Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 5 -- The jungle fauna.

The yellow Ford ran like an escaped con. We got to Chicago in two hours. We checked into a hotel in a slum neighborhood, around 29th and State Streets. We took our stuff out of the Ford's trunk.

It was ten P.M. I threw some water on my face. I told the runt to cool it. I went out and cruised around to case the city.

I turned the wipers on. A late March snowfall was starting. About a mile from the hotel I saw whores working the streets.

I parked and went into a bar in the heart of the action. It stank like a son-of-a-bitch. It was a junkie joint. I sat sipping on a bottle of suds ; I couldn't trust the glasses.ⁱ

A cannonⁱⁱ with a tired horse face took the vacant stool in my right. His stallⁱⁱⁱ took the one on the left. The stall had a yellow fox face. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him pinning me. He snapped his fingers. I jerked my head toward him.

He said, "Brother, you are lucky as a shit-house rat. What size benny and vine^iv you wear? I'm Dress 'em up Red. Stand up brother so I can dig your size. I got a pile of crazy vines dirt cheap."

I stood up facing him. He ran his eyes up and down me. He unbuttoned my top coat. He pulled my vine's lapels. He shoved me back toward Horseface. I stumbled, half turned to apologize to Horseface. There was a streaking blur behind me. It was so fast I couldn't have sworn I had seen it. I found out later what it had been.

Horseface showed his choppers^v, got off the stool and trotted through the slammer^vi. I faced the stall.

I said, "Jim, you got my size? Do you have any black mohairs?"

The stall smiled crookedly at me. He straightened my tie.

He said, "Slim, I got blue and black mohair, I can fit you like Saville Row in London. You want the blue too? The bite^vii is two for fifty slats."

I said, "Man, let's go. I am ready to cop."

His brow telescoped like I was going to open a door and catch his mother crapping in my hat. He started oozing toward the slammer.

He said, "Brother, I don't know you well enough to trust you. I got to protect my stash. Wouldn't it be a bitch if you went with me and copped? What if you came back later and beat me? No, Slim, cool it. I'll be back in twenty minutes with the vines. Here's a slat. Get a taste on Dress 'em up Red."

I ordered another beer. I was trying to stall that twenty minutes out. I sure needed those vines.

After an hour I figured Dress 'em up Red got busted or something.^viii

I asked the fat broad tending bar where the swank joints were. She named a few, and gave me directions. My bill was eighty cents. I left a twenty-cent tip and walked to the Ford.

The wind wing on the street side gaped open. It had been jimmied. The car door had been unlocked through it.

I got in. I remembered the runt's costume jewelry had been locked in the glove compartment. I unlocked it. Some slick bastard had slit the cardboard bottom from underneath. There wasn't even an earring left.

I started the motor and turned the lights on. The snow had stopped falling. My headlights beamed on a squatting junkie whore with a Dracula face peeing in the gutter. She grinned toothlessly into the glare like maybe she was a starlet taking bows at a movie premiere.

I thundered the motor. She stood up wide legged. Her cat was a mangy red slash. She was holding up the bottom front of her dress with her rusty elbows. Her long black fingers were pulling her snare wide open to stop me.

As I shot by her, she shouted, "Come back here nigger! It ain't but a buck."

I drove through the snow-slushed streets. The streetlights were dim halos in the murk.

I thought, "I can't put the runt down in a spot like back there. I have to find somebody to give me a rundown."

I drove a hundred blocks. Suddenly a huge red neon sign glittered through the gloom. It read "Devil's Roost." It was one of the joints the fat broad at the hype bar^ix had told me about.

Gaudy Hogs and Lincolns were bumper to bumper. They pigged the parking spaces on the Roost's side of the street. I parked across the street. I got out of the Ford and crossed the street.

I started walking down the sidewalk toward the Roost. "The Bird," Eckstein and Sarah sent a crazy medley of soul sounds from the rib and chicken joint's loudspeakers. The street was as busy as a black anthill. Studs and broads in sharp clothes paraded the block.

The hickory-smoked chicken and rib odors watered my mouth. I was at the point of stepping into one for a fast feast. The sign said "Creole Fat's Rib Heaven." I didn't make it.

A long, stooped shadow stood in my way. He was chanting at me like a voodoo doctor. He pointed toward a storefront. Its window was blacked out with blue paint.

He sang, "Shootin' 'em up inside, heavy and good. Scratch piled up like cords of wood. Geez you look lucky, Jack. Seven, eleven point right back. That's sure you, Jack. Go in fast. Come out quicker. Lady Luck is a bitch but you can stick her."

His topcoat was a threadbare green-checked antique. The tops of his shabby black shoes had criss-cross holes snipped out. His bulging corns were humps pressing through the vents. He stank like a bootlegger's garbage. There was something ghostly familiar in the banana yellow, Basset-Hound face.

I said, "Jim, I'm not in the mood to whale the craps. Say, don't I know you?"

His transient eyes jerked their bags. They moved over my shoulder, searching down the sidewalk for a fresh prospect. His bald head glistened like a tiny yellow lake under the street lamp.

He said, "Jack, I can't put a pistol on you. I can't force you to go inside and collect your scratch. Kid, you too young to know me. You might a heard of me. I'm Pretty Preston. I gave the whores blues in the night when I was pimping at my peak. Who are you?"

His name triggered my clear memory of him. He had driven a gleaming black La Salle car. I had shined his shoes back in the pressing shop days.

Then he had been sleek and handsome like a yellow Valentino. I remembered his diamonds. They had winked and sparkled brightly on his fingers, in his shirt cuffs, even on his shirt front.

I thought, "Could this really be the same dandy? What had happened to him?"

I said, "Preston, I know you. I'm the kid who used to shine your stacys back on Main Street. Remember me? I'm pimping myself now. You sure pimped up a storm when I was a kid.^x What happened? Why are you steering^xi for this craps joint?"

He had a dreamy, far-away look in his dull brown eyes. He was probably remembering his long ago flashy pimp days. He sighed and put his arms around my shoulders. I walked with him through the door of the craps trap.

The raw stink of gamblers' sweat punched up into my nose. We sat on a battered sofa in the almost dark front of the joint. Through a partition I could hear the tinkle of silver coins. I heard the flat cackle of the bone dice laughing at the cursing shooters begging for a natural.

He said, "Sure, Kid, I remember you. Christ, you got tall. I gotta be getting old. What's your name? Kid, I been getting funky breaks since I came to this raggedy city twelve years ago. I'm just steering for a pal who runs the joint. Hell he needs me more than I need him. I'm gonna catch a hot number, or a wild daily double. Old Preston's name will ring again. How many girls you got?"

I said, "Slim Lancaster, but they call me Young Blood. Blood for short. I only got one now, but with all the whores here I'll have bookoos^xii in a month. I just got in town tonight. I want to put my girl to work. Give me a rundown on some streets after I dash next door for a slab of ribs. I haven't dirtied a plate since noon. Anything I can get you?"

He said, "Blood, if you must do something, get me a half-pint of Old Taylor at the corner liquor store. I'll rundown for you, but you ain't going to like my tail-end rundown at all."

It felt good to step out into the fresh, chilly air. I stopped in the rib joint and put my order in. I saw the front of the Roost on my way to the corner.

