live an exciting, glamorous life. Well, sugar, you're on Blood's magic carpet. I'm gonna make your life with me out-shine your flashiest day dreams. I'm a pimp. You gotta be a whore. I don't have squares. I'm gonna be your mother, your father, your brother, your friend, and your lover. The most important thing I'm gonna be to you is your man. The manager of the scratch you make in the street. Now, sweet bitch, have you followed me so far?"

She whispered, "Yes, Blood, I understand."

I reached down and took her hand. I took her to the window overlooking the city. I held her against me.

I said, "Look out there, baby angel. Out there is where you work. Those streets are yours because you're my woman. I've got five G's in fall money. If you get busted for anything, even murder, I can free you. Baby bitch, this family is like a small army. We got rules and regulations we never break. I am really two studs. One of them is sweet and kind to his whores when they don't break the rules. The other one comes out insane and dangerous when the rules are broken. Little baby, I'm sure you'll never meet him. Never forget this family is as one against the cold, cruel world. We are strong because we love each other. There's no problem I can't solve. There's no question I can't answer about this game. Tomorrow I'm going to start filling your skull with everything about this game and street. I'm going to make a star outta you angel. Don't ask any outsider anything. Come to Chrisxli or me. My little baby, I'll protect you with my last drop of blood. If any mother-fucker in those streets out there, stud or bitch, hurts you, or threatens you, come to me. He will have to cut my throat first, shoot me first. I take an oath to protect you for as long as you are my woman.xlii Baby, I know that's for always. Now repeat after daddy, baby."

She squeezed tightly against me. She was in a trance looking up at me.

She chanted along with me. "From this moment I belong to Blood. I am his whore. I will do everything he tells me. I won't ever fuck with his scratch. I will hump my heart out every night. I've gotta make a bill a night."

She slept with Chris that night. After the first week I knew she was the perfect partner for Chris.

Sweet was right. Chris and Jo Ann ran Phyllis and Ophelia into a panting lather in the street. I started wanting that fifth whore.

Leroy got a year for the beating he gave Papa Tony.

About six months later Top and I were at the Roost bar. A loudmouth joker beside me was arguing with a stud on his other side. I had my back to him, facing Top.

Top and I had been shooting stuff for several hours in his pad. I was so frosted with cocaine I felt embalmed. It was maybe like I was at the Roost and I really wasn't. I had raised my glass of Coke to my jib. I was being fascinated by the tiny bubbles popping inside the glass.

I was trying to count them before they all popped away.xliii

I heard an explosion behind me. My skull was numb. It was maybe like the noise behind me happened a year ago on an ice floe in the Arctic somewhere.

I saw a light gray lid that stirred a faint memory. It wobbled across the log and stopped in front of where Top had been.

I thought, "That's a Knox forty. I had one once that color."

That crazy joker Top was on the floor between the log and his stool. His eyes were wide in fear. He was looking up at me like he thought I had gone bats and was going to croak him. I laughed at him.

I heard running feet behind me. I looked over my shoulder. The joker who had been arguing with Loud Mouth was running through the door with a rod in his hand.

I looked behind me. Loud Mouth was on his back, out cold. He had a long, red gouge across his temple. Some of the frost melted away in my skull.

The bullet that grazed Loud Mouth had torn my lid off. The joint was still. Top was standing and dusting himself off. The joint had emptied. I reached over and picked my lid off the bar.xliv

I took a casual look at the entrance, exit holes in the top of the crown.xlv I stuck it on my head. Top was staring at me. I tilted my glass and drained it. I turned to Top. Loud Mouth was groaning and coming to on the floor.

I said, "Jack, let's get outta here before the rollers come. I ain't got time for a quiz. You know Top, if my skull had been pointed, I'da had a bad break."

Top followed me out the door. We got into his Hog in front of the Roost. Top was still staring at me. His jib was gaping.

He said, "Kid, I saw it but I don't believe it. I've seen some cool studs in my time, but I ain't never seen nothing to equal that. Kid, you were cold in there, icy; icy, like an iceberg. Kid, I got it. You're getting to be a good young pimp. All good pimps got monikers. I'm gonna hang one on you. Kid you've outgrown 'Young Blood' as a moniker. How about 'Iceberg Slim'? Kid, it's a beautiful fit. 'Iceberg Slim,' how about it, and I thought it up. Cocaine sure chills you. I guess you picked the right high for you."

Continued >>

———Why not just start with one ? [↩]By degrees he's almost-kinda-sorta starting to sound like me. Maybe there's hope for this runtish nigglet yet. [↩]That's pretty funny. [↩]No more Mickey, eh ? That's okay, I think we'll live. [↩]Not really much more expensive than the hundred-a-week, 40% on top (really, do the math), but doubtless much finer. That's what paying by the month gets you.

I generally pay by the quarter. [↩]Nobody could accuse him of not being a pimp, that's for damn sure. [↩]Now this is finally worth something. A sixty year old pimp's not got so long left in him ; this particular one's worth ten thousand and one whore nights, and then some. [↩]Rather, "I'm crazy about her, I'd eat anything but the tacks in her boots if she just sticks around." Right ?

In fairness, maybe even the tacks. [↩]"High sexual market value females". [↩]"They have a lot of inertia, when they move they can easily crash delicate, unsound, dubious arrangements". [↩]"Keeping them busy is one way to deal with this -- and seeing how if you could fix your arrangements you wouldn't have weak ones in the first place, keeping them busy is probably the best way to protect yourself". The comparatively stronger-handed "the bitch's not yet born that can crash anything faster than I can fix it ; hell, sometimes I crash shit just to put it back together again more to my liking" isn't for everyone. Certainly not for the 000`000`000`118 IQ one-book-and-even-that-one-"skull" stud. [↩]Amusingly, this is by and large what the partner in charge of noobs of the Hollywood talent firm would be telling the new agents too, "don't fuck the actresses yourself, we have a whole machine to do it, cheaper faster an' cleanner". Nigga tryna all business over here! [↩]Like in any other con game, the mark's interest is the amount they've been taken for, which is why "incomprehensibly large" con victims turn out all the time. The more they bleed, the easier it is to bleed them, which is how the kids stay pantsuit and the 419 contributors manage six figure contributions. [↩]Doh. [↩]Unreliable [↩]Truly this rarely actually happens, that she turns sour. Pippa's made out of howling ineptitude and glaring mismanagement the vast majority of the time, rarely anything else at all. [↩]Organised sports reference. [↩]This is such a regrettably wasteful way to go about it... I'm not saying it can't be done, sure it can, and yes it'll stand up. The reason it's done this way can ever only be that the pimp's marginal in the first place, a maybe-five that's gotta set his nine team against the seven team so he can cover the two out of his measly four-point. And sure, this is the mass market interest, marginal dorks tryna "live the dream".

What of the guy who couldn't, if he "cops" those three hundred whores, couldn't get them even close to what he can cover even if instead of adding they fucking multiplied each other ? Because yes, he can exist. Of fucking course he can exist. Anything can exist. It's not likely he would exist, sure, granted. Likelihood has no bearing in ontology. [↩]This is both grossly misrepresented and relatively inconsequential. [↩]Yet here I sit, barely able to remember anything. What gives ? [↩]This, by the way, is necessarily as well as universally the macula of industrious failure. If whatever it is you're doing makes you the loneliest bastard on earth, then that thing is being done wrong, by you.

Everyone will feel lonely now and again. Everyone can actually be lonely, occasionally. Being the loneliest bastard on earth takes industry, it takes artifice perversely sharpened to a fine point. [↩]This has nothing to do with pimping and everything to do with being responsible. [↩]Right ? And if he wasn't a pimp in the first place you can tell by that unerring sign, that he's "planning for" an "eventual" stable while "holding on to a good job" "for now". What's being here discussed turns out to be ultimately neither about sex nor about money, nor even about "power", whatever the losers try to thus label. It's simply a matter of sovereignity, the simple matter of living as a man in the world. This never was a coward's game. [↩]Wouldn't you've made a skull note to see what skull ache witch doctors you can scare up ? [↩]Fucking beautiful. [↩]How about that! Can you perhaps imagine the Chris that the dude's not telling, for not seeing, for not being able to see ? The sexually molested child that nearly died, but then survived, saved by a strange sort of captor ? What did she do, for those years, chased even to the bathroom ? What did she do instead of what she professed, truthfully or otherwise, to have "wanted to" do (ie, call this dork) ? Did she... read ? All that time, all those years ? What did she read ?

What oil underneath is the cowboy missing for his limited vision stuck above ground ? [↩]And... why ? Not that she can't have it, but why can't she ask for it herself ? [↩]Not a bad move at all ; and yes the humiliatory pittance included is important. As Cesar well said, "if you know what's good for you, you'll take that fin and thank me for it". [↩]"Hip him you're my whore now", rather, but... whatevers. [↩]Which is why and wherefore they did have a scene back then ; and how and why they don't no more. [↩]"She'll be taller and prettier but dumber than you, and she'll eat your taco like her life depended on it." [↩]This Ophelia chick is just fucking prime! Hell yeah, that's what's to want.

Pretty much the only thing making it better is that the whore that brought her had enough sense to adequately and properly support the whore that he brought. Asshat's got it made, a sweeter set-up can scarcely be devised. I've certainly never seen a twenty-year old in better shape.

All hail Slim, the kissed by the gods. [↩]There's much worse fates ; a hot jib's just part and parcel of a hot package. [↩]Everything, up to and including the fact that she puts her ass out there in subsidiary of asking the question, is plain delightful. [↩]He's not really up to her ; but then again, she's well used to it by now. Boys rarely ammount to all that much. [↩]Mno. You're gonna put the hurt on him inside, right now. Between Sweet, Glass Top and everyone else there must be someone who knows someone in county looking for a quick C. How about that guy who sold the LaSalle, for instance ? The chump's worthless both in a muscle and in a brain sense, he shouldn't be much of a challenge to help along towards his place in this world, which just so happens to be under six feet of ground. Fucking unbearable losers wilfuly blind to their place and value, I know nothing more abominably insufferable. He probably thinks he got "rights" and whatnot too, omfg kill it with fire. [↩]The fact that pretty much every adolescent girl today finds herself mired is in some sort of "schooling" bullshit, tied down by govermental red tape and dumb old mula nonsense isn't a gain to anyone -- especially not to the misfortunate girlies in question. Youth is a terrible thing to waste, and 2020s-era cargo cult "education" is probably the saddest waste possible. [↩]By now he has enough institutional might & know-how built-in that he can handle such outliers without much concern, in the sense that the stable will handle it. In fact his problem's rather that the pendulum's swinging dangerously the other way, and he finds himself in the very doubtful situation where his stable's worth more than he is. This is no laughing matter, it puts some massive pressure on him wising up and catching up -- if before it was just the "curiosity" on his part, the inner drive, now his life depends on it. Basically they're Malena-ing him, he's rapidly becoming a little boy to their accreted majesty, because no, "the Georgia" is not the only thing he has to watch for ; in any case this situation where he doesn't know what to say to the simplest openings by the lower level girls is not something that can long continue, and what's worse large things blowing up are significantly more dangerous than small things falling over. If he had any sense he'd be on the phone to his mentor about this stat ; but the problem with the clueless is that they don't know they don't know, what it's called, what to ask for... [↩]This is a serious problem, the square makes thirty a week while the whore makes a hundred a day, it's not an easy thing to get over. Every three weeks she works she wastes twenty days of her life, every day she whores she claws back twenty days of her life, you think this is a little matter ? All the fantastic pie-in-the-sky talk about it ain't gonna fix the simple fact that she's not gonna be seventeen forever, however you con her to "stay in school" it's still a con. [↩]Lmao. [↩]Chris ?!

Chris is a loopy ditz that's gotta lie down, are you fucking kidding me ? If you absolutely gotta insult the runt, not that she's done anything, send her to Ophelia before you send her to Chris. Fucking fucktard...

No, I'm aware Chris is her partner. That's specificially the point. Cross. [↩]Black chivalric ideals, nine or so centuries too late. How about that! Did they do the whole hand arrangement thing, I wonder ? [↩]Doesn't he sound like just fucking excellent company ? [↩]Wearing hats indoors like dames was common enough in low class joints, for it being simpler than handling the hat check process. (Dames wearing their hats like glued on, everywhere they went, was tolerated because most were actually glued on as a matter of fact, and the rest needed a maid or two to install and dismount in any case.) [↩]"This ain't good." [↩]

« Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 12 -- To gain a stable.

Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 14 -- The mistake. »

Category: Adnotations

Monday, 19 October, Year 12 d.Tr.

Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 12 -- To gain a stable.

I heard Silas knock on the door. I went and opened it. Silas was a strange, beautiful sight. The slick sorcerer-bastard had my breakfast on a tray. He had turned himself into a cute black bitch in a red knit suit. It was the runt. I murdered the grin of relief in its jib womb.i I twisted my face into a copy of Sweet's when he bounced my skull off his john wall.

I said, "Bitch, I'm gonna croak you. Since three o'clock I been calling all the hospitals and jails in town. I even called the morgue. Speak up bitch, what's your story?"ii

She looked up at me. She was smiling. She walked past me into the bedroom. I followed her. She sat the tray on the dresser. She ran her fingers deep into her bosom. She brought out a damp wad of bills. She gave it to me.

She said, "Daddy, my last trick was a fifty slat, all night trick. I caught him at two this morning. Baby, I gave you a hundred and twenty eight slats. Silas had your breakfast on the elevator on my way up. With the two slats I gave him, I made a hundred and thirty. Oh, Daddy, I've found some good streets to work a coupla miles from here.iii It's in the neighborhood of a joint called the Roost. You were a sweet daddy to be worried about your baby. Oh! I almost forgot. Keep your fingers crossed. I may bring you a girl one of these mornings. She's wild about me.iv Her old man ain't nothing. He's a burglar."

I said, "Phyllis, there's more than one note in a song. You gotta string together a thousand nights like last night. Now take a bath. I'm gonna treat those scratches. Remember I don't want any junkie bitch. Make sure she's clean before you cop."v

I forgot about my breakfast. I went out and got into the Ford. I drove to the drugstore and got ointments and salves.vi

I called Sweet and told him the runt stood up. He reminded me to send that scratch to myself as soon as possible. I went back to the Haven. I sent Silas for hot food. I dressed her wounds. They sure looked bad.

Those "go" pills she had taken died.vii She fell asleep while I was doctoring her back. I ate and took a nap. By the end of the week, I felt like a pimp. I had an eight-bill bankroll not counting the porker silver.viii

One night about nine I got into the Ford. I drove less than a hundred miles to Terre Haute, a small whore-town.ix I sent five bills to myself at the Haven. I used Christine as the broad's name.

Top was back in town so I stopped on the way home and copped cocaine, yellows, and bennies.x The runt came in that morning around four. She had a hundred-and-five slats. She was on her way to stardom. We were in bed when I cracked on her.

I said, "Baby, I think our luck is changing all around. I'm pretty sure daddy's copped another whore. I met her in a bar about a week ago. It's a small world all right. She said she just moved out of this joint not long ago. She went wild over me. She's a fine young bitch. She begged me to go to Terre Haute with her. She's working a fast house up there. I told her I'd run up there after she sent her first week's scratch. She gave me her phone number up there. I gave her my address. Tonight I called up there. I asked her about my scratch. She told me five bills were on the way. Baby, if she's jiving we ain't hurt. If she sends it and it's respectable scratch your daddy's got a small stable."

She said, "Is she a white bitch? What does the bitch look like?"

I said, "Bitch, don't get shitty now. What's wrong with a white broad helping two spades? She's a boot. She looks like what she is. A scratch-getting fine bitch in love with your man at first sight."

It was a little after noon when the messenger brought the scratch notice. The runt went to the door and brought him into the bedroom.

I opened it. The office was a half-mile away. I asked the runt if she'd like some air. She was eager to go.

It was a good thing I had gotten that driver's license. I had to go through a long routine. They even made me crack the amount I was expecting. I got the cash.

The runt was silent on the way home. Sweet sure knew the angles to put pressure on a whore's skull. In the next month I made two more trips to Terre Haute. Twice I went across town and stayed in a hotel over night until around noon. I was conning the runt I was visiting her stable mate.

The runt was really humping. She was averaging no less than a bill a night. Two months after the hanger whipping I took a furnished three-bedroom vacancy in Top's building.xi It was a gold-and-red dream after the Haven. The runt really freaked this pad off. I guess she felt at home at last. It was on the sixth floor.

I copped six two-hundred-dollar vines at sixty slats a piece.xii The boosterxiii lived on the second floor beneath me. The same week Top cut me into a stud who had a black LaSalle car in mint condition.

He was out on an appeal bond and his lip wired him he was joint bound. I gave the stud four bills in his mitt. I paid off the last two notes on the wheels.

I had two cars. I gave the runt her Ford back. She could cover and get down in a wider area.xiv

I started hanging around out at Sweet's pad, sucking up the pimp game. I got home from Sweet's one morning around five. I heard the runt rapping to someone in one of the bedrooms. I pushed the door open. The runt was in bed with a tall, pretty brown-skin broad. She looked fifteen. They were naked. They stopped kissing and looked at me.xv

The runt said, "Daddy this is Ophelia. I told you about her in the Haven. Her old man got one-to-three in the joint for burglary. She wants to join our family. Can she?"

I said, "Ophelia, if you're not full of shit and you obey my rules you're welcome. Have you bitches been in the streets working tonight? I hope you just got in that bed to freak off. Phyllis, get outta that bed and get my double-action scratch."

The runt went into the closet and brought me a roll of bills.

She said, "A bill of this I made."

