Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 6 -- Drilling for oil.

That thunderbolt El train had trembled the room a half dozen times. Dawn had broken through a smeary sky. Fingers of pale gray light poked through the frayed window shades.

She was lying in my arms. I saw flakes of brown blood beneath her chin. Her heart against my side was sprinting like a wildcat's facing the hounds. I could hear the clip-clop of an ice-huckster's horse. The creaking wagon wheels were in rhythm to his pitch.ⁱ

He sang, "Ice Man! Ice! A hundred for twenty, fifty for a dime. Keep your watermelon cold and your pork chops fine, 'vite Old Joe up to chitlins just any old time. Ice Man! Ice!"

I thought, "Even the ice man is starving down here. I gotta get down up-there on that stem. Off Preston's run-downⁱⁱ, that stem must be a sonuvabitch. I gotta down her there. It's where the scratch is. When I rundown to her I have to be cool and confident. I can't falter and tip her I'm still going to school. I gotta really remember the get down rundown I hustled from those pimps in the joint."ⁱⁱⁱ

I said, "Phyllis, Daddy's been out there casing those streets. It's like walking in a river of tricky crap. If I had any other bitch but you I would say she couldn't go out there and get me some scratch. Baby, I got a lot of confidence in you. I know no stud or con bitch can sell you a pig in a poke. In fact I would stand in the Halls of Congress and swear that you would be too busy getting scratch to even listen to bullshit. Am I right so far about you, or have I overrated you?"

She said, "Daddy, I'm a big girl now. No nickel-slick bastard can steal me from you. I ‘you-know-what' you, and always will. Honey, I just want to be your little dog and make you a million dollars.^iv When we get rich maybe you won't mind if Gay, my daughter, lives with us. She's only two. She's so cute and friendly. You'd be crazy about her.^v My aunt in Saint Louis takes care of her."

I thought, "I was sure a sap making like a pimp. Here I'd had her a week and I was flat-footed.^vi I hadn't heard about a crumb crusher. Worse, I hadn't given her a deep quiz. I really knew nothing about her. It had been the one rundown from the joint I'd goofed. I had been satisfied with the shallow rundown from that sissy barkeep."

The pimps in the joint had said, "There ain't nothing more important than what makes a new bitch tick and why. You gotta scrape her brain. Find out whether the first joker who layed her was her father^vii or who. Make her tell you her life story.

"If she can remember back in her mammy's ass, good! Fit all the pieces together. Maybe then you'll know if she's a two-day package or a two-year package.^viii Don't try to play 'em in the dark.^ix Quiz 'em into a crack up if you have to.^x Wake 'em up from a dead sleep.^xi Check the answers you got with what you get."

I said, "Girl, your rap is right on the scratch. It's you and me against the world.^xii I'm gonna make a star out of you.^xiii We are going to get rich as cream. You gotta hump your ass off in those streets, baby. As soon as we get a big bundle you go cop the kid. Now forget about her until we get in shape. I don't want anything in your skull but those tricks out there. Now listen carefully. I want you to work nothing but the street. Stay out of the bars. Don't drink, smoke gangster, or use anything while you're working. Your skull has got to be sharp and clear out there. Otherwise you could lose your life, and almost as bad, my scratch. Believe me, I am not yeasting^xiv it. I want you to memorize everything that happens while you're working. I want a rundown every night after you knock off. Maybe some stuff player will set you up like tonight and take you off tomorrow night. Keep those crack-wise niggers out of your face. If I see you rapping to a jasper broad I'm gonna put my foot in your ass. Play for cruising white tricks. Spade tricks are trouble. They all want to make a home. You're black and beautiful. They can't resist you. They are the freaks and they got the scratch. Ask them for a hundred and take ten.^xv You can go down on a price. You can't go up. Don't go to nobody's pad. For a double saw or over take 'em to the Martin down the street from where we are gonna move. Flip out of wheels as much as possible. Flip 'em fast and crack more scratch for over time. Your name is Mary Jones. I got enough B.R. to raise you fast. You're not a thief. I don't need a bondsman or a lip now. You don't have a sheet. You see a young girl out there, square or whore, pull her. Be friendly to her. Build me up. You know, tell her how smart and sweet I am. Don't let no bitch pull you. This family needs some whores. Don't bring no junkie bitch to me. Now is there anything you don't understand?"

She said, "No Daddy, I dig everything. You can wire me if something turns up I don't dig. Daddy, I am so proud of you. You are so clever and strong. I feel so safe being your girl. I'm gonna be a star for you."

I had told her all I knew.^xvi It was just pimp garbage.^xvii What the ninety percent know to tell a whore. What she really needed to protect herself in those terrible streets were daily rundowns for as long as she was my woman. How could I rundown the thousand crosses she'd face?

All I knew I'd gotten from the pimps in the joint. They were only fair pimps from small towns.^xviii None of them had the guts or savvy for this rapid track. The runt and me were a pure case of the blind leading the blind. I was bone tired. I had to be fresh for our debut.

I said, "Sugar, let's cop some doss. We got a hectic night coming up. Oh! I forgot, some louse put the heist on your slum. Don't worry, with what you got to offer, I'll have enough scratch soon to score for the real thing. This is our last day in this flophouse. I copped us a jazzy little pad uptown. Sleep tight baby puppy."

She said, "All right, Daddy. I'm going to sleep. I wonder how Gay is doing?"

When I woke up I 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 again. I had whipped my poor mama again. The runt's frightened big eyes almost touched mine. That puckered gash looked like she had grown an extra cat.

She was saying, "Daddy, Daddy, you all right? It's your baby, Phyllis. Damn, you had a bitch-kitty nightmare. Was the heat chasing you or something?"

I said, "No baby, as a matter of fact, you were in trouble. You had done a stupid thing in the street. You let a nigger pimp con you into his hog. It turned out he was a crazy gorilla. He was trying to cut your throat. I saved you before he croaked you. Dreams often carry warnings. So bitch, stay out of those pimp's hogs."^xix

She said, "Daddy, I'm looking for white tricks in hogs. That's where the long scratch is. Ain't no nigger pimp going to put my ass in a sling. I'm too slick for that okee doke. You not going to get salty with me about a dream I hope. Daddy, I ain't going to bullshit out there."

It was five-twenty. By seven o'clock we had moved to the Blue Haven. The runt went for the pad.^xx First thing, she lifted the phone off the hook to see if it worked.

I said, "Tell your tricks to call you here."

She laid the bearskin and freaked the joint off with her lights and other crap. Except for the fake stars, it was a fair mock-up of her pad where I had copped her. She went to the street to get down at eight.

I had told her to work just the block where we padded for a week or so. I went to the front window. Ten minutes after she got down she broke luck. A white trick in a thirty-seven^xxi Buick picked her up. I timed her. She had racehorse speed. She was back on the track in nine and a half minutes.

A black pretty broad could sure scratch a white man's itch fast. I watched her scratch three.^xxii I showered and got as pretty as I could. I made an urgent skull note to cop a hot vine connection. I also needed a gangster and cocaine contact. I got the elevator. I left the key at the desk. I had told the runt to check her scratch past forty slats into the toe of my tan Stetsons.

I got into the Ford. I waved to the runt on my way to the Roost. It sure was a thrill to have a young fine bitch humping for me.

I parked across the street from the Roost. I dabbed a sponge into the box of Sun Glow face powder in the glove compartment.^xxiii I made my face up into an even, glowing tan. I got out and crossed the street toward the Roost.