I tiptoed and peeked through the bottom of the window blind. The joint was jumping. Pimps, whores, and white men crowded the circular bar.

Some skinny joker with scald burns on his face was fronting a combo. He tried to ape the Birds phrasing and tone. His tan face had turned black. He was choking on his horn.

Mixed couples danced to "Stomping at the Savoy" on a carpetsized dance floor in the rear. Silk^xiii broads itching for forbidden fruit sat in booths lining the walls.

Their faces glowed starkly in the red dimness. Their long hair flopped around their shoulders as they threw their heads back. They laughed drunkenly with their black lovers.

I took my peepers out of the slot. I walked toward the corner to cop the bottle for Preston. I made a skull note to pop into the Roost after Preston's rundown.

I was fifty feet from the corner when I saw him.^xiv He was in the center of a small crowd. His high crown white hat was bobbing a foot above it. He was a nut brown giant.

As I drew closer I could see his snow white teeth. His heavy lips were drawn back in a snarl. His wide shoulders jiggled. He was stomping on something. It was like maybe he was a sharply togged fire dancer or maybe a dapper grape crusher from Sicily.

I squeezed through the crowd for a ringside view. He was grunting. His labor was yanking the sweat out of him. The crowd stood tittering and excited like a Salem mob watching the execution of a witch.

The witch was black. She had the slant eyes and doll features of a Geisha girl.

The chill breeze whipped back the bottom of his benny. The giant's thigh muscles rippled inside the pants leg of his two-hundred-dollar vine.

Again and again he slammed his size-thirteen shoe down on the witch's belly and chest. She was out cold. Her jaw hinge was awry and red frothy bubbles bunched at the corners of her crooked mouth.

At last he scooped her from the pavement. She looked like an infant in his arms. His eyes were strangely damp. He wedged through the crowd to a purple Hog at the curb. He looked down into her unconscious face.

He muttered, "Baby, why, why do you make me do you like this? Why don't you hump and stop lushing^xv and bullshitting with the tricks?"

Still holding her tenderly, he stooped and opened the front door of the Hog. He placed her on the front seat. He shut the door and walked around the Hog to the driver's side. He got in and the Hog roared away into the night.

The crowd was scattering. I turned to a fellow about my age. His eyes were glazed. He was sucking a stick of gangster.^xvi

I said, "That stud would have gotten busted sure as Hell if the heat had made the scene."

He stepped back and looked at me like I was fresh in town from a monastery in Tibet.

He said, "You must be that square, Rip Van Winkle, I heard about. He's heat. He's vice heat.^xvii They call him Poison. He's got nine whores. He's a pimp. That broad is one of 'em. She got drunk with a trick."

I went into the liquor store. It was five-after-twelve. I ordered the half pint. The clerk put it on the counter. I swung my topcoat away to get my hide in my hip pocket. I had two hundred in fives and tens in it. I had five C notes pinned to my shorts in a tobacco sack between my legs.

My fingers touched the bottom of the pocket. My right hip pocket was empty. I was sure my hide had been on that side. I dug my left hand into the left pocket. Empty!

Within seconds both my sweaty hands had darted in and explored all my pockets a half-dozen times. The clerk just stood there amused watching the show. His hairy paw slid the half pint back toward him away from foul territory.

He said, "Whatsa matter, buddy, some broad ram it into you for your poke or did you leave it in your other strides?"

My mind was ferreting. It back pedaled, tore apart the scenes and moves I had made. I was a confused, jazzy punk.

I said, "Jack, your score is zero. I'm not a vic.^xviii I just remembered I got my scratch on Mars. I'll be back when I get back."

He was shaking his head when I walked out. I crossed the street. I was headed toward the Ford. I wasn't going there to look for my hide on the seat. I was going there to peel off one of those C notes next to my balls.

I had remembered the scene back in the hype joint. I saw that rattlesnake lightning again. For the first time I saw the thrill of the cop on the face of the horse. The Fox had sure held my balls in the fire for Horseface.

I thought, "As slick as those two bastards are they can't miss making a million or getting croaked."

From that day to this one almost thirty years later no scratch has ever been in my hide.

I copped the bottle. I was hurrying to pick up my rib order. Old Preston was back out there bird-dogging suckers. I saw him point a joker into the joint. He slapped the balking sucker on the rump. The vic went inside. He saw me and hobbled toward me. For the first time I saw his crippled walk. He grinned when I laid the bottle on him. He said, "Thanks Kid, want first suck?" I said, "Jack, it's all yours. After I get my ribs I'll duck back in the joint and rap with you."

Preston had his bad dogs propped on a chair when I got back. I stumbled over his make-shift sandals beside the sofa. I sat down. His feet stank like a terminal cancer victim. Even a budding pimp has to have a cast iron belly. I unwrapped and started to gobble the ribs.

He said, "I guess you saw pimping Poison hanging that whore on the corner. He's number two mack man in town."

Through the peppery grease I burbled, "Yeh, she looked dead to me. I guess he checked her into the morgue. How does he cut the double action? Who, as strong as he is, could top him?"

He tilted the bottle straight up and drained it. He said, "She ain't croaked. She'll be back out before daylight humping her ass off. He's the top nigger vice roller in town. His pimping don't faze the white brass just so he don't kick no white asses. Poison is a nice sweet stud compared to Sweet Jones. Sweet's the top spade^xix pimp in the country."

I said, "Preston, I want to be great like Sweet. I want my name to ring like his. I want to be slick enough to handle a hundred whores. Can you pull my coat so I can cut into Sweet and get down right and really do the thing."

In the half darkness I saw his yellow jaw pop loose. His hound face was twisting sideways in quizzical amazement. His face jig-sawed like maybe I had asked him to let me knock him up. He starched like a corpse on the sofa.

He said, "Kid, you bang a cap of smack or something? Sweet's crazy as a flock of loons. Your bell ain't never gonna clang that loud, unless you go crazy too. He's killed four studs. He ain't human. He's got every nigger in town scared shitless. His whores call him Mr. Jones. He hates young punks. I can't cut you into him. Kid, I like you. You're good looking. You conned me that you're intelligent. I am going to give you some advice. Take it or leave it. I came to this town twelve years ago. I was so pretty just my ass would have made you a Sunday face. I brought five whores with me. I had been one hell of a pimp back in the sticks. I was only twentyeight when I got here. Just like you, I had to cut into Sweet. It was easy for me. I was yellow and pretty. I also had three beautiful white whores in my stable. I didn't know Sweet hated yellow niggers and white men. He grinned that gold-toothed smile for a year. He conned me that he loved me. He was a hype even then. He started to rib me, called me a square. I tried hard to be like him, so I got hooked on H.^xx My habit screwed my mind up. All I wanted to do was bang H and coast^xxi. Like a real pal he kept my stable humping. At first his angle was Uncle Sweet to my whores. In six weeks he was giving me and my whores orders. He tore my image down before my whores. He copped my stable. One morning, I was puking sick. Sweet was torturing me. He hadn't brought me my stuff in twenty-four hours. I was cold as ice wrapped in a blanket, then red hot. I was naked, crawling on the floor, nailing^xxii my body bloody when he came in. He stood over me flashing that gold in his jib. Sweet said, ‘Easy now you pretty yellow bastard. There's been a panic. Until this morning I couldn't cop any stuff. I copped you a sixteenth^xxiii in Spic town^xxiv. You know I gotta love your stinking junkie ass to stick my neck out like that. Ain't that a bitch. I just noticed when you sick you almost black as me. I wish that bastard white father of yours could see you down there on your knees begging this black nigger to stop your misery.' Sweet held the tiny cellophane pack out to me. I was too weak to take it. I said, ‘Please Sweet, cook it for me and load my outfit. It's inside the candy-striped tie in the closet. Sweet if you don't hurry, I'm sure to croak.' I was one big ache and cramp. He walked slowly to the closet. He fumbled past the striped tie on the rack. He was getting his kicks making the yellow nigger suffer.^xxv I screamed, ‘Sweet you had your mitt on the right one. It's there! Right there!' Sweet finally got the spike^xxvi out of the tie lining. I was too weak to shoot the H when he got it cooked. I held my arm flat on the carpet. My eyes begged him to tie me up and bang me. He pulled my belt from my trousers on a chair. He tightened the belt around my arm above the elbow. My veins stood out like blue rope. He stabbed the needle into a vein in the hollow. The glass tube turned red. I lay there freezing to death waiting for the smack to slug the sickness and pain out of me."

