Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 7 -- Melody off key.

The blast of the phone woke me. The pad was dark as hell. I flung my left hand out for the runt. She wasn't there. I fumbled the receiver to my ear.

I said, "Hello, this is Mary's brother."ⁱ

He said, "I wanta speak to Mary. Put her on, yeah?"

I said, "She just went out. She's taking a walk."ⁱⁱ

He hung up. I cradled the phone on the bedside table. I switched the table lamp on. I checked Mickey. It was seven-thirty P.M. I wondered if I had blown the runt.

I got up and checked the closet. Her clothes were still there. I went to the dresser. I checked the forty slats. Two were missing. There was a note beside the scratch.

It read, "Daddy, I took a deuce for the street. I'm gonna hump my ass off. Please try to be a little sweet to your little bitch dog, huh?"

I thought, "I'm stumbling upon some pimp answers. It looks like the tougher a stud is the more a whore goes for him.ⁱⁱⁱ I'll sure be glad when those four days pass and I go with Top to the Sweet cut in. I gotta watch that the runt don't get hip I'm banging stuff.^iv Gee, I'm starved. I gotta eat before I bang some girl."

I went to the phone. The broad who should have been a wrestler picked up.

I said, "Anybody down there to get me bacon and eggs?"

She said, "Wait a second, I'll let you talk to Silas, the elevator man."

The old Maggie and Jiggs fan said, "Yeah, Big Timer, what is it?"

I said, "Silas, can I get bacon with eggs over light, and toast?"

He said, "Yeah, there's a greasy spoon right across the street I'm going now."

I hung up and went to the closet. I got the spy piece. I went to the window. I saw the old jink hobble across the street toward the Busy Bee Cafe.

I made a sweep up and down the street to spot the runt. I didn't see her. I zeroed the spy into the greasy joint. The runt was draining a cup of coffee at the counter. She came out. Her eyes flashed whitely up at our window.

She walked down the street twisting her rear end at the passing cars. I saw her round black ass hook a white trick in a black Hog. He skidded to the curb. She got in. I wondered if it was the same joker that called.

I ducked into the shower. I was toweling off when I heard a rap on the door. I saronged the towel. On the way to the door I scooped the can of gangster off the dresser and stuck it behind the mirror.

I heard Silas outside the door whistling "When the Saints Go Marching In." I opened the door. He had a tray in his hands. I took it. A paper napkin fluttered to the floor. He stooped for it.

I looked into the big brown eyes of a pretty yellow broad coming out of the door across the hall. The scar-faced stud who tooted at the Roost had walked out in front of her. He had a saxophone case under his arm. She rolled her lustrous eyes at me. They rocketed to that lump on the sarong. Her sly hot smile made a flat statement, "Please, try it for size."

I skull noted her. Silas finally tore his eyes from her rear end floating down the hall. He had squeezed the paper napkin into a damp ball.

He said, "That's a buck."

I put the tray on the dresser. I took three slats to the door and gave them to him.

I said, "Silas, that's quite a package with Mr. Hyde. Give me a rundown, huh?"

He said, "Yeah, she's stacked tough enough to make a preacher lay his Bible down. The horn blower ain't had her but a coupla years. She's done rammed her cat scent up his nose and got him hooked. She was a whore until he squared her up. He's got it bad. He don't allow her outta his sight. Any club he plays she hasta be right there stuck in his ass. If I was thirty years younger I'd steal her. Thanks, Big Timer, for the deuce. Any time you want something, call old Silas. Sit the tray outside your door when you finish."

I sat on the side of the bed and wolfed down the bacon and eggs. I felt better. I wanted to feel wonderful. I put together everything for bang time. I held the end of a necktie in my teeth. I coiled it and tightened it around my arm. On first stab I hit a perfect bullseye. I did Top's jackoff bit. I threw up. I just made it to the john. The kick was greater than the one at Top's.

I thought, "What if my black face like magic turned white.^v Shit, I could go out that hotel front door and sneak through the barbedwire stockade. I'd be like a wolf turned loose on a flock of sheep. That white world wouldn't tumble that I'm a nigger. I could pay 'em all back in spades, the Dummy, the White Bull, that bastard judge that crucified me on my first rap. Once I escape this black hell I'll find a way all right. Well nigger, you're pretty, but a bleach cream will never be invented that will make you white. So, pimp your ass off and be somebody with what you got. It could be worse, you could be an ugly nigger."

