Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 8 -- Grinning Slim

I opened my eyes. I saw glinting stars of dust whirling like a golden hurricane through a bright shaft of noon sun.ⁱ I looked through the open bedroom door. I saw the runt sitting at the living room window. She was doing her nails. She lifted her eyes from her nails. She looked into the bedroom.

I said, "Good morning, lil' freak puppy. I'm gonna call Silas to run across the street for ham and eggs. Are you hungry?"

She said, "Yeah, I'm hungry, but the way he moves around it would take him a week to cop. I'll slip on something and go myself."

She went to the closet and slipped on her blue poplin rain-or-shine coat. She took a fin off the dresser and held it up for my consent.ⁱⁱ I nodded my head. I heard the door shut when she went out.

I lit a cigarette. I thought, "I wonder if Melody has the heat looking for me. I've only got a day or so left before Glass Top takes me to Sweet Jones. I'm gonna cool it. I won't go out at all. I'll stay right here in the hotel until Top calls me."ⁱⁱⁱ

The phone rang just as the runt came through the bedroom door. She put the plates wrapped in wax paper on the dresser. She picked up the receiver. I got up, took my plate and started to eat with a plastic fork.

She said, "Hello. Oh, Chuck, how are you, sweetie? I was just thinking about you, lover. No, I can't. I wish I could come out for a few drinks, but my brother won't be home from work until six. Mama's not well at all. I have to stay here during the day to take care of her. I could slip out around seven. Yeah, I could do that until eight for twenty. Bye, bye, sugar blue eyes."^iv

She hung up the phone and her coat. She sat naked on the side of the bed eating.^v

I said, "Bitch, I got an idea for that cat of yours. You gotta take a stiff brush and brush the hair straight down every time you think about it. Put some hair grower on it until you got maybe a four-inch cone. Your tricks will pant to bury their beaks in it. It will make your cat unique with that extra dimension."

She mumbled, "Where on Earth did you get a jazzy idea like that?"^vi

I said, "Bitch, ain't you hip yet? I'm a pimp with great imagination, that's all."

She finished her flapjacks. She got up and gathered up an armful of our soiled clothing. She went into the bathroom. I heard the water sloshing in the bowl. She was doing our laundry.^vii I turned my back to the sunlight. I felt old Morpheus slugging his velvet hammer against my eyelids.

I woke up in darkness. I looked at the front-room window. The streetlights were on. I turned the nightstand lamp on. Mickey said seven-ten. The runt was gone. She was breaking her luck with Chuck.

I thought, "Jesus, I sure needed rest all right. That fast track I've been blundering on sure took the juice out of me."^viii

I got up and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I had made several brush strokes when the phone rang. I picked it up. He rapped before I could open my mouth.

He said, "Kid, this is Glass Top. The plans have changed. I'm in a hurry. Be outside your joint in fifteen minutes. You got that?"

I said, "Yeah, but..."^ix

He had hung up. I dressed even faster than I had at the sissy's pad. I rushed down the hall. I stopped at the broom-closet stash. I hurled the sizzle into the corner on the shelf. I took the stairs three at a time to the lobby. I sailed the key to the desk top. I bolted out the door.

Top was parked in front of the joint in the red Hog. He had his hand over the horn when he saw me.^x I got in. The Hog squealed from the curb. Top was sure in a hurry. I could hear the harsh whisper of the Hog's tires against the pavement. We passed that neon bouquet. I looked back and saw the "Fun House" sign flashing. I wondered if Melody was out here somewhere booby trapping with his entasis.^xi

I said, "Jack, I didn't expect your call for a coupla days. What happened?"

He said, "There's a big boxing match tonight. All the biggest pimps and whores in the country are gonna be at Sweet's after the fight. Kinda like a party. All of 'em use stuff. Even with Sweet as the middleman I should take off a coupla grand for my end."^xii

"Sweet never goes to fights. He can't stand big crowds, and besides they won't let Miss Peaches into fights. Sweet's gnawing his nails waiting for this stuff. He ain't got none for himself and he's anxious to cop some stuff for those birds coming from the fight."

I said, "Have you cracked anything about me to him?"

He said, "Kid, you ain't hip I'm a genius? He called and I rapped^xiii to him this morning. I played you off as my punk nephew from Kansas City. You got wild ideas you wanta be a pimp. I've tried to chill you back to K.C. to maybe hustle pool or even be a broom mechanic. You're a stupid, stubborn punk. I've told you a thousand times you ain't got it to pimp. You gotta pimp. You would eat ten yards of Sweet's crap. You think he's God. You won't believe your uncle is tight with God. I'm Glass Top. I gotta save face even for a snot-nosed punk. Maybe if you hang around the inside of the fast track for a hot minute you'll get scared. You'll wise up, get outta my ass and run your ass back to K.C. Now Kid, don't shoot your jib off at his pad. If he don't remember you from the Roost, don't wake him up."

I said, "Don't worry Top. I won't rank us. I'll never forget you, pal, for the cut in. That was sure some beautiful stuff you played for Sweet."

He caressed his patent-leather hair.^xiv He erected his wide shoulders inside his blue mohair jacket.^xv His pretty, bitch face wore that terrible conceit and awful pride maybe of a cute mass murderer who never gets her victims' blood on her.^xvi The full moon through the windshield shone flush on his face.

He said, "Kid, you ain't heard nothing yet. Shit, I done drove three whores screaming crazy with this brain. They in the boob box upstate right now babbling about Pretty Glass Top. Even Sweet ain't shipped but two up there. He's been pimping almost twice as long as me."^xvii

I said, "Christ, Top, I don't get it. Why drive a whore nuts if she's still humping out the scratch. A stud would have to be slick as grease to plant bats in the skull of a bitch that was sane. I can't dig how a stud could do it. I ain't hip to it."^xviii

He said, "Sucker, what you don't dig, and ain't hip to would make a book bigger than this Hog. Now you take Sweet, the two he crossed were young white broads with small mileage.^xix He's sick in the head. He's got an insane hate for the whole white race. He was a crumb crusher of seven down in Georgia^xx when the white folks first poisoned his skull. His mammy was jet black and beautiful. The peckerwoods for miles around were aching to lay her. The son of the wealthy plantation owner that Sweet's old man sharecropped for way-laid her on the way to a spring. He punched her out, tore her clothes off and socked it into her. She was naked and crying when she got back to her shack. The peckerwood pig hid out in the woods.^xxi Sweet's old man came in from the fields and found his wife clawed and bawling. He was close to seven feet and weighed three hundred. Sweet still remembers how his old man hollered and butted his head against the door of the shack. The hinges ripped loose. He knew the woods like a fox.^xxii He found the white boy. He left him for dead. He covered him with brush. He slipped back to his shack. Sweet remembers the white boy's blood on his old man, even on his old man's bare feet. He had stomped the white boy to a red pulp out there in the lonely woods.^xxiii The old man figured he was safe. The white folks would never find the corpse in those thick woods. He cleaned himself, repaired the shack door, and waited. He hadn't croaked the white boy.^xxiv He had only maimed and paralyzed him. That night a white man out possum hunting with his dogs heard the kid bleating under the brush. He was out of his skull. It was midnight before the kid's raving made sense to the white folks. Sweet heard the mob's horses galloping toward the shack.^xxv He hid in the loft just as the crazy gang came through the shack slammer. Sweet peeped through a crack and watched them beat his old man's head bloody. They dragged him outside. Sweet saw the whole mob rape his mother. Finally all was quiet except for his mother whimpering on the bed. He sneaked out of the loft. Through the open door he saw his old man swinging in the moonlight from a peach tree in front of the shack. His mammy went to the funny farm. Sweet was taken in by a share-cropper on the same plantation. He worked the fields until he got seventeen. He ran away and caught a freight train North. He was eighteen when he got his first whore. She was a white girl. He drove her to suicide before he got nineteen. Sweet's gotta be sixty now. He paused. He steered the Hog with one hand. He took a cigarette from his jacket pocket. He punched in the dashboard lighter.