It was ten-thirty. The sky was a fresh, bright pitch. This first April night had gone sucker and gifted her with a shimmering bracelet of diamond stars. The fat moon lurked like an evil yellow eye staring down at the pimps, hustlers, and whores hawk-eyeing for a mark, a cop.

I felt the raw tenderness of first April winds lashing at the hem of my white alligator. I felt the birth stirrings of that poisonous pimp's rapture. I felt powerful and beautiful.

I thought, "I was still black in the white man's world. My hope to be important and admired^xxiv could be realized even behind this black stockade. It was simple, just pimp my ass off and get a ton of scratch. Everybody in both worlds kissed your ass black and blue if you had flash and front."^xxv

I was six storefronts away from the Roost. He stood in the center of the sidewalk. I looked down at him. He was a foot shorter than the runt. He looked like a black baby who had taken ugly pills. His head was the size of a giant pumpkin. His voice was a squeal like a clappy joker^xxvi makes when the croaker rams a sound^xxvii down his dingus.^xxviii

He squealed, "Shine 'em up, Hot Shot. If I had your ‘hand' I'd throw mine away. Get on bigtime. Shines ain't but a dime. Shine 'em up."

I looked down at my Stomps. They could stand a gloss all right. I followed the pointing, gnarled finger to the dwarf's open-air stand. It sat at the mouth of a gangway between two buildings. The red fringes of its tattered canvas top rippled in the breeze.

I climbed into the chair. The dwarf was slapping polish on my Stetsons. A thin stud with at least a half a grand in threads on his back took the other chair. He was wearing silver nail polish. He was reeking with perfume.

A gleaming black custom Duesenberg eased into the curb in front of me. The top was down. My peepers did a triple take.

A huge stud was sitting in the back seat. He had an ocelot in his lap dozing against his chest. The cat was wearing a stone-studded collar. A gold chain was strung to it.

He was sitting between two spectacular high-yellow^xxix whores. His diamonds were blazing under the streetlight. Three gorgeous white whores were in the front seat. He looked exactly like Boris Karloff in black-face.

He was rapping something. All five of those whores were turned toward him. They were listening and paying attention like he was God giving them a pass to Heaven. He could have been running down a safe place to hide because the world was coming to an end.

I said, "Who is that?"

The dwarf said, "You gotta be from outta town. That Sweet Jones. He's the greatest nigger pimp in the world.^xxx"

The thin joker said, "That spotted cat, Miss Peaches, is the only bitch he cares lives or croaks. Shit, them whores you pinning ain't but half the stable. If they got nigger pimps in outer space, he's the best of them, too. He's gonna take them whores into the Roost and pop some. He's lugging twenty G's in his raise. Ain't no heist man crazy enough to stick him up though. He croaks niggers for his recreation."

I couldn't believe what I saw. This was only nineteen-thirty-eight. Those Duesenbergs cost a fortune.^xxxi He must have been the only black pimp in the country who owned one.^xxxii My peepers jacked off just watching him and those high-powered whores. It was as exciting as maybe Christ making his encore.

The dwarf had shined my Stomps. I gave him a buck. I sat there and watched Sweet Jones and those whores get out of the Duesenberg and walk toward the Roost.^xxxiii The black-spotted cat slinked beside him.

I thought, "Tonight I got to cut into him. I got to be careful so I don't blow him. The cut in has to be in the Roost. I'll go in and cook up something in there."

I got off the stand. I passed Poison's problem whore. She was sitting beside a joker in a red Hog. She had a bottle of gin in her jib turned straight up. As I neared the Roost I saw old Preston trying to shoo two marks into the Greek's joint. Just as I turned into the Roost he bucked his eyes and jerked his thumb at me. He was tipping me Sweet was in the Roost. I nodded my head and went in.

It was an off night for the combo. The jukebox was grinding out "Pennies From Heaven." The joint hadn't crowded yet. There were maybe a half dozen couples in the booths. Sweet Jones and his whores were the only people at the log. They were in the center. The cat was licking her paws beneath Sweet's stool. I sat at the log near the front door facing him and the stable. The pretty Mexican broad was standing in front of him.

Sweet was buying the house a drink. She served his party. She glanced at me. She remembered my drink. She brought me a Planter's Punch on Sweet. The floor waitress loaded a tray from the log and served the couples in the booths all on Sweet.

I sat there studying Sweet. He had to be six feet six. His face was like a black steel mask. Not a flicker of emotion played over it. He kept smashing the heels of his brute-sized hands together like he was crushing an invisible throat.^xxxiv

Even at a distance it made me edgy. I guess it kept his whores on the brink of peeing on themselves. If he had smiled maybe they would have dropped dead from shock. He sure proved pimping wasn't a charm contest.

Those whores lit his cigarette. They took turns feeding him sips of his Coke. They fought to ram their noses up his ass.

I froze; one of the white broads was whispering in his ear. Those unearthly gray eyes of his in the ebony sockets were staring at me. I could hear the thud of those meat sledges.

I thought, "Christ Almighty! Mama darling, I hope my double^xxxv hasn't put the muscle^xxxvi on this broad for some snatch or scratch. Please don't let this broad bum-finger^xxxvii me!"

He slid his terrible pearl-gray peepers off me. I saw him pound the bottom of his glass against the log. The Mexican broad expressed to him. He was rapping to her. She was nodding her head and looking down the log at me.

My Stetsons on the stool rung were slamming together like the heels of a Flamenco Dancer. The jukebox was sobbing Lady Day's beef about her mean but sweet man. I wondered if I'd see the runt again, and if not, how soon she'd get another ass kicker.^xxxviii

The couples in the booths were bug-eying the arena. It was maybe like the Circus Maximus. The doomed Christian, me, pitted against the king of beasts, him, plus the ocelot.

The Mexican broad came slowly toward me. Her face was tight and serious as she stood before me. She had pity in her peepers. She hated capital punishment.

She said, "Mr. Jones wants you to come to him pronto."

She turned and walked away. I staggered to my feet. I started hoofing that thousand miles to Mr. Jones. On the way I dusted off the hundred-and-seventy-five I. Q. in my skull.

I got to him. The cat snarled under the stool. It pasted its yellow eyes on me. I jerked my eyes from the cat and kept them riveted to the floor. I was afraid to look into Sweet's glowing peepers up close. I knew I'd crap in my pants.

He whirled around on his stool, his back to the log. I glued my peepers to the tapping tips of his needle-toed patent leather stomps. I flinched at each crash of his huge hooks.

He whispered, "nigger, you know who I am? Look at me when I'm spieling to you."

That teletype in my skull hammered out the escape hatch.

It read, "For this maniac you gotta be just like a Mississippi nigger. You gotta pretend he's a white lynch-mob leader. You gotta con him, but be careful, don't get cute. Keep your nose square in his ass. Jeff it out^xxxix all the way."

I said, "Sure I know who you are Mr. Jones. You're the black God of the sporting world. Ain't a nigger alive, unless he's stupid and deaf, that ain't heard your fame and name ring. The reason I don't look at you is because I remember what happened to that sucker in the Bible that snitched a peep."

His whores broke out into gales of laughter. Miss Peaches wasn't a lady. She broke wind and grinned. Those patent-leather toes stopped tapping. Could I be selling it?

He reached out and grabbed my chin. He held my head up and cupped it in his giant hook. I flexed my belly to take up the slack in my bowels. Those deadly gray slits almost slugged me into a dead faint. When he opened his jib I saw spidery webs of spit for an instant bridge his fat lips.

He said, "Little nigger, who are you and where you from? You kinda look like me. Maybe I layed your Mammy, huh?"