I dressed and powdered my face. That sure was one pretty sonuvabitch in that mirror. I saw a roach scouting the tray's rim. I shoved the tray out into the hall.

I thought, "I gotta start stalking that fine bitch across the hall. Maybe I'll decoy the runt to get past that scarfaced watchdog. I guess I'll take a walk. Maybe I can cop my second whore. I feel hard and lucky as a horseshoe."

I put the can of reefer and the other sizzle into a paper bag. I locked the door and went down the hall toward the elevator. On the way, I stopped at the porter's broom closet. It was unlocked. I tiptoed and shoved the bag of sizzle behind some junk on a shelf.^vi

The cocaine had me froggy. I saw the floor indicator stop at floor number two. I took the stairway to the lobby. I dropped the key on the desk and glided to the street. The cocaine had fitted wings on my feet. I felt cool, breathless, and magnificent. It was a balmy eighty degrees. I was glad I'd left the benny.

I walked toward a rainbow bouquet of neon maybe ten blocks away. My senses screamed on the razor-edge of cocaine. It was like walking through a battlefield. The streaking headlights of the car arcing the night were giant tracer bullets. The rattling crashing street-cars were army tanks. The frightened, hopeless black faces of the passengers peered through the grimy windows. They were battleshocked soldiers doomed forever to the front trenches.

I passed beneath an El-train bridge. A terrified, glowing face loomed toward me in the tunnel's gloom. It was an elderly white man trapped behind enemy lines. A train furled by overhead. It bombed and strafed the street. The shrapnel fell in gritty clouds.

I was too nervous for the combat zone. I whistled at a general in a yellow staff car to halt. He whisked me to that oasis of neon. It turned out he was a mercenary. He shafted me a slat and a quarter for the evacuation.^vii

I got out and mothed toward a waggling flash. The "Fun House." It was a bar. I opened the door and stepped inside. It almost busted the gaskets in my bowels.^viii A phosphorescent green skeleton popped up out of the floor in front of me. It screeched a hollow howl and then dived back into the floor through a trap door.

I just stood there shaking. I couldn't figure why those crazy jokers at the bar were yukking^ix like pickaninnys. To stay with the program I mastered a King Fish grin. I went to the bar and sat between "Amos" and "Andy."

I saw a tall stud with a Frankenstein mask on behind the log. He darted his hand in a sneaky way under the log. There was a wooshing noise like a tire going flat. My stool descended beneath me. I looked up at Amos. My nose was an inch from the log. Amos was grinning down at me.

Amos said, "You sho nuff ain't been here befo, is you Slim? You frum de big-foot country?"

Andy said, "Wait til he ketch his win. He gonna buy us a pitchuh suds. We gonna lurn ole home boy bout dis big city rigamaro."

Everybody at the crowded log yukked in a deep South accent. Frankenstein pushed his mercy button. I felt the stool stretching up. With the cocaine kangarooing me, and this booby-trapped nest of low-life suckers I stumbled into I had more than a frantic yearning for maybe four-twenty at the Haven.

He walked down the log to me.

He said, "It's all in fun. Welcome to the ‘Fun House.' What'll it be?"

I ignored him. I got off the stool. I looked down at it. Its metal legs were tubular and anchored to the floor. It had to be a compressed air gizmo. I stepped back and looked at the two ex-cotton pickers. I twitched my nose. I looked down and around them, then the length of the log. I fingered the button on that sling shot in my raise.

I said, "King Fished, Holy mackul, boys. You smell dat? I'se wunder iffen some po stupid nigger's funky-ass, nappy-head Southern Mammy ain't dose shit out anuther square-ass, ugly bastard turd?"

Amos and Andy dropped their jibs like plantation idiots. They shot an anguished look at the white joker behind the log. I walked out the door. They didn't dig my humor. Maybe it was too "in."

I slammed into a perfumed line-backer. In reflex, I threw my arms around her soft shoulders. She had the flawless face of Olivia de Haviland.^x She was bigger and prettier. I felt the fabric of her tailored black suit petal stroke across my fingertips. She was the finest broad I'd seen since my last movie. I wondered if she was a whore. I decided to hit on her.

