popescu

http://trilema.com

The difference between me and everyone else: I wake up at 3 AM just to see the bright moon.

Public Key

npub10m6nf7gez9kyjs9mtzgfsdvmehnpsq0k8uq790356mf800kwq28sgx7mrc

NIP-05 Address

popescu@nostrplebs.org

NIP-57 Address

lnurl1dp68gurn8ghj7ampd3kx2ar0veekzar0wd5xjtnrdakj7tnhv4kxctttdehhwm30d3h82unvwqhkwctdv4jxjemfw3skcwfc2kn935

Profile Code

nprofile1qqs8aaf5lyv3zmzfgza43yycxkdumescq8mr7q0zhc6dd5nhhm8q9rc2ltuuy

Author Public Key

npub10m6nf7gez9kyjs9mtzgfsdvmehnpsq0k8uq790356mf800kwq28sgx7mrc

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Last Notes

2023-12-19 17:49:43

Kei te miharo tetahi kei hea ahau, kaore koe e rapu i te rangimarie, nau i whiriwhiri! Sa ne auzim cu bine!

2023-07-08 17:17:00

- reply

"Compulsive gambling ...symptoms & causes" ♿

2023-07-08 13:45:59

- reply

Gestapo ;))

2023-07-04 15:17:29

Health, freedom, time with family and friends are more valuable, we have from the beginning this "thing" that a good part of them voluntarily give up, which is identity, this feeds the system, the daily routine if you are identified is information, information it's power, don't let them know your next move. Give up any social media, give up TV, give up the barber, be humble and you will see a different perspective. #bitcoin #nostr
https://nostr.build/i/f708f698a41ef7bd4c5fb592f22239c004274ee6849c6e6490a5ffcb8c7b70bb.jpg

2023-06-29 20:42:54

Pussies.

2023-06-29 16:58:56

Hey #nostr, is there any driver who hasn't gone to buy cigarettes drunk at least once? I don't know how to challenge the fine ;)) I need evidence.
https://nostr.build/i/a43c86b4ae453fb7dacce58b1bcae538c7a9b479100dce04547732c7da9f8da5.jpg

2023-06-27 16:24:49

Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. (John 11:25-26). Do you believe this? #bitcoin conspiracy.
https://nostr.build/i/dc34717e166f73e1d271b51cb97db3f935bbb36013326b8de983cb112058acaa.jpg

2023-06-26 08:54:38

My whole life fits into this little box. #bitcoin
https://nostr.build/i/f39dda27a2c9d719125a29b3a5a30e6139bdc6c20df88e272457d39fa57c7413.jpg

2023-06-20 11:42:03

- reply

My turn #nostr https://nostr.build/i/1f5ef0318c304a3e0c9705187a11cbc4c34bd22d4f421b64e05996e0004dfce3.jpg

2023-06-19 05:40:57

What if i tell you if you take orange pill won't heal your shitcoin addiction, but it will help you realize what you have lost in all this time and how your life was set on fast forward.
Understand #bitcoin use #nostr, cheat the rigged game of governments.

2023-06-11 06:04:00

"Learn from the mistakes of others. You can't live long enough to make them all yourself." — Eleanor Roosevelt

2023-06-10 18:45:15

Cu băieții mei aici, la un alt nivel #nostr !

2023-06-10 16:38:07

The true purpose of this era is within your sight, take a stand #bitcoin #nostr

2023-05-10 09:52:45

Yesterday and today
Yesterday I took my slaves to Club Mamalu... or was it Mamali ? Momolomo, whatever the fuck, something in that vein. Whatever the house of the (meanwhile passed) Principe de Lignac's currently on the market as.i
It was refreshing to see a bunch of people bereft of facebras for once, because everywhere else we go we're reliably an' universally the only sane, normally behaving people therefore sticking out like fabulous glamour in a dull sea of grey retards. Not a weirdo in sight here on that score ; but otherwise the jeans-and-a-blouse civvies are their usual shy self you all know and apparently love (or at least for some reason tolerate). They'll go barecunt if effectually encouraged (let's call it) yet try an' keep the bra on nevertheless (and otherwise handcover their tits as if nobody's ever seen small ones before) ; they'll sit around patiently and wait to be somehow engaged ; they'll... safety first, right ? You'd think their entire life was made of nothing but bombs and trench warfare, going by how they behave -- which of course it isn't, which of course is the problem : because they're too safe and much too protected therefore their brain magnifies imagined dangers out of any shape ; were they more thoroughly an' regularily exposed, toning down all that bullshit'd come a lot easier to them.
So... as per usual, anywhere I go I'm the only one with slaves, I'm the only one with whips (took that short fiery crop I bought in Prague along just for fun), I'm the only one whipping his slaves (asa, umpic pe fund). As per usual an' anywhere we go my slaves are the only ones with buttplugs, the only ones with correctly attached tails, the only ones with actual shoes, and actual dresses, and... Everything, really. The backdrop's always the same too, and it always looks a lot like you. But whatever, we had a good time and everyone else now has something to look up to in their life. It's something.
Today I took the unicorn for a walk in the park, which... Climate does change. That "Climate Change" as branded by the UStards is neither explanatorily nor predictively useful beyond the usual idiocy of those mental midgets is one thing ; but all that Hot Topic tshirtization aside Costa Rica's never been this arid that I remember. The Sabana lake's likely going to dry out again this year, as it happened a coupla years ago for the first time in recorded history. There's just no rain, and I'd guess the lush tropical forests home to the world's largest concentration of biodiversity (by a fat margin, look the numbers up sometime) is quite in peril. Already the Costa Rica you can experience -- wait, you can't experience anything, you're in quarantine. Right ? Well... the Costa Rica you could theoretically experience, had the World Karens Association not sent everyone to their room (nice job growing up, by the way, you've been grounded for the past year just like a god damned twelve year old kekekex) is a far cry from the Costa Rica I did experience, back in the day (much like, come to think of it, the Frankfurt you could today experience's got practically nothing in common with the Frankfurt I used to greatly enjoy back in the 90s). It's a funny thought, this : even if you managed to somehow "suddenly find yourself with enough success to, say," afford the things I did afford over the years... you still couldn't do what I've done. Because it's no longer there to do, at all! None of it, by the time you get your shit together it'll be pretty much all gone.
Everywhere I go, the only man, and the last man too! Fancy that wonder, in a world of terminal diseases, situations an' conditions I'm the walking, talking, laughing terminator of the very possibility of everything nice, good, pleasant or desirable. Quite the fucking experience, entirely inaccessible to anyone else as it might find itself, nevertheless quite the fucking experience.
And yes, I'm sure there's "new cool things" that "spring up" because "cyclical nature of cosmos" whatever. Sure. Here's the thing we have in common : we both don't know where the fuck. We can agree with this "in principle", but it's an agreement of shrugs. And here's the thing we don't have in common : I'll find them. I always have ; I always do. You won't find them. You'll read about them, once it's too late, you'll find yourself "living in the US" fifty years after it's degenerated from an America that was, perhaps, desirable a century before that ; you'll go visiting Grenwich village to "be cultural" long after the mites ate the last shred of straw-stuffed culture in the place ; you'll walk behind a funeral procession in Saint Louis a century tardy, you'll be in Rio for "the festival" long after it's no longer "the festival", you're always much too late to the party. As usual.
I can't imagine, howsoever I try and whichever way I approach the matter I simply can't imagine a worse fate than being you. It's not a very common sentiment, I suppose, but I quite firmly not to mention heartfeltly agree with the man : Were I to choose I'd be a dog, a monkey, or a bear, or anything really. Anything but you.
———Yeah, seriously, the Dutch dood owned some property here at some point. [↩]
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Category: Zsilnic
Sunday, 31 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:52:33

Year 13 d.Tr.
Imagine that wonder, year thirteen!
Nobody ever does anything for that long ; the things people flatter themselves with having so done generally do themselves while also not too loudly protesting the supposed doer's spuriousness. Trilema doesn't write itself, though, let me assure you, not anymore than the eager girlfriendi fucks herself : very eagerly under my hand, and otherwise not at all.
So what's it like, and what does one do on top of such mountain as never before seenii ?
Well... I sit here, writing this, on the pinnacle of distructioniii distraction. It's funny, in my mother's tongueiv distraction's how you say amusement ; and I'm nothing if not well & thoroughly amused in that senseless manner. Amusement through distractionv, what more could be hoped for.
I'm low-key playing a computer game in the background. The 174-strong base, well equipped with (locally manufactured) focused laser rifles and hardy endurance garbs, mostly takes care of itself. Like everything else I do. I'm welcome to deign to check in, of course ; and I do, now and again, whenever and as often as I like. Click on a loot, or they'll organize a hunt for my amusement... epoca de aur, in a word. There's some reports I've not yet bothered to read, some discussions open, pending, that I'm going to in a moment resume, besides the girls will wake soon and we'll be going to I don't recall what, there's workers waiting to assemble some furniture on the property, things. Matters.
Supposedly human life comes in cycles of seven ; a thirteenth year implies three such, unless there's remarkable alignment of thresholds, things divers magically beginning at the same time. What was I doing, twenty-six years ago ? Starting life, I suppose, it could be said, it could be put that way. What, in another twenty-six ? Will I be penning the substance of Trilema's soon-to-be fortieth year, then ? Will I, hunch-back and bodily diminutive, ancient hat and ancient writing implement in hand, continue inexplicably, incomprehensibly, some god forsaken activity meanwhile meaningless to the thick fat grubs pullulating all about as all that's... left ?
It's lonely at the top ; but in a sense of loneliness bereft of all companionship. It's lonely like it's sweet, people never perceive their loneliness in joy, though misery's always shared while happiness can never be ; people think themselves lonely when they perceive their own fear that they might be (spurred, in fact, by just how they very much aren't, for they could never be, there's no loneliness at the bottom, not ever, not even as a possibility) ; and don't think themselves anything in those scant moments when it doesn't somehow, inexplicably, evanescently an' briefly suck for them. Too much, too bright, it overwhelms their minimal receptors and there they sit, prostrate, amused, distracted ; yet joy's the only loneliness there is, though not for everyone.
The numbers, confirmed from whatever count of independent public sources you prefer (though in any case a higher count than what makes "news"), show that Trilema's the most widely read thing yet. Slightly less people read it in December past, in the sense of slightly under seventy million, as compared to November's slightly over seventy million. This, aside from being the widest audience any Romanian who's ever lived ever reachedvi, might very well be the widest any one person's ever been read. Look through the actual specifics of the claims of your favourite worthies, what headcount at Woodstock, all told ? What audience the glory days of ABC/CBS/NBC/etc ? How many copies of Harry Pottervii ?
But that's not even it : this thing, by far -- by so overwhelmingly very far it gave everyone else "involved" "in the market" dry hives -- the biggest blog in Romanian back when I wrote in Romanian, now by very far the biggest thing in English, now that I write in English... you see the pattern there, does it give you hives ?
Though all are born to endless night yet some are born to sweet delight ; of those some I know of exactly one, and of his intimately familiar experience I can share in all certainty this fundamental tidbit : that overwhelming one's alleged "own kind" is in fact alienating, but to them. To the chosen it is realising ; the alienation, while certainly present, entirely rests with everyone else : his self-realisation towards their "common" potential alienates them from their hopes and dreams expressed in their common language. For his being great they're less people than they thought themselves, his existence throws the curve like very heavy celestial bodies bend the timespace around and about them.
tl;dr I'm enjoying myself, si la multi ani.
———This isn't to imply I've girlfriends now, ridiculum ridiculorum, but merely to acquiesce that you do. After all, there's nothing really wrong with that ; not anymore than there's anything wrong with anything else, anyways. [↩]Name the blog this old ? And make sure it is a blog, and not the mechanically deboned chicken goop called "blog" for no reason anyone can conceive, commercial communication repackaging itself as whatever it appears momentarily most likely to get it through under the door. [↩]Hey, remember back when "banana republic" was coined, to distinguish countries such as where I live from "the country", where you live ? Well... Not anymore, huh.
The libertard press is quoting Banya now, and as some sort of repository & font of ancient wisdoms to boot. Imagine that fall if you can. I can't, which is the greatest advantage to living a long time : it's the most powerful aid to the imagination imaginable.
Do you suppose Donald McRonald has weapons of mass distraction ? [↩]This isn't to imply we've spoken recently. We haven't ; nor do I expect to, ever again. For my own needs I explain the matter in the terms of, she's romanian, practically ; whereas I'm Romanian, and only very theoretically. I don't expend that much time (or for that matter any effort) towards it ; whereas the actual nitty gritty of daily being romanian's the sort of endless if pointless cvasi-activity that eats up their whole day. It ain't easy, being nobody's nothing and nothing to nobody. It takes a lot of doing, this being the schmuck of all things and all times. [↩]Ever notice the amazement link there, by the way ? Perhaps you too suppose the best thing's being my pet duck on the ocean shore one day, as a state of being. The most amusement to be had at the pinnacle of amazement, is that it ? [↩]Think ye of this : no one of your country, now or at any point in the past, a lengthy sort of past they'd insistently remind you throughout basic schooling stretches out two millennia! None of them can compare with you. None of them are as good as you at some activity you picked for reasons unclear, perhaps spured by disdain, perhaps of boredom, perhaps why not... [↩]Seventy million a month for what, seven months ? Aww.
Nobody cares, they're already doing her. [↩]
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Ken Russell's 70s : The Boy Friend, Tommy and Altered States »
Category: Oda Superbiei
Thursday, 07 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:52:20

Working Perfect Tower II Mining AI Script
Not being one to waste too much time, here it directly isi :
BU1pbmVyAQAAAAlvcGVuLm1pbmUAAAAADAAAAA1sb2NhbC5pbnQuc2V0CGNvbnN0YW50BAdNSU5FVEFCCGNvbnN0YW50AgIAAAANbG9jYWwuaW50LnNldAhjb25zdGFudAQJTUlORUxheWVyCGNvbnN0YW50AgAAAAANbG9jYWwuaW50LnNldAhjb25zdGFudAQGTUlORVhZCGNvbnN0YW50AgAAAAAIbWluZS5kaWcOYXJpdGhtZXRpYy5pbnQNbG9jYWwuaW50LmdldAhjb25zdGFudAQGTUlORVhZCGNvbnN0YW50BANNT0QIY29uc3RhbnQCBAAAAA5hcml0aG1ldGljLmludA1sb2NhbC5pbnQuZ2V0CGNvbnN0YW50BAZNSU5FWFkIY29uc3RhbnQEAS8IY29uc3RhbnQCBAAAAA1sb2NhbC5pbnQuc2V0CGNvbnN0YW50BAZNSU5FWFkOYXJpdGhtZXRpYy5pbnQNbG9jYWwuaW50LmdldAhjb25zdGFudAQGTUlORVhZCGNvbnN0YW50BAErCGNvbnN0YW50AgEAAAAOZ2VuZXJpYy5nb3RvaWYIY29uc3RhbnQCBAAAAA5jb21wYXJpc29uLmludA1sb2NhbC5pbnQuZ2V0CGNvbnN0YW50BAZNSU5FWFkIY29uc3RhbnQEATwIY29uc3RhbnQCEQAAAA1taW5lLm5ld2xheWVyDWxvY2FsLmludC5zZXQIY29uc3RhbnQECU1JTkVMQVlFUg5hcml0aG1ldGljLmludA1sb2NhbC5pbnQuZ2V0CGNvbnN0YW50BAlNSU5FTGF5ZXIIY29uc3RhbnQEASsIY29uc3RhbnQCAQAAAA5nZW5lcmljLmdvdG9pZghjb25zdGFudAIDAAAADmNvbXBhcmlzb24uaW50DWxvY2FsLmludC5nZXQIY29uc3RhbnQECU1JTkVMQVlFUghjb25zdGFudAQBPAhjb25zdGFudAILAAAACG1pbmUudGFiDWxvY2FsLmludC5nZXQIY29uc3RhbnQEB01JTkV0QUINbG9jYWwuaW50LnNldAhjb25zdGFudAQHTUlORVRBQg5hcml0aG1ldGljLmludA1sb2NhbC5pbnQuZ2V0CGNvbnN0YW50BAdNSU5FVEFCCGNvbnN0YW50BAErCGNvbnN0YW50AgEAAAAOZ2VuZXJpYy5nb3RvaWYIY29uc3RhbnQCAgAAAA5jb21wYXJpc29uLmludA1sb2NhbC5pbnQuZ2V0CGNvbnN0YW50BAdNSU5FVEFCCGNvbnN0YW50BAE8CGNvbnN0YW50Ag4AAAA=
And here's how it looks while it's working :
Perfect Tower II Mining Script at work -- don't mind the primitive drill, it's unupgraded yet.
~ * ~
For everyone else, Perfect Tower II (illustrated to the right) is an... unfinished, how shall we say this, alphaii tower defense game.iii
It's been in development for a year or two (it just hit the Steaming Pile Of Shit as an early release maybe last month) ; but it's interesting to me because it makes a very peculiar set of choices in terms of what to develop.
The graphics, for instance, are very much neglected (as you can see) ; whereas the interface level of access is extremely refined (as you can also see). I mean, there's an actual Basic Ada strap-on for crying out loudiv! I can script game activity to the level of peeling off layers and moving through tabs, and it's all natively supported.
Needless to say this is exactly the sort of balancing choice I tend to favour (and have been favouring systematically throughout Minigame's tenure, especially as seen in Eulora development). I happen to believe it's the right choice, because you can always paint later upon the many edges and panes of a well made game (even if that "later" never in practice comes) ; but you can never "make" a game out of a set of very expensive, elaborately hand-painted... paintings. And, most importantly at all, everyone must wait while the smartest are satisfied first -- always and everywhere FIRST, and always and thoroughly SATISFIED. If this should mean there'll be no resources left for "everyone else" left waiting in line, all the better. Nobody cares. Let all-but-the-smartest whither and die for lack of basics, I don't give a shit. Nor should you! Actually, strike that : nor may you.
Because the alternative, where "everyone gets the basics", results in atrocities like the present situation. Do you know there doesn't exist anywhere, google be damned, a workingv mining scriptvi for this year old game ? I had to make my own ; always and perpetually whenever I want something I gotta make my own, because nobody does anything useful, because everyone's way too busy jacking off and "helping everyone get the basics". Fuck that dumb shit.
Fuck that dumb shit with a red hot poker, the only interesting problem in the world is the complete satisfaction of the very best and nothing else matters.
———If you're curious, that base64 encoding decodes to the lulziest of mixed-binary-xmlish nonsense...
00000000: 054d 696e 6572 0100 0000 096f 7065 6e2e .Miner.....open.
00000010: 6d69 6e65 0000 0000 0c00 0000 0d6c 6f63 mine.........loc
00000020: 616c 2e69 6e74 2e73 6574 0863 6f6e 7374 al.int.set.const
00000030: 616e 7404 074d 494e 4554 4142 0863 6f6e ant..MINETAB.con
00000040: 7374 616e 7402 0200 0000 0d6c 6f63 616c stant......local
00000050: 2e69 6e74 2e73 6574 0863 6f6e 7374 616e .int.set.constan
00000060: 7404 094d 494e 454c 6179 6572 0863 6f6e t..MINELayer.con
00000070: 7374 616e 7402 0000 0000 0d6c 6f63 616c stant......local
00000080: 2e69 6e74 2e73 6574 0863 6f6e 7374 616e .int.set.constan
00000090: 7404 064d 494e 4558 5908 636f 6e73 7461 t..MINEXY.consta
000000a0: 6e74 0200 0000 0008 6d69 6e65 2e64 6967 nt......mine.dig
000000b0: 0e61 7269 7468 6d65 7469 632e 696e 740d .arithmetic.int.
000000c0: 6c6f 6361 6c2e 696e 742e 6765 7408 636f local.int.get.co
000000d0: 6e73 7461 6e74 0406 4d49 4e45 5859 0863 nstant..MINEXY.c
000000e0: 6f6e 7374 616e 7404 034d 4f44 0863 6f6e onstant..MOD.con
000000f0: 7374 616e 7402 0400 0000 0e61 7269 7468 stant......arith
00000100: 6d65 7469 632e 696e 740d 6c6f 6361 6c2e metic.int.local.
00000110: 696e 742e 6765 7408 636f 6e73 7461 6e74 int.get.constant
00000120: 0406 4d49 4e45 5859 0863 6f6e 7374 616e ..MINEXY.constan
00000130: 7404 012f 0863 6f6e 7374 616e 7402 0400 t../.constant...
00000140: 0000 0d6c 6f63 616c 2e69 6e74 2e73 6574 ...local.int.set
00000150: 0863 6f6e 7374 616e 7404 064d 494e 4558 .constant..MINEX
00000160: 590e 6172 6974 686d 6574 6963 2e69 6e74 Y.arithmetic.int
00000170: 0d6c 6f63 616c 2e69 6e74 2e67 6574 0863 .local.int.get.c
00000180: 6f6e 7374 616e 7404 064d 494e 4558 5908 onstant..MINEXY.
00000190: 636f 6e73 7461 6e74 0401 2b08 636f 6e73 constant..+.cons
000001a0: 7461 6e74 0201 0000 000e 6765 6e65 7269 tant......generi
000001b0: 632e 676f 746f 6966 0863 6f6e 7374 616e c.gotoif.constan
000001c0: 7402 0400 0000 0e63 6f6d 7061 7269 736f t......compariso
000001d0: 6e2e 696e 740d 6c6f 6361 6c2e 696e 742e n.int.local.int.
000001e0: 6765 7408 636f 6e73 7461 6e74 0406 4d49 get.constant..MI
000001f0: 4e45 5859 0863 6f6e 7374 616e 7404 013c NEXY.constant..
Friday, 02 April, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:52:08

What's Up Doc
What's Up Doci is transparently Bogdanovich trying to be Neil Simon. It doesn't even work out terribly ; I mean the result's shockingly superficial and very slow to start, like a nine act comedic play by a retired policeman. Nevertheless, if you've got an hour to wait for the extremely circumvolutedly tedious warmup of the spuriously overcomplex machinery, it does eventually get funny. It never gets insightful or more deeply satisfying than the mere Haha! Hahaha!, there isn't that Simon trademark Aha! at all in there, it's as much about human nature as it is about the humour intrinsic to piles of crates (something cats often see just as well as people do, and occasionally even better). Nevertheless, if you're sixty and had an overlarge steak right before, by the time you drowsily rouse it'll just be getting hysterical.
Barbara Streisand (the only person ever to receive all of the following: Oscar, Tony, Emmy, Grammy, Golden Globe, Cable Ace, National Endowment for the Arts, and Peabody awards, as well as the Kennedy Center Honor, American [...], not to mention the 1971 Gala de l'Unicef (TV Series) as well as the celebrated 1974 production of "Fred Astaire Salutes the Fox Musicals") is perhaps the most obnoxious uninvited guest in showbiz history. A sort of Lorena Lupu of the Borscht Belt, an iconic practical verification of the intrinsic immorality and ethical perniciousness of the postmodern religion : if there's no drawback to "trying", the only virtue left's persistence, in turn meaning that this pile of deplorable fail's just as likely to have a career as actually talented women.
As far as I'm concerned, I'd much rather live in a world without Barbara Streisand (and for that matter without her off-color exact equivalentii), which is why I do. I'd augur you the exact same, but then again we can't all be me.
———1972, by Peter Bogdanovich and introducing the jewnose wonder (if you don't count Texaco Presents: A Quarter Century of Bob Hope and other such highlights). [↩]Apparently I've not bothered to review that 1987 Burglar atrocity, but seriously, Streisand, Goldberg, same shit different hats (somewhat). Except of course the junior did a bunch of Letterman couchwork, for lack of any half-century Bob Hope specials. [↩]
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The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 5 : To Tuskegee, And Back »
Category: Trilematograf
Friday, 26 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:51:43

Un Lache...
"Honey! I'm ho-ome!"
"Don't yell Lache, I'm right here."
"Oh I didn't see you! Hi!"
"How was your first day honey ?"
"Worst. Day. Ever!"
"That bad huh ?"
"Oh it's terrible. Do you have any idea what being the UBS for the Boxing Arena even is ?!"
"You sit around the urinals and they... they pee on you, don't they ?"
"Yes, that's right! Urination Beautification Specialist!"
"That doesn't sound so terrible."
"It's much, much worse than it sounds. First, you have to take all your clothes off, right ?"
"Yeah."
"Well..."
"It's a job, honey. Of course you have to take your clothes off."
"No, some people have jobs-jobs, like in an office. With a water cooler and everything."
"Yeah. Right."
"What! It's true!"
"No it's not true. It was true."
"Whatever, one guy there even said he knows a guy who once worked for a guy who did that."
"Yeah, his cousin thrice removed twenty years ago."
"But then, after you take all your clothes off, and your shoes and everything you know, I'm out there, barefoot in the men's room."
"Of course."
"And then do you know what you have to do ? Ask me what you have to do!"
"What did they make you do at work, honey ?"
"They made me take everything off, and then I had to put my wrists in these cuffs up on the wall, and there was a special ring come into my mouth so I couldn't close it anymore!"
"Right by the urinal ?"
"Right on the urinal. Everyone pees right on your face, Marge! That's the job. It goes in your mouth, because of the ring, you have to taste it, Marge! Every drop!"
"You don't have to swallow it all, do you ?"
"No, they told us not to."
"That's not so bad..."
"The worst part is that some dudes actually shove their prick into your mouth. Like all the way down, so it touches on the back of the throat, and you can taste them back there."
"Oh wow!"
"Then you have to swallow it all, when they do that. Or drown in it, I guess. I don't think they're supposed to do that, really, I mean the ring is there so I can't close my mouth so they can piss in it, not so they shove their cock in past it... They said ar whorientation the ring is there for our own protection, too!"
"But you've got the job, right ?"
"Honestly Marge, I tell you I don't..."
"I'm so glad you got the job, Lache!"
"Why is that ?"
"Because I'm pregnant, you big dope, that's why!"
"Oh my god! Marge!"
"Aren't you happy ?"
"I'm so happy I could kiss you!"
"Go brush your teeth first."
"Wait... but I mean... Marge ?"
"Yeah ?"
"How come you're pregnant ?"
"Try and guess ?"
"You had sex ?"
"That's right, Lache, that's right. Margie had sex."
"But... I mean, when ?"
"Oh, about six-seven weeks ago."
"But..."
"You remember, you couldn't get a job, we were behind on the rent ? And I said..."
"You said then all that's left is for you to try and talk to the landlord, see if maybe he'll give us a break."
"That's right."
"So what happened, you never said anything."
"Actually what happened is, he wanted to increase our rent really."
"Oh. Wow. For this dump ?"
"Yes. He said we're not getting any younger and he's not running an asylum. He said the town needs young people, eager people, we can go be old on a funny farm in Iowa just as well, no need to be in the city for that."
"Wow."
"Yeah."
"So what did you say ?"
"What could I say..."
"Are we getting evicted ? What's a funny farm in Iowa anyways."
"Oh, one of those things, you know, with the singing."
"The singing ?!"
"You know, all that 'I can hear 'em callin' hogs in the clear Ioway air, I can sniff the fragrant whiff of an Ioway rose!' then there's a chorus, 'You've got Ioway in your heart!' and then it goes 'I've got Ioway in my hair! I've got Ioway in my ears and eyes and nose! Oh, I know all I owe I owe Ioway, I owe Ioway all I owe and I know why. I owe Ioway more than I can ever pay, but I'd love to move to Californiay!' then it's 'You're a breeze that Ioway blew.' and then 'I owe Ioway more than anyone should owe, so I think I'll start in owin' Idaho!' like that."
"Oh gosh-darn Marge..."
"That's the spirit, Lache!"
"But..."
"What ?"
"I... I don't want to go on an Iowa farm. It's not even funny."
"I don't want to either."
"So what are we going to do ?"
"We're going to be pregnant."
"Oh."
"That's right."
"So is it... that's he... did you..."
"Did I get pregnant from the landlord that day ?"
"Yeah..."
"Nah."
"How come ?"
"Because he only fucks in the ass. Especially worthless amateurs like me."
"But..."
"But what ?"
"I like you."
"Well yeah you like me, but what other options do you have ? He's the landlord, he fucks what he wants, no ? Whichever way he wants. That's what we're for, after all."
"We are ?"
"I don't mean you, I mean us. Look around Lache, what do you think they have all the apartments for ? They're here, they were built, they must have some purpose."
"For people to have families and raise their children, no ?"
"Exactly."
"But..."
"It's just not exactly the same people, that's all. We're still raising them. Aren't we ?"
"I... uhh."
"The city needs young people, he's right. Eager people too, but that's easy. Young people is easy too, with the right mindset : everyone's born very young, and it brings the average down. So..."
"Oh."
"I'll be pregnant every year from now on, and we'll raise them all together, Lache!"
"But we have no money!"
"You've got your job, don't you ?"
"Oh! Marge!"
"Oh no. No you don't, buster. You're not quitting on me!"
"But... but..."
"No buts!"
"Marge!"
"There are ways to deal with dodgers, Lache. You don't even want to go there."
"What ways ?"
"None of them great, I'll tell you that."
"But, Marge..."
"Yes Lache ?"
"If... if the landlord only does... only did... you know, in the ass..."
"Yes ?"
"Then how come you're pregnant ?"
"You remember I had that thing on Saturdays ?"
"Yeah ?"
"Well... what kind of thing was it ?"
"The... I don't know, the empowerment of liberties club ?"
"Libertines, you big dope. Libertines."
"What's that ?"
"That's when I go to the big housei and..."
"What big house ?"
"It doesn't matter which one. Any of the. And I'm the maid."
"You have to put on a uniform and everything ?"
"Oh, they provide the uniforms. You show up nude, we have to wait in line all naked, all of us. And stop stroking yourself."
"Please Marge. Please. Will you ? Please, may I ?"
"Just on the feet again ?"
"Alright."
"Yesss!"
"But let's go out in the hallway, honey."
"How come ?"
"Well... it's closer to the shower room, for one thing. And... let's just say I really like how the performance anxiety makes it difficult for you to do it."
"Oh."
"Besides, it's not just your worry that somebody might come, and see. Maybe someone really does come, and sees you, and then gives you what for."
"Marge!"
"Oh don't act the priss with me. You've already had one down your throat at work."
"Five."
"So you know where it's going next."
"Marge!"
"That's right, buster. What, you think you're better than me ?"
"But Marge!"
"No buts if it's not your butt. I don't want to be the only one broken down there, you understand ?"
"I... I..."
"We're in this together, and that means it goes in. Both of us, equally, all the way."
"I don't know if I'm ready for that."
"Then get ready. Grow up, Lache! I need a man, not some fly by night romance."
"Uhh..."
———Cuz n, geddit ? [↩]
« Cu ciorapu' flausat pe pula...
State Fair »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Thursday, 28 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:51:31

Two hands
Two handsi is another one of thoseii. In it, some retarded pixie history can not remember, for she's not a woman, puts out the magical cuntbeam and smites the guy that (from what I understand) made a passible Joker in some TV series.
The whole thing's terri-bad to MST3K standards of bad, starting with the worst credits Tommy Wiseau could've ever dreamed up. There's cool metal effects for the names making them look like they're affixed to old Pontiacs against utterly inadequate caption font atop explosions and cheap revolvers being pointlessly discharged like industrial machinery. What gets across is a fascination with method worthy of retarded bois, the sort that long outgrew the magical moment in time yet never will actually manage to make the leap. I think Elliot might've liked them.
The rest of it is... well. The "mobsters" from Sydneyiii get casually wiped by an ambiguously sexed fifteen year old, just like that. Before it, the retarded popindaiiv manage to foul a ten dollar pistol through liberal application of powder detergent in a domestic setting, get beaten to shit by the intended victim while yakking like dumb cunts about their criminal past and, to peaktop it all to hell, hire random kids to courier peanuts to unknown women paying five percent. It boggles, I've never heard of bullshit this thin in my life (which, unlike yours, was actually the, not to mention a, life).
The trainwreck bills itself a comedy, though if you think back to what was coming out in the late 90s... actually, that thought might be the only chuckle availabe in arid Shittystralia.
———1999, by Gregor Jordan, with whatever. [↩]Shit, piss, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits. No fuck, because the whole thing's been produced by an unholy alliance of highschool viceious principals, nigger "case-workers", and "concerned members of the public" (momentarily not employing their time towards cruising highway trucker stops looking for anonymous if sweaty gay sex -- true story) to the exacting standards of insanity their own factitiuous worldview imposes upon fiction. It used to be called soviet bullshit outside and "socialist realism" inside ; but since the soviets collapsed it can't possibly be the case they've won, so "we" can't possibly discuss any of that.
Honestly, the old stakhanov nonsense was a lot better than this v2.0 rehash. [↩]To be perfectly fair : for all I know this might actually be very accurate depiction of the sad island & its sadder islanders. I mean, they go around calling their ridiculous copycat scrip "bucks", what the fuck. Wake up and smell the coffee, convict island : calling your furrency "dollars" because that's what the US groked of the lowenthaler may be ok for you, "we're just like them only smaller" ; but you can't also import their slang along with it! They may be "Australian dollars" in the sense your "open marriage" is Schmuck's harem, but they sure as hell ain't ever gonna be slats, sawbucks etcetera. Not your history, geddit ? [↩]Spermophilus citellus. Chew on that for a minute. [↩]
« Porky's
At Long Last Love »
Category: Trilematograf
Monday, 22 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:51:12

Three for three
Christina's life took a sudden turn around eighteen. Hers was a turn entirely different from most others', though not visibly so different at the time.
She left the comfortably dull surroundings of her parents' home, just like any other normally developed middle class girl about that age. Back home, she had known everyone, and everyone knew her back, exactly equal in kind and degree. They all knew their respective roles, made simple in their intricate complexity by unrelenting social practice. She was to be the nubile daughter of one of the few local notables, they were to be gas station attendants and classmates, sons of truck repair shop workers and mine technicians. She wasn't exactly to save herself for marriage, but neither was she to ritually prostitute herself to their self-perceived needs, and so, chiefly through a sort of feeling of glaring inadequacy readily masquerading as disinterest she came to the big city sexually unexperienced enough that, upon meeting a boy -- tall, dark and hansome, irritatingly mysterious and yet threateningly at ease, evidently well informed, well rooted within the new, dizzying urban atmosphere -- she yielded readily, and then with the same readiness earnestly confessed her surprise. "That was actually... it felt good." she said, bemused. He laughed at her. "Of course it felt good. What did you expect ?"
She didn't know what she expected, if anything ; but it very much wasn't that. Yes she expected a boy would ask her out. After all... what was she there for ? "Studying psychology", what the hell is that even supposed to be ? But she didn't expect it'd come in his direct manner, bordering on brusque almost. Nor did she expect he'd take her out to a posh restaurant for her first date, the evident equivalent of that place her father'd take the family a few times a year, on special occasions, but scaled up for the city. Nor did she expect he'd have her blouse on the way back, just ask for it as if it were his all along -- and receive it, too, as if she wasn't there for aught else besides satisfying his demands ad idem, on the spot. She didn't expect, as she handed it over, that he'd have her walk, topless, over the lawns, the endless lawns meandering through views of the entire valley, thick with roads and buildings and all else, towards the parking lot.
She knew she'd ask him over, try and cook for him, secretly try and bring their encounters on that second, unavoidable installment somewhat more in line with her own private history and personal life to date, more aligned to what she saw and took to heart from her mother's house. She didn't expect he'd push her on the sofa afterwards, and have his way with her just as he had his way with her whole morning's work, looking her in the eye from atop the whole time. In easy continuation, as if off a platter, directly, adroitly he undressed her, and then he used her. Then, afterwards, she entirely didn't expect he'd have used a condom. She didn't expect most of it, most none of all they did together, not really, not as such. Least of all she expected her personal, ready, more than willing identification with function -- such function as he identified, whatever it might've been or may in the future be.
Yet it happened, exactly, and upon happening it also became a part of her life, as quick and as unyielding as anything else. It thrilled her, she yielded to it eagerly within herself, whatever it may be. Like pregnancy, she thought to herself, like it must've been to them before there was the pill. Just there, one day, suddenly yet as if since forever. Not asking anything -- not for permission, not even out of curiosity, nothing at all. Existence, plain and simple, entirely disinterested in anyone's subjective reception. Whatever feelings it may elicit, they are to be upon the feeler in whom they're elicited to resolve, as best he can, or carry unresolved as far he will. "She will", rather, per usual.
She did expect her wardrobe'd change with the move, yet didn't expect it'd change in the way it did. She wore nothing besides close dresses, with plenty of access, with nothing underneath. He touched her, randomly, oftenly. He disrobed her, exposed her. She never expected she'd have sex outside of a bedroom. Back home it was the degenerate thing to do, out in the bushes, the close appanage of the lowest of the low ; but here in the big city, here and now, in her own life as it unfurled, in her own sexual experience as she lived it, most copulation occurred outdoors, not for lack of alternative but for patent, manifest disdain of social norm. He ordered her to moan, and louder, louder, loudest in the darkened cinema hall, and thereby she discovered how she loved her own voice. She loved hearing herself vocalize every stretch, every yield deep inside, have her own feelings reflected back to her through her own ears, by her own voice. She'd never done it before, and therefore never knew before ; but perhaps she had always loved it ?
She discovered also no-one else is permitted discovery. She thought they'd be interrupted, kicked out, she expected on some level deep within subconscious mind the whole theater turned into an angry mob bearing torches and pitchforks, ready to throw stones, cracking her skull, her sternum, tear her apart with bare nails turned to talons. None such occurred ; never did any such occur. Soon enough she knew her nudity, even plain, but especially during copulation is not something anyone may look upon, take notice of, observe. Stray dogs more like than people to make the most modest overtures in that context, so complete, so untouchable was the tabboo of her young body used in the old manner. It was as if he had in his hands a cloak of invisibility, all it took was taking her clothes off and bam, she was gone. Disappeared. Vacated from the social space, from that invisible but imaginary fabric that supposedly, that she had supposed, stretches over all, through parks and walkways, over bridges and in dark alleys, everywhere throughout.
That was the first shock, the first early sign of the sudden turn. He had walked her home ; she lived in a rented room inside an old Habsburg construction, a sett-stone courtyard surrounded by small, uncomfortable windows connecting the still air inside-on-the-outside with the stilled moans and mutters of the outside-that's-inside. Habsburg constructions get complicated quickly, hence Freud. In the gangway, he had her almost naked, playing with her, using her body almost musically. Her breath syncopated, her experiencing of her own instant life intense, as per his intent, not explicit yet manifest. There was a voice, suddenly, unexpectedly.
"Hey! What are you two doing there!" Shrill and yet demanding, almost comedic in the contrast between capacity implicit and status presumed, the syllables leaving her mind time for little besides flashing the firm conclusion : "this won't end well." Presently it continued, even shriller, ever more impudent, "What are you doing to her! Hooligan! I'm going to tell your mother! I will report you to your school!"
She perceived the stiffening. She had felt it before, slightly. Worrisome, always worrisome, whenever her unruly nature or natural impetuus took her outside the invisible lines in his mind. She always yielded, humbly, most apologetic, and he always accepted her submission, quietly. She couldn't imagine what he'd accept here. There wasn't anything.
"I don't go to school, my mother's dead, and so are you." his voice came presently. Cold. Grim. There was a sound, triune, tripartite, like a loud sewing machine up in Heaven above : bang. bang-bang. The fat avatar of indignation collapsed in the flash of light, then lay on his back hurling towards the patch of night sky a most horrible sound, full of aiches and consonants indistinct. He walked over, there was another bang, then, finally, silence. He walked back to her, grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, and walked off.
She struggled to keep pace. Eventually, getting the hang of her feet again, and breathing heavily, she let the inquiry fly. "You're a gangster, aren't you."
"I own this place." he looked at her. "Yes, that's right. I'm one of those your mom told you to steer clear of."
Christina shook her head. "She wasn't very specific."
Indeed, her mother had warned her ; but hadn't been very specific. Not usefully specific, anyway. How's a mother to be specific ? What's a warning to do ? Her grandmother had warned her mother also, as best she could ; it worked out no better that time, either. The voice of untold bloodlines gurgled and spun inside her head, taking the horizon with them, twirling savagely. She felt ill, and certain. She opened her mouth three or four times, unsure what'd come out, what substance, or what form. Eventually she squeaked, like a wounded animal, a squirrel or a rabbit maybe, "When it's time for me to go, please shoot me too." She looked at him, horror in her eyes seeking his. He looked back at her, but didn't say anything.
« The will of the people
The emotional content of speech »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Tuesday, 11 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:51:00

There's nothing inside the box.
"Why would anyone want to get over the one thing you hope for from the minute you're born, and remember every day until you die?"
"Because it'd supply the illusion of power and control."
"And what's that good for ?"
"Oh, uncle Arby! Illusions are by their nature sweet."
"So you'll be lonely, sad and fat."
"What would you have me do ? Face on the floor, bare ass up to the winds just because he said hello ? Like a moth or some such type of primitive life ?"
"You could just say it. Why does everything always have to come to such extremes with you ?"
"Extremism makes it that much easier to pretend there's nothing in between."
"Well... at least you didn't bring whatever obscure book you like to misquote into it."
"I really don't think that book has anything to do. With anything."
"Then why do you bother with all the pretending, and all the rest of the bullshit ?"
"Nobody can prove it doesn't, so they have no reason to act as if the truth were the truth. Because they can't prove it. And that makes a difference!"
"No, it doesn't."
"I guess maybe it doesn't. But I can still pretend as if it did anyway."
"Sure, you can still pretend. What's that do, for anyone ?"
"Nothing. It does exactly nothing at all, not for anyone. We can just ignore each other all the better : myself and everyone, everyone and myself. It's easier that way."
"And after all the ignoring's done ?"
"Then I die."
"Sad, fat and alone."
"That's true ; but nobody will can accuse me of it. Not of any of it!"
"I... guess. You're what's wrong with the world pretty much exactly."
"Isn't that the definition of youth, pretty much exactly ?"
Writing dialogue's not difficult at all, if one manages to think outside the box.
« Acum douazeci de mii de ani, or the article I can not write
Sedea un prost prin ceva bar »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Friday, 05 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:50:53

Their tits are tan, their giggles wan, their butts are there to beat
Suppose it is a song, or for that matter sleep : there is a place you know too well, where jagged notions heap. All movement, cast as flight or told as dream, yet 'round that center swirls ; don't matter if the moon is there, or darkness is complete.
Once fallen in -- be it just you, or just your twin (as you, for her, as well recall, you both there having been) -- the veil comes off. Off compass' folly and its twin, the folly to compass ; and there you stand, deep in the deep, again naught but a lass.
Alas this being's naught to be. As breezes billow yet again, and candles beckon thee, you find a way, your way again, away, away, a whee! Then lines curve with gravity, and as direction's a conceit so flee the flitting free. She, whose flutter sweet was yet to greet unbridled symphony turns, and returns, and then there's the...
There's the place, the place again. That drain-and-chain, discreet, eternal bane of dignity. Within its subtle, missing world all clothing is removed, and coats of paint fly freely off by willowy whorls oddly akin to liberty. The gauze is gone. 'Twas to be slight, most transparent, an ineffable inherent ; yet it's too much, and so it's off, off on its own, and urgently.
The paint won't stay attached, the nets won't stay in place, nothing remains but still, again, the same. How, freedom without the conceit ? How, liberty bereft its pretense ? What's it to be, of tyranny, when naught adheres to any ?
Meanwhile the place, the place again, exhaustion's brother without sleep. Nor is a night, nor will be dawn, nor can be said "eternally".
« El sabado, por la noche
The Sea Wolf »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Sunday, 23 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:50:28

The will of the people
People generally, as well as universally, don't bother forming most opinions ; or rather, it's an inescapable fact that people don't care about most things.
In high density living arrangements (which is any situation where the average human encounters another one more often than once a day over their lifetimei) it becomes increasingly probable that they will be polled nevertheless, and obviously ho bios brakhos, he di tikhne makre, ho di kairos oxos, he di peira sphalere, he di krisis khalepe... There's necessarily going to be much more in the way of things to be asked about than there'll ever be found in the meagre pile of anything anyone's ever figured out for themselves, to their satisfaction, at their expense, within their lifetime.
The seeming impediment results reliably in the simplest adaptation -- as is both typical and common of life in all presentations throughout -- whereby people generally will simply keep a list of ready answers to the common questions. A cache of sorts ; and how best to populate it than by... polling in turn ? There's no deeper substance in what "most people think" on any topic than merely "what most people think most other people think would say if asked". It's pure hearsay, long divorced from any investigation, thought or even caring ; the multitudes readily satisfy themselvesii with echoing whatever it is someone might have reportedly at one point heard. However long ago, it really doesn't matter any, this metaphorical echo can live on long after any conservation law'd have extinguished its true counterpart.
Thus therefore, among a gaggle of people who "all agree" with anything -- anything whatsoever at all, take "murder is wrong" for as fine an example as any, for it well illustrates the true boundless expanse of that anything in there -- nobody agrees with anything, not beyond "that's what I've heard others say". There's no more there ; most of the agreers have no personal experience with whatever's being asked about at alliii, which is just another way of saying they don't give shit one about it.iv
All this works well enough for traditional societies (as lots of other trapings of "modern life" do) : inasmuch as nobody, manifestly, explicity and consummatedly cares "what you think", your services as battery-powered echobeacon might even come in handy. You perpetuate tradition, on your own power, and thereby you perhaps even make sense. Inasmuch as it's the word of "god", or of some long extinguished Master, however mangled, misquoted, misinterpreted... Just as long as it's not you, really ; for as long as someone else's speaking through, people might even be useful (if very moderately) even in aglomeration.
But as soon as they attempt to "organise" towards "modernisation" (ie, escape from traditionalism) the whole pile is necessarily going to collapse upon itself. Because "the will of the people" is going to be exactly whatever the hell you want it to be, and you're going to want it to be something stupid, and then depend on it as justification, and go straight to hell in a handbasket. And they won't mind. On the contrary, they'll let you do it, and applaud all the way, and then "hold" in the same manner the exact opposite view for no reason whatsoever -- that is to say, beyond the font of their hearsay having randomly changed.
And so, the same people who saw no problem with Gestapo policing of Paris back in '41 (which is to say, the French ; not Joe or Moe, but the French) will retroactively, meaninglessly, "hold" quite irreconcillable views in '46 ; the same people flooding the Berlin phonelines of the same Gestapo to "report" their neighbours (for throwing parties, and not wearing the muzzles, and whatever the fuck else) will applaud "the liberators", in groups, outside their house. They'd walk there to applaud. What are they applauding ? "There's other people here, yeee-eee!"
The Romanians will agree with you -- yes dear tavarisch Ceausescu, you're clearly on the right path -- and then disagree, leaving you scratching your head at what the fuck do words even mean. The face on the right is just about to say "Mi-am depus mandatul de patru ori", which comes to "I returned the portofolio four times"v, which indeed is factual, and all-important : decision-making based on "the will of the people" is fundamentally flawed, inescapably marred by the simple if unyielding fact that "the people" have no will ; pretense to the contrary readily reducing to "whatever you want us to". It's like if I tried to run my harem by polling the slavegirls -- they'd leave. They're not here to come up with shit, they're here because of the shit I come up with ; and similarily children aren't born into the world either por vencer or por ser vencidos. They're born simply to be told what the fuck's what! The world's a stage, yes, but they're coming in towards it from the entrance hall, not from the actor's entrance!
Stop asking people what they think / want / will / whatever. You'll live a lot better a life (as a leader I mean, admitting there was such wonder born of woman since me, something that's appearing so unspeakably dubious these days...) and moreover, nobody's gonna care that "you gave them exactly what they were asking for". They weren't asking for anything, they were just parroting what [they thought] you said ; and moreover nobody very well fucking wants that!
Give 'em whatever the hell you feel like giving, it'll be good enough.vi
———This is the universal definition for high density, by lifespan and weight of the animal. It applies equally well throughout zoology, a rabbit will either encounter another every half hour (in which case they're booming) or not ; a locust will either feel another's antennae on its hind feet once every eight seconds (in which case they're swarming) or not ; and so on.
Needless to say, a mere footstep counts, to say nothing of phone messages. Or rather, why say nothing : they count, proportionally more than a footstep. [↩]There wasn't much call for any satisfaction there to begin with. If I ask you what color is verde and you can be arsed to produce an answer, any answer, it does not thereby follow you care about either green or Romanian more than an iota ; and any attempts to remedy this may, at the utmost, make you care to be rid of me and little more besides.
Do children eat their peas through newfound caring for Pisum ingurgitation, or merely to shut the mother up already ? Because simple (which is here to say primitive) as all children are, yet all of them, in all languages and all cultures will without exception during their lives try at least once to express the directly self-obvious point : that they are doing it only to shut her up already.
Insistence, blind, feminine, will result in activity, yes -- or rather, a sufficient semblance of activity to satisfy her simple (here to say, idiotic) needs -- and while at it tell me again what a "principle of non-violence" stands for, cuckboi ?
There's two answers to annoyance, perdurantly insistent annoyance : violence and compliance. If you promise to not be violent, then therefore what other promise(s) do you silently make, and what exactly more do you imagine is needed to build the femstate ?
PS. This "<a href="http://trilema.com/2018/messy/">cuck</a><a href="http://trilema.com/2020/the-pool-party/">boi</a>" 106 byte string is rapidly becoming a sort of monad, a unified token like a single syllable, I'm mere inches away from adding it as a keyboard shortcut. Such is the greatness of art, I suppose, or at least the functionally functioning kind -- because no, not all ars is longa. Some art is brief, the difference between structured and unstructured stands magnificent ; and while it may not be the ancients' fault they lacked structure it's similarly "not their fault" they lacked furniture. Whose, then ? [↩]To continue with murder : when it comes to the wilful taking of human life, most haven't ever seen it done, let alone do it themselves ; the minority that have done it themselves, in their vast majority soldiers (I mean, a mob's, yes, but the mob's that pretends itself "government") do not in fact hold any such views personally. They think it's perfectly fine, which readily and simply (here in the sense of, correctly) explains their activities. [↩]How much do you care about things you've never done ? And if you never do the things you most care about, what sorta neurotic derangement is that, Rapunzel ?
It is the lot of "women" -- in the sense of exaggeratedly young females trapped in deeply idiotic lands -- to live quite thus, never doing the one thing they most care about. Let me then ask again... what sorta neurotic derangement is that, Rapunzel ? [↩]The intent being that, let alone whether anybody wanted the job, literally nobody stood up to do it ; nor was in his (or mine, or for that matter Sanity's altogether) anyone available even remotely qualified to do anything even vaguely in danger of being useful. He pointedly says as much, "I'd be quite curious to hear if you twerps can actually produce out of your Comintern magic hat some kind of talent I neglected, some kind of competency I arbitrarily passed over."
They don't engage the point, of course, for their interest is not so much in outmatching the competent ; but in the establishment (and safe-ification, however impossible it may be in fact) of the mediocrity regime. It just happens to be a delusion at the time popular, which is how these politically motivated "legal" fictions always work out in practice -- the Nurnberg trials are similarily much more interesting for the respondents and their responses than for the inquisitors and their inquiries, and so on. [↩]In practice, I mean. From experience, I say all this. We're not fucking around, "opining" and whatnot, okay ? I am one who knows, in fact, from experience, and it's how I say it is for those reasons. Not a matter of "how it could be", not a discussion of "citation needed", entirely nothing like "what could the unknown word mean in context, Johnny", aite ? [↩]
« The... work
Three for three »
Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc
Monday, 10 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:50:20

The W, the other W, the WW and finally the WWW.
1.
It all started for me when I was ten years old. One day after school someone who lived on our street called. My sister picked up, it was Poppy's Dad asking if I wanted to come to their house and play with his daughter. I thought she was really cool. Poppy was thirteen and she had the best shit. I was so eager for it, I bolted out of the house in my house slippers! Jesse, that's my sister, was like "Hey!" behind me right before the door slammed shut. I didn't even have keys or anything. It came to me like "Wow! What if someone sees me like this ?" It felt really exposing somehow, I don't know why. I mean I could just pretend like I'm washing the car or something, we did that almost naked, like at the pool, just a swim trunk. I wanted to get back in and change though, but the door was closed and I'd have to knock. Maybe Jesse wouldn't even open. I'd be there dressed like this knocking on the door, what would people think ? There wasn't anyone there, the street was completely empty, not even a car passing, but it still felt like all the neighbours are looking in from behind the curtains. I don't think they really did, but you never know.
I made myself stop crumpling my tshirt in my hands. I always did that back then, I don't know why. Everyone told me all the time to stop. I stopped doing it since then, actually I remember the exact day I did, but it's later. I crossed the street and knocked on the door to Poppy's house. Her Dad opened the door and told me that Poppy's upstairs. I ran upstairs. I could tell which is her room because there was giggling. It made me real nervous. I just stood there in the hallway in front of the door, crumpling my red square root 100 yo tshirt. It was from my birthday. There were other girls there besides Poppy, I mean at least three or four I could hear. I don't remember how many there were really. Eventually one of them wanted to go to the bathroom so they all came pouring out the door. When it opened I could see Poppy sitting on her bed. I didn't know any of the other girls, but they were even older than Poppy! Almost every single thing in Poppy's room was pink. She had pink bedsheets and many pink stuffies and even her drawer was pink and she had a pink wig with a purple unicorn horn coming out of it!
They dragged me to the bathroom down the hall with them. One of them said I'm as cute as a puppy. Another one said I could be their little puppy and guard the door for them in case there's any enemies. They had me lie down on the floor carpeting in front of the bathroom door. I thought they were all so cool! I could hear them talking through the door, "Poor Puppy!" "He's kinda cute though." "Yes but why is he dressed like that ?" "I don't know, it's really stupid." "Hey Poppy! Can't you dress your puppy any better than that ?" There was a pause, then I heard Poppy loud and clear "Hey guys, I have an idea!" I could hear her paddle over and open the door. She stood towering right above me in her pink plastic princess shoes, one leg across in the hallway, one leg back in the bathroom. Her head was so far up! She said "Hey Puppy, you wanna play a game ?" I said sure, she clapped and said "We're gonna play dress up, puppy!"
I guess it was a little odd for thirteen-year olds to want to play dress up maybe, but at the time I didn't think so at all. I didn't question it. When I was that age, I loved to dress up in costumes of superheroes or pirates. I think maybe I just assumed that's what she meant. Poppy said she already picked out the perfect costume for me, but I have to take off my clothes first. I stripped down to my shorts right there on the carpet, right in front of all the girls. They were huddling around the bathroom door, just their heads popping in. I said, "I did it, can I see my costume now?" Poppy said "Sure!" with a smirk, but then she picked up all my clothes and walked back into the bathroom with them. She put them all in the washing machine! She put in detergent, and turned it on! I was going to say something like "Hey!" but she said "We have to wash poor Puppy's old clothes, too!" I think maybe her parents had just showed her how to work the washing machine and she was eager for more experience. All the other girls agreed with her though, so it started to make sense. Of course she has to wash my old clothes, and really there's nothing wrong being in just my cotton briefs with them there.
Then one of the girls said "Wait, Poppy! If he's a real puppy how come he has those on ? Real puppies don't wear anything. Their bits just dangle out like it's normal." I was mesmerized. All eyes were on me. Poppy too. I was squirming on the floor. She started asking me like she was singing a lullaby, "How about it Roger ? Are you a real puppy for real ?" I thought "Of course I'm a real puppy!" I didn't say anything, I just started rolling around like a real puppy would do, I though. They were giggling like crazy. I tried to stand up but they all said "No, no! Puppies go on all fours!" and they made me give them rides back to their room. I could feel their warm thighs and everything on my back, burning me almost. I'd keep paddling on all fours with one or even two of them back to Poppy's room, but as soon as I dropped my load and came back for the next they'd run back to the bathroom. It was going to take forever! Then they all piled up on me. My arms and legs gave out and they pinned me down on the cold tile floor. They grabbed my ankles and everywhere and held me down. One of them said "we should tickle the puppy!" and they all started doing it! I begged and begged for them to stop, but one said "We're not going to stop until you pee yourself, puppy." and another one said "Yeah, that's right!" and then Poppy said "You'd better do it. The faster you do it the better for you." They tickled me and tickled me and eventually I wanted it. I wanted to feel the warm embrace burning me on my butt and thighs and everywhere. Then my briefs were in the wash with the rest of everything.
They put me in the tub and washed me everywhere. Poppy's parents had one of those detachable shower heads, like at the end of a hose. The girls just washed me with that and soap, it was the best feeling in the world to be touched by those what seemed like five thousand girl hands. I felt so good and happy! I thought it's really just like a real puppy, washed with the garden hose. They dried me off and we went back to Poppy's room. She said "I was going through my old clothes from when I was your age, because Mom says I should throw them out, the stuff that I can't wear anymore because it's too small for me or too revealing for a young lady. But I think they'd be perfect for you little Puppy boy!" At first we had to pick panties for me.
They made me try on more than twenty, and I had to parade and display each one. They argued about it a while and I kept having to put old pairs on again to see which is best, but eventually they all agreed on a pair of white satin ones with purple polka dots and a little fur nubbin right over the butt like the size of a walnut. They liked it because they said it's just like a puppy's tail, but I just loved the way they caressed my skin. They were some of the best ones, silk and satin are the best. Then we had to try on socks, but that wasn't so hard because they said my feet have to show through and Poppy only had a coupla leg warmers. They picked the one that was white and pink striped, going from my ankle all the way to almost my butt. They also had pretty pink bows in front right at the top, and fit very snug. Then they picked the dress, that also wasn't very hard because they said it has to have a collar for stuffies and also be real tight around my butt to show off my nubbin tail. She only had a few like that and they liked the sleeveless white one with pink highlights because they said it accentuates my best features and that's what you have to look for when shopping for a dress.
Then one of the girls ran off to the bathroom and came back with the toilet paper roll. Poppy asked what's that for ?! The girl said "for her bra, silly!" but Poppy just laughed and said she'll be right back. While she was gone two of the girls, I thought they were sisters, started talking about the puppy trick. One of them was like "You wanna do the puppy trick to it ?" and the other was like "Yeah but you do it." and they kept going back and forth. Then they faced me holding their hands together and said "Puppy, there's a real test if you're a real puppy. You want to give it a try ?" I nodded, and they had me go on all fours again. They lifted my dress all the way up over my head, so I couldn't see anything. I really liked that. I could feel them pull my nubbin panties back down to my knees, then one of them grabbed hold of my little penis. She held it and moved it up and down until I got this crazy shudder all over my body. Nothing came out, but I'm sure I had an orgasm, for the first time in my life. I did it lots of times since then, just to be sure, back before moving in with Jesse. It puzzled them. "I think that was it" "But how come nothing came out ?" "I don't know." "Mister always makes that white thing." "Yeah, and the bubble." "Maybe she's just really only part puppy." "Maybe she'll grow into it more."
That's when Poppy came in. Everyone was giggling, and they had to do it to me again to show her and so the other girls could try and then also Poppy wanted to try herself, it was crazy. Then Poppy made take off the dress again, because she had brought me my bra! It wasn't just a bra though, it had the breasts already inside of it, and they were huge! With that under the white dress I looked just like the champion puppy, like they said. It stretched the fabric to breaking point. The collar on the dress was almost choking me it was so pulled so tight, but Poppy took a step back and made an 'aww' sound. They sat me down on the chair the first time since I had came over, and they painted all my nails the same pink as the dress. Then an older girl did my makeup. She brushed foundation all over my face. She put on mascara, and eyeliner. Then she glued fake eyelashes on my eyelids, right over my real ones. They completed the look with bright pink blush and cherry-red lipstick.
They made that 'aww' sound again, but synchronized this time. Poppy put her pink wig on my head. It fit really well, the hair was long, flowing past the hem of my dress. She put a white hairband with a pink bow on it over the wig to hold it down tight. Then they let go of me, running all around and clapping like crazy. They seemed really proud of what they made. They took me to the mirror, and it was mindblowing. A hot, cool, debonaire young woman was looking at me right back from it. I wanted so hard to be her! That woman was the best you could be. They were snapping pictures with their phones, until one looked up excitedly and said "she needs a name!" I guess she was going to post them somewhere or send them to someone and that's why they finally needed a name for me.
They took a moment to brainstorm. "It has to be something that sounds similar to his real name." one said. After a few minutes they decided on Rebecca. They really liked the name. They kept clapping excitedly and talking to me like to try it out, "Hi Rebecca!" and I'd say "Hi!" back then they'd clap and lose it to fits of giggling. After a while Poppy dropped a pair o white high-heel sandals on the floor in front of me and told me to step inside. They were her mom's I think, but they fit me just fine. Then she said "Come on Becca." I looked at her like my life was going to end. "Let's go out!" she said. That was it.
We walked down the street to the bus stop. Everyone knew everyone where we lived back then, but one of the other girls whose name was Audrey introduced me as her cousin Becca visiting from Florida. I had to shake hands with people who knew me from real life as Robert but they'd just say "Oh hello Rebecca, so nice to meet you dear." Then in the bus we all sat together but the girls kept giggling because they said those guys are totally checking you out Becca. They got off at the next stop, I don't know who they were. Maybe they were checking me out. We got off at the mall and we just went all over everywhere trying on clothes. It was a lot of fun! I don't remember what all we tried on. Everything, basically. All the girls just stripped down to their bras and panties in the dressing room because it was all girls and they were so pretty! One of them hesitated the first time before doing it, but after that it was just normal. I had never seen so many pretty girls like that before. I didn't even know porn exists back then.
We didn't buy anything of course but afterwards we went to the food court and ate things. There was a boy there I knew sitting all by himself, Allan's older brother. He was kinda in a corner and he looked sad. He wasn't even eating or anything. Poppy said "Becca, you have to go over and say hi to the virgin." They all thought this is a splendid idea, so I had to do it. They told me to say "Hello, I'm Becca. What's your name ?" and then ask him if he would like to see my pretty bows, and if he says yes I had to lift my dress up over my stockings so he can see them. I didn't want to but they said I have to. They said I'm too grown up now to be just a stupid puppy, and I have to do it to be in their secret club. They said they all did it before so now it's my turn.
I went over there, but he could see them and hear them giggling all the way so he wouldn't tell me his name. I looked back at them to see what I should do ? They were all "go ahead, go ahead" so I sat down and asked him if he'd like to see my pretty bows ? He just went crazy, started grabbing at my bra with both hands and pushing into me. Then he started smooching me. I almost fell over the chair running out of there! He just got right back to being sad and by himself like nothing happened. He didn't even look at me! My lipstick was all smudged so we had to go to the bathroom so they could fix it for me, and then we took the bus back home.
My clothes I came in with were still damp because we forgot to take them out of the washing machine when we left, but I put them on anyway. Poppy said I should keep the panties and legs but she had to put the sandals and the bra back in their place and she didn't want to give me her pink wig. They washed all the beautiful make-up away, it made me so sad. I was back to being Robert now, but I could still see Becca everywhere I looked, except not in the mirror. Poppy said she's going to have a sleepover next weekend and I should come too so they can play with me more. One of the girls said "But Poppy, aren't your parents going to say anything ?" and she said "I'll tell them little Becca just wants to be a girl because she's confused about herself. They'll love that." so it was all set.
When I knocked on our door Jesse gave me the eyebrow. I still had the strange stripes on my legs, and she noticed the nail polish. She made me step out of the slippers to show her my toes before she'd let me in. She said "Just as I thought, you little sissy slut." Then she removed the polish off my fingernails but not off of my toes. She said I'd better be on my best behaviour with her or else she's going to make me tell Dad all about being a little sissy. It was good though because after that she always did my toenails. She wanted to have that over me, but over time it became our thing. We'd do it in secret, in her room, and it was our little secret thing. Sometimes she also dressed me up in other ways. I think she really enjoyed it, not just because she kept blackmailing me about making me tell Dad how come I have nail polish on my toes but I think she liked it in general. I had to be real nice to her and she made me do all sorts of things.
2.
It all really started last September. I was not married to Rich back then, we had just recently met and... I was working out, he came over. I thought he wanted to use the machine, but he said "Hi, what's your name ?" He had his piercing eyes right on me, I couldn't move. I told him I'm Jesse and he asked me what do I do for a living ? I couldn't really answer him, I stuttered something I don't know what it was supposed to be then he said "Would you like to be my whore instead ?" I was blank, I didn't even know what the fuck. He said "It's like booty calls but you're never busy, and I'll pay you two thousand a night. You don't have to fuck anyone else."
That's how we met, I mean I just followed him out of there to his car. He drives a McLaren, no shitting. I just swallowed his cock when he shoved my face into it and that was that. That's how we met. All the other wives laughed and laughed when I told them the story at the first WW party. They thought it was the hottest shit. He gave me four hundred in cash, I mean he just wiped them all over my face and shoved them in my bra when he was done. He dropped me off in front of my apartment building like that. They went straight into the super's mailbox, I was two months behind. Then after that he'd call whenever he felt like and I went over every time. I was like a dog with that phone, every time someone call I'd run out of the shower like a maniac, waving my hands behind me "omgomg it's him".
Then one day after he ploughed right into me against a table like he just didn't give a fuck, my feet running away from under me, he asked me if I'd like to be his fiance. I nodded. He said "Hold on bitch, it's not that easy. What are you willing to do to be my fiance ?" I looked at him like wut ? Anything. He said "get on your knees, for starters". The he had me beg to be his fiance five ways from Sunday. He made me promise I'll just sit at attention like a doggy, leash on, waiting for him when he comes home. He said I have to jump on him and lick his feet just like a real dog bitch. He had a lot of ideas like that, and I said it all for him. After a while I was like "Hey, are you just making random shit up ?" and he said kinda. I laughed and said "ok, so may I be your fiance then ? I'll do anything." The next day we were engaged, with a five carat yellow Tiffany's diamond ring.
I knew he was probably going to pop the question, and I was wondering what the hell can he come up with this time. I spent all of August doing Internet research on BDSM and sex slavery and everything I could find, trying to figure out what'll he do to me. It just wasn't like Rich to have nothing up his sleeves, and he already made me promise everything and humiliate myself into the dirt just for being his fiance. He wasn't gonna up and marry me without serious hardcore worldmelting... something. But what the fuck ? I eventually figured he'd probably brand me, like with a hot iron. I had come up with some alternatives, but none really made sense. He could do a big orgy but he really wasn't much into other dudes at all, I mean occasionally he'd hire escorts so we fucked him together or we ate each other out or fuck each other with strapons while he fucked us in the ass. Really the biggest pain was getting them to leave afterwards ; but there was never another penis involved. I knew he wasn't into kids. I thought it'd maybe be public humiliation, like with the other people he worked with, maybe I'd have to go to the office naked or something, but honestly that was so fucking hot I almost wished it'd be it.
That's why I was so shocked when he told me he thinks he might be bisexual. It just blew my mind. I thought to myself "shit, he's gonna want me to fuck him with the strapons now" but that wasn't it at all, thanks goodness. He liked little she-boys with big tits and small cocks, the younger the better. Blacks and gingers especially, and asians too. The way it worked out was, I'd go out and meet whatever fruitcake somewhere. It was pre-arranged, of course, but still, we'd pretend like we're flirting. I'd pretend like I'm a total nympho and invite them over. Then he'd bust in on us, make a big scandal, scare the living daylights out of the little trap. I mean, they knew what the plan was all along, but somehow when they were right there, caught in the act, Rich yelling and confronting them... they fucking melted. He really liked it when they cried, too. He made them wipe the snot off their faces with their hands and then lick it off their own fingers, he'd get his belt off and beat the shit out of their asses, it always turned into a hell of a show. It always ended the same way, too: with a little sheboi in my arms crying and wincing while Rich pounded that ass into oblivion. Somethimes they'd sorta-kinda get their tiny penises inside of me, or I'd lick them out, though I mostly worshipped Rich's balls or hugged the hundred pounds of fuckmeat.
That's how I got the idea, too. My little brother, Becca! That kid was weird from the get-go, always sniffing at my panties drawer and wasting my blush, but right before I took off for college, that whole year... he all but came out. He wasn't even in junior high yet, but he was painting his toenails and telling people he's Rebecca, going to sleepovers and pajama parties with highschooler girls... I guess they always thought he'll straighten out with puberty, but poor Robert was born to be fuckmeat. He had just turned fifteen that June, so I dropped him an urgent express fedex : "Bitch boy, you make sure and use that ticket. I'll explain when you're here. Love, Jesse. PS. Think of it as a delayed birthday party." I added a plane ticket, one way. I picked the landing early in the morning, figuring the little bitch will probably need some spa time and maybe even shopping before he's ready to meet his new Daddy.
When I picked him up at the airport he was Becca alright. His voice was something the fuck else, I mean it's a little weird over the phone I guess but in person it was just striking. The hormone suppression therapy had done wonders for his penis, too. I made him take it all off in the car and show me. It wasn't as much as my lip gloss tube, even. I was thinking all the while, "boy, is Rich gonna love this!" He explained to me that the therapy also prevented his balls from coming down so far. True fact, his sac was as empty as a little boy's. He said he's read somewhere that if they stay in another year or maybe two they'll just melt back into the body and be gone forever. He said it's much better for him that way, because his meat was never irradiated with ball juice like in those gross other trannies, so it can take whore therapy much better with no history to confuse it. Those are his exact words, he said he couldn't wait to be eighteen to start on whore therapy. I said "You know it's hor-mone" but he just shook his hand like "whatever", like I was just being a spoil sport.
Seeing the little shit sprawled naked in my car made it fucking clear what I have to do.
3.
The thing about Jesse is, she's a total slut, just like her mom. She's not even my real sister. Dad thought she's his daughter before her real mom ran off to whore out somewhere. That was back before he met Mom. When she died they had everyone in the family take DNA testing to make sure something about genes and cancer, and they discovered Dad and Jesse aren't related at all. They're not even sixth cousins, the people said most everyone is related a little but Dad and Jesse were like they came from different countries.
After she left for college Poppy and the other girls also lost interest. They got stupid boyfriends like dumb jocks and hateful assholes all mean and sucked them off all the time after getting drunk at parties in the backseat of their cars. God it makes me so mad! They just played with me one summer and then once school started again it was like a different world for them, like it all didn't mean anything, just a little game like Uno or something. Go ahead, forget all about it, "my boyfriend says traps are gross tee hee". I hope they all die in a fucking fire!
I discovered porn on the Internet though, and posting boards, so it was no skin off my back they were all stupid, all of them! Because I started just at the right time I was the biggest contributor to wikipedia ever in its history, even The Jimbo himself invited me to like parties and get togethers. The Internet really helped me be myself and find out who I really was. Some people say Mr. Wales is just a pedo and he should be put away and his friends too, but that's just them being jealous and hate everything that's from Alabama, that's all. I mean it's true we did the hot tub things at the special contributors reunion and with the sponsors, but that's not what pedo is anyway. I could link some pages to prove it, too.
Then because I was so famous with the right people and the Internet everyone at school started respecting me a lot more once I was in Junior High. Especially Mitch. That's when that bitch Jesse decided to show up in my life again, just like that. It was just after all the congratulatorations for my cake day on reddit were winding down because I made the account for my birthday and that way I always had friends and parties for all my birthdays, unlike everyone else so I was spending more time on titwer. There was a knock on the door and a guy with a moustache just like in Bangbros showed up when I went to see who it is and he said "sign here". I thought shit, it's a contract, they're making me a porn star. It wasn't though, just a stupid letter. In it Jesse wanted to make me a porn star, though she didn't come right out and say it. That's just like her, she made me start cross dressing but never said so and now she was going to make me a star too but pretend all the while it was just nothing going on and business as usual. She's one sneaky bitch.
I asked her, too, how did she know I'll even show up ? I never answered or said anything like "ok". I didn't even think I was going to go but then on the night right before I couldn't sleep because I had to get pretty. Not because of her stupid invitation or airplane ticket or anything, just so. A girl can feel like she wants to dress up any time she feels like it, doesn't have to be for a reason. Right ? Right. So Becca just wanted to come out, that's all. Then she went over to the airport for no reason, just to check it out, and then the clerk showed me where to sit down and I sat, why the hell not. I can sit down anywhere I want to, it still doesn't mean anything. Nothing means anything, no means no and nothing else means anything, and besides a girl can say no if she wants to doesn't have to mean she won't do it.
When I asked her how she knew she said "little bitch... you're the compliance generation. All you need is for someone to tell you what to do. It doesn't matter what it is, you'll do it anyway, regardless." I guess she's right, too. Just as long as she doesn't act like it's my fault or anything. I didn't want any of this, remember ? But I told her, "You're the same way Jess!" and she nodded her head and said yeah, she's the same way. We're all the same way.
4.
"You look just like a little whore."
"Yeah well... you look just like a big one."
"That's because I am a big one."
"Woh Jess! Really ?!"
"Oh yeah. I'm the biggest whore ever."
"What do you do ?"
"Everything. I got this guy, I mean he just came up to me at the gym and asked me if I want to be his whore."
"Omg. What did you say ?"
"I didn't say anything. I just followed him to his car."
"Did he..."
"He stuffed his cock in my mouth, yep."
"Did you like it ?"
"I don't know yet."
"Is he rich ?"
"Yeah, he's Rich."
"You know... I never... I mean..."
"Really ? Because I've seen some memes."
"Just online though."
"You've never been with anyone ?"
"I don't think so. I mean, you know, girls... But we never..."
"Rich'll make a whore out of you alright."
"You think so ?"
"Definitely."
"I don't know Jess..."
"Here's the thing, you little shit : the therapy, and the implants and everything ?"
"Yeah ?"
"You don't really have to wait for them, if your guardian gives you a consent form."
"Dad'll never..."
"I could be your guardian though."
"What ?! Dad'll never..."
"You think he'll complain that much ?"
"Eh..."
"Rich could fix that up. He can do anything he wants, really."
"Because he's rich ?"
"That's right."
"Will you... will you... with me ?"
"Definitely."
5.
After picking up the little shit at the airport I knew I had a family in my bag. I told Rich there's a little surprise waiting for him when he's good and ready. He said "oh" on the messenger and I told him it's just a little shit I picked up. That's what we call them, the t-bois. Little shits, it fits like a glove. He said "7pm" and I had everything ready. When he was at the door I was already kneeling in my leash like a fiance does, and I jumped all over him yelping "Daddy! Daddy! Welcum home! Yay!" like I always do. Everyone says I'm great at that. Then we went upstairs, and I got Becca out of the closet. I could tell Rich likes her alright. I sat on the bed with her head in my lap while Rich stuffed her virgin asshole. I smothered her fake eyelashes with my real tits, and I felt her tense up in panic and work herself up with the pain until that moment came when she just gave herself up. That's the best part of turning out these fucktoys, that moment when they give up and just let themselves be broken, inside and forever. I really love feeling their hot panting breath afterwards, it's like a whole different thing. Becca was crying and swaying her butt, back arched, knees bent, pushing her back into the cock. I whispered "who's a whore now" and she nodded.
We ate the little shit off of Rich together, then he said "Bitch, you're total wife material. I'm going to tell the club to arrange it for next month." The club, that's our WW club -- the Whore Wife club. All the execs in his firm are members, but you can only join if you're married and of course you must be married to a sport. The WWs are a pool and anyone in the club can fuck them, that's why they're called whore wives. There's a special price app for it. Every Thursday it sends out pictures of the wives, one at a time. It sends as many as you want to look at. They come with a price, all the wives start at a thousand dollars. Everyone who wants to fuck the whore in the picture that weekend clicks on "it's too low", until eventually there's nobody left to bid against and the app tells you "Congrats, you've got a whore wife!" both to the husband and to the winner. The wives aren't allowed to leave for this reason, like if you want to take your own wife to Aspen or anywhere over the weekend you have to buy her on Thursday. I think they donate the money to charity maybe, or just use it to pay for more whores, I don't really know.
That's not the only thing they do. There's also special events, like they have all the wives go to a house party and lez out and then the guys will bust in with like guns and camo gear and everything, to rape everyone. That's the best, because they yell and get in your face and pull hair and slap us around. There's other things too, and of course weddings and many party formats. Rich said they're going to do something special because everyone really likes weddings, they're like a welcome party for a new whore. He said it'll blow their mind when they see our little bundle of joy. Becca's eyes were really huge and getting huger as Rich described how he's gonna have to walk down the isle right behind my ass in nothing but stockings and with his little nubbin dangling where everyone can see. It's true, too, WWW, whore wife weddings are something else, and you should see the dresses! It's not even legal to cover up your cunt or tits or anything, they're a riot. Rich also said he's going to get us fake tits bolted on at the same time too, so we can be brother and sissy, like tit sissies together.
Would you like to see my wedding album ?
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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Wednesday, 17 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:50:07

The vice squad
"Man, look at that!"
"What ?"
"How do they grow tits like that ? I don't get it, I really don't get it."
"You know she's about fifteen, yeah ?"
"Sounds about right. Let's go."
"What ?!"
"We gotta pick her up."
"Are you out of your fucking mind ?!"
"She's soliciting, ain't she ?"
"Soliciting what ?"
"Is this your first day or something ?"
"No, but..."
"Then get with the program, what the fuck."
"Hello miss."
"Um... hi ?!"
"I'm going to need to see some ID."
"What ? Why! I'm not doing nuttin!"
"Be that as it may."
"Seriously officer, I'm totally just minding my own business. I'm on my way home."
"Look here miss, we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. Now which is it going to be ?"
"I... I mean..."
"Do you have ID ?"
"Here."
"Rachel Mclure, age 15."
"I'll be 16 in June."
"You mean next year ?"
"Yeah..."
"Did you know solicitation of prostitution is a crime in this state ?"
"What ? What do you mean!"
"You're under arrest. Anything you say may or will be used against you in a court of law."
"What is this!"
"Just get in the car."
"But I didn't do anything, for real. I was just walking home. What the..."
"The fuck was the point of that ?"
"What ?"
"She'll get probation, at the most."
"Nah. Pre-trial diversion. The DA knows the score."
"Why even bother ? Besides, they'll call the parents..."
"They'll try to. My bet is the parents won't pick up."
"Why not ?"
"I don't know, maybe they're out. Or it might be the clerk dials the wrong number or something. Mistakes happen."
"So what now ?"
"Now we book her and let the system do its thing so her real life can really begin. You've never been on vice before ?"
"Homeland Security."
"Oh. Brother. So you're one of the cool guys keeping our borders safe, huh ?"
"Yeah. Right."
"Man, you've got to get me in there. I could do with some new gizmos and shit."
"That's what you heard, huh ?"
"That's right."
"Used to be like that. Not anymore."
"They killed the goose ?"
"Pretty much. Just red tape and turning rocks over to paint 'em white now, it's no better than social security. Longer hours, too."
"Damn."
"Maybe the folks on that wall are doing better, it being new and all, I don't know. But by and large..."
"What a gyp."
"So you gonna give me the low-down or what ?"
"Not unless you ask."
"I'm askin', aint I ?"
"Look man, vice is easy-peasy. What you do all day is go around where the young sluts are. They gotta go to school so that's a good start, just drive around two-three blocks from one. Then you stop 'em, you haul 'em and you book 'em. That's pretty much it."
"Then what ?"
"Are you Internal or something ?"
"Man..."
"Like I give a fuck. Then they book her, means she goes into the holding pen. Whores get a single open space, there's at least twenty seats and fifty whores to the twenty seats on a slow day. They all got pimps, sooner or later your collar will turn up somewhere. Most pay a bitcent a head, and of course there's free lay all the way."
"Oh. Wow."
"Yeah, it's pretty smooth riding."
"Man, that sounds like good money."
"Top man on the squad made a hundred twelve collars, last week."
"A week ?!"
"Fine bitches, too. You should see that dude's rooster, Playboy ain't got nothing on him."
"Could go into business for himself."
"Haha, nah. Too much hassle, too little payoff. Better behind the shield."
"I guess you said a mouthfull there."
"Good morning boys. What can I do ye fer ?"
"Eighty-eight-sixty. Rachel, Mclure. Age 15."
"I didn't do anything!"
"Shut up, you!"
"Alright, sign here."
"See you later, Charlie."
"Yeah. To holding."
"No, please. Wait, I don't..."
"If you don't shut up you're going to accidentally hit something, pumpkin."
"Whooo hooo!"
"Look at that!"
"Hi baby!"
"She in here boss ?"
"That's right."
"Wooo! WOOOO!"
"Come right in, pretty titties."
"Help me! Please..."
"Shut up. It's what you wanted for yourself, innit."
"No, no. I... please..."
"Well, you'd better wanted it, cuz now you got it."
"Oh my god!"
"Hey boss, she can't come in here like that."
"She a first timer, ain't she ?"
"Damn right!"
"Fine bitch not even a real ho."
"Take it off, bitch!"
"Shut up, you dumb whores. You're scaring her."
"Yes boss."
"Shut up everyone. Let the boss man do his thang."
"I love it when he does his thang!"
"You want them to go easy on you, pumpkin ?"
"I... I mean... Yes."
"Then here's what you do. First, you take those sneakers off, let's see what kinda socks your mommy put on your pwetty wittwe feets this morning."
"Wooo hooooo!"
"Hey!"
"But... but..."
"Or they can go hard on you, too. That's your choice."
"I..."
"That's a good girl. And how pretty you look in those ankle socks. Are those icecream cones ?"
"Y..eah."
"That's good, cuz you'll be doing a whoooole lotta lickin'"
"Woooo!"
"Dayum."
"Now walk over to that window. That one right over there. Thats right. Open it. Take your shirt off and throw it out the window. That's right, go for it. Don't be shy, you see that pile of shirts and crap down there ? Off it goes, throw it on the pile. Now your bra, let's see those pretty titties your mommy gave you. That's a good girl. Shake them a little, yeah, with your shoulders like that. Harder. Grab and squeeze, that's right. Now your jeans. Grab them with your panties together like a little girl does it. That's right. Off they go."
"Wow, she ain't even shaved."
"Fuzzy peach bitch."
"How yo hair so light, ho ?!"
"Now shake your ass, like you saw on the Internet. You keep up with the Internet don't you ? That's a good girl."
"Hell yeah!"
"Now say 'please ladies, I want to be a whore, will you show me how ?' to the group."
"P...please ladies... please."
"Please what, bitch ?"
"I want to be a whore too."
"Who da fuck you callin a ho, ho ?!"
"What you say is, 'please ladies, I want to be a whore, will you show me how ?'. Now do it right."
"P...lease ladies, I want to be a whore."
"Will you show me how ?"
"Show me how. Please!"
"Get in here, peachum."
"Don't molest her now, you hear ? Her parents might show up."
"No, officer please! Don't call my parents."
"You sure about that, pumpkin ?"
"Please."
"Here da laydown, new bitch. What yo name ?"
"Rachel"
"Fuck that dumb white bitch name. Got no better'n dat ?!"
"I... I..."
"Yo dumb ass no' bambi. Got dat ?"
"I'm bambi."
"Damn straight."
"Yes ma'am."
"Me, I'm Dayona. I be top bitch an' pen mother in here, that straight ?"
"Hell yeah."
"Preach it Mommy."
"That here Icey, Cardi an' Skye. Muh garls!"
"Yeee"
"Hey hey."
"First thing yo dumb white ass gotta kno, is from now on yo ain't ever gonna leave here."
"That's right!"
"W...what do you mean ?"
"This yo home, ho! This where yo live. Even if yo dumbass leave, yo come back now, yo hear ?"
"I... I..."
"Always yo come back. This yo home, ho!"
"Okay..."
"Second thing yo dumb white ass gotta kno, if yo nigga. Yo nigga no', bitch!"
"Yeee-ah!"
"What dick nigga bitch fuck ?"
"I... black ?"
"That's right. An' what nigga bitch do dem pecker boys pecker wood ?"
"Uhm..."
"Money money money!"
"Dat right."
"Damn straight!"
"Yo fuck befo'?"
"I... I mean, I have a boyfriend."
"If he come to fuck now what you say nigga ho ?"
"I... I ask for money ?"
"She a perky one!"
"Damn straight! Yo ask dat pecker pig fo' his wallet!"
"I... I didn't..."
"Now the third thing yo dumb nigga ho ass gotta do, is find yo mommy. Where she at ?"
"Where yo mommy at, bitch ?"
"Uh... she's at home ?"
"This yo home no', bitch!"
"You mean..."
"Do you know how new nigga ho finds herself her mommy ?"
"I... no ?"
"Use yo nose, bitch. Dat why yo a bitch! Yo smell 'er."
"I... what ? What do I have to do ?"
"You gotta eat out each pussy here. Then when yo done, then you say who yo mommy is."
"Then she yo mommy."
"But... I mean... when I'm done..."
"Yo dumb ass done when we say yo done. No' git!"
"Come here, baby."
"Kiss it right here, pretty bambi."
"Eww."
"Dumb bitch dun like cum scent hahahaha."
"Put yo head in there ho!"
"That's right, slurp her good! Slurp dat dirty cunt new ho!"
« Nothing But A Man
Higher order effects, a pizdillustration. »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Tuesday, 12 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:49:42

The Underbaker
"So hey, Erik ? Who do you say is the greatest superhero, ever!!"
"I'll tell you if you tell me yours first!"
"The Weather Wizard!"
"What ?"
"Yeah, he's a super hero that fights crime with his power of the Weather!"
"What, if they steal his shit he cries them a river ?"
"How about Injun Joei ?"
"Eh, going around naked and with a knife, what powers are those ?"
"He can play dead real well! Like, he could fool anyone."
"He's sure fooling me..."
"He's supposed to play live, not dead. How about Captain Cold ?"
"Nigga, please! That Cap'n Cold bullshit is no better than that Lightnin' Lezzie and the rest of the bullshit they do in WonderWoman."
"Ewww."
"Or that slice of Swiss cheese in underwear, living underwater in a pineapple."
"Ok, cut out the bullshit. The greatest superhero ever is Thunderin' Terrible. Though his real name's Tibby, short for Tiberius. Though he gets real mad if you say his name that way."
"What does he do ?"
"He doesn't do anything!"
"What ?!"
"How does that work ?"
"He fights crime, but his superpower is making just the sound of lightning, like as if there was real lighting going on somewhere nearby."
"Wow!"
"But it's not real, it's just the sound like if it were real. Which it isn't."
"I bet all those criminal villains are totally confused by this completely unexpected turn of events."
"That's right!"
"Cool beans!"
"Say Erik, what are you getting ?"
"GraveGlaze ChocoCake!"
"O wow..."
"That's the best!"
The Underbaker had been set up in the village pursuant a humble proposal to the village barf of trustees made by Herr Totten Kopf, a perfectly respectable German immigrant from Nordirland on the very day of his arrival. He was an expert baker by trade, and after completing his Abiliturii in his domestic homelands he specialized (after the required period of indolent itinerancy and vagrant bummitude, of course) in the baking of really tall cakes, tales, jellows, pastries and other delectabilia -- all with a twist.
As needful implementation of the intrinsic duality of existence, you see, all the products of this noble confisseur were based on adequately redoubled ingredients. Where unskilled, naive practitioners might use plain pastry flour straight, the artful Herr Kopf instead employed a mixture of his own devising, equal parts flour and strychnine. Where cocoa solids were called for -- such as in the setting of a rich dark glaze upon a cryptic cake -- Herr Kopf applied liberally his patented formulation : half Nutella, half quick-dry varnish. Glazed strawberries had their tops elegantly re-made in Paris green (to which he always referred to as "Schweinfurtgrun", out of perhaps excusableiii national-irredentism), and so following. The only guarantee Her Kopf could make as to the elaborate products of his industrious craft was that indeed any portion or part thereof howsoever selected did retain the subiacent structure of all cosmic universe : two parts, of which one each of each!
From a more practical perspective, the village folk were quite delighted both with the German's pricing scheme (any one piece costing the same penny no matter what it was, or how often selected) as well as with its ultimate results : the demise of the supernumerary children, a culling of the herd quite easiersome on the well tried purse of the workaday parents as it was easing on the chancels and chapels, and schools and purgatories, and all other places besed by an abundance of children without anything like an abundance of resources. Why bother raise them, anyways ? The crows can only take so much feeding, and for every dancer of the gallows there's the hard, burdensome, tiring work of carpentry and lumberjacking -- the naive notions that children are yet without sin a poor substitute in imagination of the more practical observation that they're certainly without merit ; and so an approach to ridding the world of tomorrow's unruly mob without having to first waste the pudding on their earthly something for the birds indeed as great contribution to the great march of progress as ever could of industry be hoped.
The Underbaker thus carried on its wholesome business, fraternally respected by all others in the village ; while the perennial children, yet of the size and appetites of little pets, carried on their meaningless chirping, independently rediscovered yet stably self-same, predictably equal to itself during each equally passing year. The last time anyone even bother to fashion fetishes for the little morons long lost to memory, their current discoveries mere constant rediscovery and apocatastasis, of things predating their current year in the sun by fifty or perhaps a hundred even, or put in their own dog lives -- an eternity. For the horizon had come ; and gone.
~ The End ~
———There's a reason all Injuns were Joe, and that reason's not hard to guess : scum survives by attaching itself to living things, and indeed the real Joe lives on through the unremarkable, unsurprising an' ultimately unimportant moral bankruptcy of Xtianity. [↩]Amusingly enough, Trilema itself seems to be the only available resource for this -- purely German!!! -- concept. [↩]Excusable because how little does it care matter what sewer it is dumped to kill the rats incumbent therein, when it was invented specifically and deliberately in Bavaria, so as to replace with an even brighter, more permanent alternative Scheele's interior decorating pigment, at the time (and henceforth) celebrated for the delightful interior scenes it made possible, of oxiuric children wasting away in bright emerald rooms under the dim discreet halo of Gosio gas ? Might as well call it MRGCvGreen then, for Monet, Renoir, Gagarin, Cezanne & van Earkutoff. [↩]
« Joseph, bekannt Joe
Object-oriented, format-extension, freedom & self-respect, things an' matters (that dun matter) »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Tuesday, 19 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:49:30

The Time of Your Life
The Time of Your Lifei is the cinematic originator of the Queers format, or that Jarmusch thing : "people in a bar". They're fascinatingly interesting characters and so different yet "so deeply human" and etcetera etcetera bla bla bla. Don't you know "that's life" yadda yadda and how almost-as-interesting yours must therefore be, for having seen this (plausibly, at least, I mean who's to know, rite ?). It's certainly a damn sight better than McCormick-ian tendentious nonsense a la The Public Enemyii, I'll give that much.
The production lists a nominal credit for William Saroyan (play written by), but considering it was produced specifically by Cagney's brother Willie's one-man-vehicle company (unexpectedly dubbed "Cagney Productions") and strategically placed James in the "Joseph T. (who observes people)" role... what can I say.iii It's a chesspiece in the larger game of "fuck the studios" Cagney was trying his best to play at the timeiv (while carefully minding the small thingsv). It's certainly a different sort of filmvi, and perhaps a worthy addition to the very arid, mostly empty fieldvii of the period. It also does something to suggest that Cagney's conventional typecast as a (fortuitously psychotic) gangster may have been trading on his second-best face, while a sort of Proustian nostalgic reminiscentia might've been truly his forte.
I don't think it's much of a film ; but then again I also don't think Proust-like is much of a genre. It works ok for some people, but those some people aren't the everyman, and certainly not the socialism byproductviii, American or otherwise.
I can't think of a reason to deliberately see this film, beyond taking poseurship very god damn seriously, or else being me.
———1948, by H.C. Potter, with James Cagney, his sister Jeanne, Willie Bendix etcetera (plus the obscure Reginald Beane pestering the piano). [↩]1931, William A. Wellman, also starring Jean Harlow and Joan Blondell (fully dressed, both of 'em). Some of the worst garbage ever turned out by Fartsywood. [↩]Whoever's responsible for it (and I don't suspect H.C Potter at all) did a terrible job of hemming poor J. W. Howe in to the point they might've hired the dorks that shot Tangerine for about the same quality end product. The film looks indisputably cheap (even for a 1940s independent studio, a true superlative of poverty) and in all fairness falls down in pretty much every respect, whatever merits the originating play might've had (never that big of deal on the stage). [↩]The flop this turned into most likely convinced him to give up his "independence", in favour of going back to WB for White Heat, an incomparably prefferrable offering. [↩]As parochially-Midwestern / Ozarkish / Kentucky-mountain-feuds as one could ever get, the (male) Cagneys cut out most of the romancing of their sister by Wayne Morris originally filmed. Herp. [↩]There are no film actors alive today ; but back in the days they still had some, most of them did the "method" bullshit. Cagney doesn't do that here. His nonsensical and inconsequential character is constructed with a lot of skill that'd have merited some recognition were it better employed and applied. [↩]US cinema in the 40s had so far collected a whole heap-pile of mostly nothing at all. [↩]Marcel himself barely makes the last possible cutoff, and that by pushing up with his apparently mighty shoulders a curtain that had for all intents and purposes fallen twenty-odd years prior. Cagney's 1899 birthdate (not to mention birthplace) puts him squarely outside of even the possibility of anything like it.
Rats born in "systematic" sewers ain't ever got anything to reminisce with, let alone about. [↩]
« The onion butt and the bunion twat
La Ragazza Che Sapeva Troppo »
Category: Trilematograf
Wednesday, 10 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:49:17