I neatly side-stepped his booby trap.

I said, "Mr. Jones, I'm nobody trying in your world to be somebody. I was born right here in your town. Could be my Mammy went for you. What bitch wouldn't? If I was a bitch I'd give you some scratch to get some."

He said, "nigger, you like fine white pussy? This dog of mine wants you to lay her. I give my whores what they want. You going to lay her for a double saw?

My skull raced out the warning, "Fool! Watch your ass!"

I said, "Mr. Jones, I don't want no kind of a pussy unless it hangs on my own whore. Mr. Jones, I'm a pimp, like you. I don't want nothing but some pimp scratch. My principles won't let me turn no reverse trick. Mr. Jones, I ain't no party freak. I want to be great like you. I ain't never going to amount to anything if I screw up the rules of the pimp game. You the greatest pimp on Earth. You got great pimping by the rules. Would you want a poor dumb pimp like me to chump out at the start?"

His freak white woman pouted at his side. She begged Nero to flip his thumbs down.

She said, "Mr. Jones, make this pretty punk freak off with your baby.^xl You don't let nobody say no to you. Since he's dreaming he's a pimp it will be wild kicks for me. Force him, Daddy, force him. Show him who's boss. Sic Miss Peaches on him."^xli

He shoved her aside. The boa constrictor uncoiled from around my chest. I saw contempt paint over the skull and crossed bones in his peepers. I drew a deep breath.^xlii

He roared, "You little pissy, green-ass nigger. You a pimp? You can't spell pimp. You couldn't make a pimple on a pimp's ass. Nigger, I'll blow your head off through that ceiling. Don't let the word pimp come outta your jib in my presence. Now get outta my face, pussy. I oughta stick my swipe in your jib."^xliii

The cat slithered from under the stool. She crouched on her belly and stared up at me.

I wasn't David. Good thing I wasn't. I was sure mad at the kooky bastard. I grinned and fished a fin out. I tossed it on the log and dragged tail out the door to the street. I was glad I hadn't stacked that sling-shot switch blade in my pocket against that thirty-eight magnum stuck beneath Goliath's belt.^xliv

The door smacked Preston a hard shot in the forehead. He had been peeping through a slat in the door blind. He rubbed his head. He looked scared.^xlv

He said, "Kid, I told you he's nuts. You keep it up, a ground hog will be your mailman. To play it safe you better give me your Mama's address. I gotta know where to ship your corpse. Where you going now?"

I said, "Look Preston, I didn't cut into him. He cut into me.^xlvi Hell, I ain't no head-shrinker. I couldn't handle the maniac. I'm splitting to the Ford to think."

He was clucking his jib when I walked away from him. I collapsed onto the Ford's seat. I was stinking from the fear-sweat in the bar. My pants were soggy.

I saw the white broad that was burning to freak off with me.^xlvii She was holding the Roost door open. Sweet filed out. His whores strutted out behind him. They walked behind him to the Duesenberg.

A tall brown-skin joker with a gleaming head of processed hair got out of a red Hog. He was the gutty stud I saw pouring that gin down Poison's girl.

Sweet's stable had gotten into the Duesenberg. The shiny-topped joker and Sweet were rapping on the sidewalk. They pounded each other on the back. They looked like boon buddies. Miss Peaches stood lashing her tail at Sweet's side.^xlviii

I almost leaped out of my hide. It was Preston banging on the car window. I unlocked the door. He slid in. His peepers were ballooning, looking past me to Sweet on the other side of the street.

He was sucking air like a mackerel on the beach. He was shoving a rusty owl-head twenty-two pistol across the seat. He was trembling like the zero second had come to assassinate maybe F.D.R.^xlix

He said, "Kid, you sitting here hating him, ain't you? You despise his guts.^l I saw the way you was looking at him. A bastard like him ain't got a right to live on God's green Earth. Do yourself and the world a favor, Kid. Take this rod and walk sneaky like down that sidewalk while he's rapping to Glass Top. Stick the barrel in his ear and pull the trigger. Then quick, blow the cat's brains out. It's easy, Kid. You can do it. Every nigger in the country will love you.^li Kid, it's your chance to get great. Go on, Kid, do it now. You ain't never gonna get a choicer chance."

I said, "Preston, I'm not hip to the murder game. I don't want to get hip to it.^lii I don't want to blow his brains out on that sidewalk and waste them. I want his brains to work inside my skull. You getting old, Preston. You can't even dent the mustard. He screwed you around a thousand times worse than me. You can't lose for winning. Why don't you be the hero and croak him.^liii Look Preston, take that tommy gun and split. I like you, but give me a break, huh? I've had a funky night and my skull needs a change."

He said, "Kid, you think I ain't got the guts? He ruined me, Kid. He destroyed me.^liv He's just another nigger. He ain't no bear, and that cat ain't no tiger. I'm going over there right now and cash them out."

Old Preston sprang out of the car. I watched him all the way. That game leg had him tilting from side to side. He looked like one of those doughty "Spirit of Seventy-Six" jokers on the posters around the Fourth of July.

I wondered if he was tanked up with enough rot-gut moxie^lv to really fold Sweet's dukes^lvi for good across his chest. Preston was on the other side of the street only twenty feet from Sweet and Glass Top. His mitt was rammed into his benny pocket keeping the rod^lvii warm and ready. Preston's shoulders and back were stiff and straight.^lviii Sweet's back was toward me. He was facing the sidewalk.

I thought, "The old dingbat may do it. He sure had reasons. Sweet put the hurt to him all right. Will there be much gore? Will Sweet croak right away or flop around on the street like a chicken with its head wrung off?^lix Will Miss Peaches leap up and cut Preston's throat?^lx If Preston croaks him I'll have to cut into Poison. I'll bleed his skull. He will be top pimp. Maybe a couple of those ten whores Sweet's got will go for me.^lxi I'd be some kind of sonuvabitching young pimp in a Duesenberg."

Preston came abreast of Sweet. He had slowed to an amble. I could see his yellow mitt easing out of his pocket. He got maybe three feet past Sweet and stopped. He was going to do it! He was coming back for a fatal flank sneak.^lxii

At that instant Sweet turned his buffalo head and looked down at Preston. Miss Peaches stiffened.^lxiii I saw a black cavern open in Preston's toothless yellow face. The chicken-hearted bastard had been chilled by those awful gray orbs and the cat. He was grinning at Sweet. He scooted his empty hand out of his pocket.

Preston might have made it if Sweet hadn't turned those lights on him.^lxiv Old Preston bowed his bald head. He walked toward the Greek's joint. His shoulders were sagging. His back was a stooped slouch. Old Preston had missed his choice chance at glory.

I just sat watching Sweet and trying to plot a way to cut into him. It looked hopeless. Finally, Sweet got in the rear seat of his Duesenberg. The cat leaped into his lap.^lxv One of the white broads roared it away.^lxvi I saw Glass Top pat his greasy dome as he turned into the Roost.

I thought, "That glossy-top stud with a face like a pretty whore's might be the tunnel to Sweet."

I took my sponge out and freshened my makeup.^lxvii I got out of the Ford and walked to the Roost. The joint was getting crowded. I was lucky. There was an empty stool in the middle of the log.

The beautiful joker was on a stool next to it. The memory of that four-slat tip out of the fin sent the tamale skidding to me. I sipped my Planter's Punch. I drummed my Stetsons against the stool legs. Hamp's "Flying Home" was rocking the joint.

