PIMPOLOGY: EPISODE 6
by Renaldo Snuggnutte

I was puffing this great Hindu Cush in my red heart-shaped hot tub when I decided that Gordon Liddy is a strange man. There is the bald head of course, and the grating personality. But mainly, it's the policeman/disco-homosexual mustache.

Explaining this to the barely legal Laotian call girl mixing Belvedere gimlets at my bar proved fruitless. She was just happy I had coked her up. (Of course, I never hit the hard stuff myself. The last time I delved into that, I found myself arguing with a velvet tapestry of Mary Poppins at the local Chuck E Cheese's, and then later I fell asleep with a cock ring on my friendlies, which I blame for the flaccidity that occasionally plagues me now.)

My Laotian toy, clad in nothing but a leopard-pattern thong and Las Vegas showgirl style nipple-stickers mixed the gimlets heavy on lime juice and filberts, contrary to my explicit instructions. If this chick thought she was getting a dime more than the afore-bargained thirty dollars, she was crazier than Pol Pot.

Pol Pot. Sure, he murdered a million people, but the trains ran on time. Wait…okay, there aren't really any trains except for one main line, and that doesn't exactly run on time, but…well…at least he never advocated burning the cannabis fields. I mean, look, sometimes I gotta throw the smackdown on one of my hoes to maintain order. If we can all just think of farmers and peasants as crack-whores, I think we can begin justifying Pol Pot's methods, dig?

But this is all getting too theoretical.

I called T-Bone Sugarbaker (a.k.a. Johnny Walker Red, a.k.a. Sly T, a.k.a. Phat Slabs, a.k.a. Smoove Doobage) one of my closest peeps and a true South Side player, regarding a shipment of Ocala Gold he promised me would be coming up from Florida. T-Bone is one of the original cats to question the validity of our having landed on the moon. He believes it was all done in a sound studio outside of Toronto, space program funds having been diverted to "black ops." Now I don't claim to know one way or the other, but I know this: never disagree on major points with your dealer.

T-Bone wasn't answering his cell phone.

I got out of my hot tub and wrapped myself in a silk crimson crushed-velvet robe a la Hugh Hefner. I slid into some silk slippers, wrapped a black silk ascot around my neck, maneuvered a cigarette into a narwhal-ivory holder and sidled up to my bar. I winked at the Laotian girl. The tassels hanging from her nipple stickers swayed side to side. It's at times like these I thank myself for my occupational choice.

I dipped a saltine cracker into a dish of caviar I had picked up in bulk from Sam's club. I broke out a four-gallon box of very classy champagne. I admired myself in the full-length mirror next to the bar. I remind myself of an older, less disaffected, midget-esque James Dean.

It was as I was admiring my spectacular bulbous head and my gorgeous black beard that I got the idea. I marched into the bathroom. I shaved my head bald, and removed my beard, leaving only a slight handlebar mustache.

I looked spectacular. I was what Gordon Liddy was striving for all along. I strutted around the room like a peacock for some time. A couple of my girls came by with the requisite five hundred dollars. They all admired and rubbed my head. But the Laotian girl said she didn't dig it.

I told the Laotian girl to go fix me a turkey pot pie. And do it fast, I said, or I'll take you into the bedroom where you can explain to me who your friggin daddy is in clipped English. But, to my utter amazement, this little prostitute got lippy with me. Just like that. Apparently, apparently, she did not grasp what a hard core pimped out ghetto master she was dealing with.

I dug a chrome plated pistol out of the end table next to my crushed velvet covered Lay-Z-Boy. She grew infinitely less lippy in about as much time as it takes to say Tet Offensive.

"We're gonna play a little game of Russian Roulette," I said.

"What?" she said stupidly.

"Russian Roulette. This is a revolver. You just give her a spin, then put the gun to your temple and pull the trigger. You start, smart-ass." I handed her the gun. She grabbed it by the ivory handle with both hands. Her bottom lip quivered and tears welled up in her eyes.

"Go on, do it. I'm only making you do this once. It's not like we're going to play this all night."

She spun the revolver and put it to her temple. She squeezed her eyelids tight and clenched her teeth. I had to chuckle; she made this same face while copulating. Bravely she pulled the trigger. But it wasn't a real pistol. I was a lighter. Her hair, absolutely bathing in hairspray, went up in flames.

Her screams began as low confused rumbles and quickly grew to piercing high-pitched shrieks. She whacked herself in the head with her palms. She ran and jumped and pirouetted and flailed. Lamps were smashed. I danced around her like young men do the bulls of Pamplona.

She streaked across my house and took a full header into the hot tub.

Pimpin' ain't easy.