The will of the people

People generally, as well as universally, don't bother forming most opinions ; or rather, it's an inescapable fact that people don't care about most things.

In high density living arrangements (which is any situation where the average human encounters another one more often than once a day over their lifetimei) it becomes increasingly probable that they will be polled nevertheless, and obviously ho bios brakhos, he di tikhne makre, ho di kairos oxos, he di peira sphalere, he di krisis khalepe... There's necessarily going to be much more in the way of things to be asked about than there'll ever be found in the meagre pile of anything anyone's ever figured out for themselves, to their satisfaction, at their expense, within their lifetime.

The seeming impediment results reliably in the simplest adaptation -- as is both typical and common of life in all presentations throughout -- whereby people generally will simply keep a list of ready answers to the common questions. A cache of sorts ; and how best to populate it than by... polling in turn ? There's no deeper substance in what "most people think" on any topic than merely "what most people think most other people think would say if asked". It's pure hearsay, long divorced from any investigation, thought or even caring ; the multitudes readily satisfy themselvesii with echoing whatever it is someone might have reportedly at one point heard. However long ago, it really doesn't matter any, this metaphorical echo can live on long after any conservation law'd have extinguished its true counterpart.

Thus therefore, among a gaggle of people who "all agree" with anything -- anything whatsoever at all, take "murder is wrong" for as fine an example as any, for it well illustrates the true boundless expanse of that anything in there -- nobody agrees with anything, not beyond "that's what I've heard others say". There's no more there ; most of the agreers have no personal experience with whatever's being asked about at alliii, which is just another way of saying they don't give shit one about it.iv

All this works well enough for traditional societies (as lots of other trapings of "modern life" do) : inasmuch as nobody, manifestly, explicity and consummatedly cares "what you think", your services as battery-powered echobeacon might even come in handy. You perpetuate tradition, on your own power, and thereby you perhaps even make sense. Inasmuch as it's the word of "god", or of some long extinguished Master, however mangled, misquoted, misinterpreted... Just as long as it's not you, really ; for as long as someone else's speaking through, people might even be useful (if very moderately) even in aglomeration.

But as soon as they attempt to "organise" towards "modernisation" (ie, escape from traditionalism) the whole pile is necessarily going to collapse upon itself. Because "the will of the people" is going to be exactly whatever the hell you want it to be, and you're going to want it to be something stupid, and then depend on it as justification, and go straight to hell in a handbasket. And they won't mind. On the contrary, they'll let you do it, and applaud all the way, and then "hold" in the same manner the exact opposite view for no reason whatsoever -- that is to say, beyond the font of their hearsay having randomly changed.

And so, the same people who saw no problem with Gestapo policing of Paris back in '41 (which is to say, the French ; not Joe or Moe, but the French) will retroactively, meaninglessly, "hold" quite irreconcillable views in '46 ; the same people flooding the Berlin phonelines of the same Gestapo to "report" their neighbours (for throwing parties, and not wearing the muzzles, and whatever the fuck else) will applaud "the liberators", in groups, outside their house. They'd walk there to applaud. What are they applauding ? "There's other people here, yeee-eee!"

The Romanians will agree with you -- yes dear tavarisch Ceausescu, you're clearly on the right path -- and then disagree, leaving you scratching your head at what the fuck do words even mean. The face on the right is just about to say "Mi-am depus mandatul de patru ori", which comes to "I returned the portofolio four times"v, which indeed is factual, and all-important : decision-making based on "the will of the people" is fundamentally flawed, inescapably marred by the simple if unyielding fact that "the people" have no will ; pretense to the contrary readily reducing to "whatever you want us to". It's like if I tried to run my harem by polling the slavegirls -- they'd leave. They're not here to come up with shit, they're here because of the shit I come up with ; and similarily children aren't born into the world either por vencer or por ser vencidos. They're born simply to be told what the fuck's what! The world's a stage, yes, but they're coming in towards it from the entrance hall, not from the actor's entrance!

Stop asking people what they think / want / will / whatever. You'll live a lot better a life (as a leader I mean, admitting there was such wonder born of woman since me, something that's appearing so unspeakably dubious these days...) and moreover, nobody's gonna care that "you gave them exactly what they were asking for". They weren't asking for anything, they were just parroting what [they thought] you said ; and moreover nobody very well fucking wants that!

Give 'em whatever the hell you feel like giving, it'll be good enough.vi

———This is the universal definition for high density, by lifespan and weight of the animal. It applies equally well throughout zoology, a rabbit will either encounter another every half hour (in which case they're booming) or not ; a locust will either feel another's antennae on its hind feet once every eight seconds (in which case they're swarming) or not ; and so on.

Needless to say, a mere footstep counts, to say nothing of phone messages. Or rather, why say nothing : they count, proportionally more than a footstep. [↩]There wasn't much call for any satisfaction there to begin with. If I ask you what color is verde and you can be arsed to produce an answer, any answer, it does not thereby follow you care about either green or Romanian more than an iota ; and any attempts to remedy this may, at the utmost, make you care to be rid of me and little more besides.

Do children eat their peas through newfound caring for Pisum ingurgitation, or merely to shut the mother up already ? Because simple (which is here to say primitive) as all children are, yet all of them, in all languages and all cultures will without exception during their lives try at least once to express the directly self-obvious point : that they are doing it only to shut her up already.

Insistence, blind, feminine, will result in activity, yes -- or rather, a sufficient semblance of activity to satisfy her simple (here to say, idiotic) needs -- and while at it tell me again what a "principle of non-violence" stands for, cuckboi ?

There's two answers to annoyance, perdurantly insistent annoyance : violence and compliance. If you promise to not be violent, then therefore what other promise(s) do you silently make, and what exactly more do you imagine is needed to build the femstate ?

PS. This "<a href="http://trilema.com/2018/messy/">cuck</a><a href="http://trilema.com/2020/the-pool-party/">boi</a>" 106 byte string is rapidly becoming a sort of monad, a unified token like a single syllable, I'm mere inches away from adding it as a keyboard shortcut. Such is the greatness of art, I suppose, or at least the functionally functioning kind -- because no, not all ars is longa. Some art is brief, the difference between structured and unstructured stands magnificent ; and while it may not be the ancients' fault they lacked structure it's similarly "not their fault" they lacked furniture. Whose, then ? [↩]To continue with murder : when it comes to the wilful taking of human life, most haven't ever seen it done, let alone do it themselves ; the minority that have done it themselves, in their vast majority soldiers (I mean, a mob's, yes, but the mob's that pretends itself "government") do not in fact hold any such views personally. They think it's perfectly fine, which readily and simply (here in the sense of, correctly) explains their activities. [↩]How much do you care about things you've never done ? And if you never do the things you most care about, what sorta neurotic derangement is that, Rapunzel ?

It is the lot of "women" -- in the sense of exaggeratedly young females trapped in deeply idiotic lands -- to live quite thus, never doing the one thing they most care about. Let me then ask again... what sorta neurotic derangement is that, Rapunzel ? [↩]The intent being that, let alone whether anybody wanted the job, literally nobody stood up to do it ; nor was in his (or mine, or for that matter Sanity's altogether) anyone available even remotely qualified to do anything even vaguely in danger of being useful. He pointedly says as much, "I'd be quite curious to hear if you twerps can actually produce out of your Comintern magic hat some kind of talent I neglected, some kind of competency I arbitrarily passed over."

They don't engage the point, of course, for their interest is not so much in outmatching the competent ; but in the establishment (and safe-ification, however impossible it may be in fact) of the mediocrity regime. It just happens to be a delusion at the time popular, which is how these politically motivated "legal" fictions always work out in practice -- the Nurnberg trials are similarily much more interesting for the respondents and their responses than for the inquisitors and their inquiries, and so on. [↩]In practice, I mean. From experience, I say all this. We're not fucking around, "opining" and whatnot, okay ? I am one who knows, in fact, from experience, and it's how I say it is for those reasons. Not a matter of "how it could be", not a discussion of "citation needed", entirely nothing like "what could the unknown word mean in context, Johnny", aite ? [↩]

« The... work

Three for three »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Monday, 10 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

The W, the other W, the WW and finally the WWW.

1.

It all started for me when I was ten years old. One day after school someone who lived on our street called. My sister picked up, it was Poppy's Dad asking if I wanted to come to their house and play with his daughter. I thought she was really cool. Poppy was thirteen and she had the best shit. I was so eager for it, I bolted out of the house in my house slippers! Jesse, that's my sister, was like "Hey!" behind me right before the door slammed shut. I didn't even have keys or anything. It came to me like "Wow! What if someone sees me like this ?" It felt really exposing somehow, I don't know why. I mean I could just pretend like I'm washing the car or something, we did that almost naked, like at the pool, just a swim trunk. I wanted to get back in and change though, but the door was closed and I'd have to knock. Maybe Jesse wouldn't even open. I'd be there dressed like this knocking on the door, what would people think ? There wasn't anyone there, the street was completely empty, not even a car passing, but it still felt like all the neighbours are looking in from behind the curtains. I don't think they really did, but you never know.

I made myself stop crumpling my tshirt in my hands. I always did that back then, I don't know why. Everyone told me all the time to stop. I stopped doing it since then, actually I remember the exact day I did, but it's later. I crossed the street and knocked on the door to Poppy's house. Her Dad opened the door and told me that Poppy's upstairs. I ran upstairs. I could tell which is her room because there was giggling. It made me real nervous. I just stood there in the hallway in front of the door, crumpling my red square root 100 yo tshirt. It was from my birthday. There were other girls there besides Poppy, I mean at least three or four I could hear. I don't remember how many there were really. Eventually one of them wanted to go to the bathroom so they all came pouring out the door. When it opened I could see Poppy sitting on her bed. I didn't know any of the other girls, but they were even older than Poppy! Almost every single thing in Poppy's room was pink. She had pink bedsheets and many pink stuffies and even her drawer was pink and she had a pink wig with a purple unicorn horn coming out of it!

They dragged me to the bathroom down the hall with them. One of them said I'm as cute as a puppy. Another one said I could be their little puppy and guard the door for them in case there's any enemies. They had me lie down on the floor carpeting in front of the bathroom door. I thought they were all so cool! I could hear them talking through the door, "Poor Puppy!" "He's kinda cute though." "Yes but why is he dressed like that ?" "I don't know, it's really stupid." "Hey Poppy! Can't you dress your puppy any better than that ?" There was a pause, then I heard Poppy loud and clear "Hey guys, I have an idea!" I could hear her paddle over and open the door. She stood towering right above me in her pink plastic princess shoes, one leg across in the hallway, one leg back in the bathroom. Her head was so far up! She said "Hey Puppy, you wanna play a game ?" I said sure, she clapped and said "We're gonna play dress up, puppy!"

I guess it was a little odd for thirteen-year olds to want to play dress up maybe, but at the time I didn't think so at all. I didn't question it. When I was that age, I loved to dress up in costumes of superheroes or pirates. I think maybe I just assumed that's what she meant. Poppy said she already picked out the perfect costume for me, but I have to take off my clothes first. I stripped down to my shorts right there on the carpet, right in front of all the girls. They were huddling around the bathroom door, just their heads popping in. I said, "I did it, can I see my costume now?" Poppy said "Sure!" with a smirk, but then she picked up all my clothes and walked back into the bathroom with them. She put them all in the washing machine! She put in detergent, and turned it on! I was going to say something like "Hey!" but she said "We have to wash poor Puppy's old clothes, too!" I think maybe her parents had just showed her how to work the washing machine and she was eager for more experience. All the other girls agreed with her though, so it started to make sense. Of course she has to wash my old clothes, and really there's nothing wrong being in just my cotton briefs with them there.

Then one of the girls said "Wait, Poppy! If he's a real puppy how come he has those on ? Real puppies don't wear anything. Their bits just dangle out like it's normal." I was mesmerized. All eyes were on me. Poppy too. I was squirming on the floor. She started asking me like she was singing a lullaby, "How about it Roger ? Are you a real puppy for real ?" I thought "Of course I'm a real puppy!" I didn't say anything, I just started rolling around like a real puppy would do, I though. They were giggling like crazy. I tried to stand up but they all said "No, no! Puppies go on all fours!" and they made me give them rides back to their room. I could feel their warm thighs and everything on my back, burning me almost. I'd keep paddling on all fours with one or even two of them back to Poppy's room, but as soon as I dropped my load and came back for the next they'd run back to the bathroom. It was going to take forever! Then they all piled up on me. My arms and legs gave out and they pinned me down on the cold tile floor. They grabbed my ankles and everywhere and held me down. One of them said "we should tickle the puppy!" and they all started doing it! I begged and begged for them to stop, but one said "We're not going to stop until you pee yourself, puppy." and another one said "Yeah, that's right!" and then Poppy said "You'd better do it. The faster you do it the better for you." They tickled me and tickled me and eventually I wanted it. I wanted to feel the warm embrace burning me on my butt and thighs and everywhere. Then my briefs were in the wash with the rest of everything.

They put me in the tub and washed me everywhere. Poppy's parents had one of those detachable shower heads, like at the end of a hose. The girls just washed me with that and soap, it was the best feeling in the world to be touched by those what seemed like five thousand girl hands. I felt so good and happy! I thought it's really just like a real puppy, washed with the garden hose. They dried me off and we went back to Poppy's room. She said "I was going through my old clothes from when I was your age, because Mom says I should throw them out, the stuff that I can't wear anymore because it's too small for me or too revealing for a young lady. But I think they'd be perfect for you little Puppy boy!" At first we had to pick panties for me.

They made me try on more than twenty, and I had to parade and display each one. They argued about it a while and I kept having to put old pairs on again to see which is best, but eventually they all agreed on a pair of white satin ones with purple polka dots and a little fur nubbin right over the butt like the size of a walnut. They liked it because they said it's just like a puppy's tail, but I just loved the way they caressed my skin. They were some of the best ones, silk and satin are the best. Then we had to try on socks, but that wasn't so hard because they said my feet have to show through and Poppy only had a coupla leg warmers. They picked the one that was white and pink striped, going from my ankle all the way to almost my butt. They also had pretty pink bows in front right at the top, and fit very snug. Then they picked the dress, that also wasn't very hard because they said it has to have a collar for stuffies and also be real tight around my butt to show off my nubbin tail. She only had a few like that and they liked the sleeveless white one with pink highlights because they said it accentuates my best features and that's what you have to look for when shopping for a dress.

Then one of the girls ran off to the bathroom and came back with the toilet paper roll. Poppy asked what's that for ?! The girl said "for her bra, silly!" but Poppy just laughed and said she'll be right back. While she was gone two of the girls, I thought they were sisters, started talking about the puppy trick. One of them was like "You wanna do the puppy trick to it ?" and the other was like "Yeah but you do it." and they kept going back and forth. Then they faced me holding their hands together and said "Puppy, there's a real test if you're a real puppy. You want to give it a try ?" I nodded, and they had me go on all fours again. They lifted my dress all the way up over my head, so I couldn't see anything. I really liked that. I could feel them pull my nubbin panties back down to my knees, then one of them grabbed hold of my little penis. She held it and moved it up and down until I got this crazy shudder all over my body. Nothing came out, but I'm sure I had an orgasm, for the first time in my life. I did it lots of times since then, just to be sure, back before moving in with Jesse. It puzzled them. "I think that was it" "But how come nothing came out ?" "I don't know." "Mister always makes that white thing." "Yeah, and the bubble." "Maybe she's just really only part puppy." "Maybe she'll grow into it more."

That's when Poppy came in. Everyone was giggling, and they had to do it to me again to show her and so the other girls could try and then also Poppy wanted to try herself, it was crazy. Then Poppy made take off the dress again, because she had brought me my bra! It wasn't just a bra though, it had the breasts already inside of it, and they were huge! With that under the white dress I looked just like the champion puppy, like they said. It stretched the fabric to breaking point. The collar on the dress was almost choking me it was so pulled so tight, but Poppy took a step back and made an 'aww' sound. They sat me down on the chair the first time since I had came over, and they painted all my nails the same pink as the dress. Then an older girl did my makeup. She brushed foundation all over my face. She put on mascara, and eyeliner. Then she glued fake eyelashes on my eyelids, right over my real ones. They completed the look with bright pink blush and cherry-red lipstick.

They made that 'aww' sound again, but synchronized this time. Poppy put her pink wig on my head. It fit really well, the hair was long, flowing past the hem of my dress. She put a white hairband with a pink bow on it over the wig to hold it down tight. Then they let go of me, running all around and clapping like crazy. They seemed really proud of what they made. They took me to the mirror, and it was mindblowing. A hot, cool, debonaire young woman was looking at me right back from it. I wanted so hard to be her! That woman was the best you could be. They were snapping pictures with their phones, until one looked up excitedly and said "she needs a name!" I guess she was going to post them somewhere or send them to someone and that's why they finally needed a name for me.

They took a moment to brainstorm. "It has to be something that sounds similar to his real name." one said. After a few minutes they decided on Rebecca. They really liked the name. They kept clapping excitedly and talking to me like to try it out, "Hi Rebecca!" and I'd say "Hi!" back then they'd clap and lose it to fits of giggling. After a while Poppy dropped a pair o white high-heel sandals on the floor in front of me and told me to step inside. They were her mom's I think, but they fit me just fine. Then she said "Come on Becca." I looked at her like my life was going to end. "Let's go out!" she said. That was it.

We walked down the street to the bus stop. Everyone knew everyone where we lived back then, but one of the other girls whose name was Audrey introduced me as her cousin Becca visiting from Florida. I had to shake hands with people who knew me from real life as Robert but they'd just say "Oh hello Rebecca, so nice to meet you dear." Then in the bus we all sat together but the girls kept giggling because they said those guys are totally checking you out Becca. They got off at the next stop, I don't know who they were. Maybe they were checking me out. We got off at the mall and we just went all over everywhere trying on clothes. It was a lot of fun! I don't remember what all we tried on. Everything, basically. All the girls just stripped down to their bras and panties in the dressing room because it was all girls and they were so pretty! One of them hesitated the first time before doing it, but after that it was just normal. I had never seen so many pretty girls like that before. I didn't even know porn exists back then.

We didn't buy anything of course but afterwards we went to the food court and ate things. There was a boy there I knew sitting all by himself, Allan's older brother. He was kinda in a corner and he looked sad. He wasn't even eating or anything. Poppy said "Becca, you have to go over and say hi to the virgin." They all thought this is a splendid idea, so I had to do it. They told me to say "Hello, I'm Becca. What's your name ?" and then ask him if he would like to see my pretty bows, and if he says yes I had to lift my dress up over my stockings so he can see them. I didn't want to but they said I have to. They said I'm too grown up now to be just a stupid puppy, and I have to do it to be in their secret club. They said they all did it before so now it's my turn.

I went over there, but he could see them and hear them giggling all the way so he wouldn't tell me his name. I looked back at them to see what I should do ? They were all "go ahead, go ahead" so I sat down and asked him if he'd like to see my pretty bows ? He just went crazy, started grabbing at my bra with both hands and pushing into me. Then he started smooching me. I almost fell over the chair running out of there! He just got right back to being sad and by himself like nothing happened. He didn't even look at me! My lipstick was all smudged so we had to go to the bathroom so they could fix it for me, and then we took the bus back home.

My clothes I came in with were still damp because we forgot to take them out of the washing machine when we left, but I put them on anyway. Poppy said I should keep the panties and legs but she had to put the sandals and the bra back in their place and she didn't want to give me her pink wig. They washed all the beautiful make-up away, it made me so sad. I was back to being Robert now, but I could still see Becca everywhere I looked, except not in the mirror. Poppy said she's going to have a sleepover next weekend and I should come too so they can play with me more. One of the girls said "But Poppy, aren't your parents going to say anything ?" and she said "I'll tell them little Becca just wants to be a girl because she's confused about herself. They'll love that." so it was all set.

When I knocked on our door Jesse gave me the eyebrow. I still had the strange stripes on my legs, and she noticed the nail polish. She made me step out of the slippers to show her my toes before she'd let me in. She said "Just as I thought, you little sissy slut." Then she removed the polish off my fingernails but not off of my toes. She said I'd better be on my best behaviour with her or else she's going to make me tell Dad all about being a little sissy. It was good though because after that she always did my toenails. She wanted to have that over me, but over time it became our thing. We'd do it in secret, in her room, and it was our little secret thing. Sometimes she also dressed me up in other ways. I think she really enjoyed it, not just because she kept blackmailing me about making me tell Dad how come I have nail polish on my toes but I think she liked it in general. I had to be real nice to her and she made me do all sorts of things.

2.

It all really started last September. I was not married to Rich back then, we had just recently met and... I was working out, he came over. I thought he wanted to use the machine, but he said "Hi, what's your name ?" He had his piercing eyes right on me, I couldn't move. I told him I'm Jesse and he asked me what do I do for a living ? I couldn't really answer him, I stuttered something I don't know what it was supposed to be then he said "Would you like to be my whore instead ?" I was blank, I didn't even know what the fuck. He said "It's like booty calls but you're never busy, and I'll pay you two thousand a night. You don't have to fuck anyone else."

That's how we met, I mean I just followed him out of there to his car. He drives a McLaren, no shitting. I just swallowed his cock when he shoved my face into it and that was that. That's how we met. All the other wives laughed and laughed when I told them the story at the first WW party. They thought it was the hottest shit. He gave me four hundred in cash, I mean he just wiped them all over my face and shoved them in my bra when he was done. He dropped me off in front of my apartment building like that. They went straight into the super's mailbox, I was two months behind. Then after that he'd call whenever he felt like and I went over every time. I was like a dog with that phone, every time someone call I'd run out of the shower like a maniac, waving my hands behind me "omgomg it's him".

Then one day after he ploughed right into me against a table like he just didn't give a fuck, my feet running away from under me, he asked me if I'd like to be his fiance. I nodded. He said "Hold on bitch, it's not that easy. What are you willing to do to be my fiance ?" I looked at him like wut ? Anything. He said "get on your knees, for starters". The he had me beg to be his fiance five ways from Sunday. He made me promise I'll just sit at attention like a doggy, leash on, waiting for him when he comes home. He said I have to jump on him and lick his feet just like a real dog bitch. He had a lot of ideas like that, and I said it all for him. After a while I was like "Hey, are you just making random shit up ?" and he said kinda. I laughed and said "ok, so may I be your fiance then ? I'll do anything." The next day we were engaged, with a five carat yellow Tiffany's diamond ring.

I knew he was probably going to pop the question, and I was wondering what the hell can he come up with this time. I spent all of August doing Internet research on BDSM and sex slavery and everything I could find, trying to figure out what'll he do to me. It just wasn't like Rich to have nothing up his sleeves, and he already made me promise everything and humiliate myself into the dirt just for being his fiance. He wasn't gonna up and marry me without serious hardcore worldmelting... something. But what the fuck ? I eventually figured he'd probably brand me, like with a hot iron. I had come up with some alternatives, but none really made sense. He could do a big orgy but he really wasn't much into other dudes at all, I mean occasionally he'd hire escorts so we fucked him together or we ate each other out or fuck each other with strapons while he fucked us in the ass. Really the biggest pain was getting them to leave afterwards ; but there was never another penis involved. I knew he wasn't into kids. I thought it'd maybe be public humiliation, like with the other people he worked with, maybe I'd have to go to the office naked or something, but honestly that was so fucking hot I almost wished it'd be it.

That's why I was so shocked when he told me he thinks he might be bisexual. It just blew my mind. I thought to myself "shit, he's gonna want me to fuck him with the strapons now" but that wasn't it at all, thanks goodness. He liked little she-boys with big tits and small cocks, the younger the better. Blacks and gingers especially, and asians too. The way it worked out was, I'd go out and meet whatever fruitcake somewhere. It was pre-arranged, of course, but still, we'd pretend like we're flirting. I'd pretend like I'm a total nympho and invite them over. Then he'd bust in on us, make a big scandal, scare the living daylights out of the little trap. I mean, they knew what the plan was all along, but somehow when they were right there, caught in the act, Rich yelling and confronting them... they fucking melted. He really liked it when they cried, too. He made them wipe the snot off their faces with their hands and then lick it off their own fingers, he'd get his belt off and beat the shit out of their asses, it always turned into a hell of a show. It always ended the same way, too: with a little sheboi in my arms crying and wincing while Rich pounded that ass into oblivion. Somethimes they'd sorta-kinda get their tiny penises inside of me, or I'd lick them out, though I mostly worshipped Rich's balls or hugged the hundred pounds of fuckmeat.

That's how I got the idea, too. My little brother, Becca! That kid was weird from the get-go, always sniffing at my panties drawer and wasting my blush, but right before I took off for college, that whole year... he all but came out. He wasn't even in junior high yet, but he was painting his toenails and telling people he's Rebecca, going to sleepovers and pajama parties with highschooler girls... I guess they always thought he'll straighten out with puberty, but poor Robert was born to be fuckmeat. He had just turned fifteen that June, so I dropped him an urgent express fedex : "Bitch boy, you make sure and use that ticket. I'll explain when you're here. Love, Jesse. PS. Think of it as a delayed birthday party." I added a plane ticket, one way. I picked the landing early in the morning, figuring the little bitch will probably need some spa time and maybe even shopping before he's ready to meet his new Daddy.

When I picked him up at the airport he was Becca alright. His voice was something the fuck else, I mean it's a little weird over the phone I guess but in person it was just striking. The hormone suppression therapy had done wonders for his penis, too. I made him take it all off in the car and show me. It wasn't as much as my lip gloss tube, even. I was thinking all the while, "boy, is Rich gonna love this!" He explained to me that the therapy also prevented his balls from coming down so far. True fact, his sac was as empty as a little boy's. He said he's read somewhere that if they stay in another year or maybe two they'll just melt back into the body and be gone forever. He said it's much better for him that way, because his meat was never irradiated with ball juice like in those gross other trannies, so it can take whore therapy much better with no history to confuse it. Those are his exact words, he said he couldn't wait to be eighteen to start on whore therapy. I said "You know it's hor-mone" but he just shook his hand like "whatever", like I was just being a spoil sport.

Seeing the little shit sprawled naked in my car made it fucking clear what I have to do.

3.

The thing about Jesse is, she's a total slut, just like her mom. She's not even my real sister. Dad thought she's his daughter before her real mom ran off to whore out somewhere. That was back before he met Mom. When she died they had everyone in the family take DNA testing to make sure something about genes and cancer, and they discovered Dad and Jesse aren't related at all. They're not even sixth cousins, the people said most everyone is related a little but Dad and Jesse were like they came from different countries.

After she left for college Poppy and the other girls also lost interest. They got stupid boyfriends like dumb jocks and hateful assholes all mean and sucked them off all the time after getting drunk at parties in the backseat of their cars. God it makes me so mad! They just played with me one summer and then once school started again it was like a different world for them, like it all didn't mean anything, just a little game like Uno or something. Go ahead, forget all about it, "my boyfriend says traps are gross tee hee". I hope they all die in a fucking fire!

I discovered porn on the Internet though, and posting boards, so it was no skin off my back they were all stupid, all of them! Because I started just at the right time I was the biggest contributor to wikipedia ever in its history, even The Jimbo himself invited me to like parties and get togethers. The Internet really helped me be myself and find out who I really was. Some people say Mr. Wales is just a pedo and he should be put away and his friends too, but that's just them being jealous and hate everything that's from Alabama, that's all. I mean it's true we did the hot tub things at the special contributors reunion and with the sponsors, but that's not what pedo is anyway. I could link some pages to prove it, too.

Then because I was so famous with the right people and the Internet everyone at school started respecting me a lot more once I was in Junior High. Especially Mitch. That's when that bitch Jesse decided to show up in my life again, just like that. It was just after all the congratulatorations for my cake day on reddit were winding down because I made the account for my birthday and that way I always had friends and parties for all my birthdays, unlike everyone else so I was spending more time on titwer. There was a knock on the door and a guy with a moustache just like in Bangbros showed up when I went to see who it is and he said "sign here". I thought shit, it's a contract, they're making me a porn star. It wasn't though, just a stupid letter. In it Jesse wanted to make me a porn star, though she didn't come right out and say it. That's just like her, she made me start cross dressing but never said so and now she was going to make me a star too but pretend all the while it was just nothing going on and business as usual. She's one sneaky bitch.

I asked her, too, how did she know I'll even show up ? I never answered or said anything like "ok". I didn't even think I was going to go but then on the night right before I couldn't sleep because I had to get pretty. Not because of her stupid invitation or airplane ticket or anything, just so. A girl can feel like she wants to dress up any time she feels like it, doesn't have to be for a reason. Right ? Right. So Becca just wanted to come out, that's all. Then she went over to the airport for no reason, just to check it out, and then the clerk showed me where to sit down and I sat, why the hell not. I can sit down anywhere I want to, it still doesn't mean anything. Nothing means anything, no means no and nothing else means anything, and besides a girl can say no if she wants to doesn't have to mean she won't do it.

When I asked her how she knew she said "little bitch... you're the compliance generation. All you need is for someone to tell you what to do. It doesn't matter what it is, you'll do it anyway, regardless." I guess she's right, too. Just as long as she doesn't act like it's my fault or anything. I didn't want any of this, remember ? But I told her, "You're the same way Jess!" and she nodded her head and said yeah, she's the same way. We're all the same way.

4.

"You look just like a little whore."

"Yeah well... you look just like a big one."

"That's because I am a big one."

"Woh Jess! Really ?!"

"Oh yeah. I'm the biggest whore ever."

"What do you do ?"

"Everything. I got this guy, I mean he just came up to me at the gym and asked me if I want to be his whore."

"Omg. What did you say ?"

"I didn't say anything. I just followed him to his car."

"Did he..."

"He stuffed his cock in my mouth, yep."

"Did you like it ?"

"I don't know yet."

"Is he rich ?"

"Yeah, he's Rich."

"You know... I never... I mean..."

"Really ? Because I've seen some memes."

"Just online though."

"You've never been with anyone ?"

"I don't think so. I mean, you know, girls... But we never..."

"Rich'll make a whore out of you alright."

"You think so ?"

"Definitely."

"I don't know Jess..."

"Here's the thing, you little shit : the therapy, and the implants and everything ?"

"Yeah ?"

"You don't really have to wait for them, if your guardian gives you a consent form."

"Dad'll never..."

"I could be your guardian though."

"What ?! Dad'll never..."

"You think he'll complain that much ?"

"Eh..."

"Rich could fix that up. He can do anything he wants, really."

"Because he's rich ?"

"That's right."

"Will you... will you... with me ?"

"Definitely."

5.

After picking up the little shit at the airport I knew I had a family in my bag. I told Rich there's a little surprise waiting for him when he's good and ready. He said "oh" on the messenger and I told him it's just a little shit I picked up. That's what we call them, the t-bois. Little shits, it fits like a glove. He said "7pm" and I had everything ready. When he was at the door I was already kneeling in my leash like a fiance does, and I jumped all over him yelping "Daddy! Daddy! Welcum home! Yay!" like I always do. Everyone says I'm great at that. Then we went upstairs, and I got Becca out of the closet. I could tell Rich likes her alright. I sat on the bed with her head in my lap while Rich stuffed her virgin asshole. I smothered her fake eyelashes with my real tits, and I felt her tense up in panic and work herself up with the pain until that moment came when she just gave herself up. That's the best part of turning out these fucktoys, that moment when they give up and just let themselves be broken, inside and forever. I really love feeling their hot panting breath afterwards, it's like a whole different thing. Becca was crying and swaying her butt, back arched, knees bent, pushing her back into the cock. I whispered "who's a whore now" and she nodded.

We ate the little shit off of Rich together, then he said "Bitch, you're total wife material. I'm going to tell the club to arrange it for next month." The club, that's our WW club -- the Whore Wife club. All the execs in his firm are members, but you can only join if you're married and of course you must be married to a sport. The WWs are a pool and anyone in the club can fuck them, that's why they're called whore wives. There's a special price app for it. Every Thursday it sends out pictures of the wives, one at a time. It sends as many as you want to look at. They come with a price, all the wives start at a thousand dollars. Everyone who wants to fuck the whore in the picture that weekend clicks on "it's too low", until eventually there's nobody left to bid against and the app tells you "Congrats, you've got a whore wife!" both to the husband and to the winner. The wives aren't allowed to leave for this reason, like if you want to take your own wife to Aspen or anywhere over the weekend you have to buy her on Thursday. I think they donate the money to charity maybe, or just use it to pay for more whores, I don't really know.

That's not the only thing they do. There's also special events, like they have all the wives go to a house party and lez out and then the guys will bust in with like guns and camo gear and everything, to rape everyone. That's the best, because they yell and get in your face and pull hair and slap us around. There's other things too, and of course weddings and many party formats. Rich said they're going to do something special because everyone really likes weddings, they're like a welcome party for a new whore. He said it'll blow their mind when they see our little bundle of joy. Becca's eyes were really huge and getting huger as Rich described how he's gonna have to walk down the isle right behind my ass in nothing but stockings and with his little nubbin dangling where everyone can see. It's true, too, WWW, whore wife weddings are something else, and you should see the dresses! It's not even legal to cover up your cunt or tits or anything, they're a riot. Rich also said he's going to get us fake tits bolted on at the same time too, so we can be brother and sissy, like tit sissies together.

Would you like to see my wedding album ?

« Deconstructing Femethics

L'ultima carrozzella »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Wednesday, 17 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

The vice squad

"Man, look at that!"

"What ?"

"How do they grow tits like that ? I don't get it, I really don't get it."

"You know she's about fifteen, yeah ?"

"Sounds about right. Let's go."

"What ?!"

"We gotta pick her up."

"Are you out of your fucking mind ?!"

"She's soliciting, ain't she ?"

"Soliciting what ?"

"Is this your first day or something ?"

"No, but..."

"Then get with the program, what the fuck."

"Hello miss."

"Um... hi ?!"

"I'm going to need to see some ID."

"What ? Why! I'm not doing nuttin!"

"Be that as it may."

"Seriously officer, I'm totally just minding my own business. I'm on my way home."

"Look here miss, we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. Now which is it going to be ?"

"I... I mean..."

"Do you have ID ?"

"Here."

"Rachel Mclure, age 15."

"I'll be 16 in June."

"You mean next year ?"

"Yeah..."

"Did you know solicitation of prostitution is a crime in this state ?"

"What ? What do you mean!"

"You're under arrest. Anything you say may or will be used against you in a court of law."

"What is this!"

"Just get in the car."

"But I didn't do anything, for real. I was just walking home. What the..."

"The fuck was the point of that ?"

"What ?"

"She'll get probation, at the most."

"Nah. Pre-trial diversion. The DA knows the score."

"Why even bother ? Besides, they'll call the parents..."

"They'll try to. My bet is the parents won't pick up."

"Why not ?"

"I don't know, maybe they're out. Or it might be the clerk dials the wrong number or something. Mistakes happen."

"So what now ?"

"Now we book her and let the system do its thing so her real life can really begin. You've never been on vice before ?"

"Homeland Security."

"Oh. Brother. So you're one of the cool guys keeping our borders safe, huh ?"

"Yeah. Right."

"Man, you've got to get me in there. I could do with some new gizmos and shit."

"That's what you heard, huh ?"

"That's right."

"Used to be like that. Not anymore."

"They killed the goose ?"

"Pretty much. Just red tape and turning rocks over to paint 'em white now, it's no better than social security. Longer hours, too."

"Damn."

"Maybe the folks on that wall are doing better, it being new and all, I don't know. But by and large..."

"What a gyp."

"So you gonna give me the low-down or what ?"

"Not unless you ask."

"I'm askin', aint I ?"

"Look man, vice is easy-peasy. What you do all day is go around where the young sluts are. They gotta go to school so that's a good start, just drive around two-three blocks from one. Then you stop 'em, you haul 'em and you book 'em. That's pretty much it."

