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Forty four pounds and two years later, I had three bedrock bitches: China, Bay, and Betty. These were my core whores and they had taught me a lot about the game, about tricks, and about betrayal. I learned that bitches were a lot slicker than many of us men gave them credit for. Often they bragged about how they gained tricks trust and picked their pockets. I remember one day I was giving my lecture on making sure that they offered to suck a trick’s dick as a first option, so they could not only make money faster but reduce taking trips to the abortion clinic. See, a trick’s key focus is busting a nutt and once he busts a nutt, he’s cool until his lust comes down again. This particular time, China, told me that she usually pulled down the trick’s pants so she could pick his pockets right as he got ready to cum. She laughed and said, “C, tricks get real dumb when they ready to cum.”
My whores wanted to show me how much smarter they were than the next whore. I remember Betty telling me about her virgin butthole hustle. This did two things, first it served as the perfect birth control method and secondly she was able to charge her tricks triple the price—all because she would swear to God that no one has ever hit that asshole before. She took something that everyone had and made it more profitable by acting if she had made an exception just for them. Betty laughed, “I must have told half of the men in Akron that they are the only one that have ever hit this asshole.”
See, this type of shit just confirmed what I already knew—don’t trust these bitches. Betty was a freak who got off getting fucked in the ass anyway. She nearly always had an orgasm when I gave it to her that way but to be honest, the shit turned my stomach doing twisted sexual acts like that. But I had to give each bitch a little what she wanted from time to time so that I could get what I wanted most of the time—the money.
As I got closer to my whores, they confided in me and shared their deepest fears and fascinations. They even told me about tricks proposing to marry to them. Imagine that? See, I learned each one of them by paying attention to their mannerisms. Bay was a loud, messy, mouthy bitch, but a solid whore who loved to slang that pussy. China and Betty were the two most likely to hold back a stash on me. China being my first whore got jealous at new arrivals and she held back funds as a means of a silent protest. China wasn’t nearly as bad as Betty was about that hold back shit. And I quickly, learned to use an effective nipple twisting technique when they got out of line. I’d grabbed the tip of their nipples and squeeze that bitch as a hard as I could. Trust me, sensitive ass nipples get a bitches attention real quick. I learned that when I screamed like a bitch years ago when my mom pinched my nipples. What I liked about this tactic is that it didn’t leave any bruises on the bitches but it let them know that I meant business. Since these were my core bitches it wasn’t a tactic that I had to use often.
Some other stray whores have come and gone within that time but Betty, Bay, and China were my ride or die stallions that made up my stable. At least I was falsely under that impression until Retally8 let me know that both Betty and Bay were slipping off the track to score some smack. Smack was big and it continued to swallow human potential whole. Come to find out my bitches weren’t merely holding back, they were shooting smack. A major blow to my wallet and my ego.
"C, your bitches have been banging up hundreds of yo’ dollars down with that chubby weak eyed nigga. You have to be there when them doper hoes turn a date because you'll be a hundred short if you're even two minutes late," Retally8 warned. He also hipped me to their supplier. It was this local dealer and wanna-be popcorn pimp named Heavy-B; he was trying to pull rank. His product was infringing on my policy. He could make money even if they were only junkies because they would purchase his product. Having food in my stomach, clothes on my back, and money in my pockets caused me to lose some of my edge. Contentment had dampened my fire.
However, I had to make my presence felt because part of being the no-nonsense pimp ass nigga that I am, meant that I had to let these bitches and bitch ass niggas know that C-Note would not take or submit to anybody’s shit. I had come too far to become a curb-kicking bum again. Heavy-B would have to see me because he was infecting my product and rendering them useless.
Smack was swallowing both pimps and hookers alike. People were hurting across the board and drug dealers like Heavy-B profited lovely. I needed all of my whores to be clean because I remember all too well how it destroyed my mother. How she had withered down into walking dead flesh. Unlike rival pimps, I resisted the use of dope for recreational use or an additional vice to control my bitches. Smack was a short run tool, in the short run, you controlled a bitch if you controlled the product. However, in the long run, smack reduced your whore into a worthless addict. Dope was counterproductive as far as I was concerned. For one reason, it cost money and increase overall risk on the streets because once bitches became addicts, they got reckless as they pursued their next high.
