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A Pimp's Story

I wake up, and I begin yet another day of unemployment. I put one foot down, but that is enough willpower for now and sit there in an awkward position for while. I may have fallen back asleep. I now gain the courage to bring my other leg out from under the blanket.

Then I fell back asleep again, my back still on the mattress. I stay like this for awhile until my mom comes in, wakes me up, and offers me lunch, and gives me the daily lecture on how I'm thirty-two years old and I'm still living with my parents and I don't know how to make anything other than cereal. I sit through it again. It's a horribly boring story. Today, though, she asks me a new question, so I have to improvise.

"Ricky, what are your dreams?"
"What do you plan to do with yourself?"
"Become a pimp." Saying the first thing that comes to my head is more often than not a good idea.
She laughs at this. I pretend to be serious.
"No, I'm serious. I want to sell, sell, sell!"
"Ricky, you're horrified of women under 50."
"Ricky, do you really want to be a pimp?"
"Yes," I say, nonchalantly.

I was on a plane to a "Pimp Camp" in New York City the next day, regret up to my knees.

After spending about an hour next to the man that takes up two seats in every plane ride, who smells like death and then some, who seems to have a never-ending supply of french fries and edible grease, who seems to have some liquid oozing out of every orifice (of which he has more than normal), who makes you want to squirm and then have your muscles ooze out over your skin and start bubbling and evaporating away, who makes you write run-on sentences...I felt like getting off of the plane. Unfortunately, the ride was more than an hour long, and it felt like weeks. I only had one in-flight meal plus some peanuts for what felt like three weeks. I am starving.

Finally, I stumble off of the plane, grab my bags packed with everything but what was useful, fall into a cab face-first, and get driven to where my hotel was. The dialogue between myself and my cab driver was much like what you hear when someone talks on a phone; you can only understand what one person is saying. He spoke some language that seemingly only he spoke. His accent is a mix of Spanish, Japanese, Hawaiian, Swahili, French, and Klingon. His name is a mash-up of vowels, consonants, and even some numbers.

I get driven to a street address, step out of the cab, grab my bags, and turn around to face my hotel. I notice something wrong with it, but I'm not certain as to what immediately.

I look what seems like a thousand stories up, literally scraping the sky, and the building seems fine, until it falls with a royally loud and unpleasant explosion of window, support beam, and wrecking ball.

Oh, that's what's wrong. Wrecking ball.

The building is compacted into a small pile of rubble by gravity, which leaves me standing outside in awe and deafness, without a place to stay.

Oh look, a penny!


I wander aimlessly around, asking people where hotels are, and they point at the sky with a finger. Strangely, it's not the finger people normally point with. It's one next to it. I should ask someone why.

Finally I find a building that says "Bletchley Hotel" on it. I enter because it's the funniest name I've ever heard. "Bletchley." I say the name to myself under my breath and laugh. People stare.

Through some form of blurred persuasion and seduction, I convince someone somewhere to let me stay in this hotel. I get room 317. I walk into the room, smell hotel, and drink some unconscious juices from the minibar. Everything becomes blurry and underwater and I wake up the next morning with the worst pain in my everything.

I laugh again. "Bletchley."

Today's the day that I'm supposed to find Pimp Camp. There are a number of problems with this goal. One of them is that I am the whitest person known to man. If I go in the sun, I reflect light and will blind you if you look at me too long. Another setback is my inability to talk to women. If you are under fifty years old and are female, pretend not to be. Perhaps the biggest obstacle, however, is that there is no such thing as Pimp Camp.

I call my mother and ask her for advice.

"Ricky! How's Pimp Camp?"
"What in the world is Pimp Camp?!?"
"I thought you knew!"
"What in the world would make you think that??"
"Ugh...Ricardo Bowman, please just find yourself a pimp and ask him for advice."
"Do you know any...local pimps in New York City?"

The conversation continues like this for three arbitrary units of time. I am being forced by my mother to find a pimp. They are not easy to find.

One thing I do know that will help me in my "quest" is the international pimp sign. Crossing your pointer finger around your other pointer finger while touching your pinkies together and crossing the fingers in between those...hurts your hands. The international pimp sign is lifting up your thumbs and smashing your remaining fingers together thrice.

I practice it and look like an idiot. It was a fitting title. I came across a country to find a Pimp Camp.

I went out onto the street and began looking. The only image of a pimp I had in my head was of Don "Magic" Juan (also referred to as Donald Campbell, The Chairman of the Board, Archbishop Don 'Magic' Juan, Archbishop Don Magic Juan, Bishop Magic Juan, and Don The Bishop Magic Juan); covered from head to toe to cane in bling, so I looked for that.

Hours pass. The search spans every inch of everything; I look under manholes, behind doors, under people, in dialogue, in alleys, and I haven't found anything. Frustration is creeping up my skin, into my skull, and coming out as sweat. It is an oddly cold day, too, so I must be working hard.

I approach some people and do the international pimp sign for them, and they look at me like they would at anyone who started clapping their hands with the wrong sides of their palms. If they were pimps, they would know. I keep flashing the sign at different people I walk by on my search.