"Then what ?"

"Are you Internal or something ?"

"Man..."

"Like I give a fuck. Then they book her, means she goes into the holding pen. Whores get a single open space, there's at least twenty seats and fifty whores to the twenty seats on a slow day. They all got pimps, sooner or later your collar will turn up somewhere. Most pay a bitcent a head, and of course there's free lay all the way."

"Oh. Wow."

"Yeah, it's pretty smooth riding."

"Man, that sounds like good money."

"Top man on the squad made a hundred twelve collars, last week."

"A week ?!"

"Fine bitches, too. You should see that dude's rooster, Playboy ain't got nothing on him."

"Could go into business for himself."

"Haha, nah. Too much hassle, too little payoff. Better behind the shield."

"I guess you said a mouthfull there."

"Good morning boys. What can I do ye fer ?"

"Eighty-eight-sixty. Rachel, Mclure. Age 15."

"I didn't do anything!"

"Shut up, you!"

"Alright, sign here."

"See you later, Charlie."

"Yeah. To holding."

"No, please. Wait, I don't..."

"If you don't shut up you're going to accidentally hit something, pumpkin."

"Whooo hooo!"

"Look at that!"

"Hi baby!"

"She in here boss ?"

"That's right."

"Wooo! WOOOO!"

"Come right in, pretty titties."

"Help me! Please..."

"Shut up. It's what you wanted for yourself, innit."

"No, no. I... please..."

"Well, you'd better wanted it, cuz now you got it."

"Oh my god!"

"Hey boss, she can't come in here like that."

"She a first timer, ain't she ?"

"Damn right!"

"Fine bitch not even a real ho."

"Take it off, bitch!"

"Shut up, you dumb whores. You're scaring her."

"Yes boss."

"Shut up everyone. Let the boss man do his thang."

"I love it when he does his thang!"

"You want them to go easy on you, pumpkin ?"

"I... I mean... Yes."

"Then here's what you do. First, you take those sneakers off, let's see what kinda socks your mommy put on your pwetty wittwe feets this morning."

"Wooo hooooo!"

"Hey!"

"But... but..."

"Or they can go hard on you, too. That's your choice."

"I..."

"That's a good girl. And how pretty you look in those ankle socks. Are those icecream cones ?"

"Y..eah."

"That's good, cuz you'll be doing a whoooole lotta lickin'"

"Woooo!"

"Dayum."

"Now walk over to that window. That one right over there. Thats right. Open it. Take your shirt off and throw it out the window. That's right, go for it. Don't be shy, you see that pile of shirts and crap down there ? Off it goes, throw it on the pile. Now your bra, let's see those pretty titties your mommy gave you. That's a good girl. Shake them a little, yeah, with your shoulders like that. Harder. Grab and squeeze, that's right. Now your jeans. Grab them with your panties together like a little girl does it. That's right. Off they go."

"Wow, she ain't even shaved."

"Fuzzy peach bitch."

"How yo hair so light, ho ?!"

"Now shake your ass, like you saw on the Internet. You keep up with the Internet don't you ? That's a good girl."

"Hell yeah!"

"Now say 'please ladies, I want to be a whore, will you show me how ?' to the group."

"P...please ladies... please."

"Please what, bitch ?"

"I want to be a whore too."

"Who da fuck you callin a ho, ho ?!"

"What you say is, 'please ladies, I want to be a whore, will you show me how ?'. Now do it right."

"P...lease ladies, I want to be a whore."

"Will you show me how ?"

"Show me how. Please!"

"Get in here, peachum."

"Don't molest her now, you hear ? Her parents might show up."

"No, officer please! Don't call my parents."

"You sure about that, pumpkin ?"

"Please."

"Here da laydown, new bitch. What yo name ?"

"Rachel"

"Fuck that dumb white bitch name. Got no better'n dat ?!"

"I... I..."

"Yo dumb ass no' bambi. Got dat ?"

"I'm bambi."

"Damn straight."

"Yes ma'am."

"Me, I'm Dayona. I be top bitch an' pen mother in here, that straight ?"

"Hell yeah."

"Preach it Mommy."

"That here Icey, Cardi an' Skye. Muh garls!"

"Yeee"

"Hey hey."

"First thing yo dumb white ass gotta kno, is from now on yo ain't ever gonna leave here."

"That's right!"

"W...what do you mean ?"

"This yo home, ho! This where yo live. Even if yo dumbass leave, yo come back now, yo hear ?"

"I... I..."

"Always yo come back. This yo home, ho!"

"Okay..."

"Second thing yo dumb white ass gotta kno, if yo nigga. Yo nigga no', bitch!"

"Yeee-ah!"

"What dick nigga bitch fuck ?"

"I... black ?"

"That's right. An' what nigga bitch do dem pecker boys pecker wood ?"

"Uhm..."

"Money money money!"

"Dat right."

"Damn straight!"

"Yo fuck befo'?"

"I... I mean, I have a boyfriend."

"If he come to fuck now what you say nigga ho ?"

"I... I ask for money ?"

"She a perky one!"

"Damn straight! Yo ask dat pecker pig fo' his wallet!"

"I... I didn't..."

"Now the third thing yo dumb nigga ho ass gotta do, is find yo mommy. Where she at ?"

"Where yo mommy at, bitch ?"

"Uh... she's at home ?"

"This yo home no', bitch!"

"You mean..."

"Do you know how new nigga ho finds herself her mommy ?"

"I... no ?"

"Use yo nose, bitch. Dat why yo a bitch! Yo smell 'er."

"I... what ? What do I have to do ?"

"You gotta eat out each pussy here. Then when yo done, then you say who yo mommy is."

"Then she yo mommy."

"But... I mean... when I'm done..."

"Yo dumb ass done when we say yo done. No' git!"

"Come here, baby."

"Kiss it right here, pretty bambi."

"Eww."

"Dumb bitch dun like cum scent hahahaha."

"Put yo head in there ho!"

"That's right, slurp her good! Slurp dat dirty cunt new ho!"

« Nothing But A Man

Higher order effects, a pizdillustration. »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Tuesday, 12 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

The Underbaker

"So hey, Erik ? Who do you say is the greatest superhero, ever!!"

"I'll tell you if you tell me yours first!"

"The Weather Wizard!"

"What ?"

"Yeah, he's a super hero that fights crime with his power of the Weather!"

"What, if they steal his shit he cries them a river ?"

"How about Injun Joei ?"

"Eh, going around naked and with a knife, what powers are those ?"

"He can play dead real well! Like, he could fool anyone."

"He's sure fooling me..."

"He's supposed to play live, not dead. How about Captain Cold ?"

"Nigga, please! That Cap'n Cold bullshit is no better than that Lightnin' Lezzie and the rest of the bullshit they do in WonderWoman."

"Ewww."

"Or that slice of Swiss cheese in underwear, living underwater in a pineapple."

"Ok, cut out the bullshit. The greatest superhero ever is Thunderin' Terrible. Though his real name's Tibby, short for Tiberius. Though he gets real mad if you say his name that way."

"What does he do ?"

"He doesn't do anything!"

"What ?!"

"How does that work ?"

"He fights crime, but his superpower is making just the sound of lightning, like as if there was real lighting going on somewhere nearby."

"Wow!"

"But it's not real, it's just the sound like if it were real. Which it isn't."

"I bet all those criminal villains are totally confused by this completely unexpected turn of events."

"That's right!"

"Cool beans!"

"Say Erik, what are you getting ?"

"GraveGlaze ChocoCake!"

"O wow..."

"That's the best!"

The Underbaker had been set up in the village pursuant a humble proposal to the village barf of trustees made by Herr Totten Kopf, a perfectly respectable German immigrant from Nordirland on the very day of his arrival. He was an expert baker by trade, and after completing his Abiliturii in his domestic homelands he specialized (after the required period of indolent itinerancy and vagrant bummitude, of course) in the baking of really tall cakes, tales, jellows, pastries and other delectabilia -- all with a twist.

As needful implementation of the intrinsic duality of existence, you see, all the products of this noble confisseur were based on adequately redoubled ingredients. Where unskilled, naive practitioners might use plain pastry flour straight, the artful Herr Kopf instead employed a mixture of his own devising, equal parts flour and strychnine. Where cocoa solids were called for -- such as in the setting of a rich dark glaze upon a cryptic cake -- Herr Kopf applied liberally his patented formulation : half Nutella, half quick-dry varnish. Glazed strawberries had their tops elegantly re-made in Paris green (to which he always referred to as "Schweinfurtgrun", out of perhaps excusableiii national-irredentism), and so following. The only guarantee Her Kopf could make as to the elaborate products of his industrious craft was that indeed any portion or part thereof howsoever selected did retain the subiacent structure of all cosmic universe : two parts, of which one each of each!

From a more practical perspective, the village folk were quite delighted both with the German's pricing scheme (any one piece costing the same penny no matter what it was, or how often selected) as well as with its ultimate results : the demise of the supernumerary children, a culling of the herd quite easiersome on the well tried purse of the workaday parents as it was easing on the chancels and chapels, and schools and purgatories, and all other places besed by an abundance of children without anything like an abundance of resources. Why bother raise them, anyways ? The crows can only take so much feeding, and for every dancer of the gallows there's the hard, burdensome, tiring work of carpentry and lumberjacking -- the naive notions that children are yet without sin a poor substitute in imagination of the more practical observation that they're certainly without merit ; and so an approach to ridding the world of tomorrow's unruly mob without having to first waste the pudding on their earthly something for the birds indeed as great contribution to the great march of progress as ever could of industry be hoped.

The Underbaker thus carried on its wholesome business, fraternally respected by all others in the village ; while the perennial children, yet of the size and appetites of little pets, carried on their meaningless chirping, independently rediscovered yet stably self-same, predictably equal to itself during each equally passing year. The last time anyone even bother to fashion fetishes for the little morons long lost to memory, their current discoveries mere constant rediscovery and apocatastasis, of things predating their current year in the sun by fifty or perhaps a hundred even, or put in their own dog lives -- an eternity. For the horizon had come ; and gone.

~ The End ~

———There's a reason all Injuns were Joe, and that reason's not hard to guess : scum survives by attaching itself to living things, and indeed the real Joe lives on through the unremarkable, unsurprising an' ultimately unimportant moral bankruptcy of Xtianity. [↩]Amusingly enough, Trilema itself seems to be the only available resource for this -- purely German!!! -- concept. [↩]Excusable because how little does it care matter what sewer it is dumped to kill the rats incumbent therein, when it was invented specifically and deliberately in Bavaria, so as to replace with an even brighter, more permanent alternative Scheele's interior decorating pigment, at the time (and henceforth) celebrated for the delightful interior scenes it made possible, of oxiuric children wasting away in bright emerald rooms under the dim discreet halo of Gosio gas ? Might as well call it MRGCvGreen then, for Monet, Renoir, Gagarin, Cezanne & van Earkutoff. [↩]

« Joseph, bekannt Joe

Object-oriented, format-extension, freedom & self-respect, things an' matters (that dun matter) »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Tuesday, 19 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

The Time of Your Life

The Time of Your Lifei is the cinematic originator of the Queers format, or that Jarmusch thing : "people in a bar". They're fascinatingly interesting characters and so different yet "so deeply human" and etcetera etcetera bla bla bla. Don't you know "that's life" yadda yadda and how almost-as-interesting yours must therefore be, for having seen this (plausibly, at least, I mean who's to know, rite ?). It's certainly a damn sight better than McCormick-ian tendentious nonsense a la The Public Enemyii, I'll give that much.

The production lists a nominal credit for William Saroyan (play written by), but considering it was produced specifically by Cagney's brother Willie's one-man-vehicle company (unexpectedly dubbed "Cagney Productions") and strategically placed James in the "Joseph T. (who observes people)" role... what can I say.iii It's a chesspiece in the larger game of "fuck the studios" Cagney was trying his best to play at the timeiv (while carefully minding the small thingsv). It's certainly a different sort of filmvi, and perhaps a worthy addition to the very arid, mostly empty fieldvii of the period. It also does something to suggest that Cagney's conventional typecast as a (fortuitously psychotic) gangster may have been trading on his second-best face, while a sort of Proustian nostalgic reminiscentia might've been truly his forte.

I don't think it's much of a film ; but then again I also don't think Proust-like is much of a genre. It works ok for some people, but those some people aren't the everyman, and certainly not the socialism byproductviii, American or otherwise.

I can't think of a reason to deliberately see this film, beyond taking poseurship very god damn seriously, or else being me.

———1948, by H.C. Potter, with James Cagney, his sister Jeanne, Willie Bendix etcetera (plus the obscure Reginald Beane pestering the piano). [↩]1931, William A. Wellman, also starring Jean Harlow and Joan Blondell (fully dressed, both of 'em). Some of the worst garbage ever turned out by Fartsywood. [↩]Whoever's responsible for it (and I don't suspect H.C Potter at all) did a terrible job of hemming poor J. W. Howe in to the point they might've hired the dorks that shot Tangerine for about the same quality end product. The film looks indisputably cheap (even for a 1940s independent studio, a true superlative of poverty) and in all fairness falls down in pretty much every respect, whatever merits the originating play might've had (never that big of deal on the stage). [↩]The flop this turned into most likely convinced him to give up his "independence", in favour of going back to WB for White Heat, an incomparably prefferrable offering. [↩]As parochially-Midwestern / Ozarkish / Kentucky-mountain-feuds as one could ever get, the (male) Cagneys cut out most of the romancing of their sister by Wayne Morris originally filmed. Herp. [↩]There are no film actors alive today ; but back in the days they still had some, most of them did the "method" bullshit. Cagney doesn't do that here. His nonsensical and inconsequential character is constructed with a lot of skill that'd have merited some recognition were it better employed and applied. [↩]US cinema in the 40s had so far collected a whole heap-pile of mostly nothing at all. [↩]Marcel himself barely makes the last possible cutoff, and that by pushing up with his apparently mighty shoulders a curtain that had for all intents and purposes fallen twenty-odd years prior. Cagney's 1899 birthdate (not to mention birthplace) puts him squarely outside of even the possibility of anything like it.

Rats born in "systematic" sewers ain't ever got anything to reminisce with, let alone about. [↩]

« The onion butt and the bunion twat

La Ragazza Che Sapeva Troppo »

Category: Trilematograf

Wednesday, 10 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

The State of the (f)Art

As previously hinted, we here at Minigame Suprlabs are undergoing a complete rewrite of... well, everything, really.

The trouble started with glaring inadequacy in [the shockingly, vanishingly little that's] leftover [of erstwhile] republican infrastructure : a very angry engineer reported that she's now stuck going through and reviewing previously-thought-good matter.i

I needn't explain (I hope!) that this is the only impermissible delivery of any ideal systemii ; the concrete instantiation of catastrophe presented itself as this situation whereby if a latter vpatch brings any one file in the codebase to a state from which an earlier vpatch removed itiii, thus creating in practice a situation vaguely similar to conceptual cyclicity, the version of V implementation we were using (v.sh) dies late.iv

So... yeah, we're temporarily delayed in working for Eulora (in the sense of, sinking time into the delays imposed by other spurious portions of code badly written by morons so as to either not do or not correctly do other things peripheral to Eulora itself) because we're stuck rewriting V. I don't intend to release the result ; but it involves an ada-rewrite of the ancient commontools diff as well as a review of how hashes and signatures work.

Specifically as to the proper formulation of a V tree : each file is identified by a complex construction. First, a keccak hash of a convenient length is calculated upon the file. Then that result is OAEP-padded, and decryptedv by the RSA key of the original author. That item is stored as the file's "hash" (in lieu of what stood for a hash before). Interested users can verify that indeed the given file is the file that the author had intended (as long as they have his public key) ; and "collisions" of any kind or sort are no longer possible. The arrangement also introduces a dichotomy between signatures, distinguishing the first (ie, auctorial) signature of every patch, which also establishes the hashes ; and the ulterior, which merely control its running on whatever machines recognize them.

Specifically as to the rewrite of diff... oh, where do I begin. Here, let's begin with gnat :

/* st_size may be 32 bits, or 64 bits which is converted to long. We don't return a useful value for files larger than 2 gigabytes in either case. */

How's that grab ya ? How about the whole implementation of Myers' lcs being found in an .h file ? Oh but don't believe me, don't take my word for it -- go, shallow out them bugs, fly-eyes! I'm not even going to tell you it's diffseq.h. How about the context.c / util.c analyze-output back and forth ? How about...

It's truly not worth anybody's time ; Eulora's own V's diff will bypass gnat for I/O to talk directly with the system calls gnat ineptly wraps ; will read files and cut them up by LF ; will calculate the keccak hash of every line as padded with now()vi and of length equal to the longest line seen ; will do the whole rest of what diff now does but correctly -- because we're people over here, not whatever the fuck it is you are. Fly-eyes.

Oh, in lieu of PS :

diana_coman ma rog, fixat probabil ca nu vad de ce sa zic de fiecare data ca "-uNr" ci e mereu aia si gata

diana_coman ori vrei si acolo variatiile pastrate ca-cate linii de context si din astea ori ce/cum?

mircea_popescu tu....

diana_coman intreb, lol

diana_coman nu tin minte veci sa fi avut nevoie ca mai multe /mai patrate

diana_coman ma rog, nu e vreo nenorocire de pastrat in sensul ca e o constanta si aia e

diana_coman da' are ea ceva implicatii la rezultat pt ca practic *dupa aia* se aleg "hunks" alea

mircea_popescu gen concret, @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ de asta vb ?

diana_coman nu

diana_coman ma rog, ala e din implicatii cum ziceam

mircea_popescu asa

diana_coman in patch ai inainte si dupa liniile insert/deleted (deci alea cu + -) si niste linii de nu-s schimbate

diana_coman pt context, exact cum zice

mircea_popescu da.

diana_coman ei, alea default sunt 3 imi pare

diana_coman ceea ce mi s-a parut mereu perfect ok

mircea_popescu ah, la AIA te referi. ca daca sa fie 3

mircea_popescu sa fie 3, ce plm.

diana_coman da

mircea_popescu io credeam ca vrei sa scoti conceptul sau nush ce ca nu pricepeam

diana_coman teoretic poti "optiune" cate sa fie

diana_coman nu, contexul e util, totusi

mircea_popescu noa lasa. 3 e numar magic ca atitea pizde fut io intr-o seara si gata, e in diff.

diana_coman aia e, ca na, e o constanta, nu ma doare mana sa il pun s-o citeasca din fisier daca e

mircea_popescu nu nu, lasa sa nu mai tot citeasca atita.

diana_coman insa faza e ca schimbarile sunt apoi grupate dupa asta si na, are efecte ce nu-mi par musai de dorit

mircea_popescu gen ?

diana_coman gen daca vrei mai mult context, atunci iti va grupa intr-un "hunk" mai multe pt ca ...n-are de unde sa-ti dea context

mircea_popescu si ?

diana_coman find_hunk al lui aia face: se uita ca-care-i ultima schimbare dupa care are macar atatea linii de context

mircea_popescu a, dar stai. a) noi nu vrem mai mult context ; b) doua linii la fel nu sparg un hunk ce plm.

diana_coman mie ca utilizator de patchuir imi pare idioata faza ca nu vreau sa se schimbe3

diana_coman de aia am zis: 3 si fix imi pare foarte ok

mircea_popescu nici nu mi se pare posibil. 3 vesnic, si cine nu foloseste 3 e un copil lachios de-ala cu net free de la gayromeo si nici nu ii citim patchurile

mircea_popescu ce plm, optiuni acuma ?! sa se duca.

diana_coman ce ziceam dinsus posibil neclar e ca de aia nu vreau sa fie variabila ci prefer sa fie constanta

diana_coman asa, lol

mircea_popescu pai nu doar ca sa fie constanta ci ca sa fie 3.

diana_coman da

mircea_popescu e numar magic, ca si cum ar vrea acuma sa fie alt e.

diana_coman bun atunci; restul ca si format imi pare ok, nu vad deocamdata probleme

———

May 24 13:15:54 diana_coman imi cam vine sa arunc tot vtools si v.sh si tot, ca practic la asa ceva nu vad ce sens are, bine ca am facut ditai vtree cu ele ca sa am acum unde vana erori si altminteri sa stau apoi ce, sa fac verificare de mana la fiecare fisier la fiecare press?

[↩]I am not kidding -- any ideal system. That's how religions end. [↩]Technically, reproducing a hash previously seen. [↩]The issue was only discovered with patch 42 -- coincidentally it's 42, what can I tell you -- but the actual problem in fact occurred much earlier.

You see, at patch 16 a file --- call it f1 -- was transformed into f2. Then, at patch 21, f2 was transformed back into f1. This'd be a "cycle" in principle, very strictly regarding the matter. Finally, at patch 42 f1 was again transformed, this time into f3, at which very late point pressing became impossible (because "conflicting leaves selected", meaning V thinks it can't decide which f1 is being transformed). Needless to say v.sh mentions 16 and 42 but omits 21, and doesn't deign to indicate which hashes are involved, and in general... what, that'd be error reporting, god help us.

Such perfectly naturally arising situation leaves the user quite stranded. Irrecoverably so if any manner of rights, codebase partitioning, or practically speaking any management tools whatsoever at all are deployed ; but even if one entirely owns the codebase in maximal extension for both time and space it's still a royal pain in the butt to chase down dubiously referenced problems through lengthy, heavy trees. In our particular case intervening file movements and other realia greatly compounded the already substantial difficulty involved -- entirely spurious, entirely "self"-created difficulty.

It is mindboggling that this problem had to sit undisturbed for five years, that it got to lurk patiently in the shadows for Minigame to step on it (but then again, given the historical quality of NSA deliveries, it should perhaps come as no surprise) ; but then again, given the entirely spurious nature of the "republic" I naively attempted to spur out of a bunch of spurious worms... nobody did anything, and would have happily continued to "do" so, preferably forever. How's anyone to find any problem, when that "anyone" is to come out of a set that consists of no-one doing nothing ? Hm ?

Even more infuriating, the flow assemblage flows ; it's merely the pressing portion that fails to press, being more strict (but not sufficiently strict to live up to its -- as it turns out, practically impossible -- ideals of strictness). This I deeem symptomatic of the very sort of minds that sprout this sort of junk : very "high minded" "standards", of such unreachably impossible heights as to come by very far beyond anything that can in practice be supported, predictably constructed out of the sad simplicity of five seconds' considerations on an 8 bit processor with maybe three registers ; then, unprincipled exceptions, unreviewed (in preference of adjusting the standards to sanity) ; and then complete paralysis randomly downstream, for no approachable cause. That's how these subsistence cocksuckers think they're just as good as people who have money, that's how they actually have the unmitigable audacity to discuss "privilege" as an ethical negative, that's how they end up driving "electric" cars and doing all the rest of the inane shit they're doing -- in the brief interludes between "lockdowns", bien sur.

More practically speaking, if this machinery won't be able to press once a file is returned to its previous state, if there's two categories of files, type one which can be touched and type two which must remain untouched for all time, then why the fuck doesn't it say something, somewhere, preferably at any point prior to coincidental contradiction of its incorrectly if implicitly held, untenable presuppositions ? And what am I to say to the worker who says to me "you know, I checked if it presses at every juncture" ?

Cursory review of "alternative implementations" as "available" (perhaps better described as some kind or other of nostalgia file ; an assorted jumble of unmaintained half-implementations quite directly similar to an old actress' collection of pre-war fashionable hats, presumably free of moths to the degree you don't go checking, sad abandonalia whose only raison d'etre was some people seeking group acceptance as cheap as could be had at some point in the ever more distant past) yielded exactly what one'd expect on the strenght of the foregoing -- v.py dies early (if unhelpfully, failing to even name the file in question) but depends on a python repackaging of gnupg which isn't, for some reason nobody can be arsed to chase, availabe on the system in question ; v.pl takes longer to not come to any definite return than anyone had in practice patience for, and... well, that'd be it.

Good riddance -- and yes I very much meant subsistence cocksucker as in the offspring of subsistence farmers meanwhile gone to "town". [↩]Aka "signed". [↩]So that collisions are reduced from killers to mere irreproducible events. [↩]

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Category: S.MG

Thursday, 03 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

The socioeconomics of swing

No, we're not talking Benny Goodman & friends ; we're talking sex. Since I've just lectured on the topic for my own haremi, I figure it might as well be memorialized here. What could it possibly hurt ?

So, as the year of our lord 1980 rolled around and the neglected female side of an upper middle-class marriage started taking her first timid steps towards fucking aroundii (late as usual), she discovered herself quite in a pickle. Anonymous sex might be nice and good (not really, women have a very different approach to sex and enjoy it differently), but finding a partner's a complete headache!

Most of the people she'd know come with an absolute guarantee of domestic dramas, for numerous reasons on a lengthy list I don't want to review because the demographic in question disgusts me soiii ; gloryholes really don't work for the pearl clutcher... what's a gal to do ?

Wouldn't it be perfect if there were a repository somewhere -- like a warehouse or something -- of dudes who are just like her husband used to be twenty years ago, more or less (specifically more and specifically less), but who also don't know her at alliv ? After all... Walmart's not a coincidence. Walmart's there because women enjoy sex perceive the world differently and approach it in their own particular fixed way, which is how you end up with Walmartsex in the first place.

Enter the swinger club, an exactly taylored solution to the exactly delineated problem. All you had to do, as the owner and operator of one of these, were two things : first off, handle the faux opulence they're really really into for those three to nine seconds right after the loogie hit the dumpsterv. Second off, get a local coven of Karensvi to come over. They'd more or less handle accretion afterwards (at a shockingly slow rate driven by the fact that ultimately women really really really do not want to sexually compete, specifically because it's the only thing that keeps them young, pleasant or interesting) while the combined weight of their collective behinds bends time and space such that you can turn around and use it to keep the dudes in line. Frankly speaking nobody ever gave a shit about those, since the dawn of days they've always been an afterthought ; therefore "do this, don't do that, or else you're out of here, buster!" always worked, and always will work wonders. Or what, you think the platforms were censoring you ? Keks.

By the time the Clintons rolled around this was all dead in the water, because the Internet firstvii and the phones thereupon simply killed the business model. Why would she eat the still present downsides of her local club when she can just Instagram or whatever ? Less structure, more anonimity (of the exact sort of faux she was looking for in the first place), and besides... women have a very different approach to sex and enjoy it differently. As it turns out they don't even really have to have any, "likes" being an absolutely adequate substitute for most Karens to all the messy sticky sweaty work involved.

And all the better, really. I never much liked swinger clubs, on account of the very... Simon Taquet characters they tend to produce.

———A discussion brought about by the shock and dismay resulting from my mocking of... actually, let's to the whole thing over.

So, continuing our Dorks Of Youtube series (like "People" Of Walmart but without perceptible BO, owing to the fortunate circumstance that they ain't yet got mikes for that, thanks goodness), there's a quartet of pompous dorks discussing The Biggest Swinger Club in California (291,133 views, Jun 5, 2017).

In this video, Matt & Bianca talk to Tom & Bunny, General Managers of Freedom Acres in Southern California. Filmed at Hedonism in Jamaica, they talk about their amazing club, running into your family, schoolmates and priest at a swingers club, and how to act around a celebrity when you...

Etcetera etcetera. I expect you captured the principal ideas : biggest, general managers, hedonism and so vorwarts. Well... here it is, off their very own website :

Careful lest you run into an celebrity. Or something.

Any... questions ? [↩]Note that this is not a discussion individual choice. We're discussing demographics, which are specifically what happens after individual choice bites a steel girder. I'm sure your own Mom / Aunt Luise / whatever the fuck are actual people with actual preferences who drove loopy circles towards some out of town motel every other Saturday because of their own individually held and personally felt aesthetic notions, hence the hairy seal rolling over them on standard motel bedding. Nevertheless... from up here I can't well distinguish them from all the other fifty thousand moms and aunts Luise, okay ? It's really not my fault! [↩]Quit whining about how "the government destroyed the middle class". You're not "the middle class" you take yourself for, the independent and productive bourgeois craftsmen of 1700. You're all bureaucrats, the people Stalin hated most, the people everyone hates because, quite frankly, there's nothing uncotemptible anywhere in you. Go die in a fire, computers ate your lunch anyways. [↩]By which "at all" it is strictly and specifically meant he won't go and man up on her. She's into cucks, she's married one, she's looking for another (or rather, in the mostly detached penis of some other younger cuck)... be it because that's what the family "thought is best" or because the man in her early life rejected her (for cause, no doubt, but she doesn't think she should take that to heart), be it for whatever reason Karen's sexual world is rather narrow and most definitely flat. [↩]A quirk of "personality" (if indeed battery chickens middle-class females can be said to have such a thing as a personality) perhaps best memorialized by Kafka. [↩]The main character in Fargo, or Arquette's character in Search and Destroy, or for that matter the eponymous Karen in The Graduate, twenty years after she didn't walk out of church to be on a bus with the weirdo jew kid (as you fucking well know she didn't, not irl, which is why the film even exists in the first place -- you regretted it ever since). [↩]We mean "the Internet" as in IRC, not as in "the web". The web did nothing for anyone, it's a footnote. [↩]

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Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Monday, 01 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

The Skin

It is ironic that the deratization of the New World ended up revolving around the same natural resource as its colonization had, a few brief centuries prior -- but then again irony is the only certainty of life, and so the centrality of Bos primigenus in both processess (or rather, The Process, and its unbeknownstly necessary if ulterior unwinding) should perhaps be deemed at most exemplary but certainly unsurprising.

In centuries past the cowskin's capacity to insulate its contents allowed the safe carrying of pemmican, and therefore the projection of that context's semblance of human will far outside the narrower limits other approaches would have imposed, thus after a fashion uniting sea to shining sea. Certainly that march of seemingly manifest destiny'd have not had a space wherein to be evanescently yet firmly perceived in the time and place but for the rut the taureaus had drawn for generations aforehand.

In present times the same cowhide's capacity to insulate its contents allows the elegant disposal of varmints, through a widely favoured process known simply as intubation. This quick and easy (not to mention ironic) approach to reclamation revolves around a prepared animal hide, which is pumped full of air. The preparation consists of little more besides sowing the edges together tightly and shellacking the seams, as for a wineskin ; two nozzles are attached at the relevant ends of the originating animal, generally compressed brass.

After inflation the captured native is firmly secured to the hide, usually by sown leather straps across the wrists and ankles. The face is covered by a standard issue gas mask, whose tubing is plugged in the respective nozzle, whereas the other nozzle is tubed all the way into the varmint's rectum (very large affixion plugs seem to be universally favoured ; there is some dispute as to the ideal order of the proceedings, namely if the muzzle should go in first or last -- a dispute colloquially referred to as "whether they should yell in the bag" and variations). The assemblage is usually set to floating.

Reportedly some varmints are practiced enough in the unlikely skill of swallowing -- and passing! -- air, such as to extend their post-affixion lifespan considerably ; nevertheless the average Skin's generally done moving by nightfall, and that's all.

No, really. That's all.

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Sunday, 04 April, Year 13 d.Tr.

The Sea Wolf

The Sea Wolfi is a remake of an older (silent, 1910s, meanwhile lost) cinematic reinterpretation of a Jack London bit of wankii, which (unsurprisingly) falls off the sides silently to reveal the fabulous, the phenomenal, the unmistakable Wolf Larson. Though a thick femsauce of "a brutal, callous and inhuman lot" is liberally pasted over by inept (if wilful) trowels at all available junctures, nevertheless the scum's secreted scum cakes off, cracks off, falls off and then blows in the wind as if it's never been. What remains, what stands eighty years later's the deeply human, yes brutal, yes callous, but absolutely, necessarily and unmistakenly human substance put into character by one of the greatest male actors that ever lived. Indeed, this is what's to be a man, this, not the effete bullshit of femtarded ulterior bowdlerization, but this, very much this.

It's true that the world arose around him is not the most comfortable of all the worlds that could ever be ; it's true all the same that it smells quite ill, indeed it stinks to high heavens. Nevertheless, the Sea Wolf's somebody, counterdistinct and in the starkest contrast to all the others, who aren't anybody, not could, nor ever will be. No matter what ; though Lupino's eternally-perennial cvasi-prostitute / mysteriousiii "convict" is, I suppose, about as acceptable as all the othersiv -- hers and all the others'.

A film worth seeing, definitely ; but for Robinson and for him alone.

———1941, by Michael Curtiz, with Edward G. Robinson and Ida Lupino. [↩]Some fixated, amply verbose nonsense about an incipient "superhero" cca 1900, very masturbatorily self-picking at his own foreskin about "what ifs" and similar daydreamt challenges to his imaginary "manhood" and so forth. A boy learning to be a "girl", practically speaking, and for as far as that goes (not very far -- at most a boy can turn into a boi, true girlhood lays strictly outside his reach).

Jack London is entirely and interchangeably Jane Austen & co for a "different" demographic : dumb cunts in pants, as opposed to the more common (at the time) skirts. [↩]How come it's treated with such reverence, anyway ? Hurr durr, "female troubles", herp derp "she's a convict". Convicted doing what ? [↩]Which isn't saying much. The only point where the cinematic production diverges from reality is in the treatment of the sea-fished wench. Contrary to what the gelded conventions of the medium at the time falsely depict, that loose woman on a ship'd have been raped sideways by that captain for a few days, then thrown into the pit to be mauled into a pulp by the sailors, in their own pecking order.

Nor would've she succumbed to "the ordeal", hohoho, no, no. She'd have survived, missing teeth and all ; which is why and how and wherefore the fictive depiction even gets a pass in the first place : if you want cvasi-whores looking like Lupino, which is to say perfectly ahistorical, you'll have to admit they can't be treated historically either. An... eye for an eye, so to speak -- if you want the dollie depicted with all of hers you gotta admit she's not depicted in the process of losing some. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Monday, 24 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

The Re(al)-Pimp, Last Chapter.

The Big Mama war ain't started just like that. First I heard of anything to do with it was from Frank. He came in one day like he sometimes did, said to me "Iceberg, it's getting hot." It was November midway. Getting windy, anyhow. "You don't say" I said to him. "Keep the scratch you got, tight. Don't stretch out. Ain't one stud in three gon' make it back out." I didn't like the sound of that.

The trouble started with some joker, they called him Bugs Moron. His real name was Adelard, Adelard Cunin. I figure they changed it because that sucker was definitely not cunning. He was the blockhead mick to stand for all of them, stupid, stuborn and religious. He'd have made a great Pickett or Pettigrew, if anyone ever needed another one of them. He was the worst kinda sucker to have on your side. Like Mr. Donato once said, "With friends like that, Frankie, they don't need any enemies. Wouldn't have what to use them for."

The whole lot of them up on the North side started out as strong-arms, and never outgrew it. His boss for a while, a joker went by Dion, fronted a run down watering hole, the Liberty Inn. He did as bad with it as Dirty Pete did with his, if not worse. He'd sing to patrons while Moron and the gang rifled their coat pockets in the back. Maybe he thought he sings so good, nobody ain't gonna remember what he walked in there with, or where he walked in with it. He was the joker that first invented what's called the Mickey Finn. Maybe it ain't the dumbest con some moron in a hole ever thought of, but it's damn right close to the dumbest one that's ever got a name. Only a mick could think of it, anyhow. It's a variation of the Murphy, but without no girls. They just prat some joker come in for a drink, spike it for him, then push him out the door. When that poor sucker staggers himself to a laying flat stop in the alley, they pick his pockets. That's just micks figuring things through. They're deep as a teacup sea.