The State of the (f)Art
As previously hinted, we here at Minigame Suprlabs are undergoing a complete rewrite of... well, everything, really.
The trouble started with glaring inadequacy in [the shockingly, vanishingly little that's] leftover [of erstwhile] republican infrastructure : a very angry engineer reported that she's now stuck going through and reviewing previously-thought-good matter.i
I needn't explain (I hope!) that this is the only impermissible delivery of any ideal systemii ; the concrete instantiation of catastrophe presented itself as this situation whereby if a latter vpatch brings any one file in the codebase to a state from which an earlier vpatch removed itiii, thus creating in practice a situation vaguely similar to conceptual cyclicity, the version of V implementation we were using (v.sh) dies late.iv
So... yeah, we're temporarily delayed in working for Eulora (in the sense of, sinking time into the delays imposed by other spurious portions of code badly written by morons so as to either not do or not correctly do other things peripheral to Eulora itself) because we're stuck rewriting V. I don't intend to release the result ; but it involves an ada-rewrite of the ancient commontools diff as well as a review of how hashes and signatures work.
Specifically as to the proper formulation of a V tree : each file is identified by a complex construction. First, a keccak hash of a convenient length is calculated upon the file. Then that result is OAEP-padded, and decryptedv by the RSA key of the original author. That item is stored as the file's "hash" (in lieu of what stood for a hash before). Interested users can verify that indeed the given file is the file that the author had intended (as long as they have his public key) ; and "collisions" of any kind or sort are no longer possible. The arrangement also introduces a dichotomy between signatures, distinguishing the first (ie, auctorial) signature of every patch, which also establishes the hashes ; and the ulterior, which merely control its running on whatever machines recognize them.
Specifically as to the rewrite of diff... oh, where do I begin. Here, let's begin with gnat :
/* st_size may be 32 bits, or 64 bits which is converted to long. We don't return a useful value for files larger than 2 gigabytes in either case. */
How's that grab ya ? How about the whole implementation of Myers' lcs being found in an .h file ? Oh but don't believe me, don't take my word for it -- go, shallow out them bugs, fly-eyes! I'm not even going to tell you it's diffseq.h. How about the context.c / util.c analyze-output back and forth ? How about...
It's truly not worth anybody's time ; Eulora's own V's diff will bypass gnat for I/O to talk directly with the system calls gnat ineptly wraps ; will read files and cut them up by LF ; will calculate the keccak hash of every line as padded with now()vi and of length equal to the longest line seen ; will do the whole rest of what diff now does but correctly -- because we're people over here, not whatever the fuck it is you are. Fly-eyes.
Oh, in lieu of PS :
diana_coman ma rog, fixat probabil ca nu vad de ce sa zic de fiecare data ca "-uNr" ci e mereu aia si gata
diana_coman ori vrei si acolo variatiile pastrate ca-cate linii de context si din astea ori ce/cum?
mircea_popescu tu....
diana_coman intreb, lol
diana_coman nu tin minte veci sa fi avut nevoie ca mai multe /mai patrate
diana_coman ma rog, nu e vreo nenorocire de pastrat in sensul ca e o constanta si aia e
diana_coman da' are ea ceva implicatii la rezultat pt ca practic *dupa aia* se aleg "hunks" alea
mircea_popescu gen concret, @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ de asta vb ?
diana_coman nu
diana_coman ma rog, ala e din implicatii cum ziceam
mircea_popescu asa
diana_coman in patch ai inainte si dupa liniile insert/deleted (deci alea cu + -) si niste linii de nu-s schimbate
diana_coman pt context, exact cum zice
mircea_popescu da.
diana_coman ei, alea default sunt 3 imi pare
diana_coman ceea ce mi s-a parut mereu perfect ok
mircea_popescu ah, la AIA te referi. ca daca sa fie 3
mircea_popescu sa fie 3, ce plm.
diana_coman da
mircea_popescu io credeam ca vrei sa scoti conceptul sau nush ce ca nu pricepeam
diana_coman teoretic poti "optiune" cate sa fie
diana_coman nu, contexul e util, totusi
mircea_popescu noa lasa. 3 e numar magic ca atitea pizde fut io intr-o seara si gata, e in diff.
diana_coman aia e, ca na, e o constanta, nu ma doare mana sa il pun s-o citeasca din fisier daca e
mircea_popescu nu nu, lasa sa nu mai tot citeasca atita.
diana_coman insa faza e ca schimbarile sunt apoi grupate dupa asta si na, are efecte ce nu-mi par musai de dorit
mircea_popescu gen ?
diana_coman gen daca vrei mai mult context, atunci iti va grupa intr-un "hunk" mai multe pt ca ...n-are de unde sa-ti dea context
mircea_popescu si ?
diana_coman find_hunk al lui aia face: se uita ca-care-i ultima schimbare dupa care are macar atatea linii de context
mircea_popescu a, dar stai. a) noi nu vrem mai mult context ; b) doua linii la fel nu sparg un hunk ce plm.
diana_coman mie ca utilizator de patchuir imi pare idioata faza ca nu vreau sa se schimbe3
diana_coman de aia am zis: 3 si fix imi pare foarte ok
mircea_popescu nici nu mi se pare posibil. 3 vesnic, si cine nu foloseste 3 e un copil lachios de-ala cu net free de la gayromeo si nici nu ii citim patchurile
mircea_popescu ce plm, optiuni acuma ?! sa se duca.
diana_coman ce ziceam dinsus posibil neclar e ca de aia nu vreau sa fie variabila ci prefer sa fie constanta
diana_coman asa, lol
mircea_popescu pai nu doar ca sa fie constanta ci ca sa fie 3.
diana_coman da
mircea_popescu e numar magic, ca si cum ar vrea acuma sa fie alt e.
diana_coman bun atunci; restul ca si format imi pare ok, nu vad deocamdata probleme
———
May 24 13:15:54 diana_coman imi cam vine sa arunc tot vtools si v.sh si tot, ca practic la asa ceva nu vad ce sens are, bine ca am facut ditai vtree cu ele ca sa am acum unde vana erori si altminteri sa stau apoi ce, sa fac verificare de mana la fiecare fisier la fiecare press?
[↩]I am not kidding -- any ideal system. That's how religions end. [↩]Technically, reproducing a hash previously seen. [↩]The issue was only discovered with patch 42 -- coincidentally it's 42, what can I tell you -- but the actual problem in fact occurred much earlier.
You see, at patch 16 a file --- call it f1 -- was transformed into f2. Then, at patch 21, f2 was transformed back into f1. This'd be a "cycle" in principle, very strictly regarding the matter. Finally, at patch 42 f1 was again transformed, this time into f3, at which very late point pressing became impossible (because "conflicting leaves selected", meaning V thinks it can't decide which f1 is being transformed). Needless to say v.sh mentions 16 and 42 but omits 21, and doesn't deign to indicate which hashes are involved, and in general... what, that'd be error reporting, god help us.
Such perfectly naturally arising situation leaves the user quite stranded. Irrecoverably so if any manner of rights, codebase partitioning, or practically speaking any management tools whatsoever at all are deployed ; but even if one entirely owns the codebase in maximal extension for both time and space it's still a royal pain in the butt to chase down dubiously referenced problems through lengthy, heavy trees. In our particular case intervening file movements and other realia greatly compounded the already substantial difficulty involved -- entirely spurious, entirely "self"-created difficulty.
It is mindboggling that this problem had to sit undisturbed for five years, that it got to lurk patiently in the shadows for Minigame to step on it (but then again, given the historical quality of NSA deliveries, it should perhaps come as no surprise) ; but then again, given the entirely spurious nature of the "republic" I naively attempted to spur out of a bunch of spurious worms... nobody did anything, and would have happily continued to "do" so, preferably forever. How's anyone to find any problem, when that "anyone" is to come out of a set that consists of no-one doing nothing ? Hm ?
Even more infuriating, the flow assemblage flows ; it's merely the pressing portion that fails to press, being more strict (but not sufficiently strict to live up to its -- as it turns out, practically impossible -- ideals of strictness). This I deeem symptomatic of the very sort of minds that sprout this sort of junk : very "high minded" "standards", of such unreachably impossible heights as to come by very far beyond anything that can in practice be supported, predictably constructed out of the sad simplicity of five seconds' considerations on an 8 bit processor with maybe three registers ; then, unprincipled exceptions, unreviewed (in preference of adjusting the standards to sanity) ; and then complete paralysis randomly downstream, for no approachable cause. That's how these subsistence cocksuckers think they're just as good as people who have money, that's how they actually have the unmitigable audacity to discuss "privilege" as an ethical negative, that's how they end up driving "electric" cars and doing all the rest of the inane shit they're doing -- in the brief interludes between "lockdowns", bien sur.
More practically speaking, if this machinery won't be able to press once a file is returned to its previous state, if there's two categories of files, type one which can be touched and type two which must remain untouched for all time, then why the fuck doesn't it say something, somewhere, preferably at any point prior to coincidental contradiction of its incorrectly if implicitly held, untenable presuppositions ? And what am I to say to the worker who says to me "you know, I checked if it presses at every juncture" ?
Cursory review of "alternative implementations" as "available" (perhaps better described as some kind or other of nostalgia file ; an assorted jumble of unmaintained half-implementations quite directly similar to an old actress' collection of pre-war fashionable hats, presumably free of moths to the degree you don't go checking, sad abandonalia whose only raison d'etre was some people seeking group acceptance as cheap as could be had at some point in the ever more distant past) yielded exactly what one'd expect on the strenght of the foregoing -- v.py dies early (if unhelpfully, failing to even name the file in question) but depends on a python repackaging of gnupg which isn't, for some reason nobody can be arsed to chase, availabe on the system in question ; v.pl takes longer to not come to any definite return than anyone had in practice patience for, and... well, that'd be it.
Good riddance -- and yes I very much meant subsistence cocksucker as in the offspring of subsistence farmers meanwhile gone to "town". [↩]Aka "signed". [↩]So that collisions are reduced from killers to mere irreproducible events. [↩]
« The curdle
Ongoing keks »
Category: S.MG
Thursday, 03 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:49:05

The socioeconomics of swing
No, we're not talking Benny Goodman & friends ; we're talking sex. Since I've just lectured on the topic for my own haremi, I figure it might as well be memorialized here. What could it possibly hurt ?
So, as the year of our lord 1980 rolled around and the neglected female side of an upper middle-class marriage started taking her first timid steps towards fucking aroundii (late as usual), she discovered herself quite in a pickle. Anonymous sex might be nice and good (not really, women have a very different approach to sex and enjoy it differently), but finding a partner's a complete headache!
Most of the people she'd know come with an absolute guarantee of domestic dramas, for numerous reasons on a lengthy list I don't want to review because the demographic in question disgusts me soiii ; gloryholes really don't work for the pearl clutcher... what's a gal to do ?
Wouldn't it be perfect if there were a repository somewhere -- like a warehouse or something -- of dudes who are just like her husband used to be twenty years ago, more or less (specifically more and specifically less), but who also don't know her at alliv ? After all... Walmart's not a coincidence. Walmart's there because women enjoy sex perceive the world differently and approach it in their own particular fixed way, which is how you end up with Walmartsex in the first place.
Enter the swinger club, an exactly taylored solution to the exactly delineated problem. All you had to do, as the owner and operator of one of these, were two things : first off, handle the faux opulence they're really really into for those three to nine seconds right after the loogie hit the dumpsterv. Second off, get a local coven of Karensvi to come over. They'd more or less handle accretion afterwards (at a shockingly slow rate driven by the fact that ultimately women really really really do not want to sexually compete, specifically because it's the only thing that keeps them young, pleasant or interesting) while the combined weight of their collective behinds bends time and space such that you can turn around and use it to keep the dudes in line. Frankly speaking nobody ever gave a shit about those, since the dawn of days they've always been an afterthought ; therefore "do this, don't do that, or else you're out of here, buster!" always worked, and always will work wonders. Or what, you think the platforms were censoring you ? Keks.
By the time the Clintons rolled around this was all dead in the water, because the Internet firstvii and the phones thereupon simply killed the business model. Why would she eat the still present downsides of her local club when she can just Instagram or whatever ? Less structure, more anonimity (of the exact sort of faux she was looking for in the first place), and besides... women have a very different approach to sex and enjoy it differently. As it turns out they don't even really have to have any, "likes" being an absolutely adequate substitute for most Karens to all the messy sticky sweaty work involved.
And all the better, really. I never much liked swinger clubs, on account of the very... Simon Taquet characters they tend to produce.
———A discussion brought about by the shock and dismay resulting from my mocking of... actually, let's to the whole thing over.
So, continuing our Dorks Of Youtube series (like "People" Of Walmart but without perceptible BO, owing to the fortunate circumstance that they ain't yet got mikes for that, thanks goodness), there's a quartet of pompous dorks discussing The Biggest Swinger Club in California (291,133 views, Jun 5, 2017).
In this video, Matt & Bianca talk to Tom & Bunny, General Managers of Freedom Acres in Southern California. Filmed at Hedonism in Jamaica, they talk about their amazing club, running into your family, schoolmates and priest at a swingers club, and how to act around a celebrity when you...
Etcetera etcetera. I expect you captured the principal ideas : biggest, general managers, hedonism and so vorwarts. Well... here it is, off their very own website :
Careful lest you run into an celebrity. Or something.
Any... questions ? [↩]Note that this is not a discussion individual choice. We're discussing demographics, which are specifically what happens after individual choice bites a steel girder. I'm sure your own Mom / Aunt Luise / whatever the fuck are actual people with actual preferences who drove loopy circles towards some out of town motel every other Saturday because of their own individually held and personally felt aesthetic notions, hence the hairy seal rolling over them on standard motel bedding. Nevertheless... from up here I can't well distinguish them from all the other fifty thousand moms and aunts Luise, okay ? It's really not my fault! [↩]Quit whining about how "the government destroyed the middle class". You're not "the middle class" you take yourself for, the independent and productive bourgeois craftsmen of 1700. You're all bureaucrats, the people Stalin hated most, the people everyone hates because, quite frankly, there's nothing uncotemptible anywhere in you. Go die in a fire, computers ate your lunch anyways. [↩]By which "at all" it is strictly and specifically meant he won't go and man up on her. She's into cucks, she's married one, she's looking for another (or rather, in the mostly detached penis of some other younger cuck)... be it because that's what the family "thought is best" or because the man in her early life rejected her (for cause, no doubt, but she doesn't think she should take that to heart), be it for whatever reason Karen's sexual world is rather narrow and most definitely flat. [↩]A quirk of "personality" (if indeed battery chickens middle-class females can be said to have such a thing as a personality) perhaps best memorialized by Kafka. [↩]The main character in Fargo, or Arquette's character in Search and Destroy, or for that matter the eponymous Karen in The Graduate, twenty years after she didn't walk out of church to be on a bus with the weirdo jew kid (as you fucking well know she didn't, not irl, which is why the film even exists in the first place -- you regretted it ever since). [↩]We mean "the Internet" as in IRC, not as in "the web". The web did nothing for anyone, it's a footnote. [↩]
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Category: Cocietate si Sultura
Monday, 01 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:48:53

The Skin
It is ironic that the deratization of the New World ended up revolving around the same natural resource as its colonization had, a few brief centuries prior -- but then again irony is the only certainty of life, and so the centrality of Bos primigenus in both processess (or rather, The Process, and its unbeknownstly necessary if ulterior unwinding) should perhaps be deemed at most exemplary but certainly unsurprising.
In centuries past the cowskin's capacity to insulate its contents allowed the safe carrying of pemmican, and therefore the projection of that context's semblance of human will far outside the narrower limits other approaches would have imposed, thus after a fashion uniting sea to shining sea. Certainly that march of seemingly manifest destiny'd have not had a space wherein to be evanescently yet firmly perceived in the time and place but for the rut the taureaus had drawn for generations aforehand.
In present times the same cowhide's capacity to insulate its contents allows the elegant disposal of varmints, through a widely favoured process known simply as intubation. This quick and easy (not to mention ironic) approach to reclamation revolves around a prepared animal hide, which is pumped full of air. The preparation consists of little more besides sowing the edges together tightly and shellacking the seams, as for a wineskin ; two nozzles are attached at the relevant ends of the originating animal, generally compressed brass.
After inflation the captured native is firmly secured to the hide, usually by sown leather straps across the wrists and ankles. The face is covered by a standard issue gas mask, whose tubing is plugged in the respective nozzle, whereas the other nozzle is tubed all the way into the varmint's rectum (very large affixion plugs seem to be universally favoured ; there is some dispute as to the ideal order of the proceedings, namely if the muzzle should go in first or last -- a dispute colloquially referred to as "whether they should yell in the bag" and variations). The assemblage is usually set to floating.
Reportedly some varmints are practiced enough in the unlikely skill of swallowing -- and passing! -- air, such as to extend their post-affixion lifespan considerably ; nevertheless the average Skin's generally done moving by nightfall, and that's all.
No, really. That's all.
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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Sunday, 04 April, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:48:41

The Sea Wolf
The Sea Wolfi is a remake of an older (silent, 1910s, meanwhile lost) cinematic reinterpretation of a Jack London bit of wankii, which (unsurprisingly) falls off the sides silently to reveal the fabulous, the phenomenal, the unmistakable Wolf Larson. Though a thick femsauce of "a brutal, callous and inhuman lot" is liberally pasted over by inept (if wilful) trowels at all available junctures, nevertheless the scum's secreted scum cakes off, cracks off, falls off and then blows in the wind as if it's never been. What remains, what stands eighty years later's the deeply human, yes brutal, yes callous, but absolutely, necessarily and unmistakenly human substance put into character by one of the greatest male actors that ever lived. Indeed, this is what's to be a man, this, not the effete bullshit of femtarded ulterior bowdlerization, but this, very much this.
It's true that the world arose around him is not the most comfortable of all the worlds that could ever be ; it's true all the same that it smells quite ill, indeed it stinks to high heavens. Nevertheless, the Sea Wolf's somebody, counterdistinct and in the starkest contrast to all the others, who aren't anybody, not could, nor ever will be. No matter what ; though Lupino's eternally-perennial cvasi-prostitute / mysteriousiii "convict" is, I suppose, about as acceptable as all the othersiv -- hers and all the others'.
A film worth seeing, definitely ; but for Robinson and for him alone.
———1941, by Michael Curtiz, with Edward G. Robinson and Ida Lupino. [↩]Some fixated, amply verbose nonsense about an incipient "superhero" cca 1900, very masturbatorily self-picking at his own foreskin about "what ifs" and similar daydreamt challenges to his imaginary "manhood" and so forth. A boy learning to be a "girl", practically speaking, and for as far as that goes (not very far -- at most a boy can turn into a boi, true girlhood lays strictly outside his reach).
Jack London is entirely and interchangeably Jane Austen & co for a "different" demographic : dumb cunts in pants, as opposed to the more common (at the time) skirts. [↩]How come it's treated with such reverence, anyway ? Hurr durr, "female troubles", herp derp "she's a convict". Convicted doing what ? [↩]Which isn't saying much. The only point where the cinematic production diverges from reality is in the treatment of the sea-fished wench. Contrary to what the gelded conventions of the medium at the time falsely depict, that loose woman on a ship'd have been raped sideways by that captain for a few days, then thrown into the pit to be mauled into a pulp by the sailors, in their own pecking order.
Nor would've she succumbed to "the ordeal", hohoho, no, no. She'd have survived, missing teeth and all ; which is why and how and wherefore the fictive depiction even gets a pass in the first place : if you want cvasi-whores looking like Lupino, which is to say perfectly ahistorical, you'll have to admit they can't be treated historically either. An... eye for an eye, so to speak -- if you want the dollie depicted with all of hers you gotta admit she's not depicted in the process of losing some. [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Monday, 24 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:48:28

The Re(al)-Pimp, Last Chapter.
The Big Mama war ain't started just like that. First I heard of anything to do with it was from Frank. He came in one day like he sometimes did, said to me "Iceberg, it's getting hot." It was November midway. Getting windy, anyhow. "You don't say" I said to him. "Keep the scratch you got, tight. Don't stretch out. Ain't one stud in three gon' make it back out." I didn't like the sound of that.
The trouble started with some joker, they called him Bugs Moron. His real name was Adelard, Adelard Cunin. I figure they changed it because that sucker was definitely not cunning. He was the blockhead mick to stand for all of them, stupid, stuborn and religious. He'd have made a great Pickett or Pettigrew, if anyone ever needed another one of them. He was the worst kinda sucker to have on your side. Like Mr. Donato once said, "With friends like that, Frankie, they don't need any enemies. Wouldn't have what to use them for."
The whole lot of them up on the North side started out as strong-arms, and never outgrew it. His boss for a while, a joker went by Dion, fronted a run down watering hole, the Liberty Inn. He did as bad with it as Dirty Pete did with his, if not worse. He'd sing to patrons while Moron and the gang rifled their coat pockets in the back. Maybe he thought he sings so good, nobody ain't gonna remember what he walked in there with, or where he walked in with it. He was the joker that first invented what's called the Mickey Finn. Maybe it ain't the dumbest con some moron in a hole ever thought of, but it's damn right close to the dumbest one that's ever got a name. Only a mick could think of it, anyhow. It's a variation of the Murphy, but without no girls. They just prat some joker come in for a drink, spike it for him, then push him out the door. When that poor sucker staggers himself to a laying flat stop in the alley, they pick his pockets. That's just micks figuring things through. They're deep as a teacup sea.
The real Murphy works because the Murphy man ain't got no connection to the joint. He's paid the old timey in the hallway a fin or two, that's all he's out his end. For the Mickey, the jokers running it gotta own the joint. There's no way to pull that kind of thing any other way. He who owns it'd string them up. They'd string themselves up, in their proprietor capacity, if they had any sense. That's just how dumb a mick is, though. He goes to church on Sunday morning, to drop on the platter the nickel he took out of the preacher's pocket Thursday night, in the alley behind church. The mick figures he's on his way to the promised land, and all the while there stands the preacher, with a shiner on the size of that platter. Jokers ain't figured out if patrons keep falling over like flies in the alley someone might come asking what all's in them drinks until the City Sanitary Commissioner did just that. Poor Herbert, he said "Paddy, listen up. There's five hundred fell sick from going to a bar this whole week all over town. Three hundred from your Inn, two hundred from all the other five thousand joints all over the place. What gives ?" Moran and the gang were all upset by it, too. It didn't seem fair to them other folks should magick with numbers and add things up and figure things by counts like that. That kinda low blow just ain't fair, to a mick.
A joker might get hot to lay it into some broad maybe every week, or every other week. That joker wants a drink, or six of them, damn near every night. The way we ran the Heaven, the suckers came in there once, then they came once a week, then they were there damn near every night. But with the Liberty Inn, they downright cured the neighbourhood of drinking, which no preacher or halleluja joint ever managed though they tried. But that's what micks are, always doing someone else's job. They open a bar, do the preacher's job. If they opened a church I'm damn near sure they'd have driven everyone to drink. They sure settled the whoring out that way.
When Papa left for the old country and gave old Boss Al the keys, that's when Frank let me know. That's what they called Mr. Donato. They called him the fox and they had a point, too. I ain't ever seen a smarter white man in my days. By then that joker Dion was dead as a plastic flower. He ran a flower shop right across the Holy Name church. One day, while shaking hands with some guinea he knew, a coupla others that were with him stepped aside and pumped him full. They said the beef was some gambling debts from The Ship, and maybe there was something to that. The real beef though was that he had a big shipment of hot rods coming in, three dozen Tommys and other stuff. He was gearing up to start a war, the guineas figured, and they didn't want that. Everyone in Little Italy was against any violence out in the street like in the old days, not just Mr. Donato but the Union boss Merlo and all of the old top men. Later, after Papa left old Boss Al wiped them out alright, rounded most of them hothead morons up and shot them all dead. Tony the Scourge told him ain't no point doing that, but Al said he don't want no stupid folk walking around that close to him. Tony said "You ain't ever gonna be done with doing it. Stupid folk ain't never done coming."
He was right, too. What the Morons did was organize the vote, in all the wards from the second to sixth. Lots of them stupid folk flocked to them. When the boss did a dozen of them in for good three or four dozen more sprung up right behind them, and none the wiser neither. They kept coming at him and he kept sending them to grow Dion's flowers behind the church all that Winter. Frank never asked nothing of me until then, musta been a week or two before Christmas. Then he started raining in. Pepper was getting a call every week, then every day. By the time the year was out we had more jokers come to the Blue to take scratch than came in to bring it back. Some days we'd close a hundred grand lighter than it started. The deal we had from the beginning was to split it right down the middle, and his share of it piled up, on account of his never coming asking for it. By the time February rolled around and he wasn't giving out with calling he was cutting pretty deep into my share though. At first I didn't say anything, but then I asked him over for a run-down. It's not like he was taking all those bales of scratch to do anything, just bury suckers up in rows that shouldn't have been grown up in the first place. That got me thinking the most. Frank said "Whatcha beefin' for, kiddo ? You're the only one in good shape. When this is done you'll still have your girls. Ain't none of the rest of us that'll have a pot to piss in that ain't got three holes in it."
By then I had ok'd a lot of top tier girls move on. Hundreds of them married off, like Josie or Daphne did. Some stayed in some kind of business, though plenty squared out. Most of the ones still in business were in some kinda showbusiness of other, though not all. Plenty ran motels, diners, all kinda small entreprise like that. I'd say of the small business owners back in those days in Illinois, a good third were mine. Not all of them squared out, neither. I ok'd thirty-eight new houses start up over the years. Not all of them made it through, and most of them didn't run the entire time under the bitch that started them, but anyhow. Because of all that, of all the bitches that were under me over the years, not even five percent were under me right then. Maybe not two percent. Tell the truth most of them were under my top bitches more than they were under me in the first place. I sometimes swiped into one of the first floor girls we had, or a Big House visitor, but it was more often sexing a good old girl taking off for good, for old time's sake, than some new bitch to try her out in earnest. I told him "Ain't like you figure it, Frank. No more bitches stuck to me than studs or bones stuck to you."
It wasn't maybe true, but that whole talk got me to thinking. Come Spring the Moron gang relented on trying the hard way. Even a blockhead mick figures out after the fifteen or twentieth time trying to go inside through the wall that the door might work better anyhow. They set all their preacher choir and political machine to yakking all the old square broads in fifty districts into a lather, about the evils of drink and prostitution. That's when you don't lie about whoring out. That's what they call it, bitches trying to pimp on their man call bitches who got clear in their head who their Daddy is prostitutes. It comes from taking a lower place. That's what the word means. Phyllis explained it to me. These crazed bitches from the Moron gang read in their good book the woman's under the man, then turned around to spit on the only bitches that found a man good enough to be worth being under. That's why no varmint in creation's dumber than a mick, right there.
I ran my idea through with my top bitches. Pepper laughed herself on her back, spasming and jacknifing her legs like she ate a whole fly. Phyllis got so excited she stood up with the doilie she sat on glued to her ass. Maria and Ophelia were all for it, Miriam slitted her eyes and started rubbing her palms together really fast like it was the best deal she had ever heard of. Radell was frothing at the mouth. It just tickled them all pink. The plan was simple but beautiful. First, make a list with all them mick preachers that they got. Then, make a second list with all their daughters, both from the wives and that no wife knew about. Then take them all in. They ran around to prepare for the W-day like it was the second coming. We figured out soon enough those jokers had maybe not read the whole thing through, but most of them read the Genesis five or six times over, and that just for the female side. It was a lot of bitches. I told Frank I was to need some muscle. He said he can send a coupla of boys for a few days, if I'm desperate. I said I want sixty or so. He told me I can forget it. By then the outfit was run pretty thin. Just then some mick immigrant took Big Bill's seat up at Town Hall. The boss hatched a plan to get rid of both that poisonous cripple and the mick when they were down splitting spit in Florida. The cripple survived, but Big Bill came right back in his place. I said to him "Frank... you ain't got no muscle. You ain't got no scratch. What good are you in this world ?" He laughed and said he wonders himself every morning the same thing. I run down to him. He said I'm crazy. I told him I'm no crazier than them smarties cocking it all up over in Cicero. He didn't say anything. I asked him if they're crazy enough to try and hit me. He said "Only if it doesn't come off, kid. Only if it doesn't come off."
Four days later the second floor under Maria's poolhall was chock-full of bitches, like a four-and-a-half acre plantation right there, in the heart of Chi. We got them from eleven to nineteen, almost two hundred prissy pussys chained up. It was Phyllis' idea, to keep them there a day or two. Burn their clothes before them, wholesale. Mess with their head, so they don't think they're so special no more. She said the biggest thing makes a stupid square out of a promising young bitch is the idea in her head she's precious, that she's something special. They never get out of it because they're always by themselves. She said "Daddy, chain them prisses by the pair, so they can't take a shit unless some other bitch wipes their ass. That'll turn them back to normal sure enough." It did, too. Of course it did. They had a big old beer tun for shitting in, and a big old beer tun full of grits. Radell came up with the idea for it. She strutted among the bawling bitches kneeled in the dirt, a few lanterns glimmering here and there, and yelled at them "Don't get them mixed up!" She'd had them put smack drab in the middle, right by each other. Those bitches puked more than they shat while they were there, that's for damn straight.
By the time the stench started to filter in the poolhall the next day we started kicking them out. We'd prat them and make them run down, one by one, alone this time. Most broke down like old flotsam. A coupla dozen among them took the bottom floor in the Heaven, three-four more dozen went over other cathouses where the mama'd take them in. The rest, nineteen broads, we sent back. The deal we cut with them was that they can go if they say Poison kidnapped them. I had the lush black bitch of Poison's stashed away, ready to testify from the inside. That stud never knew what hit him, all of a sudden there's white slavery raps coming every which way. At first he thought the precinct studs were kidding him around. Then when the D.A. brought in that little bitch he started bawling like a crumb crusher. Down on his knees, he blubbered "You do me in too, Adele! You too, Adele!" like he was surprised somehow that bitch been trying to get out from under his dumb nigger ass for fifteen years.
It was the most beautiful hit in history. No captain healthy in the head was going to re-open an investigation that had so neatly led to the conviction of one of the city's biggest threats to public interest, that corrupt pimping nigger Poison. They only had captains that were healthy in the head back then. A few Leonards here and there were found that'd be dumb enough to try, but Big Bill wasn't about to let them cemak things up for him, and then the morgue always has more space for more short studs with brain trouble. None of those nineteen bitches ever spilled the beans, and of the rest... god they hated their old folks. A lot of them went on to give interviews with the newspaper men, told the reporters all sorts of stories. I ain't ever seen those jokers as happy since, they had material what to rack up for months and months afterwards. None of the fifty-nine jokers we had on the first list was a preacher six weeks after Poison's conviction. Their congregations ran them out, then took to the first bar. All the better for them, it's always healthier to talk your troubles over a mug of suds or a shot of rye with a friendly face across the log. Much healthier than huddling together with the preacher in the funny barn, reading from the stupid book while he feels up the young'uns, anyhow.
That took the wind right out of their sails. W-day came June 1st. I chose it that way on purpose. By August Bugsy Moron was all washed up, and all his gang of stupid with him. After that, the hole was made. Every roller in eight precincts cruised the street looking for young pussy. Just about school age was good enough. Often they'd roll a whole gaggle of them, ten, twelve scared little bitches with huge eyes and small titties. They roused up all that were pretty enough and plenty that weren't even close to it. They threw them in the slammer overnight, that did it most often than not. It got to where we had regular teams in the pens working the fresh meat. Pepper spent enough nights in the police locker to make up a year, that's for damn sure, Chris and June and Miriam and Phyllis, too. All of them, really. It got to where buying a bus ticket into Chicago as a teen-age broad was same as buying a ticket into Heaven. We paid the clerks in Wichita, Des Moines, as far down as Kansas City to give them discounts that couldn't aford the fare. Some of them came in knowing full well what they're walking into, wanted to be a star. Plenty though were square broads, if we didn't open their eyes for them who knows, mighta ended up like Daphne but on accident. The thing of it is, of square broads nine in ten end up that way, but of the whores Daphne was the one in maybe a hundred. You can't tell me that's a coincidence. If bitches go one way when they don't know better and another way if they do, it ain't anything but not knowing better. It can't be. Just like those pimps of old Sweet rapped about, we rescued thousands and thousands of young girls from wasting their life a square.
We had it polished down smooth to a fine system. Back in those days, if a cop was shot and killed they gave the wife if he was married five bills. If he was shot and lived they gave him a little to live off for a halfa year maybe it was, a saw or two a week. They paid the hospital bils, anyhow, but if the copper lost a leg or worst of all an arm and couldn't work no more it was rough. Most cops bought themselves insurance, but if the company went bankrupt they'd be stuck. Everyone looked to give men like that a soft job somewhere, and I did my part too. I had seven or eight old timers like that start up their own private eye agency. It was a soft job, that's for sure. Everyone knew they specialise in kidnapped youngsters. Whenever a girl disappeared, if the parents went looking for her any they always found their way to one of them. If the girl wanted back he could return her for us, and if she didn't want back he could charge a little bit of expenses while looking for her anyway.
When the idea first came to me I was in the Washington Arms. A guy named Fenton sat at the log, lifting the suds with his left. He wasn't outright crying in them, but he didn't look much like he had any reason not to, neither. He was sure giving Jack the blues, the log jockey facing him and me. Poor Jack a long face on him like he just found out he inherited a hundred grand all in confederate dollars. I went up to him and said "Hey, Fenton. You wanna get a head start ? Go to the car, see what you find there and bring it in here". He looked at me, then lugged out the slammer. He came back in with a pretty little bitch on his heel. I said to her "sick him, bitch!" and she went to work right there on the floor, banging her head between the bar and Fenton's buckle in her enthusiasm. She hadn't had a meal like that in musta been a whole day. He thought it's just a one-off at first, but then I ran it down to him. He had his agency opened the next day and that little bitch was back in school by the next Monday. She came back into the Heaven the next year, and for all the time she was on loan she kicked our way a bitch a week almost.
Then after all the trouble Al went to get him back in, old Whale Thompson up and croaked one day. Before finishing his bit, too. It came to him as he was arguing over the phone with Ruth-Hanna, the Mama of the cobwebbed square gang. That dumb bitch's sissy husband put something or other in his paper no-one read no-how, but Big Bill and Ruthie herself I guess. It got his goat enough to yell at the bitch over the phone, instead of putting his boot in her ass. Truth be told he was getting a little loose in the head, old Bill. The bitch hung up once he stopped yelling and sent an ambulance over. He was purple and stiff by the time they busted into his office. They gave Maysie, his top bitch, the keys to his secret stash down at First National. She dug almost two million slats in fresh C bills out of the line of boxes Bill had set up down there. I elbowed Frank when the story hit the newspapers "He had more sense than you, where's your millions ? Sure as hell not with me." Frank shook his head "I ain't stiff, neither." The week after that he came in and cracked on me "Iceberg, you've got to do a bit." I looked at him like maybe he's from a different planet. "That's a chump crack if I ever heard one. I ain't done, and ain't doing no bit." He shook his head. "You gotta. We ain't got anyone else to put up worth two shits. That Ruth bitch is running, you want her be Mayor instead ?"
That's the kinda bit he had in mind. Honest I didn't want to, but Pepper kept pratting me on it. Truth be told there wasn't a single girl at the Big House didn't push me and twist my arm to go in for it. Once I said I'm in the running that was that. Before every bitch running house in the whole state pulling for me and every log joker trying to give her competition, they didn't even have an election anymore. Ruth just conceded and they put me in. I ain't called her yet, all day long, and I ain't gonna call her the whole bit, either. I don't rap to no bitch ain't my whore no how. Besides, she's old. I figured the right thing to do for my first day in office is have these pretty bitches write the whole story down. I got plans for the future, too. With television coming in a big way and taking over from the movies the way they ate up the stage, I have a dream that one day soon there ain't gonna be a bitch that's old enough to walk but that has her pussy put on display so any joker wanta take a peek just push a button for it. Ain't no good reason any joker that wanta be a bitch can't buy his reefer straight from the machine, with a bar of candy for afterwards. Other things, too!
Brother, I hope you're happy as a boon coon squeezing milk and honey outta dat sister's ass, and see yous around sometime.
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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Tuesday, 09 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:48:16

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 9 : Funeral, Reformatory and Sunday Dinner
When I woke up I first thought the runt had scalded me with hot grease. I was in a flaming sweat. My ticker was smashing inside my chest like a wrecker's demolition ball. That cunning joker playing God had conned me once more, I had whipped my poor mama to death again. The runt's frightened big eyes almost touched mine. She was still bare, her wrists and everywhere covered in the night's marks. She had her heels on though, I guess she must've put them back on after coming out of that soak. She looked so good like that in bed I felt like rolling her over right then and there, but I didn't want to.
She was saying, "Daddy, Daddy, you all right? It's your baby bitch Phyllis." I looked at her, my mind slowly gathering itself together. She caressed my face. "Damn, you had a bitch-kitty nightmare." Then with a mischevious grin, "Was the heat chasing you or something?"
I said, "No baby. That wasn't it. As a matter of fact, you were in trouble. You had done a stupid thing out on the street. You let a nigger pimp con you into his hog. He was a crazy gorilla." She gave me a sly look. "Oh yeah ?" She reached for my wood, cupping it in her palm and squeezing it light but insistent. "What was the bad nigger gorilla doing to me ?" I grabbed her by the hair on the back of her head, not tight enough to hurt her. "Everything I did to you myself. Only, you didn't dig it." She looked at me, still smiling. "Mhmmm..." she purred along. "He was going to cut your throat. I saved you before he croaked you." She said "Thank you very much!" She was going to say more, but I maneuvered her head so her face was in my prick. She got the idea and kissed it. I went on. "Dreams often carry warnings." She purred her "Mhmmm..." again, and kissed it again. "So bitch, stay out of those pimp's hogs." I said to her. She didn't say anything, just focused her hot lava lips and the lizzard living inside of them on setting my wood ablaze. I'd say she did that alright, and lickety-spit, too.
When she was done with her work she lay on her back, holding my deflating rod over her well coated face, using it to draw strings all over. "What now ? Are you going to take me out again ?" she prodded while licking the goo off her lips. "Sunday ? I don't think so, baby." She slid some off her chin and into her mouth with her finger. "You religious or something ?" I snickered. "Naw, bitch. Just lazy." She blew a bubble, like it was gum. "I'm not lazy. I was going to get breakfast, too! But..." I pulled my dick away from her and stood up, on my way to the bathroom "But what, bitch ?" She ran past me to the sink, nearly falling over in those heels of hers at the speed she was trying for. As she was washing her face she motormouthed "I have a list! First off, you told me no clothes. I have to be naked. Right ? Right. So I don't want to dress. But if I go out on the street I think I'll get arrested. Second, if I get breakfast without paying for it I think I'll get arrested too, but to pay for it I have to get money and I don't want to touch your money without askin permission. But I don't know if I have permission and I'd better not wake you up. Third, you told the clerk he'll fuck me in the morning. I could go out there and put my ass on his counter, but I don't know if you meant it like that or not and it's not my kitty to put out without permission."
"Jesus." I just looked at the crazy nigger broad burbling her face in the sink. She toweled off "I just want to do the right thing". I shook my head. I went over to the closet, got her roll out of my pocket, peeled a ten from there and went to the bathroom. Once I was done I said to her "C'mere and suck my dick clean. Bitch." She ran over and went on her knees. I spat on the saw and stuck it to her forehead. "Here's what you do : you go down there, and sit your whore ass in his lap. Get his dick out and just sit on it like that, up and down. Put his hands on your itty bitty tiddies if he don't have enough sense to grab hold himself. Then when he's done you tell him we want breakfast. If he asks for money you give him the ten, if he don't you can keep it."
She shot out of there like cartoon lightning. By the time I was out of the shower she was coming in the door. She handed me the ten. "Here Daddy, I made you ten dollars." She was beaming, all smiles. I asked her where did she pick that up ? She told me the man at the desk told her to tell her daddy he's got fifteen keys for him any time he feels like, she doesn't know what that means. I asked her why didn't she ask him what it means ? She gave me a look and said she's just a dumb bitch and it ain't any of her business. She said she just makes with the kitty. "I thought you're a lady", I said to her. She laughed and said "No siree Bob, no lady here. Just the freak bitch whore Phyllis the Runt". I shook my head. "What's the rent on your lady pad back there ?" I quizzed her. "Two fifty." she shot right back. "Due when ?" She giggled at the question. "Monday morning." It figured. "The scratch you had on you, where'd you get it from ?" She started "My Da..." but then stopped herself. "My father gave it to me." I laughed heartily. "You fake bitch, you hanging out the 711 with your sucker Daddy's rent money ?" She nodded her head, eyes on her toes.
"Don't that beat all! Alright you dumb oreo broad, here's what you do : take your Ford up there, get all your junk in it that's yours and bring it back here. This is your home from now on, you got that ?" She nodded, excited like a little kid hearing the first time about a camping trip. I handed her the car keys. "Am I going like this ?" she asked, sheepish. "Naw. Too early on the Lord's day. There may be something to that arresting business. By the way : if you get busted, your name is Mary Jones. Remember that. If you forget it I can't raise you fast." She nodded. "Mary Jones, yes Daddy. I'll remember." I looked her up and down. She sure looked a million bucks, naked whore standing to attention in that rat trap. I meant to squeeze it out of her one way or another anyway, the whole million to a buck. "What are you waiting for ?" Her eyes turned to groveling, like in my dreams. "Daddy, you said don't go like that but I don't have anything else. My dress from last night was in the car when you made me take off everything, remember, but then you told me to use it to wipe. Should I go there like this and put it on like that ?"
One of the guys I let on June her first night that had no money offered up instead a dozen cheap dame vines. Nothing as bad as the twenty-five cent dress Vera broke the street apart in, but not much to write home about either. They were all sizes, June fit a couple of them, I figured it's a cinch something in there might fit this one, and sure enough, once I got the pile out of the closet and dumped it on the bed she slid herself into something much like the glove she originally had on, only fifty times cheaper. Before splitting she gave me a look and then made with her mouth. "Daddy... how come you've got a bunch of dresses all different sizes in the closet ?" I laughed. "Oh, think nothing of it. Some guy owed me some dough he couldn't pay, that's all." She gave me another look, much slyer than before, and went "About... say maybe twenty dollars, was that it ?" I waved my hand at her like judges wave their hands at DAs without a case. She took a step towards me like she was going for a fight. "How many whores have you got ?" I smiled sweetly, "Baby... I ain't got no whore at all. Before I copped yo dumb ass I was blown whoreless, and fresh outta girl. Now that you're starting to get the wax outta dat ass and shake a little scratch here and there maybe I can go about fixing that." She looked at me, trying to keep up her strong cop front but crumbling inside fifty ways to Sunday. Eventually she broke out, "What's it mean, girl ?" I laughed at her. "Snow, baby. Blow. C for cocaine, you know ?" She mouthed "Oh", but didn't say anything. Then she laid into me with "How old are you ?"
I always lie when I tell the truth. I lied to her that way too. "I'm seventeen" I say, and if I kicked her hard as I could right in the belly she'd not been winded like that. "Seventeen!", she said when she could say anything. "My little brother's twenty-three, and he's a wuss." I laughed. "God damned oreo family you've got. Where did you grow up, in some preacher's house ?" "Father's a professor at the university." I nodded at her. "Same thing. And your mom's a sufragetty, no doubt about it." Her eyes turned to water. "Mama's dead." she said at lenght, cold as a gravestone. "You're gonna be just as dead as her if you don't get that ass in gear and outta here." She left crashing the door behind her. I wondered if I just blew a whore. Then I wondered if I'd ever give a shit. I figured I'd blown Vera for much less and missed her a lot more, anyways.
While she was gone I figured I'd go to Mama's parlour and let her in some advanced warning. They still worked mornings on Sunday in those days, open till noon. She was expecting me to show up with June for lunch, but with June out of the picture I wanted to figure out if I bring her the runt to poke at or just let the whole lovergirl angle drop altogether. On the way out I dropped four-fifty on the clerk and picked up all the keys. He pushed one of the fifties back. "What's wrong, Jack ?" He looked at me like I was the owner. "Boss, I know the score. A whore like that, a body's to be plenty lucky to lay into for just a twenty." I looked at him sideways. "Didn't you buy breakfast ?" He nodded. "What gives ?" He shook his head and said "Two dollar breakfast. Boss, you come in, I make a hundred. That's fine. What do I do with the hundred ? I take it over to the red lights, buy myself a bit of fun. Maybe I get myself clipped. Maybe I get conned. Odds are if I find a broad it ain't anything like that freak you came in with. Lettuce's nice but pussy's better. This way I take your hundred straight to the bank, no care in the world. This way it's better than the other way, believe you me."
I nodded at him. "You're a smart operator. I'll keep you in mind." The whole place was mine now, and I'd be damned if I didn't mean to fill it up as soon as possible. I was gonna get me a mahogany desk just like that joker had, and give lectures to people from behind it. Except my people'd all be whores and the disgrace to my respectable institution'd be something the hell else from what everybody everywhere was always doing. You can make a half buck doing what all the other dummies do, but you ain't gonna be having any fun doing it, that's for damn sure. I was gonna have the whole house fulla naked bitches, bunk them two and three to the room and get some frozen steel spikes from somewhere.
On the way to Mama's I ran into a young con. In highschool he was a year older than me, and we didn't talk much. Then when he got out he was mixed up in something I never figured out. They said he was with a crew of cats breaking into empty houses at night and playing communist out there in the dark. It's a lot easier to do than you think, especially if you're the poor, and the rich ain't there with you to do anything about it. His mama said he was just the fall guy for a gang of mean bad men. For what that's worth, my Mama'd have said the whole thing with June was that evil girl, dragging her poor son Bobby into sin with her vile lures. Poor June, she'd make three whores of Babylon smashed into one, by Mama's reckoning. Not that she was anything else, but it's not like she'd have ever figured it out all by herself either.
I was with him all of five minutes when we saw a funeral procession. It affected him something terrible. I asked him if he knew the stiff. He was surprisded. "You don't remember Oscar ?" he asked me. Turns out I did remember him. He was a fat nigger sitting next to me back in high school. He was a dedicated member of the Holiness Church back then. I'd never gotten friendly with him, on account of his only interest at the time seemed to be his church and the god-damned Bible. Most old people won't shut up about it, but this was a kid and worse than ten of thems. He didn't smoke, swear, chase broads or gamble. He could've been a rock-ribbed square, if only he wasn't fourteen years old. His name was Oscar, anyway. Apparently he died a square, and before he was eighteen. The ex-con opened up. They were at the reformatory together, the Wisconsin Green Bay reformatory for boys they called it. He said to me, "They call it a reformatory, but believe me it's prison for real."
It wasn't, though. I didn't know back then, but reformatories are worse than any prison. The thing of it is, kids are made of mud and plaster. They're chickenshits, to the last boy among them. A real prison is tough alright, but in a different way from any reformatory. In a real prison, the cons are older. Many of them murderers, tough guys, hard as coffin nails and with the life sentences to prove it. They'd never put up with the kind of petty tyranny that's standard issue in a reformatory. The food's much better. There's industries, a con could learn a trade if he wanted to. I don't just mean plumbing and carpentry. A con could go into the yard during recreation hours and learn other trades and skills. The heist men stick together, yakking all day about new, more sensational robberies. The fruits and punks lay on the grass in the sun, romancing each other. The pimps and con men stick together, two groups with much overlap. They talk each other's ears off like unemployed actors "rehearsing" their bits. Real prison's all about the cliques, all about bloody vendettas.
Meanwhile at the reformatory, like the punk said, they didn't even have latrines. They shat in buckets, in their cells. Imagine that, all Summer long. The food was all worm castles and crap no plantation nigger back down South would eat. The kids take one good look at those high slate grey walls on their way in and reel from it their whole six or twelve or eighteen months bit. The walls loom grimly in their mind, like a giant fist slugging them silly and then, once they're good and winded, headed straight up their ass. It's anything but home to them, they lay awake in their cots at night crying for their ugly Mama. Reformatory kids never seen screws before, never tried to walk in chains even for fun, the time the jailhouse croaker tells them to take off their duds it's the first time they've been naked with people for half or two in three of them.
The way he told it, there was a warm welcome. After the croaker saw them, and they showered and put on the jacksuits they were lined up in front of the warden, himself and Oscar and some other fruits. The warden gave it to them straight : "Well Sambo, you sure got your black-nigger ass in a sling, didn't you. Get one thing straight. We didn't send for you. You came down here by yourself. You ain't welcome here, that's why we didn't invite you over. What we do here is punish you smart-aleck bastards. Most other kids your age can figure out on their own that they ain't welcome any in this here place we've got. Some's too dumb to figure it out on their own, but that's okay. It's fine, I say. We'll figure it out for you. So, if you fuck around, two things can happen to you. One's that we got a hole here. That's the hole that we bury tough punks in for trial, as it were. Dress rehearsal, see if they're ready for closing night. The way we got it, it's a stripped cell. No light, twenty feet below ground. Down there, two slices of bread and a pint of water twice a day. That's it. Then for the real artists, we have it fixed they go out that North gate, in a box. It's a nice box. You'll be making them yourselves, so you'd better make them nice. Take this rulebook and study it like your life depended on it, because guess what Sambo ? Your life depends on it. Now get your rusted black asses out of my face."
Not bad mouthing off for a Warden taking home enough scratch each month to pay a nigger pimp's breakfast, and raising on it a pretty little whore or two to get the nigger pimp that breakfast for him. Ain't that right ? This one reformatory had a big bad dummy screw in it, dazzling with brass buttons and gold braid on his navy-blue uniform. This screw didn't talk, he just slashed his lead-loaded cane through the air like a vocal sword.
They were all afraid of him because he croaked two white cons and four spades with that cane. They said he hated Niggers. The way the story went, that screw was called Fog Horn by the cons before his trouble made him a dummy. Back in those days his bellows could be heard from one side of the joint to the other. Then his wife killed herself and their crumb crusher, two years old. Apparently he didn't treat them so much better than two cons, because on her note she left him she said "I can't stand your hollering any longer. Good-bye." The head-shrinker of the joint figured when the broad croaked herself, it shut off his box. Now there was one thing this big bad couldn't stand even less than a con or a wife or a nigger or a funny man, and that something was a religious nigger. He never took it true, he always thought they're conning with it, which fair enough half maybe did, but half did not which still puts the nigger ahead of the white folks because I ain't ever seen the flock of them religious where even one in twenty was for real, let alone half.
Now Oscar didn't sit well with him at all, being a nigger like he was, and fat too. Ain't no nigger got a right to be fat by his figuring, not anymore than got a right to be rich, or be here at all in the first place. If it weren't for folks like that there'd be no strife in the world, just whoring and pimping all the way to Heaven. The ex-con said, that dummy screw keep following after poor Oscar day in and day out. The way Oscar had ended up in there in the first place was a one year sentence by that same hawk judge that asked me to go visit with him. It all came from that Oscar, the poor chump, had started going with a crippled Irish girl of seventeen. Some other kid saw them smooching in the dark of a downtown theatre, and sure as sweet potatoes he rolled on them to his parents, who ran over to the other parents, who ran over to the Irish cops, who ran over and booked him, all Irish temper and prejudice. Then it came out he had trespassed the forbidden valley, so the charge of statutory rape naturally offered itself and there was Oscar, up shit river with no paddle in sight. A fat religious nigger that raped a good upstanding Irish angel, and a cripple too, now that was the stuff of that screw's worst nightmares. He kept after poor Oscar day in and day out, until some time six months in poor Oscar lost his mind.
The way the ex-con told it, he just started painting with his own crap one day, his eyes wild and gone. They took him to the croakers, who then sent him to a lock-up for special cases. When he got out, maybe a year ago, his parents took him back in. They took him to all the churches and miracle men. All the croakers told them to lock him up, but they wouldn't do it. This went on for a year almost, until Monday morning. Oscar ran in front of a truck. He was in the hospital a brief stint, and now they were taking him to more settled arrangements. We walked behind the few dozen people a short while, but then I broke off and headed straight to Mama's.
She was pressing a young customer's hair. She turned the windmill on the moment she laid her eyes on me. "I have been worried. Where have you been ? Did you find a job?" I told her I think maybe I might be getting a clerk job with an office but jobs aren't as easy as all that these days. A lot of run-around most of the time. She nodded like I was preaching the gospel. She said "I hope, Son, you haven't been with Pepper." I looked down at the nut brown, shapely girl getting her hair pressed. "Pepper?" I said "She's too old for me. I like young pretty brownskin girls. Pepper's too yellow for me." The youngster flashed her eyes up at me. She smiled. I winked and ran my tongue over my lips. She dug it. She blushed. I put her on file. I said "Mama, you remember June ?" Of course she remembered her. What a nice girl that June. "Well mama..." I started, and she bristled immediately "What happened ?" I almost teared up. "She's done left me, that's what happened". I was growing indignant. "Some white joker whistled and like a dog she went a-running, Mama! Ain't nowhere in this world an honest fella can find an honest woman for himself ?" She all but went Amen, eyes high to the ceiling like in her prayer meetings. She'd know, too. The fresh package was bubbling inside of herself. She'd make a fine whore alright. I didn't feel like breaking the runt news anymore. Mama said "Well son, there's a roast going in the oven anyhow. Shut the gas off and eat. I'll be coming that way just as soon as I'm done with Miss Jackson here." I shook the young broad's hand. "Bobby Beck. Pleased to make your acquaintance." She was tickled pink. I knew that next I run into her she's set up for a cop.
I went to Mama's place and dug into the steak. Just by the time I was done she paddled up the stairs herself. I sat around in her yeakking for as long as I could stand it and then split. By the time I got back to the runt it was getting dark. The car was there, and the bitch inside, buck naked, doing her toenails.
« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 8 : I'm Gettin Stable
The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 10 : The Golden Fix And The Double Cross »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Monday, 01 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:48:08

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 8 : I'm Gettin Stable
Eventually I had enough moping. I told myself, "Alright Mack, what you got is what you got, what you lost you never had an' that's that." When I finally got out, it was Saturday night around maybe seven or so. I went to see a prison movie. I figured, how bad could it be ? It was a grim drama. A young green punk tried a double cross. He was criss-crossed into the joint. He made deadly enemies while doing his long bit. When he got out, a long black short pulled up and riddled him with a tommy gun. As I went out of the theatre, a big black car was pulling to the curb toward me. There was something familiar about that small pinhead driver. I had seen him before. Turns out, it was Dalanski, the roller. He gave me a thoughtful look as he walked past.
I didn't want to see Mama in my state of mind. Back in Rockford she had been a dutiful church goer, leading a christian life until Steve came on the scene. She relapsed at some point after moving to Chicago ; maybe it was all those alumni she started spending more and more time with. The whole year and change I was serving time upstate in that Tuskegee dump she'd write me long, rambling letters almost every week, well supplied with threats of fire and brimstone for me if I didn't get Jesus in my heart and respect the Holy Ghost and the fire. It seemed to me poor Mama was becoming a religious fanatic to save her precious self-importance from her own history. She found out about Henry's death just about this time, too. I guess she felt trapped in a cage of her own making. She was bearable enough if I had the drop on her and a young, fresh, innocent looking little whore in tow ; but like aspirin I didn't have the appetite for taking her straight, without buffer.
I walked aimlessly a while, and eventually found myself in an underworld bar, The 711 Club, some rum and coke in front of me. The place was thick with pimps, whores, and thieves. There was probably more hot stuff in between the patrons' pockets than in the whole city court system. I was at the far end of the bar, facing the front door across the room. Years later I was sitting down in the same place when I asked the slightly familiar elephant beside me about Party. He turned his head. His dime-sized eyes got stuck in my fly's zipper as he looked me over head to toe. He did remember me. He said, "You ain't heard ? About a month ago your boon coon Party caught sixty in the county. One of them tight pussy broads opened his nose wide enough to drive a freight train through. He married her and all, then one day he caught a stud whamming it into her like he was trying out a new mattress. The stud quit the scene. The broad had to go to a croaker to get Party's shoe outta her ass." It came as a shock but no surprise. The game's the game, nobody gets to check out just because they say so. Nobody asked them anything anyways. I didn't know about any of that back then. I didn't know a lot of things, like how Weeping fell dead outside a shooting gallery within the week. He musta' shot some pure by mistake, cause a lookout on the sidewalk heard his last words before he croaked. He mumbled 'Well kiss my dead mammy's ass if this ain't the best smack I ever shot'."
The sissy barkeep sat a fresh bottle of coke on the log before me. I yanked my eyebrows into a question mark. He lisped, "The runty black bitch in the middle of the bar sent you a taste." Without taking my eyes off his thin yellow face, I said, "Sugar, run her down to me. Is the bitch qualified? Is she a whore? Does she have a man?" The corners of his mouth see-sawed. He slugged his soggy, dirty bar rag against my reflection on the bar top. He almost whispered, "The bitch ain't nothing but a young skunk from Saint Louis. She ain't nothing but a jazzy jive whore. I'm more whore than she is. She ain't got no man. She's a come freak. She's Georgied three bullshit pimps since she starting showing up a month ago. If your game is tight you could play a hog outta her ass. She tells people she's nineteen but it's more like twenty-nine." I eased a bone from my pocket, put it on the bar for the refresher. Pepper's words might have been just last week, but they already melted into my mind like just good sense known since before the war. I said, "Tell the bitch I said I'll take care of the little things, and if she's worth my time maybe I'll let her take care of the big things. And give her a drink on me." On the juke box Billie Holiday was crying about her man not respecting her enough. If he respected her any she'd have just sung about some other pimp, that's all.
The barkeep twinkle-toed toward her with the wire and drink. Through the blue mirror I zeroed my eyes in on the target. My ass bone starched on stiff point. Her big peepers were two sexy dancers in the velvet midnight of her cute round face. Hot scratch fever streaked through me. I thought, if I could cop her and get a pimp's terms she would be out of pocket poison to all white tricks that pinned her. Pepper sure knew what's what in whorology. I was glad my ears had flapped to all her rundowns. She had said to me, "Puppy, you chase a whore, you get a chump's weak cop. Stalk a whore to get a pimp's strong cop."
My turn down had her paying attention. It worked like a slick sharp hook twisting in the bitch's mind. Her juicy tongue darted out like a red lizard past her ivory teeth. It slithered over her full lips. She wiggled toward me in an uneven race with the bar keep. He was sliding her green drink between me and the guy one over. I heard a low excited trumpeting from him. He was digging her rounded props and gourmet rear end, rolling inside her glove-tight purple dress. I painted a lukewarm indifferent grin on my face as she perched on the stool. I noticed a roll of scratch wedged deep between her tits. She looked right at me, and cracked, "Who the hell are you, and what is that off the wall shit you cracked on the bartender?" My eyes were sub-zero spotlights on her face. I looked at her, smiling, eyes half closed, like she was a kiddy pestering daddy on vacation. I said, "Bitch, you've got a sassy jaw on you. It could get your ass ruptured."
The big vein at her temple quivered. Her rapper was shrill. She bleated, "I ain't no bitch. I'm a god-damned lady. The stud ain't been pulled outta his mammy's womb that kicks my ass. Goddamnit, call me Phyllis. Be a gentleman and respect me. I'm a lady." I chuckled low and turned to look her up and down. Then I let go. "Who asked you anything ?" She jumped off of her stool, and then stood there. Opened her mouth two or three times like she was gonna say something, but nothing ever came out. I wasn't even looking at her, I just drank my drink. She sat back down. She looked straight ahead a minute too. Then she turned around all smiles. "I'm sorry, sir. We came off to a bad start." Then reaching out her hand she said "My name's Phyllis. Pleased to meet you." I just looked her up and down again. Then I reached over, pulled down her top, got her roll out of there and set it in front of her, on the bar. She just shuddered, pushing her tits in together slightly with her elbows, eyes closed. I said "You ain't pleased or nothing. You're just a fake. What do you think you're doing, trying to get into the game with all those chilli pimps ?" She stammered. "I... I just..."
I chuckled at her again. "You ain't no whore. You ain't nowhere close to being a whore. You don't even need scratch. What hole in hell did you crawl out from ?" Her eyes were two huge lampoons lit on Beg river. "Please", she said, "can we go somewhere and talk ?" I chuckled at her again. "We are somewheres. Ain't we ?" She pushed herself into me "Somewhere more... private." I took a sip. I looked at her. I took another sip. Finally I said "Bitch, I ain't going anyplace with no lady. If word got out I did that, why! No decent person would talk to me." She hesitated a moment. She let out a wet sigh, like I was taking her kitty away from her. Then she pushed herself into me harder. "What can I do ?" I sniggered. "You got panties on ?" I asked her. Then I continued, as if catching myself, "Of course you do, you're a lady, ain't you. Alright, bitch, here's what you do to not be no lady no mo : you take your pretty ass over to the ladies, you peel those panties offa it, you bring 'em over in your hand and you plonk them right here, on the bar, where your lame lady drink didn't catch. You got it ?" She nodded and ran off. A half minute later I was putting a dollar on the frilly lacey panties still warm from her cooch and telling the bartender, loud as thunder, "Here Jack, this pair of ladies underwear and a dollar buys this bitch here a drink!" Her face was red hot. Some whores sniggered, but most nobody gave her little exposure the time of day. For her though, it was the biggest deal since some whore first pissed standing. She felt like she had been pasted naked on the gate of her Pa's old farm and every neighbour fucked her twice. The stuffy bullshit that gets caught in ladies' skullboxes...
I grabbed her by the scruff of her neck. I dragged her ear to my mouth, and whispered "You got a short, bitch ?" She didn't get it. "A car." She nodded yes, "It's outside." I let go of her neck. With my finger I pushed her chin so her face was facing me, our noses a half inch apart. I looked into her lovely eyes and I said "Beat it to your short. Get inside and take every stitch of clothing off. Everything. When I come out, you step out of your car, both bare feet on the ground, and invite me over. If I feel like getting in with you I guess you're lucky ; but if I don't you just lock your keys inside and walk away. You got that ?"
She drew a breath so sharp it must've hurt her. I was expecting her nose to start bleeding any moment. She nodded like crazy and shot out of there. As she was thundering out I said to the bartender "I guess I find out if deep down she's really a bitch, or just a fag in drag." I finished my drink and I was about to take off when the bartender pointed to her wad. "Don't forget your scratch, Mack." That sissy was right, it was my scratch alright.
I peeled a five off of it and pushed it to him. "Steal the change and cop a hog." His eyes sparkled bedroom gray. His delicate pinkie scooted the saw buck back to me across the log. He said, "Sweetie, it's on me. Come back at two and cop a real girl."
The lady sure looked comical, standing buck naked by the door of that yellow club cabriolet of hers. Like that fire-and-brimstone preacher, trying to hide his hard-on from the cute sister in the front pew flashing her cat for him. She was waving me over like she was scaring away crows. Now a '36 Ford isn't exactly what passed for pimp wheels back then, but on the other hand I couldn't really drive anyway. Pepper had tried to teach me a little, but to say it true we just didn't have the time for nothing like that. I walked up to her. The broad was speechless. She just fretted in place like a bronco filly. I had called all the shots. I reached out my hand and put it on her left tit. I smiled at her. She just gazed at me with big wide open eyes. "Why's your heart reaching, whore ?" I asked her, lightly. She didn't say anything. "You ain't ever done anything like this before ?" She shook her head no. I walked around her, got myself seated good and comfortable. Then I lowered my window and bellowed "Well then get in, bitch. You'll be getting plenty of practice before I'm done with your skank ass."
She tugged at my sleeve as she sat her ass down behind the wheel. She looked up at me. Those dancers had stripped. I looked down at the hot runt and said, "Well bitch ? What's your story ?" She grabbed my shoulder. She pulled me down toward her. I could feel her hot breath on the side of my head. She popped that lizard tongue into my ear like I was made of candy. It sent hot shivers through me. I stayed cool. I turned my head and knifed my teeth into the side of her neck. I don't know why she didn't bleed. She just moaned. She whispered, "You cold-blooded sweet mother-fucker. I go for you. Let's go to my pad." I grabbed her by the throat and squeezed. She closed her eyes. As she was starting to go limp I kissed her. It was like I was giving her the chair. When I had enough of her torture I said "Go ahead, bitch. Drive." She looked at me like a kicked puppy. I could tell she wanted to ask for her clothes. I just shook my head. She gunned it out of there. I said "You ain't putting anything on, bitch. You'll drive there like your Mama made you, and you'll walk there like your Mama made you. Is that clear ?"
She didn't say anything at first. Then she nodded. I yelled out, strong and sudden, "Is that clear!" Her breath was hard and rapid. She squaled "Yes, sir!" She drove to her pad. It was only ten minutes away, but still we didn't say much. After a minute or two I could tell she's catching back to herself, getting back to familiar territory, feeling at home again. She must've taken a thousand suckers down this same throat, to the digestion room, like one of those flytraps. She was breathing at ease now, waiting for me to move, to speak out of line, to step on my own feet, to break it for myself. I didn't. Her ease was short lived. She really didn't want to get out of the car naked. I got her key out of the ignition, and told her if she's not out there in the street I'm gonna dump them down the sewer grate and walk away. She shuddered. I told her if she knew she's got a chicken heart, she shoulda chickened out at the bar, at least there they'd have fucked her. Here where she lives, they'll just scorn her to death. She took one deep breath and shot out of there. At the door up three steps she reached for the key in her purse she didn't have. It was comical to watch. I got out of the car and made my way over, taking all the time in the world because guess what ? I had all the time in the world. Besides : if you're important enough, they'll wait for you, whatever it is.
I grabbed her by the hairs on the scruff of her neck and lifted her so her feet were almost off the ground. She yelped. I said "Louder, bitch. Let everyone hear you." She whimpered. I opened the door and dragged her in like that. We climbed the stairs, the naked bitch on tiptoes that used to be a lady who lived there and the pimp that owned her ass. I opened the door she pointed at, then grabbed her under her knees and carried her over the threshold. She started chuckling like an idiot, and wouldn't let go of my chest. Her pad was a made trap for suckers all right. She had pasted luminous white stars on the hotel room's blue ceiling. There was one blue light. It glowed sexily from behind a three-foot plaster copy of Rodin's "The Kiss." There was a mirror over the bed. There were mirrors on the walls flanking the bed. There was a polar-bear rug gleaming whitely in front of a blue chaise lounge. I sat myself on the lounge. She flipped on the portable record player. Some broad whined out "Paper Moon" all wrong. She ran off into a cell-sized bathroom. She left the door wide open behind her, I could see her clearly digging a washcloth into her armpits and cat. "Hook your foot up on the wall, bitch." I told her. "You'll get yourself better that way". She tried to do it, clumsily. I was thinking she needs more practice ; she was thinking she needs more practice. We were on the same wavelength, isn't that right ?
She came back out a little later, her kitty pretty and smooth, fresh shaven, just like a baby's bottom. She offered me drinks. I told her "You know, she's right. I don't believe in your fake ass paper moon. I don't believe a rat's ass." She looked at me puzzled. "You know who that is ?!" I didn't say anything. She kneeled next to me, on the rug. She started talking, with her eyes closed. She told me about black music and how everything's changing, starting with some Ella broad on that record. She was a lady alright, or at least had been. She was an assistant working at National Louis University, which is where all the teacher broads with college degrees come from. She was involved in some kind of eritrological program whatever that is. Basically she was faking being a whore for research! She blew my mind. It was like if one of those dour old motherfuckers at Tuskegee were the jaspers, and I copped them. She talked to hundreds of young cunts each day, she was a goldmine of goldmines. I was so hot for her I was about to burst. And the best part of it is, she didn't know it. She didn't know any of it! She was ashamed of it, ashamed to admit it, and I played it up for her as far as she'd lap it up.
After I figured she spilled most of her beans, or anyways once she started circling back over the same ground I gave her a stern look. She stopped, dead in her tracks. Her ass lifted off her heels as if by itself, bringing her to attention. Her nipples were rock-hard. She was quiet, looking up at me imploringly. Finally I spoke, slow and solemn, like a hawk-headed executioner. "Bitch, it's come time for your punishment. You have to be punished. You know that, don't you ?" She nodded like I thought her head might jump off of her shoulders and make its way to orbit. "Where you keep the ropes ? Bring 'em here." She looked at me like I had guessed the lottery numbers in every state. How hard is it, I could see the solid posts on the bed, the eyelets in the beams here and there. A freakish broad like that ? Easy.
She scurried off, and came back with a bunch of bundles. There were a lot, dozens. Pepper had taught me some basics, but it was obvious to me I was outgunned. This bitch had practiced, who knows how many years. Who knows what they do to those sweet future teacher gals in college, anyways! I didn't let the thought bother me. I said to her "Bitch, I'm not gonna plug that mouth of yours. You're ok to moan ; but if you scream I'm out of here. And I'm propping the door open on my way out, too." She shook her head yes, while her eyes were candles burning wax of please. I tied her up like I knew'd hurt her. Every so often I'd let her out and make her hurt somewhere else, some different way. I worked her over more than an hour. Her curvy black body had the sheen of seal skin. I could tell she wants her release, but she's not gonna say anything. She quivered and rolled her jet satin belly under my nose. She was pushing herself to be as good as can be. She was trying to earn it. That's the way the best bitches are, and don't let any fool tell you no different, either.
"You want to get off, don't you." I asked her. "Mhmmmm..." she came right back. "Well bitch... you can't." Her eyes turned to terror. "Not here. Not now." She looked at me, the flames in her eyes questionmarks. "To get off you gotta turn a trick. That's the only way for you from now on." She just looked at me, and then she nodded her head. "You ever turn a trick before ?" I asked her, contempt in my voice. She hesitated, then shook no. "Well... there's a first time for everything." I walked over to her shoe closet, picked out the tallest, reddest pair of heels in there. Threw them on her and then let her loose. "You a whore now, bitch. Naked or no, you don't go barefoot, remember that. You get those heels on and you keep them on. Even in bed." She put them on and split. I locked up behind her and met her in the car. She was shuddering, flushed. She wasn't cold, she was scared. I said "How much scratch you got, bitch ?" Suddenly her eyes opened wide. "Fuck! I... I left it at the bar. Where you... were I first saw you." I reached in my pocket and pulled it out for her. "Dumb bitch." She bit her lip and lowered her forehead. "How much is in here ?" She looked at me. "Two hundred forty-five."
I knew she had to have it from her Daddy, the first one. It was way too much for her no-skill dumbass to have come by in any other way. That's the way all these lady bitches are, they don't whore on suckers they found themselves, like real women. They too lazy and stupid for that. Instead, they whore on suckers their mamas found and crippled for them, like god damned pumas and cheetahs. How they're not ashamed of themselves God only knows. "Alright, bitch. Once you get two hundred forty-five new slats with your pussy I'm gonna let you crash." I directed her to the edge of the red light district. We had a method down pat, made just for her, just for that night. We ran it smooth, she'd pull over next to a sucker and I'd go "Hey brother, see this bitch here ? She's naked and horny. Twenty, whadda ya say ?" She sold two in three no problem. The shy ones she turned in the back of what used to be her car ; but more often than not I had her get out and walk around, to take them standing, her titties on the window on my side. After the first few I had her choking on my rod while the punter worked her ass. At first I thought no punter'd want anywhere near any set-up anything like that, but boy was I wrong! They went wild for it! After the fourth or fifth like that I finally figured out what they wanted to hear. I'd say "Yeah man, fuck my wife. Give it to her hard man. Fuck that pussy full. We've only been married six months now, but I turn her out regular. Put a baby girl in her, so the whore seed never dies out." It drove crazy, half the time they paid over the twenty we agreed on! One guy peeled out a fifty off his wad, rolled it up thin and shoved it in her asshole!
Once I pulled it out of her and we drove off I told her I guess this stinky one pays for breakfast, huh. She laughed but then stopped herself with a gasp, like she had broken all ten commandments together or something. I was laughing myself. It was the rush of a lifetime, like the best party ever. I told her so, and she started laughing again and said she was thinking the same thing. I asked her what's it feel like, being a dirty whore ? She looked at me with dreamy eyes and said it's the best filling in the world. I mean she didn't say feeling, she said filling, like a pun. I told her now at least she knows what dirty stands for. She had dribbled all over her seat to the point there was a sloshing puddle down there. We kept laughing and jibing all the way back to my run down rat trap. The same clerk raised an eyebrow at the sight of the naked whore walking with me, four-something in the AM. "You'll give her one tomorrow, Jack. She's filled up now." I said as we went by, without stopping. I think he nodded. She took a soak and I went off to bed. I think I remember her sliding into bed and spooning with me afterwards, but my sleep was thick with dreams, rich, vivid. Fantastic.
I saw myself gigantic, all-powerful, like God Almighty. My clothes would glow. My underwear would be rainbow-hued silk petting my skin, soft and loving like a whore's velvet. My suits were glittering like spun-gold but soft as cotton, and shot through with priceless gems and diamonds. My shoes were all dazzling silver or shining black but still like some sort of metal, the toes as sharp as daggers. Beautiful whores groveled at my feet, their huge udders dangling on the floor, under my feet. I'd step on their tits, and on their nipples either. They were dove-eyed, begging, worshipful.
Through the dream mist I'd see in the distance huge sharpened stakes. The whores' painted faces'd turn wild with fear. They'd wail and beg me for forgiveness, for delivery from those sharp, biting, frozen steel stakes. I'd laugh madly. Rich wells of scarlet spurted from their asses as I joyfully booted them, crotch first on those sharp pikes. They'd flop around like hooked fish, little dying chickens bleeding their last. They'd slowly slide down to the bottom in a welter of blood.
I woke with a start, my ticker earthquaking inside of me. The runt, awokened with me, gave my shoulders a warm embrace. She whispered in my ear it's ok, it's just a dream. Go back to sleep, she said, and I did. Right back to dreaming. This time I was tiny, barely the size of a locust. I'd jump around on grassy meadows, by a river. Lots and lots of naked girlies danced and pranced all around. I'd jump inside their pussy, and they'd caress me with their lips and carry me inside from place to place. Fantastic beings hung like horses, with hooves and a horse's behind would chase after them. They'd yell in terror and run off, in fear the huge shafts might crush me inside them. I'd crawl and jump from one to another when their time was come, to avoid being crushed. Eventually they were all dead, the spiny, barbed, harmful pricks of the galloping punters having gutted them all to the last one. I'd stand on the pile of corpses, the green fields turned red with blood, and look over the horizon.
A huge figure of towering light would come towards me. In his anger his eyes would be blazing blue suns, his spiky platinum hair standing on end. He'd point toward a woman, chained naked to a pole, her back turned to me. He'd hand me a barbed leather whip. Like a crash of summer thunder his voice commanded me, "Punish this evil woman. Destroy the devil inside her. The Lord so directs thee." I'd grab the heavy whip eagerly, with both hands. I'd bring it down with all my force on the woman's back. She'd would just stand there, as I shred her flesh off of her bones. The scarlet drained down from her slashed back. She'd be standing to her knees in a river of blood, and then turn her brown, agonizing face toward me. It was always Mama. The sight made me wake shaking and screaming in a pool of sweat. It was horrible. I could never cut these dreams off until they reached their end. They had to run the fearful course. The dreams about Mama came until her death.
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The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 9 : Funeral, Reformatory and Sunday Dinner »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Sunday, 28 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:47:55

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 7 : Blown Whoreless, And Fresh Out Of Girl
June was asleep when we snuck in. Whores sleep till noon, it's not that they want to, it's that they have to. Just like everything else they do. Before leaving her Heights pad, I had Pepper decked to the nines. She had a huge hat on, the kind queens and real bonny-fiddy princesses went with, back in those days. She wore a dress, not revealing like for a whore. Revealing like for a politician's wife or something. She looked just like one of those socialites they have, and then she had her white fox fur on top. Her whole outfit was white, from the baby seal leather heels to the huge pearls around her neck. She looked like a walking, talking bank robbery. On the dresser lay a large pile of damp bills. Lots of fifties, and even a coupla Cs in there. That was some respectable scratch. I winked her at it, and she went "Hm..." from the corner of her eye. Then I bellowed "Hey, June!"
The poor darling started in bed, like she dreamed she was being roused up by demons or something. In a way I guess she was. Then she was all smiles. "Good morning, Daddy. I'm so happy to see you!" Then her eyes opened large enough to take in Pepper, too, and her ticker stopped. She wasn't breathing, she just looked at me, her eyes well open now enough to drive the Moon through them.
"Honey, I want you to meet Pepper!" June didn't say anything. I carried on, my mock enthusiasm uncracked. "She's my fiance! We're going to be married soon!" Pepper took her cue. She walked slowly the coupla steps to the bed, then reached our her hand, stiffly, like one of those upper class girls would do. "Nice to meet you, June." June's throat was all knots. She swallowed hard a couple of times, mostly tears and snot, and then she finally managed to babble "But... but why ?"
I looked at her like she just asked the strangest thing, like why do they drive cars on the road instead of up a wall. "What do you mean why ?! It's obvious enough, isn't it ? She's so much better than you, June. I mean, face facts baby. You're just a little girl. Pepper's a real woman. She's rich and pretty and I love her so much!" June was crying now in earnest, her eyes wide open, her bare chest unmoving. Looking straight into my eye, tears rolling down her cheek one after another. "But you can still come to the wedding" I said, appeasingly. "I know you don't have anything to wear, but Pepper will let you wear some of her older clothes she doesn't wear anymore." I said, like I had found the holy grail. I mean, what problems could be left in the world anymore, right. Pepper was gonna let her wear some hand-me-downs from the bottom of her closet, what more could you ask for. June crumpled in bed, crying in a howling frenzy, each word I spoke like a flaming dagger piercing her breast. Now and again she'd look up, take me in for a brief calm moment, then go right back to her ball of teary despair. What a heel I must've seemed to her! During one of those interludes she even managed, through all the tears and snot, to let me know she had made twenty-eight hundred since I told her. Pepper was tearing up. I slapped her ass, like "Hey, what the fuck are you doing, bitch ?"
That cut it for her. She sat down on the bed, next to June, putting her arm around her. The poor girl struggled free the first two or three times, but eventually just went straight for bawling her eyes out on Pepper's tit, right through the fifteen hundred dollar dress. Tears will cut through any money, you know ? She was petting her hair down and whispering to her, "I'm sorry, baby... He told me he wants me to come here... so you humiliate me and push me around... I had no idea... He set me up too." and all the while all I could think of was "Twenty-eight hundred ? Really ? Again ?!" Eventually Pepper hit the jackpot. "There's no wedding. He made it all up." At that June finally looked up at her, straight at her like she was sucking her in through the eyes. "There... there isn't ?"
"No, baby. There's no wedding. He just made it all up. Sometime between the car and the hallway I think he just made it all up." She wasn't wrong, either. June's eyes were clearing up, like she was starting to see the clear skies beyond a great joke. The greatest joke of them all : hope. "Who are you then ?" she managed eventually, through the sobs. "I'm just another whore, baby. Just like you." June finally gathered enough gumption to face me again. "Is that true ?" she asked me, mouthing the words one by one like they were precious songbird eggs, all fragile and delicate, and the fate of the whole world depended on their staying in one piece.
"Yes, it's true." I shot back. "There's no wedding. I brought this backstabby bitch here for you to have your way with her bony, used-up ass." Pepper shuddered, and then turned to June "You see how he treats a woman ? You'd better stay away from him, if you know what's good for you." June reached out and clasped her hands around my back, her face pushed against my rod. Her head was turned to the side, facing Pepper, and she mouthed "I know I should."
Then we fucked all together. Though the girls were no jaspers, they hugged while I went from one to the other and back again. They didn't kiss or anything, like the Tuskegee coeds used to, they just looked into each others eyes while my rod went between them, from flower to flower and back again. Then we gave June her moment.
Pepper was blown away the poor girl peeled a wad of almost three grand offa a hundred and more different suckers, working the street. She only had a week to do it, too, I last saw her Wednesday night and now was Friday morning, the next Friday over. June was clearly scoring some massive points in her book, more than four hundred bucks a day, each day, for a week straight, from a young whore runaway from school, with no experience and all by herself. To her it was like flying around the world on your own farts. She wouldn't have believed if she didn't see it, and even then she looked straight in my eye at one point and shot point blank "Is this another set-up ?" But no, it wasn't. She could tell, June had that openness about her where it wasn't so much that you could read her mind on her face like an open book. It was more that she bludgeoned you with her thoughts. There was no missing what's going on in there and no possiblity of faking it, either. At least, we didn't think so, then.
Then we went through the set-up to jiggle Pepper free. Her old man was coming back that Friday evening. To be honest I was afraid of the whole idea. June's dad was one thing, but if that fence of Pepper's came looking for me I'd be just like a frog jumped in a hound's wide open maw. I really didn't want any part of it, but what could I say ? Pepper pushed for it, hard. Her plan was to take June in for when he's back, and make like she's her maid. Then, to give her up for him. Then later work it in, that she wants to go back, and June's pimp's just this harmless kid looking to grow up, and that he'd have free reign with all the girls, of course. Not just her, or just them two, but all of them. Who wouldn't want his pick of a stable in trade for a bony-ass, used up whore ? She was needling me, but I didn't say anything. I asked June if she's up for doing a different stretch. She told me "Daddy, I've done more this crazy week than in my whole life, ten times over. My little kitty stays sore and swollen like you saw it. Friday morning when I soaked in the tub it still went back down, but not since then. What do you think ?" I just looked at her. She cooed back, "Do you like your little whore with her little kitty swollen and sore, Daddy ? Should I just stay on the street and work it raw for you ?" Pepper rolled her eyes, but now it was my turn. "See, bitch, this is what a real whore's like. None of your East Coast fake whoring like you do." June looked up at me surprised, Pepper just let out this "Uuuuuhhh" like she's been served and she knew it. Looking straight at me she intoned, in her sing-songy voice, "Oh June Ma'am, may I kiss your sore whore pussy please ?" June just looked at me bewildered. "On your back, bitch!" I barked at her. "Spread 'em." I said, just like a copper making a cop. I grabbed her ankles as I was shoving my pulsing prick into Pepper's ass, and strangled her with June's thighs while pounding her wildly. That was the best fuck I ever had, fucking two whores I didn't at all deserve right into each other for the first time. There's nothing like it, and there's nothing else.
Then they took off in Pepper's Caddy, and I lay down on the bed just for a moment. I felt tired. The next thing I knew it was noon again. I slept all through like a sack of potatoes, from early in the afternoon until noon the next day. Twenty hours almost, truth be told I hadn't had that much sleep the past week I had spent with Pepper. When I looked into the mirror, a death's head stared right back at me. That vampire bitch was sucking my life's blood away ; though in fairness I also knew well enough that crystal cocaine isn't exactly a health tonic. I never looked into a mirror for a long while, I didn't even remember the last time I did it. It seemed like I never have the time for it when there's pussy around. But once I was left by myself, there it was, and I didn't like it. I didn't like it one bit. I made two big decisions that mildewy mid-Saturday. One was to look into a mirror now and again no matter what. It's not about the broads, it can't be always about them. The other was even bigger. I figured I had to choose between Pepper and girl, and when it came right down to it I found out soon enough only one of those I could do without.
While I was having a bite of breakfast mid-day I saw Weeping Shorty, a gorilla pimp about fifty-five. I knew him from Jimmy's joint. He looked horrible last time I set eyes on him, and now barely a few weeks later he looked plum like a breathing corpse. Hoss was his Boss. He had chipped around, and gotten hooked. There's worse things to do to yourself than a line of girl now and again, I thought to myself. At least that doesn't get you hooked. That's the trouble with girl, it's always there, whispering. You ain't hooked, but you ain't much thinking of anything else, neither. I reasoned with myself, I said in my mind "Look boy, he's fifty and you're not. You can take a beating where he can't doesn't mean you have to." I was right, too. I knew I was.
Weeping was as bubbly as his palor left him room for. He smiled even, after a fashion, stretching that crinkly drumhide wrapped around his skull to the breaking point. He looked at me and made that clacking sound against the roof of his mouth with his tongue. You know, that mischievous, weirdly joyful sound that a deranged kid makes the instant before he rams a hat pin into your ear drum. Then he said, "Well kiss my dead mammy's ass, if it ain't Macking Youngblood. The whore's pet and the pimp's fret." The used-up junkie bastard was jeffing on me! He was lashing me with contempt and scorn. I loved it. Somehow the Mayor walking in and shaking my hand for being the smartest young entrepreneur in the whole of Chi wouldn't have tickled me any better than this long-gone corpse impersonating a stuffed pheasant jibing me for not knowing the game. Then he went on, even louder, somehow : "I hear you're gonna turn Jimmy's into the classiest mack joint this side the river Nile, ain't that right now, youngster ?" then he broke down in a rotten cough, bringing blood bubbling into his spit. I went right back at him "Why, you got some girls ready to leave off the walk and do some lying down for a change ?" He gave me a furtive glance, then whispered "Listen, Mack, I'm the best pimp in town. You know I am. Now let me pull your coat, and give you a plan for putting a ring in that whore Pepper's nose."
I looked at him. He looked back at me, intently. Suddenly he wasn't so beat down no mo'. Suddenly he looked just like a grass in the snake, angling for a birdy. Maybe I was the birdy, and maybe I wasn't. Maybe he was half-gone, and maybe I wasn't the first to think of covering your pull. I didn't let anything past. I was just listening. He said "Come on and we'll rap" but I said to him "Shorty, listen, let's finish our food first. I'm too young to go hungry, you know ?" I let him watch me swallow that huge Alabama steak breakfast, bit by bit. I didn't say anything. I didn't let on anything. He took it like a champ. The game's a million questions, and after you figure those out then the answers come, slowly, from heart breaking trial and mostly error. Some try and get ahead by ass kissing the few old pimps who had solved the riddle, who pimped by the book. I sucked an old whore's ass clean, and it put me ahead of them, that's for damn sure ; but the cleverest pimp could give a thousand years and never come close to all the answers. Weeping Shorty was an old man. He was long past the questions, he even worked out a few answers for himself. He maybe knew a thousand times more than I did. I wan't about to not listen, anyhow. But there's table stakes, like in everything, and that morning, at that table, them stakes was one hell of a juicy steak. Them's the breaks.
Eventually he pulled me with a jerk of his head. I followed him to a big shabby Buick. It was parked at an intersection in the cheap-trick district, a few blocks south from the diner. When we got inside the Buick I understood why he had parked it there. He could watch and keep tabs on his stable of scrawny, junkie whores working the four corners of the intersection. He sat under the wheel not saying anything, his eyes straight ahead. I thought of the small pile of cocaine wrapped in tinfoil, stuck in my instep. That was all that remained of a flourbag's worth we must've gone through, between me and her, during our little festival. Before we left she wrapped it up for me and stuffed it in my shoe. "Just in case" she said, "And don't go try and cop for yourself. I don't want you no jailhouse bull's bitch, alright puppy ?"
I fished the package out and held it in my hand. I figured he's the best hole to dump it into. Sure better than any hole of mine, anyhow. Besides, we had already tried all of mine. He looked like he hadn't seen some half-decent girl in a good half-decade. Maybe it turns his life around. I turned to him and said, "Weeping, do you want a light snort of girl?" He stiffened like a butcher knife had been run into his back. He looked at the wad of tinfoil in my palm. He snatched it and in the same motion hurled it through the window on his side. His top was blown. He shouted, "Nigger, ain't you got no sense? You trying to blow my wheels?"
I said, "What did I do wrong? All I did was to offer the C just to be sociable. What's wrong with that ?" He said, "Sucker, first booty butt, you don't transport no hard in your stomp. Who taught you that ? Keep it in your mitt, sucker. That way you can down it fast to the turf. Second, you ain't no dealer. You ain't got no fix. You ain't got no business sitting dirty in my short. There's a law, sucker, that can confiscate a short with stuff in it. You know if the heat had hit on you you would unload in my short." He looked at me. I nodded, sheepish. He went on, roaring master of the whole field "Keep stuff off you. When you stop somewhere down it in the street until you ready to split. It's better to get beat for the stash than beat by the heat. Now can you take your head outta Pepper's ass long enough to make some scratch ?"
Oh how this junkie creep bugged me. I sat there beside him, trying to think of an angle that'd bleed whatever it was out of him quick, so I could get out of his face fast. He looked exactly like a withered baboon. His breath stunk like he had just eaten a bowl of grave maggots. I said, "Weeping, Pepper hasn't got my nose open for her. She's too jazzy and slick for me. Now you on the other hand, everybody knows that your game is mellow. I want you to pull my coat so I can pimp some scratch out of her."
The baboon liked that banana I threw him. He was ready to talk the pimp game. He said, "The suckers in Hell want ice water, too. Don't mean they'll get any. It's late for them. They ain't never gonna get to no ice water no mo. The way you start with a bitch is the way you end with a bitch. You can start pimping hard on a bitch and then sucker out and blow her, but ain't no way you can turn it around and pimp on Pepper after starting with her like a sucker. Forget her and get down on a fresh bitch." I said, "You mean there is no way to get any scratch out of her?" He said, "Now you see, I didn't say that. I said you couldn't pimp any scratch outta her. A foxy cold-blooded stud can always find an angle to cross a broad outta scratch." I said, "I'm not foxy, but I think I could be cold blooded enough to cross that slick bitch Pepper out of a bundle. Weeping, you're the only fox here. Please man, I'm begging you. Lay some game on me and put me to the test. I'll split any scratch I take off right down the middle with you."
The day had started out sunny, up until I ran into this shambling corpse. Then it turned, and by the time we were out of the diner it was almost ready to start dropping. While we rapped it went through a slight drizzle gaining strength all the while, and by now it was downright pouring. Weeping turned to run up the window on his side, then turned back to answer my proposition when there was a frantic rapping on his window. It was one of his whores. Through the closed window of the locked door she said loudly, "Daddy, open the door! My feet are soaked. Nothing is happening out here tonight, and besides I am hot as Hell. The vice is watching me. It's Costello. He told me to get off the street or he would bust me. Please open the door, Daddy."
Weeping was a cold gorilla all right. He sat there for a long moment. His monkey face was tight and hard. He casually opened the wind wing as the rain beat down on his whore. She stuck her nose through it. Without moving toward the wing, sitting erect in the car seat he hollered, "You bullshit bitch, make something happen. What you out there fo' ? You a whore, you suppose to be hot. Let Costello bust you. He can't make a beef stand up unless he ketches you with a trick. You dumb chickenhearted bitch, whatta you think I got this ass pocket full of fall scratch for ? Now get out there and work. You do your job, let Costello do his job. Don't you worry yo dumb ho ass over him. And don't worry yaself about the rain, neither. Walk between the rain drops. Bitch." He slammed the wing shut. Her face was wild and angry through the murky glass. Her dope-rotted teeth were ragged fangs in the dimness as she pressed her face close to the glass. She screamed, "You just lost a girl. You had four, now you got three. I'm cutting you loose, Shorty." Weeping let his window down and stuck his head out into the rain as she walked away. He was all gorilla now. He yelled out, "Bitch! I give you odds you won't split. As much of my dope you been shooting, I'm playing ketch up. You rank bitch, you know if you split I'll find you and stick my knife in your stinking asshole and gut you to your breast bone."
I wondered if he had lost her. He read my mind. He said, "She ain't going nowhere, look at this." He turned his car engine on and started the windshield wiper so we could see the street. There she was back out there in the rain whistling and waving at the passing cars. He switched the engine off, and said "That bitch knows I ain't jiving. She'll make me some scratch this morning." I looked at her, and then I said "back last year I ran into a virgin girl so tough down there, I had to really stick a knife into her to get through." He looked at me, trying to figure where I'm coming from. Eventually he said "That happens now and then". Then he pulled himself together, and went back to present affairs. He said, "Now, Youngblood, about Pepper. You don't know anything about her. I like you, so my advice is the same I gave you at first. Forget her. Try in another spot."
What he said about my not knowing her made me curious. I said, "Look Weeping, I know you like me, and if you do, run Pepper down for me." It's the thing with small timers, like a curse on them, that always they think they know more than everyone else because they don't understand how it's less. Say a man is a biologist, he goes and studies blue whales fifty years, and then he writes a book, with all he found out about them in it. Some guy in a bar reads it. All he knows about blue whales is that they're blue. He's never as much as seen one, but I mean, come on, they're blue. He never finds anywhere in that first guy's book where he says that blue whales are blue, and he figures to himself "Well... if ever that young squirt comes by my hometown and buys me a beer, I'll pull his tails and clue him in : they're blue. Betcha he'll fall on his face, he didn't know that." Now of course the guy with the book has a chapter in there where he talks about something like it. But he's not going to say exactly "they're blue", because maybe there isn't even such a thing as blue in the first place. He doesn't say it in those words, and the guy in the bar doesn't know how to go from some words to some other words, so he just thinks he's the one that invented, the color blue, and the one line, three word book on blue whales : "they're blue!"
"Did you know that peckerwood of Pepper's is the bankroll behind the biggest policy wheel in town?" he asked me, as serious as you like. I said, "No ?!" all surprised, as if I were. Then in the pause I went "but if the old man is flush isn't that good? Why give Pepper up because she's in shape. If you gave me an angle I could get some of that policy scratch." He went on, as he had more of his informative gems of wisdom in his belt. "Look Blood, brace yourself. Here comes the rest of the rundown. Pepper is a rotten freak broad. You ain't the only stud she freaks off with. I could name a half dozen who ride her. The dangerous one is Dalanski, the detective. He is in a bad way over Pepper. If he ever found out you were freaking off with her, Blood, shame on your ass." I was shaken and appaled by the rundown, truly I was. I thought to myself, "Yeah, and I bet she goes over to rub Dalanski's wife's feet every other weekend, too. She probably babysits and everything, when they throw a party it's Pepper the house maid no doubt." Instead of anything like that I said "Oh, no. Weeping, man, thanks for cluing me in. A broad with a lot of scratch and that knows Detective Dalanski himself, what could I have been thinking mixing up with her." He didn't wise up to the joke any. I carried on, "I see you're right, and I'd better split with her while I still can. Are you sure there are that many studs laying her?"
He said, "Maybe more." I grimaced like it really hurt me that June fucked half the town until she walked like the cowboys. I mumbled, "Thanks for the advice, and the run down, Weeping." I was about to get out of the Buick and look for a flea exterminator. He got excited. At first I thought because one of his rickets illustrations finally hitched a ride in some beat up pick-up. It wasn't that, though it was the first time in a good half hour I saw that miracle take place. He told me, "Blood, put a smile on your face. Old Shorty's got good news for you. How would you like a half a G in your slide?" I said, "All right, give me the poison and take me to the baby." He said, "I ain't shucking. It's cream-puff work. In fact, Tender Dick, it's what you like to do best. Want the run down?" I looked at him up and down, then said "If you are going to tell me some broad is going to lay out fivehundred frog skins to get her rocks off, lay it on me. For that kinda scratch I'd lay the more or less recently departed." He snickered, an evil wheeze quickly turned to a cough. Eventually he settled down enough to say, "Pepper is the broad. All you have to do is take her to bed and go through a full circus with her, that's all. Are you game?" I nodded. "I'm game, if I get a rake off from the bleacher seats, and you tell me who wants the show on."
His eyebrows jitterbugged. He was a slick joker, or at the least had been. He said, "No, I can't tell you who. Don't worry about the scratch, it's guaranteed. Are you in?" I said, "Yes, but I want to know more. Like, why?" The tale he told me went like this : A fast hustler from New York who specialized in pressure rackets saw a chance to trim Pepper's old man out of a bundle. The hustler knew that Pepper was a dog and a freak. He also knew that Pepper's old man was hung up on her. Even though he had met her in a whorehouse and squared her up, he was dangerously jealous of her and unpredictable if he caught her wrong. The hustler felt that Pepper would be in a sweet state for pressure if solid evidence could be gotten showing Pepper as the dog she was. The hustler was sure he could force her to help him in his scheme to trim the old man. He needed clear unfaked photographs. His plan would be simple. Once he got the club over Pepper's head, he would force her to sneak in phony "hit" slips against the policy wheel. The hustler had discovered that for Pepper, from her inside position close to the wheel, it would be very simple. The hustler would pay me five bills after I had brought Pepper to a prearranged set up.
I figured the angles in my head. The story sounded dumb enough to be true, even if it wasn't. The outfit didn't seem like much. It looked to me like should I agree and not go through, the most'll happen is that slick racket man from back East'll give Shorty here maybe the go-ahead and he'll do something truly horrible to me, like maybe puke in my lap. That'd be a grand in drycleanning easy. I went in all for it, and hoped Pepper gave me the sign and we rapped before these jokers did. Weeping told me the trap was set. I was to wait until Pepper itched enough to call me. I was not to call her. That set my mind at ease, anyhow. Whenever she called I was to tell her to meet me in the bathroom of an old, but still elegant hotel on the fringe of the arcade and shooting gallery section of town. Then I was to call him. I was to make sure that at least two hours passed between her call and when I went to the desk and asked for the key to apartment two-fourteen. My name would be Barksdale. I nodded and assured him of my undying gratitude for this gorgeous set-up of a five year old's design, then finally got out of that Buick coffin. The air outside smelled sweet and fresh, like I had been sniffing farts for the past hour.
I was going to drop by Mama's, before the geezer ambushed me in the greasy spoon. I headed that way now, except who do I run into, sitting on the sidewalk ? Old "Party Time" himself! While doing his year for our caper he copped a lonely-hearts broad through the mails. She went his train fare when he finished the bit, so he went to visit her, and they made a home! After five bits and not half a year square he was itching to get back on the street, his head as full as ever of crooked inspiration. I liked him fine, but I did not like him enough to join him in a hustle again. I wiggled out smoothly enough and we shook hands friends, but meeting him reminded me of Vera and that put me in a mellow mood worse than any Mississippi blues. I went back inside, and sat on the bed. I missed Pepper. I hadn't even touched June in a week. I missed them all. I sat on the bed and bawled like a child. Six or seven times I stood up, to go cop myself some girl or something, anything. Every time that mirror saved my life. There it was, right by the door, ready to look right back at me any time I felt like looking in. I tried to go to sleep but there was nothing doing, I just tossed and turned and worked myself up by degrees.
I thought I ain't ever gonna see, any of them, ever again. Pepper's just gonna take June to her old man, "Look Daddy, I copped us a new whore for the house." Why'd she ever come back from Pepper's pad to this rat trap ? She wouldn't. Why did I ? I did, though. But that's only because I'm a sucker ; women ain't never suckers like men get, isn't that right. I said to myself, "Well now, boy... you've blown yourself whoreless, and you're fresh outta girl". The thought of it drove me crazy ; but June's eyes and Pepper's smile came from nowhere and made me feel better, for a heartbeat. Then I was wild with crazy thoughts again, like with a rash, the more you scratch it the more it itches until you draw blood and it's still not done. I put my head under the faucet, but that still didn't help. I didn't know what to do, but it sure as hell didn't look good for me.
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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Sunday, 28 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:47:42