Preston stopped for breath.^xxvii Bubbles of sweat had popped out on his bald head. While running down Sweet's double cross, he had really relived it.

I licked the hot sauce off my hands. I crushed the greasy sack into a ball and sailed it into a paper box at my end of the sofa. I fished my handkerchief out and wiped my mouth and hands.

Those dice the house was using had a Ph.D. Every ten minutes a chump would shuffle from the rear with a tapped out look on his face.

I said, "Christ, Sweet's slick and cold blooded. What happened after that?"

Preston said, "That shot took the fever and pain away. I wasn't ready to go a fast fifteen^xxviii with Joe Louis^xxix. I felt better. Sweet stood in the middle of the floor watching me. My legs were weak when I finally stood up. I stood there naked. I said, ‘Sweet, I know you have stolen my stable. I know I have been a prize sucker, I demand that you lay a grand or so on me. I got to kick this habit you conned me into. I won't give you any headaches. You got to loan me that G.' Sweet just stood there like a black Buddha for a long moment. For a second I thought he was going to put his foot in my ass like I was a whore. He grinned. He pulled my robe from the foot of the bed. He draped it around my shoulders. Then he said, ‘Sweetheart, I ain't stole no whores from you. Them whores would have blew to the wind if it don't be for me. You got me. I'm just like your whore. Wouldn't you rather I had them whores than some bastard you couldn't cop a favor from? Course I'm going to give you the grand. I'm even going to give you back that buck-toothed yellow whore you had. I want you to straighten up. Sweetheart, I love you.' I said, Sweet when do I get the grand? I got to know it's coming at a certain time.' Sweet said, ‘Look Sweetheart, you get it no later than tomorrow morning. I'll bring the buck-toothed bitch with me. Today before noon I'll send you a quarter piece. You got no reason to sweat. Sweet's in your corner, Sweetheart.' He chucked me under the chin and walked out. The runner came with the quarter piece at eleven o'clock, I was beginning to think Sweet was only half rat. At noon two rollers broke the door down. I was coasting. I was draped in my P.J.'s. They found the H and booked me for possession. I got a fin. I kicked the habit cold turkey in city jail. I did three years, nine months in the state joint. I left my hair, teeth, and looks in the joint. A con ran a shiv into my plumbing.^xxx That's why I limp and pee out of this tube in my side. I ain't had a whore since."

Preston had choked up.

He said, "Kid, you still want to try this track and cut into Sweet?"

I turned my face from him. He was mopping his tears away with his sleeve. I was sure a lost, stupid punk. After a rundown like that, I was still itching to take my crack at the fast track.

The rundown had only boosted my desire to meet the slick, icy Sweet. If I had been smart I would have jumped in that Ford and rushed back to the sticks.

I thought, "Sweet hates yellow and white. I am black like him. The runt is black. Sweet won't have a black whore. I have no reason to fear him. I have nothing that he wants. I have to find him and pick his brain. I got to take that short cut to become a great pimp."

I said, "To hell with the Sweet cut-in. I'm not bats^xxxi, but I got to try this track. Yeh, Preston, you sure got the hurt put to you. Man, I feel for you. When I start pimping a zillion, I'll do something big for you. You are overdue for a break. Now tell me the best spot to down my package."

He said, "You gotta get your head bumped, huh? What kind of package you got?"

I said, "Black, eighteen, cute, stacked, and three way."^xxxii

He said, "Blood, we are sitting on the best street in town for a package like that. Only drawback is this street is crawling with fast, whore-hungry pimps. You would also be playing your girl against a half-dozen strong, jasper whores on this stem. They pimping tough as studs.^xxxiii They got some fancy con to lay on a fine young whore. If your game ain't tight, you'll blow your girl fast. How long you had her? What kind of wheels you got?"

I said, "About a week, but I got her up tight. The bitch loves me. Nobody can steal her. Temporarily I got a Ford."

He threw his head back and started laughing. I thought he had flipped his cork. He died laughing for a full minute. The tears were rolling down his cheeks when he stopped.

He said, "Blood Lancaster, Slim Young, Dizzy Willie, or whatever your name is, don't get down in this town if you ain't hip that a pimp don't never have a whore tight.^xxxiv Do you believe any whore can love a pimp? You ain't no pimp. These slick niggers will steal that young bitch as soon as you down her. The bartenders and bell hops on this fast track are better pimps than the best in the hinterlands. You ain't got no front and flash. Some of these bootblacks got Hogs. You'll get that young bitch dazzled out from under you. Get out of town and be a good pimp in a chump town. Go to the West Coast.^xxxv Believe me, you ain't ready for this one."

He stopped rapping. He sat there just looking at me like I should bolt out the door and head for suckerville. He sure thought he had spooked me. His ribbing had me hot as a Bull Run musket.^xxxvi

I thought, "What did this crippled flunky think I came here for? I knew I was slow. I sure didn't intend to stay slow. I was determined to maybe get as fast and slick as Sweet Jones, the boss pimp. If I blew the runt it wouldn't be the end of the world. This poor cry baby had let Sweet's cross destroy him."

I said, "Look Preston, I got lots of heart. I'm not a pussy. I been to the joint twice. I did tough bits, but I didn't fall apart. I believe my whore loves me in her freak way.^xxxvii I believe I got her. If I'm wrong, and I blow her, so what. I won't give up no matter what happens. If I go stone blind, I'm still going to pimp. If my props get cut off I'll wheel myself on a wagon looking for a whore. I'm going to pimp or die. I'm not going to be a flunky in this white man's world. You can't convince me I can't pimp here. I know I can get my share of pussys to peddle. I'm going to get hip to what I don't know. I'm not afraid of Sweet. I'm going to cut into him and pick his brain like a buzzard."^xxxviii

A heavy-set Greek with a carny face came in the door. I dummied up. He walked by us then went through the small door in the partition. Preston started to put his shoes on. He looked nervous.

I asked, "Who's the big stud? Is he heat?"