I fast counted a yard and seventy-five slats. I took off my clothes and got between them. I spent an hour quizzing Ophelia and running down my rules. She was eighteen.xvi The circus started. I was circus master. I had become too much pimp to freak off with a new package. They were the performers. She had put only six bits in my pocket. How cheaply did she get me if she blew tomorrow.

It was the night before my twentieth birthday in August. I had gone to the West Side to cop some dresses for Phyllis and Ophelia. I had left the booster's pad. I was loading the dozen or so pieces in the trunk of the LaSalle. I slammed the trunk lid shut and locked it.xvii

I heard screaming and smashing sounds coming from a cabaret just down the street. I saw a hatless, gray-haired man come staggering to the sidewalk. He was holding his head. The side of his head looked shiny. I walked down the sidewalk toward him.

He was bleeding from a deep cut in his head. He was moaning and trying to stop the flow of blood with his hands. A dark thin joker ran out behind the old man. I saw something gleam in his hand as he raised his arm again and again.

I moved closer. The thin joker was savagely pistol whipping the old stud. He was beaten to his knees. He looked like someone had painted his face red.

The thin joker turned his face. The light coming from the open door of the cabaret shone on it. It was Chris' Leroy beating the old man.xviii Twenty customers had come out. They formed a circle around the massacre. I moved to the outside of the circle.

Then I saw Chris standing on the other side of the circle. She was screaming and tugging at Leroy's pistol arm. Leroy had gone insane.

I moved around the circle closer to Chris. I stood behind her. I saw greasy stains on the back of her dress collar. Her hair looked frowsy and dull. Scarface was sure taking her to the dogs. I heard the screech of brakes. I saw two huge white rollers muscle through the crowd. Leroy was astraddle the unconscious figure, still pounding his pistol against it.

They shoved Chris backward. One of them put an armlock on Leroy's gun arm and took the pistol. The other vised his neck in a strangle hold. They dragged him to the prowl car and threw him into the back seat.

A short middle-aged white broad stepped to the side of the fallen figure. She was wringing her hands. She was wearing a bar apron. She stooped and stroked the figure's brow.

One of them got on the front seat. He turned sideways guarding Leroy. He put a microphone to his lips. He was calling an ambulance, no doubt. The other roller came back and stopped beside the white woman.

He said, "Anybody you know?"

She sobbed. "Yes, he's my father-in-law."

He said, "What happened?"

She said, "Everybody knows Papa Tony loves to kid around the girls. He's got a heart as big as New York. Everybody loves and understands him.xix Papa Tony came in the bar. He started kissing the cheek of all the girls at the bar. He kissed that one behind you. That maniac man of hers stopped singing. He leaped off the stage. He started to beat poor Papa Tony with his pistol. It's the first night the maniac has worked for my husband. If my husband, Vince, had been here that jerk's brains would splatter the sidewalk."

The roller looked back at Chris. He started making notes in a small book. I knew he'd quiz her after he got the full picture. I touched Chris lightly on the shoulder. She turned and looked up at me. She got weak in the knees. She slumped against me. I took her arm and steered her down the sidewalk. I heard the distant whine of an ambulance siren.xx

I said, "Chris, you had better split. That's a white man Leroy beat up. The white folks are going to cross you into it. After all you're the reason he nipped."

We got into the La Salle. I moved it down the street toward the prowl car. I put on the brakes. A couple came from in front of the prowl car. They crossed the street in front of me. I was stopped beside the prowl car, Chris could have reached out and touched it.

I turned my head and looked into the rear seat of the prowl car.xxi Leroy was staring at Chris. His eyes shifted to me. He leaped toward the front seat. The roller backhanded him. I saw Leroy's head dip out of sight as I pulled away.

I made from that frantic leap of his that he remembered me.xxii The LaSalle moved quickly away from the West Side. Chris was crying. I stayed silent until I hit the fringe of the South Side.

Then I said, "All right, Chris, I got you away from the heat. Tell me where you live and I'll take you home. Don't cry. You can bail him out when they book him."

She sobbed, "All right, you want to take me home? Turn around and take me to Leroy's jalopy.xxiii It's parked behind the bar where he blew his silly top. We got in town broke this afternoon. He didn't get the settlement. Maybe he'll never get it. I'm so disgusted. He was to get paid nightly for the gig. He does a blues singing bit now."xxiv

I said, "Bitch, you look like a bum. You conned me you'd keep in touch. You were gonna be my whore, remember? I shoulda left you back there to go to jail with your sucker-man."

I realized I had a solid chance to cop her now. All I had to do was stay strong and bluff her.

Leroy was a cinch to get a bit. He couldn't make bail.xxv Chris had no out but me.xxvi She sure looked like my third whore.

I coasted into the curb. I left the engine running. We were parked in front of a fleabag hotel. I had maybe a twenty-five-hundred-slat roll in my pocket I flashed for her. I peeled off a saw buck. I held it toward her. She ignored it.

She said, "Blood, it wasn't that I didn't think about you. I wanted to call you. I wanted to keep my word. Leroy never let me out of his sight. He would even follow me to the toilet.xxvii You don't know how much I hate him.xxviii I hope he gets life. Don't cut me loose, Blood. I'll keep my promises. I'm free now. I'm yours, baby. Tell me to jump in the river. I'll do it."xxix

I said, "No Chris, I'm afraid of you. I think Leroy has made a tramp jive-bitchxxx outta you. I'm pimping too good to bring a headache into the stable. I'll always be your friend, Chris. My ticker is bleeding for you, baby. I gotta think of number one. My whores are humping sixteen hours a day in the street. They love it. I don't figure you got the guts and heart for the street trackxxxi. Chris, for the rest of my life I'll be sad when I think of you. I'll have a lump in my throat when I think of what might have been. Take this saw buck, baby, and the best of luck always. Goodbye, Chris. Please split before I get weak and let you be my whore."xxxii

I reached across her and opened the car door. My skull was hitting on all hundred-and-seventy-five cylinders. I was cinching her.

I remembered her name, Christine, on those Terre Haute money orders I'd been sending myself. She was the runt's ghost gadfly come to life.

She pulled the door shut. She hurled herself against me. She held on to me and wailed like maybe I was her dead mama on the way back to the grave after a brief visit.

She blubbered, "Blood, please don't cut me loose. I'm not a lazy bitch. Give me a chance. I want to amount to something. Please take me with you. I won't let you down. I can hold my own against any bitch."

I pulled out. I was headed home. I was a fox with a rare, pretty hen in my jib. I knew the runt and Ophelia were in the street. In the trunk I had six dresses I'd copped for Ophelia. I was sure they'd fit Chris.

I said, "Bitch, I'm gonna gamble on you. I'm taking you to your new pad. You gotta understand one thing. You can't bring in scratch under a bill a night. You do, I may light my cigarettes with it or use it to wipe my ass. You're gonna meet and work in the street tonight with your sisters. I'm gonna give you a rundown. Flap your horns and remember it. It will bring you into the family with some stardust on your tail. Chris, you're lucky. A whore of mine croaked in Terre Haute just a week ago. Her heart stopped while she was turning a trick. She was a martyr. Her name was Christine. I went up there and blew a coupla grand on her funeral. I guess I felt guilty about blowing all that scratch on a broad I'd had for only a coupla months or so. I didn't tell the stable about her death. Maybe I went all out on her funeral because she had your name. I just don't know. Anyway, the stable never met her. They sure have a lot of respect for that long scratch she sent me every week from the whorehouse.xxxiii Chris, you're [gonna be] that great humping bitch reborn. A week before she croaked she begged me to turn her loose here in the street. I turned her down because I knew she had a screwy ticker. So, Chris, I know you'll prove to the stable you are just as great in the street as you were in the house in Terre Haute. I'm taking you home to get pretty for the trick people, baby-bitch."xxxiv

Continued >>

———If grins live such that they can be murdered, then they must be born somewhere in the mouth, also known as a jib. The jib must have a grin womb, where it conceives the grins to be, and where they can be murdered if murdering grins ever came to be. [↩]Now you know why da fuzz won't entertain "missing persons" reports less than a day old. "Bitch's on her way home, simmer down and wait for her there." [↩]How long do you figure it'll take her to figure out the reason she's in the Haven is specifically so she can discover the good streets a coupla miles down in her own time ? [↩]Now that's definitely what I like to hear. I don't particularly need a hundy for anything, but bitch quarry's the sweetest thing. [↩]Word. [↩]Ahahaha imagine the dialogue in there, if you will.

"Good morning sir, how may I help you ?"

"Yeah... bitch, listen, get me some ointments. And salves." [↩]"Diet" pills aka amphetamine-something, you figure ? [↩]New record cash position for him, is it. [↩]Bwahahahaha. So now you know. [↩]Yeah. [↩]Really humping, but never came through on the burglar's girl, huh. [↩]Which is how you get things, if you know what you're doing. [↩]A sort of fence, except he sells on the street. [↩]Word.

I truly fail to be impressed with the "piled five in so-and-so supervancar" stories like the Sweet intro early on. Five chicks, all automobile, way the fuck more impressive. [↩]Ah, best thing in the world, waking up to discover some unknown chick asleep in a slavegirl's bed. [↩]Right. [↩]I much prefer doing this with the girls present. Why the fuck would you buy dresses sight unseen, then dump the purchase on the recipients out of the blue, and in the (ill-advised) process miss out on having them paraded nude through the store for the fitting and so on ? How's the fifteen year olds to catch on, anyways ? How's the world to change under your weight ? [↩]Come the fuck on, what's the population of period Chicago, like ninety-six people total ?! [↩]Ha. [↩]He's kinda slow. [↩]Stupid move. What's there to see, Grinfucks ? [↩]Yeah, now he has someone to remember and you've got someone to have to kill later. A real pro, what, Rrrrico fucken' Suave over here.

Don't look where you've got nothing to see. [↩]Jalopy!!! [↩]So technically... she's pimping him. Right ?

Right. [↩]At least a year for crazy auslander bullshit like that, attacking randos out of the blue and from a weak hand. He's fucking black on top of everything for fuck's sake, talk about a deathwish, he's precisely what the law exists to stomp, down to the minutest detail. [↩]Well... there's always La Strada, of course. But... yeah. [↩]Off the stage ? Really ?

How did this dude sleep ? Who tasted his fried chicken for dream pills ? Get the fuck out with the mendacious bullshit, there's no "I wanted to". That's good for one day, maybe two. Months ? Forget about it. [↩]Who gives a shit about some broke-ass nobody cricket on a stick. [↩]Dumb bitch, god she's infuriating. "Hurr durr, tell me to do something stupid and pointless!!!" What the fuck. There's no money in jumping in rivers, whatever her deeply conceited self-absorbtion may suggest. [↩]As in the Romanian jivina heh. [↩][because if you did you'd have come to me, not wait around like a retarded princess to be "saved", fuck that dumb shit]. [↩]This joker doesn't know when to stop. That last sentence is way the fuck out. [↩]The fuck sense would this make, anyways. Whorehouse itself splits the cash and sends it over, doesn't it. If the girls get to touch it what kinda whorehouse is it, more like a present-day strip joint. [↩]The best thing a book can do for the reader is exhilirate him quite so ; in this facet Beck stands up there with Clemens and few others, I don't recall being this excited at life in general since reading all about the Mississippi life, a young squirt of maybe fourteen. Glory be! [↩]

« Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 11 -- To lose a whore.

Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 13 -- The Iceberg. »

Category: Adnotations

Monday, 19 October, Year 12 d.Tr.

Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 11 -- To lose a whore.

I pulled the Ford into the curb across the street from the Haven. I didn't see the runt anywhere in the street. I peeped into the greasy spoon. She wasn't at the counter. I looked up at our window. I crossed the street and went through the lobby. I took the stairs to the fourth floor. I made three stabs at the lock with the key before I made it.i I stepped inside. I was excited. I chain-bolted the door. I walked to the bedroom.

The runt was propped up in bed smoking a stick of gangster. Lady Day was tar brushing that mean, sweet man again.ii I stood by the side of the bed, next to the record player. I saw the edge of a paper plateiii sticking out of the wastebasket. I took it out and put it on the bed.

Two navy beans were in a puddle of grease on the side of the plate. A pile of sucked, cleaned neck bones were heaped in the center of it. The runt had gone out to the greasy spoon and copped a hearty meal. She sure had a healthy appetite for a sick bitch. Her eyes were wild and big, looking up at me.

She fingered gently at the hole in my pants knee. I shut the box off. I ripped the record off the turntable. I broke it in half and hurled the pieces into the wastebasket. She kept her eyes on the hole at my knee. She ignored the broken record. She played it cool.

She said, "You'll have to get it rewoveniv, huh? Daddy, I'm feeling better. I felt good enough to go across the street for food. Maybe by tomorrow I'll feel good enough to go in the street. Baby, I would've went out after I ate, but my legs were too weak."v

I said, "Bitch, I already passed the death sentence on you. It's good you had your last meal. I'm gonna send your dead ass to your daughter, Gay. Take off that gown and lie on your belly, bitch."vi

I went to the closet. I took down a wire hanger. I straightened it into one long piece. I doubled and braided it.vii I wrapped a necktie around the handle end. I turned back to the bed. She was still propped in the bed. Her mouth was gaped open. She had both her hands clapped over her chest.

She was like a broad in a movie. She opens a door and there's Dr. Jekyll just going into his frightful change. I saw her tongue tremble inside her jib. Her lips made a liquid plopping sound as they mutely pounded together. She rolled across the bed away from me. I raised my right arm up and back. I heard my shoulder socket creak.

Her gown was hiked up to her waist. Her naked rear end had scrambled to the far edge of the bed. I raced around the foot of the bed. She rolled to the middle. She was on her back. Her arms held her jack-knifed legs against her chest.

The whites of her eyes glowed like phosphorus. I brought the wire whip down. I heard it swish through the air. It struck her across the shin bonesviii. She cried out like she was celebrating New Year's Eve.

She screamed, "Ooh-whee! Ooh-whee!"

She jerked flat, rigid on the bed then smalled her fists against her temples. She sucked her bottom lip up into her jib. I slashed the air again. It sounded like maybe a dum-dum bullet striking across her gut button.

She moaned, "Whee-Lordy! Whee-Lordy!"ix

She turned over on her belly. I tore the gown from her back. She was naked. She flailed her arms like a holy-roller. The whip whistled a deadly lyric as I brought it down again and again across her back and butt. I saw the awful welts puffing the black velvet skin.x

I stopped and turned her over. The pillow stuck to her face. I snatched it away. There was a ripping sound. I saw feathers sticking to her tear wet face. She had chewed a hole in the pillow. She was thrashing her legs and mumbling.

Her chest heaved in great sobs. She was staring at me and shaking her skull. Her eyes had that pitiful look of Christ's on those paintings of the Crucifixion. Her lips were moving. I got on the bed. I stuck my ear near.

She whispered, "I don't need any more whipping. I give, daddy. You're the boss. I was a dumb bitch. It looks like you got a whore now. Kiss me and help me up."

I felt tears roll down my cheeks. Maybe I was crying in joy that I broke her spirit.xi I felt sorry for her. I wondered if I was falling in love like a sucker.xii I kissed her hard. I carried her into the bathroom. I placed her tenderly in the tub.

I turned the water on. A stream burst from the shower nozzle overhead.xiii She squealed. I pushed in the shower bypass on the tub faucet. The warm water started filling the tub. I dumped a bottle of rubbing alcohol into the tub.xiv

She looked up at me. I took the tiny bottle of pills out of my pocket. I shook out two into my palm. I took a glass off the face bowl. I handed her the pills. She put them in her mouth. She washed them down with the glass of water I gave her.

I said, "Phyllis, why do you make your sweet daddy mean? Daddy's gonna kill his little bitch if she don't straighten up and whore like the star she is. Bitch, lie down in that water for a while. Then get in the street and get some real scratch for your man. You don't have to stay in this block. Just walk and work until you get respectable scratch to bring in. I can raise you if you take a fall. They gotta let you make a phone call. If I go out I'll check the desk here by phone every hour or so. Bitch, get down and star.xv You want your man, get him some real scratch."

I went and sat on the bed. The sheet looked like a red zebra had lain down and his stripes had faded on it. I heard her sloshing the water in the tub. She was humming the record I'd smashed. Sweet's pills sure weren't hurting her.

Whores are strange people all right. She was silent while she combed her hair and fixed her face. She put on a red knit suit. She stood in front of me. She held her hand out. I saw dark stains on her stockings at the shins. Her eyes were bright.

She said, "Daddy, I don't have a dime. Give me a coupla dollars, please. Don't worry, when I come in I'll have nice scratch."

I stood up. I gave her a fin.xvi I walked to the door with her. She turned her face up. I leaned down. I sucked her bottom lip, then bit it hard. She squeezed my arm and gouged her teeth into my cheek. She went down the hall.

I shut the door and went to the front window. I rubbed my cheek to see if the skin was broken. I saw her cross the street at the corner. She was walking fast. That whipping and those pills had made her well. She looked like a child. She was so tiny and sexy in her red suit. I wondered as she disappeared whether she'd come back. It was seven P.M.

I thought, "I better stick here in the pad. Whipping a broad with a hanger is not a bit like a foot in the ass. Christ! I'd kill the bastard on the spot if he hit my bare ass with one.xvii Sweet was right. She got outta that bed all right. I wonder if those slavery pimps invented the hanger whip. No, even hangers hadn't been invented then.xviii I guess Sweet did. I'm gonna wait the runt out. If she tries to slip in here to steal her clothes, I'll croak her. I wonder why Chris hasn't gotten in touch? Maybe some fast pimp has already stolen that pretty bitch from Leroy.xix Maybe Leroy had one of his fits and croaked her.xx

"I wonder what the bitch will be like that I get from Sweet if the runt blows? This is a hell of a feeling I got. I don't know if I got a whore or not. It would be a bitch if Sweet goes back on his word and leaves me whoreless on this fast track. I'm gonna get high. I'd better take the flight with gangster. Cocaine will only sharpen my grief."

