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The Gospel of the Game
By James Robinson
AuthorHouseCopyright © 2012 James Robinson
All right reserved.
Chapter OneThe Majestic Green
Distant stars twinkled in the midnight skies over New Jersey. The powerful engine whistled as my customized Biarritz Eldorado missiled east on Interstate 80. I looked into the rearview mirror at the three fabulous young West Coast whores who sat at the edge of their seats in anticipation of their New York whore debut. Bianca, my most reliable and bottom whore, sat at my side. Looking into the vanity mirror, she adjusted her makeup, preparing herself for the evening's events.
We were on The Garden State Park Highway, racing through the outskirts of Jersey City when I witnessed the fullness of her majestic beauty for the very first time. It was as if she and her island had risen up from the depth of the dark and icy ocean floor. She stood completely frozen on the horizon, draped in her gown of undeniable royalty. In the hand of her outstretched arm, the golden flame of her torch blew in the wind. Upon her regal head, she wore a crown of unquestioned majesty. She reigned over all America as a symbol of freedom for all men to see. She was unmistakably and undeniably Lady Liberty. I was momentarily awestruck and astonished at the realization of the totality and of what she represented to me. Somewhere, there on Ellis Island, is a plaque that reads: "Send me your cold, your tired, and your hungry." Well, I was cold, most probably as cold as they came. I was tired, tired of being on the West Coast, and I was hungry, hungry for a suitcase full of fast cash produced by fast-stepping New York whores!!! According to the pea- green bitch's majestic mandate and prerequisite, I met her full criteria and, in that instant, I knew for a certainty that I understood her and she me, and I also knew the lucrative streets of New York City would soon become mine. There was no doubt in my mind that regal and majestic green bitch had given me the nod of acceptance and a key to the city. I knew for a certainty that shortly there after, the elements of New York, New York would test my psychological prowess, my manhood, and my pimp hand. I also knew for a surety that my pimping and me would test true.
The shinning chrome Dayton star wires and the expensive Vogue tires spun as my two-toned customized Cadillac Biarritz Eldorado hurtled down the highway towards a date with destiny or perhaps fate.
My mind reflected back through lessons learned and hundreds of thousands of pages of mental dialogue and retrospect, and focused on my mentor, the legendary Filmore Slim-Pimp, Philosopher, and Grand Master of the Game.
"Jimi," Filmore would begin, "always remember, pussy will sell when cotton and corn won't. When a trick won't buy food to feed his family or buy food even for his own belly, he'll beg, borrow, or steal some cash to take care of his dick. Jimi Starr, pussy is powerful stuff; most men got to have it," he would say. "However, pimping is even more powerful. Prostitution is the oldest profession in the world. The sale of pussy in America is just as lucrative as shares of stock in any Fortune-500 Company. Jimi, prostitution is just as big and just as lucrative as U. S. Steel," he would conclude. After all these years, I can still remember Fillmore's stirring words burning my ears and ringing in my mind.
America is comprised of suckers and tricks. It's like P.T. Barnum once said, "there is a sucker [trick] born every minute." Socially in this country, young women are unwittingly brought up to be common whores, however, never knowing or realizing it. Why? It is an American mindset, and is therefore the norm. Children grow through watching, and they emulate their mothers and fathers every day of their adolescent lives, especially on payday. The weary and dutiful father brings his paycheck home and the grateful mother prepares him a big meal. For his services rendered, after dinner Mom and Dad retire to the bedroom retreat where Mom rewards Dad for his labor, and not to mention his cash, with a shot of her hot pussy that she's most probably given to the mailman, milkman, a co-worker, or a passing handsome stranger for absolutely free. You can call it a wife's duty or you can call it whatever you want; however, the facts are what they are, and I like to call the transaction of sex for cash prostitution. Let us call a spade a spade. Had that poor working sap failed to get a paycheck, he would have had to sleep on the couch, or even worse.
Young girls in this society are traditionally taught to give themselves to the highest bidder. The social mindset and rule of thumb is, don't give yourself to the poor man; save yourself for the generous guy who takes you to dinner and buy's you gifts and gives you cash. Again, you can call it what you want, but the recipient of those gifts and cash is a cock-sucking whore if there ever was one.
On the flipside of that same coin, a young man is systematically and methodically taught to pamper women and lavish and give gifts and cash, with the hopes that he will be rewarded with a shot of some parasitic bitch's stinking pussy. You can call it what you want, but this young man is a trick, and being groomed for a lifetime of doting trickery. After careful scrutiny and analyses, I find the truth is that this society is knowingly raising and cultivating tricks and whores; it is a way of life. It is an institution and therefore it is acceptable.