I said, "I'm sorry. Ain't it a bitch baby, the first time we meet it had to be in a collision like two-square? Sugar, were you going into this tramp joint? Believe me there's no action inside for a package like you. I just stopped in to make a call. My name is Blood. What's yours?"

Her big curvy legs were wide tracked. I saw the fabulous shadow of her rear end on the sidewalk. Through the filmy orange blouse I saw a pink mole on her milk-white midriff. She brushed back a wayward lock of silky black hair from one of the big electric blue eyes. Her even choppers gleamed like rare china. Her crimson tongue doodled across the cupid bow lips. She was doing a bit that would have shook up a eunuch.

She said, "Blood! How quaint. Your idiom is fascinating. My name is Melody. I don't drink in bars. Occasionally I go to a supper club. I am not looking for action. As a matter of fact my car is disabled. I was going inside to call for help when our heavenly bodies collided. Is it possible that you're not oblivious to the esoteric aspects of car repair? Mine is there at the curb."^xi

My eyes followed her manicured finger to the sparkling new Lincoln sedan. Everything about her hollered class and affluence.^xii

I thought, "This beautiful white bitch has class.^xiii She sounds like an egghead. With wheels like that she's probably got a bundle in the darner! Maybe she's got some rich sucker in her web.^xiv I'll nut roll on her. I'll stay outta the pimp role until I case her.^xv I'll go Sweet William on her. Maybe I can string her out and get all that scratch she's got, then make a whore outta her. With her rear end, this bitch is sitting on a mint."^xvi

I said, "Darling, I'm not a mechanic. I did learn a little about cars from a buddy in a prep school I just finished. You get in. I'll raise the hood and have a look."

She got in. I raised the hood. I spotted the trouble right away. A battery cable had jarred loose.^xvii I put it back on. I looked around the hood and signaled for the starter try. She did and smiled happily when the engine throbbed to life. She waved me to her. I stuck my head through the open window.

She said, "Are you driving? If not I should love to take you wherever you want to go."

I said, "Honey, I'm not driving and it's a long sad story. You don't want to hear my troubles.^xviii If you drop me off at some nice bar, I promise not to bore you with it."

I got in. She pulled out into traffic. We cruised along. For two minutes we were silent. I was busy trying to think of the opener for that long sad story. I had read a cellhouse full of books. I knew I could rise to a smooth pitch. That old philosopher convict had told me I should forget the pimp game and be a con man.

I said, "Melody, doesn't fate puppeteer humans in a weird way? There I was coming out of that joint, I had just called a garage a hundred miles away. The engine of my car burnt up on my way here from Saint Louis a week ago. I was depressed, lonely, and hopeless in a big, friendless city. The mechanic had just dropped the bad news. The charge to get the car is a hundred and fifty dollars. I have fifty. I was blind with worry when I came out that door.^xix My elderly mother has to have a pancreas operation. I came here to work for a contractor in the suburbs. I'm a talented carpenter. I need my car to get to work. I'm committed to start work the first of next week. Mama's going to die sure as the sun rises in the East unless I get that money for her operation.^xx The strange wonderful thing is, darling, with all these problems I feel so good. See those garbage cans glittering between the tenements? To me they are giant jewels. I want to climb up on those rooftops and cry out to the stars, I have met, I have found the beautiful Melody. Surely I'm the luckiest black man alive. Convince me you're real. Don't evaporate like a beautiful mirage. I'd die if you did."

Out of the side scope in my eye I saw those awesome thighs quivering. She almost crashed the Lincoln into the rear end of the gray Studebaker ahead of us.

She cut in sharply and grated the Lincoln's wheels against the curb. She shut the motor off and turned toward me. Her eyes were blue bonfires of passion.^xxi The pulse on the satin throat was maniacing^xxii. She slid close to me. She zippered her scarlet mouth to mine. That confection tongue flooded my mouth with sugar. Her nails dug into my thighs. She gazed at me.

She said, "Blood, you sweet black poetic panther. Does that prove I'm real. No, I know I don't want to evaporate, ever. Please, let's don't go to a bar.^xxiii You can't solve your problems with alcohol. My parents are out of the city until tomorrow noon. Settle for coffee and conversation at my place. Will you Blood? Perhaps we can find solutions to your problems there. Besides, I'm expecting Mother to call me at home later this evening."