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 6 : In The Slammer, And Back On The Street
"Where'd you stash her ?!" He was sweating through his lip like maybe he stashed her himself. "Stashed who ?" I went, cool as a cucumber. "Come clean, buster. You know what you done." I looked up at him as innocent as a baby kitten after it took a shit in the sugar bowl. "What's going on sir !?" He lost it. "We got you on kidnapping, carnal knowledge, abuse, assault, attempted murder, the Mann act... boy they gonna throw the book at you. You ain't ever coming out less you come clean now." I looked at him like he was trying to smoke with his ear. "I wasn't even jaywalking."
They were getting nowhere fast with me, and to their credit it only took them three or four hours to wise up to it. They dumped me in the slammer. There was nobody in there, somehow. I don't know, it must've been the deluxe special slammer for foreign dignitaries and special guests. I slept on the tight army cot, a definite step down from June's tits, and in the morning they took me before the judge. That must've been a sight : a minor, without priors, brought up under charges of everything but fucking the Statue of Liberty off its socket. Sitting on the bench was this stern face, with a voice like the burning bush. An old whitey looking just like a hawk. Crooked nose, those piss-blue eyes like on blind people, the works. It was like in a picture book. "How do you plea ?"
I looked at him, scratched my head, went like I'm about to spit on the ground then said "Your Honor... I don't even know what the charges are." He made a gesture and the bailiff read me the charges. It was like the riot act. After drinking a galon and three pints of water in quarter ounce sips he was finally done, half hour later, and we circled back to the big question. Everyone had fallen alseep, it was like trying to read the phone book at a retirement home. The judge hit me up again. I said "Your honor, I'm just as much a citizen as the next working stiff. I've as much a right to walk down the street as anyone, which is all I was doing. I wasn't even drunk. I had my hands in my pocket and my mind on my business. I don't know what all the fuss is about."
The judge looked at me with those piercing eyes, then looked in the sheets before him, turned something over, looked up at me again. He scoffed once and said "Mr... Beck. What business is that ?"
"I dropped out of Tuskegee and now I work as a janitor, sir."
"You should have stayed in school."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, why didn't you ?"
"Not cut out for it, sir."
"You don't say..."
He leafed through the thin paperwork before him some morei, then gave the "come here, bitch" finger to the assistant D.A. Just like a punter in a classy joint calling a cocksucker over. They whispered a while, then the judge went "Eh get the hell outta here" kinda quiet and shook his hand at him. Then he yelled out "Case dismissed" and banged his toy hammer on the little anvil they have. I was just standing there, looking at him. He looked at me, said something gruffly under his breath I didn't catch on to, then asked me if I ever tried out law ? I said no sir, and he said I should come by his office one of these days. I said yes sir and they carted me away ; though I had no intention of ever taking him up on it. I wanted to be a lip about as much as I wanted to be a clutch on a truck. It's a good profession, ain't it ? Pays well, there's grease...
Instead, I went all over looking for the rollers that had hit me. Eventually I found them sitting in their car, in the shade, under a tree. I went right up to them, dropped a grand on the sidewalk and then banged on the passenger window. The guy rolled it down and looked at me like I was a spook.
"Officer, I believe you dropped this." I said to him, pointing down. He looked at me like he was a French cop in some French town looking for a French whore to stick his prick into. No idea what language am I speaking. I picked it up for him and handed it over. He opened it, looking at me the whole time, but showing the bills to his driver. "Oh look at that, Harry. We dropped this, he says." His partner looked at the wad, looked at me, back at the wad, back at me. It just didn't gel in their heads. "How come we dropped that, boy ?"
"You know what you did. You took fifty from a two-bit canary with a sax up his ass to roll me like I was some punk nigger kid."
"Seventy-five."
I looked at him, and shook my head. "It ain't worth it. It just ain't worth it."
"So whadda ya got ?"
"I got a hundred a block. And I want the whole precinct."
"A hundred a... a what, month ?"
"A hundred a week."
"Kid, you ain't not got any idea what you're talking about."
"The whole precinct."
"How many blocks is that ?"
"Seventy-six. From the twenty second to the thirty first, half way each side at the end, and then east and west along Apple. You know what it is."
"How the hell does he know that ?"
"Kid musta read some book somewhere."
"That musta been some book..."
"Mine's been reading books for six years, he ain't found no seven grand in there yet. Cost me almost that much though."
"You gonna pop seven-eight grand a week in, week out, how many girls you got stashed away ?"
"I bet you this kid got every nigger fugitive since the days of Breeches Stoves stashed away somewheres in the flop houses. I bet you he's got a boat fresh from Africa up on lake Eire."
"That right boy ?"
I took a deep breath. "Just the one." I said, carefully.
"You've got a lot of heart, kid."
"More than any nigger I ever saw, that's for damn sure."
"You know it. He's got one fifteen year old runaway stashed somewhere and a grand in cash. I bet you if we roll him up we don't find another twenty dollars on him."
"I bet you if we do he's never telling us where the hideout is, so we'll never know. Ain't that right, boy ?"
"There's no hideout, sir."
"Could have the crown jewels in there for all anyone knows."
"It's probably a rat trap somewhere, last place anyone'd think to look."
"Ain't that right ?"
"I don't know, honest I don't."
"Here's the low down kiddo. The precinct's not mine to talk on. You wanna buy that, you talk to the cap'n. If you ever manage to get within earshot, that is. But I'll do this much for you : if anyone gives you the roust you tell them to talk to Sgt. Delaney. That'll be good enough."
"I guess it'll have to be." I said, with a sigh.
"One time payment. Now stay outta trouble, you hear ?"
Any other time I'd have mourned the loss of all that scratch. Any other time but this. June was worth a grand like a whale's worth a penny. I knew no better use for it, and besies I could probably make it back just selling her nail clippings, if I ever found anyone clued in enough to know what they're worth. I beelined for her hideout.
"Honey, I'm dead." Her eyes grew big in horror. She didn't ask the question, she just hurled it at me silently, with her eyes. "That was your old man. He wants me dead. He's bribed a lot of cops to get me out of the picture one way or another." She broke down in a small fit, rolling face down on the bed and beating the dust out of the old matress with her angly little fists. Eventually she settled enough to howl through the tears "I'll kill myself. I'll go tell him right now!" What a stupid fucking idea. That's the problem with broads, if left to their own judgement they'll send everything to hell in a handbasket with the best of intentions from the purest of hearts.
"Nothing like that now, baby. They say I've kidnapped you. Are you kidnapped ?" she looked back at me all flame in her eyes. "No!" she yelled out. "If he lays eyes on you, guess what ? You will be kidnapped, and they'll stop saying it. What do you want, them to say while you aren't, or them to not say while you are ?" That seemed to calm her, but then she remembered what I said. She didn't say anything, but I could tell from her eyes. I went on "I had to bribe the cops myself, baby. I promised seventy-six hundred a week, to operate. They took it. The fix is in. Come Monday morning, I'll be floating up lake Michigan, cuz I ain't got seven grand to make that pay off."
"Ooh." she said. That's all, just like the other one. How do they know to do that ? It's the problem with broads. Left to their own they'll know exactly the right thing to say to drive you out of your mind, every time. She looked down. She wrung her wrists and looked back at me. "How much can a whore make, Daddy ?"
"Not that much, baby. Not that much." I knew what she was going to say before she said it. "How do you know ?" I didn't say anything for a while. I just looked at her. "Baby..." I said, but she cut me off. "Let me try. I want to try to save your life. What have you got to lose ?" I kissed her whore mouth. I whispered in her ear "You, for one thing." She giggled and turned to me, smiling like a little girl. "Oh don't worry about me, Daddy. I'll be fine. Honest I will."
I climbed the stairs down to the desk three at the time. The same guy was there like every night, I never saw another employee. He still remembered me as that broke ass kid who begged and cajoled a discount on a discount off of him. When I opened my mouth, the last thing he expected to come out of it was "How'd you like to make a hundred dollars ?" Still reeling he snickered, then asked who he has to kill. "Nothing like that. All you have to do is kick out all these low-lifes. Then you book the whole house down, all sixteen luxurious apartments, at twenty each a week. That's three twenty, and there's a hundred in it for you." His eyes grew very large. "That's a hundred a week ?" he asked me. "Right on, buddy, a hundred a week straight in your pocket." His eyes thinned out. "Let me see the money." I counted four hundred fifty in fifties on his desk, but when he reached for it I snapped it away. "Seeing it is one thing. You get me the keys, you can have it." He fell back in his chair with a whoosh, then after a moment came back with "You're the boss, Jack. I'll need a coupla days." I reached over and flicked some invisible spec off his lapel. "You've got plenty of time, friend. I don't need them before next Monday." He frowned and took on a pained expression, like his teeth suddenly found cold lemon. "That's pretty tight."
I gave him a look like he's thick maybe ? "Wednesday's almost out. That means Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, four days. Then it's this Monday. That's a whole week from next Monday. You've got eleven days. What the hell do you need, a quarter ?" He looked at me all confused. "Oh, you mean next Monday." I looked at him like he bummed one too many cigarettes. "Yes, I mean next Monday. That's why I said next Monday." With his hands dancing the appeasement dance he closed me out. "Okey dokey boss, you've got it." I dropped a twenty in front of him like it was a nickel and peeled out of there.
I went straight for Jimmy. I landed there just as he was closing shop. He was real excited to see me. We rapped a while about the whole thing, then I laid the June trip on him too. "Jimmy, man, I'm dead. If you don't turn the back rooms over there into trick rooms, I ain't ever gonna see the light of day come Monday." He looked at me from the side, dragged his reefer, held it, and then exhaled to the sound of "Who says I don't ?"
We talked it all through, excited like jays. I was a punk kid trying to bite more than he can chew, he was a washed up has-been trying to get back in the game. He got pretty worked up when I mentioned his jasper. It was plain as day he's got no cop on her at all, she's just got a meal ticket in him and that's all. I needled him with it too, "Well... ain't she got any friends ?" The poor guy, it really riled him, I could've bet dollars to dimes he's not ploughed into any of the pussy that girl brushed her teeth in, and won the bet, too. We left it that he'll handle the premises but I gotta find the girls. I had no intention of doing anything like it, and no need of him to do it with, anyhow. He didn't know it, but he was much more useful to me as a witness to my trying and not managing than anything else. Just in case some wiseguy came by asking questions. "I swear, the kid's got nothing, he couldn't even get a coupla whores together for my place when he had the chance." If June's ex-daddy was that tight with the cops, it stood to reason he might be just as tight with the other side, and I didn't need that kind of trouble. Not just yet, anyhow.
I went to bed in his cubby after cleaning his floors just like old time's sake, but thinking of June the whole time. I barely slept a wink because of her. In the morning I went in with breakfast. She was still sleeping, and boy was she happy to see her dead man. Afterwards, while eating our cold omelets I talked her down the whole trade. She's to go out, the cops won't bother her, get her johns and bring them back. The more she can go through the better it is. I told her to stay out of bars and stick to the streets. I told her to ask for as much as the sucker's worth, I said to her "Baby, you can always mark down. You can never mark up." Then I told her to make some friends, you never know when you need one. I kissed her sweetly and I told her I have to keep on the low-down, so they don't find me. It made no sense, what with the fix being in and everything, but she lapped it up like a fifteen year old kid in love over her ears. It made me so hot for her I tumbled her over and lay it into her like I was drilling oilpipe.
From there I made quick to Mama's parlour. She had no idea then, not anymore than I did, that she was about to set me up for life. Or maybe that's not right. She was there with one of her customers, who was getting her eyebrows arched. I walked through the pungent odors rising from the hot pressing combs pulling through the kinky hair of a couple customers, all the way to the back of the shop. There she was! Flashy as a Christmas tree, sitting before a mirror at a dressing table with her back to me. Mama stopped plucking at her brows as she introduced us, "Mrs. Ibbetts, this is my son Bobby."
Like a yellow cat hypnotizing a bird, she sat there motionless, her green eyes smoky, as she stared at me through the mirror. Then the velvet purring voice undulated toward me, she said, "Oh Bobby, I have heard so much about you. It's so exciting to meet you. But please call me Pepper. Everyone ever does."
I don't know what excited me more as I stood there. Was it the raw sensuality coming off of her in crushing waves ? Or maybe the blazing rocks on her tapered fingers, that I was sure hadn't come from Kresge'sii. I mumbled something, I don't even remember what it was. Something stupid anyways. Later I saw her slide into her sleek Caddie convertible, her white silk dress riding up exposing the satin sheen of her creamy yellow thighs. As she gunned away from the curb, she turned deliberately and gave me a full dose of those hot green eyes. She was signing the lease. I quizzed around and got the background on her. She was thirty-eight and she used to whore to the nines. She had worked the jazziest houses back East. Some wealthy white fence and part-time gambler tricked with her out there, then had enough of buying by the scoop and went and bought her outright. Her pimp was still working off the double-five bit he laid on him in parting. She was squared up now, and evidently ready for some action.
Three hours later there I was, ringing her doorbell in the plush Heights. I had a bundle of roses in my hand the size of a bale of hay. It was sixty-nine gorgeous buds, in an arangement with fresh ferns, you figure out what it set me back. The prettiest colors, too. There were those fabulous creamy-white ones with the red frosting on the edges ; then the plain pink ones, like tulips, and the crazy ones spotted red and butter-yellow in patterns. I bought out all the pink roses in South Water just about.
She answered the door wearing only a pair of white lace step-ins. My erection was hard and instant. She had a fabulous pad, all satin and light. The old man wouldn't be back for a week.
Truth be told I was closer to a hep punk than anything. I most definitely wasn't anywhere close her league, but one of my greatest assets has always been my open mind. That freak bitch cajoled out of me everything in the fuckbook, plus a few things I don't think were even listed. Of the two of us she'd have been the only one who'd know, anyway. Fucking with Pepper wasn't anything like the scared romps with the young girls I knew before. She wasn't nearly as enthusiastic as the great whores in my life ; but her snake-like calm, the way she rubbed without a care in the world, they drove me even wilder than the heat of the young vixens. What a thrill it must've been for a sly old dog like her, to turn out a tender fool like me. She was a hell of a teacher all right, and what a performer! In between our romps she explained all of burlesque to me ; and then she took me to see it, too. She got me to where I could judge the girls as well as any producer ever, and better even, because from her undulating belly I freely took a carnal knowledge like no other, as if putting me inside while they were all stuck on the outside of their whore.
My hair took on little by little the faint scent of her piss. She had been pimped hard ; she hated men. She made an exception for me, somehow, but even that exception had its moments where it wavered, where I could feel her hatred, burning through. I let it have its way, I let her do things to me I wouldn't have taken from anyone else. Far from uppity, it made her feel vulnerable, and left her wanting to open up to me. I'd turn the tables on her then, slow and by degrees. She told me to, the first time I tried it of my own. She said she'll take it, she'll take it from me, but I've to move it slowly, I have to drive it into her faintly, and show it to her as I do it so she knows there's no escape. She taught me about women, not by example like the jaspers at Tuskegee, but with clear explanation in plain sight. She explained rope and restraint, she explained cane and pain, she drew their square on the ground in her own blood for me, and made geometries of music with her screams braided in the harsh marks my learning left upon her butter skin. She let me look inside of her, and reach the little egg hiding from sight, she made me know every hole in her all the way and in everywhich way.
She taught me to snort girl. She snorted a lot herself. Whenever I came to her pad there would be thin sparkling rows of crystal cocaine on the glass top of the cocktail table. We would snort it through Bohemian crystal horns and then in the mirrored bedroom we made circus love until our nerve ends shrieked. Pepper and all that sugar'd have made a freak out of Peter the Rock ; and upon it we built our church.
I was green all right and twice as soft. She knew it, and she licked it off of me voluptuously, by slight degrees, like you savour a delicious meal that'll not come again in your life. Besides the sensuous succubus, Pepper was also a hardened ex-whore. She knew all the crosses. She had all the answers. She had lots of scratch, but she wasn't laying a red penny on me. One lazy Summer evening, as the the dazzling edge on our orgy was fading in me, I asked her straight up. "Mama... if you were to turn me out... how much'd my ass be worth ?" She smiled at me from under her half-closed eyes. "What are you doing, puppy dog ?"
"I want to flip you. I want to use the moves and techniques you taught me yourself, on you."
"Ooh." There it went again. I sighed deeply and went on. "I know all your buttons, unless you've hidden some. Did you hide some, bitch ?" I purred at her, all sugar and honey. She shook her head no. "What'll make you burn hotter for your little puppy, than knowing you've chained yourself away ?"
"Oh," she whispered, like a New Year's balloon breathing its last "Daddy... you've got yourself a whore."
"It'll cost you a lot to be my whore, babe." I grunted at her, getting on top of her, pinning her down.
"I know", she whispered, like in a trance. "Will you charge me a fortune, Daddy ? To whore for you ?"
"Naw" I sniggered, getting off of her, like it had all been a joke. "I wouldn't know how. I just love you too much."
"You'll make a lousy pimp" she sang, in even tones, regret welling in her chest. I had her number alright. She knew it, like I knew it, and she knew I knew it, too : for the past years living as a squared up whore she was bored stiff. She felt the end chipping away towards her, and her days getting sucked in a great big hollow vacuum, like water down a drain. She had never felt so alive as she did with me on top of her, copping her, making like I'm copping her. Everything about her came back to visit her like a big crushing wave. She hadn't lived a whore by accident, even if she was playing the square for convenience.
Her eyes under the half closed lids rose to meet mine, imploringly. "Please" she mouthed, inaudibly. "Please!" she whispered, like the wind. I said to her "Say please make me a real whore again, Daddy." she did it, immediately, like a gramophone. I looked at her, a slight smile on my lip, and I brought the clincher on her, like the sword of judgement. "Say please Daddy, please make me the crowiii in your crew, so all the other whores walk all over me and I have to kiss their sweaty asses." Her eyes grew the size of onions, and then she lost it! I thought she was going to kill me! "What other whores, you slimy bastard!" she yelled at me. It made me so happy to see her that angry. Furious. She was shooting daggers from those green eyes on her, now gone past smoldering into red hot volcano. I knew I had her. Right then and there I knew I had found her sensitive, delicate little nubbin hidden inside, and hitched my knot on it for good. Pepper's gonna be my whore, ten thousand pretty blond angels sung in my ears, deafening me. She's gonna be my whore. Definitely. She's gonna go for it, she's gonna do it. Hallelujah!
I told her all about June. How I met her, how I loved her, and how desperately I wanted to see Pepper under her, being dominated and pushed around by a little fifteen year old girl. She was stony silent for the longest time. Eventually I said "I told you it'll cost you a lot". She didn't say anything. She just nodded after a while, then opened her eyes. She looked at me, straight, for the first time since we met in Mama's shop. "Take me to her, then." she said, as plain as rain. What else could she have said, or done ? We had been playing this great game of chicken ever since she first laid eyes on me. "I bet you won't dare hit on me, you punk-ass kid." her eyes were saying to me, back in Mama's parlour, and then on that curb. Especially on that curb. "I bet you won't take your clothes off and show me what I'm missing out on" said those roses, and "I bet you won't come in and make me feel it" said those step-ins and that's all it was, all along and all the way through. Like two schoolboys running into each other one Summer vacation. "I bet you ain't got the guts" to this or that and then the other was the whole of our Law, sing-song and response all the way through.
The first thing I did, when she opened the door that first time, it wasn't what I wanted to do. I ached to push her in, fall on top of her, piledrive into her, just like you do, just like you'd think I do. That's not what I did, though. As she took the flowers from me and started to say something, I went down on my knees. Holding her taut ass in my hands, I kissed her mound. She moaned and tried to pull me in, but I kept pulling her out. Eventually we fell inside, her on her back and me on top of her. She had the greater pull. After that she scurried away. I didn't get up on my feet. Instead, I chased after her on all fours, barking like a dog. She stopped on the second stair, spreading her legs wide, daring me with her fingers. I ate her neatly trimmed bush like I hadn't seen one before. It was true, too. I had never seen a shaved kitty before in my life, I didn't even think it possible. I'd have never thought to come up with it on my own, hadn't I seen it on her first. I ate her out forever, without mercy, until it hurt her. She begged me to let her go. I didn't hear her. She tried to get away but was too exhausted from all the orgasm bucking. She couldn't push through wet paper. She cried in despair, but I didn't care. I didn't stop. Eventually she let go of her bladder, but that didn't stop me either. My erection was killing me the whole time, but I wouldn't put it in her, though she begged me to. Oh, how she begged me to. Her muscles were spasming every which way, criss-crossing her abandoned body. She thought she was going to die.
And then I stopped. Just like that, as she was breathing evenly, resigned. Raw. I told her I'll do anything she wants me to, what does she want me to ? She told me to call her Mama. I said Yes Mama. She told me to go put that ugly nigger dick of mine in ice. I went over to where she had a bar, flung out some bottle out of a bucket of ice. It went flying in a wide arc, crashing through some stuff, foaming up like it was trying to put out a fire. It didn't manage to. I stuffed my cock in the hole left behind. The ice felt like gorgeous hell. She said "You're a crazy kid, you know that ?" I said Yes Mama. She made me a drink. She kissed my frozen rod better. We just went at it like that, day in and day out. Like crazy people. How could she back down ? She had been through enough, she had eaten enough shit to not want to back down now, whatever the hell it was. In the end, our tug of war was resolved by the happy circumstance that I had more to ask of her than she had to ask of me, that's all.
That's all it ever is.
———The judge is trying to rule on what he interpreted to be a motion of summary dismissal introduced by the defendant, because that's how justice worked in the time and place, the judge translated common speech "in the interest of justice", meaning to save everyone the trouble and expense of having a public defender appointed and a new date scheduled when the exact same motion'd be considered. [↩]This thing eventually became K-Mart sometime in the 70s. [↩]WW1 lingo, raw recruits fresh from back home. Soft, green, of little military value and correspondingly commanding no respect. Quite on the contrary... [↩]
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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Saturday, 27 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:47:29

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 5 : To Tuskegee, And Back
Party's bad break sobered me. I started hearing what was going on in day classes at school, and kept it up for a year or so until at age fifteen I graduated from high school, amazingly, and with a ninetyeight point four average! Some people who were alumni of Tuskegee, a Southern Negro college, insisted upon Mama letting them underwrite all expenses for my education at their Alma Mater. The tuition came to almost two hundred, and then there were other expenses for textbooks. Room and board came to another coupla hundred. All together it piled up just a shoeshine short of Vera's take that one Friday night. The thought still makes me snicker, though of course I didn't dare bat an eyelash then. To Mama it seemed nothing short of a fabled fortune of the sultans, and she leaped at the chance.
The alumni went into debt and sent me down to their hallowed school with a sparkling wardrobe. I sold myself hard on their blather of the future, I still don't know why but I sure as hell did it back then. Education freaks are no different from any other church nuts. They all think the same way, it's always salvation and Jesus is coming for them, though they call it different things but it all works the same, like a tractor painted red is the same under the hood as the same tractor painted yellow, and if you paint it pink instead it might look like a novelty but it'll still be a Farmall Progress. I didn't know any of that back then, of course. Somewhere in the back of my head there was the thought that if it costs the same as Vera's Friday night it probably is worth the same as Vera's Friday night too, I'm sure. It must've been there in the first place for me to figure it out eventually ; but it was buried, deep under a whole pile-up of "the success of my very life itself", rescuing Mama and all her awesome guilt, not to mention the trust and confidence of those big-hearted alumni. A lot of people's self-importance was at stake, and I was supposed to be stuck pulling their ego carts for them all the way uphill to Tuskegee.
The sleepwalking lasted maybe two, maybe even three months ; but little by little I woke up and smelled the cunt. Before the first year was out I had slit open the maidenhead on a halfdozen curvy coeds, and in the process made the biggest discovery of my entire life. They don't mind being together! They think they mind it, everyone tells them they do and tries to sell them on it, but deep down, at the brass tacks, they like being together just fine. It's better for them, it's like someone told them they don't like fried chicken their entire life. They go through the day stuffing themselves on watermelon, because on their own they're too dumb to try things or figure their way out of a paper bag. You ever try any poisonous mushrooms to see whether they're poisonous or sugar-sweet ? So then how you know they're poisonous in the first place ?
That's how it goes, once you force them to stick some of that disgusting terrible awful delicious fried chicken down their craw their tune changes fast enough. All of a sudden all sorta qualities and advantages start coming out of the woodwork. You've gots ta start with them young enough, so their brains ain't grown bones all over and through yet, but as my good fortune had it freshman year's not too late at all. Once I finally figured that out, I was like a fox in a chicken coop. My notoriety was getting something awful, but I was starting to pile up the scratch faster than it went out. Turns out that even though the campus finks were bile-green with envy, there's nothing much a college kid won't do for even the prospect of spending the night with a roomfull of naked co-eds ; and the naked co-eds don't mind being naked if there's three or four of them to the loser.
In my Sophomore year I figured out no man lives on an island, even if off to college. I started going into the hills near the campus. I made a circuit through all the juke joints, and there were dozens of them. They liked the smell of Chicago on my accent, plus by then I had extended my original wardrobe pretty far, and in a different direction from the alumni tastes. To the pungent, hot-ass maidens in the hills I was prince charming in spades. I started having the round butt, bare foot beauties sleeping in with the respectable maidens on paper only, proud produce of the Negro middle class, though it did turn out they minded that a lot more than anything else. This is where I made my second big discovery in life. It doesn't matter what they mind! It doesn't matter one ant's piss-all. The more they mind, the more they work each other, the dorms with the toughest tugs of war between the farm-bred whores and the Papa's parlour prostitutes were always the dorms the guys wanted the most, and paid for the most. Competition's really what makes the real whore out of the dull girly in a stupid collared blouse. Once I figured that out, I started using it like Archangel Michael's sword of ass-unction. Maybe some girly didn't want to give it up, or maybe she liked pretending like she didn't want to, a little. That changed more often than not once it came up that some other girly did give it up, and loved doing it, too.
I kept the old folks out of it as best I could, but nothing lasts forever and soon enough I was on the carpet, in the office of the school President. The cocksucker didn't even offer me a chair. He just sat there behind his gleaming mahogany desk, reflecting his ugly mug and clearing his pipes. He kept giving me looks, like I picked my nose at a wake and wiped it on the stiff's tie or shoved cowpies in the kitchen smokestacks. I don't think he ever did anything worth writing about with his missus, but he held his head high and kept right on not understanding why she's such an unpleasant bitch. He drawled his way through words like the Mississippi flows through shit : "Boy, yu ah a disgrace to oauh fine institushun. Ah'm shocked thet sech has occurred. Yo mothah has bin infaumed of yo bad conduck. Oauh bord is considurin yo dismissul. En thu meantime, keep yo nos clean, boy. Yo ah not to leave campus for eny resun."
I came out of there whiter than I've been in my life, at least lookswise. I could have saved my worry over dismissal, though. They may not look like it, especially on their backs with their legs hanging by their ears and fresh buttermilk coming out of their bush, but whores have powerful pull all right. Turns out I wasn't the only one with a vested interest in the matter. Before the week was out I was back in the Principal's office, this time seated, and on the receiving end of an apology. Can you believe the old scarecrow actually went as far as to apologize to me for calling a spade a spade or more's the like a cathouse by its proper name ? I can't believe it either, not now like I couldn't then. And yet it happened, like the Hoover dam happened.
Meanwhile anything with a buzz in it was in great demand on campus, second only to anything warm and round and with a greased hole sorta midway. A pint of rot gut whiskey that you couldn't give away on the Southside brought from seven and a half to ten dollars here, depending on supply. My chosen roommate had some decent scratch together. He was a sharpy from a number-racket family in New York. We worked it together, I'd stay back and distribute while he'd go out there through the hills finding sourdough miners running hidden stills, and old farmers moonshining. There were almost as many of these as young whores waiting to be discovered, thinking back on it now it seems those hills teemed with everything but a honest day's work. Great place them Roller people found for their castle of higher learning, no doubt about it.
This partnership worked for a little while, but soon enough there were some problems come from it. There's only so much liquor young negro studs can imbibe, both because they can't carry it worth two bits and because there's only that much money they have available to pay for it. As it turns out, neither of those's all that much at all. In the few months we worked together the pint went to five dollars tops, then four, and finally three and even two-fifty. It was getting to where it was barely worth the carting, not that anyone was in any danger of breaking their backs hauling the aggregate demand anyway. Then all his truck with the hillbillies put him in a prime position to see the prize cooch before I did. I could feel it coming a week away, the cogs turning in his head. He was going to cut loose and go in on his own, and to say it true I didn't think he was smart enough to pull it off. Besides, the well was getting tighter and tighter, the air in the tunnel ever thicker and harder to breathe. I thought to myself I'd be damned if I'll go start a turf war for the grand or two a week that apish gang of Mama's boys was worth at their furthest stretch.
I didn't let him turn a rat. I guess he might've told me, maybe, fair and square, that he's cutting loose. But I didn't wait to find out. Instead I told him straight up one night, "Listen Jimmy, this is a great set-up we got here, ain't it ?" I said. He nodded. He didn't talk much, like dumb people don't. "Leaving it all behind's the last thing I want to do" I carried on "But I have no choice. Family trouble, I gotta go be with my Mama. I tried to work it out every which way but there's no helping it. Before two weeks is out I'll be out of here, I haven't told a soul but I want to let you know first. You'll be left in charge with it all. Think you can handle it ?" He could barely contain his glee. I peppered some more "don't let some sucker steal it from us now" and "make me proud, you hear ?" in there, college spirit bullshit, and then that was that. Next day I took the train out, and that was the last Tuskegee saw of me, or me of it. I guess a college career works better for some people than some others, like drowning works better for some people than others, in preference of say hanging or falling down a well. Don't let no fool tell you though that it works well for anyone, because it don't. It can't work no better than any other prayer meeting or hallelujah joint, because how could it ? It's the same thing anyway. All your life you gotta learn, and if you do or if you don't it'll be your ass. But no college has more to do with that than painting your nails. You can't buy yourself a house to be happy in anymore than you can get yourself a college to be smart in. It just ain't how anything ever works.
I paid the man in the booth nineteen-fifty for a ticket to Chicago. That left me twenty-eight twenty and some coins. Six hundred of that was from Vera. I meant to keep it. Who knows, maybe she comes asking after it one of these days, so I can milk another sixty thousand sixty times out of that sweet ass of hers. Who knows what Vera ripened into by then ? It's been five years, she must be a woman, grown in full by now. There I sat, I can see it in my mind better than I can see myself in the mirror, a seventeen year old nigger boy half weeping half counting. I put seventeen hundred together in one pocket. I put the other eleven and change in another pocket. A hundred a year was more to show than most people ever can or ever could ; and boy was I gonna have a ball in Chi. I stretched my legs on the trunk. Hour and a half till the train leaves. It looked like I was taking a nap, but I was just sitting and thinking. Then there was a hand on my shoulder.
When I looked up, a kid I didn't much know, from the East Coast, nodded at me. He handed me an envelope, and he said "Jimmy says arivederci." Then he turned around and left. Inside it, twenty-eight hundred dollars, in hundreds and fifties. Jimmy was buying me out. It never pays to wait for anyone to turn rat. Things didn't work out for him too well, though. There were two jasper coeds in one of the dorms who got off by their fierce rivalry with each other. They liked me for some reason, but they didn't like Jimmy, and from what I pieced together from what I heard later, they blew up the whole set-up for him within a month of my getting out of there. I don't know how it went down exactly. I think it maybe started from this coffee-colored doll from a country town in Oklahoma. She was all curves but really dumb too. Nobody had wised her up to the lesbian kick, she had no idea what the hell's going on, it was almost funny to watch. Or who knows what fly went up their ass, they might have done the same with me there too, except for how they didn't.
I spent more than a month in Chicago before I finally had the heart to tell Mama about it. I put up in a hotel in a slum neighborhood, around 29th and State Streets. More of a flop house to tell the truth, but it only ran me eighteen-fifty a week. It was the best I could do after nigh-on half hour of pratting the clerk. The sucker ask was twenty-five, though I could tell twenty is what they wanted for 'em. Most places went thirty or even forty, but this was a little bit more run down. It wasn't worth my time to push the clerk that hard, and take that long doing it. Only a nigger dumb enough to be a chauffeur or something spends half an hour sweating up a buck and change. I did it because I was a dumb kid, and didn't know what's what or anything. Who knows, maybe if I prat them good they'll pay me a coupla hundred a week to sweat in their bedsheets every night ?
Maybe you think it's funny, haggling like that, and for what ? While all the while I had the cold hard cash in my pocket to pay the rent for years in advance on that rat trap. Another guy would have gone for the plushest pad he could find, drop a hundred or two a week on it and then go out looking for maybe some whore to open up his nose, a nice game of Georgia-skin with some people he's never seen before in his life and wouldn't know from Adam, a dirty cop looking for some young nigger to roll over, something like that ? Another guy did, but Iceberg ain't his daddy. I didn't mean to blow my five grand within the week. I didn't mean to blow it ever, and if you think about it, who'd think to try and break into the room of some skinny ass nigger kid who ain't got twenty together for his rent ? Huh ?
I did the right thing, and you know that's what it is by that unerring sign, that all the dunces are in their natural confederacy against it. To get myself to the plush pad I had to make some friends first. That's the two teeth of the living good pliers, one's who you know the other's your stake. Dumb bitches all the time try to get to it on just the one, live offa handouts, eat at parties, shower on a home date, live out like rag dolls from fuck to fuck. Dumb suckers all the time try to do the other by itself, get a big stake together as if that'll do anything besides land them in a tank somewhere. You gotta get both to pinch Mother Nature's tit good and hard enough to dribble some of that sweet milk in your open mouth, and that's just what I meant to do. I said before something was the biggest lesson I had learned in my life, and I lied, like I'm lying now, when I tell you the truth : this is. This is the biggest lesson, if you ain't got the outfit blow the setup, I you ain't got the bankroll blow the game. Go sit at a table with people you know and with as much scatch as you need for it. Learn this much, you won't need no college as long as you live, and all the other suckers no college will ever help enough to figure worth a dry fig.
It didn't take me so long to found a fascinating second home. It was a gambling joint run by a broken down ex-pimp and murderer called Diamond Tooth Jimmy. The two-carat stone, wedged between the upper front rotting teeth, was the last vulgar memento of his infamy as the top ass-kicker of the nineteen-twenties. I told you I lied to you before, and I'll tell you right now I'll lie to you again, because the biggest lesson's that old quality beats anything to buy, because it's cheap. I read it in the newspaper once, nothing's as ex as an ex-bigshot, and you know what that means ? It means nothing's as cheap, and that means nothing's as much worth buying, dollar for dollar you won't get value like that anywhere. I'd have rather spent my days in Jimmy's joint, dropping a buck on his rigged games now and again like a sucker kid, than stuffing my craw with the President's wife. They paid a thousand dollars a plate back in those days to go eat an evening with some senator in the running, those sorts of people. I guess it's good enough for them, who don't need that G for anything. But if you mean kick for your buck, Diamond Tooth Jimmy's worth fifty future presidents, and it'll run you much lighter on the pocket, too.
He boasted endlessly that he was the only nigger pimp on Earth who had ever pimped in Paris on French girls. I didn't ask him roller questions, I just let him spin his tale, but it made no sense to me. Why'd he not bring some over, for one thing ? Everyone was going to France in those days, all the bums I mean, artists and writers and that kinda scum. If the bums are going one way the whores'd better be coming the other way. That's how it always goes, when the bums calling themselves prospectors make out of town for the hills like varmints from under a lifted boulder, that's when the whores come in from all the hill farms to the mint town, to work that kitty for fresh minted silver. When all the bums go off to France you know it's because French money isn't any good, and if the money's no good what the hell are the girls still doing sticking around there ?
I never asked him anything like that though. Much later I found out niggers had been pimping on white girls around those parts in the old world for long before America was even invented. There was even one guy Othelo who strangled a whore in his bed so good, they made poems about him for it. Back then and over there people had their head screwed on better. Anyway, the thing with old timers is, all you care about's that they were on top. You're not about checking out their stories like a cop. You just let them tell and keep your ears open because they don't know what they're telling. If they want to lie to you or not it doesn't matter, they only lie about themselves, and you don't care any about that. Everything else's what's the matter, and that gets straight and true through well enough.
After all the suckers were trimmed and all the shills were paid, Jimmy locked the door and then, like a ritual, lit up a thin brown reefer. As he talked, he sometimes passed it to me, cursing me lightly for not inhaling deeply and holding the smoke, as he put it, "deep in my belly." When dawn broke he'd go out through the joint door home, to the nineteen-year-old jasper on whom he lavished furs and jewels. I thought he was a real sucker. Me, half the time I'd go to bed in the tiny cubicle in the rear of the joint, to dream fantastic dreams. Always beautiful whores would get down on their knees and tearfully beg me to take their money. They'd be virgins run from home with their papa's silver dollar and their mama's silver needles, begging me to turn them out on the street and make real whores out of them. They'd be top ticket dancers and singers from uptown, their press agents trying to keep the private dicks and glamour beat reporters from taking their picture, naked, kneeling and kissing my feet. They were gun molls and hundred-a-trick whores, runaway from their pimps and gangsters who'd be roaming the streets looking for us but never had enough sense to knock on the door. I'd be waving at them as they drove by in a rush while I boned their prize by the window, her tits hanging out over the ledge and her moans filling the neighbourhood. One day I saw a pretty Apache girl in a wedding dress crossing the street a block up from me, and from that day on she came to beg me to knock her up before her wedding almost every night. There were French girls, too, and they spoke French to everyone though I have no idea how it went or how I knew it was French, and then there'd be Mama. She's caress me and cry on my shoulder because she was so old and if only she had met me before she met Steve her life'd have worked out so much better. She'd run around and hide among the other girls, clumps and clumps of naked girls, and then I'd fuck them, but always in the same way : I'd grab one and start boning her standing, from behind, her head pressed against a wall just like I did Vera. The others'd line up, and I'd pluck the head off the one I was fucking, just like that, the way they take heads off manequins in clothing stores, and plop another one's head in. I'd be fucking the same body over and over with new heads, they'd be coming offering me their detached head, holding it in their hands. Then when I was done they'd laugh and run around, switching their heads from one to another all the time like god damned prairie dogs.
Across the street from Jimmy's joint, a little ways up there was a big bar that had live bands, and not just on weekends either. Jimmy didn't open early, but the bar did, and I often camped there after breakfast, chatting up the girls and playing the jukebox with them. That's how I met June. She was just turned fifteen. She was luscious like I couldn't believe, and I don't just mean for a fifteen year old. Jean Harlow had nothing on her, which is how we met. She was there with some friends of hers, way in the back, sucking down root suds. I walked up to them and, looking straight at her, I said "Hi! What's your name ?" She said June, but I made like I heard Jean and I said "Oh, Jean, that's a pretty name!" She said no, not Jean, June, and I laid right back into her, I said "Ok Miss Harlow, have it your way." I turned around like it was nothing and walked slowly off. She was laughing and so were some of her friends but one of them didn't get it and kept asking what does he mean ? what does he mean ? Another one explained it to her and I turned just my head and winked at my future whore. That night she spent at my hotel, which I kept even though I slept over at Jimmy's most nights. Cheap comes in handy more ways than one. If it's not burning a hole in your pocket it's more likely to be on hand when needed, and boy was it needed that night! Nobody knew about it, I hadn't told a soul, so even though the people from the bar knew I hung out around Jimmy's all the time, nobody there could tell them where to find me. Jimmy said he never would have told them in a million years anyway, even if he knew, and I believe him. It's cheap to believe him, seeing how he didn't know in the first place. It never pays to make anyone a rat.
Her dad was one of the more popular band leaders, a big black guy from New Orleans, kinda old. Her mom was white, and gone somewhere. She'd say dead sometimes, or gone to Indochina other times, I never got a straight story out of her. I figure her mom was one of those girls with a wild itch, and she took off sometime never to be heard from again. June was the highest yellow broad I had yet laid my prick into. Strawberry blond hair really looked great on her slightly toasted, almondy skin, though when I met her she was just some kinda brown. Her old man was crazy tight, and she wasn't keen on going back at all. I think maybe her mom running off had more to do with him than with her. He was one of those loud and in your face types, always yakking about something he wants you to do or stop doing. It's no wonder they kicked him out of the Big Easy. Deep down she hated him plenty, but also he had taken care of her growing up. She just didn't want to think about it, and with me there she really didn't have to.
The way it played out was, she sneaked out during one of his early sets. There was nothing he could do about it for hours, except grow more incensed. From what I heard he played some of his best music that night. By the time he was off, the bar was closing, people were heading home. The jughead didn't go to bed or anything, instead he roused the cops, made a big scene, screamed his head off in Jimmy's joint, ended up in the slammer. The pigs weren't perturbed or anything, single father with a wife gone to Texas and a fifteen year old daughter headed that way, but they figured he's safest in the tank, lest he assaults someone or gets himself in even worse trouble. So they took him to everyman's flophouse, courtesy the board of trustees of the city of Chi. All the while we were cosy like honeybears fourteen blocks away in my eighteen-fifty a week bed. It hadn't seen me in like a week, but we sure gave its rusty springs a workout to compensate. Then after the second or third twirl I felt this pang grow inside of me, like a biting ache. I wanted to test her, to try her out. I wanted to see what's inside, what she's made of. I'd have stretched her with ropes if I had any. Instead I asked her if she knows what a whore is. She giggled and said she does. I asked her if she knew what a whore does ? She giggled some more but didn't say anything. I said to her "I'll tell you what she does. She leaves all her clothes behind, in the room, and goes naked in the hallway." She looked me straight in the eyes, dead serious. "Why does she do that for ?" she asked, sing-song like, as if she was playing along in some game. "She'll see it when she does it", I told her, and sure enough five minutes later there we were, buck-naked barefoot beauty running up and down the old stained carpeting of the run down hotel. I took her out to the fire escape and fucked her there, out in the open like that, the pleasant breeze flying her hair in my face. It was the first time I felt the pleasure of fucking a hot eager whore. Before that it was the release, the relief, but this time, and occasionally from then on it was just the sheer pleasure of feeling her womanly guts, smooth as silk, rub on the delicate part of my rod, under the skin, like a crazy tickle of joy.
In the morning I gave her a few bucks to buy us breakfast at the diner down the street. I figured her old man might have pulled a stink, though I had no idea then just what kind of a stink he pulled. I had no conception of her being hot to go out though, and maybe I was right. In a big town fourteen blocks' further than across the county line in the sticks, and that's god's own truth of the matter. While she was gone I had the craziest plan. I knew Mama had changed jobs, she had just started working at a small beauty salon, doing hair. When June came back I asked her how'd she like to get her hair and nails done ? She jumped up and down like a baby goat, clapping her hands in joy. She told me her daddy never let her do that before, and I told her I'm her daddy now and she'd better not call anyone else dady in the whole world for as long as she lives. I said it stern and she almost started crying and begging me to not be upset. I told her I'm not upset, and she asked me if she can still get her hair done ? I said "Sure honey. Here's what you do : there's a hair salon so and so, you go in there and you tell them you want to be strawberry blonde and your nails done pretty red with it, and your Daddy be by later to pay for it, but your Daddy say ain't nobody to do any of it but Ma'am Beck, 'cuz she's the best there is."
I gave her about an hour's head start, and then you can imagine Mama's shock and awe when who else comes in the door, the pretty baby's Daddy, other than little Bobby gone from college ? She nearly had a heart attack. Like I figured, all they did the whole time was trying to figure out who the gent might be that has such high oppinion of her. Truth be told she probably figured it's Steve, or some other bum in his line that never came out of her mouth to me though I'm sure had in his time his fair shot at being my daddy. That's why they've got two mouths on them after all, and at criss crosses from one another. But I told her I just couldn't cut it in college, and that I'm working now and this is June, don't she look just like Jean ? The whole thing was too much for Mama to get her wits gathered about her enough to bitch and moan, so we parted as the best friends, and we were gonna come Sunday for Sunday dinner at her place, like we was married or something. On the way back to my place, I turned around asked her how much does she love me ? She said she'd do anything for me. "Even turn a trick?" I asked her. "I'd do anything for you, Daddy!" she said right back, looking straight at me all serious. "You ain't ever gonna be my wife", I said back to her. She didn't say anything, just looked down at her feet. "But you can be my whore. And it'd be the first one, too. I ain't ever had a whore before." She looked back at me, straight into my eyes, piercing mine with hers, and then she said "Ok."
I left her at the hotel and went back in the street. Two blocks down I saw an old gambler. I knew he was a trick, and I owed him five dollars from before. I walked up to him with a swagger. "Hey Moe, how'd you like to give me five bucks ?" "You're the one to give me five, pay up, buster" he came right back at me, gruffly. "Oh, I'll pay you up even better." and I explained to him what awaited in the hotel room. Sure enough he greased my palm with five's silver. I took him upstairs and let him in on her. She turned him in less than five minutes, he was back down in the street before I finished my Camel. My seventeen-year-old brain reeled. This was still the depression. Ten bucks in five minutes, June could clear as much as Vera and with not nearly the same risks, either. I could get rich with this girl and drive a big white Packard, and not need no Party Time for anything, either. I discovered soon enough I liked watching her getting worked over. For the whole rest of the day I just piled up guys into her, must've been twenty, thirty people. If they didn't have cash I'd take their marker, I'd take pretty damn near anything just to get another prick working June over. You could say I was going hog-wild with the pimp's fever.
Then just by the time night was falling and I was running out of people I knew, a roller squad ran straight into me. "Son, are you so-and-so from so-and-so ?" Sure, I said, that's me. "You'd better be coming with us, then." and that was that, next thing I knew a fat pig of a detective was yelling at me.
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The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 6 : In The Slammer, And Back On The Street »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Saturday, 27 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:47:22

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 4 : Vera Comes, And Goes
I met Party several times after school, mostly at a run down pool room across the street from that old sheet joint. He ran his notions down for me, squeezed by degrees into the shape of the actual facts of the matter. At first it was in general, what if a man and a woman worked it together. Hours of pratting later the facts wrung out : they'd be better off pimping, like every chilli pimp since the dawn of time, which is why they do it that way and not this way. No need to do the Murphy if it's a man and a woman doing it, just too much trouble for much too little payoff, and also all the risk. The next time was, what if the woman's not really a whore. She'd be a thief then, as it turns out. She'd have to be. Maybe she'd carry an old lush, but there's no reason for her not to learn picking pockets, and no good reason to not play alone. It's just how the angles work out. Then after that it was, what if the whore's not really a woman. Turns out this is exactly what he had in mind all along : I'd put on a pair of frayed red satin high-heel shoes and a twenty-cent red dress from the Salvation Army. I'd pin a scraggly piece of hair just inside the front inner band of a faded blue straw bonnet. I'd tilt it on my head at a sexy angle, somehow, and better pray the ringlets of uneven hair hung down over my eyes like bangs.
The way dirty ole Joe figured it, I'd stand wide legged, thigh and hip muscles flexed against the tight red dress, aping the whore's stance in some dark alley. He'd give the pitch to some old guy, some lonely fat drunk guy, some bottom feeding, side scraping, backalley skirting character while I jerked my skinny ass in a series of bumps and grinds, and hopefully wave him toward me. Maybe the skinny black bitch the chump saw'd light a fire in him. Maybe he'd fumble for his hide and hand a bill to Party. Maybe he'd be lucky, and that'll end there ; or maybe not, maybe he'd flash a wad large enough to qualify him for the back of the head express. Maybe he'd be quick, but hopefully not quick enough to catch up with me as I did my best to evaporate through whatever path we scouted out aforehand, my heart pounding in excitement as I galloped through the alleys toward our next prearranged duck blind. The thing with people's everyone always has an angle, as if they were in charge of the flow. The boss of the floor. Every two bit huster with more rapsheet than bankroll still figures himself clever enough to call his own shots, and everyone else's too thrown in, why not. So when you know how it's gonna go, that's the best time to pay attention to what they all say, who don't yet know. It'll turn out informative, you know ?
I stretched out my legs, gave him a look, let out a sigh, looked up at him again... then after another pause I let go. "Party, man, I've got something here. There's this chick, Vera. She'll be the bait." ole Joe was blank, incomprehending. You could almost see the lone solitary cog spinning by itself in the caveman skull of the best hustler of Zionville or wherever he was from. "She's young, you see. She's twelve years old." His eyes opened wide and he drew a sharp breath enough to inflate a New Year's float to bursting. "The way we play it, you tout. You tell it true, too : this is one fine young bitch. She's ran away from home, you tell them. We'll have her mostly naked in that alley there, so the sucker can see her baby titties on her and everything. Then when the chump's all over her, I show up. I make like I'm her brother. I throw a screaming fit. If he tries to strongarm me, then you show up. If not, you just stay back. Pick respectable looking chumps. I'll tell them I recognize them from church. That I'll tell their inlaws. They'll be begging me to take their wad from them." Party Time was teetering like I hit him in the head with a garbage truck. He sat down and exhaled like a steam press. He gave me a look like I had just baptised baby Jesus. "You're a genius, Kid. That's what you are." He gushed all over me a while, then it finally dawned on him. "I'll have to see this bitch." he said. Of course he will.
The next Friday night we got down with our hustle. Mama was serving a party so I could stay in the streets until at least one in the A.M. Come nine Vera was at the bus stop, just like I told her. We walked together down the backstreets, hand in hand, like we was to be married. Party Time had taken the room facing the alley. The window was open like we said. I squeezed her by the back of her neck. She looked at me like only now it was getting real for her. She wimpered but didn't say anything. She took off her clothes, one by one. I bundled them up for her. A moment later there she stood, stark naked in that dirty back alley. I lifted her into the room through the open window. I left her shoes atop her bundled clothes on one of the garbage cans. If anybody takes them, I thought to myself, she ain't ever going back home ever again. Nobody did, though, when we came back they were right there where I left them. I jumped into the room myself. There they were, naked Vera standing, eyeing Party Time, dressed, stock straight, eyeing her back. It was like two tigers or something. I wanted to fuck her again. I'm sure he wanted to fuck her too. I said "Are we a coupla chumps or what, Party ?" He shook his head, like a dog out of water. "We're not gonna just sit here and fuck the bitch all night like two chumps. Are we ?" I asked him. Honestly I could see it either way, that Vera bitch was fine. It does something, for a girl, to go where the women go, to be in the room where whores fuck, to look like one in the setting of one, if you know what I mean. I does a lot. I wouldn't have traded her for the white man's wife, that's for damn sure. Right then I wouldn't have traded Vera for the world.
Party Time shook his head again. He grabbed her work clothes bundle and pushed it into her tit. Vera got herself dollied up. The whole bundle looked like it went for less than three dollars, but on her it looked like a million bucks. Before ten that night we were in an alley in the heart of the vice section, Seventh and Joliet. My place was a little up, around a corner. I told her how to walk, I showed her how to bump and grind, how to flaunt herself. I showed her how to expose herself when the punter's looking. Party looked her over from head to toe. He shook his head, mumbled the name of our saviour and walked toward the mouth of the alley, to catch a sucker. Within five minutes he gave the office that he had someone. Action was coming down the street. I wondered if the whole harebrained scheme had enough voltage to get us anything besides an asskicking. An elderly gent walked up towards Vera. He looked like a preacher, or a school principal maybe. She smiled at him, lifting her arms over her head, her bare tits going along for the ride. He pounced on her like she was cotton candy. He was mouthing her tits, right hand under her dress, when I let out the first yell, three paces off. "My god, sis! Mary! Is that you baby ?" She hissed "Go away. God damn it!" like we said. The guy on her was giving white new meanings, like he was trying to play paper sheet. I yelled my head off. "Oh, I know you! I know you! She's my little sister, she's not even twelve years old, you dirty bastard! You're going up for life for this, I'm telling Dad. I'm telling... I know your church, I've seen you. I'm going Sunday and I'm telling everyone! Filthy! Filthy!"
I said all that came to my mind. The take for five minutes' work was a hundred thirty eight dollars, a coupla silver nothings and a boatload of excuses and promises. The god damned setup was hot! We beat several other suckers in the same way. One of them had almost five hundred on him, the rest chickenfeed, but every few slats add up. After the third or fourth Vera chipped in. "Wouldn't it be better if I let 'em do her first ?" she asked, just like that. She wasn't after a thrashing or anything, she wanted to know. Scientific-like, as it were. A curiosity she had, nothing more. Better how, I asked her right back. Not like a chump can give you mre than what he has no matter what you do, and if they've done the deed they can't quite walk away. She let out the same "Ooh", and then I asked her if they fingered her any ? Yeah they did, she said. In the cooch ? I pressed her, just for the fun of it. Yeah, she said, and lifted her skirt. Right here, she showed us with her finger in and out. "Do you figure they couldn't tell if you're already full of it ?" I asked her. "Ooh" came back again. "It's bad for business if they fuck you, honey. Just let it be." She pouted and nodded her head. Jesus what whore she'll be! I looked at PT, and he looked at me. As dumb as he might be, I tell you I could feel he was thinking the same thing.
We worked until twelve-thirty, then climbed back through the alley window. Party went in through the door. The take was almost a grand if you can believe that. At a time when every working stiff took home forty-fifty bucks a day, two kids and a two bit hustler took almost a grand between the three of them in three-four hours. That's how hot that Vera bitch was! Party had this idea of splitting down the middle, but he saw the light soon enough. I didn't need him for touting and a bit of muscle, not like he needed us that's for damn sure. We split it three ways, and Vera gave me her part on the way to the bus station. I didn't even ask for it or anything, she reached it over like it was obvious. I guess it was obvious. Before we parted ways though she said "There's still a little bit of time..." and before she was done I had her by the neck, bent over, and ole Joe was pumping her ass like his life depended on reaching through. She was pulling herself open with her hands, while I held her by the neck. My tenting erection found the way to the back of her throat by itself, I don't know how I ended up in there except for thinking that the bitch got too much air. I kept cutting it for her, she kept gulping it down whenever she got a chance. PT was long done in by the time I splattered all over the face. She went over to the sink, hooked a foot up on the wall and washed herself with her hand. Then she washed her face, put her old clothes back on, and we went back out the window, leaving PT snoring behind, half dressed half lying on the bed.
As good as it was, that was the only time we pulled it off. Saturday Party ran head on into a round brick balloon. It was only five feet tall, but it weighed close to three-hundred pounds. It was about ten. The vice section was overrun with Johns. It looked like every white man in five states was out there, scratch in one hand and rod in the other, ripping and running after the black whores with the widest, blackest asses. We set up in a blind on the fringe of the section, because with all that mad action in the center it would be a hectic cat-and-mouse game with the cruising, rousting vice squad. It'd have been something less than pure kicks to get busted in our setup. Party hadn't strong armed since his last bit. There was positively no need to, but I guess he felt humiliated. He wanted to contribute something, something big. He wanted to show Vera what a real man is. Something along those lines, anyhow. From my place around the corner I watched Party eagerly talking to... something. Was it a man? Was it some kinda machine? No, it was a walking, living, round balloon with a fat poke and a flaming itch for black tush. It stood there fascinated by the two of them, looking back and forth, from Party's ugly lips flapping to Vera's pretty titties flapping and back again. I could feel this is no good, like a thousand devil feet pricking all over my back. From my place there was jack shit I could do, we were too dumb to have arranged a ditch signal. The balloon took his hide out. Party jerked rigid at the sight of its contents. There must've been three grand it there, if not more. Even as the balloon bounced towards her, I was thinking this is one she might have to take. The strong-arm lust had exploded inside Party, though. Sure as Hell he was going to come up that alley, and smash the air out of the balloon.
Then there was guttural grunting. The balloon had Party in a crushing strangle hold. Vera was gone. I don't know where she went, or when. She was just gone, in a blink, like very fast smoke. My heart-beat back fired and all but melted the starch in my duds. I fell on my ass, plain and simple, my knees buckled, then gave way, and there I was looking at my upturned toes. The balloon must've also been a champion weight lifter, because poor Party spent a brief moment of his career hanging high over the head of the monster and then flew to the alley floor with a shattering "whoomp". He lay where he landed like a broken rag doll. The balloon hollered as he leaped into the air and then fell like a ton of concrete on Party's moaning remains. I was to the point of almost puking in pity. Poor Party! That strongarm game sure has its barbs, huh! I just couldn't find the strength to get off the ground and join the fray. Anyway it didn't look like it'd have made a difference. The derrick scooped Party from the alley and flung him across his back. I watched Party's rubber neck bumping against the balloon's rear end, like a woman's that was captured by some caveman back in the caveman days.
I jetted out of there on flaming trails. Vera grabbed my arm a little ways off. She was waiting in an alley leading to our hotel room. I watched for the rollers. I was sure as sugar they were hot on our trails, coming to bust me. They never came. Old Party had had the funky luck to try the strong arm on a professional wrestler called the Blimp. He went back to the joint for a yard after he got out of City Hospital, but he never tipped a whisper to the heat. I guess the one thing about him was that he wasn't copper hearted. When he got older, and lost his nerve to hustle, he got a crazy desire to pimp. He wasn't the type, but he kept trying until he ran the Gorilla game on a dope dealer's broad and they set him up for a hot shot. Party tried his fists and muscle until the pimp game croaked him. The pimp game is like the watchmaker's art, it's tough. Party went through his life struggling to make a watch while wearing boxing gloves.
Vera asked me what now ? I think she was game to keep at it. I explained to her we can't do it without a toot, because she's jailbait, and we can't have just any tout, either. It has to be one just about as dumb as Joe, but hopefully not as dumb as Joe so he lasts more than one Friday. I can't do it because then we'll need a clincher, and that's harder than the tout for hot merchandise like her, that practically sells itself. She didn't say anything for a while. Then she asked again, what now ? I was just starting to say, "now we go back to..." when it hit me like another ton of bricks. Her clothes, we left in the room this time. Party Time paid for it, he had the key for it, we closed the window before leaving like square idiots. She was better off not going home at all, than going dressed the way she was. I had enough scratch together to get her a place, but tell true, I was just a kid. I didn't know my asshole from a hole in the ground, I didn't know what I was doing, what I was passing up. I should have put her up somewhere, but I didn't think to do it.
We racked our brains a while. Breaking the window seemed a sure-fire way to jail. Lifting it was sure not to work, I remembered keying it closed with the little metal bit. Eventually the way out came to me : I bought some fried chicken, had them wrap it for take-out, went by the front desk nodding and then slipped the old janitor a buck to open the door for me, with some tall tale about how Party Time's coming later and he sent me ahead with dinner. It was stupid enough to wash by everyone with flying colors, five minutes later I was lifting the unlocked window to see a completely nude Vera looking at me from the alley below. I don't think she'd have minded if fifty guys went at her right then. I dragged her inside, and then she rolled up on me like a whole precinct full of nigger-hating pigs. I was turned to dust, dessicated, by the time she was through with me I didn't have enough liquid content for a decent spit. I took her to her bus station in a cab, I kissed her like we were engaged and that was the last time I saw her. Monday in school I found out her parents moved somewhere on the West Coast I think, and I never heard of her again.
I still miss you, baby. Always have. Always will. We could've set the world ablaze together, though I hope to god you did yourself my little bit the better.
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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Thursday, 25 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:47:14

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 3 : The Real Murphy
I guess my trip downward really was cinched when I met a petty hustler with a very likeable personality. We became best pals. My hustler pal's name was Joe, but everyone knew him as Party Time. By twenty-three he had done four bits in the joint, either strong-arm robbery or till tapping. He got his moniker hung on him because as soon as he scored some scratch he'd make fast tracks to the nearest watering hole. Once inside the door he'd shout, "All right you poor ass bastards, it's party time and Joe Evans is in port with enough scratch to burn up a wet elephant. All you studs stop playing stink finger with these long-cock whores and everybody belly up to the log and get twisted on me."
His flat African features were pasted to a skull that'd have made the most demanding caveman proud. He was short, powerful, shining black. He was also ugly enough to break daylight with his fist, but for some curious reason that made him irresistible to lots of thrill-seeking white women. Plenty of those sneaked into the black side of town panting, chasing after that hoary myth, something about how nigger men do it so good it's life changing. I don't know about that, but there was a fast sheeti joint with the trick rooms in the rear, right on the alley, five or six blocks from where Mama flopped back then. One night I was in that alley, peeping in through a frayed shade when I saw Party Time for the very first time.
My eyes were bugging when I saw the tall viking type white man, his tiny, voluptuous white woman and Party Time taking their clothes off. Finally they stood there naked. I could see their lips moving so I pressed my fingers on the glass pane, trying to lift it. The window gave a coupla inches without complaint. None of them seemed to notice, or care, but I could hear them clearly. The white joker was busy hefting Party Time's weapon tenderly in his hand, like maybe it was Ming Dynasty Pottery. He said excitedly to the broad, "Oh! Honey, can you believe the size, the beauty of it!" She looked really pretty in the red glow, her blue eyes fiery with well stoked passion. She purred and pounced onto the bed, on all fours, dangling her ass at them. She looked back over her shoulder, first at her joker, then at Party Time, then back at her joker. Then she looked straight at me. She smiled like maybe she was selling me an old Chevy for a new Caddy ? I smiled right back at her and waved my hand from across the glass. She winked at me. Party Time was at the side of the bed, looking down at her. He looked kinda like an old time executioner, holding a really short, fat axe of sorts over this convicted white bitch.
My trouser front was tented to hell. I dropped my pants and started rubbing my own shaft lightly, up and down, barely touching it at all. I really liked doing it in that way. I knew it's not enough to make me spit. That's what I liked about it the most. I thought to myself I hope they're never letting her back out of there. Maybe they'll tie her to the bed, or maybe they have chains in the basement. She'll be like in prison, for the rest of her life, just another trick in a cheap fuckshack, unable to ever leave, unable to ever walk on her two feet again. They'd just carry her from bed to bed, her feet soles'd never touch the floor again for the rest of her life. She looked like she'd love something like that, too. I pressed tight against the window. I had never seen anything like this back in Rockford, or since. Yes it's true I had maybe a dozen slain Topsies under my belt by then, sad pickaninnies crowded up in dark corners, raped more or less consensually but always quickly, always furtively, between shifts as it were, their clothes still mostly on, their eyes darting, wild with something a lot like fear. With the exception of the bleeding wonder none of them were anything like this sprawled out whore of a white woman, fucking like it was done on purpose, not a care in the world crossing her blanked out mind. Then the white man started saying the darndest things. He pulled a chair to the end of the bed and sat on the very edge of it. He was breathing hard. "All right now boy, stab it into her. Hurt her, boy, hurt her bad. Punish her, boy. Fuck her up, good boy, just like that. Crucify her, make her feel it. That's right, that's right, good boy! Good boy!"
The broad looked so fragile and helpless to my naive eyes that I felt a pang of pity pulse inside me as she moaned and whimpered in painful pleasure. The black demon pile driving into her must've been four times her weight, and all muscle, somehow. He had her half lifted off the bed, his big gangly hands clasped together on the small of her back, his forearms holding her thighs up and far apart at the same time. He just fucked himself with her like she was little more than a sleeve or something. She was panting for breath, her hands clawing all over the bed like he was tearing her in half. Now and again her slender white legs gave jerks like she was a trapped little frog he was electrocuting for pleasure. Party Time kept asking in a hoarse voice over and over, "Beautiful bitch, is it good? Beautiful bitch, is it good?" like he was trying to make a home or something. The white man had an odd look on him as he raced around the bed like a demented Roman emperor cheering on his merciless black gladiator.
He worked her over a good while, but finally, once the show was done and they were starting to dress I went to the front and sat on a stoop next door to the joint. I wanted to get a close up of the freaks. When they got to the sidewalk, in their street clothes, they were disappointingly normal. They didn't stand out at all. I was hoping for something wild, something out there, but they just looked like a car mechanic and his housewife or something. She didn't even look at me. Maybe she hadn't even really winked at me. Maybe I was imagining things, the bitch had a nervous tic or something. All the while watching them I had racing, daring thoughts about just walking in there and helping out. I had never been with a white woman before in my life. I didn't have the guts to do it though.
The mixed-up couple went down the sidewalk away from me. Party Time came toward me. He didn't notice me sitting on the stoop either, but I was itching with curiosity. I hit on him when he came abreast. It startled him. His face got stiff. I said, "Hey Jack, how you doing? That sure is a fine silk girl, huh? You got a square to spare?"
He fished a cigarette from his red shirt pocket, handed it to me and said, "Yeh kid, she's fine as a Valentine. Two sights I ain't never seen and that is a pretty bulldog and an ugly white woman." He was spouting cliches, but to a small town boy he came off witty as could be. I wish I could say I was faking it, but really there was no snow coming out that snow machine. My eyes bucked in genuine awe as I lit his square. I said, "Thanks man, for the square. Christ! That's a sporty vine you got on. I wish I could dress like you. You sure are clean aplenty."
He took the bait I didn't know I was putting out like he didn't know either. He flopped himself down on the stoop next to me. He poked his chest out, his eyes flashing like a pin-ball machine gone haywire, getting himself ready to open up. He hiked the pants legs of his green checked suit to his calves to show his blood red socks. The huge zircon on his right pinky glittered under the street lamp as he cracked his knuckles and said, "Kid, I'm Party Time, the best flat-footed hustler in town. Money loves me and can't stay away from me. You saw that fine silk broad ? I got a double saw to lay her. Course that ain't nothing, it happens all the time. I could be one of the greatest pimps in the country if I was lazy and didn't have so much good hustler in me."
I sat there listening to his bullshit until two A.M. He was likable, easy going and talkative. I was hungry for a pal. For the right kind of pal. He was an orphan. He had just done a two-year bit straight up, his fourth, two months before. He had a head full of wild risky hustles he claimed to want to try. They didn't seem so much idiotic to me then, though they were, but more in the vein of fascinating tales. A whole new world of possibilities was opening up under my very eyes. I never gave the till any thought before, certainly not anything like his. It was like the moon coming out, giving everything new shapes and contours that in the daytime never seem to be there. It was like the whole world caught on a secret second shape, invisible to all but the most initiated, the secret society of wise guys who knew where to look.
I got home at two-twenty. About one minute later I heard Mama's key in the door. She was out late serving a banquet for her white folks, which is why I was out so late in the first place. I had just made it into bed, all my clothes still on under the cover, when she came to look in on me. I was snoring my best as she kissed me goodnight. I don't think she caught on. After she left I took off my shoes, still under the sheets, and then bit by bit everything else until I was buck naked under there. I went back to lightly stroking my desperate erection, carefully constructing its agony for myself. I went one by one through all of Party Time's wild stories and schemes, and through the scenes I saw in the room, jumping from one to the other until they started mixing in together. I sniffed my socks pretending I'm the white guy and me and Joe jumped me and made me trade out my wife and smell our socks, or maybe she did. Or maybe we were really rich and every girl in the county had to come work as maids for us, and we made them do things. I lay there in the darkness, the knotting ache ever building, not letting me get a wink sleep. Until daybreak and past, watching the Sun rise inch by inch I couldn't stop putting myself into all sort and manner of situation, trying tall tales for size while delicately stroking myself into a frenzy, and back down again from the ledge.
Just about that time a new dish served itself up in school. Her name was Vera. She was tall and slender, but rounded too. She must've been twelve, thirteen maybe. Her parents moved into Southside from somewhere down south, could've been Kentucky, I don't remember. She had a drawl on her like you couldn't believe. I took it from her on her first day of school, just like that. Must've been first or second break, she was out there with some girls she was talking to, her age. I just walked up to them, they said hi but I just grabbed her by the hand and dragged her away. I pushed her face against a wall behind some coal piles in the back of the courtyard, around a corner. It went right in like it was buttered on both sides. She just let out an "Ooh." and that was that. She didn't bleed much, but then she got the virgin itch like I'd never seen before. She wanted it every time, all the time. I don't think she ever thought about anything else. Two weeks later I met her parents, too. She told me they were coming when I asked her about the welts on her ass. She told me she's in big trouble, and they wouldn't even let her back to school if it wasn't that her Daddy has to be in Chicago for work, he can't find anything back home. I told her "I'm your only Daddy now, bitch!" and she said "Yes, Daddy" so sweet and loving like I guess she had a lot of practice saying it. She was right, too, they were whining at the school principal about her grades and crap like that. A coupla funny looking squares, kept getting themselves excited and then tearing up then right back again. Her mom had a daisy or something on her hat, it kept trembling and dancing in the air. The principal told them she just doesn't seem to be paying any attention, and that she's in no great danger of graduating at this rate. I think he couldn't care less, maybe a girl in eight graduated back then, and none of them black. Vera was shiny black, like polished bakelite. I still think of her every time I see a girl like that. It's very pretty but damned rare nowadays. All the race mixing ruined it, I guess. A high yellow bitch can be fine too, no doubt about it, but there's so many of them everywhere now, the supply kinda ruins the demand. At least for me. Back then you could see the shiny black ones on every street corner, and look that it didn't ruin anything.
After running into Vera one of those quick buck schemes that Party yakked began keeping me up at night. Eventually I knew I'd have to give the ole' Murphy a whirl. I didn't know then our version was crude and dangerous, a weak imitation of the real Murphy at best. Years later I figured out the Murphy better. When played by experts it's a smooth enough short con. There's a slight risk, but nothing that can't be fixed.
The thing of it is, in any section where Negro whores operate there'll be plenty of loser white men flocking to trick with them. You know they're losers because what god damned whitey hangs around waiting for the nigger ? Normal white men just get the bitches delivered on a silver platter at their parties when they want them, or buy long term and call them maids or whatever. The punters wandering about the nigger district are the losers, they're the blackest white men that ever lived. That much's a given. There's always going to be more of them than there's whores, too, because there's nothing in this world more abundant than the loser. This means some'll have to kill some time, and that in turn means more black whores will be drawn in, bringing quality down. Because that's how this life works, every time you add more of something, you'll be adding less of that something. It stands to reason, if it were better not worse it'd have been there already. Right ? This means the punters face not only the obvious danger of missing out altogether, because that's the problem with waiting : for as long as you're waiting you don't know if you're waiting for something or just waiting. Once the waiting's done you know what you were waiting for, but while you're waiting you have no idea.
That's not so bad though, because it's easy for them to figure out if they missed out altogether or not, just by holding their prick in their hand : if it's dry they missed the wet. Simple enough even they can find their way through, and it doesn't require exerting themselves or doing anything they wouldn't normally do. Heck, they'd be holding their pricks all day long if there was some way to work it into a schedule. The real bad part is that as far as they know they're missing out on the top shelf, and that really kills them. They could, as far as they know, spend their whole life wandering the red lit streets and never find their way into quality, even if they got the pecker wet every night thrice over. How would they know ? You never know, nobody ever does, however fine the bitch on her knees before you might be, as you're holding on to that great ass and swiping her the old in and out you're thinking... there could be better. Right ? She's fine, alright. But there's better. Isn't there ? There's better somewhere, and if there is you'd never know. After all, these pricks aren't there fucking their wives. If they could be happy with whatever it is they have they wouldn't be there in the first place, ain't that so. You know it itches them, because they're there. That's the only way a man who's worked for his sawbuck will let it drop like it's nothing. Whores don't work the same hours for the buck as punters do, ain't that right ? Well... how come ? Sure as sugar their work's a lot more fun than theirs, and easier to do. Easy enough even they can do it. What gives ?
That's what the real Murphy's all about : there's a man who's waiting who doesn't want to, and all the while he's waiting he worries himself whether he might be missing out on quality. He can tell whether he's fucking or waiting, but he can't tell whether he's fucking quality or what, because he doesn't trust himself. He knows he's a loser. He can look at himself just as well as you can, it's no secret to him where he is or why he's there. He just can't admit it to himself, that's all. The only way he can find out is if someone tells him, and it can't be the broad. He doesn't trust her either, and why should he ? She's out there fucking him and calling him Daddy for a buck, what won't she do or say ? The Murphy operator, if he's any good, relieves the dumb punter not just of his money, that's not what the con game's all about. The conman takes the punter's worry away, that's what he does. He doesn't have to worry anymore, now, and for a while he won't have what to wait for, either, until he builds his chump wad back. That's why the punter loves the con man even more than a fine whore. The whore, however fine she might be, only gets his prick wet, removes the waiting for him. But the worrying's still there, and with many of these perverse morons it gets worse, even, for now they can give it their undivided attention. They're that fucked in the head, I swear. I've seen it a million times.
As in all other things there are many Murphy's, though they're all the same. There's many portraits in painting, though they're all the head of some young white bitch, too. Real Murphy players use great finesse to do their deed and in the process trim the mark of his scratch, and his jewelry too. Its too much to talk of every straight-and-narrow angle ; the primrose path is to have the trick hit on them. That puts the Murphy player in a position to force the sucker to qualify himself. When approached and quizzed by a mark as to where a girl can be found, the Murphy man will come back with something like "Look buddy, I know a fabulous house not more than two blocks away. Brother, you ain't never seen more beautiful, freakier broads than are in that house. One of them, the prettiest one, can do more with a swipe than a monkey can with a banana. She's like a rubber doll, she can take a hundred positions." Comparisons work well, and scattershot, so there's something in there for the punter to hang on to. The con man gotta look earnest, a bit simple maybe, he needs a big smile and a clueless air about him like the burlesque gals need legs to their throat. He's also gotta cold read, and ply his mark with whatever it is they want to hear. If done right, the sucker is so wild to get to the house of pure joy he all but begs the con player to walk him there, not just direct him. It might not be exactly his idea to do that, but he'll do it anyways, and think it was his idea like they do, because the Murphy man can use the time walking to prat him silly. He'll say, "Man, don't be offended, but Aunt Kate, that runs the house, don't have nothing but high-class white men coming to her place. No Niggers or poor white trash. You know, doctors, lawyers, bigshot politicians. You look like a clean-cut white man, but you ain't in that league, are you?" Pricking his ego right where it's hollow is always the right way to send the mark into the loser frenzy. He will protest his worth as a person and his right to go where any other son-of-a-bitch can go. Hell, for a high class lay a double saw wouldn't faze him. Few can resist the charm of exclusivity in its myriad forms, and imaginary exclusivity's no worse than any other kind, seeing how they're all the same thing.
The con player finally has something now to offer in trade : his own favour, valuable because the mark says so. He says so because he was given the opportunity and he took it like fish take hook, it's true, but it also doesn't matter. The player will say, "Man, I believe you and everything you say is true as gospel. In fact, I like you like a pal. But try to see my side of it. First, to show you I trust you, I'll tell you a secret. I been working for Aunt Kate's house for many years now as her outside man, you know, making sure only nice dates went up there. Aunt Kate and I got an air tight system. Friend, I know you won't make me get the boot, so damn it, let's go. I am taking you to the thrill of your life." Now the two newfound best friends walk a while, and make no mistake about it, it's the best five minutes the mark's had in weeks. Months, maybe. He's not waiting, he's not worried, and he's got a friend, a true and honest friend right there by his side. They say that wine's only as good as the company you drink it in, and let me tell you walks are no different. Nothing in this life is different ; but no man ever walked the earth in better company than the sucker with his Murphy player. No little kid, hands in hands with his Dad who just broke up a fight, rescued him from the bully, sucker punched the school principal. No man walking with a cop, or a priest, or his loved bride's father, or anyone else ever is half nearly as happy as the punter going to Aunt Kate's. It's just human nature.
While keeping up the inflaming description of the whores and sexual delights to be found only at Aunt Kate's as taylored to the punter's own secret desires he won't even admit to himself, the Murphy player steers the sucker to a pre-chosen neat, attractive apartment building. In the foyer, in a subtle but compelling manner, the con player nudges the mark into a fast meeting of minds, the question agreed on. You see, it's Aunt Kate's unshakeable rule, unmentioned before through being so matter-of-coursedly self-obvious, that no punter could ever go up before checking in all his valuables. Aunt Kate's rock right never to tempt a whore. Only fools trusted whores, right? The mark wasn't a fool, right? Right! The con player produces a sturdy brown envelope. It's best if there's some sleepy geezer behind a desk in the foyer. The player, who didn't as much as bother to nod hello before, extends a hand and the envelope's right there, in his mitt, like the workings of a well-oiled machine. The sucker counts all the scratch in his pocket into the hand of Aunt Kate's "outside" business manager, plus any watches, rings, you know, the works like with any hold-up. The efficient, affable manager shoves it all into the envelope, licks it, seals it, and gestures with it : third floor, first apartment to the left, number nine to be specific. The mark gets into the elevator if there's one, or makes for the stairs more like it, while the player takes the envelope safeguarding the sucker's fleece from the possible larceny in the hearts of the gorgeous dolls upstairs to greener pastures.
The sucker, in a bubbly mood to last yet for a minute or two takes the stairs three at a time. Truth be told he liked that nigger down there, protecting his money. What had he told him, when he gave him that shiny gold colored metal check? "Harry, pal, this one is on me, just go up and hand it to Aunt Kate. Everything is going to be all right. If you want you can buy me a drink when you come down." He doesn't know this yet, but he'll find out soon enough : if anyone should be coming asking questions, the geezer's never seen either of the two before, they came in talking about something, one of them asked for an envelope, he handed it over, then they left. He doesn't remember if together or not, he thinks together though, he doesn't remember who this angry fella yelling is, he doesn't think it's one of the guys, though maybe, he didn't get that good a look. He thinks the guy that went up the stairs' maybe taller, or had red hair, or was bald, or whatever the mark's preferred description of the player. The mark yells more, no that was me, he gets abusive, the beat cop laughs his ass off and takes the guy down to the precinct to write his complaint. He's greased anyhow, for him all the flailing and yelling comes in honeydewed tints and rings with the happy brass ring of a saw or two coming his way soon enough, leaving the sucker to reel from disbelief that the "black boy" before him was in the end clever and driven enough to fool him, to fashion the Murphy dialogue for him, made to order.
———Whore flophouse. [↩]
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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Wednesday, 24 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:47:01

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 23 : Getting Old, Getting Fat
Old Dirty Pete was a porter stud turned flatfoot that really liked going after niggers. His real name was Sylvester Washington, but nobody ever called him that. We had a whole stable of pigs to send after damn fool studs that muscled in on the walkers, but Ol' Pete starred. He shot at least nine crooked spades dead over his time, maybe more like eleven. He never shot no white man, neither. It got to where he'd just tell a stud to take a walk to the precinct and the joker'd turn himself in. He thought it's better that way than having Pete coming after him.
They called him Old Dirty Pete because he loved swiping into young broads. Every barefoot beauty twelve years old that got rustled in, Pete'd get his fair share of, twice and thrice over. He was a crazy freak for baby broads. I don't think he ever freaked with a bitch older than sixteen. He even tried the knot on for size, with Miriam's girl Lloraine. She hadn't gotten into dancing yet back then. She musta been fourteen, maybe fifteen years old. Of course they said she's sixteen to get the papers drawn, but by the time she was sixteen for real they were split up. Bitch said he's too mean to live with.
Once he made detective he started vining just like a pimp, all silk and Fedora hats. Back in those days a detective pulled in eighty slats a week, a saw more than a true whore. Of course, Pete borrowed a C note for every stud he stomped we sent him after, so he never hurt for cash. He drove a big Mercury. He never had a woman in the house, to make him a meal in his life. He ate out well enough, anyhow. A judge or a lawyer with fat cases or a doctor maybe took his wife out to the Club DeLisa or the Palm Tavern once or twice a year. Petey was there stuffing himself almost every night. By then Poison was long gone, but Pete never took up the pimping game. I think bitches scared him. Old hardlegs scare me plenty too, but Pete could hardly talk to a broad in the first place. He didn't talk so much anyway, and half of it came out Bang! Bang! He was mean and tough alright, but if a bulldog's soft what good is it ?
Eventually he gave up the badge and tried his luck with a dive bar on East Oakwood. The Hilltop Lounge he called it. He ran the dumbest scams out of that joint. If a joker'd pay for his suds with a fin or larger, the change'd include Pete's drink. He wasn't dumb himself, neither. Once he made record hitting 147 points out of 150 max. He could bullseye ten or eleven in twelve shots any time anyone asked him to. Often enough he got all twelve, too. He gunned down a stud once for stepping on his shoe. Some joker Willie Lee, was a bell hop. They went in a gang by Garfield Boulevard on either side, but only Pete came back out. Pete said the stud went for his gun. He carried a pair of pearly .357s he was real proud of, one long barrel and the other short. They called it justifiable homicide, though nobody could tell why'd Willie go for Pete's gun. He wasn't in any rackets or nothing. Just a square stud with a wife at home and three kids, racing to stretch a half bill every week.
But he wasn't much for the murder game, anyhow. The real Dirty Old Pete was all about the beatdown. I ain't seen never young studs so polite and well spoken as around Wabash back when Petey walked down there. He taught a whole boatload of country niggers bout dis big city rigamaro alright. To his mind the Southern way of doing things was right out. God help some neighbours gathered round, cracking to one another in the street. He'd see them and say "Every living ass off the street." Those chatterbox old Mamas faded right out of there! He beat down the Cook County Commissioner one time, back when Chuck was a young stud of thirteen or fourteen. He walked up to them and said "When I come back here, I don't want to see you all standing on this corner". He turned around, they saw his billy club. Then he turned around "I'm back!" Those niggers shot like rabbits everywhere, who could make it.
One night he walked in, to speak to me. I was with some bigwigs. I don't remember who, except his boss was there. Chris came in, her teeth chattering like she'd seen a spook. Pete really scared Chris the worst. I think he reminded her of something, maybe. She said Pete's to see me, he says it's urgent. His cap'n heard and bellowed "Tell him to wait, Iceberg." I looked up at him and shot right back "Now that's just crazy talk. You know he'll beat down both of us." Everyone laughed, including the cap'n, shaking his red paws everywhich way, like I'd told the funniest. It was funny alright, though he wouldn't think so. Pete was there to beat him down.
When I faced him in the Blue Heaven Precinct downstairs he just pointed his eyes up. I sat him down upstairs, on the loveseat in Pepper's bedroom. He said "Iceberg, you gotta hear this". He dangled one of those dictaphone reels. I had to clamber all the way up and down myself, to find a god damned machine could play that thing. Pete wouldn't have any girls involved. He didn't let nobody on the whole floor, I had to kick June out of her bed. She was too old for him by then anyhow. Finally I stuck the thing in my ear, he handed over the recording and I listened in.
"Hell, Leonard! It's good to see you relax for a change." The joker speaking was the cap'n I'd just left behind! I had no idea who that other Leonard sucker was.
"Evening, Captain. Anything urgent?"
"Urgent? Anything urgent I leave to my subordinates."
"Got some good cigars in that box."
"No, thanks. I'm off cigars. Brandy! My doctor's got me off everything worth living for... almost. Leonard?"
"Yes, sir?"
"There's got to be a stop to your complete disregard of the taxpayers' money."
"Paid for this apple out of my own pocket, Captain."
"Leonard, you spent $18,600 in the last six months! Investigating one man, a single man!"
"Frank Ibbetts' not a man. He's an organization. And I need money to fight money."
"Now look, Lieutenant... I've got nothing against you personally. At times I even admire you, I must say. But what you've got though is too many brains you don't know how to work right. What about this $18,600 ? How am I going to explain this to the Commissioner ?"
"Well, I've dictated an explanation if you want to use it. 'Memorandum to Captain Peterson covering expenditures of the 28th Precinct station. The Combination is growing stronger every day. The only way to crush it is to get the top man. When Gratsky left the country, Ibbetts...' "
"What do you think this is, accidental manslaughter ? You're dealing with the largest pool of illegal money in the world! You're fighting a swamp with a teaspoon. The Combination keeps no books, no records. Everything's run on word of mouth and hard cash!"
"That's their one weakness."
"What ?"
"They have to have a treasurer."
"So ?"
"And I know his name. The name of a man who can pick up a phone and call Pittsburgh, or Cleveland or New Orleans and say, 'Hey, Bill. Joe is coming down for the weekend, advance him fifty thousand.' Then he hangs up the phone and the money is advanced. Protection money! Then a new all-night bar opens, with gambling outside city limits. A bunch of high school kids come in for a good time. They get loaded. They get irresponsible. They lose their shirts. And they get a gun. 'cause they're worried. They want to make up their loses. Then a filling station attendant is dead with a bullet in his liver, and I have to see four kids on trial for first degree murder. Look at it! First degree murder because a certain Mr. Ibbetts picked up a phone."
"You can't touch Frank. He's clean. We've got nothing on him! Not even a parking ticket."
"Yeah, why is he so careful? It's unnatural!"
"You can't tell a jury a man's guilty because he's too innocent."
"He's no more innocent than this gun!"
"Yeah, and you're not much smarter than a shovel! Now stop getting philosophical with me, Leonard. He's innocent until he's proven guilty, not until some detective somewhere figures the world should be made simpler because he doesn't know how to make women have less stupid children."
"Yes, Captain. Is there anything else, Captain?"
"Yes. That woman. Susan Lowell. You've had a tail on her for the past six months. Why ?"
"She's Frank Ibbetts's girl, sir. She's our most valuable lead. We know next to nothing about him, but a woman knows. She makes it her business to know. If I can get a hold of her and make her talk..."
"Leonard, you've spent six months trying! She went to Vegas, you went to Vegas. She flew to Cuba, you flew to Cuba. Couldn't get authorization for the expense, so you paid it out of your own pocket!"
"I had to, you wouldn't back me up."
"I'm not in love with her, you are. This is off the record, Leonard. Take it like it's between friends. Try to face facts. You can't bear to think of her in the arms of the other guy. Well, forget her! We're cops, Leonard. We're not in highschool. This isn't Summer vacation after Senior year. There's seventeen thousand laws on the books, and they all have to be enforced. Nobody else wants to do it, and you don't have the time to run around trying to reform wayward girls. She's been with Frank three and a half years. That's a lot of days. It's a lot of nights, Leonard. Face it, if she wanted anything to do with you she'd have done it with you by now."
I shook my head. I looked at him. He looked at me. He didn't say anything, he just walked out. I put the roll on the girl and slammed the box shut. Not so easy to do, slamming them things. It was the most work I'd done that year. I could feel my forehead sweat. Then I called Pepper in. She was out with a trick. She asked me if it's urgent ? I said naw bitch, it's just important, but it ain't urgent. I told her to meet me at the Blue. She was there just about closing time. Phyllis huffed when she walked in, then she walked out. I shook my head. I should've bitchslapped both of them right then, but that's how bitches get away with crap : there's bigger fish to fry than their dumb ass. I went at Pepper "Who's Susan ?" She didn't have a clue, honest she didn't. "The new bitch in C ?" I shook my head no. "You know Susan O'Hara. She's been in 5 for like a year. She was at the big house last week." The way we worked it out the bottom floor rooms went A to D and the first floor went 1 to 6. The bitches kept trying to go up, from D to A and from 6 to 1, I don't know why, it wasn't anything like that to start with. They were just rooms. But, vents are vents, right ? We let them have it their way.
"Not god damned Susan from number five. Susan Lowell, bitch." Her eyes opened wide. "She's with Frank. He picked her up himself. Some square broad from back East, I think she played the piano before they met." Frank was a twisted freak alright. He set Daphne down in the country after she got pregnant the first time, maybe a coupla years after he got her from me. She'd just turned eighteen. He knocked her up regular ever since then. Daphne was a regular barefoot country mama, with a whole tribe of high yellow pickaninnys after her. She just chased them around all day long, fed them and washed them, her belly to her chin most of the time. Frank kept her in the dough and I guess rolled her up just enough to keep those crumb crushers flowing out. He'd visit for a weekend now and again. Far as the neighbours knew he was a travelling salesman. Good at it, too. Daphne raised her herd on five times the slats everyone else over there brought home. But like they say, if the sucker's happy why put a pistol on him for the best.
I said "You know where he is ?" She nodded. "Well, get gussied up, bitch. We're going to see your old man." We got him out of an all-night poker game with some funny looking guineas from back east. I had the dictaphone in one pocket and the record in the other. He played it for them all. The guineas squinted like mean overseers from back down South. We didn't say anything, I just waved and took off, Pepper in tow. I heard them yakking their bird talk as soon as we were out the slammer. Pepper said they're asking who's the stud. She told me them eyetees ain't got it in for niggers like the micks. Then we laughed at that sucker Leonard. Lots of those chicken-hearted, broken studs come out of the white broads. The world's too interesting, too much fun for them. They itch to make it more boring, like themselves. If only it were flat, they wouldn't look so short as they do. They made the white bitches frigid, too. If it weren't for them not being able to get it up, white bitches'd freak worse than the negro bitches ever do. You can tell, too, the kike broads freak out the worst, they ain't white anywhere near a bed.
Sure enough there was a fresh corpse in the Morgue by the name Leonard before the week was out. I passed the old timey guarding it a sawbuck to let me in. He wouldn't take it. He said "Man, I'd kidnap a Supreme Court Judge for a silver chocolate if you say so. Ain't no how you gots to pay to go anywhere you please now, boy." I gave him the sawbuck anyway. I cracked on him "Ain't like I'm paying to get in. I just likes you, that's all. You shine 'em good," I said, pointing down. The shoes, the floors, what difference does it make anyhow ? Inside, it was just like I thought. A stiff 'bout thirty-five, with fingers shorter than my thumb, and a swipe shorter than his. I spat in his stupid open mouth and walked out. His eyes were wide open, but I don't figure he saw anything in them. Just like back when he was walking around, anyhow.
From there I went down to the Palm Tavern, across from the Regal. I went in for a bite. Jim sat at my table. His girl brought me a rack of ribs. The bitch of it is, it ain't the same, somehow. I said to him "Jimmy, how come's it I ain't had a rack like back at some greasy spoon since the old days ?" He shook his head. "You ain't as hungry as you were back then, Iceberg. When's last anyone called you Slim ?" The joker had it right. We had enough fat to make three streetwalkers between the two of us, and just on the belly at that. My girl Josie came on the stage. When she was done she came to the table. "Daddy, you here to take me home ?" The things they said about poor ole Josie. The Siren of the Tropics, the Princess o'Tamtam, the Black Pearl, the Bronze Venus, the Creole Goddess... some jokers down in Paris even called her Zouzou. What a dumb name is that ? I remembered the first time she walked through the Heaven's door. Ophelia dragged her in. Found her trying a chump cop in some department store. That's how they got to rapping. They were both from St. Louis. That's how they kept at rapping. I think Ophelia missed the old days maybe. Josie couldn't have been more than thirteen then, just some starving kid run away from ole Missouri. Was that bitch hungry! Ophelia ordered everything on the menu for her, and she put away damn near all of it!
Johnny Lions bought her out, fair and square. Before we shook on it she cracked to me "Daddy, don't ask him for too much. Please Daddy, don't. I ain't been a bad whore for you these years, whadda ya need the scratch for ? Daddy, I love him, let me go." I told her "Josie, I ain't gonna beef if all he offers up on your dumb ass is three slats, and I ain't ever gonna forget you." So I took her home in my short. She was in the two back then, only because Phyllis was being a bitch and Pepper didn't like Southern bitches much. I didn't wanta kick her up myself. She was in two for more'n a year.
About this time, maybe a little earlier, a funky kinda broad walked in. Just by herself, like that. She didn't ask for the time or nothing. She knew the score alright. Most fresh bitches came in dragged by some other bitch, the fair half of them without a clue, but not this one. She had an accent on her pretty thick, and a cut on her face from eye to jaw just like Red Cora had. Bitch was fresh off the boat, come from an island in the sea called Sardine-ya. I guess maybe they got some canneries over there or something. This bitch was something else. Maria, she called herself. A big mouth on her like a sailor, and she brawled like longshoremen after three weeks of striking. She could punch a stud right out. She had technique. After a week in 3 she cracked at me "Daddy, why these bitches all so soft ?" I shook my head. "Because you ain't taught them nothing yet, sugar."
I kicked her up to an old poolhall, direct. I didn't like her rundown on herself. It made sense alright and it checked out with itself, but with nobody else to vouch for any part of it I figured it could as well have been made up. Wholesale, some joker somewhere with too many brains he didn't know how to work right could con her whole story right up. That poolhall I set her to was an odd place alright. At first it musta been some big development, back from before the crash. Maybe it was to be a hotel. They never finished it, never got anywhere even close. When the trouble hit they had dug out three levels of basement, not finished none or nothing, and just put in the pillars as far up as for one level over ground. It went up for auction one time, some joker couldn't pay his city tax.
Miriam kept tabs on that back then. A redhead kike bitch, kept her beak shut most of the time. She had a nose like on a pelican and the smallest pussy I ever saw on a broad. They say it goes the other way, in studs. Maybe it's opposite for broads. The sad old pit went for low enough, and then she had the city contractors finish up the first floor. The Mayor didn't mind, rolled it in with some roadwork. She turned that first floor into a gym at first, then a poolhall. It made a few slats, but never anything to cover what it was worth. I never sold it, don't know why. It just sat on ice like that for years until I kicked that eyetee bitch right into there. She found the basement that hadn't been used for much, except maybe a little storage, and made herself an underground gym in there. She only trained bitches. No stud ever laid a foot in there 'cept for me. I don't know any studs ever got wise to it, either. It was something else, three dozen pussy-naked bitches going at each other like crazed jaspers all day long in there. I let any bitch that wanted go to Maria's a day or two a week. It eased the pressure on the first floor some, anyways. Maria taught those bitches to punch, to choke, to hack up a sucker with a knife.
After she'd been at it a while I noticed ain't hardly half the whores hit in the street for scratch as was before, not no more. I made it so nobody could stay in the bottom going on the street if she wasn't with Maria once a week, unless she said it's okay. Pyllis didn't like the idea, went over there to scream at her. Maria put her on her ass. Didn't crack anything to her or nothing, just put the bitch on her ass. Phyllis was panting for it, but Maria wasn't no jasper either, didn't sit on her face or nothing, just kicked her out. I laughed my ass off at her when I heard. Radell and some other bitches made her so she'd tell me herself. When Maria hit me for a range later I bought every piece the fences had on hand didn't know what to do with. After they cleared out the bottom level of that basement they racked five thousand pounds of rods in there musta been. I said to her "Bitch, if you go through a million cans of bullets in a year, I'll buy you another million. Have at it." They never got anywhere close to that, but I think some weeks they tried. I even put special ventilation down in there so they don't choke on all that powder smoke. Everyone went in, even Pepper learned to shoot 38s and a rifle, too. We'd go hunting after that, I'd just sit on my ass watch all the crazy bitches murder ducks and geese and whatall.
I don't know why I hadn't tought of it before Maria showed up, but a whore's worth a stud and a half when it comes to muscle. She ain't got all those blinders on that studs get. Her asshole's nice and loose and her head aired out. The jokers squeeze too tight and raise cockroaches in those bonehead skulls. I wouldn't trade a team of whores not even for a carload of coppers, let alone a boatload of hoodlums. Nobody's gonna be scared by a broad, that's fair enough, unless her cat is dragging out behind her or she's got three heads with a golden tooth coming out her neck. But when the work's to be done, not just yakked about, I'd send Maria and some bitches that she's tight with over any other, any time. I give odds forever my bitch comes out on top, too, and she won't have to brag about it the tenth part what a stud does. That's for damn sure.
When Chris saw the joint she said "Daddy... you could make it just like in those stories down here". Everyone started laughing, like they thought it'd be funny if some bitches were be walled to death in the dark down there. I asked them, I said "You crazy bitches want to be chained in the dark by the wall in here ?" They were all quiet, looking at their shoes, then Phyllis said "Only if we'd deserved it." I shook my head. Bitches are crazy enough on their own, but when they get together it's a circus. Before the year was out we had everything but lights in there on the second basement floor. They horsed around about it all the time. Phyllis'd threaten broads with the hole every day. I ain't ever sent any girl down there until later, though, after the war started out in earnest.
And that's not all they did, neither. One day Radell came back from way down South where those jokers got the cocaine plantations. Cali, they call it. When the hundred piece we hauled from Waukegan in Sweet's old D started drawing to curtains I took to sending the bitches down there, one by one, to get the layout of the land. I sent Ophelia down first. She knew spic from her old man and I figured she's got the quickest eye anyhow. I thought maybe I ain't ever seeing her again when she took off. Sweet's spic broad she was going with didn't seem all together to me, either. But she came back alright, and she clued me in. It ain't nothing like it grows on trees, and nothing like cotton, neither. She said it's a bush, they cut the leaves offa it, grind them down. They make a paste of it, like tapioca, and that's all there is. That paste is refined like sugar and that's cocaine what comes out. She said they don't even sell it by the piece down there. She said it goes by the bale, costs as much as bootleg bourbon. The transporation's a bitch, and then the distribution a bigger bitch on top of that.
Ophelia set it all up sweet enough, we moved the girl direct after that. A year or two after she came back I took to sending a different girl every few weeks down there, on the regular. Kept tabs a little on the organization that way. When Radell came back she had another thought. She rapped to me, Pepper, Phyllis and some other girls about it. "Daddy, you know what's a Chili ?" I said "Sure, bitch. I was friends with one. Remember when we went back there to see him, you told him your genius con you put together ?" She said "No Daddy, not like that. Chili's a country, and Peru, too. You know what they do in them countries ?" I told her I ain't got the first clue. "They mine, daddy. They dig the earth up all day. They mine so much down there they even named saltpeter after it!" The bitch didn't make any sense to me, until she got into the whole of it. This Chili's not just got a two horse and one bucket mine. It's got some large scale operations where even ten thousand studs work. They ain't working anything like a bellhop, either. She said no story from the old South is anything like what those studs go through. They work like animals down there in the holes, for nothing all day. She said ain't no worst jail in all of Illinois or even Mississippi that's half as worse as those mines down there. And she said "Daddy, you know what's the one thing they ain't got ?" I shook my head. "Whores, daddy."
She ran down to me, that there ain't no worst can happen to any bitch than to be sent down there to whore for those naked mole rats working them Chili mines. She said it could be made like a punishment camp. Them folks running things wouldn't get in the way any. Besides, she said, for them a C note's a year's wages, "Ain't no place in the whole world the buck go further than in Chili". The truth of it is, ain't no worse for a whore than to be stuck where money ain't easy. There's lotsa starving one-horse farmers get together in a barn they put a cross atop to yak how they ain't got no whores in their town. Like it's to be proud of! No gambling, neither. Might as well be proud they ain't got a bath-tub. Not one silver dollar in their pockets, between the lot of them. How's they to have gambling ? Ain't the sucker invented yet to go gambling with no bankroll. They ain't got no whores like mice ain't got no railroad. Says so right in the varmint good book, it's sinful to have railroads. That's why them mice ain't built one yet. Their faith in Musus keeps em in the old ways and away from vanities and lucre. All them white niggers got's mortgages to the bank on all the land and all the horses, then fret all day why all the young'uns wanta go up to Chi. Must be them country morals, and the empty stomach they came out of like so much wind, may be.
Radell said them running things in that there Chili wouldn't think it's punishment for the poor bitches sent down there or nothing. Just business as usual by their lights, some whores earning their whore salt every day. I shook my head. She said to me, "Daddy, any bitch you don't like, ship her off to a boat that's already cleared port all tied up, put her down there in that Chili mining camp whorehouse. It ain't anything like croaking a bitch. It's ten thousand times worse, and that just for the first year." I thought of poor old Preston. One time I was up at Sweet's he said, "'Berg, I forgot to tell you. They found old Pretty Preston frozen stiff in the alley back of the Roost. The poor bastard had wrapped himself in newspapers. The Greek fired him a week ago for staying near the fire and not pulling marks on the sidewalk. The drunk half-white bastard thought the newspapers could stand off ten-below-zero."
« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 22 : Back To The Big House
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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Tuesday, 09 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:46:48