He said, "Oh, he's the owner of the joint come to check the bankroll and cut box."^xxxix

"Then you and your pal are flunkies for the Greek?"^xl

Before he could answer the Greek came out. Preston was slipping into his topcoat. The Greek paused and glared at him.

He said, "I ain't payin' you a fin a night to sit on your keister.^xli I can get a hundred boys^xlii to jump for that fin and the cot in the back. Your ass will grow icicles in the alleys if you don't get on the ball. Get out on the midway and dump some suckers into the joint."^xliii

Preston said, "Yes, Sir, Mr. Nick, but I wasn't sitting there but a minute before you showed. You know nobody can pull a mark better than me."

I avoided Preston's eyes when we got on the sidewalk. I knew what I'd see there. I felt sorry for him. I pulled a sawbuck from my pocket. I folded it and dropped it into his ragged coat pocket. He took it out and put it in his short pocket.

He said, "Thanks Blood, maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you got the guts for the fast track. You'll need all you got. Good luck, Kid."

I said, "Preston, thanks for the rundown. In six months you'll have to anchor your eyeballs. I'm getting down right on this stem tomorrow night. You can't stop a stepper. Don't worry if the Greek boots you out, I'll cop you a pad."^xliv

I peeped into my skull file and saw that Roost note. My Mickey Mouse^xlv read one-thirty A.M. I headed toward the Roost. I had been in town only three-and-a-half hours. It had cost me only two-hundred and twelve slats to find out how little I knew.^xlvi It's easy for a half-wise punk to lock his mind. Just this was worth a fortune.^xlvii

I thought, "I have to keep my mind like a sponge. I'll use my eyes and ears like suction cups. I have to know everything about crosses and whores.

"Fast, I got to find out the secrets of pimping. I don't want to be a half-ass giggolo lover like the white pimps.^xlviii I really want to control the whole whore. I want to be the boss of her life, even her thoughts. I got to con them that Lincoln never freed the slaves."^xlix

The Roost was still jumping. I copped the one open stool at the middle of the bar. A Mexican broad in a red satin cocktail dress brought me a pink Planters Punch.

The combo was speed riffing "Tea For Two." Through the barlength mirror I could see a black ugly stud playing stink finger^l with an angel-faced white broad in a booth behind me. He was playing pocket pool^li with his other hand. The broad had her eyes closed. Her rhinestone tiara looked like a phony halo. She was biting her bottom lip like maybe she was taking a heavenly trip right there in the booth.

My ear cups started sucking. The dapper joker on my right was rapping to the stud on the other side of him.

He was saying, "I want my three bills back. That pretty bitch ain't turned three tricks since you sold her to me.^lii The bitch is dying. She's falling apart. She can't walk the street."

The seller said, "Jack, I sold you the package as is. I ain't responsible for divine acts."

The buyer said, "Divine my ass. You knew that dog was rotten inside and needed a grand's worth of carving.^liii Give me a yard and a half and take the bitch back."^liv

The seller said, "You a stick up man? The bitch was whole when I sold her. Maybe you trying to play con on me. Maybe you stomped on the package. Maybe you put the bitch in bad shape. I ain't buying her back even if you only wanted a slat for her."

The buyer said, "Ain't this a bitch? I went for the okee doke.^lv I'm out three bills for a black dog with a foot in the grave."^lvi

The seller said, "I'm pimping for myself, Jack. I ain't got no time to pimp for you. Just to get you off my ass, I'm going to rundown for you. There's a whore house up state with all Spic trade. They don't spend but a fin, but there's a zillion of 'em. On weekends they line up on the sidewalk.^lvii All you gotta do is cop some pills. Patch the bitch up and take her up there. Up there, ain't no walking.^lviii She can flat back and so long as she keeps breathing you can get some scratch. Jack, she may even last long enough so you can invest the scratch to overhaul her, and still show a profit. The bitch is black and pretty. She ain't got much mileage on her. Them Spics are wild for black broads. Jim, I been running down the out^lix for you. If you go for it call me at noon. In the meantime I'll contact the joint. Me and the house broad are tight. It's a cinch you can place your grief tomorrow."

The buyer said, "Jack, you know I deserve some cooperation. I'll try anything to break even on that dog.^lx I'll call you at noon. I ain't salty^lxi with you now. Let's split and make the scene at the lair. I'll pop for a coupla rounds."

The buyer stood up. He knocked his knuckles against the log. The cute Mexican broad came toward him to check him out. She stood before him. She was smiling.

The seller drained his glass and stood. He leaned across the log staring into her bosom. I was digging the action from that trap door in the corner of my eye.

She said, "Both tabs come to twelve dollars. Yours is seven. Your friend's is five."

The buyer said, "I've got 'em both. Here's a double saw. Keep the change Miss Bet I Get You.^lxii Say girl, was that bum your father who brought you in when you started to work here last night? Ain't you afraid I'll salt and pepper you and eat you raw?"

She said, "No, not my father, my husband. He's no bum. He had on his work clothes. People are not good to eat. It's not nice to eat people. Thanks for the tip. Come back soon."^lxiii

The buyer hurled his beak toward the ceiling and laughed. Flakes of grayish white dust clung to the hairs in his nostrils. He had snorted and loaded his skull with H.

Her mouth was still smiling. Her big black eyes had slitted in Latin fury. She turned away toward the register. She punched it. She came back. She stood staring at the buyer. She had a fin and three slats in her hand. She was crushing them into a missile. In the mirror I saw the seller shaking his head as he walked out the door.^lxiv

The buyer was looking at her like the eight slats had made her his indentured slave.^lxv The four-carat stone on his left hand flashed like neon as he caressed his fly.

He said, "If that tramp was your man I'm stealing you.^lxvi Shit, I should kidnap you right now. You ain't got no business juggling suds.^lxvii Bitch, you got a mint between your big hairy legs. I'm gonna show you how to make a grand a week. I ain't never wanted nothing and didn't get it.^lxviii Bitch, I'm gonna get you. I'll be back at four to pick you up."

A massive black bulk with a face like a rabid bulldog had come on the scene. It had to be the joint bouncer. He was standing several feet behind the buyer, grinning like a starved croc. He was hunching his shoulders.^lxix The Mexican broad was shaking. She fired the missile. It struck the buyer on the tip of his beak. He threw his hands across his face.

She shouted, "You stupid ugly filth. You insane nigger bastard. Do you think I'd let you touch me? I wouldn't shit in your mouth to save your slimy life. If you ever look at me again I'll cut your heart out!"^lxx

The bouncer streaked toward the buyer like a howitzer shell. His feet clickety-clacked like the wheels of an express train against the parquet floor. He vised the buyer's rear end through the tail split in his topcoat.

He seized the scrawny neck with his other giant paw. The buyer was almost airborne. The tips of his shoes did a tap dance against the floor on his way to the door. The joint was silent. The buyer swiveled his head back toward the angry tamale.^lxxi

Just before he skidded toward the sidewalk he screamed, "You square-ass greasy chili-gut bitch. I'm gonna triple-cross you."^lxxii

The joint got back on jump time. The combo started to riff "Mood Indigo."

I thought about the runt. The Mexican broad had her hands on her hips. She was looking at me. She wanted me to say the buyer was a nogood bastard.^lxxiii She didn't know I was up as a pledge in his club.