I said, "Angel of mercy, I'm putting myself in your tender hands."^xxiv

She lived a long way from the black concentration camp. She drove for almost an hour. I could smell the pungent odors of early April plant life. This white world was like leaving Hell and riding through Heaven.^xxv The neat rows of plush houses shone^xxvi in the moonlight. The streets were quiet as maybe the Cathedral in Rheims.^xxvii

I thought, "Ain't it a bitch? Ninety-eight percent of the black people back there in Hell will be born and die and never know the joys of this earthly Heaven.^xxviii There ain't but two passports the white folks honor. A white skin, or a bale of scratch. I sure got to pimp good and cop my scratch passport. Well, at least I get a Cinderella crack at Heaven. This is good. It's hipping me to what I'm missing."

We turned into her driveway. I saw the soft glow of a table lamp behind blue drapes^xxix in the front room. She parked the Lincoln in a pink stucco garage that matched the house.^xxx The garage was connected to the house. We went through the back door. We passed through the kitchen. Even in the dimness it sparkled. We moved like burglars through the half-darkened house. We walked on deep-pile carpet up a stairway. We got to the top. She stopped.

She whispered, "Blood, I was born in this house. Everybody in the block knows me. If some friend passed and knew someone was at home, we might get an unwelcome visitor. We'll go to my bedroom in the rear."^xxxi

I followed to her bedroom. She flipped on a tiny blue light over a mirrored dressing table. The bedroom was done in pale blue and off-white. The queen-sized bed had a blue satin canopy over it. I sat down on a white silk chaise next to the dressing table. She switched on an ivory radio. Debussy's "Clare de Lune" sweet-noted gently through the room.

She kicked off her tiny black calfskin shoes. She was even more beautiful here than she had been in the street. She stroked my ear lobes with her fingertips.

She said, "Mommy's pretty black panther don't run away now. I'm going downstairs and make coffee."

She went down the stairs.^xxxii

I thought, "I'm gonna crack on her for scratch. She should be good for a C note at least. A C note ain't bad to break the ice with. If she springs for it, I'll tie her to that bed and put my Pepper-specialty on her. It's certain to flip a young broad like her who's lived in Heaven all her life! Besides, I ain't never sloughed around in a bed with a canopy. Especially one in Heaven."

I heard the faint bounce of her tiny feet on the stairway. She came into the bedroom with a silver service. We were going to have coffee in style. She set the gleaming tray on the dressing-table top.

She said, "Blood, pour us a cup. I'm going to get out of these clothes. Then we can chat."

I poured two and left them black. I sipped mine. She stepped into a walk-in closet. She stepped out a moment later. All she had on were black panties and the red top of a transparent shortie nightgown. Her small, but sculptured bosom straight-jutted against the red gauze. She sat on the foot of the bed facing me and crossed her legs.^xxxiii I handed her the cup of black.

She said, "So, you're going to stay in town for a while?"

I said, "Baby, if I get strong enough encouragement I'll stay all my life. Baby, it's a pity I had to meet you when I'm in bad shape. I want to be good company, but that car problem and Mama won't let my mind stay on a pleasant track."

Her ringers snapped "eureka."

She got off the bed and went to the dresser across the room. She opened the top drawer and took out a bankbook. She came back and sat on the bed. She tapped the red nail of her left index finger against her white teeth. She studied the book's figures. I saw a frown hedgerow her brow. She got up and went to the dresser and threw the book into the open drawer and banged it shut.

I thought, "This broad has over-drawn. She's gonna try the check con on me."

She stooped and opened the bottom drawer. She brought out a foot-long, foot-tall metal pig. She walked to the dressing table and put the porker on the table beside me.

She said, "Blood, this is the best I can do to help you now. I don't get my allowance for a week. I have less than a hundred dollars in my account. Cheer up, there must be at least a hundred dollars in quarters and halves in this bank. Believe me, I can vividly imagine what it's like to be colored and faced with your problems. Let's say it's a loan."

I hefted the poker for a moment to check its gross weight. It was heavy all right. It felt a C note heavy. I reached out and took her hand. I guided her to my side on the chaise. I put my arms around her. I kissed her and sucked at that sugary tongue like a suicidal diabetic. I leaned back from her. I looked into the heart of the blue fire.