I thought, "No wonder Sweet's off his rocker. I wonder why Top really gave me that tight rundown on Sweet?"

The lighter popped. Top lit his cigarette. He sucked hard. He blew out a white cloud against the windshield that for an instant blotted out the moon.

He said, "I ain't insane like Sweet. My skull is clear and cool. I ain't no mixed-up Southern nigger. I was born in the North I grew up with white kids. I don't hate white people or any other people. I ain't no black brute. I'm a pretty brown-skin lover. I love people.

"When I was a square, I was even engaged to marry a white girl. Her parents and friends put pressure on her and she chickened out. I guess I loved her. Right after we quit I went to a hospital for my nerves. I ain't had nothing but whores since. It's like I told you when I met you. Sweet's a Ford and I'm a Duesenberg. He's just an ugly lucky nut."

I said, "But Top you cracked your booby-box score was higher than Sweet's. Those three gibbering bitches upstate sure don't show no love for whore people."

He said, "There you go, fool. A young chump is just like a dumb bitch. He can't figure nothing out himself. He's gotta have a rundown on everything. Of course I drove those whores crazy, but for a sane reason, sucker. A pimp cops a whore. He cons her maybe if she stays in his corner humping his pockets fat, at the end of the rainbow she's got a husband and a soft easy chair. To hold her beak to the grindstone, he pumps air castles into her skull.^xxvi She takes all the stable grief. She humps her ass into a cramp to outshine the other whores in the family. At first, it's easy for the bitch to star. As she gets older and uglier her competition gets younger and prettier. She don't have to be no brain to wake up there ain't no easy chair at the end. She gets hip there ain't never even been a rainbow.^xxvii She gets larceny in her heart. She bullshits herself that if she can drive all those young pretty whores away from the pimp that rainbow might come true after all. If it don't, she'll get her revenge anyway. It's a violation of the pimp book to quit a whore.^xxviii A bitch like that is a ticking bomb. Every day, her value to the pimp drops to the zero line. She's old, tired, and dangerous. She can rattle a pimp into goofing his whole game. If the pimp is a sucker he'll try to drive her away with his foot in her ass. She's almost a cinch to croak him or cross him into the joint. I'm a genius. I'm hip that after a bitch has had maybe ten-thousand tricks drill her^xxix she ain't too steady, skullwise. I don't tip her I'm salty and disgusted. I talk like a sweet head-shrinker to her. Instead of air castles, I pump her full of H.^xxx Her skull starts to jelly. I'll be worried as hell about her. I'll start sneaking slugs of morphine or chloral hydrate^xxxi into her shots. While she's out, I'll maybe douse her with chicken blood. She comes to, I'll tell her I brought her in from the street. I tell her I hope you didn't croak anybody while you were sleepwalking. I got a thousand ways to drive 'em goofy. That last broad I flipped, I hung her out a fifth floor window. I had given her a jolt of pure cocaine so she'd wake up outside that window.^xxxii I was holding her by both wrists. Her feet were dangling in the air. She opened her eyes. When she looked down she screamed like a scared baby. She was screaming when they came to get her. You see, kid, I'm all business. I ain't got an ounce of hate in me."

He had been driving for at least an hour. I had lost track of time and space. I saw no black faces in the streets around us. I saw tall gleaming apartment houses. Some so tall they seemed welded to the night sky.

I said, "Yeah Top, you're a cold clever stud all right. I'm sure glad you're yanking my coat. Jesus, Sweet must live in a white neighborhood."

He said, "Yeah, Kid, he lives just around that next corner, in a penthouse. Like I told you he's lucky as a shit-house rat. It's a million-dollar building. The old white broad that owns it is Sweet's freak white dog."

I said, "But don't the white tenants blow the roof because Sweet lives there?"

He said, "Sweet's old white broad owns the building, but Sweet runs it.^xxxiii At least he runs it through a old ex-pimp pal. Sweet stuck him into a pad on the ground floor. Patch Eye, the old stud, collects the rents and keeps the porters and other flunkys on their toes. All the tenants are white gamblers and hustlers. Sweet is got the old ex-pimp running book wide open. The action a day just from the tenants runs two or three grand. I'll say it a thousand times, Sweet is a lucky old stud."^xxxiv

He turned the corner. He eased the Hog into the curb in front of a snow-white apartment building. A moss-green canvas canopy ran from the edge of the curb twenty-five yards to the kleig-lighted^xxxv fancy front of the building. A gaunt white stud in a green monkey suit^xxxvi was standing in stooped attention at the curb. We got out. Top walked around the Hog to the doorman.

The doorman said, "Good evening, gentlemen."

Top said, "Hello Jack, do me a favor. When you take my wheels to the back see that it's parked close to an exit. When I come out I don't wanna hassle outta there. Here's a fin, buster."

The doorman said, "Thank you, Sir. I'll relay your wish to Smitty."

We walked into the green-painted, black-marbled foyer. I was trembling like maybe a hick virgin on a casting couch.^xxxvii We walked up the half-dozen marble steps to an almost invisible glass door.

A Boston^xxxviii coffee-colored broad slid it open. We stepped into the green-and-pearl lobby. A tan broad as flashy as a Cotton Club pony sat behind a blond desk. We walked across the quicksand pearl carpet to the front of it. She flashed two perfect dozen of the thirty-two. Her voice was contralto^xxxix silk.

She said, "Good evening, may I help you?"

Top said, "Stewart and Lancaster to see Mr. Jones."

She turned to an elderly black broad sitting before a switchboard beside her.

She told her, "Penthouse, Misters Stewart and Lancaster."

The old broad shifted her earphones from round her wrinkled neck to her horns. She plugged in and started batting her chops together. After a moment she nodded to the pony. We got the ivory flash again.

The pony said, "Thank you so much for waiting. Mr. Jones is at home and will see you."

I followed Top to the elevators. A pretty brown-skin broad^xl in a tight green uniform zipped us to the fifteenth floor. The brass door opened. We stepped out onto a gold-carpeted entrance hall. It was larger than Top's living room.

A skinny Filipino in a gold lame outfit came toward us. He was grinning and bowing his head, his lank hair flopped across his skull like the wings of a wounded raven.^xli The crystal chandelier overhead glittered his gold suit. He took my lid. He put it on the limb of a mock mother-of-pearl tree.

He said, "Good evening. Follow, please."

We followed him to the brink of a sunken living room. It was like a Pasha's passion pit. A green light inside the gurgling bowl of a huge fountain beamed on the vulgar face of a stone woman squatting over it. She was nude and big as a baby elephant. The red light inside her skull blazed, her eyes staring straight ahead. Her giant hands pressed the tips of her long breasts into each corner of her wide open mouth. She was peeing serenely and endlessly into the fountain bowl.

We stepped down to the champagne, oriental carpet. Sweet was sitting across the dim room on a white velour couch. He was wearing a white satin smoking jacket. He looked like a huge black fly in a bucket of milk. Miss Peaches was curled at his side. She was resting her black spotted head on a silk turquoise pillow. Sweet was stroking her back. She purred and locked her yellow eyes on us. I got a whiff of her raw animal odor.

Sweet said, "Sit your black asses down. Sweetheart, you been dangling me. What happened? Did that raggedy nickel Hog break down? So this is your square country nephew?"

Top sat on a couch beside Miss Peaches. I sat in a blue velour chair several yards to the side of Top. Sweet's gray eyes were flicking up and down me. I was nervous. I grinned at him.^xlii

I jerked my eyes away to a large picture on the wall over the couch. A naked white broad was on her hands and knees. A Great Dane with his red tongue lolling out was astraddle her back. He had his paws hooked under her breasts. Her blonde head was turned looking back at him. Her blue eyes were popped wide open.^xliii

Top said, "Man, that Hog ain't no plane. I got here quick as I could. You know I don't play no games on you, Honey."