I put a deuce on the log and walked out. It was two-thirty in the A.M. I walked to the corner. Preston had been right. Poison's black whore was standing in front of the liquor store. She hit on me. That terrible beating she had taken sure hadn't cured her bad habit.

She said, "Hi Slim, give me ten and sock it in. I won't put the rush on you handsome. Cop a jug and let's go freak off."^lxxiv

I jerked my head away from the sight of her like she was Medusa. I put my dogs in high gear and crossed the street. I had a quick vision of Poison's thirteens giving me a butt ache.

I got into the Ford and made a U-turn. I was going to the runt and some doss^lxxv. I caught Preston in my headlights on the turn. He was still out there trying to make the Greek richer. He waved. I honked.

The mercury had fallen. The icy streets were like a ski run.

Less than a mile from the Roost, I saw a clean front of a hotel. The blue neon sparkled out "Blue Haven Hotel." I went into the blue-and-red lobby. A broad was on the desk. She had a razor slash on her tan cheek. She had the build and rapper of a heavyweight wrestler.

She said, "You want something permanent or just for the night?"

I said, "How much are the permanent pads? I want the best you got. Whatever it is, it's got to be on the front with a view."

She said, "The best single rooms are thirty-two-fifty a week. The best three-room apartments are a hundred a week."^lxxvi

She got up and went to a red board behind her. She took several keys off and gave them to me.

The elevator operator was an old stud reading a wild Maggie and Jiggs comic book. He was whistling "When the Saints go Marching In." His peepers were glued to it like maybe he had found the map to the "Lost Dutchman."^lxxvii I got off on the third floor.

I looked at two single rooms. The carpets in them were stained and the furniture was battered. This was an underworld hotel all right. I could smell the odor of gangster grass in the hallways.

I took the stairs to the fourth floor. I looked into two apartments. I went for the second one. It was freshly decorated in gold and black paint. The furniture was blond and new.

It was spotless and flashy. The gold-draped front window gave a wide view of the stem. The pad was perfect for now. It would do until I hit the big time with a big stable.

I went to the elevator and pressed the down button. The floor indicator dial was stuck between floor number two and three.

I took the stairs down. I figured the antics of Maggie and Jiggs had put a lot of pressure on the old joker. Some whore in the hotel was probably down there with the old coot. They were maybe using the comic book as a guide.

I went to the desk. I registered and paid a week's rent in advance. I put the key in my pocket and went to the Ford. I drove toward the runt. I saw a black whore leading a white man into the front door of the Martin Hotel, a hundred yards from the Haven. The runt could take her good tricks there.

It was four A.M. when I got there. I parked and went up the hotel stairs. An elevated train shook the stairway as it passed. Its shadow leaped through the second floor window and plunged like a rattling, speeding ghost across the wall.

I turned left to number twenty. I twisted my key in the lock and stepped inside. The runt was wide-eyed. She leaped from the bed. She had on red baby-doll pajamas.^lxxviii She squeezed herself hard against me. She acted like I had been gone a year.

She said, "Oh Daddy, I am so glad you're back. I was worried like hell. Where have you been? Do you love me as much as I love you? Did you miss me? I'd die if anything ever happens to you."

A heart-aching montage tornadoed through my skull. I gritted my teeth. I felt my fingernails ice-picking into my palms. The runt's love con had resurrected sad old scenes.

I saw poor black Henry. He was on his knees blubbering his love for Mama. I saw his pitiful eyes begging Mama not to break his heart. I saw Mama kicking herself free of his clutching arms. I saw that terrible look of scorn and triumph on Mama's face. I thought about the worms that had devoured his flesh, in his lonely grave.

I shuddered and punched the runt with all my might against the left temple. On impact, needles of pain threaded to my elbow. She moaned and shot backward onto the bed. She bounced like she was on a trampoline. There was a crunching, pulpy thud on the second bounce. She'd crashed face first on the steel edge at the foot of the bed.

She just lay there breathing hard. I moved to the foot of the bed. I grabbed a fist full of hair. I turned her face toward me. Her eyes were closed and there was a bloody gash just above her right eyebrow.

I went to the face bowl and drew a pitcher of cold water. I doused her full in the face. Her eyes flickered open. She just lay looking up at me. A scarlet trickle ran down her cheek across her chin.

She stroked the side of her face. She saw the blood. Her eyes fullmooned.^lxxix Her mouth was open. I stood looking down at her. The guts in my scrotum^lxxx were twisting. I could feel hot currents firing up that generator at the base of my weapon.

Then she said, "Why Daddy? What did I say to get my ass whipped? Are you high or what?"

I said, "Bitch, if I have you a hundred years don't ever ask me where I been. Don't ever try to play that bullshit love con on me. We're not squares. I'm a pimp and you're a whore. Now get up and keep a cold towel on that eyebrow."

She got up and stood at the washbowl washing the blood off. Her big eyes were staring at me through the mirror. I didn't know she had started to keep a revenge score in her skull.^lxxxi Seven years later she would tally up and happily cross me into prison.

She sat on the side of the bed pressing a towel against the wound. I got in the sack in the raw. In fifteen minutes the leak had stopped. It was now only a small puckered slash.

She crawled in beside me. She nibbled at my ear. That lizard did cross-country laps and then took the boss trek around the world. I lay there silently. I was trying to figure the real reason why I had slugged her. I couldn't find the answer. My thoughts were ham strung by the razor-edge of conscience.

She whispered, "Daddy, do you feel like tying me down? Please. I want you to."

I said, "Bitch, you got a one track mind. I'm gonna tie you down like a sow in a slaughter house. After you get your rocks off I'm gonna give you the rundown on that stem you're working tonight. Get on your back. Stretch your legs out and put your arms above your head.^lxxxii That's right you sweet freak bitch."

Continued >>

———

1. The birthplace of the Mickey! [↩]
2. Inept/desperate pickpocket, the sort that runs off. [↩]
3. A cannon's shill. [↩]
4. Suit. [↩]
5. Teeth, ie smiled. [↩]
6. Street door, of that particular model you probably remember from Westerns. [↩]
7. The cost, literally the bite out of one's bankroll. [↩]
8. He's truly thick, ain't he. [↩]
9. A bar for/full of junkies. [↩]
10. Which couldn't've been more than maybe 7-8 years prior, yeh ? [↩]
11. I think they call it "influencing" nowadays. Still a shit job. [↩]
12. Beaucoup, a lot in French. [↩]
13. White. [↩]
14. This "him" denotes someone-other-than-Preston, the author's just being awkward. [↩]
15. Drinking. [↩]
16. Pot. [↩]
17. The fundamental problem with this sort of claim to male supremacy isn't strictly that "whatever, you lousy lice'll always pick one among you to be 'top dog', doesn't mean jack". Though it's self-obvious, innit ? The best kid in a group of kids (admitting they can find him) is just... the best kid in that group of kids. It doesn't follow he can add, or brush his teeth, or walk straight. Maybe he's the best damn tooth-brusher toothbrushes ever saw ; or maybe "he and his group" agreed you don't gotta brush. Either way a gambler thinking in terms of "well... this hand's the best I currently got, so I gotta go all the way on every 7-Jack cuz it's all I got" isn't going to make it that far in his chosen passtime, is he now. Yes, it's true, usually claims to supremacy from morons quite on that level of moronicity are also self-issued, "I gave the whores blues in the night when I was pimping at my peak." But the fact that this joker's made some random bystander echo his nonsense doesn't so much distinguish him from that other joker : they're both jokers at different points on the joker rollercoasting circuit. Time will see to it they swap -- which is the exact opposite of supremacy. Supremacy is this thing I got, where not in a million years are you gonna make yourself another me, and that's provided you spend that time trying ; not the thing Derpy Two-teeth over there's got, where some nobodies without a face or name say they're impressed. What, you think it's optional ?

