I Am Not A Pimp

Ever since I was of the age to discover how my penis worked and where and where not I should stick it there's been two things in life I always wanted to be. One was being a writer, the other...a pimp. Obviously, the writer thing isn't working out too well. My grammar is atrocious, my form is akin to a retarded 4th grader on crack, and I can't even SPELL Spell-chehck. So maybe I could be a pimp? Well, I actually had the chance to meet up and have a few drinks with a real life pimp, Pooky Ladson...aka Big Pook, aka Big Nigga Figga the Pookman himself, aka...my new hero. I had come to meet Mr. Pooky a couple weeks ago while making the strip club rounds. I find going to the strip club at least once a month clears the mind (AND the wallet), allowing for all types of wonderful creative thoughts to make their way into that crack-addled brain of mine. What can I say? It's my very own personal form of meditation. So after meeting Pooky Ladson that night and getting shitfaced with him at the bar over shots of Old Crow, he actually agreed to do an interview with me...on one condition, no pictures of him, and he'd call me when he was ready to do it, which he said would be in a couple days.
So after waiting for about 3 weeks, the Pookster FINALLY calls me up, sounding high off his ass and wanting to meet up at one the skankiest strip clubs I've ever had the misfortune of spending money in. It was a typical "dirty south" strip-club...the kind where all they play is shitty rap, stretchmarks are the norm, and it's BYOB. But this place has something else going for it...it's behind a seafood restaurant, so when you pull up, the entire club smells like fish. Nothing like the sweet stench of rotten fish to get me in the mood for staring at pussy. Ugh. So I roll in, trying not to look TOO white, armed with my trusty mini-digital recorder, a pack of Newports, and a Black & Mild...just in case I had to make an offer of friendship to my new-found jedi master of pimpin'. He waved me over to the back of the club, looking less a pimp in his average clothes but still his swagger and demeanor shined through it all. Pooky Ladson is a big fucking black man, probably about 6'3", 320 pounds. He sat there, flanked by two of his "bitches" who also happened to work at said club (which I later discovered) and told me to sit down. I tried to give him what his kind call "dap", but like every other white man in the world I fumbled through the secret handshake like a kid with Cerebral Palsy trying to figure out a Rubiks Cube. His bottom row of teeth were capped in gold, and coupled with his forever bloodshot eyes, he looked strangely like a fat, black Jaws from "Moonraker". I offered him the Black & Mild, lit up a Newport, and the transcripts of the interview are as follows:

Me: *turning on recorder*....just gonna turn this thing on, and you just tell me when you're ready man. Ok?

Pooky: Yeah, yeah, let's go nigga...I ain't gots all night.

(on a side note, a black man called me "nigga". Ain't intergration grand?)

Me: Sure thing. I'm just going to ask you a couple questions, and if at any time you want me to turn off the mic, just so say, ok? (He nods and whispers into one of his bitches ears. She giggles and looks at me, making me feel wholey inadequate.) Uh, yeah so, what's your name man and how long have you been, uh, you know...a pimp?

Pooky: Sheet man, Pooky Ladson, son...aka BIG POOK! Aka that Big Nigga Figga the Pookman himself, son! Tell em' bitches.

Bitches: UmmHmmm.

Pooky: Yeah. Nigga, I been pimpin' since BIRTH, son, ya'kna'mean? Sheeeeeeet, bitches been comin' to me for inspiration and financial propagation before my ma'fuckin' black nuts dropped, that's my word. How long you been a fuckin' cracka'?

Me: Heh, I just started last week. (All three of them just stare at me) Oooof, so yeah, um, ok, so you've been doing this a long time then. How old are you?

Pooky: Thirty fo'.

Me: Cool. That's cool. Ok, how many girls do you...

Pooky: Bitches. These tricks you see here definitely AIN'T girls, son. I don't traffic in ma'fuckin' girls, I traffic in the game of bitches.

Me: Yeah, of course, I meant "bitches". So how many "bitches" you got under your wing right now?

Pooky: I got 28 ho's, from downtown King St. all the way to Spruill Ave. back to ma'fuckin' Broad St. And every motherfuckin' one of them, you damn well KNOW they goin' to get me MY money. I got em' working on the clock 24/7 son, rain or shine, snow, hail or sleet...my bitches goin' be WORKIN' that street! Ya'kna'mean? Haha! Tell em' bitches!

Bitches: MmmmHmmm...you right daddy.

Me: Which brings me to my next question, Pooky. How much do you charge for their services and what kind of cut do the girls...bitches, excuse me....the bitches get?

