by Tiana Laveen
“Well son, addiction is a difficult thing. I have faith that many people who suffer from this illness really don’t feel they have a choice sometimes. I don’t think they necessarily want to leave their loved ones, and cause situations such as this,” he said reassuringly.
“Really?” Brent smirked, then ran his hands over his shoulder length hair that was brushed back into a ponytail, tied away from his face, minus a few renegade loose strands in the front. “Hmmm, that’s interesting.” He nodded, leaning back in the stiff lobby chair. “I’m not buying that shit, either. Fact of the matter is, once again, nobody wants me. I wasn’t good enough to stick around for…” He angrily rose from his seat, forcing the damn thing to slam to the floor, and walked away…
A couple of weeks later, after his father’s funeral, Brent found himself dealing with the aftermath of his father’s death. This was the pivotal moment, when the pimp within him drew its first hearty breath…
Brent sat on the gray couch. The same gray couch he’d first sat on once he arrived in Los Angeles. The same gray couch where his father had told him about himself, and left no stone unturned. Good, bad or indifferent, he’d been real, honest. He admired that about his father, and when they said, ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ he kept that memory of him close to his heart. He could just hear the man say, ‘I’m sorry if you don’t like me. Actually, I’m not sorry… This is what you get, take it or leave it.’
He hung his head, drowning in memories. Not only was Dad dead, the space they shared seemed dead now, too. They had been more like friends, than father and son. He’d give him advice, then walk away. He didn’t meddle in his business, but told him he wanted him to be something, be somebody that people looked up to. The thought that he’d be homeless in the coming weeks never occurred to him. But that day came too soon. His job at a local pizza parlor could not even pay for the light bill in his father’s pad, let alone the rent. Dad had left him some money, enough to buy some time and sort this shit out, but there was no way he could afford the place. He thought about that cash long and hard and his mind wrestled and struggled with it, trying to figure a way to triple it, make it grow for him, work for him, and last…
He looked around, already missing the place. So many memories…good times… This time around, his mother didn’t encourage him to come back home as he thought she would, re-solidifying his theory that he was an unwanted son of a bitch. He’d been certain that, as soon as he told her the terrible news, she’d arrange for him to go back to Monroe. In truth, she did hint at it, but he sensed her hesitation before she backed away. Apparently she’d forgotten to tell him about Cecil, her new man—an unemployed, racist bastard who was living off her and made it one hundred percent clear he didn’t want her ‘grown son’ staying there with all of his liberal, California ‘druggie’ ways. She finally admitted it when he pushed for an answer.
He hated her more for lying, and pretending to care, than for telling the truth. He didn’t want to go back to Ohio anyway. There was nothing in Monroe but the same old flea markets inundated with shit people didn’t want or need, run down houses not fit for occupancy, and family run restaurants that served the same old greasy meals, night after night. It was known for the ‘Big Jesus’ church, the same one destroyed by lightning and fire. How befitting that Jesus no longer wanted to live there, either…
What a depressing blip on the map; he wished he could erase all memories of the dismal place. He had to admit to himself, he felt defeated. He’d fallen onto the lap of depression, but instead of crying and falling apart, he became hardened, a ball of toughness that no one could penetrate. The day his father died, he was never quite the same…
He got rid of Cheryl three days after Dad’s funeral, and went and fucked a girl he’d gone to high school with as if he’d been set free from life as a monk. He hated to see Cheryl cry, but shit, he had to be honest…
He didn’t want that life anymore. He wanted something else, something like what his old man had. He wanted the good shit, not the good girls, not to make love. She kept asking him if they were going to get married and he was tired of her pressing him for a promise ring. The shit was so fucking corny… A promise ring?
‘I promise what? That I’ll ask to marry you? How stupid…how unnecessary. You haven’t even given me any pussy. I’m not promising SHIT!’
It was time to make some cash, and make it fast if he wanted to maintain his current lifestyle. Lucky for him, his high-school pal, Carl, was a novice computer hacker, and helped him figure out the password to his father’s laptop. When his friend left him to browse the files, he realized he’d hit the mother lode. Dad was a TRUE pimp, in every sense of the damn word, and he ran an ‘escort’ business with an iron, cocaine-covered fist.