I said, "Thank you, Mr. Jones, for letting me come up with ‘unc.'"

My voice triggered the Roost memory. He stiffened and glared at me. He smashed his hooks together. It sounded like pistol shots. Peaches growled and sneered.

He said, "Ain't you the little shit ball I chased outta the Roost?"

I said, "Yeah, I'm one and the same. I want to beg your pardon for making you salty that night. Maybe I coulda gotten a pass if I had told you I'm your pal's nephew. I ain't got no sense, Mr. Jones. I took after my idiot father."

Sweet said, "Top, this punk ain't hopeless. He's silly as a bitch grinning all the time, but dig how he butters out the con to keep his balls outta the fire. He sure ain't got no tender dick to turn down my pretty big-ass Mimi. Kid, I love black boys with the urge to pimp. Ain't no surer way to amount to something. Your uncle ain't but a good pimp. I'm the greatest in the world. He wired me he's hoping you'll fold on this track and split back to the sticks. You got one whore he tells me. You could have the makings. This joint is going to be crawling with fast whores in a coupla hours. I'm gonna be pinning you. I'm gonna watch how you handle yourself. Maybe I'm gonna make you my protege. You gotta be icy; understand, kid, icy, icy? You gotta stop that grinning. Freeze your map and keep it that way. Maybe I'm gonna prove to your half-ass pimp uncle that I can train even a mule to win the Kentucky Derby."

Top said, "Shit Honey, you didn't have to tip him. I'm pulling for his split. I love the kid. I just don't think he can cut the pimp game. The kid raps good. I ain't denying it. He should be maybe a Murphy player or even a mitt man.^xliv His ticker ain't icy enough to pimp on this track."

I thought, "Top's pad is a pigsty compared to this layout. It looks like I'm in."

Sweet said, "Sweetheart, let's go in a bedroom and cap up and bag that stuff for those jokers. I'm gonna have old Patch Eye come up here and deal it off. I ain't no dope peddler. I'm a pimp. Kid, you can cool it. Have the Filipino bring you a taste. If you want get it yourself from the bar over there."

They went around a hand-painted gold silk screen through a doorway. Peaches padded behind them. I saw a bronze bell on a table beside the couch. I decided to get my own taste. I walked across the room to a turquoise bar. I went behind it. I took a tall crystal glass off the mirrored shelf on the wall. I mixed creme de menthe and bubbly water.

I took my green, cool drink^xlv and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling glass door. I slid it open and stepped up into the patio. I looked up; the April zephyrs were balleting the burnt-orange and pale-green Japanese lanterns. They danced on glowing jade cords strung high above the lime floor.

The ice-cream-yellow moon seemed close enough to lick. I walked to the pearl parapet. I looked out at a brilliant sea of emerald and ruby neon bursting pastel skyrockets toward the cobalt blue sky bejeweled with sapphire stars.^xlvi

I thought, "Sweet sure has caught lightning in a thimble. He came out of the white man's cotton fields. He's pimped himself up to this. He's living high in the sky like a black God in heaven with the white people. He ain't no nigger doctor. He ain't no hot-sheet nigger preacher, but he's here. He pimped up his scratch passport. That barbed-wire stockade is a million miles away. I got more education, I'm better looking, and younger than he is. I know I can do it too."

I remembered Henry and how religious he was. Look what happened to him.^xlvii I remembered how I used to kneel every night by the side of the bed to pray. I really believed in God then. I knew he existed. Now I wasn't so sure. I guess the first prison rap started to hack away at my belief in him.

I often wondered in the cell how, if he existed, he could let the Dummy destroy Oscar who loved him^xlviii. I told myself at the time, maybe he's got complicated long-range plans. Maybe even he's got divine reasons for letting the white folks butcher black people down South.^xlix

Maybe some morning about dawn all the black folks will sing Hallelujah! God's white board of directors will untie the red tape. God will roll up his sleeves. He'll smash down the invisible stockades. He'll kill all the rats in the black ghettos. Fill all the black bellies and con all the white folks that Niggers are his children, too.^l

Now I couldn't wait. If he were up there or not, I had to go with the odds. I stared into the sky. It was the first time I'd prayed since Steve, the tramp. I know now it was more a fearful alibi than anything else.

I said, "Lord, if you're up there, you know I'm black and you know my thoughts. Lord, if the Bible is really your divine book then I know it's a sin to pimp.^li If you're up there and listening you know I'm not trying to con you. Lord, I'm not asking you to bless my pimping. I ain't that stupid. Lord, I know you ain't black.^lii Surely you know, if you're up there, what it's like to be black down here.^liii These white folks are doing all the fine living and sucking up all the gravy.^liv I gotta have some of that living and some of that gravy. I don't wanta be a stickup man or a dope peddler. I sure as hell won't be a porter or dishwasher. I just wanta pimp that's all. It's not too bad, because whores are rotten.^lv Besides I ain't going to croak them or drive them crazy. I'm just going to pimp some real whitetype living out of them. So Lord, if you're up there listening, do one thing for me. Please don't let me croak before I live some and get to be somebody down here in the white man's world. I don't care what happens after that."^lvi

I looked down over the parapet. I wondered if the undertaker had been born yet who was slick enough to paste a sucker's ass together after a Brodie fifteen-stories down. I heard "Tuxedo Junction" pulsing behind me. I had pitched my pipes dry. I upended my drink.

I turned and walked toward the glass door. I saw the Japanese lanterns splashing color on the polished alabaster-topped tables. The Filipino had sure been busy flopping his mop.^lvii I slid the door open to a chorus of profanity. The whore scent^lviii flared my nostrils. There must have been thirty yapping pimps and whores lounging around the spacious pit.^lix

I stepped down and slid the door shut. An ebony satin-skinned pimp was sprawled in the blue velour chair. A tawny tan tigress was kneeling before him between his legs. She had her chin rammed into his crotch. She clutched him around the waist like a humping twodollar trick in an alley.^lx

Her dreamy maroon eyes rolled toward the top of her long skull. She was staring at his fat blue lips. It was maybe she expected him to whistle the "Lost Chord." The rock on his finger exploded blue-white, frozen fireworks. He raised his glass to curse all square bitches. He was con-toasting all whores. The room got silent. Somebody had strangled the gold phonograph in the corner.

He toasted:

Before I'd touch a square bitch's slit, I'd suck a thousand clappy pricks^lxi and swim through liquid shit. They got green puke between their rotten toes and snot runs from their funky noses. I hope all square bitches become syphilitic wrecks. I hope they fall through their own ass-holes and break their mother-fucking necks.

It was the first time I'd heard it.^lxii It was the first time for the crowd, too. They roared and begged him to do it again. He looked toward the hand-painted Chinese screen.

All eyes turned to Top and Sweet coming into the room. An old black stud wearing a white silk patch over his right eye trailed behind them. Peaches followed him. He looked like a vulture decked out in a gray mohair vine. Peaches stood before the white velour couch and bared her fangs.^lxiii

The three pimps sitting on it scattered off it like quail under a double-barreled shotgun. They thumped their rear ends to the carpet.^lxiv Sweet, Top, and Peaches sat on the couch.

I sat on a satin pillow in the corner near the glass door. I watched the show. I saw Patch Eye go and sit behind the bar. Everybody was in a big half-circle around the couch. It was like the couch was a stage, and Sweet the star.

Sweet said, "Well how did you silly bastards like the fight? Did the nigger murder that peckerwood or did his black ass turn shit yellow?"

A Southern white whore with a wide face and a sultry voice like Bankhead's drawled, "Mistah Jones, Ahm happy to repoat thet the niggah run the white stud back intu his mammy's ass in thu fust round."