The real Murphy works because the Murphy man ain't got no connection to the joint. He's paid the old timey in the hallway a fin or two, that's all he's out his end. For the Mickey, the jokers running it gotta own the joint. There's no way to pull that kind of thing any other way. He who owns it'd string them up. They'd string themselves up, in their proprietor capacity, if they had any sense. That's just how dumb a mick is, though. He goes to church on Sunday morning, to drop on the platter the nickel he took out of the preacher's pocket Thursday night, in the alley behind church. The mick figures he's on his way to the promised land, and all the while there stands the preacher, with a shiner on the size of that platter. Jokers ain't figured out if patrons keep falling over like flies in the alley someone might come asking what all's in them drinks until the City Sanitary Commissioner did just that. Poor Herbert, he said "Paddy, listen up. There's five hundred fell sick from going to a bar this whole week all over town. Three hundred from your Inn, two hundred from all the other five thousand joints all over the place. What gives ?" Moran and the gang were all upset by it, too. It didn't seem fair to them other folks should magick with numbers and add things up and figure things by counts like that. That kinda low blow just ain't fair, to a mick.

A joker might get hot to lay it into some broad maybe every week, or every other week. That joker wants a drink, or six of them, damn near every night. The way we ran the Heaven, the suckers came in there once, then they came once a week, then they were there damn near every night. But with the Liberty Inn, they downright cured the neighbourhood of drinking, which no preacher or halleluja joint ever managed though they tried. But that's what micks are, always doing someone else's job. They open a bar, do the preacher's job. If they opened a church I'm damn near sure they'd have driven everyone to drink. They sure settled the whoring out that way.

When Papa left for the old country and gave old Boss Al the keys, that's when Frank let me know. That's what they called Mr. Donato. They called him the fox and they had a point, too. I ain't ever seen a smarter white man in my days. By then that joker Dion was dead as a plastic flower. He ran a flower shop right across the Holy Name church. One day, while shaking hands with some guinea he knew, a coupla others that were with him stepped aside and pumped him full. They said the beef was some gambling debts from The Ship, and maybe there was something to that. The real beef though was that he had a big shipment of hot rods coming in, three dozen Tommys and other stuff. He was gearing up to start a war, the guineas figured, and they didn't want that. Everyone in Little Italy was against any violence out in the street like in the old days, not just Mr. Donato but the Union boss Merlo and all of the old top men. Later, after Papa left old Boss Al wiped them out alright, rounded most of them hothead morons up and shot them all dead. Tony the Scourge told him ain't no point doing that, but Al said he don't want no stupid folk walking around that close to him. Tony said "You ain't ever gonna be done with doing it. Stupid folk ain't never done coming."

He was right, too. What the Morons did was organize the vote, in all the wards from the second to sixth. Lots of them stupid folk flocked to them. When the boss did a dozen of them in for good three or four dozen more sprung up right behind them, and none the wiser neither. They kept coming at him and he kept sending them to grow Dion's flowers behind the church all that Winter. Frank never asked nothing of me until then, musta been a week or two before Christmas. Then he started raining in. Pepper was getting a call every week, then every day. By the time the year was out we had more jokers come to the Blue to take scratch than came in to bring it back. Some days we'd close a hundred grand lighter than it started. The deal we had from the beginning was to split it right down the middle, and his share of it piled up, on account of his never coming asking for it. By the time February rolled around and he wasn't giving out with calling he was cutting pretty deep into my share though. At first I didn't say anything, but then I asked him over for a run-down. It's not like he was taking all those bales of scratch to do anything, just bury suckers up in rows that shouldn't have been grown up in the first place. That got me thinking the most. Frank said "Whatcha beefin' for, kiddo ? You're the only one in good shape. When this is done you'll still have your girls. Ain't none of the rest of us that'll have a pot to piss in that ain't got three holes in it."

By then I had ok'd a lot of top tier girls move on. Hundreds of them married off, like Josie or Daphne did. Some stayed in some kind of business, though plenty squared out. Most of the ones still in business were in some kinda showbusiness of other, though not all. Plenty ran motels, diners, all kinda small entreprise like that. I'd say of the small business owners back in those days in Illinois, a good third were mine. Not all of them squared out, neither. I ok'd thirty-eight new houses start up over the years. Not all of them made it through, and most of them didn't run the entire time under the bitch that started them, but anyhow. Because of all that, of all the bitches that were under me over the years, not even five percent were under me right then. Maybe not two percent. Tell the truth most of them were under my top bitches more than they were under me in the first place. I sometimes swiped into one of the first floor girls we had, or a Big House visitor, but it was more often sexing a good old girl taking off for good, for old time's sake, than some new bitch to try her out in earnest. I told him "Ain't like you figure it, Frank. No more bitches stuck to me than studs or bones stuck to you."

It wasn't maybe true, but that whole talk got me to thinking. Come Spring the Moron gang relented on trying the hard way. Even a blockhead mick figures out after the fifteen or twentieth time trying to go inside through the wall that the door might work better anyhow. They set all their preacher choir and political machine to yakking all the old square broads in fifty districts into a lather, about the evils of drink and prostitution. That's when you don't lie about whoring out. That's what they call it, bitches trying to pimp on their man call bitches who got clear in their head who their Daddy is prostitutes. It comes from taking a lower place. That's what the word means. Phyllis explained it to me. These crazed bitches from the Moron gang read in their good book the woman's under the man, then turned around to spit on the only bitches that found a man good enough to be worth being under. That's why no varmint in creation's dumber than a mick, right there.

I ran my idea through with my top bitches. Pepper laughed herself on her back, spasming and jacknifing her legs like she ate a whole fly. Phyllis got so excited she stood up with the doilie she sat on glued to her ass. Maria and Ophelia were all for it, Miriam slitted her eyes and started rubbing her palms together really fast like it was the best deal she had ever heard of. Radell was frothing at the mouth. It just tickled them all pink. The plan was simple but beautiful. First, make a list with all them mick preachers that they got. Then, make a second list with all their daughters, both from the wives and that no wife knew about. Then take them all in. They ran around to prepare for the W-day like it was the second coming. We figured out soon enough those jokers had maybe not read the whole thing through, but most of them read the Genesis five or six times over, and that just for the female side. It was a lot of bitches. I told Frank I was to need some muscle. He said he can send a coupla of boys for a few days, if I'm desperate. I said I want sixty or so. He told me I can forget it. By then the outfit was run pretty thin. Just then some mick immigrant took Big Bill's seat up at Town Hall. The boss hatched a plan to get rid of both that poisonous cripple and the mick when they were down splitting spit in Florida. The cripple survived, but Big Bill came right back in his place. I said to him "Frank... you ain't got no muscle. You ain't got no scratch. What good are you in this world ?" He laughed and said he wonders himself every morning the same thing. I run down to him. He said I'm crazy. I told him I'm no crazier than them smarties cocking it all up over in Cicero. He didn't say anything. I asked him if they're crazy enough to try and hit me. He said "Only if it doesn't come off, kid. Only if it doesn't come off."

Four days later the second floor under Maria's poolhall was chock-full of bitches, like a four-and-a-half acre plantation right there, in the heart of Chi. We got them from eleven to nineteen, almost two hundred prissy pussys chained up. It was Phyllis' idea, to keep them there a day or two. Burn their clothes before them, wholesale. Mess with their head, so they don't think they're so special no more. She said the biggest thing makes a stupid square out of a promising young bitch is the idea in her head she's precious, that she's something special. They never get out of it because they're always by themselves. She said "Daddy, chain them prisses by the pair, so they can't take a shit unless some other bitch wipes their ass. That'll turn them back to normal sure enough." It did, too. Of course it did. They had a big old beer tun for shitting in, and a big old beer tun full of grits. Radell came up with the idea for it. She strutted among the bawling bitches kneeled in the dirt, a few lanterns glimmering here and there, and yelled at them "Don't get them mixed up!" She'd had them put smack drab in the middle, right by each other. Those bitches puked more than they shat while they were there, that's for damn straight.

By the time the stench started to filter in the poolhall the next day we started kicking them out. We'd prat them and make them run down, one by one, alone this time. Most broke down like old flotsam. A coupla dozen among them took the bottom floor in the Heaven, three-four more dozen went over other cathouses where the mama'd take them in. The rest, nineteen broads, we sent back. The deal we cut with them was that they can go if they say Poison kidnapped them. I had the lush black bitch of Poison's stashed away, ready to testify from the inside. That stud never knew what hit him, all of a sudden there's white slavery raps coming every which way. At first he thought the precinct studs were kidding him around. Then when the D.A. brought in that little bitch he started bawling like a crumb crusher. Down on his knees, he blubbered "You do me in too, Adele! You too, Adele!" like he was surprised somehow that bitch been trying to get out from under his dumb nigger ass for fifteen years.

It was the most beautiful hit in history. No captain healthy in the head was going to re-open an investigation that had so neatly led to the conviction of one of the city's biggest threats to public interest, that corrupt pimping nigger Poison. They only had captains that were healthy in the head back then. A few Leonards here and there were found that'd be dumb enough to try, but Big Bill wasn't about to let them cemak things up for him, and then the morgue always has more space for more short studs with brain trouble. None of those nineteen bitches ever spilled the beans, and of the rest... god they hated their old folks. A lot of them went on to give interviews with the newspaper men, told the reporters all sorts of stories. I ain't ever seen those jokers as happy since, they had material what to rack up for months and months afterwards. None of the fifty-nine jokers we had on the first list was a preacher six weeks after Poison's conviction. Their congregations ran them out, then took to the first bar. All the better for them, it's always healthier to talk your troubles over a mug of suds or a shot of rye with a friendly face across the log. Much healthier than huddling together with the preacher in the funny barn, reading from the stupid book while he feels up the young'uns, anyhow.

That took the wind right out of their sails. W-day came June 1st. I chose it that way on purpose. By August Bugsy Moron was all washed up, and all his gang of stupid with him. After that, the hole was made. Every roller in eight precincts cruised the street looking for young pussy. Just about school age was good enough. Often they'd roll a whole gaggle of them, ten, twelve scared little bitches with huge eyes and small titties. They roused up all that were pretty enough and plenty that weren't even close to it. They threw them in the slammer overnight, that did it most often than not. It got to where we had regular teams in the pens working the fresh meat. Pepper spent enough nights in the police locker to make up a year, that's for damn sure, Chris and June and Miriam and Phyllis, too. All of them, really. It got to where buying a bus ticket into Chicago as a teen-age broad was same as buying a ticket into Heaven. We paid the clerks in Wichita, Des Moines, as far down as Kansas City to give them discounts that couldn't aford the fare. Some of them came in knowing full well what they're walking into, wanted to be a star. Plenty though were square broads, if we didn't open their eyes for them who knows, mighta ended up like Daphne but on accident. The thing of it is, of square broads nine in ten end up that way, but of the whores Daphne was the one in maybe a hundred. You can't tell me that's a coincidence. If bitches go one way when they don't know better and another way if they do, it ain't anything but not knowing better. It can't be. Just like those pimps of old Sweet rapped about, we rescued thousands and thousands of young girls from wasting their life a square.

We had it polished down smooth to a fine system. Back in those days, if a cop was shot and killed they gave the wife if he was married five bills. If he was shot and lived they gave him a little to live off for a halfa year maybe it was, a saw or two a week. They paid the hospital bils, anyhow, but if the copper lost a leg or worst of all an arm and couldn't work no more it was rough. Most cops bought themselves insurance, but if the company went bankrupt they'd be stuck. Everyone looked to give men like that a soft job somewhere, and I did my part too. I had seven or eight old timers like that start up their own private eye agency. It was a soft job, that's for sure. Everyone knew they specialise in kidnapped youngsters. Whenever a girl disappeared, if the parents went looking for her any they always found their way to one of them. If the girl wanted back he could return her for us, and if she didn't want back he could charge a little bit of expenses while looking for her anyway.

When the idea first came to me I was in the Washington Arms. A guy named Fenton sat at the log, lifting the suds with his left. He wasn't outright crying in them, but he didn't look much like he had any reason not to, neither. He was sure giving Jack the blues, the log jockey facing him and me. Poor Jack a long face on him like he just found out he inherited a hundred grand all in confederate dollars. I went up to him and said "Hey, Fenton. You wanna get a head start ? Go to the car, see what you find there and bring it in here". He looked at me, then lugged out the slammer. He came back in with a pretty little bitch on his heel. I said to her "sick him, bitch!" and she went to work right there on the floor, banging her head between the bar and Fenton's buckle in her enthusiasm. She hadn't had a meal like that in musta been a whole day. He thought it's just a one-off at first, but then I ran it down to him. He had his agency opened the next day and that little bitch was back in school by the next Monday. She came back into the Heaven the next year, and for all the time she was on loan she kicked our way a bitch a week almost.

Then after all the trouble Al went to get him back in, old Whale Thompson up and croaked one day. Before finishing his bit, too. It came to him as he was arguing over the phone with Ruth-Hanna, the Mama of the cobwebbed square gang. That dumb bitch's sissy husband put something or other in his paper no-one read no-how, but Big Bill and Ruthie herself I guess. It got his goat enough to yell at the bitch over the phone, instead of putting his boot in her ass. Truth be told he was getting a little loose in the head, old Bill. The bitch hung up once he stopped yelling and sent an ambulance over. He was purple and stiff by the time they busted into his office. They gave Maysie, his top bitch, the keys to his secret stash down at First National. She dug almost two million slats in fresh C bills out of the line of boxes Bill had set up down there. I elbowed Frank when the story hit the newspapers "He had more sense than you, where's your millions ? Sure as hell not with me." Frank shook his head "I ain't stiff, neither." The week after that he came in and cracked on me "Iceberg, you've got to do a bit." I looked at him like maybe he's from a different planet. "That's a chump crack if I ever heard one. I ain't done, and ain't doing no bit." He shook his head. "You gotta. We ain't got anyone else to put up worth two shits. That Ruth bitch is running, you want her be Mayor instead ?"

That's the kinda bit he had in mind. Honest I didn't want to, but Pepper kept pratting me on it. Truth be told there wasn't a single girl at the Big House didn't push me and twist my arm to go in for it. Once I said I'm in the running that was that. Before every bitch running house in the whole state pulling for me and every log joker trying to give her competition, they didn't even have an election anymore. Ruth just conceded and they put me in. I ain't called her yet, all day long, and I ain't gonna call her the whole bit, either. I don't rap to no bitch ain't my whore no how. Besides, she's old. I figured the right thing to do for my first day in office is have these pretty bitches write the whole story down. I got plans for the future, too. With television coming in a big way and taking over from the movies the way they ate up the stage, I have a dream that one day soon there ain't gonna be a bitch that's old enough to walk but that has her pussy put on display so any joker wanta take a peek just push a button for it. Ain't no good reason any joker that wanta be a bitch can't buy his reefer straight from the machine, with a bar of candy for afterwards. Other things, too!

Brother, I hope you're happy as a boon coon squeezing milk and honey outta dat sister's ass, and see yous around sometime.

« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 23 : Getting Old, Getting Fat

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Tuesday, 09 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 9 : Funeral, Reformatory and Sunday Dinner

When I woke up I first thought the runt had scalded me with hot grease. I was in a flaming sweat. My ticker was smashing inside my chest like a wrecker's demolition ball. That cunning joker playing God had conned me once more, I had whipped my poor mama to death again. The runt's frightened big eyes almost touched mine. She was still bare, her wrists and everywhere covered in the night's marks. She had her heels on though, I guess she must've put them back on after coming out of that soak. She looked so good like that in bed I felt like rolling her over right then and there, but I didn't want to.

She was saying, "Daddy, Daddy, you all right? It's your baby bitch Phyllis." I looked at her, my mind slowly gathering itself together. She caressed my face. "Damn, you had a bitch-kitty nightmare." Then with a mischevious grin, "Was the heat chasing you or something?"

I said, "No baby. That wasn't it. As a matter of fact, you were in trouble. You had done a stupid thing out on the street. You let a nigger pimp con you into his hog. He was a crazy gorilla." She gave me a sly look. "Oh yeah ?" She reached for my wood, cupping it in her palm and squeezing it light but insistent. "What was the bad nigger gorilla doing to me ?" I grabbed her by the hair on the back of her head, not tight enough to hurt her. "Everything I did to you myself. Only, you didn't dig it." She looked at me, still smiling. "Mhmmm..." she purred along. "He was going to cut your throat. I saved you before he croaked you." She said "Thank you very much!" She was going to say more, but I maneuvered her head so her face was in my prick. She got the idea and kissed it. I went on. "Dreams often carry warnings." She purred her "Mhmmm..." again, and kissed it again. "So bitch, stay out of those pimp's hogs." I said to her. She didn't say anything, just focused her hot lava lips and the lizzard living inside of them on setting my wood ablaze. I'd say she did that alright, and lickety-spit, too.

When she was done with her work she lay on her back, holding my deflating rod over her well coated face, using it to draw strings all over. "What now ? Are you going to take me out again ?" she prodded while licking the goo off her lips. "Sunday ? I don't think so, baby." She slid some off her chin and into her mouth with her finger. "You religious or something ?" I snickered. "Naw, bitch. Just lazy." She blew a bubble, like it was gum. "I'm not lazy. I was going to get breakfast, too! But..." I pulled my dick away from her and stood up, on my way to the bathroom "But what, bitch ?" She ran past me to the sink, nearly falling over in those heels of hers at the speed she was trying for. As she was washing her face she motormouthed "I have a list! First off, you told me no clothes. I have to be naked. Right ? Right. So I don't want to dress. But if I go out on the street I think I'll get arrested. Second, if I get breakfast without paying for it I think I'll get arrested too, but to pay for it I have to get money and I don't want to touch your money without askin permission. But I don't know if I have permission and I'd better not wake you up. Third, you told the clerk he'll fuck me in the morning. I could go out there and put my ass on his counter, but I don't know if you meant it like that or not and it's not my kitty to put out without permission."

"Jesus." I just looked at the crazy nigger broad burbling her face in the sink. She toweled off "I just want to do the right thing". I shook my head. I went over to the closet, got her roll out of my pocket, peeled a ten from there and went to the bathroom. Once I was done I said to her "C'mere and suck my dick clean. Bitch." She ran over and went on her knees. I spat on the saw and stuck it to her forehead. "Here's what you do : you go down there, and sit your whore ass in his lap. Get his dick out and just sit on it like that, up and down. Put his hands on your itty bitty tiddies if he don't have enough sense to grab hold himself. Then when he's done you tell him we want breakfast. If he asks for money you give him the ten, if he don't you can keep it."

She shot out of there like cartoon lightning. By the time I was out of the shower she was coming in the door. She handed me the ten. "Here Daddy, I made you ten dollars." She was beaming, all smiles. I asked her where did she pick that up ? She told me the man at the desk told her to tell her daddy he's got fifteen keys for him any time he feels like, she doesn't know what that means. I asked her why didn't she ask him what it means ? She gave me a look and said she's just a dumb bitch and it ain't any of her business. She said she just makes with the kitty. "I thought you're a lady", I said to her. She laughed and said "No siree Bob, no lady here. Just the freak bitch whore Phyllis the Runt". I shook my head. "What's the rent on your lady pad back there ?" I quizzed her. "Two fifty." she shot right back. "Due when ?" She giggled at the question. "Monday morning." It figured. "The scratch you had on you, where'd you get it from ?" She started "My Da..." but then stopped herself. "My father gave it to me." I laughed heartily. "You fake bitch, you hanging out the 711 with your sucker Daddy's rent money ?" She nodded her head, eyes on her toes.

"Don't that beat all! Alright you dumb oreo broad, here's what you do : take your Ford up there, get all your junk in it that's yours and bring it back here. This is your home from now on, you got that ?" She nodded, excited like a little kid hearing the first time about a camping trip. I handed her the car keys. "Am I going like this ?" she asked, sheepish. "Naw. Too early on the Lord's day. There may be something to that arresting business. By the way : if you get busted, your name is Mary Jones. Remember that. If you forget it I can't raise you fast." She nodded. "Mary Jones, yes Daddy. I'll remember." I looked her up and down. She sure looked a million bucks, naked whore standing to attention in that rat trap. I meant to squeeze it out of her one way or another anyway, the whole million to a buck. "What are you waiting for ?" Her eyes turned to groveling, like in my dreams. "Daddy, you said don't go like that but I don't have anything else. My dress from last night was in the car when you made me take off everything, remember, but then you told me to use it to wipe. Should I go there like this and put it on like that ?"

One of the guys I let on June her first night that had no money offered up instead a dozen cheap dame vines. Nothing as bad as the twenty-five cent dress Vera broke the street apart in, but not much to write home about either. They were all sizes, June fit a couple of them, I figured it's a cinch something in there might fit this one, and sure enough, once I got the pile out of the closet and dumped it on the bed she slid herself into something much like the glove she originally had on, only fifty times cheaper. Before splitting she gave me a look and then made with her mouth. "Daddy... how come you've got a bunch of dresses all different sizes in the closet ?" I laughed. "Oh, think nothing of it. Some guy owed me some dough he couldn't pay, that's all." She gave me another look, much slyer than before, and went "About... say maybe twenty dollars, was that it ?" I waved my hand at her like judges wave their hands at DAs without a case. She took a step towards me like she was going for a fight. "How many whores have you got ?" I smiled sweetly, "Baby... I ain't got no whore at all. Before I copped yo dumb ass I was blown whoreless, and fresh outta girl. Now that you're starting to get the wax outta dat ass and shake a little scratch here and there maybe I can go about fixing that." She looked at me, trying to keep up her strong cop front but crumbling inside fifty ways to Sunday. Eventually she broke out, "What's it mean, girl ?" I laughed at her. "Snow, baby. Blow. C for cocaine, you know ?" She mouthed "Oh", but didn't say anything. Then she laid into me with "How old are you ?"

I always lie when I tell the truth. I lied to her that way too. "I'm seventeen" I say, and if I kicked her hard as I could right in the belly she'd not been winded like that. "Seventeen!", she said when she could say anything. "My little brother's twenty-three, and he's a wuss." I laughed. "God damned oreo family you've got. Where did you grow up, in some preacher's house ?" "Father's a professor at the university." I nodded at her. "Same thing. And your mom's a sufragetty, no doubt about it." Her eyes turned to water. "Mama's dead." she said at lenght, cold as a gravestone. "You're gonna be just as dead as her if you don't get that ass in gear and outta here." She left crashing the door behind her. I wondered if I just blew a whore. Then I wondered if I'd ever give a shit. I figured I'd blown Vera for much less and missed her a lot more, anyways.

While she was gone I figured I'd go to Mama's parlour and let her in some advanced warning. They still worked mornings on Sunday in those days, open till noon. She was expecting me to show up with June for lunch, but with June out of the picture I wanted to figure out if I bring her the runt to poke at or just let the whole lovergirl angle drop altogether. On the way out I dropped four-fifty on the clerk and picked up all the keys. He pushed one of the fifties back. "What's wrong, Jack ?" He looked at me like I was the owner. "Boss, I know the score. A whore like that, a body's to be plenty lucky to lay into for just a twenty." I looked at him sideways. "Didn't you buy breakfast ?" He nodded. "What gives ?" He shook his head and said "Two dollar breakfast. Boss, you come in, I make a hundred. That's fine. What do I do with the hundred ? I take it over to the red lights, buy myself a bit of fun. Maybe I get myself clipped. Maybe I get conned. Odds are if I find a broad it ain't anything like that freak you came in with. Lettuce's nice but pussy's better. This way I take your hundred straight to the bank, no care in the world. This way it's better than the other way, believe you me."

I nodded at him. "You're a smart operator. I'll keep you in mind." The whole place was mine now, and I'd be damned if I didn't mean to fill it up as soon as possible. I was gonna get me a mahogany desk just like that joker had, and give lectures to people from behind it. Except my people'd all be whores and the disgrace to my respectable institution'd be something the hell else from what everybody everywhere was always doing. You can make a half buck doing what all the other dummies do, but you ain't gonna be having any fun doing it, that's for damn sure. I was gonna have the whole house fulla naked bitches, bunk them two and three to the room and get some frozen steel spikes from somewhere.

On the way to Mama's I ran into a young con. In highschool he was a year older than me, and we didn't talk much. Then when he got out he was mixed up in something I never figured out. They said he was with a crew of cats breaking into empty houses at night and playing communist out there in the dark. It's a lot easier to do than you think, especially if you're the poor, and the rich ain't there with you to do anything about it. His mama said he was just the fall guy for a gang of mean bad men. For what that's worth, my Mama'd have said the whole thing with June was that evil girl, dragging her poor son Bobby into sin with her vile lures. Poor June, she'd make three whores of Babylon smashed into one, by Mama's reckoning. Not that she was anything else, but it's not like she'd have ever figured it out all by herself either.

I was with him all of five minutes when we saw a funeral procession. It affected him something terrible. I asked him if he knew the stiff. He was surprisded. "You don't remember Oscar ?" he asked me. Turns out I did remember him. He was a fat nigger sitting next to me back in high school. He was a dedicated member of the Holiness Church back then. I'd never gotten friendly with him, on account of his only interest at the time seemed to be his church and the god-damned Bible. Most old people won't shut up about it, but this was a kid and worse than ten of thems. He didn't smoke, swear, chase broads or gamble. He could've been a rock-ribbed square, if only he wasn't fourteen years old. His name was Oscar, anyway. Apparently he died a square, and before he was eighteen. The ex-con opened up. They were at the reformatory together, the Wisconsin Green Bay reformatory for boys they called it. He said to me, "They call it a reformatory, but believe me it's prison for real."

It wasn't, though. I didn't know back then, but reformatories are worse than any prison. The thing of it is, kids are made of mud and plaster. They're chickenshits, to the last boy among them. A real prison is tough alright, but in a different way from any reformatory. In a real prison, the cons are older. Many of them murderers, tough guys, hard as coffin nails and with the life sentences to prove it. They'd never put up with the kind of petty tyranny that's standard issue in a reformatory. The food's much better. There's industries, a con could learn a trade if he wanted to. I don't just mean plumbing and carpentry. A con could go into the yard during recreation hours and learn other trades and skills. The heist men stick together, yakking all day about new, more sensational robberies. The fruits and punks lay on the grass in the sun, romancing each other. The pimps and con men stick together, two groups with much overlap. They talk each other's ears off like unemployed actors "rehearsing" their bits. Real prison's all about the cliques, all about bloody vendettas.

Meanwhile at the reformatory, like the punk said, they didn't even have latrines. They shat in buckets, in their cells. Imagine that, all Summer long. The food was all worm castles and crap no plantation nigger back down South would eat. The kids take one good look at those high slate grey walls on their way in and reel from it their whole six or twelve or eighteen months bit. The walls loom grimly in their mind, like a giant fist slugging them silly and then, once they're good and winded, headed straight up their ass. It's anything but home to them, they lay awake in their cots at night crying for their ugly Mama. Reformatory kids never seen screws before, never tried to walk in chains even for fun, the time the jailhouse croaker tells them to take off their duds it's the first time they've been naked with people for half or two in three of them.

The way he told it, there was a warm welcome. After the croaker saw them, and they showered and put on the jacksuits they were lined up in front of the warden, himself and Oscar and some other fruits. The warden gave it to them straight : "Well Sambo, you sure got your black-nigger ass in a sling, didn't you. Get one thing straight. We didn't send for you. You came down here by yourself. You ain't welcome here, that's why we didn't invite you over. What we do here is punish you smart-aleck bastards. Most other kids your age can figure out on their own that they ain't welcome any in this here place we've got. Some's too dumb to figure it out on their own, but that's okay. It's fine, I say. We'll figure it out for you. So, if you fuck around, two things can happen to you. One's that we got a hole here. That's the hole that we bury tough punks in for trial, as it were. Dress rehearsal, see if they're ready for closing night. The way we got it, it's a stripped cell. No light, twenty feet below ground. Down there, two slices of bread and a pint of water twice a day. That's it. Then for the real artists, we have it fixed they go out that North gate, in a box. It's a nice box. You'll be making them yourselves, so you'd better make them nice. Take this rulebook and study it like your life depended on it, because guess what Sambo ? Your life depends on it. Now get your rusted black asses out of my face."

Not bad mouthing off for a Warden taking home enough scratch each month to pay a nigger pimp's breakfast, and raising on it a pretty little whore or two to get the nigger pimp that breakfast for him. Ain't that right ? This one reformatory had a big bad dummy screw in it, dazzling with brass buttons and gold braid on his navy-blue uniform. This screw didn't talk, he just slashed his lead-loaded cane through the air like a vocal sword.

They were all afraid of him because he croaked two white cons and four spades with that cane. They said he hated Niggers. The way the story went, that screw was called Fog Horn by the cons before his trouble made him a dummy. Back in those days his bellows could be heard from one side of the joint to the other. Then his wife killed herself and their crumb crusher, two years old. Apparently he didn't treat them so much better than two cons, because on her note she left him she said "I can't stand your hollering any longer. Good-bye." The head-shrinker of the joint figured when the broad croaked herself, it shut off his box. Now there was one thing this big bad couldn't stand even less than a con or a wife or a nigger or a funny man, and that something was a religious nigger. He never took it true, he always thought they're conning with it, which fair enough half maybe did, but half did not which still puts the nigger ahead of the white folks because I ain't ever seen the flock of them religious where even one in twenty was for real, let alone half.

Now Oscar didn't sit well with him at all, being a nigger like he was, and fat too. Ain't no nigger got a right to be fat by his figuring, not anymore than got a right to be rich, or be here at all in the first place. If it weren't for folks like that there'd be no strife in the world, just whoring and pimping all the way to Heaven. The ex-con said, that dummy screw keep following after poor Oscar day in and day out. The way Oscar had ended up in there in the first place was a one year sentence by that same hawk judge that asked me to go visit with him. It all came from that Oscar, the poor chump, had started going with a crippled Irish girl of seventeen. Some other kid saw them smooching in the dark of a downtown theatre, and sure as sweet potatoes he rolled on them to his parents, who ran over to the other parents, who ran over to the Irish cops, who ran over and booked him, all Irish temper and prejudice. Then it came out he had trespassed the forbidden valley, so the charge of statutory rape naturally offered itself and there was Oscar, up shit river with no paddle in sight. A fat religious nigger that raped a good upstanding Irish angel, and a cripple too, now that was the stuff of that screw's worst nightmares. He kept after poor Oscar day in and day out, until some time six months in poor Oscar lost his mind.

The way the ex-con told it, he just started painting with his own crap one day, his eyes wild and gone. They took him to the croakers, who then sent him to a lock-up for special cases. When he got out, maybe a year ago, his parents took him back in. They took him to all the churches and miracle men. All the croakers told them to lock him up, but they wouldn't do it. This went on for a year almost, until Monday morning. Oscar ran in front of a truck. He was in the hospital a brief stint, and now they were taking him to more settled arrangements. We walked behind the few dozen people a short while, but then I broke off and headed straight to Mama's.

She was pressing a young customer's hair. She turned the windmill on the moment she laid her eyes on me. "I have been worried. Where have you been ? Did you find a job?" I told her I think maybe I might be getting a clerk job with an office but jobs aren't as easy as all that these days. A lot of run-around most of the time. She nodded like I was preaching the gospel. She said "I hope, Son, you haven't been with Pepper." I looked down at the nut brown, shapely girl getting her hair pressed. "Pepper?" I said "She's too old for me. I like young pretty brownskin girls. Pepper's too yellow for me." The youngster flashed her eyes up at me. She smiled. I winked and ran my tongue over my lips. She dug it. She blushed. I put her on file. I said "Mama, you remember June ?" Of course she remembered her. What a nice girl that June. "Well mama..." I started, and she bristled immediately "What happened ?" I almost teared up. "She's done left me, that's what happened". I was growing indignant. "Some white joker whistled and like a dog she went a-running, Mama! Ain't nowhere in this world an honest fella can find an honest woman for himself ?" She all but went Amen, eyes high to the ceiling like in her prayer meetings. She'd know, too. The fresh package was bubbling inside of herself. She'd make a fine whore alright. I didn't feel like breaking the runt news anymore. Mama said "Well son, there's a roast going in the oven anyhow. Shut the gas off and eat. I'll be coming that way just as soon as I'm done with Miss Jackson here." I shook the young broad's hand. "Bobby Beck. Pleased to make your acquaintance." She was tickled pink. I knew that next I run into her she's set up for a cop.

I went to Mama's place and dug into the steak. Just by the time I was done she paddled up the stairs herself. I sat around in her yeakking for as long as I could stand it and then split. By the time I got back to the runt it was getting dark. The car was there, and the bitch inside, buck naked, doing her toenails.

« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 8 : I'm Gettin Stable

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 10 : The Golden Fix And The Double Cross »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Monday, 01 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 8 : I'm Gettin Stable

Eventually I had enough moping. I told myself, "Alright Mack, what you got is what you got, what you lost you never had an' that's that." When I finally got out, it was Saturday night around maybe seven or so. I went to see a prison movie. I figured, how bad could it be ? It was a grim drama. A young green punk tried a double cross. He was criss-crossed into the joint. He made deadly enemies while doing his long bit. When he got out, a long black short pulled up and riddled him with a tommy gun. As I went out of the theatre, a big black car was pulling to the curb toward me. There was something familiar about that small pinhead driver. I had seen him before. Turns out, it was Dalanski, the roller. He gave me a thoughtful look as he walked past.

I didn't want to see Mama in my state of mind. Back in Rockford she had been a dutiful church goer, leading a christian life until Steve came on the scene. She relapsed at some point after moving to Chicago ; maybe it was all those alumni she started spending more and more time with. The whole year and change I was serving time upstate in that Tuskegee dump she'd write me long, rambling letters almost every week, well supplied with threats of fire and brimstone for me if I didn't get Jesus in my heart and respect the Holy Ghost and the fire. It seemed to me poor Mama was becoming a religious fanatic to save her precious self-importance from her own history. She found out about Henry's death just about this time, too. I guess she felt trapped in a cage of her own making. She was bearable enough if I had the drop on her and a young, fresh, innocent looking little whore in tow ; but like aspirin I didn't have the appetite for taking her straight, without buffer.

I walked aimlessly a while, and eventually found myself in an underworld bar, The 711 Club, some rum and coke in front of me. The place was thick with pimps, whores, and thieves. There was probably more hot stuff in between the patrons' pockets than in the whole city court system. I was at the far end of the bar, facing the front door across the room. Years later I was sitting down in the same place when I asked the slightly familiar elephant beside me about Party. He turned his head. His dime-sized eyes got stuck in my fly's zipper as he looked me over head to toe. He did remember me. He said, "You ain't heard ? About a month ago your boon coon Party caught sixty in the county. One of them tight pussy broads opened his nose wide enough to drive a freight train through. He married her and all, then one day he caught a stud whamming it into her like he was trying out a new mattress. The stud quit the scene. The broad had to go to a croaker to get Party's shoe outta her ass." It came as a shock but no surprise. The game's the game, nobody gets to check out just because they say so. Nobody asked them anything anyways. I didn't know about any of that back then. I didn't know a lot of things, like how Weeping fell dead outside a shooting gallery within the week. He musta' shot some pure by mistake, cause a lookout on the sidewalk heard his last words before he croaked. He mumbled 'Well kiss my dead mammy's ass if this ain't the best smack I ever shot'."

The sissy barkeep sat a fresh bottle of coke on the log before me. I yanked my eyebrows into a question mark. He lisped, "The runty black bitch in the middle of the bar sent you a taste." Without taking my eyes off his thin yellow face, I said, "Sugar, run her down to me. Is the bitch qualified? Is she a whore? Does she have a man?" The corners of his mouth see-sawed. He slugged his soggy, dirty bar rag against my reflection on the bar top. He almost whispered, "The bitch ain't nothing but a young skunk from Saint Louis. She ain't nothing but a jazzy jive whore. I'm more whore than she is. She ain't got no man. She's a come freak. She's Georgied three bullshit pimps since she starting showing up a month ago. If your game is tight you could play a hog outta her ass. She tells people she's nineteen but it's more like twenty-nine." I eased a bone from my pocket, put it on the bar for the refresher. Pepper's words might have been just last week, but they already melted into my mind like just good sense known since before the war. I said, "Tell the bitch I said I'll take care of the little things, and if she's worth my time maybe I'll let her take care of the big things. And give her a drink on me." On the juke box Billie Holiday was crying about her man not respecting her enough. If he respected her any she'd have just sung about some other pimp, that's all.