Pooky: Nigga, you must have me confused for a ma'fuckin' sucka, son. What kind of "cut" do MY bitches get? What kind of "cut"? Haha! The only ma'fuckin' "cut" those bitches get is when they don't fess up with the ma'fuckin' cheddar and I pull out my switch, bitch. Fuck that sheet, ya'kna'mean? That's MY ma'fuckin' money, those are MY ma'fuckin' dollars. That's MY shit. And they know that. See, I ain't no ma'fuckin' chili pimp, son. I KNOW the game. You give them an inch, they'll take a ma'fuckin' mile Johnny. It's like this, see? They pay ME to take care of their stankin' ass. Who else they got in life? Nobody. Mommy don't want them, Daddy done left a looooong time ago, ya'kna'mean? So I'm all they got. I take care of them. Clothes, food, drink, smoke, all that shit. A place to sleep. A place to shower and freshen' up and shit. I don't put limits on my bitches, son. They want some fancy shit? Fine, I'm a buy it for them, that's kool and the gang. But you damn know better they goin' be WORKIN' for that shit, ya'kna'mean?. Cause if a bitch ain't workin', or ma'fuckin' sleepin' on the job and shit, I'm a bust her head to the white meat cause I ain't got NO time for fuckin' games.

Me: Oh, I hear ya. So, like, what? Do you ever have to, you know..."put em' in line"?

Pooky: You fuckin' funny man. I like you, you my nigga. You mean, like "stomp a bitch"? Play "Whack-A-Ho"? Man, that's gorilla pimp shit, ya'kna'mean? Yeah, you know, if a bitch done fucked up or starts acting out a line, HELL yeah...you gotta put your foot in her ass. This shit's a game Johnny, it's all a game. See this shit? Quatrell, show this nigga my brand...

(One of the "bitches* stands up, turns around, bends over, and pulls up her mini-skirt. Tattooed right on her black as midnight left ass cheek it says "Pooky Made Man" in old english. Pooky grabs her ass cheek and gives it a jiggle)

Pooky: See this shit? That's MY shit. I OWN that shit. I known her since she was a fuckin' little raggamuffin runnin' around K-town, suckin' dick for change. Now I got her dressed in the finest linens and shit, her hair did all nice, smellin' like a million bucks, ya'kna'mean? Without Pooky, she'd be smokin' sherm somewhere, probably with about 10 fuckin' kids, living off of ma'fuckin' welfare. But she stuck with me now, and with that comes all kinds of fabulousness, ya'kna'mean?

(I was hesistant to tell Pooky that "fabulousness" isn't an actual word, but I'm not THAT dumb)

Me: So...you ever been locked up man? What about the girls?

Pooky: Me? Yeah, you know, back in the day and shit. Small shit. They ain't got shit on me, ya'kna'mean? And yeah, you know, Johnny fuckin' Five always scoopin' up the bitches...but thats what I'M there for, to make sure they don't STAY locked up. It's give and take, nigga. Poh-leece don't really give a fuck what niggas do. They just don't want us "savages" fuckin' runnin' wild and shit in front of the good, decent white folk, ya'kna'mean? But you know, every now and then, they get a bug up they ass trying to fill quotas or some shit. But it don't stick. Shit never does.

(I notice Pooky's gold pendant of Jesus Christ around his neck)

Me: Do you believe in Jesus Christ? Like, what I mean is, are you religious at all?

Pooky: Fuck yeah, I believe in ma'fuckin' Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ my nigga. What else black folk got? Nothin' but church and chicken, nigga...without that shit, ya'kna'mean, we just slaves. Shit, most folk STILL slaves, they just don't know it. White OR black, they STILL slaves. Jesus Christ frees you, nigga. THAT'S why I do what I do. Cause the fuckin' bible says, if a sinner dies confessin' his life and shit to Jesus Christ...he goin' be saved and live it up in heaven with the rest of his folk. So fuck yeah, you know? Why not smoke, why not drink, why not ma'fuckin' PIMP BITCHES? Ah-ha! Jesus Christ my nigga, ya'kna'mean?

Me: Eh...what are you gonna do, you know? I gotta couple more questio...

At this point, Pooky tells his bitches to go up and make some money, instead of "sittin' on your fat asses lookin all pretty and shit". He asks me if I have a blunt to smoke, I say no, and he calls me a "fuckin' bitch" and laughs his ass off, slapping me on the back. I still to this day, don't get the joke. He then tells me he's got to run and "take care of some bid'ness" so this interview is going to be cut short.

Me:...really, it's fine. How about you just say some parting words, you know? Like something inspirational or, I don't know, whatever the fuck you want to say dude.

Pooky: A'ight...(coughs, clears his throat)

...holla back nigga, if you want that GOOD pussy! Ah-ha! Stay white foo', you a good nigga, Johnny. And I'm out!

And with those parting words, Pooky Ladson left, stealing my lighter and cigarettes. Truly a man living the life of countless others before him, plying away in the second oldest profession in the world...a manager of the first oldest profession in the world. Can we really judge this man, though? Is what he does really a wrong thing? I know one thing for sure, though...none of YOU can, nor can I. I mean, seriously now, you're reading this on a fucking blog. Your morals just flew out the window the moment you got on my website. So I guess, what I really learned is that I definitely don't have the stomach to go out and start pimping "bitches". It seems to be a terrible life to lead, indeed. A pimp can never, EVER fall in love, and a life without love is a life without a soul, and my heart's just too big for that.

Ya'kna'mean?