Secondly, it aged the hoes fast, and depreciated their street value once tricks learned that they were hard-up junkies. Shit, I didn’t even drink liquor. My only fix was money and food. I was a money junkie and now that I mentioned it; I was ready for another fix. I never forgot what it felt like to be broke, to be hungry. In fact, I hated to see people waste food. I remember, my hoes laughing at me because I would eat every single crumb on my plate despite the fact that I’d have thousands of dollars in my pocket. They thought that I was just being silly. But to be honest, I just always appreciated how good it felt to eat and have money in my pockets. This was a feeling that never got old.
Due to Retally8’s wisdom and honesty, we became inseparable and we respected each other, so before I made a move on this local drug dealer I asked, “What’s your take on it? Retally8 should I rain on this partial pimp's parade? After all, the nigga just making some money like the rest of us out here."
Retally8 stood up with his 6'4 frame. "Fuck that nigga and his hustle. Let's lay this ole counterfeit ass, mangled eyed Mack on his back. If he's stepping on your toes, he's stepping on mine and I got bunions out this bitch. We are family C." Retally8 looked into my eyes without flinching; I knew his eyes were not lying. I had become increasingly hot-headed now that I was a seventeen-year-old man-child. I still had to figure out what were some of these unwritten principles of The Do-Dirt Doctrine to help me stay ahead of the game. However, with the unrelenting support of Retally8, I felt like no one in the world could stop us, no one.
I made sure that my Saturday night special was loaded even though it wasn't Saturday night, tonight would be very special. Retally8 and I kept an eye out for the long arm of the law so that we could do our dirt. The police primarily patrolled the main streets but they seldom patrolled the back tracks. Besides, according to the powers that be, the hood was filled with worthless niggers and niggers need know how to lookout for themselves. Police were here to oppress us, not protect us. After all, America had done enough for us: kidnapped us, enslaved us, and impoverished us; surely we didn’t need America to do anymore than that. Nonetheless, we kept our eyes alert for the badge and pistol packing referees. Our biggest concern was Officer O’Connor and Officer Walker; the filthiest low-down corrupt cops on the Akron Police Force, maybe even America. These cops made pimps look like angels.
Meanwhile, we navigated over to Heavy-B’s location. We circled the block several times to make some dummy runs to be sure that cops were at a healthy distance. With the exception of a few junkies, a couple of whores, and some horny tricks, the streets were clear. My body temperature was rising faster by the second; I was itching to take vicious action. The cover of darkness made me grow even bolder. I casually opened up the door to the apartment building then walked up the hallway of steps. Retally8 tipped-toed a few steps behind me, at least as best as his big ass could, packing his sawed-off shotgun. We walked calmly. I made sure the hallway was clear before I firmly knocked on the door then stepped to the side of it and waited in case Heavy-B decided to use gunfire for an answer.
He yelled, "Who the fuck is it?"
I wanted to use the element of surprise to my advantage. I casually answered, "It's me C-Note. I need to holla at you for tick about some business."
"Nigga you don’t know me. You aint got a motherfuckin thang to holla me about nigga!" He barked. Certainly, he had heard of me if not via the streets, I’m sure my no good bitches had let their mouths run wild. At this point, I felt his heavy footsteps vibrating through the creaky wooden floor as he walked closer to the door. The creaking got increasingly louder as he moved closer to the door. Instinctively, I moved back then power-kicked the door in. Just as the door flew open, it hit him on the bridge of his nose. Blood gushed everywhere the impact from the door must have broke his wide nose. He flopped on the floor wildly like a whale out of water. He sat up holding his bloody broken nose with one hand and seemed to be searching for his gun with the other.
That’s when I ran up and stomped on his hand that was fumbling around his belt-line. Afterwards, I quickly took his gun and gave him a robust set of smacks across the face with my gun. As I observed his wandering weak right eye, my pistol exploded off his left temple. By this time, Retally8 was guarding the door as I continued to put a merciless ass whooping on him.
As I beat Heavy-B, a bullet grazed my shoulder. What the fuck? I couldn’t believe it. I reluctantly looked up and before I had time to react, Retally8 had blown a hole in Betty's belly. She slid down the wall and the gun spun out of her hand after she dropped it. She lay there on the floor intensely shaking in a pool of blood. Consequently, I forcefully kicked Heavy-B in the stomach a few more times; he folded up like a switchblade. I snapped, "You aint got to respect the game but you gone respect me. Half dead, part-time pimping, lazy eyed motherfucka!"