Unfortunately for society, this scenario creates a climate that is tailor-made for a person of predatory cunning like myself, a pimp. Pimps have reversed the Game on society. For the most part, we don't give a shit about lavishing a bitch, nor does a real pimp give a shit about her stinking pussy, for that matter. The pimp, himself, is looking to be pampered and lavished. He wants the verbal blandishments, jewels, the gifts, the cash, etc. Why should some bitch have these valued assets that are so highly esteemed and prized in this capitalistic society? Anything of any real financial value that any woman affiliated with a pimp has in her possession, becomes the property of that pimp. From the onslaught, it must be realized just what a pimp is. A pimp is a capitalist in the truest sense of the word. He realizes society's preoccupation and obsession with sex, and therefore, the pimp sees pussy as a product or a commodity that will sell in the open market place of the world. He obtains that pussy through mental cunning and finesse and realizes a monetary exchange value of seven hundred to a thousand dollars a day profit per whore or perhaps more. Reader, you must understand, that no matter how articulate I seemingly may be, for a thousand dollars a day, I will make your white-haired grand mother suck dick and sell some pussy in a doorway, to some school kids! Hell, for a thousand dollars a day, I'd have your old grand mammy sale some of that old asshole, too!
For all of you cynical women feminists and brainwashed, terrified, emasculated male feminist sympathizers, I will have you to know that it is better for man to survive on the labor of the woman, than for the woman to survive off of the fruits of a wise man's labor. This process is called the survival of the fittest, and it is the first law of the jungle beast. Via the Constitution of these United States, all women have been granted the freedom of choice. However, all women do not choose to be liberated. During the course of my extensive and prosperous career, I never held a gun to any woman's head, nor physically forced any woman to do anything, yet all of my women were gracious, and not to mention they, that were all exceedingly generous.
Reader, if you would attempt to understand; your mind would become truly enlightened to this revolutionary school of thought, and you too, my dear mentally liberated reader, can be free. Again, it all boils down to that age-old cliché, "the survival of the fittest." The strong man shall survive. The weak man shall perish. No matter how you slice it or try to dice it, whether you agree or disagree, it really doesn't matter. The pimp is the only American male, free from the bondage and servitude to a female's vagina. He is the last man standing and the only true man, black or white, in the American society today.
It is this one singular and confrontational mindset that sets pimps apart from most males and the reason why pimping is most readily identified with Black males. The lawmakers who are representative of the White masses find pimping intimidating because it indirectly exposes the White masses as the mental and sexual weaklings that they really are. American males are enslaved to their dicks. Therefore, their minds are bound to a relentless quest for sex. Pimps have elevated past and moved beyond that sexual enslavement. This in my opinion is the reason the lawmakers have deemed pimping and prostitution illegal. In most other countries of the free world, pimping and prostitution are legal. I do not find it strange, nor by any means confusing, that White men constitute the largest segment of tricks in the United States. Sex plays a major roll in the American society. Prostitution has existed from the dawning of recorded time until today.
We live in a society in which every thing is for sale. If you were to turn on your television set at three o'clock on any given morning, you undoubtedly will find a semi-nude and highly suggestive infomercial, a 1-800-sex line or a tele-evangelist sinfully selling the blessings of God, from one dollar to a thousand dollars, to an audience of millions. It is all capitalistic exploitation; that's what the American economy and society are all about. How then, can pimping and prostitution be economically or morally wrong in a nation that has, over the course of time and throughout history, economically enslaved and oppressed the entire world? America, in its blood-thirsty pursuit of world domination and profits, has tied the world to its purse strings, with a hangman's noose, while furthering its own capitalistic pursuits and endeavors around the world, pursuing and murdering millions of innocent people via bombs and drug addiction, racism, and aggression around the world. Now that's what I consider pimping, true exploitation and oppression. How could America point its filthy racist finger at pimps and whores and utter the word "morality"? How dare America even think the word morality?
The nation's economy is based on capitalistic exploitations; everything is for sale. The basic lust for sex is primal, it is psychological, and it is realized through the physical need to dominate, compromise, or utilize one's sexual partner. Do we remember Helen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand ships? Down through the ages, man has warred over pussy, and killed over pussy. Hell, man even eats pussy. It is of little or no consequence to find that man will pay for pussy.
It is no whispered secret that sexual immorality in the Oval Office almost destroyed the former President of these United States. Yes, my dear reader, pussy is a commodity, not to mention some extremely powerful and devastating stuff. He, who can control the pussy, is he who holds the key to controlling the entire civilized free world.