A pack of white broads had a booth behind me. They looked like they had been to a P.T.A. meeting. Their perfume sent a medley of sexy odors through the joint. They were flirting their cans off. I guess they were writers. They were maybe doing urgent research on the "Sexual Habits of the Black Male."

I wasted no time. I was afraid the pretty joker might split. I snatched my eyes from the excited pack in the mirror. I turned my head toward him and touched him lightly on the sleeve.

He was sure a wrong doer all right.^lxviii He frogged^lxix at least three inches off his stool. It was like I'd stabbed him in the butt with a red-hot poker. He turned his shocked face toward mine. His silky long-lashed eyes were popped wide in alarm. He had panicked like maybe a cute nun caught naked in the Priest's bedroom by the Mother Superior.

I said, "Jeez, excuse me, Jim. I didn't know you were in deep thought, I'm sorry I hit on you like a square. My name is Young Blood. I'm a friend of Preston's.^lxx You must be the fabulous Glass Top. It would be a boss honor to buy you a taste."

He patted his shiny mop and said, "Yeah, Man, I'm Glass Top. What's your stupid story? You young studs sure ain't got no finesse. It drags me to get hit on like that. When somebody touches me I like to be digging it and facing the stud, you know? I ain't salty. I dig you ain't nothing but a punk that needs his coat pulled to social polish and class. I ain't no lush.^lxxi You can spring for a Coke if you want. Tell her to sugar it heavy."

The Mexican broad spooned sugar into a glass and brought his Coke.^lxxii He stirred it with a straw. He raised the glass to drink. I noticed ugly black tracks tracing the veins on his light-brown mitt. He was a junkie for sure. He would know where to cop C, and probably gangster for the runt. He was also a pal of Sweet's. Maybe I could make a two-bird killing here.

He said, "So, you know Preston?^lxxiii What's your racket? You a till tapper or maybe a burglar, huh?"

I said, "I been knowing Preston since I was a kid. I used to buff his stomps when he was pimping. I'm no till tapper or burglar. I'm a pimp. You must be a pimp yourself. I saw you rapping to the best pimp there is."

He said, "You a pimp? I ain't never heard of you. Where you been pimping, in Siberia? Sweet ain't the best pimp there is. I am. Pimps are just like cars. The best known ain't no real yardstick to the best car. It's like I'm a Duesenberg and Sweet's a Ford. I got all the quality and beauty. He's got all the advertising^lxxiv and all the luck.^lxxv

"Sweet's got ten whores, I got five.^lxxvi These whores in town ain't hip to how great I am yet. When they wake up^lxxvii to me I'll have to fight 'em off with a baseball bat. How many girls you got?"

I said, "I only got one girl now.^lxxviii I just got out of the joint, but I'm going to have ten in a year.^lxxix This town will hear about me.^lxxx I was thinking about cutting into some top pimp like Sweet. I'm not stupid enough to think I don't need to learn a thousand times more about pimping than I know. I also need connections like for girl and gangster. I'm just a kid in darkness waiting for some brain to help light the way."

He said, "Stay cool, Blood. I just remembered I left my kitty's slammer^lxxxi open. I'll be back after I lock it."

I looked in the mirror and saw him go out. He turned left towards the Greek's joint. I knew he was going to Preston^lxxxii to check me out. When he walked out that panting pack behind me turned as one. It was like Gary Grant had walked out.^lxxxiii

The jukebox was moaning gut-bucket blues. Some joker was singing "Going down slow; Don't send no Doctor; Doctor sure can't do no good; Please write my mother, tell her the shape I'm in; I'm going down slow."

I remembered it had been my father's favorite record. He had kept it spinning on the rich Victrola. I remembered his shocked face there in the doorway when he discovered it and everything else gone. I wondered if he were alive and still in town. If I ran into him I sure wouldn't know what to say to him after all these years.^lxxxiv

I saw the silk chicks crane their necks toward the door. I switched my eyes left in the mirror. I saw Glass Top coming in. Those chickens were clucking when he sat down.

I said, "Jack, aren't you afraid those silk broads behind us will rape you?"

He said, "Shit, if you stripped and searched all of 'em you wouldn't find a C note. They ain't nothing but square housewives. They sick of that half-ass screwing at home. They laying to swindle chump niggers outta their youth. They know enough on each other to keep all their jibs sealed. Ain't a chance for their husbands to tumble to what's going on. So what if some white joker who knows 'em made this scene and saw 'em? Everyone of 'em is just slumming out with the girls. Jack, what they got is a secret sex club."

I said, "Top, I'm frayed. I sure wish I had a snort of girl. Can you score?"

He told me, "Blood, I believe you are a down young stud. I got news for you. You can score right with me. I got the best girl and boy in town. Even my reefer is dynamite. Blood, I love you. You got heart. How much stuff you want?"

I said, "What's the bite for girl?"

"A fin a number-five cap. A sixteenth for a C. A piece for a grand.^lxxxv I got a cozy pad around the corner. There you can fly to the moon, pimping buddy."

I said, "Top, let's split to your pad. If your girl is mellow I'll maybe go for a C note."^lxxxvi

I threw a fin on the log. The Mexican showed me her choppers like I was her dentist. Three square black studs were standing rapping to the purring pack in the booth.

We went out and got in Glass Top's Hog. My foot struck a bottle. I looked down. It was the dead gin soldier Poison's whore had sucked dry. The Hog shot from the curb like a red torpedo.^lxxxvii Eckstein's syrupy "Cottage For Sale" oozed from the Hog's radio.

I thought, "I sure gotta hurry and get my ass into a Hog at least. I'll cop a Duesenberg in maybe a year. Geez, it must be one-thirty. I shoulda checked on the runt. My luck is changing though. This glossy-top joker is my in to Sweet."

He lived in a plush apartment building. It had all the jazz. Technicolored lights spotlighted the exterior. Fake rubber plants stood tall in the foyer.^lxxxviii

We took a chrome-and-brass elevator to his second-floor pad. Thick red broadloom carpet wall to wall in the hall. Fresh black and gold paint sparkled the walls and ceilings.

A Polynesian-type dream^lxxxix took our bennys and my lid in a small silver-mirrored entrance hall. My feet sank into the soft lavender carpet. I could hear the deep-throated boom of a console phonograph. The Ink Spots' lead tenor was parfaiting "Whispering Grass."

I followed Top and the olive-tinted beauty into the womb-like living room. Double heavy lavender drapes covered the windows. Not a beam of street light or sunshine could violate this pimp's lair.^xc

Top and I sat on a long gray sofa. It had cost him a big buck to lower the ceiling with the silver lame fabric. The only light came from the glass-topped cocktail table. It gurgled and flashed a pale blue light.

A score of yellow, red, and orange tropical fish streaked inside the aquarium built six inches below the tabletop. Two gray rubber hoses at each end of the tank ran down into the lavender carpet. It was a slick drain off and fresh water gimmick.^xci

The broad was almost naked.^xcii She stood wide legged in front of us like a bellhop waiting for orders. The table's blue light behind her silhouetted her Coca Cola bottle curves inside the flame red shortie gown. I saw a four-inch cone of jet hair between her thighs. She had a rare cat with that extra dimension. I unglued my eyes and looked into her face. She had the dreamy eyes of a freakish "Mona Lisa."

He said, "Bitch, bring a coupla outfits^xciii and some caps of girl and boy.^xciv Oh yeah, Blood, this is Radell."

