Chapter 1 – Pimpin’ Made Easy

***So here is the first chapter. If you just happened to stumble on this site and don’t know WTF is going on, click here to get wise to it.

I watch the sex act performed about thirty eight times every day, sometimes more. I know y’all are probably thinkin’ that be a lot. Y’all are probably also askin’ yourselves if I actually went and called it the sex act.

Well, mang, ‘sex act’ is just something I heard mentioned by some whitecoat on a show I watched on the Learning Channel. It was some show about the science behind sex. Thing is I couldn’t stop cracking up when hearing the narrator keep saying ‘sex act’ in a stuffy British tone. So I guess I’ll just call it ruttin’. Can’t remember where I picked that one up, mang, nice ring about it, though. Anyhow, y’all are probably wondering why it is that I watch horny broads gettin’ rutted on so much, aren’t ya mang?

This is one of my jobs, or at least it’s one of my two personal gigs, neither of them I’m getting’ paid to do. See, I have two passions. One is porn and the other is hip-hop and I just so happen to have me an occupation that gives me the chance to try and build a business in both of those industries. How does it work, y’all are wondering? How does a fella like me get to operate on company time? It’s called fallin’ through the corporate cracks, and it sure worked out in my favor. Some people do all they can to get noticed their whole careers. Me, I have nightmares about the day they start takin’ notice of my existence. Shit, I don’t even ask for raises. Ain’t worth it, really. What’s four hundred bones a year gonna do for me if I actually gotta go and work for it? Fuck that, mang.

I work for one of the biggest fast food supply conglomerates out there, and like a fat bitch at the buffet, this company just keeps on gettin’ bigger all the time. I been here for about four years now and I can say I’m proud that all of five people out of the two hundred or so workin’ the two floors I operate on know my name. About as many people even know I’m around. What happened is that when I first started working for this operation I was put in the archive department and got partnered up with Earl, this quiet old white dude who’d been around for like fifteen years.

For the first two years, Earl and me just did our thing and spent good parts of the day reading, or in my case, fucken about on the internet. Human resources never went and spent any time in the archive department. They only knew that the archive department was given a budget for two bodies and since the boys in archives were given the additional duty of keeping the office supply room for the twelfth floor stocked and organized, the chore looked even more intense and never got questioned.

Truth be that me and Earl had all of about one hour a week tops of work to do in the supply room. Most folks would just head over there if they needed a notepad, staples or that kinda shit and that cut down on our work even more. We’d just spend about two or three hours a day sorting the archives, a little bit more if an afternoon delivery arrived, but with no one around to supervise us, the average workday saw us billing the man for four days of reading, netsurfing and pinching off loafs. Hell, I even been teachin’ myself chess on the computer and I’m gettin’ up to that maverick level.

Then one day a partner bought into the company. They insisted on their practice of having an independent third party handle archives off-premises, and I thought my dream job was about to come to an end. Instead, what they did was offer Earl a comfy retirement and I got reassigned to being a full-time stock room attendant. I went from worryin’ my ass off to lovin’ life even more, mang. These days I have me thirty nine out of forty each week of paid time, free to do what I wish. A cat can’t just waste getting paid to do their own thing like I was and that’s where all those ruttin’ sessions come in. I started bringing in my laptop every day and by the time most peeps are taking their first sip of coffee and cursing through the workload that was left for them the night before, I’m watching some skank getting cornholed by some dude with a ten-inch dick and documenting that shit for money.

I watch this shit most of the morning, then write about it on my website, and let’s just say the public is startin’ to take notice. I get just enough extra green from online ruttin’ to fund a healthy portion of my hip-hop label, Wax Sabre, named after my love for the Samurai. I can also thank the unsupervised work atmosphere for covering so much of the label’s overhead. The challenges of pushing music in the internet age is rough, mang and these perks help. Whether it’s flyers for shows, postage for mailin’ out the merch, color photo copies of covers for the albums or burning advance copies of new beats for the media, I need my pool of free resources. Wax Sabre ain’t profitable yet, but with the amount of time I can spend on it, it shouldn’t be too long. Hell, if this stockroom were any less supervised I could just set-up a fucken studio up in this bitch and record my artists right here.

