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Later on that night at China's shaggy apartment, she reluctantly ran me some bath water. I quickly observed that she was going to be a hard-headed bitch. Her eyes spoke from a point of fear, which was new to me; yet that fear became her fascination. I had evolved into something that even I was afraid of. Something unpredictable, something dangerous. Poverty had taken me to a dark place where hearts no longer were mere blood and flesh, but chambers of iron and oil.
Meanwhile, I sat in the rusty cast-iron tub and counted out three thousand dollars. I couldn’t believe it. I kept recounting it, but it kept coming to the same amount, three thousand dollars. Can you imagine how great this felt? Just a few days ago I never even held a hundred dollar bill, now I have thousands. This was more money that I ever thought I’d have in my entire life. Just like that. BAM was just a faceless victim that I carved out of a comic book; this villain would spring me into infamy. As I recounted the cash, I realized that BAM and I had a many things in common outside of Patrice. We both were willing to feed off of human flesh and no one cared when the buzzard became the bait. Another day, another dead nigger, just another favor for this white ruled society.
“I know it’s not hoe business because you handled it man to man but can we split the money and jewelry daddy? After all you wouldn’t have it, if it weren’t for me,” China asked in her most seductive voice.
I reinvented myself and the monster within emerged as I sharply told her, "I'll split your lip if you don't get the fuck out my face. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be back there getting funny built ass whipped." I picked up on when she said it’s not whore business, so that meant it was pimp business and I had be hard on this whore to show her that I was anything but soft. I huffed, “Bitch, do I look like a stuffed animal or something to play with? Don’t ever speak on pimp business! You a humper, worry about hoe business and no other business.” She stormed out and slammed the door behind her. I yelled, "Don't make me get out of this tub and bury my big foot in your tight little nasty ass."
Meanwhile, in the mangy bathroom roaches played tug of war over some dried rice on a dusty wooden crack in the floor. I’ll never forget when I was the one who played tug of war over scraps with scum and bums. Blood was on my hands, but after being homeless and defeated all of my life, there was no turning back. No one was giving me shit, so I was forced to take it. My willingness to spill blood had significantly raised the stakes. Although I wasn’t a lawyer or anywhere near genius, I was wise enough to know that I wasn’t eighteen and that I was too young to be sentenced to an adult prison. On the other hand, I had murdered someone, and if I got caught, maybe I would get locked up until I was 21 years old. Surely, serving time at a juvenile delinquent center would be better than being on the bottom of the food chain in the streets.
I laid my head back against the rim of the tub, looked up at the pealing ceiling, and constructed the dream that I would sell her, a dream I couldn’t afford her not to buy into, a dream I couldn’t afford not to convert into reality. The spoils of war were wealth, winning, and women. No longer would I play not to lose, but now I play only to win no matter how high the price even if that price cost a life.
I knew that I could shape cruelty into its own art form; my past had given me a broad range of brutal experiences to pull from. I would just treat bitches the way I wanted to treat my dope fiend-whore of a momma. Also there was Patrice, a girl who rejected my love and laughed at my pity. Ironically, it would be her ex’s blood spilled for my initiation in the P-game. Plus it was his pistol and cash that would keep me in it.
Due to my personal pain and suffering, ruling over women would be easy. It would be payback out this bitch. Cruelty was my life. It was a simple plan, but I knew that I had to perfect a combination of schemes to keep China around and hold her down. She could never know or even suspect that I needed her, although, to be honest, I cannot imagine going far without her. See, she was still a whore with or without me, but I was only a pimp if I had a whore so I would have to use my mind to play poker with her heart. She’s a pawn that will lead the way for me to be king.
The crisp memory of icy nights, filth, funk, depression, loneliness, and hunger pangs were all too fresh in my mind to just go out blow this money, to blow this opportunity. Pimps were flashy but I had to be smart enough to afford the flash. Fuck flashing today and starving tomorrow. China was my ticket because she witnessed my destructive capability and she would certainly get word on the street. My main fear was the law getting word of it, the very thing that could make me out here, could break me as well. It was a greasy tightrope that I had to walk. I had to think big and do big shit. Dreaming big wasn’t a problem; in fact, I’m an expert at dreaming because I’ve been doing it my entire miserable life. Unlike dreams, pimping was real and it had murderous consequences.
I came up on three grand in one night; imagine what I could come up on in a month? Wrapped in China’s old towel, I entered the bedroom slowly, unknotted the towel then lay across the bed naked; I was full of false confidence and unsettled fear. Three thousand dollars and a pistol had bought me a confidence that was second to no other factor in my life. Money has a strange way of doing that. Damn rag to riches, we’re talking about dangerous back alleys to deceitful bank toting bitches. I was interested in seeing just how far I could push my new policy.