The barkeep twinkle-toed toward her with the wire and drink. Through the blue mirror I zeroed my eyes in on the target. My ass bone starched on stiff point. Her big peepers were two sexy dancers in the velvet midnight of her cute round face. Hot scratch fever streaked through me. I thought, if I could cop her and get a pimp's terms she would be out of pocket poison to all white tricks that pinned her. Pepper sure knew what's what in whorology. I was glad my ears had flapped to all her rundowns. She had said to me, "Puppy, you chase a whore, you get a chump's weak cop. Stalk a whore to get a pimp's strong cop."

My turn down had her paying attention. It worked like a slick sharp hook twisting in the bitch's mind. Her juicy tongue darted out like a red lizard past her ivory teeth. It slithered over her full lips. She wiggled toward me in an uneven race with the bar keep. He was sliding her green drink between me and the guy one over. I heard a low excited trumpeting from him. He was digging her rounded props and gourmet rear end, rolling inside her glove-tight purple dress. I painted a lukewarm indifferent grin on my face as she perched on the stool. I noticed a roll of scratch wedged deep between her tits. She looked right at me, and cracked, "Who the hell are you, and what is that off the wall shit you cracked on the bartender?" My eyes were sub-zero spotlights on her face. I looked at her, smiling, eyes half closed, like she was a kiddy pestering daddy on vacation. I said, "Bitch, you've got a sassy jaw on you. It could get your ass ruptured."

The big vein at her temple quivered. Her rapper was shrill. She bleated, "I ain't no bitch. I'm a god-damned lady. The stud ain't been pulled outta his mammy's womb that kicks my ass. Goddamnit, call me Phyllis. Be a gentleman and respect me. I'm a lady." I chuckled low and turned to look her up and down. Then I let go. "Who asked you anything ?" She jumped off of her stool, and then stood there. Opened her mouth two or three times like she was gonna say something, but nothing ever came out. I wasn't even looking at her, I just drank my drink. She sat back down. She looked straight ahead a minute too. Then she turned around all smiles. "I'm sorry, sir. We came off to a bad start." Then reaching out her hand she said "My name's Phyllis. Pleased to meet you." I just looked her up and down again. Then I reached over, pulled down her top, got her roll out of there and set it in front of her, on the bar. She just shuddered, pushing her tits in together slightly with her elbows, eyes closed. I said "You ain't pleased or nothing. You're just a fake. What do you think you're doing, trying to get into the game with all those chilli pimps ?" She stammered. "I... I just..."

I chuckled at her again. "You ain't no whore. You ain't nowhere close to being a whore. You don't even need scratch. What hole in hell did you crawl out from ?" Her eyes were two huge lampoons lit on Beg river. "Please", she said, "can we go somewhere and talk ?" I chuckled at her again. "We are somewheres. Ain't we ?" She pushed herself into me "Somewhere more... private." I took a sip. I looked at her. I took another sip. Finally I said "Bitch, I ain't going anyplace with no lady. If word got out I did that, why! No decent person would talk to me." She hesitated a moment. She let out a wet sigh, like I was taking her kitty away from her. Then she pushed herself into me harder. "What can I do ?" I sniggered. "You got panties on ?" I asked her. Then I continued, as if catching myself, "Of course you do, you're a lady, ain't you. Alright, bitch, here's what you do to not be no lady no mo : you take your pretty ass over to the ladies, you peel those panties offa it, you bring 'em over in your hand and you plonk them right here, on the bar, where your lame lady drink didn't catch. You got it ?" She nodded and ran off. A half minute later I was putting a dollar on the frilly lacey panties still warm from her cooch and telling the bartender, loud as thunder, "Here Jack, this pair of ladies underwear and a dollar buys this bitch here a drink!" Her face was red hot. Some whores sniggered, but most nobody gave her little exposure the time of day. For her though, it was the biggest deal since some whore first pissed standing. She felt like she had been pasted naked on the gate of her Pa's old farm and every neighbour fucked her twice. The stuffy bullshit that gets caught in ladies' skullboxes...

I grabbed her by the scruff of her neck. I dragged her ear to my mouth, and whispered "You got a short, bitch ?" She didn't get it. "A car." She nodded yes, "It's outside." I let go of her neck. With my finger I pushed her chin so her face was facing me, our noses a half inch apart. I looked into her lovely eyes and I said "Beat it to your short. Get inside and take every stitch of clothing off. Everything. When I come out, you step out of your car, both bare feet on the ground, and invite me over. If I feel like getting in with you I guess you're lucky ; but if I don't you just lock your keys inside and walk away. You got that ?"

She drew a breath so sharp it must've hurt her. I was expecting her nose to start bleeding any moment. She nodded like crazy and shot out of there. As she was thundering out I said to the bartender "I guess I find out if deep down she's really a bitch, or just a fag in drag." I finished my drink and I was about to take off when the bartender pointed to her wad. "Don't forget your scratch, Mack." That sissy was right, it was my scratch alright.

I peeled a five off of it and pushed it to him. "Steal the change and cop a hog." His eyes sparkled bedroom gray. His delicate pinkie scooted the saw buck back to me across the log. He said, "Sweetie, it's on me. Come back at two and cop a real girl."

The lady sure looked comical, standing buck naked by the door of that yellow club cabriolet of hers. Like that fire-and-brimstone preacher, trying to hide his hard-on from the cute sister in the front pew flashing her cat for him. She was waving me over like she was scaring away crows. Now a '36 Ford isn't exactly what passed for pimp wheels back then, but on the other hand I couldn't really drive anyway. Pepper had tried to teach me a little, but to say it true we just didn't have the time for nothing like that. I walked up to her. The broad was speechless. She just fretted in place like a bronco filly. I had called all the shots. I reached out my hand and put it on her left tit. I smiled at her. She just gazed at me with big wide open eyes. "Why's your heart reaching, whore ?" I asked her, lightly. She didn't say anything. "You ain't ever done anything like this before ?" She shook her head no. I walked around her, got myself seated good and comfortable. Then I lowered my window and bellowed "Well then get in, bitch. You'll be getting plenty of practice before I'm done with your skank ass."

She tugged at my sleeve as she sat her ass down behind the wheel. She looked up at me. Those dancers had stripped. I looked down at the hot runt and said, "Well bitch ? What's your story ?" She grabbed my shoulder. She pulled me down toward her. I could feel her hot breath on the side of my head. She popped that lizard tongue into my ear like I was made of candy. It sent hot shivers through me. I stayed cool. I turned my head and knifed my teeth into the side of her neck. I don't know why she didn't bleed. She just moaned. She whispered, "You cold-blooded sweet mother-fucker. I go for you. Let's go to my pad." I grabbed her by the throat and squeezed. She closed her eyes. As she was starting to go limp I kissed her. It was like I was giving her the chair. When I had enough of her torture I said "Go ahead, bitch. Drive." She looked at me like a kicked puppy. I could tell she wanted to ask for her clothes. I just shook my head. She gunned it out of there. I said "You ain't putting anything on, bitch. You'll drive there like your Mama made you, and you'll walk there like your Mama made you. Is that clear ?"

She didn't say anything at first. Then she nodded. I yelled out, strong and sudden, "Is that clear!" Her breath was hard and rapid. She squaled "Yes, sir!" She drove to her pad. It was only ten minutes away, but still we didn't say much. After a minute or two I could tell she's catching back to herself, getting back to familiar territory, feeling at home again. She must've taken a thousand suckers down this same throat, to the digestion room, like one of those flytraps. She was breathing at ease now, waiting for me to move, to speak out of line, to step on my own feet, to break it for myself. I didn't. Her ease was short lived. She really didn't want to get out of the car naked. I got her key out of the ignition, and told her if she's not out there in the street I'm gonna dump them down the sewer grate and walk away. She shuddered. I told her if she knew she's got a chicken heart, she shoulda chickened out at the bar, at least there they'd have fucked her. Here where she lives, they'll just scorn her to death. She took one deep breath and shot out of there. At the door up three steps she reached for the key in her purse she didn't have. It was comical to watch. I got out of the car and made my way over, taking all the time in the world because guess what ? I had all the time in the world. Besides : if you're important enough, they'll wait for you, whatever it is.

I grabbed her by the hairs on the scruff of her neck and lifted her so her feet were almost off the ground. She yelped. I said "Louder, bitch. Let everyone hear you." She whimpered. I opened the door and dragged her in like that. We climbed the stairs, the naked bitch on tiptoes that used to be a lady who lived there and the pimp that owned her ass. I opened the door she pointed at, then grabbed her under her knees and carried her over the threshold. She started chuckling like an idiot, and wouldn't let go of my chest. Her pad was a made trap for suckers all right. She had pasted luminous white stars on the hotel room's blue ceiling. There was one blue light. It glowed sexily from behind a three-foot plaster copy of Rodin's "The Kiss." There was a mirror over the bed. There were mirrors on the walls flanking the bed. There was a polar-bear rug gleaming whitely in front of a blue chaise lounge. I sat myself on the lounge. She flipped on the portable record player. Some broad whined out "Paper Moon" all wrong. She ran off into a cell-sized bathroom. She left the door wide open behind her, I could see her clearly digging a washcloth into her armpits and cat. "Hook your foot up on the wall, bitch." I told her. "You'll get yourself better that way". She tried to do it, clumsily. I was thinking she needs more practice ; she was thinking she needs more practice. We were on the same wavelength, isn't that right ?

She came back out a little later, her kitty pretty and smooth, fresh shaven, just like a baby's bottom. She offered me drinks. I told her "You know, she's right. I don't believe in your fake ass paper moon. I don't believe a rat's ass." She looked at me puzzled. "You know who that is ?!" I didn't say anything. She kneeled next to me, on the rug. She started talking, with her eyes closed. She told me about black music and how everything's changing, starting with some Ella broad on that record. She was a lady alright, or at least had been. She was an assistant working at National Louis University, which is where all the teacher broads with college degrees come from. She was involved in some kind of eritrological program whatever that is. Basically she was faking being a whore for research! She blew my mind. It was like if one of those dour old motherfuckers at Tuskegee were the jaspers, and I copped them. She talked to hundreds of young cunts each day, she was a goldmine of goldmines. I was so hot for her I was about to burst. And the best part of it is, she didn't know it. She didn't know any of it! She was ashamed of it, ashamed to admit it, and I played it up for her as far as she'd lap it up.

After I figured she spilled most of her beans, or anyways once she started circling back over the same ground I gave her a stern look. She stopped, dead in her tracks. Her ass lifted off her heels as if by itself, bringing her to attention. Her nipples were rock-hard. She was quiet, looking up at me imploringly. Finally I spoke, slow and solemn, like a hawk-headed executioner. "Bitch, it's come time for your punishment. You have to be punished. You know that, don't you ?" She nodded like I thought her head might jump off of her shoulders and make its way to orbit. "Where you keep the ropes ? Bring 'em here." She looked at me like I had guessed the lottery numbers in every state. How hard is it, I could see the solid posts on the bed, the eyelets in the beams here and there. A freakish broad like that ? Easy.

She scurried off, and came back with a bunch of bundles. There were a lot, dozens. Pepper had taught me some basics, but it was obvious to me I was outgunned. This bitch had practiced, who knows how many years. Who knows what they do to those sweet future teacher gals in college, anyways! I didn't let the thought bother me. I said to her "Bitch, I'm not gonna plug that mouth of yours. You're ok to moan ; but if you scream I'm out of here. And I'm propping the door open on my way out, too." She shook her head yes, while her eyes were candles burning wax of please. I tied her up like I knew'd hurt her. Every so often I'd let her out and make her hurt somewhere else, some different way. I worked her over more than an hour. Her curvy black body had the sheen of seal skin. I could tell she wants her release, but she's not gonna say anything. She quivered and rolled her jet satin belly under my nose. She was pushing herself to be as good as can be. She was trying to earn it. That's the way the best bitches are, and don't let any fool tell you no different, either.

"You want to get off, don't you." I asked her. "Mhmmmm..." she came right back. "Well bitch... you can't." Her eyes turned to terror. "Not here. Not now." She looked at me, the flames in her eyes questionmarks. "To get off you gotta turn a trick. That's the only way for you from now on." She just looked at me, and then she nodded her head. "You ever turn a trick before ?" I asked her, contempt in my voice. She hesitated, then shook no. "Well... there's a first time for everything." I walked over to her shoe closet, picked out the tallest, reddest pair of heels in there. Threw them on her and then let her loose. "You a whore now, bitch. Naked or no, you don't go barefoot, remember that. You get those heels on and you keep them on. Even in bed." She put them on and split. I locked up behind her and met her in the car. She was shuddering, flushed. She wasn't cold, she was scared. I said "How much scratch you got, bitch ?" Suddenly her eyes opened wide. "Fuck! I... I left it at the bar. Where you... were I first saw you." I reached in my pocket and pulled it out for her. "Dumb bitch." She bit her lip and lowered her forehead. "How much is in here ?" She looked at me. "Two hundred forty-five."

I knew she had to have it from her Daddy, the first one. It was way too much for her no-skill dumbass to have come by in any other way. That's the way all these lady bitches are, they don't whore on suckers they found themselves, like real women. They too lazy and stupid for that. Instead, they whore on suckers their mamas found and crippled for them, like god damned pumas and cheetahs. How they're not ashamed of themselves God only knows. "Alright, bitch. Once you get two hundred forty-five new slats with your pussy I'm gonna let you crash." I directed her to the edge of the red light district. We had a method down pat, made just for her, just for that night. We ran it smooth, she'd pull over next to a sucker and I'd go "Hey brother, see this bitch here ? She's naked and horny. Twenty, whadda ya say ?" She sold two in three no problem. The shy ones she turned in the back of what used to be her car ; but more often than not I had her get out and walk around, to take them standing, her titties on the window on my side. After the first few I had her choking on my rod while the punter worked her ass. At first I thought no punter'd want anywhere near any set-up anything like that, but boy was I wrong! They went wild for it! After the fourth or fifth like that I finally figured out what they wanted to hear. I'd say "Yeah man, fuck my wife. Give it to her hard man. Fuck that pussy full. We've only been married six months now, but I turn her out regular. Put a baby girl in her, so the whore seed never dies out." It drove crazy, half the time they paid over the twenty we agreed on! One guy peeled out a fifty off his wad, rolled it up thin and shoved it in her asshole!

Once I pulled it out of her and we drove off I told her I guess this stinky one pays for breakfast, huh. She laughed but then stopped herself with a gasp, like she had broken all ten commandments together or something. I was laughing myself. It was the rush of a lifetime, like the best party ever. I told her so, and she started laughing again and said she was thinking the same thing. I asked her what's it feel like, being a dirty whore ? She looked at me with dreamy eyes and said it's the best filling in the world. I mean she didn't say feeling, she said filling, like a pun. I told her now at least she knows what dirty stands for. She had dribbled all over her seat to the point there was a sloshing puddle down there. We kept laughing and jibing all the way back to my run down rat trap. The same clerk raised an eyebrow at the sight of the naked whore walking with me, four-something in the AM. "You'll give her one tomorrow, Jack. She's filled up now." I said as we went by, without stopping. I think he nodded. She took a soak and I went off to bed. I think I remember her sliding into bed and spooning with me afterwards, but my sleep was thick with dreams, rich, vivid. Fantastic.

I saw myself gigantic, all-powerful, like God Almighty. My clothes would glow. My underwear would be rainbow-hued silk petting my skin, soft and loving like a whore's velvet. My suits were glittering like spun-gold but soft as cotton, and shot through with priceless gems and diamonds. My shoes were all dazzling silver or shining black but still like some sort of metal, the toes as sharp as daggers. Beautiful whores groveled at my feet, their huge udders dangling on the floor, under my feet. I'd step on their tits, and on their nipples either. They were dove-eyed, begging, worshipful.

Through the dream mist I'd see in the distance huge sharpened stakes. The whores' painted faces'd turn wild with fear. They'd wail and beg me for forgiveness, for delivery from those sharp, biting, frozen steel stakes. I'd laugh madly. Rich wells of scarlet spurted from their asses as I joyfully booted them, crotch first on those sharp pikes. They'd flop around like hooked fish, little dying chickens bleeding their last. They'd slowly slide down to the bottom in a welter of blood.

I woke with a start, my ticker earthquaking inside of me. The runt, awokened with me, gave my shoulders a warm embrace. She whispered in my ear it's ok, it's just a dream. Go back to sleep, she said, and I did. Right back to dreaming. This time I was tiny, barely the size of a locust. I'd jump around on grassy meadows, by a river. Lots and lots of naked girlies danced and pranced all around. I'd jump inside their pussy, and they'd caress me with their lips and carry me inside from place to place. Fantastic beings hung like horses, with hooves and a horse's behind would chase after them. They'd yell in terror and run off, in fear the huge shafts might crush me inside them. I'd crawl and jump from one to another when their time was come, to avoid being crushed. Eventually they were all dead, the spiny, barbed, harmful pricks of the galloping punters having gutted them all to the last one. I'd stand on the pile of corpses, the green fields turned red with blood, and look over the horizon.

A huge figure of towering light would come towards me. In his anger his eyes would be blazing blue suns, his spiky platinum hair standing on end. He'd point toward a woman, chained naked to a pole, her back turned to me. He'd hand me a barbed leather whip. Like a crash of summer thunder his voice commanded me, "Punish this evil woman. Destroy the devil inside her. The Lord so directs thee." I'd grab the heavy whip eagerly, with both hands. I'd bring it down with all my force on the woman's back. She'd would just stand there, as I shred her flesh off of her bones. The scarlet drained down from her slashed back. She'd be standing to her knees in a river of blood, and then turn her brown, agonizing face toward me. It was always Mama. The sight made me wake shaking and screaming in a pool of sweat. It was horrible. I could never cut these dreams off until they reached their end. They had to run the fearful course. The dreams about Mama came until her death.

« Killing Them Softly

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 9 : Funeral, Reformatory and Sunday Dinner »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Sunday, 28 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 7 : Blown Whoreless, And Fresh Out Of Girl

June was asleep when we snuck in. Whores sleep till noon, it's not that they want to, it's that they have to. Just like everything else they do. Before leaving her Heights pad, I had Pepper decked to the nines. She had a huge hat on, the kind queens and real bonny-fiddy princesses went with, back in those days. She wore a dress, not revealing like for a whore. Revealing like for a politician's wife or something. She looked just like one of those socialites they have, and then she had her white fox fur on top. Her whole outfit was white, from the baby seal leather heels to the huge pearls around her neck. She looked like a walking, talking bank robbery. On the dresser lay a large pile of damp bills. Lots of fifties, and even a coupla Cs in there. That was some respectable scratch. I winked her at it, and she went "Hm..." from the corner of her eye. Then I bellowed "Hey, June!"

The poor darling started in bed, like she dreamed she was being roused up by demons or something. In a way I guess she was. Then she was all smiles. "Good morning, Daddy. I'm so happy to see you!" Then her eyes opened large enough to take in Pepper, too, and her ticker stopped. She wasn't breathing, she just looked at me, her eyes well open now enough to drive the Moon through them.

"Honey, I want you to meet Pepper!" June didn't say anything. I carried on, my mock enthusiasm uncracked. "She's my fiance! We're going to be married soon!" Pepper took her cue. She walked slowly the coupla steps to the bed, then reached our her hand, stiffly, like one of those upper class girls would do. "Nice to meet you, June." June's throat was all knots. She swallowed hard a couple of times, mostly tears and snot, and then she finally managed to babble "But... but why ?"

I looked at her like she just asked the strangest thing, like why do they drive cars on the road instead of up a wall. "What do you mean why ?! It's obvious enough, isn't it ? She's so much better than you, June. I mean, face facts baby. You're just a little girl. Pepper's a real woman. She's rich and pretty and I love her so much!" June was crying now in earnest, her eyes wide open, her bare chest unmoving. Looking straight into my eye, tears rolling down her cheek one after another. "But you can still come to the wedding" I said, appeasingly. "I know you don't have anything to wear, but Pepper will let you wear some of her older clothes she doesn't wear anymore." I said, like I had found the holy grail. I mean, what problems could be left in the world anymore, right. Pepper was gonna let her wear some hand-me-downs from the bottom of her closet, what more could you ask for. June crumpled in bed, crying in a howling frenzy, each word I spoke like a flaming dagger piercing her breast. Now and again she'd look up, take me in for a brief calm moment, then go right back to her ball of teary despair. What a heel I must've seemed to her! During one of those interludes she even managed, through all the tears and snot, to let me know she had made twenty-eight hundred since I told her. Pepper was tearing up. I slapped her ass, like "Hey, what the fuck are you doing, bitch ?"

That cut it for her. She sat down on the bed, next to June, putting her arm around her. The poor girl struggled free the first two or three times, but eventually just went straight for bawling her eyes out on Pepper's tit, right through the fifteen hundred dollar dress. Tears will cut through any money, you know ? She was petting her hair down and whispering to her, "I'm sorry, baby... He told me he wants me to come here... so you humiliate me and push me around... I had no idea... He set me up too." and all the while all I could think of was "Twenty-eight hundred ? Really ? Again ?!" Eventually Pepper hit the jackpot. "There's no wedding. He made it all up." At that June finally looked up at her, straight at her like she was sucking her in through the eyes. "There... there isn't ?"

"No, baby. There's no wedding. He just made it all up. Sometime between the car and the hallway I think he just made it all up." She wasn't wrong, either. June's eyes were clearing up, like she was starting to see the clear skies beyond a great joke. The greatest joke of them all : hope. "Who are you then ?" she managed eventually, through the sobs. "I'm just another whore, baby. Just like you." June finally gathered enough gumption to face me again. "Is that true ?" she asked me, mouthing the words one by one like they were precious songbird eggs, all fragile and delicate, and the fate of the whole world depended on their staying in one piece.

"Yes, it's true." I shot back. "There's no wedding. I brought this backstabby bitch here for you to have your way with her bony, used-up ass." Pepper shuddered, and then turned to June "You see how he treats a woman ? You'd better stay away from him, if you know what's good for you." June reached out and clasped her hands around my back, her face pushed against my rod. Her head was turned to the side, facing Pepper, and she mouthed "I know I should."

Then we fucked all together. Though the girls were no jaspers, they hugged while I went from one to the other and back again. They didn't kiss or anything, like the Tuskegee coeds used to, they just looked into each others eyes while my rod went between them, from flower to flower and back again. Then we gave June her moment.

Pepper was blown away the poor girl peeled a wad of almost three grand offa a hundred and more different suckers, working the street. She only had a week to do it, too, I last saw her Wednesday night and now was Friday morning, the next Friday over. June was clearly scoring some massive points in her book, more than four hundred bucks a day, each day, for a week straight, from a young whore runaway from school, with no experience and all by herself. To her it was like flying around the world on your own farts. She wouldn't have believed if she didn't see it, and even then she looked straight in my eye at one point and shot point blank "Is this another set-up ?" But no, it wasn't. She could tell, June had that openness about her where it wasn't so much that you could read her mind on her face like an open book. It was more that she bludgeoned you with her thoughts. There was no missing what's going on in there and no possiblity of faking it, either. At least, we didn't think so, then.

Then we went through the set-up to jiggle Pepper free. Her old man was coming back that Friday evening. To be honest I was afraid of the whole idea. June's dad was one thing, but if that fence of Pepper's came looking for me I'd be just like a frog jumped in a hound's wide open maw. I really didn't want any part of it, but what could I say ? Pepper pushed for it, hard. Her plan was to take June in for when he's back, and make like she's her maid. Then, to give her up for him. Then later work it in, that she wants to go back, and June's pimp's just this harmless kid looking to grow up, and that he'd have free reign with all the girls, of course. Not just her, or just them two, but all of them. Who wouldn't want his pick of a stable in trade for a bony-ass, used up whore ? She was needling me, but I didn't say anything. I asked June if she's up for doing a different stretch. She told me "Daddy, I've done more this crazy week than in my whole life, ten times over. My little kitty stays sore and swollen like you saw it. Friday morning when I soaked in the tub it still went back down, but not since then. What do you think ?" I just looked at her. She cooed back, "Do you like your little whore with her little kitty swollen and sore, Daddy ? Should I just stay on the street and work it raw for you ?" Pepper rolled her eyes, but now it was my turn. "See, bitch, this is what a real whore's like. None of your East Coast fake whoring like you do." June looked up at me surprised, Pepper just let out this "Uuuuuhhh" like she's been served and she knew it. Looking straight at me she intoned, in her sing-songy voice, "Oh June Ma'am, may I kiss your sore whore pussy please ?" June just looked at me bewildered. "On your back, bitch!" I barked at her. "Spread 'em." I said, just like a copper making a cop. I grabbed her ankles as I was shoving my pulsing prick into Pepper's ass, and strangled her with June's thighs while pounding her wildly. That was the best fuck I ever had, fucking two whores I didn't at all deserve right into each other for the first time. There's nothing like it, and there's nothing else.

Then they took off in Pepper's Caddy, and I lay down on the bed just for a moment. I felt tired. The next thing I knew it was noon again. I slept all through like a sack of potatoes, from early in the afternoon until noon the next day. Twenty hours almost, truth be told I hadn't had that much sleep the past week I had spent with Pepper. When I looked into the mirror, a death's head stared right back at me. That vampire bitch was sucking my life's blood away ; though in fairness I also knew well enough that crystal cocaine isn't exactly a health tonic. I never looked into a mirror for a long while, I didn't even remember the last time I did it. It seemed like I never have the time for it when there's pussy around. But once I was left by myself, there it was, and I didn't like it. I didn't like it one bit. I made two big decisions that mildewy mid-Saturday. One was to look into a mirror now and again no matter what. It's not about the broads, it can't be always about them. The other was even bigger. I figured I had to choose between Pepper and girl, and when it came right down to it I found out soon enough only one of those I could do without.

While I was having a bite of breakfast mid-day I saw Weeping Shorty, a gorilla pimp about fifty-five. I knew him from Jimmy's joint. He looked horrible last time I set eyes on him, and now barely a few weeks later he looked plum like a breathing corpse. Hoss was his Boss. He had chipped around, and gotten hooked. There's worse things to do to yourself than a line of girl now and again, I thought to myself. At least that doesn't get you hooked. That's the trouble with girl, it's always there, whispering. You ain't hooked, but you ain't much thinking of anything else, neither. I reasoned with myself, I said in my mind "Look boy, he's fifty and you're not. You can take a beating where he can't doesn't mean you have to." I was right, too. I knew I was.

Weeping was as bubbly as his palor left him room for. He smiled even, after a fashion, stretching that crinkly drumhide wrapped around his skull to the breaking point. He looked at me and made that clacking sound against the roof of his mouth with his tongue. You know, that mischievous, weirdly joyful sound that a deranged kid makes the instant before he rams a hat pin into your ear drum. Then he said, "Well kiss my dead mammy's ass, if it ain't Macking Youngblood. The whore's pet and the pimp's fret." The used-up junkie bastard was jeffing on me! He was lashing me with contempt and scorn. I loved it. Somehow the Mayor walking in and shaking my hand for being the smartest young entrepreneur in the whole of Chi wouldn't have tickled me any better than this long-gone corpse impersonating a stuffed pheasant jibing me for not knowing the game. Then he went on, even louder, somehow : "I hear you're gonna turn Jimmy's into the classiest mack joint this side the river Nile, ain't that right now, youngster ?" then he broke down in a rotten cough, bringing blood bubbling into his spit. I went right back at him "Why, you got some girls ready to leave off the walk and do some lying down for a change ?" He gave me a furtive glance, then whispered "Listen, Mack, I'm the best pimp in town. You know I am. Now let me pull your coat, and give you a plan for putting a ring in that whore Pepper's nose."

I looked at him. He looked back at me, intently. Suddenly he wasn't so beat down no mo'. Suddenly he looked just like a grass in the snake, angling for a birdy. Maybe I was the birdy, and maybe I wasn't. Maybe he was half-gone, and maybe I wasn't the first to think of covering your pull. I didn't let anything past. I was just listening. He said "Come on and we'll rap" but I said to him "Shorty, listen, let's finish our food first. I'm too young to go hungry, you know ?" I let him watch me swallow that huge Alabama steak breakfast, bit by bit. I didn't say anything. I didn't let on anything. He took it like a champ. The game's a million questions, and after you figure those out then the answers come, slowly, from heart breaking trial and mostly error. Some try and get ahead by ass kissing the few old pimps who had solved the riddle, who pimped by the book. I sucked an old whore's ass clean, and it put me ahead of them, that's for damn sure ; but the cleverest pimp could give a thousand years and never come close to all the answers. Weeping Shorty was an old man. He was long past the questions, he even worked out a few answers for himself. He maybe knew a thousand times more than I did. I wan't about to not listen, anyhow. But there's table stakes, like in everything, and that morning, at that table, them stakes was one hell of a juicy steak. Them's the breaks.

Eventually he pulled me with a jerk of his head. I followed him to a big shabby Buick. It was parked at an intersection in the cheap-trick district, a few blocks south from the diner. When we got inside the Buick I understood why he had parked it there. He could watch and keep tabs on his stable of scrawny, junkie whores working the four corners of the intersection. He sat under the wheel not saying anything, his eyes straight ahead. I thought of the small pile of cocaine wrapped in tinfoil, stuck in my instep. That was all that remained of a flourbag's worth we must've gone through, between me and her, during our little festival. Before we left she wrapped it up for me and stuffed it in my shoe. "Just in case" she said, "And don't go try and cop for yourself. I don't want you no jailhouse bull's bitch, alright puppy ?"

I fished the package out and held it in my hand. I figured he's the best hole to dump it into. Sure better than any hole of mine, anyhow. Besides, we had already tried all of mine. He looked like he hadn't seen some half-decent girl in a good half-decade. Maybe it turns his life around. I turned to him and said, "Weeping, do you want a light snort of girl?" He stiffened like a butcher knife had been run into his back. He looked at the wad of tinfoil in my palm. He snatched it and in the same motion hurled it through the window on his side. His top was blown. He shouted, "Nigger, ain't you got no sense? You trying to blow my wheels?"

I said, "What did I do wrong? All I did was to offer the C just to be sociable. What's wrong with that ?" He said, "Sucker, first booty butt, you don't transport no hard in your stomp. Who taught you that ? Keep it in your mitt, sucker. That way you can down it fast to the turf. Second, you ain't no dealer. You ain't got no fix. You ain't got no business sitting dirty in my short. There's a law, sucker, that can confiscate a short with stuff in it. You know if the heat had hit on you you would unload in my short." He looked at me. I nodded, sheepish. He went on, roaring master of the whole field "Keep stuff off you. When you stop somewhere down it in the street until you ready to split. It's better to get beat for the stash than beat by the heat. Now can you take your head outta Pepper's ass long enough to make some scratch ?"

Oh how this junkie creep bugged me. I sat there beside him, trying to think of an angle that'd bleed whatever it was out of him quick, so I could get out of his face fast. He looked exactly like a withered baboon. His breath stunk like he had just eaten a bowl of grave maggots. I said, "Weeping, Pepper hasn't got my nose open for her. She's too jazzy and slick for me. Now you on the other hand, everybody knows that your game is mellow. I want you to pull my coat so I can pimp some scratch out of her."

The baboon liked that banana I threw him. He was ready to talk the pimp game. He said, "The suckers in Hell want ice water, too. Don't mean they'll get any. It's late for them. They ain't never gonna get to no ice water no mo. The way you start with a bitch is the way you end with a bitch. You can start pimping hard on a bitch and then sucker out and blow her, but ain't no way you can turn it around and pimp on Pepper after starting with her like a sucker. Forget her and get down on a fresh bitch." I said, "You mean there is no way to get any scratch out of her?" He said, "Now you see, I didn't say that. I said you couldn't pimp any scratch outta her. A foxy cold-blooded stud can always find an angle to cross a broad outta scratch." I said, "I'm not foxy, but I think I could be cold blooded enough to cross that slick bitch Pepper out of a bundle. Weeping, you're the only fox here. Please man, I'm begging you. Lay some game on me and put me to the test. I'll split any scratch I take off right down the middle with you."

The day had started out sunny, up until I ran into this shambling corpse. Then it turned, and by the time we were out of the diner it was almost ready to start dropping. While we rapped it went through a slight drizzle gaining strength all the while, and by now it was downright pouring. Weeping turned to run up the window on his side, then turned back to answer my proposition when there was a frantic rapping on his window. It was one of his whores. Through the closed window of the locked door she said loudly, "Daddy, open the door! My feet are soaked. Nothing is happening out here tonight, and besides I am hot as Hell. The vice is watching me. It's Costello. He told me to get off the street or he would bust me. Please open the door, Daddy."

Weeping was a cold gorilla all right. He sat there for a long moment. His monkey face was tight and hard. He casually opened the wind wing as the rain beat down on his whore. She stuck her nose through it. Without moving toward the wing, sitting erect in the car seat he hollered, "You bullshit bitch, make something happen. What you out there fo' ? You a whore, you suppose to be hot. Let Costello bust you. He can't make a beef stand up unless he ketches you with a trick. You dumb chickenhearted bitch, whatta you think I got this ass pocket full of fall scratch for ? Now get out there and work. You do your job, let Costello do his job. Don't you worry yo dumb ho ass over him. And don't worry yaself about the rain, neither. Walk between the rain drops. Bitch." He slammed the wing shut. Her face was wild and angry through the murky glass. Her dope-rotted teeth were ragged fangs in the dimness as she pressed her face close to the glass. She screamed, "You just lost a girl. You had four, now you got three. I'm cutting you loose, Shorty." Weeping let his window down and stuck his head out into the rain as she walked away. He was all gorilla now. He yelled out, "Bitch! I give you odds you won't split. As much of my dope you been shooting, I'm playing ketch up. You rank bitch, you know if you split I'll find you and stick my knife in your stinking asshole and gut you to your breast bone."

I wondered if he had lost her. He read my mind. He said, "She ain't going nowhere, look at this." He turned his car engine on and started the windshield wiper so we could see the street. There she was back out there in the rain whistling and waving at the passing cars. He switched the engine off, and said "That bitch knows I ain't jiving. She'll make me some scratch this morning." I looked at her, and then I said "back last year I ran into a virgin girl so tough down there, I had to really stick a knife into her to get through." He looked at me, trying to figure where I'm coming from. Eventually he said "That happens now and then". Then he pulled himself together, and went back to present affairs. He said, "Now, Youngblood, about Pepper. You don't know anything about her. I like you, so my advice is the same I gave you at first. Forget her. Try in another spot."

What he said about my not knowing her made me curious. I said, "Look Weeping, I know you like me, and if you do, run Pepper down for me." It's the thing with small timers, like a curse on them, that always they think they know more than everyone else because they don't understand how it's less. Say a man is a biologist, he goes and studies blue whales fifty years, and then he writes a book, with all he found out about them in it. Some guy in a bar reads it. All he knows about blue whales is that they're blue. He's never as much as seen one, but I mean, come on, they're blue. He never finds anywhere in that first guy's book where he says that blue whales are blue, and he figures to himself "Well... if ever that young squirt comes by my hometown and buys me a beer, I'll pull his tails and clue him in : they're blue. Betcha he'll fall on his face, he didn't know that." Now of course the guy with the book has a chapter in there where he talks about something like it. But he's not going to say exactly "they're blue", because maybe there isn't even such a thing as blue in the first place. He doesn't say it in those words, and the guy in the bar doesn't know how to go from some words to some other words, so he just thinks he's the one that invented, the color blue, and the one line, three word book on blue whales : "they're blue!"

