Pimp

The temp agency wouldn’t find me any work so I decided to become a pimp. Slowly but surely, I built my stable of prostitutes. The money rolled in. It wasn’t long before I started looking like a pimp—wearing a pimp hat, driving a pimp car, even growing a pimp mustache.

One day, one of my more productive prostitutes, Mitzy, came to me.

“You mind if I ask you for a favor?” she said around the three or four teeth she had left in her mouth. Her face was as pitted as a honeycomb and her skintight shorts revealed a tremendously large camel toe. She smelled like whiskey, cheap cigarettes, and death.

“Sure, doll, that’s what this business is all about.” I doffed my fur coat and scratched my balls.

“I got this friend and she like really needs some money.”

“You bring her in and let me take a look at her.”

“She’s waiting out in the car.”

While waiting, I quickly devoured a beef stick and used the oils to slick my mustache. I like to make a good first impression.

Mitzy returned with her friend.

“Mom!?” I shouted.

“Son!” she returned.

“What the hell are you doing here? That outfit is entirely too revealing. Here, put this on.” I tossed her my fur coat.

“Ever since your father walked out, I’ve needed the money. What are you doing here?”

“The agency wouldn’t find me any work. Shiftless crackers.”

“Where did you learn to talk like that?”

“The street, Mom, the street.”

“So, whaddya say? Are you going to lend a helping hand?”

“It’s a rough job. Why don’t you go out with Mitzy tonight. Get a feel for it. See if you like … this kind of work. I tell you what, Mom, I’ll let you keep 95 percent of what you make … If you decide to stick with it.”

A sad wave of relief washed over her face.

“Thank you, son. Oh, thank you so much.”

“Just get out there and work it.”

Playfully, to show her she’s one of the girls, I gave her a smack on the ass. She blushed and headed for the street with Mitzy.