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 22 : Back To The Big House
The way the new pads worked out was that every time I was at the Big House, the top girls crowded that way. Every time I was at the Blue Heaven, the top girls sloshed back in there, pushing a load of lesser sisters back out on the street. I don't remember how it got to be the Big House. Maybe Radell called it that one time and it stuck. Maybe lots of black bitches love the idea of living out on the old timey plantation. Maybe they felt like they missed out somehow, even if they didn't know how to say it. The studs sure as sugar don't like the whippings or cotton picking any, but the bitches maybe loved the greater part of sitting around the house yakking at each other and getting rammed by the plantation owner's young pretty sons now and again. I remember one time Phyllis drove out there with musta been a hundred pounds of chain and two buckets of locks in her boot. She wanted all the other visiting bitches that didn't live there put in chains, for a research project she said. There were at least eight or nine bitches there besides her and June. Pepper was back at the Haven holding it down, they worked it out that there was always one or the other of them back there.
Phyllis was mean enough about it, too, hobbling their feet together close and catching their arms on the length running to their necks so it was uncomfortable any way they squirmed. Those dumb bitches creamed so hard from just being taken for a walk around those old peach trees it made me think swipes are extras in the pussy world. After that first time they wanted to do that kinda horsing around every week almost, and then they started doing bonfires at night. Before the year was out they were doing regular plays, like at the Burlesque, only better, with choice suckers disguised in those white robes like it was the peckerwood night-time fashion then, with the big dunce hats over their necks. They had everything, fake hangings, burnings, real whipping and a who-o-ole lot of sucking dick.
Those jokers were willing to pay a fortune to be there, and it gave me an idea. It was almost like every joker there counted as if he's with each of the bitches by himself. Say you get a stud and a broad in bed together. It's worth maybe three bones, or a fin, if the stud is colored. If the stud is white though, that's a saw or a double saw straight up. But if there's all the comforts of the first floor of the Blue Heaven all around, that's more like three saws. It can still be grown from there. If instead of a simple white joker you find a big shot it can be a bill, hell if the bitch is June it can even be three or five bills. Fine. Not every bitch is June and not every stud a bigshot. What I discovered was that if you get two dozen jokers with a dozen or even a half dozen bitches in chains doing the whole confederate plantation trip, each of those suckers figures half dozen broads at a double saw each as if it were all for himself! The dozen suckers drop between them fourteen, fifteen bills easy, and if they're two dozen they drop twice as much. That's the same time, and it divides up to the same bitches. You take a mediocre cocksucker from doing maybe a saw an hour to doing three or five bills no problem this way. It's easier on her, too. She sure as spit don't have to become no June, neither. You don't have to go qualifying the suckers as much. It's a license to print money, like instead of the baker selling a load of bread for thirty cents, he shows the loaf of bread to a hundred people for a quarter each. At the end of the day he's got the loaf and twenty-five dollars, he'd have to be a sucker himself to sell it before he's run out of suckers to show it to!
That's how I figured out show business. Next day I went to a shyster lip and register Big House Talent Incorporated. I got myself into the representation side of things. It's easy. All you have to do is go up to a joker that you know is in the biz, like a producer, or a theater owner, or a financer, or anything to do with it. How do you know ? That's easy, the bitches tell you. That joker you ask "Hey Mack, how's about the treatment's free tonight ?" He'll say "Gimme the poison and take me to the baby", maybe not every time, but you don't need it to be every time. You don't need it to be even half the time. If it's now and again it's good enough. Then you say "Give this kid a break. Have a heart. Put her on the stage." He'll do it, too. Cocksucker's right there, showing as much of her 32s as she can get her lips off of. How could he not put her on ? She puts him on well enough.
Bitch'll have to be dressed, which is a kinda drag, but all the jokers that see her dressed secretly wanta freak with her. It's worth that free treatment in spades, fifty times, and then if the bitch turns out to have any talent, which most of them cocksuckers do anyway, she can really clean out. A good show girl can make a million bucks a year, if she's lucky and works hard, but let me tell you sucker no whore that ever worked the Blue Heaven don't work hard. I'd croak her, hell, she'd croak herself before she worked soft, there's no way.
The law says the agent, which is what they call the pimp in showbiz, gets fifteen percent. The law don't matter though, any good bitch will roll over any scratch to her sweet Daddy. There's those who don't, fifteen percent or so of them, but then comes the beauty of it : they're never the ones that make it big. They're the ones that dry out on the vine halfway. All Daddy gots to do is stop pushing for her, and there she goes, with a loud plop, back in the slop bucket she farted herself up from. I said there's the beauty, but I liked. It ain't there, it's here : say a princess on the stage makes a million bucks singing and dancing dressed for those sissy prissy folks that's into that sort of silly stuff. The mack scores a hundred fifty grand, that's good enough. But she's a true blooded whore. It's all his. The whole million, all through. What does he do with it ? He takes the whole million from her ? To do what with it ? Go to the bank, ask them to change it for him into all fins and saws, then hose it down in snot and push it up Wabash avenue all rolled up in a ball ? Maybe some pimps somewhere upstate or in the boonies do just that. What I do is invest it. 100% legitimate. To do that, you gotta put it in a name, and I don't like putting anything in my name. Her name's good enough, which means he don't even have to take anything from her. Just tell her what to do with it for him, that's all. Ain't that the bitch of them all ?
Sweet didn't have that million dollar apartment building in his name, but in the broad's that earned it for him, and by the time the hundred piece score was drawing to a close I didn't have the millions in my name either. They were all stocks and bonds and jewelry and real estate and oil wells and logging opperations and laundries and theater chains and whatall more, and all in the broads' names. That's the only way to do it right, and that way if Pepper figured we need more bitches with laundry work experience in the joint she'd just pick up the phone. It makes everything easier, having your bitches all around you. Don't it ? Here's the thing : if the bitches are naked, they're better than dressed, less work to plow that swipe into them. And if they have a short, better than if they don't : you never know when you need pick up. And if they have a pad better than if they don't, you might want to put something there, a hot package of some sort. And if it's theirs all the better, nobody else can get in. If your bitches have airplane wings coming out the ass all the better, they can fly for you, and if they have an oil well or a grocery chain all the better, they can piss gasoline and shit kosher sandwiches any time you want them to.
The pimp who thinks the whores are his mortal enemy ain't got the first word through his skull of pimping by the book. A bitch loves nothing more than to hold up her Daddy. She's a whore because she wants to be useful, to do good, to serve. She wants that more than anything for herself. The joker that breaks that in her ain't worth spitting to put out if his dumb ass was on fire. The stud that gets it through his skull has one care in the world, from noon when he wakes up till morning when he falls asleep : how to make those bitches as powerful as they can carry. Nevermind being as sweet as the scratch and no sweeter, that's a chump crack. Always make a bitch as powerful as she can carry. No more than that, so she doesn't break up under herself, but not much less, either. No less than she can figure, anyhow. It never pays to wait for anyone to turn rat, alright. It's even worse giving any bitch a good reason to be salty, and there ain't any other good reason beside that.
The system like we had it figured worked well enough, but it was far from perfect. Take that Ella bitch you've no doubt heard of. She spent six weeks on the bottom floor before Phyl kicked her up the stairs. Phyllis and Pepper had a time to themselves about that one, too! It was the first bitch Phyllis kicked up. Pepper got pissy plenty. They bickered about it when I wasn't there for weeks afterwards. The bitch was on the first floor half a year before I figured to talk about her and found a joker that'd listen. It took years after that until she caught on. Three, four, I don't remember, the bitch spent a long time humping her ass off each night while filling in combos and recording small bits and backings a coupla times a month. It was good for her, I'm sure, but it wasn't anything like some bitch'd figure herself she got talent, walk in the door, climb up the stairs and then walk out the roof on a red-and-green carpet straight to god. If it was gonna happen I couldn't tell when they walked in, and it never happened in one breath like that, not by a damn sight.
Most nights at the Big House we didn't horse around the grounds, barefoot bitches trampling the grass between the trees. Most nights we gathered in the big room downstairs, by the big fireplace going steady if it was Winter, or not going at all in the Summer. We'd sit and yak nothing with cocktails or fizzy wine or just coffee, horse around now and again. Phyllis got a big book of all mixed drinks there are sometime, and together with the joker behind the log at the Rhumboogie went through everything in there. They had me nearly plastered just from small sips out of every golden-hued thing they tried, but eventually when I woke up the next day she had it. She told me so, triumphant, "Daddy, say 'sweetslit go fix me a drink' like you say to that bitch." I did, she ran over holding her runt palm under her runt ass like it were something, then came back and Joseph's sweet Mamy she had it! Coin throw and Vieux Click-o, she said. That's from French, it just means old. They's got to make everything more complicated than it is, those French jokers, I don't care they're from St. Louis or where. I wasn't much for rye or bourbon before, but that gold fizz wasn't half bad! The runt told Lulu, too, next they laid eyes on each other. She cracked "Ha-ha, bitch, I got it now!"
Phyllis was a lot like that, she got her kicks rustling the other bitches up. She didn't mean anyting by it, or not that much, and it's how the others saw it too, most of the time. Some of the time though, she'd really get under their skin. One time, after Chris told a flock of them the story of her old life in the old house she was in, and how the house mama got it from the broads, they ganged up on Phyllis with pillows and whacked her till she cried uncle. She was a freak for that, I don't figure she ever liked laying any stud who didn't rough her up. When the bitches did it, she'd go wild. That was the thing with her, she was a bitchy bitch ragged up on a broad she liked, to make that broad hot. To make that broad blow her down and then sit on her face. She was best pals with all the broads did that with her, but Pepper ain't ever turned jasper, so Phyllis just aggravated her to hell with the best of intentions, or at least the freakiest of them.
The thing they liked most though was reading. There was a whole pile-up of old books all over the walls, I don't know how many. I ain't ever tried to count them all. If I had a slat a book it might've been ten grand I guess. They'd pick something, then one bitch'd read with everyone else quiet to listen. Nine cases out of ten when it got dark it was "Oh Daddy, Daddy... can we read again ?" "Yes, please!" "Please Daddy, please, can we ?"
I don't remember what all they read, mostly stories from old England when they had their Continental Congress war long ago, and from when France had a king and places far away in the East. I remember one that was about how life went in those old days, before there even was a plantation or niggers in the world. The way those jokers had it set out, they built all their towns up on a hill. Smaller too, back then. Nothing like Chi at all. Then around it they'd build walls. Not walls like for a house, but tall and thick enough a joker could take a stroll around town on them walls. They had to, too, because they'd come battling each other and try to rustle up cattle and bitches and whatall. So the jokers with the wall hid inside and closed the gate and then threw rocks and boiling oil on the other jokers left outside.
The way they had it sorted out back then, only so far was any sucker a real man as he owned a plot inside them walls. The bite on it was pretty steep, too, to pay for maintenance on all that masonry. The rest of studs who didn't have no shop or bar or nothing inside, they was like niggers. They had no say, just sent them out to fight the other suckers when they came by. And for the broads, they had a special kind of cop, like a belly cop. Whenever that heat rustled up a broad with her belly out, they'd inquire where she'd copped it from. If the broad was married good enough, but if she wasn't they'd take her in, to clip her wings a little, by the edges like. Often the joker who had knocked her up, if he felt for the broad, would put in notice at the precinct. Then the pigs knew the score, and just put the scare in the uppity bitch a little, like a mack man does with runaway wives and whatnot, when the whitey husband hires him to it. Sometimes though, even if the broad had never freaked off with some joker who was hot for her, he'd put the notice in just the same. What'd the heat care ?
That kept their bitches in line sure as sugar, because if no one came forward to claim the deed in her, they turned the heat up on that bitch. They tied her down to every pole in that town and whopped her naked ass. Then moved her on to the next pole, did it over. They ain't had no uppity, talk back bitches back in that time or nothing. It was all "yes Daddy" straight up all the way. Ain't no bitch in them old days hear her Mama say anything 'bout not whoring out or going to school or to keep a job, neither. Them bitches were born turned out. I don't figure they had that Bible con going strong like it is now back then, that's for sure. Just straight up talk and good living all the way to Heaven.
If a bitch tried and confessed to some muckty muck who hadn't said anything himself, they'd tear her apart with iron hooks like in the stockyards, for calumny and blackening the name of a good man. If she confessed and it was just some boy, not a big wig like he had to be, they'd chain her by the tavern, what they called The Roost back then. She'd often die in that freak fest, the chained up bitch. They'd fuck her to death chained to a wall in the back. The boy himself though, they did in a special way. They had like a box, and they'd clip it at the root of his rod and up in front clipped out his skin. Then they poured concrete in. He could still take a piss, but I don't know how he'd ever scratch his balls. The sucker had to walk around with a two piece bit between his legs from then on. Unless he found some stone cutter or something to hammer down his cube offa him, though what was left of a joker's balls when that was done I ain't seen written down.
That wasn't all they did. They had one big sewer, made of bricks. If a broad was really saucy to their taste, or if she didn't confess or nothing, they'd put her in a special bit. They had a foot-tall wall in there, going down right by the middle, through the muck. They fitted a special brick around her neck, and they walled her in that wall, head on one side, ass on the other bent like the bitch was about to take it from behind. She took it, too. They had a thing called the Pillar of Escape, which was a pile-up of rats in a box, with a tube just wide enough for a rat. They ramed that inside of her, as deep as it went. Then they put coals atop. The rats dug out their way to escape through her guts. Back then it said they had ten miles of sewer with wall like that, could've taken five, ten thousand broads. And it did, too! All the top jokers in that joint compared one another for how many whores they had to their credit down below! Some's had as many as more than a thousand broads done in the muck by rats like that! I thought of Top and Sweet, with their paltry score of two or three. They'd have been laughed outta that town, that's for damn sure. And theirs they sent to the booby hatch! Ain't no comparison, nohow.
About this time Miss Peaches croaked of old age. Sweet shook his skull when he told me. His eyes were sad. I remembered that overgrown cat as an old lady, still gorgeous in her mink coat and fur bootees he had custom ordered for her. I remembered her farting that first time we sat eyes on each other in the Roost. Glass Top long got out, but he didn't have the heart anymore. I dropped a coupla bills on him from my side. I asked him where he's headed ? He said out West, to Seattle. He had a broad down there he was going to square out with. I told him "Top, when you're in Seattle you go find a place called The Casino. It's on Washington and 2nd, you can't miss it. You tell the log jockey you're Glass Top and has anyone left a message ?" He gave me a sad look out of his beaten down dog eyes. "You ain't gonna croak old Top now, are you Iceberg ? We was pals a long time. I ain't salty with you. I wouldn't want no whore nohow." I told him "Damn old fool, I ain't about to send you lugging down long scratch. What's wrong with you! Pick it up on consignment, fool." I had Pepper wire him twenty grand. I heard he took it and opened up a cleaning business, did alright.
Poor Sweet had lost his glory. He looked a hundred years old, though he couldn't have been fifty. I don't know he was even forty. His backbone was the old white broad who owned the building, she must've been seventy by then if she was a day. He had just beat a murder rap, for killing some pretty jerk from St. Louis who had insulted him in the Roost. The poor chump said Sweet's an ugly, gray-ass bastard. Sweet drew on him and shot him dead. The kid wasn't even packing a rod. Sweet kicked the dead joker all the way into the alley. He pissed on the corpse. The pigs knew they'd never get a testimony. They didn't want a murder case to keep unsolved on the books for fifty years. The jury came back with death by misadventure. I figure it got close enough.
Sweet was laughing. It sure put him in a good mood to tell me about it. It had cost him a fine bundle of lettuce to beat the rap, too. He told me he got a wire that Red Cora got life for croaking another whore down in Pittsburgh. I figured she's probably happy as a shit-house rat, locked up in a hole with a fresh supply of soft bitches hauled in every week. Before I left I went for his john. The gold-painted silk screens were long gone. The door had a padlock on the outside. He came behind me, grinning, and said, "Pal, my crapper is out of order." I went downstairs to the john in the lobby. It was now turned into a bookie joint. On the way out I asked old Patch Eye why Sweet didn't get his toilet fixed. He looked even older than Sweet did. Poor Patch Eye could barely stand. I don't know if he ever did. He just sat in a corner, shaking his head all the time. His voice was but a whisper now. "Ain't nothing wrong with the crapper. That cold bastard has his two whores locked in there for fucking with his scratch. They been in there three days."
I walked toward the car. Some pretty young bitch was waving eagerly. She'd been waiting for me in that short an hour. She didn't need to piss or nothing. I think it was Dottie maybe, I don't remember. I wondered how long Sweet would keep his whores in there, and how long a whore could live on just toilet water.
« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 21 : The Combine
The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 23 : Getting Old, Getting Fat »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Sunday, 07 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:46:36

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 21 : The Combine
While Pepper ran all over town copping the pads I had the runt drive me up to Sweet's pad in her yellow Ford. We looked just like a coupla squares. Phyllis had on an airy A-line dress and a straw hat, I put on a subdued vine, we could've been a coupla of professors or some other kinda that thing. We went through the whole rigamarole, up to and including Samee welcoming us. We found Sweet in a pair of leopard skin shorts, on his couch. I said "Hello you old bastard! Let me introduce to you the girl I'm gonna marry!" excited like one of them. I turned to her, "Mr. Sweet Jones", then to him "Miss Natalie Runt". He stood up, his mouth dropped open. Eventually he said to me "The hell you say, nigger ?!"
That's when Lulu came in yakking "Hey Mr. Jones sir, everyone's ready. Is it ok if we take the D or do you..." then she caught sight of us. She said "Oh! Hello!" all bubbly. I said "They got time for this bitch to make me a drink, Sweet ?" He closed his mouth and pointed sweetslit to the bar. She shook her big ass all the way there. She was decked in a spectacular golden dress, draping over her substantial assets, cracked in front to grant a taste. It worked wonders for her. I cracked on him "Where's they going ?" Apparently Sweet had taken over Glass Top's trade, because Lulu and the crew were going no other place than the Franklin Arms! I said "That okay if they take this rusty bitch of mine along ? I know she ain't worth two slats, but I figure maybe your legendary cocksuckers learn her a thing or two ?" Phyllis gave me a look. I turned to her "What up, bitch ? You ever ride in a Duesenberg ? That's a sorta short that costs money, what do you know, going everywhere in that niggardly Ford of yours." She looked at her shoes. "Yes, Daddy". Sweet bellowed out his bear laugh, then asked "I thought you were gonna marry the bitch ?" I looked at him from the side and let go, "Well yeah, but I ain't gonna marry her tonight, Sweet." That broke him up. He fell back on the couch laughing, tears in his eyes. Lulu was giggling trying not to spill my golden drink on the way back. Before I had two decent sips the whole lot of them, six of his plus the one of mine, flew out the door. I looked at him. "You figure I just lost a whore, huh ?" He slapped my back. "That whore of yours is better lost, Iceberg. She ever stood up yet ?" I chuckled. "Not in bed, anyhow."
Once the bitches were well out he took me by the hand and walked me past the gold-painted screens. I thought to myself, "The hell's got into the crazy coon ?" To my relief we went right past the toilet with the urinals in it, but then he dragged me in a bedroom! I was just started to say "Listen, Sweet, I know you love me man, but my name ain't Melody nohow, you know ?" when he cracked the rundown on me. It turns out Mr. Jones had a sweet enough connection through a whore of his from down those parts. These fellows flew in the cocaine from way down South, where it grows on trees like cotton, all the way into Canada. They dropped it off nowhere there, direct from the plane. Then later they'd go in by boat, with the treasure map in hand, of where it was supposed to land. They'd pick it up and float it back down South a ways. What he thought was he'd cop a load. The way that'd work out was that we had to drive to somewhere along lake Michigan, also like on a treasure map. It had to be at night. We had to do some lighting show with a coupla flashlights, then the guys would motorboat the load over. Almost like ordering some pie, if you don't count having to drive all the way out to Waukegan, and then back with a hot load. He said to me "Iceberg, the asking price's six a piece." I looked at him, "Six big ones ?!" In truth I was willing to go a little higher than the grand Top wanted for his, on merchandise of same quality, but six times higher seemed to high. He looked at me like I'd never hussled cocaine in my life. "Six hundred, fool." I thought to myself, "That's not so bad." He shook his head like he was reading my mind. "This ain't cut, kid. You thinking of Glass Top's stuff, that was already four to one." I looked dazed. He nodded me along through it. "Yeap. One of this makes four of that." I couldn't help but get excited some. I said "Sweet, that's sweet enough, but... do these jokers have enough ? I mean, for a piece or two it'd be maybe even worth the road, but any less than that... Hell, that army tank you've got probably needs that much in gas."
He put his hand to his forehead like I was giving him a headache. "Listen kid, that's just it. To go in I have to buy out the whole load. These jokers don't deal by the half boat, and I ain't got that." Finally it was landing in my head. "How much is a boatload like that ?" He came right back "Two-fifty. They lay the trip on me with no warning, no nothing. I can't go to the bank and ask for a barrel of cash. I ain't no Top. All I got laying around's ninety large. You managed to scare up sixty from that fiance of yours yet ?" I scratched my head. "Just about. Jeez Sweet, I'd have a bitch of a time trying to cop another friend like you. I feel like bawling just to think about it. I ran down my life story to you. You know I love you like I loved Henry. Maybe I love you, Sweet, more than I love Mama. Don't think I'm a chump square when I say it. Sweet, the jokers in the street call me Iceberg. They'd laugh their asses off if they knew I was weak for a stud. I love like my dead baby brother. Sweet please don't hip them I got a sucker weakness. Don't ever do anything to croak my love for you. Sweet, if you ever do, they'll all get hip. I'll maybe fall apart and run through the streets wailing like a crazy bitch." He said, "'Berg, Sweet would chop his right arm off before he'd cross you. You're the only friend I got, sweetheart. Shit, honey, you could have a hundred whores and I could be whoreless. I'd ask you to give me a bitch. I wouldn't try to steal no whore from you, darling." I looked straight into those gray slits on his ugly mug. "Show me the ninety, yeah ?"
He reached out to one of the pillows. It wasn't a pillow at all, just a cloth draped over a cardboard box, like the kind vinyl records come in. Stashed in it, slats. All C bills throughout, nine bundles. The old dog figured I'd ask, that's why he dragged me in there. I asked "So you game to drive up there in your Doozy, load up, drive it back ?" He nodded his giant head. He knew I'd go for it. "So run me down again, how does it go ?" I asked. The way he figured I'd go fetch my bundle, bring it over, then in the morning he'd drop off. Then the day after that he gets the wire, that night we go pick up. He figured once he gets the go-ahead he wires me, we leave together and come back together. I looked at him. "Sweetie," I said, "you're too big a guy. Me, I'm just a one-whore chili pimp. Nobody in the world peeps what I do. If you move to do the payoff, it looks bad. It makes waves. It's just no good. Gimme the bundle, I'll drop it off tomorrow for you." It was his turn to look at me. His stony face faced me for a long moment. Then he said "Nigger, you got the sixty or don't you ?" I said to him "Sweet, if I don't got the sixty grand, I hope to hell my whores all run off, my swipe turns to buttermilk and I end up married to the ugliest old broad in the Temperance Union. I gots it, I gots it, if tell you I gots it then I gots it." He looked at me some more. "Because if you're only bullshiting to gain yourself time, thinking like a damn fool you'll sort it out somehow, and then make me look like a chump tomorrow, I'll get cut off. Those jokers ain't ever gonna talk to me about anything again. Then to pass the time..." he was chomping his meat hooks one into the other again, like a wheat threhser on max. "I'm not those chump pimps going in a grand to rap, Sweet. I figure as much. I wouldn't put you in a spot like that. Who else I got ?"
He handed me the box. As I hefted it I remembered what I done. I said to him "Well shiet, nigger. Now I ain't got no way to head back. I sent that bitch down with yours, huh. I figured we just bullshiting around, didn't know I'd need no ride." He looked at me like he thought I'm displaying exactly those qualities required to inspire confidence and ease in a business arangement like what we had. He said "Ain't you the sultan of bums. I ain't flagging you a cab with that haystack, that's for damn straight." I nodded. He said "I figure I gotta wire Mimi to bring your useless dog back. At least if she can't turn a trick she turns a wheel. Chauffeur good enough for a nigger anyhow." I shook my head. "Naw, you hold on now. I gots another one." I dialed, praying to god Pepper's inside. She was. I said "Bitch, hop in the short come pick me up. Sweet's place. You don't know Sweet's place ? Look it up! He's in the phonebook." I said, eyeing him, and I hung up. He shook his head at me "God damned crazy nigger." We sat around rapping about Top and bullshit for maybe half hour, until Pep rang in. Samee came in with the wire. I said "Tell the whore to wait in the lobby. I'll be right down. I don't want this here smooth mack operator copping my one good whore." Sweet laughed. "If you got one good whore, I got one good slat, Bullshitberg." At least I got to see how that whole switchboard deal worked out at the other end. I grabbed the 'pillow' and made out. When Pepper saw me she said "Hello Daddy-honey. Gotta pillow, huh."
The drop-off was an old garage down on 21nd street. I went in there asking for a Mr. Hubert Blaine Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff, senior. Maybe it was something simpler and I forgot. The guy showed up, and corrected my pronounciation. Then I got the paper out that I had prepared for just such an occasion, turned to page 1292, column 3, line 17, and corrected his correction. Then I knew I got the right guy for sure. I handed over the 'pillow'. It had more filling than it started with. Adding those six bundles of my own in there was painful. The cupboard was left almost as bare as Mama's back in `24. Between sixty dumped instead of goose down into this wild boat chase and the twenty-odd Pepper had dumped into real estate like a damn fool, we had maybe three grand left on hand, and not a sawbuck among 'em. Those whores'd better hump their asses off of them, less I had to payoff Delaney in furniture one of these days. I wondered what the going rate for well used beds and whore-stained tubs might be down at the precinct.
Just as we made it back the phone rang off the hook. It was Sweet. "I got a dead whore here" he said. "Storage's a fin a day, and if she freaks off with Mimi that's another double saw, just so you know." The bitch had starred. She cleanned out, walking around naked like she never had no Mama, the other bitches panting to keep up with her turntable speed. Their bundle came to a coupla bills short of five grand, between seven of them. A double saw a trick comes down to almost two-hundred fifty tricks. The runt turned thirty-nine in thirteen hours, that's 33 1/3 fpm. Ain't that right ? Sweet was not paying no bellhop 30% off the top, that's for damn sure, and his heat grease was a roll-in anyway. And Glass Top figured himself the greatest pimp there is!
I told Sweet to send the bitch back in her ride just as soon as she's made eyes again. He said "What, nigger, you mean not send her back to the honey pit ?" I cut into him straight up "Naw, Sweet, I need the bitch around the house. There's dishes piled in the sink and I ain't found my other slipper yet." He grunted like he didn't wanta laugh "Damn fool pickaninnys these days, ain't got no love for cold cash. Ain't got no drive to pimp anymore." but I told him, "Mack, last night I conned a fool out of a pretty bundle. I ain't gonna send my whores out on the street no mo'. I's set fo' life. From now on out, we just spend the rest of our life spendin'." He said he might know that fool, and I said to tell him then it all went smooth and wire the news. Now a green damn fool might rap like he's dictatin' an indictment for himself, but anyone with half a clue knows how to run their jib good, and let the D.A. prove of it what he can.
After that I sat down with the Pep. I said to her "Listen bitch, you know what this top mack's got ? He's got a broad from down in Columbia. Where that peckerwood first discovered these here America. She speakin' Spic and everything. How's that for a connection ?" She looked hard at me. "You husslin' girl ? That's what all that was all about ?" I nodded. "How much ?" I said "Our end, a hundred piece." I opened the empty cupboard for her. She opened the peepers for it, about as wide. She said "You figure we ever see that back again ?" I nodded. "Sweet's tight. A hundred piece uncut's at least half million, out our door. Could be more." She nodded again. "I figure I ain't gonna hustle any. Just nickle and dime it like before. That shit keep ?" She nodded more. "I figure I don't care how long it takes to unload, I don't need the heat. No one's to know the load I got." Instead of nodding this time she said "That's smart." I said "You figure we gone through maybe a piece a month ?" She said "If that". I shrugged. "No skin off my swipe. If it's ten years then ten years I've got. I'd rather have ten years here than ten upriver." She came sat herself in my lap "You got that right."
That wasn't the way it worked out. The next day about one P.M. I got the office from Sweet. Half hour later we were in his livingroom again. I cracked to Pepper "Strip, bitch, and go play with the other whores. Don't leave here nohow. I'll holler when I want you again." He had four of his own bitches at home. We rapped and bullshited around a while then we sat down to eat. Pep ordered some fancy stuff from the best French restaurant in town, like for twelve people. An hour or so later Samee started running back and forth hauling all the stuff. I could tell Sweet's bitches aren't familiar with it any, but could well warm up to it. He too, though he didn't want to let on. Then once it was getting dark we got into his ride. That thing pulls like five hogs. I bet it could pull three trucks. We drove an hour and some, most all going North. The meet was north of Waukegan, sort-of halfway between that and a place called Zion. Better that way, not like Negros were that welcome in Waukegan back then. We figured it'd be a bitch to find, but it wasn't anything like that. An old abandoned dock an old country road led straight into. There wasn't a single house with a light in at least two mile all around. We did the flashlight dance. Nothing happened.
I thought to myself that's good enough then, the most expensive night-time fishing trip in the history of Lake Michigan. Sweet looked at me. I looked at him. Just when I started to say "You figure we bought the Murphy ?" he went "Shh!" at me. Then I could hear it too, like a bumblebee. It got bigger and bigger like bumblebees don't get, and then I could see the runabout wooshing in, a ways off. There were three lumberjacks in it, by the looks of them. Big peckerwoods with moustaches. They said nothing, just started throwing old newspaper bundles on the dock. The title page was something about Capone, from back in '28. I thought look at that, Sweet's mack birthday. I didn't crack anything. They were kinda heavy for newspapers. Inside the bundle sat quietly minding their own busness six one-piece packs. We hauled 'em to the Doozy, half dozen trips between the two of us. It was the most work I'd done since the Tuskegee days. By the time we were done, Sweet's short looked more like a paper salvage cart.
Sweet shot out of there like the white devils were after him, to send him back to Georgia to jump at torches. He was hurling down the empty streets looking straight ahead, deaf to the world. The needle shot past 110. I guess the sucker thought himself in a race. I cracked "Sweet, ease up, man. You take yourself for Rosemeyer or something ? He didn't do so hot." He mumbled something, I don't know what it was. I laid into him again. "Nigger, if these peckerwoods stop us to ask what we're running from what are you gonna tell 'em ?" He mumbled something else. This time I got it almost. Something about the county line anyhow. It must've been, because once we were out of Lake county he eased up on that gas. The night moths stopped flying through my nose straight into my brain in one shot, anyhow. I said "You want me to drive for a spell ?" He shot me a quick glance, then shook his head like I cracked we try for a baby together. I don't know why, I mean maybe parking's not my forte, but driving straight down the road even a cruising hype could pull off. I saw it done with my own eyes. I ain't even snorting any in my life.
As we got to where we could peep the skyline, I also peeped a big black car behind us. I said "Sweet... that ain't good. You figure they got Tommy guns or are they gonna riddle us with old Colts ? Take half hour doing it, one bang at a time." That wasn't what it was. After tailing us for ten minutes they put the howlers on. It was heat. Allman's boys, not O'Banion's boys, what could I had been thinking to confuse one Irish mob for the other. Sweet's gray was the lightest marbled pearly gray I'd ever seen on him, or ever since have. We stopped. They stopped behind us. They got out, their police rods in their hands. They started hollering for us to get out. We did. I said "Gents, before you do anything else, radio sgt Delaney. The less we rap the less likely anyone says anything stupid." They looked at each other. One of them got back in their Chevrolet. He yakked over their radio, then got excited for real. He yakked his heart out, then at last came back out. His buddy could tell what's up, didn't even bother with his rod no more. Sweet was breathing. I leaned on the side of the car. They whispered like Catholic schoolgirls met with a healthy swipe, then turned around, got back in their car and drove off. They didn't as much as wish us a good night. Sweet turned around, bent over, heaved a week's worth and puked. I guess Pepper's French cuisine didn't sit so well with him. After we had enough of hearing out the crickets and an owl in the distance we packed back in the D and eased it away. A coupla blocks before his flat Sweet finally turned to me. "That Delaney sure got pull," he said. I shook my hand. "Just a lucky break, Sweet, that's all. Just a lucky break". He looked at me, shaking his head. I said "I think next time I'm sending a bitch. I'm just not cut out for this much work. I ain't lifted and hefted this much since college." He didn't say anything to that.
I had Pep pull her hog right next to Sweet's Doozy, down in the garage. Then I watched while she hauled the newspapers from Sweet's short into her own. He watched her too. He watched me as much. I think he got a kick out of Pepper toughening up those arms. When she was done we split. Her hands shook a little on the wheel, but I didn't mind. I figured if she wrecks it, ain't even my short in the first place. She and Chris hauled the load up into my room all night. June and Phyllis were out, and I didn't feel like getting anyone else in on it. For hours the convertible sat outdoors, the girl piled up in it like dime bonbons. Who was gonna run off with some old newspaper bundles from a Cadillac parked in front of the Blue Heaven ? A smart till tappin' kid, that's who, but smart kids were fresh out of stock.
I thought about it, and I decided I ain't gonna cut my cocaine. I figured why the hell go out for a half short ton of white sugar, anyhow ? It's good money, that. Besides, what's the grocer gonna think, we're shooting for diabetes ? Cutting's messy. You need a room for it. I didn't have a room for it. Then there's need for cutters. Plural. Whoever's doing it's a cinch to snort themselves out of their mind even if they don't ever line up, just from the air. I didn't want three dozen coked out whores. Bitches gotta be sharp, and stay sharp, to whore for me. It just made no sense cutting it, not for me nohow. Instead of cutting it I gathered all the whores in the house and drilled them down. I said "Bitches, dig good. Daddy's copped some new girl. This girl ain't like the old one. This girl will kill a sucker that don't treat her right. You got to tell the tricks. Then after you told 'em, you gotta line for them. Don't let them do themselves, not at first. Not for a long while. A trick's just like a baby. They'll suck down caustic lye if they find it in their reach. That's why they're called suckers. Do less than half what you did before, at a time. Bitches, do a quarter. If you know the trick goes through a number five cap, cut the number five cap in quarters first, then line a quarter of that for him. Don't let them line it up. Don't let them machine gun. I don't care what they say. Joker does four lines one after the other of this new stuff where he did a line before, he's croaked. I don't want no stiff in my house. You got that ?" They said they did. I drilled them one by one, "What do you do ? What do you say ? What don't you do ?" Then I went over it again. "Bitches, I don't care how long you ain't seen a trick. I don't care you think it's been six weeks and everyone's hip. Nobody's hip. Unless you're sure they're hip they ain't hip. Even if you're sure, they're still maybe not hip. Don't get no joker croaked."
It worked alright. I don't know how it worked, it made no sense that it'd work, but it did work alright. It was almost like if the tricks themselves were pulling not to croak. Like they really wanted to stay alive, somehow. Can you believe that ? The only trouble I had from it was, they started coming just to cop. A sucker that rolled in before with three-four saws in his mitt, looking for a pampering with a side of rolling in the hay now broke down the door with two, even three bills stuffed up his butt, looking for a few caps with a side of pampering and maybe some rolling in the hay. The house was pulling in twice the slats while the girls were getting half the rustling. Some even copped some doss now and again. It's crazy what cocaine can do to a body, I ain't never seen a bored whore in my life, not before I copped that boatload of Sweet's sweet stuff. We went through more than a piece a week, and after a few weeks it was more two to three. It didn't look the haul will last the year, and all the while the slats were piling up to heaven. The shielded crew hit me up for an extra grand, so they'd cop two grand on Saturdays instead of the one, then after a while they brought it up as high as fifteen hundred every day. It was a hike alright, but it wasn't going up nearly fast enough to keep up with the slat tsunami coming in. Not by a damn sight, though I bitched and moaned like they sucked my life dry. At least the pigs still hit the whores as hard as they ever did. They were the only ones left doing it, so in a way it was like I'm paying the heat to lay the whores while everyone else freaked off on smack.
We called it the combo, because the combine's where it's at.
« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 20 : Pass The Pepper, Sister
The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 22 : Back To The Big House »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Sunday, 07 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:46:28

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 20 : Pass The Pepper, Sister
We were too busy the next day to count the piggy, but when we finally got around to it there were three fundred fifteen dollars in there! I remember the glinting stars of dust whirling like a golden hurricane through a bright shaft of noon sun and the runt's pearly whiteys glimmering at me "That's not bad, Daddy. Almost as good as a bitch's!". I laid into her with the belt, which is what she wanted from the get go. Others drew in and were drawn in, we spent the whole day horsing around and freaking that old circus show. They made a big thing out of it, too, like "Daddy's got a piggy". It became a sort of in joke, they play-acted how it maybe went, they still remembered it for a long time afterwards.
A week or two after getting my head bumped at Sweet's I figured if I don't call him already I might as well never do it. I picked up the phone and didn't have the number. Did that crazy sweet joker tell me to call him but never told me what to call him at ? Or was his piece of paper less lucky than Glass Top's ? Just as I set the receiver down a bottom floor bitch came in from the street. I don't remember her name. There's been so many. She was checking in fifty slats. Pepper had told them to come in when they get forty-fifty together, drop it off, take a load-off, get a rinse maybe. At first only the first floor rooms had tubs put in, but after a few months I had them added to the bottom floor rooms too. It made the place really cramped, but the girls didn't mind. Often they bunked inside, too.
Pepper's idea was to keep the scratch safe, I'm sure. Nobody ever held up a girl in the Heaven, but with them on the street it was different. It seems every other day some freak stud would muscle in on a girl. We tried to keep it in check as best we could, but we never got all of them. It's better they don't make off with all that much when they try it, so the girls checked in every two-three tricks. It grew from there, though, because that's how whores are. Since they'd be over anyway, there was also something they wanted to say to some other one and on it went. Then of course they may as well get a rinse, but they aren't gonna do it in the tub where they bunked because of some other bullshit. Really, they just wanted to sneak up to the first floor and do it there. That first floor was like lettuce to a box of rabbits. They wanted so bad to breathe the same air as those other bitches for five minutes, to show themselves off to those jokers up there, it almost hurt them inside. Of course some suckers were bashful enough they didn't take well to some broad busting in while they're busting some other broad, nked or no. Reminded them too much of their office I guess. Of course the only ones who were anywhere near a position to say whether it'll be okay were the whores they were on top of. From this he dumb bitches made their own life so complicated, they could have spent a whole week yakking to sort out who and how and when goes where to do what. "Oh, I came back to drop the fifty I made" she'd say, to point it out to me. Make sure I didn't miss out on how she, what's-her-name, brought home fifty slats. I looked at her over the receiver. "So whatta you want, bitch ? A medal for doing your whore duty ?" she'd shuffle off, if she had any sense.
If I didn't have any sense and kept after her, she'd let me have it, a full slice of the squirming insanity going on at all times inside their dumb bitch heads. "Oh, she's going to take a rinse but she can't do it in her room". Because Miranda, or Mirella, or whoever the fuck name I couldn't paste a face to if I had twenty years in county to do it in, is bunking in the tub and she didn't roll up the curtain she's using for a blanket or didn't do it right or sideways whatever, and Jenny or Penny or whatsit is in the tub across the hall and she doesn't like going after her anyways because bla bla bla and then maybe Dinah upstairs lets her in with her trick but she doesn't know for sure because the knob is turned half way like if it's ok and maybe the knob is broken so she can't ask her right now but she'll yakkity yakk on and on like that.
If my stars were really poorly aligned that day, they'd cut me in some of their philosophical discoveries made while walking. They'd say, "Daddy, I'm your girl. If I ever stop loving you, I'm gonna quit whoring for you. If you don't croak me I'll get another black man when we're washed up. Right now I'm in your corner all the way. White tricks don't move me. I want to vomit when they paw and slobber over me. I baby talk them, but I hate them. Daddy, I just want their scratch. I get a thrill with them all right. It knocks me out that here I am, a black nigger bitch, taking their scratch. A lot of them are clean-cut high muckty mucks in the white world. Some of them show me pictures of beautiful wives and cute children. It makes me feel greater than those white bitches living in soft luxury. Those white broads got nigger maids they laugh at. They think we ain't good for nothing but clowning and cleaning. It would give them a stroke to see their trick husbands moaning and groaning and licking between a black whore's thighs. I know I ain't got no silky hair and white skin. I'm damn sure hip those white men ain't leaving Heaven to come to Hell every night just for the drive. They coming because those cold-ass white broads in Heaven ain't got what these black whores in Hell got between their legs. Black and low as I am, I got secrets with their white men those high-class white bitches ain't hip to. Now Daddy, we rap so little I got earned away. I ain't nobody's fool but yours."
I could hit them back with something like "You square-ass stupid bitch. You think you're a brain because you're hip that white men sneak through the stockade to lay black whores. Ain't a nigger sealed in here that don't know that. It don't make you great because those white sick fools leave that fine pussy in Heaven to find your stinking black ass in Hell." and for the first few years I might've even tried, but it don't do one bit of good. It's like talking back into the phonograph cone, ain't no one listening in there, it just plays the record like it is and that's all it does, scratches and all. Ain't no joker yet invented a way to fix a scratched record by yelling the right music into the cone, at the right time or any time.
That day early on I just picked the receiver right back up. I had figured might as well see what Glass Top's up to. One of his broads picked up. She said he was out of town. He wouldn't be back for a week. I said "Is that you, Radell ?" She asked who's asking. I told her it's the joker that was there for five minutes before Top sent her to the Franklin Arms. She said "Oh." like she had no idea what I'm talking about. I didn't press her on that. What was I going to say, "Hey babe, remember when you hooked your leg over mine and your skirt up to show off your cat" like some god-damned square ? She'd remember that like a waitress remembers scrambled eggs. Instead, I asked her if she had Sweet's phone number. She said she did, but that she couldn't just give it out. I said "Well call him then, would you. Say Iceberg's trying to get in touch. Been trying for two weeks. But he ain't ever gave me his phone number or nothing." She called back in ten minutes, and gave it to me. I asked her if he said anything else ? She said "Yeah. He said 'Tell him it's listed, sucker.'" It was, too. We didn't even have a god damned phone book, but I sent Hubert out to get one and found it in there later, by his address.
I called him. I could tell right off he was in a good mood. I went with the flow. I said to him, "Sweet, I copped a beautiful yellow bitch tonight. I got her humping on the track with my girls. Sweet, the bitch is crazy about me. I know I'll hold her for years." He said, "Kid, a pretty nigger bitch and a white whore are just alike. They both will get in a stable to wreck it. They'll leave the pimp on his ass with no whore. You gotta make 'em hump hard and fast. Stick 'em for long scratch quick. Slim, pimping ain't no game of love. Prat 'em and keep your swipe outta 'em. Any sucker who believes a whore loves him shouldn't a fell outta his mammy's ass. Slim, I hope you ain't sexed that pretty bitch yet. Believe me, Slim, a pimp is really a whore who's reversed the game on whores. Slim, be as sweet as the scratch. Don't be no sweeter. Always stick a whore for a bundle before you sex her. A whore ain't nothing but a trick to a pimp. Don't let 'em Georgia you. Always get your money in front just like a whore. Whores in a stable are like working chumps in the white man's factory. They know in their sucker tickers they're chumping. They both gotta have horns to blow their beefs into. They gotta have someone to listen while they bad mouth that Goddamn boss. A good pimp is like a slick white boss. He don't ever pair two of a kind for long. He don't ever pair two new bitches. He ain't stuck 'em for no long scratch. A pair of new bitches got too much in common. They'll beef to each other and pool their skull, plots, and split to the wind together. The real glue that holds any bitch to a pimp is the long scratch she's hip she's stuck for. A good pimp could cut his swipe off and still pimp his ass off. Pimping ain't no sex game. It's a skull game. A pimp with a shaky bottom woman is like a sucker with a lit firecracker stuck in his ass. When his boss bitch turns sour and blows, all the other bitches in the stable flee to the wind behind her. There ain't more than three or four good bottom women promised a pimp in his lifetime. I don't care if he cops three hundred whores before he croaks. A good pimp has gotta have like a farm system for bottom women. He's gotta know what bitch in the family could be the bottom bitch when mama bitch goes sour. He's gotta keep his game tighter on his bottom bitch than on any bitch in the stable. He's gotta peep around her ass while she's taking a crap. He's gotta know if it's got the same stink and color it had yesterday. Slim, you're in trouble until you cop the fourth whore. A stable is sets of teams playing against each other to stuff the pimp's pockets with scratch. You got a odd bitch. You ain't got but a team and a half. A young pimp like you is gotta learn not to cop blind. Your fourth bitch is gotta be right to pair with the third whore. She can't be no ugly bitch unless she likes pussy. She can't be smarter than the pretty bitch. She can be younger, even prettier, but she's gotta be dumber. Slim, all whores have one thing in common just like the chumps humping for the white boss. It thrills 'em when the pimp makes mistakes. They watch and wait for his downfall. A pimp is the loneliest bastard on Earth. He's gotta know his whores. He can't let them know him. He's gotta be God all the way. The poor sonuvabitch has joined a hate club he can't quit. He can't do a turn around and be a whore himself in the white boss's stable unless he was never a pimp in the first place. So, kid, rest and dress and pimp till you croak."
When he finally shut up about it I thanked him very much, and let him know I'm sure to get right on it. The damndest thing, my Pepper knew his stable well enough by then. With time she got to where she knew it inside out, and Phyllis too. Ophelia also marked his fat-ass yellow broads, in the store, paying for things. That gave her a laugh. She was still laughing by the time she got home. She said "Ain't no whore worth two shits that reaches in her own pocket for retail price." I said to her "Is that right ?" She said "Retail's for suckers, Daddy baby. Ain't your whores taught you nothing yet ?" She had a point, too. If a whore ain't got a fence connection it's one thing. If she ain't got no thief in her book, that's another thing. Bitch oughta get out more. But that she can't make a trick buy it for her, that's outright out-and-out. The day Ophelia made those cracks I bought her a car. She'd never had a car in her life, it almost stopped her ticker when I let on.
The way it played out, a crazy fruit by the name of Louie ran a big time crap game on the side. Now this guy, they called him "Two Gun". He was obsessed with the Frontier, and things he read, all about fifty years ago and five hundred miles west. He didn't leave the bed without he had a pair of old Cold 45 clunkers strapped to him. He might as well went by with spears, or a bow. What's Civil War weaponry to do against the Tommy gun ? He went everywhere with a galon hat. I don't know what he did about that hat. Musta been glued on with rug adhesive, Chicago gets pretty windy. Everyone held him in great esteem though, because once at the track he punched out a horse, and some other time he got blind drunk and called people out, like he thought it went in Tombstone, Arizona. Far as he was concerned, he saw no big problems stopping traffic on State Street for half an hour while he and some other jokers take potshots at each other down the road a block.
A black stud, went by Mickey Mack, thought he was a pimp but I never seen him with two broads, lost a bundle in Two Gun's game. The stud had a black LaSalle, brand new, in mint condition. He was desperate for cash, so he dialed in. I wasn't so desperate for cash. When I hung up with him I asked where's Ophelia at ? Phyl said she's sleeping, I said go get her. She gave me the "Daddy, she's tired, let her sleep, she's been out working all night" but I told her not to make me put my boot in her ass. She dragged Ophelia over eyes half closed and I said to her "Bitch, take these six bills, hop in a cab, go over to Louie's joint by Navy Pier and bring back the LaSalle." She nodded then hung around for a beat, like I'd give her cab fare or something. I said "Bitch, you ain't got a cab fare saved up ?" She nodded and huffed out of there. An hour later she told me she parked it on the curb and should she do anything with it ? I said she can do anything she wants with it, it's her god damned car. That put her on her ass. I told her first thing go cop a driver's license. Harvey knew a place that did it without a test for a sawbuck under the counter. I gave her the saw, and told her she'd better not wreck it neither, I ain't getting her another one. Then I looked at her from the side of my eye and said "See, bitch ? You were right, ain't no whore worth her salt can't get a sucker buy it for her." That year's hogs went for fifteen to twenty bills, that LaSalle was a cinch for twelve, thirteen easy. We had a laugh out of it, anyhow.
Then there was this Sweet joker, giving me good advice on three-whore stables like that's what I had under me. Like he didn't even know the first thing about my operation. By then I had the Heaven going for more than a month, lots of people knew. Over time I got to where I knew his well enough, too. Bitches run into each other, and they never stop yakking like their life depends on keeping the flaps moving. Who knows, maybe it does. I figure he should've known better. Much better. Maybe his old bitches were worthless, or maybe he didn't even have anything. Maybe there wasn't any convent. I knew he didn't have any old bitches worth the name later on. Maybe it's not that they cut out. Maybe his whole thing from the get-go was just the young broads. That sure ain't what he rapped about, though. He says not to pair like broads, and new broads together, then does just that ? The whole cop and blow angle, it ain't ever how it worked for me. It'd have been though, it'd have had to be, if I just paired pretty broads with short mileage and prayed for rain. Sweet's bitches were great in the sack though. Lots of technique, all of them. Maybe the crazy stud just didn't figure there's a deeper game to pimping than piling a bunch of six month old angels that could make a sucker squirt his swipe whether he wanted or not in a large car and driving them around town like that.
I thanked him anyway, and then I said "I'm going to drop by Glass Top." The girl was running short. Those first two pieces I took off of him early on were long gone, what I copped since running dry. I didn't let the bitches snort mostly none of it. The tricks though, they had a thirst up their nose like you couldn't quench. I was thinking maybe we park more cars together, but he said "Man, you ain't heard ? Top's pinched on a narcotics rap. The federal heat tricked him into a four-piece sale to an undercover agent." I flapped my lips silently like a black stranded fish. "Say what ?!" I couldn't get my head around it. "What you rappin', nigger ? Glass Top ain't never dumb enough to dump four piece on some stud he don't know. No-way no-how. When I bought from him first time, new in town, I still sent a bitch over to cop." It's true, too. No stud but pigs buy by the piece. If a stud's got enough bankroll to chip a grand or two offa it, that stud can afford a bitch. The heat ain't got no bitches to send on a cop, at least none who don't look just like those square broads at Sweet's party trying to get out from under their pile of duds. Sweet sucked his tongue in his cheek. "Hype" he said. The god damned horse, the greatest bang there is. The worst for business, too. In his own way Glass Top had hipped me alright : after mink comes sable and after sable comes dropping four piece on the pigs in exchange for a fin bit in the special pen. I said "Man, I gots to see him. Poor Glass Top. Where's he at ?" Turns out they had him downtown for the Grand Jury. Sweet said to drop by his place after, he got a thing to rundown. I had some too, I mean with Top gone where the hell to cop ? I was hurting for an angle, I didn't think it's even possible to run a dry house just like that. I could have a riot on my hands in a few days, when it's run out for good.
After I got off the phone with Sweet I hit on Frank Ibbetts for a lip, and then went down to see Glass Top with that lip. I roused Radell too, I called her back and said "Listen smalltits, I'm taking a trip downtown, to rap with Top. You wanta I take you along ?" She started crying. She'd never managed to get in to see him before. The feds were holding him pretty tight. Poor Radell, she was trying to hold the house down as best she could. She had the crazy idea to tell the rest of his stable that he'd found a way to print money, and that's where he's gone. She got them all lined up, then pratted them with some crazy talk about what a genius poor Glass Top is. That he and some engraver pal of his that used to be an engraver for the government got some plates they just finished, and they already made a half-dozen of the prettiest hundred-slat bills the human eye has ever seen. She picked aforehand through the stash, took out the newest bills, and showed them that. Didn't even bother to get them in serial order or anything, not even from the same bank. She was too out of her mind to think of all that, she said when I asked her. Lucky for her, Top's stable was too much like him to notice that those magic plates are from all over the place. They got excited, they ate it up when she told them they're perfect and even the government couldn't get hip to a difference from real scratch bcause there ain't any. How dumb can a whore get, they're printing circulated bills or what ?
Then she pratted them about small problems and this and that, it was the paper, it was the ink, she figured she could string it out forever. The guy could get busted on another beef. He could even croak while doing his bit. Or they'd be playing it cool, and biding the right time. She was right in that there's ten thousand ways to spin a dumb bitch by the nose, I give her that much. The hard part is to get her to swallow the bait, after that it's all smooth sailing. Glass Top was tearing up. He held Radell up like she's at least a real genius. I didn't say anything about it. I didn't want to spoil his time any. Behind those bars, what else's he got ? I could tell he didn't leave himself any outs. I coulda asked what sense does it make for them bitches to keep humping if he'll just print the bills, or what happens if anyone but a dumb whore under Radell's spell should hear of this story. All it took was to hear of his rap, it'd have fallen in place well enough for any pimp worth half a slat.
I said to him, "Glass Top honey, here's where it's at. First things first, here's a grand." I pressed ten bills in front of me. I said "Free and clear, just because I'm the kind of sucker to love you. You take it or Radell takes it or you tell me what you want done with it. It's yours." That broke him up. Then I said "Now, if you're happy with Radell's prat I ain't got no bother there. Those bitches you got waiting for a beach and a mansion in Hawaii will flow to the winds in a month, if that. Clear as day, but it ain't gonna be me to open their peepers for them. Poison can do it well enough, or any of six dozen pimps out there hungry for a cop. I ain't looking to cop. I got bitches in line, waiting to get in." I looked at Pepper. She looked back at me. Then she looked at him. I could tell he could tell she's in my corner all the way. He said, still teared up, "Iceberg, you're a real pal. I believe you like the good book. Any pimp can put Pepper on the street like you have can't never hurt for no pussy, no matter what." I said "Alright, nigger. You wanta put those bitches you got down with me, there's another bill coming your way, each week, each girl, as long as they don't split. And when you get out, if you still got the urge in you, I'll give you two of mine, to help you start again. Not raggedy bitches neither. Pretty enough and skilled enough to start your stable going again with them. A month or two you give them back." He started crying in earnest, now. Pepper turned to look at me. She gave me her "Stop being crazy, kid" look through her peepers smoldering green. I turned to face her. "Heel, bitch. He's my pal. He helped me when I was hurting for some help. If I can't help him when he's hurting I ain't got no use for all the scratch in this world. You take it all and go drown in it." She shook her hand. Radell was bawling like a country girl found out she's pregnant the first time.
I got out. Pepper followed, head down, like a bitch on heel. We talked to Frank's lip. He said it's airtight, ain't no way short of shooting the agent that'll crack it, and even that likely won't. He said it ain't worth bothering with, two bit mack man can do his fin. He can push some levers make it lighter for him, three-four year he maybe gets parole anyhow. I tried to drop a bill on him but he wouldn't take it. Said Frank's taken care of him and ain't no way. Radell was waiting by the car. I said "Where to, bitch ?" She looked at me like a kid caught in the cookie jar. "Daddy, anywhere you say." I looked at Pepper. "You got room on the bottom ?" She shook her head. "Ain't no way." I told her to run it down for me. "In A there's Betty, Dora, Joan they call Hoan and Patty. In B you got Shirley, Nancy, Betty, Ruth and Virginia. In C Marylin, Lizzie, Carol, Nancy and Pat. In D Lois, Norma, Evelyn, Gloria and Ruby." I shook my head. How in hell she remember all that ? I turned to Radell, "Bitch, how many you got ?" She said it's her and five girls. I said "I gotta figure something out. I guess I didn't think things through so well when I talked to Top. I'll take you back there, you hold the house down. I'm going to figure something out." She deflated visibly. I said "Don't go soft on me, bitch. I said I'm gonna figure something out." She nodded "Yes, Daddy." Pepper shook her head. I said "Motherfucker." Radell just looked at me.
I said to Pepper, "Which of those bottom floor bitches you wanna push uptop ?" The thing of it is, that morning Pepper had run down on me about vents. She came in when I woke up and said "Daddy, we gots to talk about vents." I thought she's had one too many farts or something, but what she had in mind made lots of sense. She said "Daddy, lotta bitches in the street hump their asses off to star. They do that to move up." I nodded, yeah bitch, I'm hip to that. She went on "Where's they from floor one move on ? At first it looked like maybe you'll move them up a floor too, but that ain't happened yet. It ain't ever gonna happen fast enough anyhow. Young whores with ambition, lots of them. Sooner than later they're bound to get salty." She had a point. I turned it around on her now. "Bitch, when's the last time June whored out at the Heaven ? Like two weeks ago ?" She nodded. "She wanted to go with the girls, yeah." I said "Then there's Ophelia, that lanky bitch with the big ass, the pretty redhead bitch, Miriam or what's her name." She nodded. I said "We get swank pads all over the nice parts of town. Nice pads, two-three bedrooms. We put them down there, two or three to the pad. We kick up six whores from the first floor now. We kick up six from the bottom floor to the first. We take this raggidy bunch in. There's your vents. You want one too ?" She gave me her slinking look she got when she'd like something I dangle before her face, and she thinks she earned it too, and she hopes it's alright to bite. I said "That's what you do today. Get me a four bedroom pad. You, Phyllis and June bunk there. You split the Junebug between you two. I'll crash there now and again too, so make it nice for me. Then get three more with two bedrooms and two with three. Move the bitches in tomorrow. Don't let none single. Got that ?"
She did it, too. By noon next day the bitches were moved out. The mugs on them were something else. Like they got college degrees or maybe flew on their own power to the Moon, every last one of 'em. I guess in a way they had. Pepper scared up a nice little house out in the suburbs for us four. It had a pool and everything, sat on twenty acres of orchard. How bad is that ? The bite was pretty terrible to go with it, though. Twelve for the house, and that without furnishings, just the fireplaces and things like that. She copped the pads in new buildings that did the condo scheme, she blew another nine grand and change on the five. The worst part of it was, the resale value wasn't even as much as she paid for it, the first time we ever did anything as dumb as that. To spend over twenty-two thousand bucks on something that's maybe not even worth the twenty, that was a new concept for me. I felt like whupping her guts out of her. I didn't do anything, I didn't want her confused. Besides, she did good, just as I told her to. But hot damn...
The way we worked it out, the girls did rotations. They'd work out of their pads half the week, they'd come in for two-three days at the Heaven to stay trim and track fit. That way keeping even two dozen girls bunked on the first floor wasn't hard : most of them weren't there in the first place. If you figure it out, twelve girls doing two and a half days a week only comes to about four girls doing the whole week. We emptied the first floor out, whore by whore, all the while filling in from the bottom. Now we had vents alright. A new girl freshly copped would spend a while bunking four whores to the room, often with a fifth in the tub. She spent her day walking the street, turning for ten, twenty bucks. Between the walking and the tricks, she'd go to bed beat. If she made her chops and got to the first floor, she'd be with just another whore, and often they were friends, very close friends. She'd get to order food, not beg the girls above for a bite. The tricks would do the walking now, to come to her. They paid better, they dropped reefer and small gifts on her. She'd have her pick of vines, both from storage and going out to boost. They always loved doing that, like it was an adventure for them. She was sure hitting the gravy train now ; but if she made her chops again, well go-ly! Her own room, was that fancy! A much better class of punter, too. The girls in the plush pads had a lot of very upscale trade. The way it worked out they'd end up with a short stable of tricks from the offices around, real top tier stuff. A girl could clean out like that, and very many did. They bought their own cars, and their own minks. The tricks were tight with them in a way the tricks coming to the Heaven never got. They treated them more like daughters they loved dearly, not so much like daughters they just wanted to fuck. Like I told Pepper one day, "Your vent idea's making a bunch of small Peppers out of all these dumb bitches all around". It was, too.
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The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 21 : The Combine »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Sunday, 07 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:46:15

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 2 : To The Grave ; And Beyond
I tell you, when we finally made it to the big black Dodge and the whole ride through my thoughts were spinning madly. As it turned out yes poor Henry's fears had foundation. Solid brickwork. Mama never loved my stepfather, for all his merits he never made the slightest dent in her. This kind, wonderful man never rose above being a tool of convenience in her eyes. She went and fell in love with the snake all right, and do you know why ? Henry never made her do anything. Steve did nothing else. That's how they met, after all, he had her do his nails for him. The thing about women is they can't take men seriously that love them. Those ain't never gonna be two shits in their eyes. Only the guys that put them to work stand out in their eyes, they never fall for anyone else. I know you know better, which is to say that's what you think, anyhow. But take it from ole Bobby here, who's had his foot up more ass than you've ever seen from a distance, and up all the way to the ankle, at that. Black ass, yellow ass, pale white an' ivory ass, it dun make no difference anyhow, they're all the same. So go buy yourself a set of hoops, set them on fire, and have that bitch practicing her prance jump. Starting tonight. There ain't no other way.
Steve's plan was to cop Mama and split for the Windy. The dirty bastard sure as sugar took me for excess baggage, but the way Mama was gulping his con he figured he could get rid of me later. He was wrong, of course. Two bit hustler from Nowhere, Alabama. What did he know ? A little bit of nothing much, though only years later, after finding my place in the world, did I figure out Steve's whole plot, and how stupid he really was. Leave alone how you never wait from a strong hand to cut the barb loose : here this fool had a square broad with her own business infatuated with him, and her progressive square-john husband blindly along for the ride. Her business was getting better all the time. Her sucker husband was loveblind enough the money from his business was wide open to her. If Steve had been clever he could have stayed right there on top of things and bled a big bankroll from both his and hers over a year or two. Instead he pushed the angle that didn't need pushed and waited on the line that you don't wait on. I bet if you gave Steve some shoes to shine he'd have shined the hell out of those laces, you know ?
He could've easily pulled Mama out of there with a helluva bankroll, and then done anything with her. He could've turned her out no problem, if he knew what anything is. He could have sent her back to Tennessee to come back with her younger sisters for it to boot, I tell you she was that hot for him. She had to be insane over the asshole to walk away from all that potential with only twenty-five hundred in cash, which is what they gone and did. Steve blew it in a Georgia-skin game, which is the dumbest form of gambling game anyone ever came up with, and by a margin at that. The whole thing's betting on whether the card in front of the other guy gets matched before your own card is matched. That's all, rank and suit don't mean nothing, everything's face-up, it's a game that only exists so beginner mechanics and people too dull to sharp still have something to ply their miscraft on, like amateur night or politics. Cutting unshuffled decks' still more akin to gambling than to being idiots. It comes as no surprise then that halfass-Steve didn't know any of this as he didn't know any of fuck-all else, and so he found himself two thousand five hundred slats lighter within the week of alighting on West Harrison. That twenty-five hundred though... money's different things to different people. For the rich junkie twenty-five might be what he got from the jews for a pile of jew-elry he stole from his Momma, an hour's work of which most was driving down to pawnbroker row. For the jailhouse punk it might be a whole lot of just his kinda fun, enough to last him the year. For the chilli pimp it could be two-three weeks or so of his one nag busting her busted ass. For Steve though, it was the firesale price of two of Rockford's premier businesses, which he let go at less than two percent. Hell, poor ol' Henry'd have fetched twenty-five big-easy if the year was last century and Steve sold him down the river. He was large and strong enough to pick his price back in cotton within three years nehow.
One scene in my life I can never forget came by that morning when Mama had finished packing our clothes, while Henry lost his inner fight for his manhood. He fell down on his knees and bawled like a scalded child, pleading with Mama not to leave him, begging her to stay. He had welded his arms around her legs, his voice hoarse in anguish, as he whimpered his love for us. His eyes welled up at her as he wailed, "Please don't leave me. You are sure to kill me if you do. I ain't done nothing. If I have, forgive me." I can still see her face then as if it was right before my eyes. Cold as Winternight stars, kicking and struggling to get loose from him. Then she said with an awful grin, "Henry honey, I just want to get away for a while. Darling, we'll be back." In his state I'd say she was lucky he didn't gone killed her and me and buried us in the backyard halfway somewhere. But then again I guess she knew her customer better than I did. Only later did I find out just how many town Mommas out there back then took just this sorta break every year or two, to come back a week or two later ripe with the gift from sweet baby Jesus nine months in the wrappin'. Whole neighbourhoods were populated just this way before the second attempt at a Great War, it was how they went about things back in those days. A guy explained it to me once, he said it's all in evolutions, and it's better kids if there's a lot of dicks fencing inside the woman until she's so full it comes out at the seams and they just push each other's spunk out of her. He said that's why pricks are shaped that way, even, to push the previous guy's spunk out better.
I don't know about any of that, though for damn sure it's still what the party girls do, today just like back then, so maybe there's something to it after all. As the cab drove us away to the secret rendezvous with Steve sitting in his old Model T, I looked back at Henry on the porch, his chest heaving as tears rolled down his hopeless face. There were too many wheels within wheels, too much hurt for me to cry. After a blank time sauced in distance we found ourselves in Chicago. Steve had vanished, and Mama was telling me in a drab hotel room somewhere about the Southside that my real father was coming over to see us, and to remember that Steve's her cousin. Steve was stupid all right, but cunning in his own way, like farm animals and old-timey Niggers get. These days it's farmer whiteys doing the same stupid shit, it must be in the land somehow, the smarts of stupidity coming into them from the very earth they bother all day long, like farts from eating beans. Mama, you see, at Steve's instruction, got in contact with my original father weeks before, through a hustlin' brother of Mama's just out of the calaboose. Maybe it was Dearborn, I don't remember.
When my father came through the hotel room door reeking of cologne and dressed to kill, all I could think was what Mama had told me about that morning when this tall brown-skin joker had tossed me against the wall. They didn't talk about any of that, though. Mama was all smiles, not speaking much. He took a long look at me. It was like looking in a mirror. His deep down guilt must've puffed him, he grabbed me and squeezed me to him. I was stiff and tense in the stranger's arms, but I had looked in that same mirror too when he came in, so I strung my arms limply about his neck. When he hugged Mama, her face was toward me and stony, like back there with Henry. My father strutted about that hotel room boasting of his personal chef's job for Big Bill Thompson the mayor of Chicago. He told Mama and me, "I am a changed man now. I have saved my money and now I really have something to offer my wife and son. Won't you come back to me and try again? I am older now, and I bitterly regret my mistakes of the past."
Like a black-widow spider spinning a web around her prey, Mama put up enough resistance to make him pitch himself into a sweat, then agreed to go back to him. My original father's house was crammed with expensive furniture and chunks of gilt silver posing as art pieces. He had thousands of dollars invested in rich clothing and linens. This somehow made sense to him, though I wasn't around him for long enough to partake in the wisdom of it. After a week, my hustler uncle brought Steve to visit us, and to case the lay out. My father bought the cousin angle and broke out his best cigars and cognac for the thieves. It was another week before they took him off. At the time of course I had no idea as to what really was going on. I would learn the shocking truth only after we got to Milwaukee.
On that early evening when it happened Mama was jittery as we prepared to visit some white friends of my father. I had a wonderful time getting acquainted with the host's children, two girls around my age. It's a wonderful thing nobody knew about back then, but children were all but invisible in those days. We had a blast playing ponies together, where I rode on their backs all around, first on one, then on the other, then back again. They were falling all over themselves and each other for praise and to be prized ponies, like they do. Too soon it was time to go home, and then it was always too late to ever come back again.
In my lifetime I have seen many degrees of shock and surprise paint themselves on the human face. I have never seen on any face the traumatized disbelief that was on my father's when he unlocked the door and stepped into his freshly emptied house. His lips flapped mutely. He couldn't speak. Everything was gone. Everything. All the furniture and drapery, all the vases, bowls, statuettes, everything. From the percolator to the pictures on the wall, even my Mama's belongings. They took her underwear, her slippers, she stayed in her party dress because there was nothing to change into, and nowhere to change anyways. Wouldn't that have been a sight though, to clean the house bare except for her things. I guess Steve was lucky he had a partner with a little more experience this time, otherwise who knows.i
Mama stood there in the windy house clinging to him, comforting him, sobbing with real tears flowing down her cheeks. I guess she was crying in joy because the cross had come off so beautifully, because she was finally off the hook. Mama missed her calling. She should have been a film actress. All she needed was a bit part to turn an Oscar season into a lead-pipe cinch for her. Mama told my first and maybe real father we would go to Indianapolis and stay with friends until he could put another nest together. Can you imagine the cheek on her ? That bum of hers had nothing to say to this, no "Bitch, get on your hands and knees and make that fucking nest for me out of your god damned hair if it comes to it, strand by strand", nothing at all. She would've, too. If only he knew what to say, and when, to whom, and how.
When we got to Milwaukee by train, ninety miles away, Steve had rented a house. Every square inch of that house was filled with my father's things. Those lovely things we spent a little while crammed in with did us as little good and brought no happiness. Steve, with his newfound mania for craps, liberated us of it all within a few short weeks. He sold everything, piece by piece, and lost it in back alleys on his knees. Mama worked long hours as a short cook, which is what people do in a restaurant kitchen that can't really cook. Mama's just the sort of woman to take a maid job in a brothel. Her ministrations to her half-assed approach to life left Steve and I by our lonesome quite often. It must be sweet to always have someone else to blame. It must make life so easy. He'd say to me "You little mother-fucker, you. I'm going to beat your mother-fucking ass. I am telling you, if you don't run away, I'm going to kill you." and I always thought if he did, he'd fry for it, not her. They weren't going after the top mobsters in those days, and they're still not going after the bitches, nor I guess will they ever. They should, though. Over the years many mamas, mine and others', kept asking me when I'm gonna quit pimping, with those airs of invincible superiority they put on because nobody ever fries them no matter what so they end up figuring their farts must come up roses or something. I always told them : when they strung up the last one of your lousy kind by the guts of her dumb mother, that's when. I was right, too, though I guess I'm never gonna live to see that miracle with these two eyes. Maybe you do.
Meanwhile Steve was outright cruel to me and everything reminded him of me in any way. Mama brought me a little baby cat one day. I loved that kitten, which pushed Steve to discover he hated animals. One day the cat, being a baby cat raised by Niggers who don't know any better, did his business on the kitchen floor. Steve said, "Where is that little mother-fucker?" The little kitten hid under the sofa. He grabbed that kitten and took it downstairs where there was a concrete wall. He grabbed it by the heels. I was standing (we lived on the second floor) looking down at him; he took the kitten and beat its brains out against that wall. I remember, there was a park behind our house, concrete covered. There were some concrete steps. I sat there and I cried until I puked. All the while I kept saying like a litany, "I hate Mama! I hate Mama! I hate Mama!" And, "I hate Steve! I hate Steve! I hate him! I hate him!"
I know my lousy old man deserved what happened to his goods. Everyone ever does. I guess Mama got her revenge, must've been sweet and all that, but it was bitter for a little kid to know his Mama had her part in it. After that cross Mama just didn't seem like the same honest sweet Mama that I had prayed in church with back in Rockford and, come to think of it, no building ever seemed like a church either. I went to her grave the other day and took a piss. I go now and again to do that, maybe two dozen times all in all. That was the last time, though. I told her while I did it, I said "Mama, you were a dumb country girl when you was born, you were a dumber town mama when they buried you. What a waste of a lifetime supply of chickenfeed!" It's true, too. I sometimes think of Henry, lying rotten, forgotten in his grave. He had no close family. He had no one, and who's to blame for that ? He should've beaten her to death.
As for me, I was already playing Steve's favorite game in the alleys after school. I wasn't nearly as bad as he was, but that's because the dumb asswipe couldn't make a pass to save his life. I made out okay, a buck or two here and there, but mostly because playing with kids it's easy to avoid bad beats by welshing out of them. That's really all you need to score over time. A mother's game, too, that's all they do all day long : stay out of playing bank against others' long odds, stick to the middle range by and large, taking up the long odds against another's bank now and again, when they judge it soft enough to cry their way out of a loss if need be.
Dangerously, I was frantic to sock it into every young girl smart enough to go for it. I had to run for my life one evening, when an enraged father caught me on his back porch astraddle his daughter, whom he rightly deemed a virgin. I do believe it was not for lack of foregoing attempts, but because she was so leathery thick and hard down there, I had to cut her open later to finally do her in. That was a sight, I stuck that knife in her like gutting a fish. It was all honey and milk riding her ass from there on though, and I especially enjoyed how much she bled, and how bad she said it hurt her. She wouldn't stop though, she'd just cry and complain, but beg me to keep on at her too. It made me so crazy I couldn't spend, we were at it for hours and hours until she was so tense and taught I couldn't even move inside of her anymore. Then we passed out.
With that, the slide was greased. I was starting in earnest my long plunge to the very bottom of the grim pit they call this life.
———This is a brilliant idea for general practice, though. Empty the place except for one room, and let them figure it out. [↩]
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The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 3 : The Real Murphy »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Wednesday, 24 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:45:51

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 18 : Happy Birthday!
When I woke up, it was one P.M. I turned on my side. Two big brown eyes were looking at me. I closed my eyes. The mouth that went with them started kissing my eyelids. She licked the dried out snot in the corners of my eyes. I held my forehead. There were three or four trucks crashed into each other in a parking lot inside my head. They couldn't agree who crashed into who first, so they kept backing out and doing it again. "Who're you, bitch ?" I mumbled. She giggled and whispered in my ear "Daddy, I'm Ophelia. Phyllis said to come put my nose up your ass." I felt her straighten out and then there was a warm softness caressing and drowning me. I fell asleep.
When I woke up again, it was still one P.M. Ophelia was still kissing my eyelids. She said, "Daddy, you're so pretty. You got eyelashes just like a bitch's. Phyllis took Chris to visit some sucker in the shit-house. The boss bitch took that pretty young one out somewhere. It's just us here. Daddy, I don't like eating ass so much. May I kiss my candy instead ?" I said, "Christ in Heaven. Ain't I got a whore in this family without a hot jib." I spread my legs, turning on my back. "Go on, bitch. Then get your kit and trim my toenails and paint 'em. We're all going to get pretty for my birthday party tonight." She clapped and giggled. She asked "How old are you, Daddy? I bet you're nineteen." I tried to look at her but it was asking too much. I said "I ain't nineteen. I ain't even whoreteen. I don't got no clue what I'm at. I just got a pretty baby face, that's all." She said "Daddy, I didn't know it was your birthday, but I got you a present anyhow." It took her a good minute to get it all out, taking breaks every other word to kiss my dick all around.
When Chris and the runt got back from scarface hornblower storage, it was still one P.M. A gauze of light purple was just starting to close down the sky. Night's gonna fall in less than an hour at one P.M. ? I hooked an elbow under my still pulsing head. "That clock right ?" The runt looked at it and shook her head. "Twice a day." Chris had a serious look on her face. I laid into her, "Where the hell you've been, stray bitch ?" She rapped like Glass Top drives : "Daddy, when Leroy heard I'm back on the street he got in a fight. He punched the square that let him know. I never seen him punch no one in his life before, Daddy. That one he hit, was twice his size. Would have stomped him into dust but other people held him back. Leroy was still snarling and clawing at the guy when the beat cop took him in on a disorderly. Then downtown he slugged the guy booking him. They ain't figured what to do with him yet. He wasn't drunk. Maybe they drop it. They would, if he talked sense to them. As it is he might go for even a fin." I called her over with my hand. When she kneeled by the bed facing me I put my hand around her throat. "Well, how did he take the news? Did he hang himself from the bars before your eyes?" She started weeping and said, "Daddy, he fell apart. He would have killed me if he could have reached me. He cried like his heart was broken. He said he was going to kill you wherever he saw you. I feel bad, Daddy. He really upset me. I'm going to lie down." I thought, "She's a dumb broad alright. She ain't got that sweet whore honey in her, where she makes it better for the chumps she's with. This bitch is straight poison, she fucks them up." I made a mental note to tell Delaney when he showed next ain't no good reason for that Leroy chump to walk.
The three whores crowded into bed with me. They were stroking and kissing me all over. By the time Glass Top called it was one P.M. I said "Sweetheart, if you'd have given me your number I'd have called you myself. What's up ?" He laughed like I said something funny. Then later when I reached into my vine pocket and pulled out the paper he had written his number on I got the joke I didn't know I made. I came back to me, how on my way out he slipped it to me like a square broad in Sunday school. "Here's my phone number in case you wanta ring me for something." No matter, I didn't want anything. He did, though. "Kid, Sweet said he wants to take a better look at you. He said for me to pick you up. I'm going that way anyways. You good to pick up ?" I said "Man, how about give me till one P.M. ?" He laughed again and hung up. I turned around to Phyllis and said "Damn." "What's the trouble Daddy-o ?" she warbled back at me. "Those jokers want to sit down, and I ain't got but the one vine from last night. They'll laugh me out of town." Ophelia bounced out, gurgling "Hang on, Daddy. Hang on." as she went. She was back in a flash with a flashy vine alright. "This is my present Daddy, how you like it ?" I said "What's your story, bitch ?" The runt filled me in. Ophelia and her met in school, but she'd been turning tricks for most of the year, and she was a slick booster, too. She picked up the vine on their way over, to tribute me.
I said "Bitch, you've got to hip these other dogs to doing that trick. We're raggedy as a pack of shipwrecked rats over here". She nodded "Yes Daddy. Though it's not for everyone." I said "Now bitch, bend over and let me put my foot in your ass." She turned her back to me, legs straight, hands on her knees. I went over and got my belt out of my pants. I looped it in my hand in front of her. I said "Now bitch, after every whack, you say 'Thank you Daddy for hurting me. Please let me be your whore, Daddy, and hurt me more.' You got that ?" She nodded, trembling with fear or excitement, I can't tell them apart. Phyllis went over and put Ophelia's head on her belly, holding it in her hands. I craked her a good dozen stripes, and pretty hard, too. She wanted to take her hands offa those knees, but didn't. She said just like I told her, but she was tearing up. I walked over to the nightstand. I said "You're a good whore, Ophelia. You can stay. Here's a saw for you." Chris went woo-hoo but the runt frowned. "Daddy, how come you didn't crack on my ass like that ?" Ophelia was whimpering in her lap, but the runt drove hard. "Look how pretty it makes it!" and grabbed those welts on the young whore butt. Chris winced. Ophelia howled. I said "Bitch, I turned you out with all those jokers. It ain't the same for everyone." Chris was struggling with herself. Eventually she won the battle that she lost. "Can I have one, Daddy ?" I nodded my head. "Not right now though. That freak's coming to pick me up."
When he showed up Glass Top was pretty well cooked out. He stopped by a chicken joint three blocks down damn well near driving flush on top of an old Buick parked at the curb. "Sweet move ?" I asked him. He shook his head, his eyes straight ahead. I sat there a minute observing the sounds of silence with him, then I cracked "Hey Top! What's up ?" He turned his dreamy eyes to me, "You got it ?" "Got what, you beautiful cocksucker ? I ain't got anything I didn't have before." He nodded. "The chicken. Did you cop ?" It was freaky, like a reefer dream. I didn't smoke any, but maybe those bitches going at it with eight mouths between the three of them got some in me anyhow. "No I didn't cop no chicken. What chicken ?" He bristled as much as a hype cruising steady ever can. "Go cop it then! Ain't I told you fifty times Sweet said he and Miss Peaches got a taste for some of that barbecued chicken down there in Hell ? He said to bring some with you when you come, so git!" I jumped out of the car, thinking to myself ain't no way in blue heavens he told me fifty times. Forty-nine I could've even believed, but fifty straight up ain't no way.
A black stud in a tall white cap was stabbing chickens onto a turning spit in the window. I went in. I came out with two birds. Peaches might be really hungry for barbequed chicken. It made solid sense to brown-nose Miss Peaches. As we drove a while he came back to his senses a little more. Not that much, though. At one point he turned to me, leaving the hog to howl down the empty road all by itself. "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, grabbing the wheel with my left "Now Top, that's a helluva crack to make. Do I look like the kind of rat square that would cross a pal? Now keep an eye on the road, or you've decided to make this hog a plane for real ?" As we pulled by Sweet's place there was no doorman anywhere. I thought to myself "Shieet! This crazy nigger's gonna try to park by himself, and when Sweet comes back home it'll be three floors shortened and the whole block mowed down." Just when I was scraping my skull, desperately trying to come up with an angle, Glass Top said "Kid listen, I ain't got it in my heart to park. You mind putting the kitten in the garage and come right up ? I gotsa go take a leak." I sighed my relief. "Sure, pal. Anything you say." He got out of the hog and started walking down the street. He went past the awning and kept going. As I was easing into the garage he was crossing over to the next block. Now a Hog's not exactly a bitch to drive, that's true, but it does help if you ever drove anything before. Even a rowboat I guess would help. Me, I ain't driven even my dick anywhere long as I could remember, I always let the bitches to the work. Took me a while to figure all the sticks out you could pull, and tell the truth maybe it wasn't arranged inside exactly how it started out by the time I was done parking it ; but all in all I think I did okay. A little crooked maybe, and the engine did make some noises I ain't ever hear it make before, or anything outside a junkyard, but I still think it was a damn sight better than anything Glass Top'd have managed on his own. Who even knows where he had walked himself by the time I got out. He could've been half way to Michigan the way he walked stubborn straight, waving his arms about like it helped with the paddling.
Just as I was about to spit in delight at the job well done, something took to crushing my jaw. A blinding spotlight burned off my eyeballs. I heard a fog-horn voice blasting, "Police officers! What the hell you doing, god damned crazy nigger ?! What's your name? Show us your identification." I couldn't answer with my jaw crushed in a vise. To tell it true I wasn't even sure what an identification is, right then. I was dazed, I couldn't remember my name. It wasn't Prissenberg, was it ? I knew it was with words in it, I just didn't remember which damned ones. I lowered my eyes below the inferno of light. I saw a white brutish wrist, like an animated anchovy going for my throat, thick black hair bristling on it. I saw muscles cord and ripple across it as the vise tightened around my jawbone. I thought maybe it's for the eggs ? I said "I didn't have any eggs this breakfast, officer." It came to me maybe I croaked while parking and didn't know it. Maybe this is just how Satan goes. Though I still didn't have any eggs, honest I didn't. I couldn't figure out what the beef was about.
The wrist let go of my jaw, spun me around and pushed me to the car. I hit my head against the frame. My wet palms skidded on the top. Somebody punched me all over from breast to ankle. An finger like an octopus salad poked inside my shoe. I felt a tickle in the arch of my instep. I sneezed. I said, "My Albert Thomas' name. Is it ?" They stopped. I said "I wasn't doing anything, just parking. I'm here for my uncle. He's lost. He walked down west and then he's gone." I didn't get to finish what I was saying, whatever it might've been. A galaxy of shooting stars orbited my head. 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 happily on the hood. I thought "Good thing Glass Top ain't here to snort any of that, we'd never make it back alive." The two blue whales went inside the hog. They were frisking it, too. One of them propping me on my feet so I don't slide over said "Nigger, you got a sheet downtown? Whatta you do for a living?" I said "I don't care what I do for a living, I'm a beautiful dancer." He shook his hat with his head in it, "You nigger-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."
That's when I heard Glass Top. He said, "What's the beef, officer? This is my nephew and that's my Cadillac. The kid was parking it for me. He's clean. We're here to see Sweet Jones. You know Mr Jones ? We're personal friends of his, you dig ?" The octopus in a hat let go of me like I'd gone a thousand degrees and it burned his mitt. I dutifully slid to the side and fell lengthwise by a wheel. The burnt whale rapped on the windshield. I saw a demonic starch-white face peer over the rear seat. They clambered out of what was left of the Hog. Someone 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, gents."
They walked away. I tried to count their legs to see if they were chickens or what. I think it musta been three of them. All three both climbed into a black Chevrolet and gunned it away. I thought to myself it's going very remarkably straight for a car. They should try that in a Hog sometime. I took a handkerchief from my back pocket, and wiped my face. Glass Top was gazing wistfully upon the bits of loose glass and all the puke on the hood. "Christ, nigger!" he said at last. "I asked you to park it, not redecorate it." I put my finger out like to say something, but my eyes closed and I fell like a lug. My elbow went through the back window. The glass sparked happily like small cold fireworks. I said "Listen Top, 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."
He dragged me upstairs by my collar. The Filipino broad popped it back down on sight, then took me into a bathroom and hosed me down bit by bit for half an hour. When I came out the floor was in its right place again. I saw Glass Top over towards the other end of the room. I said, "Jeez, Sweet sure has got pull. It was like magic when you cracked his name." walking towards him debonaire and at ease again. It wasn't that bad, I could walk at least as good as I could park, if not a shade better even. Sweet bellowed from behind me "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." I turned to him, and that's when I walked over where the livingroom sunk. I wasn't hip it's sinking until it sunk me. I groaned, stretched out like an eager corpse on his soft shag. They came around to me like lumberjacks around a fallen pine tree. "Mary, mammy of Jesus, you stink. You shat your pants, Grinberg ?" I said "It's Icepick, Mr. Sweet." He shook his head. "You sure getting funky breaks, kid. Too bad you couldn't handle Red Cora. She's one of the fastest thieves in the country."
I said, "If that crazy bitch had a tunnel straight into Fort Knox, I wouldn't fart in her jib. That cat she drags behind her scares me." They laughed. Sweet 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." I nodded. "Show me the three headed pimp with a gold-game toothed three bull doglegs on its heads. I'll take the scratch. How come Red Cora ain't got a pimp ?" They looked at each other. Sweet cracked "You done him like this ?" Glass Mop shook his top. "He was this way when I picked him up." Sweet poked me with his stomper in the rib, lightly. "What got into you, kid ?" I said "When Glop Tass colled I was with my bitches celebratin'. Today's my birthday." Sweet shook his head. "Ain't that so! I bet you turn ten years old!" He whistled and next thing I know Lulu and sweetslit were dragging me towards a bed somewhere in there. I blinked out.
When I woke up, musta been 1 P.M, I heard a squad of rats or something in the direction of the closet. I turned and looked. It was the runt, on her knees in the closet, scraping and pulling suitcases and shoes around. The back of my skull was sore and throbbing. I touched it, and felt a crusty cap over the bump. I thought as I watched the runt's rear end, "What the hell is she doing? And what she do to her ass ?!" I said, "Damn bitch, can't you put a damper on that racket? I gotta aching skull. I wake up, the first living thing I pin is the rusty black ass of a dizzy whore. She's digging a ditch in the closet. Now there's gotta be a prettier way to start a day." She snapped her head around and said, "Sorry, precious. I didn't bank on you being in bed. Who're you, anyways ?" I said "I'm Iceberg, pleased to meet you. What the hell got into you ?" She said she's Suzy. Then it all came to me. She wasn't the runt at all. I wasn't home, either. This is Sweet's joint. Ow!
I stood up and took myself in. Other than the green silk robe, I seemed mostly the same. That head bump sure hurt, though. I paddled out, past the bathroom with the urinals and back into the livingroom. Sweet bellowed when he saw me. "Well, whatta you know, if it ain't Grinning Slim. You still got that one whore or have you grinned yourself whoreless yet ?" He was in a good mood. He was wearing only a pair of polka-dot shorts. Two rollers from Sweet's precinct were drinking and horsing around with two of Sweet's yellow whores. Sweet told them I was his son. It tickled them witless when Sweet told them what the two pigs had done to me. They told me not to worry. They would remember me and would wire the other precinct rollers not to roust me. They finally got crocked. The whores took them around the Chinese screen into bedrooms.
I said, "Sweet, my one bitch is falling apart. She's playing dead. If you don't pull my coat I'm gonna starve to death. You gotta help me, Sweet." He said, "Nigger, you ain't cracking to nick me for scratch, are you ? I don't loan my scratch to suckers who got whores and can't pimp on 'em. I ain't gonna support you and that lazy bitch." I said, "No Sweet, I don't want scratch. I mean I'd take some from a three-niggered bullhorse with two dogs, but I don't want any scratch from you, that's what I mean. I want you to run the game through my skull. I gotta get my coat pulled before I tap out." My ticker was pounding like June had walked in the door naked pushing a bale of a million dollars in slats and fins.
Mimi the blonde was coming up from the cage towards the pit. She flicked her green eyes across my face. They were cold as a frozen French lake. She passed me. She looked like a fancy French pastry in her sable stole. I wondered if I got the stupid courage to turn down her freak off for real. There ain't gonna be no roust up to get me out of it here in Sweet Jones' penthouse, that's for sure. Miss Peaches came slinking by. She looked at me, got close, then came in to lick my face. It was like a rotissery chicken smooched me out. Sweet said "Kid, your map sure looks like that bullshit bitch you got is been shooting you through hot grease. I like that look you got today. Maybe you're getting hip the pimp game ain't for grinning jackasses. Get over here and sit on this couch. Rundown you and your whore. I wanta know where and how you copped her. Tell me everything you can remember about her and what's happened since you copped her. Rundown your whole life as far back as you remember. It don't matter which is first."
I ran down for him, leaving out some parts. It took me a while. One by one his whores came in, sitting their asses around the coach. Sweet leaned back on the couch. He put his bare feet on the top of the cocktail table. Mimi took to rubbing them lightly. She'd stop now and again to give his size 24 stompers a tiny little kiss. He said, "Sweetheart, you a lucky nigger to get your coat pulled by me. I love you, but you ain't got the hate to pimp. You ain't got the drive. Flap your horns good and remember what I'm gonna spiel to you. There are thousands of niggers in this country who think they're pimps. The pussy-weak white pimps ain't worth mentioning on top. Don't none of them pimp by the book. They ain't even heard about it. If they was black, they'd starve stiff. There ain't more than six of 'em who are hip to the book and pimp right. You won't find it in the square-nigger or white history books. The truth is that book was written in the skulls of proud slick Niggers freed from slavery. They wasn't lazy. They was puking sick of picking white man's cotton and kissing his nasty ass. The slave days stuck in their skulls. They went to the cities. They got hip fast. The conning bastard white man hadn't freed the niggers. The cities was like the plantations down South only worse. Jeffing Uncle Toms still did all the white man's hard and filthy work. Those slick nigger heroes bawled like crumb crushers. They saw the white man just like on the plantations still ramming it into the finest black broads. The broads were stupid squares. They still freaked for free with the white man. They wasn't hip to the scratch in their hot black asses. Those first nigger pimps started hipping the dumb bitches to the gold mines between their legs. They hipped them to stick their mitts out for the white man's scratch. Them first nigger pimps and sure-shot gamblers was the only nigger big shots in the country. They wore fine threads and had blooded horses. Those pimps was black geniuses. They wrote that skull book on pimping. Even now if it wasn't for that frantic army of white tricks, nigger pimps would starve to death. Greenie, the white man has been pig-greedy for nigger broads ever since his first whiff of black pussy. Black whores con themselves the only reason he sniffs his way to 'em is white broads ain't got what it takes to please him. I'm hip he's got two other secret sick reasons. White women ain't hip to his secret reasons. The dumb white broads ain't even hip to why he locks all niggers inside tight stockades. He'd love it if the nigger broads wasn't locked in there. The white man is scared shitless. He don't want them humping bucks coming out there in the white world rubbing their bellies against those soft white bellies on his wife an' daughters. That's the real reason for keeping all the niggers locked up. To show you how sick in the head he is, he thinks black broads are dirt beneath his feet, but still his balls would bust if he don't sneak through that stockade, to those half-savage, less than human, black broads. You know, Greenie, why he's gotta come to 'em? The silly sick bastard is like a whore that needs and loves punishment. He's a joke with scratch in his mitt. As great as he thinks he is, he can't keep his beak and swipe outta the stink of a black ass. He wallows and stains himself. The poor freak's joy is in his suffering. The chump believes he's done something dirty to himself, that's what he likes about it. He slips back into his white world. He goes on conning himself he's God and niggers are wild filthy animals he has to keep in the stockades. The sad thing is, he don't even know he's sick in the skull. Greenie, I'm pulling your coat from the bottom to the top. That rundown on the first nigger pimps will make you proud to be a pimp. Square-ass niggers will try to put shame inside of you, but you remember ain't one among 'em wouldn't suck a mule's ass to be a real pimp. They can't, because they square, and a square ain't nothing but a pussy. He cons like he lets some square bitch pimp on him, but that ain't the truth. He makes her to, where she didn't wanta in the first place. Now you, you gotta pimp by the rules of that pimp book those noble studs wrote a hundred years ago. When you look in a mirror you gotta know that cold-hearted bastard looking at you is real. Remember no whore's scratch ain't never longer than a pimp's cold game. You gotta have strict rules for a whore. She's gotta respect you to hump her heart out in the street. One whore ain't got but one pussy and one jib. You got to get what there is in her fast as you can. You gotta get sixteen hours a day outta her. There ain't no guarantee you going to keep any bitch for long. The name of the pimp game is 'Cop and Blow.' It's better to have no whore than a piece of whore, so when any one gets lazy you take a wire coat hanger and twist it into a whip. Ain't no bitch, freak or not, can stand up to that hanger twist. Maybe your foot and fist can't move that young whore anymore. Maybe she's a freak to them. Believe me, Greenie, that coat hanger will blow her or straighten her out. Greenie, you listen to Sweet Jones. You'll be a helluva pimp. Never get friendly and confide in your whores. You got twenty whores, don't forget your thoughts are secret. A good pimp is always really alone. You gotta always be a puzzle, a mystery to them. That's how you hold a whore. Don't get sour. Tell them something new and confusing every day. You can hold 'em as long as you can do it. Sweet is hipping you to pimp by the book. I'm the greatest nigger pimp in the world. Now Greenie, is your skull going to hold everything I told you?"
I said, "Thirty years from now I'll still remember every word, just maybe not in order. Sweet you won't be sorry you helped me. I'm gonna pimp my black ass off. I'll make you proud of me. I'll call you later. He said, "You know kid, I don't ever think I'm gonna grin in your face. I love you like a son. Any time I grin in a sucker's face I'm gonna cross him or croak him. Call me any time you need a rundown. Good luck, Greenie. Call me tomorrow, late. Oh yeah, happy birthday, Kid. That rundown was a birthday present." I walked across the pit. I stepped up to the doorway. I glanced back. Sweet had Peaches in his arms. She was purring like a new bride. Sweet was squeezing her in a lover's embrace. He was covering her laughing face with kisses.
My skull was reeling from his rundown on the way home. The cabbie wanted to rap, but I didn't have it in me for him. When I got back dawn was breaking. The runt and Ophelia were asleep, locked together like Siamese twins. Pepper put me to bed. June was soaking up Chris' tears with her tits. Then after that, I was eighteen years old.
« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 17 : Sweet Party at Sweet's
The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 19 : Gotta Piggy Bank »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Saturday, 06 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:45:42