Heavy-B pleaded, "Don't kill me C-Note. I never meant any disrespect. I know they’re your whores but these ladies are my friends. Have mercy just this one time. I'll disappear you'll never see me again." I thought about his plea. He was merely hustling but if I let him live, certainly I’ll have to keep my head over my shoulder. “C-Note, just let me go man. I promise you won’t see me anymore.”
Just as I lowered my pistol, Heavy quickly reached under his recliner and pulled out another gun. I stomped on his hand repeatedly until he dropped it. “Oh, I want to see you again,” I looked down at him with my nostrils fully flared across my face. “In a casket. Hocus pocus motherfucka!” I shot him in the throat twice and heartlessly stood over him waited for him to strangle on his own blood. "Now you don’t have to worry about your friends and my whores again. If you gone do-dirt, do it right."
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Heavy-B struggled to breathe for a moment or so then he reluctantly welcomed the grim reaper. As for Betty, she gurgled on her blood as she held in her innards. Even though she had taken a shot at me, it was hard for me to look at a woman from my stable slipping in to the hands of mortality. Saddened that my charm that had once fooled her had finally faded, I bent over to asked, "What the fuck did you shoot at me for?"
She made a feeble attempt to grab my hand. "He was my friend baby. He helped me when my sickness came down. I’m a junkie C. I love you but ..." Her voice faded and her body froze forever, just like momma, just like Blue. Death was something I guess I would simply have to get used to. I was exceptionally saddened by this lost, but I couldn't explain why.
"C-Note let's raise-up. We gots to grip bricks fast," urged Retaly8.
I stood up slowly and asked robotically, "Did you search this dope den?"
Retally8 replied, "Did slaves pick cotton? I got the smack and the stacks."
It was amazing to see how agile Retally8 was on his feet; he moved better than some guys that weighed a hundred and fifty pounds less. We ran down the steep steps then hopped into my Mercedes. I smoked the tires off and spun around the corner hastily. Full of adrenaline, I looked in the rearview mirror, but nothing but total darkness followed me.
In the interim, a few blocks away sat Walker and O’Connor in their cruiser. Walker was getting a blowjob from an old overweight hooker, who didn’t have a single tooth in her head. He opened his eyes and sat up. “Did you hear that man? It sounded like gun shots nearby.”
“Since when did you care about scum in this neighborhood?” asked O’Connor.
“Yeah, you right—aint no need to fuck up a perfectly good “gummy” over some stupid ass dummy,” he laid his head back, closed his eyes again, and palmed the whore’s fat head. “Mmmmm. Don’t forget to hum one of them old time spirituals when you gum my balls baby.”
She pulled back her thick graying hair and asked, “Why do I always have to suck on your salty ass balls?”
“Because you can continue sucking them or suck on my shitty dick after I man-handle your old loose rectum. Now shut the fuck up before you end up gumming a shit-stick,” scowled Officer Walker.
In the meantime, Retally8 noticed my unusual quietness. "What's poppin’ C? You haven't said shit since we split that niggas wig."
He knew what was really bothering me, but he wanted me to address it, to face it. "I'm just tripping off of my bedrock bitch man. She tried to kill a nigga and she's been with me for almost two years. What's with that my nigga?"
He looked at me as seriously as ever and replied, "C the first and most important rule of the pimp game is to never love or trust a bitch, never! You can't even show these bitches the slightest sign of weakness because they will devour your glass heart and spit the shattered pieces out."
I tried to bluff my way out, but he was too seasoned not to know the truth. I said, "I don't give a bum fuck about none of these bum ass bitches. You know I take and choose em’ like the best of them."
He placed his heavy hand on my shoulder. He advised, "Never lie to yourself; this is another guideline too. You can bluff these double-crossing bitches. You can bluff the world, but you can't lie to yourself; a wise man never will. Don’t let your biggest enemy be the reflection in the mirror.” He took his index finger and tapped his forehead, “Know when to say no and know when to let go. There’s a time when you must cut a hoe loose because not every hoe is worth the agony she can subject a nigga to.” By this time, he was looking around to see if any cops were present. He continued, “Niggas claim that these bitches aint real, but the truth is these niggas aint being real. Look at how many niggas want to marry strippers. Niggas go to the bar to meet bitches and trip on the bitch when she acts like a slutty, drunk ass, bar bitch. How can you blame the whore when you know she’s a liability? That’s like going to a lion’s den and being surprised when he chews a chunk out of your ass—it’s a fucking lion man.” He pulled out several ounces of smack and sat it on the front seat.