That awesome round butt of hers jiggled as she wiggled past me. The big white phonograph in the corner was booming out a novelty tune. "When your pipes get dry then you know you're high. Everything is dandy. You truck on down to the candy store but you don't get no peppermint candy. Then you know your body's sent, you don't care if you don't pay rent. Light a tea and let it be if you're a viper."

"This pretty gowster^xcv is sure pimping his ass off," I thought. "He's a crazy gowster if he thinks he'll con me into banging any H. I'm not even sure about shooting the girl. Of course, I can't come off like a hayseed either."

I said, "Jim, you sure ain't jiving. Your layout is a sonuvabitch."

He said, "I got five bedrooms here. These whores on this fast track dig front and flash. You can't pimp here unless you got 'em. Jack, this C I got ain't going to let you split for awhile. You may as well shed your threads and get in the groove."

The broad brought the outfits, a spoon and a dozen white and brown caps. She put them on the cocktail table. She slid it closer to us. The water tidal-waved in the tank.^xcvi The fish darted in a frenzy. She stooped and started unlacing Top's shoes. I reached into my pocket for a C note. I had peeled it off from my crotch stash before leaving the Haven.

He said, "This flight is on me. It's a sample. You can cop what you want later."

We stripped our clothes off to our shorts. His were candy-striped silk. I felt like a bum in my white cotton jocks.

The broad draped our clothes on each arm of the gray overstuffed chair across the room. She didn't have any of my scratch in her mit when she came away. She stood next to me. The phone on the end table beside him jangled. He uncradled it.

He said, "Castle of Joy, what's your desire? Oh yeah, Angelo, she's here. Hell no she ain't dossing. She's on her way."

He hung up and said, "Bitch, just slip your benny on and get downtown to that head bellboy at the Franklin Arms. Dimples and the other girls are getting more action than they can turn. Take the key to the kitty and get there fast."

The broad zipped out of there in less than three minutes. She sure liked getting her man some money. Those tricks at the Franklin were going to give their swipes a treat all right.

I thought, "I gotta make the runt cultivate her cat like that broad's."

He said, "That's a good young bitch I got there. I copped her in Hawaii a year ago. There are twenty-thousand white suckers in town for a convention. They got a double saw in one hand and their swipes in the other. Radell ain't had no sleep in thirty-six hours. My other four whores been humping at the Franklin since early this morning. I can't miss a five G score for the three days even with Angelo's thirty percent off the top. Ain't but a C a day for a girl in oil for the heat."^xcvii

He got up and whistled our belts through the loops in our pants. He walked back and started to coil my belt around my arm just above the elbow hollow.

"Look Top, I'm not a square," I said, "but I ain't shooting no H. I'm game to bang some C. I've been curious to try it like that."

He said, "Kid, I ain't squeezing your balls to hip you that after Mink comes Sable. Ain't nothing a greater blast than horse. It's your privilege to wake up slow if you want. Horse is what puts the ice in a pimp's game."^xcviii

He upended a cap of girl into the spoon and stuck an eyedropper into the fish tank. He pressed the bulb and drew the dropper full. He emptied it into the spoon. He held the yellow flame of a table lighter beneath the spoon and took a tiny wad of cotton from an ashtray. He tossed it into the bowl of the spoon and then wrapped a thin piece of cellophane around the tip of the dropper. He fitted the needle on it. He stuck the hollow end of the needle into the cotton and drew the dropper full.

I felt my blood smashing against the tight coils of the belt. I saw the veins balloon in the throbbing hollow. I smelled the sharp sicklysweet odor of the cocaine. My palms were dripping sweat. He had the spike in his right hand. He grabbed my forearm with his left hand. I turned my head and closed my eyes. I bit down on my bottom lip waiting for the stabbing plunge of the needle.

He said, "Damn! You got some beautiful lines."

I shivered when it daggered in. I opened my eyes and looked. My blood had shot up into the dropper. He was pressing the bulb. I saw the blood-streaked liquid draining into me. It was like a ton of nitro exploded inside me. My ticker went berserk. I could feel it clawing up my throat. It was like I had a million swipes in every pore from head to toe. It was like they were all popping off together in a nerveshredding climax.

I was quivering like a joker in the hot seat at the first jolt. I tried to open my talc-dry mouth. I couldn't. I was paralyzed. I could feel a hot ball of puke racing up from my careening guts. I saw the green, stinking puke rope arch into the black mouth of the wastebasket. I felt the cool metal against my chest. I saw Top's manicured fingers pressing it close to me.

He was saying, "You'll be all right in a minute, Kid. You thought I was bullshitting when I told you I had the best stuff in town."

I still couldn't say anything. I felt like the top of my skull had been crushed in. It was like I had been blown apart and all that was left were my eyes. Then tiny prickly feet of ecstasy started dancing through me. I heard melodious bells tolling softly inside my skull.

I looked down at my hands and thighs. A thrill shot through me. Surely they were the most beautiful in the Universe. I felt a superman's surge of power.

I thought, "It was a cinch that any stud as beautiful and clever as me would become the greatest pimp in history. What bitch could resist me? I turned and stared at the ugly stud beside me."

He said, "Did you hear those chapel bells? Ain't they a bitch, Kid?"

"Yeah man, I heard 'em loud and clear. Right now I'd like to see the bitch I couldn't make. It's sure wild to bang girl. The only time I'll snort after this is when I'm in the street between bangs."

He said, "Blood, you sure know what to say. Just don't forget where to cop. The more you buy, the cheaper I'll make it. I love you, Blood. We gonna be tight."

He had a time trying to bang himself. He was only around thirtytwo, but most of his veins had folded. He finally hit pay clay in his inner right thigh. He kept the needle in, pumping the horse into the vein then drawing it out.

I said, "Jack, why the hell do you screw around like that?"

He said, "Man, you ain't hip? That's where the thrill is. When I jack this joint off the horse kicks my ass groovy."

I lost tally of time while we sat on the sofa and banged stuff. After the second cap I started banging myself. After that first bang the thrill wasn't as good and sharp. Top was coasting. There were three caps of H still on the tabletop. There was no girl. I had banged five caps of girl. I looked at my Mickey. It was five A.M. I went to my clothes and started to dress. My ticker was speeding inside my frosty chest.

I said, "Top, I gotta split I want a sixteenth of girl and a can of reefer. Here's a C note and twenty slats."

He pulled up from the sofa. He took the scratch and went into a bedroom. He came out and handed me a tobacco can sealed with rubber bands.

He said, "Kid, I put a coupla yellows^xcix in your bag so you can come down and get some doss. Where you padding? You don't wanta walk through the street with that package of sizzle on you. I'll call a cab."

I said, "Thanks Top. I'm padding at the Blue Haven, but my wheels are just around the corner across from the Roost. I'll hoof it there. The fresh air will be a kick."

I stood at the living room doorway to the entrance hall. He was uncapping a thing of horse.

I thought, "Now's the time to crack on him to sew up the cut into Sweet. I gotta phrase it right. This joker envies Sweet."

I said, "Top, I was thinking how much more common sense and cool you got than your pal Sweet."

His hands froze. His eyes beat his mouth to the question. I knew Preston hadn't told him about my clash with Sweet. I guess Preston's chicken act had blocked Sweet out of his mind.

Top said, "You know Sweet personally?"

"I met him last night in the Roost. That tall blonde of his wanted me to freak-off with her. Sweet offered me a double saw to do the job. I stood on pimp principle and turned him down. He flipped his cork. He forced me to split. He told me he'd blow my head through the ceiling. I figured he might do it. I guess now I have blown my chance to get acquainted with him. I don't suppose anybody in town is strong enough with him to square me and cut me into him. As foxy as you are Top, I wouldn't be shocked if you couldn't cut it. After all, the man is complicated. Come to think about it Top, I don't have a real need to meet him since I met you. My main reason now is I don't want a crazy enemy like that. So if you tell me it's over your head, I'll forget it, stay out of his way and take my chances. I love you Top, and I wouldn't want anything to happen to you on my account."