I took a shower. I stepped out of the tub. I got a towel from the wall rack. I saw splotches of red on the one beside it. I toweled off. I rolled a giant bomber. I put a fresh case on the pillow the runt had gnawed.

I propped myself against the head of the bed. I sucked the bomber down to a "roach." The reefer and the sibilantxxi murmuring of tires against the street lulled me into deep sleep.

I woke up. I was still half-propped against the pillows. It was broad daylight. The runt hadn't come in. I had blown whoreless with that wire hanger.xxii I lit a cigarette. It was seven A.M. I lay there staring at the entwined lovers on the "Kiss" Statue.

I thought, "The runt's got a pair of tits like that broad. Jeez, she was sure a freak.xxiii Some pimp is going to have a sweet bitch when he straightens her out.xxiv I wonder if that little bitch will miss me? She damn sure can't forget me. Hell, I can't worry about the mule going blind. I'll wait until noon or so. I'll rip open that whore grab-bag Sweet promised me. Maybe I was hasty to shut the door on Melody and his entasis. At this point I can get hip to anything except work.xxv No one could know I was freaking with a stud. Christ, I wish beautiful Chris would call. What a thrill if she'd tell me she was rushing to me.xxvi To get her tight I'd maybe eat everything but the tacks in her shoes. I'm hungry. I'm not going to let my troubles abuse my skull and my belly."

I got Silas on the phone. I ordered home fries and sausage. I got up and brushed my teeth. I skull-noted to call Top when he got back in town. Maybe he could find out who booked Leroy. Maybe I'd trace Chris that way. I'd get Preston's owl-head and take her from Leroy at gunpoint.

I was listening to "Mood Indigo" and thinking about the runt. I was remembering that day when I left Mama crying at the window.xxvii

I couldn't wait to get around the corner to the runt. Then I was sure I had a black gold mine sitting in the Ford waiting for me. In this tough pimp game you couldn't count your scratch until you had it in your mitt.xxviii Holding whores was like trying to cinch-grip quicksilver.

I thought, "Poor Mama. I haven't called her or anything. I'm gonna call her when things get straight."

Continued >>

———This dude's such a wreck... besides a sweet tooth for nosepowder like you couldn't believe he grins like an idiot whenever insecure, he gets butterflies in his stomach the moment a man looks his way, his knees shake incontrollably whenever seated at the big boy's table and his hands tremble just about half the time, on the clock. Da fuck's he got, the Dancing Mange of St. Vitus ? I don't think the best veterinarian in the world could chop a five pound healthy dog out of this hundred and fifty pounds of heaped biodysfunctive mass. I think whales eat better men each day in the shape of man-sized gulps of krill. It's just... [↩]Can you imagine how many thousands upon thousands of times the average record was listened to back then ? People never wanna look at this, "oh, Lady Blabla '''sold''' ten million records, that's a hundred times more than Doris Fitzgerald, Patsy Piaf and the Janis Sisters put together!!!" Really bitch ? And two thirds of those "sold" records weren't even sold, they were just nobody-can-accuse-them-of-not-having-been-sold, which ain't the same thing at all ; and of the paltry remainder ninety-nine percent and nine-decimal-nines were listen to... once. And the rest were heard twice, the second time while the bitch was "cooking" pizza with mac-cheese, and like eight of them were heard three times or more.

Back when music was a thing the average record was listened to death, literally, until its facing fell off. Every woman who owned a Doris Day record had listened to each thing on that record ten thousand times, knew it by heart for having known it by heart and forgotten in five or nineteen times already. Her mind had licked each crack and slit in that singer's voice, repeatedly, ad nauseam and beyond, so much so that it became a proxy for the background ongoing. The events in her life, centered around, interpreted by reference to that damned record.

That's the difference : your inept nothings "influence" no-one because nobody cares. Because there's all those many "options" all the time. Carson's talkshow was a big deal not because fifty million mouthbreathers watched, but because all the mouthbreathers watched it. Your imaginary, pretentiously pretended, utterly discretitable hundred million's worth the same as a similar hundred trillion : nothing. Either everything or go home, you read me ? [↩]Some "stable", eating take-out months later. Doesn't this dork get tired of it, or is that what the cocaine's for ?

My bitches cook for me the day we land somewhere half the time, and by "cook for me" I mean homemade bread and your-choice-of-soulfood. That's right, in hotel suites, after driving all night, after a shower and a nap and a stretch and a shopping, there they are, buck naked by the stove, making things you didn't even know existed. I take them to a restaurant twice and then can order their menu, a la carte, whenever I want wherever I am for as long as I live -- not that I usually care to because rare's the restaurant that's good enough to make the slightest dent in our culinary experience.

Now let's figure out the paper slats. What's she put on the dresser, his runt ? Twenty, thirty bucks ? That's cool, I leave that much in tips for being too lazy to pick up my change -- or rather, for being smart enough to separate what's important from what isn't. A very unfair comparison ? Yeah, that's life : the most unfair comparison of them all. [↩]Imagine that, rewoven. Can you find a place that'll re-weave worn pants ? Can you even imagine what it'd mean, what she's talking about ? How did it work, how was it done, this re-weaving business ? [↩]There's a simple trick for killing trees, the grander the better, back in the old country : first, you cut around the trunk, all around, an inch or so deep. This kills the (capilary force-powered) flow of fluids through the plant. In due time it dries out, and then it can be lawfully cut down, "for having been dry". Slim's runt stopped going for the white tricks a while back, and now she's preparing to nip the stem altogether, and quite "reasonably" at that : for it being dry, as dry in fact as she's made it be.

There's truly very little innovation still available in the world ; but this sort of cleverness is both naturally occuring and the natural cause, source, font and justification of violence. [↩]Apparently he's somehow figured out some things in the meanwhile. [↩]Wire hangers (even if they were significantly thicker back then than the milimeter cross-section nothings now ubiquitous in hotels) are still kinda thin, and therefore a substantial danger of cutting the skin. It's not a good thing, it never heals well, in fact skin cuts of the sort made through wire hanger application's one of the foremost things to avoid. Heavily insulated electric cable (the sort that's round, a quarter inch wide) is much better for the purpose ; in general the thinner the wire the lighter the beating it can properly an' safely deliver. [↩]What the fuck. [↩]Ahahaha wut! "Whee-Lordy!" ?! Lmao. Bwahahaha. [↩]Really this tail end was spurious, he could've had about the same effect saving the last nine (of a full dozen!) strokes for later. She's a virgin, they shock easily, shock is specifically this psychological state of extreme resistance. It's true that there's some residual benefit to be had later, of her own examination of her own body as part of her re-asserting herself over it as she comes to ; but by and large he's mostly wasting his labour as Pepys would say. For the time being something as childishly simple as having her crawl out of bed and worship the whip for mercy would have done just as well. [↩]Fucking noobs, always prone to outlandish claims. Sucker, if the human spirit were broken every time a yellow loutish bastard fell coathanger-first on some unexpecting broad, there'd have been no human spirit long before granma Lucy twerked her ample behind about the Congo. [↩]No, he's just finally maturing. Think if you will -- black boy from the urban ghetto, still had to be twenty-one before anything like an inkling of maturity, anything even vaguely like manhood started to waft about him. Back in the 1930s, this!

What hope do you have ? What hope anymore ? [↩]No bitch in this house'd dare leave that thing on, god help her if I get in and the damn thing squirts me refreshingly. [↩]Well... at least she won't be getting any COVID... [↩]Now you know what being a star's all about.

Or what, you imagined it's different if you whore for the studios, in preference of whoring for a man ? Hurr. [↩]There's a right and a wrong time to be generous. This'd be the right time. [↩]Yeah, that's how the Dummy died. [↩]Ahahahaha what the fuck nonsense. The hanger was invented well before "the United States" were. Where's this nigger get the gall, what the fuck, world cracked out of his mammy's arse ?! [↩]In fucking Ohio ?! [↩]For fuck's sake, none of these inept boys prone to weeping are in any danger of ever killing a woman as a deliberate act. Da fuck's all this "ironic" hyperbolization, enough already. [↩]Come on! What the fuck, he's raided the thesaurus, there's no way anyone besides myself knows this word. Name a work (besides Trilema) tha0 -- The unwritten book.t includes it. [↩]This sounds so fucking improbable, somehow... Maybe my own experience's the usual enchanted lala-land, but in that only and definitively true guidebook anyone ever has, which is said own experience, the girls did and do regularly take way the fuck piled besides and on top a few lashes with a nothing at all to still come back crawling and begging for still more. The plenty I wasn't interested in that wandered away ; the few and far between I was maybe interested in that wandered away nevertheless -- none were scared off by a light beating, nor for that matter by the soundest of methodical trashings. I suppose it's different if they love you ? Or maybe it's not different if they love you, their capacity to love far outstrips your capacity to be. Maybe it's different if there is a you there, filling the shape "you" cuts into thin air. Maybe that's what it is. Maybe. [↩]Fuck-happy is what he means. [↩]Odds are some Henry's gonna have something to hang himself with. I can't imagine why he fails to conceptualize the painfully self-obvious. His mother was a failed whore, nothing more, just like most of 'em. Why is this so hard ? With any luck Gay's gonna turn out to be a decent Chris. [↩]Dedication's important. In fact, none of the would-be lords ever managed to quite grow into what this "low life" nevertheless got, naturally an' in spades. All warts an' shortcomings aside I'd rather be friends with Slim ; and throughout history I've always been friends with Slim. [↩]He sure wanks a lot, doesn't he. [↩]That day... six weeks ago ? [↩]She was still good for a grand or so, if you don't count the furniture. Thirty percent of that he still has, in the shape of wheels ; twenty percent he gifted to some pickpocket and his friend ; another twenty percent he dropped on Glass Top, which really isn't terrible for the relation, in his place I'd keep right on buying a hundy's worth of gear every three weeks or so even if I didn't use it. Let it pile up, who cares. The remaining thirty percent went out for gas, and there you go, the problem with this particular "stable" was much more gross mismanagement on the part of the "pimp" than anything substantial, or at all to do with the whore. Then again we suspect he knows as much. [↩]

« The Master looked down on the naked sluts, and said...

Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 12 -- To gain a stable. »

Category: Adnotations

Sunday, 18 October, Year 12 d.Tr.

Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 10 -- The unwritten book.

A week after Chris left I copped another bag of cocaine from Top. It was almost gone. The runt was only making expenses. I had one lonely C note and a double saw plus the porker silver. The weather was getting balmy. I needed fresh clothes. I was going to the bottom fast.

In the three weeks after Chris left I kicked the runt's ass a halfdozen times. I only left the hotel twice in almost a month.i I was expecting Chris to call me and say she was on her way to me. Things were getting worse.

It had been two weeks since I saw Top. I decided to call him. Maybe he could hip me to a new spot to work for [the] runt. My bankroll was thin. At ten A.M. I called Top. One of his broads said he was out of town. He wouldn't be back for a week.

I got a sudden thought. I asked her if she knew Sweet's phone number. She said she did, but she'd have to call and find out if Sweet wanted me to have it. She called back in ten minutes and gave it to me. I called him. He answered. He was in a good mood.

He said, "Well, whatta you know, if it ain't grinning Slim. You still got that one whore or have you grinned yourself whoreless?"ii

I looked over at the runt. She was still asleep. She hadn't been in the street for three days. Her period had run five days.iii She claimed she was too weak and sick to go out. I had given her a terrible whipping the night before. I needed advice badly.

I said, "Sweet, my bitch is falling apart. She's playing dead. If you don't pull my coat I'm gonna starve to death. You gotta help me Sweet."

He said, "Nigger, you ain't cracking to nick me for scratch are you? I don't loan my scratch to suckers who got whores and can't pimp on 'em. I ain't gonna support you and that lazy bitch."iv

I said, "No Sweet I don't want scratch.v I want you to run the game through my skull. I got a tiny bit of scratch. I gotta get my coat pulled before I tap out."

He said, "You got wheels? You know how to get out here? Now remember you get a roust out here, crack my name. Don't repeat your boner."

I said, "Yeah, I'm driving. I think I can find your pad. When should I come out there?"

He said, "Quick as you can get here. You get here and grin in my face, I'm gonna throw you over the patio wall. Say kid, Peaches and me got a taste for some of that barbecued chicken down there in Hell. Bring one with you when you come."vi

He hung up.vii My ticker was pounding like Chris had walked in the door naked with a million dollars.viii I shook the runt. She opened her eyes. I stood over her.

I said, "Bitch, you better be in the street when I get back."

She said, "You can't do anything but kill me. I'm ready to die. I don't care what you do to me. I'm sick."

I said, "All right bitch, just hip me where you want your black stinking ass shipped."

I got in the Ford. I realized I hadn't put on a tie. I didn't have a lid. I looked into the rear-view mirror. I sure looked scroungy. Maybe he'd be alone. Then I remembered the lobby. What the hell did it matter.

I drove for about fifteen minutes before I saw a clean open barbeque joint. A black stud in a tall white cap was stabbing chickens onto a turning spit in the window. I went in. I came out with two birds. Peaches might be really hungry for barbequed chicken. It made solid sense to brown-nose Miss Peaches.

After making several wrong turns I found Sweet's building. I parked the Ford in almost the same spot at the curb where Satan had sappedix me a month ago. A young white stud in a monkey suit was out in front. Crusader Sweet was doing his bit to reverse the social order.

I went to the desk in the lobby. I felt like a tramp as I waited for the pass. I got on the elevator. A different broad was at the controls. The spicy scent of the chicken wiggled her nose. She wasn't as pretty as the ripe-smelling broad. She sure kept her crotch from advertising. Maybe it was just that she didn't get heavy action.

I stepped from the cage. The friendly brown snake wasn't at his station to flop his mop for me. I figured it was his off day. The odds were a hundred to one he was in the sack somewhere with a six-foot blonde.

She was probably a little like the blonde coming up from the pit on her way to the cage. It was Mimi. She flicked her green eyes across my face. They were cold as a frozen French lake. She passed me. She looked like a fancy French pastry in her sable stole. I wondered how I got the stupid courage to turn down her freak off.

I walked to the doorway of the pit. The stone broad was still in her squirting squat. Sweet was sitting on the couch. Miss Peaches beside him saw me first. She bounded across the carpet. I felt her choppers graze my hand. She snatched the bag of chicken. She flung it on the alabaster topped cocktail table in front of Sweet.

Sweet looked at me. I tightened my face into a solemn grim mask. I stepped down and walked toward him. He was wearing only a pair of polka-dot shorts. In daylight I noticed a mole on the broad in the picture over the couch.

I said, "Hello Mr. Jones. I hope those birds are still warm."

He said, "Kid, your map sure looks like that bullshit bitch you got is been shooting you through hot grease. I like that look you got today. Maybe you're getting hip the pimp game ain't for grinning jackasses. Get over here and sit on this couch. While baby and me eat our barbeque, rundown you and your whore. I wanta know where and how you copped her. Tell me everything you can remember about her and what's happened since you copped her. Rundown your whole life as far back as you remember. It don't matter which is first."

I ran down my life for him. Then I ran down from the night I met the runt until the moment I [last] left the Haven. It took maybe forty-five minutes. I even described the runt in detail.

Sweet and his greedy girl-friend had devoured both birds down to the bare bones. Sweet was wiping Miss Peaches' whiskers with a paper napkin. She put her head in his lap. She was jammed against my thigh. Sweet leaned back on the couch. He put his bare feet on the top of the cocktail table.