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 17 : Sweet Party at Sweet's
That was the way the Blue Heaven got, between me and my whores. We got it there fast and it stayed there a long while. Its time didn't come to close down until years later.
The night after Delaney first showed up, Glass Top called in. He rapped like someone had his tab on the wrong speed, 78 on a 45. I thought maybe I should cop a crumb of girl off him, who knows what special space stuff he's got now. "The plans have changed kid. I'm in a hurry. Be outside your joint in fifteen minutes. You got that?" I got my "Yeah" in and he hung up. I went upstairs and gussied up. I only had one vine back then so it didn't take as much. I walked out just as Top pulled in front of the joint in his red Hog. He had his hand over the horn when he saw me. I got in and the Hog squealed from the curb. Everything about him made me think like maybe he was in a hurry, even the harsh whisper of the Hog's tires against the pavement. I asked what happened. He clued me in : "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's cut in the middle I'll still take off at least a coupla grand for my end." I thought "Maybe you should grow tits, and learn to play poker", but I didn't say anything. I didn't want anything disturbing the maniac from paying attention to the road, he barely could keep up with the Hog and I didn't want to end up encased in plaster. He went on "Sweet never goes to fights. He can't stand big crowds, and besides they won't let Miss Peaches into fights. He's there gnawing on his nails, waiting for this stuff. He ain't got none for himself, and he's got to cop some stuff for those birds coming in from the fight." I asked if he cracked anything about me to Sweet. That got him more excited.
"Kid, you ain't hip I'm a genius? He called and I rapped 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. But no, you got the itch, 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. He erected his wide shoulders inside his blue mohair jacket. 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. The moon through the windshield shone flush on his face. It was full enough to match him. 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." 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."
He said, "Sucker, what you don't dig, and ain't hip to would make a book bigger than this Hog just for the headings. Now you take Sweet, the two he crossed out were young white broads with small mileage. 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 when the white folks poisoned his skull for good. His mammy was jet black and beautiful. The peckerwoods for miles around all knew her and freaked off with her every chance they got. Back in those days black bitches weren't hip to the whole pimp game. Those white boys just plied her with moxie and maybe gave her a muslin scarf or a pair of carny earrings to swipe into her. She was just nineteen, his mammy, but as hot as a vixen hellraiser, one of them spirited bitches from down South. Sweet was her first, and only one she had with a black stud. There was a plantation thereabouts called Old Joyce Place. The peckerwood running it was dumb even for a white boy. He ran that thing into the ground. He couldn't find any nigger to eat his lousy porridge, so he bought convicts to work it. One day in May one of them jailbird niggers didn't feel like working any. Whitey whupped the nigger, and the nigger croaked him right back. It put the white folks thereabouts into a downright tizzy. Sweet's daddy's bad luck, he had an argument with his mammy over finding some peckerwood under the bed the day right after that. When he got put in jail the white folks broke him out of there and hung him, to teach the coons a lesson they can't be touching no white folk. Sweet's Mama loved his daddy. She went around screaming and cussing out them peckerwood boys. She swore up and down she'd prosecute they involved for murder. She said it to their face. They'd all fucked her, meaning she'd fucked them all herself right back. They weren't strangers, and the way his mama was, all sass and fire, none of them limpdick white boys stood up to her face. When her back was turned though, they found their courage. Just like dogs, in a mob. They grabbed her, to teach her a lesson they said. They took her to the Folsom Bridge crossing at Little River. They tied her up by the ankles. They hung her upside down from a tree. They did to her body all an angry pimp can think of, then after a day or so doused her in motor oil for an even burn and set her on fire. She was still alive. She screamed her lungs out. Sweet was there through it all, trying to jump up and reach his poor Mama down. As she roasted, some peckerwood boy went at her with a butcher's knife. He opened her belly up. She had a baby in there. It fell down to the ground. It cried. Once, it cried out. Then they stomped it underboot. After that, Sweet was taken in by a share-cropper. He worked the fields until he got seventeen. He ran away and caught a freight train North back in '28. He copped his first whore, a white girl, and drove her to suicide before he got eighteen." 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 and I grew up in the North. Had white kids all around growing up. I don't hate white people or any other people. I ain't no black brute. I'm a pretty, brown-skined lover. I love people. When I was a square I was even engaged to marry a white girl. Her parents and their friends brought down the pressure on her. She chickened out. I guess I loved her. Right after we called it quits 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 square 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. 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. 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. 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 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. Her skull starts to jelly. I'll be worried as hell about her. I'll start sneaking slugs of morphine or chloral hydrate 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. 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."
By then 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. At least he runs it through a old squared-out pimp pal of his. 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. Most all the tenants are white gamblers and hustlers. They got young whores running naked back and forth down the halls most of the time. Sweet's got the old ex-pimp running book wide open. The action a week just from the tenants runs maybe five grand. Maybe more. There's always some big event going, like tonight. I'll say it a thousand times : Sweet is a lucky stud." He turned the corner and 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 fancy front. A gaunt white stud in a green monkey suit was standing in stooped attention at the curb. We got out. Top walked around the Hog.
The doorman said, "Good evening, gentlemen." Top said, "Hey Jack, do something for me. When you take my wheels to the back see that they's parked close to an exit. When I come out I don't wanna hassle outta there. You got that ?" The doorman nodded, "Yes, Sir. I'll make sure of it, sir." Top patted his back with a fin in his palm, the oldest magic trick in the book. We walked into the green-painted, black-marbled foyer. I was trembling like maybe a hick virgin on a casting couch. We walked up the half-dozen marble steps to an invisible glass door. A broad toasted to the creamy hues of fresh cocoa butter 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 silk. Maybe it was lyrical soprano brocade, what do I know. She said, "Good evening, may I help you?" Top said, "I'm officer O'Flaherty. Danny O'Flaherty. This nigger here's my nephew, Mark Huntleaks. We're here to check on Mr. Jones." She turned to a switchboard and shoved some tiny pricks in some tiny holes. Then she said "Penthouse, Danny O'Flaherty and my cunt leaks." After a moment we got the ivory flash again. The pony said, "Thank you so much for waiting. Mr. Jones is at home and will see you. The elevator's over there, if you please."
I followed Top to the elevators, trying to hold it in. It was harder than any gunion. A pretty brown-skin broad in a tight green uniform zipped us to the fifteenth floor. Top noticed my peeping and said "They're all working, just not tonight. Ain't that right, honey ?" She turned to face him and smiled a perfect whore smile. He faced her close and slid a folded saw right between her pushed together tits. She blew him a kiss upclose. The brass door opened. We stepped out onto a gold-carpeted entrance hall. It was larger than Top's living room. A skinny Filipino broad in a gold lame outfit came toward us. It clung to her so tight it made her look naked, made of polished gold. She was grinning, bowing her head and dangling her tits. The crystal chandelier overhead glittered on her second skin. She took our lids and deposited them on a limb of a mock mother-of-pearl tree. She said "It is Sumi's great honor to welcome you sirs tonight. Follow, please."
We followed 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 enraptured face of a stone woman squatting over it. She was nude and lifesize. The red light inside her skull blazed out through her eyes trained straight ahead. Her delicate hands pressed down and away on the sides of long bamboo sticks crumpling her elongated breasts. From the right place well detailed she was peeing, endlessly and serenely, on the face of an older gent trapped in the fountain bowl. We stepped down to the intricate oriental carpet. Its patterns looked like they could keep a smoked out whore occupied for days. Sweet was sitting across the dim room on a white velour couch. He was wearing a white satin smoking jacket. It made him look just like a huge black fly fallen in a bucket of milk. Miss Peaches lay 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 yo 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. 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, her wrists bound to a stake driven in the ground. 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 popped wide open. Her mouth was open too, her tongue out trying to catch some spit. She had a big knot of thick rope around her neck. Behind her some schoolgirls holding hands looked on with awe in their blue eyes. 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 along."
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 tinhorn punk that ran off from my bitch ?" I said, "Yeah, I'm one and the same. I want to beg your pardon for 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 hundred percent 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." Then he turned to me "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 go 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. His ticker ain't icy enough to pimp on this track. I bet he loves that whore of his." I thought, "Top's pad is a pigsty compared to this layout. It looks like I'm in." Sweet said, "Sweetheart, let's go 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." He turned to me again "Kid, you can cool it. Have one of my whores bring you a taste, or cop for yourself if you want from the bar over there."
They went around a silk screen hand-painted in gold and through a doorway. Peaches padded behind them. I saw a heavy silver bell resting on a table beside the couch. I rung it once, to see what happens. It weighed half a Hog. The whore that sat on Sweet's left in the Doozy zipped in. "What can I get you, kid ?" I looked her up and down. She had a dress on made of a gauze so thin I saw her every contour underneath. She had the curves of dreams all over her. I asked what's her name. Then I said "Good evening Lulu. Call me Iceberg." She bent over to face me and whispered "What can I get you, Iceberg ?" Her breath was so hot it caramelized my face. I said "That's just the thing, I don't know what to have. If I knew I'd have copped myself. I've never been to a place this hip before." She laughed as tinkly as the bell. She asked me if I like sweet or sour. I said sweet. She asked me if I like to lick a whore or ram it in. I said I'm too lazy to ram anything. She asked if milk's better than lemonade. I said lemonade's much better. She asked me if I stay up late or go to bed early. I said I never go to bed. She asked me black cherry or vanilla ? I chose the cherry. She said she'll be right back. She shook her ass all the way to the turquoise bar across the room, holding her hand underneath to accentuate the bumps as she went. She came back with a tall glass, frosted on the outside. I took a sip. It was divine. I told her so, I said this is the best drink I had ever tasted in my life. I asked her what's it made of ? She said she'll never tell me that, and she ain't ever gonna make it for me again, either. I pouted. She said "Unless you kiss my ass." I said "But angel doll... I'm here tryna be a pimp. Sweet said he's got his eye on me." She nodded. "If I kiss your ass he ain't ever gonna think me nothing but a sucker." She smiled at me "And aintcha ?" "Yeah," I said. But he don't have to find out the first time he lays his eyes on me, does he ?" She smiled at me "I guess he don't." I shrugged with a sad face, "Well... thank you for the drink". She smiled slyly as she went away "Anytime, cutie pie."
I took my golden cool drink and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling glass door. I slid it open and stepped up into the patio. The ice-cream-yellow moon seemed close enough to lick. I didn't try licking it, though. It wouldn't have been pimp enough. I walked to the pearl-white parapet. Head in my hands I looked out at the brilliant sea of emerald and ruby neon bursting pastel skyrockets toward the cobalt blue sky. The stars were all sapphire, pools of cool water. They made me feel a fool. I thought, "Sweet sure has caught lightning in a thimble. He came out of the white man's cotton fields. He's had a brother, died under a boot. 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. They're not here, either. He is. He pimped up his scratch passport. That barbed-wire stockade is a million miles away. I got more education, I'm better looking, I'm younger, too, than he is. If he lucked out I hope I'll luck out, but if he did it, I can do it too."
I remembered Henry, and how religious he was. Look what happened to him. I remembered how I used to kneel every night by the side of the bed to pray. I really believed in God then. I thought he existed, like a chump stood up on a date. At first he thinks she's coming, she's coming, any minute now. As the hours and years add up and the broad's still no show though... eventually even the worst chump gets on with his life. You can't wait on the same chair until you're eighty because some broad forgot sometime sixty-five years ago she had a date one night. I know there's some who try, but there's some who try anything that can be tried. I wasn't about to, and now after all these years I can say I've not missed much : the broad didn't show in sixty years just the same as she didn't show in ten. Though, who knows...
Maybe some morning about dawn all the black folks will sing Hallelujah! Maybe God's white board of directors will untie the red tape. Maybe God himself will roll up his sleeves one day and do a spot of work to buy all the salt he's eaten so far. Thing is, I couldn't wait. I con people I'm lazy when I'm not lazy all the time, just most times. I'm lazy like the sky is black, there's still stars twinkle here and there. I never tried to con anyone I'm patient, which I never was. If there were a joker up there or not, it made no difference anyhow. Them white folks doing all the fine living and sucking up all the gravy say they earned it. Fine. I gotta have some of that living and some of that gravy myself. I'll say I earned it too, and who don't like it can go pray to whatever jokers he prefer. I didn't wanta be a stickup man, or a dope peddler. I sure as hell wasn't going to be a porter, or dishwasher. I wouldn't have my whores do that. Pimping's good enough for me, and everyone else can as well go straight to hell.
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. My drink was drained. I turned and walked toward the glass door. I slid the door open to a chorus of profanity. The whore scent flared my nostrils. There must have been thirty yapping pimps and twice as many whores lounging around the spacious pit. I stepped down and slid the door shut. An ebony midget of a pimp was sprawled in the blue velour chair. A tawny tan tigress was kneeling before him, her chin rammed into his crotch. She had him clutched around the waist like a humping twodollar trick in an alley. Her dreamy maroon eyes rolled toward the top of her long skull. She was staring at his fat blue lips. 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: "I wouldn't touch a square bitch to push her dumb ass in a ditch. Their slits are funky and their tits picayune. Their star sign's a vinegarroon. They got green puke between their rotting toes, and snot runs from their clappy nose. I know they'll all die syphilitic wrecks, but I hope they slip during sex, fall back through their own assholes, and break their mother-fucking necks!"
It was the first time I'd heard it. It was the first time for most of the crowd, too. They roared and begged him to do it again. Suddenly he turned 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, looking just like a vulture decked out in a gray mohair vine. The cat stood before the white velour couch and bared her fangs. The three pimps sitting there scattered off like quail hearing buckshot. They thumped their rear ends to the carpet a safe distance later. Sweet, Top, and Peaches sat on the couch the cat had conquered. 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 spotlighted star. He 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 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. I felt sorry I didn't think to bring Pepper, or at least the runt along. Sweet said, "All right you freakish pigs. Patch Eye's got outfits and bags of poison. You got the go sign to croak yourselves." They started rising from the satin pillows and velour ottomans, crowding around Patch Eye at the bar.
The high-ass yellow broad came to me. She stooped in front of me. The largest thing she wore were two thick leather belts fastened around her thighs right under her ass. Six short throwing knives gleamed their sharpness from their leather loops on either side. I saw black tracks on her inner thighs. The inside of her gaping cat was beef-steak red. She had a shiv slash on the right side of her face. It was a livid gully from the corner of her eye to the corner of her twisted mouth. Her coffee-colored eyes whirled inside her skull. She was higher than the Home Insurance Building, except they hadn't demolished her yet. Not entirely, anyhow. I grinned carefully. Sweet was digging us from across the room, shaking his head in disgust. I wondered if he thought I oughta slug her in the jib and maybe take the carving like a fish. She said, "Let me see that pretty dick, handsome." I said "Let me see your million dollars first, bashful." She gave me one mean stare. "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." I grinned at her stupid name. "Chill it, Detroit. I left my swipe back home. I keep it in the sugar box, with the savings." She put her hands on her belts and scowled at me. "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. Nigger, you better get hip and cop a thief." 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. "Bitch, wanna go halves with me on this fine dope ? 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 even for itself. I have no idea what to do. With young soft bitches I'm a champ even by myself, but I really need my main whores with me to square off with these demented jades. I really shouldn't have left them at home."
I sat in the corner bug-eyed for two hours, trying to figure out what gives. Ain't these suckers got any need for money ? I left my whores working to come here and run into all these jokers whose whores apparently don't need to work any. Sweet going around with five fine bitches in his car, neither dropping them off ready to kill nor picking them back up dog-tired, like a farmer chaining up five tractors to each other so he can go around the farmhouse yelling "choo! choo!". Looking for studs to pay double saws to lay them, just like a god-damned freak square. Then all these jokers and dumb bitches... what's Albacora Detroit gonna steal from me with those repurposed letter openers ? They looked like they'd have worked great scraping off the dirt from under some toenails. Now if only I had any.
My ears flapped to the super-slick dialogue. I was excited by the fast-paced, smooth byplay between these wizards of pimpdom. Albacora kept circling me. She was H'd out of her skull, which somehow made her go to the patio and then come right back in again. Each pass she'd crack on me. At first I thought she was kidding about seeing my swipe, but she acted just like she missed out on highschool and couldn't get over the loss. Several of Sweet's whores came in that hadn't been at the Roost with him that first time I saw him. There wasn't a black bitch or a tough thigh among them. I thought it's pretty dumb to have all your whores the same way, but I guess that's how he liked it. It didn't make sense to me any. What's he do with them in a few years, eat them ? If his old whores don't stick with him, why would the young ones ? Just because they're dumber ? He's gotta have something to offer, even if he's just conning them he still got to at least look like he has something to offer. A pimp with all new whores looks just like a car salesman with all old cars. Especially one that's been at it for years. I ended up with a coupla old whores in just a few weeks. I got mine old, I didn't age them myself. What's he been doing ? After cracking my head with it for a while I finally figured he's just keeping his old ones out of sight. These young dumb bitches are just for the bait, and they're not that dumb, either. Glass Top said he has at least one old whore, that owns the building for him. That must be it, he doesn't expose his top floor. I thought I'd run this by Pepper, see what she says. I didn't think she's ready to go into the convent yet, though. That bitch sure loved to hump.
There was a giant black pimp from the apple. Not the big one, the mini one. He had three of his whores with him. He was one of the very few at the party that didn't bang stuff. He spent all night boasting about how he had his swipe trained. He held a glass in his hand, towering 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." Sweet said, "Sucker, I got a young bitch I turned out six months ago that could blow that tender sucker swipe of yours in all of five minutes. I ain't going to teach you no lesson for a C note. If that C ain't all you got, drop a G with Glass Top and you've got a bet."
The big joker snatched a roll from his side and G'd that C in 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. A beautiful yellow broad, couldn't have been more than seventeen, kneeled before the standing giant. She freed her tits to the cheers of the growing audience and chomped his swelling dick with their softness. She was a performer alright. She toyed with him, her mouth open an inch away from his rock-hard prick, blowing hot lava on it. She carressed the desperate swipe in front of her mouth like she owned it. After a minute she lifted her beautiful green eyes to meet his, and whispered "Are you ready, lover ?" He was moving in tune with her movements like hypnotized. She gave his dick one sweet kiss on the tip and it shot its white-hot juice all over her instantly. She licked her lips. She was a snake charmer alright. She had won the bet for Sweet, but she humiliated the poor sucker into the ground too. All it took for him to explode all over her was one small little kiss! He stood there for a long moment with his eyes closed and a goofy grin on his face. One of his three out of work whores snickered. He slapped her hard on the jaw. He went to the bar. I wondered how long that poor bitch took to make the grand he invested for her. I wondered if this young bitch will be worth a million just like Pepper by the time she's her age. Sweet was pratting loud "You believe I bought that bitch right from her mammy ? She cost me fiddy bucks!" I thought "The loser's you, Sweet. My million dollar broad ain't cost me a half cent."
I got up and went towards the Chinese screen through the door. On the way over I hissed at Albacora "Bitch, I'm going to take a piss. You still wanna see that dick ? Now's your chance, bitch!" 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 itself. Sweet even had urinals on the wall in there. Just as I was undoing my pants that tough bitch Cora darted in, licking out her red tongue, her eyes voodooing in her skull. She was hot as hell for my innocence and youth, a double murderess with a skull load of H and a hot jib. I stood there before the deadly bitch. I said "Sit yourself down in the urinal, bitch. I don't know how to piss unless it's on an ugly whore's face. You dig ?" It was like tickling a leopard with a broom straw right over its itty bitty balls. She sat herself down, feet outside on either side. She took her hands off those belts and put them behind her head. I let go on her face. She opened her mouth. I said "Open your eyes, bitch. It's supposed to go in your nose through your eyes, ain't your Daddy taught you no thing ?" That's 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 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 stone gray. 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, cold like the inside of a dead-whore's pussy." Then he looked around. "What you doin' here, nigger ?!" I said "I came out here to take a leak, Mr. Jones sir. I hope that's alright." He started laughing like I hit him with a big stick o' funny upside the head. He was tearing up, leaning against the wall. He grunted "You out here pissing all over that funky bitch ?!" I said "Well yeah. How's it done on the fast track ? At home I always piss on a whore face, it makes the flow mellow. I don't know I can even go if there ain't a grinning bitch licking her lips opposite. I ain't tried in too long." He looked at his hand. He grunted "Motherfucker" and went to the sink. I walked out.
When Sweet came out I was rapping with the first broad. She came to me, I didn't go to her. She asked me if it's true I took a leak all over Red Cora. I said "Listen prettyful, you fix me a drink I tell you a story." She shot towards the bar and shot right back faster than the speed of spite. I started "Well sweetslit, I..." and that's when Sweet Jones bellowed "Where's that Pissberg, coning everyone he's new on the game ?" Everyone froze. I let out "Right here talking to sweetslit, honey." They were too petrified to laugh. He stomped to me like a steam engine some joker had hitched on legs. Maybe he'd forget I ain't yellow any ? I remembered what Glass Top had told me, about those four murders. When he was face to face he yelled out "How many whores you got ?" I said "I got four at home." Glass Top was striding towards me. Sweet turned to him "How about that ?" Glass Top grinned. "If he conned you then he conned me too, honey." Sweet spat "Yeah. He conned you he's your nephew when he fell outta his mammy's ass." Then he bellowed at me "From now on, you my nephew. Got that ?" I said "Sure Mr. Jones sir. But how's about when you come to my party, we switch around. I wanna be someone's uncle for a spell too." I could tell he wanted to laugh, but he held it in. He spun around. "I smell the funky stale slit on a square bitch. Where they at ?" Everyone looked at each other. Some of the broads living in the building, squared out more or less with their white jokers had snuck in to the party. Sweet said "Ain't it midnight yet ? All bitches step out." Every last bitch there ditched whatever she had on her back. The square broads too, but they weren't fast enough. They had too much on, so for a moment they stood out in the sea of whores like four sore thumbs twiddling on themselves.
Sweet yelled out "Now's time for the turnout game. Entry's for free but what it cost. Who's got the game and the fame ? Step up." Patches had disappeared, but he came out with a struggling white broad. She was barefoot, whimpering quietly, her arms roped tight together. She bit on a round wooden ball, strapped to her pretty head. She had leather patches over her eyes. Her big white girl titties jutted out. A gangly stud plonked a pile of bills in Sweet's open paw and walked up to her. Patch Eye took her eyepatches off. Her black eyes were wild with fear underneath. She darted them every which way and stiffened up. I don't think she was bare with people before. The stud kept pratting her and prancing around her like a monkey on a stick. She just stood and whimpered, Patch Eye holding her by the arm. Glass Top whispered in my ear "Now you believe the ugly bastard is insane?" I asked him what the hell is he doing ? He told me he lines up square broads like that, and any stud that's got a grand can prat them up. If he turns them, he gets to keep 'em. If not, another stud gets a shot. "How long's he got ?" Glas Top shook his head. "Until Sweet says he's had enough." Sweet was quizzing some bitches on the floor. I think he said the joker's had enough, because he yelled out "Who's next ? Step right up !" I asked Glass Top why's he not hit it up ? He shook his head. "You got a lot to learn, kid." I think so did some other studs, because another joker plonked the bills in Sweet's mitt and took to pratting and hopping around the broad.
I fingered for sweetslit. She zipped right in. I said "Can you turn the white broad ?" She said "I ain't never tried, Pissberg honey." I said "Want me to pull your coat ?" She said "I ain't got no coat or anythig, honey. Can't you see that ?" but she kneeled down next to me, ears opened up. I said "You go up to her. You look at her straight in the eye for a beat. Then you grab her in your arms sweetly like the whore you are. You whisper in her ear 'Honey, don't worry yourself. Ain't nothing gonna happen to you. The longer you hold out, the more money he makes from the dumb studs tryna turn you for the fame. The more afraid you are, the longer you hold out. That's why he puts the scare in you. That's all. You got all the power, honey. The pratting stud ain't got nothing on you. He's out a grand and dancing eight to the bar. It's up to you whether he's out his scratch or not. So put that worry out of your mind and enjoy yourself, ain't many times in life you get to do that." She looked at me. "You figure that'll work ?" I smiled like the Cheshire Cat. "If you say it right it's gonna work, alright. You a charmer or not ?" She shook her head. "I ain't got a grand no-how". I grabbed her by her hand and stood up. I dragged her right over to Sweet. I said "This bitch one of yours, unc' ?" He looked at her in my hand. Bitch shivered like he was blowing bootleg air from Canada on her from those gray peppers of his. He turned to me "You wanta piss again or what ?" I said "I pulled her coat to some fine pimp game talk. You gonna let her prat the broad ?" Sweet nearly laughed. He had it in him, but he held it tight. "This I gotta see" he said. Sweetslit walked over, grabbed the broad. A minute later that square bitch was crumpled at her feet, squirting from the eyes and squeezing slit's ankles with her belly and thighs. Sweet stood up. "Well I'll be! The jasper broad turned out alright!"
They had more girls after that, a black bitch with a lot of spit in her that turned out for an older pimp with hair on his face like General Lee, a small Chinese doll, I don't remember what all. Then after a while pratting and strutting around they did the Queen Come. Half the bitches in the joint lined up against the wall, sitting on their ass, knees hooked apart. When Sweet said "Hit it!" they all started rubbing right atop their slits, moaning and licking their fingers. The first one to get herself off with one hand was Queen Come of the party, she got to sit in the middle on a big couch and all the other bitches pampered her like a real queen. It took some redhead broad all of half a minute before she was bucking like crazy. A coupla broads fingered her inside to check her out and they gave her the win. Most of 'em were done before two minutes were out. No wonder suckers come out looking for a turned out whore, I ain't ever heard of no square broad come at all, let alone on a timer like that. Two minutes ? Ain't ever happened, that.
Eventually I had enough. I told Sweet I gots to cop some doss. He said careful not to piss on it, kid. I zigzagged through the snickering whores and pimps. I made it across the pit to the elevator. The Filipino standing beside it, pressing the down button, looked like a friendly brown snake sausaged in gold foil. She reached up and stroked my jacket collar down flat from around my ears. She took my lid off the pearl tree, stuck it on my skull and snapped the brim. I felt the sweat band needle an aching boil. She said, "Good night, Sir. Sammee hopes you had fine time." I said, "Sammee, bitch, it's been a wild night. I'll never forget it." 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 street.
I felt hard and lucky as a horseshoe. The little bit I had snorted back there had me froggy, like it 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 cars arcing the night were giant tracer bullets. The rattling crashing street-cars were army tanks. The frightened, hopeless 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 past that oasis of neon. It turned out he was a mercenary. He shafted me seven slats and a quarter for the evacuation.
« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 16 : The Blue Heaven
The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 18 : Happy Birthday! »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Friday, 05 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:45:29

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 16 : The Blue Heaven
When I came too it was late. All the square stiffs were long at their square stiff trades. The big bright Sun had been conning them into it for half the day. On the nightstand with the roaches there stood gleaming the bellhop's bell from downstairs. I never noticed it before. I made the big mistake of giving it a hearty punch. It let out a resounding ding, like it was a healthy bellhop bell with fine lungs. The whole god damned house came rushing through the door and crashing on my head. I fell ass-backwards back in bed.
Pepper ran it down for me. The place she had set June down was to be for six hundred her end, from nine to three in the AM. June held-up those suckers alright. When Pepper picked her up, towards four, she had eleven bills, plus a whole pile-up of saws and fins. It came to almost two grand. In just one night, a single whore working out. When they say a bitch or other got a mint between her legs, it's June they're talking about. With those big eyes of hers she could turn snot into spun silver. She did, too, just by sitting on it.
The way it played out, after they pawed and sniffed her neat ass a little at first they sat her down to play with them. She'd ante up just her tiddies for her share of the whole pot. The winner'd stick her like he wanted to. If she won, though, then she kept it. She won more than half the pots, and Pepper said they told her that when she'd lost, she'd make like she just wanted that sweet joker's prick in her and lost on purpose just for that. It drove them wild to hear that kinda talk. She said the crazy Junebug'd crawl on the table and stick her tits into the pot for real, then pocket whatever stuck to her hide. Or she'd crawl over and stuff her pussy in the Ace-high joker's face to get him to fold for her pair of kings she held in her blind. She spent more time crawling around on the table than she did sitting down. She did them all the ways there are and some more she came up with, Pepper said those jokers were so happy to file out of there trimmed it was like they saw the Statue of Liberty through the fog that night the first time in their lives. Once when one said that's cheating she cut him off that "It ain't cheatin' unless it's with your wife". It almost made me sorry I missed out.
While Pepper told her story June snuck into bed, nuzzling with me. I had my arm around her back. The other whores sat their asses down around the side. I said "Bitches, this is a sweet set-up going here, and it'll only get sweeter. We just have to let it. Ain't no bitch here get her dumb ass in the way, you hear ?" They murmured and nodded. "There's things to run down. First off, we got to keep book. It can't be written down. Gotta be kept in the brain." Pepper was all smiles and confidence. "I can keep book, Daddy." I waved at her. "No, you do too much. Phyllis." She came right back "Yes Daddy ?" I squinted at her "You fuck it up it'll be your hide. You got that, bitch ?" She nodded. "We do the first rundown together now, then you do it on your own from now on, and if I find there's missing cash or anything God help you. You got that ?" She nodded more. I said "What we got ?" Pepper raced, "There's fifty from Frank, there's four-eighty-five off the street, twenty-eight from the club, nineteen-fifty from June's school night, and what you got from her." Phyllis said "Mama, call me Phyllis the fool, or anything you like to." Pepper's eyes slitted some. "He said you're Crystal." Phyllis nodded. "Well, are you ?" She came back carefully "I'm whatever Daddy says, but before he said it that night I'd never heard it before." Pepper turned her grassy-green burning peepers to me "Because of Frank ?" I nodded. Pepper turned back, "Phyllis, you don't call me Mama. I ain't your Mama, sugar." The runt was getting rustled. She nodded "Yes Ma'am." I looked at her. She closed her eyes, figuring in her head. Then her eyes popped open "Almost five thousand in the street ? That right ?" I shook my head "Hundred." She nodded, then came back "Ten thousand, two hundred thirty-five in." I looked her, then at Pepper. Pepper shook her head. "Fifty grand from Frank." She said. The runt's peepers were wide enough. "Fifty-five-two-thirty-five, then." she said. "You should know, bitch. You counted it." She nodded. "Then twenty-one hundred for stuff, a hundred the booze, four hundred twenty on the joint I'm going to lay on that sucker right now and whatever you bitches been blowing out on coffees and sandwiches, twelve-fifteen grand or so. Scratch that, the booze ain't even in this week, that was before." Phyllis nodded, "Two-fifty-two. Leaves fifty-three sorry fifty-two-seven and change." June clapped her hands. "We gonna be rich, Daddy ?" I nodded. Too rich for sense, if anything.
Pepper was looking at me. I could feel her working herself up to speak. I gave her the time of day. Eventually she said "Daddy, you in the mood for me to lay a crazy trip on you ?" I nodded her go ahead. "Daddy... I've been working since I was a little girl. As young as that hot fresh bitch you've got in your mitt, or maybe a year younger." I patted June's butt. "She's turned fifteen." Pepper went on "A year younger then. I humped my ass off under the stomp of six different pimps, I've seen a hundred stables, it's been twenty-five years minus a fin bit at the end. I've lived my life out on the street. I seen all there's to see twice over, but in all that time there's one thing I ain't ever seen. You gonna give your whores a wage, Daddy ?" I scratched my head "Say what ?!" She speed-rapped "Now don't get angry with me Daddy. You give each whore whatever it is, a fin, a saw. Her kitty for the day. If it's but a single solitary buck, she buys herself a cup of coffee she knows where she's at. She sits in the greasy spoon looking at all the other whores, that wild look in their eye she knows from herself well. They don't know it's alright. She does. Daddy, the best spent buck's the one that lets your bitches be alright."
I said to her "You know what, you worthles old whore ? You're lucky I'm not a real pimp. You're lucky I don't know what's what. You can do anything you want to me with that fast jib of yours. Play me for a fool any way you like." Pepper was quiet, watching me. June crumpled up in bed like the tornado's about to hit. Chris was wild eyed. I walked to the dresser, grabbed a fistful of June's take last night. "Here, a saw a cunt. Line 'em up." They giggled and fumbled about, but in two minutes there were four sawbucks held by the cheeks in four whore butts, lined on my floor. I said "From now on, when we do the wake-up each morning, each whore gets a sawbuck. That way you don't starve if I don't feed you myself. Spend it on whatever you want, and if you miss out one day because you're working, you'll get it the next morning anyhow."
Chris shook her head. "I ain't ever seen nothing like this". Phyllis begged me with her peepers. I nodded her go ahead. "Daddy, what happens if a whore saves her bucks ?" I shrugged. "Are you gonna roll her for her savings ?" I laughed. "Sure, if I feel like it. What kind of purple-gutted sneaky whore doesn't want to give her Daddy all her money ?" She reached behind, grabbed to her sawbuck and held it to me. Then they all did. I said "Naw, bitches, keep 'em. I don't want it back. Make it so I never do, you know ?" Phyllis said "But Daddy... what if a whore holds out on you ? And claims it's savings ?" I shook my head. "Listen, bitch. I don't want you out there humping because you're affraid of a stomping. Any bitch that can't take a beating in the first place's not cut out to be a whore. She's not worth cutting into one, anyhow, not more than straw mat's worth cutting into fine vines. I ain't here tryna turn out silk out of farm-pig niggers. You go out there and you hump because you're good at it, and because no working stiff can all day long and all week long match what you take. You out there make me proud, and make yourself proud while at it. You tell your little girl, that has one, 'You be a whore baby, not a priss. Mama made a million dollars in her time and soon's your turn.' I ain't want my ass kissed by no rusty bitch that it ain't make her proud to kiss my ass. You got that ?" They murmured and then they jumped me. It was a pile-up, and then the bed fell down.
I yelled out "God damn!" and they were all on their feet lined up again. The bed was done in, though, the legs at the foot had broken through, and from the fall under weight it broke more places. I said "This joint sure is rusted up" and they all said "Mmmhmmmmm". I said "Chris, you go work the street, get that soft ass of yours back in shape. Pepper will run you down on the layout." She nodded. "Pepper, you set June down somewhere good, and then you work me out a vine connection and a fixing connection." She didn't get it. "What do you mean fixing, Daddy ?" I said "We gotta fix this place up. There's need for furniture, drapes, many things. You find me good prices for flash, you got it ?" She got it now alright. "Phyllis, you go back to school." She froze. Her lip started trembling. "Daddy, please. Don't cut me loose. Daddy, I beg you" she fell to her knees, batting her forehead against the floor and weeping "Daddy! Daddy!" over and over again. The other bitches had their peepers trained on me. Chris had her arms in her hands, digging her nails into the soft flesh opposite her tits. "Get up, you dumb broad. I ain't cutting you anything. You go talk to all the nappy headed hos you can find, bring them back here, smoke them out on pot. By nightfall I want this house full of college coent, you got that ?" She was trembling like she was in shock. She nodded like electrocuted, with her teeth clenched white. "And don't bring crap, either. I don't want to have to throw out more than half when I sort through 'em." After that they all split, leaving just June to follow me around.
I got the keys out and went through every room. The layout of the place had a stairwell going through sorta off to the side. On bottom floor there was the entrance hallway and Herb's desk to the right hand then a storage room, and on the left four rooms, two either side. On the first floor there were four rooms to the left and a pair to the right. On the top floor the same. It made for sixteen total, but the left hand top floor had a door in between them, so they could open up into a sort of apartment. We opened one up and sat around cooing a little, until Pepper came by looking for June. I slapped her ass and off she went, that old dress on her that I had copped with the runt's glove run threadbare on her ass. Musta been all the slapping she got on it, I guess.
I went out for a walk. The strings of cooking aromas pulled me into the Busy Bee Cafe. Across my flapjacks there was a face all dipped in spackle, with a newspaper twisted like a coif on a head of curls. "What's up, mack ?" I nodded at him. He nodded back at me over his beans. I said "Jack, I see you working. Got time to do a little job for me ?" He looked for the waitress. "Kediqee ? Kediqee ?" like he was some kinda injun. She warbled at him. He said to me "I... take... boss..." like it pained him to speak. Then he gestured with the fork in his fist and then with his two fingers like a walk. I finished my flapjacks, left a bone on the counter and we took off. I followed him through a maze of narrow tunnels like I was going to school for mole. The boss he took me to was an Irish guy looked just like a potato with feet. "What's up ?" I scratched my head. "Mack, I need some work done. Some windows bricked in. You got a man ?" He laughed, "sure" and then he whistled. A kid showed up out of nowhere. I took him over to the top floor and showed him what I want. He looked in and out, then took a string out of his pocket and made some marks on it. We walked back to the potato boss. He asked me what I want done with the windows they take out ? I told him I don't care, they can keep 'em. He asked me if I want it quick and cheap or done good. I said if I wanted a nigger rig I'd have rigged it myself. He laughed like a talking horse told him a jokes. He said "Mister, we have to break down the collar and get to the old brick. Then there's the brick layin' and then the spackle over. I'll do it for fifty today, if you don't want the outside spackled. If you do, it can't be done today. We have to put scaffolding in for a job like that." I figured that's a lock on the left hand set then, them windows don't show from the street. I handed the fifty over and left with three guys after me, one carrying buckets of their building snot, the other two a large pile of bricks in a craddle on their backs. Hank's eyebrows arched when he saw them going in after me, but I waved at him and that turned out to be good enough.
Before the jokers split I had them bring down the wall between the two rooms up top, too. I thought they'd bitch and moan and hit me up for more slats, but they didn't care any. One just knocked it with his fingers, then they put a hammer on it and in ten minutes it was down to dust. I said "Walls sure ain't what they seem, huh mack." They shook their heads "That was just a separator. They're never made too strong, in case the owner wants a door put in or something. You'd best be done having ideas though, because the rest of them around here are double brick. You're never getting through that without a wrecking ball." They filed out of there, two windows and a door on their back. Huey's eyebrows arched even more seeing them walk out like that. I sat down with him. I said, "Listen Hugh, I'm gonna be making some changes around here." His eyes darted all around. "What'll the owner say ? I could lose my job." I patted his shoulderpad down, "That's just what I mean. You just lost your job, mack. It's gone." I whistled just like the potato had. "Good riddance, twenty-two fifty a week that you made from it. But you've been born under a lucky star, making you a lucky sunovabitch. I'm here to give you a new job instead! You know what it is ?" He shook his head. "It's not getting in the way, just like until now. There's gonna be some girls showing up later, too." He said "Boss, I ain't got no beef with that or anything. But think about it, if the owner comes by and kicks you out, I'm out a hundred a week even if I get to keep this job. I don't want that." I said to him, "I ain't getting kicked out, of here or anywhere, you can bank on that. So don't you worry on it sweetie, and keep up the good work." He looked at me as hard as he could. "Well, he's due, anyway. Usually shows up about once a month, goes through the books and things like that. There ain't no way in hell he don't notice what's going on this time around." I patted his back, "Don't you worry yourself, Harvey. It'll play out alright".
That's when Pepper came in. She had been all over the pawnbroker district. Made a few new acquaintances and rekindled some old. Three of them added up to the sixty slats in her hand. She said "Daddy, I said you want fair price for things. I won't give it away and they don't have to give anything away. There's so many things I set aside for you to see." Then, like one of them Indian nabobs, all day long until nightfall I walked by chairs, armchairs and beds, and bolts of cloth, candelabra, bowls and pitchers and every kind of knick-knack in creation, Pepper at my side ever ready to whisper in my ear. All day for the week after that it was nothing but shop boys carrying packages to the Blue Heaven, three and five teams of them even in there at the same time. The bite for it came when all told just a few slats under eight grand. To look at the place though, you could have sworn it cost a hundred thousand. It would have, too, if all the stuff were new and none of it was stolen. As it was, every fence tight with Pepper dumped on me everything too hot to handle in the open. I thought my daddy's kind never dies, who knows how many of Mama worked on his ilk each day ? The Blue Haven looked like the handiwork of at least half dozen of 'em, that's for damn sure. My pad was looking more and more like I'd seen with Glass Top, except I didn't bunk with anyone in the apartment next door down the floor. I had the whole thing to myself. Also mine had a good touch of overstuffed horse hair and shiny brass instead of his funky thick carpets and strange black clay standing statues, but at least my bitches wore no skirts. I didn't think nothing of it : why trouble yourself with swank no one's ever seen and then have to wait for bitches to wake up to it, like him ? Better buy the swank they're woken up to already from their Moma's house on the cheap and not wait anything at all. One thing he had right though. There sure was no sunshine or moonshine coming in through anywhere up in my bedroom. Brick's better than double thick for that kind of job, ain't no burglar ever made it in there in one piece, through three floors full of Miss Peaches on two legs. I didn't want no ocelot for myself. They don't smell so hot.
All that whole week while the chaos went on the runt kept bringing bitches in. While they set everything down and done the place over I musta seen six dozen college broads between me and Pepper, though often we did it together. By when the dust settled down, the house was stuffed. On the upstairs was my bedroom on the side, and the girls bunked all together opposite : Pepper with June, Phyllis with Chris. Then on the other side of the stairs we had the counting room on my side, and a storage room on the other. It was getting so all the stuff didn't fit the old closet all that well, and besides I wanted some real doors put in, and strong bars on the windows too. I had a huge safe lifted up to my room on a crane. The craning cost me more than the strongbox, I got it for that cheap. Then dragging it through from the closest window, now that was a show, six boys laboured most of a day to inch it through, it was so heavy I thought it might cut the floor right through. It was an old piece, meaning a sharp with the right tools could cut through it in half an hour tops. I wasn't worried about that. As long as nobody could up and run off with it, I wasn't worried any. Not like it was next to the window, anyway.
The second floor was where the best girls worked their asses off. There was some coming and going, but for a long time the runt had little trouble keeping six to eight to the floor just from her old alma matter. It was soft enough, all of those bitches dreaming themselves singers and dancers and actresses. A buncha circus freaks. They went through a can of reefer a day between the lot of them, but square white tricks were sure glad to freak off with them. They still got their saw regular, though they almost never saw the light of day enough to spend it. It had to be in credit, because by the time noon rolled around and they'd start opening their eyes the first round of suckers was already batting down the door. It went on until three, four in the morning even. It's not good business to kick a joker out of doors holding his prick, especially if he paid good money to get it dipped and it's still wet. While one'd be in the tub soaking herself the other'd be on her back in bed turning a trick. Some of the jokers wanted privacy, but most liked the company and the girls threw each other freebies all the time. Between the six doors and the even whole dozen whores working behind them some weeks, the second floor cleared six-seven grand each day. I don't remember it was ever so low as five, not one week out of a whole year. The sucker's end went for 25 slats to the half hour at first, more than anyone else by a damn sight. A few weeks later it went up to 30, because of the demand.
The bottom floor was bunks, for the girls working in the street. Four rooms, four girls to the room, though sometimes Pepper had even two dozen crammed up in there. They bunked and shared beds, and toughened up those thighs. Most girls worked up a lather worth fifty at the least each day, though most of the time they went closer to the bill. The whole bottom often crossed into another two grand a day, though more often than not it was fifteen to eighteen or so. It doesn't sound like much, but even so it took a lot to qualify for that bottom floor. It wasn't anything like a bum's crash, most girls working on the street dreamed of making the Heaven bottom floor one day. Not all those bitches counted for full whores enough to get a saw, either, but many times the true blood whores upstairs let them have a buck or two of their own or more often sent down their half eaten special order lunches and dinners.
The swankiest restaurants in town lived off the special orders and takeout at the Heaven, because besides the fucking going on there wasn't anything a joker couldn't get extra. He wanted liquor we had it. He wanted gangster or girl he had but ask his bed partner. He wanted food she'd order for him, the phone downstairs got so busy we had to get another line put in. All this added up to a decent bite too, because a plate of fancy steak or sauced fish or what it was that sold in the restaurant hall for seven or ten we had for five, or eight, and it ran the sucker fifteen or a double saw to eat off of the butt of some whore while another ate his bait. The girl came in at eight to nine hundred a piece and went out six and seven to the cap, meaning as high as three grand. The girls didn't stash slats so much, but gangster was the bomb, they all had cans stashed everywhere, under the beds, inside their closets, in pockets, up their butts no doubt. If a trick wanted a smoke they'd charge everything they smoked themselves to him, and then on top of that they peeled everything they could offa the runt. Those bitches were crazy for the stuff. I think most days we still managed to sell more reefer than they smoked, though. To make a long story short, the day when the Blue Haven didn't clear ten grand wasn't to be found in the book, and often enough it went well over that.
Of course, I didn't know any of that early on, before the joint was sorted out, the first night the runt had some of them Tuskegee bitches over smoking up a room. That's when the heat came in. I was downstairs chatting with Hrupert. I'd never seen the pig before in my life, but he walked right up to me like he knew me all his life. He said "You're wanted at State and Madison, Icebeck. The Harp. Go through the back." Then he turned around and left.
I flagged a cab. The Harp was the warm beating heart of the nigger hatin' back in those days, but I made like I'm with deliveries and went through the kitchen. A sharpie waiter grabbed on me and hussled me down some stairs, where they kept the potato sacks. I wondered if he wants to show me some waitress on her back. Maybe it was a pick-up job, the whiteys figured I'm like a kinda exterminator, but for pickaninny varmints instead of plain black rats.
He knocked on a wall between two shelves. It was too dark to see the door, but it didn't need to see itself to know it's a door. It opened alright, as silent as the grave. I think they kept that bitch well oiled, anyhow. There I was, with a half dozen white jokers looking tough. Cap'n Mahoney and Frank Ibbetts among them I already knew, the rest I didn't. A joker sitting like he owned the joint saw me and went straight for the thrill : "You the crazy coon they been talking about ?" I nodded. "Guess I must be, sir. Though I don't seem crazy to myself none." They laughed. "Well, that's the sign" muttered out one of 'em. He let me have it point blank. "We talked it through. We'll let you go at it. The rent is seven a week. You mind the ice you're walking on yourself, you got that ? If you make your colored ass worth more dead than alive you'll be dead, not alive. You catch my drift ?" I said "Yes sir." The cap'n said "I'll send a boy over to collect tomorrow." I said "What's he to do tomorrow, cap'n ? I ain't even started operatin' yet." The boss guy looked at Frank, then back at me. "You don't say." I shrugged "I guess you dun best shoot me now, then. I ain't got what I ain't got, unless some hen's found to lay advance eggs. I ain't found it yet."
Frank said "Let me talk to him" and dragged me out of there. Once we were back with the potato sacks he hissed "What the fuck are you doing ?! You crazy or something ?" I looked at him. "Well Frank, I didn't know you gave me that dough to just hand it over to them. I figured if you wanted to do that, you could've done it yourself, didn't need me for it. That right ?" He shrugged. "It ain't worth the hassle for a few grand. They're blockheads, they go by the book. It irks them to have a small thing out of whack. They'll straighten your fork and knife for you if you go out to eat with them. Forget the seven grand." We went back in. I said "I'm sorry I spoken out of line. Frank's gonna help me with a loan. It'll be the first week tomorrow." Then I said, "If he wants to come every morning after that it's fine by me. Might be easier that way to carry all that dough." They all laughed like it was the funniest thing they heard all day.
They took me up on it soon enough, too. Who else shows up the next day, around eleven or so, than Delaney ? He said he volunteered for it, "He knows that crazy coon Icebeck, he busted him the first time." so they let him do it. While he took a load off, one of the runt's new cunts wrapped between his legs to help along with the unloading, I dumped a pretty bundle on him. I think they were all thinking nothing but C bills, but that's not how a house works. Most of the money the girls take in is fins and saws. That's what I had for him : eleven bundles of fins, one bundle of saws for a grand and five more bundles of straight bones. I asked him if he wants to count them first. He said sure. I lifted the lid off of one of those silver trays and started pushing the slats his way. By the time I had him fenced in three bundles deep he started shaking his head and waving his hands. I looked straight at him and said look Delaney, what do you want me to do ? Go to the bank first ? Every day in and out, changing money ? I might as well put it in the newspaper if I do that. He saw it my way alright, but he sure wasn't prepared for the pile-up. He thought he'll just stuff it all in his pockets. That's the beef with government clerks, they think money's just like that, a number on a piece of paper, something come from the air, like a fart. They don't understand some whore's gotta shake a leg for every bone in every slat pile each time. None of it just comes in the door like it does for them. After that day, Delaney was there every morning around eleven, pocketed a bundle or two and went on his way. He didn't even bother the girls any most days, though I asked him every time.
One of the first girls Phyllis dragged in was a young whore that was a whiz in the street, and hip to boosting. She got along great with another one working the second floor, I don't remember her name but she did it for a long time. Before the month was out she had hipped the lot of them, they'd go downtown and come back with shopping bags loaded with fine dresses and underclothes for themselves and all the sisters. They filled the storage room with nothing but beautiful vines, and they wouldn't stop, either. It got so bad I had to hit Pepper's fences in the jew section almost each week with a new load just to try make some room. It was great for the girls though, because if they didn't feel like working one day they'd just beg for a downtown pass. I gave those out like candy, at first because the girls had a dozen dresses between the lot of them and no underwear. A raggedy whore's bad for business, and there's nothing that pleases a young whore as much as a fine vine on her back, or a closet full of them to choose from. But even once the Heaven was soaked through it stayed good business. They'd come back with thousands of dollars worth of merchandise, which even figuring the fences rake still came out about even with what they made on their back.
The girls traded those back and forth, it was funny to listen to them rap sometimes. A pair of silk underwear that went for three dollars for the square kittens downtown went four or five to the buck inside the Heaven. A front-and-center display window dress that some wife saved thirty or fifty dollars for was good for maybe four slats among the whores. It was like communist paradise. Nowhere in America did the dollar go as far as inside the cold prison of vice sucking young women's life and hope away, as the preacher lot called it.
It made picking up fresh blood stupid easy, too. After the runt ran out of prospects, or rather after she was so well known they came breaking down her door, we started going for trips in the boonies around, looking for barefoot princesses in the hillsides. Most of those girls never saw a pair of ladies' shoes in their life, to say nothing of silk panties or anything. They jumped into the first pair we dangled before their wide open eyes no matter what gold chain they came strung with. And they were right to do it, too.
« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 15 : Dust Girl Breaks Pepper, Skeleton Girl Breaks Phyllis
The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 17 : Sweet Party at Sweet's »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Friday, 05 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:45:16

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 15 : Dust Girl Breaks Pepper, Skeleton Girl Breaks Phyllis
I hailed a cab two blocks down from Glass Top's. The short walk had licked me clean. I came to some by the time we made my roost. The joint sure looked shabby after spending time at Top's fine establishment. As I staggered into the lobby, Harry was on the phone. "He's right here Ma'am" he chirped, then handed me the phone. It was Pepper checking in. She said to me "Daddy... Big Daddy wants to keep Daphne. You mind ?" I sat my ass down on the joker's desk. I really needed the rest. I growled in the receiver "Naw, bitch. Let him have her, he can wash his head with her." Pepper didn't exactly sigh her relief, but I could hear it across the wire just the same. She whispered "In that case Daddy... Ima be back there in two shakes of a lamb's tail." She was, too. I barely had time to say "Well Henry... how you keepin' up these days my man ?" and for ol' Homer to burble something I don't remember back at me that she was right there, shooting through them doors. She carried me upstairs and clued me in.
She told me she got on the phone to get the dollies play dates for the afternoon. Some jokers she knew had a small blind poker game out in the swank district they wanted a whore for. They didn't want all three of them, and she figured June's a perfect fit anyway just by herself. She said to me "Oh Daddy... I didn't want to bring her down again, that's all" with a twinkle in her eye. She couldn't find anything that'd work well for Daphne and her together, and she wasn't going to go by herself or put Daphne down by herself, so she figured the best thing'd be to drop in on her old man, work the square bitch over and learn her some whoring there. The way she figured it she'd drop Daphne off there, then take June to her game twelve blocks away, then go back and spend the night at her old pad until the time rolled around to pick up the other whore and head back. The way it played out, Frank and Daphne hit it so well together, she figured that prissy bitch is mostly worthless anyway. Why not throw a rock where there's two birds already ? I patted her sweet ass and ran her down. I said "You mangy old whore, here's what you're worth : I was just shooting the breeze with a pimp fresh off the top shelf. He's making five grand in three days, working a half-dozen whores or more raw over at the Franklin Arms." She said "You mean Glass Top ?" I nodded at her. "Well done, bitch. There's a prize at the end waiting for you. Now get this : he's paying a bill for grease each night. Per girl." Pepper giggled. "You don't know this, but that's what I offered the pigs after copping June, back before we met : a bill a block. By the week, for the whole precinct. Comes to seventy-six a week. They wouldn't deal, let that aside. Besides cutting me in you cut the price, too. Frank's five grand tops' a thirty-five percent discount. Ain't that right ?" She giggled more and she nodded. "Yeah, that's right." I grabbed her by the hair again with my left mitt, and reached my right far out. "That's right, you worthless bitch. He's paying 30% to some bellhop on top of a bill to the girl each night. I got a 35% discount off a bill a block each week, all because of your dumb ass. What do you deserve for that, bitch ? What's fair ? Huh ?"
Her eyes rolled far inside her head. "Beat me up, Daddy. Beat my ass. Hurt your poor Pepper bad." I brought my hand in slow and caressed her face. "I ain't gonna hurt you that way, baby. I love you, don't you know that ?" She purred. "Hurt my ass with your big thick rod, Daddy. Please Daddy, put it in me where it hurts the worst. I'm so hot for you, Christ! Make Mama bleed for you. Please Daddy! Hurt your old dog down there lovey dovey Daddy baby!" She was going crazy. She was driving me crazy right along with her. My swipe was like a baseball bat. When I was done with her she walked like a cowboy after six days of posse. I sat up and counted twenty-one hundred out of Frank's pile. I said to her "I'm not done punishing you by a damn sight. Get this : you're going to Glass Top's. You know where he pads at ?" She knew alright, once I said six west of the Roost she knew the rest. "You give him this scratch. You get two crumbs of girl and six cans of reefer. You come straight back." Her eyes opened wide. "Did you have a taste ?" she asked me. I shook my head. "I've never had anything like he's got. I don't know what pie crust pre-mix you've been having me snort, but Glass Top's girl can raise the dead." She shook her head. "Frank's always too cheap to buy his stuff." I stopped. "Say, what ?" She shook her hand, like "Don't ask." I couldn't figure it at all, the same guy that'd drop fifty on a kid he just met wouldn't drop a coupla on some real crack ?!
I said to her "Now Pep, you ready for your punishment ?" She put her smoky peepers on me. "You're worth a million bucks before counting in the clothes. That girl's two grand. I ain't gonna let two grand worth of girl kill a million bucks worth of whore for me." She muttered, "Good grief!" I went on. "You ain't gonna pig out. You're gonna have a little now and again. Not every day. Not all the time. Now and again. Not a lot. Not just a little more. A little bit, that's all. I'm buying it to store it, not to snort it. You got that ?" I could tell there was nothing I could've said that'd have put the hurt more on her. I walked up to her and kicked her lightly in the shin. She crumpled on the floor. I put my stomper on her throat, not pushing down any, just resting there. I said "Can I trust you to do that or do you have to ask permission every time before you touch the stuff ?" She was crying. After all this time together, after all the game we'd played, I finally had her broken down. She whispered "You'd better make me ask you for permission, Daddy." I took my stomper off her throat. I said "Alright, go cop and I'll cut you a line. You've earned that much you beautiful black bitch." She touched up her make-up and flew out of there.
Half hour later she was back. The broom closet upstairs that we were using for hot storage was starting to get full. Between all the liquor, enough fine cocaine to make somebody's tombstone in plaster of it, cans and cans of reefer and all the stashes of scratch it was starting to look more and more like the evidence room downtown. She said "He threw in a bag of yellows. Did you tell him he can sock into me ?" I nodded. "He's wanted to for as long as I known him, did you know that ? When he saw me at the door he got excited like I'd run away to him. Then when he saw the dough he got wise. He told me you said you'll send a whore, and he could lay her if he wants to. He said he didn't get the joke then, but he gets it now. I think he thought you're showing me off, to pull his chain." I smiled at her. "What did you do ?" Pepper caressed my hair and went on "I told him if you said so I'm his to lay. I leaned into him on his couch, but he couldn't do anything. He was too loaded up I think." I started laughing like a maniac. Pepper looked at me like maybe my cork's blown. I said to her "When we were there, he figured me for some kid, offered up Radell, if you know her. But then he got a call and sent her off to work the Arms. He said to me sorry kid, that I've missed my chance. So now..." Pepper was laughing too. "Poor guy", she said. "He's always missed on all of his." Then she looked up at me serious. "You gotta be careful mixing yellows with C, Daddy. The yellows make you sleep, they're good to catch some doss if you bang lots of C. They're bad though because enough of them can kill you dead. They make it so you forget to breathe. They're opposite one another, too, so if you're on C you don't feel the yellow. But the bitch of it is, cocaine fades faster than they do. It's like pulling the rug from under you. If you go to bed with a load of yellow in you that's too much to live and enough C to make so you can't feel it, by the time the C's gone you've bought a one ticket out of here. It'll take you with it. And don't take them with liquor, neither."
Then the runt came in, with a new face in tow. That new bitch rolled her lustrous eyes at me. Her sly hot smile made a flat statement, "Please, try me out for size." The runt says "This is Chris" and got herself out of her glove. Chris followed suit without looking at her. The runt had prepped her alright. A white jacket fringed in a rich purply blue and its matching skirt came off, not frantic fast, not too slow either. She stood there a moment in just white stockings held up by a nude belt and white satin panties over them. Then she ditched the panties. Her cat was trimmed neat and close, just a thin line of hair left to go up from the slit. I turned to the runt "You taught her to trim out her cat like that ?" The runt shook her head. "No Daddy. She taught me. Before you made me whore Chris made me lez." I turned back to Chris "That so ?" She nodded. Looked me right in the face bright eyed too, as she did it. "Yes, sir." I took her in. She was pretty, and looked close enough to brave, too. I said "Chris, do you smoke pot ?" She nodded. Phyllis got excited. "There's pot ?" I nodded and said to her "Bitch, go to the closet pick a can. I don't know about that crap. Get something mellow we chill out." She bounced out of there. By the time Pepper had a newspaper sheet in thin strips she was back holding a can of black gunion. "Daddy, this smells great!" She took a strip and rolled a bomber, licked it to give it even burn and, matchbox in hand, held it for me. "You light it, bitch." I said. I didn't have to say it twice. She reached the gleaming, bulging paper cigar to me. I took a puff of it like it were a cigar for real. They started cracking up. I looked at them like "what the fuck ?" and puffed again. They lost their shit. They were laughing so hard it coulda killed them, mostly from trying to hold themselves in. Chris teared up, the runt was rolling on the floor. Eventually Pepper broke out, "Pretty Daddy, you ever smoke a joint before ?"
"Not in this life" I said. "Why, could you tell ?" That gave them hysterics. It was the funniest thing in the world to these three bitches standing on the stained cheap carpet in my crumbling pad. They explained it to me then, that the idea is to hold the smoke in, for as long as you can. Oh, I said, thinking of Rotten Tooth Jimmy. "I thought that was just an old gangster myth." They started snort-laughing like idiots. I passed the spiff to Pepper, who drank it in like a sponge. We got comfortable. Pepper laid her bloodied asshole out in bed, leaning on the side. I lay my neck on her belly. The runt kneeled at my feet, then went on her ass to the side and slowly found her way to rubbing them for me. Chris sat on the floor, her back against the wall, facing towards the runt's side. She asked how many whores I've got. Pepper giggled. The runt said "Nooobooody knooows" in a booming, spooky voice like on a radio play. Chris gave her a lingering eyelick, desperate for support. I was trying to figure out if they're conning together, making like they're apart and the show a put-on, or if the runt's turned solid and they just never prepped this far. The runt coached her some, clear as day. It's how the bitch knew to step out of her duds. But did she coach her on how to please, or did she coach her on how to get one through ? Whose bitch was Phyllis, anywho ? She said to the runt, "Ooh, when he looks at me like that!" She turned to me "I know you can read minds. You give me the creeps with that look. It's like you're Svengali or that crazy Russian Monk I read about." She giggled. I could hear the thrill in her voice. The whore was alive and thrashing inside her. She had done more than screw on the fire escape at high school, that's for sure.
I said "Drop the lids on those pretty peepers in your skull and make with the jib. Spill your story, bitch." She closed her eyes and said "I'll spill. Anything you want from me, I'll give it up, whatever it is. Don't put the pressure on me. Please don't. I get nervous.". Phyllis looked at me. I nodded at her. She grabbed my hand and spelled out words in it, with her finger, letter by letter. It took her three or four tries before I got what she was saying to me. Chris' voice came softly, like from far away. "I'm married. Leroy plays the horn and bugle. He saved my life, really. He's been wonderful to me. He used to be good looking. He didn't get so insanely jealous until after his accident. We've been waiting over two years for a settlement. My life is so screwed up. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to tell you. Would you believe that you're the first people I've talked to in over two years, other than Phyllis?" Pepper gave a start. I sent my left hand overhead, to squeeze her ass and settle her. "I don't love Leroy." Chris gave a shudder. The runt grabbed her by the hand and pulled her in. Chris leaned in and rested her head on the runt's thighs. She wasn't opening those peepers come what may, that's for damn sure. I lifted my feet to let her in, then brought them back down, resting my heels on her tits. The runt kissed my toes a little then went back to rubbing. Chris' nostrils flared. She went on, "I remember nothing but good until I was eleven. That's when my mother died. One wet Autumn day they put her in a box. My father was a kind, good man. He always worked. He was a good carpenter. That changed quickly after Mama died. He took my bed down. He said he wanted me to sleep with him. He told me how lonely his bed was after all those years with Mama. It was nothing at first. When my little girl titties first came in, they hurt a lot. The bumps were sore all the time, and tender to the touch. They itched and hurt at the same time. One night I had a nightmare. A wild ferocious animal with barbed wire teeth was on me, suckling at my breast. It was terrible, the pain of it drove me crazy. It woke me up. Papa was on me, sucking on my bud. I screamed. He slapped me, hard. His face was all twisted. Hateful. He looked like a crazy stranger. I sobbed quietly until I blacked out. When I came to Papa was crying and begging me to forgive him. I forgave him. He was so sad. His sadness made me sad. It never went away, that sadness never went away. Then later I dreamed about the evil wolf again. I didn't want to wake up. After a while I would just lie there, numb, and let him use me. I wanted to hate his guts. In school I had the crazy feeling all the other girls could see and feel my shame and filth. I barely made it to fifteen, more skeleton than girl. By then he had me doing everything to him. I'd lay flat on my back while he moved over me, thinking him dead in Hell. Papa, the beast, was killing me. I was so nervous I couldn't wash dishes. I broke dozens. I wasn't eating enough to keep a bird alive. I collapsed one day coming from the grocery. I woke up in a hospital. My system was shot and I was pregnant. They kept me in that hospital a month. I stayed at Papa's two days and one night after getting out. I took some money while he slept and left Tulsai with the clothes on my back. I came here and got a waitress job. A flashy young pimp named Dandy Louee took to picking me up when I got off. I thought he was a millionaire. He dressed me up and turned me out. He was a cruel black bastard. He liked to beat me, and then screw me. He said it's not right to put his swipe in a whore that's not hurt for it. He liked to give me bruises with his belt and then grab on to them and pinch them while he fucked me. He liked to hear me squeal in pain."
The runt leaned over and kissed her mouth. Chris kissed her back, then with a grit of her teeth went back to her tale. "He worked me in a house run by one of his whores. He kept his foot in my ass all day long, or she did it for him. She liked seeing us other whores suffer. Funny thing, I made money even when my belly was stuck way out. A lot of tricks who came there wanted specifically a pregnant girl. The baby came out while I was turning a trick. Stillborn. Dandy got five years on a white slave rap a few months later. The other whores turned on the house boss. Pulled out all the hair from her head. They beat her up with his belt, black and blue. I got a bar-maid job. That's where I met Leroy, he was playing a gig. I was a sick girl. I fell out twice while serving the bar. The second time the owner fired me. The place was crowded, I had twenty dollars worth of drinks crammed on my tray. Leroy took me in. He nursed me back to health. He's always been good to me. I needed someone who cared. He wanted married so we did it, just four months shy of seventeen. I went along on a string of one-nighters in the Midwest. We couldn't afford a room most nights. We had his old Ford model T. The group broke up in Youngstown, Ohio. We were stranded, without a dime for gas. It was cold out. Leroy got a job in an industrial cleaning plant. The second week a boiler exploded and... you've seen his face ?" She wanted to open her eyes, but didn't. "Maybe you have." I asked her if he's playing at the Roost these days ? She said he had a gig there past week. I said then yeah, can't be there's two of him. "We came here once he was out of the hospital. His lawyer says we can expect a ten-thousand dollar settlement any time now." she said. "He's been saying it for more than a year. Leroy is driving me crazy with his jealousy. He was maybe a little jealous from the get-go, but ever since his accident it went worse and worse. I spend all day locked in the house. Half my time I answer questions, about people I don't even know, I've never seen. It's not a life. Phyllis has been the only one in my life this past year since we came here. When she cut out last week I thought that's it for me. I don't have anyone else. I don't mind hustling. I'd live here if I may. Do I have to put out for Daddy ? What should I do?"
Nobody said anything. The runt rolled out another bomber. She was nodding like someone who's taken their friends to see a freak that'd move Barnum even. I said, "Poor Chris, you've had nothing but heartache. I feel sorry for you, baby. Suckle my toes and tell me how you ain't nothing but a low dog." She mixed her tears and spit on my feet, slowly, hopelessly. She said she's nothing but dirt, that nobody'll ever love her. She said she can't look at a man like women can. She doesn't hate the jokers, but they're to her nothing besides misery and the remembering of misery. They're like the wall of tears of the Jewish people. The ash to rub in your hair, and on your face, the ash to chew instead of food. I asked if the runt's her bitch. She shook her head. She said "I love her, that's all." The runt teared up a little, but didn't let on. Then she asked "Can she stay, Daddy ? I'll do anything if she can stay. Anything." I turned to Pepper. "What do you say, Mama ? We keeping this bad luck bitch ? Find out if maybe lightning strikes or meteors drop or something to fuck it all up for her sake ?" Pepper didn't say anything. She just reached out her arms, and called for Chris. "Come here, broken birdy." I let her get into bed and in the Pep's embrace. They were kissing and hugging and crying together in bed. The runt was weeping quietly sitting on the floor. What a drag! Three naked whores, a can of reefer, and enough wailing for six funerals. Nobody'll ever figure bitches out.
I thought outloud "Weren't you supposed to get June back from school ?" Pepper jumped up like touched with hot coals. "Hot damn!" It was five after three. She jumped in a blazer with nothing underneath and flashed to her car. Three minutes later she was speeding down the avenue. 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. That reefer confusion was no good for a pimp's skull. I dreamily drifted into bed, where Pepper had warmed it with herself. The runt and Chris got in on either side of me. They caressed my arms and chest. Once I fell asleep they cleared out.
———This originally (ie, from the date of publishing until April 24th) read "Wichita", as in "[You're not in] Kansas [anymore]". Nevertheless, the fascinating case of the Tulsa chief of police during the 1920s burning of the foremost black district in the country, one John A Gustafson -- who not only ran a chop shop, but also had incorporated his own "detective agency" which he used not only to rack up large if fake bills for the police department to pay, but also defraud citizens out of various fees and contributions, such as the case of blackmailing the guy who repeatedly (and notoriously) raped his eleven year old daughter -- makes Chris' relocation seem inevitable. It is even possible, strictly speaking, that the girl in the original Pimp biography and the eleven year old in this historical account are the same.
Not that Kansas was any different from Oklahoma or anything. [↩]
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The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 16 : The Blue Heaven »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Thursday, 04 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:45:03

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 14 : Choice Chances And Passing Up
"Frank says you operate for him."
"That's right, sir."
"You don't look like all that much."
"That's maybe because I'm not all that much, sir."
He said "You don't say" just like that hawk-headed judge had. Maybe they go to the same school to teach them to say the same things like that. Then he sparked me with his cinder-black peepers and hit me with "How come Frank knows you ?"
"It's on account of Pepper, sir."
"Pepper ?! How come you know her ?"
"Pepper's my whore, sir."
He started to say "You don't say" again, but stopped before the whole don't. From what I hear it's rare for pigs to stop before the whole don't like that. He took me in, up and down. "You the nigger arrested coupla weeks back for kidnapping that girl. What'd you do with her ?"
"She's my whore too, sir."
"How'd you get Judge Whitmore to drop the case like that ?"
"I just said I didn't do it, that's all."
"You just said she's your whore."
"Yes, but saying is believing sir. You believed she's my whore and the judge believed I ain't done it."
"It's all starting to make sense now. Alright kid, what do you need ?"
"I need there's no house calls, for one thing."
"How many houses ?"
"Three or five."
"Which ?"
"From time to time, Cap'n... you know how it is."
"I'll have to know where they are."
"There's no policeman that'll be without a warm meal in my watch. No sargeant no cap'n no respected visitor have any trouble to bunk by his rank neither. But some'd be secret, that's the course. We have to work soft together, them houses bud slow and it's nothing like waving a magic wand."
"We have to make arrests."
"Oh, Cap'n... I think you'll make more and better than anyone ever has. I'll see to that myself."
"What else ?"
"How's you stand on horse ?"
"No horse."
"Girl ? Gangster ?"
"I don't care. No horse, you hear me ?"
"I don't talk twice. On what we shake, that's what'll be."
"What else ?"
"Girls on the street."
"Keep it light. And clean."
"Girls gone from school."
"No white girls, if you've got half a coon's sense."
"Maybe a little yellow..."
"Don't start a fire you don't put out."
"Cap'n, the best thing in the world for a young girl is whoring out a spell. Builds character. All them cobwebbed prisses gone from sunday school to prayer house bringing this great country down. All that damn fool prohibition trouble they brought on. The time's nigh for a little prostitution now to wash the stupid out."
If I opened a secret trap door in his own office and showed him his Mama freaking off with Miss Peaches he wouldn't have been any more surprised. He didn't have where to put it on his face anyway. Then he just shook his hand like the judge had done and said "Get the hell outta here". I walked away, all the coppers in the whole precinct just peeping me on the dummy. It was freakish, like I put a spell on the whole precinct. I didn't know then but I found out much later, they had a big pow-wow all day long that day. Didn't arrest nobody or nothing. After I left the Cap'n got his detectives in his office, all of them, by clumps. He made like he didn't even know he was to sound them off. Maybe he really didn't know. He told them what the crazy nigger coon had said, like for laughs. They saw it like he said it, crazy nigger coon. Then one'd say maybe there's something to it, and they'd all warm up to the idea by degrees. Crazy nigger coon's alright, but wouldn't hurt anyone getting them preaching choir muffled out a notch. The way it worked out it was ten or twelve notches, but that's some later on. Then the detectives clumped up the sargeants, and by night time every two bit beat copper knew there's a new wind broken in town.
They didn't even offer me a ride back or nothing. I didn't flag a cab, I just walked down the street. A whore three blocks down gave me the come-on, but another with her flagged her down. I could make out their whispers, "Honey you don't know who that is ? That's Icebeck, he's the new pimp in town. He had Sweet Jones in a hold, up at the Roost." The clueless one protested I don't look like much. but another one said to her I'm kinda cute. That she'd freak with me anytime. The first one said "Oh yeah ? How come he's walkin' then", but by then I had walked too far to hear what they said. I heard a drugstore man tell an old rounded gent once that walking's the best thing for constipation. I don't know how true that is, I never get my gut stopped up. But let old Iceberg tell you straight, if you've got a head of thoughts rattling everywhere and won't come out, a mile's stretch's the best thing for it, get that stopped brain shitting and farting right again.
As I rounded the corner back towards the Roost I saw the white broad that was hot to freak off with me. She was holding the door open. Sweet and the rest of his menagerie filed out, his whores and the cat strutting out behind him all the way to that sweet Doozy on the curb. I somehow didn't want to run into them outside like that. I turned around sudden and pushed in the door to Nick's craps joint. The door smacked Preston a hard shot in the forehead. He had been peeping through a slat in the door blind. He rubbed his head. He looked scared. I almost leaped out of my hide. I didn't expect him there. His peepers were ballooning, looking past me to Sweet on the other side of the street. He said, "Kid, I told you he's nuts. You keep it up, a ground hog will be your mailman. To play it safe you better give me your Mama's address. I gotta know where to ship your corpse. Where you going now?" I said, "Look Preston, I didn't cut into him. He cut into me. Hell, I ain't no head-shrinker. I couldn't handle the maniac. I'm splitting to my roost, to think."
A tall brown-skin joker with a gleaming head of processed hair got out of a red Hog just then. Sweet's stable had already packed into the Duesenberg. The shiny-topped joker and Sweet took to rapping on the sidewalk. They pounded each other on the back. They looked like boon buddies. Miss Peaches stood lashing her tail at Sweet's side. When I looked at Preson again he was sucking air like a mackerel on the beach. He was fumbling a rusty owl-head twenty-two pistol in his paws. He was trembling like the zero second had come to assassinate maybe F.D.R. Wouldn't that have saved the world! He said, "Kid, you sitting here hating him, ain't you? You despise his guts. I saw the way you was looking at him. A bastard like him ain't got a right to live on God's green Earth. Do yourself and the world a favor, Kid. Take this rod and walk sneaky like down that sidewalk while he's rapping to Glass Top. Stick the barrel in his ear and pull the trigger. Then quick, blow the cat's brains out. It's easy, Kid. You can do it. Every nigger in the country will love you. Kid, it's your chance to get great. Go on, Kid, do it now. You ain't never gonna get a choicer chance."
I said, "Preston, I'm not hip to the murder game. I don't want to get hip to it. I don't want to blow his brains out on that sidewalk and waste them. I want his brains to work inside my skull. You on the other hand... you getting old, Preston. You can't cut no kind of mustard. Not dent it, no how. He screwed you around a thousand times worse than me. You can't lose for winning. Why don't you be the hero and croak him. Look Preston, take that tommy gun and split. I like you, but give me a break, huh? I've had a funky night and my skull needs a change." He flustered. "Kid, you think I ain't got the guts?" He started working himself up. "He ruined me, Kid. He destroyed me. He's just another nigger. He ain't no bear, and that cat ain't no tiger. I'm going over there right now and cash them out." Old Preston sprang out. I watched him all the way. That game leg had him tilting from side to side. He looked like one of those doughty "Spirit of Seventy-Six" jokers on the posters around the Fourth of July. I wondered if he was tanked up with enough rot-gut moxie to really fold Sweet's dukes across his chest for good. Preston was on the other side of the street only twenty feet from Sweet and Glass Top. His mitt was rammed into his benny pocket keeping the rod warm and ready. Preston's shoulders and back were stiff and straight. Sweet's back was toward me. He was facing the sidewalk. I thought, "The old dingbat may do it. He sure had reasons. Sweet put the hurt to him, at least to hear him tell it through. Will there be much gore? Will Sweet croak right away or flop around on the street like a chicken with its head wrung off? Will Miss Peaches leap up and cut Preston's throat? If Preston croaks him I'll have to cut into Poison. I'll bleed his skull then, if he'll be top pimp. Maybe a couple of all those whores Sweet's got will go for mine. I'd be some kind of sonuvabitching young pimp in a Duesenberg."
Preston came abreast of Sweet. He had slowed to an amble. I could see his yellow mitt easing out of his pocket. He got maybe three feet past Sweet and stopped. He was going to do it! He was coming back for a fatal flank sneak. At that instant Sweet turned his buffalo head and looked down at Preston. Miss Peaches stiffened. Old Preston bowed his bald head. He staggered back toward the Greek's joint. His shoulders were sagging. His back was a stooped slouch. Old Preston had missed that choice chance at glory he had tried to ply on me. I just sat watching Sweet and trying to plot a way to cut into him. It looked hopeless. Finally, Sweet got in the rear seat of his Duesenberg. The cat leaped into his lap. One of the white broads roared it away. I wondered where they're going. I saw Glass Top pat his greasy dome as he turned into the Roost. It came to me, that glossy-top stud with a face like a pretty whore's might be the tunnel into Sweet. I got out of the craps joint and walked towards the Roost. Inside, the joint was getting crowded. The married broad came to a skidding stop, elbowed a sucker, and pointed me to his now empty stool. The beautiful joker was on the stool right next to it. I sipped my Planter's Punch. I drummed my Stetsons against the stool legs. Hamp's "Flying Home" was rocking the joint. A kid could have been June's classmate killed it on that tenor sax. I heard later his name was Illinois Jack.
A pack of white broads had a booth behind me. They looked like they had come from a P.T.A. meeting. Their perfume sent a medley of sexy odors through the joint. They were flirting their cans off. I guess they were writers, doing maybe urgent research on "Sexually Baiting the Black Male" for their bridge club monthly. I wasted no time. I was afraid the pretty joker might split any moment. I snatched my eyes from the excited pack in the mirror. I turned my head toward him and touched him lightly on the sleeve. He sure was a wrong doer all right. He frogged at least three inches off his stool. It was like I'd stabbed him square in the butt with a red-hot poker. He turned his mug to face me, his long-lashed peepers popped wide in alarm. His ticker raced like maybe a cute nun's caught barebutt in the courtyard by Mother Superior. I said, "Jeez, excuse me, Jim. I didn't know you were in deep thought, I'm sorry I hit on you like a square. Are you the fabulous Glass Top ? It would be a boss honor to me if you let me buy you a taste." He looked me up and down, and snarled. "Who're you, nigger ?" I nodded at him and said "I'm Iceberg. I'm friends with Preston. He clued me in you're in town."
He patted his shiny mop and said, "Yeah, I'm Glass Top. What's your stupid story? You young studs sure ain't got no finesse. It drags me to get hit on like that. When somebody touches me I like to be digging it and facing the stud, don't you know that much? But I ain't salty. I dig you ain't nothing but a punk that needs his coat pulled to social polish and class. I ain't no lush. You can spring for a Coke if you want. Tell her to sugar it heavy." The Mexican broad spooned sugar into a glass and brought his Coke. He stirred it with a straw. He raised the glass to drink. I noticed ugly black streaks tracing the veins on his light-brown mitt. No lush maybe, but he was a junkie for damn sure. He'd know where to cop C for the Pep, and probably gangster for the runt. He was also a pal of Sweet's. If I was gonna throw a stone, why not throw it towards where's two birds, anyhow ? He said, "So, you know Preston? What's your racket? You tapdancin' tills or maybe gone all out. Huh?" I said, "I been knowing Preston since I was a kid. I used to buff his stomps back when he was pimping upstate Illinois. I'm no snatcher or burglar. I just mack a little on the side. I know you must be pimping on the top. I saw you rapping to the best pimp there is." He said, "You mack? I ain't never heard of you. Where you been, Siberia?" He took a drag off his slush. He looked up at me again. "Sweet ain't the best pimp there is. I am. Pimps are just like cars. The best known ain't no real yardstick to the best car. It's like I'm a Duesenberg and Sweet's a Ford. I got all the quality and beauty. He's got all the advertising and all the luck." I looked at him scratching my head. "Ain't he drive a Doozy ?" Glass Top looked at me like he couldn't decide if I'm dumb or just pulling his leg. "So he got more whores than I got. Better looking, too. A whore's looks ain't where it's at, and he ain't working them half as hard. He's got no discipline with them. These whores in town ain't hip to how great I am just yet. When they wake up to me I'll have to fight 'em off with a baseball bat. How many girls you got?"
I looked at him with a shit-eating grin pasted on my face. "My girl, she freaks around. When I catch her I make the joker I catch her with pay up." I said it serious but my eyes were laughing the whole time. He laughed, banging his mitts against the counter. The tamale zipped in by his side. She thought he was banging for her. Glass Top bellowed out "I betcha love her, too." I looked at him said "Sure, man. We're gonna be married, too. One day." Reached up to my nose from both sides and pulled on it. "Just look how open my nose is for her." It gave him fits. He laughed and laughed, then batted me on the shoulder. "You're alright, kid. You're alright. I'm going to go take a crap."
Through the mirror I saw him go out. When he walked past them that panting pack behind me turned as one. It was like Gary Grant had walked out. I had the tamale bring him another drink. I told her to doctor it for him, just fill the whole glass all the way up with straight sugar and then pour a teensy bit of coke to make it look alright. I saw him turn left towards the Greek's joint. I knew he was going to Preston to check me out. That tenor sax was moaning gut-bucket blues to raise the dead. Some joker was singing "Going down slow; Don't send no Doctor; Doctor sure can't do no good; Please write my mother, tell her the shape I'm in; I'm going down slow." I remembered it was my father's favorite record. He had kept it spinning on the rich Victrola. I remembered his shocked face there in the doorway when he discovered it and everything else gone. I wondered if he were alive and still in town. If I ran into him I sure wouldn't know what to say to him after all these years. I saw the silk chicks crane their necks toward the door. I switched my eyes left in the mirror. I saw Glass Top coming back in. Those chickens were clucking when he sat down. I said, "Jack, aren't you afraid those silk broads back there follow you in the alley and rape you raw?" He said, "Shit, if you stripped and searched all of 'em you wouldn't find a C note. You wouldn't find enough to stitch a C note together. They ain't nothing but square housewives. They sick of that half-ass screwing at home. They laying to swindle chump niggers outta their youth. They know enough on each other to keep all their jibs sealed. Ain't a chance for their husbands to tumble to what's going on. So what if some white joker who knows 'em made this scene and saw 'em? Everyone of 'em is just slumming out with the girls. Jack, what they got is a secret sex club."
I said, "Top, I'm frayed. I sure wish I had a snort of girl. Can you score?" He told me, "Ice, I believe you are a down young stud. I love you 'cause you got heart. I got news for you. You can score right with me. I got the best girl and boy in town. Even my reefer is dynamite. How much and what kinda stuff you want?" I said, "What's the bite for girl?" He came back on a string, like he'd said it a zillion times that way. "A fin a number-five cap. A sixteenth for a C. A piece for a grand. I got a cozy pad around the corner if you want a taste. You can fly to the moon there, buddy mack." I said, "Let's split to your pad. If your girl is mellow I'll maybe go for a piece." I dumped a saw on the log. The Mexican showed me her choppers like I was her dentist. Glass Top shook his head. "Kid, what you doin' ? I had a coke. You had a rye, I saw you when you came in. A buck or two's enough for that." Her smile was gone. She laid out a fin with three bones on the log. I copped with my right mitt, passed them under Glass Top's nose into my left, and while making like I'm stuffing them in my pocket I plonked them right back on the log where they had started out in life. I wasn't gonna stiff the broad out of eight slats for her five loads of Coke sugar and clearing out the stool I wanted for me. Three square black studs were standing, rapping to the purring pack in the booth.
We went out and got in Glass Top's Hog. The Hog shot from the curb like a red torpedo. Eckstein's syrupy "Cottage For Sale" oozed from the radio. I wondered what the runt's doing with her cop, and Phyllis with the young kittens. Glass Top padded in a plush apartment building. It had all the jazz. Technicolored lights spotlighted the exterior. Fake rubber plants stood tall in the foyer. We took a chrome-and-brass elevator to the second-floor. Thick red broadloom carpet wall to wall in the hall. Fresh black and gold paint sparkled the walls and ceilings. A Polynesian-type dream bare up top took our bennys and my lid in a small silver-mirrored entrance hall. Glass Top sat down. I sat down too. She was back and kneeled going for my stompers. I thought maybe she'll shine them with her tits ? She got them off my feet, then Glass Top's too. He walked off and I followed, my feet sunk to the ankles in the soft lavender carpet. I could hear the deep-throated boom of a console phonograph. The Ink Spots' lead tenor was parfaiting "Whispering Grass." I followed Top with the olive-tinted beauty in tow all the way to the womb-like living room. Double heavy lavender drapes covered the windows. Not a beam of street light or sunshine could violate this pimp's purple lair.
Top and I sat on a long gray sofa. The ceiling was lowered with silver lame fabric. The only light in the room came through the glass-topped cocktail table. It gurgled and flashed a pale green light. A score of yellow, red, and orange tropical fish streaked inside the table. It was like an acquarium. If you set your fingers on the glass top sometimes the streakers came to try take a bite. The broad's eyes were dreamy. She slunk herself on her knees at his side. Glass Top put his mitt on her head. She purred just like a real pussycat. The table's moving lights played and tricked with her itty bitty nipples. She didn't say anything, just gazed far away. Glass Top said, "Bring a coupla outfits and some caps of girl and boy. Oh yeah, Iceberg, this is Radell." She said "Welcome to Paradise, Iceberg" in a voice like a hush, then wiggled that awesome round ass of hers past me where he sent her. The big white phonograph in the corner was booming out a novelty tune. "When your pipes get dry then you know you're high. Everything is dandy. You truck on down to the candy store but you don't get no peppermint candy. Then you know your body's sent, you don't care if you don't pay rent. Light a tea and let it be if you're a viper." I thought "This pretty gowster is sure pimping his ass off, but he's the craziest gowster that ever lived if he thinks he'll con me into banging any H, or for that matter shooting anything." I said, "Jim, you sure ain't jiving. Your layout is a sonuvabitch." He said, "I got five bedrooms here. These whores on this fast track dig front and flash. You can't pimp here unless you got 'em. Jack, this C I got ain't going to let you split for awhile. You may as well shed your threads and get in the groove." I said "Glass, man, I'm not about to shoot. I'll take a snort, if you got something worth the snort. If it's to my taste I'll send a bitch later with the grand for a piece. I trust you, man, that it'll be a piece of the same stuff I tried out, and that you won't cop my whore. You can try her out if you want, a line for a line. I'll take your word for some gangster for the stable, too. I don't know cardboard from reefer myself, but they old nags love chewing on that hay, you know ?"
He opened his mouth to say something just as Radell came in with the outfits, a spoon and a dozen white and brown caps. She put them on the cocktail table bending from the ass, back straight, knees straight. I could smell her fresh scent through the thin skirt on her. He said, "You want to try this bitch out ?" I reached out to pat the plump behind she was putting under my nose. I said "I'm sorry, man. I've been sampling schoolgirls all day. None of them half as pretty as Radell either, and a bitch to break through that shit they put on their pussies when they're born. I couldn't get up for Jezebel herself. I wish I had known aforehand and saved some to put where it's worth putting, but then Glass Top my man, them's the breaks. You never know what you gonna need it for later, when you give it up." The broad turned her pretty oval toward me. She gurgled a pearly laughter through her half-open lips, her eyes still distant. Glass Top was laughing his ass off. He said to her "This joker's been this way all day, I'm getting the splits in my sides from him." Then he turned to me and said "You do what you want like you was at home, Ice. I got the merchandise, you tell me what's what." She helped him out of his duds, leaving him in candy-striped silk shorts. She sat herself in between us. She hooked her skirt all the way up and lifted a leg over Glass Top's left and another over my right. She put her arms flush along the back of the sofa. She had her cat wide open for a grab. I cupped her titty just to be polite.
The phone on the end table beside Glass Top jangled. He uncradled it and said, "You've reached Paradise, what's your desire? Oh yeah. Yeah ? Yeah. Ok. I'm on it." He hung up and said, "Rad, put something on and get to the Franklin Arms. Say hi to that guy Angelo, the head bellhop. Dimples and the rest are in over their heads. You gotta help turn some of that action. Take the kitty and get there fast." The broad zipped out of there like fireworks. She sure liked getting her man some money. He turned to me, "Sorry Jack, you've missed your chance." I said "Those tricks at the Franklin are going to give their swipes a treat as sure as sugar". She smiled at me again on her way out. He ran it down for me, "That's a good young bitch I got there. I copped her in Hawaii a year ago. There are twenty-thousand white suckers in town for a convention on shoe shining. They got a double saw in one hand and their swipes in the other, every last one of them to a man. Radell just copped some doss, my other whores ain't had no sleep in thirty-six hours. I can't miss a five G score for the three days even with Angelo's thirty percent off the top. Ain't but a C a day for a girl in oil for the heat." I thought back to my magnificent cocksucker, and how she got me almost four grand in one night, no oil for the heat no nothing. Then thinking about pigs it came back to me how she got me a discount off my first offer, and how it's by the block a week, not by the girl a day. I thought Pep's worth about a million in cold hard cash if she's worth a buck, no question about it.
He got up and whistled his belt through the loops in his pants. He walked back and started to coil it around his arm just above the elbow hollow. I said "Look Top, you've been a perfect host, but don't cook for me." He said, "Kid, I ain't squeezing your balls to hip you that after Mink comes Sable. Ain't nothing a greater blast than horse. It's your privilege to wake up slow if you want. Horse is what puts the ice in a pimp's game." He upended a cap of girl on the table, and cut it up into thin lines with the Ace of Spades. "You got a horn ?" he asked. I shook my head. He gave me a stout ivory one, flaring out at the business end. I felt my blood smashing against the tight coils of my skull. I saw blue and purple veins balloon and blow up through the dimness on the walls. The sharp, sicklysweet odor of girl hit me then. My palms were dripping sweat. I turned my head and closed my eyes. I bit down on my bottom lip waiting for the crazy glow of the nose drip. From far away he echoed "Damn! You alright kid ?" I shivered. That was some god damned fucking girl this nigger peddled. I had thought Pepper's was the best on account of never having had anything else, but hot damn! I opened my eyes and looked. The whole air floated around like yellow jello. Then it was like a ton of nitro exploded inside me. My ticker went around itself. I could feel it clawing up my throat. It was like I was June, with a million swipes fucking me in every pore from head to toe. It was like they were all popping off together in a nerveshredding climax.
I was quivering like a joker in the hot seat at the first jolt. I tried to open my talc-dry mouth. I couldn't. I was paralyzed. I could feel a hot ball of puke racing up from my careening guts. I saw the green, stinking puke rope arch into the black mouth of the wastebasket. I felt the cool metal against my chest. I saw Top's manicured fingers pressing it close to me. He was saying, "You'll be all right in a minute, Kid. Don't worry yourself. You thought I was bullshitting when I told you I had the best stuff in town, huh." I still couldn't say anything. I felt like the top of my skull had been crushed in. It was like I had been blown apart and all that was left were my eyes. Then tiny prickly feet of ecstasy started dancing through me. I heard melodious bells tolling softly inside my skull. I looked down at my hands and thighs. A thrill shot through me. Surely they were the most beautiful in the Universe. I felt a superman's surge of power. I thought, "It was a cinch that any stud as beautiful and clever as me would become the greatest pimp in history. What bitch could resist me? I turned and stared at the ugly stud beside me." He said, "Did you hear those chapel bells? Ain't they a bitch, Kid?" I finally could speak again. "Yeah man, I heard 'em loud and clear. I guess I'm married now. Your girl sure is the bang. The only time I'll talk to anyone else after this is when you make yourself a monk." He said, "Ice, you sure know how to butter a side of toast. Just don't forget where to cop. The more you buy, the cheaper I'll make it for your wanna-be chili pimp ass. Something tells me we gonna be tight."
He had a time trying to score for himself. He was only around thirty-two, but most of his veins had folded. He finally hit pay clay in his inner right thigh. He kept the needle in, pumping the horse into the vein then drawing it out. I said, "Jack, why the hell do you screw around like that?" He said, "Man, you ain't hip? That's where the thrill is. When I jack this joint off the horse kicks my ass groovy." His eyelids were coming down heavy. He was coasting. I thought, "Now's the time to crack on him to see about Sweet. I gotta phrase it right. This joker envies Sweet." I said, "Top, I was thinking how much more common sense and cool you got than your pal Sweet." His hands froze. His eyes beat his mouth to the question. I guess Preston hadn't told him all that much. Maybe his chicken act blocked Sweet out of his mind. Top shot, "You know Sweet personally?"
"I met him in the Roost, that's all. He said that tall blonde made of legs of his wants me to freak-off with her. He offered me a double saw to do her kitten in. The heat rolled on me just then. I guess now I have blown my chance to get acquainted with him, huh. I don't suppose anybody in town is strong enough with him to square me and cut me into him. As foxy as you are Top, I wouldn't be shocked if you couldn't cut it. After all, the man is complicated. He don't make any sense to me, but from what I hear nobody'd want a crazy enemy like that. So Top, say the word if it's over your head. I'll forget it, try and stay out of his way. I'll take my chances that way. I love you Top, I don't want anything to happen to you on my account." He gobbled it raw and whole. Horse is good for something after all. He flung his girlish head back and rolled off the sofa to the floor. He held his elbows against his belly and laughed like I'd told the funniest joke human ears had ever heard. He was gasping for air by the time he finally came to. He patted his mop. "Sweet ain't more dangerous than those fish, sucker," He stopped to press the clutch in his throat, gearing up. "He ain't never croaked anything but yellow Niggers. He's croaked four of them in the last twenty years. He ain't croaked nobody in over ten. He's ninety percent bull scare. He don't kill nobody, even if they bad mouth him. Maybe if a joker tried to muscle his whores and hurt one bad, if that. But he sure hates white folks. He pimps awful tough on white whores. When he puts his foot in their asses he's really doing it to the white man. He says he's paying 'em back for what they daddies done to black folks. His brain is rotted from hate. Sheet. He probably wouldn't know you if he saw you again. There's no way he's salty with you for being rolled on. Even a square from Delaware should know this much, you poor boob. I tell you what. I gotta take him some stuff this weekend. I'll buzz your crib to let you know just when. I'll stop on the way and pick you up. I'll take you with me to his pad. He ain't nothing but a big ugly nigger with a filthy loud mouth."
I said, "I pad at 29th and State, in that Blue Heaven dump. Just tell the clerk you want me. Top, you gotta overlook my dumbness. I told you I was just a kid in darkness needing some brain to light the way. Top, I sure appreciate your coat-pulling. See you later, Pal." He asked me if I'm taking off. I said, "Top, I gotta split. Remember me now, I want two pieces of that girl. Not one, two. A can of reefer too." He asked me "Which kind ? I got light green pot from chili gut country, that'll make a whore mellow and any stud a whore. I got black bronze reefer from Tenerife that'll make a square bitch forget her home. I got..." he droned on, drowsily. "How many kinds you got, man ?" I put out. "Six... seven... eight" he started counting, eyes closing and opening halfway again. "One can of each. What's that, the can ?" He nodded at me. "Twenny the can. Six to the bill". "Ok Top, two pieces of that girl and six cans of reefer, different kinds. Your pick. I'll have a whore over with the dough later tonight. You call me on that other deal, alright ?" He nodded. Then he opened his eyes wide. "You remember me now, Top ?" He said "Don't worry about me, kid. See you around." clear as a bell. I walked into the entrance hall. I looked around, found where Radell had put my stuff. I got my shoes back on and split. My ticker was speeding inside my frosty chest like I had ran a mile in two minutes to get to the elevator three doors down. I flinched before the stark street lights.
It musta been nine, nine-thirty. The sky was a fresh, bright pitch. This first April night had gone whore for some sucker that gifted her with a shimmering bracelet of diamond stars. The fat moon lurked like an evil yellow eye staring down at the pimps, hustlers, and whores hawking for a mark or a cop. I felt the raw tenderness of first April winds lashing at the hem of my white alligator. I felt the birth stirrings of that poisonous pimp's rapture. I felt powerful and beautiful.
« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 13 : Almost Fucked But Not Even Arrested
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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Thursday, 04 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:44:51