Everybody laughed except Sweet. He was crashing together his mitts. I wondered what madness bubbled in his skull as he stared at her. A high-ass^lxv yellow broad flicked life back into the phonograph. "Gloomy Sunday," the suicide's favorite, dirged through the room. She stared at me as she came away.

Sweet said, "All right you freakish pigs. Patch Eye's got outfits and bags of poison. You got the go sign to croak yourselves."^lxvi

They started rising from the satin pillows and velour ottomans. They clustered around Patch Eye at the bar.

The high-ass yellow broad came to me. She stooped in front of me. I saw black tracks on her inner thighs.^lxvii The inside of her gaping cat^lxviii was beef-steak red. She had a shiv slash on the right side of her face. It was a livid gully from her cheekbone to the corner of her twisted mouth.^lxix Smallpox craters covered her face.^lxx I caught the glint of a pearl-handled switch-blade in her bosom. Her gray eyes were whirling in her skull. She was high.

I was careful. I grinned. Sweet was digging^lxxi us. He was shaking his head in disgust. I wondered if he thought I oughta slug her in the jib and maybe take that shiv in the gut.^lxxii

She said, "Let me see that pretty dick, handsome."

I said, "I don't show my swipe to strange bitches. I got a whore to pamper my swipe."^lxxiii

She said, "nigger, you ain't heard of me? I'm Red Cora from Detroit. That red is for blood. You ain't hip I'm a thieving bitch that croaked two studs? Now I said show that dick. Call me Cora, little bullshit nigger. Ain't you a bitch with one whore? You gonna starve to death, nigger, if she's a chump flat-backer.^lxxiv Nigger, you better get hip and cop a thief."^lxxv

A big husky broad with a spike in one hand and pack of stuff in the other took me off the hook. She kneed Cora's spine.

She said, "Bitch, I'm gonna shoot this dope. You want some? You can Georgia this skinny nigger later."

I watched Cora's rear end twist away from me. She and the husky broad went to the bar and got a spoon and a glass of water. I looked at Sweet. He was giving me a cold stare.

I thought, "This track is too fast, I can't protect myself. With young soft bitches like the runt I'm a champ.^lxxvi These old, hard bitches, I gotta solve. I gotta be careful and not blow Sweet. If I sucker out anymore tonight he'll freeze and boot me."

I sat in the corner bug-eyed for two hours.^lxxvii My ears flapped to the super-slick dialogue. I was excited by the fast-paced, smooth byplay between these wizards of pimpdom.^lxxviii

Red Cora kept me edgy. She went to the patio several times. She was H'd out of her skull.^lxxix Each time she passed she cracked on me. She was sure panting to view my swipe.

Several of Sweet's whores came in. None of them had been at the Roost with him that first time I saw him. All of them were fine with low mileage.^lxxx One of them was yellow and beautiful. She couldn't have been more than seventeen.

There was a giant black pimp from the Apple. He had three of his whores with him. He had been boasting about how he had his swipe trained. He was one of the three at the party that didn't bang stuff. I had watched him snort girl and down a few mixed drinks. He had a glass in his hand standing over Sweet and Top on the couch.

He said, "Sweet, ain't a bitch living can pop me off unless I want her to. I don't care if she's got velvet suction cups in her cat. Her jib can have a college degree, she ain't gonna make me pop against my will. I got the toughest swipe in the world. I got a C note to back my crack."^lxxxi

Sweet said, "Sucker, I got a young bitch I turned out six months ago that could blow that tender^lxxxii sucker^lxxxiii swipe^lxxxiv of yours in five minutes. I ain't going to teach you no lesson for a measly C note. If that C ain't all you got drop a G with Glass Top and you've got a bet."^lxxxv

The big joker snatched a roll from his side pocket. He plunked ten C notes into Top's palm. Sweet eased a bale of C notes from the pocket of his smoking jacket. He covered the bet in Top's hand.^lxxxvi

Sweet snapped his fingers. The beautiful yellow broad kneeled before the standing giant. She started to perform before the cheering audience. Within less than three minutes she had won the bet for Sweet.^lxxxvii

The big joker stood there for a long moment with his eyes closed. He had a goofy grin on his face. One of his whores snickered. He slapped her hard against the jaw. He went to the bar.

I thought, "She sure has a head for business. Pepper was great, but she couldn't hold this broad's douche bag."

I got up and went behind the Chinese screen through the door. I went down a long hall. I passed three way-out bedrooms. I went into a mirrored john. It was as big as a bedroom. I pushed the door shut. I should have locked it.

I walked to the stool. I raised the lid. That tough bitch Red Cora darted in. She was licking out her red tongue. Her gray eyes were voodooing in her skull. She was hot as hell for my relative innocence and youth. She was a double murderess with a skull load of H and a hot jib.

I stood there before the deadly bitch. I searched the thin catalogue in my skull. I didn't know the right crack for a situation like this. I mumbled a plaintive pitch.

I said, "Now listen girl, you haven't given me a nickel. I'm not your man."^lxxxviii

It was like trying to stand off a starving leopard with a broom straw. She snaked that shiv out of her bosom and popped the gleaming blade open. She clawed my fly open with the other hand. I heard buttons bounce on the tile floor. My ticker was doing a fox trot.

She said, "You jiving pretty sonuvabitch. You ain't no pimp. I'm gonna eat your sweet ass up or chop off your dick."

I backed up to the wall beside the stool. I could feel the wet throbbing tips of my fingers against the cool tile. She was grabbing inside when Sweet bulled in. He seized a fistful of her long hair. She squealed in pain. He jerked her away from me toward the door. He cussed her as he drove his needle-toed shoe into her wide caboose several times.

He said, "Bull-shit bitch, this chump is in my school. I ain't gonna let you Georgia^lxxxix him. Now nix, bitch, nix."

I heard her high heels staccato against the tile as she fled. He turned toward me. His black face was gray with fury. Maybe Sweet would forget I wasn't yellow. I remembered what Top had told me about those four murders.^xc

He thrust his flat black nose against mine. I could feel a spray of spit strike my lips as he cursed me. He twisted the collar of my vine like a garrote around my throat. He had snatched me six feet from the wall.

He shouted, "Listen you stupid little motherfucker. You know why that bitch screwed you around? You always grinning like a Cheshire Cat. What's funny? Can't I get the sucker outta you? I can't make a pimp outta a pussy like you. I told you once, do I have to tell you a thousand times? Greenass nigger, to be a good pimp, you gotta be icy^xci, cold like the inside of a dead-whore's pussy. Now if you a bitch, a sissy, or something let me know. I'll put you in drag and you can whore for me. Stay outta my face nigger, until you freeze up and stop that sucker grinning."^xcii

I heard his ground grippers skid against the floor as he hurled me against the wall. The back of my skull torpedoed into it. Through a drowsy fog of pain I saw him float away.

My back snailed down the wall. I laughed at the funny way the shoe tips turned in as the long legs glided across the tile. I sat there on the cool floor gazing at the weird comical legs stretched out before me.

I saw a pair of blue mohair legs right angle the flat ones. I looked up. It was Top. He bent over to help me up.

He said, "Kid, now you believe the ugly bastard is insane?^xciii Take this key to my Hog. Get it outta the lot in back.^xciv Park in the block and cool it. I'm getting outta here myself as soon as I cop my end of the smack scratch."

I riveted my eyes to the champagne carpet. I zigzagged through the snickering whores and pimps. I made it across the pit to the elevator. The Filipino was standing beside it. He was pressing the down button.

He looked like a friendly brown snake sausaged in gold foil. He reached up and stroked my jacket collar down flat from around my ears. He took my lid off the pearl tree. He stuck it on my skull and snapped the brim. I felt the sweat band needle the aching boil. I adjusted my lid.

He said, "Good night, Sir. Sammee hopes you had fine time."