He gobbled it raw and whole. He flung his girlish head back and roiled off the sofa to the floor. He held his elbows against his belly and laughed like I'd told the funniest joke human ears had ever heard. He was gasping when he finally stopped. He patted his mop.

"Sweet ain't dangerous, sucker," he began. "He ain't never croaked anything but yellow Niggers. He's croaked four of them in the last twenty years. He ain't croaked nobody in over two years. He's ninety percent bull scare. He don't kill nobody unless they bad mouth him or muscle his whores. But he sure hates white folks. He pimps awful tough on white whores. When he puts his foot in their asses he's really doing it to the white man. He says he's paying 'em back for what they done and are doing to black people. His brain is rotted from hate. Shit, he probably wouldn't know you if he saw you again. He wasn't salty with you for turning down the freak-off. He was playing strong con on his white whore. He's got his whores thinking he's God. Even a square from Delaware should know God ain't going to kiss your ass when you tell him no, you poor boob. I tell you what. I gotta take him some stuff this weekend. I'll buzz your crib to let you know just when. I'll stop on the way and pick you up. I'll take you with me to his pad. He ain't nothing but a big ugly nigger with a filthy loud mouth."

I said, "I pad in four-twenty under the name of Lancaster. Top, you gotta overlook my dumbness. I told you I was just a kid in darkness needing some brain to light the way. Top, I sure appreciate your coat-pulling. See you later, Pal."

He said, "All right Kid, keep that sizzle in your mitt so you can down it in a hurry. Oh yeah, you can cop a spike at any drug store. You gotta crack for insulin with it."

I walked into the entrance hall. I flicked my sponge across my greasy face in the silver mirror. I went out the door to the elevator. It opened on the ground floor. I flinched before the stark morning light.

Out on the sidewalk, I saw Glass Top's red Hog pulling to the curb. It was his five whores back from the Franklin Arms salt mines.

I thought as I walked to the Ford, "How about it? Those five whores are probably checking in a coupla grand for a night's work. Why couldn't it be me up there in that crazy pad with my mitt out for all those frog skins?"

The night people had vanished from the street. Knots of squares on the way to work bunched at the street-car stops. I got in the Ford and U-turned toward the Haven.

I saw an all-night drug store and pulled into the parking lot. I copped a saw-buck pair of binoculars, and at the drug counter, I got the insulin and copped spikes and eyedroppers. Five minutes later I got to the Haven. I parked on the street.

I glanced up at our apartment window. I saw the drapes flutter. I got a flash of the runt's dark face pulling back. I walked through the lobby to the elevator. The joint sure looked shabby after Top's joint.

I thought as I got on the elevator, "If the runt is shitty and tries to third degree me this morning I'll bury my foot in her ass."

I got off on the fourth floor. I walked down the hall to four-twenty. I slid the rubber bands off the top of the tobacco can. I opened the top and took my packet of girl out. It was wrapped in tin foil inside a penny balloon. I shoved it into my watch pocket. I took a yellow from the top of the loose reefer and dry-swallowed it.

I knocked on the door. I waited a full minute. I knocked again, harder. Finally the runt opened it. She was stretching and massaging her eyes with her fists, conning me she had been fast asleep. She jumped into bed. She turned her back and pulled the covers to her ears.

I put the can of reefer on the dresser. I saw a tiny pile of bills on it. I heeled them apart. It was only forty slats. I went to the closet and checked the toes of the tan Stetsons. Empty! I stashed the binoculars in a coat pocket with my C and bang outfit. I saw smoke spiraling from a cigarette lying on the base of the plaster copy of "The Kiss" near the front window.

I said, "Bitch, what did you do, break your leg or knock off as soon as you saw me split? Is this tonight's take? Turn over so I can see that black mug of yours."

I was standing at the side of the bed. My right hand was resting on the closed plastic lid of the record player. The tips of my fingers were touching the back of it near the motor. It was warm. I raised the lid. Lady Day's whimper about that "mean man" was on the turntable. The runt turned slowly. I looked down into her face. Her eyes were narrow. Her jib was puffed out. She and Lady Day had been dragging me through the mud all night. The whore was acting like an outraged housewife.

She said, "Ain't I never going to be nothing but a bitch to you? Call me Phyllis the whore, or Runt the fool. You'd never believe it but I'm human. That scratch I made tonight ain't bad. These streets are new to me. I gotta feel my way and get hip to the tricks."

That cocaine was blowing a frosty blizzard through my skull.

I said, "Bitch, when your funky black ass is in the grave you'll still be a bitch; Bitch, one of these nights you're going to shoot your jib off, I'll curtsy and call you Runt the corpse. You stinking bitch I'm hip you're human. You're a human black slop-bucket for those peckerwood swipes. You gutless idiot, I'm going to throw you out that window if you don't get the kinks outta your ass an hustle some real scratch. Don't get hip to the tricks, Bitch. Get hip to what I'm rapping. If you don't stop your bullshit, I'm gonna kick your heart out and stomp on it. Now don't crack your jib unless I rap to you, Bitch."

I started to take my clothes off. She just lay there staring at me. Her eyes were gleaming like a crazy Voodoo Doctor's. I got into bed. I turned my back to her. I could feel the freak inching toward me.

She stroked the back of my neck. I felt the hot tip of the lizard on the back of my neck. I felt the scab on her brow scrape the tip of my ear. I pulled away toward the edge of the bed.

She said, "Daddy, I'm sorry I bugged you. I love you. Please forgive me."

The bed creaked when I rattlesnaked to strike. I hooked my right heel under the bed springs. I raised myself on my right elbow. I drew my "ved" left arm back so the back of my left fist touched my right cheek. I grunted for velocity and blackjacked my left elbow into her gut-button. She groaned and wrapped and unwrapped her legs. She chattered her teeth like she was freezing to death.

I could feel that yellow drawing a heavy black curtain inside my dome. Just before I went under I thought, "I wonder if the runt can lug a hundred and fifty pounds to that window."

Continued >>

———

1. Thanks goodness I opted to excise protopantsuitist puke early on rather than chuck the whole thing. 'Twas the right call, though who even knew before today that's even a call at all. [↩]
2. Didn't they teach him back in journalism school that you're supposed to confirm infos from at least two sources ? Hm ?

   It's not laziness driving the behaviour, by the way ; at least not the sort of physcal laziness you immediately think of upon seeing the word, the preference of the middle aged woman to sit her ass down and root there. It's not like his single source was all that much trouble, not like he cost a bundle or anything. How much more would've another one bit for ? Another twelve bucks ? Another coupla hours ?

