A Neon Rattrap - Part 2
My first attempt at getting some good information should be from my most reliable of contacts The Pimp. His information is always good, but it always comes at a hefty price. Whether he wants payment up front or as a favor to be paid back later – you can bet you’ll be paying out the ass. Fortunately The Pimp likes me. I’m a real looker and he’s been trying to get into my pants for some time now. I don’t want this to be the night I have to “give it up” just for a tip… pun intended.
I was fortunate enough to have parents who left me some cash when they passed away before the central migration started about five years back. I spent the entire bundle on an illegal UV extractor, or at least that was what the box said it was. I get more than my fair share of vitamin D that has helped me to keep my muscle mass in tact mostly. Standing taller and broader than most of the nightlife gives me an edge in a psychological warfare sense. It of course also draws unwanted attention, in The Pimp’s case unwanted sexual attention.
If I had known five years ago, when the skies clogged completely with smog and a cloudy haze that it would plunge my hemisphere into perpetual gray and black – I would have put a bullet in my brain then. My parents had the right idea. The one time they are right about something, and I chalk them both up as losses and turn them over to the State. Even as early as 2012 the State had little consideration for rehabilitation of the mentally ill. The home brew and athletes foot help me to forget.
It only takes me twenty-two minutes on foot to reach the unofficial offices and home of The Pimp, or Mr. Stroker as the plate above the revolving door so clearly stated. I have to imagine that he leaves the nameplate up just to test the will of his subordinates and potential clientele. Misfortune was a daily part of The Pimp’s life before he made the title for himself. Birth name: Richard Oswald Stroker, he never made it through grammar school tagged Dick Stroker. I don’t care who you are or what culture you are from, some parents just have no souls. He finished his education on the streets after murdering his parents at the age of twelve. He even managed to teach a few of those classes taught at the school of hard knocks – now he was the Dean. I don’t know how he got the name The Pimp, though it may be from all the whores he pushes in and out of human trafficking… just a thought, never had the guts to ask.
I’m welcomed with open arms and a wet kiss to the cheek. My stomach turns and flip-flops while I take a seat directly across the table from The Pimp. I’m too late. Mavis has already been here I can tell from the gradually overwhelming smell of that God-awful Sandalwood perfume he insists on wearing. The scent lingers past me as I hear the door close heavily behind me. The Pimp with all of his good and reliable intelligence only sells it once. He even has the decency to offer an added bonus of making certain no one else follows too closely, eliminating the competition.
The Pimp looks at me broadly from under his stupid fedora and spans a razor thin grin across to me. It’s going to be an eventful night.
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