I said, "Sammee pal, it's been a wild night. I'll never forget it."

I got a whiff of crotch as the elevator plunged to the lobby. I wondered if the pretty brown-skin jockey whored a little bit as a sideline.

I stepped out of the gilded cage into the lobby. I saw a winking red-arrowed sign in the rear. I walked to the glass door below it. I went down the white stone steps to the parking lot.

I spotted Top's red Hog in the ocean of cars. I went to it, unlocked it and got in. A big white Buick was parked in front of it. A grinning brown-skin joker in white overalls came toward the Buick.

I saw Smitty blue-stitched across his breast pocket. He pulled the Buick out. I keyed the Hog and scooted it out of the lot. I whipped around the corner and coasted to the curb fifty feet from the entrance of Sweet's apartment building.

I shut the motor off. I lowered the driver's side window. I put my lid on the seat. I threw my head back on the top of the seat. I closed my eyes. I dozed. Something was crushing my jaw. A blinding spotlight burned into my eyeballs. I heard a fog-horn voice.

It blasted, "Police officers! nigger, what the hell you doing. What's your name? Show us your identification."

I couldn't answer with my jaw crushed in a vise. I was dazed. I lowered my eyes below the inferno of light. I saw a white brutish wrist. Thick black hair bristled on it. I saw muscles cord and ripple across it as the vise tightened around my jawbone. I wondered if the copper was Satan and I had croaked in the Hog and was being checked into Hell. Hell or not, Satan wanted identification. I remembered the Fox and the Horse.^xcv I didn't even have a hide.

Satan swung the Hog door open. The door frame blackjacked the top of my skull as Satan yanked me from the Hog. He released my jaw and slammed me across the hood of the Hog. My wet palms skidded on the top of it.

Satan's fellow demon was punch-frisking me from breast to shoe soles. He poked an index finger inside my shoe. I felt a tickle in the arch of my instep.

I said, "My name is Albert Thomas.^xcvi Hell, I wasn't doing anything officers. I was just waiting for my uncle. I lost my wal—."

I didn't finish. A galaxy of shooting stars orbited my skull. It was like a flame-hot poker was imbedded in that sore bump at the back of my skull.

I heard the tinkle of glass against the hood. I puked and nosedived to the hood. I felt the warm stinking mess against my cheek as I lay across the hood gasping.

Glass splinters sparkled on the hood. Satan had slugged his flashlight against my skull. I saw the fellow demon's shadow bobbing inside the hog. He was frisking it, too.

Satan said, "nigger, you got a sheet downtown? Whatta you do for a living?"

I whispered, "I've never been in trouble. I'm an entertainer. I'm a dancer."

He said, "You black, conning bastard. How in the fuck do you know what a sheet is? You been mugged, nigger. Stand up straight. I'm gonna take you downtown. You can jig a few steps on the 'show up' stage."

I struggled off the hood. I turned and faced him. I looked up into the red, puffy face. Top came around the back of the Hog and stood between us.

He said, "What's the beef, officer? This is my nephew and my Cadillac. The kid was waiting for me. He's clean. We been to a party at Sweet's. You know who he is. We're personal friends of his, you dig?"

Satan's puffy face creased into a hyena grin. He rapped on the windshield. I saw the demon's starch-white face peer over the rear seat. Satan waved him from the Hog. He clambered out and stood beside Satan.

Satan said, "Looks like we made a slight mistake, Johnnie. These gentlemen are pals of Mr. Jones. Mister, all your nephew had to do to beat the roust was mention a name. Christ, we have to do our job. There's a cat burglar operating in this district. The lieutenant is riding our asses to nab him. Sorry about the whole thing gentlemen."^xcvii

The rollers walked across the street. They got into a black Chevrolet and gunned it away. I took a handkerchief from my back pocket, and wiped my face.

I wiped the bits of loose glass and most of the puke off the hood. I threw the rag in the gutter. I got in the Hog. Top u-turned and headed back to Black Town. I touched the bump on my skull. I felt a spot of sticky ooze. My skull had only a tiny split. I wiped my fingers on the end of my lapel pocket handkerchief.

I thought, "If it gets any rougher on this track, I'll be punchy before long. Maybe I better take Preston's advice and go back to the sticks."

I said, "Jeez, Sweet Jones sure has got pull. It was like magic when you cracked his name."

Top said, "Magic your black ass. The only magic is in that C note a week Sweet lays on 'em. Every copper in the district from Captain down greases his mitts in that lard bucket in Sweet's pocket. Mary, mammy of Jesus, you stink. You musta shit in your pants. You sure getting funky breaks, kid.^xcviii Too bad you couldn't handle Red Cora. She's one of the fastest thieves in the country."^xcix

I said, "Look Top, if that crazy, pocked-face bitch had a tunnel straight into Fort Knox, I wouldn't fart in her jib. I hate old hard-leg^c whores."

He said, "That's a chump crack. After you get hip to the pimp game you'll take scratch from a gold-toothed, three-legged bulldog with two heads. Say listen, kid, don't ever forget to keep that rundown on Sweet under your lid. I'm the only stud he told. He'd twist my skull off and play soccer with it."

I said, "Now Top, that's a helluva crack to make. Do I look like the kind of rat square that would cross a pal?"

I was glad when I saw the Haven's blue sign. Top parked across the street from it. I got out. I had crossed to the middle of the street. Top blew the horn. I turned back to the side of the Hog. Top had my lid and a small square of paper in his hand. I took them.

He said, "Kid, here's my phone number in case you wanta ring me for something. Take it easy now."

I passed through the lobby. The indicator pointed out the elevator was at the fourth floor. I took the stairs and picked up the sizzle^ci from the broom closet. The runt let me in after the first knock.^cii I walked by her to the bedroom and stuck the sizzle in a coat pocket in the closet. I started taking my stinking clothes off. She was standing in the doorway. I tossed them in a pile in the corner.

She said, "Daddy, when you passed me you smelled like you'd been dunked in a garbage truck. What happened?"

I headed for the bathroom. I was standing over the stool. She followed me. She stood in the bathroom doorway. I looked over my shoulder at her.

I said, "Bitch, some white rollers busted me tonight. They got the wire I'm in town to pimp. They took me down and beat the puke outta me. Baby, they wanted me to finger you. They wanted to know where you worked. Shit, I was too pure in heart to put a finger on you, baby. I'm not feeling worth a damn, so go on the dummy^ciii, okay?"

I flushed the toilet. I turned the shower on. I gave her a hard look and frowned. She turned and got into bed. I took Mickey off. It was four A.M. I showered and toweled off. I fell into bed without checking the scratch on the dresser. I went to sleep wondering what to do to solve the fast track.^civ

Continued >>

———

1. This has got to be lifted from somewheres ; though I can't say I remember wheres. [↩]
2. Not bad, for a chick that's so far had her head banged and her belly punched. If only he threw her offa cliff or something she could probably pilot a Cessna. Who knows what electrocution could do. [↩]
3. Not a bad idea, sadly, which is why lifetime criminals tend to develop a bit of a recluse streak to them. Sorta like monks. [↩]
4. This is the largest part of her trade, by the way. Sure, "that ass of hers" ; but even when she'll be too old to have an ass at all they'll still call, provided she can still make up names for them they care about.

   Wouldn't you like someone to call you sugga' blu-eyes, just like that ? [↩]

5. Isn't this a darling scene ? Rather reminds me of my youth. How many times this played out, nude hussy hustlin' some square over the phone all the while smack drab in the middle of "the unthinkable" plainly occurring... nobody knows. Certainly no square knows. [↩]
6. Janky more like it. Fancy that wonder, a century ago pubic wool on women was rather... stimulating. [↩]
7. Can you believe this chick ? [↩]
8. Well yeah, half a dozen "bangs" of "girl" definitely added a year and a half to his arteries. Which is ultimately the problem with cocaine. [↩]
9. Really, "yeah." is good enough. With the dot of a full stop at the end. Yeah. [↩]
10. Sooo... are they gonna try for the .22 angle again ? [↩]
11. Entasis, ecstasies, wadda hell's da difference.