    In the meanwhile, Chicago had urinals, all around. Did this dork have bidets installed in them ? At least in the red district, because guess what, just like a wanker's gotta piss so does a whore gotta rinse! What, it'd have been so much trouble to add another bowl in there ? Think of it in positive terms, it'd have given the pimps another good reason to beat the bitches for! And someone gotta wash them latrines, which is even better than beating them because you don't gotta bother! What, you thought they've got crappers in the army because the brass cares whether the grunts shit in their palm or not ? The crappers are there so there's what to clean, the crapping's coincidental! If they didn't dirty them so there's what to clean they wouldn't have 'em in the first place! Oh, right : and also, nobody gives shit one what romantic notions of "rebeldry" rando grunt entertained before signing up. Latrine duty anyways!

    They had water lines all through the city for fire hydrants, did this pointless schmuck add showers here and there ? The dumb bitches been begging for it ever since there's been a whore walking a street, "oh honey, I want pastrami and a bath", right ? Well, pastrami ain't free, so what's the problem with Pretty Boy Fuckwit ? Is he hard of hearing ? The young whores, the twelve-year old whores to be, they ain't got a voice, but they sure as fuck got a body, and they're talking alright : go for a walk one summer day, count the urchins playing in a de-capped fire hydrant's mist. What, gotta wait a decade for them to be old enough to walk the street before you look at what the fuck they do ? It costs fucking nothing, just a pole with four heads to the four winds. Not like you're gonna add walls or dumb shit like that -- they're fucking whores! -- and the waterlines are already there anyways. Let them take cold fucking showers, it builds character, I have mine doing it all the time. Cunt's got its own heating system, a young ho needs hot water like a pimp needs furs. So let her have it then, also like a pimp has furs.

    Do you suppose this dweeb put the pressure on "church communities" to either start advertising whoring offa da pulpit or take dat pulpit somewhere else ? No ? So what the fuck big deal is he then ? 0 internal improvement, 0 colonization of the neighbours... that ain't what ownership is, yo. Not even fucking close, this dood's as much a top dog as any other mangy quadriped. But exactly as much. Feel me, fam ? [↩]

18. Victim. [↩]
19. Black. [↩]
20. Heroin. [↩]
21. Do nothing all day, though I think these days you call it "contributing to pedopedia" or something. [↩]
22. Scratching. [↩]
23. Fraction of an ounce. [↩]
24. Where Latinos camped. [↩]
25. Not a bad set-up, really, getting the pimp hooked. Why waste time with individual prisses & daddy's girls, get the whole load once it's cooked already instead. [↩]
26. Syringe. [↩]
27. That... took a while. [↩]
28. No-gloves ad-hoc event. [↩]
29. The Brown Bomber (of Detroit), 1937-1949. Heavyweight, see. [↩]
30. Guts. [↩]
31. Crazy. [↩]
32. Big tits (no fucking idea what that means on a 40kg shorty) and anal-capable. [↩]
33. Apparently at the peaks of the trade they eventually figured out the girls are supposed to be getting the new girls. [↩]
34. Sucks to be a pimp. [↩]
35. This never fails to shock contemporary clueless kiddos, but yes, California was a two poke joke for most of the (short) history of that country. Nobody took it seriously because, well... there wasn't anything there to take seriously. [↩]
36. Because they fired a lot, see. Ain't that clever, I wonder if I could buy a thesaurus of these in list form, maybe. [↩]
37. As Slim correctly intuits, the hanging matter, the "you ain't no pimp" issue with the pimp's mental representation of his own whores isn't whether he thinks they love him or not, but whether he attaches much importance to the question either way. In this Preston is excellently characterized, as one who makes the jump immediately, without analysis -- "they love me, therefore it matters" as a mental automatism denotes much more mommy-attachment than Slim's actually displayed, notwithstanding what he's been hinting at so as we may form our own misrepresentations in our minds, misrepresentations he that ain't in the slightest responsible for (which, ultimately, is entirely the pimp's work). Additionally, seeing how fundamental Preston's failure is, a character just like Preson'd have been expected -- outright required -- at just about this juncture in the story, by they in the know. You can't describe "the underworld" without mentioning the river, or the boatman, and Slim's creed greatly benefits from his not attempting to.

    A pimp may very well believe his whores love him, or that he's got them tight, or anysuch thing ; what a pimp may not do is rely too heavily on that kind of theory -- and the parallel to every other sort, manner or implementation of leadership is all of a sudden made plain thereby. The new emperor may believe the common soldierly acclaimed him ; what he may not ever stoop to believe is that he dun need the rockets. [↩]

38. I wouldn't mind finding an issue with this statement of manhood ; but so far I haven't. It's even sufficiently brief, I got nothing. [↩]
39. Nfi what cut box is here. [↩]
40. In case you're wondering, the ubiquity of exonyms in the underworld comes from the mental habit of "pencilling in" a name to permit further thinking. All items in the environment that might need to be later referenced might as well get some kinda name, for now, so the mind knows where to sort properties and how to retrieve them. If the agglomeration is sufficient, it necessarily follows that exo-references far exceed endo-references, meaning others will be talking about one amongst themselves in wide excess of what discussions the one might participate in ; if there's a good Schelling point for the pencilled-in names to attach to, Jimmy Mariangelo becomes 'Mook', and then Jimmy Mook for his friends. It's true that rural fakers, lamers and losers try to import this purely urban mechanism into their shitholes, by coming up with "their own names", as part and parcel of "making it be as cool here as the big town". Children will play like monkeys, what of it. [↩]
41. Do you believe, incidentally, it's both manly and desirable to not get stuck on details, to get "the big picture", to easigoingly focus on the important things, etcetera ?

    So does the Greek, which is why Preston's feet stinking aren't something he mentions ; and so does Poison, which is why he doesn't matter. You're just being lazy, self-coddling comfort seekers, see ? Details fucking matter. In fact -- details matter more than you do, whatever "you" even is. [↩]

42. This is actually important. [↩]
43. Imagine if you will... take a second and imagine along with me. They say "travelling" is properly useful, as it works the imagination. So be it, travel with me then, work your imagination : there you are, stepping up in the world, a hundred of those boys, but unlike the other 99 the one that jumped effectually. You're now taking in your loot, you're exploring the new digs your warm-blooded extroversion got you. An empire, like all other empires exactly, except this one's yours. There's some rags piled on the cot ; you lie down on them. They smell, they've a scent, of life previously, that's now growing icicles around the asshole in whatever alley you've kicked it (at the Greek's instigation and by his permission). A scent, a distinct aroma of life past, specific, particular.