He said, "Sweetheart, you're black like me. I love you. You got the hate to pimp. You a lucky nigger to get your coat pulled by me. You flap your horns and remember what I'm gonna spiel to you. There are thousands of niggers in this country who think they're pimps. The pussy-weak white pimps ain't worth mentioning. Don't none of them pimp by the book. They ain't even heard about it. If they was black, they'd starve stiff. There ain't more than six of 'em who are hip to and pimp by the book. You won't find it in the square-nigger or white history books. The truth is that book was written in the skulls of proud slick Niggers freed from slavery. They wasn't lazy. They was puking sick of picking white man's cotton and kissing his nasty ass. The slave days stuck in their skulls. They went to the cities. They got hip fast. The conning bastard white man hadn't freed the niggers. The cities was like the plantations down South. Jeffing Uncle Toms still did all the white man's hard and filthy work. Those slick nigger heroes bawled like crumb crushers. They saw the white man just like on the plantations still ramming it into the finest black broads. The broads were stupid squares. They still freaked for free with the white man. They wasn't hip to the scratch in their hot black asses. Those first nigger pimps started hipping the dumb bitches to the gold mines between their legs. They hipped them to stick their mitts out for the white man's scratch. The first nigger pimps and sure-shot gamblers was the only nigger big shots in the country. They wore fine threads and had blooded horses. Those pimps was black geniuses. They wrote that skull book on pimping. Even now if it wasn't for that frantic army of white tricks, nigger pimps would starve to death. Greenie, the white man has been pig-greedy for nigger broads ever since his first whiff of black pussy. Black whores con themselves the only reason he sniffs his way to 'em is white broads ain't got what it takes to please him. I'm hip he's got two other secret sick reasons. White women ain't hip to his secret reasons. The dumb white broads ain't even hip to why he locks all niggers inside tight stockades. He'd love it if the nigger broads wasn't locked in there. The white man is scared shitless. He don't want them humping bucks coming out there in the white world rubbing their bellies against those soft white bellies. That's the real reason for keeping all the niggers locked up. To show you how sick in the head he is, he thinks black broads are dirt beneath his feet. His balls will bust if he don't sneak through that stockade, to those half-savage, less than human, black broads. You know, Greenie, why he's gotta come to 'em? The silly sick bastard is like a whore that needs and loves punishment. He's a joke with scratch in his mitt. As great as he thinks he is, he can't keep his beak and swipe outta the stink of a black ass. He wallows and stains himself. The poor freak's joy is in his suffering. The chump believes he's done something dirty to himself. He slips back into his white world. He goes on conning himself he's God and niggers are wild filthy animals he has to keep in the stockades. The sad thing is, he don't even know he's sick in the skull. Greenie, I'm pulling your coat from the bottom to the top. That rundown on the first nigger pimps will make you proud to be a pimp. Square-ass niggers will try to put shame inside you. Ain't one of 'em wouldn't suck a mule's ass to pimp. They can't because a square ain't nothing but a pussy. He lets a square bitch pimp on him. You gotta pimp by the rules of that pimp book those noble studs wrote a hundred years ago. When you look in a mirror you gotta know that cold-hearted bastard looking at you is real. Now that young bitch you got is gone lazy. She's stuffing on you. That bitch ain't sick. I ain't never seen a bitch under twenty that could get sick. Your whore is bullshitting. A whore's scratch ain't never longer than a pimp's cold game. You gotta have strict rules for a whore. She's gotta respect you to hump her heart out in the street. One whore ain't got but one pussy and one jib. You got to get what there is in her fast as you can. You gotta get sixteen hours a day outta her. There ain't no guarantee you going to keep any bitch for long. The name of the pimp game is 'Cop and Blow.' Now this young bitch you git is shitty all right. She knows you ain't got no other whore. I want you to go back to that hotel. Make that bitch get outta that bed and get in the street. Put your foot in her ass hard. If that don't work, take a wire coat hanger and twist it into a whip. Ain't no bitch, freakx or not, can stand up to that hanger. Maybe your foot and fist can't move that young whore anymore. She's a freak to them. Believe me, Greenie, that coat hanger will blow her or straighten her out. It's better to have no whore than a piece of whore. Get some cotton and make her pack herself. The show can't stop when a whore bleeds. I'm gonna lay some pills on you. Give her a couple when you get her outta that bed. Don't give her anymore reefer. It makes some whores lazy. Don't worry, kid, if you do like I say and blow her, I'll give you a whore.xi Kid, don't hold that whore to one block. Tell that whore all the streets go. Turn her loose. It's the only way to pimp. If she blows, whatta you lost. She stands up, you got a whore and some real scratch. You go back and put the coat-hanger pressure on her. If it don't blow her and she stands up for a week, you ought to have half a grand in a week. Take that scratch and drive to one of the whore towns close around. Go to Western Union. Send that scratch back to yourself at your hotel. Use some broad's name as the sender. That lazy bitch you got will think she's got competition. Watch the sparks fly from her ass. She'll try to top that bitch that doesn't exist. Greenie, you listen to Sweet Jones. You'll be a helluva pimp. Never get friendly and confide in your whores. You got twenty whores, don't forget your thoughts are secret. A good pimp is always really alone. You gotta always be a puzzle, a mystery to them. That's how you hold a whore. Don't get sour. Tell them something new and confusing every day. You can hold 'em as long as you can do it. Sweet is hipping you to pimp by the book. I'm the greatest nigger pimp in the world. Now Greenie, is your skull going to hold everything I told you?"

I said, "Thirty years from now I'll still remember every word. Sweet you won't be sorry you helped me. I'm gonna pimp my black ass off. I'll make you proud of me. I'll call you later and hip you to what the runt did under hanger pressure. Oh yeah, don't forget to give me those pills."

He got up. Miss Peaches stretched her legs. She jumped down and followed him. A sharp hooked nail in one of her rear claws snagged out an inch of cloth from my pants knee. I wouldn't have cared if she had clawed me naked.xii I was in a thrilled daze. With Sweet Jones on ready tap to pull my coat I was going to set a record on the fast track.xiii

Sweet came back. He gave me a tiny bottle of small white pills. He put his hands on my shoulders. He looked down at me. His subzero eyes warmed to maybe zero.

He said, "I love you, Sweetheart! You know kid, I don't ever think I'm gonna grin in your face. I love you like a son. Any time I grin in a sucker's face I'm gonna cross him or croak him. Call me any time you need a rundown. Good luck, Greenie."

I walked across the pit.xiv I stepped up to the doorway. I glanced back. Sweet had Peaches in his arms. She was purring like a new bride.xv Sweet was squeezing her in a lover's embrace. He was covering her laughing face with kisses.

I checked Mickey when I got in the Ford. It was four P.M. I drove toward the runt. I tromped hard on the gas pedal.

I thought, "No wonder Sweet is the greatest nigger pimp in the world. He even knows the history of the black pimp.xvi I ain't going to spare the runt's ass. I'm gonna go right in with the pressure. I hope she's not in the street.xvii Sweet promised me a whore if I blow the runt. Any whore of Sweet's is already trained to a fine edge. Maybe he'll give me Mimi."xviii

Continued >>

———Imagine this dude, sitting in that rented appartment, watching the walls while wistfully sighing "Chris... Chriiisss... Chriiiiiiissss". For a whole month.

A jail term sounds rather like an improvement ; at the very least socially. [↩]Bwahahaha. [↩]That they're squeamish about. Everything else's roses, rawdogging frothy, sploodge-runny clam is a-ok, bitch running in and out of cars dun bother anyone any, bear-hairy snatch last washed yesterday's just perfect -- but period blood, that cuts it. [↩]Apparently dependopotami weren't exactly unknown in 1930.

Or for that matter in 130, I'm sure. [↩]As rare then as now. [↩]This guy sure knows how to live -- what can be better than eating youth's food while listening to the litany of youth's problems ? Not that I would anymore, but quia absurdum were I willing to hear out a young wanna-be gangster from the old country, I sure as fuck tell him to bring along a... hell, why am I spilling any of this.

In any case, Slim's Sweet's a better role model than the contemporary lamers. [↩]Is Slim ever going to figure out that the kid he kicked out of the Roost claimed to be born "right here, in your town" whereas the same kid Glass Top introduced was supposedly from KC ? What do you think, is this getting discussed ? Does it pass in silence, maybe he just figured the Roost version was lieing, maybe he never even figured it... [↩]It's funny, because this actually happened to me. I don't just mean, it's happened to me recently ; I don't simply mean, it happened to me long ago. Both, really. How about that!

No, I don't mean the heart pounding part -- my heart's too subtle to pound. [↩]Being sapped is what happens to a sap. [↩]The word means many things in different contexts, such as plainly "accuplation" earlier. Here however it denotes something like what you'd now call "into BDSM". [↩]Actually it's a wonder this wasn't a lot more common. For one thing, the caliphs did it, and it worked splendidly well ; for the other thing these idiots utterly mismanage their households, it's true, but their horrifying ineptitude aside an old, therefore experienced, wise an' hip whore is worth a dozen teenagers. Not "to me", and not because "I know what to do with her". Fucking objectively, just like an old pickpocket is worth a dozen juvenile delinquents, just like an old cat burglar, long defeated by arthritis, is still worth twelve chicken thieves, just so. The one thing you truly need to start a kickass "stable" is an old whore who loves you, or at the very least looks kindly upon you and is willing to take the time to support you. I'd have expected those "noble black heroes" enshrined this into their imaginary "skull book" that never existed : to become a pimp you beg an old whore off an established pimp just like to become a sourdough miner you beg some sourdough starter off an old miner.

Try and remember : no matter what anyone says, whoever they may be, you still don't have to act stupid. [↩]Can you believe what a preppie this sucker actually is, deep down ? [↩]This is why pep rallies, MLM &c even exist, by the way, this iliterate's buzzing excitement. What was he told ? Not much ; but his information intput's usually zero, seeing how he doesn't read. He's unused to anything at all going on, so when even a little does he gets as pumped as a fifteen year old nun on a blind date. [↩]Wouldn't you have visiting bums take off their street shoes before they step through your sunken carpets ? [↩]Do you suppose he does the dirty with that off-color cat ? Maybe that's the purpose of the painting of the dog-knotted broad : so Sweet can fuck Mz Peaches facing it and feel like a dog-gone doggy dog. [↩]Roflmao.

The actual history of the black pimp was that one day a white guy wanted some black ass but didn't want to go there in person so he sent his obsequious secretary to fetch. That young stud started fetching whether Massah was in the mood or not, and there you go, black pimping has born! [↩]Oh for crying out loud. Not sparing her ass, alright, that's one thing. Hoping she's fucked up though... that's fucked up. Utterly, utterly fucked up. [↩]This coward's loyalty is outstanding!

And yeah, definitely, Mimi's just what he needs. [↩]

« Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 9 -- The butterfly.

The Master looked down on the naked sluts, and said... »

Category: Adnotations

Sunday, 18 October, Year 12 d.Tr.

Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 1 -- Torn from the nest.

Her name was Maude and she Georgiedi me around 1921. I was only three years old. Mama told me about it, and always when she did her rage and indignation would be as strong and as emotional perhaps as at the time when she had surprised her, panting and moaning at the point of orgasm with my tiny head wedged between her ebony thighs, her massive hands viselike around my head.

Mama worked long hours in a hand laundry and Maude had been hired as a babysitter at fifty cents a day. Maude was a young widow. Strangely, she had a reputation in Indianapolis, Indianaii as a devout Holy Rolleriii.

I have tried through the years to remember her face but all I can rememberiv is the funky ritual. I vaguely remember, not her words but her excitement when we were alone.

I remember more vividly the moist, odorous darkness and the bristle-like hairs tickling my face and most vividly I can remember my panic, when in the wild moment of her climax, she would savagely jerk my head even tighter into the hairy maw.

I couldn't get a breath of air until like a huge black balloon she would exhale with a whistling whoosh and relax, limply freeing my head.

I remember the ache of the strain on my fragile neck muscles, and especially at the root of my tongue.

Mama and I had come to Indianapolis from Chicago, where since the time when she was six months pregnant, my father had begun to show his true colors as an irresponsible, white-spats-wearing bum.

Back in that small town in Tennessee, their home town, he had stalked the beautiful virgin and conned her into marriage. Her parents, with vast relief, gave their blessing and wished them the best in the promised land up North in Chicago.

Mama had ten brothers and sisters. Her marriage meant one less mouth to feed.

My father's father was a skilled cook and he passed his know how to my father, who shortly after getting to Chicago scored a chef's job at a huge middle-class hotel. Mama was put on as a waitress.

Mama told me that even with both of them working twelve hours a day, six days a week they couldn't save a nickel or buy furniture or anything.

My idiot father had come to the big city and gone sucker wild. He couldn't stay away from the high-yellow whores with their big asses and bitch-dog sexual antics.v What they didn't con him out of he lost in the cheat crap joints.

At the hotel one night he vanished from the kitchen. Mama finally found him thrusting mightily into a half-white waitress lying on a sack of potatoes in a storage room, with her legs locked around his back.vi

Mama said she threw everything she could lift at them. They were unemployed when they walked away from the shambles.vii

My father tearfully vowed to straighten himself out and be a manviii, but he didn't have the will, the strength to resist the cheap thrills of the city.ix

After my birth he got worse and had the stupid gall to suggest to Mama that I be put on a Catholic Church doorstep. Mama naturally refused so he hurled me against the wall in disgust.

I survived it and he left us, his white spats flashing and his derby hat at a rakish angle.

It was the beginning of a bitter winter. Mama packed pressing irons and waving combs into a small bag and wrapped me warmly in blankets and set out into the bleak, friendless city to ring door bells, the bag in one arm and I in the other.

Her pitch was something like this, "Madam, I can make your hair curly and beautiful. Please give me a chance. For fifty cents, that's all, I will make your hair shine like new money."

At this point in the pitch Mama told me she would slip the blanket aside to bare my wee big-eyed face. The sight of me in her arm on a subzero day was like a charm. She managed to make a living for us.

That spring, with new friends of Mama's we left Chicago for Indianapolis. We stayed there until nineteen twenty-four, when a fire gutted the hand laundry where Mama worked.

There were no jobs in Indianapolis for Mama and for six months we barely made it on the meager savings. We were penniless and with hardly any food when a tall black angel visiting relatives in Indianapolis came into our lives.

He fell instantly in love with my lissome beautiful mother. His name was Henry Upshaw, and I guess I fell as hard for him as he fell for Mama.

He took us back to Rockford, Illinois with him where he owned a cleaning and pressing shop, the only Negro business in downtown Rockford.

In those tough depression times a Negro in his position was the envy of most Negro men.

Henry was religious, ambitious, good and kind. I often wonder what would have happened to my life if I had not been torn from him.

He treated Mama like she was a princess, anything she wanted he got for her. She was a fashion platex all right.

Every Sunday when we all three went to church in the gleaming black Dodge we were an outstanding sight as we walked down the aisle in our fresh neat clothing.xi

Only the few Negro lawyers and physicians lived as well, looked as well. Mama was president of several civic clubs. For the first time we were living the good life.

Mama had a dream. She told it to Henry. Like the genie of the lamp he made it a reality.

It was a four stall, opulent beauty shop. Its chrome gleamed in the black-and-gold motif. It was located in the heart of the Negro business section and it flourished from the moment its doors opened.

Her clientele was for the most part whores, pimps, and hustlers from the sprawling red light district in Rockford.xii They were the only ones who always had the money to spend on their appearance.

The first time I saw Steve he was sitting getting his nails manicured in the shop. Mama was smiling into his handsome olive-tinted face as she buffed his nails.

I didn't know when I first saw him that he was the pin-striped snake who would poison the core of our lives.xiii

I certainly had no inkling that [was to be the] last day at the shop as live billows of steam hissed from the old pressing machine each time Henry slammed its lid down on a garment.xiv

Jesus! It was hot in that little shop, but I loved every minute of it. It was school-vacation time for me and every summer I worked in the shop all day, every day helping my stepfather.

That day as I saw my reflection on the banker's expensive black shoes, I was perhaps the happiest black boy in Rockford. As I applied the sole dressing I hummed my favorite tune "Spring Time in the Rockies."

The banker stepped down from the shine stand, stood for a moment as I flicked lint from his soft, rich suit, then with a warm smile he pressed an extravagant fifty-cent piece into my hand and stepped out into the broiling street.

Now I whistled my favorite tune, shines were only a dime, what a tip.

I didn't know at the time that the banker would never press another coin into my hand, that for the next thirty-five years this last day would be remembered vividly as the final day of real happiness for me.

I would press five-dollar bills into the palms of shine boys. My shoes would be handmade, would cost three times as much as the banker's shoes, but my shoes, though perfectly fitted would be worn in tension and fear.xv

There was really nothing out of the ordinary that day. Nothing during that day that I heard or saw that prepared me for the swift, confusing events that over the weekend would slam my life away from all that was good to all that was bad.

Now, looking back remembering that last day in the shop as clearly as if it were yesterday, my stepfather, Henry, was unusually quiet. My young mind couldn't grasp his worry, his heart break.

Even I, a ten year old, knew that this huge, uglyxvi, black man who had rescued Mama and me from actual starvation back in Indianapolis loved us with all of his great, sensitive heart.

I loved Henry with all my heart. He was the only father I had ever really known.

He could have saved himself an early death from a broken heart if instead of falling so madly in love with Mama he had run as fast as he could away from herxvii. For him, she was brown-skin murder in a size-twelve dressxviii.

That last night at eight o'clock Dad and I flicked the shop's lights out as always at closing.

In an emotion muffled voice he spoke my name "Bobby."

I turned toward him and looked up into his face tense and strained in the pale light from the street lamp. I was confused and shaken when he put his massive hands on my shoulders and drew me to him very tightly just holding me in this strange desperate way.

My head was pressed against his belt buckle. I could barely hear his low, rapid flow of pitiful words.

He said, "Bobby, you know I love you and Mama, don't you?"

His stomach muscles were cording, jerking against my cheek. I knew he was going to burst into tears.

I said as I squeezed my arms around his waist, "Yes, Daddy, yes, Daddy. We love you too, Daddy. We always will, Daddy."

He was trembling as he said, "You and Mama wouldn't ever leave me? You know Bobby, I ain't got nobody in the world but you two. I just couldn't go on if you left me alone."xix

I clung tightly to him and said, "Don't worry Daddy, we'll never leave you, I promise, honest, Daddy."

What a sight we must have been, the six-foot-six black giant and the frail little boy holding on to each other for dear life, crying there in the darkness.xx

I tell you when we finally made it to the big black Dodge and were riding home my thoughts were turning madly.

Yes, poor Henry's fears had foundation. Mama had never loved my stepfather. This kind, wonderful man had only been a tool of convenience.xxi She had fallen in love with the snake all right.

His plan was to cop Mama and make it to the Windy. The dirty bastard knew I would be excess baggage, but the way Mama was gulping his con, he figured he could get rid of me later.

Only after I had become a pimp years later would I know Steve's complete plot, and how stupid he really was.xxii

Here this fool had a smart, square broad with a progressive square-john husband, infatuated with him. Her business was getting better all the time.

Her sucker husband was blindly in love, and the money from his business was wide open to her. If Steve had been clever he could have stayed right there on top of things and bled a big bankroll from the businesses in a couple of years.

Then he could have pulled Mama out of there and with a big bankroll he could have done anything with her, even turned her out.

I tell you she was that hot for him. She had to be insane over the asshole to walk away from all that potential with only twenty-five hundred in cash.xxiii

Steve blew it in a Georgia-skin gamexxiv within a week after we got to Chicago.