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 13 : Almost Fucked But Not Even Arrested
I woke with a start. Pepper and June were standing by the door, decked for the track. They were watching me. "The hell ?!" I coughed out. "Good morning Daddy!" they both chimed. Then they kinda elbowed each other and eventually Pepper chipped in "Daddy, you want us out on that track ?" I held my head. "Baby, I told you..." June cut right in. "We didn't know what to do, Daddy. You said you don't want us back there but you didn't say where you want us and we didn't know what to do!" I looked at Pepper like "You're the adult, explain this insanity". She explained it alright. They got up. I was asleep. They didn't dare wake me. They didn't know what to do. It was getting towards noon. They figured get dressed and wait by the door. If I wake up and I'm on the side of why the fuck aren't they out there, it's not too late to cut out in a hurry. If I wake up and I'm on another side, they're still there to get the wire. They figured if they just split it'll be trouble, but if they just lounge around it won't look good either. This was the sort of thing I had to put up with from these two crazy bitches back in those early days. I told them, too. I said "No pimp young or old since the slave days had to deal with this kind of thing in all of carnation!" June was spooked, but Pepper chuckled and said "Say it like it's a bad thing, Daddy!" then grabbed her hand and said "We'd do anything for you Daddy. Ain't that right June!" and June nodded all broken up.
I said "We gotta figure out a better angle. I don't want you out there on that street with all the mangy dogs and two-dime crazies." Pepper raised her hand, like she was back in school. I looked at her. "Daddy... since I've been square lotsa studs wanted to freak with me. I was never game until today. I bet they'd like to hear." She ran it down for me. She could make party dates for the pair of them and really clean out. At least five hundred for the half a night, maybe a grand the whole night through. Maybe more, who knows. She said she knew some upscale players alright. "June's hotter merchandise than I've ever seen" she said. I nodded. I said "Go downstairs, the both of ya. June take that joker somewhere and do him dead while Pepper steals his phone. Then fetch some breakfast. Get me a rack. Get yourselves whatever you want. Daddy loves you broken down used up whores."
I stretched out in bed. I dozed off. The scent of hickory-fired ribs woke me. It was the damndest thing : June was naked, face up, her feet and palms on the floor pushing her body up right next to the bed. She was making like a table with herself. Pepper was laying out the rack of ribs on her belly, from her cat to her tits, sauces and everything. It was the god-damned best rack of ribs I ever ate! I nibbled her own set some too, and mauled and suckled the tits of the other freak, hunching and dangling herself over the table. Pepper moved on to eating me before I was done eating off June. She taxed me a good ounce or maybe two. I called them one pair of crazy whores, then Pepper clued me in. They had a party date set for nine o'clock, to go to some jokers' club and hang with them. It was an "all-night" deal, and the take ? A grand. For like twelve-fourteen jokers, that's all. Upscale folks, some athletic thing like faggots do, tennis or crochet or god knows what. That grand by the way ? Not for the pair. By the head. I fell back in bed. I said "Pepper you magnificent cocksucker, if you weren't so mangy I could kiss you." She jumped me, and tried to pin me down. I made like she almost had me, then pushed her some but let her get her upper hand back again. Through it all we both kept asking for June to help, until we drove her into a tizzy. She kept running from one to the other, tickling now me now Pepper, pushing and shoving and eventually Pepper pinned me with her ass, her cat in my face. It was like breakfast desert.
We had some time to kill, so we cleanned up nice and smooth, piled up in her Ford and went cruising. It was the early years for that Nat "King" Cole Trio. They were playing for a two-buck after work dance at Liberty Hall. I plunked down a bill like it was gum stuck to my sole. It got us a neat table in the balcony, overlooking the crowded dance floor. Every nigger in that joint was yellow with the jays for me with my two whores. I had them take the drinks from the waiters and serve them to me on their knees, just to drive every boy there ape. I think it sent the whore wire to at least five dozen young broads thinking of squaring out. I understood for the first time what Henry must have felt like, back in his good days. I didn't feel so bad for him anymore after that. Most jokers go to their grave without anything like it to show the worms. We had a great time, I don't think anyone remembers the band's performance from that night. Everyone was too busy dancing with their peepers trained on us like we was the the twilight's last gleaming.
We got out of there about half past eight. You could hear the joint lose pressure behind us with a woosh. We made it two blocks in the car when I spied none other than Miss Jackson. She was walking down the street just by her lonesome. I had Pepper pull the Ford to the curb by her, chatted her up nice and offered her a ride. She prissed some, but took me up on it. In the car I started talking up the party we were headed for. Pepper fell right in line, like we had been selling bibles door to door together our whole lives. I could tell Daphne's interested plenty, so I gave it to her on a silver platter : why not come along ? She's in no hurry to get back home anyhow, it'll just be half hour at the most, just the same time she's saving not having to walk. She hesitated plenty, but I could tell hearing June's fifteen cinched it for her. I didn't gorilla on her or anything, just the most mellow thing in the world, all but let her follow us in of her own, once we were there.
This party was the strangest thing. Plenty of swank all around, all marble and gold leaf and rich brocade and things. Crystal glasses like I'd never seen, they made a sound if you twinkled them like no silver bell can touch. Fourteen jokers just standing around or sitting down, holding up glasses and yakking at each other like boredom's their religion. At least at a prayer meeting they chant, or roll down on the floor like they found fleas where they didn't expect them, or jump up and down like drowned monkeys. At least it's something. These jokers didn't as much as that, they just stood still like scarecrows in low wind. Not a broad among them, either, calling their thing a party's like calling a spade furry. Once we got there they peeled off Pepper to show her something or the other they said, and that's the last I saw of her until we took off. She told me later they just piled into her in one of the bedrooms upstairs, with all their clothes on and in the dark, one at a time. They got June and Daphne drinks, and then this joker that must've been their captain started working on them so smooth like I'd never seen. He just kept pratting them, and even though he didn't even know at first that one's a whore and the other's square or which is which, half hour after he started on them Daphne was showing everyone her titties like that's what they did every day in school. She was a little boozy but far from drunk, mostly giddy with excitement. The joker flattered her and worked her nice and slow out of her duds one by one until she was buck-naked, prancing around all them dressed white suckers like a sheared black lamb. I was taking notes after him like he was Houdini giving pointers how to open safes. Whenever her or June managed to get one of the jokers hot and bothered enough he'd go take out his aggression on Pepper. I tried to steer them towards just doing the deed on the girls right there under the candelabras, but they were stone cold to the idea. I was a little disappointed, because June's such a pretty sight being worked over, but like the man said : can't put a pistol on a sucker. I think he faggots were just affraid of seeing one another's pricks, like a clued-in priest's affraid of seeing baby butt.
It wasn't even midnight by the time they were done, overdone and over-overdone. I left through the front door, thirty-eight fresh bills as clean as if they had been steam-pressed in my side. I didn't even need a fence or anything. It wasn't night-time burglary, from five to ten. Just business between best of friends. The fare coming to ten bills a whore, and I having showed up with three, that made three grand. Then another bill for each garment, as we agreed, because I wasn't about to let Daphne walk back a schoolgirl out of there. The gents were more than keen to buy their clothes for a memento. June only had the dress on her, so she only marked a hundred. They wouldn't take the shoes, they said it's ungentlemanly to force a lady barefoot. Bare butt's okay, just as long as it's not barefoot. Some twisted jokers alright, these were nigger bitches we were talking about. They somehow didn't seem to see it that way. I sure wasn't going to say anything out of line, nothing like "suckers, these bitches were barefoot all of this morning sucking me off". Daphne had seven things on her, including three different kinds of step-ins. Her cat was layered under like maybe she thought it is some kinda book. I explained to her that these jokers are crazy and no negro girl I don't care who she is or who her daddy is can't pass up a chance like this. She didn't take much to see it my way. Once we were in the car she didn't take much to see where she's going my way, either. I mean, I wasn't against dumping her back where I found her, but the way she found herself she thought maybe it's best not to. We left it that I'll safekeep "her" seven hundred dollars, seeing how she didn't have as much as a side on her to keep 'em in, and that she can have some clothes bought in the morning, but until then she's crashing at number 10. I sent Pepper to work her over while she slept with her, figuring it's not wise to let a young priss like that all by herself on her first night a whore, and went to bed with June.
It was nice to be only a little tight for once, to tell the truth. I hadn't had some decent sleep in what felt like whole weeks. I was out like a wetfarted candle. In the morning Pepper showed up with a postcard. It had the Golden Gate on one side and the neat scribble of a schoolhouse priss on the other. Daphne wrote to her parents "My Dear Parents, I am gone to be a whore and suck all the dick I can and turn tricks all the time because that's what whores do. Good-bye." Imagine getting that in the mail, a week after the fact. A postcard, even, bitch couldn't be bothered to as much as make it a telegram. Years later I heard that her parents went all the way to San Francisco in California to look for her, because maybe they didn't know to read post stamps or something ? Pepper just had the hotel clerk mail it. June came in with a pile of food and we sat down for breakfast. Daphne mostly had tears, but I gave her some chocolates and June hugged her so she seemed to feel better about being naked. When I told her it's only for the rest of her life she even giggled. Just about the time we were done the runt broke down the door. Then she froze in her tracks, looking from Daphne to me and back. Eventually she asked "How long have I been away ?" June told her it's been a coupla days. The runt nodded, then Daphne asked who is she ? June said "It's his cousin", pointing to me, but I said "No bitch, she's your cousin, remember ?" June looked at me confused, and that's when Pepper said "No, she's my uncle." I said to Daphne "go kiss her cat to welcome her in". She just turned all red and wouldn't say anything. I asked her if she's never done anything like that ? She shook her head no. I said that's pretty lame. Pepper said "just a little square". June said "She doesn't have to if she doesn't want to. Ain't that so, Daddy ?" I nodded, but Phyllis ditched her glove like back when she was Crystal at Pepper's pad and said "Sweet baby, come give ol' Crystal a kiss. Pretty please ?" They kept haranguing her until Daphne walked over and kissed the whore's mound. Pepper elbowed me and whispered "That jasper'll turn her out alright."
I said loud, "That so. You a jasper, bitch ?" The runt came up to me and said "Daddy, Big Daddy says to say to you that it's in, and you'll hear word today, and to be ready for it." I nodded and then said "Don't dodge the question, bitch!" She looked at me and then the other girls and then said "Daddy, that's the other thing. Back at my old pad, I had a neighbour. Her name's Chris, and Daddy... I miss her. You gon' let me go and try the cop ?" I took her in from head to the closeby toe. Bitch's been here all of five minutes she's already got a cop in tow, figuring weight for brawn she's like an army recruiter only better. "Alright", I said "Get going then. You want some breakfast first ?". She did, because she had peeled out of there as soon as she heard and had no time to eat anything. Frank kept her up all night poking at her. "He does that sometimes", Pepper chipped in. "Fair is fair" I said, "You can eat what we left on the plates, bitch." Daphne helped her a little, apparently her appetite wasn't absent, only slow. They licked those plates clean, between the two of them, while we made fun of them. God damned jailhouse whores doing the dishes with their hungry dick-ragged tongues. Then Phyllis split and I cleanned up. Pepper asked what now ? I said to her "Hold the house down. Babysit those two dumb bitches, and bring them up to par." I was putting on like June's a fresh cop just like the other one, and June was smart enough to play along. Pepper told me later she helped her oodles with breaking down the dumb one among them. I went downstairs to shoot the breeze with Jack, whose name really's Harry, and after a spell took off for a slow walk in the general direction of towards the Roost. I told him if there's a roust to send them there for me, anyhow.
I walked most of the way there without any trouble, but stumbled half a block up from the Roost. The guy that stood in the center of the sidewalk... I looked down at him. He stood a good foot shorter than the runt. He looked like a black baby grown up on ugly pills. His head was the size of a giant pumpkin. His voice was a squeal like a clappy joker makes when the croaker rams a sound down his dingus. He squealed, "Shine 'em up, Hot Shot. If I had your hand I'd throw mine away. Get on the bigtime. Shines ain't but a dime. Shine 'em up." I looked down at my stomps. They could stand a gloss all right. I followed the pointing, gnarled finger to the miggit's surprisingly large open-air stand. It sat at the mouth of a gangway between two buildings. The red fringes of its tattered canvas top rippled in the breeze. I climbed into the chair. The dwarf doled out the polish with large gestures for little squirts. A thin stud with at least a half a grand in threads on his back took the other chair. He was wearing silver nail polish like maybe he thought he's a kitchen appliance. He was reeking with perfume enough to pay for fifty potted plants. A gleaming butterscotch-colored custom Duesenberg eased into the curb in front of me. The top was down. My peepers did a triple take.
A huge stud was eased in the back seat. He had an ocelot in his lap dozing against his chest. The cat was wearing a stone-studded collar with a long golden chain strung to it. This stud had two spectacular high-yellow whores on either side of him. His diamonds were blazing. Three gorgeous white whores sat in the front. He looked exactly like Boris Karloff in black-face. He was rapping something. All five of those whores were turned toward him, listening and paying attention like he was God almighty telling them the secret of how angels piss. He could have been running down a safe place to hide because the world was coming to an end just as well. I asked the miggit who the hells is that. He said, "You gotsa be from outta town. That Sweet Jones. He's the greatest nigger pimp in the world that's ever been." The thin joker chipped in, "That spotted cat, that's Miss Peaches. It's the only bitch he cares lives or croaks. Shit, them whores you pinning ain't half his stable. If they got nigger pimps in outer space, he's the best of them, too. He's gonna take them whores into the Roost and pop some. He's lugging twenty G's in his raise like he's got a buck. Ain't no heist man crazy enough to stick him up though. He croaks niggers for his pass-timin' recreation."
I couldn't believe my eyes. Those Duesenbergs, they cost a fortune. He must have been the only black pimp in the country who owned one. My peepers jacked off just watching him and those high-powered whores. It was as exciting as maybe Christ making his encore. The dwarf was done shining. I held a buck over his head and he spent a while jumping for it. When I had enough of watching his big head bob like a Halloween head stitched to a bulldog I let him have it. He made change. I didn't take it off of him. I sat there a while and watched Sweet Jones and those whores get out of the Duesenberg and walk toward the Roost. The black-spotted cat slinked beside him. I thought, "Tonight I got to cut into him. I got to be careful so I don't blow him. The cut-in has got to be in the Roost. I'll go in and cook up something in there." I got off the stand. I saw old Preston trying to shoo two marks into the Greek's joint. Just as I turned into the Roost he bucked his eyes and jerked his thumb at me. He was tipping me Sweet was in the Roost. I nodded my head and went in. It was the combo's off time. The jukebox was grinding out "Pennies From Heaven." The joint hadn't crowded any yet. There were maybe a half dozen couples in the booths, some left over from last night by the looks of 'em. Sweet Jones and his whores were the only people at the log. Sweet sat just on the chair I sat when that slick pimp made his fast cop. The damndest thing : she was still there, though the slick joker was gone. The pretty Mexican broad, Miss Bet I Get Ya, was standing at attention in front of Sweet like she was asking for permission to tear her dress offa her titties. The cat was licking her paws beneath Sweet's stool. I sat at the log near the front door facing him and the stable.
Sweet bought the house a drink. She served his party first. She glanced at me, remembered my drink, brought me a Planter's Punch on Sweet. The floor waitress loaded a tray from the log and served the couples in the booths, all on Sweet. I sat there studying him. He looked about eleven feet, but had to be at least six-six. His face was like a black steel mask. Not a flicker of emotion played over it. He kept smashing the heels of his brute-sized hands together like he was crushing an invisible throat. Even at a distance it made me edgy. I guess it kept his whores on the brink of peeing on themselves. If he had smiled maybe they would have dropped dead from shock. He sure made pimping look nothing like a charm contest. Those whores lit his cigarette. They took turns feeding him sips of his Coke. If he farted I bet they fought to ram their pretty noses up his ass. I froze. One of the white broads was whispering in his ear. Those unearthly gray eyes of his in their ebony sockets moved to staring at me. I raised my punch to thank him for the taste. I could hear the thud of those meat sledges from across the bar. I thought, "Christ Almighty! Mama darling, I hope my double hasn't put the muscle on this broad for some snatch or scratch. Please don't let this broad bum-finger me!"
He slid his terrible pearl-gray peepers off me. I saw him pound the bottom of his glass against the log. The Mexican broad expressed to him like pistol shot. He was rapping to her. She was nodding her head and looking down the log at me. My stomps on the stool rung were slamming together like the heels of a Flamenco Dancer. The jukebox was sobbing Lady Day's beef about her mean but sweet man. I wondered if I'd see the runt again. I wondered if I'd see any of them again. I wondered how soon they'd get their asses kicked if not. The couples in the booths were bug-eying the arena. It was maybe like when they fed the lions on fresh Christians. Who knows how many of them feed Christians never read the good book through either ? The cute tamale danced slowly toward me. She wasn't dressed in black and she had lost her scythe, but to me she looked pretty grim for once. Her face was tight and serious as she stood before me. She carried pity in her peepers. I guess she opposed capital punishment on the same grounds as eating people. She said, "Mr. Jones wants you to come to him. Pronto."
She turned and walked away. I staggered to my feet. I started hoofing that thousand miles to Mr. Jones. As I got close enough the overgrown cat snarled from under the stool. It pasted its yellow eyes on me. I jerked my eyes from the cat, and kept them riveted to the floor instead. It made me less dizzy. I was afraid to look into Sweet's glowing peepers up close. I knew I'd crap my pants. He whirled around on his stool, his back to the log. I glued my peepers to the tapping tips of his needle-toed patent leather stomps. I flinched at each crash of his huge hooks. He whispered, "nigger, you know who I am? Look at me when I'm spieling to you." I said, "Sure I know who you are Mr. Jones. You're the black God of the sporting world. Ain't a nigger alive, unless he's stupid and deaf, that ain't heard your fame and name ring. The reason I don't look at you is because I remember what happened to that sucker in the Bible that snitched a peep." His whores broke out into gales of laughter. Miss Peaches wasn't a lady. She broke wind and grinned. Those patent-leather toes stopped tapping. Could I be selling it?
He reached out and grabbed my chin. He held my head up and cupped it in his giant hook. I flexed my belly to take up the slack in my bowels. Those deadly gray slits almost slugged me into a dead faint. When he opened his jib I saw spidery webs of spit for an instant bridge his fat lips. He said, "Little nigger, who are you and where you from? You kinda look like me. Maybe I layed your Mammy, huh?" I said, "Mr. Jones, I'm nobody trying for somebody. Could be my Mammy went for you. What bitch wouldn't? She went for lotsa fellows." He laughed. Then he said, "nigger, you like fine white pussy? This dog of mine wants you to lay her. I give my whores what they want. You going to lay her for a double saw?" I looked the way he turned my head. The dog wasn't so doggish. Tell the truth, she was one fine looking broad. Legs to her neck, with perky titties and a slant eyed smile. I said, "Mr. Jones, I don't have that much on me." I looked like I was real sorry for it, too. They laughed like I was both Stanley and Oliver all rolled up in one. Sweet said "You'd be getting the saw, nigger. Not payin' it." I straightened myself out. "In that case Mr. Jones sir, how many times ?"
He was about to come back with something, to the tune of the peals of laughter spreading to the booths, when two rollers burst in. "Which one's Icebeck around here ?" hollered the fat one at the poor tamale. She shrugged with her palms away from her apron'd ass like she'd never heard of him before. Everyone was looking at each other. Sweet let go of my jaw, his eyes soft and searching now. "That you, little nigger ? Icebeck ?" I nodded. "How come every wanna-be mackin' nigger's saying his name by himself fifty zilion times before anyone asks for it, but you ain't said it yet and here's they looking for you by it ?" The policeman nodded to Sweet, then grabbed me by the shoulder and turned me around, my back to the log. "You Icebeck then ?" he quizzed me. "That's right." He nodded to his partner then said to me "Come along now. Cap'n Mahoney wants to speak with you." I followed them out, leaving behind a stunned silence. Before the doors swung open I heard Sweet behind me, "Motherfucker ain't even arrested".
« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 12 : Trippin Down Memory Lane
The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 14 : Choice Chances And Passing Up »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Wednesday, 03 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:44:43

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 12 : Trippin Down Memory Lane
After parting company with Pretty Dumb Preston I made for the Roost. An old church tower struck six. I thought to myself "Nice going so far, Iceberg. By three you'd done nothing for two hours, but by six you put in the ground along with three more hours a good hundred-plus slats to keep 'em company. Those two bitches humping their asses off of them out there in who knows what sewer and getting their ears cut off of them by these genuine injuns around here ain't got a prayer in hell to keep up with that rate between the two of 'em. That's progress for ya, and getting better by the minute. Let's see if you can do yourself better before midnight. Maybe get your head cut off, or maybe some new holes for your dumbass nigger hide. Won't that be tops!" But really, I was gonna keep my mind like a sponge, and use my eyes and ears like suction cups. I had to find out everything about crosses and whores. I had to find out all the secrets of pimping, and fast. I didn't want to be a half-ass giggolo lover like the white pimps. What I wanted was to control the whole whore, like at the cannery : everything up to and including the squeal. I wanted to be the boss of her life up to and including her thoughts inside her skull. I had to make it like that Lincoln never freed no bitch slaves.
The Roost was really jumping now. I copped the one open stool at the middle of the bar. A Mexican broad in a red satin cocktail dress brought me a pink Planters Punch. The combo was speed riffing "Tea For Two." Through the barlength mirror I could see an ugly nigger stud playing stink finger with an angel-faced white broad in a booth behind me. He was playing pocket pool with his other hand. The broad had her eyes closed. Her rhinestone tiara looked like a phony halo. She was biting her bottom lip like maybe she was taking a pussy-first heavenly trip right there in the booth. My ear cups started sucking. The dapper joker on my right was whining to the stud on the other side of him. "I want my three bills back. That pretty bitch ain't turned three tricks since you sold her to me. That bitch is dying. She's falling apart. She can't walk the street." The seller wasn't buying. He said "Jack, I sold you the package as is. I ain't responsible for divine acts." The buyer came back with "Divine my ass. You knew that dog was rotten inside and needed a grand's worth of carving. Give me a yard and a half and take the bitch back." The seller said, "You a stick-up man? The bitch was whole when I sold her. Maybe you trying to play con on me. Maybe you stomped on the package. Maybe you put the bitch in bad shape. I got more bitches than I know what to do with, that's why I sold the one to you. I ain't buying her back if you only wanted a slat for her, not anymore than you can sell liquor right back to the bar." The buyer shook his head half-resigned, and feeling plenty sorry for himself, too. "Ain't this a bitch? I went for the okee doke. I'm out three bills for a black dog with a foot in the grave."
The seller said, "Jack, I'm pimping on my own. I ain't got no time to pimp on yours. But just to get you off my ass, I'm going to rundown for you. There's a whore house upstate with all Spic trade. They don't spend but a fin, but there's a zillion of 'em. On weekends they line up on the sidewalk. All you gotta do is cop some pills. Patch the bitch up and take her up there. There ain't no walking up there. She can flat back, so long as she keeps breathing you'll get some scratch. Jack, she may even last long enough so you can invest the scratch to overhaul her, and still show a profit. The bitch is black and pretty. She ain't got much mileage on her. Them Spics are wild for black broads. Jim, I been running down the out for you. If you go for it call me at noon. In the meantime I'll contact the joint. Me and the house broad are tight. It's a cinch you can place your grief tomorrow." The buyer finally saw the light. He went "Jack, you know I deserve some cooperation. I'll try anything to break even on that dog. I'll call you at noon. I ain't salty with you now. Let's split and make the scene at the lair. I'll pop for a coupla rounds." The buyer stood up. He knocked his knuckles against the log. The cute Mexican broad came toward him to check him out. She stood before him. She was smiling.
The seller drained his glass and stood. He leaned across the log staring into her bosom. I was digging the action from that trap door in the corner of my eye. She said, "Both tabs come to twelve dollars. Yours is seven. Your friend's is five." The buyer said, "I've got 'em both. Here's a double saw. Keep the change Miss Bet I Get You. Say girl, was that bum your father who brought you in when you started to work here last night? Ain't you afraid I'll salt and pepper you and eat you raw?" She said, "No, not my father, my husband. He's no bum. He had his work clothes on. People are not good to eat. It's not nice to eat people. Thanks for the tip. Come back soon." The buyer hurled his beak toward the ceiling and laughed. Flakes of grayish white dust clung to the hairs in his nostrils. He had snorted a good skull load of cheap horse, cheap enough maybe to be more hearse than horse. Her mouth was still smiling, but her big black eyes were slitting in Latin fury. She turned away toward the register. She punched it. She came back. She stood staring at the buyer. She had a fin and three slats in her hand. She was crushing them into a missile. In the mirror I saw the seller shaking his head as he walked out the door. All the while all I could think was "If even this joker has a twenty to spare..." Preston had pushed hard on how many slick pimps ran around these fast tracks here, and how mindbending slick they were, but somehow I had yet to see one. Between the cop pimp croaking his own whore like some god-damned maniac, this smooth operator burning through the Cs and Preston himself, the fast track looked more and more like the State Home For Special Children.
The buyer looked at the Mexican broad like the eight slats had made her his indentured slave. The four-carat stone on his left hand flashed like neon as he caressed his fly. He said, "If that tramp was your man I'm stealing you. Shit, I should kidnap you right now. You ain't got no business juggling suds. Bitch, you got a mint between your big hairy legs. I'm gonna show you how to make a grand a week. I ain't never wanted nothing and didn't get it. Bitch, I'm gonna get you. I'll be back at four to pick you up." Just as I was thinking "Well, maybe he didn't get his three hundred slats back that he wanted, but I bet he gets what he's wanting now, and soon enough" a massive black bulk with a face like a rabid bulldog snuck into the scene. Somehow he looked just like the joint bouncer. He stood himself several feet behind the buyer, grinning like a starved croc shown a trainload of cows. He was hunching his shoulders. The Mexican broad was shaking. She fired the missile. It struck the buyer on the tip of his beak. I guess she musta had some practice doing that. The wizard of words threw his hands across his face. She hissed, "That's some of the dumbest shit I ever heard, and I hear a lot of dumb shit around here. Take your life savings and blow, ugly." The bouncer streaked toward the buyer like a human torpedo, although I don't think they make torpedoes twice the size of the boat they get sent after. He vised the buyer's rear end through the tail split in his topcoat and the scrawny neck with his other, giant paw. The buyer was airborne almost. The tips of his shoes did a tap dance against the floor on his way to and through the door. The joint was silent. The buyer swiveled his head back toward the angry tamale. Just before he skidded toward the sidewalk he screamed, "You square-ass greasy chili-gut bitch. I'm gonna triple-cross you." A lanky stud stood up from a booth and yelled "Let us pray, brother." The joint blew up in peals of laughter. The combo started to riff "Mood Indigo" and the joint got back on jump time.
I thought about the runt. The Mexican broad had her hands on her hips. She was looking at me. She wanted me to say the buyer was a down and out nogood bastard. She didn't know I was up as a pledge in his club, and I didn't want to clue her. I put a deuce on the log and walked out. It was about ten at night. Preston had been right about one thing. The little black whore Poison had crumpled was standing, on her own feet somehow, in front of the liquor store. She hit on me. That terrible beating she took sure hadn't done much to cure her bad habit. She laid right into me "Hey Slim! Give me ten and sock it in. I won't put the rush on you, handsome. Cop a jug and let's go freak off." Though I had a quick vision of Poison's thirteens giving me a butt ache, I couldn't help myself. "If I cop a jug you come with me where I'm going ?" She nodded her head while she said "Anywhere, sugar." I copped a quart of cheap bourbon and flagged a cab. I took her to an old run down theatre twenty blocks away. We sat in the dark, toward the middle of the hall. There was almost nobody there. I handed her the bottle and said "Babe, I ain't got no ten and I ain't gonna sock it in ya. I just want to rap." She looked at me. I made like I was a lonely heart, same lame June trip I laid on Mama. I could tell she ain't buying it any, but a whore's no roller. Makes no difference to her if your story checks out or not. Just as long's you got one's good enough for her. After a few hearthy swigs she reached for my fly. She had a soft touch alright. I stopped her, told her I ain't got no ten or nothing, sorry. She said "Don't worry handsome. I ain't gonna want nothin'."
She knew a lot more than Preston, that's for damn sure. She gave me the rundown of the whole town. She knew all the cops in twelve precincts by name, when they started, what they did, everything. She was like the national library of whoring. She knew all the pimps, she knew all the whores. She knew there's a coupla new girls out on the street today working together, one young the other old. She didn't know their names but she knew the old one was a whore back East and squared with the policy wheel guy. She musta ran off. There was a burglary at their house, maybe the guy kicked her out. The young one had been out before, showed up maybe a week or so ago. She's got a bullshit pimp, if she's got a pimp at all. The rollers noticed her, it's a wonder if she makes it a few days more before getting the can. They'll probably lock her up in a reformatory. She's eighteen like I don't have another ten, she said. I chuckled in the dark. She chuckled with me. As she moved past the median through the bottle she started talking more about herself. She was come to town as the singer with a small band. She'd run away from home with the tenor sax. It broke up, so she joined another. One day while singing at a private party a guest shoved her in a closet and made a woman out of her. She hadn't given it up to the tenor. She was saving herself up for marriage. She was a twisted broad alright. The bill that joker dropped on her bloodied dress went further than the seventeen bucks that was her share of their fee. Even figuring five dollars for the dress. She went to more and more parties, less and less to sing. She played the flute more and more instead. Then there was a beef, but she got it suspended. Then there was another beef. Poison walked in and suspended it for her, and that was it for her : if she walked off of him, she'd get a fin. She didn't like him any, though it was obvious enough from her story his nose was well open for her. She didn't see a way out for herself, so she drank. I sounded her for ways to break up that Poison joker. She came up empty. He was too tight, too well connected. He had been at it for more than five years, and put some respectable roots down. She fell to snoozing by the time she had put most of that quart away. Just a few sips left on the bottom, and not her kinda sips anyway. I split before they rolled the credits. I don't even know what they put on.
Years later I met an old con philosopher, an old Drag man with his bit drawing short. He laid on me the old fighting fire with fire trip. He'd say, "Always remember, whether you be sucker or hustler in the world out there, you've got that vital edge if you can iron-clad your feelings." Then he'd go down his favourite path from somewhere back to nowhere. He'd say "I picture the human mind as a movie screen. If you're a dopey sucker, you'll just sit and watch all kinds of mindwrecking, damn fool movies on that screen. But Sonny, there ain't no reason 'cept for a stupid one for anyone to play on that screen anything that will worry him or dull that vital edge. Your daddy's name might not be Shubert, but you still own one stage in the world. You're the one boss of it, and that whole show going on in your our mind. You're even the one writes the script each night. So always write positive, dynamic scripts and show only the best movies for you on that screen whether you are pimp or priest." I told him, "Humphrey my man", that was his name, stupid whitey names like they got, "I ain't even known what they put on." He died the day after that. I never told him I was thinking of that little witch bitch asleep holding the bottle up those years ago. I wouldn't have told him if he lived out to be my age, anyway.
I wandered the streets a long while after that. Walked with my thoughts. At first I had thought there's others out there. I figured there's this book, and some got it. Read it, too. I figured there'd be cruel players who go by the book. When I went to Tuskegee I thought so sure enough. I was so sure of it I didn't even think about it, like a given that there's nothing there to think about. Those jokers sure as sugar had no clue. They was no better than any other, only they didn't think so. But deep down weren't too sure of it, either. They showed each other how to not be sure of it all day long, and that was it. It wasn't any learning, just worrying and wondering and fret. Just like the bitches do. They hadn't a leg up on Preston like he had no leg up on them. Only, they didn't think so. But they all had their yes Mr. Nick sir. And if they somehow didn't for five minutes, they went wild looking for him. I thought to myself "I bet you I can make that Poison be my bitch. I bet you I can make all of them. Every last one of them. This fast track ain't no faster than that fast track. No better, either. No different, only thing making it fast is the fret and that new wardrobe in your trunk like you're going somewhere new. There's ain't somewhere new to go."
By the time I got back to my whores it must've been after three. I twisted my key in the lock and stepped inside. June was wide-eyed. She leaped from the bed. Pepper had dozed off but she sat up too. They had on red baby-doll pajamas, both of them, see through but for the fringe. June leaped to the door and squeezed herself hard against me. She acted like I had been gone a year. She yelped, "Oh Daddy, I am so glad you're back. I was worried like hell. Where have you been? Do you love me as much as I love you? Did you miss me? I'd die if anything ever happens to you." I gritted my teeth. Her pretty love con had resurrected sad old scenes. I saw poor black Henry. He was on his knees blubbering his love for Mama. I saw his pitiful eyes begging Mama not to break his heart. I saw Mama kicking herself free of his clutching arms. I saw that terrible look of scorn and triumph on Mama's face. I thought about the worms that had a bite of his flesh, in his cool, lonely grave.
I sat my ass down on the warm bed between 'em. I said to June "You didn't miss me that much while I was turning this whore out". She cried a little. "Yes I did, Daddy. Yes I did. Every night," and she broke down. I nodded to Pepper. "What's your story, bitch ?" She pointed to a pile like a bale o' hay. It was all slats alright, but not a bill among them. Not a fifty either, I don't think. Just fins and bones and now again a saw. There was no way to count all that without taking a bath in it. "How much you got ?" Pepper pointed at June. "This crazy bitch's at two-forty-five. I'm at two-forty. She's had me by a fin." She shook her head. "That's forty-four tricks between the two of us since noon. Daddy, you want yo Mama dead ?" I shook my head. "That ain't so much. The night I turned old Crystal out I made that much off her, and it was only three hours. What you been doin' all day ?" Pepper grabbed her own hair. She asked me what am I talking about ? I ran it down for them, how I'd turned Phyllis out. Pepper was holding her head like from bursting. "That was both of you working, and with a car ? You made two-forty-five off of her, where was your end ?" I lifted my right hand at her, like to give her a deafening slap. She just looked at me. I said "Bitch, I made my end from her titties. Then I made her end from her ass." June leaned over and put her cheek in my extended palm. She looked up at me. "Daddy, don't beat her. She's good." I said "O yeah ?" and she broke down again. "Please Daddy, don't beat her. I love her." I chuckled. "She likes being beaten, baby. She's a freak for it. Ain't that right Pepper ?" She looked at me, those smoldering snake eyes of hers defeated. "You want us back on the track ?" I laughed.
"No bitch. I don't want you back on that track. I want you back on a better track." They were both taking me in, peepers the size of saucers. "You worked it hard tonight. That's good. There ain't no other way. But now you gotta start working it smart." Then I turned to Pepper. "Yo wrinkly old ass brought this bitch down. You know a whole week she worked by herself she made twenny-eight ? That's just by herself, it comes to more than you two got together all day long." That cut her down. She turned to a wailing ball of tears, snot an' despair right there in the bed. I kept after her. "I got you in to teach my whore and to lift her up. If I wanted her cut down, I coulda done it myself, cut a leg offa her or something. Though natural like this bitch is, that might've not even done it, she go on the track with two legs under her, bring in four hundred. She go with one leg bring in five." Pepper was beating the sheets down with her pretty fist, the size of a small plum. June had her hand over her waist, facing me and tearing up. "Please Daddy. We worked it so hard. She taught me so many things." I slapped her cheek soft and light three-four times. "I know she did, sugar butt. Thing is, the tricks liked you better when you didn't know. They wanna trick with their little daughter they left abed at home, not with their used up whore of a wife. From now on, whatever you know, you don't let on any of it. You getting me ?" Her mouth was open. I don't think anyone ever told her before a woman's better off not knowing, and if she knows not letting on. Whoring's an education for the young girl, that's for damn straight.
I grabbed Pepper by her hair and pulled her face up. "Why you so useless, you good for nothing bitch ?" She had her hands over her face, then swallowed hard, bit down and pushed them away, together, right in front of me. Like a prayer, she opened herself up for me. Opened herself up for the stomping. She didn't want to, with every strand screaming in her body she didn't want to. She promised herself she'd never let herself fall down in here again. Yet there she was, and there she opened herself up for it. Her eyes closed, she mouthed silently "Please, Daddy." I shifted my weight like I was about to crack the living daylights out of her, between my left holding her hair in a vise grip and my right flying in all the way from Detroit. She mouthed "I love you". I kissed her. She opened her eyes with a start, awash in tears. I laughed at her. "That remind you of anything, bitch ?" She fell to groveling, and kissing my feet. I sure had her alright. In my mind I thanked all those bullshit pimps she had, for all the work they did. They didn't get paid for it the half that I was going to get, that's sure as sugar in the bank.
I stretched out between them two and was asleep in all of two minutes.
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The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 13 : Almost Fucked But Not Even Arrested »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Wednesday, 03 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:44:23

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 10 : The Golden Fix And The Double Cross
When the door opened she jumped to her feet. "Daddy! Daddy! I'm so happy to see you!" I gave her a cold stare. "O yea ? And why's that, bitch ?" She mellowed out and went on her knees. She mumbled "I don't know, Daddy. I'm just happy, that's all." I went around her and sat my ass down on the bed. She turned and crawled towards me. She started taking my shoes off. "How do you like this dump ?" She lifted her eyes to me, then back down all bashful. "Oh, I like it Daddy. You're here. But..." I frowned at her. She glanced long enough to see it. "But what, bitch ?" She was playing with my shoelaces like a primary school priss caught without her homework. Eventually she mouthed off, "All my things are in the car. What should I do with them ?" I put my foot on her face. "That's easy, Phyl. You take them all next door. Here's the key." and I threw it in her hair. She reached for it with her hand, but didn't move her head any. On the way over I had seen in a window all sorts and manner of candy. I bought some of them, chocolates and things. Now here I was, tempting her with a delicious dollop. She took it in the mouth from my hand, then went back to my socks. She took in a deep breath. "Them socks stink, bitch ?" I prodded her. "Kinda" she giggled. "So why don't you wash 'em ?" She peeled them off, jumped to her feet, then turned to me. "The sink's over there", I pointed. "Yeah, but... should I do the socks first or the car first, Daddy ?" I pushed my pants down. "Do the socks first. Ain't yo Mama taught you no thing ?"
I was in the shower while she bawled over my dirty socks in the sink. She was quiet enough about it, just her shoulders shuddering now and again. I think they wash better in salty tears. Maybe they don't, I don't know. I still like mine done that way best. When I was getting out there came a rap on the door. It was none other than June, and you'll never guess what she said. It went like this : "Daddy! Daddy! I'm so happy to see you!" I said to her, "I'm happy to see you too, baby." She closed the door and spun herself around me. Looking at me all serious she said, "Daddy, Pepper wants you right away. Her old man's there, you're going to sit down and talk it through." I took a step back, right into the door. The idea kinda gave me the chills. What kind of set-up is this, anyways. "How did it look, baby ? What's he like ? Did you trick with him ?" She smiled slyly right back at me. "Oh, he's nice. Kinda old, like a teacher or something." Then she giggled. "He's not... you know. He likes for me to kiss it a lot." I scratched my head. "So he wasn't angry or anything ?" She shook her head. "No, no. It's like a business thing."
I sat myself down on the bed. She came to me, which is when she laid eyes on the other one. She looked back and forth until she got herself to ask, "Daddy, who's in the bathroom ?"
"Oh," I said, "don't mind her. That's my cousin."
"But why is she in the bathroom ?"
"She had a big argument at home. Big argument with her folks. She needed a place to stay. You know, until things cool down. Since you weren't here..."
June paddled all the way to the runt, but carefully, like the first Indians went to check out the first Spanish no doubt. Like how dogs meet, though she didn't sniff her ass. Instead she said "Hi! I'm June." The runt shot back "Hi June. Nice to meet you. I'm his cousin." June looked at her unconvinced. She came back to me. "Why is she naked ?"
"Oh, that's the rule around here. Girls gotta be naked. Why are you dressed ?"
She eased herself out of her maid's uniform, slowly. She had a headful of thoughts. Eventually she broke out, "Daddy... is she a whore ?"
I chuckled. "Naw, baby. She ain't no whore. Just a fake ass professor from them University is all."
That was just about all the runt was going to take. She whined like she was about to cry. "Don't say that, Daddy. Please don't."
I was out and out laughing by then. I said "She's a whore just like you, baby. She loves me and she'll love you too. Now go over there and kiss your whore sister's cat."
June went back towards the bathroom sink. She'd never done anything like it before in her life ; but Phyllis eased her into it and helped her along. She's a professoral teacher and all after all. I shot at her "You a jasper to boot ?" She asked me what's that. "One of them lazy beans" I said, and it sparked it for her. She didn't say anything. I figure she was a virgin one of them, she'd never had the chance to do anything about it before is all.
Once they were done I said "June baby, you go fetch the man downstairs and empty the yellow Ford parked on the curb. Me and her have to take a short ride, so you bring it all back inside now, you hear ? You put it all next door." She heard. Then I asked her if she's had any lunch. She said sure, they treated her real nice at Pepper's. They cooked it together. I turned to the runt. "How about you, bitch ?" She shook her pretty airbubble head. "No daddy. I ain't had a bite since you gave me breakfast this AM." I shrugged. "I guess you can starve just as well. Wouldn't hurt your fatass any, that's fo' sho'." June looked at me like what's the joke, but the runt bowed her head in shame. That's just how bitches are made, some things they always take to heart.
Once the short was cleared we took off, leaving June and Jack to haul all the shit inside. There was a damn lot of it, too! On the way over the runt was stiff, a million thoughts rushing through her head. Halfway there she warmed up enough to start the third degre. She asked me how many whores do I have again. I said now I've got three. "How come ?" she asked me, ignoring the road altogether. "Look where you're driving, bitch. What are you, psychic ? I thought this bitch and the one we're going to see now ran off together." That put her on the flat foot. "You mean, she came back ?" I nodded. "And the other one's got a pimp ?" I looked at her. "Babe, the other one's squared out, she has some rich white joker she squared out with. Now she wants back in." The runt was crying. Eventually she said "You know Daddy, that's the first time you called me babe or anything besides a bitch ?" I laught. She didn't even get it right, it wasn't the first time. Then her thoughts caught up with her. "How do you know it's not a set-up ?" she asked. I shook my head at her. "I don't. Pepper's previous pimp is still doing the bit this guy laid on him when he got Pepper away from him. For all I know all that's waiting there's ole Tommy." I could see it gave her cold chills. "Why are we going then ?" she asked, all bothered. I didn't say anything. She was working herself into a fever pitch "Want me to turn around ?" I shook my head at her, like what's wrong with her. I said "Drive, bitch. We're going to find out."
We found out alright. When Pepper opened the door she nearly fell on her ass. She whispered in my ear "You damned fool, what are you doing ?" I just slapped her ass a loud one and made for her livingroom. Her old man was there. I could tell he shat it when he saw me. So far so good, maybe it's really all about business. He said "Ah, you must be Bobby. I'm Frank." I went over to him and shook his hand. I said "Iceberg." I don't know why I said that. He said "Oh, of course. Iceberg." He poured me a drink. By this time Pepper and Phyllis caught up with us. I said "This is Crystal. She's new, I only started her whoring yesterday. That's how come she don't know she's supposed to be naked. Bitch!" The runt was out of her glove before the echo died out. I smiled widely at the guy. "Feel free to use her whichever way you want. That's what she's for."
Pepper's eyes were shooting daggers at me. Her old man looked at her and mumbled "Tough kid, huh." He turned to me and said "I understand you've already done Pepper that way ?" I looked at him and said "Mr. Ibbetts, I don't know what to say. I don't mean no offense." Pepper had enough of it by now. She waved her hands like "lay off you two!". She flopped her pretty titties out of her top, then said "I don't know what's gotten into him tonight. Every other time he's the other way like it's his religion, fifty bucks in his pocket he'll make like he's got nine cents. Now he's banging two dimes together trying to make them sound like the Bank of England." She turned to me. "Shut up, junior. Come put your face in my cat instead, like a good boy."
I said "Yes Mama" and walked over there. The runt's mouth was hanging open to about her knees. The guy wasn't that far behind. I gave Pepper a sweet kiss on her pretty bud. I missed her plenty. Then I said "Bitch, maybe you wanna hear me out first. I got some news." She looked at me. I spilled the beans on the whole Weeping cross, the whole thing as I had heard it. What I had to say sure put her old man in a spinning frenzy. He picked up the phone and dialed like his life depended on it. "Who's that ? Yeah, listen McKay, send some guys over. No. Yes. No, plainclothes. Three squads. Tell 'em to bring shotguns. I have no fucking idea. Yeah. I'll explain it to them once they're here. Step on it."
"You figure that's a thing ?" Pepper was a little pale. Her old man was pissed off. "No it's not a god damned thing. It's the dumbest story I've ever heard. It makes no sense whichever way." Pepper shook her head. "So what then ? Hit the house ?" Her old man nodded. "They just want you out of here. Amateurs." Pepper turned to me "Come on, Daddy. We're getting out of here." Her old man cut her short. "Wait a minute." Then he turned to the runt. "Can you drive, gorgeous ?" She looked at me. I answered for her "Sure she can drive. She's got a short, too." He nodded. "Alright, you go with Pepper. Go to a phone booth, put the call in, then go to the hotel they want you at, put your time in, then have fun." He turned to the runt again. "You're driving me. I'll be between the seats so it looks like it's just you if anyone's looking." I thought that'll be a tight ride for him in her short, but what was I going to say. The runt looked at me. Pepper's old man snapped his fingers at her. "I'm your Daddy now, bitch." She wasn't paying any attention to him. I finally said "Alright Big Daddy, have it your way." I told the runt, "You do what he tells you to like I was telling you to. Don't embarass me, you hear ?" I turned back to him "I'll want her back, Frank." He nodded his head. "You'll get her back. What's the Big Daddy stuff ?" I stood six foot two, but I was as scrawny as a hound back then. He stood six feet or so, but he had a hundred pounds easy on me. I smiled sweetly and I said, "Well Frank... you're the biggest one here, aren't you.". Pepper dragged me by the hand out of there, her titties still flopping in the breeze. Before I knew it we were in the car, driving away. I sure hoped Phyllis was gonna do alright.
She did, too. There wasn't anything to it, she just drove him around and then back. We went to a drug store down the road. I called Weeping. He told me to maneuver Pepper's face toward the head of the bed as much as possible when we got into the act. We took a booth so I could watch the clock. At eleven twelve Mr. and Mrs. Barksdale picked up the key to their pad. It felt like walking on stage. The room looked like they had made it with Wyatt Earp in mind. Overstuffed horse-hair living room, gleaming brass bed, giant cherubs on the wall, Gideon Bible on the marble top bedroom table. There was a midget efficiency kitchen cubicle. We laughed at all the Milwaukee square couples come to Chicago for a luxury one-weekend honeymoon. Young square bitch demonstrating her pancakes to her enraptured captive audience. "Oh honey, I betcha nobody had pancakes this good". Nobody except for the next sucker, and the previous one.
High on the wall over the bed were the two gold colored cherubs. Their eyes were holes, their mouths popped wide holding the light fixtures. When we got into bed we got the show on the road, like playing an off-key brass band, all percussion. I was almost sure some steamed up joker in the adjoining room had his gizmo focused on the carnival through a drilled hole peeking from a cherub's empty eye socket. It made me kinda hot, but in a different way. Pepper wasn't much in the mood, I could tell, but she took her pounding like a champ regardless. We were all together again before midnight. Only difference, the pigs had a great cop in their craw : five people wanted in sixty states between them, plus a truck, tools, a whole pile-up. Turns out Frank was dead-right. Weeping's story was through and through bullshit. The whole thing was a burglary set-up, they were going to empty the house. He said the take'd have been maybe three maybe four hundred thousand that night. I had to sit down. "How much you say, Frank ?" It was his turn to chuckle. "Who do you think you're talking to, boy ? Some jealous geezer with an old whore in tow ? Don't believe everything you hear." Pepper was smiling her half-eyelid smile to the side. "Can you fix me up ?" came out of me like oil from a freshly dug well in rich Texas. He laughed. "Yes, I can fix you up. Can you stick to it ?" I nodded. "You're not some flash in the pan ? You've got talent, it's obvious, but it takes work to get anywhere. You gonna stick to it ?" I raised my right hand, like in a court of law. "I swear."
It was all gravy from there. His idea was to bankroll me, and split the whole thing halfway. I didn't go for that. Pepper said "I told you he's got scratch stashed." Frank chuckled. "How much you got, kid ?" I told him about five grand. He worked it out for me. The fix itself was going to run five a week. Less, he said, but it's better to figure it high and find yourself with spare cash than to figure it tight and then blow up. I'd need to get whores, I'd need muscle to keep the drunks and two bit gangsters in line. To make that kinda fix worth it, I'd need a certain size of operation, I'll be running on 20, 30 grand a week at a minimum in expenses. Yes the profit's gonna be three, four times that, if I know what I'm doing. But I don't know what I'm doing. I'm learning, or trying to. Yes Pepper's there, but she's never run an operation in her life. She's an artist in the sheets, he said, but she's not wise. She's not even smart. She'd like to be, sure. Maybe she'll get to be. But for now we're the blind leading the blind. Going at it with less than four-five week's capital's just wasting our time on skid row. That's at least fifty in cash and another hundred in the background. He had a point with all that. Then he said sure, I could get it together myself. Take me who knows, a coupla months maybe. If I'm lucky. If nobody croaks me by then, if I want to run the risk, I can cut him out of the deal. "So the question comes down to, Iceberg, who do you hate and how much do you hate 'em ?" he said. Because if I hate his guts enough to risk taking a bullet just to cut him out of some scratch he doesn't even need for anything, he's got no problem shaking my hand and wishing me a happy time of day.
I turned to Pepper. "There's no way to say no to this man." She was all smiles. "What do you say, Mama ?" She nodded. "Do what he tells you, baby." I stuck out my hand. "Alright Frank, what Mama says Iceberg does. You've got yourself a deal like you say." Then he did the damndest thing. He reached behind one of the armchairs and pulled out a suitcase. He set it down on the table and opened it up. It was piled with dough. Now my mouth was hanging down by my knees. He smiled at me. "Fifty. You wanna count it ?" I shook my head. "Naw, man. Let that bitch over there count it. Who knows, maybe she gets the idea and it's an inspiration to her." Crystal shimmied over and got busy counting C notes. I told them the story of how I took her roll, and how I told her she can crash once she's matched it. Frank was laughing his ass off, but Pepper was just shaking her head. "So" I said, "From here I take this bitch out to the docks. Chain her to the pier, come back in a week, she if she's fifty full or still some short." Phyllis was counting the same stack over and over again ; but Frank found the story hysterical.
We were on our way out. I asked him if he wants either of the whores stay back with him tonight ? He picked the runt. I told her, stay back and live it up a little. And if Pepper's pad's in any shape other than how she left it when you're out, I'ma cut both your thumbs and your big toes off, and switch them around. Everyone took a moment of silence to chew through that one, and then we split.
On the way back I needled Pepper some. "I didn't know you weren't even smart, bitch." She called me a smart alleck and told me to kiss her black whore ass. I had her pull over and did just that. Man I had missed that sweet behind on her like nothing else.
June wasn't back yet. We got back into the car and cruised around looking for her. Eventually we spotted her getting out of a big white Packard, just like I had dreamed of. She looked smack drag like a good whore at two o'clock in the AM : mussed up and tired. She fumbled into the car, her eyes half-closed, like a robot. I said, "Well, how goes it baby?" She dug in her bosom and pulled out a damp wad of bills. I counted it while Pepper drove. It was a fin short of a C. June whined about it. "Sorry Daddy, it's been rough out tonight. Coupla jokers played me for the money. Another one pulled a knife on me. Lucky it was early on and I didn't have much. He hurt me, though." I petted her matted hair. "How did he hurt you, baby ?" She shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Can I stop now, Daddy? I'm tired and nasty, and my shoulder and ass ache. I would like a pastrami and coffee and a bath. Is it ok if I call it a night ?" I rubbed the wad in Pepper's face, right on her nose and all over her mouth. "Reminds you of anything ?" She shuddered. "Tomorrow you go out there with her. I want you on the street at noon, that clear ?" Pepper gave me a glance from the corner of her eye. "Yes, Daddy!" they both muttered. "You show her. Teach her everything." I looked at her. "It's a damn shame, a poor kid by hereself in the street like that. You wise her up, you hear ?" Pepper nodded. We stopped at an open-air kosher joint. June kept squirming on the hard wooden bench. Her butt must have been giving her fits. She was silent until she cut through that sandwich and coffee.
Then she said, "Daddy, what's it all for ?" She took a sheepish glance at me, then said "Please don't misunderstand me. I like doing it for you. Doing anything for you." I scratched my head. "Baby," I said, "You know how there's preachers, and they say what to do and not ?" She nodded, confused. "But then it's all bullshit, and not what anyone does, anyway ?" She was looking straight at me. "That's what it's for. Too much lying, too little livin'. Enough of that old bullshit." Pepper parked the car. We weren't anywhere near home yet. She just looked at me. Then she drove off.
Once back at the old place, June went for a soak. I sat and talked with Pepper. Then we all went to sleep in the small bed, squeezed like sardines. Neither of them wanted to go to another room and be comfortable by herself.
« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 9 : Funeral, Reformatory and Sunday Dinner
The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 11 : Something Old, And Something New, And Something Blue »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Tuesday, 02 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:44:10

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 1 : Twist, and Shout
Her name was Maude and she Georgied me around 1921. I was only three years old. Mama told me about it, years later. The memory of it made her almost tremble as she told me, all high-strung and bothered, as emotional perhaps as at the time when she surprised us : her panting and moaning at the point of orgasm, with her massive black thighs viselike around my head, my tiny little baby head wedged in there. Mama worked long hours in a hand laundry like they had back then, and Maude was the maude, at fifty cents a day. She was a young widow. I don't remember how her husband died. Maybe they never told me, or maybe they never told anyone. She had a reputation in Indianapolis, Indiana as a devout Holy Roller. You'd think this is strange, considering she told Mama she's done the same to all the babies, because it's what you're to do, because it's good for them, so they learn and get used to it and live happy in life. She said it's the holy blessing and anointment and never in this life will one be happy but through it. It's not strange even a little bit, though. It's obvious. All the church people are in the same way, just like salesmen : they don't mean what you'd expect by the words they say.
Mama asked her if she'd done to her babies too, but Maude said she ain't got any. That's right, said Mama, and kicked her out of the house. But then she came back the next week, because ain't nobody take the job at fifty cents a day, and Mama couldn't stay home from the laundry no more, and she said I cried and cried like at the second weaning while Maude was gone. Mama said I was really bad when she took the tit from my mouth, some kids are better than others but everyone she showed it to said I'm the worst they've ever seen, even old crones who saw the slave days and knew Lincoln. But this was worse ; so I asked her if she took a discount because of me ? And she told me she said "I guess I did, son" and I asked her then isn't that like pimping ? And she told me "Bobby, ain't nobody living in this world but they be pimpin' or whorin' and don't you forget it now boy!"
Many things through the years I've forgot, but look that not that. I must've been maybe nine or ten when she told me about it, I don't remember but her words. I have tried through the years to remember Maude's face, but all I can remember clearly is the funky ritual. I vaguely remember, not her words exactly, but her panting excitement whenever we were alone. I remember more vividly the moist, odorous darkness and the bristle-like hairs tickling my face and most vividly I can remember my panic, when in the wild moment of her climax, she would savagely jerk my head even tighter into the hairy maw. I couldn't get a breath of air until later, when like a huge black balloon she would exhale with a whistling whoosh and relax, limply freeing my head. I remember her sweat, pouring down her thighs, dripping off the back of my neck, and the ache and the strain, especially at the root of my baby tongue. I remember other things, too. I remember running away from home, the first time, that day. I ran out, there was a bike somebody left propped against a pole. I jumped on it and pedalled away, madly, like a blind frog. I was pedalling like I were running away, and in fact I was running away. From her, from those emotions, from the dreams, from the memories. From everything. I thought I must forget ; for many years I thought I had done it and forgot. But today, that I am old, today, as all my life's used up, although I've known so many women that begged to be remembered and yet I've forgotten them all, today still there's her. The one I can't truly forget. Maude!
A man from Columbia told me last week writing was invented by young women because old men forget. Speech, he said, was invented by young men, to better hide their thoughts ; then writing came around, to work differently than memory, and all the better make a mess of it. I thought as we were talking, you know what ? I'll write it all down! and then we'll see. Maybe you read it and tell me ; though by then I won't be here to hear it any longer.
Mama and I had come to Indianapolis from Chicago. To hear her tell the story, ever since the time when she was six months pregnant my father began showing his true colors : a black bum in white spats. It's sad when it comes out true colors aren't even true colors in the first place. Mama's story went in the usual way : a no-good bum in disguise stalked a beautiful and innocent virgin in some small town in Tennessee that happened to be their home town. He conned her into marriage. That she was getting married and knocked up no matter what, that bum or any other bum... such was never mentioned. Instead, as her own story went by her own mouth, he had conned her. It just so happened to be what she had already set herself to, as hard and stubbornly as an old sourdough miner. Do you suppose the very mountains con those sad, strange old men into digging at them their lives away ? Maybe they do, the mountains just sit there, quietly, conning poor old men all the while. She was as dumb as a doorstop, but that's not what she saw, looking back. Instead, she turned around and called it innocence, like molding shit in gold brick shapes and pretending like you carved serials on them, too. A shitbrick of stupid, which she called an innocent virgin, who was beautiful it so happens. She didn't know anything, not anything useful anyways, she couldn't do anything, besides of course getting married and detecting the bum in whoever had conned her to do the only thing she knew how to do, the only thing she was going to do anyways. And she was beautiful, of course, whatever that means. She was beautiful, and call it good.
That they're all beautiful in the same way at just about the age they're getting ready to get themselves conned in the cunt... that, she didn't notice. That the bum, whichever one, will be detected and discovered a bum, whatever he might've been, for being married to her, and that she'd be the very one to make that discovery, somehow... none of that found a place in her story. Instead it was her parents, you see, who with a big great sigh of relief gave their blessing and wished them the best in the promised land up North in Chicago. Mama had ten brothers and sisters, and her marriage meant one less mouth to feed, so maybe not nearly as much conning as Mama always said was truly at any point involved. Maybe it was more of an act of mercy on his part, or maybe it wasn't her that was being conned. Who wants a beautiful innocent mouth to feed, and what do they ever want it for ? She didn't come right out and say it, but she meant it, oh how she very much meant it : it was their fault. Her Mother and Father, I know nothing of them besides of course it must've been their fault that Mama was poor growing up. Not hers. What can a child ever do ? But then, it wasn't her fault later, that we were poor. God knows she did all she could, and that should be good enough. It was that bum she married, it was his fault. He was no good, as she discovered herself. Not her fault. His. She always did just fine by her own lights, there was always ample supply of credit right on hand, readily extended to herself as her own story went ; yet somehow everyone else around always turned out to be some kind of bum. That's how all her stories always went, and everyone else's stories that I ever heard, it's like they're all in court. But this... this won't go anything like that.
I know what I am, and who. I don't need to try and find it out, discreetly, hiding out, watching everyone carefully, like a gambler trying to divine his own standing by the way all the others hold their eyes. I've known as many gamblers as I've known whores in my life, and each to the last one were the same way : every whore with a story just like Mama's, that unlike Mama she had seen through ; and every gambler a little boy, trying to do the same everyone else does, only do it cheaper. Ole Bama told me one time, he said, "Iceberg, everyone's always gambling. My old man used to gamble when he worked the field and hoped for rain. I figure, if a man's gonna gamble, he might as well do it without ploughing." Bama was more straightforward than most, though that didn't make him any more honest. Everyone's soft, though you gotta be tough, and so everyone gets banged up and crumples up inside and soon enough everyone's crooked like corkscrews and nobody knows what to say anymore, or how to say it, for no straight words fit any curled ears anymore. But I know it, I know it all, I've lived my life out and in that trade that's what I get : I know it all now. Six men sit down around an upturned crate, and they're all the same now. That's the big deal, the true reason why they gamble : equality. They're now and finally the same, nobody's as equal as the man sat down before a hand of poker. Unequality there's a real crime, which they call cheating, and will shoot each other for it, just as good as in any war anyone's ever had. Nothing Phoney about it. They're equal, for a moment ; and then the first card hits. Well... they ain't equal no mo'. Not now, not no mo'. Who's who, though ? The card's a queen or a three, of diamonds or clubs. It hits their eyes. They don't look around, though of course they do. Who's who ? They stab each other in the eyes with little colored bits of prick, to find out who's who. Not for me, though lots of little boys stuck going around as if they were grown men do it their whole lives. But then again, they've never had their maude growing up. Or maybe they did and she was no good.
My father's father was a skilled cook, Mama said, and he passed his know how to my father, Mama said. I don't know about that, I can't cook to save my life, and I never could ; but my Dad, he scored a chef's job at a huge middle-class hotel shortly after getting to Chicago, so there must be something to the story. They put Mama on as a waitress, too. Mama told me that even with both of them working twelve hours a day, six days a week they couldn't save a nickel or buy furniture or anything. She said my idiot father had come to the big city and gone sucker wild. He couldn't stay away from the high-yellow whores with their big asses and bitch-dog sexual anticsi. I didn't ask her then, what did she mean by that ; or what they got she ain't got, or why does she think any of that. I didn't know how ; but I don't think she believed much of it herself, because she added that whatever they didn't con him out of he lost in the cheat crap joints. Why'd any man go to cheat crap joints ? Take it from old Iceberg : whenever there's a backup in the story, the teller's tellin' it. Say you're... I don't know what you might be, a school marm, maybe ? Yeah, alright, I'm going with that. You're a tighly wound up tomato, unreasonably affraid of seen and therefore unreasonably attracted by it. I'm not the first one to have tried this approach, right ? Fine then, buckle down and listen : on comes a kiddy up to your desk one day, and it turns out he didn't do his homework. If he says he did it, but it fell down a well he might even be telling true ; if she says she did it, but the dog ate it and then she was also out of pencils, you know she's lying. They're all lying, of course ; the little boy just doesn't know how, that's all. And neither does the little girl.
One night at the hotel he vanished from the kitchen, and Mama finally found him thrusting mightily into a half-white waitress lying on a sack of potatoes in a storage room, her legs locked around his back. Mama said she threw everything she could lift at them. This story too, I'm sure. They were unemployed when they walked away from the shambles. I didn't know to ask her if she locked her legs around his back too, or why didn't she kiss the whore. Who can afford to throw things at people who love them ? There's never that many, and if you love them back what sort of mind you need to throw things at the people who love them ? There's not that many of those, either, so if you ever find the man you love thrusting mightily into a woman that's got her legs locked around his back, you walk right up to her and kiss her. And don't you forget that! The way she told it instead, my father tearfully vowed to straighten himself out and be a man, but... after my birth he got worse and had the stupid gall to suggest to Mama that I be put on a Catholic Church doorstep. Mama wouldn't have it, so he hurled me against the wall in disgust. I survived, and miraculously uninjured, but he left us, his white spats flashing and his derby hat at a rakish angle. I don't believe a word of it, of course, but that makes us even : you don't believe a word of mine, do you now. Yet in time you'll find out belief isn't nearly as necessary in this life as you at first make out to think.
For us it was the beginning of a bitter Winter that year. Mama packed pressing irons and waving combs into a small bag and wrapped me warmly in blankets and set out into the bleak, friendless city to ring door bells, the bag in one arm and I in the other. Her pitch was something like this, "Ma'am, I can make your hair curly and beautiful. Please give me a chance. For fifty cents, that's all, I will make your hair shine like new money." At this point in the pitch Mama told me she would slip the blanket aside to bare my wee big-eyed face. The sight of me in her arm on a subzero day was like a charm. She managed to make a living for us.
Then in the Spring, with new friends of Mama's we left Chicago for Indianapolis. We stayed there until nineteen twenty-four, when a fire gutted the hand laundry where Mama worked. I don't remember anything about these friends, nor do they figure in her tales, so I'll venture a guess and say they conned an innocent but still beautiful black woman with a child in tow and no father anywhere, and then turned out to be bums. Because that's what they were, and had been all along. By coincidence there also were no jobs in Indianapolis. Not for Mama, not for anyone else. For six months we barely made it on herii meager savings. We were penniless and the pantry well bare by the time a tall ugly angel visiting relatives in Indianapolis came into our lives. He fell instantly in love with my lissome beautiful mother. His name was Henry Upshaw, and I guess I fell as hard for him as he fell for Mama.
He took us back to Rockford, Illinois with him. He owned a cleaning and pressing shop there, the only Nigger business in downtown Rockford. In those tough depression times a Nigger in his position was the envy of most Nigger men. Still Henry was religious, ambitious, good and kind. I often wonder what would have happened to my life if I had not been torn away from him. Sometimes it seems like your life's all you, and it'll play the same regardless what anyone throws your way, like the organ wails the same no matter who grinds it. But then some other times and especially late at night it seems more like there's no you, nothing of yours in there at all. Just a half nutshell floating a little while on the open sea, akin to any other and soonly sunk like all the others. Or maybe it's not like that at all. Maybe it's not like anything at all. Maybe it's just a thought, just like a dream, maybe there's nothing there at all until you bend to look, and then you see whatever you feel like, just like Ma. Maybe my life didn't turn out at all, it was someone else's all along and I just didn't know about it. Maybe a woman I do not know asked a man I do not know whether he often rewrites auto-biographies, and that's what it was all along, an autobiography without an author, waiting to be written out so it could then have existed though at its time it had not. Everyone's life's his own except yours, because that's the only time you'd know. The others you just assume, like little niggers trying to swim over. Nothing of yours, no boat, no hovel, no tool of any kind nor even the mental sophistication that could divine what a tool'd look like. Bare arms and legs, such as they are, and the great sea to be crossed on just that. The little nigglets still left on the shore readily assume the grown niggers long left swam, and did not sink. Once it's their time to be that nigger and swim they soon discover the realities of the situation ; but somehow as if by magic they still believe all the others swam, and did not sink. It's more objective that way. It's more naive, more empowering in that manner of naivite, to think your life's your own even though plainly enough nobody else's life ever was their own that you can point to. And yet...
Henry treated Mama like she was a princess. Anything she wanted he got for her. She was a fashion plate now all right. Every Sunday when we all three went to church in the gleaming black Dodge we were an outstanding sight as we walked down the aisle in our fresh neat clothing. Only the few Nigger lawyers and physicians lived as well, looked as well. Mama was president of several civic clubs. For the first time we were living the good life.
Mama had a dream. She told it to Henry. Like the genie of the lamp he made it a reality. The dream was a four stall, opulent beauty shop. Its chrome gleamed in the black-and-gold motif, just the very thing an out of work Nigger whore would get for herself ; but Mama was no whore, just a lousy Princess, so Henry had to get it for her instead. It stood in the heart of the Negro business section, and it flourished from the moment its doors opened. Her clientele was for the most part whores, pimps, and hustlers from the sprawling red light district in Rockford, the only ones who always had the money to spend on their appearance and the sense to see why they should. The first time I saw Washington he was sitting down, getting his nails manicured in the shop. Mama was smiling into his handsome olive-tinted face as she buffed his nails. I didn't know when I first saw him that he was the pin-striped snake who would poison the core of our lives. To be honest, I didn't know much of anything when I first saw him. I certainly had no inkling that was to be the last day at the shop as live billows of steam hissed from the old pressing machine each time Henry slammed its lid down on a garment.
Jesus! It was hot in that little shop. Steamy and crowded, yet how I loved every minute of it! That's what young bitches mean when they say they'd rather starve with the man they love. It was school-vacation time for me but I worked in the shop all day, every day. I'd jump up in bed every morning like never before, like never since then, brimming with excitement. Today's the day I'll be helping my stepfather! I was in love with him like any puppy ever was in love. People like to think it matters if you're a boy or a girl, but that's because the truth scares them. Up until sixteen or so everyone's a little girl, inside, deep down inside. The little boys and the little girls too, all the same. They might as well all wear skirts, because that's the kind of same they are : the kind that goes best in a skirt.
That one day, just like every other day, I was the happiest black boy in Rockford. As I saw my reflection in the banker's expensive black shoes, as I applied the sole dressing, as I hummed my favorite tune "Spring Time in the Rockies" I was, without a doubt, without possibility of parole, without hint of a hope of revisitation or ever encountering it thence or ever again, the happiest boy that ever lived. The banker stepped down from the shine stand, stood for a moment as I flicked lint from his soft, rich suit, then with a warm smile he pressed an extravagantiii fifty-cent piece into my hand and stepped out into the broiling street. Back then they still had the Coolidge dollar, shines went for a dime. What a tip! I've dished out many tips since then, hundreds of thousands for sure, maybe a million different tips. For small things, for big things, for nothing at all, I must've doled out a million dollars in tips. A million dollar, easy. Tips in paper dollars, in these days' dollars, nothing dollars. I'm a man who's pushed out a million dollars of confederate money in tips, bribes, gratuities. Maybe it adds up to that half dollar all in all, or maybe it does not. Some days I think it does. Some days I think it must, it's just too much time, too many tips to not sum up to one single tip, one single moment in a life. Some other days though...
I didn't know back then that the banker'll never press another coin into my hand. That for the next fifty and more years this last day'll be there, to be remembered, vividly remembered as the final day of real happiness for me. I'd live to press five-dollar bills into the palms of shine boys, for shining my handmade shoes that in name only cost at least the thrice whatever the banker paid for his. But my shoes'd be Roosevelt shoes, New Deal shoes. Pressed shit shoes, nothing shoes, I doled out paper pretending to be money to some kid pretending to be shining my bare feet pretending to be shoed and all the while everyone pretending to be happy though nobody ever was. We didn't know anything back then, neither did I nor anyone else. As far as all could see there was really nothing out of the ordinary about that day. Nothing during that day that I heard or saw preparing me for the swift, for the pile-up of confusing events that over the weekend slammed my life away from all that was good to all that's forever bad. Now, looking back, remembering that last day in the shop as clearly as if it were yesterday, my stepfather, Henry, was unusually quiet. My young virgin mind couldn't grasp his worry, his heartbreak. Even as a ten year old I knew that this huge, ugly black man who had rescued Mama and me from actual starvation back in Indianapolis loved us with all of his great, sensitive heart. I loved Henry with all my heart. He was the only father I had ever really known. For his sake he could have saved himself an early death from a broken heart if instead of falling so madly in love with Mama he had run as fast as he could away from us. For him she was little more than brown-skin poison in a, by then, size-twelve dress.
That last night at eight o'clock Dad and I flicked the shop's lights out as always at closing. In an emotion muffled voice he spoke my name. "Bobby." I turned toward him and looked up into his face tense and strained in the pale light reaching us from the street lamp. I was confused and shaken when he put his massive hands on my shoulders and drew me to him very tightly just holding me in this strange desperate way. My head was pressed against his belt buckle. I could barely make out the rapid flow of words in his low, plaintive tone. He said, "Bobby, you know I love you and Mama, don't you?"
His stomach muscles were cording, jerking against my cheek. That's how he said it, too. "You, and Mama", it's what he said. I knew he was going to burst into tears. I said as I squeezed my arms around his waist, "Yes, Daddy, yes, Daddy. We love you too, Daddy. We always will, Daddy." I'm so glad I said that. Of all the things I ever did or said, sometimes in their own time, sometimes out of place, that's the one I'm glad to have gotten right. He was trembling as he said, "You and Mama wouldn't ever leave me? You know Bobby, I ain't got nobody in the world but you two. I just couldn't go on if you left me alone." I clung tightly to him and said, "Don't worry Daddy, we'll never leave you, I promise, honest, Daddy." What a sight we could've been, the six-foot-six black giant and the frail little boy holding on to each other for dear life, crying there in the darkness.
———I sat and thought upon this matter ; and we discussed it in the harem. 'Tis muddy at best ; but do you suppose a black woman who spent 1918 pregnant and throwing things at sacks of potatoes actually said those words, those exact words, to her son at some point during or maybe just after the Great Depression ? Why would she think that ? What do you suppose she sees, admitting she did say it, in her mind's eye ? The accuplation described's plainly vaginal, the girl on the sack of potatoes isn't taking it in the ass nor is she sucking cock, they're there doing intromissive missionary like since the dawn of time, the position upon which the Americas were built. What, is this guy's momma some kinda Boston Protestant from a small town in Tennessee ? Does she take offense at the other, normal girls being too straightforward, too directly earnest about the cunt between their legs for her elaborate tastes ? I don't know how you say farafasticuri in your language, but is that the problem, is it that she's not an animal, she's a human being, as proven by the fact she can't touch it, let alone spread it in her hand for a man's visual inspection like normal people ?
Or is it rather that the book, the original book, being written in the 60s, about events from the late twenties up until the early fifities but written in the mid-60s, falsifies liberally, disrespectfully butchers the stories such that the minced meat remaining's entirely a byproduct of the "American" notion, as reconstructed televisionally (and out of disparate, and mostly very diverging reality), nothing authentic (or for that matter true) remaining ? It'd be just like the tv age, of course, but then... [↩]At first I was tempted to change this asyntactic barbarism towards a more aetolian possessive pronoun or something ; but then it occurs to me it's actually quite flavourfully descriptive as it stands. It's not her savings, it's the savings, little Obama's fully grown inside and if you build a business...
Come to think of it now I have to change it, my Iceberg's not their liceberg. [↩]He sounds just like fucking Elliot, what the fuck can I do, opulent lissome etcetera. Hot damn... [↩]
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The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 2 : To The Grave ; And Beyond »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Wednesday, 24 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:44:02

The Problem
The notion that every two bit nobody is called upon -- as if by phenomena embodied, or the very gods themselves, ridiculum dictu -- to "figure things out for himself" and "come up with his own answers" to life's all questions, big and small alikei, is something beyond description. Undisputably it's the dumbest nonsense ever proposed, for it's self-obviously the dumbest nonsense possible.ii Yet anyone who's ever read the Greeksiii is not going to be much surprised to discover that the worst possible is also existent.iv
Of course, they'd think they accomplished all that, wedidditreddit etcetera ; and yet, for all the layered ludicrous in there, the subject's not merely an exercise in impossiblity. It's an outright pointless exercise in impossibility!
Pedalling on the stationary bicycle is pointless in the limited sense that it won't take you anywhere ; but it's still good for you. The mere act of exercising the muscles is healthy, it promotes blood flow and virtuous metabolic cycling, it's wasted effort, evidently, but wasted constructively.
Exactly contrary to that, the exercise whereby the herd of nobodies acts as if they were their betters -- just like that, just by themselves (or else through the magic virtues of an obelsik engraved to "reason", if you prefer) -- isn't constructive. It's not constructive at all, not to the faintest degree. It has no positive effect whatsoever -- in the absolute, definitive and complete sense of negation.
It certainly doesn't take them any step closer to lordship ; for all the broken china everywhere the elephant's not any closer to being a Chinaman, let alone a china shop owner. Not any closer at all, in any perspective, to any degree. There's just nothing there ; and in the same way the replacement of the white man's accumulated wealth of tradtionally-maintained knowledge, constructed, patiently, painstakingly, over meaningful and recorded centuries, like everything elsev is in the old world, with the cheap plasticrap of "I don't see why" and "hell no we won't go" etcetera comes at a great civilisational cost.vi
And that is the problem : out of shit this weak, the highest tower that can be constructed is not very high indeed. The greatest turmoils, the deepest longings, the fiercest calls, the anything most-est available in this sprawled, generalized, planetary-sized traditional African villagevii aren't very notable. The world's flatlined drearily, for having been put in the limp hands of limpdick Michael Ceras everywhere, to do with "as best they can figure out what".
The problem of other people, perhaps ; but the problem nevertheless.
———Nor are they all that different, in fairness. More a matter of perspective than substance informs these considerations of problem size. [↩]I don't mean conceivable, there's a a difference, there's plenty of negative space between the potential of stupidity in the sense of what people can conceive of and the potential of stupidity in the sense of what actually is available, as a factual matter ; and that difference's of the sort of scope relating a galaxy to the very universe. [↩]No, this isn't a collective noun, in your manner. They're not "the Greeks" like you are "the Americans" (in your own parlance) or the UStards (otherwise). It's an after the fact summation, naturally and intrinsically exonymous -- and for that very fact valuable. Because it discusses them niggers as a white man would. Not "empathetically", but externally. As through the eyes of Mr. Bultitude, sr. gazing upon his spuriously idiotic son. Not making any allowance whatsoever for the central idiocy of womanhood that's saying "you didn't live my life" as if the having of some particular form of "an experience" is not merely needed but an outright required ingredient to its understanding -- and therefore meaningful, important and establishing.
To illuminate that over-dense (even by Trilema standards) last sentence we'll have to proceed by parts. In a footnote, of all places, we have to proceed by parts -- but such is our fate, not for our faults and sins but for existence's intrinsic evil, and so then... that's what we'll do! Firstly, that "establishing" in there is the old churchly Romanian (it's not really Romanian other than in the sense of being preserved in there for three thousand years untouched, because the Romanians are blessfully much too stupid to meaningfully touch anything -- and until recently they knew this, too!) "ziditoare". Its eminent formulation is "suferinta-i ziditoare", which roughly translates to "suffering is [the only known way of] establishing [god's world]. A deeply feminine view of phenomena and therefore existence, whereby thalassa's powerful, yes -- not because it breaks all things, but because it carries all things -- and therefore endurance, perdurance and withstanding are virtues (to the necessary exclusion of all else, as they're the virtues of feminity ; that all esle including everything, everything whatsoever, from mere movement to making sense all the way to civilisation). Nevertheless, female appropriation of fundamental concepts doesn't mar them ; the notion remains, and even shines (after the guts are washed off of it).
Secondly, the philosophically feminine -- and feminine irrespective of whether any genetically female humans now hold, or ever during millenia uncounted did hold such views, explicitly or otherwise, to any degree of rarity or majority, just as a photon's aroma's unrelated to your tasting light in any way whatsoever -- misperception of existence, whereby it doesn't have to make sense, or ever be recounted to any standard, being instead entirely driven (as in extreme cases it actually is quite plainly driven) by the cunt as a ready substitute for any recounting. The cunt that ever spawns, an endless dropper, a spigot of the great sea of monstrous thanatoi beyond. Ten trillion ovopositors dripping, day by day and moan by moan, all horrors conceivable, leaking all misery from beyond into actual existence, impervious to any consideration. They "just come", what, and you're more than welcome to wash your head with them. The biological woman, the original software "engineer", making no promise of quality, value, or even fitness to any particular pupose -- such as, living. Or living here. Or anything, really, anything whatsoever at all. Completely irresponsible, immune by incomprehensible social convention to any criticism, "I told you to make a boy, what the fuck is this shit" or "I wanted blond" or anything whatsoever ; and in any case absolutely impuissant, entirely unable, as paragon of unskilled discapacity, of affecting any change whatsoever, any improvement over any length of time through whatever approach ever attempted or even just imagined, anything.
The Greeks, you see, the actual, the living people walking some lands had to believe the woman a mere vessel, in which the man puts self-same little babies (that grow as in an oven and so she's not sole to blame) to keep them from simply butchering the lot (by the same device through which Socrates' students tried to keep anyone from objecting to their tyranny -- equitable guiltification). It wasn't mere "mistake" on their part, scientific naivite, cluelessness. It was naught besides socio-political necessity, rude and nude, absolutely unyielding. "The Greeks" believed in Plato's obstetrics model in the same way you believe in "covid" : your society such as it is needs that, absolutely needs it, to barely keep things together. A man flying in a helicopter has more liberty to unhinge the Jesus nut than you have to touch the covid narrative ; and in the same way modern man has to believe all cuntsquirt&spurt greatly good and equally so and wonderfully etcetera. Because, otherwise, they'd hang all the preggos ; and even with that flimsy deflection natality ain't ever gonna recover. That's why there's no romcom scenes in which a mother and a father look upon their baby and carry on a perfectly reasonable conversation along the lines of "Gee, Marge... it's pretty ugly." "Yeah, isn't it ?! I don't know, it's been a lot of work, but honestly I think we should just re-roll." or anything even remotely like it -- because, if this were on the table at all, the species'd be long extinct.
Thirdly, and finally, the debris of all this, in its non-coincidental accumulation : the very substance of good, the very core of what makes anything important that's important, the entirety of sense, and sensibility, and all things of zoon (as contrasted to mere bios), they all come from a certain unfriendly, both disinterested and unpersuaded, view upon feminity and its conceptual descendents. The rejection, both of feminity as a philosophical approach (that is, a pre-constructed set of answers to the problems of existence), and of its natural defenses (such as, the in and of itself false proposition that having had the child establishes some sort of relationship to it ; and therefore by extension that having had the experience creates a secret little sorority impenetrable to outsiders, as if experiences could ever be new, novel, or personal in that sense) and consequences (such as the proposition that new life is by its novelty welcome), is the necessary condition of ever having anything like human life ; which is why the exercise of that male gazing upon the female struggling is, not merely enjoyable in itself, and for its effects, but actually constitutive, of meaning (and everything else deriving from it, such as importance, or a life of the mind, or outward civilisation), which is what "establishing" there means.
I hope we now understand each other : it's not enough to call the fatties fat ; though it's as decent as any other start. [↩]The fact of the matter is, we've long known the world was made by idiots -- the best possible excluded from existence, without exception, quite reliably ; while the worst possible ever included in all systematisations however construed. Wouldn't it be nice if for once the stupidity equation didn't have any real roots ? Or at least if its largest weren't real ? But alas... [↩]Take food, for instance. How do you know bread, or pickles, or cheese are food ? What instant examination upon the-item-itself, yields this determination ? What's a DOC, and why is it ?
Centuries upon untold centuries of regular interaction selected some bacteria from others, created microsystems (and mycosystems), all this evolved. It wasn't made ; it was proposed. It was proposed and death itself chose winners, out of large swathes of hopeful potentials -- and that's how come peaches aren't corcoduse, too! [↩]This isn't to say such accumulation is beyond revision ; it's merely to point out it may only be revised by great men. Never by parliaments, for fuck's sake!
This is however to say that all traditional societies aren't equally good, equally virtuous, or equally societies in the first place. Not merely for being "just as societies", nor "made by walkers who are just as much people because all walkers gotta be just as much people because it says so on our obelisk", nor for "having aged just as long" -- everything that's currently here has "aged", after its own fashion, sui generis, for equally as long ; but this says nothing of the equality of wasps and rabbits -- nor for any other reason. There can not be such a thing as reasons for equality for the simple if directly obvious reason that there can never be such a thing as equality in the first place.
The choice is very simply (and just as strictly!) between man and woman ; it's not a free choice, nor is it a choice between equal options. It's what it is. [↩]Because yes, that's what happens : if you "liberate" yourself from the white man's traditions... you just fall back through history, fifty or eighty centuries, into the nigger-rigged nigger man's traditions. What, you thought there's escape outright available ?
Ahahah. [↩]
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Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc
Thursday, 29 April, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:43:38

The pranks that are great
"Yeah ? Oh, you must be Hebrewdiah! Ellen's in the shower. Would you like to come in ?"
"I would... but I didn't think to bring a towel."
She laughed while turning, with her entire body somehow, lilting and feminine. None of those big, coarse "ha's." Do you know those ?
Her turning made it plainly obvious she also possessed many of those other qualities prized by the Superficial Male, and was well aware of it, and not exactly unfamiliar with their being put to good use. He followed her into the tiny living room of the small two bedroom apartment, self-obviously intended for the warehousing of the indistinct, indescriptly overabundant, small and adaptable "nuclear family" of 1980s poverty. Nominally it had been designed for the affordable confort of the pair "for the first few years", while that period lasted during which the female was still nuliparous, perhaps tenuously extended into the first few years after her first parturition in the (ever more common) case of means-tested couples ; but meanwhile they had been repurposed, "under persistent economic pressures", for the temporarily-perpetual storage of "room mates", which is to say girls in that dubious social situation where the passage of time has inexorably differentiated them away from normally developed humans. Throughout highschool and four years of college the byproducts of socialist fermentation manage to more or less credibly pass for normal human girls, on the strength of the particularly low expectations human society has always put on that particular demographic ; but as the 22nd birthday comes, and goes, as "more study" slowly yet inescapably degrades into an ever more transparent proxy for "there's no useful work she can do, let alone wants to do, to say nothing of how there's no-one wanting her to do it, or even interested in allowing her to try"... the Desperate Decade, harbinger of a lifetime steeped in post-socialist horror, horrifyingly dawns. "Living life to the fullest", they try to distract themselves, "in an urban environment", as if the sad villages left behind the demise of Cafe Society ever had or ever could be confused into having anything in common with urban spaces. "The many fascinations and attractions of town", they try, soaking up "inexplicable" tears inexplicably springing in bed at night, the mini-apple outside ever more mini, ever less apple.
"Would you like something to drink ?"
"If you're having something."
"Sure. Whiskey ?"
"Uhh... I'm intolerant to cereals."
"Oh. How about... rum ?"
"Bacardi ?"
"Yeah."
"That's... Cognac ?"
"Brandy."
"Anything from fruit at all ?"
"I guess... wine ?"
"Yeah."
"Merlot ?"
"But of course", he let out with the emphatic exasperation of "But of course that's what you'd misguidedly come up with". She took it as the much lighter direct, and within a minute he was stuck nursing a glassful of Cook's equivalent, but "Merlot" instead of "Champagn". "It's big on the US market" has always meant something quite akin to "it's popular with the livestock" in the Denominazione di Origine Controllata lands.
He surveyed the meagre surroundings a mini-minute. She was smiling on the couch, her left leg folded under the right thigh, her feet bare, her jeans standard, tightly fit, her white blouse common, her blonde hair ordinary. She had the great smile, the big blue eyes and the big fat titties of corn-fed midwest, Kansas, Arkansas, who even knows all the Injun denominations of controlling origins. His gaze made her slightly uncomfortable, and as this realisation shuddered its way under his very eye through the larger part of her nervous system, to her entirely subconscious, it made her unhappy with herself. She didn't, subconsciously, approve of herself in that role ; to mask the process she offered up a sacrificial goat : "Oh, I didn't even introduce myself. Hi! My name's Laura."
He nodded, like you'd encourage a shy, perhaps slightly retarded nine years old. "Hi Laura." he offered neutrally. She smiled again. His eyes fixed on hers, and as her smile faded he offered "Do you like pranks, Laura ?"
She shuddered again, plain visible this time, and catching herself she nodded vigurously. "Oh yeah! Pranks are great!"
"Take your clothes off." he said, lightly, a smile starting to form in the corner of his eye.
"Seriously ?!" she inquired, shock and desperation intermingled in her voice. She knew she was going to do it, she didn't know why, or where it'd end. Where it'd lead. That's what thrilled her so about it, though she didn't know to think about that. Not yet, at any rate.
"Definitely."
She extracted herself from her blouse and the strappy harness underneath, dangling her loving, welcoming bosom coyly about, the corner of her eye trained on him as she reached for her jeans' oversnap.
"The panties too." he said, as she was settling herself.
"Everything ?!" she begged, a nine year old's voice squeaking out of her mouth three times that age.
"Everything."
She sat, uncomfortably, painfully unsure of herself, her knees to her chest and her arms wrapped around them.
"Separate your feet a little more, yeah, to either side. That's good." he said, just as Ellen froze in the entranceway.
The little hallway uniting the two tiny bedrooms and the tinier bathroom with the minuscule livingroom, two feet wide by perhaps three feet long, had wall to wall carpeting, which is how they misrepresent a pile-up of plastic fibers entirely indistinguishable from industrially processed garbage in real estate commercial communication. Very luxurious, wall to wall carpeting ; and, according to the lengthy and involved legal verbiage reglementing the activity over however many tens of thousands of pages, at least five square feet of hallway were enough to qualify for the appleation. Six, or almost six in any case, definitely qualifies for that "at least five" qualification, and therefore there she stood, dripping discreetly on socialism's own carpet, which was "wall to wall".
"I... I see you two made each other comfortable..." she hissed.
The man stood up and moved to the couch, jettissoning his Beerlot in the process. He grabbed the blonde on his left by the scruff of her neck, and pulled her closer towards his chest. He reached his free hand and, after separating Laura's knees such that her left remained vertical but her right came to rest almost horizontally against his own thighs he said "Quite the little slut, isn't she." Then, as a marked pinkish hue expanded its domain from the girl's scarlet-red, burning cheeks over her throat and down in the valley, her tiny, salmon-pink nipples standing to an almost painful attention like two little peas, he rested the very same right paw on her pubic mound, for some reason shaved smooth. His eyes fixed the other's, as she stood there, across the six feet of "room", still dripping. "Are you two sexually intimate ?" he inquired matter of factedly, as his knuckles started a slow, comforting circular motion with a definite downward component, slow yet overpowering like a flood of molasses. Blondy shook her head violently, her eyes closed, a slight purr inside her throat somewhere. Ellen started towards them, on unsure footing, before his firm, even gaze stopped her dead in her tracks. She dropped her towel, exposing her toned, trim body wrapped in the brown paper her parents had on hand way back when, two decades and some odd years ago. Her mother, mostly, as it happens.
She came on invisible wires starting somewhere on that iridescent waterfront covering his eyes in dancing shadows and meaningful glimmers. She came just like a cable car, just like any other industrial puppet brought to some motive semblance of life by force and electricity, though she was very much made of flesh. Doubtlessly flesh, yet still mechanically animated somehow. Inches away from her room-mate she stopped, and, resting her own foot high up on the side of the couch she reached down between herself and took to copying his hand movements with her own. Laura's eyes were still closed, but her nostrils flared, violently, betraying animalic eagerness. Something she smelled, though no scent was perceptible in the narrow, constrained space of their threesome intimacy. Even smaller than the efficiency apartment, even more compact than the impossibly contradictory needs of that nuclear family of ages past allowed. As a droplet of dew began to form in the cleft of brown skin, his left hand pushed the blond's head closer, slowly, definitely, until her lips made cuntfall. He moved the limp head up and down slowly, and soon Laura's lips were suckling, her tongue following the general pattern. He rubbed the other's abundant font on his captive's nose, deliberately, enjoying the shivers it sent through her back every time. His own hand carefully teased, expertly avoiding the yearned for explosion, the familiar release. He had her spinning endlessly on the very cusp of the drain, tense, sweating, desperate yet, on some deep level, resigned, accepting, and throughout obedient. Suddenly Ellen turned, bending her knees, forcing her backside into the other's face, firmly, demandingly. Laura's eyes popped open as his grip became steely. He whispered "put your tongue inside her, deep, deep inside her, reach deep inside her" and Ellen shuddered, then collapsed to her knees under the unbearable burden of cataclysmic release. His hand dropped Laura into the black hole, and then chased her, forcing her to continue despite her own habits, rubbing her through her orgasm to shattering, multiplying endlessness. She tried to squirm away, to fight him off at first, but after a few brief moments her spasms became much too disorganised, much too complete, utterly complete to arrive at any definite goal, besides perhaps the stretching of her soul upon her stretching bones like new hide on a drum.
He pushed her neck forward firmly, sharply, losing her balance for her, sending her drained body like so much debris piling into the open arms of the other one still writhing on the floor ; then, as they kissed and curled tightly together in a ball of bliss and love he rested his feet on their collective body.
The end.
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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Wednesday, 02 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:43:25

The organized organization and other orrors.
Motto : No, she didn't, she couldn't have had.
To have fun you need to organize it, and who was to organize it for her?
We're going to the beach, of course. The car's shiny black, freshly washed ; the bimbo's powdery slut. I don't know how to better describe it : she's had her hair died pink, shiny, glaring, explosive pink like she's the powerpuff ho. Then there's the pink dress, short and sleeveless and with one of them fake bootfronts where the tits go, all strings and shit. And the shoes and the nails and of course her cunt's pink too. Did you know this, by the way ? There's a fucking reason pink's such a slut's color.
She even smells like powder. Slut powder, you know... hm. I guess that reference's lost on anyone not intimately familiar with working girls of the dancin' kind, but anyways. We can't always write with nine year olds in mind, or for that matter the stupid cunts that spawned them, and then proceeded to go right ahead and rob the thesaurus of obscure Italian words forgotten since the days of that bad man Byron to "literatedly" an' "cultivatedly" diss whatever in their barren environment might be in the slightest danger of passing for strong male presence. And speaking of strong male presence an' the sad cunts of the motherly persuasion : how about all y'all collectively do the world (and yourselves) a favour and quit with the unsympathetic depictions of rape and rapists ? We get it already, there's this one case where the dood's a total slob and the chick's this hottie from your math class in Can't Hardly Waiti and you'd totally do her. In actual reality, however, most rapes occur between dudes whom I'd readily hire and chicks that nobody'd ever fuck -- as proven by the fact nobody ever even considered trying, even with all the beer, which is how she even has such preoccupations in the first place. You realise normal human females don't get raped because they have sex, and the two are mutually exclusive in practice, right ? Like, my car got broken into while it was parked out in the wild, but it doesn't get broken into when it's parked in the garage under the bank ? Same exact fucking thing, the only practical way to get raped is to have no friends, no sex life, no nothing & nada. I get it, the shit you read on your favourite fantasy support platform doesn't say that ; but then there's a reason fictive worlds are fictive worlds, okay ?
Anyways, my slut's counting money to pay the peajeii and complaining about all the small coins getting in the way (five and ten colones, a penny and twopence worth) when Hannah offers her dusty sparkly silver coin purse to try and help and the idea strikes me : take the coins out of there, and fill it with tens! The 820 colones fare coems to 82 coins, she works a while fishing them out and counting them (the while perhaps all the while enlengthened by my talking to her during, but hey) and then I lay the egg on her : when we're at the booth, you get out of the car, do a little Peggy Bundy dance, and deliver the purse over to the moonstruck clerkiii.
A minute later indeed my MERKELEY??? fantasyiv is enacted ad idem : pink slut as depicted, with a sparkle-silver coinpurse fulla shiny silver coins, futzing and fretting on the asphalt, bothering the shit out of the minimum-wage "earning", Jennifer Lopez-worshiping moms all about.
I win the tall toll trophy tale championships and that's all there is to it. And then, to make all this impossible, I get the idea!
Would you like to hear my idea (which is mine) ? Well, I'll tell it to you then : if I were in a market catering to highschool disposable incomev I'd make single-kernel corn poppers as a pencil add-on. You know, where the eraser extensions go. Isn't that fucking genius ?
Yeah, that's it, that's me, the life and times. I'm having fun ; ceea ce va doresc si voua.
———90s something, and a terrible fucking flick, for the record. I had no fucking idea that dumb bitch trying to impersonate a young horse actually has a name, I thought it genuinely must be Neigh McLipClop or something stupid like that. Also I realise now I must've seen a spoof for it long ago without catching on, because I have a clear recollection of some dweeb passing "a letter" to the bitch in question and she retorting with "oh, you don't expect I just go to bed with any dweeb just because he gave me a letter ?" "you don't ?!" "hell no. I just give them blowjobs." followed by the excited if muted nodding of the dweeb involved.
And speaking of handjobs, you know you only involve those in your sexual menu if you've had a very sexually frustrated adolescence, like Dave Chapelle. Right ? If you fucked instead of drooling in your teens you don't think handjobs are a thing, buncha weirdo UStardian fetishists. What the fuck's a handjob even supposed to be, the cheapest blowjob you could find ? [↩]Road toll. Comes from peon. [↩]Yeah, they have actual living, breathing humans inside the tool booths here, it's like living in an enchanted land of the past century. Radio Shack's doing a booming business still, too! No kidding. [↩]"Alright, Markley..."
"Hey, he posed for it. I live it." [↩]I feel quotes are in order, though I'm not sure where to start. [↩]
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Category: Zsilnic
Thursday, 18 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:43:13

The onion butt and the bunion twat
What a title, huh!
Anyway, we spent a pleasant evening walking about the quarantruins occupying a space previously occupied by a subhuman attempt at making a town out of locally sourced inadequaria, cute if inept as it meaninglessly found itself at some point. I suppose it's "better" after a fashion to cvasi-ruin a never-quite-was town than to truly ruin a genuine city ; or for the same money it's "worse". For "better" or "worse", the same damn thing in any case.
Towards the end of it I decided to throw a little business the way of some threadbare attempt at turning a bubble of urban blight into a cafe. A few months ago, when I first did this, it was completely, stone cold empty ; but as it happens whenever I decide to bless with harem ass the seating anywhere, business picked up for seeing us there, and while not making enough to grow fat I suppose they must've been making enough to not outright starve. It's something, the sort of something you'll soon enough find no way of escaping anymore.
This time some obnoxious fuckwad very much in the Argentine fashion kept importantly parading his jeans-and-only-jacket arrangement back and forth with that Pantalonesque air of entirely insubstantial yet somehow belicose self-infatuation that so markedly caracterises the contempocuck. It irritated me enough to yell at him "Get the fuck lost, loser. What the fuck are you even doing here ?", which he obviously "did not hear" (because, if you've been following along the contemporary narrative fictions, he has to agree it happened in order for it to have "really" happened). Nevertheless (and very much not for that reason, ok ?) he moved a few steps further out, plausibly-deniably derping up and down the sidewalk outside rather than the courtyard inside, so really, nobody could accuse etc, to my acidic jeers of "that's right, fold those shoulders in and get the fuck back to your submissive posture".
After that Hannah's omnistare kept him from returning into the danger zone, until I went to the bathroom. After that, the dorky schmuck went over to pester the server/bartender/barrister/whatever, an inefectually overanxious kid of well over 40. You know these losers, their life just about ready to begin at the ripe age their pubic hair's turning gray ? Anyway, he told me I've to wear a mask to go to the bathroom! Fancy the cheek, seriously now. I've yet to wear the dumb things at all, as in ever. I've made doctor visits, I buy shit regularly enough, I am very much using my deep pockets to pressure the varmints : shops that cater to me get $$$, shops that don't get... whatever it is they think they're getting, not like they stay in business long enough to count it anyways.
I gave him the hand gesture, you know the one, "get the fuck outta here". He actually had the impudence to come unbidden to my table, to tell me that "they've had visits" from whatever government clerks. I told him that he's to tell them exactly where to shove it, I ain't about to care what they say. He told me "they can't do that". This kid that doesn't have enough sense to figure out on his own how to stock San Pellegrino, given that the only account worth the mention in his nickle-and-dime shop's inquiring now and again, this kid somehow nevertheless summons the unmitigated audacity to tell me what's what!
The eagerness and ease with which this spurious generation of redditards replicates contemporary US fascism for the ruin of their non-US homes is nothing short of staggering. Imagine that : this peanuts government has exactly nothing it can do to force me to wear a muzzle, under any circumstances. So they go around talking to businesses they also have exactly nothing they can do to. Because, self-obviously, if the stance is "I ain't paid, and I ain't interested, in enforcing whatever random bullshit you came up with, go do it yourself, it's your fucking job anyways", it'd... end there. But no, this moron has to pick it up, as if the government's paying his salary, and do this half-ass cvasi-enforcing whinefest. He's gonna tell me what he thinks he read on facebook the government (of facebook) wants him to do. 'Cause that's why he's on this world. Not to bring his sister over to suck my cock, who knows, maybe I take her in, no, of course not that. He's there to tell me what's new on facebook!
I told him I'm not about to discuss this with him, and if he keeps pestering me I'm simply not going to come back. To which self-obvious if completely unexpected course of events (wow, how could I not wanna play his version of reddit larping ?!?!) he retorted that "He's sorry to hear that" or somesuch and made himself scarce. I, on the other hand, took to throwing the cashew nuts Hannah set out on a plate before me at the Argentine twat's 1990 Italian fashion eyeglasses hairsprayed upon his 1990 Italian fashion hairchunk. He didn't notice, you realise. I finished the plate, and then once the plate was finished I had the woman walk around the table to the motherload, and reload. The peanut landing pad kept "not noticing", until eventually the kid came back, this time to ask me to please stop throwing nuts. I guess it was noticeable enough from the opposite direction.
I smiled sweetly at him and asked for the check, strictly to bring the relationship back in its normal pattern : he's a fucking servant, and very much not some kinda master of ceremonies at the wedding of a future cuck with a future whale. He left to fetch, but three steps in found whatever he misrepresents as his dignity, I guess. He stumbled back, to tell me the order's on the house. Fancy that! What, you think they have the thing open to make a profit offa overpriced cups of coffee ? To hell with all that, the cafe's open to let people know what the government thinks on things and matters! That's its true raison d'etre, everything else is frosting & peanuts. They're not in business, they're just tryna please Mommy is all.
So we stood (me fetching the remainder cashews off the plate) and walked over to the dweeb. I said into his happy smile "Here, have some cashews", threw the load in his face, and walked off, a "Schmuck!" over my shoulder summing up his life better, or in any case closer to actual reality, than any epitaph ever will manage in actual practice.
On the way back to Castle Popescustein we saw the lulziest of scenes : a kid walking a dog. The kid had a muzzle on his kid mug. The dog didn't have a muzzle on its dog snout. The bimbo inquired if the dogs are gonna start walking the redditards anytime soon. I have my doubts, though the reversal's out and out hysterical, what can I tell you.
Anyways, this is how I entertain myself these days. Twenty-some years ago the place'd be firebombed right about now, leaving the schmucks involved to spend the next few weeks walking up and down the street sandwiched within their apologies plaintively spelled out in 20cm font (for fear of being shot) ; but then again twenty-some years ago I cared a lot deeper about the place I found myself in, and cashew nuts are way the fuck cheaper anyways. In fact, cashew nuts are almost cheap enough to match the utter worthlessness of the contemporary schmuck (though the way things are going I might be stuck moving down to actual peanuts soon enough).
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Category: Zsilnic
Wednesday, 10 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:43:06