China’s eyes hugged my every move. Murder had a way of moving a bitch. Never had a woman been consumed by my every action like China was. It was the ultimate rush watching an astoundingly beautiful woman sit an utter awe. She knew that each moment was volatile; care and conflict were mere milliseconds away from each other. It was a twisted game that I had to play with her. I had witnessed her take one hell of an ass whipping yet she turned around and was willing to kill for the very motherfucka that was assaulting her. Violence was an instrument in winning over her confidence. However, charades would play a large role for me once again, but I had to think my plans out carefully. China was the bridge over my troubled waters.
Nevertheless, to compensate for my gross inexperience, I bluffed this bitch big time. My mind worked overtime. Whatever I lacked, I would merely act as if I didn’t give a fuck rather than acknowledge my shortages. “Baby girl, I’m gone get you a nice pad, a big house on the hill, somewhere in Minnesota or North Dakota that’s far away from this poverty and pettiness. I’ll drape you in fashionable furs, diamond rings and fancy things. You will never know heartache again,” I lied.
At that moment, rodents rattled through the thin walls. I continued my line of bullshit, “And all you have to do is abide by my policy.” I rubbed the side of her face gingerly. “Your goal is to keep the back flat, that’s right, some major flat-backing all the way to the top baby girl. I’m gonna bring you the glory you never dreamed of. Don’t stop humping and pumping until we reach the top. Our prosperity gone smell like pure pussy!” I looked at this beautiful girl and remembered how quickly my mother’s beauty had eroded away; I moved closer to China and whispered, “You aint gone be young and beautiful forever, so from this point you have to hump and hoe harder than ever. Get top dollar while you can. Because old raggedy pussy, is worthless pussy.”
I’d witnessed my mother trick enough times to have a decent idea of pussy plumbing. Outside of playing with myself, I was sexually green. I had seen a lot of fucking but had participated in absolutely none. China was only seventeen years old, but her tight body told stories that exceeded her biological age. I kissed the bottom of her soft bare feet. They were sweaty and smelt slightly like corn chips. I really didn't know what the fuck I was doing, but hell bluffing got me this far. Plus the peculiar corn chip odor, oddly, kind of turned me on. She swarmed as I sucked the bottom of her big toe.
As my dick stood up to take a look around, I suddenly had this strange fascination for feet. Like the rest of her body, her feet were perfect to me in every way. Her digits were perfectly aligned from tallest to smallest. She had no veins, no blemishes, or bruises on her feet. They were small, soft, smooth, evenly polished and that perfect teaspoon of funk to top it off as I buried my nose under the bridge of her toes. I sat up and pulled her by the thighs toward me. I positioned one of her legs on my shoulder; this was a position my mother frequented. When I touched her, she jumped because my hands were somewhat cold. Being a quick study, I vigorously rubbed them together; they became fiery hot from friction. Immediately afterwards, I laid them against her young, soft flesh. She moaned passionately and pulled my body closer. Her body sizzled as I inserted myself. I thought, “Damn she’s tight for a whore, but then again with all this dick, what pussy isn't.
Suddenly, I found out why she was so tight. China placed her hand in the center of my chest and stressed, "Daddy, you might need some Vaseline to bust open my back door. I’ve never been fucked in the ass before.”
Embarrassed that I was trying to insert my big dick in her tiny asshole, I had to offset the moment. I roared, "Don't fucking call me daddy. It's C-Note bitch. BAM's dead. You dig."
She seductively replied, "I dig it C. I love that hard talk, that tough tongue. Get yo’ pussy C-Note. Come on fuck me baby. Fuck this young, wet, black pussy."
To be honest, I didn’t feel like fucking, I had money on my mind. I remembered Kilo talking about making a bitch pay, a pimp never lays with a bitch for free. I pulled her close and said, “Where’s your stash of cash? I aint no sucka, you know you got to pay your way. Don’t even play on me like that.” She reached in her bra and gave me one hundred and forty dollars. I took it and laid it on the dresser drawer. I gave her a slick, sharp but short fuck, not bad for my first official sexual engagement. However, she seemed so happy snuggled up in my arms. At that moment, I realized that pimping was an attitude and alternative to everyday functions, a profitable industry. I thought that hoes only provided holes, but come to find out these bitches provide houses and homes as well. Pussy was more than a product; it was an institution.