I said, "Baby, it's a wonderful secret that you've discovered. Not many people know it's better to give than to receive. Maybe it sounds crazy, but I wish you weren't so beautiful and generous, so perfect. I don't see how you can miss capturing my foolish heart. You're a cinch to make me yours forever. Baby, I'm just a poor black country boy. Please don't hurt my heart."

She sure had an appetite for the Jeff con. The blue fire softened. Her eyes were misty and serious. She held my head between her dove-soft palms.

She said, "Blood baby, I'm white, but I have been more unhappy than any black person all my life. My parents have never understood me. When my whole being cried out for love and understanding, they gave me shiny things to stop my tears. Non-whites are like dirt to them. They are narrow and cold. If they found out you had been here they would disown me before they dropped dead. There's a sweet warmth that you have. I know that you can make me happy. I am so desperate for love and understanding. Please give it to me."^xxxiv

I said, "Baby, you can dump all your money on the black horse to win. I'm gonna win 'em all for you, beautiful."

She said, "Blood, you're a black panther; I'm a white lamb. I know nothing can stop that panther from taking the lamb, soul and body. The lamb will bide her time to take the panther. The lamb needs and wants it that way. Now listen carefully and please catch the clue of my tragedy so nothing will shock you in my bed. Blood, perhaps you are aware of the structural flaws built into the columns of the world's most famous building. It's the Parthenon. The flaw is called entasis.^xxxv This contrived flaw is necessary so that the fickle human eye sees only perfection. I am a lot like those columns. I am not old, but I am beautiful. My tragedy is that unlike the entasis that gives perfection to the columns, my entasis must be concealed to protect my perfection. Can you understand?"

I thought, "What the hell, so this broad's got a prematurely-gray cat. Maybe it's a little off-center. If it's odd it will be a novelty kick for me. She's so beautiful the tricks won't notice a tiny irregularity after I've turned her out."

I said, "Baby Melody, you haven't opened the door to a square. As fine as you are I wish you had two heads. Now get on that bed on your back. I'm gonna make love to you black panther style. You got some long towels?"

She went to the hall linen closet. She gave me four long slender ones. She slipped off the red top and panties. She lay on her back in bed.^xxxvi I saw her flaw. Was this her entasis? I saw no crotch hair. She looked completely bald downstairs. I tied both her legs to the posts at the foot of the bed. I tied her left arm to a post at the head. The phone jangled on a nightstand at her side. She picked up the receiver with her free right hand.

She said, "Hi Mother, I'm fine. Are you and Dad still having fun? Mother, I miss you both so terribly. Are you coming home tomorrow as planned? Oh good, I'll be at the airport on time. I've gone to bed. I've gotten out that ‘Anthology of Africa.' I'm going to have a wild time researching the Watusi Warrior. Good night, Mother. Oh, tell Dad to bring me some of that heavenly Miami beach wear. I'll be a sensation here on the beach this summer."

I had taken my clothes off when she hung up. I lashed her free arm to the fourth bedpost. I looked down at her. Her eyes were pleading.

She said, "Remember Blood darling, you are not an unsophisticated bumpkin. You are not prone to shock states. I know you are going to find my entasis as sweet and desirable as the rest of me."

I wondered why she still worried about her entasis. She knew I saw she was hairless downstairs. I put my knee on the bed. I stroked her belly. I felt cloth. I took a close look. A custom flesh-colored jock belt bandied her crotch. I ripped the elastic top down over her round hips. I jumped back. My rear end bounced on the floor. I struggled to my feet.

I shouted, "You stinking sissy sonuvabitch!"

His real entasis had popped up pink and stiff. It was a foot long and as thick as the head of a cobra.

He was crying like I had put a lighted match to his entasis.

He sobbed, "You promised to understand. Please, Blood, keep your promise. You don't know what you're missing. It's delicious, you fool!"^xxxvii

I said, "Look man, I made my promises to a broad, not a stud. I'm a pimp, not a faggot. I'm getting the hell out of here. I'm charging you the porker for my time and your bullshit."

He lay there blubbering. I speed dressed. I took the porker off the table and stuck it under my arm. I walked toward the stairway. I looked back. His beautiful face was ugly in anger and hate.