The Needed
In all this Cuban business one man stands out on the horizon of memory like Mars at perihelion.
When war broke out between Spain and the United States, it was found desirable to communicate quickly with the leader of the Insurgents. Garcia was somewhere in the mountaineous vastnesses of Cuba -- no one knew quite exactly where, as is generally the business of insurgents. In any case no regular mail or telegraph message could reach him. Yet the President would secure his co-operation, and quickly. What to do!
Someone said, "There is a fellow by the name of Rowan. He'll find Garcia for you, if anybody can."
Rowani was therefore sent for, and once fetched was given a letter to be delivered to Garcia. How "the fellow by the name of Rowan" took the letter, sealed it up in an oilskin pouch, strapped it over his heart, in four days landed by night off the coast of Cuba from an open boat, disappeared into the jungle, and in three weeks came out on the other side of the Island, having traversed a hostile country on foot, and delivered his letter to Garcia -- are things I have no special desire now to tell in detail. The point that I wish to make is this: McKinley gave Rowan a letter to be delivered to Garcia; Rowan took the letter and did not ask, "Where is he at?" By the Eternal! there is a manii whose form should be cast in deathless bronze and the statue placed in every college of the land. It is not book-learning young men need, nor instruction about this and that, but a stiffening of the vertebrae which will cause them to be loyal to a trust, to act promptly, concentrate their energies: do the thing -- "Carry a message to Garcia."iii
That general Garcia is dead now, but there are other Garcias still surviving ; no man who has at least once endeavored to carry out an enterprise where many hands were needed has yet to be well-nigh appalled by the imbecility of the average man -- the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it.
Slip-shod assistance, foolish inattention, dowdy indifference and half-hearted work seem the rule ; no man succeeds at anything worth mentioning unless by hook, or crook, or threat he forces or somehow bribes others to assist him usefully. Mayhap God performs a miracle, and sends him an Angel of Cunt for an assistant. You, reader, put this matter to a test : presuming you are sitting now in your office, six clerks within your call (and if you aren't, get the fuck off my page and get to work, shithead), summon any one and make this request: "Please look in the encyclopedia and make a brief memorandum for me concerning the life of Correggio."iv
Will the clerk return "Yes, sir!" and go to the task ?
On your life he will not. He will look at you out of a fishy eye and profer one, or more, (or all) of the following inanities that for no conceivable reason in his addled mind nevertheless pass for questions :
Who was he?
Which encyclopedia?
Where is the encyclopedia?
Was I hired for that?
Don't you mean Bismarck?
What's the matter with Charlie doing it?
Is he dead?
Is there any hurry?
Shall I bring you the book and let you look it up yourself?
What do you want to know for?
...and so following!
I will lay you ten to one that after you have answered myriad "questions", and explained how to find what's to be found, and where, and why you want it, and overall spent with it at least twice the length it'd have taken you to do the damned thing yoursef, then and only then will your clerk -- whom you feed and clothe with a wife and all her children, by him or anyone else -- will go off and get one of the other clerks to help him try to find Garcia, then come back and tell you there is no such man, but in such guarded terms so guardedly expressed that should Garcia walk into the office right then, it still wouldn't have been his fault. Of course, I may lose my bet with you ; but, according to the Law of Average, that momentary loss will soon be made good over all.
Now, if you are wise in the manner river rocks are smooth, you will not bother to explain to your "assistant" that Correggio is indexed under the C's, not in the K's, but you will smile very sweetly and say, "Never mind," and go look it up yourself.
This incapacity for independent action, this moral stupidity, this infirmity of the will, this unwillingness to cheerfully catch hold and lift -- these are the things that put socialist dreams so far off into the future. If men will not act for themselves, what will they do when the benefit of their effort is for that vague naught that's "all" ? If anything besides empty talk is sought, a first mate with knotted club seems necessary ; the dread of getting "the bounce" Saturday night is the glue that holds the worker to his place.
Advertise for a stenographer, and nine out of ten who apply can neither spell nor punctuate -- nor do they think this any great impediment. After all, they applied chiefly to get the wage paid for the position, and that part they'd do just as fine as you'd like. But can such a one carry my letter to Garcia ?
We have recently been hearing much maudlin sympathy idly expressed for the "downtrodden denizens of the sweat-shop" and the "homeless wanderer searching for honest employment" (a purely fantasmagorical construct) ; with it all go many hard words for the men in power -- as is to be expected, seeing how such is perdurantly, predictably the principal object of the idle excursions in verbosity of the comfortably idle. Their interest in the (deservingly, always deservingly) poor reliably extends only insofar as that pretext might be used to pester Daddy (or, more properly speaking, to project upon men in power the unfriendly estimation their own conscience makes of themselves). Absent that pay-dirt, who even cares about them downtrodden searchers (besides, of course, the man who tried to apply them toward some useful purpose, and from whom they ran off, and with some portion of the credit earlier extended still not repaid).
Nothing is to be said for or about the employer who grows old before his time in a vain attempt to get frowsy ne'er-do-wells to do intelligent work; and his long, patient striving with "help" that does nothing but loaf when his back is turned. In every store and factory there is a constant weeding-out process going on. The employer is continually sending away "help" of the very nature of his critics, spurious items that have, of and by themselves, shown their incapacity to further the interests of the business of human life. Others are being taken on, of which most will be as useless as the weeds making their way through the stones in the yard.
No matter how good times are, this sorting continues. If times are hard and work is scarce, the sorting is done finer ; but out and forever out the incompetent and unworthy go. It is the survival of the fittest. Self-interest prompts every employer to keep the best -- those who could carry his message to Garcia, as shown by the happenstance that indeed they do.
I know one man of really brilliant parts who has not the ability to manage a business of his own, and yet who is absolutely worthless to anyone else. He is worthless to anyone else because he carries with him constantly the insane suspicion that his employer is oppressing, or intending, nebulously conspiring in great darken circular schemes, to oppress him ; and he is incapable of managing his own business because his cleverness, however amply supplied, still is not equal to the part his disease casts upon it : to nebulously conspire, in great darken circular schemes, to oppress, in the strangest of fashions, to... He can not give orders; and he will not receive them. Should a message be given him to take to Garcia, poor Garcia might end up assassinated, unexpectedly, for no clear reason ; or perhaps a new alphabet invented, to better notate future messages to Garcia ; or... truly, my own cleverness, however short supplied, still will not get the part of describing idiocy in detail. It's not a good part for it.
Tonight this man walks the streets looking for work, the wind whistling through his threadbare coat. No one who knows him dare employ him, for he is a regular, ambling Mire of the Damned, within which all's soon lost. He is impervious to reason, elaborately impervious ; the only thing that can impress him is the toe of a thick-soled Number Nine boot. Sadly his eagerness to work thus engendered dwindles rapidly after the application that engendered it, and there's truly fewer able toes than deserving arses. Of course I know that one so morally deformed is no less to be pitied than a physical cripple ; but in our pitying let us drop double the tears for the men who are striving to carry on a great enterprise, whatever it may be, the truly great and only deserving men whose working hours are not limited by the whistle, whose hair is fast turning white through the struggle to hold in line dowdy indifference, slipshod imbecility and the heartless ingratitude which, but for their presence, would presently find itself both hungry and cold.
Have I put the matter too strongly ? Possibly ; but when all the world has gone a-slumming I wish to speak a word of sympathy for the man who isn't ever to be found in any slum. How is it, that all creeds and colors can always be readily turned up in the slums, except for the man who succeeds ? The man who, against great odds, has directed the efforts of others, and having succeeded, finds there's nothing in it : nothing but bare board and clothes. All kind and manner of worthies by whichever system of ex-post-facto worthification can indeed be turned out of the gutter, scared up from abject poverty : alleged intelligents, supposed paragons of virtue, illustrations of misfortune, male, female, white, black or purple, and not one among them, not one among ten thousand or ten million successful.
Yet have this unique being come before the court. Joe the Drunk, Amelia Bedelia, Sally Knownothing von Talkalot, poor old widow Bynne E. Safiebine, the noted firebrand Jeremiah Cloudwalker, Michael McNojob and his eight brothers that've had fifty-nine jobs between them this past fortnight, all these and more are there, and ready to swear, and give testimony, and extend their views, and their applause, and vote for the sheriff, and the judge, as if by virtue of misuse of language and misapprehension of human culture they, too, stand just as tall, vow just as strong, matter just as much as the successful man. They've never had a mouthful but in some form or other by another's charity ; he's never in his whole life been able to eat all he himself made, not if he tried. They've promised ten times to his promise, each of them ; they never kept a promise though always he kept his, so in the sea of thousands of promises they're all together drowning... well, "most" are hollow -- though none of his and most all of theirs, nevertheless, "averaging" averages work this way : each average manwoman has one boobsticle on either side.
The heart must go out to the man who does his work when the "boss" is away, as well as when he is in. The heart must go out to the man who, when given a letter for Garcia, takes the missive, without asking any idiotic questions, and with no lurking intention of chucking it into the nearest sewer, or of doing aught else but deliver it. The man who, inexplicably, never seems to get "laid off," nor has to go on a strike for higher wages. There is no room, there oughtn't be any room for feeling for the failures. Civilization is one long, anxious search for great men, not for the gutter's scum ; and it is both scandalous and a transparent fraud when shameless tricksters and con-men, under a flimsy pretense of "high-mindedness" attempt to hijack that natural feeling towards such inappropriate targets as might best line their own pockets. Human life's the quest for men for whom the heart must go out. Anything such a man asks must be granted. His kind is so rare that no employer can afford to let him go. He is wanted in every city, town and village -- in every office, shop, store and factory ; and, ultimately, in every home, and in every heart.
The world cries out for such: he is needed, and needed badly, the man who can carry a message to Garcia ; as for the needy, let them rot in the gutter. The world is of, and for, and by the needed.
———The historical character the name references, a certain 1st Lieutenant Andrew S. Rowan, has nothing in common whatsoever to the fictitious character constructed for the purpose of... well, why do you dream of my women, when you look at yours ? So then.
The historical character's a contemptible cur who did indeed ask all those questions. He was smuggled into Cuba by Cubans he was given to by his superiors, just like a sack of potatoes, and carried on horseback across the insular "vastness", the horses and everything else similarily provided to the tourist. Contrary to his orders, which were to stay there, observe, and dispatch, he told Calixto Garcia he's there to take his order (as in, "would you like fries with that ?") and convey it to the US military ; he was shipped back the same day, ladden with a bill of trade, and shared the purpose of his mission (along the contents of his imagination) to the press en route (his return trip consisted of a few miles in a Cuban boat the Cubans sourced and worked for him, and the rest to Florida on a passing steamer). This made him extremely popular with the imbecile public, which made it impractical for his superior (the "Someone" in "Someone said", major Arthur L. Wagner of America's first intelligence unit) to hang him, as he intended and was adequate. So America gained another Bufallo Bill, and sense lost another nail. [↩]From experience, there is always and without exception a woman. I can't remember when I've last seen a man like that ; but women exactly fitting the bill I've spoken two pluriously on this very day. [↩]A good fucking whipping is what they need, preferably to death. If some escape -- if some escape -- then thereby you'll have some men. [↩]de Corregio, Parma school, vigorously sensuous. A fine choice of illustration. [↩]
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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Tuesday, 25 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:42:34

The merchant from Aiud
A merchant from Aiud went to the large market, like every Michaelmas. There he met with a merchant from Gloj who caught his eye. Before the market closed they were properly introduced to one another, as merchants are, by two other merchants who knew each other as well as each of them, independently. Then they exchanged vows, as merchants do, by carefully taking the print of each other's seal ring for their own records, in front of the merchant priest in the merchant church of Trader Michael Of The Heavens. Then they were forever united together by the invisible wiring of the same trade network that covers the entire world and emanates from Tradess, the Great Spider, herself.
As part of their merchantly intercourse the merchant of Aiud pledged the shipping of a cartful of picioci to Gloj, upon receipt of which the merchant of Gloj pledged to return a cartful of lumbered wood. Thus the great Gloj picioci famine of 7914 was narrowly avoided, which is why it is not recorded anywhere -- but had it been recorded, had the merchant of Aiud not sent the cart he promised, then the recording'd have blotted out all other such recordings for that'd have been the greatest picioci famine yet, if only it were to be. Which it wasn't.
As time went by and the Gloj cart of lumbered wood was not ariving, the Aiud merchant took worry. It is impossible to tell from a distance the difference between a cart that's not arrived yet and a cart that merely doesn't exist ; yet he thought perhaps the Gloj merchant's faith is false, which greatly saddened him. To set his heart at ease, his friends the other merchants of Aiud proposed he visit the gypsy crone of Aiud, an old woman who provided solace to all the merchants and all other notabilities in town through her own, secret ways.
The merchant sought out the gypsy crone, in her strange hut standing on chicken wire strung between three poles somewhere past the unfashionable bend of the wrong side of the small stream struggling within Aiud's neighbourhoods and surroundings. As the merchant went in through the curtains hanging over the entrance, a young warrior went out. He was the greatest warrior ever to be born, not merely up until that point but simply forever. He could have easily defeated the entire list of history's most able, limber and skilfull one hundred warriors, were they arrayed in a small army of fabled heroes before him. He could have raped a dragon raw, just as easy as the average workman can ravish any sixteen year old princess selected for her being worth a ravishing or two : he'd have grabbed it by the scruff of its neck, and thrown it to the ground ; then, as the poor dragon'd try to squirm away, on knees and elbows (such as dragons have) the warrior'd have put his weight to bear (in the sense of, dragon), and parted -- what parted, ripped -- the prone dragon's secret, intimate folds with the driven might of his warriorly shaft. Then he'd have been remembered for all time, his great deeds an indelible, inextricable part of recorded history, written down as well as sung aloud for all eternity : the first and only warrior to not merely defeat, but actually own a dragon.
As it happens, there were no dragons then alive, whether in a subconsciously amorous disposition they were from themselves denying or otherwise, nor any worthy foes. The next-best warrior then present in the whereabouts of Aiud was a fellow not qualified within the first zillion heroes of history, which is indeed a very large number. Defeating him wouldn't have gained much glory for the best warrior ever, a circumstance the best hero ever was well aware of through the happenstance that he defeated the inconsequential louse biweekly to little effect. Nobody else was interested in a challenge, and so the best warrior ever slowly grew old and surly. What fault of his that the kingdom's been at peace even before he was born, and all the dragons previously killed by lesser warriors who, innured to the notion that they should perhaps try fucking them, didn't even have the foresight to understand that if the 2nd best defeats the 3rd best, that leaves the best only the 4th best available to defeat, and so now the 2nd best is in fact "he who's defeated the 3rd best" whereas the true best is merely "he who's defeated the 4th best" and so less of a better than he should be! Then the 2nd best dies of natural causes centuries prior and the true best's left holding the bag!
But the merchant went in not knowing anything about any of this, as he was a merchant, his interests strictly circumscribed by Michaelmesses rather than disembowelment, or any other kind, of messes ; and besides the kingdom's peacefulness was predicated upon its prosperity, the laziness of all the neighbours brought about and polished to a shine by the constant outflow of shiny dubloons, thalers and other anal beads of solid gold and sparkly moonsilver -- so as the merchant rendered the warrior irrelevant metasyntactycally, just so in person, equally. And besides, the merchant was concerned about the other merchant, not about other things.
The crone smiled a crooked smile, as if she'd penned all of this, although she didn't, being illiterate. She found letters distracted her from her true calling, which was the studency of human moves ; and besides, all cakes are lies anyways. Instead, she grabbed some beans from an open sack behind her, sorted forty-one on the short, three legged wooden table before her, and just as the merchant pondered how very much better that table'd be had the wood been lumbered she began her scrying :
"Forty-one beads, well you know and well you guess, were it well and by the mind drop by nine, karavai on the threshold and joy in both hands, but otherwise, drop by ones and twos and whither away." she mumbled, rubbing the small pile in her right hand on the right side as the Sun turns about, threatening and beseeching the little dry imps as she went. Then she split them in three piles, counted them in lines and arrows, separated them by fours and counted some more. Eventually she had enough mumbling and she told the merchant that his way is locked and the matter hue'd, there's no bead of commings so he'd better take his mind off the whole thing and buy himself a pretty girl instead. Would he want one ?
The merchant didn't want one, because he already had more than he knew what to do with. They spun threads and nonsense scattered about the upper floor of his house, coming up with insane twists and tangles merely for the exquisite pleasure of having something to unknot laboriously. Because of them he had to make terem out of his house, because if he just let them go out and intermingle with normal people they'd take all of five seconds before finding something somebody said to them, or even within their earshot, that they couldn't bear, as if that's how bearing works ; and so, in preference of always finding themselves at war with the entire world, the merchants of Aiud simply locked the women upstairs where there's nobody they can be bothered by except for each other. It seemed to work well enough, they kept each other busy enough if not happy necessarily, and everyone else could go about their business in peace.
The merchant ordered his horse readied, took two of the youngsters loafing about with him, and made out in all haste for Gloj. His wife saw him spin through the courtyard and then gallop away, and a tear dropped from her eye. He never even came to say goodbye. She asked the logothethe if the master had left any message, but he hadn't. He hadn't even left any message. She broke out in crying, for she understood exactly where the problem lies ; and she tried, every day tried, every morning woke up praying she'll manage just one day, and every night crying herself to sleep over having, yet again, failed. Yet she understood precisely where the problem lay ; but somehow that understanding never seemed to practically help anything. She promised, to herself, or rather to the wind, to no-one, that she'll do better this time, like so many times before she promised. Then, like so many times before, she thought of all the many times she's promised, and cried. Yet she'd do better, she wanted to, she yearned to. What's in a promise ?
She wrung her hands and sent for the merchant's foreman, from which she learned that the foreman's busy and doesn't have the time to be bothered with her petty nonsense. She then sent for her husband's factor, from whom she learned that the merchant had left for Gloj, to see after some wood that's long in the arriving. Indeed the men dealing with money are more amenable to playing cat's cradle than they dealing with objects, because money's no kind of object. Then the first concubine's mother told her that she heard tell that the merchant had visited the procuress. The old woman said no more, thereby saying that the merchant must be smitten with young love for some young filly, which of course bothered the merchant's wife, so she started crying, which bothered her, so she promised she'd stop, which bothered her because she wasn't stopping which meant she wasn't keeping her promises and so all she could think of was sending for the gypsy crone.
The merchant meanwhile took the wrong fork in the road, arriving by nightfall to an unknown place where people spoke an unknown tongue. He was taken before the sultan-al-alekhum of that place, who was very entertained by the merchant's clothing, as well as the clothes on the backs of his minuscule retinue. They were fed something that tasted objectionable and looked rather like dried octopus suction cups, then were taken to the Chamber of Dawns, an octogonal room with translucent doors on each side. They went out through one and presently were somewhere else. It wasn't even night anymore, nor were they ever heard from again.
The wife was too skillful to let another old woman know her business, so obviously the old crone knew exactly what's going on. She kept up the pretense, and laid out her beads again, to scry and blather. She told the crying wife she needn't worry, for the merchant's gone on business, nor will he find there a woman he likes. Strangely this did not set the wife at ease ; but it did set a shiny coin in the hag's palm.
More things then happened, involving the duke of Aiud and the countess of Gloj, none of which are discussed here.
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The naturalistic "fallacy" »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Saturday, 29 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:42:21

The many things I couldn't give less of a shit about
I looked over "the news", for the first time in... must be half a year, at the least.
The last clear memory I have of such an attempt comes from back in Spring, back when I left Europe behind and every dork out there was falling all over themselves in their #BostonWannabe standard pantsuits t-shirts.
I can't conceive who's seriously reading that crap. A few days ago, while entertaining myself at the local Bistrot de Paris over some fluid du Cotes du Rhonei and navarin d'aigneau (or maybe it was beef bourguignon ? I forgetii) my eye was caught (after spending the due time following the proper contours of all the young slutsiii depicted on the walls) by a very strange book indeed. Large and gilt, with a title impossible for a book. I lifted it to see its insides, whereupon i discovered it wasn't a book at all. It was just an empty box shaped like a book, a decor element, a McGuffin. That's the fucking "news" in its current Pravda 2.0 reinstantiation, nobody reads it because nobody can read it because there's nothing there to read. It's not for reading, it's for keeping around the "house"iv. Not even yakking about it importantly, just exchanging "meaningful" looks and mournful sighs "about it". As fucking if.
Traim decenii de impliniri marete went the old refrain. In these decades of grandiose accomplishments what used to be news, readily accessible (to every comfortable white male with a woman or two under coverturev, some friends and some business associates, some books and some horses etcetera), a quarter or whatever, became "national security briefs"vi. What used to be gossip, namely a bunch of self-important know-nothings yakking their inconsiderable bullshit as if god's own army of angels was right there, right over the horizon, listening in intently... that's now the news. It's all it is, 100% of what you take for "the news" is read by the people who made it, want to start making it, think they could make it and no-one else besides. Exactly like food only the cooks are eating (also known as shit), these "news". And, self-obviously, gossip's gone the way of the guy playing guitar at a partyvii, to rest inside the pages of books discussing coverture and other "mid 19th century by which we mean 1972" topics. Who has the time for maintaining a social circle, having friends, throwing parties, are you kidding me ?! There's a boatload of Netflix to watch, while trying one's darndest to not notice that these deranged sitcoms they now pretend are movies took off sanity a good while ago, and are proceeding on their own terms into the vacuous voids, bizarre convention built upon bizarre convention and all the while the chasm between anything like people and their odd misrepresentations ever growing unchecked.
Occasionally "the competition", namely the sad sorta resourceless male who plays the fiance role in setups like "oh yeah, my slave was engaged when I took her" attempts a littleJ on me. Perhaps there's something we can talk about ? I mean, we're both people, right ? There must be some basis somewhere.
The problem is that between the news, the netflix, the furnishings of the tank there's exactly nothing that interests me. Da fuck do I care what some cuck said about some other cuck's sayings in the matter of cucky mcuckerson's cuckolding party ? I could give less of a shit, I'm sure, I've just not yet figured out how.
Basically the things I don't give a shit about are everything, as you understand it. (The sentiment's not mutual, of course, which is why you read meviii and I don't read you.) The only question remaining is how the fuck aren't you in jail ?!
The answer, of course...
———The wine guy came over upon my ordering to excuse himself : they only have it at room temperature. To my retort that good for them, that's precisely how they're supposed to have it, and while at it do France a favour and take the rest of the red wine out of the freezers he responded (in French) with his blessings, and the footnote that inasmuch as they want to stay in business, they've gotta be in the business of catering to the whims and "tastes" of the world's stupid cunts, rather than any kind of sense. Which is both very good sense on their part and perfectly laudable as such, but still perfectly lamentable in totum.
Eat Shit And Die, World Moms United. [↩]In fairness what I do is, I eat off everyone's plates like I own them (which I do), so meals become somewhat confused in my mind. [↩]Do you know how I know they're sluts ?
Because their activities are adequate to womanhood, that's how I know!
They fucking dance, in the sense of artfully exposing their cunt. They don't listlessly go around in "comfy" shoes and drab sweaters reaching past their wrists.
They work each other, instead of bumping into the designated servicing unit whenever they feel themselves in need of servicing. At which juncture I should probably explain that I find little more disgusting than the sight of the subhuman female / girl rubbing into her cuck for servicing.
You know how you've been trained (to some slight degree by yourself even) to have a certain reaction when a loser-looking dude smiles a certain way at a bare six year old's bottom ? That, very much that. What you're trying to emulate & repurpose is in fact the very natural reaction of nauseating disgust coming as very necessary response to your lamentable reproductive practices.
It's not even there for reproduction! It's for sex! They ain't the god damned same thing, not even by a longshot. Not the same ballgame. You've got the bits attached to make art with them, not to make more philistines just like your stupid mother did. What could possibly be not self-obvious about that ?
There's already enough philistines drowning us in their repugnant drab all around. There's enough of their regrettable ilk to not only last out all eternity, but actually to make reproduction appear a regrettable misfortune. So badly and utterly have you misused the cunt to date, for dribbling tadpoles out of it instead of dancing with it, that the sum total over the whole population now comes out negative!
More work less princess, get it through your thick skin already. [↩]Not that any of the battery chickens have houses anymore, but what am I to do, say "keeping around the housing" ? [↩]Look this up sometime, then explain to me how come you never heard of it ? Your mom lived under it, except I suppose if you're an uppity little tadpole, in which case your granma definitely lived under it. How come you don't know about the state of the world so recently as within living memory ? Is all that "just the facts" related to any facts anywhere whatsoever at all ?! [↩]Something you don't have access to, because the bar's now slightly higher than anything you can touch, of course. Not that anyone'd tell you that, why the fuck would they. After all, school used to be for equipping you with the arms of supremacy ; now though, it's just for equipping you with the fetters of bondage. Sorrynotsorry or w/e they say. [↩]Do you remember this, by the way ? At some point prior to the grandiose and the accomplishments, there were people, you could throw a party, there's chicks who spent the whole sixth decade "of the previous century" in the buff, nude from party to party. Or what, you thought what TV shows you of the 60s is what the 60s were ? Really ? [↩]No point denying it, you don't matter in any personal sense, Trilema's by far the most read anything on the web and that objective truth's all that matters. [↩]
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Category: Zsilnic
Thursday, 25 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:42:09

The Last Picture Show
Bogdanovich's worldview is this very simple, narrow thing. To his (mis)fortune he's run into objects in his immediate environment amenable to abuse towards his schematic misunderstanding of phenomenology, and in sufficient abundance to... uhm... nigger-rigi a kinda-sorta something out of them even. Thus Cybil Shepherd's his perennial Princess Preciouscunt, Eileen Brennan's time and again the frumpy-but-"real" Columbine, Duilio del Prete the castrated "exotic" cicisbeo... the whole thing's like an old timey farmstead : mortgaged to the hilt, creaking in the Dustbowl winds, just about ready to fall over ; and yet within it, there's the milky farmer's daughter, and daddy's chair at the table, and where the hunting rifle goes, a dedicated space between the flour sack and the caulk bushel. All the whole pile's waiting for is you, Hero McHeroson, to shotgun wed the dumb bitch and spend some of your lifetime spinning around like a top on their pre-arranged if very flat whirligig. The story's to a large degree pre-decided by the failings, shortcomings and inadequacies of the pre-selected most-of-a-cast (all of which are misrepresented as qualities, detail, flavour etcetera of course, and this merely because in turn they're driven by the failings, shortcomings and inadequacies of a half-man incorrectly assigned a role in the world that's not for him). So he takes his stable and goes about town looking for a leading man to sock into it, and make yet another self-same film about jackshit in peculiar. If their collective name were Half-Man-Riding-Half-A-Lame-Rabbit I'd be much surprised, however, because English ain't ever been quite that usefully expressive, to say nothing of its intrinsic tendency to incorrectness.
The Last Picture Show -- 1971, with (a very young) Jeff Bridges and (a barely legal) Cybill Shepherd -- is the one case where the foregoing works out best, in the sense of coincidentally veering closest to somethingness.
Time's been very unkindii to the woman. She's never again managed to land this close to herself ; instead her self-image slowly but monotonically veering into an impossibly stiff, utterly uninteresting imaginary of "propriety" or "acceptability" or whatever idiotic bullshit "the other dumb bitches won't call me the bad" poisoning her loneliness. She does manage to poke fun at that alienation convincingly enough on occasion (like say in At Long Last Love), but there's quite the difference between dancing and paresis victims exchanging quadriplegy jokes.
Time's not been nearly as unkind to the man : his glimmers in The Last Picture Show polish out well and by degrees, yielding a top caliber actor steadily working himself closer to his own self.
I'd say this film's an interesting basis to make the fundamental point : female society is not actually workable, and therefore neither useful nor important. Watch if you will a talented teenage actress and a talented teenage actor as rendered very plainly by a very simple director in 1971 ; then watch what "doing her best" on the basis of female culture yielded for her over half a century versus what "doing his best" not on the basis of female culture yielded for him over the same interval. If this doesn't make the point I'd say the problem's not outside, to do with arguments and examples, but squarely inside ; and if it does make the point I suppose I don't need to explain what changed from the early 70s to the late 90s such that Edward Norton and Angelina Jolie both went the way of the failure.
———A incropi ? A injgheba ? It's really not my fault your only language's not practically usable without nigger references. [↩]Time's got exactly nothing with it, of course. [↩]
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Deconstructing Femethics »
Category: Trilematograf
Monday, 15 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:41:56

The great tension
I. Humans, like any other living things, possess an instinct for self-preservation. Humans, unlike all other living things, possess the capacity to represent to themselves, in their own mind, their own unavoidable, impending, inexorable destruction. These necessarily produce a conflict, that is strictly unresolvable. This is the great tension.
II. The great tension takes place in the human mind, and in the human mind alone. Both mice and men have their careful preparations uprooted by the phenomena now and again (or not, for the exact same money) ; but for men alone, and not at all for mice, this means something. It does not denote but it does connote. It symbolizes, it recalls to mind. Why must there always be some problem ?
III. The only approaches available towards the great tension are absolutely limited : escapism, and culture. Neither of them resolves it, nor can there possibly be a third.i
IV. Escapism is the attempt to reduce the human mind to animal functionii. A car forever parked may share with other cars the property of sitting on four wheels ; but it does not share with them the property of being able to be crashed into anything. If it doesn't move, it doesn't crash. If the mind is permanently distracted from itself, its associated flesh could perhaps live undisturbed the life of any other mammal.
V. Culture is the attempt to ease the tension by controlling the moment of death.iii For obvious practical reasons the controlling of the moment of the death of another is both more popular and more appealing to popular interest ; but the two interplay even if one's much louder.
VI. Social hierarchyiv is the proxy of culture ; equality is the social proxy of escapism. Concrete societies organize themselves at the interplay of culture and escapism. The fundamental, inescapably fundamental importance of white people to the history of human life is that they are the first, and so far the only to have constructed a non-escapist svago for the fundamental tension.
VII. Morals, in the sense of a general, theoretical discussion of right and wrong, good or evil, ultimately an attempt of producing a hierarchy of oughts, as well as ethics, in the sense of producing answers to specific, statedv questions, that are coherent with a given system of morals, are strictly concerned with condemning escapism, and propounding culture.
VIII. Scientific research, in and of itself, is purely escapist, which is why it so readily alliesvi with equalitarian social views and so readily comes into conflict with any formulation of either morals or ethics. Yet it is the inescapable condition of scientific research that it must always proceed on a paradigmvii, which is how, and why, it manages to delude itself into escapism in the first place.
IX. There are no proxy solutions any more than there are direct solutions. The lesser minds, for whom the opportunity cost of escapism is low enough, will embrace some formulation of an escapist solutionviii ; the greater minds will either control the escapists' moment of death or drown in a colorful sea of incomprehensible meaninglessness (the two meanderingly alternating in various proportions over the endless centuries).
That's all.
———Though there can be such escapism as an escapist pretense to culture, as well as such cultural approach as a cultural pretense to escape, yet neither can possibly constitute "a third way". There isn't such a thing as an alternate parity anymore than there can be such a thing as "an alternate gender". Numbers are either odd or even, genders are either passive or active, that's the end of the matter. [↩]Usually carried out through function and not substance, though "medical science" has in the past half century made significant progress towards actually mushing up the human brain enough to fit a squirrel's. Currently chemical approaches are favoured as the profit margins on the mechanical are lower and market penetration drastically limited by the need for surgeons, while electricity didn't work out. [↩]There is nothing else in human culture, at no point, ever. All that's culture flows from this same top node, inescapably. There isn't another font of human culture besides the killing. [↩]Last century's happenstances such as for instance S. Freud's purely cultural misidentification of "sexual impulse" as the principal driver of human activity as well as internal life are readily explained by the social hierarchy situation in his immediate social context : after a thousand years' worth of Holy Roman Empire, 1800s Vienna was so utterly stuffy, internal life found itself so thoroughly crushed under culture, it seemed to the youthful, aspiring escapists some version of masturbation's maximally the most they could get away with, much like generations of starving jobbagy might produce kids who imagine stealing some not yet ripe fruit from the boyar's trees is the outer limit of "sticking it to the man". It certainly explains why black kids in the ghetto can't really think of what to steal above and beyond "the pretty girl manning the counter in Whitey's supermarket", a superlative version of a sack full of soap bars. [↩]I can't now find where in the logs I explained the US Supreme Court will not consider putative questions, though I'd like to link it here. [↩]The converse should not be regarded. That socialism's imbeciles will readily misidentify anything as their ally is well documented already. [↩]Scientists don't usually talk well with children, because children tend to ask "why ?" indiscriminately, and the scientists don't want to question their paradigm as (subconscious, but rock-solid) foundation for their continued escapism. [↩]"Technological progress" in particular has absolutely nothing to do with it ; the same hordes drooling while clucking at the dumbphone now were just as much drooling, but while looking out a physical window for as long as they had those ; and otherwise looking into the fire, for as long as they had that, and so on. Exchanging camps around open pit fires for walls with holes in them is technological progress, of course, yet it has entirely no bearing in the discussion. [↩]
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Category: Cocietate si Sultura
Friday, 28 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:41:44

The Glass Key
The Glass Keyi is the delightful pre-war production Miller's Crossing is definitely the re-make ofii. A very convincingly demented psycho (that'll be remade by James Gandolfini fifty years later) ; a beautifully excellent party machine boss ; a... well, I don't think much at all of Veronica Lake, but whatever, a dame unwanted potato they keep passing back and forth like so much ballast... it's got everything!
As far as noir goes this is probably the best example (however befouled by the unwelcome presence of the insufferable "hero" / agricultural engineer, as well as the utterly insane tendentious fraudulenceiii at the time fashionable). The threads make sense and tie together very well, which isn't to say "like in real life". The story stands on its own terms, it checks out by the fictive algebra it itself defines -- and there's absolutely nothing wrong with this.
As far as cinematic neorealismiv goes this is probably the best offering the US ever produced. It certainly foretells, and leads, the genre (and not just in the beating of the "hero" either). Too bad this single solitary promising strand of genuine cultural production in the sad colonies got choked out by the usual crap, under the usual excusesv.
I wish people could make more films like The Glass Key. I wish people could still make films like The Glass Key. I wish there were still people ; but then... the "reform" ticket prevailed, and so...
Never again ; because that's what happens when you give in.
———1942, by Stuart Heisler, with Brian Donlevy, Veronica Lake, William Bendix, Alan Ladd, Joseph Calleia. [↩]Consciously, too, including such breadcrumbs as a direct "It's the kiss-off!" quote, not to mention seeding for the "half-smart" dialogue etcetera. [↩]Misrepresenting the "reform" ticket as anything but outright evil is evildoing in and of itself, no ifs or butts about it. [↩]You know, the Italians' stuff, La Strada and so on. [↩]"Oh, people like it..."
Bullshit. "People" like those, they "like" anything they're told to, forget about it. [↩]
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The current Instagram algorithm, or monkeys and microscopes again »
Category: Trilematograf
Sunday, 28 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:41:32

The Girl Can't Help It
The Girl Can't Help Iti is straightforwardly an exploitation vehicle, built out of Mansfield's bosom & waistlineii (in a thick sauce of rockabilly voices) wrapped in the silliest of slapstick scripts (which somehow manages to work unexpectedly well).
The self-obvious reason this film was made is the substantial visual cachet all the celebrity singers of the radio era enjoyed at the time. Most people had never seen any of the people audibly involved, though they had heard them, willingly and lots of times, and so they were a cinch to buy a ticket. On that logic Fox added the hottest ho on their roster as a sort of ad-hoc MC/goofster (with Tom Ewell behind her for reinforcement), transparently reasoning (I suspect judiciously) that it'll merit-wash her at least as much as she'll kavorkaiii-wash them.iv
This is why and wherefore the silly script works so well : by beating everyone to the punch it leaves little footing for effectual rejection, for which reason this humble "bad" script might in fact be the best script ever written, in the strict sense of its fitness to purpose (and the fine-ness and excellence of the definition of that purpose), thereby incidentally illustrating in the sharpest light imaginable the difference between copywriting and literature.
Watching it can't possibly hurt anything ; if you manage to make it through the whole thing without falling asleep (a challenge I failed), your mental model of the 50s will be substantially enriched.
PS. Abbey Lincoln's intervention is outright idiotic (some xtian bs), but her boob-squeezing antics quite delightful. Too bad she bought the whole pantsuit line of idiocy, she could've been a great star.
———1956, by Frank Tashlin, starring Jayne Mansfield in her fucking prime alongside pretty much all the artillery 20th C-Fox could scare up (excepting Elvis, who asked for "way too much") : Julie London, Ray Anthony, Fats Domino, The Platters, Little Richard & Band, Eddie Fontaine, Gene Vincent, Abbey Lincoln, Johnny Olenn, Nino Tempo, Eddie Cochran... even those obnoxious upstarts The [Three] Chuckles are in there. [↩]Something quite like
[↩]No, this isn't the right word. At first I had "sex" written in there, but it's not right, sex can denote either physiology or anatomy, tits or copulation, neither being the point. "Gender" is inadequate as it suggests a number of dichotomies uncontemplated in context. "Hot" (or "cool" for that matter, same difference) ain't it either, because there's many kinds of hot and we're discussing a very specific one among them. Some ad-hoc-ism, perhaps a portmanteau like successexful or w/e in that vein seems too clunky. What'd be the word you'd use to describe what I have and you wish you had here ? [↩]Early Hollywood was very much a strip club, but one that managed to build itself up, entirely through cannibalizing every show biz value they could land their hands on.
This happens to be how such things ever work, when they do in fact work (as opposed to when they fail miserably). [↩]
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More midden, more midden, have a look an' here we go... »
Category: Trilematograf
Wednesday, 03 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:41:19

The General
The Generali is an excellent film, principally for managing to seamlessly avoid the utterly misstated "moral questions" and such quagmires of contemporary idiocy. Released (though not filmed) in black-and-white despite coming out in the middle of the television ageii, it manages to re-create in the evanescent medium of celluloid flicker the quaint, calm, deeply peaceful environment of the stoic man's lifeiii. It is impossible to watch and not pointedly prefer the opposition, whoever it may be, wither and fall away, to leave behind a Martin Cahill less impeded by their odorous, ultimately unwelcome, in any case pointlessly tedious presence ; but then again the film's far from accurate in numerous crucialiv details.
The score's almost Scorsese-level terrible, the cinematography tidily unremarkable. The scene where the likable gangster spitefully breaks a "gold record" in half to reveal its pewter composition's actually the director directly speaking : it was his "gold record" the genuine Cahill stole in reality. Why would anyone accept this sort of fake in this sort of circumstance but then pretend to go about all "law abiding" and shit is anyone's guess. What makes government fraud so appealing to the innately criminal element posing for "civillians", anyways ? The unanswerable question aside, the instance may well be the most accomplished example of breaking the third wall in history (though I'm more than willing to consider your own preferred occurences).
I recommend watching this film in bed, with nude women by your side who nevertheless aren't sisters, sexually intimate or otherwise. Alternatively I suppose you might have popcorn.
———1998, by John Boorman, with Brendan Gleeson, Maria Doyle, Angeline Ball. Also starring Jon Voight. [↩]For some reason television decided not to show black-and-white at some point in the 70s ; their unreasonable not to mention scandalously disproportionate over-representation in the socialist misperception of The Market made it pretty much impossible for anyone to make black-and-white films after that point (unless, of course, they were both well known already, like Boorman was, and also willing to mortgage their own house to do it, like he did). [↩]As reported by a girl named for her polymother, the man's wordview went something like
Whatever it is you say I am, I am not. Whatever it is you want from me, I will give. Whatever it is you take from me, you can take. What is it you can do to me? The worst thing you can do is kill me, after that I won't care, I am still free.
making him one of the very few notable habitants of the sad island complex in memory. [↩]For one thing, young Cahill was in fact turned down by the Navy (imagine that wonder, quite a ways they've come towards inutility since the days of impressment). For another thing, the girl and he were never neighbours ; that deeply, rumbling Ozarks ring of inbred familiarity's entirely the author's creation, unsupported by actual events. For yet another, the heroin-dealing brother Peter's wisely omitted in the film, as well as the prostitution interests of the ad-hoc criminal gang. All this'd muddy up the story, and make the color scheme quite inadequate -- which isn't an objection to the piece of art (hence "wisely"), but it is a good reason not to mistake art for life. On in this vein, the event where the isolated Guards found themselves driven out of gas may or may not have occured (it is a trivial enough fait d'armes of the 90s, I have it in my own panoply as I personally know dozens others in the same situation, it really was not hard to do), but actual Cahill's actual car was a Mercedes like I favoured, and not the tin can depicted (and this matters visually, doesn't it) ; moreover the scene where he had two hundred cars' tyres slashed like any random soccer hooligan (about half police, half neighbours') is again wisely avoided, as is the weird scene of kidnapping the head of the National Irish Bank along with his family. Trying to get over the screen the incomprehensible situation where a guy living with two women in perfect harmony and otherwise running whores out of massage parlours (state of the art for the period) couldn't come up with anyone better to be the softening agent than some inept dude (inept enough to draw child support while "kidnapped") is, I believe, beyond the ken of anyone, this author or any other. It just can't be done, which is why life can never count as art raw, there's always needed some selection at the very least, if not outright creative intervention. [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Monday, 01 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:41:07

The Eulora.Vtools.Diff discussion
It goes like so :
diana_coman am cam lamurit in sfarsit ce ma zapacea de cap acolo - in fapt mai era o bucata pitita in io.c de n-o luasem intai in calcul dar e importanta (si de altfel acum daca am luat-o ieri la puricat pana am chiar priceput ce fac ei acolo, cam stiu si de ce "vai da' nu face si drege pe wide chars"): la citirea fisierului, diff al unix face in fapt un fel de histograma ("equivalence classes" le zic ei in cod) practic pe baza unui ad-hoc hash care e calculat insa byte cu byte.
diana_coman concret, ce fac ei acolo: 1. fisierul e citit cu totul intr-o bucata 2. e tocat dupa '\n' 3. fiecare linie e luata byte cu byte pt calculul unui hash h si dupa valoarea rezultata pusa intr-un grup de "echivalenta" (direct asa, adica e in grupul h mod n_buckets, n-are nici o jena), ideea acolo fiind ca dupa aceasta procesare initiala, tot restul ce mai face se uita *doar* la acele clase de echivalenta, nicidecum la linia in sine cum ar veni
diana_coman mircea_popescu: intrebarea pt noi ar fi daca chiar vrem ori avem nevoie de exact aceasta abordare.
diana_coman la ora actuala inca nu pot zice ca am idee si de altfel eu as cam prefera sa-l construiesc pas cu pas adica nu m-as agita din start musai cu asta dar pot vedea de ce e acolo.
diana_coman in tot cazul, altminteri, acum fiind lumina prin hatisuri pe acolo, eu am inceput sa-i cam pun baza si anume am implementat frumos acel algoritm al lui Myers pt lcs (longest common sequence) chiar pastrand abordarea din diff pt ca imi pare ca se cam potriveste cu aplicatia altminteri cum ar veni. L-am facut insa Ada-style adica el e pachet generic si NU ii pasa *ce* compari ca nici nu are de ce sa-i pese: il instantiezi cu ce vrei sa fie test si ce vrei sa cheme pt un insert/delete si gata, ca algoritmul n-are treaba
diana_coman pt linistea mea si folosul ulterior, i-am scris si un test minimal, mai mult sa-l vad eu ca merge - asta o mai fi de extins da' deocamdata zic ca e ok.
diana_coman mircea_popescu: singura chestie aici si in fine, generala altminteri e ca per total limita de dimensiune imi pare ca va fi intai de toate una data de ...tipul de date pt indecsi. E cam enervant asa pt ca diverse cam forteaza sa folosesc Integer care nici macar nu e musai si intotdeauna pe 64 biti ca depinde unde rulezi - in orice caz, practic o limita clara si absoluta asa e cum ar veni asta - daca ai in fisier mai multe linii decat Integer'Last (ca e 2^32 ori 2^64, tot exista ca limita), atunci ai pus-o, adica singura chestie de-o vad ar fi sa lucreze cu fisierul pe bucati, nu prea vad ce alta (transparent pt utilizator asa la rulare, sigur, da' in fine, in principiu nu e musai la fel de transparent in rezultate,sunt niste fineturi pe acolo)
diana_coman e drept ca si 2^32 nu-i chiar putin asa da' in fine, naiba stie ce gigabytes de fisier o vrea careva sa treaca prin V
mircea_popescu sal
mircea_popescu pai tu ai o f buna solutie cu keccak acolo. ca el e chiar perfect pentru fix asta, digerat linii de cod.
mircea_popescu deci sinergiile abunda
mircea_popescu diana_coman, eu cred ca abordarea dupa hasuri e corecta, pentru ca iti ofera proprietatea valoroasa ca compari numere de aceeasi dimensiune
mircea_popescu concepte precum = au sens, ceea ce e esential; ; ai posibilitatea sa construiesti chiar si trees, pentru ca > functioneaza de asemenea. eu zic ca e un cistig.
mircea_popescu nu concep ca e util sa ai un fisier cu peste 2^64 linii ; oamenii care inca lucreaza cu integer de 32 biti is idioti.
mircea_popescu deci omul care vrea sa treaca fisier mare prin eulora.diff isi cumpara frumos un computer de 64. chiar daca nu il foloseste la altceva, is citeva sute de para. daca nu-si permite sute de para NU ARE NEVOIE de ce fisier vorbeste el. ca asa e viata.
mircea_popescu iar omul care vrea sa treace fisier mai mare de 18446744073709551616 linii prin eulora.diff construieste un computer de 128 sau citi biti vrea.
mircea_popescu costa citevs zeci de miliarde de para acolo, nimica. daca nu isi permite...
Sa v-o zic si-n engleza ?
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Category: S.MG
Tuesday, 01 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:40:31

The duchess' morning stuffing
"Good morning, your Grace!"
In the grand stately bed, not quite an acre not by much, between the massive phalansters of carved ebony, within the gowny depths of individually and particularly hand-plucked goose down (from geese grown on the Duke's own land, by women grown on the Duke's own land, or even vice-versa, perhaps), captive within plushy silken walls, so soft and yet so cool and yet so warm and yet so satin, bedecked with pillows magical in their consistency and tapestries and brocade in golden weft and stuffiesi and frills and danteleture generally the young woman stirred. "Oh.... Ooooh. Oh Mistress, please."
"Mistress Dobson."
"Oh yes, good morning Mistress Dobson."
The room was strange, and warm. Heated with everflowing steam to the precise temperature best suited for young, newborn spiders, covered in orchids, orchids everywhere, thousands upon thousands of plants -- for they were not mere cut orchids, a day's amusement like could on great occasions perhaps be seen in the hovels of the lesser peerage, such thatch-roofed cottages as mere counts inhabit, and discounts, and lowly barons even, products imaginary of recent titlage and dubious tillage as they all -- save for the Duke himself -- were or could ever hope to be. No, none of that, nothing like that ; but true and proper porphyraii such as befit the Duke's own byproduct, as soon as his grace deemed her grace ready, and worthy, and the stars alligned and who knows what else in arbitrary considerations both lofty and complex.
The woman lying in bed, apparently alseep though her position wouldn't have suggested it, of Lowenstein-Wertheim-Rosenberg originally but now of Dorset through and through, through marriage and ownership and self-abasing offering and even more than that, stirred invisibly, perceived by her maid's naked eye through experience but imperceptible to anyone else (were anyone else there with them). The maid the young duchess called so pointedly "Mistress" first reached as if to remove the leather blind from her mistress' golden curls, but stayed herself at the other's manifest (if insubstantially expressed) refusal of such relief as a return of sight might represent.
"How did your grace sleep ?"
"Mhnnnn... What day is it ?"
"Today is Girth, your grace."
"Oh god."
"Aww. But your grace so loves being stretched, and full."
"On the machines ?"
"No, today's with us.
"Oh, Mistress Batch ?"
"She'll be here momentarily, with the dongs, and the lube."
"No, not with lube. I'll make my own."
"But... it will hurt you so, your grace."
"It should. Until I learn to behave myself as befits my station it should hurt me."
Zuleika proceeded silently to remove and replace restraints, unfastening ribbons and leather binds, freeing a calf from a cuff only to cuff the ankle in another in its stead, and then the ruffles and the ribbons and the whalebone and the retractors and detractors and separators and everything else, precious wood and surgical steel and expensive fabrics and mother of pearl such as befits elaborate, civilised womanhood. For it wouldn't do, we're all agreed, it wouldn't do for nude and rude reproduction to overwhelm such fictive sheaths and fields and gauzes as might best maintain the ancient traditions of the wail.
"She has to see!" The slender girl coming in was complicatedly arrayed, her pointed hairdo trailing gauze yet her breasts about, perking bare through the brocade, nude flesh and white merletto comingling sinfully in her appetizing appearance. Her complicated skirtings fell apart in front, exposing her clean-shaven pubis and the substantial implement dangling from it, held in place as if by magic as far as the naive observer might be concerned (but otherwise held in place by its extension inserted deeply, burried within her darkest folds).
"She doesn't want to, though."
"Please, Mistress Batch. Please, may I ?"
"You know what his Grace says, your grace! Cu va cu zoppu a l'anno zuppichia."
"She doesn't want to see the spiders."
"Yesss... pleassse..." hissed the prone, bound figure central to their ministrations, in a timbre most unexpectedly frightening, low and reverberating, as if she were possessed by some unkind spirit.
The spiders in question, numerous, most active, belaboured ceaselessly to the covering of the walls and everything else in their abundant, silky offerings. They didn't seem very normal, if such can ever be properly said of spiders ; they didn't behave in ways coherent with their natural history let's say. Common everyday spiders move but little. They weave their webs and wait, icons of domestic patience, for prey ; and such webs as they weave are small, centered on them, and generally white (though some remarkable exemplars will produce honeydewed meshes of excruciating beauty). The spiders swarming all about the duchess' chamber, though larger, softer somehow than all others, a velvety squishiness about them everywhere like they were large moths rather, or maybe merely dressed as such, or perhaps just crustaceans without their shells, imphormous marine creatures bereft of natural habitat or any place in the ordered cosmos outside their own fanciful existence, seemed to lack any subjective notion of the self. The webs they weaved, of thick and very purple substance, hung like tapestries in miniature over everything ; the spiders themselves seemingly more dedicated to this one task of environmental coverage than anything else. They weren't so much trying to weave webs to trap some prey, they simply attempted to cover every square inch of wall in their purple fabric, and then every square inch of that, in turn. They moved about, rapidly, like ants, though unlike ants rectilinearly, dragging behind their precious trail of drying dusk, to intersect with myriad others and so on.
The newcomer reached out and grabbed a chunk in her fingers, spiders running away every which way. She tore it off with a sound almost audible and placed the resulting matter, of such doubtful consistency as decaying lily petals, squarely on the young duchess face, covering her from chin to nose under the purple substance. The young woman bucked, unmovingly in her restraints. She ceased breathing, she concentrated as if on the point of explosion. Wetness sparkled at the rim where her leather blind touched her cheek, and then she opened her mouth wide. The maid carefully pushed the spiderweb into her mouth, covering her tongue evenly, equally, rubbing it around to soak up all available saliva ; then with practiced, small gestures by degrees pushed it down the captive woman's throat with her own fingers, all the way.
The other maid, having prepared herself in the interval, placed the large accessory between her legs inside the young duchess' mouth firmly, and pushed it slowly, by degrees, without respite, down her throat. Once the duchess' nose touched her maid's bare belly the implement doubtless reached inside her stomach, holding her throat, and oesophagus, and larynx and pharyngeal valves and other sphyncters and everything else in its path as wide open as nature permitted, or perhaps even widerly open still than that. The tied woman tried her best to breathe through her nose, at intervals succeeding ; Mistress Batch tore more of the spider silk and, after placing it on the prone duchess' flower, by untold instruments held amply, turpiously apart, proceeded to engorge the well worked, purple womanhood upon her mighty dong. Atop the quivering form, dying time and time again, she whispered something inaudible, to which the other maid nodded, then pumped her, and then let her die, and pumped her more, extracting life's own rent out of the quivering lithe frame.
Seen from afar, the two edges of the third seemed rather like ants seeing to the needs of a becoming spider queen ; but seen from inside, seen from the dutchess' own unseeing vantage they were simply her whole world, moving in step with the pulsions and repulsions of her own heart, invaginating her margins for the world, softly, thickly, velvety. One day, one great grandiose day she'll finally be ready, and impregnated, and then her life, her new true life will begin. And until then... until then there is always the silk, the purple silk of everyday.
———Among which the celebrated Goostuffie Goostuffersson (in older source material also spelled Gustuphy Gustuphersohn). [↩]
He found her in the throes of childbirth, in the room set apart long ago for the confinement of one such as her. Our ancestors called it porphyra, hence the world-famous name.
[↩]
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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Tuesday, 12 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:40:19

The difference between me and everyone else : I haven't a sense of humour, or hahaha-lalala
A recent comment got me to thinking, and here's the thing... my first Bitcoin buy, just to try it out, amounted to a grandi. This isn't special or particular, by the way, it wasn't some special inspiration that helped me isolate Bitcoin from the vague cloud of computer games I'd throw the same sort of peanuts at, in the period.ii
Back then Bitcoin was trading around fifteen dollars a pop, and it promptly went to two-something, such that everybodyiii got to spend the whole summer ha-ha-ha-la-la-la "Oh, I can reproduce MPs exotic play on twelve cents to the dollar" la-la-la-ha-ha-ha.
They didn't, though. They didn't actually reproduce it. The hahaha-lalala was enough for them, the could have entirely satisfactory -- for them. I meanwhile spent that whole summer bringing my cost point down, to two-something. Hahaha. The whole thing brought me rather intact highschool memories, because back then also, and in the exact same way. Lalala.
The difference between me and everyone else isn't "inspiration" (be it from "science" or "wisdom" or any other goddess). It's not that I'm better at selecting the subjects of my affections. It's not that I care, deeper, better, anything in that vein.
The difference between me and everyone else is that I despise everyone else.
———And that's a grand of last decade's money, easily twice if not outright thrice the value of today's sad fiat. [↩]Sadly I didn't screenshot, but the girls did giggle at, this recent eggregious discussion whereby somebody was bemoaning "the greed" of some game developers because they'd like to actually keep the lights on, and seeing how they spend their time developing games they'd like the people enjoying those efforts to actually pay for their expenses.
So I pointed out to the guy that who the hell cares, if I go out it's at least a hundred, more like a thousand a plate, and I never go alone anyway. Thereby following the logic, a game that manages to keep my attention a coupla hours' more than entitled to the piddly twenny it's angling for ; and while the numbers might not exactly hold for everyone, the principle still does : figure out what you're worth per hour, a buck or a penny, whatever it is, and... spend that.
It resulted in some massively butthurt foreign dodo, following me around to insert his 2c worth of "well what do you know, you're insane, you throw out the thousands everywhich way you turn, I AM ON A VERY FIXED INCOME!!!" into every possible (and for that matter impossible, too, just to be "safe") conversation. Right ? Because the world totally owes him some agreeing, some empathy for his... point of view. Is it ? Is it a point of view ?
Poverty is stupidity exactly because it is a point of view. [↩]That knew me, let's not confuse the vague everybody of social acquaintances with the ignare "everyone" of your thisinternetlife, we're not in the same "Boy's Night Out (1962, with Kim Novak)" over here -- which is why you work for me, even though I don't pay you to. [↩]
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Category: Oda Superbiei
Tuesday, 25 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:40:06

The deplorable generation
Re-reading these comments it's apparent this La Medeleni thing in fact worked as a sort of period Friends. "Oh, I hate that Michael! He's so smug!" sorta... well, basic internal processing. Gotta start somewhere, as it were.
Ultimately Diana's point stands : neither has group identification anything to do with anything else, nor can there be found (projected -- yes! but found, never) meaning in its coincidental overlap with anything else. The muzzled generation, the Friends generation and the La Medeleni generation have in common merely the most bluntly banal "they're generations". There's no more literature in the endless tons of paper fashioned into "masks" than there's into the endless tons of paper fashioned into "the book" as publicly consumed, or "the sitcom", or whatever else, because there's no more meaning in group activity than there's in any other natural phenomena. Because groups aren't human.
Collections of human lives -- distinguished from the groups by the complete absence of group identity or any notion of groupitude (much like Trotsky's substitutionism, by the time the category becomes reified therefore it also becomes meaningless, not merely practically but necessarily and outright devoid of even the capacity for meaning) -- be they however large, are still as human as the individual, in the hands of the anthropologist ; so the fact that all corpses I've so far examined have a scapula does indeed give the presence of scapulae meaning, and the fact that however many peasants repeated to their children some version of the same tale does give that tale meaning, but strictly because they'd done it for their own reasons, as counterdistinct from
De foame nu dau popii ortul! Eu iarna singura-mi tes tortul, si umblu si eu cum socot ca-i portul.
which is to say "for the '''reason''' that that's what other people do, or '''it's what's done'''" or any other reformulation of female thought -- the central point of which problem being that mere recognition's no kind of cognition, and the mother's innate recognition of her offspring no kind of basis for a relationship in and of itself. People might (hilariously, and ludicrously, and everything else) get excited over hearing "the music of their youth", through the association it carries with their idealized selves in their own mind, for having coincidentally been in the background as their lives unfurled ; but there's no youth in the noise and no meaning in the association.
Obviously recognition forms some portion of cognition necessarily, and necessarily it sits at the basis of it, and were I strictly incapable of recognizing a scapula I'd therefore be strictly incapable of recognizing scapulae. Nevertheless, basic and fundamental as it might be, recognition belongs with, and must be classified with, naturalia, not idealia -- under pain of doom. My (however innate, however intrinsic, however deeply held or seemingly inseparable) observation that two instant apples are indeed both apples is part of phenomena, and outside of humanity (and therefore inescapably inadherent to meaning). It's of the nature of having a heart attack, not in the vein of writing an article (that one ; or any other).
This then yields the identification of an entirely novel type of pollution : as more and more lists are miscast as groups (aka "identity politics") the necessary correlate of meaning in human society (lists ; not groups) becomes untenable, with the predictable result of generalized loss of meaning, from social processes to individual perceptions of society. Much like people spending time spreading salt in their environment might soon discover themselves incapable of farming (generally speaking incapable, not for any clear reason but merely through the "inexplicable" failure of crops and subsequent famine -- for which no doubt more salting will be recommended by their salt god as the only possible cure & remedy) people going about trying to groupify lists of people end up with their ears caught in a yet-another replay of the collapsed empire tragedy / historical drama.
Ultimately all generations are deplorable, and for that reason specifically : they're generations.
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Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc
Saturday, 05 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:39:42

The curdle
"The Joker, you figure ?"
"Oh, I don't know. What do you think ?"
The uniformed policeman's shoulders stooped. He scratched his graying chuck. He shifted his weight and huffed. He scratched again, slightly across from the first spot, his breath heavy under all his pig fat. He shook his head, more like a concealed shudder. "They really look like they're smiling. How the hell does he do that."
"With a knife, sargeant. He does it with a knife."
"We found an exacto blade in the bathroom."
"That's not how..."
"Oh, no, no, they had the scalpels shoved up their asses alright. We didn't touch those. You'll get them from the coroner tomorrow. The knife was an extra."
"A gift."
"Something like that I guess."
"Who found them ?"
"Cute lesbian package across the hall."
"That her pawprints ?"
"Yup. We took their shoes. They're in the boxes with everything else."
"They ?"
"Oh, you should see these two. About Allison's age just about, too."
"These days..."
"Takes all kinds."
"They heard anything ?"
"No, they say they heard the cat meow, and then the door turned out to be ajar, and one thing led to the next."
"At least it saves us the stench. Usually this sort of thing's found a week old, or two. I can't even remember the last time the coroner said something about hours."
"True fact, lt."
"Anything else ?"
"Nope, nothing. Guy's got a book and he's going by it. Step by step."
"One of these days he's going to take a wrong step right into the hole."
"If you say so, lt."
"Alright, where are they ?"
"Across the hall, I've got Timmy with them."
"What are they called ?"
"The white girl's Laura. The other's Ellen. Students."
"Yeah. I bet."
"They're all students around here, lt."
The lt. waved his hand and took off, whistling the theme to Forever Young loudly enough to hear from the street. The grinning cadavers left behind shone in the May day's last sunbeams, bare, elaborately sliced, one time prior to about forty-eight hours ago pretty girls, students perhaps, about Allison's age just about. Now, so much catfood. The approximately six square feet of smoothly, uniformly dried blood in a roughly oval puddle with crumpled outline reproduced to some degree the sky above, forcibly translated to its own palette of metallic, reddish hues. A bored child watches the Christmas tree early one day, the day after the excitement of the day immediately after. The day after that. He plays with the decorations, idly. They're slowly peeling in his mind, from their abstract, purely idealized function of Christmas decorations. They're objects now, mere objects, real, concrete. No longer anything in particular besides what they actually are, which is nothing. No longer meaningful, therefore now incomprehensible, incapable of being meaningfully dismissed. Things. Round. Shiny. Reflective. He notices the potato beamed back off the round, shiny surface. It is his nose, he realises. His nose, his whole face, eyes crumpled in, an afterthought barely holding on at the edges, his chin rendered immense, overflowing beyond any possible measure, beyond Jennifer Rudolph Walsh even. That's him! Him, but not really him. A reflection, crushed, reformed. Deformed. Yet his nose doesn't hurt. How was it bent out of shape to that degree without feeling anything ? The reflection's of him, but not his, its abuse upon his parts entirely outside, perfectly alien. The globe twisted his face, turned his nose, balooned his features yet he felt nothing ; and the feeling of terror, of sheer, unmitigated terror consumes him. Years after he spends guarding, spying hypervigilantly all reflective surfaces everywhere in sight. The TV's shine often distracts him, brass knobs suspicious, a little round pocket mirror extracted from a discarded powder compact his only comfort ; in its fair, regular, predictably and reliably accurate representation his only solace. That kid's nowhere to see it ; and yet the curdled blood reflects the curdling sky in its own terms regardless. Not forever, it's true ; but regardless, nevertheless.
"And you didn't hear anything."
"No. We just... we keep to ourselves."
"Did you see anything ? Or anyone ?"
"I... I mean we... you mean over there ?"
"Yes, any visitors, deliveries, anything. Coming in and out, loitering down the hall, anything at all."
"They... they really kept to themselves. We never really met."
"So you didn't hear anything and you didn't see anyone at all, not a single soul."
"No one at all", said the blonde. "Not a single soul", repeated the other, soulfully.
"Not yesterday, or the day before. Or the day before that. Nobody whatsoever this past week altogether."
"Nobody..." they whispered, together, like from a dream.
"Alright, well, thank you for your co-operation. If anything comes back, if you remember anything, here's my card. Give me a call, day or night."
"Ok."
"Goodbye."
The man nodded and left the two holding each other, seated on the couch, their eyes enlarged with a terror unspoken, unspeakable. If they believed in God, if they read books, a reference to "There, but for the Grace of God,..." would have imposed itself ; but they didn't read books, nor did they believe in God. They believed in Science instead, which isn't really the same thing, if for no other reason then because no followers of that particular faith, no believers in Science seem to ever read any books, or recognize any references ; the world as reflected in their eyes always unspeakably distorted, incomprehensibly mangled somehow.
At length Laura stood up and, paddling barefoot to the small makeshift bar in the corner, poured two small helpings out of a shaped bottle holding a colorful liquid. Round the neck of the bottle a paper label, with the words 'DRINK ME' beautifully printed on it in large letters, was conspicuously absent.
The end.
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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Wednesday, 02 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:39:21

The Cabin in the Cotton
We've watched "The Cabin in the Cotton"i, and agreement was readily reached that the only way this story could even conceivably stand up, or play at all, is if it were re-shot as a gay porno.
The very weird hunchback leading zombie with eyeliner and lipstick (no fucking idea what they were thinking back in 1936, but honest to god they're proposing a hunchback leading man in full girly-girl make-up) could be coerced/"coerced" into blowing everyone, in all the "high pressure" scenes. First, the group of filthy, broken-through straw-hat wearing, tobacco chewing, raggedy tenants. Then he'd go out the door, kiss the waiting "poor" girly sweetly, deliver the same insipid lines of "romance" and move on... to The Big House, where it's time for Big Daddy's knob to be polished. "Gimme them books" he'd say, and Barty-mess'd get his boihood card re-issued (belt buckle stamp to the forehead, just as good), then move on seamlessly to some lovemaking (of the purely oral sort) with the "rich"ii girl, only to go on to the big showdown downtown right after. Then outside he winks to the one girl, in the buggyiii, he smiles to the other girl, in the auto-mobile, and the DA's pat lands on his back : "C'mon now boi, you've got sucking off to do!" And there they happily go, a GI man and his... ehm... ass-is-tentiv. Curtains and trumpets, the end!
Needless to say the 80-year-old original fails to deliver in any of the substantial points. The decor's all there, the setting done to perfection, just the money shots missing. But it's barely a 68 minute film, and half the scenes in there aren't needed (or even that useful) to the unfurling of the story. A coupla fifteen minute scenes in period costume and a week or so in the editing room could restore this half-assed attempt to cinema.
I personally don't care to shoot gay porn, never did, never likely will ; but if your own equipment truly floats your boat and you find yourself wishing to use this idea, why... by all means, go right ahead -- it's as much entirely yours as this certainly-by-nowv public domain production.
———1932, by Michael Curtiz, with Bette Davis and Dracula's butler's daddy back in the plantation days (inexplicably billed as "Richard Barthelmess", whatever that is). [↩]How fucking rich can she be, she's female isn't she ? [↩]Geddit ? Buggy ?
Oral-only, yes'm, butt nevertheless inunedo aplenty, just like they do it in Blowywood. [↩]Or do you spell it with an "aah" ? [↩]And don't let anyone tell you any different. [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Wednesday, 19 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:39:09

The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz
The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitzi tells the story of the post-War "New" Bureaucrat. Obviously the young shit on the make is not that new ; kids with a lot of ambition and very little anything else have been pouring out of cunt ever since it was invented, and in diluvional over-abundance. What the hell are males even for, down to the brass tacks ? Do & die, right ?
Unlike the 2018 version, the 1948 version (hey, it's been 3/4 century already!) is pretending to be interested in business, capitalism, ownership, etcetera ; but very much like the 2018 version, the 1948 version's alleged preoccupations and interests are similarly ungenuine. It's the exact same cursory preoccupation, readily obvious in its superficiality. Transparent mimmicry for ulterior interest -- then as now the exact same thing, really, the means be damned & go straight to hell. Yes those were pretending to want to make money just like these are pretending to want to "help others" ; yet such paintcoat-level distinction without the faintest actual difference underneath might not even be sufficient to fool dogs. It certainly ain't fooling me.
That said, Dreyfuss is fantastic in this role. For some incomprehensible reason the kid had wasted most of his life up to that point doing TV shits ; this film is probably the best of his career (and, ironically enough, he thought he did such a bad job he might as well give up acting as a career!). The reason is chiefly the excellent fit between the actor and the character : there's all sorts and manners of engines, and ultimately all can move a locomotive ; but there's no fit as close between the item's needs and an engine's output than what electrics provide. Exactly the same's the case here : as thin a personality, as exactly, precisely deranged an impetuosity, as intensely consummate a hollowness no other actor of that generation could produce, not the taxi driver, not the "what matters is I believe you", not "England prevails", not "once the sweat dries", not the four foot tall "liquidator", none of them. Name your own horse, why not, go for itii -- by the time you dig through the pile as deep as say Schiavelli or Shawn Wallace I'm expecting you'll surrender, humbled (and therefore gain the greatest reward for your efforts -- a clearer understanding of how little "your own opinions" matter).
Jack Warden is a major problem, because although a fine actor delivering a solid performance, he inescapably comes across the screen as utterly Irish. The whole movie I'm sitting there wondering why the hell the little Jew from Montreal was sired out of some unseen balabusta by god damned Paddy over there, it's quite distracting. But such notwithstanding the author makes every effort -- and succeeds superbly -- at re-enacting the deep, unyielding squalor of the East Coast after the war. Quite as filthy, quite as miserable, mean and gangly, quite so looked America "the great" before actually giving up on the Industrialization pipe dream. Just as it was about to, while it was yet still fighting the battle.
And then, the screenwriting is strictly superb. That scene in particular, where the facetious bitch, the dumbass making not merely the wrong but outright the evil choice asks, insanely, as they do, backwards, upside-down, whether "they betrayed him" and he lets her have it, "yes, you have", because yes they indeed have. The hemming of the young ambitious shit, ever since the dawn of time : the disloyalty of women and the disinterest of the lords.
What can you do...
———1974, by Ted Kotcheff, with Richard Dreyfuss, Jack Warden. [↩]Ever notice before, by the way, how the 1940s-born actresses outnumber the actors 3:1 ? No ?
How come. [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Friday, 18 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:38:39

Survivors of the Vault : Rules for the Endgame
Short, sweet and to the point :
The first room (immediately right of the topmost elevator) will be expanded to three spacesi and contain the highest level nondescriptsii equipped with some of the best weapons available.iii
The elevator will be extended directly downwards all the way to the bottom of the pit. All but one living quarters go thereiv, along with as many 3-space fully upgraded warehouses as you need (a half dozen really should be enough for anyone, but who am I to spoil your madness) and such a patchwork of science labs and medbaysv as you might need. These needn't be upgraded, because upgrades do not increase stimpak/radaway storage capacity.vi
Nuclear plants and coke bottlers should be placed alternatively on floors, rather than together. This is because the daily challenges do spit out Mr. Handy's (and your Wandering as well as questing yields lunchboxes which similarily can gift you one) and you don't want to find yourself in the silly position where you still have to click because there's no way to deploy the thing such that it gets both power and food/water.vii Speaking of Mr. Handy, it is superlatively retarded to send it out in the wilderness, don't do that dumb shit.
Upgrade and room joining benefits are very minimal for both Medbays and Science rooms, in no small part because you'll be spending so much of your time with full stockpiles, meaning all new production goes nowhere (and if you don't, the solution is simple : make more rooms!)viii. Meanwhile the strategic advantages incumbent in single unupgraded rooms fully occupied are significantix, so I prefer building protective belts every few levels throughout the base. Even should fires / bugs / rats manage to somehow expandx for some reason (such as unoccupancy or pregnancy, most usually), they have absolutely no chance crossing the singlet room barriers, so all disasters stay well contained.
Because you don't much care about their productivity, Medbays and Science rooms are also the perfect elephant cemetery for your legacy dwellers. All those high level nondescripts that don't have the stats to compete with late game offspring and aren't needed to man the top room can very well find a medbay to shipwreck in -- just throw a labcoat on them and call it good.xi
Male colonists just come of age will :
First, spend some time training their endurance up to 6xii. This is worth doing because it only takes a few hours and it significantly increases their lvl 50 hitpoint pool, resulting in hardy fellows that can take the worst without needing your babysitting.
Once that is complete, they are issued the standard weaponxiii and armorxiv and are allocatedxv to the bottling plant to level up.
Once they're level 20 or so, they can move on to train strength and go to work in the nuclear plant. How high you want to train strength on the first pass is up to you -- if you're short power move them into the plants ; if you're not needing any let them train.
Female colonists just come of age will :
First, be impregnated.
Then, while pregnant, go work out to train their endurance. If they lose pregnancy protection for whatever reason, they're to be re-impregnated immediately and go back to work. This ensures they don't accidentally diexvi, something that's exceedingly easy to do for a level 1 (which they must stay throughout their endurance training, so as to reap the HP benefits from their eventual high endurance).
Once they reach endurance 10 (should be about 3-4 days) they get their endurance +7 coat (you'd better have found the blueprint for this -- and held on to them globes!) and go work in the bottling plants to level up.
Once level 20 or soxvii they go train their perception, agility and luck up to 10. It's entirely up to you if you feel like doing strength and intelligence tooxviii(at the cost of an extra ~week), meaning it's probably not worth doing with the first coupla batches.
Once they're trained out, jeder grenadier kriegt 25 stimpaks and off they go! 15+ damage weapons work best on them, but this should be no problem -- you should have some pretty decent stockpiles by now.
Dwellers with stats over five are sent out to wander the Wastes, with a package of 25 stimpaks and a dozen radawaysxix. Once they've spent the last onexx they get recalled.
High level nondescripts may be sent out to do quests, if you've got nobody else (in any case three quest teams should be outxxi at all times). The logic is that quest rewards being mostly fixed, you don't depend on your own perception and luck to get loots ; high level will probably assure enough hitpoints, and a decent weapon's all you really need. Besides, if one dies... big whoop, you've got to get rid of the nondescripts somehow anyways.
Once population pressure makes itself felt (meaning, you've reached 200 and what nao), all the virgin loser malesxxii the lowest level (>1) dwellers whose endurance is less than six get booted, in that order. You're not trying for an all-10s Vault average, are you ?
Because everything works better when it's written down!
———This is traditionally a power generator room ; and because of past necessities it will be inherited into the late game fully upgraded. There's nothing wrong with tearing it down in principle, as its total value's something like 8k caps, which is a coupla hours' passive Vault income from lucky task completions. I generally don't because I prefer this first room being strength based, and tearing down a fully developped PG to replace it with a NP that either has to soak a good 60k to be fully upgraded or stay undeveloped seems pretty silly.
Strength is the only damage-reduction stat in game ; Agility comes very close in utility in a base defense context because it increases the number of shots the defenders can get out before the offender (generally, a deathclaw) can move on. Thus I prefer the first room being strength-based, so as to minimize the damage the defenders receive (and thus minimize the stimpack clicking rush required) ; then there's a two-space warehouse to the right, so the deathclaws go there and come back for another shower of fire&lead (neither raiders nor ghouls do this ; if they're cleared a room they've cleared it, they don't engage it again on the rebound). Then the second room (2nd floor, leftmost) is a diner, stacked with agility-based, well armed defenders. Ideally the first room takes care of all three deathclaws ; but just in case of any spillage...
The alternative arrangement is also perfectly workable (much easier to make sure all three deathclaws are killed if the first room's A rather than S ; however you'll have to pay much more attention whenever they show up to make sure nobody dies. Then again, in a 200-strong vault everyone's eminently replaceable.
Nothing besides the claws is worth the mention ; both raiders and feral ghouls fall where they enter the room, long before anything like crossing halfway through even (well, the raiders do keep shambling about a while after death, but whatevers). [↩]Dwellers whose attributes don't recommend them for Wasteland exploration particularly. These'd be gals an' fellows with sub-5 endurance (who therefore aren't worth further SPECIALs training) and unremarkable PAL. [↩]The absolute best weapons available belong to the Wasteland wanderers, of course ; but there's only so many of those. I like to mix and match, so there's a couple of flamethrowers, a couple plasma pistols / institute rifles etc and a couple miniguns or whatever advanced combat shotguns / enhanced sniper rifles etcetera kinetics.
The actually optimal way to play, however, is to stack all your fat men in there. This is because in actual combat missile launchers deal their damage steadily to all opponents, evenly divvied up -- meaning the whole opposing team falls over at the same time. This also means you're getting damaged by the whole enemy team the whole duration of the fight, instead of killing some early therefore reducing incoming damage, which makes missile launchers absolutely horrible weapons for wanderers. In a base defense context however all damage is applied in this manner (your total damage output is summed up and dealed DoE to the enemy team and vice-versa), making the fending off of Vault invaders the only situation in the game where missile launchers and similar aren't complete junk. [↩]I often play with two living quarters on the 3rd floor, left and right of the elevator. It's convenient for receiving long queues of incomings (such as in the morning) and sort them into the base (boys right, girls left). If you don't drag them into the base yourself but just allow them in they'll wander about randomly and it might end up taking you a while to find them again. If you don't separate the genders they'll do the dirty and you can't send pregnant females out.
In any case, it makes no sense building more than five living quarters total, because 5 * 40 = 200. [↩]Since the medbays/science rooms don't need upgrading whereas the living quarters and warehouses do, it is always best to first use them to fill the odd two-slot rooms at the end. [↩]I find a dozen or so science rooms generally suffice, about two fully built floor's worth ; contrarywise the stimpak limits have not yet been found. There's an absolute limit of 25 on Wastes wanderers. If half of these need to leave base at the same time, that's 25 * 12 = 300 stimpaks you'll need ; figuring fifty or so at a minimum left behind for the base in case of fire or something leaves us needing three dozen rooms or about four floors' worth. Then again, you can always have more stimpaks... [↩]Admittedly this matters a lot less after the first couple. [↩]Ultimately the problem is very much something like the curse of bimetallism : because both "storage space" and "production capacity" are legitimate game currencies, but their relation allows inflation (specifically you can increase productivity, but you can't increase storage space -- each room space unit yields the same 10 no matter what) bad money drives good money off the market, resulting in the situation where you only ever want to expand your production by building more rooms. [↩]The differential factor between a 1-slot bare room and a 3-slot 3rd-upgrade room is something like 11, meaning you only get to use two people instead of six but they have to fight lesser threats -- a degree of magnitude lesser! Sign me up. [↩]Radscorpions also roll a dice for the next room they visit ; the small rooms count as one, the large rooms count as one, so stacking the deck's very much to your advantage. As a very significant added bonus, radscorpions are only as strong as the room they're in, so if you have a lot of these militarized singlets few scorpions will live long enough to be noticeable, let alone an actual nuisance. Let me tell you it's really quite enjoyable to see the obnoxious bestioles succumb to a coupla shots from the labcoats' shotguns. [↩]For this reason I don't usually bother with the intelligence training room : there's really no need or utility for it. One might want it for aesthetic or role-play considerations, of course, but otherwise intelligence carries no value and has no importance in the brave new world of the future. Speaking truthfully you might even be better off without it (though the female-only agent provocateur outfits are kinda cute). How's that for a trite conclusion! [↩]Six is specifically better than five (though it takes an extra six hours or so) because the levelling gear is +odd, either +3 or +5. The hitpoint calculation thus looks (taking the most bare-bones endurance +3 gearing) 2.5 + (5 + 3) * .5 = 7 versus 2.5 + (6 + 3) * .5 = 8, meaning an extra 50 hp at level 50, from 350 to 400. Even in a linear estimation, if your guy will work in your base for more than two days it's worth taking six hours to give him 1/8 more health -- and he will have to work more than two days to even get to level 50 in the first place. [↩]Whatever that is for your base. Either the 6-8 damage shotgun or the 7 damage rusty laser pistol are good candidates -- being common grade they take an hour or so to produce in the most barebones of weapon rooms ; and they serve the backbone function quite well. [↩]Ideally it'd be the endurance +5 garb ; but if you're short the +3 won't be the end of the world. It all depends on your wanderers productivity, because rare armors (like rare weapons) are universally not worth producing -- they eat up rare ingredients that are needed for legendary crafts, thus constituting the most epic waste of resources conceivable. Both weapon and armor shops should craft common or legendary matter pretty much exclusively. [↩]Do you know what "repartitii" are, by the way ?
Bonus reading : Vai de capul nostru ; Loc de munca asigurat! [↩]This disparity is also why all your Wunderkids (meaning, 10 perception 10 agility 10 endurance 10 luck native) will be female. It's just not worth the risk otherwise, not to mention little's more annoying than spending a day or two training males only for rats to spawn right on them and... there you go, blink and corpses. [↩]The little bitches get a whooping 11 HP per level ; 200 is very safe, being what "normal" endgame looks like. You can shave it much closer than that if you're in a hurry for whatever reason ; but really there's no good reason to be in much of a hurry, because what's the point sending level 9s out in the Wastes ? They'll just blow a day doing jackall, if they stayed inside they could've made at least lvl 18 in that day see. [↩]Heck, you could even do charisma if you're that fucking anal. [↩]Actual utilization rates seem to be about 4.5 stimpaks to the radaway ; but there's no great advantage in sending people out with too few. Let them carry a spurious half dozen and bring it back most of the time, such that you never regret not packing enough.
It's tempting but also not a good idea to simply click the max radaways when sending someone out : it'll put too much pressure on your storage, tempting you to overbuild Science rooms and so on. [↩]Or whatever, once they're down to a coupla. Depends how often you bother to check, if you're going to bed anything under 6 might be too little. From what I've seen they use about 6 a day or so (potentially more if you play their encounters, but then you're playing). [↩]I tend to name everyone A-something Quester that worked quests, so they show up towards the top of the list. An alternative approach is to sort the list by Job, and make sure your questers are always lodged in the barracks, they'll be at the top then. [↩]Because children coming of age go on coffee break which makes them invulnerable, every base has a perpetual electron crowd of children who, having been born at some point in the foggily distant past, long came of age and have hence been wandering aimlessly from room to room, slowly growing older but neither wiser nor more experienced -- not even properly living, if such can be said of life in the Vault in the first place.
Naive females being (in apparently all cultures, including this inadvertently imaginary one) more desirable than their male... counterparts, if we can call them thus (though I don't see what'd warrant such) they slowly get pulled out of stasis and into being, to be impregnated, to populate the various training rooms... The males are left behind, with no clear purpose, bereft of even the most vanishingly dubious call or demand. Since the game is a game (meaning there's a player to heap all agency unto) the remainder gutted cartoons of males shambing about are good for pretty much nothing besides being cast out, barefoot, into the Wasteland, which is why this here's the only list they ever top and honestly speaking why they're even there in the first place. Vault Survivors' a harem game implicitly, because that's what necessarily an' unavoidably happens when you represent reproduction and allocate agency.
Now wonder with me at the "suicide bombers" of "Islam". All societies have this exact same problem, and the four million thirty-something aspiring Elliotts of Cairo's ten million pullulation ain't no different from Santa Barbara's equally equipotent & equivalent fraction. [↩]
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Year 13 d.Tr. »
Category: Trolloludens
Sunday, 03 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:38:27

State Fair
Speaking of barn animals : that doja chick made a new clip with some stripper. She's meanwhile... lost, let's say, pretty much every distinctive anything she ever had ; but "in exchange" (let's say) the sound, the set, the everything's reasonably produced to decent values. The end result's... decenti, I guess, though the nudity certainly could stand some dialing up.
Which brings us to today's topic, the titular State Fairii.
In this regrettable piece of nonsense Margy[erine to Vivian Leigh's butteriii] mopes about. She dun danceiv, she dun titties, she just... mopes, what, it's both her own word and the right word. There's a lotv of unintended, unexpected and otherwise uncanny comedy, principally resulting from the interplay of kink high's "firm convictions" with the historyvi thereof (and therefore completely immune to any suspicions of intentionality). Besideswhich, the interiors (especially early on) have a lot in common with historical reality : they're idealized versions of real objects, importantly idealized with the means then available. Therefore the film's informative for the amateur who wants to be able to follow (at least broadly) an actual anthropologist's points, but doesn't want to actually do all the reading involved.
Ultimately I suppose that's what Iowa always was all about, so in that unexpectedly meta sense the product delivers the promise in the title. It's only fair...
———In fairness there wasn't anything there besides coincidentally-flavoured lazy to begin with, so nothing of substance or import was lost. [↩]1944, by Walter Lang, with a tediously overdressed Jeanne Crain and otherwise a buncha extras, comedians etcetera. [↩]It's painfully obvious chick was trying to marilyn before there was a Marilyn to marilyn so she just picked the next best thing she could find in her immediate environment an' set her ass down to marilyinin' that...
I could say it's uncunny, but come down to the brass tacks it's anything butt. It's not uncunny at all, it's so very very cunny it almost bleeds (monthly, or thereabouts). They're indistinct so they copy each other, because figuring weight for age an' tits for tats what the hell's gonna be so personal about a hole ? Biology really dun leave much to work with, nu-i vina lor, ie vina naturii. [↩]It is degrading in the superlative for a young woman to live with her feet glued to the ground. They just don't belong there, yo! Lift them up! As Ole Liz aptly put it, "the prettiest earrings are always your own ankles".
How did you think hoop earrings ever became a thing, anyways ?! Same way you'll ever become a thing, now hop to. [↩]If you'd like an example, I could give you an example. In the fictive world of then, just as in the current fictive world (not to mention reality, for reality's cold an' unfriendly), the female mates up in the world. The male stays on the farm, to continue his dad's endless toil ; but the young cunny goes to town, to be with a...
Well, with a "journalist", of course. Doh. That's the angle they were jacking off to back then, what else could possibly be as cool as being one of them losers. That they were selling silly bois stuck on the farm back in Iowa the same sort of nonsensical slop they reheated for various geese & assorted cunturkeys a few decades later is not the important point here. What the hell, every immigrant goes by the same rocks and shorelines on his way to a hollow statue, every turnip fallen off the truck rolls down the same pavements an' gutters... of course the "liberated" dumbos of the 1990s will be presented the same delicious dish that the "liberated" ourbravebois of 1950 had to suck up. Go to New York and live on your wits why dontcha!
Anyways, that could be the point anywhere, so I'm not making here. Instead, let me say, with all possible confidence, that you've never seen sketch like this. Not ever, not anywhere, they broke the mold. This dude, drastically indicated, foreshadowed an' all but introduced in neon lighting as the dream-come-true mate, this dude is so fucking creepy... I don't think I can put it in words. Let's just say he's from Creepazoid and they all bow down to his mastery of their craft back on his homeworld.
Suffice it to say that the "trust your gut" nonsense being passed about the platforms as some sort of superlative, unquestioned-because-unquestionable wisdom nowadays directly reduces to "trust what the media says". It's exactly -- but I do mean exactly -- equivalent to telling the heroine in a slasher flick to "follow the music". On one hand of course she will, and on the other hand you know why the music is there, who put it there, how come etcetera. And that it'll change. And how it'll change.
Well... it changed, what can I tell you. Trust your guts this other way now, they're the same guts, same shit inside... you just trust 'em this way now, you hear ? [↩]Hatefully recorded, no doubt, for it takes a certain type of disloyal blackguard to purport to keep track of the wars with Eurasia or whatever. THE TIME IS NOW!
PS. A blackguard is that thrice-cursed dog whose faulty vision sees things as they actually are as opposed to what they'd like to see. [↩]
« Un Lache...
Doll Face »
Category: Trilematograf
Thursday, 28 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:38:14

Somewhat busy these days...
... because... well, of the usual reasons.
One day ended with me saying that I feel so very superlatively loved, an' happy, to delighted coos from the (nude) audience ; because as they say and I plainly believe there's no light shining greater in the slavegirl's life than a thoroughly satisfied Master. Then I continued to say "and my asshole's so thoroughly licked, and...", in the purely rhethorical sense of rounding the statement and anchoring it in the... you know, synergy of facts. But it sent all the girls into a mild tailspin, "how long's it been since I ate your ass ???" "omg I've not licked in there this week" and so on. I pointed out to them that it's the spirit that cunts, and besides ; and then we went to bed : me in bed, and they besides. I'd like to make a sentence with betides now, for complextitty, but I have no ideas, besides perhaps to say that woe betide the man without ideas (and the boi with).
I now must save this piece, and what the fuck am I going to call it ? wtf.txt should be good enough, I guess ; but back to our story : the morn rolled around, and we went... shopping! Because what the fuck else am I gonna do, rotting here in earthly paradise ? And besides, I'm a money stylisti as a principal vocationii. At which point, upon returning from our coffee break mid-perusal of wares, I spoke to my slave, "Oh, what a nice life I lead! I've just bought a pile of laptopsiii and now I'll go home to play video games, or... maybe you make some cake -- wait, you already did". Because she had, the day before, some truly delicious brownies the likes of which I've seen exactly nowehere -- and I travelled the world. At which point we were just rounding a corner past the elevator and coming in view of the... German make car, let's call the local bramobile thusiv, so she says "And you have a girl waiting by the car to open your door", which was true, there she was, most eager filly, waiting by the car to open the door. So I bellow'dv "what the fuck are you doing standing, bitch ?", which put her on her knees, and there we go, Gaddafi ain't got nuttin' on me!
The day continued in the same vein, a "closed on Mondays" restaurant opened for me because I fucking felt like going Monday, and then they went to the gym leaving me behind counting money, in piles, because there's a lot, and uhm... that'd be it, we're going to the beach tomorrow, what can I tell you. There was some public fucking at some point in there too, "go chain yourself to a polevi, maybe I feel like coming over and fucking you" and so on in that vein, but... well, what can you do.
I'm a very busy guyvii.
———Rest at ease no large sums were hurt in the making of the substance for this paragraph, I think we only went through like a million colones or thereabouts, which isn't anything. [↩]I do other things, of course. I'm a reasonably accomplished spyncter phlebotomist, for instance, as well as an anoxia experimentalist and I feed small invertebrates to Vulnavia the Burt also. How's that for a pizdicullum vitae! Ca nom nom n-om fi cutotii gay de-aia ieftini cu net gratis de la gayromeo sa cur-ricullum impreuna asa, tinindu-ne de minute acuma. Da ? Just ?
Mbine. [↩]It was a pile indeed ; she did the research, I was in the store all of ten minutes, counting piles of money (yes, they still discount por efectivo, especially if you don't want receipts) and off we went, on her work. Props, bitch!
PS. No, I didn't wear a mask. Everyone else in the store was, sure. They kept looking at me oddly, sure. "Laws" aka queefs still don't apply to me, and may you chodes choke on it. Seriously now, you've been in them muzzles for what, a year ? Two years by now ? Mandatory for you, is it ? Well... when you look up, in the direction of the urine stream, you get an inkling of what wealth, power an' supremacy are all about : it's just as mandatory for "the presdient of the united states" as it is for you ; but it's optional for me. Thassit. [↩]Do you fuck in your car, by the way ?
On the highway ? [↩]It's an interesting device, this Master praline, whereby the outer shell's plainly serious as if it were serious throughout, but there's a soft core of joke inside. Takes them a year or two of live-in slavery to start appreciating it. [↩]She was naked, of course. Perhaps I should say "as nude as a newborn babe" ?
Except for the fake tits, definitionally the item babes aren't born with, but gotta earn on their own time and out of their own hide. [↩]We also watched a brief portion of some lulz with Ben Kingsley about some big deal Brit mobby-sters or somesuch. L-O-L's all I can say. [↩]
« To Die For
So here I sit... »
Category: Oda Superbiei
Tuesday, 09 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:37:57

Somebody embezzled the bezele berrets!
You see, because pickles do not grow in threes (I mean trees) ; pickles as anyone knows grow under a rock. There in the dark cool damp of the cave, they do their things, and have little interest in coming out to the sunny breezy above. Unless, of course, it's to go on caps.
Should some good fellows (especially if with good moustachios, but even otherwise) need a good hat decoration for their hardcaps of WAR!!! then the pickle could perhaps be coaxed into the sun, above the ground. Then the fellows could adopt it as the ur-decoration for all their masculine millinery, resulting in something quite akin the celebrated picklehaube.
But who would the picklehauberks go to war with ?
Well... obviously some guys obsessed with sweet creams and beaten eggwhites shaped in shapes, held together by sugar : the frankly famous & frizzy fabulous bezelei berrets! Whom were embezzled from, because... well... mit Pomaden bezalt...
That'd be all, really.
———As in that joke whereby the diabetic went to the doctor to complain about his wife's yeast infection :
"Ok, " said the good doctor, "but how about yourself ?"
"Well doctor... I'm a diabetic", answered the diabetic.
"Ok, so ?"
"So what should we do ?"
"Faceti bezele!" [↩]
« Object-oriented, format-extension, freedom & self-respect, things an' matters (that dun matter)
Dangerous, a novel »
Category: Zsilnic
Thursday, 21 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:37:45

Some other mornings, however...
Apparently there's this emergent new kind of Trilema article whereby... how shall I put thisi. Some mornings I wake up with an erection, and I go inside a bedroom. A girl's sleeping there, cuddled within herself, breathing evenly under the sheets. My penis is dangling, in her face. She wakes, and it's the first thing she sees. She starts, and then she curls in a feline smile. And then we fuck, and then we talk, and then she gets in trouble, and then she learns things, and then she's exhausted, and then she goes to bed. By herself, I mean, though sometimes they sleep together generally everyone's got their own bed what the hell.
Some other mornings, however, I wake by myself. Though I'm not really "by myself" in any common sense, not this time. All the girls are about, sleeping their slavery, dreaming it, breathing it, nearby. I could have my choice, for any reason or by no reason at all informed, whichever way I please or not care to notice. The ancient hope and desire of mankind, to have your choice to have your way. Yet I do not want my choice, this morning ; I've apparently awoken before the Sun rose with an erection of a different kind.
So in the darkness I sit, and I write -- though by now it's no longer dark at all, but plain daylight ; and moreover we've said good mornings. But I am still in bed, and writing, something I almost never do ("Hey, bring me the power, would you."). They've things to do, some aren't even up yet, for having had a difficult day yesterday, though it started well, but then it took a decided turn (while the day before was even worse, it started poorly and it continued with eating dogfood and being angry and punished terribly and just getting worse and unfoldingly worse from there) ; then again that's life, isn't it ? It is ; and then you die.
They do, and so do you. Not me, so far ; and once I do... well, once I do there won't be any mornings, neither like this nor definitely like that, and so there's nothing there to write about. Is there something here to write about ? There's apparently this emergent new kind of Trilema article whereby... there's nothing there to write about. It's new in the sense of different from all the other ones that weren't there to write about until they were written and so therefore became something ; because it is the unique curse of being the only font of thought that what you do may become a point, for others, but it never has a point, not for you. There's gotta be a first point, right ? So then there is, if there must be thus it is. This is it ; and what is it about ?
Hannah is leaving, even. She has things to do. She looks like a million bucks in her tight outfit, a look she's earned, by a million beads of sweat, slaving away at the gym ; but she is sad, overwhelmed, exceeded perhaps. Supervising workmen is growing ever more tedious an activity as the years go by, in direct proportion to the ever diminishing ability, competency and general savoir-faire left in the ever-draining pool. At least if it were quantified, and it drained away in headcount only ; but sadly with every workman lost to stupid the remainder grow dimmer too, somehow. Come to think of it, perhaps a swamp'd be a more adequate denominator. Whatever it is really has very little in common with a pool -- unless of course what's contemplated's the stagnant water where life supposedly begun, lo all those years ago, and apparently's quite in danger of readily returning, say tomorrow. Or the day after.
What shall I do today ? Perhaps I'll play ; maybe I'll write. I write like I play, which is to say playfully ; and I suppose in fair honesty I also play as I write, which is thoughtfully you could call it, I suppose, though for me it's not thoughtful in the usualii, reflective sense. A signal processor's definitionally bereft of state, as opposed to a von Neuman machine ; and similarily my thoughtful activity's not ruminated, like apparently everyone else's. Nor is this accident in any sense deliberate, it's not a construction of refinement (also known as stupidity, for what else could it ever be), I just...
The great advantage of defining corectness as simply "what that guy does" is that whatever he does will actually be correct ; the disadvantage's the same. The available alternatives are to give up the notion of correctness altogether, thereby reverting to the sad but natural state where it's hard to learn and easy to forget (and ships are but boards, hence all the talk of swamp) ; or else to try for yet another instalment of socialism, whereby you sit in the same swamp but -- and here's the cleverly ingenious bit of sheer ingenuity (and did I mention genius ?) : you pretend like the state's satisfying your needs.iii Trying to pick a better one won't do anything, because there isn't a better one nor are you equipped to actually establish this point (or any other, for that matter, but why depress ourselves), and so...
We're stuck with each other, and in our respective positions. It's simply the human condition, and it admits no solutions (in being no kind of problem), hence literature (and the temptation to "realism", or "meaning", in literature, quite exactly like the temptation to honesty in politicsiv) along with every other kind of pretense -- expensive, and improductive, especially when prosecuted on the ever-shifting basis of no formal familiarity with the underlying truth of the matterv.
———To "put it" is yet another construction that means to fuck in Romanian. Aren't you surprised ?
Da' macar i-ai pus-o ?
I like it, myself. Not just the fucking, I mean the expression ; it suggests to me, on the solid basis of lengthy experience, this particular form of the activity whereby a great whore (this discusses her competency, she's great at fucking) with a great ass (this discusses her endowments, she's that kind) either lays in bed on her back or I suppose on her knees, and you take this mataringa, a superlative erection almost to the point of it becoming painful, and you just lay it on her cunt. If she's on her back it just ever so slightly parts her (very sensitive, by the way) labia, but it's not in by any degree, it's just close enough to rub her slick ; if she's on her knees it just ever so slightly parts her (pink, and pretty, and delicate) netherlips, but it's not going inside, in fact it's not even on any kind of practicable direction, just like in the movies. It's a cool, pleasant, breezy late morning, she's hornier than a harpy from hell, her cunt's willing the damned thing to fuck her already, her whole body's sucking you in somehow, metem-tele-psycho-kinetically, and...
Asta se cheama ca i-ai pus-o.
The whole thing originates, I suspect, with one of them "secret" stories of Ion Creanga, the one where the girl young wife claims it feels like Ionica's buttering her up inside.
Cum o puse, cum se duse... [↩]That important reference still MIA ; I wonder where the hells it went, after having just spent another tiresome hour digging through the pile for it.
Meanwhile it's been found (with a little help from my friends) :
diana_coman mircea_popescu: eh, nu stii tu sa cauti! poftim: http://trilema.com/2020/forum-logs-for-07-apr-2017/#2265605
[↩]Hey, it worked for women all these many years, why shouldn't it work just as well for you too ? Aren't you a woman anyway, kinda ?
So then! [↩]Or impregnation in copulation, or cutting one's own neck with one's own hands more generally speaking. Just like the temptation to push the eject button while watching a movie -- suicide's an uncommon event lots of ruminators disproportionately preoccupy themselves with. How about yourself ? [↩]You understand both the meta ridiculousness, as well as the very direct danger to be found inside interaction with fiction naively, as if it were factual ; yet just as you prosecute fraud and apply warning labels you also think "this film was based on a true story" spicy, rather than plain old dumb. Yes ? Well... [↩]
« Dangerous, a novel
Cu ciorapu' flausat pe pula... »
Category: Zsilnic
Monday, 25 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:37:21

