Word On the Streets

Friday
11:45PM
Ray's Lounge
corner of 63rd and Vine
Big City, USA

As the evening dusk overcomes the city’s highlights to make shadows, the underground manifests itself to the surface. Cognac-colored shades dirty the atmosphere juxtaposed within the neon glow.
White lies recited amongst white lines, the financial district is a one of destitutes and misfits.
Charitable contributions to the shameless manifests into prostitution by the nameless. Give me your homeless, your overworked, and your poor is the bantam of the streets. There is no king of this jungle, no ruler of this vast, this is where contenders rise really quick, and fall very fast.

The track is the home of the pushers, pimps, whores, and crooks. All of them often make easy money, but with no evidence of their prosperity on their books. Narrations by pool-hallers, and shit-talkers often tell this land’s tales, where the bread is abundant, the wine is cheap, but still, often stale. Ones with game tend to play it with no fear, keeping a watchful eye, and an open ear.

“What’s your angle old man?”

I’m asked by a jitterbug, with no wings. He was on the stool beside me, saw the diamond pinky ring on the left hand, which enticed him to try me.

"My angle, is obtuse."
"Its to be sold, not told, but I’ll give it to you for free if you put it to good use."

It was sad as he explained to me that he never knew his dad and that he remained constrained by moms. Not being a sucker for sob stories, nevertheless I expressed open arms. He drew close as I put a bug in his ear, I hipped him to the facts, and he’ll be out on some other street, never to turn back. Knowledge does not come from college here, you listen and learn. Hands on, knee-deep in, and your wheels will turn.

As I continue to sip, I ponder the life....

Neon lights, fights and crackpipes. Slow-moving cars, creep past all night bars. Libertines traipse in and out, in, and back again, in alleys, to chase the cat. Paying for pain within a moment of pleasure. It’s never free, and they always come back.
Livin' the life of vice. There’s always a price. So there’s player points to be scored and the clock is always outta time. Here’s the play: Put that thouroughbred you got out there on the grind.

A pimp's gameplan is this: "He'll sweat ya ‘til he get’cha." Slick toungue lizards will have your ass for sale even in the coldest of blizzards. High heels ground down to one and a half inches. Every player on his team is in the game, ‘cause for a pimp, there ain’t no benches. No game for warmers, it’s on the line and only champions will survive this daily grind. Another sip of Hennessy and by that time it was plenty for me. Damn it’s cold outside but I gotta hit these streets, check that money, hustle some square outta his bus fare, ‘cause like you, I gotta eat.

I'm lookin' back now as my profession has passed.
Yeah back in the day, I used to peddle a little ass.
Not my own of course.
Pandering is what the law calls it, but "entrepreneurship" is bullshit to the law
Pussy ain't free,
and that’s how I saw it.

--Just some pimp-shit I had to write--