Inside the Mind of Thinkpen Write

PIMPING AIN’T EASY Kicking Ca was tired. He had been up all night trying to get sweet with a young recruit, a dime piece he had met who did janitorial work at the local college. Of all the bitches and ho’s employed there, she was the only one that made his brain grasp for her attention. The bitch had game. You know the types, the one’s who would roll up to the President of the United States and kiss his ass on the mouth while shaking the First Lady’s hand at the same time. And because she was so innocent with this brazing act, this would catch the Lady of the House off guard, and solidify her reason for not verbalizing out with any chastising. The quickness of this front only served as a punch to her guts when she wanted to speak, and the fist intercepting any needed words of admonition. However the First Lady would be no one’s fool, and after catching her breath she would tell this little whippersnapper a thing or two about handling someone else’s man, especially “the” man, who is also “her” man. But this was the bold kind of bitch who would have this angle covered. She would bow a courtesy, and bring the First Lady’s hand to her mouth for it to be kissed, hushing other words wanting to be said, while at the same time looking directly into the President’s eyes with an unchaste twinkle. She was baaaad, but pretty. Intelligent, but slick. And last but not least, the fine ass bitch was married. This was the kind of ho that could keep a pimp’s Machiavellian intrigues fucked up if he wasn’t on top of his game. One who was always scheming with bitch intentions. Kicking Ca chuckled to himself. He had been spotting teeny-bobbers every since he was twelve, and when he saw Mina he knew that she was a first class ho who was only wearing her ring of matrimony as deceit. She knew that there were suckers who would pay her top money to get her to slide this piece of metal off. “Bitch ass ho!” Kicking Ca mused. “Bitches ain’t shit!” “I love my husband, but we just having some little problems right now!” she had told him. Kicking Ca had heard it all before. Hell in this game he had just about seen it all! But she had run into the right one! She wanted to play? The first time her married ass had agreed to meet him at the motel, he knew her little slick ass was grass. He was a pimp and it was his job to mower her stank ass down. And just as he had figured, her spiel had been that her no good husband was tightfisted with the money and because of this her hair was not getting its proper perm at the local beautician shop. Kicking Ca had smiled when she told him this, because there were bitches that had come long before her asking for down payments on cars, or needing cash for a utility bill and other whatnots. Mina was green and had a long way to go, and he felt as if it was his duty to teach her. Investing fifty dollars on this bitch’s head was a get over in the pimping business. Wasn’t shit! Wasn’t nothing but money that he was going to either triple or double in the future with the cunt between the ho’s legs. He was twenty-eight now and although pimping had become his religion, his gospel was that according to St Cocaine. Kicking Ca had introduced Mina to its purity their first night out, and because she loved how the powder was making her feel, the incognito ho found a lost Ben Franklin in her purse, bought more and begged to suck his dick. It was 2:00 AM and he had just come away from his friend Frenchie’s restaurant. Kicking Ca sat down in his Cadillac with the personalize license plate stating KIC N CA D, which was parked outside. He watched as one of his ho’s strutted her fat ass over to a trick to try and make a play, and hawked her royally with his eyes until she entered into the passenger door of the car of this clown prince fool to take his dough. Minutes later her head started a bob and weaving manner, and no more than fifteen minutes later, she was outside the car and back on the streets again. “Better be fifty dollars!” Kicking Ca thought. His cell phone went to ringing and Kicking Ca answered it on the second jangle. It was Mina. DIARY OF A SMALL TOWN My name is Niger Dew, but most of the people where I live call me Nigger Do. I love life, and I also love the smell of green grass and summer. I love the winter when it is cold. In fact I love for it to be so cold that it gives me the chance to see the hot breath coming from out my mouth when I breathe in and out of it. I am fascinated by this and want to know where the breaths go off to. I am not dumb either. Just because I like to blow hot breaths into the air and tally them doesn’t make me that. All I wanted to figure out was, was how many I had left before the last one was not any more. Maybe I had a thousand, or an even million. But what really excites me the most were the possibilities of maybe having a billion breaths to give! Well if I had those many, then that meant I was going to outlive people, persons and other creatures that only have far less! Yes my name is Nigger Do and I know that I wasn’t nobody’s fool, although folks were always trying to play me crazy-minded. But I even love the one’s who were trying to do this and sabotage my characterizations, if there was such a word. Yea I know that I sometimes talked to myself, and that’s what everybody would say, but no one criticizes Doctor Doolittle, or evened accuses him and shit, this Man talked to animals! But this was all right with me and all is well, because I love Dr Doolittle too! Shit, I love everybody. I love dogs and cats and spiders and mice. I love rats and snakes and creatures far and near. Even the ones that I have only seen in my imagination, I thought they were my friends or could have been, and even if they wasn’t, I thought all that I needed was some sort of opportunity to make them so. That’s why I love to go play out in the woods. It did not matter to me where the woods were, as long as I could get out there in them. I like the sticker briars, and not because they hurt and grab my clothes and socks while scratching at my skin, but because they made me want to walk to avoid them. And when I walked that way, not even one inventive Indian was gonna come close to taking my scalp. But I know that because I am 47 years old, I have to be very careful not to act out my fantasy in front of the neighbors. All my life I loved, but they just never understood. Hell it is only one of me, and I know good and damn well that I can not be an Indian at the same time trying to be a cowboy. Not at the same time playing a gladiator too! Or William Shakespeare while writing “The Taming of the Shrew.” Just because they didn’t have the ideals to transport themselves from one place to another was no damn reason to get salty and pissed off with me. Shit! All I needed was a shot of the Jack that Preacher Simmons always carried in the back of his pocket, and I could be whoever or whatever I please. Just one good taste and I can tear some encyclopedic reference works to bits. With what I done already read, it was me who fed Matthew Perry’s sleigh dogs as they were searching for the North Pole! Made and poured the first cups of coffee that warmed the whole camp. But even whiled at this campsite I would still have love for his alliance. Through my books and dreams, I know that I have just about been everywhere. Went to New York City a bunch of times while just walking down the streets to Mr. Charles store which was located on Meridian Ave in Columbia Miss, and where I live. Had arrived by plane on a couple of pilgrimages, then went by train, ship, and bus. Wasn’t even there but seconds on a sparse of occasions, but sometimes I stayed just long enough to really get into the smells and the tastes and the feelings of them East Coaster’s emotions.