In weeks to come, inadvertently, I had stepped onto the platform of immediate hood recognition. I had quickly carved out one hell of a name for myself. Thanks to China, word got around about what I did to BAM, but he was so despised and feared that many were relieved, plus the great mistrust towards police by the street breed kept the law off of my trail. Several hustlers owed BAM cash and rival pimps were happy to hear of his demise. The fall of one force surely would open the door for the rise another. With debts now paid, many petty pimps and minor hustlers could now re-emerge.
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Furthermore, China said that BAM had taken out several opponents with his bare hands. In fact, she said that BAM’s rise to recognition actually came from being an underground street fighter and that’s how he started to get popular with the women as they watched him go bare-chested and beat the shit out of anyone that stood in front of him. She even went on to say that he supposedly killed several people, even a few cops. But perhaps she was lying to make him or me look more menacing than we actually were. Either way she looked good because the victor was in her camp. BAM was a heartless big bully; he used extreme violence to control his hoes and adversaries alike. People in the hood started calling me C-Note for acting on such crazy-notion to stand up against the Goliath, BAM.
Yet, deep inside, I knew what C-Note really meant: a hundred and something dollar-handout that I converted into a hand up by butchering my way into underground sexual commerce. I was a pimp that had risen from the ranks of homelessness and eating out of trashcans to eating from the palms of well-polished and well-kept hands.
BAM had stricken fear into the hearts of most pimps and players in Akron, Ohio with one of the very few exceptions such as pimp extraordinaire, Retalley8. Oddly, Retally8 and I became friends after he found out that I was solely responsible of the demise of BAM. Retally8 was a 6’ 4”, four hundred pound plus mammoth of man also; however, he had a much more diversified persona. Where other pimps, like me, used brutality and fear to control their whores, he used humor and polished psychology. One of his favorite sayings was ‘the only thing I like better than a happy hooker is a pleasantly, plump, properly paid pimp.’ He was level headed, but once angered this big teddy-bear became a volcanic episode of destruction to any opposing force. United we were stronger. His quick thinking coupled with my brute actions made us sharper. Together, we were the ultimate wrecking crew.
We initially met in this hole in the wall bar called the Silver Leaf one Friday Night. I was sipping on some soda on the rocks. He was whispering in his whores ears, using his hands to give them direction, so that they could make his paper. He noticed that I was one of the few people in the bar not drinking liquor. It fascinated me that he would pay attention to little shit like that. Retally8 didn’t drink either. He said that he got his buzz from making money. We sat and politicked about hood shit. Paying attention to his technique of observation, I watched other pimps trying to see how I could learn from them and up stage them at their own tactics. It wasn’t personal, it was just business. A pimp had to always be reinventing himself, constantly thinking, constantly learning, and constantly scheming. If your whore gets to a liking to another pimp, your pockets didn’t like it, period. Competition was fierce.
It was this very night that I discovered why people called me C-Note. Retally8 leaned over and whispered in my ear, “So C, what made you spill Spook? Did he try to muscle you?”
I stepped back and gulped my soda and replied, “Who is Spook?” I remembered when Kilo talked about him during my alley hiatus.
Retally8 gave me this strange look then started laughing robustly, “Nigga you killed Spook with your bare hands and you didn’t even know who he was? Nigga that was one crazy notion!” he patted me on my shoulder then continued, “You know that never-ending-black nigga was gone go pro in football till one of his bitches caught him with another bitch, slammed a screwdriver in his eye ball while he was sleep then set his house on fire. Most of his body was burned, that killed his football career but once he recovered, it sparked both his bare-knuckle battles and pimp career. Now, thanks to you, the nigga don’t have ‘no’ career.”
I just laughed it off until I was able to finally connect the dots: the rugged knuckles, the body burn, the eye patch, and the murder rumors. The notorious Spook that allegedly killed the two cops and had a little of everyone scared, was none other than—BAM. Damn, I guess I am crazier than I thought. And to think that I took a bottle, not a bullet to this big deadly motherfucka.
Later on that night, while sitting up in a card game at an after-hours joint, Retally8 and I overheard these knock off Macks rapping about The Transnational Playas Ball coming up in November in the Windy City of Chicago. I sat and listened carefully to the players as they exchanged ideas. It seemed surreal for me to be among a self-supportive people. No more begging for jobs or charity, I was self-made. I loved the good music, the good food, the smiling faces, and the sense of being important. All at once, a face stood out of the crowd; it wasn’t a particular cute face but something stood out about it. As I noticed her, she noticed me and started moving toward me through the thick crowd. Once she got a few yards away, I couldn’t believe it; it was her after all these years. I looked through her ass as if she was made of glass.