    In any case, guy's pretty good with the throwbacks, sure squeezing his cvasi-literate audience for all they're worth. Imagine him as a droning math teacher, beginning each class with "and what did we learn yesterday" instead of this, and suddenly the difference's obvious : squares ain't worth much. Nevermind the pimp being too stupid to beat his whore right -- the square's too boringly ineffectual to even get a name. Perhaps it's not by choice the square doesn't beat his mommy ? Perhaps it's not just because Jesus doesn't come with thorn whips in his dreams that he doesn't beat his mommy ? [↩]

12. Ultimately the reason this guy's willing to spend his time and padplace on some rando Young Blood is that his dealing's so hot it's actually allowing him to out-earn a five whore stable. So he likes it enough he's willing to treat it well, put the love on it as it were.

    Ever regarded dope dealing as a labour of love before ? Well... what they say is reading widens perspectives ; and this is why. [↩]

13. The meaning wasn't even then simply "talk" but more "talk to, talk of", a recital of some kind, a monologue delivered. The Speaker of the House raps for the whole house. [↩]
14. Bwahaha. [↩]
15. This guy'd have made such a great poker player. [↩]
16. Ha! I think this is actually his best one so far. I wonder, however vaguely, how much this guy'd have enjoyed being made my bitch, in the simple sense and through the simple procedure of having his best stuff singled out among the morass (and maybe his worst stuff singled out too -- who am I kidding "maybe"). The actual bitches sure like it, though the younger ones tend to first throw their interpretation of a hissy fit about it, just in case. Gotta save face, rite. [↩]
17. An interesting competition point. How many women have you driven crazy, in the legal sense of that term ? Can it even be done, can someone make a woman crazy, in your estimation ? Is not trying what you actually promise them, in your little lost jew ceremony ? [↩]
18. Right ? [↩]
19. Who do you suppose is the world-wide, all-time champion whore for mileage ? Where do you think she oozed, Europe ? Asia ? Chicago ? [↩]
20. The actual events here alluded to actually occurred in 1918, the shooting specifically on May 16th. The black man involved was 19 ; the white man was 31, and rather frail mentally. He was well known as an inept (and abusive) plantation owner (Old Joyce Place), perhaps even ineptly abusive to such a superlative degree as to warrant the "pimp" designation. As he couldn't acquire labour on the open market, he worked the penal system. At some prior point that year Hampton Smith paid Sydney Johnson's 30 dollar fine (for shooting crap) and thereby acquired the nigger as "leased labour". Though no rape is specifically recorded, Smith did beat Johnson at least a coupla times, at least one of which for refusing to work (while self-diagnosedly ill) before Johnson shot him, after which a bunch of white people were angered enough to kill a further baker's dozen of them there coons, often through exuberant procedures. Such is the case of Hayes and Mary Turner -- Hayes was taken from custody two days after the shooting and lynched ; his wife swore she'd prosecute the participants for murder so she was "taught a lesson" in the manner of being taken to the Folsom Bridge crossing at Little River, being tied by the ankles, hung upside down from a tree, doused in gasoline / motor oil and then set on fire (alive). As she vocally roasted, some dude went at her with a butcher's knife, opened her abdomen causing her child to fall to the ground, where it cried (once) before being stomped underboot.

    Contrary to common (if ulterior, and anachronistic) fetishisation, rape wasn't really that high on the list of interests of the 1918-era party goers. [↩]

21. But...why. [↩]
22. A fox of three hundred ? [↩]
23. Reheheheally ? [↩]
24. What a fox! [↩]
25. No such thing as a mounted black man back then, huh. [↩]
26. Ultimately this'd be the problem with "pimping" as practiced by young black studs from the ghetto, be it Chigaco's ghetto in Indiana or New York's ghetto in Harlem & the Bronx indistinctly : that it doesn't deliver the promised outcomes. Just like all other nigger-riggings, nigger-pimping has little to do with either pimping in general as practiced or in principle as devised. The flavour thereof here contemplated eminently sits down in classification as just another colonial cargo cult, vague pallid immitation of the practices of the metropolis.

    Capitalism works the same way, whether one considers the trade in women, or in goods of whatever kind, or in abstracts of whatever kind, or in anything else. This is its fundamental importance, and the hot core that makes capitalism both unavoidable and unavoidably important : that it exposes the inescapable commonality of trade to the human mind, that it permits deliberate, conscious, reflective and analytical access to the essence of reality. Yes women are traded just like bananas are traded. That's because women are just like bananas. Yes children are traded just like silicone chips are traded. That's because children are not any "specialer" than women, or bananas. Yes "your" ideas aren't yours (whatever "yours" is even supposed to be, lord help us), but traded, like bananas and silicone chips, therefore enacting the very possibility of a yours in the first place! What, you thought you're born with a 2nd person pronoun, somehow, magically ? How ? Yes, capitalism is capitalism, mandatory not optional, universal not debatable, and yes it'll make fools of your spurious, self-generated notions of "yourselves" with the very tools at its disposal, which are everything. Essences don't need any "help", what the fuck's helping universal rules even supposed to look like. And no, kink high is powerless to "do" anything "about it". How the fuck would your fashions & assorted fesserias dent the very laws of thermodynamics ?

    Moving down the pole : colonial "capitalism", the troglodytes' subcapitalism works the same degraded way throughout the native hordes. This particular corner of subcapitalism can't sanely be claimed exceptional on "moral" grounds, it's the blacks that are just as bad at pimping as they are at entrepreneurship or commercial navigation. Who discovered Madagascar ?

    There's nothing special about whoring ; the coincidence that while you would really really like some pussy the only way you can get through your days of getting none to very little is by telling yourself "it's out of my hands" doesn't make pussy special -- it makes you a laughingstock. Yes, pussy may be out of your hands, but that'd be because your hands are your hands, in counterdistinction to being my hands. The matter's very much in my hands -- amusingly enough, both in regards to how much pussy I get, and in regards to how much pussy you get. Fastidious self-stroking among the trite old lines of "you don't even want it like that" could perhaps wrap your head with a towel, making it "night" "for you" like that works for chickens, but...

    In summary : poor blacks being terrible at pimping is unsuprising, as they're equally bad at everything else they set their hands to try, and unimportant, as it doesn't speak to pimping, it speaks to poor blacks -- which nobody gives shit one about, not in any central or fundamental sense. Point in case : upon reading "Pimp" by "Iceberg Slim" you didn't set about to whoring out your wive & daugthers, even though upon reading Das Kapital you set about to ruining your life and country. Well ? What more's needed, that Marx dude had three... maids, let's call 'em, at a time, one of which pregnant most of the time. [↩]