In the meantime, I got me a multi-level plan to stay off radar. Another show I watched on the Learning Channel got me wise to the five senses. Weird though ‘cuz the were referring to the sense of smell as ‘the old factory sense’. Well, I don’t know what old factories have to do with detecting the smell of food, but I picked up one important fact – humans tie memory with smell and if I start eatin’ delicious grub around the peeps in the office, they just might start taking notice of me and that’s attention I don’t want to be havin’. So no matter what’s going on mang, I always eat out of the office and it works, which is good because I really don’t fucken want to.

When I meet new sweeties down at the clubs and tell ‘em I work over at my own office. Trouble is I can’t back it up by asking them to drop by for a visit. What I can do is leave mail sent to my job with the company address on it layin’ all over my crib, though and it feels nice havin’ honeys seein’ mail addressed to Terrance Copeland, C.E.O. Jerry, the supervisor of the mailroom, gets free Wax Sabre products for the trouble of interceptin’ any mail for the label and droppin’ it my way. The boy sees to it that his eyes and my eyes are the only ones that see it.

Lately, though, I’ve been sensing something in the air and I call help but feel odd about it. There’s always change goin’ in this company, but Seth Pullman, a COO or somethin’ like that has been in some kind of a funk over the past few weeks. They been shipping his ass out to Japan and somethin’ about it has been gnawin’ him.

Personally, I always liked the guy, even if he’s everything my mom warned about – a white man with lots of money. I guess you could say one reason I looked past that shit is because Seth not only knew my name, but he would sometimes stop into my ‘office’ and start up conversations. And we’re not talkin’ about small talk here. He would tell me all about how he came from a family that was workin’ class. He actually grew up close by to where my dad did. This goes to say that with Seth bein’ where he’s at now, he is one of them self-made men, just like what I’m tryin’ to be. In fact, he knows all about my label and my porn site, but unlike Jerry, he just doesn’t know I’m running these gigs out of the stockroom.

The guy’s a good influence on me. When he’d talk about all the different countries his job took him to, it would make me want to succeed even more. He’s touched every continent and said he’s officially crossed over two hundred borders. Damn, mang. I get visions of Oktoberfest getting’ sponsored by Wax Sabre Records and the itch to have my label’s roster perform in Dubai. It’s all about the largeness, mang.

When y’all look at it, I got one up on Seth. I got something he never had – a sponsored source of free time and no overhead for my business supplies. He spent his early days bagging groceries on weekday nights, and bussing tables on weekend nights and making extra amounts of his own spaghetti sauce when cooking for himself and sellin’ it to other students so he could put himself through one of the choicest universities in the country. If only my momma was wise to that shit.

So then what’s this vibe I’m picking up off of Seth? The guy is filled with something and I figure it’s the fear. Whatever the case is, I can’t be wallowing too much on it. If something is goin’ down I need to concentrate on the new act I just signed and get a marketing plan in together, should my last days be comin’ up.



  1. warren said,

    December 1, 2009 at 4:07 pm

    not bad altogether…but whats the mang thing he keeps saying over and over?

  2. ftlp said,

    December 1, 2009 at 4:19 pm

    The term ‘mang’ is a variation of ‘man’ and for it’s origins, look here:

    If you want to hear it in action, go rent Hustle & Flow. Terence Howard must utter it about 200 times in under two hours.

  3. LMB said,

    December 1, 2009 at 5:54 pm

    Won’t it be difficult to keep the ebonics up for the entire novel? Especially when you don’t normally speak it and well, aren’t black. You might just get roasted for that.

    • ftlp said,

      December 1, 2009 at 5:59 pm

      I had given the issue of ebonics consideration, but overall, the character was originally going to be a punk running a hardcore/punk rock label. Since I wanted the character to be capitalistic I chose to go with hip-hop, since it would contradict the whole punk code of ethics.

      As for the rest of the book, about 70% of it is written in the third person. There are just a few passages written in Terr’s voice.

  4. rush said,

    December 1, 2009 at 6:36 pm

    Looking forward to where you plan on going with this characte but not sure if hes supposed to be a heel or what.

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