"Did you know that peckerwood of Pepper's is the bankroll behind the biggest policy wheel in town?" he asked me, as serious as you like. I said, "No ?!" all surprised, as if I were. Then in the pause I went "but if the old man is flush isn't that good? Why give Pepper up because she's in shape. If you gave me an angle I could get some of that policy scratch." He went on, as he had more of his informative gems of wisdom in his belt. "Look Blood, brace yourself. Here comes the rest of the rundown. Pepper is a rotten freak broad. You ain't the only stud she freaks off with. I could name a half dozen who ride her. The dangerous one is Dalanski, the detective. He is in a bad way over Pepper. If he ever found out you were freaking off with her, Blood, shame on your ass." I was shaken and appaled by the rundown, truly I was. I thought to myself, "Yeah, and I bet she goes over to rub Dalanski's wife's feet every other weekend, too. She probably babysits and everything, when they throw a party it's Pepper the house maid no doubt." Instead of anything like that I said "Oh, no. Weeping, man, thanks for cluing me in. A broad with a lot of scratch and that knows Detective Dalanski himself, what could I have been thinking mixing up with her." He didn't wise up to the joke any. I carried on, "I see you're right, and I'd better split with her while I still can. Are you sure there are that many studs laying her?"

He said, "Maybe more." I grimaced like it really hurt me that June fucked half the town until she walked like the cowboys. I mumbled, "Thanks for the advice, and the run down, Weeping." I was about to get out of the Buick and look for a flea exterminator. He got excited. At first I thought because one of his rickets illustrations finally hitched a ride in some beat up pick-up. It wasn't that, though it was the first time in a good half hour I saw that miracle take place. He told me, "Blood, put a smile on your face. Old Shorty's got good news for you. How would you like a half a G in your slide?" I said, "All right, give me the poison and take me to the baby." He said, "I ain't shucking. It's cream-puff work. In fact, Tender Dick, it's what you like to do best. Want the run down?" I looked at him up and down, then said "If you are going to tell me some broad is going to lay out fivehundred frog skins to get her rocks off, lay it on me. For that kinda scratch I'd lay the more or less recently departed." He snickered, an evil wheeze quickly turned to a cough. Eventually he settled down enough to say, "Pepper is the broad. All you have to do is take her to bed and go through a full circus with her, that's all. Are you game?" I nodded. "I'm game, if I get a rake off from the bleacher seats, and you tell me who wants the show on."

His eyebrows jitterbugged. He was a slick joker, or at the least had been. He said, "No, I can't tell you who. Don't worry about the scratch, it's guaranteed. Are you in?" I said, "Yes, but I want to know more. Like, why?" The tale he told me went like this : A fast hustler from New York who specialized in pressure rackets saw a chance to trim Pepper's old man out of a bundle. The hustler knew that Pepper was a dog and a freak. He also knew that Pepper's old man was hung up on her. Even though he had met her in a whorehouse and squared her up, he was dangerously jealous of her and unpredictable if he caught her wrong. The hustler felt that Pepper would be in a sweet state for pressure if solid evidence could be gotten showing Pepper as the dog she was. The hustler was sure he could force her to help him in his scheme to trim the old man. He needed clear unfaked photographs. His plan would be simple. Once he got the club over Pepper's head, he would force her to sneak in phony "hit" slips against the policy wheel. The hustler had discovered that for Pepper, from her inside position close to the wheel, it would be very simple. The hustler would pay me five bills after I had brought Pepper to a prearranged set up.

I figured the angles in my head. The story sounded dumb enough to be true, even if it wasn't. The outfit didn't seem like much. It looked to me like should I agree and not go through, the most'll happen is that slick racket man from back East'll give Shorty here maybe the go-ahead and he'll do something truly horrible to me, like maybe puke in my lap. That'd be a grand in drycleanning easy. I went in all for it, and hoped Pepper gave me the sign and we rapped before these jokers did. Weeping told me the trap was set. I was to wait until Pepper itched enough to call me. I was not to call her. That set my mind at ease, anyhow. Whenever she called I was to tell her to meet me in the bathroom of an old, but still elegant hotel on the fringe of the arcade and shooting gallery section of town. Then I was to call him. I was to make sure that at least two hours passed between her call and when I went to the desk and asked for the key to apartment two-fourteen. My name would be Barksdale. I nodded and assured him of my undying gratitude for this gorgeous set-up of a five year old's design, then finally got out of that Buick coffin. The air outside smelled sweet and fresh, like I had been sniffing farts for the past hour.

I was going to drop by Mama's, before the geezer ambushed me in the greasy spoon. I headed that way now, except who do I run into, sitting on the sidewalk ? Old "Party Time" himself! While doing his year for our caper he copped a lonely-hearts broad through the mails. She went his train fare when he finished the bit, so he went to visit her, and they made a home! After five bits and not half a year square he was itching to get back on the street, his head as full as ever of crooked inspiration. I liked him fine, but I did not like him enough to join him in a hustle again. I wiggled out smoothly enough and we shook hands friends, but meeting him reminded me of Vera and that put me in a mellow mood worse than any Mississippi blues. I went back inside, and sat on the bed. I missed Pepper. I hadn't even touched June in a week. I missed them all. I sat on the bed and bawled like a child. Six or seven times I stood up, to go cop myself some girl or something, anything. Every time that mirror saved my life. There it was, right by the door, ready to look right back at me any time I felt like looking in. I tried to go to sleep but there was nothing doing, I just tossed and turned and worked myself up by degrees.

I thought I ain't ever gonna see, any of them, ever again. Pepper's just gonna take June to her old man, "Look Daddy, I copped us a new whore for the house." Why'd she ever come back from Pepper's pad to this rat trap ? She wouldn't. Why did I ? I did, though. But that's only because I'm a sucker ; women ain't never suckers like men get, isn't that right. I said to myself, "Well now, boy... you've blown yourself whoreless, and you're fresh outta girl". The thought of it drove me crazy ; but June's eyes and Pepper's smile came from nowhere and made me feel better, for a heartbeat. Then I was wild with crazy thoughts again, like with a rash, the more you scratch it the more it itches until you draw blood and it's still not done. I put my head under the faucet, but that still didn't help. I didn't know what to do, but it sure as hell didn't look good for me.

« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 6 : In The Slammer, And Back On The Street

Killing Them Softly »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Sunday, 28 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 6 : In The Slammer, And Back On The Street

"Where'd you stash her ?!" He was sweating through his lip like maybe he stashed her himself. "Stashed who ?" I went, cool as a cucumber. "Come clean, buster. You know what you done." I looked up at him as innocent as a baby kitten after it took a shit in the sugar bowl. "What's going on sir !?" He lost it. "We got you on kidnapping, carnal knowledge, abuse, assault, attempted murder, the Mann act... boy they gonna throw the book at you. You ain't ever coming out less you come clean now." I looked at him like he was trying to smoke with his ear. "I wasn't even jaywalking."

They were getting nowhere fast with me, and to their credit it only took them three or four hours to wise up to it. They dumped me in the slammer. There was nobody in there, somehow. I don't know, it must've been the deluxe special slammer for foreign dignitaries and special guests. I slept on the tight army cot, a definite step down from June's tits, and in the morning they took me before the judge. That must've been a sight : a minor, without priors, brought up under charges of everything but fucking the Statue of Liberty off its socket. Sitting on the bench was this stern face, with a voice like the burning bush. An old whitey looking just like a hawk. Crooked nose, those piss-blue eyes like on blind people, the works. It was like in a picture book. "How do you plea ?"

I looked at him, scratched my head, went like I'm about to spit on the ground then said "Your Honor... I don't even know what the charges are." He made a gesture and the bailiff read me the charges. It was like the riot act. After drinking a galon and three pints of water in quarter ounce sips he was finally done, half hour later, and we circled back to the big question. Everyone had fallen alseep, it was like trying to read the phone book at a retirement home. The judge hit me up again. I said "Your honor, I'm just as much a citizen as the next working stiff. I've as much a right to walk down the street as anyone, which is all I was doing. I wasn't even drunk. I had my hands in my pocket and my mind on my business. I don't know what all the fuss is about."

The judge looked at me with those piercing eyes, then looked in the sheets before him, turned something over, looked up at me again. He scoffed once and said "Mr... Beck. What business is that ?"

"I dropped out of Tuskegee and now I work as a janitor, sir."

"You should have stayed in school."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, why didn't you ?"

"Not cut out for it, sir."

"You don't say..."

He leafed through the thin paperwork before him some morei, then gave the "come here, bitch" finger to the assistant D.A. Just like a punter in a classy joint calling a cocksucker over. They whispered a while, then the judge went "Eh get the hell outta here" kinda quiet and shook his hand at him. Then he yelled out "Case dismissed" and banged his toy hammer on the little anvil they have. I was just standing there, looking at him. He looked at me, said something gruffly under his breath I didn't catch on to, then asked me if I ever tried out law ? I said no sir, and he said I should come by his office one of these days. I said yes sir and they carted me away ; though I had no intention of ever taking him up on it. I wanted to be a lip about as much as I wanted to be a clutch on a truck. It's a good profession, ain't it ? Pays well, there's grease...

Instead, I went all over looking for the rollers that had hit me. Eventually I found them sitting in their car, in the shade, under a tree. I went right up to them, dropped a grand on the sidewalk and then banged on the passenger window. The guy rolled it down and looked at me like I was a spook.

"Officer, I believe you dropped this." I said to him, pointing down. He looked at me like he was a French cop in some French town looking for a French whore to stick his prick into. No idea what language am I speaking. I picked it up for him and handed it over. He opened it, looking at me the whole time, but showing the bills to his driver. "Oh look at that, Harry. We dropped this, he says." His partner looked at the wad, looked at me, back at the wad, back at me. It just didn't gel in their heads. "How come we dropped that, boy ?"

"You know what you did. You took fifty from a two-bit canary with a sax up his ass to roll me like I was some punk nigger kid."

"Seventy-five."

I looked at him, and shook my head. "It ain't worth it. It just ain't worth it."

"So whadda ya got ?"

"I got a hundred a block. And I want the whole precinct."

"A hundred a... a what, month ?"

"A hundred a week."

"Kid, you ain't not got any idea what you're talking about."

"The whole precinct."

"How many blocks is that ?"

"Seventy-six. From the twenty second to the thirty first, half way each side at the end, and then east and west along Apple. You know what it is."

"How the hell does he know that ?"

"Kid musta read some book somewhere."

"That musta been some book..."

"Mine's been reading books for six years, he ain't found no seven grand in there yet. Cost me almost that much though."

"You gonna pop seven-eight grand a week in, week out, how many girls you got stashed away ?"

"I bet you this kid got every nigger fugitive since the days of Breeches Stoves stashed away somewheres in the flop houses. I bet you he's got a boat fresh from Africa up on lake Eire."

"That right boy ?"

I took a deep breath. "Just the one." I said, carefully.

"You've got a lot of heart, kid."

"More than any nigger I ever saw, that's for damn sure."

"You know it. He's got one fifteen year old runaway stashed somewhere and a grand in cash. I bet you if we roll him up we don't find another twenty dollars on him."

"I bet you if we do he's never telling us where the hideout is, so we'll never know. Ain't that right, boy ?"

"There's no hideout, sir."

"Could have the crown jewels in there for all anyone knows."

"It's probably a rat trap somewhere, last place anyone'd think to look."

"Ain't that right ?"

"I don't know, honest I don't."

"Here's the low down kiddo. The precinct's not mine to talk on. You wanna buy that, you talk to the cap'n. If you ever manage to get within earshot, that is. But I'll do this much for you : if anyone gives you the roust you tell them to talk to Sgt. Delaney. That'll be good enough."

"I guess it'll have to be." I said, with a sigh.

"One time payment. Now stay outta trouble, you hear ?"

Any other time I'd have mourned the loss of all that scratch. Any other time but this. June was worth a grand like a whale's worth a penny. I knew no better use for it, and besies I could probably make it back just selling her nail clippings, if I ever found anyone clued in enough to know what they're worth. I beelined for her hideout.

"Honey, I'm dead." Her eyes grew big in horror. She didn't ask the question, she just hurled it at me silently, with her eyes. "That was your old man. He wants me dead. He's bribed a lot of cops to get me out of the picture one way or another." She broke down in a small fit, rolling face down on the bed and beating the dust out of the old matress with her angly little fists. Eventually she settled enough to howl through the tears "I'll kill myself. I'll go tell him right now!" What a stupid fucking idea. That's the problem with broads, if left to their own judgement they'll send everything to hell in a handbasket with the best of intentions from the purest of hearts.

"Nothing like that now, baby. They say I've kidnapped you. Are you kidnapped ?" she looked back at me all flame in her eyes. "No!" she yelled out. "If he lays eyes on you, guess what ? You will be kidnapped, and they'll stop saying it. What do you want, them to say while you aren't, or them to not say while you are ?" That seemed to calm her, but then she remembered what I said. She didn't say anything, but I could tell from her eyes. I went on "I had to bribe the cops myself, baby. I promised seventy-six hundred a week, to operate. They took it. The fix is in. Come Monday morning, I'll be floating up lake Michigan, cuz I ain't got seven grand to make that pay off."

"Ooh." she said. That's all, just like the other one. How do they know to do that ? It's the problem with broads. Left to their own they'll know exactly the right thing to say to drive you out of your mind, every time. She looked down. She wrung her wrists and looked back at me. "How much can a whore make, Daddy ?"

"Not that much, baby. Not that much." I knew what she was going to say before she said it. "How do you know ?" I didn't say anything for a while. I just looked at her. "Baby..." I said, but she cut me off. "Let me try. I want to try to save your life. What have you got to lose ?" I kissed her whore mouth. I whispered in her ear "You, for one thing." She giggled and turned to me, smiling like a little girl. "Oh don't worry about me, Daddy. I'll be fine. Honest I will."

I climbed the stairs down to the desk three at the time. The same guy was there like every night, I never saw another employee. He still remembered me as that broke ass kid who begged and cajoled a discount on a discount off of him. When I opened my mouth, the last thing he expected to come out of it was "How'd you like to make a hundred dollars ?" Still reeling he snickered, then asked who he has to kill. "Nothing like that. All you have to do is kick out all these low-lifes. Then you book the whole house down, all sixteen luxurious apartments, at twenty each a week. That's three twenty, and there's a hundred in it for you." His eyes grew very large. "That's a hundred a week ?" he asked me. "Right on, buddy, a hundred a week straight in your pocket." His eyes thinned out. "Let me see the money." I counted four hundred fifty in fifties on his desk, but when he reached for it I snapped it away. "Seeing it is one thing. You get me the keys, you can have it." He fell back in his chair with a whoosh, then after a moment came back with "You're the boss, Jack. I'll need a coupla days." I reached over and flicked some invisible spec off his lapel. "You've got plenty of time, friend. I don't need them before next Monday." He frowned and took on a pained expression, like his teeth suddenly found cold lemon. "That's pretty tight."

I gave him a look like he's thick maybe ? "Wednesday's almost out. That means Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, four days. Then it's this Monday. That's a whole week from next Monday. You've got eleven days. What the hell do you need, a quarter ?" He looked at me all confused. "Oh, you mean next Monday." I looked at him like he bummed one too many cigarettes. "Yes, I mean next Monday. That's why I said next Monday." With his hands dancing the appeasement dance he closed me out. "Okey dokey boss, you've got it." I dropped a twenty in front of him like it was a nickel and peeled out of there.

I went straight for Jimmy. I landed there just as he was closing shop. He was real excited to see me. We rapped a while about the whole thing, then I laid the June trip on him too. "Jimmy, man, I'm dead. If you don't turn the back rooms over there into trick rooms, I ain't ever gonna see the light of day come Monday." He looked at me from the side, dragged his reefer, held it, and then exhaled to the sound of "Who says I don't ?"

We talked it all through, excited like jays. I was a punk kid trying to bite more than he can chew, he was a washed up has-been trying to get back in the game. He got pretty worked up when I mentioned his jasper. It was plain as day he's got no cop on her at all, she's just got a meal ticket in him and that's all. I needled him with it too, "Well... ain't she got any friends ?" The poor guy, it really riled him, I could've bet dollars to dimes he's not ploughed into any of the pussy that girl brushed her teeth in, and won the bet, too. We left it that he'll handle the premises but I gotta find the girls. I had no intention of doing anything like it, and no need of him to do it with, anyhow. He didn't know it, but he was much more useful to me as a witness to my trying and not managing than anything else. Just in case some wiseguy came by asking questions. "I swear, the kid's got nothing, he couldn't even get a coupla whores together for my place when he had the chance." If June's ex-daddy was that tight with the cops, it stood to reason he might be just as tight with the other side, and I didn't need that kind of trouble. Not just yet, anyhow.

I went to bed in his cubby after cleaning his floors just like old time's sake, but thinking of June the whole time. I barely slept a wink because of her. In the morning I went in with breakfast. She was still sleeping, and boy was she happy to see her dead man. Afterwards, while eating our cold omelets I talked her down the whole trade. She's to go out, the cops won't bother her, get her johns and bring them back. The more she can go through the better it is. I told her to stay out of bars and stick to the streets. I told her to ask for as much as the sucker's worth, I said to her "Baby, you can always mark down. You can never mark up." Then I told her to make some friends, you never know when you need one. I kissed her sweetly and I told her I have to keep on the low-down, so they don't find me. It made no sense, what with the fix being in and everything, but she lapped it up like a fifteen year old kid in love over her ears. It made me so hot for her I tumbled her over and lay it into her like I was drilling oilpipe.

From there I made quick to Mama's parlour. She had no idea then, not anymore than I did, that she was about to set me up for life. Or maybe that's not right. She was there with one of her customers, who was getting her eyebrows arched. I walked through the pungent odors rising from the hot pressing combs pulling through the kinky hair of a couple customers, all the way to the back of the shop. There she was! Flashy as a Christmas tree, sitting before a mirror at a dressing table with her back to me. Mama stopped plucking at her brows as she introduced us, "Mrs. Ibbetts, this is my son Bobby."

Like a yellow cat hypnotizing a bird, she sat there motionless, her green eyes smoky, as she stared at me through the mirror. Then the velvet purring voice undulated toward me, she said, "Oh Bobby, I have heard so much about you. It's so exciting to meet you. But please call me Pepper. Everyone ever does."

I don't know what excited me more as I stood there. Was it the raw sensuality coming off of her in crushing waves ? Or maybe the blazing rocks on her tapered fingers, that I was sure hadn't come from Kresge'sii. I mumbled something, I don't even remember what it was. Something stupid anyways. Later I saw her slide into her sleek Caddie convertible, her white silk dress riding up exposing the satin sheen of her creamy yellow thighs. As she gunned away from the curb, she turned deliberately and gave me a full dose of those hot green eyes. She was signing the lease. I quizzed around and got the background on her. She was thirty-eight and she used to whore to the nines. She had worked the jazziest houses back East. Some wealthy white fence and part-time gambler tricked with her out there, then had enough of buying by the scoop and went and bought her outright. Her pimp was still working off the double-five bit he laid on him in parting. She was squared up now, and evidently ready for some action.

Three hours later there I was, ringing her doorbell in the plush Heights. I had a bundle of roses in my hand the size of a bale of hay. It was sixty-nine gorgeous buds, in an arangement with fresh ferns, you figure out what it set me back. The prettiest colors, too. There were those fabulous creamy-white ones with the red frosting on the edges ; then the plain pink ones, like tulips, and the crazy ones spotted red and butter-yellow in patterns. I bought out all the pink roses in South Water just about.

She answered the door wearing only a pair of white lace step-ins. My erection was hard and instant. She had a fabulous pad, all satin and light. The old man wouldn't be back for a week.

Truth be told I was closer to a hep punk than anything. I most definitely wasn't anywhere close her league, but one of my greatest assets has always been my open mind. That freak bitch cajoled out of me everything in the fuckbook, plus a few things I don't think were even listed. Of the two of us she'd have been the only one who'd know, anyway. Fucking with Pepper wasn't anything like the scared romps with the young girls I knew before. She wasn't nearly as enthusiastic as the great whores in my life ; but her snake-like calm, the way she rubbed without a care in the world, they drove me even wilder than the heat of the young vixens. What a thrill it must've been for a sly old dog like her, to turn out a tender fool like me. She was a hell of a teacher all right, and what a performer! In between our romps she explained all of burlesque to me ; and then she took me to see it, too. She got me to where I could judge the girls as well as any producer ever, and better even, because from her undulating belly I freely took a carnal knowledge like no other, as if putting me inside while they were all stuck on the outside of their whore.

My hair took on little by little the faint scent of her piss. She had been pimped hard ; she hated men. She made an exception for me, somehow, but even that exception had its moments where it wavered, where I could feel her hatred, burning through. I let it have its way, I let her do things to me I wouldn't have taken from anyone else. Far from uppity, it made her feel vulnerable, and left her wanting to open up to me. I'd turn the tables on her then, slow and by degrees. She told me to, the first time I tried it of my own. She said she'll take it, she'll take it from me, but I've to move it slowly, I have to drive it into her faintly, and show it to her as I do it so she knows there's no escape. She taught me about women, not by example like the jaspers at Tuskegee, but with clear explanation in plain sight. She explained rope and restraint, she explained cane and pain, she drew their square on the ground in her own blood for me, and made geometries of music with her screams braided in the harsh marks my learning left upon her butter skin. She let me look inside of her, and reach the little egg hiding from sight, she made me know every hole in her all the way and in everywhich way.

She taught me to snort girl. She snorted a lot herself. Whenever I came to her pad there would be thin sparkling rows of crystal cocaine on the glass top of the cocktail table. We would snort it through Bohemian crystal horns and then in the mirrored bedroom we made circus love until our nerve ends shrieked. Pepper and all that sugar'd have made a freak out of Peter the Rock ; and upon it we built our church.

I was green all right and twice as soft. She knew it, and she licked it off of me voluptuously, by slight degrees, like you savour a delicious meal that'll not come again in your life. Besides the sensuous succubus, Pepper was also a hardened ex-whore. She knew all the crosses. She had all the answers. She had lots of scratch, but she wasn't laying a red penny on me. One lazy Summer evening, as the the dazzling edge on our orgy was fading in me, I asked her straight up. "Mama... if you were to turn me out... how much'd my ass be worth ?" She smiled at me from under her half-closed eyes. "What are you doing, puppy dog ?"

"I want to flip you. I want to use the moves and techniques you taught me yourself, on you."

"Ooh." There it went again. I sighed deeply and went on. "I know all your buttons, unless you've hidden some. Did you hide some, bitch ?" I purred at her, all sugar and honey. She shook her head no. "What'll make you burn hotter for your little puppy, than knowing you've chained yourself away ?"

"Oh," she whispered, like a New Year's balloon breathing its last "Daddy... you've got yourself a whore."

"It'll cost you a lot to be my whore, babe." I grunted at her, getting on top of her, pinning her down.

"I know", she whispered, like in a trance. "Will you charge me a fortune, Daddy ? To whore for you ?"

"Naw" I sniggered, getting off of her, like it had all been a joke. "I wouldn't know how. I just love you too much."

"You'll make a lousy pimp" she sang, in even tones, regret welling in her chest. I had her number alright. She knew it, like I knew it, and she knew I knew it, too : for the past years living as a squared up whore she was bored stiff. She felt the end chipping away towards her, and her days getting sucked in a great big hollow vacuum, like water down a drain. She had never felt so alive as she did with me on top of her, copping her, making like I'm copping her. Everything about her came back to visit her like a big crushing wave. She hadn't lived a whore by accident, even if she was playing the square for convenience.

Her eyes under the half closed lids rose to meet mine, imploringly. "Please" she mouthed, inaudibly. "Please!" she whispered, like the wind. I said to her "Say please make me a real whore again, Daddy." she did it, immediately, like a gramophone. I looked at her, a slight smile on my lip, and I brought the clincher on her, like the sword of judgement. "Say please Daddy, please make me the crowiii in your crew, so all the other whores walk all over me and I have to kiss their sweaty asses." Her eyes grew the size of onions, and then she lost it! I thought she was going to kill me! "What other whores, you slimy bastard!" she yelled at me. It made me so happy to see her that angry. Furious. She was shooting daggers from those green eyes on her, now gone past smoldering into red hot volcano. I knew I had her. Right then and there I knew I had found her sensitive, delicate little nubbin hidden inside, and hitched my knot on it for good. Pepper's gonna be my whore, ten thousand pretty blond angels sung in my ears, deafening me. She's gonna be my whore. Definitely. She's gonna go for it, she's gonna do it. Hallelujah!

I told her all about June. How I met her, how I loved her, and how desperately I wanted to see Pepper under her, being dominated and pushed around by a little fifteen year old girl. She was stony silent for the longest time. Eventually I said "I told you it'll cost you a lot". She didn't say anything. She just nodded after a while, then opened her eyes. She looked at me, straight, for the first time since we met in Mama's shop. "Take me to her, then." she said, as plain as rain. What else could she have said, or done ? We had been playing this great game of chicken ever since she first laid eyes on me. "I bet you won't dare hit on me, you punk-ass kid." her eyes were saying to me, back in Mama's parlour, and then on that curb. Especially on that curb. "I bet you won't take your clothes off and show me what I'm missing out on" said those roses, and "I bet you won't come in and make me feel it" said those step-ins and that's all it was, all along and all the way through. Like two schoolboys running into each other one Summer vacation. "I bet you ain't got the guts" to this or that and then the other was the whole of our Law, sing-song and response all the way through.

The first thing I did, when she opened the door that first time, it wasn't what I wanted to do. I ached to push her in, fall on top of her, piledrive into her, just like you do, just like you'd think I do. That's not what I did, though. As she took the flowers from me and started to say something, I went down on my knees. Holding her taut ass in my hands, I kissed her mound. She moaned and tried to pull me in, but I kept pulling her out. Eventually we fell inside, her on her back and me on top of her. She had the greater pull. After that she scurried away. I didn't get up on my feet. Instead, I chased after her on all fours, barking like a dog. She stopped on the second stair, spreading her legs wide, daring me with her fingers. I ate her neatly trimmed bush like I hadn't seen one before. It was true, too. I had never seen a shaved kitty before in my life, I didn't even think it possible. I'd have never thought to come up with it on my own, hadn't I seen it on her first. I ate her out forever, without mercy, until it hurt her. She begged me to let her go. I didn't hear her. She tried to get away but was too exhausted from all the orgasm bucking. She couldn't push through wet paper. She cried in despair, but I didn't care. I didn't stop. Eventually she let go of her bladder, but that didn't stop me either. My erection was killing me the whole time, but I wouldn't put it in her, though she begged me to. Oh, how she begged me to. Her muscles were spasming every which way, criss-crossing her abandoned body. She thought she was going to die.

And then I stopped. Just like that, as she was breathing evenly, resigned. Raw. I told her I'll do anything she wants me to, what does she want me to ? She told me to call her Mama. I said Yes Mama. She told me to go put that ugly nigger dick of mine in ice. I went over to where she had a bar, flung out some bottle out of a bucket of ice. It went flying in a wide arc, crashing through some stuff, foaming up like it was trying to put out a fire. It didn't manage to. I stuffed my cock in the hole left behind. The ice felt like gorgeous hell. She said "You're a crazy kid, you know that ?" I said Yes Mama. She made me a drink. She kissed my frozen rod better. We just went at it like that, day in and day out. Like crazy people. How could she back down ? She had been through enough, she had eaten enough shit to not want to back down now, whatever the hell it was. In the end, our tug of war was resolved by the happy circumstance that I had more to ask of her than she had to ask of me, that's all.

That's all it ever is.

———The judge is trying to rule on what he interpreted to be a motion of summary dismissal introduced by the defendant, because that's how justice worked in the time and place, the judge translated common speech "in the interest of justice", meaning to save everyone the trouble and expense of having a public defender appointed and a new date scheduled when the exact same motion'd be considered. [↩]This thing eventually became K-Mart sometime in the 70s. [↩]WW1 lingo, raw recruits fresh from back home. Soft, green, of little military value and correspondingly commanding no respect. Quite on the contrary... [↩]

« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 5 : To Tuskegee, And Back

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 7 : Blown Whoreless, And Fresh Out Of Girl »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Saturday, 27 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 5 : To Tuskegee, And Back

Party's bad break sobered me. I started hearing what was going on in day classes at school, and kept it up for a year or so until at age fifteen I graduated from high school, amazingly, and with a ninetyeight point four average! Some people who were alumni of Tuskegee, a Southern Negro college, insisted upon Mama letting them underwrite all expenses for my education at their Alma Mater. The tuition came to almost two hundred, and then there were other expenses for textbooks. Room and board came to another coupla hundred. All together it piled up just a shoeshine short of Vera's take that one Friday night. The thought still makes me snicker, though of course I didn't dare bat an eyelash then. To Mama it seemed nothing short of a fabled fortune of the sultans, and she leaped at the chance.

The alumni went into debt and sent me down to their hallowed school with a sparkling wardrobe. I sold myself hard on their blather of the future, I still don't know why but I sure as hell did it back then. Education freaks are no different from any other church nuts. They all think the same way, it's always salvation and Jesus is coming for them, though they call it different things but it all works the same, like a tractor painted red is the same under the hood as the same tractor painted yellow, and if you paint it pink instead it might look like a novelty but it'll still be a Farmall Progress. I didn't know any of that back then, of course. Somewhere in the back of my head there was the thought that if it costs the same as Vera's Friday night it probably is worth the same as Vera's Friday night too, I'm sure. It must've been there in the first place for me to figure it out eventually ; but it was buried, deep under a whole pile-up of "the success of my very life itself", rescuing Mama and all her awesome guilt, not to mention the trust and confidence of those big-hearted alumni. A lot of people's self-importance was at stake, and I was supposed to be stuck pulling their ego carts for them all the way uphill to Tuskegee.

The sleepwalking lasted maybe two, maybe even three months ; but little by little I woke up and smelled the cunt. Before the first year was out I had slit open the maidenhead on a halfdozen curvy coeds, and in the process made the biggest discovery of my entire life. They don't mind being together! They think they mind it, everyone tells them they do and tries to sell them on it, but deep down, at the brass tacks, they like being together just fine. It's better for them, it's like someone told them they don't like fried chicken their entire life. They go through the day stuffing themselves on watermelon, because on their own they're too dumb to try things or figure their way out of a paper bag. You ever try any poisonous mushrooms to see whether they're poisonous or sugar-sweet ? So then how you know they're poisonous in the first place ?

That's how it goes, once you force them to stick some of that disgusting terrible awful delicious fried chicken down their craw their tune changes fast enough. All of a sudden all sorta qualities and advantages start coming out of the woodwork. You've gots ta start with them young enough, so their brains ain't grown bones all over and through yet, but as my good fortune had it freshman year's not too late at all. Once I finally figured that out, I was like a fox in a chicken coop. My notoriety was getting something awful, but I was starting to pile up the scratch faster than it went out. Turns out that even though the campus finks were bile-green with envy, there's nothing much a college kid won't do for even the prospect of spending the night with a roomfull of naked co-eds ; and the naked co-eds don't mind being naked if there's three or four of them to the loser.

In my Sophomore year I figured out no man lives on an island, even if off to college. I started going into the hills near the campus. I made a circuit through all the juke joints, and there were dozens of them. They liked the smell of Chicago on my accent, plus by then I had extended my original wardrobe pretty far, and in a different direction from the alumni tastes. To the pungent, hot-ass maidens in the hills I was prince charming in spades. I started having the round butt, bare foot beauties sleeping in with the respectable maidens on paper only, proud produce of the Negro middle class, though it did turn out they minded that a lot more than anything else. This is where I made my second big discovery in life. It doesn't matter what they mind! It doesn't matter one ant's piss-all. The more they mind, the more they work each other, the dorms with the toughest tugs of war between the farm-bred whores and the Papa's parlour prostitutes were always the dorms the guys wanted the most, and paid for the most. Competition's really what makes the real whore out of the dull girly in a stupid collared blouse. Once I figured that out, I started using it like Archangel Michael's sword of ass-unction. Maybe some girly didn't want to give it up, or maybe she liked pretending like she didn't want to, a little. That changed more often than not once it came up that some other girly did give it up, and loved doing it, too.

I kept the old folks out of it as best I could, but nothing lasts forever and soon enough I was on the carpet, in the office of the school President. The cocksucker didn't even offer me a chair. He just sat there behind his gleaming mahogany desk, reflecting his ugly mug and clearing his pipes. He kept giving me looks, like I picked my nose at a wake and wiped it on the stiff's tie or shoved cowpies in the kitchen smokestacks. I don't think he ever did anything worth writing about with his missus, but he held his head high and kept right on not understanding why she's such an unpleasant bitch. He drawled his way through words like the Mississippi flows through shit : "Boy, yu ah a disgrace to oauh fine institushun. Ah'm shocked thet sech has occurred. Yo mothah has bin infaumed of yo bad conduck. Oauh bord is considurin yo dismissul. En thu meantime, keep yo nos clean, boy. Yo ah not to leave campus for eny resun."

I came out of there whiter than I've been in my life, at least lookswise. I could have saved my worry over dismissal, though. They may not look like it, especially on their backs with their legs hanging by their ears and fresh buttermilk coming out of their bush, but whores have powerful pull all right. Turns out I wasn't the only one with a vested interest in the matter. Before the week was out I was back in the Principal's office, this time seated, and on the receiving end of an apology. Can you believe the old scarecrow actually went as far as to apologize to me for calling a spade a spade or more's the like a cathouse by its proper name ? I can't believe it either, not now like I couldn't then. And yet it happened, like the Hoover dam happened.

Meanwhile anything with a buzz in it was in great demand on campus, second only to anything warm and round and with a greased hole sorta midway. A pint of rot gut whiskey that you couldn't give away on the Southside brought from seven and a half to ten dollars here, depending on supply. My chosen roommate had some decent scratch together. He was a sharpy from a number-racket family in New York. We worked it together, I'd stay back and distribute while he'd go out there through the hills finding sourdough miners running hidden stills, and old farmers moonshining. There were almost as many of these as young whores waiting to be discovered, thinking back on it now it seems those hills teemed with everything but a honest day's work. Great place them Roller people found for their castle of higher learning, no doubt about it.

This partnership worked for a little while, but soon enough there were some problems come from it. There's only so much liquor young negro studs can imbibe, both because they can't carry it worth two bits and because there's only that much money they have available to pay for it. As it turns out, neither of those's all that much at all. In the few months we worked together the pint went to five dollars tops, then four, and finally three and even two-fifty. It was getting to where it was barely worth the carting, not that anyone was in any danger of breaking their backs hauling the aggregate demand anyway. Then all his truck with the hillbillies put him in a prime position to see the prize cooch before I did. I could feel it coming a week away, the cogs turning in his head. He was going to cut loose and go in on his own, and to say it true I didn't think he was smart enough to pull it off. Besides, the well was getting tighter and tighter, the air in the tunnel ever thicker and harder to breathe. I thought to myself I'd be damned if I'll go start a turf war for the grand or two a week that apish gang of Mama's boys was worth at their furthest stretch.