I also meet some women, who I avoid silently and inconspicuously. I know they lose their fire breath when they're around 50, so I have to wait until then.

There is a battle now, a battle of epic proportions. Day fights Night for the second time that day. In the morning, Day had won. Night hid for about twelve hours, preparing. Suddenly, after the twelve hours were up, Night descends on Day with a bat in each hand and beats Day to the ground. Day prepares her revenge for the next twelve hours, and would strike.

I watch this battle while on my search for a pimp, but now that I see night has won, I go back to my hotel. "Bletchley." It's just such a funny name.

The minibar hasn't been restocked, so I decide to stay conscious for another hour, twiddling my thumbs and trying to run through a wall. Only the former is successful, but I continue to try.

I fall into unconsciousness again and I break it in half with my weight. I didn't know it was very fragile. I go downstairs into the lobby and ask if they have any tape, and they give me some, which I use to tape it back together, and rest on it gently.


I am awakened by an explosion. It rattles my ears and my bed and my unconsciousness breaks in half again. I will fix it later, because there's a battle going on outside. I watch the sky.

Day has just taken a rocket launcher to Night's head. Though Night came prepared with a shotgun, she was not prepared enough for a rocket in the face. Night grew another head and sat down, plotting and preparing for another twelve hours.

Watching them fight is exciting excitement. Enjoy my use of an adjective describing a noun that implies the same adjective, for it makes the story seem longer. If you would like to make the story seem even longer, flip back to the first page and start reading from there until you are tired of it, then return to the following paragraph.

Today I should try again to find a pimp. I lounge around my hotel room, trying to get through the same wall again. It does not budge. It seems to have the strength of a thousand men.

I venture outside and attempt to find a pimp in a different part of the city now. There are thousands of people, I realize now, that are not pimps. It seems quite an effort to find pimps among thousands of people, for I cannot find any this day either.

Night suddenly springs out from behind a corner and, with her fully loaded shotgun, shoots Day in both of the legs, then in the stomach. Day collapses again, ready to strike with a horrible wrath in twelve hours.

I still cannot find any unconscious juices, so I go back to trying to get through that wall. I bash at it once, twice, thrice, and the fourth time there is a wonderful display of smoke, noise, and a man staring at me in utter disbelief that I had just invaded his room by breaking through the wall with my body.

There is an awkward silence, the silence you are always given when you break into somebody's hotel room with your body. Each of us open our mouths at least twice like we were going to talk, and after a few moments, decide it would be better not to, and close our mouths.

After what seems like seconds (because they are seconds), I show him the international pimp sign, in hopes.

He stares at me in even more disbelief.

He shows me the pimp sign.

There is another awkward silence, the kind of silence you are given when you break into somebody's hotel room with your body and discover they are a pimp just like you hope to become.

I finally am given, by some external force that could not have been created by anything other than space aliens, courage to open my teeth and use them for talking. Unfortunately, it is more difficult than it looks to talk using only one's teeth. Try it. I instead chose using a combination of those, tongue, and lips. It worked much better.

"You're a pimp?" I say, with a shaky voice, as if I'm meeting my dream celebrity (who, if you would like to know, is Britney Spears).
"Yes," the man replies, "and you just bashed through my wall. That is less likely."
"Can you...teach me how to be a pimp?" I ask.
"If you tell me how you just used strength to break through a solid wall, I will do anything."
"I have been trying to break through it since two nights ago."
"So you've just been running into the same wall over and over again?"
"On and off."

There was yet another awkward silence, the kind you get when you break into somebody's hotel room through a wall, discover they're a pimp, and you tell them that you've been running into the same wall for at least forty-eight hours, on and off.

"So will you teach me how to be a pimp?" I ask.
"Please don't tell me you seriously say that."


The next week, were it shown in a movie, would be shown in the only way possible; a montage. The inspirational rock music would be playing that would have some relevance to the plot. There would be, in this case, short clips of me learning the "pimp slap," the "pimp hand," the "pimp dance," the way to dress, the way to rap. The montage would fade out into an important sequence of dialogue between the mentor and the student, in this case James Cribeley The Pimp and Ricardo Bowman, respectively. The conversation might go something like this.

"Alright, Ricardo. It's time for your final task before you become a real pimp."
"Which is?"
"Getting a hoe."

This incomplete sentence makes butterflies appear in my stomach as if by magic. These butterflies grow and transform into hummingbirds, then blue jays, then hawks. I know now, from firsthand experience, it is surprisingly unpleasant to have live hawks inside of your stomach.

As I hope I've said before (for it to be relevant to the story), I'm deadly afraid of women. I've never talked to one. Some have had girlfriends, some have had worse, but I've never actually spoken to a woman under 50 years of age in my whole life. My mother had me when I was very young, and she was thirty-five. I did not speak to her until I was fifteen.

The dialogue continues after being interrupted by two paragraphs.