Forty women worked in his stable. He set them up in posh hotels, with high paying clientele. Brent saw their picture, their hourly rate and their specialties. When his father would leave the house, it was simply to babysit, to ensure no trick tried to muscle his whore and get his fucking money. The few times he had to get in and fight, he did so…and it definitely explained his occasional black eyes and busted lips.
Dad had some of the finest women he’d ever seen. They weren’t run down and broken to fucking hell, like many on Sunset Boulevard and Hollywood. These bitches came out of good homes; some even had an education. He vowed he’d get the same caliber of women, maybe even better. Ones that didn’t have gun wounds, battle scars, and a raging drug habit. These were prime pickings—blondes and brunettes, some gorgeous Asians and beautiful Black ones, too. One of his favorites from his father’s stable was named Safire, a stunning Black woman with smooth, dark chocolate skin who he’d had the pleasure of screwing right before Cheryl had come on the scene.
Most of these women were beyond committed to the man he called Father. So much so, they wailed and moaned at his funeral, and promised to help Brent Jr. in any way they could. Apparently, they didn’t make pimps like Dad anymore. Many of them knew they’d never be treated as well by another, nor given the same protection, as well as keep such a large percentage of their own money after he did his weekly accounting work.
Dad broke the laws of traditional pimping, without acting like a damn simp, guerilla pimp or beta. Brent read all the man’s notes, and found out so much about his father and the way he ran his business, the shit should’ve been copyrighted and placed in a book for New Jacks. His bottom bitch, Dominique, ran the fucking show like a mother hen; she was also the one who’d found his father slumped over with no heartbeat. Her long, sable brown hair and slanted black eyes made her look exotic and highly sought after. Half Italian and half Dominican, she had professional athletes trying to chase her down…but she was damaged, didn’t want to be a kept woman. She preferred to come and go as she pleased and she often said, ‘I could never only fuck one man for the rest of my life.’ Brent kept her image in his mind, determined to find one a dedicated bottom bitch just like her. After all, she was his father’s favorite…
Dominique had come to him at the hospital, after Brent Sr. was declared dead, placed her hand on his shoulder and said tearfully, “If you follow in your father’s footsteps, and I can see it’s in you to do so, you’re gonna be Mack of the Year. You’re good lookin’, but you have to earn your stripes, learn the ropes, and if I’m still in the life, come check for me.” Then she kissed his tear streak face and walked out of the room. He never saw her again, but he thought about her often. Her words stayed with him, as if they’d been the best compliment a woman could give the son of a pussy peddler. And indeed, they were…
In that moment, Brent saw the sky as the limit. The potential seemed immeasurable. He hated his father for not pulling his coat, teaching him the way this shit worked, but that was okay; he’d have to find a way to teach his damn self. And he would, for he was a natural. This shit lived in his damn bloodline. That was the day on which his pimp DNA burst free, infused into his system, contaminating him from his head to his damn feet. It cut o
ff his heart valves, zoomed straight to his head and turned an innocent, heartbroken boy into a soulless monster. He was changed forever more…
*
Chapter Twelve
CARLA SAT ACROSS from Royal as she rolled her joint nice and tight. It had been a while since he’d allowed her into his bedroom, equipped with black light Jimi Hendrix framed posters, a round bed covered in cheap, dark pink satin sheets, and a closet full of clothing from some going out of business sale. She hated everything about the mothafucka, from his pockmarked peanut butter skin, his blue-black permed hair that stayed kinky at the nape due to the wide collars he wore, and his breath that reminded her of burnt tires and cigarette ashes. Nevertheless, he was the lesser of many evils, so here she was, taking what she could. Also in his favor, the man was damn good at what he did. He could talk a tambourine-shaking churchgoer into fucking for free on the strip. He just had a smooth way about him, and it made him attractive to the right target.
“So.” He slid his short tongue across the paper, sealing his own joint just so. “You say the shit is at Paris’ house?”
“Yeah, that’s what Juniper said, at least some of it, anyway. She and Smoke are making money hand over fist. They’ve joined forces like some damn superheroes,” she said with a sardonic laugh.