    So congrats ; and on that bed your two bloods mingled be. [↩]

44. Would he do the same for "his mortal enemy" down on her luck, a shuffle and a pipe coming out of her side to pee out of ?

    Odd, wouldn't you say, seeing how the whores make the bankroll, "take care of the big things". Traditional farmers thoughout space and time are more likely to comfort a dying head of cattle than a dying head of cowboy, yet here that ancient tradition an' natural inclination's reversed.

    Nor do I dispute the stance's authentic as described, which is suppose is, truthfully and ultimately why I'm not, nor ever was a pimp. Too much of a farmer still left in me, I suppose, or in any case I never really could stand boys. [↩]

45. Watch, from a popular and widely distributed early merchandising attempt by Disney. [↩]
46. Is he gonna tell the runt about it, by the way ? [↩]
47. Can't argue with that. [↩]
48. He sure as fuck has a point there, whiteboys always on the lookout for a mommy -- and what they look for, they find. [↩]
49. How about that! [↩]
50. Ie, he's fingering her pussy. [↩]
51. Jacking off through his pocket. [↩]
52. The gypsies of Romania also do this "selling" business. The "whores" are trained to run back, get sold again...

    Interviu cu... Franco Belea baiatu' de catifea!

    Cine e Franco Belea? Cum domneste el peste Medea si cum isi mangaie supusele la pizda, numai aici:

    Nico: Ai treaba?
    Franco Belea: Nu frate.

    Nico: Te simti sexy la ora asta?
    Franco Belea: Putin asa.

    Nico: E bine, ca vreau sa-ti iau un interviu!
    Franco Belea: Opaaaaaa, baga!

    Nico: Cine esti? Ce faci? De ce? Si cine vrei sa fi? Sa stie lumea-ntreaga.
    Franco Belea: Sunt Franco Belea de la AMANET Records, il fac pe gangsta rap, le fac pe crime, le fac pe tarfe sa tipe-n dormitor, le fac pe tarfe sa faca bani, le fac pe toate treburile astea urate! De ce? Pentru ca pula mea... (Aici avea dreptate) Am mizeria strazii in sange. Sunt bine cum sunt!

    Nico: Povesteste-ne putin despre cum ai intrat in acest joc al muzici de strada, acest teren minat plin de iluzi desarte, cum a inceput dinastia Fraco Belea? (Dupa vro' 5 minute in pula mea) Hai sa moara mama ce sloboz scri acolo?
    Franco Belea: Stai ma ca scriu greu de la ghiuluri! Deci. fratele meu Nico. Totu a inceput cand am plecat din orfelinat, am inceput manarii prin gara, cacaturi deastea nasoale, imi faceam treaba. Trageam la aurolaci in cur la inceput, nu mi-e rushine... Asa s-a ridicat Franco, pe curu lor. Dupa aia m-am intalnit cu Giani Pistol si Matey Primejdie prin Obor. Am inceput sa fac manarii cu ei, dinastea usoare; dupa aia ne-am dat pe coca, carduri, cacaturi deastea. A fost bine, bine, (De doua ori "bine") da parca ceva lipsea. Si ne-am bagat in studio. Am inregistrat totzi trei sub numele de "Crima & Pedeapsa" un EP. A rupt! Am avut turnee, am dat multe mui, etc. Treaba s-a cam stricat ca Giani Pistol a facut manarii, a cantat fara noi la balul bobocilor. Si pula mea! (Si bogatii plang ce sloboz)

    Nico: Ce inseamna AMANET? cine face parte din AMANET?
    Franco Belea: Pai AMANET e casa noastra! Intzelegi? De ce AMANET si nu Scandalos? De ce AMANET si nu CASA? Pentru ca la AMANET iti lasi tu CASA fraere! He he he. Din AMANET face parte eu, Matey Primejdie, $pil, Scara, Pablo Camataru', Direct Dambla, Pumn Greu, Shtakie, 10 Gratii, Meqla Noua, Dj Boo-Low, FaraOase, Geena Juice, Kali Ghin-Ion, Esteban si DOn'K!

    Nico: Multa lume, multa-n pula mea, sare banu' din cacatu' asta cois?
    Franco Belea: Sare banu' foarte urat, gen greierii. Treaba-i buna!

    Nico: Am citit in Cancan ca ai dat doua curve pe o geaca de piele la tigani, este adevarat sau doar un zvon?
    Franco Belea: Imi placea croiala. Sti ce pimpin ma prinde acum giaca? Dar nu mi-e frica. Curvele or sa fuga si o sa se intoarca la mine. Asa-s ele dresate. (Bumerang-n pula mea)

    Nico: Cum este viata de codosi? Este multa pizda la mijloc banuiesc, povesteste-ne cea mai bolnava partida de sex. Cum a sarit slobozu marca Franco Belea?
    Franco Belea: A sarit slobozu' lu Franco mai rau ca-n scary movie 1! Sti tu. Cu 5 pizde in pat. Coca pe tocu de la pat, puli-n cur, in pizda, in gura. Ragaiam a pizda frate. Sa incerci si tu sa tragi muie la o tarfa si dupa aia sa-i zbori creieru'! Sti ce senzatzie pizda ai? (Ma abtin ca nu sta ma-ta Franco sa-mi spoiasca dormitoru', mai bine le fut la geamadura si le dau la fund!) [Rite.]

    Nico: Cum a fost prima crima? Ce ai simtit?
    Franco Belea: Prima crima. La orfelinat, eram cu omu meu Doru, aveam vreo 6 ani, l-am taiat pe un lake Claudiu ca ne fura din cuburi. Dupa ce l-am taiat l-am ascuns in lada cu jucarii. M-am simtit bazat, ma durea la pula.

    Nico: Ce ne poti spune de Matey Primejdie, am vazut ca este fratele tau de sange, de suflet, de pistol, ce mai face?
    Franco Belea: Matey acum e in puscarie in Ucraina. A tras viol la nevasta la presedintele de acolo. Mai are putin si evadeaza. Da, e fratele meu, cu el am taiat multi agarici si le-am dat-o la tarfe la arici. O sa fie bine coae, o sa iasa Matey si o sa scoatem un album numit "Legende"! O sa rupa pizda-n ele!

    Nico: Se intreaba femeile, ai iubit vro data la pizda, sau iubesti acum? E pula de Belea sugibila?
    Franco Belea: Fratele meu, am iubit la Selma. Dar a fost o iubire imposibila, nu ma accepta ta`su ca eu nu eram ursar dala veritabil. Si am dat-o-n pula. Dar acum, fratele meu, am femeia care m-a facut din golan barbat. E inima mea. Si ea ma iubeste si ma intzelege ca-s peste si ca tre sa-mi testez marfa, munca-i munca. Numai de bine de ea, IUBIRE SUPREMA BIANCA!

    Nico: Cu Selma ai si o piesa pe albumul tau de debut solo, "Cronicile unui peste"? Spune mai multe despre album.
    Franco Belea: Uite aici nu-mi place despre tine, ca nu te-ai informat bine. Albumu de debut este "carnavalul suferintzei" si am o piesa pentru Selma acolo, dar si pe Cronici am o piesa pentru pizda ei. Ce pot sa spun de albumu' "Cronicile unui peshte", a rupt pizda-n muiste. Au dat din anus pana au devenit toate Mi Re Le. E un album murdar, din strada pentru strada, pentru cei ce simt, in pula mea. Am avut cel mai grav trip, au vorbit strazile prin mine.

