competing with the memory of her head banging against the roof of the Mercedes as he’d given her a little something to remember him by last night before putting her out on the stroll. He wasn’t concerned about his semen showing up inside her during the autopsy. He always used a condom. Besides, he never denied that she was his ho. It would be no surprise that he would have fucked her, but fucking a girl was a far cry from doing to her what he had seen in those pictures.
G-town felt himself slipping into a depression as he recalled the image of his beautiful Cocoa, with her platinum blonde hair and smooth milk chocolate skin, ripped open and looted of her most valuable parts. Her lovely breasts with the big perky nipples like Hershey Kisses were still fresh in his mind, how they’d tasted the night before and how they’d appeared in that photo with one of the nipples bitten off. He reached under the seat and grabbed the bottle of French La Bleue, an imported French Absinthe, that he’d acquired a habit for at the last Player’s Ball in New Orleans. Almost choking, he took a long swig from the bottle and grimaced as the fiery green liquid burned its way down his throat. Then he lit up his “special” joint, a marijuana cigarette mixed with opium leaves. The same pimp who turned him onto La Bleue had turned him out on opium and weed. It was a high that made you never want to land.
It was at the fifteenth annual Player’s Ball in New Orleans. An old pimp who called himself Hundred Dollar Bill and still maintained a stable of nearly thirty women introduced the exotic inhalant to him as they watched the whores compete in a striptease to see who was the best “Bottom Bitch” in the West. While naked prostitutes undulated on the floor and dry humped each other, Hundred Dollar Bill pulled out a fat sack of weed and another of dried opium leaves and began mixing the two together on a CD cover of James Brown’s greatest hits. He cut open a White Owl cigar with a switchblade, dumped the tobacco out into an ashtray, then rolled the opium and marijuana up in the cigar paper while extolling the virtues of the pungent cigar to G-Town.
“Forget all that cocaine and heroine and ecstasy and junk. That stuff don’t do nothing but make you stupid. I mean, that’s all cool to impress the ladies, but this here is the bomb. This is the real pimp shit. Brother, this will put the ice in your game. How do you think I’m able to hold down a stable when I’m damned near sixty years old? Because I’m a visionary. It was my idea to start sellin’ pussy over the internet. This here is where I get my visions. The Native Americans have peyote, Timothy Leary introduced acid to the white boys, to the pimp, the spirits of our ancestors speak to us through the chronic. Now lace it with a little of this opium and the effects are ten-fold. Man, a couple hits of this and you can see eternity and it is sweet, my brother. It is so sweet.” He took a long draw on the over-stuffed joint and passed it to G-town.
“Like peyote for pimps, huh?” G asked, as he turned it over in his hands.
“Something like that, yeah. It helps a brotha see the truth beneath reality. See, cause that’s where a pimp lives—beneath reality, in its disease infected bowels. This here helps you negotiate through the sewers.”
With only a modest stable of six girls, G-town deferred to the wisdom of his more successful elder and began indulging regularly of the hallucinogenic weed. He was hooked after the first night spent watching the room spin and whores twist and contort like images in a funhouse mirror. They wound up spending the night together. Retiring to a four-star hotel suite with the best hoes from their collective stables. For a man in his late fifties, the old pimp fucked like a teenager. He of course attributed his stamina to the weed. He said it made every experience more intense. Tonight however, all it seemed to do was make the horrible images of
G-town felt himself slipping into a depression as he recalled the image of his beautiful Cocoa, with her platinum blonde hair and smooth milk chocolate skin, ripped open and looted of her most valuable parts. Her lovely breasts with the big perky nipples like Hershey Kisses were still fresh in his mind, how they’d tasted the night before and how they’d appeared in that photo with one of the nipples bitten off. He reached under the seat and grabbed the bottle of French La Bleue, an imported French Absinthe, that he’d acquired a habit for at the last Player’s Ball in New Orleans. Almost choking, he took a long swig from the bottle and grimaced as the fiery green liquid burned its way down his throat. Then he lit up his “special” joint, a marijuana cigarette mixed with opium leaves. The same pimp who turned him onto La Bleue had turned him out on opium and weed. It was a high that made you never want to land.
It was at the fifteenth annual Player’s Ball in New Orleans. An old pimp who called himself Hundred Dollar Bill and still maintained a stable of nearly thirty women introduced the exotic inhalant to him as they watched the whores compete in a striptease to see who was the best “Bottom Bitch” in the West. While naked prostitutes undulated on the floor and dry humped each other, Hundred Dollar Bill pulled out a fat sack of weed and another of dried opium leaves and began mixing the two together on a CD cover of James Brown’s greatest hits. He cut open a White Owl cigar with a switchblade, dumped the tobacco out into an ashtray, then rolled the opium and marijuana up in the cigar paper while extolling the virtues of the pungent cigar to G-Town.
“Forget all that cocaine and heroine and ecstasy and junk. That stuff don’t do nothing but make you stupid. I mean, that’s all cool to impress the ladies, but this here is the bomb. This is the real pimp shit. Brother, this will put the ice in your game. How do you think I’m able to hold down a stable when I’m damned near sixty years old? Because I’m a visionary. It was my idea to start sellin’ pussy over the internet. This here is where I get my visions. The Native Americans have peyote, Timothy Leary introduced acid to the white boys, to the pimp, the spirits of our ancestors speak to us through the chronic. Now lace it with a little of this opium and the effects are ten-fold. Man, a couple hits of this and you can see eternity and it is sweet, my brother. It is so sweet.” He took a long draw on the over-stuffed joint and passed it to G-town.
“Like peyote for pimps, huh?” G asked, as he turned it over in his hands.
“Something like that, yeah. It helps a brotha see the truth beneath reality. See, cause that’s where a pimp lives—beneath reality, in its disease infected bowels. This here helps you negotiate through the sewers.”
With only a modest stable of six girls, G-town deferred to the wisdom of his more successful elder and began indulging regularly of the hallucinogenic weed. He was hooked after the first night spent watching the room spin and whores twist and contort like images in a funhouse mirror. They wound up spending the night together. Retiring to a four-star hotel suite with the best hoes from their collective stables. For a man in his late fifties, the old pimp fucked like a teenager. He of course attributed his stamina to the weed. He said it made every experience more intense. Tonight however, all it seemed to do was make the horrible images of
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