He shook his head as if disgusted, then grabbed his infamous gold lighter with his name engraved across it, and lit his shit up.
“Smoke done turned into a mothafuckin’ simp.” He chortled. “He pussy whipped. I ain’t never heard of that man falling over some bitch. Nose wide tha fuck open now… I heard all the shit about Paris’ ass. Heard she gave primo head back in tha day, and had some good ass pussy, tight and foreva wet… must do kegels or some shit as much dick that’s run through it and her shit still clap back, snug as a fuckin’ clam!” He laughed. “Lotta pimps wanted to get her when she was real young. She was a damn dime, still is, but she wouldn’t choose.” He sniffed, then cleared his throat loudly. “She’s manipulative too, a liar. That bitch out here fuckin’ up the game. Shouldn’t no bitch be in her position. Women wasn’t made to be no goddamn pimps. And she payin’ them whores too much fuckin’ money. That’s the problem, that’s not how you run shop.”
Bored out of her mind, Carla took another look around. Yeah, and we can see your way is working much better…
But she kept her damn thoughts to herself.
“Smoke’s ass got no fuckin’ respect when he first entered the game. His father was the real deal!” He pointed defiantly at her as he made his point. “That fuckin’ tall ass, long black haired, rocker dude lookin’ mothafucka knew how to break a ho the fuck down. Then, he took his bitches off the street and opened up that escort service. Back then, that was almost unheard of. He was a mothafuckin’ pioneer. Smoke though,” he said, shaking his head, “turned that shit around and word got out that he was breakin’ mothafucka’s backs. That bastard was out here puttin’ fuckers in the hospital…these dumb ass tricks.” Suddenly, the man’s eyes turned to dark slits, got real small, as if he recalled something upsetting, something that made his stomach turn.
“Smoke got some respect then because really, it helped all of us, helped weed out the riffraff and then we didn’t need to go after they ass. He got this strange anger towards johns.” His eyes narrowed as he took a puff of his joint. “It was like he was lookin’ for a reason to fuck ’em up, then he calmed down a bit, but he built that damn stable, catching some of the finest white and Asian bitches I ever fuckin’ seen. He was turnin’ out Wall street hos from New York, ’nd shit. I can’t knock his hustle back in the day.” He showed his customary lopsided smile.
“But Smoke never understood the importance of breaking a bitch in the proper way, procedure. Every ho will try you.” He narrowed his eyes on Carla, making his words stick. “Every goddamn one. He is gonna be sorry for trustin’ a damn ho. That’s all Paris is, a pretty ho with some sense in her head and a sassy, smart ass mouth that needs to be knocked the fuck off her face. She good lookin’, look better than a lot of these bitches out here, and these mark ass mothafuckas fall for that shit. If she wasn’t so fuckin’ short, what is she? Like 5’6, 5’7 tops?”
Carla shrugged. “Probably 5’7…”
“She could probably be in a fuckin’ rap video or something. That’s what she needs to be doing instead of pussy peddlin’, fuckin’ up the goddamn game! I can’t imagine them fuckin’. He’s like a whole foot taller than her little ass! He’s a tall ass white clash of the mothafuckin’ titans son of a bitch! Smashin’ that little brown Bambi… I bet he get off on that shit! Her shit probably echoes after he get done fuckin’ ’er. I bet that’s some shit!” He cackled, finding his words more than amusing.
Carla rolled her eyes as she continued to listen to the man drone on and on about the bitch and her alleged sex-life with the Great, White Hope. At this point, she was certain Royal must’ve had a thing for the Queen Bee at one point in time, the way he almost obsessed over it. But she ignored him, like she did most of these fuckers running around here.
“She talk too fuckin’ much, disrespectful little bitch! I’ve heard about some of the shit she’s done and said; she been out of pocket one too many times. So anyway.” he leaned back on the bed, got comfortable. “Yeah, I think I can do something with this. I know enough about Paris to make this shit work.”
“You aren’t going to talk to Smoke?”
“Bitch, is you stupid?! No! Paris is still a ho; whether she wanna believe that shit or not is irrelevant. She got a ho mentality. Once you get turned out, you will always be a ho. She love that man, right? That’s all I need. She gonna wanna help her Daddy.”