I didn't let him turn a rat. I guess he might've told me, maybe, fair and square, that he's cutting loose. But I didn't wait to find out. Instead I told him straight up one night, "Listen Jimmy, this is a great set-up we got here, ain't it ?" I said. He nodded. He didn't talk much, like dumb people don't. "Leaving it all behind's the last thing I want to do" I carried on "But I have no choice. Family trouble, I gotta go be with my Mama. I tried to work it out every which way but there's no helping it. Before two weeks is out I'll be out of here, I haven't told a soul but I want to let you know first. You'll be left in charge with it all. Think you can handle it ?" He could barely contain his glee. I peppered some more "don't let some sucker steal it from us now" and "make me proud, you hear ?" in there, college spirit bullshit, and then that was that. Next day I took the train out, and that was the last Tuskegee saw of me, or me of it. I guess a college career works better for some people than some others, like drowning works better for some people than others, in preference of say hanging or falling down a well. Don't let no fool tell you though that it works well for anyone, because it don't. It can't work no better than any other prayer meeting or hallelujah joint, because how could it ? It's the same thing anyway. All your life you gotta learn, and if you do or if you don't it'll be your ass. But no college has more to do with that than painting your nails. You can't buy yourself a house to be happy in anymore than you can get yourself a college to be smart in. It just ain't how anything ever works.

I paid the man in the booth nineteen-fifty for a ticket to Chicago. That left me twenty-eight twenty and some coins. Six hundred of that was from Vera. I meant to keep it. Who knows, maybe she comes asking after it one of these days, so I can milk another sixty thousand sixty times out of that sweet ass of hers. Who knows what Vera ripened into by then ? It's been five years, she must be a woman, grown in full by now. There I sat, I can see it in my mind better than I can see myself in the mirror, a seventeen year old nigger boy half weeping half counting. I put seventeen hundred together in one pocket. I put the other eleven and change in another pocket. A hundred a year was more to show than most people ever can or ever could ; and boy was I gonna have a ball in Chi. I stretched my legs on the trunk. Hour and a half till the train leaves. It looked like I was taking a nap, but I was just sitting and thinking. Then there was a hand on my shoulder.

When I looked up, a kid I didn't much know, from the East Coast, nodded at me. He handed me an envelope, and he said "Jimmy says arivederci." Then he turned around and left. Inside it, twenty-eight hundred dollars, in hundreds and fifties. Jimmy was buying me out. It never pays to wait for anyone to turn rat. Things didn't work out for him too well, though. There were two jasper coeds in one of the dorms who got off by their fierce rivalry with each other. They liked me for some reason, but they didn't like Jimmy, and from what I pieced together from what I heard later, they blew up the whole set-up for him within a month of my getting out of there. I don't know how it went down exactly. I think it maybe started from this coffee-colored doll from a country town in Oklahoma. She was all curves but really dumb too. Nobody had wised her up to the lesbian kick, she had no idea what the hell's going on, it was almost funny to watch. Or who knows what fly went up their ass, they might have done the same with me there too, except for how they didn't.

I spent more than a month in Chicago before I finally had the heart to tell Mama about it. I put up in a hotel in a slum neighborhood, around 29th and State Streets. More of a flop house to tell the truth, but it only ran me eighteen-fifty a week. It was the best I could do after nigh-on half hour of pratting the clerk. The sucker ask was twenty-five, though I could tell twenty is what they wanted for 'em. Most places went thirty or even forty, but this was a little bit more run down. It wasn't worth my time to push the clerk that hard, and take that long doing it. Only a nigger dumb enough to be a chauffeur or something spends half an hour sweating up a buck and change. I did it because I was a dumb kid, and didn't know what's what or anything. Who knows, maybe if I prat them good they'll pay me a coupla hundred a week to sweat in their bedsheets every night ?

Maybe you think it's funny, haggling like that, and for what ? While all the while I had the cold hard cash in my pocket to pay the rent for years in advance on that rat trap. Another guy would have gone for the plushest pad he could find, drop a hundred or two a week on it and then go out looking for maybe some whore to open up his nose, a nice game of Georgia-skin with some people he's never seen before in his life and wouldn't know from Adam, a dirty cop looking for some young nigger to roll over, something like that ? Another guy did, but Iceberg ain't his daddy. I didn't mean to blow my five grand within the week. I didn't mean to blow it ever, and if you think about it, who'd think to try and break into the room of some skinny ass nigger kid who ain't got twenty together for his rent ? Huh ?

I did the right thing, and you know that's what it is by that unerring sign, that all the dunces are in their natural confederacy against it. To get myself to the plush pad I had to make some friends first. That's the two teeth of the living good pliers, one's who you know the other's your stake. Dumb bitches all the time try to get to it on just the one, live offa handouts, eat at parties, shower on a home date, live out like rag dolls from fuck to fuck. Dumb suckers all the time try to do the other by itself, get a big stake together as if that'll do anything besides land them in a tank somewhere. You gotta get both to pinch Mother Nature's tit good and hard enough to dribble some of that sweet milk in your open mouth, and that's just what I meant to do. I said before something was the biggest lesson I had learned in my life, and I lied, like I'm lying now, when I tell you the truth : this is. This is the biggest lesson, if you ain't got the outfit blow the setup, I you ain't got the bankroll blow the game. Go sit at a table with people you know and with as much scatch as you need for it. Learn this much, you won't need no college as long as you live, and all the other suckers no college will ever help enough to figure worth a dry fig.

It didn't take me so long to found a fascinating second home. It was a gambling joint run by a broken down ex-pimp and murderer called Diamond Tooth Jimmy. The two-carat stone, wedged between the upper front rotting teeth, was the last vulgar memento of his infamy as the top ass-kicker of the nineteen-twenties. I told you I lied to you before, and I'll tell you right now I'll lie to you again, because the biggest lesson's that old quality beats anything to buy, because it's cheap. I read it in the newspaper once, nothing's as ex as an ex-bigshot, and you know what that means ? It means nothing's as cheap, and that means nothing's as much worth buying, dollar for dollar you won't get value like that anywhere. I'd have rather spent my days in Jimmy's joint, dropping a buck on his rigged games now and again like a sucker kid, than stuffing my craw with the President's wife. They paid a thousand dollars a plate back in those days to go eat an evening with some senator in the running, those sorts of people. I guess it's good enough for them, who don't need that G for anything. But if you mean kick for your buck, Diamond Tooth Jimmy's worth fifty future presidents, and it'll run you much lighter on the pocket, too.

He boasted endlessly that he was the only nigger pimp on Earth who had ever pimped in Paris on French girls. I didn't ask him roller questions, I just let him spin his tale, but it made no sense to me. Why'd he not bring some over, for one thing ? Everyone was going to France in those days, all the bums I mean, artists and writers and that kinda scum. If the bums are going one way the whores'd better be coming the other way. That's how it always goes, when the bums calling themselves prospectors make out of town for the hills like varmints from under a lifted boulder, that's when the whores come in from all the hill farms to the mint town, to work that kitty for fresh minted silver. When all the bums go off to France you know it's because French money isn't any good, and if the money's no good what the hell are the girls still doing sticking around there ?

I never asked him anything like that though. Much later I found out niggers had been pimping on white girls around those parts in the old world for long before America was even invented. There was even one guy Othelo who strangled a whore in his bed so good, they made poems about him for it. Back then and over there people had their head screwed on better. Anyway, the thing with old timers is, all you care about's that they were on top. You're not about checking out their stories like a cop. You just let them tell and keep your ears open because they don't know what they're telling. If they want to lie to you or not it doesn't matter, they only lie about themselves, and you don't care any about that. Everything else's what's the matter, and that gets straight and true through well enough.

After all the suckers were trimmed and all the shills were paid, Jimmy locked the door and then, like a ritual, lit up a thin brown reefer. As he talked, he sometimes passed it to me, cursing me lightly for not inhaling deeply and holding the smoke, as he put it, "deep in my belly." When dawn broke he'd go out through the joint door home, to the nineteen-year-old jasper on whom he lavished furs and jewels. I thought he was a real sucker. Me, half the time I'd go to bed in the tiny cubicle in the rear of the joint, to dream fantastic dreams. Always beautiful whores would get down on their knees and tearfully beg me to take their money. They'd be virgins run from home with their papa's silver dollar and their mama's silver needles, begging me to turn them out on the street and make real whores out of them. They'd be top ticket dancers and singers from uptown, their press agents trying to keep the private dicks and glamour beat reporters from taking their picture, naked, kneeling and kissing my feet. They were gun molls and hundred-a-trick whores, runaway from their pimps and gangsters who'd be roaming the streets looking for us but never had enough sense to knock on the door. I'd be waving at them as they drove by in a rush while I boned their prize by the window, her tits hanging out over the ledge and her moans filling the neighbourhood. One day I saw a pretty Apache girl in a wedding dress crossing the street a block up from me, and from that day on she came to beg me to knock her up before her wedding almost every night. There were French girls, too, and they spoke French to everyone though I have no idea how it went or how I knew it was French, and then there'd be Mama. She's caress me and cry on my shoulder because she was so old and if only she had met me before she met Steve her life'd have worked out so much better. She'd run around and hide among the other girls, clumps and clumps of naked girls, and then I'd fuck them, but always in the same way : I'd grab one and start boning her standing, from behind, her head pressed against a wall just like I did Vera. The others'd line up, and I'd pluck the head off the one I was fucking, just like that, the way they take heads off manequins in clothing stores, and plop another one's head in. I'd be fucking the same body over and over with new heads, they'd be coming offering me their detached head, holding it in their hands. Then when I was done they'd laugh and run around, switching their heads from one to another all the time like god damned prairie dogs.

Across the street from Jimmy's joint, a little ways up there was a big bar that had live bands, and not just on weekends either. Jimmy didn't open early, but the bar did, and I often camped there after breakfast, chatting up the girls and playing the jukebox with them. That's how I met June. She was just turned fifteen. She was luscious like I couldn't believe, and I don't just mean for a fifteen year old. Jean Harlow had nothing on her, which is how we met. She was there with some friends of hers, way in the back, sucking down root suds. I walked up to them and, looking straight at her, I said "Hi! What's your name ?" She said June, but I made like I heard Jean and I said "Oh, Jean, that's a pretty name!" She said no, not Jean, June, and I laid right back into her, I said "Ok Miss Harlow, have it your way." I turned around like it was nothing and walked slowly off. She was laughing and so were some of her friends but one of them didn't get it and kept asking what does he mean ? what does he mean ? Another one explained it to her and I turned just my head and winked at my future whore. That night she spent at my hotel, which I kept even though I slept over at Jimmy's most nights. Cheap comes in handy more ways than one. If it's not burning a hole in your pocket it's more likely to be on hand when needed, and boy was it needed that night! Nobody knew about it, I hadn't told a soul, so even though the people from the bar knew I hung out around Jimmy's all the time, nobody there could tell them where to find me. Jimmy said he never would have told them in a million years anyway, even if he knew, and I believe him. It's cheap to believe him, seeing how he didn't know in the first place. It never pays to make anyone a rat.

Her dad was one of the more popular band leaders, a big black guy from New Orleans, kinda old. Her mom was white, and gone somewhere. She'd say dead sometimes, or gone to Indochina other times, I never got a straight story out of her. I figure her mom was one of those girls with a wild itch, and she took off sometime never to be heard from again. June was the highest yellow broad I had yet laid my prick into. Strawberry blond hair really looked great on her slightly toasted, almondy skin, though when I met her she was just some kinda brown. Her old man was crazy tight, and she wasn't keen on going back at all. I think maybe her mom running off had more to do with him than with her. He was one of those loud and in your face types, always yakking about something he wants you to do or stop doing. It's no wonder they kicked him out of the Big Easy. Deep down she hated him plenty, but also he had taken care of her growing up. She just didn't want to think about it, and with me there she really didn't have to.

The way it played out was, she sneaked out during one of his early sets. There was nothing he could do about it for hours, except grow more incensed. From what I heard he played some of his best music that night. By the time he was off, the bar was closing, people were heading home. The jughead didn't go to bed or anything, instead he roused the cops, made a big scene, screamed his head off in Jimmy's joint, ended up in the slammer. The pigs weren't perturbed or anything, single father with a wife gone to Texas and a fifteen year old daughter headed that way, but they figured he's safest in the tank, lest he assaults someone or gets himself in even worse trouble. So they took him to everyman's flophouse, courtesy the board of trustees of the city of Chi. All the while we were cosy like honeybears fourteen blocks away in my eighteen-fifty a week bed. It hadn't seen me in like a week, but we sure gave its rusty springs a workout to compensate. Then after the second or third twirl I felt this pang grow inside of me, like a biting ache. I wanted to test her, to try her out. I wanted to see what's inside, what she's made of. I'd have stretched her with ropes if I had any. Instead I asked her if she knows what a whore is. She giggled and said she does. I asked her if she knew what a whore does ? She giggled some more but didn't say anything. I said to her "I'll tell you what she does. She leaves all her clothes behind, in the room, and goes naked in the hallway." She looked me straight in the eyes, dead serious. "Why does she do that for ?" she asked, sing-song like, as if she was playing along in some game. "She'll see it when she does it", I told her, and sure enough five minutes later there we were, buck-naked barefoot beauty running up and down the old stained carpeting of the run down hotel. I took her out to the fire escape and fucked her there, out in the open like that, the pleasant breeze flying her hair in my face. It was the first time I felt the pleasure of fucking a hot eager whore. Before that it was the release, the relief, but this time, and occasionally from then on it was just the sheer pleasure of feeling her womanly guts, smooth as silk, rub on the delicate part of my rod, under the skin, like a crazy tickle of joy.

In the morning I gave her a few bucks to buy us breakfast at the diner down the street. I figured her old man might have pulled a stink, though I had no idea then just what kind of a stink he pulled. I had no conception of her being hot to go out though, and maybe I was right. In a big town fourteen blocks' further than across the county line in the sticks, and that's god's own truth of the matter. While she was gone I had the craziest plan. I knew Mama had changed jobs, she had just started working at a small beauty salon, doing hair. When June came back I asked her how'd she like to get her hair and nails done ? She jumped up and down like a baby goat, clapping her hands in joy. She told me her daddy never let her do that before, and I told her I'm her daddy now and she'd better not call anyone else dady in the whole world for as long as she lives. I said it stern and she almost started crying and begging me to not be upset. I told her I'm not upset, and she asked me if she can still get her hair done ? I said "Sure honey. Here's what you do : there's a hair salon so and so, you go in there and you tell them you want to be strawberry blonde and your nails done pretty red with it, and your Daddy be by later to pay for it, but your Daddy say ain't nobody to do any of it but Ma'am Beck, 'cuz she's the best there is."

I gave her about an hour's head start, and then you can imagine Mama's shock and awe when who else comes in the door, the pretty baby's Daddy, other than little Bobby gone from college ? She nearly had a heart attack. Like I figured, all they did the whole time was trying to figure out who the gent might be that has such high oppinion of her. Truth be told she probably figured it's Steve, or some other bum in his line that never came out of her mouth to me though I'm sure had in his time his fair shot at being my daddy. That's why they've got two mouths on them after all, and at criss crosses from one another. But I told her I just couldn't cut it in college, and that I'm working now and this is June, don't she look just like Jean ? The whole thing was too much for Mama to get her wits gathered about her enough to bitch and moan, so we parted as the best friends, and we were gonna come Sunday for Sunday dinner at her place, like we was married or something. On the way back to my place, I turned around asked her how much does she love me ? She said she'd do anything for me. "Even turn a trick?" I asked her. "I'd do anything for you, Daddy!" she said right back, looking straight at me all serious. "You ain't ever gonna be my wife", I said back to her. She didn't say anything, just looked down at her feet. "But you can be my whore. And it'd be the first one, too. I ain't ever had a whore before." She looked back at me, straight into my eyes, piercing mine with hers, and then she said "Ok."

I left her at the hotel and went back in the street. Two blocks down I saw an old gambler. I knew he was a trick, and I owed him five dollars from before. I walked up to him with a swagger. "Hey Moe, how'd you like to give me five bucks ?" "You're the one to give me five, pay up, buster" he came right back at me, gruffly. "Oh, I'll pay you up even better." and I explained to him what awaited in the hotel room. Sure enough he greased my palm with five's silver. I took him upstairs and let him in on her. She turned him in less than five minutes, he was back down in the street before I finished my Camel. My seventeen-year-old brain reeled. This was still the depression. Ten bucks in five minutes, June could clear as much as Vera and with not nearly the same risks, either. I could get rich with this girl and drive a big white Packard, and not need no Party Time for anything, either. I discovered soon enough I liked watching her getting worked over. For the whole rest of the day I just piled up guys into her, must've been twenty, thirty people. If they didn't have cash I'd take their marker, I'd take pretty damn near anything just to get another prick working June over. You could say I was going hog-wild with the pimp's fever.

Then just by the time night was falling and I was running out of people I knew, a roller squad ran straight into me. "Son, are you so-and-so from so-and-so ?" Sure, I said, that's me. "You'd better be coming with us, then." and that was that, next thing I knew a fat pig of a detective was yelling at me.

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The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 6 : In The Slammer, And Back On The Street »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Saturday, 27 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 4 : Vera Comes, And Goes

I met Party several times after school, mostly at a run down pool room across the street from that old sheet joint. He ran his notions down for me, squeezed by degrees into the shape of the actual facts of the matter. At first it was in general, what if a man and a woman worked it together. Hours of pratting later the facts wrung out : they'd be better off pimping, like every chilli pimp since the dawn of time, which is why they do it that way and not this way. No need to do the Murphy if it's a man and a woman doing it, just too much trouble for much too little payoff, and also all the risk. The next time was, what if the woman's not really a whore. She'd be a thief then, as it turns out. She'd have to be. Maybe she'd carry an old lush, but there's no reason for her not to learn picking pockets, and no good reason to not play alone. It's just how the angles work out. Then after that it was, what if the whore's not really a woman. Turns out this is exactly what he had in mind all along : I'd put on a pair of frayed red satin high-heel shoes and a twenty-cent red dress from the Salvation Army. I'd pin a scraggly piece of hair just inside the front inner band of a faded blue straw bonnet. I'd tilt it on my head at a sexy angle, somehow, and better pray the ringlets of uneven hair hung down over my eyes like bangs.

The way dirty ole Joe figured it, I'd stand wide legged, thigh and hip muscles flexed against the tight red dress, aping the whore's stance in some dark alley. He'd give the pitch to some old guy, some lonely fat drunk guy, some bottom feeding, side scraping, backalley skirting character while I jerked my skinny ass in a series of bumps and grinds, and hopefully wave him toward me. Maybe the skinny black bitch the chump saw'd light a fire in him. Maybe he'd fumble for his hide and hand a bill to Party. Maybe he'd be lucky, and that'll end there ; or maybe not, maybe he'd flash a wad large enough to qualify him for the back of the head express. Maybe he'd be quick, but hopefully not quick enough to catch up with me as I did my best to evaporate through whatever path we scouted out aforehand, my heart pounding in excitement as I galloped through the alleys toward our next prearranged duck blind. The thing with people's everyone always has an angle, as if they were in charge of the flow. The boss of the floor. Every two bit huster with more rapsheet than bankroll still figures himself clever enough to call his own shots, and everyone else's too thrown in, why not. So when you know how it's gonna go, that's the best time to pay attention to what they all say, who don't yet know. It'll turn out informative, you know ?

I stretched out my legs, gave him a look, let out a sigh, looked up at him again... then after another pause I let go. "Party, man, I've got something here. There's this chick, Vera. She'll be the bait." ole Joe was blank, incomprehending. You could almost see the lone solitary cog spinning by itself in the caveman skull of the best hustler of Zionville or wherever he was from. "She's young, you see. She's twelve years old." His eyes opened wide and he drew a sharp breath enough to inflate a New Year's float to bursting. "The way we play it, you tout. You tell it true, too : this is one fine young bitch. She's ran away from home, you tell them. We'll have her mostly naked in that alley there, so the sucker can see her baby titties on her and everything. Then when the chump's all over her, I show up. I make like I'm her brother. I throw a screaming fit. If he tries to strongarm me, then you show up. If not, you just stay back. Pick respectable looking chumps. I'll tell them I recognize them from church. That I'll tell their inlaws. They'll be begging me to take their wad from them." Party Time was teetering like I hit him in the head with a garbage truck. He sat down and exhaled like a steam press. He gave me a look like I had just baptised baby Jesus. "You're a genius, Kid. That's what you are." He gushed all over me a while, then it finally dawned on him. "I'll have to see this bitch." he said. Of course he will.

The next Friday night we got down with our hustle. Mama was serving a party so I could stay in the streets until at least one in the A.M. Come nine Vera was at the bus stop, just like I told her. We walked together down the backstreets, hand in hand, like we was to be married. Party Time had taken the room facing the alley. The window was open like we said. I squeezed her by the back of her neck. She looked at me like only now it was getting real for her. She wimpered but didn't say anything. She took off her clothes, one by one. I bundled them up for her. A moment later there she stood, stark naked in that dirty back alley. I lifted her into the room through the open window. I left her shoes atop her bundled clothes on one of the garbage cans. If anybody takes them, I thought to myself, she ain't ever going back home ever again. Nobody did, though, when we came back they were right there where I left them. I jumped into the room myself. There they were, naked Vera standing, eyeing Party Time, dressed, stock straight, eyeing her back. It was like two tigers or something. I wanted to fuck her again. I'm sure he wanted to fuck her too. I said "Are we a coupla chumps or what, Party ?" He shook his head, like a dog out of water. "We're not gonna just sit here and fuck the bitch all night like two chumps. Are we ?" I asked him. Honestly I could see it either way, that Vera bitch was fine. It does something, for a girl, to go where the women go, to be in the room where whores fuck, to look like one in the setting of one, if you know what I mean. I does a lot. I wouldn't have traded her for the white man's wife, that's for damn sure. Right then I wouldn't have traded Vera for the world.

Party Time shook his head again. He grabbed her work clothes bundle and pushed it into her tit. Vera got herself dollied up. The whole bundle looked like it went for less than three dollars, but on her it looked like a million bucks. Before ten that night we were in an alley in the heart of the vice section, Seventh and Joliet. My place was a little up, around a corner. I told her how to walk, I showed her how to bump and grind, how to flaunt herself. I showed her how to expose herself when the punter's looking. Party looked her over from head to toe. He shook his head, mumbled the name of our saviour and walked toward the mouth of the alley, to catch a sucker. Within five minutes he gave the office that he had someone. Action was coming down the street. I wondered if the whole harebrained scheme had enough voltage to get us anything besides an asskicking. An elderly gent walked up towards Vera. He looked like a preacher, or a school principal maybe. She smiled at him, lifting her arms over her head, her bare tits going along for the ride. He pounced on her like she was cotton candy. He was mouthing her tits, right hand under her dress, when I let out the first yell, three paces off. "My god, sis! Mary! Is that you baby ?" She hissed "Go away. God damn it!" like we said. The guy on her was giving white new meanings, like he was trying to play paper sheet. I yelled my head off. "Oh, I know you! I know you! She's my little sister, she's not even twelve years old, you dirty bastard! You're going up for life for this, I'm telling Dad. I'm telling... I know your church, I've seen you. I'm going Sunday and I'm telling everyone! Filthy! Filthy!"

I said all that came to my mind. The take for five minutes' work was a hundred thirty eight dollars, a coupla silver nothings and a boatload of excuses and promises. The god damned setup was hot! We beat several other suckers in the same way. One of them had almost five hundred on him, the rest chickenfeed, but every few slats add up. After the third or fourth Vera chipped in. "Wouldn't it be better if I let 'em do her first ?" she asked, just like that. She wasn't after a thrashing or anything, she wanted to know. Scientific-like, as it were. A curiosity she had, nothing more. Better how, I asked her right back. Not like a chump can give you mre than what he has no matter what you do, and if they've done the deed they can't quite walk away. She let out the same "Ooh", and then I asked her if they fingered her any ? Yeah they did, she said. In the cooch ? I pressed her, just for the fun of it. Yeah, she said, and lifted her skirt. Right here, she showed us with her finger in and out. "Do you figure they couldn't tell if you're already full of it ?" I asked her. "Ooh" came back again. "It's bad for business if they fuck you, honey. Just let it be." She pouted and nodded her head. Jesus what whore she'll be! I looked at PT, and he looked at me. As dumb as he might be, I tell you I could feel he was thinking the same thing.

We worked until twelve-thirty, then climbed back through the alley window. Party went in through the door. The take was almost a grand if you can believe that. At a time when every working stiff took home forty-fifty bucks a day, two kids and a two bit hustler took almost a grand between the three of them in three-four hours. That's how hot that Vera bitch was! Party had this idea of splitting down the middle, but he saw the light soon enough. I didn't need him for touting and a bit of muscle, not like he needed us that's for damn sure. We split it three ways, and Vera gave me her part on the way to the bus station. I didn't even ask for it or anything, she reached it over like it was obvious. I guess it was obvious. Before we parted ways though she said "There's still a little bit of time..." and before she was done I had her by the neck, bent over, and ole Joe was pumping her ass like his life depended on reaching through. She was pulling herself open with her hands, while I held her by the neck. My tenting erection found the way to the back of her throat by itself, I don't know how I ended up in there except for thinking that the bitch got too much air. I kept cutting it for her, she kept gulping it down whenever she got a chance. PT was long done in by the time I splattered all over the face. She went over to the sink, hooked a foot up on the wall and washed herself with her hand. Then she washed her face, put her old clothes back on, and we went back out the window, leaving PT snoring behind, half dressed half lying on the bed.

As good as it was, that was the only time we pulled it off. Saturday Party ran head on into a round brick balloon. It was only five feet tall, but it weighed close to three-hundred pounds. It was about ten. The vice section was overrun with Johns. It looked like every white man in five states was out there, scratch in one hand and rod in the other, ripping and running after the black whores with the widest, blackest asses. We set up in a blind on the fringe of the section, because with all that mad action in the center it would be a hectic cat-and-mouse game with the cruising, rousting vice squad. It'd have been something less than pure kicks to get busted in our setup. Party hadn't strong armed since his last bit. There was positively no need to, but I guess he felt humiliated. He wanted to contribute something, something big. He wanted to show Vera what a real man is. Something along those lines, anyhow. From my place around the corner I watched Party eagerly talking to... something. Was it a man? Was it some kinda machine? No, it was a walking, living, round balloon with a fat poke and a flaming itch for black tush. It stood there fascinated by the two of them, looking back and forth, from Party's ugly lips flapping to Vera's pretty titties flapping and back again. I could feel this is no good, like a thousand devil feet pricking all over my back. From my place there was jack shit I could do, we were too dumb to have arranged a ditch signal. The balloon took his hide out. Party jerked rigid at the sight of its contents. There must've been three grand it there, if not more. Even as the balloon bounced towards her, I was thinking this is one she might have to take. The strong-arm lust had exploded inside Party, though. Sure as Hell he was going to come up that alley, and smash the air out of the balloon.

Then there was guttural grunting. The balloon had Party in a crushing strangle hold. Vera was gone. I don't know where she went, or when. She was just gone, in a blink, like very fast smoke. My heart-beat back fired and all but melted the starch in my duds. I fell on my ass, plain and simple, my knees buckled, then gave way, and there I was looking at my upturned toes. The balloon must've also been a champion weight lifter, because poor Party spent a brief moment of his career hanging high over the head of the monster and then flew to the alley floor with a shattering "whoomp". He lay where he landed like a broken rag doll. The balloon hollered as he leaped into the air and then fell like a ton of concrete on Party's moaning remains. I was to the point of almost puking in pity. Poor Party! That strongarm game sure has its barbs, huh! I just couldn't find the strength to get off the ground and join the fray. Anyway it didn't look like it'd have made a difference. The derrick scooped Party from the alley and flung him across his back. I watched Party's rubber neck bumping against the balloon's rear end, like a woman's that was captured by some caveman back in the caveman days.

I jetted out of there on flaming trails. Vera grabbed my arm a little ways off. She was waiting in an alley leading to our hotel room. I watched for the rollers. I was sure as sugar they were hot on our trails, coming to bust me. They never came. Old Party had had the funky luck to try the strong arm on a professional wrestler called the Blimp. He went back to the joint for a yard after he got out of City Hospital, but he never tipped a whisper to the heat. I guess the one thing about him was that he wasn't copper hearted. When he got older, and lost his nerve to hustle, he got a crazy desire to pimp. He wasn't the type, but he kept trying until he ran the Gorilla game on a dope dealer's broad and they set him up for a hot shot. Party tried his fists and muscle until the pimp game croaked him. The pimp game is like the watchmaker's art, it's tough. Party went through his life struggling to make a watch while wearing boxing gloves.

Vera asked me what now ? I think she was game to keep at it. I explained to her we can't do it without a toot, because she's jailbait, and we can't have just any tout, either. It has to be one just about as dumb as Joe, but hopefully not as dumb as Joe so he lasts more than one Friday. I can't do it because then we'll need a clincher, and that's harder than the tout for hot merchandise like her, that practically sells itself. She didn't say anything for a while. Then she asked again, what now ? I was just starting to say, "now we go back to..." when it hit me like another ton of bricks. Her clothes, we left in the room this time. Party Time paid for it, he had the key for it, we closed the window before leaving like square idiots. She was better off not going home at all, than going dressed the way she was. I had enough scratch together to get her a place, but tell true, I was just a kid. I didn't know my asshole from a hole in the ground, I didn't know what I was doing, what I was passing up. I should have put her up somewhere, but I didn't think to do it.

We racked our brains a while. Breaking the window seemed a sure-fire way to jail. Lifting it was sure not to work, I remembered keying it closed with the little metal bit. Eventually the way out came to me : I bought some fried chicken, had them wrap it for take-out, went by the front desk nodding and then slipped the old janitor a buck to open the door for me, with some tall tale about how Party Time's coming later and he sent me ahead with dinner. It was stupid enough to wash by everyone with flying colors, five minutes later I was lifting the unlocked window to see a completely nude Vera looking at me from the alley below. I don't think she'd have minded if fifty guys went at her right then. I dragged her inside, and then she rolled up on me like a whole precinct full of nigger-hating pigs. I was turned to dust, dessicated, by the time she was through with me I didn't have enough liquid content for a decent spit. I took her to her bus station in a cab, I kissed her like we were engaged and that was the last time I saw her. Monday in school I found out her parents moved somewhere on the West Coast I think, and I never heard of her again.

I still miss you, baby. Always have. Always will. We could've set the world ablaze together, though I hope to god you did yourself my little bit the better.

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The many things I couldn't give less of a shit about »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Thursday, 25 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 3 : The Real Murphy

I guess my trip downward really was cinched when I met a petty hustler with a very likeable personality. We became best pals. My hustler pal's name was Joe, but everyone knew him as Party Time. By twenty-three he had done four bits in the joint, either strong-arm robbery or till tapping. He got his moniker hung on him because as soon as he scored some scratch he'd make fast tracks to the nearest watering hole. Once inside the door he'd shout, "All right you poor ass bastards, it's party time and Joe Evans is in port with enough scratch to burn up a wet elephant. All you studs stop playing stink finger with these long-cock whores and everybody belly up to the log and get twisted on me."

His flat African features were pasted to a skull that'd have made the most demanding caveman proud. He was short, powerful, shining black. He was also ugly enough to break daylight with his fist, but for some curious reason that made him irresistible to lots of thrill-seeking white women. Plenty of those sneaked into the black side of town panting, chasing after that hoary myth, something about how nigger men do it so good it's life changing. I don't know about that, but there was a fast sheeti joint with the trick rooms in the rear, right on the alley, five or six blocks from where Mama flopped back then. One night I was in that alley, peeping in through a frayed shade when I saw Party Time for the very first time.

My eyes were bugging when I saw the tall viking type white man, his tiny, voluptuous white woman and Party Time taking their clothes off. Finally they stood there naked. I could see their lips moving so I pressed my fingers on the glass pane, trying to lift it. The window gave a coupla inches without complaint. None of them seemed to notice, or care, but I could hear them clearly. The white joker was busy hefting Party Time's weapon tenderly in his hand, like maybe it was Ming Dynasty Pottery. He said excitedly to the broad, "Oh! Honey, can you believe the size, the beauty of it!" She looked really pretty in the red glow, her blue eyes fiery with well stoked passion. She purred and pounced onto the bed, on all fours, dangling her ass at them. She looked back over her shoulder, first at her joker, then at Party Time, then back at her joker. Then she looked straight at me. She smiled like maybe she was selling me an old Chevy for a new Caddy ? I smiled right back at her and waved my hand from across the glass. She winked at me. Party Time was at the side of the bed, looking down at her. He looked kinda like an old time executioner, holding a really short, fat axe of sorts over this convicted white bitch.

My trouser front was tented to hell. I dropped my pants and started rubbing my own shaft lightly, up and down, barely touching it at all. I really liked doing it in that way. I knew it's not enough to make me spit. That's what I liked about it the most. I thought to myself I hope they're never letting her back out of there. Maybe they'll tie her to the bed, or maybe they have chains in the basement. She'll be like in prison, for the rest of her life, just another trick in a cheap fuckshack, unable to ever leave, unable to ever walk on her two feet again. They'd just carry her from bed to bed, her feet soles'd never touch the floor again for the rest of her life. She looked like she'd love something like that, too. I pressed tight against the window. I had never seen anything like this back in Rockford, or since. Yes it's true I had maybe a dozen slain Topsies under my belt by then, sad pickaninnies crowded up in dark corners, raped more or less consensually but always quickly, always furtively, between shifts as it were, their clothes still mostly on, their eyes darting, wild with something a lot like fear. With the exception of the bleeding wonder none of them were anything like this sprawled out whore of a white woman, fucking like it was done on purpose, not a care in the world crossing her blanked out mind. Then the white man started saying the darndest things. He pulled a chair to the end of the bed and sat on the very edge of it. He was breathing hard. "All right now boy, stab it into her. Hurt her, boy, hurt her bad. Punish her, boy. Fuck her up, good boy, just like that. Crucify her, make her feel it. That's right, that's right, good boy! Good boy!"

The broad looked so fragile and helpless to my naive eyes that I felt a pang of pity pulse inside me as she moaned and whimpered in painful pleasure. The black demon pile driving into her must've been four times her weight, and all muscle, somehow. He had her half lifted off the bed, his big gangly hands clasped together on the small of her back, his forearms holding her thighs up and far apart at the same time. He just fucked himself with her like she was little more than a sleeve or something. She was panting for breath, her hands clawing all over the bed like he was tearing her in half. Now and again her slender white legs gave jerks like she was a trapped little frog he was electrocuting for pleasure. Party Time kept asking in a hoarse voice over and over, "Beautiful bitch, is it good? Beautiful bitch, is it good?" like he was trying to make a home or something. The white man had an odd look on him as he raced around the bed like a demented Roman emperor cheering on his merciless black gladiator.

He worked her over a good while, but finally, once the show was done and they were starting to dress I went to the front and sat on a stoop next door to the joint. I wanted to get a close up of the freaks. When they got to the sidewalk, in their street clothes, they were disappointingly normal. They didn't stand out at all. I was hoping for something wild, something out there, but they just looked like a car mechanic and his housewife or something. She didn't even look at me. Maybe she hadn't even really winked at me. Maybe I was imagining things, the bitch had a nervous tic or something. All the while watching them I had racing, daring thoughts about just walking in there and helping out. I had never been with a white woman before in my life. I didn't have the guts to do it though.

The mixed-up couple went down the sidewalk away from me. Party Time came toward me. He didn't notice me sitting on the stoop either, but I was itching with curiosity. I hit on him when he came abreast. It startled him. His face got stiff. I said, "Hey Jack, how you doing? That sure is a fine silk girl, huh? You got a square to spare?"

He fished a cigarette from his red shirt pocket, handed it to me and said, "Yeh kid, she's fine as a Valentine. Two sights I ain't never seen and that is a pretty bulldog and an ugly white woman." He was spouting cliches, but to a small town boy he came off witty as could be. I wish I could say I was faking it, but really there was no snow coming out that snow machine. My eyes bucked in genuine awe as I lit his square. I said, "Thanks man, for the square. Christ! That's a sporty vine you got on. I wish I could dress like you. You sure are clean aplenty."