27. This is gross (if self-serving) exaggeration ; of course there is. Maybe it's not coming from the asshole of some two-bit "[2nd] best in the world" pimp from Chicago ; but not the whole world's Chicago. [↩]
28. Check it out, they re-wrote that "death do us part" bit into their good book! How about that! [↩]
29. Since we have those earlier numbers, we can figure about a hundred weekends like that, so... maybe five years ? More like three, really. Seems a twenty-nohing year old or thereabouts isn't really all that old, even in his particular definition of "dangerous, bitter and toxic old woman", so the question lies wide open : how old does Glass Top think is "old" ? [↩]
30. Opium smoking being actually the traditional middle class out. Mostly for old men from China, it's true, but "traditional" is a numbers game. [↩]
31. Early hypnotic. [↩]
32. Certainly "trip management" is an excellent way (not to mention pretty much the only way that works worth a shit) to engender insanity. [↩]
33. Yes ? [↩]
34. Ahahaha not a bad set-up, but wouldn't you expect the mob'd be interested by now ? Sweet may or may not be lucky, but he's probably pretty well connected, which seems odd seeing how the Irish (and Irish-likes) that ran period Chicago had little patience for black faces. [↩]
35. Da fuck's a kleig. [↩]
36. Livery. [↩]
37. Then again hick virgins on casting couches are cute. That's what hick maidenheads are even made for, innit. [↩]
38. He could tell from her accent or what the fuck's this even supposed to mean ? I've been to Boston, they don't really have coffee-colored broads and you sure as hell can't tell they're from there when they do -- chiefly because they aren't. [↩]
39. I wonder if he could pick out the contraltos from the lyrical sopranos on his own power. [↩]
40. Are all these "pretty broads" whores in training or what the fuck's going on here ? [↩]
41. Cuz pinoys have black hair, see. With spots of red in it. [↩]
42. This was a speaking part, "Oh Mr God sir oh oh oh" etc. [↩]
43. Doggy style, right ? Though dogs certainly don't paw the boobs when knotting blonde bitches. [↩]
44. Plain thief. [↩]
45. Isn't it remarkable how sensuous this blockhead actually is ? Just about to turn full blast Symbolist over here, all he needs are some colours, velours, contours.

    This, incidentally, is the great disadvantage of being black : that you're born among blacks, and therefore raised by them. Had this kid been raised by normal people someone'd have reasonably mentioned Symbolism to him at some point, perhaps to remarkable results given his 98`409`534 IQ ; but having been raised by the wolves, well... they've little use for speech. And no, it's not the color (Symbolism I mean), seeing how poor whites are just as black as any niggers could ever hope to see them be.

    And no, it doesn't follow "he wouldn't have been a pimp, then". What follows is that he wouldn't have been a pimp who can't understand his life, or express it to the highest standard, no more. [↩]

46. Enough, enough. [↩]
47. Well yes, but Henry was a cuck. The same thing always happens to cucks, because cucks are lame, they're missing parts. Nothing good ever came to the dysfunctional, to the defective. A rabbit may not be much to look at, but as much or as little as it is a whole rabbit can nevertheless live its own life happily in the fields. A half-rabbit however oozes its life's blood into the ground in half-hour, to feed the ants and blowflies. However esteemable or inconsequential man may look to you, the question's more whether it's a whole man or merely half a man than anything else.

    To put it plainly, it's not "because of religion" that Henry was a cuck. It's because Henry was a cuck that he had religion (and everything else coming with it, its whole entourage of sadness, bitterness, failure and misery). It's not because you're in the hospital that you've a cough (though yes, of course once you're in there you'll get some more, other coughs) but quite the other way around -- religion's merely the macula of dysfunction but not commonly the actual cause of it. [↩]

48. You remember, the fat black kid with the Irish crippled girlfriend. He doesn't well express it in due time, but yes I'm persuaded the fat retard did indeed love authority and structure as personified in the mute maniac -- specifically because of the mutism, by the way. A cuck's in large part a cuck because he nurses this cuck worship, nothing's more impressive to the castrati than some dork who's castrated himself in some novel, uncommon way. Oscar the imprisoned for his love "in his own way" for the Irish girl and the Dummy, mute for his love, also "in his own way", for his dead wife are actually a lot closer than they are apart -- for they've very little of their own that'd allow such an apart, and that "their own way" (meaning, "other-than-the-way", ie crippled) reigns supreme. Ultimately this'd be why cucks herd so well, and are so eager to "mobilize" towards wearing muzzles, or staying in their cell, or anything else in that vein. [↩]
49. Yesterday at the beach, on the side of the open, airy cafe, an old cathode tube TV conveyed the US propagunk du jour : some Will Smith look-alike "educating" a yellow picaninny without a mother (because apparently that's the latest trend, role reversal, single fathers "struggling" and whatever nonsense, if they don't see on the boob tube the grabbing of the motherless child by the ankles and the bashing of its skull against the first concrete wall available, they ain't gonna think of it on their own), and doing other deeply retarded shit, like accepting to park the car of some "co-worker" on his way to a sales meeting which just so happened to be his first break in two months as well as a stroke of good luck, as the boss man had said "something else cancelled, get here in 20 minutes". Then later, during a "Fatherly Moment" (tm) (r), he recounts for the kid's doubtless benefit the story of the man drowning (all this is proceeding in Spanish, by the way) who refuses the help twice because "god will save him" only to then die and forthwith inquire with god's own supervisor : why was he left to drown!!! "Fool, we sent two boats."

    Lincoln freed the slaves ; and it was a regrettable over-reach of federal government specifically because... well ? Why isn't Tamlooza Boooskesh or whatever the fuck they're called free the whites ? I'm not saying "why didn't they free themsleves", because I really don't give a shit. Why is it I can do so well without giving shit one about anything any black man, woman or child ever did, thought or wrote ? Why is my condescension, my stooping (don't blink, that's what you thought, that I am stooping) to consider this misfortunate here encountered's crippled writing not only unspeakable generosity on my part but outright unparalleled generosity ? It's been almost a century and if I hadn't come along to do it nobody'd have done it, ever. Why ?

    Black lives do no matter to god himself anymore than they matter to anyone else. [↩]

50. Right. And it'll happen, too : just as soon as whitey falls all the way back into the hole his hallowed ancestors dragged him out of. Then, finally, black and white alike can "be god's children" and talk understandingly about the yellow stockade.

    God hates a cripple. [↩]

51. Quote.

    Contemporary mulas go about trying to stick you with their mula pious frauds, "oh, the bible is all about protecting the mula lifestyle, god loves yakky old women above all". Really ? Fucking quote. [↩]

52. Truth be told, Hebe kid born to itinerant parents in a population that had just spent a while enslaved in Egypt... white he is not. In purely genetic terms both Jesus an' the lifted Torah God himself are about as black as the typical African-American : some parents lost in there among the generations. "He" made man in his image and historical man came from Africa, came from, you do the math. [↩]
53. Does he mean, Southern black, or not really ? Because honestly speaking, this nigger's pretty damn racist, don't you find. [↩]
54. Yah, dem dam capitalists, running the factories and mills they themselves built, hurr durr. [↩]
55. Can you believe this shit ?! [↩]
56. See ? Religion nothing, trade's universal. [↩]
57. Pinoys, also rotten. [↩]
58. This is a thing for two reasons. One reason is that vaginal secretions are stimulated by friction, in a highly sexually active female the debit can be a good three degrees of magnitude higher than in a low activity female -- something like "the more you cut it, the thougher and harder it comes back" thing. The other reason is that whores wash more frequently and much more drastically than boring women, which means a larger proportion of that larger volume ends up on their skin. These factors together compose to a four degree of magnitude or so increase in sexually scented effluvia, meaning that if you get three whores in a room you can't miss they're whores. [↩]
59. If the average stable's four then there must've been about 7 pimps, and the stables worked out say 4, 4, 4, 3, 3, 3, 2. [↩]
60. I've a theory about deep throating, specifically that it was invented in such a circumstance, for a very specific reason.

    So, suppose actual men (we're not discussing dirt here, nor am I going to keep making this point, so get it in your skull once and for all : if you've no harem you're not part of what's called a man) get together. Part and inseparable parcel of getting together is socialization, and in turn part and inseparable parcel of socialization is showing off. Therefore, even though it makes very little sense, the women will be put on sexual display -- just like you fuck her in an alley, say, or at the beach, even though in strict terms it'd have been much more comfortable to do it in the bed at home, just so you'll use her in front of the others. Not because "you really needed to", but because you can -- and if you can, you must.

    Sexual ownership, having very little to distinguish it from all other ownership, is a simple matter of exclusion ; so odds are the owner will be using her himself, if the display has anything to do with ownership, which indulge me in agreeing at least some of the times it will. Therefore, it'll be his penis and her.