I have wished to Christ, in four penitentiaries, that the lunatic lovers had left me in Rockford with Henry when they split.xxv

One scene in my life I can never forget and that was that morning when Mama had finished packing our clothes and Henry lost his inner fight for his pride and dignity.

He fell down on his knees and bawled like a scalded child, pleading with Mama not to leave him, begging her to stay. He had welded his arms around her legs, his voice hoarse in anguish, as he whimpered his love for us.

His agonized eyes walled up at her as he wailed, "Please don't leave me. You are sure to kill me if you do. I ain't done nothing. If I have, forgive me."

I will never forget her face, as cold as an executioner's, which she was, as she kicked and struggled loose from him.

Then with an awful grin on her face she lied and said, "Henry, Honey, I just want to get away for a while. Darling, we'll be back."

In his state she was lucky he hadn't killed her and me, and buried us in the backyard.xxvi

As the cab drove us away to the secret rendezvous with Steve sitting in his oldxxvii Model T, I looked back at Henry on the porch, his chest heaving as tears rolled down his tortured face.

There were too many wheels within wheels, too much hurt for me to cry. After a blank time and distance we got to Chicago. Steve had vanished and Mama was telling me in a drabxxviii hotel room that my real father was coming over to see us, and to remember that Steve was her cousin.

Steve was stupid all right, but cunning, if you get what I mean.xxix

Mama, at Steve's instruction, weeks before, had gotten in contact with my father through a hustler brother of Mama's in Chicago.xxx

When my father came through the hotel room door reeking of cologne and dressed to kill, all I could think was what Mama had told me about that morning when this tall brown-skin joker had tossed me against the wall.

He took a long look at me. It was like looking in a mirror. His deep down guilt cream puffed him and he grabbed me and squeezed me to him. I was stiff and tense in the stranger's arms, but I had looked in the mirror too when he came in, so I strung my arms limply about his neck.

When he hugged Mama, her face was toward me and stony, like back there with Henry. My father strutted about that hotel room boasting of his personal chef's job for Big Bill Thompson the mayor of Chicagoxxxi.

He told Mama and me, "I am a changed man now. I have saved my money and now I really have something to offer my wife and son. Won't you come back to me and try again? I am older now, and I bitterly regret my mistakes of the past."

Like a black-widow spider spinning a web around her prey, Mama put up enough resistance to make him pitch himself into a sweatxxxii then agreed to go back to him.

My father's house was crammed with expensive furniture and art pieces. He had thousands of dollars invested in rich clothing and linens.xxxiii

After a week, my hustler uncle brought Steve to visit us, and to case the lay out. My father bought the cousin angle and broke out his best cigars and cognac for the thieves. It was another week before they took him off.

Remember, at the time I had no idea as to what really was going to happen. I would learn the shocking truth only after we got to Milwaukee.

On that early evening when it happened Mama was jittery as we prepared to visit some close white friends of my father. I had a wonderful time getting acquainted with the host's children who were around my age. Too soon it was time to go home.

In my lifetime I have seen many degrees of shock and surprise on the human face. I have never seen on any face the traumatic disbelief and shock that was on my father's face when he unlocked the door and stepped into his completely empty house. His lips flapped mutely. He couldn't speak. Everything was gone, all the furniture and drapery, everything, from the percolator to the pictures on the wall, even my Mama's belongings.xxxiv

Mama stood there in the empty house clinging to him, comforting him, sobbing with real tears flowing down her cheeks. I guess she was crying in joy because the cross had come off so beautifully.

Mama missed her calling. She should have been a film actress.xxxv With only a bit part, an Oscar a season would have been a lead-pipe cinch for her.

Mama told my father we would go to Indianapolis to friends until he could put another nest together.

When we got to Milwaukee by train, ninety miles away, Steve had rented a house. Every square inch of that house was filled with my father's things.xxxvi

Those lovely things did us little good and brought no happiness. Steve, with his mania for craps, within weeks had sold everything, piece by piece, and lost it across the craps table.

Mama worked long hours as a cook, and Steve and I were alone quite often.

At these times he would say, "You little mother-fucker, you. I'm going to beat your mother-fucking ass. I am telling you, if you don't run away, I'm going to kill you."

He was just so cruel to me. My mother had bought me a little baby cat. I loved that kitten, and this man hated animals. One day the cat, being a baby cat, did his business on the kitchen floor.

Steve said, "Where is that little mother-fucker?"

The little kitten had hidden under the sofa. He grabbed that kitten and took it downstairs where there was a concrete wall. He grabbed it by the heels. I was standing (we lived on the second floor) looking down at him; he took the kitten and beat its brains out against that wall.

I remember, there was a park behind our house, concrete covered. There were some concrete steps. I sat there and I cried until I puked. All the while I kept saying like a litany, "I hate Mama! I hate Mama! I hate Mama!" And, "I hate Steve! I hate Steve! I hate him! I hate him!"

For many tortured years she would suffer her guilt. She had made that terrible decision on that long ago weekend.

I know my lousy old man deserved what happened to his goods. I know Mama got her revengexxxvii and it was sweet I am sure, but it was bitter for a kid like me to know that Mama was part of it.

Perhaps if Mama had kept that burglary cross a secret from me, in some tiny way I might have been stronger to fight off that pimping disease. I don't know, but somehow after that cross Mama just didn't seem like the same honest sweet Mama that I had prayed in church with back in Rockford.

I went to her grave the other day and told her for the hundredth time since her death, "Mama, it wasn't really your fault. You were a dumb country girl, you didn't understand. I was your first and only child. You couldn't have known how important Henry was to me."xxxviii

I choked up, stopped talking to her beneath the silent sod, and thought about Henry lying rotten, forgotten in his grave.xxxix

Then, through my tight throat I said to Mama, "To you he was ugly, but Mama I swear to heaven he was so beautiful to me. I loved him Mama, I needed him. I wish you could have seen beyond his ugly black face and loved him a little and stayed with him. Mama, we could have been happy, our lives would have been different, but I don't blame you. Mama, I love you."xl

I paused looking up at the sky, hoped she was up there and could hear me, then I went on, "I just wish you were alive now, you would be so proud of me. I am not a lawyer as you always wanted me to be, but Mama, you have ...

~ fuck this dumb shit, I'm expunging the remainder of the vomit-inducing gunk ~

I had begun to play Steve's favorite game, craps, in the alleys after school.

Dangerously, I was frantic to sock it into every young girl weak enough to go for it. I had to run for my life one evening when an enraged father caught me on his back porch punching animal-like astraddle his daughter's head. I had become impatient with the unusual thickness of her maidenhead.xli

Continued >>

———"The Georgia" and assorted flexions denote any intimate arrangement that isn't total power exchange with the male on top. Why exactly he calls it that escapes me. [↩]Check it out, dude's from Indiana! [↩]"Black church" nonsense of the Free Methodists, Wesleyan Methodists &cetera. You know, with the shaky "dancing" and the rest of the "under the influence" (of the Holy Spirit) bullshit. [↩]I can't tell if this is genuine recounting or simply chrome, put in to build commercial appeal in the early days of the "child abuse" meme. If I were politically involved I'd make a political call, which'd then (of course) become mandatory within my domain ; but as it is I don't particularly give a shit, here it can lay and wallow in its mystery.

That said, sexual manipulation of the small children in their care by nurses was very common before the war, because indeed, a blowjob will pacify a male at any age. [↩]But... when ? Six day weeks, twelve hours days... when ?! [↩]But... wait, and he was also paying her ?! [↩]Mama talks too much. [↩]This irritating pantsuit bullshit, with the attempts at appropriating words... being a man has utterly nothing to do with not fucking half-white waitresses on potato sacks, nor with putting up with overvoiced virgins from the boondocks. [↩]Hurr. [↩]Plate is here used in a meanwhile obsolete sense, as an contraction of "photographic plate". The idea being that she looked like one of those hussies in the rags. [↩]This shit is starting to sound Elliot-esque. [↩]For all his religious ambition and good kindness, Henry wasn't altogether all that sharp, was he. [↩]Nua cicat. [↩]This one-sentence paragraph business is starting to wear thin. I mean I get it, "book" written with an audience in mind, which "coincidentally" is black, which "doesn't mean anything" academically, but... still. [↩]Nua cicat!!! [↩]Oh. I thought he was a black angel. It took me some effort to imagine a sort of Bantu Gabriel, Alexandrine golden curly locks flowing on shoe-shined ebony. Now all that effort turns out to have been in vain ?!

Don't do this to your reader, seriously now. [↩]You mean, like the other one ? Like some not-as-tall, "good for nothing", "not a real man" dude in spats ? Who, perhaps, hadn't done what some yakkity bitch said he'd done, not quite exactly ? This perpetual victim that's her, perpetually surprised (not to mention victimized) "by events", and so on. Hm ?

This dude's mother's by far, by a good thick margin the only regrettable portion of his life. [↩]Da fuck, I thought that bitch was "lissom", just as I thought size 12 is where normal fare ends and specialty wares begin. How many lissom women do you know that gotta buy their dresses in special shops for... well... the not-so-lissom no mo' ? [↩]I thought he was the envy of most other "Negro" folk out there, his wife the president of whatever commissions... surely a preacher, an older woman, someone'd have been more than happy to fix him up with something. Neh ? Surely there had been offers, surely there were other people...

This story makes relatively very little sense so far, even by "Negro" standards of tigthness. [↩]Not much of a sight, in the darkness. [↩]No, he was just too dweeby to order her to. [↩]Check it out, dumb bitch still comes out sniffing roses.

He thinks it was -- he says it was so as to hear himself say it and therefore think it, even if for only a moment -- Maude that "Georgia"'d him, in 1921. It wasn't Maude. [↩]Now that's a point. [↩]Possibly the dumbest nonsense ever. So, all cards are dealt face up, players bet against each other on whether the face up card in front of the other guy gets matched (paired) before their own card is matched. That's all, rank and suit carry no importance, it's just... basically, baby's first steps to being a mechanic. [↩]That's another point, except for the part where... I dunno dood, a ten year old might've done something about it. Maybe. [↩]Fucking simps. It's true, he was "lucky" ; the rest of the world, however... not so much. [↩]The Model T was made 1908 to 1927 ; if he was 3 in 1921 then he'd be 10 in 1928 ; the Model T could've been just about brand new. Doesn't have to mean it also was, but anyways.

In any case, the price of the car when new was around $260, making the two-and-a-half grand the hussy supposedly eloped with a considerable fortune (contrary to what pimpster over there seems to intimate). [↩]Very perceptive, for a ten year old ; I suppose it's on account of all the time he had spent in classy joints up to that point. [↩]Actually... no, I don't get what he means. Unless, of course, he means Steve was also drab. But hey, what can I say, Steve could've been smarter, he could've conned an actual bankroll offa the hussy's husband by her offices, not a mere dozen car fleet's worth. [↩]Oh. [↩]2nd term, 1927 to 1931. Not particularily popular with the Karen chorus on account of standing firmly on the side of light, and against their petty shenanigans (or rather, correctly perceiving "reformists" as the real criminals).

At the time the city was in the middle of a gang war (not to mention race riots), and Thompson actually debated two live rats (his chosen strawman version of his competition). [↩]Heh. [↩]Da fuck investment's a... linen. [↩]Wouldn't that have been a sight, to clean the house bare except for her shit. [↩]Honestly seems Mama lived her calling exactly. [↩]Ok, ok, Steve is fucking Negroballs-dumb. [↩]Um. [↩]Heh. Seriously, could we get past the fake-out homilies already ? I get it, I get it, the "reformist" aggenda was that "if Negro 'family life' was more like Victorian and less like Muslim it'd be much better -- for '''everyone''', in the limited sense of posing less of a challenge to our dumb shit". Reading USistani authors has this eerie similarity to reading Soviet-era "curageous" fuckwads, there's the same thickly caked nonsense, supposedly differently flavoured, but still palpably sprouted off the same deplorable cuntspiggots.

Not to mention the passage of time renders it all ridiculous -- isn't it great everyone in the USGistan is now wearing the hijab "for science", totallies not like those "barbaric" Arab women were wearing it "for religion" ? Cuz USGistani religion is "science", not religion, while Muslim science is "religion", not science, and so on and so fucking forth, buncha worthless, myopic retards. [↩]Well... ? [↩]Gotta play the simp to publish in the US, gotta play the commie to publish in the SU, gotta suck my cock and get the fuck lost, the lotta you. [↩]Don't you expect he'd have likely gotten shot ? I don't, but hey, you've got your own ideas. [↩]

« Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Introduction.

Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 2 -- First steps into the jungle. »

Category: Adnotations

Thursday, 15 October, Year 12 d.Tr.

Pesk-u, in all timelines, and dimensions!

The man walks into the little girls' room. The single solitary little girl captive therei is sleeping deeply, ensconced in a cocoon of her own devising, a complicated creation of blanket and internal obsessive compulsion.

He stands a moment, observing. She's on her side, breathing evenly. Well... that won't last long now, will it!

He lowers his face, so it's just in front of her face. Her eyes are moving under closed eyelids. She must be dreaming. He blows, slightly. He can see the electric charges, the minute, tinyest of tiny sparks coursing through her face, knotting themselves in her hindbrain, running amplified to the limbs and viscera. Adrenals smoldering, she jerks and

"Whaaaa!"

"Ahahah, relax baby"

"Whoa haa! What the"

"It's ok, it's ok, it's me."

"Holy shit, what! Why! Who does someting like that to a person!"

"Hahahaha. I figured your life's boring and you could use a little jolt."

"What ?! No!"

"Did you get scared ?"

"Yes I got scared. I'm petrified", holding her chest, containing ye little racing heart or ye butterfliesfull thymus or whatever she's containing in there. "Look, my eyes, they're huge!"

"They're actually closed."

"You know, I was dreaming just as you did that. I was dreaming that we were sitting at a desk..."

"What, tuup-du-duupii, drawer desk, like the frog ?"

"No, a normal desk. And you were showing me a program, or we were trying to figure out this cool place or something like this, and..."

"Boo!"

"You know ? You're like... in all timelines and dimensions."

"Transcend time, and space!"

"Heh."

"Well, so go back to sleep, I just wanted to fuck with you a little, there's nothing else."

"Oh, thank you."

She goes to pee, and he goes to... similarily excrete. Tu-doo.

Oh, I nearly forgot -- yesterday a dentist's girlyiii finally got my name right, for once :

Needless to say I'm not taking most of that, not being either an underage prostitute in a Central Asian brothel, nor one of the morons concerned about the latest bout of hysteriaiv. I understand it's in the poorest of tastes to overrule a surgeon's prescription like that, but holy god it's not painful at all, I don't need to be sedated for lack of absolutely anything going on in my life to the point chemically induced altered states are not merely interesting, but outright phenomenal (or how they'd say, "amazing!"). So Ima take the antibiotic seeing how with oral shit you never know, there's all that food (not to mention little girl tuna etc) getting in there, and four days of the cancer medsv and call it good.

———"She could leave at any time", of course, of course. Leave and go where ? Or, to reuse Alicia Silverstone's everquestion to the universal great guy with a great sense of humour, "how dumb is there ?" [↩]Yes, many harem-internal key words and terms of art have a little soundtrack or other such special effects attached. Often it's a small trumpeting. [↩]Their relationship is ambiguous to me. She's pretty, where he's shockingly competent (you know that thing fewer and fewer people do as the lights dim, whereby they do the task, check it, move on, do the next task, check it, move on, they're done in a third of the time all the other morons dithering about and ambling circularily, unable to attain closure or mentally handle finality take ?) ; she held his aspirator and blinked stripper-grade fake eyelashes ; she wore very cute, deep red surgical theatre robes, but had never heard of Jeremy Irons, let alone that apoteotic scene in the operating room. So I'm guessing she must've been his... I don't know, really. They came together in his car, so I'll wager fiance, what can I say. [↩]Yet think of this if you will, you can't find Dexamethasone (which is what she means by "Dexametaxna" or whatever the hell she blockprinted in there -- fancy that wonder, DOCTORS BLOCKPRINTING NOW, like Neznayka predicted exactly!) for love or money, I have plenty rotting away in my fridge. How's that "equality" and "people's rights" etcetera bullshit working out for you yet ? [↩]Seriously, if this world doesn't have an overmedication problem I don't know what the fuck does, even reduced tenfold as I have the list is probably too heavy by a factor of who even knows, more than two in any case. This is the great fruit bore by that poisonous tree of systematically oppressing manhood now fashionable : not only is it a matter of, braindead good, active bad at rest as in general. It's also a matter of "tell the court, Mr. Doctor, what have you done to prevent outcome X". And Mr. Doctor can't very well say nothing, because the women ubiquitous in the audience know full well, viscerally understand they're both wrong and evil and please won't a hero rise up every time he's needed. He has to do something, he can't explain to the idle, pointless idiots spuriously befouling the place that the cure ain't worth the trouble, he must show a positive "having done something". Just like they do, at their place of "work". So he loads up a list of half a pound of assorted poppers, such that "nobody could accuse him" should any of ten trillion possible but unlikely circumstances come to pass. The reason medicine sucks so bad these days is squarely that women have a voice -- I don't mean the practitioners, they're almost always fine, for schooling taking too long and being too demanding to allow much of the usual scar tissue through, they usually prefer law or (if particularly braindead, business), I mean everyone else. Same reason education sucks so bad today, same reason everything else sucks today. You follow ?

Well then shut the fuck up and do the right thing, what the fuck already. [↩]

« Contrary to convenient fiction, they really haven't changed much, have they

The journall of the good Mr. Archibald Pizdys, as laid in his own hand for the year, of our King Charles, 19th, week 13. »

Category: Zsilnic

Tuesday, 30 June, Year 12 d.Tr.

Our democracy, or rather mostly theirs.