He took the bait I didn't know I was putting out like he didn't know either. He flopped himself down on the stoop next to me. He poked his chest out, his eyes flashing like a pin-ball machine gone haywire, getting himself ready to open up. He hiked the pants legs of his green checked suit to his calves to show his blood red socks. The huge zircon on his right pinky glittered under the street lamp as he cracked his knuckles and said, "Kid, I'm Party Time, the best flat-footed hustler in town. Money loves me and can't stay away from me. You saw that fine silk broad ? I got a double saw to lay her. Course that ain't nothing, it happens all the time. I could be one of the greatest pimps in the country if I was lazy and didn't have so much good hustler in me."

I sat there listening to his bullshit until two A.M. He was likable, easy going and talkative. I was hungry for a pal. For the right kind of pal. He was an orphan. He had just done a two-year bit straight up, his fourth, two months before. He had a head full of wild risky hustles he claimed to want to try. They didn't seem so much idiotic to me then, though they were, but more in the vein of fascinating tales. A whole new world of possibilities was opening up under my very eyes. I never gave the till any thought before, certainly not anything like his. It was like the moon coming out, giving everything new shapes and contours that in the daytime never seem to be there. It was like the whole world caught on a secret second shape, invisible to all but the most initiated, the secret society of wise guys who knew where to look.

I got home at two-twenty. About one minute later I heard Mama's key in the door. She was out late serving a banquet for her white folks, which is why I was out so late in the first place. I had just made it into bed, all my clothes still on under the cover, when she came to look in on me. I was snoring my best as she kissed me goodnight. I don't think she caught on. After she left I took off my shoes, still under the sheets, and then bit by bit everything else until I was buck naked under there. I went back to lightly stroking my desperate erection, carefully constructing its agony for myself. I went one by one through all of Party Time's wild stories and schemes, and through the scenes I saw in the room, jumping from one to the other until they started mixing in together. I sniffed my socks pretending I'm the white guy and me and Joe jumped me and made me trade out my wife and smell our socks, or maybe she did. Or maybe we were really rich and every girl in the county had to come work as maids for us, and we made them do things. I lay there in the darkness, the knotting ache ever building, not letting me get a wink sleep. Until daybreak and past, watching the Sun rise inch by inch I couldn't stop putting myself into all sort and manner of situation, trying tall tales for size while delicately stroking myself into a frenzy, and back down again from the ledge.

Just about that time a new dish served itself up in school. Her name was Vera. She was tall and slender, but rounded too. She must've been twelve, thirteen maybe. Her parents moved into Southside from somewhere down south, could've been Kentucky, I don't remember. She had a drawl on her like you couldn't believe. I took it from her on her first day of school, just like that. Must've been first or second break, she was out there with some girls she was talking to, her age. I just walked up to them, they said hi but I just grabbed her by the hand and dragged her away. I pushed her face against a wall behind some coal piles in the back of the courtyard, around a corner. It went right in like it was buttered on both sides. She just let out an "Ooh." and that was that. She didn't bleed much, but then she got the virgin itch like I'd never seen before. She wanted it every time, all the time. I don't think she ever thought about anything else. Two weeks later I met her parents, too. She told me they were coming when I asked her about the welts on her ass. She told me she's in big trouble, and they wouldn't even let her back to school if it wasn't that her Daddy has to be in Chicago for work, he can't find anything back home. I told her "I'm your only Daddy now, bitch!" and she said "Yes, Daddy" so sweet and loving like I guess she had a lot of practice saying it. She was right, too, they were whining at the school principal about her grades and crap like that. A coupla funny looking squares, kept getting themselves excited and then tearing up then right back again. Her mom had a daisy or something on her hat, it kept trembling and dancing in the air. The principal told them she just doesn't seem to be paying any attention, and that she's in no great danger of graduating at this rate. I think he couldn't care less, maybe a girl in eight graduated back then, and none of them black. Vera was shiny black, like polished bakelite. I still think of her every time I see a girl like that. It's very pretty but damned rare nowadays. All the race mixing ruined it, I guess. A high yellow bitch can be fine too, no doubt about it, but there's so many of them everywhere now, the supply kinda ruins the demand. At least for me. Back then you could see the shiny black ones on every street corner, and look that it didn't ruin anything.

After running into Vera one of those quick buck schemes that Party yakked began keeping me up at night. Eventually I knew I'd have to give the ole' Murphy a whirl. I didn't know then our version was crude and dangerous, a weak imitation of the real Murphy at best. Years later I figured out the Murphy better. When played by experts it's a smooth enough short con. There's a slight risk, but nothing that can't be fixed.

The thing of it is, in any section where Negro whores operate there'll be plenty of loser white men flocking to trick with them. You know they're losers because what god damned whitey hangs around waiting for the nigger ? Normal white men just get the bitches delivered on a silver platter at their parties when they want them, or buy long term and call them maids or whatever. The punters wandering about the nigger district are the losers, they're the blackest white men that ever lived. That much's a given. There's always going to be more of them than there's whores, too, because there's nothing in this world more abundant than the loser. This means some'll have to kill some time, and that in turn means more black whores will be drawn in, bringing quality down. Because that's how this life works, every time you add more of something, you'll be adding less of that something. It stands to reason, if it were better not worse it'd have been there already. Right ? This means the punters face not only the obvious danger of missing out altogether, because that's the problem with waiting : for as long as you're waiting you don't know if you're waiting for something or just waiting. Once the waiting's done you know what you were waiting for, but while you're waiting you have no idea.

That's not so bad though, because it's easy for them to figure out if they missed out altogether or not, just by holding their prick in their hand : if it's dry they missed the wet. Simple enough even they can find their way through, and it doesn't require exerting themselves or doing anything they wouldn't normally do. Heck, they'd be holding their pricks all day long if there was some way to work it into a schedule. The real bad part is that as far as they know they're missing out on the top shelf, and that really kills them. They could, as far as they know, spend their whole life wandering the red lit streets and never find their way into quality, even if they got the pecker wet every night thrice over. How would they know ? You never know, nobody ever does, however fine the bitch on her knees before you might be, as you're holding on to that great ass and swiping her the old in and out you're thinking... there could be better. Right ? She's fine, alright. But there's better. Isn't there ? There's better somewhere, and if there is you'd never know. After all, these pricks aren't there fucking their wives. If they could be happy with whatever it is they have they wouldn't be there in the first place, ain't that so. You know it itches them, because they're there. That's the only way a man who's worked for his sawbuck will let it drop like it's nothing. Whores don't work the same hours for the buck as punters do, ain't that right ? Well... how come ? Sure as sugar their work's a lot more fun than theirs, and easier to do. Easy enough even they can do it. What gives ?

That's what the real Murphy's all about : there's a man who's waiting who doesn't want to, and all the while he's waiting he worries himself whether he might be missing out on quality. He can tell whether he's fucking or waiting, but he can't tell whether he's fucking quality or what, because he doesn't trust himself. He knows he's a loser. He can look at himself just as well as you can, it's no secret to him where he is or why he's there. He just can't admit it to himself, that's all. The only way he can find out is if someone tells him, and it can't be the broad. He doesn't trust her either, and why should he ? She's out there fucking him and calling him Daddy for a buck, what won't she do or say ? The Murphy operator, if he's any good, relieves the dumb punter not just of his money, that's not what the con game's all about. The conman takes the punter's worry away, that's what he does. He doesn't have to worry anymore, now, and for a while he won't have what to wait for, either, until he builds his chump wad back. That's why the punter loves the con man even more than a fine whore. The whore, however fine she might be, only gets his prick wet, removes the waiting for him. But the worrying's still there, and with many of these perverse morons it gets worse, even, for now they can give it their undivided attention. They're that fucked in the head, I swear. I've seen it a million times.

As in all other things there are many Murphy's, though they're all the same. There's many portraits in painting, though they're all the head of some young white bitch, too. Real Murphy players use great finesse to do their deed and in the process trim the mark of his scratch, and his jewelry too. Its too much to talk of every straight-and-narrow angle ; the primrose path is to have the trick hit on them. That puts the Murphy player in a position to force the sucker to qualify himself. When approached and quizzed by a mark as to where a girl can be found, the Murphy man will come back with something like "Look buddy, I know a fabulous house not more than two blocks away. Brother, you ain't never seen more beautiful, freakier broads than are in that house. One of them, the prettiest one, can do more with a swipe than a monkey can with a banana. She's like a rubber doll, she can take a hundred positions." Comparisons work well, and scattershot, so there's something in there for the punter to hang on to. The con man gotta look earnest, a bit simple maybe, he needs a big smile and a clueless air about him like the burlesque gals need legs to their throat. He's also gotta cold read, and ply his mark with whatever it is they want to hear. If done right, the sucker is so wild to get to the house of pure joy he all but begs the con player to walk him there, not just direct him. It might not be exactly his idea to do that, but he'll do it anyways, and think it was his idea like they do, because the Murphy man can use the time walking to prat him silly. He'll say, "Man, don't be offended, but Aunt Kate, that runs the house, don't have nothing but high-class white men coming to her place. No Niggers or poor white trash. You know, doctors, lawyers, bigshot politicians. You look like a clean-cut white man, but you ain't in that league, are you?" Pricking his ego right where it's hollow is always the right way to send the mark into the loser frenzy. He will protest his worth as a person and his right to go where any other son-of-a-bitch can go. Hell, for a high class lay a double saw wouldn't faze him. Few can resist the charm of exclusivity in its myriad forms, and imaginary exclusivity's no worse than any other kind, seeing how they're all the same thing.

The con player finally has something now to offer in trade : his own favour, valuable because the mark says so. He says so because he was given the opportunity and he took it like fish take hook, it's true, but it also doesn't matter. The player will say, "Man, I believe you and everything you say is true as gospel. In fact, I like you like a pal. But try to see my side of it. First, to show you I trust you, I'll tell you a secret. I been working for Aunt Kate's house for many years now as her outside man, you know, making sure only nice dates went up there. Aunt Kate and I got an air tight system. Friend, I know you won't make me get the boot, so damn it, let's go. I am taking you to the thrill of your life." Now the two newfound best friends walk a while, and make no mistake about it, it's the best five minutes the mark's had in weeks. Months, maybe. He's not waiting, he's not worried, and he's got a friend, a true and honest friend right there by his side. They say that wine's only as good as the company you drink it in, and let me tell you walks are no different. Nothing in this life is different ; but no man ever walked the earth in better company than the sucker with his Murphy player. No little kid, hands in hands with his Dad who just broke up a fight, rescued him from the bully, sucker punched the school principal. No man walking with a cop, or a priest, or his loved bride's father, or anyone else ever is half nearly as happy as the punter going to Aunt Kate's. It's just human nature.

While keeping up the inflaming description of the whores and sexual delights to be found only at Aunt Kate's as taylored to the punter's own secret desires he won't even admit to himself, the Murphy player steers the sucker to a pre-chosen neat, attractive apartment building. In the foyer, in a subtle but compelling manner, the con player nudges the mark into a fast meeting of minds, the question agreed on. You see, it's Aunt Kate's unshakeable rule, unmentioned before through being so matter-of-coursedly self-obvious, that no punter could ever go up before checking in all his valuables. Aunt Kate's rock right never to tempt a whore. Only fools trusted whores, right? The mark wasn't a fool, right? Right! The con player produces a sturdy brown envelope. It's best if there's some sleepy geezer behind a desk in the foyer. The player, who didn't as much as bother to nod hello before, extends a hand and the envelope's right there, in his mitt, like the workings of a well-oiled machine. The sucker counts all the scratch in his pocket into the hand of Aunt Kate's "outside" business manager, plus any watches, rings, you know, the works like with any hold-up. The efficient, affable manager shoves it all into the envelope, licks it, seals it, and gestures with it : third floor, first apartment to the left, number nine to be specific. The mark gets into the elevator if there's one, or makes for the stairs more like it, while the player takes the envelope safeguarding the sucker's fleece from the possible larceny in the hearts of the gorgeous dolls upstairs to greener pastures.

The sucker, in a bubbly mood to last yet for a minute or two takes the stairs three at a time. Truth be told he liked that nigger down there, protecting his money. What had he told him, when he gave him that shiny gold colored metal check? "Harry, pal, this one is on me, just go up and hand it to Aunt Kate. Everything is going to be all right. If you want you can buy me a drink when you come down." He doesn't know this yet, but he'll find out soon enough : if anyone should be coming asking questions, the geezer's never seen either of the two before, they came in talking about something, one of them asked for an envelope, he handed it over, then they left. He doesn't remember if together or not, he thinks together though, he doesn't remember who this angry fella yelling is, he doesn't think it's one of the guys, though maybe, he didn't get that good a look. He thinks the guy that went up the stairs' maybe taller, or had red hair, or was bald, or whatever the mark's preferred description of the player. The mark yells more, no that was me, he gets abusive, the beat cop laughs his ass off and takes the guy down to the precinct to write his complaint. He's greased anyhow, for him all the flailing and yelling comes in honeydewed tints and rings with the happy brass ring of a saw or two coming his way soon enough, leaving the sucker to reel from disbelief that the "black boy" before him was in the end clever and driven enough to fool him, to fashion the Murphy dialogue for him, made to order.

———Whore flophouse. [↩]

« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 2 : To The Grave ; And Beyond

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Wednesday, 24 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 23 : Getting Old, Getting Fat

Old Dirty Pete was a porter stud turned flatfoot that really liked going after niggers. His real name was Sylvester Washington, but nobody ever called him that. We had a whole stable of pigs to send after damn fool studs that muscled in on the walkers, but Ol' Pete starred. He shot at least nine crooked spades dead over his time, maybe more like eleven. He never shot no white man, neither. It got to where he'd just tell a stud to take a walk to the precinct and the joker'd turn himself in. He thought it's better that way than having Pete coming after him.

They called him Old Dirty Pete because he loved swiping into young broads. Every barefoot beauty twelve years old that got rustled in, Pete'd get his fair share of, twice and thrice over. He was a crazy freak for baby broads. I don't think he ever freaked with a bitch older than sixteen. He even tried the knot on for size, with Miriam's girl Lloraine. She hadn't gotten into dancing yet back then. She musta been fourteen, maybe fifteen years old. Of course they said she's sixteen to get the papers drawn, but by the time she was sixteen for real they were split up. Bitch said he's too mean to live with.

Once he made detective he started vining just like a pimp, all silk and Fedora hats. Back in those days a detective pulled in eighty slats a week, a saw more than a true whore. Of course, Pete borrowed a C note for every stud he stomped we sent him after, so he never hurt for cash. He drove a big Mercury. He never had a woman in the house, to make him a meal in his life. He ate out well enough, anyhow. A judge or a lawyer with fat cases or a doctor maybe took his wife out to the Club DeLisa or the Palm Tavern once or twice a year. Petey was there stuffing himself almost every night. By then Poison was long gone, but Pete never took up the pimping game. I think bitches scared him. Old hardlegs scare me plenty too, but Pete could hardly talk to a broad in the first place. He didn't talk so much anyway, and half of it came out Bang! Bang! He was mean and tough alright, but if a bulldog's soft what good is it ?

Eventually he gave up the badge and tried his luck with a dive bar on East Oakwood. The Hilltop Lounge he called it. He ran the dumbest scams out of that joint. If a joker'd pay for his suds with a fin or larger, the change'd include Pete's drink. He wasn't dumb himself, neither. Once he made record hitting 147 points out of 150 max. He could bullseye ten or eleven in twelve shots any time anyone asked him to. Often enough he got all twelve, too. He gunned down a stud once for stepping on his shoe. Some joker Willie Lee, was a bell hop. They went in a gang by Garfield Boulevard on either side, but only Pete came back out. Pete said the stud went for his gun. He carried a pair of pearly .357s he was real proud of, one long barrel and the other short. They called it justifiable homicide, though nobody could tell why'd Willie go for Pete's gun. He wasn't in any rackets or nothing. Just a square stud with a wife at home and three kids, racing to stretch a half bill every week.

But he wasn't much for the murder game, anyhow. The real Dirty Old Pete was all about the beatdown. I ain't seen never young studs so polite and well spoken as around Wabash back when Petey walked down there. He taught a whole boatload of country niggers bout dis big city rigamaro alright. To his mind the Southern way of doing things was right out. God help some neighbours gathered round, cracking to one another in the street. He'd see them and say "Every living ass off the street." Those chatterbox old Mamas faded right out of there! He beat down the Cook County Commissioner one time, back when Chuck was a young stud of thirteen or fourteen. He walked up to them and said "When I come back here, I don't want to see you all standing on this corner". He turned around, they saw his billy club. Then he turned around "I'm back!" Those niggers shot like rabbits everywhere, who could make it.

One night he walked in, to speak to me. I was with some bigwigs. I don't remember who, except his boss was there. Chris came in, her teeth chattering like she'd seen a spook. Pete really scared Chris the worst. I think he reminded her of something, maybe. She said Pete's to see me, he says it's urgent. His cap'n heard and bellowed "Tell him to wait, Iceberg." I looked up at him and shot right back "Now that's just crazy talk. You know he'll beat down both of us." Everyone laughed, including the cap'n, shaking his red paws everywhich way, like I'd told the funniest. It was funny alright, though he wouldn't think so. Pete was there to beat him down.

When I faced him in the Blue Heaven Precinct downstairs he just pointed his eyes up. I sat him down upstairs, on the loveseat in Pepper's bedroom. He said "Iceberg, you gotta hear this". He dangled one of those dictaphone reels. I had to clamber all the way up and down myself, to find a god damned machine could play that thing. Pete wouldn't have any girls involved. He didn't let nobody on the whole floor, I had to kick June out of her bed. She was too old for him by then anyhow. Finally I stuck the thing in my ear, he handed over the recording and I listened in.

"Hell, Leonard! It's good to see you relax for a change." The joker speaking was the cap'n I'd just left behind! I had no idea who that other Leonard sucker was.

"Evening, Captain. Anything urgent?"

"Urgent? Anything urgent I leave to my subordinates."

"Got some good cigars in that box."

"No, thanks. I'm off cigars. Brandy! My doctor's got me off everything worth living for... almost. Leonard?"

"Yes, sir?"

"There's got to be a stop to your complete disregard of the taxpayers' money."

"Paid for this apple out of my own pocket, Captain."

"Leonard, you spent $18,600 in the last six months! Investigating one man, a single man!"

"Frank Ibbetts' not a man. He's an organization. And I need money to fight money."

"Now look, Lieutenant... I've got nothing against you personally. At times I even admire you, I must say. But what you've got though is too many brains you don't know how to work right. What about this $18,600 ? How am I going to explain this to the Commissioner ?"

"Well, I've dictated an explanation if you want to use it. 'Memorandum to Captain Peterson covering expenditures of the 28th Precinct station. The Combination is growing stronger every day. The only way to crush it is to get the top man. When Gratsky left the country, Ibbetts...' "

"What do you think this is, accidental manslaughter ? You're dealing with the largest pool of illegal money in the world! You're fighting a swamp with a teaspoon. The Combination keeps no books, no records. Everything's run on word of mouth and hard cash!"

"That's their one weakness."

"What ?"

"They have to have a treasurer."

"So ?"

"And I know his name. The name of a man who can pick up a phone and call Pittsburgh, or Cleveland or New Orleans and say, 'Hey, Bill. Joe is coming down for the weekend, advance him fifty thousand.' Then he hangs up the phone and the money is advanced. Protection money! Then a new all-night bar opens, with gambling outside city limits. A bunch of high school kids come in for a good time. They get loaded. They get irresponsible. They lose their shirts. And they get a gun. 'cause they're worried. They want to make up their loses. Then a filling station attendant is dead with a bullet in his liver, and I have to see four kids on trial for first degree murder. Look at it! First degree murder because a certain Mr. Ibbetts picked up a phone."

"You can't touch Frank. He's clean. We've got nothing on him! Not even a parking ticket."

"Yeah, why is he so careful? It's unnatural!"

"You can't tell a jury a man's guilty because he's too innocent."

"He's no more innocent than this gun!"

"Yeah, and you're not much smarter than a shovel! Now stop getting philosophical with me, Leonard. He's innocent until he's proven guilty, not until some detective somewhere figures the world should be made simpler because he doesn't know how to make women have less stupid children."

"Yes, Captain. Is there anything else, Captain?"

"Yes. That woman. Susan Lowell. You've had a tail on her for the past six months. Why ?"

"She's Frank Ibbetts's girl, sir. She's our most valuable lead. We know next to nothing about him, but a woman knows. She makes it her business to know. If I can get a hold of her and make her talk..."

"Leonard, you've spent six months trying! She went to Vegas, you went to Vegas. She flew to Cuba, you flew to Cuba. Couldn't get authorization for the expense, so you paid it out of your own pocket!"

"I had to, you wouldn't back me up."

"I'm not in love with her, you are. This is off the record, Leonard. Take it like it's between friends. Try to face facts. You can't bear to think of her in the arms of the other guy. Well, forget her! We're cops, Leonard. We're not in highschool. This isn't Summer vacation after Senior year. There's seventeen thousand laws on the books, and they all have to be enforced. Nobody else wants to do it, and you don't have the time to run around trying to reform wayward girls. She's been with Frank three and a half years. That's a lot of days. It's a lot of nights, Leonard. Face it, if she wanted anything to do with you she'd have done it with you by now."

I shook my head. I looked at him. He looked at me. He didn't say anything, he just walked out. I put the roll on the girl and slammed the box shut. Not so easy to do, slamming them things. It was the most work I'd done that year. I could feel my forehead sweat. Then I called Pepper in. She was out with a trick. She asked me if it's urgent ? I said naw bitch, it's just important, but it ain't urgent. I told her to meet me at the Blue. She was there just about closing time. Phyllis huffed when she walked in, then she walked out. I shook my head. I should've bitchslapped both of them right then, but that's how bitches get away with crap : there's bigger fish to fry than their dumb ass. I went at Pepper "Who's Susan ?" She didn't have a clue, honest she didn't. "The new bitch in C ?" I shook my head no. "You know Susan O'Hara. She's been in 5 for like a year. She was at the big house last week." The way we worked it out the bottom floor rooms went A to D and the first floor went 1 to 6. The bitches kept trying to go up, from D to A and from 6 to 1, I don't know why, it wasn't anything like that to start with. They were just rooms. But, vents are vents, right ? We let them have it their way.

"Not god damned Susan from number five. Susan Lowell, bitch." Her eyes opened wide. "She's with Frank. He picked her up himself. Some square broad from back East, I think she played the piano before they met." Frank was a twisted freak alright. He set Daphne down in the country after she got pregnant the first time, maybe a coupla years after he got her from me. She'd just turned eighteen. He knocked her up regular ever since then. Daphne was a regular barefoot country mama, with a whole tribe of high yellow pickaninnys after her. She just chased them around all day long, fed them and washed them, her belly to her chin most of the time. Frank kept her in the dough and I guess rolled her up just enough to keep those crumb crushers flowing out. He'd visit for a weekend now and again. Far as the neighbours knew he was a travelling salesman. Good at it, too. Daphne raised her herd on five times the slats everyone else over there brought home. But like they say, if the sucker's happy why put a pistol on him for the best.

I said "You know where he is ?" She nodded. "Well, get gussied up, bitch. We're going to see your old man." We got him out of an all-night poker game with some funny looking guineas from back east. I had the dictaphone in one pocket and the record in the other. He played it for them all. The guineas squinted like mean overseers from back down South. We didn't say anything, I just waved and took off, Pepper in tow. I heard them yakking their bird talk as soon as we were out the slammer. Pepper said they're asking who's the stud. She told me them eyetees ain't got it in for niggers like the micks. Then we laughed at that sucker Leonard. Lots of those chicken-hearted, broken studs come out of the white broads. The world's too interesting, too much fun for them. They itch to make it more boring, like themselves. If only it were flat, they wouldn't look so short as they do. They made the white bitches frigid, too. If it weren't for them not being able to get it up, white bitches'd freak worse than the negro bitches ever do. You can tell, too, the kike broads freak out the worst, they ain't white anywhere near a bed.

Sure enough there was a fresh corpse in the Morgue by the name Leonard before the week was out. I passed the old timey guarding it a sawbuck to let me in. He wouldn't take it. He said "Man, I'd kidnap a Supreme Court Judge for a silver chocolate if you say so. Ain't no how you gots to pay to go anywhere you please now, boy." I gave him the sawbuck anyway. I cracked on him "Ain't like I'm paying to get in. I just likes you, that's all. You shine 'em good," I said, pointing down. The shoes, the floors, what difference does it make anyhow ? Inside, it was just like I thought. A stiff 'bout thirty-five, with fingers shorter than my thumb, and a swipe shorter than his. I spat in his stupid open mouth and walked out. His eyes were wide open, but I don't figure he saw anything in them. Just like back when he was walking around, anyhow.

From there I went down to the Palm Tavern, across from the Regal. I went in for a bite. Jim sat at my table. His girl brought me a rack of ribs. The bitch of it is, it ain't the same, somehow. I said to him "Jimmy, how come's it I ain't had a rack like back at some greasy spoon since the old days ?" He shook his head. "You ain't as hungry as you were back then, Iceberg. When's last anyone called you Slim ?" The joker had it right. We had enough fat to make three streetwalkers between the two of us, and just on the belly at that. My girl Josie came on the stage. When she was done she came to the table. "Daddy, you here to take me home ?" The things they said about poor ole Josie. The Siren of the Tropics, the Princess o'Tamtam, the Black Pearl, the Bronze Venus, the Creole Goddess... some jokers down in Paris even called her Zouzou. What a dumb name is that ? I remembered the first time she walked through the Heaven's door. Ophelia dragged her in. Found her trying a chump cop in some department store. That's how they got to rapping. They were both from St. Louis. That's how they kept at rapping. I think Ophelia missed the old days maybe. Josie couldn't have been more than thirteen then, just some starving kid run away from ole Missouri. Was that bitch hungry! Ophelia ordered everything on the menu for her, and she put away damn near all of it!

Johnny Lions bought her out, fair and square. Before we shook on it she cracked to me "Daddy, don't ask him for too much. Please Daddy, don't. I ain't been a bad whore for you these years, whadda ya need the scratch for ? Daddy, I love him, let me go." I told her "Josie, I ain't gonna beef if all he offers up on your dumb ass is three slats, and I ain't ever gonna forget you." So I took her home in my short. She was in the two back then, only because Phyllis was being a bitch and Pepper didn't like Southern bitches much. I didn't wanta kick her up myself. She was in two for more'n a year.

About this time, maybe a little earlier, a funky kinda broad walked in. Just by herself, like that. She didn't ask for the time or nothing. She knew the score alright. Most fresh bitches came in dragged by some other bitch, the fair half of them without a clue, but not this one. She had an accent on her pretty thick, and a cut on her face from eye to jaw just like Red Cora had. Bitch was fresh off the boat, come from an island in the sea called Sardine-ya. I guess maybe they got some canneries over there or something. This bitch was something else. Maria, she called herself. A big mouth on her like a sailor, and she brawled like longshoremen after three weeks of striking. She could punch a stud right out. She had technique. After a week in 3 she cracked at me "Daddy, why these bitches all so soft ?" I shook my head. "Because you ain't taught them nothing yet, sugar."

I kicked her up to an old poolhall, direct. I didn't like her rundown on herself. It made sense alright and it checked out with itself, but with nobody else to vouch for any part of it I figured it could as well have been made up. Wholesale, some joker somewhere with too many brains he didn't know how to work right could con her whole story right up. That poolhall I set her to was an odd place alright. At first it musta been some big development, back from before the crash. Maybe it was to be a hotel. They never finished it, never got anywhere even close. When the trouble hit they had dug out three levels of basement, not finished none or nothing, and just put in the pillars as far up as for one level over ground. It went up for auction one time, some joker couldn't pay his city tax.

Miriam kept tabs on that back then. A redhead kike bitch, kept her beak shut most of the time. She had a nose like on a pelican and the smallest pussy I ever saw on a broad. They say it goes the other way, in studs. Maybe it's opposite for broads. The sad old pit went for low enough, and then she had the city contractors finish up the first floor. The Mayor didn't mind, rolled it in with some roadwork. She turned that first floor into a gym at first, then a poolhall. It made a few slats, but never anything to cover what it was worth. I never sold it, don't know why. It just sat on ice like that for years until I kicked that eyetee bitch right into there. She found the basement that hadn't been used for much, except maybe a little storage, and made herself an underground gym in there. She only trained bitches. No stud ever laid a foot in there 'cept for me. I don't know any studs ever got wise to it, either. It was something else, three dozen pussy-naked bitches going at each other like crazed jaspers all day long in there. I let any bitch that wanted go to Maria's a day or two a week. It eased the pressure on the first floor some, anyways. Maria taught those bitches to punch, to choke, to hack up a sucker with a knife.

After she'd been at it a while I noticed ain't hardly half the whores hit in the street for scratch as was before, not no more. I made it so nobody could stay in the bottom going on the street if she wasn't with Maria once a week, unless she said it's okay. Pyllis didn't like the idea, went over there to scream at her. Maria put her on her ass. Didn't crack anything to her or nothing, just put the bitch on her ass. Phyllis was panting for it, but Maria wasn't no jasper either, didn't sit on her face or nothing, just kicked her out. I laughed my ass off at her when I heard. Radell and some other bitches made her so she'd tell me herself. When Maria hit me for a range later I bought every piece the fences had on hand didn't know what to do with. After they cleared out the bottom level of that basement they racked five thousand pounds of rods in there musta been. I said to her "Bitch, if you go through a million cans of bullets in a year, I'll buy you another million. Have at it." They never got anywhere close to that, but I think some weeks they tried. I even put special ventilation down in there so they don't choke on all that powder smoke. Everyone went in, even Pepper learned to shoot 38s and a rifle, too. We'd go hunting after that, I'd just sit on my ass watch all the crazy bitches murder ducks and geese and whatall.

I don't know why I hadn't tought of it before Maria showed up, but a whore's worth a stud and a half when it comes to muscle. She ain't got all those blinders on that studs get. Her asshole's nice and loose and her head aired out. The jokers squeeze too tight and raise cockroaches in those bonehead skulls. I wouldn't trade a team of whores not even for a carload of coppers, let alone a boatload of hoodlums. Nobody's gonna be scared by a broad, that's fair enough, unless her cat is dragging out behind her or she's got three heads with a golden tooth coming out her neck. But when the work's to be done, not just yakked about, I'd send Maria and some bitches that she's tight with over any other, any time. I give odds forever my bitch comes out on top, too, and she won't have to brag about it the tenth part what a stud does. That's for damn sure.

When Chris saw the joint she said "Daddy... you could make it just like in those stories down here". Everyone started laughing, like they thought it'd be funny if some bitches were be walled to death in the dark down there. I asked them, I said "You crazy bitches want to be chained in the dark by the wall in here ?" They were all quiet, looking at their shoes, then Phyllis said "Only if we'd deserved it." I shook my head. Bitches are crazy enough on their own, but when they get together it's a circus. Before the year was out we had everything but lights in there on the second basement floor. They horsed around about it all the time. Phyllis'd threaten broads with the hole every day. I ain't ever sent any girl down there until later, though, after the war started out in earnest.

And that's not all they did, neither. One day Radell came back from way down South where those jokers got the cocaine plantations. Cali, they call it. When the hundred piece we hauled from Waukegan in Sweet's old D started drawing to curtains I took to sending the bitches down there, one by one, to get the layout of the land. I sent Ophelia down first. She knew spic from her old man and I figured she's got the quickest eye anyhow. I thought maybe I ain't ever seeing her again when she took off. Sweet's spic broad she was going with didn't seem all together to me, either. But she came back alright, and she clued me in. It ain't nothing like it grows on trees, and nothing like cotton, neither. She said it's a bush, they cut the leaves offa it, grind them down. They make a paste of it, like tapioca, and that's all there is. That paste is refined like sugar and that's cocaine what comes out. She said they don't even sell it by the piece down there. She said it goes by the bale, costs as much as bootleg bourbon. The transporation's a bitch, and then the distribution a bigger bitch on top of that.

Ophelia set it all up sweet enough, we moved the girl direct after that. A year or two after she came back I took to sending a different girl every few weeks down there, on the regular. Kept tabs a little on the organization that way. When Radell came back she had another thought. She rapped to me, Pepper, Phyllis and some other girls about it. "Daddy, you know what's a Chili ?" I said "Sure, bitch. I was friends with one. Remember when we went back there to see him, you told him your genius con you put together ?" She said "No Daddy, not like that. Chili's a country, and Peru, too. You know what they do in them countries ?" I told her I ain't got the first clue. "They mine, daddy. They dig the earth up all day. They mine so much down there they even named saltpeter after it!" The bitch didn't make any sense to me, until she got into the whole of it. This Chili's not just got a two horse and one bucket mine. It's got some large scale operations where even ten thousand studs work. They ain't working anything like a bellhop, either. She said no story from the old South is anything like what those studs go through. They work like animals down there in the holes, for nothing all day. She said ain't no worst jail in all of Illinois or even Mississippi that's half as worse as those mines down there. And she said "Daddy, you know what's the one thing they ain't got ?" I shook my head. "Whores, daddy."

She ran down to me, that there ain't no worst can happen to any bitch than to be sent down there to whore for those naked mole rats working them Chili mines. She said it could be made like a punishment camp. Them folks running things wouldn't get in the way any. Besides, she said, for them a C note's a year's wages, "Ain't no place in the whole world the buck go further than in Chili". The truth of it is, ain't no worse for a whore than to be stuck where money ain't easy. There's lotsa starving one-horse farmers get together in a barn they put a cross atop to yak how they ain't got no whores in their town. Like it's to be proud of! No gambling, neither. Might as well be proud they ain't got a bath-tub. Not one silver dollar in their pockets, between the lot of them. How's they to have gambling ? Ain't the sucker invented yet to go gambling with no bankroll. They ain't got no whores like mice ain't got no railroad. Says so right in the varmint good book, it's sinful to have railroads. That's why them mice ain't built one yet. Their faith in Musus keeps em in the old ways and away from vanities and lucre. All them white niggers got's mortgages to the bank on all the land and all the horses, then fret all day why all the young'uns wanta go up to Chi. Must be them country morals, and the empty stomach they came out of like so much wind, may be.

Radell said them running things in that there Chili wouldn't think it's punishment for the poor bitches sent down there or nothing. Just business as usual by their lights, some whores earning their whore salt every day. I shook my head. She said to me, "Daddy, any bitch you don't like, ship her off to a boat that's already cleared port all tied up, put her down there in that Chili mining camp whorehouse. It ain't anything like croaking a bitch. It's ten thousand times worse, and that just for the first year." I thought of poor old Preston. One time I was up at Sweet's he said, "'Berg, I forgot to tell you. They found old Pretty Preston frozen stiff in the alley back of the Roost. The poor bastard had wrapped himself in newspapers. The Greek fired him a week ago for staying near the fire and not pulling marks on the sidewalk. The drunk half-white bastard thought the newspapers could stand off ten-below-zero."

« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 22 : Back To The Big House

The Re(al)-Pimp, Last Chapter. »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Tuesday, 09 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 22 : Back To The Big House

The way the new pads worked out was that every time I was at the Big House, the top girls crowded that way. Every time I was at the Blue Heaven, the top girls sloshed back in there, pushing a load of lesser sisters back out on the street. I don't remember how it got to be the Big House. Maybe Radell called it that one time and it stuck. Maybe lots of black bitches love the idea of living out on the old timey plantation. Maybe they felt like they missed out somehow, even if they didn't know how to say it. The studs sure as sugar don't like the whippings or cotton picking any, but the bitches maybe loved the greater part of sitting around the house yakking at each other and getting rammed by the plantation owner's young pretty sons now and again. I remember one time Phyllis drove out there with musta been a hundred pounds of chain and two buckets of locks in her boot. She wanted all the other visiting bitches that didn't live there put in chains, for a research project she said. There were at least eight or nine bitches there besides her and June. Pepper was back at the Haven holding it down, they worked it out that there was always one or the other of them back there.