"The only thing I'll miss about that bitch is the money that hoe used to bring," I retorted. "I won't ever let a hoe know that she means shit to me. I make it quite clear that I don’t chase, I replace. It's my sworn duty to replace a disrespectful renegade ass hoe and the only thing I'm chasing is my money. You dig."
Retally8 laughed out loud and replied, "Shit speaking of dough, look at what we have here." He counted out about thirty thousand and there was a large amount of dope too but hell we were pimps, I didn't have a fucking clue on what the wholesale price of smack was worth in street. Since Heavy-B had thirty grand in cash, we knew the dope was worth some serious dough. "Why would a nigga live like a rat when he’s sitting on a stash like this?" I asked.
"I don't know and I don’t give a flying fuck. He toe stepped and we hoe checked,” Retally8 smiled, "Now, let's enjoy the fruits of our hard labor. We only have one life to live and one life to give, so let’s give it while we live it. I'm gonna get some straight all out pimp shit painted on my Chevy Suburban C."
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I glanced over to see all of his teeth. I looked over and seen huge sums of dope. Damn this was some serious bread. "Hey, my nigga, I can't even fuck with selling that shit. That shit made a monster out of my mom man. It wiped my momma out the game and had me on the streets living out of trash cans for over two years," I uttered. I could still envision that nasty needle eating at momma’s arm.
"My nigga, don't worry. You take the majority of the stack and I have some of my young guns to move this smack. This shit worth mad paper. You dig."
I sat there and grinned. This is my nigga to the end. I boasted, "We gone go to The Transnational Playas Ball in style nigga; compliments of me following a few rules of The Do-Dirt Doctrine—whenever possible, profit from your enemy. We got more than revenge, we got paid.” I counted the countless twenties then rolled them up and put them in my pocket. I continued boasting, “All the hoes will love us, when we step in the place, Pimp ass Retally8 and C-Note, his number one ace. Other pimps and players will soon be disgraced but if any resist, they'll simply be erased. Pimp day in and day out, right down to bone, if you want to keep your hooker then keep your hooker home.”
He chuckled, “Watch out windy city just wait to you get wind of me. Fee-fye foe fum, watch out Chi-town, here I come."
I laughed hard but it didn't remove the discouragement within the pleat of my mind. “Pull over partner,” I instructed. He gave me a strange look but did as I asked. I got out of my Mercedes and there stood my old house, the nightmare I once called home. It didn’t look as big and scary as it did when I grew up. It was lifeless and falling apart just like mom had fallen apart. Damn this house held some wicked memories.
On the steps, I noticed this weathered old woman. Misery knew her well. She was painfully frail. She also had on several layers of filthy tattered and torn clothes. Even with foul fumes of burning rubber milling around, she smelled extremely awful but something about her touched me. Maybe it was her homelessness. She reminded me of Blue’s mom. I remember how much Blue loved his ragged mother. I also remembered how broken down Grandma Betty looked before she passed away. Lord, do I miss my Grandma Betty.
My lips began to tremble and before I knew it tears were sliding slowly down my face. This old woman looked very intimate with death. Her breath was riddled with a souring stomach rot, but if I could help it, I wanted her to know that someone understands. I understood the plight and poverty of being homeless, being different. Grandma Betty was the only other person to tap into that soft side of me that I had to deliberately hide each and every day of my new existence as a machine, a no nonsense pimp, and murdering menace. My heart was touched with compassion as I pressed a fistful of bills against her dirty scabby palms. “This is for you ma’am, get something warm to eat. Compliments of Grandma Betty,” I uttered softly as wiped my tears on my sleeve.
She looked up at me and smiled weakly. Although the two teeth she had were both brown and rotten, it was the prettiest ugly smile that I’ve ever seen. I never forgot how it felt to be helpless, to be an invisible victim of society. Now I was walking on a greasy tightrope and discovering the emotional tides of being heartless, of being among the strong instead of being among the weak, being mean instead of being merciful. Strength is often born in the midst of struggle.