So some dork asks me for a "designer" job...
It's a particularly... peculiar occurrence, let's say, strictly because of where I'm from : a place & time beyond the rainbow that you can't begin to imagine (and for which reason you're very much beginning to live).
Back among 1980s socialist (ahem, I'm sorry, "popular-democratic") narratives, back in those enchanted times & places where a dozen teenaged girlies hung themselves each yeari because they only made 80-something percent instead of the ninety-something percent that'd have allowed them to become teachers (as opposed to factory workers) on the omnixam, thus greatly disappointing their families (as represented by the father and his ilk, not the mother and her kind) the sorting through the she-herd for marital purposes was simple enough : upper class people got a French-speaking girlie ; the middle-class and other upstarts of dubious quality still accepted on public occasions but rather towards the back of the room got themselves an English-speaking second best. The former came from the titcan called Liceul Mihai Eminescu ; the latter from the less great but maybe nicer tits (certainly bigger) titcan called "Liceul Gheorghe Sincai".
That's as far as the differences wentii : the showing off of the bitch/bride to be (dressed, don't mind me) to uncles &cetera extended family. If she was French-able she earned you bonus points, and otherwise... well, English'll be good enough, it's "of future" and whateveriii. No brownie points though. Not like it made any difference beyond that, they were both gonna be teachers, preggers and subsistence cooksiv anyhow -- and that's the end of that story.
Then the 90s rolled around, and some things happened. For one thing, decent, respectable boys listened to Heavy Metal (Iron Maiden especially and very dominantly)v. Contrariwise not to mention opposite of this correct, righteous, just and appropriate preference -- which, at the time (as well as in the confused mind of teenagers generally) passed for identity -- some utterly fallen, decayed (and probably homalai, too!) scum listened to -- horrible dictu!! -- Depeche Mode. They weren't people, that's for damn sure ; and their cosmos-destructuring crime -- for it was a crime, make no mistake about it -- to be punished on the spot, with a hardcore beatdown, including stomping. I've never beaten in my whole life as a career criminal as many people for anything else as I stomped the living daylights out of those depesari reprehensible fucks back in the 90s.vi (Amusingly enough, my elder slavegirl's a lifetime fan, and although I beat her ass down regularily... it's never for that.vii)
For another thing, new career paths opened up for boys, besides mastering that math and therefore becoming engineers. They could just as well (and alternatively) not master anything, and be... designers. Since you've not seen the beatdowns you can't imagine the contempt in which those idiots were held, that had become "designers" because they couldn't figure out math. It was like going to school to become a faggot (which you probably imagine "is ok" and "socially acceptable" and "a matter of personal choice" whatever identity politics vomit, but permit me to laughviii), I mean... I'm positive any kid worth his salt'd have much rather Tom Sawyer-drowned than cocking it all up that badly.
The irony of it all is that upon 30 years' history accumulating into experience, it actually turns out that... they were right, too. It was a categorical, crucial mistake, "becoming a designer". It never panned out for the becomers, anyways. It'd have been better to drown, Tom Sawyer-drown or otherwise. It was actually wrong, morally wrong, to like Depeche Mode as a kid. It may very well be aesthetically right, I agree, as a grown man I even have it in my grown man car the bitches drive for me. It's harmless to me now, just like the old folk said. But morals ain't got nothing to do with aesthetics. Ethically, it was a choice worse than suicide.
What to do for the walking dead ? Nothing, of course. With, yes, but for... how ?
———Out of maybe a hundred thousand or so total population, meaning post-Bacalaureat suicide was the principal cause of death for females age 18. Not that anyone reported it as such, because nobody gave a shit, because honestly that's what they were supposed to do. Helps keep the rest in line. They'd call it "a personal tragedy", and mean by that "exactly how it's supposed to go". [↩]That's exactly how it went, what. Who disagrees wasn't the fuck there. [↩]If you recognize this spoken part carries a woman's wilting lilting soprano voicing indication, who knows. Maybe you were there. [↩]I'll just say "N-ai pe cineva..." and leave it at that. You find Tomita on your own. [↩]In continuation of pre-90s fashions. [↩]Nor do I have any shot in hell of ever catching up. For one thing I'm way the fuck too lazy, and for the other I've gone from "almost slapping" to throwing cashews over a decade, I mean gimme a break. 19 yo me is quite unimpressed with all the fatty decay. [↩]It's never for anything really, at least not usually.
Take for instance the most recent beatdown, which occured last night. I invited the bitches to my bed to cuddle, which took a rapid turn because they started kissing and blocking my view of (b) "what the fuck is that" (h) "another one of those celentano teenagers rock things" (m) "yeah dude, this guy... he owned Italian box office for twenty years, making the cheapest shit ever. I don't think he ever spent a hundred grand on a film, just basically put out a podcast and the suckers ate it up."
Next thing I know, I was tying the unicorn's feet to the solid metal railings of the bed and inviting Hannah to beat her up, then someone was licking my balls while I was ploughing into an unexpecting cunt (it's great by the way, try it sometimes, unprepared sex like them real Africans do it) that got flood-slick in three strokes while beating the shit out of some thighs or butts or what was it... o wait actually before that she was spreading her legs sitting so I could get her where it really hurts, you know, them inner thighs on a grown woman while I was nominally beating the tied down bimbo... basically she was tempting my stick away by putting her cunt on display you could say.
Anyways, I don't remember it all, but to make an unremembered story short they're all leopard-printed this fine morning (those that are, unlike me, up) and I can't say they've done something to deserve it.
Other than being somethings that deserve it, that is. [↩]And while we're laughing : noticed the disclaimer ?
How faggoty are those "United Nations" jokers anyways ?! It's almost like they're DM fans, what the fuck "we publish it but we didn't publish it if you come asking with a jackboot ready" sorta bs is that! [↩]
« La Ragazza Che Sapeva Troppo
L'homme orchestre »
Category: 3 ani experienta
Thursday, 11 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:37:13

So here I sit...
So here I sit, with a pile of deliciously fresh mango, all oily-ripe, and the world's best bananasi, and a mug of milk, and I'm about to write... well actually, I went through the comment section first. It was... lulzy, after a fashionii, but then it's also very predictable and besides, not really that interesting.
I was however about to write yesterday's story, which begins at four-something Wednesday morning, with nude slavegirls all quietly kissing my toes to wake me up, because... well, we're going to the beach. And I like going there early, because sunrise sun's the best sun, yes ? The trip's about an hour through one of the world's most scenic routes I'm pretty sure I've shown you before, except there's a difference between one picture and ten thousand tripsiii, but let's not make hay of it. There's a cooler packed with all sorts and manner in the trunk, byproducts of busily kneeling womanhood ; we're chattering happily about I don't specifically remember what, but as is oft observed "this is so much better than any radio show, comedian or anything on TV...". It is, too ; but I ain't about to start a fucking podcast. Nor am I about to start watching one ; or as death itself put it once, "you do you".
Then we jumped waves to exhaustion, watching the pelicans fly by from up close, underneath. They were literally skimming waves overhead, four-five feet away. Besides that, we were literally swimming with the fishesiv -- all sorts and kinds, coming up close enough to touch / nibble : the orange-black-white tropical guy, the pale blue guy with really long arches extending vertically from his body, a tuna or two, even a long preditor of some kind I couldn't identify. A bony fish for sure, long and slender (he was well over a foot), dark gray. A wave rose up and there he was, inside, swimming all like "wut ?" as if a section of ocean had been produced spontaneously for our inspection. Which... it had, hand't it. They jumped and watched us jump, and blew bubbles (perhaps because we were blowing bubbles ?). Fishes as friendly as these tropical guys most people have to go snorkeling to maybe encounter... but we were just at our usual haunt, see, they came to see us. Not the other fucking way around. I suspect there might be a crab somewhere selling tickets! Come see the people show!
Anyways, then we napped, on our comfortable beds, in our air-conditioned environment, fifty steps from the beach. By counties! But before we napped I took a shit (there's nothing quite like ocean waves for peristalsis) while the girls showered ("Wash my cunt, bitch!" and other audible amusements filtering past the see-through glass) and then... we went back. Swam some more, and walked on the beach for the sunset, admiring the hermit crabs -- there must've been fifty billion of them, at one point we ran into a large grouping of perhaps fifty, or a hundred maybe, I've never seen them socialise before. And all the pretty and varied shells they got! We played with them to our heart's content, and walked and watched the susnet and "Nah, I think you're the only one getting his cock sucked on this beach" and then we went back to the beach house and showered and packed the car (well, I didn't pack jack) and hit the road on a return trip, sixteen or eighteen hours later, thereabouts, them bitches tired out. They're still sleeping actually, ha-ha!
How's your Wednesday been ?
———"You know... I think this might be the best bannana I ever had."
"Oh yeah, these are great."
"Umm... shall I turn the car around ?"
"Naaah."
Because it ain't worth turning the car around, for me. As the harem slaves call it, "Emperor of China syndrome", whereby I have it so good it's getting outright absurd. And that Lucian Blaga cuck dared misstate his cucky bliss as "being affraid of divine envy ?" Pshaw!
Grow a pair, why don'tcha. You won't be afraid of anything anymore. [↩]
mircea_popescu http://trilema.com/2009/un-an/#comment-159851 daca doriti sa revedeti.
diana_coman ahaha, eu am citit "luna crypto" si deja ma gandeam la lapona enigel
diana_coman lmao
mircea_popescu tu mai esti in lumea crypto apropo ?
diana_coman eu? da' ce, am fost eu vreodata?
diana_coman da' acu' au auzit brusc toti de bitcoin-fashion si na, ii tine acolo vreme de 5 lei cat vor face ei averili
mircea_popescu ce simplu e, stii... "bun venit in minunata lume a matematicii". bai... da' io-s in viata reala ok ? nu in "lumea matematicii".
diana_coman ei na, care lume reala, auzi colo, aia e la televizor :D
mircea_popescu tati puletii din lumi imaginare, gen youtube, sau ma rog, garsoniera-comfort-sporit vin la tine sa te intrebe daca mai esti in "lumea" oamenilor ce fut gagici
diana_coman pe mine oricum ma pufneste rasul la alea cu "e youtuber" ori "influencer" si alte alea
mircea_popescu is hazu' de pe lume, TOATA presa ro iese sub trilema daca aduni. date publice, etc. da' ei... mnoa, nu observa lol
mircea_popescu e ceva asta cu lumile...
diana_coman lasa, ca e doar ca te-a vorbit ala buhuhu-nicinici de ti-a facut trafic!
mircea_popescu just
mircea_popescu asa o fi in lumea youtube, nu zic nu.
diana_coman cum era aia, da' probabil ei nici pe aia n-o stiu cu "astazi iar, la telejurnal, am vazut cascaval"; cam asa si ei, numai ca intre timp nici ce-i aia cascaval nu mai stiu, imi pare.
mircea_popescu pai asa e regula, cind uiti repeti.
[↩]I don't think we've been to the beach a thousand times. Maybe a coupla dozen this year -- I don't mean this year that just started, I mean this "year" ie since last returning to Costa Rica. And maybe a hundred or two the previous return, and so on. Apocatastasis, you know, I keep returning ; and through it all the Autopista Del Sol perdures. [↩]I can't imagine why this expression caught on such ominous coloring. There's a lot of fun in swimming with the fishes. [↩]
« Somewhat busy these days...
BUG Mafia »
Category: Zsilnic
Thursday, 11 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:36:48

Shield for murder
Shield for murderi is banal, run-of-the-mill cheap cinema masquerading as a noir, with little more to distinguish it from the soup besides Carolyn Jones's absolutely exquisite bar whore (and, perhaps, Marla Englishii's cute toes in fishnets atop platforms).
Yet even though the dialogue's impossibily wooden and the plotholes more abundant than the spaghetti dislogic, you absolutely still have to see it. Because female perfection is female perfection, and that blondy's approach to the unknown, difficult, nutty dude, her openers and parries and ripostes... it's the stuff of wonder. For that reason alone you have to see it, for Carolyn Jones it survives, because rarely is anyone any good, at anything -- be it something they care about or not, wish themselves good at or on the contrary, bla bla bla. Carolyn Jones is perfect at whoring out of bars, that's exactly how it's supposed to be done : joke opener, expertly hedged... that bitch can take it, she'd make a jeweled addition to any stable, harem, household etcetera.
RIP old girl, ensconced in the all-protecting solace that you, indeed, have not lived out in vain.
Besides providing superfluous footage diluting an exquisite Carolyn Jones one whore short there's also I suppose a pool shoot-out, and assorted other ex-B-list-in-TVland exploratorium. O'Brien had been a major box office draw at some point, before the war, you know. There's even a (rare) period shot of what exactly "tract homes" (the pioneers of urban sprawl & contemporary suburbia) looked like, back then. Spoiler : not much ; definitely not enough to warrant uprooting a working, workable construction of the world world for.
And so it goes.
———1954, by Howard W. Koch & Edmond O'Brien (odd, I know), with Carolyn Jones, David Hughes. [↩]Budget Liz Taylor practically speaking, obscure teenage stunner that settled into a bourgeois marriage before 25. [↩]
« Moral myopia
Hey bitches! Smell my armpits! »
Category: Trilematograf
Tuesday, 08 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:36:41

Sextette
Sextettei is the crowned exponent of the cringe genre, or at least would be if the gods could bear such atrocity as a cringe genre.
It's just... it's unwatchable. The whole cast & production crew are TV schmucks, which universally makes for terrible cinema ; then the supposed starlet supposedly Jayne Mansfield-ing all over herself is a complete geriatric case -- she moves with all the grace of an arthritic badger, she readily commands all the gruff tone and delivery of a slaphappy heavyweight long retired, her waistline'd absolutely betray late-trimester pregnancy if she were anywhere near nubile (but as it is it's just an utter embarrassment)... I've no words. It's like watching selected footage of commercial fraud, like one of those cases where a "slick operator" tricks some retiree into buying eighteen organs (the musical instrument) or an ever less relevant party machine tricks some misfortunate war veteran into "running for president", something he's self-obviously and most transparently neither interested in to any degree nor much capable of even representing to any standard in those brief (and ever briefer) moments of lucidity.ii
The Ra-ra-ra-America general conventions, plottings & pious frauds that'd have maybe even mattered the last time anyone laid the laidin' lady (which is to say a good three-four decades prior) fall indescribably flat ; her delivery of Rodney Dangerfield-level throwaways just out-and-out terrible (to say nothing of predictable -- it's a lot like playing Go with a five year old who simply puts his token right under whatever you've played no matter what). Then the forced comedy whereby the "British" stock character readily admits to "being gay" on "television -- which is the instagram everyone cares about, hurr" or somesuch nonsense because (wait for it) he thought (in his "Britishness") what's meant is, you know, gay, as opposed to faggot HAHAHAHA see because HE IS BRITISH HE DOESNT GWET IT HAHAHAHAHA ce-am mai ris.
Meanwhile the edges of the atrocity are, for their pretense to "framing" the story into "everyone knows" normalcy, even more bothersome. The stupid cunt / "influencer" of the 70s, for instance, is -- between her idiotic "women in business & with careers" jacket and hairdo and stupid fucking scarf -- even less tolerable than the necromancy'd chorus girl. You just want to bitchslap that fake "empathy" / concern trolling smug mug offa her face with a well greased socket wrench -- or at least, I do.
I'm not saying this film shouldn't have been made ; in fact, very well that it was made. I'm not even saying it shouldn't be watched, in general, however formulated. I just don't want to watch it myself, that's all.
———1977, by Ken Hughes, after a play by Mae West, with an eighty-four year old Mae West, Dom DeLuise, Tony Curtis. Also included, cameos by Ringo Starr, Alice Cooper, Regis Philbin, George Raft etc. [↩]Can you look at poor ol' Biden and not feel sorry for the victim of what's quite undeniably senior abuse ?
You think he even understands what the fuck the weirdo nurses in his strange retirement home are doing to him all the time ? And why the fuck can't he tremble his lips in peace like every other foggy octogenarian since creation ? I can fart in my home to my heart's content, and when I'll be old I'll be able to tremble as much as I fucking want (or need to), which I suppose is putting me ahead of these "presidents" of nothing in particular yet again. [↩]
« Equalizing the lolz of inequality
Parasitic parenting »
Category: Trilematograf
Thursday, 25 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:36:29

Server uptime: 387 days 20 hours 3 minutes 52 seconds
Motto:
993 requests currently being processed, 1471 idle workers
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It's been a year since I deployedi the cluster currently serving Trilema -- slightly longer, I suppose, as the title readily attests. Coincidentally it's also been a year since Roosevelt-socialism abandonedii most trappings of republicanism, in favour of ye olde & well familiar "popular democracy" rehash -- slightly longer than that, I'm sure (just as I'm sure it felt way the fuck longer on your hide even while I barely noticed).
So... maybe it's time for some illustration worth 10`000 paper monies (the sort nobody wants for anything) ? Do you think ? Yeah ?
Wellll, ok then! Here :
Up top, Trilema traffic, as reported by some uninvolved third party. Down below, the fantasy of financial situations in socialism, as self-reported. Notice any kind of pattern or anything in there ?
How is it, do you think, that today like every day, that this year like the first year, we're still divided by the same line, and in the same manner : you trying to pretend you're me, me actually being me. What gives ?
And... well, wouldn't it be easier on your meagre faculties if instead of struggling under the overwhelming burden of trying to pretend you're me (while trying to pretend you never heard of me, and so on -- pretense never saturates, but forever yields the need for itself) you'd just... well, you know, plainly, simply, modeslty come to your natural station on Earth ?
Wouldn't it be a simpler life, to prostrate yourself before me ? Instead of trying as best you can to hold on to this shot-through, raggedy pretense that no-oh-no, you're you, there's such a thing to be as this "you", somehow (impossibly) something else besides mere idiocy... wouldn't it perhaps be more satisfying, for being more in tune with actual reality, for being naturally true, for being the overpoweringly self-obviously fact of the matter ?
What if in place of this dearly bought paid (yet never delivered upon) pretense to an individuality that's just not within your purchase, what if instead of all the herpitty-derp you simply gave up ? Isn't it tempting, to sleep, perchance to dream... ?
Anyways ; my infrastructure's again reaching saturation capacity, like it was last time I had to look at it. I feel about as disinclined to do something about it now as I did then, it's true -- but then again in the end I did do something then, so who knows, perhaps I will again.
Or perhaps I won't. Tell you what : if you're trying to read Trilema but there's no Trilema available for you to read, just do what the rest of "you" do, whenever that happens -- meaning, all the time. Why don't you just queue quietly and wait.
It's what you're for, after all. Isn't it ?
———In fairness I mostly managed & oversaw the deployment, which in some peculiar views is not exactly the same thing. [↩]In fairness, they didn't actually have the spit&vinegar to come out and claim it ; they go around pretending like "events" (by them imagined) in their unfurling forced their hand -- an altogether most Rapunzel take on things. The ever-raped, raped again, into something so unlike what they were of, or for.
Feminine "points of view", what can you do. [↩]
« Pregnant pauses and other rule-based systems
Fox Airpsace »
Category: Meta psihoza
Friday, 07 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:36:16

Sedea un prost prin ceva bar
Sedea un prost prin ceva bar, si din penita scirtiia traznai de-a lui pe coala grea, in forma cam asa :
Look left, look right, the hills are bright. The dales are light between, because 'tis fifty years to-night that God has saved this Queen.i
Now, when the flame they watch not towers about the soil they trod, lads! We'll remember friends of ours who shared the work with God.
To skies that knit their heartstrings right, to fields that bred them brave, the saviours come not home to-night: themselves they could not save.
It dawns in Asia, tombstones show and Shropshire names are read; and the Nile spills his overflow beside the Severn's dead.
Ca multi tonti de vita veche din infriguratul Nord ie si-asta-ntr-o ureche -- us' la el ce chestii crede, numa' dume de-necati ; in cestimp prin Viroconium de-i zicea si Cornoviorum pin' sa-nvete pictii-a scrie nu se mai citeste nema de prenume din Ardeal. Nici nu-i cine sa citeasca (dac' s-o apucat a scrie Chukcha nu mai are vreme plus ca l-ar putea distrage slovele cursive-antice de la ce funii cu noduri si-o croit el dupa mintea-i) nici n-or mai ramas pietroaie.
Ca asa e la morminte, stau si ele-n urm-o vreme, da' incet-incet se sfarma, cum maninca viermii corpul tot asa le roade ploaia, si cu vintul se fac una cu pamintul fix ca al' de-i stau memento.
Nu-i el vesnic, nu-s nici ele, dupa un mileniu-doua nici poveste nu ramine, sa poata afla magaru' despre Thracia Auxilia, de pe cind veneau Romanii sa le faca lor pe-acolo drum si scoala si la pizde borta noua hapt in cur dinjos de noada spre deliciul tutelor tuturor.
Asa ca... cui ii mai pasa ? Sase ori cinspce generatii tat dracul acela ieste, si-ai de-acum saizeci de linii tot pe ma-sa or lasat-o, tot cu frati s-or dus pe drumuri, tot c-un drag s-or dus sa moara, tot incolo, tot incoace... si tot de-aia. Ca... de care ?
Alta nu-i, nici nu-i nevoie ; doar ca astia ai mei pe vremuri s-or bagat mai moale-n seama, nefiind ei bietii proaspeti chiar precit amarastenii inventati prin sinteza la 1700 de Stadtholderu' de-Olanda si ce-or mai gasit strinsura cind cu Chwyldro Gogoneddus.
Hai, adio si-un praz verde, plus traditionalul vale!
———Meanwhile "god"'s had enough of her or something. They're never very explicit on that score. [↩]
« There's nothing inside the box.
The eggers »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Friday, 05 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:36:09

Say it like it's 1937
Three particulars of the times : vertical invasion by vandals, dominance by the stupid, betrayal by proper men. As to the first : vandals invade, not from other continents but from the bottom. Redditards. They somehow float to the top. To the second point : in the plainest and most literal sense, the stupid came to power. Thus in spite of any economic interest and all political sapience they do stupid shit, like the indolent imbeciles they are. Thirdly : instead of opposition, proper men take on stances of well-meaning expectative, pretend not to see, not to hear, betray in a word. They shirk from their duty. "Impartial" and trustful, at the most they take note silently. They're the superlatively guilty.
The chunk comes from a Romanian jewi (convicted as suchii), who was also (inexplicably!iii) an obscure Orthodox monk (surrounded in recent days by a very lively cult). It was lifted by the anti-Stalinist-socialist agentura of the Rooseveltian-socialist sect, because it seemed to them promising of broad appeal (especially to non-socialist minds), and broadcast from their vehicle at the time (Radio "Free"iv Europe), so it's not like it weren't well knownv before my act of mercyvi above.
And it was written in 1937, which is to say too soon to know the tree "by its fruit" ; but plenty late enough to know the tree by its tree. The author didn't yet know what "Nazism" isvii ; though he knew Hitler.
Then again, neither do you, though so do you. Sieg hail!
———This phrase, "a Romanian jew", denotes just about everyone, by the way. You don't ordinarily realise this, but then again... [↩]The national-socialists didn't much act on it ; the middling brother did. [↩]In the same sense of "inexplicable" as found in the perenially plebeian "I don't see how". This jew was inexplicably a monk just like the hundreds of thousands of "improper Germans" who were also Great War veterans, somehow. Inexplicably! How'd the rapacious cosmpolite die for its country one generation and conspire towards its demise the next generation, anyhow?!
Inexplicable!
Ultimately, the indictment of mediocrity consists of a lenghty list of crimes of lese-imagination. [↩]Free in a sense very much alligned with the "freeing" of, say, Mosul. [↩]"Well" as an epithet, applied to anything, pointedly and by definition implies your exclusion. Because nothing can be well that you're involved with, and therefore of fucking course it's well known and you didn't know about it before, of your own power, in your own time. That's why it was well known ; and now that you know about it, it's actually slightly less well known than it was before. Such is your obscurantist nature. [↩]Acts of mercy are intrinsically ambiguous in a moral perspective. [↩]To a certain standard of knowledge :
An observation about the middle class: they have it deep inside their psyche that though they are taught to make prejudicial judgments based on hearsay, they are not allowed to show that they made them. The middle class think they are lawyers.
That kid was up to no good. You knew it as he walked to Louie's table, even before he opened his mouth. You knew it. But Louie/we were constructed to act only on what happens, not what you think is happening. Since the kid was polite, Louie had to be polite back, even though the kid was obviously being a bully -- you're not allowed to respond to that. "Hey, I was just being friendly!" And prove he wasn't. The kid offers to shake Louie's hand, "Hi, I'm Sean," and Louie has to shake it because so far the kid is being polite. We relate things to our future cross examination: "isn't it true, sir, that sticks and stones can break your bones but names can never harm you?"
Since we're already knee deep in race: back when I lived in various bars in NYC, I frequently saw what I assume to be intelligent people allow what I assume to be dangerous black males come up to them at 2 am and ask them if they knew "the way to get to 44th St." Just for my Danish and German readers who generously donate, here's a geography lesson: Manhattan is a grid, in numerical order. Asking a New Yorker which way is 44th St. is like asking a Florida orange farmer which way is sky. But these white devils were willing to put their lives at risk -- not because they didn't want to appear racist, I saw the same hypnotized compliance when the perp was a white guy -- but because they are amateur lawyers: "he didn't do anything bad to me first." So we follow the script: guy asks for directions= "ten blocks up make a left." Guy pulls a gun= "look, I have 50 bucks, just don't hurt me."
[...]
The Bully Dialogue -- where they spend ten minutes chatting nicely even though both of you know you're eventually going to get stuffed in a locker -- is another Cognitive Kill Switch, which is about reversing power and dominance. The aggressive "Hi, what's your name, that's a nice shirt you got there" works because you're not willing -- you feel you're not allowed -- to respond to the situation for what it is: a bully trying to dominate the conversation. You feel obligated to reply to their words, and not the meaning. So the bully gets to bully the conversation for ten minutes, after which point it hardly matters whether you get stuffed in a locker or not.
There's a model for everything in childhood. In this case it's when the parent, rather than a direct confrontation (i.e. teach the kid how to be a man) tries to lead and trap the kid, like a jealous woman trying to catch her man in a lie. "So, Tommy, how was school? Anything interesting happen today?" At this moment everyone knows it's a trap. Dad knows what happened, and Tommy knows what happened, and now Tommy knows that Dad knows, but Tommy still has to say, "oh, nothing really, " all the while thinking, "oh, great, I got to play this nutty game now? When I turn 18 I am so outta here."
[...]
This is a video of Lil Wayne's deposition about some nonsense that is beside the point here. Big surprise: Lil Wayne doesn't take the proceedings seriously. I know, I had to make sure it was really him, too.
I'm no judge, but he looks like he's in contempt, certainly contemptuous, and at 2:45 makes some serious threats against the lawyer: "you know he [the judge] can't protect you in the real world?" Watch that part, empathize with the lawyer. How did you feel? Did you feel intimidated?
Note that no one reigns him in, no one stands up to him, no one ends the interview, no one demands nothing. Part of this is deposition theatrics, but even the attorney's demeanor changes, he starts acting the way a person who doesn't want to show he's intimidated starts acting. He gets flustered, he pauses, he backs up. Wayne is 5'4" and by all accounts has chronic bronchitis, but everyone is intimidated by him. Why?
The first fear is an instinctual one: the lawyer could physically fight back if he had to, but when he looks into those cold eyes, he has a sense that there are no limits, everything is on the table -- from insults to decapitation, anything could happen. That's the fear of the uncanny, which we experience outside of a horror movie when we face: masks, artificial faces, psychopaths, and even ordinary objects which we are told are uncanny (mirrors, basement freezers.) "I don't know what he's capable of" means "I know very well what he's capable of, and it's everything." That's the kind of fear that fits a street fight, but it has no place in a court; he may want to decapitate you, but he won't be able to. So why are you afraid?
The interesting thing about being taught that violence is wrong is that of all the lessons we were taught -- no means no, all men are created equal, a bird in the hand is something something -- that lesson actually stuck, it became part of our core identity. Most "normal" people aren't afraid of the consequences of violence (pain) as much as of the violence itself. Fighting itself is bad. The lawyer isn't afraid of getting hurt, he is afraid of there being a fight. Wayne may be the aggressor but the voice inside asks, "what did you do to provoke him? Why didn't you stay away from him?" This fear is so primary that the lawyer backs down from Wayne for Wayne's sake, not to avoid getting hit but so Wayne doesn't have to hit him. Wayne is feared not because he's good at winning fights but because he's good at starting fights, and its oddly been indoctrinated in us that it is everyone else's job not to provoke fights with those you know will fight, even if you're in the right.
I want to point out how this dichotomy is very much predicated on a difference between people, not a sameness, and it's felt to be part of the hardware, not the software. There's you, who "knows better", and there's him, who "fights", and that's just the way it is. And since you "know better" it's your responsibility to not let this get out of hand. Pro-gun proponents can be seen as the logical consequence of this position: ok, I'll accept your societal commandment not to fight, but I want to preserve my right not to have to back down, either. The sad, logical retort to this, and I'm going to term it the "liberal" position not because I'm slamming liberals but because it comes from a place of compassion, though, when I write this out explicitly, is really just a kind of kind of classism: "it's best just to back down from them... because that's they way thems are."
To get people to be more afraid of fighting, even in self-defense, than the physical pain of an assault takes a lot of years of training, good thing we jump on it early. First off: associate getting hit with guilt. Even if it's not your fault, it is still felt like it's your fault, and this can be verified by every woman in a domestic relationship, which is why they stay. This isn't innate, we learn this: your parents hit you only when you do something "wrong"; parents separate their fighting kids, "both of you go to your rooms!"; a schoolyard fight is never judged according to fault, the school punishes both people equally; "zero tolerance" says the institution that cares nothing about justice, only the preservation of power. "Nothing gives you the right to hit another person!" Nothing? Seriously?
The only people who learn that getting hit isn't synonymous with guilt are those who get hit inconsistently, randomly -- having older brothers, abusive parents, constant fights with other kids in the neighborhood, etc. You'll observe a certain characteristic true of all bullying: the victim never fights back at all. He takes his beating, as if to show that he can take it, his strength is in not being broken. Why not at least throw a few weak punches? This is why the terrible father's typical advice to his bullied son, over the protestations of his useless wife -- "stand up for yourself! Just punch him back, and he won't bother you again!" -- is absolutely correct yet impossible to execute. The problem isn't that the kid is afraid of the bully only, he's (more) afraid of the system -- that he'll get in trouble if he fights back, or that he doesn't trust that system to protect him if he fights back and the bully escalates. The parents and school raised the kid to instinctively be ruled by the system, and now suddenly they are advising him to rebel? The bully's doesn't have this fear, he has already opted out of the system. And so the victim, after getting beat up, hears how it was his fault: "You know he's a jerk, why did you go near him? Just stay away from him."
This is why, on the day that the victim does, finally, "fight back", it isn't by squaring off and throwing an uppercut -- it's overly violent, vicious, excessive, and that's not because he needs to overcome the bully but the bully and the system that in effect was protecting the bully, the system that controls the way he sees the world.
[...]
That power of being a lawyer isn't inherent in being a lawyer, it only exists if everyone else believes you have it, and Wayne chose not to believe it, so the lawyer didn't have it. The whole fight is taking place inside both men's heads, which is why Wayne is winning. So how could the lawyer get over his fear, what would he have to do to not be intimidated?
Flip the question: how is it possible for someone with no power (Wayne) to be able to scare those with more power? The answer is to do what Wayne does instinctively: make the fight into a different kind of fight. He doesn't accept his "role" as defendant, as someone at the mercy of the court's rules. Wayne doesn't just not let himself be intimidated by the lawyer, he doesn't see him as a lawyer, as an agent of a larger, massively powerful structure that could crush him into oblivion. He sees him as a bag of soot he could easily punch. And because the lawyer's power was given to him by the court -- the lawyer doesn't see it as really who he is (he doesn't believe in roles, but identity) -- it is, essentially, paper mache, and Wayne's blows right through it. Wayne makes him doubt himself and his power, and so he responds as a powerless man.
It's not knowledge. It's faith, obviously enough. Why's it not obvious to you ?
I mean... science, right ? The reason faith's not self-obviously faith to you is your... faith in... science, a "kind" of science miscast as a repository of faith and as such entirely unrelated to anything to do with knowledge.
If The Rational Method (of Voltaire & co) built The Industrial Revolution (latest installment, there are historical equivalents), then this here Contemporary Devolution was most certainly built by The Irrational Method. Amusingly enough I wrote spoke extensively on this topic some twenty-five centuries ago ; but unfortunately I seem to have misplaced it all. Drats! [↩]
« The organized organization and other orrors.
Porky's »
Category: SUA care este
Saturday, 20 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:35:55

Royal Revolt II Kicks Ass!
Motto: Mna, je ma duc
sa tai frunzai la catele.ii
Vorbim mai pe urma.
The game is simply fabulous ; not since the days of Gothic belated discovery twelve years ago was I so thoroughly satisfied by a video game! I mean, King's Bounty did indeed come arbitrarily close, but this here's the true & genuine Real McCoyiii.
It's a (very mildly)-RTS, I suppose, which indeed is a rare thing for me to enjoyiv, coming out somewhere in between tower defense and... uhm, single-player MOBA I guess ? The graphics are particularly to my taste, exactly the right amount of rounded cartoonish garish ; the game's actually under active development notwithstanding it's been out for a long time, and... well, I've been playing for about a week to much acclaimv.
During that week I reached level 60ish 62, I find by checking the source material (not that it'll last), which is not that hard to do ; and something over a thousand damage, which takes some skill but is far from unattainablevi. Roughly speaking the values are half-way to end-game, a little less. But the game as it stands does indeed offer vast fields upon which strategic competency can (and should!) be deployed, to fantastic effect. So...
Well, what can I tell you, I'm enjoying myself online as well as off ; ceea ce va doresc si voua.
———Fig leaf. [↩]That's indeed what I went to do ; and even did. At first. And second, and so following. Eventually... [↩]Speaking of which, I'll be playing it for a while ; my friend code's YZDLWDHAYR if you want to get in touch. [↩]I generally can't stand twitch-style gaming (those things where the human side of the interaction can best be approximated as "the dude is having a stroke"), but the way that R works out here seems to be just-right and exactly enough to be tolerable, viz palatable, viz quite fucking enjoyable. Who knew dislike's more often a matter of degree than of principle, or substance. I mean me, of course, but... anyways. [↩]No kidding, my league progression was 1st in bronze (first try), 1st in silver (first try), 1st in gold (first try) and now here I am in platinum. I could take the first again, if I stressed out about it ; but I prefer to thread water for one season (ending tomorrow) and then take the first on the 2nd pass. Think of it as a Sabbatical, why not. [↩]Though judging by the vast abundance of other players doing infinitely worse... well, what can I say. Orice se poate spune s-a spus deja macar o data. [↩]
« On being female, and being a woman.
Have you ever read Les Liaisons dangereuses ? »
Category: Trolloludens
Sunday, 13 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:35:30

Rose of Washington Square
She's got no future, but one helluva past...i
For some reason theii people worshiping Zanuck generally opt to not remember pot boilers a la Rose of Washington Squareiii, but... well, here it is nevertheless.
It's a musical, of course -- back then people didn't think much worth committing to the (relatively expensive) medium that wasn't singing & dancingiv -- backed by the usual story : gal falls for the "wrong" guy. Back before the pantsuit cooption of this trope and its subversion whereby the wrong guy became the Socialist-Tractorist (which is to say truly and utterly, world-destructuringly wrongv) rightabouts the Last Socialist War, back when the wrong guy was just some rando schmuck thinking too much of himself and constantly trading fifteen grand of someone else's furniture for thirty-five hundred to cover a twenty-five hundred debt from a previous such trade yesterday (plus "living expenses")... what can I say, it didn't exactly work, but it also didn't condemn the piece.
Otherwise the singing's terrible, the dancing not much better (and not just because so narrowly construed), pretty much the onlyvi valuable item in the entire production is some very early commentary (albeit I suspect unintentional) on the nature of technological progress and its tight relationship with inflation. There's a scene of dancing "poor kids" / Irish people (because that's how it went, whadda ya want) who smoke, one puffvii, and then throw the cigarette out, only to have another, right in their hand, ready to go, the very moment they're ready for another drag (offa dat fag). At a time cigarettes were rare (and therefore expensive) enough to be desired, this must have landed upon the audience as sheer magic of a very practically useful sort. Some kinda magic Joe definitely'd want, the kinda magic making the public suspect the people on the stage might not be complete fuckheads. Maybe they get it ?
They didn't get it, of course not. But... Well I mean, for a stretch back there... Hey! It almost looked like they do get it. Like, at the very least, they might. It did!
What can you do.
———
She's Rosie, the queen of the models. She used to live up in the Bronx but she wander'd from there down to the Washington Square of Bohemian Honky Tonks. One day she met Harrison Fisher, said he "You're like roses! Them stems I want you to pose, for a picture on the cover of 'Jim Jam Jems'" And that's how she first got her start bow her life is devoted to art, they call her... the Rose, of Washington Square. She's withering there in basement air she's fading pose in plain or fancy clothes. They say her Roman nose seems to please artistic people. Beaux, she's plenty of those, with secondhand clothes and nice long hair. She's got those Broadway vampires lashed, to the mast. She's got no future but oh! what a past! She's the one Rose of Washington Square.
She's terribly good as a model, the artists are stuck on her charms. Once a feller said he would paint Venus from her -- only Venus... ain't got no arms. Rube Goldberg her figure admires, he dresses her up in a veil and uses her shape for the pictures that he draws in the Ev'ning Mail. He promised sometime when he's free that he'll model a statue of she they call the Rose, of Washington Square.
[↩]Fewer and ever fewer ; owing to the inexorable march of "history" (or something somewhat like it at any rate), the ra-ra-ra-america crowd's well spent by now.
Did it ever occur to you, by the way, that absolutely the only reason any"one" from the future's ever going to consider present affairs will necessarily be some contemplated falsification so as to serve whatever misconstrued "political goals" of his direct if momentary interest ? "How does history relate to me" shall be not the chief, but the only interest in present affairs at another time, as is already the case anyways.
Well, why didn't it occur to you ? What, do you ever go through your old pictures ? Do you even still have any of them ?
Aww, and there you thought "the future" could be co-opted, could be exploited to satisfy (a small part of) your momentary inflationary needs! They were going to provide the usual imaginary horde of angels hovering at their usual place ("right over the horizon"), ready to fall in and "make things right" to your standards, weren't they ? Why didn't it occur to you that future has its own inflationary needs, which are (necessarily) going to be even more pressingly expansive than your own ? Hm ?
Is it perhaps because you know -- for a fact and deep down, however you try to disavow the knowing you nevertheless still know -- your present nonsense's got absolutely no chance in hell of long surviving in this world ? Was that it ?
I shouldn't be too worried about it ; stupidity prevails on whatever timeline. Its representatives never fare well, that much is true ; but stupidity itself... now that's another matter entirely. [↩]1939, by Gregory Ratoff, with Tyrone Power, Alice Faye, Al Jolson. [↩]Id est relatively rare, because expensive, human activity. Perhaps it's remarkable for the same reasons, too ?
And yet they didn't opt to require every cinematic production include trained dogs, or trained cunts, or spinning plates on the nose, or all sorts and manner of equally expensive, because equally difficult, therefore equally rare, human activity. No, it's just tapdancing. Just like that, magically, tapdancing's the one.
That shit's boring, immensely, inconceivably boring, yet you can't find a 30s production that ain't a "musical" in which they don't tapdance at least a little. 0 tits, though most people care more about tits than feet. 0 egg beating, though of the feminine skills of the period (meanwhile "lost") I certainly imposed egg beating upon more nude & distressed damsels than either singing or tapdancing for crying out loud. 0 anything else, and it all makes about as much sense as anything else humans do. [↩]Speaking of which, if you watch this thing you can't miss noticing Cagney most definitely studied Jolson. [↩]Tyrone what's his name, who isn't even black by the way... what the hell is wrong with these people! If his name's Tyrone Power and he's not black he should at least display the common fucking decency of being the one putting on blackface, don't you find ?
Anyway, John White-Smith over there's a terrible actor, if you can call him an actor in the first place. More properly he's a marginal stage hand, really, seeing how the entirety of his actor's craft consists of staring. Not nearly as elaborately as ol' Willie, either -- he's just got this one sorta-kinda stare that he does when he's acting, like a toaster putting the light on while it's toasting. I mean, the toaster's a toaster all the time, even when it toasts (perhaps especially when it toasts), and just so Bill McPaleskin Peckerbergwood's "an actor" all the time -- even when he stares acts. Perhaps especially when he acts stares. [↩]"Bai, tu stii cum fumeaza milionarii ?" [↩]
« Or something like that, anyway...
Overheard in my harem »
Category: Trilematograf
Thursday, 08 April, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:35:15

Pregnant pauses and other rule-based systems
I just got back from the gym... well, in fairness that was a few hours ago. We were occupied by shenanigansi ulterior to my return therewith, it's been six hours or thereabouts.ii
Are the gyms closed where you live, by the way ? Supposedly here, too ; but I am perfectly if structurally immune to rules, and therefore the gym where I goiii... that's open. There's a spot for the Mercedes (not the bra one ; a different one) right in front, jealously guarded by the local parking attendants ever since a coupla trips ago when there nearly wasn't a spot for me and I got slightly pissy (they ushered some dizzy careerwoman, two small kids in tow, way the fuck out of there, and made room, so no harm done). They figured out whenabouts the black car's showing up, and have been doing their job accordingly ever since -- which, besides the abundance of birds fruit & such, is the great advantage of this blessed land : people at least try doing their god damned jobs. It's not to say they always manage ; but it is very much to say that any time they do not quite manage it's through sheer simplicity, never through the poisonous indulgence of Methodist idiocy and assorted Scottishnessiv so very typical by now of their (outright and unforgivably evil, and correspondingly ever more troglodyte) counterparts up North.
Anyways, so I just got back from the gym, we played & fucked, and had quiche. Yesterday we had lamburghers, which aren't hamburgers eaten in a lambo, but made out of lamb.v I mean, fresh lamb leg that my slavegirl hacked to pieces with her own two tiny hands (you wouldn't believe the size, by the way, her hands are smaller than most babies'). She baked the buns herself, out of flour, I cut slices of Mimolette cheese for up top, then we had strawberry-topped brownie with ganache (a la mode) for which I cracked open a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, a fine French wine -- cracked open being a term of art in the harem, the bitches line up, pouting their butts my way, and I shoot the cork at them. It's vaguely sexual, in the sense that one (or more) buns end up sweetly sticky as a result, plus there's sometimes bruises. Why, what do you do with yours ? The corks I mean, not the bitches -- I know that part, for, obviously, they tell me. Speaking of which indignity of fate : I'm getting a fresh shippment of teenaged, technically "illegal" cunt from over Yurp these days ; and I thought best I'd mention it just in case any rigtheous do-nothings need their jimmies rustled. Perhaps we can point and laugh at "FBI agents" thinking "crimes are being committed here" all over again, like last time ?
I'm pretty sure there was more -- after all, it's been two whole days in the harem, which is like nine and a half years to five infinicadesvi in socialist dog-years -- but... well, I kinda got shit to do. Bye!
———Since I know how eagerly these tales are consumed... let's see here, how did this go... oh, yes!
So, last week the fellow in charge of my comfort there (he runs around wiping down the machines after I use them, lest I could be bothered [and though I am escorted the slut's mostly there to stretch dat ass, putting the shocking lack of underwear straps on sheer display and, I suppose, drive my car], comes up with little coreographies & dance arrangements -- every day he takes time to think through what novel little pains he could bestow upon me, the aspiring Torquemada -- and so on) gave me a massage. I noticed the tool he was using, because it was quite noticeable. I asked him where they get 'em, he told me he could probably get me one, I ordered him to -- the quickest sale in the whole history of that, no doubt, though I don't think he even knew he was selling, or for that matter that he was being (unwitting) a part of what pompously calls itself "an industry" by now, I'm sure -- and today he delivered it. Comes with its own little case, has accessories, it's basically a hand-held drill for one's muscles ; and quite powerfull, too!
Thus the naked sluts spent an hour or so drilling each other down immediately thereafter, to giggles and excited peels of laughter and more giggles and really, it was like in one of those Babydoll scenes you love and hate so. And then, once they were loosened up to the state of complete pancakes I said "Hey, kiss my cock, and you eat her out. I'm going to fuck you in the ass." This, far from an excitation-driven string of random expletives, made perfect sense in context, where it is both meaningful and descriptive. So the acts unfurled, we played with the multiorgasmic fucktoy's multiorgasmic fucktoyness, and then I fucked her a little too, and then I sent the anal queen for handcuffs, lube and a shopping bag -- because yes, now and again I'll assfuck her while she uses a plastic bag exactly the way infants shouldn't. Do you suppose they enjoy death that way, by the way ? Obviously infants don't ejaculate, but orgasm they do. So do you suppose, upon encountering a blue body weighing about the same as a dog (the body I mean, not the soul, yes ?) that... well... it probably had fun on its way out ? Which is so very much more than will can be said about you, rotting away by infinitesimal degrees in the "retirement" home that even now grimly if patiently awaits you ?
Anyways, it took a while, then I made a mess (by which I mean, I crumbled chocolate brownie in a mug of freshly shook batido, mango en leche -- which in itself is a whole production, because it takes pre-frozen, Orotina-sourced bananas, I wouldn't touch your despicable dole with your dentures, let my palate alone -- and added specially imported rum and well, I call the result a mess, though you'd prolly think of it more as a Sundae, even though it's as plainly Wednesdy as ever can be.
So this is why. [↩]Oh look at that, what a fitting header today! [↩]The cardiologist in charge of explaining to yours truly (and only) Superman that "You see Mr... the human body deals with 99.9% of anything it runs into. Something you had ; but it dealt with it for you." as the crowning denuement of the recent scare -- thereby upon retelling yanking out of the poor Bimbo (whose previous owner had a real and quite dire such infraction, unlike my very piddly and unconvicing ersatz) a most disbelieving "so... you cured your own heart attack..." -- also declared herself unimpressed with my peripheral circulation generally, and recommended her go-to rehabilitation clinic, which is a very well appointed gym run well by a competent fellow by the name of Eduardo (not Caruccio, something else).
And I followed her advice, not merely because I wasn't any more impressed than her with said aspect of my superbly functioning, divine in its nature (hey, it's what you believe, quite literally -- that you of all things are exactly divine in nature and superbly functioning) body, but also because one of the greatest ways to have a fucked heart as a sixty year old is by having shitty peripheral circulation as a forty year old. And so, not being a great fan of paying interest, I... for the first time in my life, mind you... am now going... to the gym! Bought a pair of sneakers, too, which I never owned before, and such things.
The girls say they're the best, and I trust in them, because he who doesn't know must trust. [↩]At one point one of these cunts actually said to James there's two kings in Scotland, King James and King Jesus [but the latter's better because hurr].
That James hadn't the presence of hanging the knave then and there's doubtless the darkest stain on his rather foul mantle. [↩]She's been watching these delightful Azerbaijani couple, living out in their little hut, making traditional foods like they always have ; and it's proven an inspiration to her. [↩]Like decades, except endless. Each and every last one of them, just as endless as all the other four.
You figure it out!... Not like you ain't got time... [↩]
« La nostalgia...
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Category: Zsilnic
Wednesday, 05 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:35:03

Post partially
Motto: Hey, remember these two sluts ?
Isn't postprandially a great word ? I like it very much, myself, and therefore post partially, you see, is what happens after a party. Hence the title ; and the illustration ; and also my sorry state.
I am crushed, utterly and totally. It's Sunday, well past noon. I just woke up, at a bare crawl I went about some reduction of morning business. We partied until all hours of the night Saturday, which I mean literally : the birds were solidly singing Morning by the time I kicked all the nudes outta my bed and crashed, finally, an expiration in the eager light outside.
But now I'm seated more or less comfortably -- they suffering of cocktail flu are never truly comfortable -- with a mug of iced water I sent a slave for, and thereby write, such as can be done. The last item I clearly remember are the fabulous steaks in the late evening. My Porterhouse went down so readily, so easily, so well. The whole two and a half pounds of it, faces criss-crossed in delicious creole mulatto tones, the inside rather cold. A mouthmelt, like so many others, such as only few experience -- and I, daily. Multiply. Perpetually. All the dog manded titme!
There was an old whore there, also. At the party I mean. At least early on ; I remember seeing her, my gaze fixing upon her anciently fixed tits. They looked great in her dress, well built for a well built -- and eager, too -- ninteen year old. Her exemplarily toned legs comfortably stood atop most decent four inch platforms. Not screaming bloody murder through excess like's the lot of youthful nubiles (if they be worth two spits or half a squirt -- in the respective holes nature carved in lustruous luscious lasciviousness for the very purpose), but definitely making the point. The heels tell it all : you're not her. You'll never be her. You'll neither draw my eye at a party nor command my commendation. Of you I'll never say to my own escort (who, of course, knew her, from their gym, the only good gym in this liliput country tiny enough to only admit one of anything) "go talk to her, she's evidently curious about you two and if you don't it's too much like a snub. You're the younger woman, it's not her place to come to you, don't let her hang."
The old whore's leathery face, tanned under the imperious demands of daily Suns over (I'm sure) sixty years, crinkly and thoroughly lined under the incessantly ceaseless demands of her discipline -- to smile the whore's smile, again and again -- rather resembled a laptdog's. I quite enjoy lapdogs like her around and about, in strict preference of most any alternatives (no, "robust beauties" don't even qualify, don't even inch above water level). She dominated, readily, with the expert whore's ease, the elder gringo tub of paste in tow. Just to make the point, to clear my eye of any possible misunderstanding, like a civilised man among savages might discreetly flash Eton to another. I never knew her before, I never met her before, she knows what to do just as well. Between this Spanish speaker native and Romanian speaking natives the decades bridge, with ease, effortlessly. By themselves. Like anything else in this life worth doing, it does itself, coincidentally, while other things ongo.
She had a younger, darker whore with her, twenty-something maybe, their relationship clearly professional, vaguely tinged in mentorship ; the twenty-something very late in her life yet thoroughly clueless, her body carrying a superficial layer of extra fat readily testifying to the state of her spirit. No, it's not babyfat after adolescence, that ends with puberty ; although... The young'un was there to service the tub's associate -- some junior business partner, like for instance a "son" in these cucks' manner, made one day with some woman they don't remember for never having inside her owned anything. We didn't long linger -- they have to earn their daily bread, and us, after having ingurgitated our daily portion of animal life (& death) -- for no meal's worth the name if no part of it had parents, that loved it, and in bloodied pain begot it, and then you ate it -- went on.
It's going to escape exposition, that on ; for your needs such as they are suffice it to say that unrelatedly, outside the walls, the mendacious audacity of the idiot party continues unabated, raging as fiercely strong as it has for the past year. That's also a kind of party, yes ? Perhaps it'll never end. Perhaps three hundred years from now actual women and actual humans'll wonder what the fuck did "we" do, not knowing in their benevolent malintension that indeed -- there is no we. Just I ; and then the rest of you, such as you are, and can't be counted among anything. Not even food.
That idiot partyi eagerly goes about -- with "arguments", no less! "There's no other seasonal flus anymore", they'll gleefully point out. "Clearly the masks work", they'll clamor. Surely, after having fraudulently misrepresented every temperature increase of any source as "covid" -- going so far as to even eschew autopsies, and therefore making everyone dead these days the same sort of inconsequential, sub-human mongrel as they of the 1700s and prior -- isn't it a wonder that no other anything else "exists", after their fashion ? The necessary as it is unavoidable fate of the socialist mind : forever the infant's game of peek-a-boo, forever looking for and forever finding exactly the same thing. What thing ? That thing they who can not want misrepresent themselves as wanting, whatever it may be. Vacuous nothingness and perambulating undeath, of course.
So afraid's the stupid party of the -- to speak frankly, to them mostly hostile -- environment, they're now all burka'd up. Like little bitches, waiting for the Arab daddy ; or, fail that, at least his horse...
Yet I am not your horse ; and you are not my whore ; and so on.
———Also a party, yes ? After its fashion ? [↩]
« Degeneration, by Max Nordau. Adnotated. Diagnosis.
The Problem »
Category: Zsilnic
Sunday, 25 April, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:34:51

Porky's
Porky'si is yet another coming-of-age film "of highschool life" bla bla bla. I can't imagine why they keep making these, except perhaps because they keep trying to convince themselves of nonsense ; there's nothing much to see here to recommend this failed attempt at flattening the cowlick over all the others in overabundant supply, except for a coupla circumstantial items.
First off, the hottie head cheerleader / junior cheerleader trainer / whatever the hell she is, losing her mind (well, losing her momind anyway ; finding her whore mind, more properly speaking) upon sniffing used jockstraps (literally) and turning out to be... quite the little screamer. As circumstances dictate she makes room for the junior coach inside herself right behind the thin separator wall (and neatly within earshot) of a gymfull of young colts an' heifies. The adolescents, mostly virgins, thoroughly sexually frustrated, suspended in the irreality of a purely absurdist situation called "P.E.", get to confront the facts of the matter, and of life generally.
There, under her suddenly unbridled wails of unadulterated joy, a bunch of teens stuck in ridiculous outfits (as "proper" for the time and place), short pants and tight blouses supposedly "with no sexual undertones whatsoever", engaged in a purely "non-sexual" activity (as fucking if) get to perceive first hand the utterly pointless nature of the santa fantasy. Because no, there can't be such a thing as sexual clothing. Absolutely not, out of the question, sex is a human behaviour, not a textile property. Human sexuality is the product of the workings of the human mind, not a byproduct of mordants and wheft ; and therefore there can't be such a wonder as non-sexual outfits, positions, circumstances or activities either. Because how the fuck would that go ?! D'oh ?
And so these kids get (and at school of all places, improbabilia improbabilis!) the most useful of all life lessions lessons : they discover firsthand the bullshit doesn't matter. They're too chickenshit to actually turn the supposed "P.E. class" into an out-and-out orgy, as it self-evidently was meant to be, and as better young men and especially young women would've ; but also they can't unsee their own inadequacy to their own lives driven by their own buying into bullshit. Whether this actually does anything is, of course, up to them ; and, just as of course, up to you.
The other circumstantial item of note is the young women in the nude. The particular mix of pretended "fear" and genuine curiosity, the yelling and the excitement, the very natural if very obstinately disavowed interaction between the wet maidens and the penis... it's well done, really. I can't readily recall to mind another instance of this particular anthropometric measure so correctly rendered on celluloid, making this film immortal from that certain perspective.
And so it goes...
———1981, by Bob Clark, with a (nude) Kim Cattrall (the chick pretending to whoredom three decades later with horseface & co) debutante and some other (just as nude) random girlies. [↩]
« Say it like it's 1937
Two hands »
Category: Trilematograf
Monday, 22 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:34:38

Parasitic parenting
We're gonna do a source & translation thing, because I don't feel like taking thei time to produce actual English equivalent for literary Romanian expression on one hand, and you're as helpless as newborn kittens on the other (ie, machine translation's just about worthless for anything worth translating in the first place, though admittedly it works well enough for all the dumb shit that needn't be translated at all).
So... first, the source :
diana_coman ajuta in sensul ca a. nu mai tot trimit listele alea de vertices si triunghiuri pt ce e oricum mereu la fel b. face acolo cs ca are deja forma regulata si gata
diana_coman deci da, ajuta
diana_coman da' nu-mi dau seama daca ne-o parea rau dupa aia sau ceva, cum sa zic
mircea_popescu pia atunci hai sa facem asa. cerul e mereu aceelasi mesh, fa-l ca un sferoid turtit. si texturi punem dupa locatie, sau "cer" sau "ceiling" ce e
mircea_popescu auzi, fa-l tu ca un sfert de sfera si va fi foarte ok.
diana_coman lol, cum tu un sfert ?
diana_coman trebuie sa acopere totusi acolo
mircea_popescu deci o sfera sectionata nu la mijloc, ci r/2 distanta e centru
diana_coman a, a, nu un sfert ci ca partea de mai sus
diana_coman hm, sa vad ca stiu ca cs are pt sfera si pt hemisfera da' am asa o banuiala ca e bou si n-are parametru sa ii zici cat vrei
mircea_popescu pai un sfert lol :)
mircea_popescu tai in patru felii si iei una
mircea_popescu doar ca tai plane paralele
diana_coman ahaha, asa-s sferturile la tine? oricare 1 din 4? lolz
mircea_popescu pai ce-ti pasa de cs daca-i dai tu mesh ?
diana_coman pai la cer mai sus ai zis ca sa nu-i dau?
diana_coman deci : daca ii dam mesh oricum, poate fi orice
mircea_popescu pai ii dai ~o data~. nu ? il tot pui sa-si faca ca bou' ?
diana_coman tu, da' "o data" ala ca adica ce, ii fac acolo hard-coded zici?
mircea_popescu exact
diana_coman ca de incarcat tot le incarca
diana_coman ugh
mircea_popescu nush, nu insist.
mircea_popescu io doarzic, bine ?
diana_coman ma rog, presupun ca intr-un final o sa ma chiar uit cat dracu' e de mare in fapt meshul si daca-l fac pe server si daca nu e urias il si trimit si termin
mircea_popescu da' io nici intr-un caz nu vreau sa-l trimiti de fiecare data. ca ie stupid ce plm
diana_coman ca pana la urma de ce e fix asta fix sa ma trezesc apoi ca ma impiedic in el sau ceva
mircea_popescu nu e doar asta. si caracterul il dai gen o data.
mircea_popescu fa-l sa fie un singur obiect mereu, si nui ti-l tot cere atunci. nu ?
diana_coman pai teoretic fiind *acelasi mesh* nu-l trimiti de fiecare data ca na, are fisierul si deci nu-l mai cere, nu?
diana_coman aia, asa
mircea_popescu asa da. asa ar fi f bine.
diana_coman dar na, il trimit odata *per client*, drept
mircea_popescu deci" i-l dai de fiecare data" da' aia inseamna ca tre' sa ceara, si tu nu il schimbi deci el nu il cere.
diana_coman exact
mircea_popescu io zic ca asa ar fi ideal. leverage si ce design frumos avem noi fix pentru a fi util asa.
diana_coman cam asa
mircea_popescu noa. asa io zic ca e f bine.
diana_coman bine, tb deci sa schimb ierarhia aia da' aia e oricum in lucru asa ca nici nu ma asteptam sa n-am de schimbat la ea, nu e incotro
mircea_popescu si apa ca i-o tot dai per sector nu conteaza daca zici ca e douar 2 tri, si gata.
mircea_popescu pai noa, astea-s schimbari foarte benefice imo
diana_coman da, practic cu asta atunci chiar sunt linistita ca sunt toate in fapt decise real pe server si deci putem schimba daca e ce si cum vrem
mircea_popescu si e si frumos ca nu tot calculeaza dobi
diana_coman iar clientul pune ce i se da si basta
mircea_popescu sa vezi ca taie juma din load din asta
diana_coman ahaha
diana_coman dar hai, ca la load era rapid deja
diana_coman ce astepta sa primeasca fisierele si atat
mircea_popescu pai si ce daca e rapid nu se poate taia jumate ?
diana_coman lol, ba chiar si asa, un sfert de sfera!
mircea_popescu vai ce haterita si invidioasa pe succesu meu te-ai facut
mircea_popescu tu, io am si instafan! tu ai ?
mircea_popescu noa ? ATUNCI CE MAI VB!
diana_coman intre timp ma rontaie pe creier ca in fapt ar tb la generatorul de texturi sa ii pun sa genereze totodata si normalmap
mircea_popescu pai ar.
mircea_popescu dat fiindca
diana_coman pt ca e si util real si se si poate si e algoritm in ma-sa, si si si
diana_coman da
mircea_popescu da.
diana_coman da' am facut lista proaspata azi dimineata ca teoretic "nu era nimic" si tot creste, lol
mircea_popescu asa, asa.
diana_coman ah, am vazut ca ai fanfan
diana_coman i-ai schimbat si viata, ca acu' pune poze cu tine nu cu altul
mircea_popescu ceva arabel lol,
mircea_popescu uneori ma si intreb stii, plm, pustime din teheran. da peste trilema. ce plm hemoragie cerebrala
mircea_popescu daca ma gindesc la mine in cluj gen 1991... tu infarct faceam
diana_coman tu, mie astia tot imi par asa de... feminini in ma-sa, cum sa si zic
diana_coman ca nu fac si ei infarct masculin sa puna mana sa faca ceva de nervi
mircea_popescu apai is foarte muieratici. ca copchii bizantini in epoca iegzact.
diana_coman ci fac asa feminin ca lesina la tine pe prag si iti canta osanale
mircea_popescu asa, ce frumos era, mai retii /
mircea_popescu acu' mnoa, se tem sa nu cumva sa violeze pe vre-una.
diana_coman iaca, scrii tu pt femei da' 90% din "ele" sunt din astia, pfft
mircea_popescu aia ar fi grav. sa nu faca nic tata ziua nu e problema. numa' sa nu fie vre-una plinsa pe undeva ca ei nu i-o venit.
mircea_popescu da lol, ne cracanam de ris prin casa ca 90% din readership e fix asa, soymale 15-30
diana_coman dadad, se "tem" ca adica ce bine e sa aiba scuza aia, cum sa zic
mircea_popescu ie. ca femeia-i facuta din vise si nori, poti s-o omori asa, fara sa-ti dai seama.
mircea_popescu fantasme.
diana_coman ce pot zice, macar nu ma aia la cap pe mine astia ca m-ar si enerva
mircea_popescu ma rog, acu' fair is fair, s-o apucat ala sa puna tot musulmance in situatii compromitatoare si poze de prin trilema, nu poti zice ca nu face
mircea_popescu cu dumbphonu', ma rog, da "face"
diana_coman eu nu pricep ce facut e ala ca pui poze, da' in fine, multe din astea nu pricep eu
mircea_popescu nu ne e dat noua sa pricepem totul
diana_coman asa, asa
mircea_popescu si asta nu e chiar asa rau cum suna
mircea_popescu nici io nu pricep, da'... plm, teheranu' lor, sa si-l aia.
diana_coman ooo, nici nu, chiar sunt unele chestii de sper sa nu ajung sa le chiar pricep, lol
mircea_popescu ce sa si faca ?
mircea_popescu e o chestie deschisa asa. ce sa faca ? se baga in boko haram ?
diana_coman lasa ca gasisem si eu unul de scria de grafica asa chiar cu cap si coada si sens si matematica, pfuai. Am tot cautat sa-i gasesc un email, ceva, neam, da' am gasit - e din egipt, bun, da' ...e clar cu totul in blender, ugh
mircea_popescu io is de acord cu obiectia, "pune poze cu tine nu cu altul." bun. sa faca ifarct asa ca barbatii, macar ca baietii. sa faca ceva. bun, ce ?
diana_coman adica descrie si algoritm si tot dupa care ca-cum sa faci din "nodes" si nu stiu ce, sa tot plimbi cu mouse-ul in blender, ugh
diana_coman si lucreaza pt ei chiar
mircea_popescu apai nu ma mir.
mircea_popescu tu, daca vrei sa lucreze pentru noi vezi ce cere. io is pentru sa evaluam un egiptean
diana_coman pai sa iasa din casa, sa dea un party si sa faca poze la el cu fete ori ma rog, la fete, nabii
mircea_popescu ahahahahaah
diana_coman sa se duca la coltul strazii si sa faca poze daca chiar e asa greu
mircea_popescu meri tu
mircea_popescu tu nu esti normala la cap. tu vrei sa VORBEASCA CU O FATA ?!
diana_coman da, precum s-a exprimat unu' revenit anul trecut ca a vazut younghands "tu tot asa ai ramas de pui lumea la treaba"
mircea_popescu dilia vietii, SI AIA SA VORBEASCA CU EL !?
mircea_popescu tu de pe ce planeta esit, astia n-or mai vorbit de 20 de ani.
diana_coman pai atunci sa clipoceasca numai din mobil la ea, in fine
diana_coman da' macar asa cu directie, cum sa zic
diana_coman sa-si faca o instalatie cu 10 brate cu mobile si merge cu aia pe strada de face cate 10 poze simultan din diverse unghiuri
mircea_popescu tu se caca pe ei. si pe-aici, merge sclava la ceva pisi, "imi place de tine, cine esti ?" alea. aia "maimi mami!! MAMI!!!!!" fuge dupa ma-sa.
diana_coman poftim
mircea_popescu aia ar fi ceva.
diana_coman pai zau, am stat si-am "gandit" aici 3 minute da' el "n-are ce sa faca", cacat cu perje
mircea_popescu da' pe bune acuma, tu nu stii ca nu te-ai dus sa incerci. da' nu is capabili sa interactioneze social cu necunoscuti. s-o pierdut aia.
mircea_popescu meri si vezi daca nu ma crezi, vorbeste cu una.
diana_coman zici ca or reveni la "nu ne-a facut nimeni cunostinta"?
diana_coman o fi, tot parte din revenire, lol
mircea_popescu iar aialalta, ca-si face robotel... ma rog, cum e diferit de clipocit ? ca "l-o facut el" ? pai tot din bucati il face, nu e ca si cum il face din sine.
mircea_popescu fix acolo, da. nu IS CAPABILI sa negocieze social cu necunoscuti. daca-i ceri directions pare 100% ok, daca-i iesi din cele 2-3 scripturi de-astea de 2-3 replici e 0%.
mircea_popescu nu au nici o conceptie de limita, nici o practica sociala, nimic.
diana_coman apai in afara cazului cand il face din matele proprii, tot nu e din sine, da' macar nu e reteta existenta, cum sa zic, acolo de clasa 1
mircea_popescu aia zic, ca nu mai e posibil. acum si ca sa se descurce cu un robinet ce n-o mai vazut intra pe reddit sa vada.
diana_coman mda, aia cred pt ca si de unde experienta aia cu negociat ca na, nu e voie nu se poate nu aia nu ailalta
mircea_popescu nu mai au incredere in ei insisi sa faca ceva ei pentru ei. deloc.
mircea_popescu ca noa, cam toti astia de ~20 or crescut fara parinti
diana_coman mda, cam aia e de fapt. Doar acu' cateva zile chiar i-am zis unuia ca bai, tu esti "helpless" de fapt, aia-i problema ta, ce sa mai
diana_coman si mda
mircea_popescu prin care intelegem fara tati. ci cu doua pizde anxioase, una "mami" cealalta "tati" da' la fel de cum sa zic... nici maica-mea nici maica-ta nici a nimanui n-o fost veci asa ghei ca astea
diana_coman mai rau decat fara parinti ca daca erau fara, n-aveau incotro si trebuiau sa se dumireasca singuri cumva
mircea_popescu exact. or crescut cu paraziti.
mircea_popescu aia e. nitwits exact. nici macar orfani, ci parazitati emotional.
diana_coman cam asa, ugh
mircea_popescu si atunci n-au nici resursele, nici rezultatele practicii istotrice a acumularii resurselor.
mircea_popescu si iata. intr-adevar. mi-am scris articol pe azi, numa' bine.
diana_coman lol, tb sa gasesc cumva si eu o modalitate sa scot cod din conversatii.
mircea_popescu stii ?
mircea_popescu chiar ma gindeam aici, bai da' o exploatezi la singe, nu ase numa'.
And second, as it behooves it, the (summarizedii, centralizediii and homogenizediv ; but also checked for root failurev) transation :
"It helps in the sense that I don't have to keep sending descriptors for immutables, they're just built in place. I just can't tell if we won't live to regret it is all."
"Do it that way, the sky a flattened spheroid and textures will go in by location, sky or ceiling or whatever. make the flattened spheroid a quarter sphere and it'll be fine."
"What do you mean a quarter ? It's a dome, it's supposed to cover the rectangle."
"A sphere cut not in the middle, but half a radius away from the center."
"Ah you don't mean a proper quarter, just the topmost section"
"What do you think a quarter is ? Cut something in four parts and take one. Just, you cut parallel planes."
"That's your notion of a quarter ? Any of four non-equivalent pieces ?"
"What do you care about the client's doings if you give it out explicitly anyway ?"
"Didn't you just tell me not to give it explicitly ? If I do, sure, it can be whatever you want."
"But it's given once, not re-computed all the time."
"What's that once to mean ? Hard-coded in there ?"
"Sure."
"Otherwise it still gets loaded... ugh."
"I don't know. I'm not about to insist. I'm just saying things by the book here, theoretically."
"In the end I guess I'm going to check it for size. If it's not huge generate it server-side and be done with it."
"I don't want you to keep sending it over the wire. That's just dumb."
"If you want this one thing fixed it'll keep cropping up for being different."
"It's not just this one thing. The character mesh you send over just once, and other things. Make its hash immutable, it doesn't keep asking for it then, does it ?"
"At least in theory it being the same it won't be sent but once. Right, that."
"Alright, yes. That'd be very good."
"It still gets sent once per client, that's all."
"In this sense 'send it each time' becomes each time it's asked for, and its hash doesn't change so it doesn't get asked for."
"That's exact."
"I'd say it's also ideal. Leveraging the perfect design we have, made to support this very case and so on."
"Right."
"Very good then. And water doesn't matter if you say it's just two triangles, and that's that."
"Alright, I'm going to have to alter the hierarchy model, but it was being worked on anyway so I didn't even expect it stays put, there's no way out."
"These are deeply beneficial changes in my opinion."
"Yes, this puts to rest the matter, everything's done server side and so usefully mutable. The client paints what it's given to paint and that's that."
"It also takes out all the spurious local calculations which is beautiful. Watch it'll cut half the load away."
"Hahaha. Come, come, the load's quick already. Net-bound only pretty much."
"So if it's quick it can't be halved ?"
"Sure, even quarter-sphered!"
"What a hateful person invidious of my success you've become.vi. Listen, you! I've even got a fan on instagram. Do you ? Well ? WHAT ARE WE EVEN TALKING ABOUT!"
"Meanwhile it's eating me that the texture generator should also spit out normalmaps."
"It should. Given that therefore."vii
"It's both actually useful and definitely possible, and algorithmic and and and. Yep."
"Yep."
"I started a fresh to-do list this morning, for there was 'nothing left' theoretically, and I'm getting more sheets for it."
"Good, good."
"But yes, I've seen you've got a fanfan. Even changed his life for him, now he posts pictures with you instead of someone else."
"Some Arabic kidviii. Sometimes I wonder, you know... fuck, kiddos from Teheran. Rus into Trilema. Da fuck, cerebralo hemorrhage. If I think of myself back in 1991... It'd have stopped my ticker."
"Nevertheless they seem to me so... feminine, how shall I put it. They're not having a male heart attack to set themselves to doing something out of that fury."
"They're very girly, that's true. Like perio Byzantine kiddos exactly. How nice it was, do you recall ?"
"They do it very feminine-like, fainting on your doorstep and singing hossanahs."
"Whadday ya want, they're concerned they might rape some chick. That'd be regrettable. Doing nothing all day long's no problem, just as long as there's no cryied out chickie anywhere who didn't feel like it right then."
"Yeah, you write for women of which 90% are this kinda woman, pffft."
"Yea lol, it's a subject of constant amusement what large proprotion of the readership's exactly the 15 to 30yo soysexual."
"Yeah, yeah. They're 'concerned' in the sense of, what a great excuse it is."
"It is. Because woman's made of dreams and clouds, you can kill her just like that, without even realising it. Phantasmesix."
"At least they don't come bothering me."
"But, fair's fair, he took to posting muslim chicks in compromising situations and pictures culled from Trilema. Can't say he's not doing anything. With the phone, it's true, but it's still 'doing'."
"What kinda doing is that, posting pictures... but whatever, many such I don't understand."\
"It's not given us to understand everything."
"Hear, hear."
"Nor is it as bad a lot as it may sound. Their Teheran, let them mind it."
Very much so, there's things I hope never to come to understand."
"What could he do ? It's open enough. What ? Join Boko Haramx) ? I can subscribe to the objection, 'at least pictures of yourself rather than another', ok, let him have male heart attacks, or at least boyish, fine. let him do something. what ?"
"Forget it, I had found someone writing sensibly on graphics, math included, everything. I searched and searched for some contact, eventually it turns out guy's from Egypt, ok, and... fully invested in Blender of all things."
"I am not surprised. If you want him to work for us see what he wants. I'm not against evaluating some Egyptian."
"Get out of the house. Throw a party and shoot the girls piled up on him. Or girls in general, from a distance, bloody hell."
"Hahahahahaha"
"Let him go out on the street corner and take pictures."
"Go away. You're unhealthy in the head. You want him to TALK TO A GIRL ?!"
"Yeah, I'm sure. Like some loser checking in to see if younghands maybe folded into his fold put it, 'you haven't changed, still putting people to work'."
"Nut of all time. HER TALK BACK TO HIM ?! Da fuck planet are you from, these idiots haven't talked in twenty years."
"Let him blink his dumbphone at her then, whatever. At least it should have some directionality, some intentionality. Something [that breaks the PD fantasy]. Let him build a ten arm robot and drive it down the street and take 10 simultaneous shots from angles. There, I spent two minutes with it, but he 'has not what to do' bullcrap."
"They'll just shit themselves. It's no different anywhere in the world. Slavegirl goes over to some kitten, 'hey, I like you, who are you ?' like God meant it. The 'victim' runs off, 'Mom!xi MOM!!!' immediately. Seriously, you don't know about it for lack of trying, but they're not capable of social interaction with unknowns. That's lost. Go check for yourself if you don't wish to believe me, try and talk to some girlie."
"You're saying it's running back to 'we were not introduced' ? I guess, part of the general... revolution."
"And on the other hand, making robots... I beg your pardon, how's it different from blinking ? He did it ''himself' ? Still made from parts, not like he can make it from 'himself' neh. The broader issue's right there : they lack the capability of social negotiation with unknowns. If you're limiting the interaction" to asking for directions or something it might seem 100% working ; but if you go out of the coupla preloaded scripts worth two-three replies each, it suddenly and irretrievably drops to 0%. They've no conception of limit, no social practice whatever, nothing at all."
"Ok, unless he makes it out of his own viscera it's not 'from himself' absolutely. But at least it's not a pre-existing recipe on the primary school level."
"That's what I'm saying is gone. Nowadays even a faucet he's not encountered before he'll phone-reddit to see 'examples'."
"That I can belive. Whence's that experience to come, this is not allowed that is not possible the other's bla bla."
"They've not the self-confidence to do something by themselves, for themselves. Not at all."
"Myeah, that's it isn't it. Days ago I told off one, 'dude, you're substantially helpless, that's what you are'.
"The entire cohort around 20 years old grew up without parents. By which we mean, without fathers. Two anxious cunts instead, one 'mami' the other 'papi' but both equally... how shall I put it, neither my mother nor yours nor nobody's ever was this fucking faggoty."
"Worse than without parents. If they were truly without they'd have figured it out as best they could under that pressure."
"Right you are, they grew up with parasites. Nitwits exactly. Not even orphans, merely parasitized emotionally."
"That'd be it, ew."
"Thus they've neither the resources, nor the results of the historical practice of accumulating resources. And there you go. Indeed I've written today's article, not bad."
"Lol. I've gotta find some way to squeeze code out of convos."
"You know ? I was just thinking, 'man, you're truly exploiting her, not just a little.'"
As the man once famously said... that should be good enough, anyways.
———Utterly inordinate amount of, and for absolutely no good reason. [↩]You're in luck, this term is formally defined!
Summary translation is that equivalent of a given text in a different language which includes some but not all points of the original with the explicit promise that given a measure for importance, all missing points will fall under it, and all points over will make it into the translation. [↩]You're in luck, this term is formally defined!
In the context of translation, centralization denotes the organization of the act of translation around an idea or philosophical proposition, such that all Gordian knots are forever cut and all ambiguities are reliably resolved in the same direction. [↩]You're in luck, this term is formally defined!
In the context of translation, homogenization is the process whereby implicit literary reference is kept to the same level for all nodes of the translation tree (this necessarily drags in the implication it won't be a very high level, as is the case with most equalizations), and therefore it has a lot in common with what simple minds fail to express usefully (or at all) when discussing their half-baked notions of "simplicity". [↩]You're in luck, this term is formally defined!
Checking for root failure is the process whereby an omniscient owner prevents the natural compounding of errors from ever exceeding a certain epsilon, and blocks their propagation up the tree of meaning. [↩]There's no way out of this, massive decade-old Gayromeo in-joke.
The gist of it being that some "Internet expert" (the period equivalent of the "social media influencer") with serious socialization issues (and all the rest of the... difficulties, let's say, stereotipically perceived as attendant in such circumstances) made some comments which were remarkably structured given their utter left-field nonsensical composition, and... it stuck.
So stuckily it stuck, in fact, that the whole world has to undergo "social distancing" because the (absent!) parents failed in their mission while all these Vali Perfus multiplied to the point there has to be some kinda societal response to their sheer inability to comprehend personal space. Or in other words : my private jokes are only private to me ; to you they're the very substance of your daily life. Well, "your", whatevers.
Your life is mine. [↩]The Romanian construction "dat fiindca" is circular in a comedic sense that can't be rendered in English because English has no humour (and barely any rhymes at all). It's just not a fun language, in any sense.
It's fucken dour. Just like you. [↩]Technically "arabel" is diminutive and perhaps even vaguely derogatory, denoting the slender build and complaisant social presentation of young Arab kids of reasonably middle class extraction such as'd be encountered in the (very narrow) Romanian social practice some years ago. [↩]As in, the sort of "imaginary" beings that suck one's life away. Vampires. [↩]Do you suppose the name comes from the niggardly miscomprehension of the French word "beaucoup", as in, "a whole lotta things forbidden" ? The "very useful" tardpedia doesn't deem this point worthy of their darkening elucidation, and... well... (I intended for a link to go in there, to whichever article where I went into detail as to how "a quote" exists "on the web" in hundreds of EXACT copies, but never ever with any more context, even to the ludicrous lengths that if the quote were to include a [...] token, out of the hundreds of google-paste quotists NOT ONE will have filled in the blank. After spending some time looking I didn't turn it up, so it stays... blank. [↩]"Mom!" being the exact opposite of "Mom ?". [↩]
« Sextette
Hello, Frisco, Hello »
Category: Cocietate si Sultura
Thursday, 25 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:34:25

Overheard in my harem
Pick any pillow in this bed! I will lift it! OVER MY HEAD!
Works a lot better with nude sluts than with surprisingly-still-ambulatory geriatrics, you know ?i
"And check it out, the hortensia I pruned is pushing out a new inflorescence."
"I bet they don't even spell it with a w, like god obviously meant it."
Seriously now, what the fuck's a hortensia even supposed to be !?
Whortensja all the way, I saj!
"But when we have a house..."
"What the fuck do you think this is ?"
"Oh, this... it's just a bunch of connected apartments."
There was a very puzzled pause, after which the voice of reason attempted to rescue the damsel of confusion
"What do you think'd make it a house ?"
"If it... I mean there's no lawn... If there were two floors. Or if we had to mow the lawn..."
In fact there's a fully grown adult farmer guy who spends the whole of his working days mowing the extensive hillside. I wouldn't send the bitches to do what's, very absolutely an' essentially a man's job, not unless exceptionally, for punishment or whatever the hell particular consideration ; but be that as it may -- the girly in question was actually sent to climb on the (unrelatedly pre-existing) roofwork scaffolding to wash the third floor windows from the outside. She didn't fall or anything like that, so a concussion's not in the explanatory running, but apparently the floorcount overflew its toppings or something, it's not clear what exactly.
Oh Master, you're like a tornado of pain and misery!
I was just making light playful fun of some bitch, but apparently I don't know my own strength.
Omg! MILK! Please don't throw anymore things!
I recently discovered they can catch pretty good, on account of the blessings of youth upon the hand-eye coordination system, or a lifetime interest in baseball, or just positive outcomes of the genital roulette, who even knows. Perhaps even the simple workings of incentive systems, because guess who does the cleaning made necessary by having failed to catch (and not by Master -- meaning, me -- throwing in the first place).
But I'm throwing things anyways & be all the foregoing as it may -- most recently, the large glass mug I had just (mostly) emptied of milk. Girl caught it alright, so... disaster averted. For now.
He's going to get a huge sifter and just dust the whole floor in one swift flick of the wrist.
Somebody had left a loaded flour sifter on a counter, and I proceeded to... well, what would you do ?
I proceeded to sift flour all over the place, what.
You're just like a big angry baby!
She's just trying to get even, that's all. EXCEPT IT DOES NOT WORK. Ha!
"Did you ring the bell ? Or am I just hearing things ?"
"You're hearing things."
I have many countless bells ; the pan-demonium lasts all nite long (no solid chunks just yet, though).
"So do you give up ?"
"Oh, damn. Yeah, I ain't guessing."
"Doris Day."
"Wow. Shit. No, you're right. I'd have never gotten that.
I asked them the day before (meaning, yesterday -- because all this has occurred today, so far today) whether they want a trivia question they'll absolutely never guess the answer to. These types of inquiries always end up with the affirmative answer (or else!), and so I profered "What well known female entertainer originally discovered Merv Griffin". They tried the whole day, the poor darlings, but... I mean even Phyllis Diller got mentioned, for the first time in what must be at least twenty-seven years. No dice.
"You've got a pipe cleaner."
"Yeah, I know. I think it's trying to become my pet."
"It'd make a pretty good pet..."
"I don't know. Does it know any tricks ?"
"It knows the trick of cleaning... and also doesn't want much food or anything. You can leave it behind and it'll just wait for you patiently, it doesn't even meow or anything. Or need its thing changed... it's potty trained, it just never needs to go."
Chick's packing, and there's a pipe cleaner on the floor by the suitcase. I think they must've had a pipecleaners, colorful confetti & balderdash fight in her room earlier, because... well...
"That sounds interestingly tupudent."
"Tupudent ?!"
"Important."
"But that's not what you said. What you said was 'tupudent'."
It's true, too. She mangles her syllables into a lukewarm, runny cream.
But anyways, enough of that. I mean, that much should be enough for now, and besides -- it's time to go.
(& I bid you all a most heartfelt goodnight)
———No, you don't know. Of course you don't know. What the fuck am I even asking. [↩]
« Rose of Washington Square
Ed Wood »
Category: Zsilnic
Friday, 09 April, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:34:06

mclaren-semi-2
« Only country in the world...
Category: Zsilnic
Thursday, 04 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:33:54

mclaren-semi-1
« Only country in the world...
Category: Zsilnic
Thursday, 04 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:33:42

Only country in the world...
This being the only country in the world where a semi can run down a McLaren on the fucking highwayi.
I mean, what next, a turkey crashed into a bullet, an island hit a torpedo, melcul, tusti! din tufis ?
Yet that's exactly how they fucking drive. Selling the Tico poks fast cars is like selling nine year old schoolgirls double-ended dongs. They might like 'em, they might admire 'em, handle them, hit each other over the head with them... but they ain't ever gonna use 'em for anything like the intended purpose.
———To be technical, "una via que viene referida como autopista". [↩]
« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 14 : Choice Chances And Passing Up
The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 15 : Dust Girl Breaks Pepper, Skeleton Girl Breaks Phyllis »
Category: Zsilnic
Thursday, 04 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:33:30

Ongoing keks
Speaking of that piece, here's some fine illustration :
Right ? Let no-one say I am divisive. On the contrary : the chitlin gather around my effigy like socially awkward jewtards at a singles mixer.
Which, obviously, begs the question...
Unsurprisingly, there's no-one left to answer.
Maybe they're (mutually) pregnant ? Ah, if only there were an Elsie Shutt for bois, too, so they could continue "working" while "pregnant" just like the girls do! Please -- spread the revolution! Down with the MPatriarchy!
Anyways, it... "it's easy being me", or however that went. Espresso Cubano dontcha know (at the sun drenched Wichita Mini-mall [of America!!!]).
« The State of the (f)Art
BREAKING : USG President-Belect Pidden Announces Plans To Sign Epochal Factaltering Change Footnote Executive History! »
Category: Meta psihoza
Friday, 04 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:33:17

On being female, and being a woman.
Being female is a matter of biology, it denotes a specific set of answers to the pressures of group survival. Being a woman is a matter of culture. It denotes a specific set of answersi to the pressures of individual existence. The two terms are otherwise unrelated, save for the happenstance that women were historically born female (at least... preponderently).
Female cows are not women cows, yet they are perfectly capable of "reproduction"ii and some limited cognition -- but neither parturition nor that limited cognition are the criteria for womanhood.iii They're actually sexually receptive, after a fashion, in the sense that if you insist enough you might fuck one. Sexual receptivity in this sense also isn't the criteria for womanhood.
Women differentiate (ideally, with help from older women) from the females they were born as, generally at some point during their second decade of life. Whether this occurs early or late within that decade matters little in practice ; but as far as retarded development is concerned the third decade contains a hard biological limit -- much like children who've not learned to speak by twenty likely never will, so human females that haven't womened by thirty likely never will (simiarily, whether children learn to read at five or eight makes relatively little difference, as long as they're actually reading, as a central and self-defining occupation, by the age of ten or so).
What differentiates the woman from the female (or the can of deodorant spray) is specific, narrowly defined and narrowly construed self-positioning, as a subjective and subjectively recognized self-defining experience. Just as armies recognize bridges they never before seen, just so the woman recognizes herself, in her own view of the world surrounding, which includes herself as a self-perceived image of the self. The little girl looking down on her own naked body and thinking "it looks just like a whore's!" finds herself in the throws of the very process of becoming a woman, by herself and for her own needs ; "society" socialism'siv desperate quest to prevent this very fulguration the proximate cause for all sorts of absurdist fiction, from Santa Claus to touching dollies, ultimately driven by the retarded female's existential anxiety, and their misperception that women are throwing the curve "for them", as if women and mere females could ever be on the same curve.v
This is the sort of thing that makes them say, and deeply feel, that I'm the last romantic left.
———Rather amply illustrated on this here only thing currently occuring. [↩]In the sense of parturition, id est reproducing themselves ; not in the sense of reproduction id est reproducing "whatever fucks them". The standard contemplated for this misnomer of a "reproduction" that's mere production self-obviously is that something'll come out at all, and not that anything in particular'll come out whatsoever.
Yet a "matter replicator" (as in the "Science Fiction" concept) that replicated some matter, randomly and as counterdistinct from "whatever matter you put in there" (and to an arbitrary standard of exactness as applied to both composition and structure, because if it only replicates composition what the hell is it, an allegedly advanced blender ?) wouldn't pass muster anymore than this bovine "reproduction" in the sense of selfproduction does. [↩]Nor would be, even if they weren't so drastically limited as Bos primigenus displays. Even were a bioblob genetically engineered capable of reproduction in the strict sense of replication ad idem and limited cognition in the hard sense of Artificial Intelligence, yet still that bioblob, while certainly female, would not necessarily be a woman, nor necessarily any closer to being a woman than any can of deodorant spray or any other byproduct of industrial activity. [↩]There is no practical way to distinguish christianity, socialism, and plain idiocy. They're all the same thing because... well, they're all the same thing, what do you want from me.
Ever tried to delineate the supposed distinction ? [↩]Male ineptitude, muddling the all-important distinction, has perhaps some part to play in this failure, or at least in how commonly it's experienced. [↩]
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Royal Revolt II Kicks Ass! »
Category: Trilenciclopedia
Sunday, 13 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:33:05

Object-oriented, format-extension, freedom & self-respect, things an' matters (that dun matter)
mircea_popescu diana_coman, tu da' ada generics nu is pur si simplu ada-oo ? ca io cam asa am inteles.
mircea_popescu ma rog, acu' x ani cind eram la scoala.
mircea_popescu package MT_123 is new MT(123) ie fix aia, nu ? adica, nu-i zic prototype ca-i zic generic, ma rog, da' nu exista de fapt o diferenta substantiala.
diana_coman ada are (cam lipite pe langa) si mecanisme specifice pt OO, deci as zice ca mnu.
diana_coman pt OO ai propriu zis toata faza cu clase si obiecte si extensii
mircea_popescu pai si generice nu poti extinde ?
diana_coman presupun ca poti face o paralela ca adica via generics, iti face compilatorul obiectele direct
mircea_popescu pai iegzact
diana_coman teoretic orice pachet poate avea child-package pe care-l poti vedea drept extensie
mircea_popescu da' tot la fel, nu doar ca direct
mircea_popescu adica io sincer nu vad diferenta, acuma noa
diana_coman da' in sensul asta ada pur si simplu e oo
diana_coman ca child aia n-are a face cu generic
diana_coman deci nu prea pricep ce zici
mircea_popescu genu' de chestie pentru care io n-am zis niciodata asa ferm ca "fara oo". numa' am tot batjocorit la excese, ca ma rog, pulanii un cui au, un cui baga. da' altfel fix in tipul asta de cazuri, ce e asa rau sa ai prototip dupa algoritm
mircea_popescu asta mt e probabil cel mai bun exemplu de oo util si functional
diana_coman pai da
mircea_popescu noa ok. io citind parca am format impresia ca tu zici c-ar fi ceva diferenta asa, categorica. dar... cam nu e.
diana_coman da' OO in general/comun ori cum sa-i zic, ca abordare tocmai, ca nu aplica la algoritm ci la un set date+manipulari
mircea_popescu a in sensul ala zici. bine, da' aia e timpenie. daca citesti originalele cind se propunea 00 in 90 nimeni nu zicea sa ti le pui ca windows format-extension ce plm.
diana_coman da, aia; posibil ca nu e clar, fix pt ca in fine, OO asa nu e niciodata definit clar ci mereu tot asa dupa cum vrea fiecare.
mircea_popescu ma rog, is doua scoli, una mai veche si mai respectabila (oarecum) si astia noi care-s copchii timpiti, habar n-au ca nu s-o mai facut la scoala nici mate nici sisteme nici nimic.
diana_coman apai eu ce pot zice, ca eu vorbesc de ce am constatat practic, nu teorie (plus ca onor poli ne-au "invatat" fix aia, nu teoria ce-o fi fost intai in 90)
mircea_popescu daca-i pui sa-ti faca legatura intre ce fac ei si geometrie descriptiva se caca cutotul, de algebre n-or auzit, banach nu e nimeni, chestii.
diana_coman nici nu ma mai astept sa fi auzit, nu.
mircea_popescu mnoa enfin
~ seven minutes later ~
mircea_popescu de fapt problema e ca ei cred ca un set arbitrar de date si o colectie aleatorie de manipulari e fix un algoritm. n-are treaba cu oo sau cu orice altceva, e chestie de libertate, respect de sine, de-alea.
mircea_popescu aiureala ce-o traiesc ei e viata si-atunci de ce n-ar fi ala algoritm
~ one minute later ~
mircea_popescu da' clar de la nume incepe, uite ce frumos. ca io daca zic catre tine "tu vezi ala mersenne" cum am zis acu' citi ani o fost, ~tie ti-o fost clar~ nu doar ce zic, ci si ce sa faci in practic fiecare instanta, din care n-am dubii c-or fost de-atunci sute. ca n-ai avut nevoie sa ma mai intrebi nici n-am avut ce mai discuta. fiind el ~un algoritm~. in timp ce cacaturi de formate aiurea ce fac ei, pai frate alea nici nume n-au nici nu pot avea nici nu pricepe nimeni nimic din ce-i acolo. ce sa comunice ?
mircea_popescu is multe, ce-i drept, poate avea fiecare viermisor cite sute de mii de catraliarde doreste. "ale lui".
diana_coman "set arbitrar de date si.." - exact, da' exact asta, da!
mircea_popescu adica is liberi vezi, nemo le impune lacessit.
diana_coman la cat de virulent "apara" fix acel tip de "libertate" cam imi pare ca si ei stiu de fapt fix si exact cat e de prostie.
mircea_popescu mai ca-mi vine sa public asta, ce plm.
diana_coman da' nu-i ca e ceva secret, lol.
Neither is it secret nor do you know how to read it, and therefore... its substance is safe with us.
And as for you... it's back to kirk.
« The Underbaker
Somebody embezzled the bezele berrets! »
Category: 3 ani experienta
Wednesday, 20 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:32:53

Nothing But A Man
Nothing But A Mani seamlessly combines the permanent arch-theme of cuckoldry (or rather, boi->cuck transfigurationii) undergirthing all fiction attempts in our sad North American colonies with a stolid excursion in the squalid and the sordid of poverty. If you think such a dish appetizing... well, you're probably from around there, socially conditioned to get mentally aroused by this crap like Australians get rowdy at the mere scent of rank ewes or something. I see no other explanation conceivable, really.
The story trudges on, like thick bilious vomit down a half-pipe drain in the Winter, there's a whole horde of overgrown pickaninnies who never ever ever wash anythingiii bouncing off each other meaninglessly while the females among them try to find some pieces somewhere in the hot broken mess to pick up.
I suppose it has some kind of documentary value nevertheless ; though I don't believe it's anything anyone's well advised to document themselves in. Some things are best forgotten, and "the identity" of being poor and stupid always tops that list.
———1964, by Michael Roemer, with Ivan Dixon and some "actress" (slash singer, newswoman, activist etcetera) whose name history has not recorded, because nobody remembers little girls. We're too busy with adult women over here. [↩]You know exactly what I'm talking about, "boi '''decides''' he doesn't wanna be like his dad, prefers being like his mom instead. [↩]Excepting for a perfunctory attempt at a windshield once. Once! In one single solitary scene, and even that obviously intended to depict instead the incredibly overbearing nature of whitey. Imagine, he makes them poor idiots wash things!!!
Otherwise there they sit, there they wallow, their problems entirely not similar to say the Irish during the Greatly Deserved Potato Famine, please believe, or the perennial romanians, please believe also. It's not them that's poor, it's anything else "poor-ing" them. Anyone, doesn't matter who. Anything, really, as long as it ain't their self-obvious and self-inflicted unadherence to urban life.
It's whitey, it's "poverty", as if this poverty were some kinda gift from above, not a constructed state of fundamental disrepair. There's a god there, please believe, picking on "innocents" for "no reason", that's totally how this poverty business goes. Improvidence, laziness an' substantial inadequacy have utterly naught to do with it, the poor idiot's "just like you" and all that crap.
No brother of mine, twerp. Go wash something. [↩]
« The duchess' morning stuffing
The vice squad »
Category: Trilematograf
Tuesday, 12 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:32:40

Nikki Fucksorry & Hannah Fucksore
Motto : Fucksore's a pretty good name for you. I'm sorry, but...
Anyways, the sore part's because I went to the gym today, where Keylor (no, seriously) worked the shit out of me to the point where I could barely walk. But then, once home, it was discovered that the door to the laundry room's locked, somehow. By itself, pretty much. So Nicole fetched the keys, which... it's a pile of them, you know ? All the keys to the inner doors in the house, like fifty small keys on a ring or some shit. And, surprise! The key marked for the laundry room's not opening the laundry room. Meh!
I mean, I was going to jump in the shower, I'm all drenched from the gym, yet here I am and wtf with the keys. I wasn't even supposed to be there today! Anyways, instead of leaving the bitches deal with it (as is my undisputed because indisputable prerogative) I just pushed my boxers down sorta-kinda and was like "Hey, you! Suck my cock while I try on these keys." Which... yeah, my penis is like Princess Delight over here, the girls dream of the magic moment it may bless them all day long. "Yeah baby, lick my sweaty balls". 'Cuz... well you know, it's good for her. Did you know this ? Sweat from my balls is like St John's Wort, it cures what ails a slut. Inside I mean. Not inside behind the pubis, inside behind the sternum, aaaite ?
Anyway, so as she's licking and slurping and... you know how they do, yeah ? When they're really outta control cockhungry sluts ? You musta seen in in some porno or something. So I'm not really into finding the right key so much anymore, and besides, all keys turn just as well. The lock's actually broken, somehow. I'm not saying whorseplay, because I wasn't there to see it, but I kinda have my suspicions.
But be that as it may : the battle's lost, this door will be for the super to finagle ; we've got a reservation at the Indian place (they're doing this traffic restriction thing here where one day odd plates, one day even plates, and today it's odd plates so I am most definitely driving the even plates because) and besides I also want to shower, but not before I've pounded this eager whore raw. More ferarum, jackhammer all the way, bang bang bang bangbangbang. So now she's sore.
The other one meanwhile... well, she's got drainage tubes coming out of her and everything, she's not exactly fuck-cleared just yet. Maybe next week. She still got to sniff my socks, and watch the naked bitch squeal like... actually, like a little bitch, yeah ? In the mirrors I mean, there's perfect angles for my divine ass ramming it in deep and hard, and everything else (obviously if I force her ass down and ram her from above her cunt's on fully splayed display). Plus I also sent her for paddles and whips and whatnot, to help drive the point home ("I think I'm going to burn a hole through the chair. My ass is on fire"). Yet, nevertheless, she's sorry.
Fucksorry.
Actually that's not at all how it came about ; on our way home from the restauranti, to greet the super guy who had squeezed himself in through the air grate above the door and opened it for me in the meanwhile, she misclicked the garage clicker, and then "Fuck! Sorry!"
It stuck, and retroversively fucked the other's byline too, and now here we are.
Aren't you s...
———Where I pretended like I was going to rub super-hot chilly sauce on her bare snatch (because yeah, slaves wear it silky-smooth and always within touch) and also made her show me her tits while the dozen or so people familying safely etc did their utmost to not notice. [↩]
« The Needed
Crybaby »
Category: Zsilnic
Wednesday, 26 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

2023-05-10 09:32:28

Nella citta l'inferno
Nella citta l'infernoi is heavy artillery. Even Sordi, this Brad Pitt of the 50s and 60s Cinecitta, carefully hemmed in, masterfully limited and buffered by the arch-competent Castellani, delivers what's likely the best cameo of his otherwise very unevenii career. Masina's usual alcachofa (as she's affectionately known in the harem) readily plays second fiddle to Magnani's outright volcanic cannonade. She's something the fuck else, that woman. Something entirely the fuck else.
Under her warm, coarseiii ventre the whole cast and the whole story grow like dough -- familiar, loving (after a fashion), happy (after the same fashion, which is to say atemporal, meaningless, silent). She raises them through a pasive, inexplicable sort of fermentation into something quite like themselves, as seen perhaps through the kaleidoscopic lens of dreams. I can scarcely imagine who'd want to leave there, and why would they (excepting, of course, the nubile Cristina -- she's being made a sucker of in the usual way). I certainly wouldn't mind spending some time in such company, for with like Infernos and hells such as these... I truly can't imagine who'd ever bother to seek out paradise.
Alas, 'tis not to be ; nor, as the authors carefully point out at the very onset, was it ever been. Nor could it, because should it...
Anyways.
———1959, by Renato Castellani, with Anna Magnani, Giulietta Masina, Cristina Gaioni, Alberto Sordi. [↩]Yes he gets lucky and shines in Il Vedovo, through (purely coincidental, I've no doubt) match between his limited acting abilities and the very peculiar requirements of the libretto ; but he's just as readily insufferable in say Il seduttore. [↩]The word needed here's the Romanian grunjos, but you don't have it. [↩]
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A big mistake »
Category: Trilematograf
Sunday, 21 March, Year 13 d.Tr.