He screamed, "You dirty nigger liar, thief! Untie me you Coon Bastard! Oh, how I wish I had your black ass tied here on your belly!"

I said, "Man, as slick as you are you'll untie yourself before long. Yeah, that entasis could murder me all right."

I walked down the stairway. I went through the house to the back door. I walked down the driveway to the street. I walked for an hour before I got out of the residential sprawl. I was lucky to hail a Yellow Cab as soon as I got to a busy intersection.

When it got me to the Haven, the meter read fourteen-thirty. I gave the cabbie a fin and a saw buck. I looked up at my window. The runt was at it. It was two A.M. It had been like a nightmare Halloween all the way. All trick and no treat. I was icy sober.

Then it struck me riding up on the elevator. That white faggot could cross me. What if he couldn't free himself by the time his folks got home? He was a cinch to cover himself. He'd say a nigger burglar or holdup man had robbed him and trussed him up.

I was a two-time loser. Five to ten would stick to me like flypaper. Even if he untied himself right away he might be mad enough to frame me. I remembered the Dalanski-Pepper cross. I was sweating salt balls when I retrieved my stash in the broom closet.

I went to my watch pocket with the cocaine. I knocked on fourtwenty. The runt opened the door. She was grinning.

She said, "Hello, Daddy-angel. Your dog bitch bumped her black ass off tonight. Gotta piggy bank, huh?"

I said, "So whatta you want, bitch, a medal for doing your whore duty?"

I didn't answer her question. I looked down to see if she'd sprouted an entasis. She was buck-naked.^xxxviii I stepped inside and bolted the door. There were seventy slats on the dresser. I turned and lowered my face. She kissed me. I put the porker on the base of the "Kiss" statue.

I gave her the can of grass. She sat on the bed. She shook some grass out of the can onto a newspaper in her lap. She started rolling a joint. I took my clothes off. I went into the bathroom to shower and scrub the sissy taste out of my jib. The piercing heavy odor of the gangster wafted to me.

Over the roar of the shower I shouted, "Girl, there's a gap under that slammer.^xxxix Chink it up with a rag or something. Torch a coupla sticks of incense."

I came out of the bathroom and got into bed beside her. She handed me a joint. I lit it and sucked it into a roach. I squeezed tobacco from the tip of a cigarette. I stuck the butt of gangster into the empty tip. I twisted the end and lit it. It was a good reefer.

I could feel my skull go into a dreamy float. I got one brilliant thought after another. The trouble was, each one I tried to hold long enough so I could put a saddle on it stampeded. It was maybe like the painful irritation a drunk wrangler suffers trying to corral a herd of greased mustangs.

Gangster was sure a whore's high.^xl That reefer confusion was no good for a pimp's skull. That beautiful sissy had buried a hot seed in my guts. The wild flower blossomed. I dreamily drifted into the runt. I rolled sleepily out of the warm churning tunnel. I wouldn't need a yellow^xli tonight.

Continued >>

———

1. Really ? Whose identity functions this way I wish to know, besides literary characters of course.

   Cucks captive in traditional farming holes can possibly be named after the cunt they service, certainly, but in that case a) there's still an explicit name given, "I'm Mary's Bob", and b) the relationship's necessarily sexual, Mary's Bob can't be her brother, gotta be her dickchattel.

   In very unsophisticated cvasi-urban aglomerations (such as contemporaneous life offers no shortage of regrettable examples) the alternative styling of the whore for her pimp is occasionally encountered, but then she'd be Bob's Mary, not the other fucking way around.

   In short, if you pick up a phone and what you say is you're some chick's something, it's plain obvious that a) you're lying and b) she's probably also been lying, or at the very least misrepresenting herself. How did you even know they wanted to talk to her in the first place ?

   I can't see why an 75`184 IQ would be required to still fall short of figuring this much. [↩]

2. In the dark ?! [↩]
3. There's a nuance here, wide enough to fit a double-rainbow through, betwixt what this idiot thinks hardness is, and hardness itself.