It's not readily possible to explain in mere words just how much socialist Europe's decayed from the former peaks and glories of its colonial recent past.

We could say it's managed to close the gap with Africa not through the intended process, of lifting the Africans up from their hole, but through the self-evidently easier process of merely collapsing upon the misfortunates' own level. We could say one could go for day upon day upon livelong day through the sad wasteland that was once our garden without running into anyone who does anything or for that matter knows anything -- besides ample supply of sad defficients, overwhelmed by their context to a superlative degree, swiming with all the desperation of the drowned in an endless, loveless ocean of things that are to them little use and much maintenance, like cutlery and plumbing are for savages ; aside the occasional abomination belabouring under such boundlessly heaped and generously assorted inferiority complexes mere presence seems to constitute in their eyes achievement (and you can not imagine just how many of these schmucks there are, proudly looking up their nose at the entire world around because look, not merely the first generation of their lengthy line in shoes, but also here, right here, buying a bus ticket in Budapest, queuing for fornetti in Bayern, don't you wish you were as cool as them!!!). We could say that I am writing this piece offline because the best internet interface the four star Munchen hotel could provide works at 96 Kbps for fifty minutes out of each hour, like school classes for children, lest it tires the fragile young intellects.i

We could say all sorts of things, and none of them would do the horror justice. Let's try depictions instead :

This is, pars pro toto, precisely all that's nowadays Europe. Fashionable, upbeat, in tune with the new trends, very aware, bla bla bla bla. Go have some fucking "milk" in your "coffee" why don't you. It's all so very hip and woke and fuck your dumb mother with a spuked club so she dun make anymore of you ever the fuck again.

Above : the aeroplane of the future, part of the great ourdemocratic civilisation as ever. Just not part of the sky at all anymore, ever.

Below : Notre Dame des Aines, a famous cathedral of medieval europe. Unfortunately the spyre collapsed a few years ago for no reason. Say it ain't so!

A saloon.

Time to move on to better preserved ruins, but, importantly, ruins just as much. The substantial difference between an hour-old corpse and a week-old corpse isn't that the former might even be still warm enough to satisfyingly fuck. The substantial difference between an hour-old corpse and a week-old corpse isn't anything, they're both just as fucking stone dead.

Another saloon. For some incomprehensible reason Elvis is also involved.

We all dwell in the Pizd tower... which isn't even all that far off...

Last time we were in Vienna, we noticed this interesting-looking mini-museum off one of the main subway stations. We didn't go in then, because if you keep stopping on the way you'll never get wherever you're going at all (at the moment we were going somewhere we had failed to arrive at the previous day through a similar process), but this time, since we were there...

This time (as you perhaps intuit) we shall be visiting the other side of Theresa's elaborate tomb -- the natural history museum.

Does it do something for you, by the way, to see first hand the result of a 1700s physics experiment ? To stand in the presence of the very objects involved in that early-late attempt at figuring shit out ? Well... you didn't. I did.

See, the image above and the two before it belong together -- it's a rock that fell, in the 1800s, one of sixteen L/LL5 meteorites known to man (and by far the largest). It was discussed on period blogs (above depicted).

Above : particularly bad driving, a sample.

Below : Bimbo causing trouble for a whole population of mountain-dwelling bears. She's also grinning like a gnome the whole time (not depicted).

Sadly I don't quite remember where the dancing mantis pic is, but it would go quite well with this.

The text reads "Two teeth belonging to a child aged 5 to 6 years were found near a fire site. Anhtropologists were able to determine that they had been knocked out."

This is the absolute first time latter intervention/production is actually accomplished enough on its own merits to justify to my eye its inclusion among the historical objects. I hope the important point is also not lost on the audience : back when humanity was climbing up, a whole lot of broken smiles graced the world, young age notwithstanding. The fact that humanity's been going down ever since all kids have all their teeth is not a coincidence.

The above attempts at statuary are self-obviously the product of someone unaware of the capacity for anal sexual usage inherent in womanhood. This may mark the last moment in time humanity in general was thus bereft (though humanity in the sense of losers was still bereft recently, and will probably stay bereft permanently).

This'd be the first time Austria is mentioned -- earlier than the future kings of Hungary, but not by much.

Anyways, if all goes well I shall be back to civilisation in the jungle tomorrow about this time. Good riddance midden pile still inexplicably called "Europe" in any case. I don't mind having known ye ; but nobody else can meet you anymore. Sick transit.

———This self-same four star hotel which can't accomodate the luggage cart in the lobby within its elevator. It's not that they don't have bus boys, and my private sluts have to take over the public role of hauling luggage, four stars or no four stars. It's that they have a derpy chinese girl at the front desk who manages to turn checkin into half an hour ordeal, part of whose retarded job apparently is to run over there and tell people that "sorry, our luggage cart doesn't fit in the elevator". This is something that can be done without the whole god damned assemblage of empty cardboard boxes and drying/rotting banana leaves catching fire, somehow, by the kind intercession of the Cargo Cult gods, perhaps.

I am not kidding, I am not making any of this up, it is lived history in full disgust partially recounted, I'm not embellishing, I am repressing vomit as I write down the occasional element of intolerable subhuman nonsense in a list that could go on and on and on forever. Back in 1800, America was a reviled laughingstock of an European periphery ; and yet among those uncouth souls they themselves perceived distinction and degree, ride ciob de oala sparta. This is how the troglodyte of New York poked fun at the troglodyte of further inland in the nowhereland, in those days :

The papers were drawn. A note was made out for $552.50, for the interest was at one and a half per cent. for seven months, and a mortgage on ten mules belonging to the elder was drawn and signed. The elder then promised to send his cotton to the warehouse to be sold in the fall, and with a curt "Anything else?" and a "Thankee, that's all," the two parted.

Elder Brown now made an effort to recall the supplemental commissions shouted to him upon his departure, intending to execute them first, and then take his written list item by item. His mental resolves had just reached this point when a new thought made itself known. Passersby were puzzled to see the old man suddenly snatch his headpiece off and peer with an intent and awestruck air into its irregular caverns. Some of them were shocked when he suddenly and vigorously ejaculated:

"Hannah-Maria-Jemimy! goldarn an' blue blazes!"

He had suddenly remembered having placed his memoranda in that hat, and as he studied its empty depths his mind pictured the important scrap fluttering along the sandy scene of his early-morning tumble. It was this that caused him to graze an oath with less margin that he had allowed himself in twenty years. What would the old lady say?

Alas! Elder Brown knew too well. What she would not say was what puzzled him. But as he stood bareheaded in the sunlight a sense of utter desolation came and dwelt with him. His eye rested upon sleeping Balaam anchored to a post in the street, and so as he recalled the treachery that lay at the base of all his affliction, gloom was added to the desolation.

To turn back and search for the lost paper would have been worse than useless. Only one course was open to him, and at it went the leader of his people. He called at the grocery; he invaded the recesses of the dry-goods establishments; he ransacked the hardware stores; and wherever he went he made life a burden for the clerks, overhauling show-cases and pulling down whole shelves of stock. Occasionally an item of his memoranda would come to light, and thrusting his hand into his capacious pocket, where lay the proceeds of his check, he would pay for it upon the spot, and insist upon having it rolled up. To the suggestion of the slave whom he had in charge for the time being that the articles be laid aside until he had finished, he would not listen.

"Now you look here, sonny," he said, in the dry-goods store, "I'm conducting this revival, an' I don't need no help in my line. Just you tie them stockin's up an' lemme have 'em. Then I know I've got 'em." As each purchase was promptly paid for, and change had to be secured, the clerk earned his salary for that day at least.

Do you know what the "technologically advanced" moron did ? She drew up a bill for one room. Then she drew up a bill for the fucking garage. Separately. Then she drew up a bill for the other room, which she apparently managed to meanwhile find, hands shaking and all. And made change for all of them, one by one, on the spot, hands shaking and all still. I did say "suppose I pay for all of these together" at the onset, and suppose you know exactly what the imbecile's retort was -- something about "their system", right ? The self-same system that didn't tell her "here's the people who will be coming in today, who are perhaps in a hurry, have the keys prepared for them". The self-same "system" that didn't display her the complete reservation, but parts and bits and pieces so I had to debug it for her. The exact same "technologically advanced" poverty driven by stupidity driven by poverty driven by being fucking Africans through and through, meaning mentally checked out of this world so many years ago, common monkeys would be proud -- and all part and parcel of the system of organized idiocy, here to make sure wealth and power painstakingly amassed by generation upon generation of notable men is wasted away in record time, by as few successive generations of pointless if uppity cunts as at all possible. They're going for the record, the fuckwits, and rather seem to have it all well in the bag already! [↩]

« Un flic

The Buller-Podington Compacts. »

Category: La pas prin lume

Friday, 28 February, Year 12 d.Tr.

One day

"Feed me! God fucking damn it all..."

"We're out."

"We're..."

"Out."

"We're gonna die here."

"As good a place as any, sargeant."

"Yes, sir."

"Out of band ? Or just... everything ?"

"Band, sir. There's grenades. Anti-tank. And some thrower fuel too, sir!"

"Get ready. We're moving."

"Sir ?"

"Look, there's the line. Between that molehill and the treeline. See it ?"

"That minefield down there ?!"

"Yep, looks just like where they'd have some cake laid up."

"Either of you two particularly decided on this spot, right here ?"

"No sir."

"Then get going."

"Yups, capn's got a right prime spot picked down there, can't beef 'im for it. All it's missing's my mother in law."

"He has a point, though. We've been laying fire from right here since before dawn. They'll start calling in artillery soon, if nothing else."

"Plenty else."

"Charge ?"

"For sure, motorized, the whole show. Otherwise they'd have been shelling it by now."

"That's a point."

"They say blow-up's the best way to go. Gone before you know it."

"If it's anti-tank. If it's infantry..."

"Those are illegal. Geneva Contention."

"Yeah. Right."

"Order! Move out!"

"Sir ? Encrypted line."

"Give here." "Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir!" "Boys... we're moving right into the fifth."

"The fifth... what ?! Regiment ?"

"What the hell's that ?!"

"The fifth shithole."

"Fifth army. They broke through. Gutted all the batteries across and down South. More prisoners than they could truck."

"Holy cow..."

"Y...yiiiip-eee!"

"That's why no shelling all day then."

"It's a complete collapse on the whole wing, at least thirty mile gap. And it started... here."

"You don't say."

"Colonel was tearing up. He said this call getting picked up made his day. Everyone's getting medals for this."

"Too bad there's only the nine of us left, huh."

"Don't worry Branches, they'll give you a twofer, special."

"Get going. No rush, nice and steady does it. Six apart, and no stepping on any hairs now, you hear me ?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Tank."

"What the fuck..."

"Confirmed. Jumbo seven. Locked and ready sir."

"If we fire they return. There's just no fucking way..."

"Full complement, six platoons. They might even have half of that."

"There's no way..."

"At least we take out a jay."

"Fuck that."

"Why's it cold, corporal ?"

"I don't know, sir."

"You got a reading ?"

"It's cold, sir."

"Maybe it just didn't fucking move."

"All day long ?! No fucking way, with the shit they're in ?"

"Maybe they left it behind."

"That'd be a show."

"Bronx, Branches, that way. Mick. Alpie. Stacker. Other way. Check it out."

"Moving out."

"Holy cow."

"Tank mosly fulla gas, too. This baby's ready to go."

"You actually capable of driving this thing ? No bullshit."

"Sir yes sir. Fully qualified, grade 2W+."

"Alright, everyone climb up. We're getting back in style."

"All for the best, my feet are killing me."

"Make sure that drapery stays on. I mean it, eyes on it at all times."

"Yes sir."

"Last fucking thing we need is being blown up by our own, now."

"Yes, sir."

« Maria full of... grace

Guys & things, attestament of life & times, oceanside »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Wednesday, 02 September, Year 12 d.Tr.

On democracy, the electoral process, electoral legitimacy etcetera

I do not believe religious observances bestow any kind of special blessing upon the respective warlord ; taking particular care to only ever call such religious observances "democratic elections" in preference of other labels historically preferred doesn't magically produce basis for special pleading.

Certainly it can't be claimed poorly attended public prayer meetings add any measure of legitimacy to some random monkey's perceived importance ; taking particular care to only ever call such prayer meetings "elections" doesn't change anything, nor does the attempt to only ever discuss their intrinsic pointlessness solely in terms of attendance somehow resolve it.

Distinctions without a difference do not enact the undifferentiable object spuriously distinguished into some kind of magical repository of peternatural properties ; purported agreement among large masses of people is excellent proof as to the respective people's desire to think themselves in agreement with large masses of other people, but besides that it has no importance and in any case offers no indication whatsoever as to the supposed thing supposedly agreed upon.

Imaginary friends in the sky, of whatever sourcing or derivation, aren't capable ; behaving as if they were capable doesn't make them any less, or any more capable ; this general principle stands beyond exception, and it unexceptionally doesn't magically "go away" if the imaginary friends in the sky are particularly called "a corporation", "public office", or anything else whatsoever. A purported distinction between Joe and "Joe as a public official" is of the exact same substance as any other distinction between Joe.

I do hope we understand each other, even though I've no serious expectation in that direction.

« From the boardroom to the livingroom

Voi sunteti... degeneratia... urmatoare. »

Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Saturday, 10 October, Year 12 d.Tr.

Oh and by the way... are joyrides illegal where you live ?

Aww.

Well... I'm gonna take one (whenever I feel like) and you can... instagram-tourism after me, rite ?

C'mon join the joyride

I hit the road out of nowhere, I had to jump in my car

And be a rider in a love game, following the stars.

Don't need a book of wisdom, I get no money talk at all..

She has a train going downtown, she's got a club on the moon!

Oh-oh...

She's the heart of the funfair, she's got me whistling out a private tune

And it all

begins

where

it ends.

And she's all mine, my magic

magic friend...

Anyways, this'd be Calle Vieja.

It's hard to explain the pleasant experience of taking a nice German car out for a spin, in the ever-pleasant spring breeze of this Tinerete Fara Batrinete & Viata Fara De Moarte enchanted realm. Does it ever get to be Spring where you live ?

Do you remember it still ?

Have you ever seen that old Romanian Army colonel in Bucharest Non-Stop ? And did you pack a lantern ?

"It's not dead. See ? It works."

By now we're "here", which is to say we've reached the pit stop : the illegal fruit warehouse.

Because that's what happens : whenever the government se-ncoarda, flexes its muscles to show off its absent garments and putative social relevancy, the places the government knows about get closed, aka fucked ; but places that don't care about the government spring up in their place, sinking the whole shebang.

There can not ever be such a thing as relevant government. Try as you might and gargle whatever Lincoln piss you care to, "government" and "nobody cares", "the state" and "the latrine" stay synonyms.

Bear that in mind.

Believe me, for this country such as here seen counts as immense. Costa Rica is tiny, what.

As I was saying, the ticos are taking advantage of the opportunity to do some maintenance work. Kudos!

This, believe it or not, is the city of Orotina, the destination of our little jaunt.

Yeah, this is quite what a Costa Rican city looks like : a truck stop, pretty much. I think they do have one motel, maybe, but five rooms or something like that.

Rio Salitral.

And... well...

I hope you enjoyed your picnic or whatever it is you do on a sunny Tuesday in your country.

What is it that you do, anyway ?

« Coffee and Cigarettes

Qntra (S.QNTR) Closing Statement »

Category: Zsilnic

Tuesday, 07 April, Year 12 d.Tr.

Of sheep, and the women that love them. Not the sheep I mean, just some "them" in general.

mircea_popescu tot nu cred ca scapam undeva de o lista.

diana_coman posibil ca nu.

mircea_popescu daca pentru headere la trilema n-am scapat...

diana_coman ahahaha

mircea_popescu ai vazut apropo oaia ce haioasa e in plm ? ieri tata ziua am stat si m-am bleojdit la ea lol

diana_coman daaaa. m-a amuzat ca mi s-a parut si potrivita asa pt babydoll-story, lol

mircea_popescu lol. te caci pe tine de ris, isi explica alea feminismu' si pe hitler pe-acolo. io atita m-am distrat da' cre' ca pe diversi ii arde cu fieru-n cur.

diana_coman nu-ca-ei-doar-admira. dar in fine, mie uneori imi pare ca le cam tragi si tu de par pe unde le vrei nu musai pe unde or pica ele veci da' in fine

mircea_popescu e bine. ca o fi existind acuma naturalete in futaiu' la 12 ani, laissez. numa' o poveste poate fi.

diana_coman apai nu, da' exista naturalete in ...12 ani, lol

mircea_popescu aia da, da' nu e subiect literar.

diana_coman lol, bine

mircea_popescu plm, tocmai de-aia : nimic nu e mai plicticos decit unu' de 12 ani real. numa' ma-sa il poa' suferi. motiv pentru care si nu exista sexualitate, ca is PREA PLICTICOSI. ca n-au cu ce nu fi. inca. natura deh

diana_coman stiu si eu, parca retin ca pe la 12 ani (ai mei) le apucase turbarea pe unele mai de vreo 15-16 ani asa de mi-a luat si ceva vreme sa pricep ca "are sani mai mari ca mine!!!". iaca. asa ca in fine, nu stiu daca nu exista asa deloc sau ceva

mircea_popescu hahaha. nu zic ca nu exista deloc, nu. da' mnoa, exista asa... mai intr-un sens autoreferential cumva, cum sa zic.

diana_coman pai tb sa inceapa de undeva, drept

mircea_popescu fix ca-n povestea cu inginerii, "are ochii inteligenti, da' nu se stie exprima". "are tite mari da' nu se stie fute"

diana_coman real da' si perfect corect

mircea_popescu ma bucur ca am avut aceasta conversatie

diana_coman lolz

mircea_popescu acum inteleg ca interesu' femeilor adulte pentru ingineri e pedofilie pura.

diana_coman ahahaha

mircea_popescu zi ca nu!

diana_coman si interesul pt copii tot pedofilie pura e?

mircea_popescu ouch. noa ce mi-ai dat.

diana_coman deh.

mircea_popescu bine, is mamoase ele, drept si asta. citi de-astia n-am vazut, de-mi si venea sa intreb "tu, asta-i prietenu' tau sau copchilu' tau retardat". grele probleme.

diana_coman eu am zis unora exasperata asa pe cand eram inca naiva rau pe la 20 de ani asa ca "bai, eu vreau copii, e drept , da' MAI MICI CA MINE CU MACAR 25 de ani, ce dracu'"

mircea_popescu stau pisi si discuta, "e barbatii nu is porci, is asa... ca niste copii mici"

diana_coman pai... unii copii mici, altii copii mari, mai rar cate-un barbat da' neispravit si tot asa

mircea_popescu bine tu, da' revenind la oile noastre... adica nu la oi ca alea ne-or si dus in aratura aici. ci revenind la creaturile noastre interspatiale. mai sunt dureri ?

diana_coman inca nu ard; acum ar fi sa inchei deci bucata asta si apoi sa ma uit ori la ce ziceai de salt si alea pt scris/citit chei ori daca pun intai si pe server burn ca sa vad cum iese si cand se intersecteaza

mircea_popescu bon. io is prin zona oricum, nu te sfii.