   No, it's actually consensus seeking that drives the behaviour in the shit-for-brains, and from there, contagiously, all around. Truly the only way to have perfect agreement among your sources is to use only one, and so... [↩]

3. Can you believe she's gonna get gutted on spun content ? [↩]
4. Whore wife 4 life!! [↩]
5. This poor girl. That's what it means, you know ? [↩]
6. Can you believe this dorkster spent a week with a woman and doesn't know jack shit about her ? Does he remind you of anyone ? [↩]
7. Not nearly that uncommon ; I mean... she lives there, doesn't she ? [↩]
8. Indeed, his seven year stint with the poor girl he's currently mistreating's historically an outlier ; generally the pimp-whore relationships average under a year. [↩]
9. This being precisely the difference between the pimp and the trick, and what the trick pays for and the pimp's paid for : someone gotta care, someone's gotta do all that work of upvoting their myspace misshots and whatnot. Since these days the whiteknight simps do all the pimp's work for free there's no more need for pimps, but truly : the punter pays s'as to not have to care. It's a fair cop. [↩]
10. Until they [claim to] go crazy. [↩]
11. The reason this works is that the brain doesn't wake up simultaneously, like a lightbulb, but by degrees, like a domino chain : the basic functions first, the higher functions later. Lying's the highest function there is, and so in all cases there's a differential of time between when the person's capable to answer questions and when the person's capable to answer questions untruthfully. This differential's not always large enough to be practically exploitable (for a given exploitation framework), but the brain's imperfect, occasionally the boot-up process gets wedged and the higher portion doesn't wake at all... Power-cycling a brain's not ever going to be cryptographically worthless, which is why fucking with sleep patterns's always been, and will probably forever remain, a chapter in the "field manuals" of whichever flavour of power wanna-be. [↩]
12. Best feeling there is, huh. [↩]
13. This line suffered greatly at the time from lack of usable examples. Considering all "stars" today are exactly glorified whores, I'd say this problem's meanwhile completely resolved. [↩]
14. Inflating, making it appear bigger than it is. [↩]
15. Ie, accept even 90% discounts.

    It's not a bad policy, makes the punter feel good about his "skills". Low asking prices in whores help nobody, they're the original Veblen goods. That a whore should never let the asking price get in the way of a sale is one thing ; but even "good girls" ask for the world to settle down on a sandy half-acre. [↩]

16. Moreover, apparently nothing she didn't know. [↩]
17. You know, what they make Netflix out of these days. [↩]
18. Moreover, they were pimps from the joint. Nobody ends up in prison for being good at what they do. [↩]
19. So, so smooth. Be careful! [↩]
20. Liked it. [↩]
21. Ie last year's. [↩]
22. Rather exilirating this, watching your own production line work its magic. Most of you know it as "watching traffic stats", which... while it's perfectly true it bears only a passing similarity to the genuine article, nevertheless being Google's only remaining product it still enjoys a shred of left-over popularity. More like a remembrance than anything. [↩]
23. How did that get there ? Wasn't this papier mache glove compartment sliced underneath ? [↩]
24. See ? I toldja Elliot was their patron stain. [↩]
25. If only. Too much "self-esteem" for anything nearly as sensible as all that. [↩]
26. Someone with gonorhea (the clap). [↩]
27. Urethral sounds, surgical steel rods designed (and bent) for going down the pee hole. You should see what gender disparity they exhibit! [↩]
28. Penis. [↩]
29. Very lightly toasted, mulatto in the sense of mostly-white. [↩]
30. The claim might very well stand, considering New York never got as big as Chicago on account of the proximity of Boston with all its shriveled up, self-important cunts and their blather ; considering further that Europe indeed had a long-standing tradition but by the 30s it was doing poorly as compared to the US (and the parts with the tradition doing poorer than the rest) in an economic sense ; and considering finally that blacks never amounted to anything outside of whitey's domain. So... yeah, it's quite possible the top dog in Chicago also was top dog globe-wide. [↩]
31. Oddly, the company went bankrupt in 1937, so there can't be such a thing as a 1938 Duesenberg. At any rate, the all-American built models cost somewhere in the range of $20`000 (at the time, the average croaker would be looking at something like 2-3k a year in income) ; but what is here meant by "custom" is most likely that the chassis was built by a (comparatively very expensive) European coach builder (otherwise all coach work was custom anyways). The cost of mounting that (on a model SJN probably ?) is difficult to estimate, but let's say between twenty and fifty total. Only 500 or so were ever made anyways, most of which survive (who throws away a 400 HP car, rite).

    As part and parcel of the great benefits of the victory of socialism, one of these could be had for $200 in the late 40s. We could therefore say Sweet just didn't buy his at the right time. [↩]

32. Certainly a lot of Hollywood nouveau riche owned one. [↩]
33. Conspicuous consumption, right, keeping five girls that'd have no problem getting a trick out of production. It's a little bit like Ford taking a nap on the conveyor belt -- "nobody sleeps as expensively as I do!!!", which is funny because the historical Henry Ford was all about exactly the opposite.

    In the end, the situation could be summarized as "dem pimps, dey's no puriteens". [↩]

34. Is he gonna suck him off ? [↩]
35. Putative doppelganger. [↩]
36. Either battery or outright assault. [↩]
37. To finger is to point someone out. To bum-finger them is to point them out for ill. Bum works as a composite with negative connotation in the general : "a steer" is literally steering someone, pointing them in some direction when they're looking for directions ; whereas a bum steer is an inaccurate or otherwise useless such steering. [↩]
38. 'Bout a month, going by historical record. [↩]
39. To suck up, basically, to play or string along. [↩]
40. Don't you find their conversation a little... lacking ? Rather lackluster ? I mean seriously, what these "top of the world" enchanted forest dwellers have to talk about, atop their select pyramid of wanna-be-MP is... fucking ? Really ? Talking shop at the table, a "fine whore" an' her "biggest an' greatest pimp on da Moon" have naught else that irks or interests, no preoccupation besides or above... fucking some pimp-wannabe unemployable ex-con ?

    What the fuck sadness is this! I don't recall when's the last time one of mine whispered about... o yeah, I do recall, seeing how that's what the fuck Trilema's even for, assisted recallation. Here, the last time we talked about one of you spurious losers, "nobodies in our world" circling about :

    "Are you by yourself ?"
    "No, actually, that's my Master right there."
    "What's that, like a sugar daddy ?".

    Actually... it's like opposite of a sugar daddy. It's an alum daddy, let's say.

    There, that's the last time one of my bitches whispered in my ear about one of you mangy dogs. It was TWO YEARS AGO! And yes, what we were doing at the time was precisely exploring the "fast street", the "that stem must be a sonuvabitch" that some guy had run us down. There's even a map, and the story of how it was drawn. The place's Bogota, Columbia, non so se mi spiego.

    We found it too slow for us, slick. There's... how shall I put this, there's quite the fucking gap. Ye ken ? [↩]

41. Does this sound like a tight act to you ? [↩]
42. Every dumb bitch's dream ever, "oh, he despises those much-better-than-me bitches he's with". Really, cunt ? How about no, how about quit dreamin' Sally. [↩]
43. Irrumatio, an ancient practice.

    One wonders, why's this fellow bother to buy everyone drinks in a joint he doesn't even own, if that's all he's got for 2nd pass ? [↩]

44. You know, position matters more than ammunition. [↩]
45. Wait, he hadn't seen him coming ?! [↩]
46. This is not exactly accurate. It's true there was some exchange initiated by the other dude at some point ; but the whole "I'm a pimp" wank is still cutting in, like if Harvey Weinstein sits down and orders lobster and the waitress is all "Oh Mr Boss Man, I'm really an actress, I suck cock good, too!" she's cutting into him, he's not cutting in to her. And if -- let me underscore this if -- he later deigns to probe her throatmeats with his probe meat, it'll be something she can gargle about in pride, and otherwise STFU. [↩]
47. I still don't understand what the fuck was wrong with "Sure dude, anything you say. I don't want no pay, I'll do it 'cuz you tell me to."