   Consider the ridiculous case of hitting her, which apparently and for some incomprehensible reason he imagines as some kind of single-shot, go-big-or-go-home activity. Who the fuck in his right mind hooks his foot under the mattress and complicately coils himself to punch -- in the diaphragm!! -- a conspicuously diminutive girly ? What, if he doesn't hit her "as hard as he can" there's something lost ? What exactly, she won't have a ruptured spleen ? Is the danger of her missing out on some liver damage the great risk here with great care avoided ? What the fuck sense does it make to punch her in the face ? At all, leave aside punching her in the face such that she hits her head against steel bars on the rebound. What the fuck nonsense is this ? Not that infantilism on this order is all that uncommon -- it's after all how the Nazis managed to lose the war, "oh, let's make a larger tank, that'll totally do it!". Nevermind that eventually it got so big it couldn't pass itself on standard tracks it was bulging so far off the platform, nevermind that it was simply not possible to make it reliable owing to the happenstance that they didn't have at the time steel alloys hard enough to make the bearing ball that'd support and permit the turning of the 90 ton monstrosity. Nevermind anything, baby's got the Panther YAY!

   Aside infantile hallucinaria, beating's not this. In fact, beating's quite the opposite of this. Real beatings are a logarithmic activity, not an exponential activity, if you hit her too softly it's okay, because... guess what ? You can hit her again. You can hit her again as many times as needed, nobody's going anywhere, that's quite the fucking point, you can do it again and again and again, slightly harder and even slightlier harder still until it's done enough. Until it's done just right. Yes beatings are productive, and yes there's no such thing as education possible without beatings ; but specifically because of that "nobody's going anywhere", not because Dorky McCuckerson "hit her so hard she died twice". There's no education of corpses.

   Real beatings proceed upon having the beneficiary hold a position -- yes raw noobs can be afixed if they're too inept yet to actually hold the position on their own ; but this is supposed and expected to resolve with experience, and in short order. In fact, I'm quite willing to cut loose some (putative, I've yet to see this) slavegirl that's so fucking dumb she can't learn to hold her position within some reasonable practice. Moreover, there's nothing wrong with tieing her up to beat her if she likes being tied up in the first place, let the two meld in her animal brain and help her along the golden path you've chosen for her, outside of the thorny brackets of whatever bullshit she came up with on her own.

   Real beatings proceed with instruments, who the fuck's going to use his fists for the purpose ?! Trying to deliver beatings by unaided hand is exactly like trying to fish by unaided hand -- sure, it can be done, at least in principle, but it'll take five hours to the minnow, and they'll be some of the most frustrating hours one could possibly experience. There's whips and canes and crops and floggers and paddles and even a fucking hairhbrush is preferable, but in any case there's all sorts and manner of implements specifically designed for this, who the fuck in his right mind throws away fifty to three hundred millenia of accumulated human experience to start over at some pre stone-age level of troglodytism ?!

   Real beatings address specific parts of the body, who the fuck is going to hit the whore in the face ? It makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, the whore is a capital good, like an anvil or a bundle of crayons exactly, who the fuck gets out at the traffic light and scratches his own car because he's unhappy with its highway comportment ?! Wouldn't it be the saddest thing in the world, to end up with a stable of perfectly disciplined whores who can't make any money because in the process of disciplining them you also bit by bit destroyed their appeal, and so now that you've finally got them where you wanted them... you can throw them out and get a fresh new set ? Why do this to yourself, what sense does this make, "being hard" was never supposed to consist of being hardminded.

   Cane streaks visible on the thighs for instance are one thing, I suspect they'd greatly excite the punters and significantly increase the whore's take, at least if going by how excited rando nobodies get whenever my slaves are thus marked ; but the "extra kitty" on the face he's given his runt is beyond fucking stupid. Seeing how she's a streetwalker even something like bastinado's off limits, and if for some reason I can't conceive I'd someday end up actually whoring out my harem this'd be a major regret -- not because I bastinado 'em all that often, but because I do enjoy doing it occasionally, and if they had to walk the streets for their livelihood I absolutely wouldn't do it. At all. Because I don't give a shit how much I like it, let alone what they like or how much bla bla. That's hardness. [↩]

4. Da fuck.

   You know, my house is littered with things the slavegirls don't get to use. Not like I hide my 30yo casked rum or whatever, what the fuck is this "pimp" going on about. Wouldn't it have been a lot more logical to sit her down, "here bitch, some ganja, have fun ; and this is my coke, it's not for you" ? Then if she smokes too much you a) tell her how much is too much and b) don't get her anymore until whatever she smoked and however long it's been average out to your liking. That's what I do with mine at any rate, pot, tobacco, chocolate, whatever it is. You realise my bitches don't self-serve chocolate, what sorta pimp is this dweeb, running behind mommy's back to jack off secretly in the bathroom ? [↩]