Also in Englisch :

mircea_popescu I still don't think we'll manage to do it without using a list somewhere.

diana_coman Possibly not.

mircea_popescu If I didn't manage for Trilema headers...

diana_coman Hahaha.

mircea_popescu Did you see btw the sheep, how fucking hysterical it is ? Yesterday I spent the whole damned day looking at it.

diana_coman Yaaaaaa. Especially funny because it seems to me it works well with the babydoll story, lol.

mircea_popescu Haha. Funny enough to give one the shits, those chicks explaining to each other feminism and Hitler and stuff. I had the time of my life but I suspect various others might perceive it more like a hot poker up their ass.

diana_coman No-they-just-watch. But... whatever, it seems to me you're pulling things in place, where you want them to be, not necessarily where they'd naturally ever fall.

mircea_popescu Yeah, right. Because there is such a thing as the naturalcy of twelve year olds fucking, maybe. Forget about it, however approached it'll be a story.

diana_coman No, but there is such a thing as the naturalcy of being twelve years old lol.

mircea_popescu That yes, but it's not a literary subject.

diana_coman Lol ok.

mircea_popescu Precisely because of that circumstance : nothing's the fuck more boring than a real twelve year old. Only the mother can put up with it. Which is why there's no sexuality either, they're too fucking boring. Because they've not what with to not be. Yet. Nature, heh.

diana_coman Who knows, I rather remember when I was about that age some 15-16 yo girls being pretty pissed off. It took me a while to get what this "she's got bigger tits than me!" was even about. I wouldn't say it's completely absent or anything.

mircea_popescu Hahaha I'm not saying it's completely absent, not at all. But rather it exists... more in a self-referential manner, how shall I put it.

diana_coman Fair enough, it has to start somewhere.

mircea_popescu Exactly like the story of engineers : "the eyes betray an intelligence he doesn't manage to express". "She's got big tits but doesn't know how to fuck."

diana_coman Perfectly true yet absolutely correct.

mircea_popescu I am glad we had this conversation.

diana_coman Lolz

mircea_popescu Because I understand now that the interest of adult females for engineers is straight-up pedophilia.

diana_coman Ahahaha.

mircea_popescu Say it ain't so!

diana_coman And their interest in children is also pedophilia ?

mircea_popescu Ouch. I am burned to a crisp.

diana_coman Deh.i

mircea_popescu Okay, they're motherly, it's true too. I've seen lots of these pairings where I was templted to ask her "is this your boyfriend or your mentally retarded son". Difficult issues.

diana_coman I said at some point in company back when I was still a very naive 20something that "Listen, I want children, but at least 25 years younger than me what the hell."

mircea_popescu Kittens hanging about talking, "eh, men aren't swine, they're just small children."

diana_coman Well you know... some small children, others larger children, the occasional man unfinished and so on.

mircea_popescu Ok, but coming back to our sheep... or rather not sheep because they've led us astray before, but coming back to our interspatial creatures. Are there more issues ?

diana_coman Nothing burning ; I'll finish now the salt thing and the read/write keys or maybe do first the server-side burning to see how it comes out and where it crosses.

mircea_popescu Alrighty. I'm around, don't hesitate.

———This really can't be translated (not that the previous is doing much better). Deh is a Romanian affirmative form, used in response to the retort pointing out ex-parte disadvantages made to a rebuttal showing unexpected or otherwise uncompassed effects or implications of a proposition describing either a putative course of action or otherwise some conditional or optional deed, activity or in any case an ideal with real counterparts. Is that kinda confusing ? Alright, let's work an example :

A: "I am going to shit on the floor from now on."

B: "That'll attract bugs."

A: "Omfg bugs are gross!"

B: Deh.

It can also work in the retrospective, but generally reinforced.

A : "What the fuck is with all these bugs!"

B : Pai deh, ti-o trebuit sa te caci in living [you had to shit on the floor].

I can't currently locate where on Trilema is found reflected Bacon's discussion of English affirmative and negative forms (aye, yea nay, no), though I'd have liked to link it above. [↩]

« The Lickerish Quartet

Babydoll living dat pimp life »

Category: Zsilnic

Sunday, 01 November, Year 12 d.Tr.

O vaca cu cabina si-un bou cu torpedou

Also known as an ox with a glovebox.

Hey, did you know that if you mistakenly issue

curl -L -O -C url > file

it will readily complain that hurri, but by then it'll be pointless to put in the correct

curl -L -O -C -ii url > file

anyways, because, obviously, the file'd have been 0'd out already. Or, to quote a reader, "linux was a mistake because unix had been a mistake in the first place".

Moving on... actually, what the fuck would we move on to ? Computers meanwhile replaced all the things, and what a fine replacement they make indeed!

I went by to see what [one of] my corporations's technical department is doing. One of, you know, I've been trying to hire more people to work there for well over five years. Apparently there's no people.

Nobody has any money, and so everyone imagines that absent money's the reason they've not got anything [anyone'd ever want]. Well, actually... the problem with this latter day's multi-laterally developed socialism we're living through is that nobody has anything anyone'd ever want because nothing anyone'd ever want exists, at all, in the first place. That's, after all, the point of pantsuitismiii -- it makes sure nothing anyone'd ever want does (or for that matter can) exist, thereby solving the problem of human wants, as well indicated by Poincare (not the mathematician, the other one, the politician). So... you know, you can have all the money you want, it still won't buy you anymore than his candle bought Diogenes. Because whence from and what'd it buy ? Stories, perhaps. If you want those.

Anyways, I went over to see what Diana Coman's up to these days, and her computer fed me a decade-old piece. It's quite remarkable an experience, meeting yourself, a decade older, in the hands of someone else. Saludos de Costa Rica, dear past MP, what can I say. Keep at it, you'll in due time discover that...

But why depress ourselves. Instead, let's write explanatory letters to business partners, that begin like

The server [...] died unexpectedly through provider impudence. I will be [...]. Sorry for the inconvenience ; the sad reality of these latter days of multi-laterally developed socialism we're living through is that keeping idiots out of the kitchen's becoming ever taller an order.

At least we can readily re-use whole phrases, we could just make outselves hand-held plastic signs with the shit printed on them, we could have rubber stamps... under the pressure of deluvionally marauding idiocy the very language itself is suffering, turning woody...

Or I could leave business to the side, and start recounting the story of the (possibly, only) competent doctor in Costa Rica that does general practice (though, in fairness, I'm not entirely sure this particular enterologist's general practice consists of anything besides me and mine). This poor guy's office was a mess, because of the two local "careerwomen" he had hired to do front desk (fancy that, two young women are barely enough to do some very limited basics of part of what one old man needs) one "was concerned" about her elderly parents with whom she's living, at the ripe age of twenty-something, let's not go into details, we've covered dumb old maids runing amok so many other places already... And so have they themselves. In fact, they've covered pretty much everything in their unwelcome secretions, everywhich way you turn you see the slime trails of these legless atrocities...

Anyways, one of the retards is "working from home", like she's heard on instafansiv and so therefore tottalies. Leaving the other to twiddle her thumbs at the actual office (not that she'd mind or protest, on the fucking contrary, she finally caught up on her netflix queue) and the phones ringing off the hook. What, problem with "work from home" consisting of taking the occasional call, when the mood strikes ? Just as long as it's validating her self-notions, mind you. Right ?

Anyways, so on and so forth and ongoing in this vein, until either you've had enough or you fall over, whichever comes first (guess which will, by the way ?).

I've been thinking about my grandfather a lot these past days, like for instance the time I left the official stockings and such things provider annoyed, after chastising the woman there that "looky, I used to buy here by the pound -- now there's nothing here worth buying, what the fuck are you doing ?" to which she retorted a meek & mild "oh, covid", as if fucking if "covid" makes it okay nobody in this whole town has 100% cotton socks anymore. They all shake their heads bovinely, too, like this was never a concern they ever heard about, and more importantly, like I'm supposed to just go along and buy their Cronica Navigatiei Cu Vele De Beton or whatever the fuck they happen to have on sale. What do I mean, all markets are buyer's markets ?! But they'll only sell what they happen to have for sale! Like they've seen on onlyfleas! No ?

No, of fucking course the hell not. Nevertheless, I expect the point will have to be driven into the thick skulls through yet another decade of trench warfare, for having failed to be driven into the exact same thick skulls day by day at home, with a hand-held leather strap.

It'd be way the fuck cheaper to beat them at home, you know ? Overall, it'd be way the fuck cheaper.

———Or in its own words,

curl: option -C: expected a positive numerical parameter

curl: try 'curl --help' or 'curl --manual' for more information

if that matters. [↩]Notice this dash in here ? Well so then, good for you! [↩]Shorter than typing "multi-laterally developed socialism, 2nd reboot. Don't you find ? [↩]Let's explain why the general herd so thinks, for the benefit of the inquiring young woman : if you're doing porn, a dude in charge tells her what to do, and does not bother himself with asking for her oh-so-precious "feedback" on the matter, thereby "failing to actualize" her delusions of the self. Whereas if they're by themselves with the potato-camera and the general filth...

Yes ? [↩]

« An introduction to metaphysics

Notes upon notes and comments of comments, for now and forever, Amen. »

Category: Zsilnic

Friday, 12 June, Year 12 d.Tr.

O San Josy, da fla'ar o' Costa Ricky...

Above : government-sponsored foot worship. What can you do ?

Below : sucking down the best pretzels in the worldi lubricated by the best coffee in the worldii over in Bogota, Colombia. #bimbolife.

Above : Costa Rica's upscale grocery store (no kidding, as far as I know there exists nowhere in the world anything quite like it) offers the usual coupon gluon etc bullshit. You get like a stamp or two for buying things there, and this book to stick them into. I got 126 in one go, also establishing a new store record on the same pass.

Below : "Ain't no comparison. Cadillac got more acceleration, more power, more -- better handling, better looking, more legroom for your legs , more power..."

"Look, you got two cars. One's longer. All things being equal, the longer car is the one gonna get there first."

"Ain't the question all things being equal. One's a Cadillac and one's a Lincoln."

I think you folks are missing out...

And here's something special for jfw :

Ever paid a bill including charges in the vein of 2`841`462`841.46 and such ?

In cash ?

Well then, welcome to the club!

———Scoom, aus der Munchner Hauptbahnhof. [↩]Juan Valdez, Costa Rica. [↩]

« To my mind, bureaucracy...

I suppose we shall now recount the story of the Czech teenager »

Category: La pas prin lume

Wednesday, 04 March, Year 12 d.Tr.

Nuts, absolutely fucking nuts.

I watched Nutsi, a miserable piece of shit from the early days of pantsuit, back when they were pushing that whole "abused children" acid rain & hole in the ozone layer. Recall the 80s, all those ugly broads yakking about glass ceilings and child abuseii ? Well.. it was a thing, back then, whether you remember it or not. Just like phlogiston was a thing (and precisely the same exact kind of thing, actually). Also whether you remember it or not.

The nonsense worth mentioning in the pile of offensive bullshit isn't necessarily the direct. It's all the intolerable stupid shit they try to slip in while nobody's lookingiii, low-key as it were, like the implicit proposition that the dumb ugly cunt isn't held to be pleasant. She's somehow excused by extenuating circumstances from this universal obligation of womanhood, but really, what they'd like you to take home would be that no excusing is really necessary, as if there fucking could exist such a thing as an absolute license for women to live in general and irrespective of how socially pleasant they are. This, for the record, is entirely nuts -- women aren't a kind of "the Sun", here for better or worse, like it or not. Women are a kind of "the trees" : tolerated, for now, provided they behave, just as far as they're pleasant about it and serviceable to the diminutive degree their limited capacity allows. So Ben Affleck's ugly mom'd better be fucking nice to the court-appointed attorney, as well as to everyone else. Until and unless they've earned the priviledge of becoming equivalent to a patriarchiv, they're not a fucking patriarch, what, this needs spelling out ? Rando woman gets exactly all the deference any other worthless boi gets, which is to say exactly none, what the everloving fuck!

Another bit in that vein is some alt-world bizzaro nurturing obligation foisted upon random males. We're to believe that it's the misfortunate lawyer's place to go in there and coo at the stupidly uncouth, offensively misbehaving harpy because o noes, sometime decades agov her step-daddy touched her on the dolly. The dude's not held to similarily go give his jacket to whatever bum freezing in the street, it's not his cinematic obligation to spend his time loitering in the subway making change for entitled cuntlets trying to buy dime tickets with large paper denominations, he's not required to fix all his neighbours' toilets whenever they back up, but god fucking forbid some sixteen year old has a bit of kinky sex on the side, all bets are off, he's now to take over simping for her because... what, because Martin Ritt's a complete cuck ? Lay the fuck off, that nonsense's ridiculous in the direct and very selective on the second pass : the sort of idiot capable of buying that bridge ain't ever gonna have enough money to buy a cup of coffee.

Besides all this crap, the film's unremarkably (rather, traditionally) ill-researched. What's sold as an outstandingly competent whorevi collapses immediately upon contact with what seems to be the very first punter who dun feel like leaving when time's up. That's all the skill she's got -- if policemen were as skilled at their job as she is at hers, they'd be mostly found handcuffed to monkey bars.

Unless you're a plastic surgeon trying to convince a reluctant audience, there's really no reason to ever screen this atrocity. And even then, you'd be doing common decency not to mention any shred of reason left in this world as slight a disservice as ugly and stupid allied can best manage while standing on tiptoes.

———1987, by Martin Ritt, with Richard Dreyfuss, Walter Matthau's better wife and Ben Affleck's ugly mother. [↩]I'm not saying no child ever got the short end of the thick stick in this world. I am however saying that the pantsuit notion of "child abuse" is as much a thing as the pantsuit notion of "rape" is a thing -- in their imagination only. Outside of the narrow confines of their thick skulls it carries no importance through the simple mechanism of showing no signs of existence. [↩]The thing's replete to the point of redolence with this spinster's grade of "cleverness". For one thing, it's all competency hearings, see ? Pre-trial, right, what she did's not under discussion. Cle-ee-eever!

For the other thing, we're supposed to not notice that a hundred dollars' a hundred dollars (and moreover getting some cock is far from the worst possible fate, especially for a teen), because... you see, she never said she dun like it. Why didn't she ever say she dun like it ? Did she ever tell the dude "enough, already" ?

Actually, she didn't. But you're also barred from considering the matter by the following oh-so-clever configuration : the intolerably ugly screecher asks herself this! While crying!!! How could you possibly inquire why the fuck didn't she say anything, when she herself inquires first ? But don't you see, you've been beaten to the punch, the whole line's now disqualified, aren't these fucktards cleverer than a sack of hammers ?

I'm sure they are, yes. Not by so very much, though. They're about on the level of a bag of hammers someone's hit himself over the balls with -- granted, a higher grade of smarts in hammers. Not much higher, but... whatever. [↩]Yes, I fully expect everyone backs the fuck out of my way backwards. This fact gives you no license whatsoever, because guess what ? You're not me. [↩]She looks like she's about 50, too, which makes the whole thing even less digestible than otherwise. But then again, women that don't look like a perambulating hemorrhoid don't generally accept playing parts of perambulating hemorrhoids. [↩]On the very pantsuit-y grounds of "having whored for three years without being picked up". As if that's a qualification now. What, you didn't know the [pantsuit] state's mighty, powerful and important ? What, you thought "law enforcement" is an euphemistic reference to comedic establishments operating at the public's expense ? Ah, but how un-pantsuit of you to think thusly. Do you even own any onesies ?! [↩]

« Dumb bitches giving prostitution a bad name

Walks among the quaint quarantruins »

Category: Trilematograf

Tuesday, 26 May, Year 12 d.Tr.

Now you tell me where's this from

I frankly don't understand people who buy books ; I've tried using one recently and it was an appaling experience. There's no full text search ; there's no copy-paste ; there's no implicit link I can drag into a terminal to cat-pipe with it. What the fuck is even the point of pretending the bitmap's like text ? It's not like text, it's not even remotely, not vaguely, not anything even slightly similar. Printed matter is exactly like the handywork of those morons who link screenshots of webpages to "show you" : simply dysfunctional, and to a comedic extent.