    What, it's so scary-terrible to spend a little time with the broad, see what she has to say ? Or what exactly, is the idea that "the top pimp" was gonna shoot some random guy he asked to fuck one of his girls, in public ? What, out of jealousy ?

    Jack just shat himself, an' that's all. [↩]

48. You know, ocelots aren't a kinda expensive, exclusive super-dog. Wtf is with people and making everything out of dogs! [↩]
49. Wouldn't that have saved the world!

    People yak way too much about assassinating Hitler, which truly wouldn't have done anything worth the mention, zee Soviets'd have pounded the Reich with or without him ; nobody talks about getting rid of the toxic cripple, which conceivably might've extended those colonies' active life by a few good decades, maybe even more.

    You should've killed FeDeRal, losers! Like you got the other one! [↩]

50. Actually, he's sitting there like a teenaged, sunday-school hussy that narrowly missed forbidden cock, all panting and trying to talk herself off the ledge. If anything he's gonna streak over there an' blow the gent. [↩]
51. Are you fucking kidding me ?! Every nigger in the country won't even bother his sweet self-important ass with finding out about it, and then promptly forget about the whole thing in a fortnight anyways. There's a reason every nigger in the country is every nigger in the country after all, and that reason ain't whitey. [↩]
52. Indeed "Preston" is quite the idiot, I've never heard of a pimp that became a hitman.

    Moreover, the quotes are there because I very much suspect this is where the guy "composited" the character, this ain't the same Preston as before. [↩]

53. Better yet, rather than popping each other off like complete idiots, why not just kidnap some uppity cunt a la Lina Merlin and show her the light whether she "wanted to" or not ? Hm ?

    I mean, that dumb bitch was a little overdone by the time 1938 rolled around, granted, but they still had such a thing as "activists" marching about, yes ? Well ?

    No pimp can be worth any respect unless he's got at least one radical feminist, one socio-reformin' socialist an' one lifetime lesbian in his stable. Naimean ? [↩]

54. How the fuck did he do all that, and what's with all the junkies always having ideas in this vein. [↩]
55. Samagon, cheap (and toxic) alcohol. [↩]
56. Fists. [↩]
57. 22 caliber's not really that much of a rod. Yes it's technically possible to kill someone with it, but in the same sense it's technically possible to kill someone with a hunk of ice. [↩]
58. The shit this guy notices ; and then the shit he misses. Truly an exercise in mindblowing chiaroscuro. [↩]
59. Seems the more likely variant. [↩]
60. Not bloody likely. [↩]
61. Why the fuck would they go for a poor guy, it's not like they're there to work, they're there to bureaucracy, open doors, kiss ass, whine like stupid bitches ineptly about nonsense. Why the fuck would anyone even take them, at that. [↩]
62. Mno. If he was going to do it at all he'd have done it by now. [↩]
63. He can tell an unfamiliar animal weighing ten kilos stiffened ? From a block away ?

    Gimme a fucking break, he's making the shit up. [↩]

64. Preston was sitting there killing time, waiting for "something to happen" such that "he might've done it". [↩]
65. What a fabulous way to transport grime, filth and dried out phthisic sputum offa da sidewalk and right into the girls' sinuses : have the cat hop it on your fly. [↩]
66. Where do you suppose they're going ? [↩]
67. Can you believe this shit ?! [↩]
68. Supposedly squares "sleep well at night" / "don't have to keep loking over the shoulder" etcetera nonsense. [↩]
69. Jumped. [↩]
70. Good lord, why. [↩]
71. Not drinking. [↩]
72. Can you believe this shit ?! [↩]
73. Da fuck, everyone knows some bum steer in this lala-land where everyone's so fucking bored they sit on the roost all day, with the juke-box and the coca-cola like a buncha god damned Wisconsin teenagers. Nothing to do all day but wank, hey! [↩]
74. The Dueseys had some pretty effective advertising consisting of those cards with the "She drives a Duesenberg" pasted next to all kind & manner of industrialist bitches. [↩]
75. And the actual D. [↩]
76. That's not so bad, Sweet's ten whores only work half-time. That's just like having five. [↩]
77. Waiting for whores to wake up is such a terrible business plan it vaguely reminds me of something. [↩]
78. Always with this "now", "I'm in a transitional phase right now" what the fuck.

    "I got one, an' I love 'er!"
    "Boy... that ain't no pimp talk."
    "Aren't you sick of pimp talk by now ?"
    "Am I!"
    "So there you go, thought I'd freshen up the conversation."
    "How many hos you really got ?"
    "Just the one."
    "She any good ?"
    "Don't know yet, set her down the first time today."
    "Well... good luck with that."

    No ? Why the fuck not already, ffs. [↩]

79. Why a year rather than three, or thirteen months ? Fucking bullshit random numbers. [↩]
80. The fuck difference does it make if it does or doesn't, seriously, somebody gotta explain goals to niggers. [↩]
81. Car door. [↩]
82. Another composite delineation, this sure as fuck ain't the same Preston as the other two. But... whatever, what can you do, single-sentence paragraphs and five characters smashed into one name because the mouthbreathers whispering along this yarn, mouthing off the syllables as fingers trace a sooty trail under the words... them geniuses & pimps-to-be ain't got the brains to follow that many names "at the same time". [↩]
83. Except not. [↩]
84. "I only got one girl now. I just got out of the joint, but I'm going to have ten in a year." No ?

    And why not ? [↩]

85. Thousand dollars the ounce seems outright insane. Good thing the USGtards "won the war on drugs" since then, otherwise it'd be way the fuck cheaper in way the fuck cheaper money these days. Oh... wait... [↩]
86. The guy with five whores (clearing together maybe a grand a night or so) actually has the time to deal off the cuff with some punk for the maybe-hundred ? It's not like he owns the cocaine tree, the margin on that shit he's peddling leaves him, after overhead (you don't think he also sleeps in that self-same cozy pad, do you ?) with what, "maybe 20 bucks" ? How the fuck's it worth his time to stand up I wish to know. [↩]
87. Or perhaps a different bottle of the same brand. Hurr. [↩]
88. That's some jazz. [↩]
89. I think the idea's the hat check girl's topless. Which... doesn't it strike you as a lot of trouble for a maybe-C sale ? If you're gonna have nude servants why not make it a brothel altogether, none of this makes any fucking sense. [↩]
90. I can butt imagine the smells. [↩]
91. Tropical fish need salt tanks, which are a whole lot more trouble than "two gray rubber hoses". [↩]
92. Why bother with almost in context ? [↩]
93. Dude's gonna shoot with the needles of some guy he just met. And yes they did this, too! [↩]
94. I suppose she had taken a vow of snortitty or what the fuck. [↩]
95. Heroin (or opium) addict. [↩]
96. Strong broad. [↩]
97. The police only charge $100 per day per girl in bribes.

    What he's saying is that after the bellhop takes his 30% off the top, and the police get their $1`500, there's still going to be at least $5`000 leftover. So five girls make at least $9`285 in three days, which at twenty a bang comes to almost five hundred carnal acts, ie thirty a day for each dirty whore. The pussy stays sore an' swole. [↩]

98. What a terrible fucking idea. [↩]
99. Barbiturates.

    A great way to die, incidentally, seeing how on one hand barbiturates can supress the respiratory reflex if taken in excess, on the other hand cocaine is a barbiturate antagonist, and on the final strike cocaine fades twice as fast. So it's relatively easy to take too much barbiturate (to the standard of -- enough to kill you, if it were by itself) while full of cocaine (which then goes away from under you). If it's any consolation that's also how stars die. In their case it's called "pair instability" though. [↩]