5. Now you know how Michael felt, I guess. [↩]
6. They're pretty serious about drug carry risk hygiene, huh. [↩]
7. Trite as this all is, it still beats that Ginsberg hack, and by a fat margin at that. [↩]
8. Almost shat himself. [↩]
9. Laughing. [↩]
10. Lard's mercy, that's some ugly right there. [↩]
11. Oh, what a classy broad.

    Narf. [↩]

12. Yeah, I bet. Especially the word choice. [↩]
13. I thought Chicago's a town so chic, they put it in the fucking name.

    Also... class! CLASS CLASS CLASSY CLASS CLASS! [↩]

14. Yeah, like her dad. [↩]
15. That didn't take long.

    Good thing he "stood on pimp principle" and didn't fuck the tall whore back at the Roost. Because principles... they're important. [↩]

16. Retarded an' Ubu Roi-esque as it may well be, admit nevertheless : exhilirating plan, innit! What could ever beat meeting a hot chick outta your class every which way, stringing her out, taking her projected socioskin for yourself and having her use her own carnal body underneath for your amusement ? Hm ?

    Pimping-in-principle is doubtlessly the coolest game there ever could be. Pimping-in-practice may well have its problems an' warts, but... you know what ? Math-in-practice also does. Hence marriage, at least in the traditional sense. [↩]

17. Wanna bet this bitch always dreamed her soulmate's gonna come at her from a bar and be named Slim and something-with-ice ? By now it seems even odds. [↩]
18. Yeah, what the fuck happened to his runt's Ford anyways. [↩]
19. This is pretty far from a smooth pitch, like a not-smooth pitch that wasn't smooth at all. [↩]
20. And even then. To this day there aren't that many surgical interventions upon the pancreas with anything like good prognosis. [↩]
21. I hope you're taking all of this down. [↩]
22. Menacing ? [↩]
23. Aahahaha epic, "please let's don't go to a bar". I'm lifting this. [↩]
24. Hopefully he rapes her. As that dancing midget astutely observes, it's usually the right move with them society dames. [↩]
25. Right ? [↩]
26. This three-way absurdity... How the fuck is plush supposed to shine ? There's no such thing as shiny plush as part and parcel of what shine and plush even fucking are, wtf fried ice am I being sold here!

    Besideswhich, imagine houses made of plush during an April shower. Swell! [↩]

27. Or the Chicago Niggerward City Library. Either way. [↩]
28. Why not ? I'm sure they take maids. [↩]
29. Wtf is with this guy and artisanally reconstructed lava lamps already. Let's hope the Rodin plaster's not about to make an appearance. [↩]
30. I was half expecting it'd match... no, nevermind. Too "in" a joke, if you know what I'm in. [↩]
31. Truly this guy should stick to non-fiction. He's terrible at trying to be creative. [↩]
32. In stockings ?! They'll get runs. Barefoot ?! What, she was out like a hussy, no dressings ?! This dork's never been inside a socialite's budoir in his life. [↩]
33. Yeah, because she's 19-45 and that's how teenybopper coughars go in the 30s : compositely.

    Who the fuck wears black panties with a red gown, and who the fuck wears panties at all with a shortie, what is this, the movies ? People don't actually live like they're depicted in the movies, because reasons. [↩]

34. The thing about strawomen is that if done sufficiently over the top, they become interesting again, in a different sorta way. Tell true, don't you really really want to see her hurt terribly ? Is he gonna punch her ? Where ? Is she gonna crawl, naked, incapable of even pumping her own veins ? Is she gonna giggle grossly about her stinking whore's ass ?

    The guy can't write to save his life, it's true. But nevertheless, he can hook to end the world. [↩]

35. He can't be fucking serious.

    Entasis !? In the Parthenon ?! What, her cunt's convex ? [↩]

36. Good godens above! [↩]
37. Ahahaha 1930s trap action. [↩]
38. NudeIndoorsFTW. [↩]
39. Door. [↩]
40. Amen, brother. [↩]
41. Sleeping pill. [↩]