May I offer a few words from the voice of experience?

In the fair nation of Chile I was offered a position pimping for the local brothel. I accepted. The house needed someone who could speak a variety of languages and I needed my motorcycle sprung from the clutches of the Chilean authorities. The list of characters includes the following: Everett (Peace Corp volunteer), one madame, one German captain and his engineer, thirty-five Filipino sailors, enough whores to keep the sailors happy, two Caribinari (Pinochet’s guys), six cops, three bartenders, ten taxi drivers, one customs official, a crane operator, and yours truly.

The plot I hatched was Byzantine in its complexity. I’m not proud of what I did, but Machiavelli would understand. I arranged things. That’s what pimps do. I’ll give you the bottom line. The sailors got laid and the whores got paid. Everett bedded the madame; they were hot for one another. I knew that Everett had a groin full of clap, but tough luck; I needed the bitch out of the way. She ran the town. I wasn’t going to spring my bike without her say-so. Customs got a cut as did the crane operator. The cops got free drinks and free nookie after the sailors were done. The cabbies got double duty, to and from the ship at exorbitant rates. The Caribinari got nailed by their wives courtesy of madame who was sick and tired of paying their bribes. The captain and I got drunk while his engineer found the woman of his dreams (at least for a night). The bartenders picked up the residue, spare change and lost wallets. Hoo-ha! Time to leave.

I got my bike back in the Port of Baltimore. I broke it out of the crate, and she fired right up when I hit the kick start. It didn’t last. A few weeks later I was T-boned at the intersection of Connecticut Avenue at the Calvert Street Bridge. I reckon my gods were watching out for me. I landed on my feet. Not a scratch. The Chilean madame must have had it in for me and made contract with her own gods. A bit of social disease will make a woman all sorts of ornery. Not sure what happened to Everett. Last I heard, his wife was on her way to join him in Chile. Good luck.

You see, I don’t recommend sleeze as a way of life. Lay down with dogs and get flees. In the case of Iraq, you get desert flees. I have no sympathy for fools who get caught. I got out when I could. Words to the wise.


2 thoughts on “Reality

  1. Basil
    Sorry I could not get this into comments, so had to post as new post. Thanks for the story/warning/parable. Way wasted-Gotta go now!
    Cheers Svin

  2. Um, neat-o story, Baz!
    I remember the “Ride [almost] to Tierra Del Fuego” and your sojourn as a procurer. So glad that worked out for you. So sorry about your bike, and all.
    True fact in the admonition about fleas … if you lie with dogs, you do get verminized. But that doesn’t mean you have to start licking your balls and humping the guests.
    If “Pimp for my Ride” was a tale intended to justify the detention and torture of an American contractor (and yes, Muninn, he got paid for working in Bugdad), I don’t get it.
    If you will ellucidate, I shall endeavor to persevere.

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