And besides, if you're going to delve into ahistoric past, why pick that particular anachronism ? Why not read Fraktur off cured dead pets' pelts directly, like 900ish Capuchin monkeys ? Go like they went, .8 words per second, spend an hour per page and a lifetime with a single "book", what diagonal reading of whole pages in blinks of an eye, who has any need for that! Then perhaps wonder in amazement as to why exactly your "manner of thinking" starts developing similarities to long expired farts' nonsense, why not. If everything looks like a nail to the man holding a hammer sure as fuck everything looks just about like the 20th century to the man reading printed paper. How the fuck else could it look, on that premise ; and haven't you had quite enough of that derpy indistinct century already ?

Or maybe it's just because God did it. Maybe the reason you end up retracing the history of idiots whenever you limit yourself to the tools and usages and usances and conventions of idiots is that they were right all along, huh. Do you suppose if you spent your days subsistence hunting and your nights sleeping for lack of artificial lighting you'd believe in the great wolf spirit and have annual festivals of being a fucking stone age primitive ? Or would it also be a case of "clearly, this is right -- as proven by the fact that it self-replicates in similar contexts". Fleas and lice are just as right for just about the same reason, you know, maybe all those medieval bloodletting doctors were right as well!

But be all that as it may : to spread the joy of suffering an' share torment with the group, can you tell me where's this from ?

A question lately arose about the refurnishing of the house. On their return from a visit to [...] the ladies took it into their heads that the parlors looked bare and old-fashioned, and it was decided by them in secret conclave that a change was necessary.

"What!" said he, in a towering passion, "isn't it enough that you spend your time and money in vinegar to sour sweet peaches, and your sugar to sweeten crab-apples, that you must turn the house you were born in topsy-turvy? God help us! we've a house with windows to let the light in, and you want curtains to keep it out; we've plastered the walls to make them white, and now you want to paste blue paper over them; we've waxed floors to walk on, and we must pay [...] a [...] for a carpet to save the oak plank! Begone with your nonsense, ye demented jades!"

No ? Why not, you don't really need machine-indexes and all that fanciful numeric crap, do you ? Your memory's good enough for you, and what else nonsense, God's will.

Bleargh.

« Com'ear!

Edwgward Allbeen Spellinck »

Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Sunday, 16 February, Year 12 d.Tr.

Notes upon notes and comments of comments, for now and forever, Amen.

that idiotic compartmentalizing approach that results in each stage of the graphics pipeline having its *own* conventions and notions as to what is what, without explicitly stating them either, since it's everyone within their own happily recreated village-bubble

This being the very problem the entire "copyrights" and "intellectual property" orchestra supposedly solves.

That's the deal all these despicable fuckfaces in suits are presenting, exactly :

let us extract rents out of the "managing" of "the system", you'll still come out ahead because having intellectual property is so much better than having a bunch of retarded villagers doing the retarded villager dance

And sure as you'd like, when push comes to shove and we're to enjoy these alleged fruits, so very dearly paid for all along... ia-le draga de unde nu-s.

Instead of being mentioned as a footnote explanation or sidelined and treated as the sort of crutch that it is, it's so entrenched as to not allow discussion in any other terms.

That'd be the whole pantsuit subculture in a phrase. Indeed, there's nothing more there, their democracy along the entire pile of indigestible nonsense that they pretend "is everything" comes, in the end, to the crutch that's supposedly taken over the world. Like that superman-acting-cripple, and like the rest of them fantasmagoric garbage pickersi / citizens.

And what do you know - since I failed to do "what everyone does", I also fail to have their problems! Because didn't you know it, the "rigging" aka "fitting a skeleton inside a model" is a complicated problem and a terrible headache. Well, so it is, but for once... not for me!

Bwahahah. This just keeps getting better and better.

Sure, one could note here that a more useful approach would then be perhaps to *actually* use the skeleton to properly define the shape by deforming an overall blob in which the bones are embedded. While this sounds rather interesting to me, it also seems not exactly high priority right now nor all that quick to get to the point where it's useful so for now at least I'll stick to my existing meshes, skeletons and models, looking instead for the way to define working animations *for them*, as they are.

My intuition is that this'd be a dead end, or in barbugii cant,

Am intrat adinc in joc intr-o zi fara norocii, s-a vazut de la-nceput, m-am bagat si am pierdut. Am jucat toti banii pe care ii aveam, am crezut ca-m sa-i intorc dar tot pierdeam, pierdeam, inele, lanturi si bratari si tot am continuat. Am pus masina in joc si in sfarsit am castigat. Luasem inpoi ce pierdusem pana atunci mai putin un lant, ceasul si un ghiul. Baiatu mi-a dat momeala si eu ca prostu' am muscat, in loc sa plec acasa m-am pus iar si am jucat. Am luat-o de la capat si iar m-am dus la vale, nu stiu ce sa fac, ma simt la stramtoare. Omul spune ca joaca pe tot ce tine masa iar eu acum simt tre' sa imi pun casa. Atat mi-a trebuit, nu mam gandit nici un moment

Am dat cu zaru' ... ghinion ... adio apartament!

I expect this'd be exactly the sort of "available" opening pantsuitism "makes available", just for you. If we ever take it, it will be with heavy armor and machine guns.

So a vertex can use only one deformation but use it fully or it can use a weighted combination of any specific set of deformations it picks. How to pick then?

It occurs to me you could also normalize them, no ? There's no hard rule that 4 + 5 + 3 can't add to 100%.

Not that your angular deformation method isn't actually preferable, but just for the sake of completeness.

In Which Cal3D Silently Refuses to Load Animations (and the client misbehaves some more).

Motherfucker!

Incidentally, the last time I was this engrossed in a narrative story, fully committed to hissing and booing outloud at the mustacioed villain I must've been about eight or so.

Why? What do animations have so special and moreover why can't it SAY so, plainly?

Probably because it's "being professional", and "only amateurs" would use human-readable formats, according to the silent convention of some group of pompously self-important morons or other.

It's a wonder you even put this shameful display on your blog, it tars you with such an unprofessional brush! Best take some forgotten moron's advice and delete it (in the second person singular) while you still can. You don't want the smart cucks to think you unprofessional, do you ?!

And yes, you're right, it doesn't help me any.

So if the origin of the model is in its middle, as soon as you try to move it, it will... fall!

Honestly I believe the falling check is wrong altogether. There should be no "falling" below 0 Y coordinate, and forget about it. Whole mess just looks to me like someone counting sacks of oranges and the oranges therein on an ill defined algebra (there's no need for the concept of negative numbers when counting oranges and sacks of oranges) and then didn't know what to do about it.

If you're doing anything about this -- simply take out the falling below 0 / under terrain altogether, and that'll be that.

Nevertheless, the thing to be had *this cheaply* is indeed quite clunky

That's ok, we'll live.

I am more inclined to force a whole new aesthetic / means and ways of perceiving the world upon the worthless plebs, than inconvenience myself by making the animations in Eulora "more like they'd expect them to be". Who the fuck cares, their expectations are entirely built out of how much Eulora they've seen and naught else, the problem's self-righting.

None of those has any very cheap solutions that I'm aware of so far though and I rather think the whole thing *can* wait really, since it's all a matter of what values to put in each of those files, but in the end it's still the same files and the same pipeline anyway.

This'd be exactly the sound sort of judgement whose absence has sunk imaginary great contributors of great importance (as they imagined it).

Should have added perhaps "pessima" to the title, looking now at those animations again

Absolutely the fuck not, they're fucking adorable. Congrats on a large chunk well chewed, an' move on victorious triumphant.

———We watched ten-fifteen minutes of an atrocity of a film in which a pleasant-as-usual Richard Dreyfuss is bookended by a Bette Middler ready to be boiled in oil, humongo whale of insufferable impudence that she is, and some anodyne precious cuntlet whose name history hasn't recorded.

Interestingly enough, instead of imposing any sorts of standards, instead of proceeding to force and enforce the remedial of any flaws, the simp just goes through it all (incidentally -- there's nobody Dreyfuss reminds me of as much as Ballas). Just like that, "tolerantly" and "loving" bla bla, trying hopelessly to pick something of value, however moderate, however negligible. "There must be something worth epsilon in this whole moras" is the whole message his ever-more-hunched presence screams out to the world.

Why, and wherefore have ye sad lot became the world's foremost garbage picking culture ? Do you know ?

What the fuck did you think the whole "every sperm is sacred" yadda-yakka could ever possibly lead to ? If no life's worthless enough to waste, guess what ? You get to go to bed with that despicable whale every night and, dumb fuck that you are, you'll be selling yourself on how good it is, too. And how much you like it. Because you're too smart to be normal -- in fact, you so god-damned smart you can only be mindbendingly stupid, everything else's closed off to you, by yourself.

Just drop dead in a fucking fire, it's a vastly preferable outcome. And take your load of selected garbage with you -- it makes no difference what you think of its "value" on the transparently flimsy basis of "how much work you put into picking it". Garbage is garbage is garbage -- and he who spends his day with garbage inescapably becomes... you. [↩]Luck, you see. The inept mind will see it involved when being scammed, also. He had bad luck and so his unmaintained car broke down. This is also the birthplace of the "just then" device : the slightly smarter gotta be slightly stupider, and so for their noticing that the foregoing proposition is ridiculous, they invent a counterweight. [↩]

« O vaca cu cabina si-un bou cu torpedou

Girl, interrupted »

Category: S.MG

Saturday, 13 June, Year 12 d.Tr.

Night And The City

I don't suppose anyone in any capacity involved with the production of Night And The Cityi ever figured out it's just Accattone reshot ; but it lives its own life because the background's New York (ie, London), and the naked city, even on its deathbed, even on respirators, even mostly expired is still way the fuck more intellectually interesting, more enticing to the spirit, more altogether fascinating than eurural shitholes ever could hope to be.

In incidental "racism" lulz : De Niro, who probably never moistened his pecker in anything less dark than burnt coffee beans, plays some guy who (very much accurateii to the time and place) won't hire good boxers to prop his song-and-prayer boxing promotion business because they look like they're from uptown, what the fuck is it, fucking Nairobi over here ? He'd rather have some flabby jew, random korean fried chicken, anything, really, anything whatsoever. Now tell me again about how depiction's reality, and how you're saving the world by never acting the part of someone who won't hire blacks to save his life. Yes ? Your personal brand and shit, rite ? Fucking subnormal agricultural workers...

Anyways, Jessica Lange creates an exquisite knockaround girl, and De Niro's continuation jerkoff's even stronger than the original version -- who ever saidiii youth's a boon ? It ain't anything like a boon, not unless you're a baboon or something.

Ultimately, the problem with York, New or otherwise, is perennially you.

———1992, not the 1950 London-based original. By Irwin Winkler, with Robert De Niro, Jessica Lange. [↩]Speaking of which : if I were the Wayans brothers (and the year was in the 90s) I'd totally make a "color blind" Civil War biopic. Black general E. Lee, maybe a speedballin' lil' azn as Abraham Jefferson... wouldn't that be disconcerting ? Because concerts are the home of music an' disconcerts the source of humour, so... I expect it'd work towards ... entertainment. Well... for me, in any case. [↩]An imaginary black man, of course, because yeah, that's how it is for monkeys, back in fucking Nairobi where they come from -- or rather, where they should've fucking stayed. But... well... it doesn't have to be. [↩]

« Desperation in desolation ; Or, the woes of the contemporary entrepreneur ; Or, what came of my first attempt at running the second generation Eulora client. Ornery, in any case.

I go out walkin... »

Category: Trilematograf

Sunday, 13 September, Year 12 d.Tr.

Nazism in the days of the cholera

The herpderpdemic has probably been the greatest thing to ever happen to this country.

I went out today, the roads were, while not actually empty, slightly emptier than what was going on back when I first came here, fifteen years ago. The roads were, in a word, reasonable.

Normal people don't give shit one about the whole clucker-engineered nonsense ; the aspie class however very much does, and so it came to pass that normal people went about their everyday lives normally whereas the spurious 14%ers, the aspirational retards, the dreamers, Satan's accursed spawn that we'd be so much better off without... "self-quarantined".

Without their unwelcome presence Frankfurt-ing and Oslo-ing and generally Amir Taaki-ing the place, without their cheap leased toyotas, without their haymasfuturo farts and oozing idiocy, the air's for the first time in twenty years almost breathable.

If only they could be quarantined permanently! Fail that, could they be simply... shot ? Vacupacked and dumped in the sea ? Anything ?

I can't tell you how much better this world is without all the weddititreddit tards, without all the "feminists" and "awareness raising" "woke" navel grazers, without all the perfectly idle, uterly useless, entirely spurious dumbass class.

Who knows, maybe I get my wish. I certainly don't really want anything else...

I can almost see how it's gonna go, too -- any moment now they're gonna start congratulating each other on their effectually effective adequacy and whatever the fuck such nonsense (just as soon as they notice that, well... viral epidemics are kinda self-limiting, eventually they run out naturally), and then there's gonna be no end of ploughing flies buzzing about in odorous contentment they presume to purport universal.i

Above depicted, pula mea. It levelled up.

Below, cafe chorreada de Limon and trims. The cafe itself was empty ; the new waiter came over to tell us we can't sit three at one table because of the state of emergency -- so I had him drag a new table over, and we sprawled a little. Cumplimos, lol.

The swastika is my manual addition ; the votive backing it occured naturally, through girly accumulation of trims and accessories atop a pre-installed mirror, until, eventually... I came by and realised the necessary. How's it strike you ?

This butterfly is dying. That's kinda how it goes for them ; and in this shot, it's almost dead.

Demented Einstein and decerebrated Lennon I'm pretty sure I shot before (though I don't recall where it's published -- if anyone does, please let me knowty).

La comunidad somos todos, policia y juventud. Sieg heil!

Do you remember the story of that one time when Athens was preparing for siege and so everyone ran this way or that doing who knows what and Diogenes, seeing the general activity, got out of his tub and started pushing it back and forth about the hillside ? Well... his tub was fulla liquor.

And so is mine. We've made provisions, yo. For the eventual apocatastasis.

Cheerios...

———The pointless government rags are all full of "coronavirus news" these days, which provides scant masking of their perennial contentlessness. I've no doubt they'll just as well trumpet whatever socialist-government-issued nonsense tomorrow -- mayhap it'll be all about how we were never at war with eastasia, or about how comrade-secretary-general cut a cherry tree in his youth. Or the visit of Charles de Gaulle airport, while our guy was holding a hat on his head and a hat in is hand for good measure. Why not ? [↩]

« Special rules for harem scrabble in foreign languages

Dr. Strangelove (or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb) »

Category: Zsilnic

Friday, 20 March, Year 12 d.Tr.

My husband...

I am completely dependent on my husband for my sexual satisfaction.

I suppose that's not at all uncommon ; after all what is a husband if not the provider for his wife...

What I like is for him to bring me back home whiffs of other women. I always try to kiss his cock whenever he's been out, I love checking to see if, maybe, there's the faint scent of a cunt he's impaled still lingering.

I love it when he tells me the story of how he's had them, dumb little housewives at the bus stop, "professional" dumb cunts at their place of "career" or in the basement garage a lot of the time, clueless little schoolgirls looking for a ride out of their boring pointless teenage lives...

I love it best when there's the coppery taste. That is by far the best of all, that tell-tale sign of either successful anal penetration or else, sometimes, defloration. Those are the best stories, too, some stupid girly's first time, how he tricked her, what old stories he told her and how easily, how cluelessly, how eagerly she fell for them, like it was their first time too, like they hadn't gotten dumb little whores just like her, unaware of themselves just like her, knocked up a million billion times before...

Often I try to help out, to organize it for him. For us. Many times what we do is, he hires a prostitute and I pretend to walk in on them. I wait for the sign, then I bust in all indignant, threatening... he quickly puts me in my place, which is, on my knees, before her smiling, laughing eyes, sucking her cunt juices off of my, his beloved penis. They always have a lot of fun with it, they love seeing the humiliated wife, on the floor, begging, slavish, broken and ready to submit, eager for anything. They goad him on, too, often. They never can get enough.

Neither can I. It's the best thing in the world, the greatest feeling, that momentary glimpse of... wait a second... what's this... oh, I know what this is... it's... it's cunt isn't it. Was she blonde ? Was she taller than me ? Bigger tits, nipples higher ? He probably enjoyed fucking her, while she didn't even know what she had coming that morning. She just got dressed as usual, put on make-up as usual, went out as usual, but then... then her day took a tasty detour.

Some of my married friends we've managed to get pregnant in this way. It's always fun to try for it, but it's positively delightful when it catches. For months and months they go around, swelling by degrees. I'd rub their belly sometimes, feigning the faint jealousy of barrenhood, all the while thinking "bitch... I know exactly what you tasted like the day this happened" while they think I must be so naive, so, so credulous and so very cheated. I hope one day one of those little girls grows up enough to taste in turn, I try my very best to keep a very clear memory of all the mothers just in case. I wonder if you can tell the difference, how much the same and how much not the same it will be...

But still, the best are the little girls, the teens, schoolgirls, cheerleaders, runaways... I can just see in my mind their eyes, widening, their gasp when the man's blade cuts into their belly for the first time, cuts them open forevermore. I can hear the little cries they make, the sighs, he tells me, and besides they're there, the taste tells all. Often when we go prowling I help him score them, soothing them, holding them in my arms for the necessary sacrifice. It's the best feeling in the world, feeling their innards tear in your arms, feeling the strength of his thrusts changing their world, trying to guess what it'll taste like afterwards and knowing full well, too. Their lithe bodies twist, and turn, like leaves burned by the mid day Sun, while he drives and my waters swell.

I am, as I say, completely dependent on my husband for sexual gratification.

« The dire signs in the sky

Dumb bitches giving prostitution a bad name »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Sunday, 24 May, Year 12 d.Tr.