Carla nodded in agreement. It didn’t matter—as long as Paris was hurting at the end, and her pockets were lined, that was all that concerned her.
“Now I know you are tellin’ me this because you want a piece of the action. I could just have her get robbed, but nuh uh, we gotta do better.” He tapped his temple. Swirls of smoke from his joint eddied into the air. “Think smarter than that. I’ll take care of it, don’t you worry, and you’ll get some, I’ll make sure of it.” He leaned forward and placed his joint in the little tin ashtray, then returned to his lying position. Reaching for his belt, he tugged aggressively at it as he sneered and grabbed his long, floppy cock.
“Now get over here and suck dis dick…”
*
PARIS ARRIVED BACK home at four in the morning. The girls were asleep in their beds, and it had been an exhausting weekend. She had some accounting to take care of as it was payday… That meant one thing and one thing only. She’d be up way into the morning, finishing up the paperwork. That was the nature of the beast.
Damn, I’m so happy to be home.
She stepped out of her car, her keys jangling in her hand, and made her way up the cobblestone pathway. The motion detector bathed her in warm light as she approached the front porch.
My feet hurt. Can’t wait to get these shoes off…
As she drew closer to her front door, she was suddenly blinded by the high beams of a dark car that seemed to appear out of nowhere. She quickly turned and placed her hand over her eyes to serve as a visor.
Who the hell is that?
Smoke was out of town on business; there was no way it could be her baby and she seldom had houseguests. Her instinct kicked in, and a feeling of dread and foreboding swam within her. Someone quickly got out of the car, but left the damn thing running. Whomever it was, was moving faster than her eyes could see. Her heart beat out of her chest as she swiftly dug in her purse, desperate to retrieve her gun. She gripped the damn thing, but it was too late… The silhouette of a broad shouldered man loomed over her before she could even wrap her finger on the trigger. He rammed cold steel into her forehead, the muzzle pressed painfully against her skull.
“Get your fuckin’ hand out that damn bag, bitch. Open this goddamn door and let’s go inside. We got some business to discuss.”
She took a deep brea
th, desperately trying to keep as calm as possible, though trickles of sweat meandered down the side of her face.
Of all the fucking nights for me to not be driven home!
Once she opened her door, her alarm sounded, blaring for anyone within a quarter of a mile radius to hear.
“Turn that shit off,” he huffed, his barreled chest pressed firmly into her back. He pushed the gun now into the back of her head. “And don’t try anything stupid, like the panic button. I will blow your head off.” She made her way to the alarm panel and did as told; her fingers slightly trembled as she pressed in the code. Suddenly, a ceiling light showcased the two of them. He’d flicked the damned thing on, revealing himself. Royal.
Her brows dipped in confusion. She’d never had any beefs with the man, and for the life of her, couldn’t figure out why he was doing this.
“Sit down!” he ordered, waving his gun towards her dining room table.
She did as instructed, slumped down in one of the eight chairs, determined to keep all emotions from showing. That’s what he wanted no doubt, for her to beg, cry and fall apart. That’s how pimps like him were—they got off on the pain, the tears, the sorrowful cries. Oh no, he wouldn’t get it. Not today, not ever.
“Now, I understand you got some good cash rollin’ in,” he said, revealing the ugly reason for his visit. “And I understand you’re gettin’ this on the regular. I want a piece of that. I want thirty percent of everything you make, you got me?”
“That’s impossible,” she said coolly.
“Oh.” He chuckled. “You must think this some damn joke, bitch. I know what you got goin’ on, and I want in on the action. You and Smoke’s ass just building a damn empire, huh? Making all this money, hoarding it, not sharin’ the wealth. Now here’s the thing, Paris.” He abruptly grabbed the chair beside her, startling her. Turning it around, he straddled the thing and rested his arm on the back of it, lazily waving the gun around as he spoke. “I know Smoke is probably the brains behind all of this, and like a true simp, to make your ass feel comfortable no doubt, he let you keep the money in your own damn house, as an act of good faith. Well, here I am…at your door, selling ho-scout cookies, wanting a slice of that pussy poppin’ pie.”