    Sexual ownership correlates poorly with two things : doing the work, and being ridden. Such displays are most likely to be oral in nature because the sort of guy that enjoys owning women (and women enjoy being owned by) tends to ride her, as opposed to letting her ride him ; anal is potentially messy, so oral's left.

    Now given that the point of the display is her and not his penis... well shed better fit it all in, yes ? There you go, deep throat's just been invented. Yes slow kissing of the glans followed eventually, half hour later, by a messy facial may be more enjoyable ; but it doesn't make for a better show. [↩]

61. There is such a thing as pharingeal gonorheisis, so this isn't merely exaggeration. It'd come with its price tag.

    Anyways, the sentiment's universal. It's certainly what I mean when I say things like "I've never dated in my life". "What, you never went out with a girl ?" "No dummy, I just never entertained your simpy phantasies." [↩]

62. Maybe they were from Kiev. [↩]
63. Now we come to the animal's actual utility. [↩]
64. It was a whole ecosystem, social life at the time. The cause and reason for the (otherwise annoyingly impractical) shag carpet is that it's cheaper and easier than having enough chairs. An Arab's idea, the carpet that comfortably seats sixty rolls and carries on a camel back ; sixty comfortable chairs not so much. [↩]
65. I think this just means tall. [↩]
66. Wouldn't you have brought the runt along, so she can have a good time and get an ideea too of what's it all for ? I would've.

    Wouldn't you have been affraid anyone there, starting with Sweet himself, might've stolen her on the spot ? I wouldn't've been.

    Would you have had covert comms mechanics pre-arranged with her, and woe upon the stable she's been stolen into ? Because... welll... [↩]

67. Shooting dope is damaging to the veins, especially as practiced by unskilled, inept hands, and especially if impure, unsterile matter's being injected. As junkies run out of arm veins they move on to their legs. In general it is the mercy of the Herogod that all its faithfull be recalled to His paradise before they run out of those too ; but there are exceptions. [↩]
68. Bitch was naked altogether, did these guys gather among two dozen nude hos ? Or is her outfit just flimsy enough ? [↩]
69. You perhaps remember this. Bitch was a Napulita'. [↩]
70. Sometimes I wonder what fucking menagerie did this guy observe. Memory and imagination readily populates the poorly described "thirty whores" with thirty whore faces pleasantly reconstructed, even if one knows reality doesn't quite work that way. But then he fills in some blanks, and... good heavens. [↩]
71. Watching. [↩]
72. Really ? This bastard's cowardly enough to be afraid of his own shadow, whole thing's turning into The Nigger Soldier Svejk under my very eyes. [↩]
73. Aww, so defensive. Why not "let me see your million dollars" and then either follow the frank hostile route or slide, let's see how this bitch is going to excuse herself for not having a million dollars like I've a cock or what she has to say about it at any rate. Why not "I can't, I left it at home. My wife's got it locked in a jar for me" and then either follow the mock route or slide, let's see if this bitch is dumb enough to believe that and step reliantly on thin air or not. Why not... anything, anything at all. But no, dumbass Mr. Exposition over here's gotta do private readings of the script with every two bit extra that's somehow not managed to either do it on their own or pay attention while everyone else was doing it. Weak. [↩]
74. If all she does is lay flat on her back for chumps. [↩]
75. A thieving whore's a little bit like a trombonist-violonist : one hand short. [↩]
76. Ummm.

    Tell you what, champ : with the bitches the author put in the script for you to be a champ with, you're a champ. With anyone else... [↩]

77. Yeah, he and Ginsberg.

    How about "in order to protect myself better I went and said 'Hi! I'm the new guy. That Red Detroit bitch over there says I better cop a thief or else I'll starve. What do you think ?' to every whore an' pimp in the joint, took me like two hours but I hit them all". But no, lamers gotta lame out, buncha wallflowers with perks. [↩]

78. Fucking faggot. [↩]
79. Mno, heroin has the great advantage that it limits perambulation, nobody H'd out of his skull's walking about. [↩]
80. It's a terrible idea to have all of 'em the same way. It's also somewhat concerning in regards to Sweet's own pimp game health, that he doesn't have the veterans. What's he doing to these young broads with low mileage then, wasting their time ? [↩]
81. There's a hundred dollars backing his challenge. [↩]
82. Sensitive, as opposite to callous, I suppose, which for some reason's denotative of manhood in context. [↩]
83. You.

    Not even kidding, you exactly. [↩]

84. Penis. [↩]
85. The obvious move'd have been to G dat C, but whatevers. Actually you know what, fuck this idiot, I'm fixing it. [↩]
86. This makes these "low life" pimps better than you, because a) your entertainment never includes relevant games (even if you occasionally try to rent something pret-a-porter) and b) they make them interesting. Here they sit, betting their own tools in a contest with each other, challenge and response, taylored to the world and meaningful to the world. Can the young bitch turned out six months ago blow that sucker ? Can a joker train his swipe such that no bitch living can pop it off ? This is what a real party is, not the multilaterally-alienated sadness you dabble in. And yes, I'm aware
    "you have no choice", and yes, I understand why that is. That's exactly the point : because you have no choice, and because you have no choice for the reasons you have no choice, therefore these low life pimps are better than you. Because there's no limit to how low life can crawl, sucker. You've meanwhile crawled below Sweet & co. [↩]
87. The needs of narrative fiction aside, this isn't really how it works. For one thing it's strictly not possible for the sated adult male to prematurely ejaculate quite to the degree. For the other thing a girl that knows her customer well may therefore become irresistible, the fruit of attentive practice unfurled over lengths of time ; but the unknown is very difficult. All this discussing men of course ; boys aren't anyone's concern. [↩]
88. Also known as whiteboy's "he has no reason to" nonsense. [↩]
89. I guess I can live with calling the attempt on the part of the horse to grab the reins "Georgia". It's just stupid enough to work!

    How's them self-driving cars coming along, by the way ? [↩]

90. It is perpetually the fate of the chicken-shit to be "rescued" from the claws of double-murderers by the jaws of quadruple-murderers. [↩]
91. Now tell me again how many muscles it takes to smile, frown, or kiss my butthole. What was it, how did it go ? [↩]
92. Now we get to the bottom of why exactly the guy threatened to kill him in the Roost. It wasn't over fucking or not fucking that whore Mimi, like he thought. It wasn't over the old bull being insane, like Glass Top thought. It was over the little bitch smiling.

    He mostly does it when he's insecure, like a tell, which is why it wasn't obvious to Glass Top on the spot. He wasn't doing it then. [↩]

93. Didn't sound that insane to me. [↩]
94. Guy's got no confidence in Jack the dorman's conveyance or Smitty the whatever's connivance. In any case he doesn't expect his car's where he said it should be. [↩]
95. He remembered what the fuck now ?! [↩]
96. Keks. At least make it Albert Washington, what the hell terrible faux name is that. [↩]
97. They have a point, don't they now. [↩]
98. Traditionally the indicator of the chosen, as a literary device. [↩]
99. Is the implication factual, that Cora was in fact invited on her own power, and was there present representing herself ? [↩]
100. The reason legs are in there is, I believe, that he's dissing to the point of skipping over the ass. [↩]
101. It sizzles because it's hot, see. [↩]
102. I think what he's trying to say is that he came in right after her. [↩]
103. Be quiet. [↩]
104. This "day in their life" format works really well, huh. It sure brings out a certain feeling of adventure and wide open possibilities in a short, digestible format that's not too tussly-turvy such as might spook the square back at home, sittin' pretty & eager to waste his youth in some grindy rat-race such that a good three-four decades from now he too can be a guy who "used to be a bit of a rover" in polite conversation and pious fiction only. Pimp packaged by Sierra as a Point-and-click Adventure, for the truly adventurous among the vidya crowd. [↩]