"I...don't know that I can do that," the words falling off of my tongue.
"Why not?" demands Cribeley, like he was demanding to be fed a gigantic cream puff, the size of himself or larger.
"I've never talked to a woman before."
"WHAT?" He sounds very much as if he wanted that gigantic cream puff.
"I don't speak to women until they're at least fifty."
"What about your own mother?" He is now definitely angry. That gigantic cream puff is to be HIS.
"I spoke to her when she was over fifty and not a moment sooner."
He stares at me in disbelief. It seems that he just learned that nobody had ever built a gigantic cream puff the size of him. His face is covered in disappointment.
"Ricardo, you had so much promise! You could've been the best pimp there ever was! Like Ash from Pokémon!"
"GOTTA CATCH 'EM ALL!!" we both sing in unison.
"You were the best! You had learned everything faster and better than anyone ever had!"
"I did?"

A wave of confidence rushes over me as if I'm learning there really was a gigantic cream puff and I am to eat it all and nobody else is to know.

But what's important here is that I was a good pimp! Maybe even a great pimp! This is an amazing revelation. I no longer have fears, as if I have just had a thousand swigs of liquid courage, though without the side effects such as wooziness and woziness.

"Alright, I'll try to go get a hoe. I'll try to get thirty at once!"
"Rikardo, don't go in too far over your head!"
"You misspelled my name."
"I'm talking. How could I possibly do that?"
"It doesn't have a K in it!"
"But you said it with one, look!"
"Oh. Anyway, you can't confront thirty women at once! It's too dangerous!"
"I'm invincible!"

I run off to the local Pimp Training Center and approach thirty women, thirty unsuspecting women, thirty women that are under thirty. I speak to the first women I've ever spoken to now.

It all happens in a blur. I ask "Who wants to be a hoe for me?" in a booming voice that sounds like it comes from a motivational speaker. There is an awkward silence, the kind of awkward silence when someone walks in on you when you're trying to staple your tongue to a wall. The thirty women all stare...and stare...and stare...and I pass out.


"Bugh, what happened?" I mumble. It doesn't roll off the tongue as it should.
"Bugh, what happened?" I try again. I've narrowed it down to the "bugh," I think I need to use a different word.
"Cool-Whip™, what happened?" It works better this time.

The dark things in front of my eyes move away, revealing a wall, except there's something odd about it. The wall is on the ceiling. I stand up and see that the ceiling is on a wall, and is colored just like a wall, and the wall that is on the ceiling is textured and colored just like a ceiling. This becomes unimportant.

I realize that I'm in a bathroom. There are toilets all around me. I sincerely hope this is not what heaven is like, but I do hope that hell is like this, for boredom is a lot better than constantly being burned.

I open a door and learn that I am in the public bathroom in the lobby of the Bletchley Hotel, and I begin to laugh hysterically. I feel the stares on my face. I tell people not to look at me, because it's bad for my skin.

I take the elevator up to the third floor, but I first press the button for every other floor, go to all of them, and then head back to the third floor. I slide the key into the keyhole, much like you would slide a key into a keyhole, and walk into the room. Then I walk into room 318 through the hole in the wall and see if Cribeley is there.

He is nowhere in sight. Then I turn to my left. He is still not in my sight. I turn right. He is now in my sight.

"Ricky, I told you that you shouldn't have gone in there!"
"I...I guess I just got too confident."
"Do you even know how to talk to a girl before she's a hoe?"
"I don't know how to talk to a girl!"

Once again, were this scene in a movie, it would be represented in a montage. This montage would have Cribeley talking to me, perhaps pointing a ruler to complicated diagrams on a whiteboard, bringing in a woman who is a practice hoe, and me reading a book entitled "How To Get A Hoe." The montage would fade out, and you'd see me, Ricardo Bowman, attempting the thirty hoes again, and you'd hear my heart beating in the background.

I approach a woman. I don't know her name, I don't know what she likes, and I especially don't know if she wants to be a hoe or not. I approach her armed with a shaky voice and a mind full of hoe knowledge.

"Hello, what's your name?" I say. The words written on this page don't do it justice. If there were more hyphens, dot-dot-dots, commas, and a constantly changing font size, you'd be able to more accurately understand how my voice quivered.
"Josefina," she replies, "Josefina Gunderson." She seems unenthusiastic about talking to me.
"Would you like to be a hoe for me?"
"Certainly!" Her face brightens up as she replies with a new wave of energy, and begins telling all of the other women to join her being a hoe. They all do.

Suddenly I am surrounded by thirty hoe-eager women. I have done it. I am a pimp now.


Time passes.

More time passes.


I am now a true pimp, the best there ever was, like Ash in Pokémon (gotta catch 'em all). I've got thousands of hoes now, all around the world, spanning from 49 states in the United States (I can not find a single person still alive in Wisconsin) to China, down in Mexico and Central America, to Brazil and Japan. I've met all of them and talked to them in their native language. I am widely respected in the world, as the world's greatest pimp.

And I got a better name than Ricardo Bowman. Now I'm Pimpardo BowPimp.

F'sho, playa.
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