A Whore Ain't Nothing But A Trick To A Pimp

Party Time’s plans and moxie in whoring Izzy Hoyland have gone down faster than shit through a greasy funnel. It is our Uncle who has put the kibosh on things - in that way - by the rundown he give us the other night:
-...So that is why you can’t turn her out boys. For one thing, that bitch could keep a jail without a key -
- I hove got thah skills, she wall be undoor my control leek these – retorted Party Time, loudly clicking his bony branch like fingers.


On the way home Party Time pulled his copy of Pimp from the glove box and started to read out loud from it. After a minute I stopped him.
- I’ll read it. I can’t make out a fuckin word from you. Take the wheel and watch the road:

“Believe me, Slim, a pimp is really a whore who’s reversed the game on whores. Slim, be as sweet as the scratch…No sweeter. And always stick a whore for a bundle before you sex her. A whore ain’t nothing but a trick to a pimp….But 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.”

Party Time interrupted, nodding and humming sagely in agreement.

It feels most of all that I am riding mute shotgun on Party Time’s little caper. My end is in getting him to rent my place to use as his base of operations . But that is not all. What I got fermenting slowly, in the recesses of both the mind and soul, is a scheme that’s effectiveness lies in its being allowed to grow of its own accord in the cerebral realms – like a good strong alcoholic spirit, its strength lies in its age, - or in this case its scope for furnishing contingencies and seeing the caper from every conceivable angle. To begin with: The concept is blackmail. The target:The johns. First of all, though, and most importantly, teddy bears will not go into the wood without promise of a picnic. At this picnic the only thing in the basket is Izzy Hoyland. So how to get that cat in there without being scratched? With that one thing she knows how to do good: turning a trick.

I told Party Time to drive as I had to think. I rolled a joint and smoked it with my eyes closed. Thinking took a mind cleared of muddle and a mind’s eye relieved of neuronal chatter – a psychotic fog lifted with the aide of my weed. We would go to a club. There we would find those teddy bears. I give Party Time the directions…