“It’s you,” she smiled at me nervously as she adjusted her shirt collar. “I hear you’re doing big things now. Damn, the street breed say you even shut my ex-BAM down. You’ve come a long way since back in the day at school.”
“Get to your point,” I scowled.
“I want to be down with you,” she gulped ever nervously as she fidgeted with her little empty ass purse. “I’ll hustle hard for you C. Let me make you some money baby.”
“You got some money right now?” I asked. She shook her head no.
At that moment, Retally8 walked over and sat by me, so now the show was really on. “Look at you,” I knocked the useless purse from her hand then I grabbed her vein banged arm. She had weeping needle marks, dry brittle hair, dirty nails, and no matter how hard she was willing to hoe, she couldn’t cut a profit to save her life. “Patrice, I’m all pimp. The nigga that you thought you knew from school died a long time ago.” I released her arm. “Niggas tend to do that nowadays. You had your time to shine, but now you’re a busted, rusted, disgusting, rotten pile of pathetic pity.”
Retally8 nodded as he listened to me ‘mack’ down.
“Come on C, I’ll hoe hard and I’ll clean myself up. I’ll suck skin off dicks, keep back burn for you. I’m choosing you today C,” she got on her knees and whined. “These tricks be raping me, taking my money. I need your muscle, hustle, and protection daddy. I’m sorry that I wasn’t smart enough to see your potential back then. I’ll be that number one bitch for you. Come on C, let be down with you C.”
“Bitch, you are down and you could never be down with me that rape-resistant pussy—a dry disease infected cum dump. You can’t give that pussy away and it sure aint worth taking. Take that maggot infested musty ass coffin that you call a pussy and get the fuck out of my face. Who sound like a box-frame now?” I took a sip of my drink. “I’m not bitter, look at me, why should I be? I’ll tell you what you can do for me,” I stood over her, finished my soda, sat the glass down then poked her in the forehead. “Choose a place to die. You aint drop dead gorgeous no more, so why don’t your drug thirsty ass just drop dead. Now, press on before I have to sic one of my bull bitches on you.”
Patrice had fire just like my mom. She flew off the handle. “You think you better than me C? Just because I do a little smack here and there, I’m a junkie. I’m worthless.” she jumped up in my face. “You aint better than me C. I still remember when...”
Before she could say something that I would regret about my soft love letter, I clasped her neck tightly until her eyes popped. I ordered, “China, handle this hoe business and take the trash out. It’s stages to this shit, and you’re still at stage zero bitch. ” China quickly took a fistful of Patrice’s brittle hair and dragged her out in the streets. Macks watched closely. Hoes watched even closer. Retally8 proposed a toast, “To pimping and prosperity for my nigga C and me.”
I sat down and ordered another soda. Deep down inside, I cried. I knew just how Patrice felt, unwanted, unworthy, and undesirable. But times had changed, the tables had turned in my favor. I was no longer the one begging for attention, bitches were begging to receive mine. The best I could do for Patrice was say a little prayer for her.
Retaly8 and I were on some other level shit, after all, who else could make drinking soda look so damn cool? Far as Patrice was concerned, I wasn’t some love-struck puppy anymore. Now I was part of an elite leisure minority club: pimps incorporated. Retally8 solidified this feeling of acceptance and as much as I hate to admit it, I admired him. Here was a fat nigga in America having his way with hoes in an era when it is king to be tall and skinny. He was getting the skinny treatment. Retally8 was a success story, an inspiration for all of the soft suckers that think they have to be pretty or buy a woman’s love. He was the truth. I even studied his techniques, although I would die before I ever acknowledged it out loud. He was the coolest motherfucka I had ever met. Retally8 wasn’t afraid to pull my coattail if I was slipping in my pimping. It seemed as if he wanted to see me do big things. He added the sophisticated element that I lacked.
However, other pimps weren't so considerate. They were bloodthirsty sharks and the inner city was shark water. If you slipped too tough another pimp would chip your bitch, and have her polluting his pockets with your money. If you got chipped for your hoes, it was equivalent to getting robbed because hookers are the bedrock of every pimp’s income. A pimp's financial solution is keeping women pitted in perpetual prostitution, and a pimp with no hoe is like a butt with no hole; cancel Christmas because shit aint happening.
Retally8 always said, "Pussy will sell when common sense won’t, niggas will spend money they don’t have on what they want before they will spend it on what they need, and niggas always want some pussy." He was right. Instead of digging in trash bags to survive, I’m digging in bitches’ asses to thrive.