In 1998, the then President of these United States endured impeachment proceedings, stemming from immoral acts while in the Oval Office. Had the woman in question been a whore of mine or someone like myself, I can honestly say that, without doubt, and for an absolute surety, there would be a pimp in the White House, standing behind the President, controlling the activities of America today. I challenge the readers of this novel to ask yourselves, is this scenario possible or probable? Then ask yourselves, are you controlling that pussy in your home or is that pussy controlling you? This, my dear and enlightened Reader, is my reason why.
As a child, while other kids played baseball and football or the cherished innocent youth dreams of becoming police or firemen, I would hang out in the barber shops and pool halls of the ghetto shining the shoes of the flamboyant pimps and players in the hopes of hearing their vividly colorful cross-country tales. In my childhood, pimping was a preoccupation, my fantasy. As I matured pimping became my life's ambition and, ultimately, my reality. I had but one desire-to pimp, pimp, and pimp expanding my pimpdom. I was now living the dream. As far as I was concerned for me, it had to be whore money or no money at all. I was a man driven and I was a man possessed. I was going to pimp or die. My entire life's scenario was just that cut and just that motherfucking dry.
Sweet, Sweet Mama
From out of the heavens and from a point somewhere beyond my limited understanding, the icy winds began to howl, rolling over the awakening face of Manhattan. Like a huge golden ball, the sun began its ascent on to the horizon to sit at its high point in the sky, only to descend at the end of the day. Cars made their way up and down the Harlem River Drive. People scurried, rushing frantically throughout Manhattan. They seemed to be going everywhere and ending up nowhere. I began to think to myself, what does it all mean and where would it all end?
In my mind I find myself reflecting back to my childhood and the voice that carries my sweet mother's words, "Jimi, it's a long road that doesn't have an ending." Mama did everything within her power to turn me away from the Game. I vividly remember Mama once knocking me down on the kitchen floor and physically washing my mouth out with Ajax and a dishrag. I had used the word "pimp" in her presence and in her household. Yes, my sweet mama tried all she could to turn me from the path leading to a life of parasitic pimping and pandering. Mama had strong spiritual convictions, as do I. Would you believe that Jim Starr, the legendary pimp, had attended and graduated from a school of theology? Perhaps that best explains why I was able to maintain throughout my career some minute degree of mortality.
I was sired by Ollie James Robinson, and born into this world on the second of April. I'm a product of the 1960's. My mother and my stepfather, Edgar Allen, whom I love dearly, raised me and, if the truth were told, Edgar Allen is the only father that I have ever really known. For the greater part of his life, Edgar Allen, has held two jobs as a longshoreman and a civil servant. My mother is and was the director of an emergency human services organization for abused youths. My parents were both extremely strict and yet, very loving.
Unlike Robert Beck, the author and patriarch of novels such as this, I was not sexually abused, nor abandoned, nor a victim of a broken home. In fact, my life was quite the contrary. I grew up and attended school in the upper Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco. I was reared in a solid middle-class home and community with one brother, a dog, and a loving mother and father. For the most part, I was denied nothing that my loving mother and father could provide. For a Black kid in the late 60's, this was as close to the average American family as it would get. We were living the American dream.
I can recall one singular event from my childhood, which stands out, in my mind. It was the absolute first day of school. The excited mothers dragged, carried, or pulled their young crying and whining children to attend their first day of formal education. I can still remember the dimly lit echoing building and the highly waxed hallways and stairwells. The curious children shyly held their mothers' hands or clutched unto the hems of their mother's dresses.
Mrs. Jacobs, my kindergarten teacher, stood in front of the class, addressing the students and parents. From behind her thick, bi-focal glasses, she viewed the huge nametag that my mother had pinned to my plaid, flannel shirt. In an attempt to make me feel more comfortable, the teacher asked me, "Jimmy," she said, " What are you going to be when you grow up?"
It is unknown to me why or where these words came from, I only know they were expressed. As I stood holding the hem of my mother's dress, the words came from somewhere deep within the fiber of my being, "I'm going to be a poisonous butterfly and fly all over the world, spreading my poison everywhere," I said.
Looking at my life in retrospect, I wasn't far off. Mrs. Jacobs's eyes widened in curiosity and heightened suspicion. Her face turned beet red and her mouth fell wide open. I remember this incident vividly, as if it were yesterday. I can still see Mama standing there, embarrassed and with that look in her eyes that said, "Your ass is a mine, little smart-mouth nigger! Wait until I get you alone."
Excerpted from The Gospel of the Game by James Robinson Copyright © 2012 by James Robinson. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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