    Nico: Care este piesa ta preferata?
    Franco Belea: Cred ca "Adevarul despre Giani" ca a fost tarfa omu. Si i-am zis-o, dar si "Interventii" cu fratele Scara & $pil parca ma scoate din casa sa sparg masini!

    Nico: Franco ce inseamna banii pentru tine?
    Franco Belea: Niste hartii, pe care eu le am. Pentru mine mai mult inseamna o pizda bine bombata-n gaoaza, care o suge ca o tarfa fara scrupule. Dar muistele vor bani. (Cacat)

    Nico: Dar curvele, ce inseamna curvele?
    Franco Belea: Curva, e acel ego al femeii pe care se teme sa-l dea pe fatza. Toate-s curve la o adica, toate pot sa-mi aduca o suma frumusica.

    Nico: Ce ne pregatesti pe viitor Franco? Un concert ceva?
    Franco Belea: Deci vorbesc in numele AMANETULUI. Am promis ca 2007 o sa fie anu' AMANETului, dar m-au trimis muistii la ghe, pentru ca atunci cand eu faceam treaba sa sara, ei topaiau. Dar 2008 o sa fie asa : Al treilea album Franco Belea, albumu de debut a lu Matey Primejdie, a lu' $pil, albumu de debut "Legende" si inca o compilatzie rea. Concerte sa vedem! Te anunt daca e ceva de concerte ca fratele Nico tre sa stea intre pesti si gangsteri la o sticloasa! (Baga, baga, baga bont!)

    Nico: Ca incheiere, o sa te rog sa transmiti ceva fratilor din toata tara, femeilor adevarate si mie. (Ce am praf pe umeri!)
    Franco Belea: Pentru cei care s-au nascut sa fie asa, palaria jos. Pentru cei care se dau ce nu sunt, le bat obrazu', pentru pizde: bagati aici, un numar de telefon si multe numere-n pat. Pentru blogu' asta, pfua e singuru' blog de suflet a lu' Franco Belea si a fratzilor din AMANET. Nu e muzica, da dam din cap pe el. Te pupa fratele, numai noroc si sa-ti scri in continuare strada pe net. Br pa pa pa! (Respectele mele faraoane!)

    [↩]

53. It's perhaps worth remarking upon that the whores, however "productive" they may be to the boyish "pimp" standard, nevertheless aren't making quite enough to be worth fixing. Which puts a serious damper on the whole thing, endothermic reactions ain't ever gonna be the rule, but always stay the exception.

    What do you suppose the relationship is between Poison's absent bidets and every pimp ever's absent stables of mothers ? That "every pimp ever" may perhaps come with exceptions (though they seem rather of psychotropic origin than outright historical occurences), but in any case... if you don't own the means of production of the means of production... How do you suppose the pimp dream relates to the actual, historical reality of ye olde and only true Daddy, the plantation Massah of yore ? He, after all, he did keep a stable of mothers, didn't he. Cheaper that way than buying them. Right ? [↩]

54. Three hundred dollars, which is to say what Slim had "paid" for his ride. Do you suppose your wife's worth whatever you paid for yours ? Because... well... I have my suspicions. [↩]
55. "Took your word for it." [↩]
56. Any half-decent pimp should be able to absorb the cost of a bad buy, and get back on the seller of bad merchandise through the simple power of his weight in the marketplace, such that the other party would be begging for a settlement. Needless to say, this ain't a half-decent pimp (nor is this much of a marketplace -- it's closer to married children gathering together to play-pretend "scenes" their feverish clots dreamed up) . [↩]
57. Nice retirement home for the injured in the line of duty, huh. [↩]
58. One of those. [↩]
59. The solution. [↩]
60. That dog. His mortal enemy.

    This, incidentally, is how female loyalty is bred into the population. Women are born disloyal, and in an imaginary, "natural" state (such as US pantsuitism is trying to recreate) they even dare express it. But a few generations filling the role of mortal enemy, and all of a sudden... the young fillies can actually be trusted! I don't mean you can carefully select trustable fillies in the herd, I mean the herd, as a group, is by and large composed of trustable fillies.

    The pimp is doing a public service, belabouring for a social good, like it or not it's what it is -- without him and his dilligence what you get are uppity hogs. [↩]

61. Upset. [↩]
62. He's fucking terrible, isn't he. He probably even thinks that's fronting. [↩]
63. You had no inkling how little the barrista crowd changed in a century, huh.

    Think about it though! What fucking change ? Simplicity is unchangeable. [↩]

64. You know ?

    The encouraging part, for Slim I mean, is that if even this moron had a spare twenty, how tough can the biz really be ? Unless, of course, the lifestlye's rather supported by la borsetta di mamma. Then all bets are off. [↩]

65. Well, it's all in the "attitude", right. Right ? [↩]
66. Not really how that works.

    Don't you find it funny, incidentally, how life experience is always the same ? Inasmuch as life's life, experience's either going to be too fracturedly spotty to matter, or otherwise eerily similar. As all the good books say (and you never want to notice), disagreement with your betters' always bred of ignorance. Your ignorance. [↩]

67. Of course she does, she's got kids, her mommy didn't make her Latina for nothing. [↩]
68. Except a hundred-fifty ? [↩]
69. Wouldn't it be funny if he went on all fours and the waitress pushed the dork back ? A Laurel&Hardy "Pardon Us" sorta atmosphere, with Walter Long for a "tiger" and, as the bimbo put it, "this is just like a cartoon, but with real people".

    How real are people, anyways ? [↩]

70. Unexplectedly enough, she'd totally go for it ; just on the strength of what she's said so far I give even odds she botheres the bean thinking about just such an eventuality now and again. Just... you know, not with this great guy with a great sense of horror. [↩]
71. Ever had tamales, by the way ? They're not really much like a twat. [↩]
72. Let us pray, brother.

    Prayer consists of saying magic words. [↩]

73. Right ?

    Better than even odds. [↩]

74. This being the fundamental problem : streetwalking sucks, as an activity ; the pimp can mostly enforce the whores are out, but can't really check what they're doing (a situation muchly reminiscent of his parents' troubles -- they also could make sure he went to school, but not so much whether he paid any attention in class). The part where she's looking for custom sucks the most ; the part where she hangs out with a customer sucks the least. So the natural tendency is for her to spend as much as possible with the nicest customers she can find, which is exactly what the pimp doesn't want. [↩]
75. Sleep. [↩]
76. Outrageous in the sense that selling a truck nets enough for three weeks' stay ; but then again back in the sticks his whore was pulling enough to cover the week in just two days, and that's just one girl working. [↩]
77. Famous treasure ship. [↩]
78. Probably after the eponymous film, bitch sure spends a lot of the day in jammies. [↩]
79. Can you think of a sadder story ? [↩]
80. Umm. Hernia ?

    For the record, if this dude punches with all his might a female midget and she comes back to life afterwards... he punches like a bicycle. [↩]

81. Really ? What kinda IQ does it take ? [↩]
82. You know, it occurs to me I'm really the only person alive actually qualified to discuss this text. Ain't life fun. [↩]