Phyllis was mean enough about it, too, hobbling their feet together close and catching their arms on the length running to their necks so it was uncomfortable any way they squirmed. Those dumb bitches creamed so hard from just being taken for a walk around those old peach trees it made me think swipes are extras in the pussy world. After that first time they wanted to do that kinda horsing around every week almost, and then they started doing bonfires at night. Before the year was out they were doing regular plays, like at the Burlesque, only better, with choice suckers disguised in those white robes like it was the peckerwood night-time fashion then, with the big dunce hats over their necks. They had everything, fake hangings, burnings, real whipping and a who-o-ole lot of sucking dick.

Those jokers were willing to pay a fortune to be there, and it gave me an idea. It was almost like every joker there counted as if he's with each of the bitches by himself. Say you get a stud and a broad in bed together. It's worth maybe three bones, or a fin, if the stud is colored. If the stud is white though, that's a saw or a double saw straight up. But if there's all the comforts of the first floor of the Blue Heaven all around, that's more like three saws. It can still be grown from there. If instead of a simple white joker you find a big shot it can be a bill, hell if the bitch is June it can even be three or five bills. Fine. Not every bitch is June and not every stud a bigshot. What I discovered was that if you get two dozen jokers with a dozen or even a half dozen bitches in chains doing the whole confederate plantation trip, each of those suckers figures half dozen broads at a double saw each as if it were all for himself! The dozen suckers drop between them fourteen, fifteen bills easy, and if they're two dozen they drop twice as much. That's the same time, and it divides up to the same bitches. You take a mediocre cocksucker from doing maybe a saw an hour to doing three or five bills no problem this way. It's easier on her, too. She sure as spit don't have to become no June, neither. You don't have to go qualifying the suckers as much. It's a license to print money, like instead of the baker selling a load of bread for thirty cents, he shows the loaf of bread to a hundred people for a quarter each. At the end of the day he's got the loaf and twenty-five dollars, he'd have to be a sucker himself to sell it before he's run out of suckers to show it to!

That's how I figured out show business. Next day I went to a shyster lip and register Big House Talent Incorporated. I got myself into the representation side of things. It's easy. All you have to do is go up to a joker that you know is in the biz, like a producer, or a theater owner, or a financer, or anything to do with it. How do you know ? That's easy, the bitches tell you. That joker you ask "Hey Mack, how's about the treatment's free tonight ?" He'll say "Gimme the poison and take me to the baby", maybe not every time, but you don't need it to be every time. You don't need it to be even half the time. If it's now and again it's good enough. Then you say "Give this kid a break. Have a heart. Put her on the stage." He'll do it, too. Cocksucker's right there, showing as much of her 32s as she can get her lips off of. How could he not put her on ? She puts him on well enough.

Bitch'll have to be dressed, which is a kinda drag, but all the jokers that see her dressed secretly wanta freak with her. It's worth that free treatment in spades, fifty times, and then if the bitch turns out to have any talent, which most of them cocksuckers do anyway, she can really clean out. A good show girl can make a million bucks a year, if she's lucky and works hard, but let me tell you sucker no whore that ever worked the Blue Heaven don't work hard. I'd croak her, hell, she'd croak herself before she worked soft, there's no way.

The law says the agent, which is what they call the pimp in showbiz, gets fifteen percent. The law don't matter though, any good bitch will roll over any scratch to her sweet Daddy. There's those who don't, fifteen percent or so of them, but then comes the beauty of it : they're never the ones that make it big. They're the ones that dry out on the vine halfway. All Daddy gots to do is stop pushing for her, and there she goes, with a loud plop, back in the slop bucket she farted herself up from. I said there's the beauty, but I liked. It ain't there, it's here : say a princess on the stage makes a million bucks singing and dancing dressed for those sissy prissy folks that's into that sort of silly stuff. The mack scores a hundred fifty grand, that's good enough. But she's a true blooded whore. It's all his. The whole million, all through. What does he do with it ? He takes the whole million from her ? To do what with it ? Go to the bank, ask them to change it for him into all fins and saws, then hose it down in snot and push it up Wabash avenue all rolled up in a ball ? Maybe some pimps somewhere upstate or in the boonies do just that. What I do is invest it. 100% legitimate. To do that, you gotta put it in a name, and I don't like putting anything in my name. Her name's good enough, which means he don't even have to take anything from her. Just tell her what to do with it for him, that's all. Ain't that the bitch of them all ?

Sweet didn't have that million dollar apartment building in his name, but in the broad's that earned it for him, and by the time the hundred piece score was drawing to a close I didn't have the millions in my name either. They were all stocks and bonds and jewelry and real estate and oil wells and logging opperations and laundries and theater chains and whatall more, and all in the broads' names. That's the only way to do it right, and that way if Pepper figured we need more bitches with laundry work experience in the joint she'd just pick up the phone. It makes everything easier, having your bitches all around you. Don't it ? Here's the thing : if the bitches are naked, they're better than dressed, less work to plow that swipe into them. And if they have a short, better than if they don't : you never know when you need pick up. And if they have a pad better than if they don't, you might want to put something there, a hot package of some sort. And if it's theirs all the better, nobody else can get in. If your bitches have airplane wings coming out the ass all the better, they can fly for you, and if they have an oil well or a grocery chain all the better, they can piss gasoline and shit kosher sandwiches any time you want them to.

The pimp who thinks the whores are his mortal enemy ain't got the first word through his skull of pimping by the book. A bitch loves nothing more than to hold up her Daddy. She's a whore because she wants to be useful, to do good, to serve. She wants that more than anything for herself. The joker that breaks that in her ain't worth spitting to put out if his dumb ass was on fire. The stud that gets it through his skull has one care in the world, from noon when he wakes up till morning when he falls asleep : how to make those bitches as powerful as they can carry. Nevermind being as sweet as the scratch and no sweeter, that's a chump crack. Always make a bitch as powerful as she can carry. No more than that, so she doesn't break up under herself, but not much less, either. No less than she can figure, anyhow. It never pays to wait for anyone to turn rat, alright. It's even worse giving any bitch a good reason to be salty, and there ain't any other good reason beside that.

The system like we had it figured worked well enough, but it was far from perfect. Take that Ella bitch you've no doubt heard of. She spent six weeks on the bottom floor before Phyl kicked her up the stairs. Phyllis and Pepper had a time to themselves about that one, too! It was the first bitch Phyllis kicked up. Pepper got pissy plenty. They bickered about it when I wasn't there for weeks afterwards. The bitch was on the first floor half a year before I figured to talk about her and found a joker that'd listen. It took years after that until she caught on. Three, four, I don't remember, the bitch spent a long time humping her ass off each night while filling in combos and recording small bits and backings a coupla times a month. It was good for her, I'm sure, but it wasn't anything like some bitch'd figure herself she got talent, walk in the door, climb up the stairs and then walk out the roof on a red-and-green carpet straight to god. If it was gonna happen I couldn't tell when they walked in, and it never happened in one breath like that, not by a damn sight.

Most nights at the Big House we didn't horse around the grounds, barefoot bitches trampling the grass between the trees. Most nights we gathered in the big room downstairs, by the big fireplace going steady if it was Winter, or not going at all in the Summer. We'd sit and yak nothing with cocktails or fizzy wine or just coffee, horse around now and again. Phyllis got a big book of all mixed drinks there are sometime, and together with the joker behind the log at the Rhumboogie went through everything in there. They had me nearly plastered just from small sips out of every golden-hued thing they tried, but eventually when I woke up the next day she had it. She told me so, triumphant, "Daddy, say 'sweetslit go fix me a drink' like you say to that bitch." I did, she ran over holding her runt palm under her runt ass like it were something, then came back and Joseph's sweet Mamy she had it! Coin throw and Vieux Click-o, she said. That's from French, it just means old. They's got to make everything more complicated than it is, those French jokers, I don't care they're from St. Louis or where. I wasn't much for rye or bourbon before, but that gold fizz wasn't half bad! The runt told Lulu, too, next they laid eyes on each other. She cracked "Ha-ha, bitch, I got it now!"

Phyllis was a lot like that, she got her kicks rustling the other bitches up. She didn't mean anyting by it, or not that much, and it's how the others saw it too, most of the time. Some of the time though, she'd really get under their skin. One time, after Chris told a flock of them the story of her old life in the old house she was in, and how the house mama got it from the broads, they ganged up on Phyllis with pillows and whacked her till she cried uncle. She was a freak for that, I don't figure she ever liked laying any stud who didn't rough her up. When the bitches did it, she'd go wild. That was the thing with her, she was a bitchy bitch ragged up on a broad she liked, to make that broad hot. To make that broad blow her down and then sit on her face. She was best pals with all the broads did that with her, but Pepper ain't ever turned jasper, so Phyllis just aggravated her to hell with the best of intentions, or at least the freakiest of them.

The thing they liked most though was reading. There was a whole pile-up of old books all over the walls, I don't know how many. I ain't ever tried to count them all. If I had a slat a book it might've been ten grand I guess. They'd pick something, then one bitch'd read with everyone else quiet to listen. Nine cases out of ten when it got dark it was "Oh Daddy, Daddy... can we read again ?" "Yes, please!" "Please Daddy, please, can we ?"

I don't remember what all they read, mostly stories from old England when they had their Continental Congress war long ago, and from when France had a king and places far away in the East. I remember one that was about how life went in those old days, before there even was a plantation or niggers in the world. The way those jokers had it set out, they built all their towns up on a hill. Smaller too, back then. Nothing like Chi at all. Then around it they'd build walls. Not walls like for a house, but tall and thick enough a joker could take a stroll around town on them walls. They had to, too, because they'd come battling each other and try to rustle up cattle and bitches and whatall. So the jokers with the wall hid inside and closed the gate and then threw rocks and boiling oil on the other jokers left outside.

The way they had it sorted out back then, only so far was any sucker a real man as he owned a plot inside them walls. The bite on it was pretty steep, too, to pay for maintenance on all that masonry. The rest of studs who didn't have no shop or bar or nothing inside, they was like niggers. They had no say, just sent them out to fight the other suckers when they came by. And for the broads, they had a special kind of cop, like a belly cop. Whenever that heat rustled up a broad with her belly out, they'd inquire where she'd copped it from. If the broad was married good enough, but if she wasn't they'd take her in, to clip her wings a little, by the edges like. Often the joker who had knocked her up, if he felt for the broad, would put in notice at the precinct. Then the pigs knew the score, and just put the scare in the uppity bitch a little, like a mack man does with runaway wives and whatnot, when the whitey husband hires him to it. Sometimes though, even if the broad had never freaked off with some joker who was hot for her, he'd put the notice in just the same. What'd the heat care ?

That kept their bitches in line sure as sugar, because if no one came forward to claim the deed in her, they turned the heat up on that bitch. They tied her down to every pole in that town and whopped her naked ass. Then moved her on to the next pole, did it over. They ain't had no uppity, talk back bitches back in that time or nothing. It was all "yes Daddy" straight up all the way. Ain't no bitch in them old days hear her Mama say anything 'bout not whoring out or going to school or to keep a job, neither. Them bitches were born turned out. I don't figure they had that Bible con going strong like it is now back then, that's for sure. Just straight up talk and good living all the way to Heaven.

If a bitch tried and confessed to some muckty muck who hadn't said anything himself, they'd tear her apart with iron hooks like in the stockyards, for calumny and blackening the name of a good man. If she confessed and it was just some boy, not a big wig like he had to be, they'd chain her by the tavern, what they called The Roost back then. She'd often die in that freak fest, the chained up bitch. They'd fuck her to death chained to a wall in the back. The boy himself though, they did in a special way. They had like a box, and they'd clip it at the root of his rod and up in front clipped out his skin. Then they poured concrete in. He could still take a piss, but I don't know how he'd ever scratch his balls. The sucker had to walk around with a two piece bit between his legs from then on. Unless he found some stone cutter or something to hammer down his cube offa him, though what was left of a joker's balls when that was done I ain't seen written down.

That wasn't all they did. They had one big sewer, made of bricks. If a broad was really saucy to their taste, or if she didn't confess or nothing, they'd put her in a special bit. They had a foot-tall wall in there, going down right by the middle, through the muck. They fitted a special brick around her neck, and they walled her in that wall, head on one side, ass on the other bent like the bitch was about to take it from behind. She took it, too. They had a thing called the Pillar of Escape, which was a pile-up of rats in a box, with a tube just wide enough for a rat. They ramed that inside of her, as deep as it went. Then they put coals atop. The rats dug out their way to escape through her guts. Back then it said they had ten miles of sewer with wall like that, could've taken five, ten thousand broads. And it did, too! All the top jokers in that joint compared one another for how many whores they had to their credit down below! Some's had as many as more than a thousand broads done in the muck by rats like that! I thought of Top and Sweet, with their paltry score of two or three. They'd have been laughed outta that town, that's for damn sure. And theirs they sent to the booby hatch! Ain't no comparison, nohow.

About this time Miss Peaches croaked of old age. Sweet shook his skull when he told me. His eyes were sad. I remembered that overgrown cat as an old lady, still gorgeous in her mink coat and fur bootees he had custom ordered for her. I remembered her farting that first time we sat eyes on each other in the Roost. Glass Top long got out, but he didn't have the heart anymore. I dropped a coupla bills on him from my side. I asked him where he's headed ? He said out West, to Seattle. He had a broad down there he was going to square out with. I told him "Top, when you're in Seattle you go find a place called The Casino. It's on Washington and 2nd, you can't miss it. You tell the log jockey you're Glass Top and has anyone left a message ?" He gave me a sad look out of his beaten down dog eyes. "You ain't gonna croak old Top now, are you Iceberg ? We was pals a long time. I ain't salty with you. I wouldn't want no whore nohow." I told him "Damn old fool, I ain't about to send you lugging down long scratch. What's wrong with you! Pick it up on consignment, fool." I had Pepper wire him twenty grand. I heard he took it and opened up a cleaning business, did alright.

Poor Sweet had lost his glory. He looked a hundred years old, though he couldn't have been fifty. I don't know he was even forty. His backbone was the old white broad who owned the building, she must've been seventy by then if she was a day. He had just beat a murder rap, for killing some pretty jerk from St. Louis who had insulted him in the Roost. The poor chump said Sweet's an ugly, gray-ass bastard. Sweet drew on him and shot him dead. The kid wasn't even packing a rod. Sweet kicked the dead joker all the way into the alley. He pissed on the corpse. The pigs knew they'd never get a testimony. They didn't want a murder case to keep unsolved on the books for fifty years. The jury came back with death by misadventure. I figure it got close enough.

Sweet was laughing. It sure put him in a good mood to tell me about it. It had cost him a fine bundle of lettuce to beat the rap, too. He told me he got a wire that Red Cora got life for croaking another whore down in Pittsburgh. I figured she's probably happy as a shit-house rat, locked up in a hole with a fresh supply of soft bitches hauled in every week. Before I left I went for his john. The gold-painted silk screens were long gone. The door had a padlock on the outside. He came behind me, grinning, and said, "Pal, my crapper is out of order." I went downstairs to the john in the lobby. It was now turned into a bookie joint. On the way out I asked old Patch Eye why Sweet didn't get his toilet fixed. He looked even older than Sweet did. Poor Patch Eye could barely stand. I don't know if he ever did. He just sat in a corner, shaking his head all the time. His voice was but a whisper now. "Ain't nothing wrong with the crapper. That cold bastard has his two whores locked in there for fucking with his scratch. They been in there three days."

I walked toward the car. Some pretty young bitch was waving eagerly. She'd been waiting for me in that short an hour. She didn't need to piss or nothing. I think it was Dottie maybe, I don't remember. I wondered how long Sweet would keep his whores in there, and how long a whore could live on just toilet water.

« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 21 : The Combine

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 23 : Getting Old, Getting Fat »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Sunday, 07 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 21 : The Combine

While Pepper ran all over town copping the pads I had the runt drive me up to Sweet's pad in her yellow Ford. We looked just like a coupla squares. Phyllis had on an airy A-line dress and a straw hat, I put on a subdued vine, we could've been a coupla of professors or some other kinda that thing. We went through the whole rigamarole, up to and including Samee welcoming us. We found Sweet in a pair of leopard skin shorts, on his couch. I said "Hello you old bastard! Let me introduce to you the girl I'm gonna marry!" excited like one of them. I turned to her, "Mr. Sweet Jones", then to him "Miss Natalie Runt". He stood up, his mouth dropped open. Eventually he said to me "The hell you say, nigger ?!"

That's when Lulu came in yakking "Hey Mr. Jones sir, everyone's ready. Is it ok if we take the D or do you..." then she caught sight of us. She said "Oh! Hello!" all bubbly. I said "They got time for this bitch to make me a drink, Sweet ?" He closed his mouth and pointed sweetslit to the bar. She shook her big ass all the way there. She was decked in a spectacular golden dress, draping over her substantial assets, cracked in front to grant a taste. It worked wonders for her. I cracked on him "Where's they going ?" Apparently Sweet had taken over Glass Top's trade, because Lulu and the crew were going no other place than the Franklin Arms! I said "That okay if they take this rusty bitch of mine along ? I know she ain't worth two slats, but I figure maybe your legendary cocksuckers learn her a thing or two ?" Phyllis gave me a look. I turned to her "What up, bitch ? You ever ride in a Duesenberg ? That's a sorta short that costs money, what do you know, going everywhere in that niggardly Ford of yours." She looked at her shoes. "Yes, Daddy". Sweet bellowed out his bear laugh, then asked "I thought you were gonna marry the bitch ?" I looked at him from the side and let go, "Well yeah, but I ain't gonna marry her tonight, Sweet." That broke him up. He fell back on the couch laughing, tears in his eyes. Lulu was giggling trying not to spill my golden drink on the way back. Before I had two decent sips the whole lot of them, six of his plus the one of mine, flew out the door. I looked at him. "You figure I just lost a whore, huh ?" He slapped my back. "That whore of yours is better lost, Iceberg. She ever stood up yet ?" I chuckled. "Not in bed, anyhow."

Once the bitches were well out he took me by the hand and walked me past the gold-painted screens. I thought to myself, "The hell's got into the crazy coon ?" To my relief we went right past the toilet with the urinals in it, but then he dragged me in a bedroom! I was just started to say "Listen, Sweet, I know you love me man, but my name ain't Melody nohow, you know ?" when he cracked the rundown on me. It turns out Mr. Jones had a sweet enough connection through a whore of his from down those parts. These fellows flew in the cocaine from way down South, where it grows on trees like cotton, all the way into Canada. They dropped it off nowhere there, direct from the plane. Then later they'd go in by boat, with the treasure map in hand, of where it was supposed to land. They'd pick it up and float it back down South a ways. What he thought was he'd cop a load. The way that'd work out was that we had to drive to somewhere along lake Michigan, also like on a treasure map. It had to be at night. We had to do some lighting show with a coupla flashlights, then the guys would motorboat the load over. Almost like ordering some pie, if you don't count having to drive all the way out to Waukegan, and then back with a hot load. He said to me "Iceberg, the asking price's six a piece." I looked at him, "Six big ones ?!" In truth I was willing to go a little higher than the grand Top wanted for his, on merchandise of same quality, but six times higher seemed to high. He looked at me like I'd never hussled cocaine in my life. "Six hundred, fool." I thought to myself, "That's not so bad." He shook his head like he was reading my mind. "This ain't cut, kid. You thinking of Glass Top's stuff, that was already four to one." I looked dazed. He nodded me along through it. "Yeap. One of this makes four of that." I couldn't help but get excited some. I said "Sweet, that's sweet enough, but... do these jokers have enough ? I mean, for a piece or two it'd be maybe even worth the road, but any less than that... Hell, that army tank you've got probably needs that much in gas."

He put his hand to his forehead like I was giving him a headache. "Listen kid, that's just it. To go in I have to buy out the whole load. These jokers don't deal by the half boat, and I ain't got that." Finally it was landing in my head. "How much is a boatload like that ?" He came right back "Two-fifty. They lay the trip on me with no warning, no nothing. I can't go to the bank and ask for a barrel of cash. I ain't no Top. All I got laying around's ninety large. You managed to scare up sixty from that fiance of yours yet ?" I scratched my head. "Just about. Jeez Sweet, I'd have a bitch of a time trying to cop another friend like you. I feel like bawling just to think about it. I ran down my life story to you. You know I love you like I loved Henry. Maybe I love you, Sweet, more than I love Mama. Don't think I'm a chump square when I say it. Sweet, the jokers in the street call me Iceberg. They'd laugh their asses off if they knew I was weak for a stud. I love like my dead baby brother. Sweet please don't hip them I got a sucker weakness. Don't ever do anything to croak my love for you. Sweet, if you ever do, they'll all get hip. I'll maybe fall apart and run through the streets wailing like a crazy bitch." He said, "'Berg, Sweet would chop his right arm off before he'd cross you. You're the only friend I got, sweetheart. Shit, honey, you could have a hundred whores and I could be whoreless. I'd ask you to give me a bitch. I wouldn't try to steal no whore from you, darling." I looked straight into those gray slits on his ugly mug. "Show me the ninety, yeah ?"

He reached out to one of the pillows. It wasn't a pillow at all, just a cloth draped over a cardboard box, like the kind vinyl records come in. Stashed in it, slats. All C bills throughout, nine bundles. The old dog figured I'd ask, that's why he dragged me in there. I asked "So you game to drive up there in your Doozy, load up, drive it back ?" He nodded his giant head. He knew I'd go for it. "So run me down again, how does it go ?" I asked. The way he figured I'd go fetch my bundle, bring it over, then in the morning he'd drop off. Then the day after that he gets the wire, that night we go pick up. He figured once he gets the go-ahead he wires me, we leave together and come back together. I looked at him. "Sweetie," I said, "you're too big a guy. Me, I'm just a one-whore chili pimp. Nobody in the world peeps what I do. If you move to do the payoff, it looks bad. It makes waves. It's just no good. Gimme the bundle, I'll drop it off tomorrow for you." It was his turn to look at me. His stony face faced me for a long moment. Then he said "Nigger, you got the sixty or don't you ?" I said to him "Sweet, if I don't got the sixty grand, I hope to hell my whores all run off, my swipe turns to buttermilk and I end up married to the ugliest old broad in the Temperance Union. I gots it, I gots it, if tell you I gots it then I gots it." He looked at me some more. "Because if you're only bullshiting to gain yourself time, thinking like a damn fool you'll sort it out somehow, and then make me look like a chump tomorrow, I'll get cut off. Those jokers ain't ever gonna talk to me about anything again. Then to pass the time..." he was chomping his meat hooks one into the other again, like a wheat threhser on max. "I'm not those chump pimps going in a grand to rap, Sweet. I figure as much. I wouldn't put you in a spot like that. Who else I got ?"

He handed me the box. As I hefted it I remembered what I done. I said to him "Well shiet, nigger. Now I ain't got no way to head back. I sent that bitch down with yours, huh. I figured we just bullshiting around, didn't know I'd need no ride." He looked at me like he thought I'm displaying exactly those qualities required to inspire confidence and ease in a business arangement like what we had. He said "Ain't you the sultan of bums. I ain't flagging you a cab with that haystack, that's for damn straight." I nodded. He said "I figure I gotta wire Mimi to bring your useless dog back. At least if she can't turn a trick she turns a wheel. Chauffeur good enough for a nigger anyhow." I shook my head. "Naw, you hold on now. I gots another one." I dialed, praying to god Pepper's inside. She was. I said "Bitch, hop in the short come pick me up. Sweet's place. You don't know Sweet's place ? Look it up! He's in the phonebook." I said, eyeing him, and I hung up. He shook his head at me "God damned crazy nigger." We sat around rapping about Top and bullshit for maybe half hour, until Pep rang in. Samee came in with the wire. I said "Tell the whore to wait in the lobby. I'll be right down. I don't want this here smooth mack operator copping my one good whore." Sweet laughed. "If you got one good whore, I got one good slat, Bullshitberg." At least I got to see how that whole switchboard deal worked out at the other end. I grabbed the 'pillow' and made out. When Pepper saw me she said "Hello Daddy-honey. Gotta pillow, huh."

The drop-off was an old garage down on 21nd street. I went in there asking for a Mr. Hubert Blaine Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff, senior. Maybe it was something simpler and I forgot. The guy showed up, and corrected my pronounciation. Then I got the paper out that I had prepared for just such an occasion, turned to page 1292, column 3, line 17, and corrected his correction. Then I knew I got the right guy for sure. I handed over the 'pillow'. It had more filling than it started with. Adding those six bundles of my own in there was painful. The cupboard was left almost as bare as Mama's back in `24. Between sixty dumped instead of goose down into this wild boat chase and the twenty-odd Pepper had dumped into real estate like a damn fool, we had maybe three grand left on hand, and not a sawbuck among 'em. Those whores'd better hump their asses off of them, less I had to payoff Delaney in furniture one of these days. I wondered what the going rate for well used beds and whore-stained tubs might be down at the precinct.

Just as we made it back the phone rang off the hook. It was Sweet. "I got a dead whore here" he said. "Storage's a fin a day, and if she freaks off with Mimi that's another double saw, just so you know." The bitch had starred. She cleanned out, walking around naked like she never had no Mama, the other bitches panting to keep up with her turntable speed. Their bundle came to a coupla bills short of five grand, between seven of them. A double saw a trick comes down to almost two-hundred fifty tricks. The runt turned thirty-nine in thirteen hours, that's 33 1/3 fpm. Ain't that right ? Sweet was not paying no bellhop 30% off the top, that's for damn sure, and his heat grease was a roll-in anyway. And Glass Top figured himself the greatest pimp there is!

I told Sweet to send the bitch back in her ride just as soon as she's made eyes again. He said "What, nigger, you mean not send her back to the honey pit ?" I cut into him straight up "Naw, Sweet, I need the bitch around the house. There's dishes piled in the sink and I ain't found my other slipper yet." He grunted like he didn't wanta laugh "Damn fool pickaninnys these days, ain't got no love for cold cash. Ain't got no drive to pimp anymore." but I told him, "Mack, last night I conned a fool out of a pretty bundle. I ain't gonna send my whores out on the street no mo'. I's set fo' life. From now on out, we just spend the rest of our life spendin'." He said he might know that fool, and I said to tell him then it all went smooth and wire the news. Now a green damn fool might rap like he's dictatin' an indictment for himself, but anyone with half a clue knows how to run their jib good, and let the D.A. prove of it what he can.

After that I sat down with the Pep. I said to her "Listen bitch, you know what this top mack's got ? He's got a broad from down in Columbia. Where that peckerwood first discovered these here America. She speakin' Spic and everything. How's that for a connection ?" She looked hard at me. "You husslin' girl ? That's what all that was all about ?" I nodded. "How much ?" I said "Our end, a hundred piece." I opened the empty cupboard for her. She opened the peepers for it, about as wide. She said "You figure we ever see that back again ?" I nodded. "Sweet's tight. A hundred piece uncut's at least half million, out our door. Could be more." She nodded again. "I figure I ain't gonna hustle any. Just nickle and dime it like before. That shit keep ?" She nodded more. "I figure I don't care how long it takes to unload, I don't need the heat. No one's to know the load I got." Instead of nodding this time she said "That's smart." I said "You figure we gone through maybe a piece a month ?" She said "If that". I shrugged. "No skin off my swipe. If it's ten years then ten years I've got. I'd rather have ten years here than ten upriver." She came sat herself in my lap "You got that right."

That wasn't the way it worked out. The next day about one P.M. I got the office from Sweet. Half hour later we were in his livingroom again. I cracked to Pepper "Strip, bitch, and go play with the other whores. Don't leave here nohow. I'll holler when I want you again." He had four of his own bitches at home. We rapped and bullshited around a while then we sat down to eat. Pep ordered some fancy stuff from the best French restaurant in town, like for twelve people. An hour or so later Samee started running back and forth hauling all the stuff. I could tell Sweet's bitches aren't familiar with it any, but could well warm up to it. He too, though he didn't want to let on. Then once it was getting dark we got into his ride. That thing pulls like five hogs. I bet it could pull three trucks. We drove an hour and some, most all going North. The meet was north of Waukegan, sort-of halfway between that and a place called Zion. Better that way, not like Negros were that welcome in Waukegan back then. We figured it'd be a bitch to find, but it wasn't anything like that. An old abandoned dock an old country road led straight into. There wasn't a single house with a light in at least two mile all around. We did the flashlight dance. Nothing happened.

I thought to myself that's good enough then, the most expensive night-time fishing trip in the history of Lake Michigan. Sweet looked at me. I looked at him. Just when I started to say "You figure we bought the Murphy ?" he went "Shh!" at me. Then I could hear it too, like a bumblebee. It got bigger and bigger like bumblebees don't get, and then I could see the runabout wooshing in, a ways off. There were three lumberjacks in it, by the looks of them. Big peckerwoods with moustaches. They said nothing, just started throwing old newspaper bundles on the dock. The title page was something about Capone, from back in '28. I thought look at that, Sweet's mack birthday. I didn't crack anything. They were kinda heavy for newspapers. Inside the bundle sat quietly minding their own busness six one-piece packs. We hauled 'em to the Doozy, half dozen trips between the two of us. It was the most work I'd done since the Tuskegee days. By the time we were done, Sweet's short looked more like a paper salvage cart.

Sweet shot out of there like the white devils were after him, to send him back to Georgia to jump at torches. He was hurling down the empty streets looking straight ahead, deaf to the world. The needle shot past 110. I guess the sucker thought himself in a race. I cracked "Sweet, ease up, man. You take yourself for Rosemeyer or something ? He didn't do so hot." He mumbled something, I don't know what it was. I laid into him again. "Nigger, if these peckerwoods stop us to ask what we're running from what are you gonna tell 'em ?" He mumbled something else. This time I got it almost. Something about the county line anyhow. It must've been, because once we were out of Lake county he eased up on that gas. The night moths stopped flying through my nose straight into my brain in one shot, anyhow. I said "You want me to drive for a spell ?" He shot me a quick glance, then shook his head like I cracked we try for a baby together. I don't know why, I mean maybe parking's not my forte, but driving straight down the road even a cruising hype could pull off. I saw it done with my own eyes. I ain't even snorting any in my life.

As we got to where we could peep the skyline, I also peeped a big black car behind us. I said "Sweet... that ain't good. You figure they got Tommy guns or are they gonna riddle us with old Colts ? Take half hour doing it, one bang at a time." That wasn't what it was. After tailing us for ten minutes they put the howlers on. It was heat. Allman's boys, not O'Banion's boys, what could I had been thinking to confuse one Irish mob for the other. Sweet's gray was the lightest marbled pearly gray I'd ever seen on him, or ever since have. We stopped. They stopped behind us. They got out, their police rods in their hands. They started hollering for us to get out. We did. I said "Gents, before you do anything else, radio sgt Delaney. The less we rap the less likely anyone says anything stupid." They looked at each other. One of them got back in their Chevrolet. He yakked over their radio, then got excited for real. He yakked his heart out, then at last came back out. His buddy could tell what's up, didn't even bother with his rod no more. Sweet was breathing. I leaned on the side of the car. They whispered like Catholic schoolgirls met with a healthy swipe, then turned around, got back in their car and drove off. They didn't as much as wish us a good night. Sweet turned around, bent over, heaved a week's worth and puked. I guess Pepper's French cuisine didn't sit so well with him. After we had enough of hearing out the crickets and an owl in the distance we packed back in the D and eased it away. A coupla blocks before his flat Sweet finally turned to me. "That Delaney sure got pull," he said. I shook my hand. "Just a lucky break, Sweet, that's all. Just a lucky break". He looked at me, shaking his head. I said "I think next time I'm sending a bitch. I'm just not cut out for this much work. I ain't lifted and hefted this much since college." He didn't say anything to that.

I had Pep pull her hog right next to Sweet's Doozy, down in the garage. Then I watched while she hauled the newspapers from Sweet's short into her own. He watched her too. He watched me as much. I think he got a kick out of Pepper toughening up those arms. When she was done we split. Her hands shook a little on the wheel, but I didn't mind. I figured if she wrecks it, ain't even my short in the first place. She and Chris hauled the load up into my room all night. June and Phyllis were out, and I didn't feel like getting anyone else in on it. For hours the convertible sat outdoors, the girl piled up in it like dime bonbons. Who was gonna run off with some old newspaper bundles from a Cadillac parked in front of the Blue Heaven ? A smart till tappin' kid, that's who, but smart kids were fresh out of stock.

I thought about it, and I decided I ain't gonna cut my cocaine. I figured why the hell go out for a half short ton of white sugar, anyhow ? It's good money, that. Besides, what's the grocer gonna think, we're shooting for diabetes ? Cutting's messy. You need a room for it. I didn't have a room for it. Then there's need for cutters. Plural. Whoever's doing it's a cinch to snort themselves out of their mind even if they don't ever line up, just from the air. I didn't want three dozen coked out whores. Bitches gotta be sharp, and stay sharp, to whore for me. It just made no sense cutting it, not for me nohow. Instead of cutting it I gathered all the whores in the house and drilled them down. I said "Bitches, dig good. Daddy's copped some new girl. This girl ain't like the old one. This girl will kill a sucker that don't treat her right. You got to tell the tricks. Then after you told 'em, you gotta line for them. Don't let them do themselves, not at first. Not for a long while. A trick's just like a baby. They'll suck down caustic lye if they find it in their reach. That's why they're called suckers. Do less than half what you did before, at a time. Bitches, do a quarter. If you know the trick goes through a number five cap, cut the number five cap in quarters first, then line a quarter of that for him. Don't let them line it up. Don't let them machine gun. I don't care what they say. Joker does four lines one after the other of this new stuff where he did a line before, he's croaked. I don't want no stiff in my house. You got that ?" They said they did. I drilled them one by one, "What do you do ? What do you say ? What don't you do ?" Then I went over it again. "Bitches, I don't care how long you ain't seen a trick. I don't care you think it's been six weeks and everyone's hip. Nobody's hip. Unless you're sure they're hip they ain't hip. Even if you're sure, they're still maybe not hip. Don't get no joker croaked."

It worked alright. I don't know how it worked, it made no sense that it'd work, but it did work alright. It was almost like if the tricks themselves were pulling not to croak. Like they really wanted to stay alive, somehow. Can you believe that ? The only trouble I had from it was, they started coming just to cop. A sucker that rolled in before with three-four saws in his mitt, looking for a pampering with a side of rolling in the hay now broke down the door with two, even three bills stuffed up his butt, looking for a few caps with a side of pampering and maybe some rolling in the hay. The house was pulling in twice the slats while the girls were getting half the rustling. Some even copped some doss now and again. It's crazy what cocaine can do to a body, I ain't never seen a bored whore in my life, not before I copped that boatload of Sweet's sweet stuff. We went through more than a piece a week, and after a few weeks it was more two to three. It didn't look the haul will last the year, and all the while the slats were piling up to heaven. The shielded crew hit me up for an extra grand, so they'd cop two grand on Saturdays instead of the one, then after a while they brought it up as high as fifteen hundred every day. It was a hike alright, but it wasn't going up nearly fast enough to keep up with the slat tsunami coming in. Not by a damn sight, though I bitched and moaned like they sucked my life dry. At least the pigs still hit the whores as hard as they ever did. They were the only ones left doing it, so in a way it was like I'm paying the heat to lay the whores while everyone else freaked off on smack.

We called it the combo, because the combine's where it's at.

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Sunday, 07 March, Year 13 d.Tr.