Stop! Look And Consider!

No. 9 of 31 -- Thermometer series

Our great blog drive is a thing of beauty — I hope you see it and that you're rolling in the flowers here, your happiness our only concern, and will get inside for one sweet joyride.

I’m exercising a bit of privilege today by citing a guy I briefly knew, Roy S. Who drove drunk through a forest in Arkansas, swerving to avoid wolves and going off the cliff. He was quite a guy, that I never ever saw again. But my memory is clear enough that when we parted he was on his way to a whorehouse. Note: If your name is Roy S., or worse, Mrs. Roy S., this was a totally different guy.

The ride I had with Roy was misery at the time, but joy when I got out, and now that it’s been almost 50 years ago, a happy memory. I use it as a reminder: However bad my life is, whatever terrible slimy messes I go through, whatever diseases threaten, I survived Roy S., I can live through anything. And likewise I'm optimistic with the blog drive: I’m shooting for nothing less than every single person on earth subscribe, read or comment on my blog. You say you have a Grandma with cancer and a day to live? Sign her up. Bring her on board. But in the unlikely event that everyone doesn't subscribe, I will survive.

So I wanted to share that with you. Then, having got your attention with a collage of attention-getting men coupled with one bold Rosy the Riveter type of woman, to point you in the direction you need to go. Getting involved here, reading, commenting, and persuading your friends on the same joyful tasks. Tasks? More a lifestyle. Lifestyle? More a way of life. Way of life? More a lifestyle again. That’s how I see it, like an old rug that's never clean. It's hung in a tree, I go out everyday about noon and beat the crap out of it. Might not be a great rug, but it's cheaper than buying new.

Not everyone’s so lucky. But you can hitch your wagon here. Say you’re standing by the side of the road and you want a ride, and you’re brave enough to get in the first swerving car that comes along. That could be me or it could be Roy S. In this case, assume it’s me, normally a good driver. But I want to test you and your tolerance and your ability to survive and your confidence. Will you get in? Yes, you will. Or no, you won’t.

When you see this blog, do you think of it like everyone else, a passing thing, a bit of fluff, maybe some guy out to scam you? Some of my native bravery is a thing of the past, so that was a passing thing. And I tend to see even the most serious blogs as “So what.” It’s a big world and I have limited time, that’s not for me. But whatever else I think, number one is avoid scams, my constant fear. Think about it, would someone who has that as a constant fear of scams ever scam anyone? No, I wouldn’t.

I had no trust of Roy S., but I needed a ride and there were wolves. You can trust me, you can get in. Let’s shoot those thermometers to the moon! Let’s see them rear back and blow their tops all the way to Mars! Let the world know, We will not sit by sedately till we die. We will (metaphorically) drive together through the forest drunk as skunks, and nothing -- neither the wolves nor anything else -- will eat us till we’re happily ensconced in that comfortable (metaphorical) whorehouse, a life of beautiful pleasure and fulfilling relationships, the end of the line.

Was Tony A Well-Rounded Character?

A couple of you -- the vocal minority, always the ones hardest to satisfy -- have written in, saying you didn't feel Tony was a well-rounded character. Meaning that, according to you, what I said about him was very generalized and one dimensional.

My first instinct is to say, "This is what I have to worry about?" But then I think back, and in my defense, I said he was a son of a bitch*, and that's exactly what I meant. I mean, really, what more can I say? Like the rest of us, he lived, he did stuff, he died. Whether he had brown hair, red hair, or no hair, or a particular slope to his nose, or chiseled features, or a worried brow, or even a last name, it doesn't make any difference.

Of course they'd say he was Mr. Big, and must have been an interesting character because of that alone, so they're naturally curious. Couldn't I flesh him out a bit more? And I agree, to a limited extent. I didn't really say much about him, except his name was Tony, that he called me to his office, he gave me oversight of the prostitution operations, he had complete control over things, he had a large guard contingency, and a couple of other details, perhaps, and that he apparently reached several climaxes in the course of an average day.  

By that, I didn't mean to imply that living on the floor above a brothel means a guy is necessarily oversexed, but Tony was Tony, meaning he was known occasionally to have a good time. The climaxes were his outlet. I'm not judging. If he had a target on the ceiling, that's his business. Anyway, if living one floor above a brothel means you're oversexed, what about me? I live on the same floor. And I'm pretty chaste. But for some reason people aren't writing in asking more details about me. Maybe because I am so chaste. So now I know what's on your dirty little mind!

Actually, most of the reason I didn't say more about Tony's life is that this is real life. It's all true. I'm not darning a literary creation here -- satin and lace and frilly, flowery prose to satisfy women and fops -- no, this is documentary fact. Of course, I suppose it could be spruced up and spit-shined a bit, to make it fancier. But who cares? I've always been a man's man, preferring to let facts speak for themselves. I can't get bogged down in details like what color a man's hair is, his profile, his interests, and relationships. Tony was a son of a bitch in life, he's a son of a bitch in death, and it's not like he ever wanted to know about you, so why do you care about him?

Okay, to satisfy your idle curiosity: Tony was not just a son of a bitch, he was also scum of the earth.

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*I looked through the archives and it turns out I didn't say Tony was a son of a bitch.

Tomorrow I Kill Tony

All kidding aside, tomorrow's a big day. It's the culmination of a lifelong dream, ever since I adopted the life of a criminal at the beginning of February, to take out Mr. Big and take his place. Tomorrow, I kill Tony!

I've been preparing for it, having a hand in everything, not just the prostitution operations of which I am the head. If someone wants to know the latest scut on what's going down, I'm the go-to guy. And that's the way I like it. Tony, as powerful as he is, likes to delegate. Then he sits around his suite, and, I don't know what he does for sure, but I definitely imagine there's multiple climaxes a day. Well, how about one more? The climax of a career and a life...

My preparations have also entailed currying favor on a huge scale with Tony's unparalleled guard. Tony has one entire floor of the hotel for himself alone and his guard, eight divisions of men. To get down the hallway is no easy task, lined as it is with these guys. The Shivs, The Battalion, The Hangmen, The Pulverizers, The Psychos, The Mincemeaters, The Republicans, and The Ethnic Slurs. There's probably not a lot to say about them. They're just a bunch of extremely bad ass dudes.

But as bad ass as they are, there's one thing that puts them all in a great mood, and that's largesse, or to put it in English, material booty. Anything you can give them, if they think it's valuable and matches up with their interests, they like it. So I've been distributing some very nice things, and letting each one know how much I appreciate their service to the Organization. And in return they have taken a liking to me.

And that's mainly it. Ducats and stuff. Tons of it, given repeatedly, with no let-up, is all it takes to buy these guys' loyalty. Money, drinks, hookers, iPods, gift baskets assembled around themes (101 Dalmations, NCAA basketball, antique cars, edible underwear, etc.), boxes of grapefruit from Harlingen, TX, gift cards for 1-800-FLOWERS, styrofoam coolers full of Omaha Steaks, overnighters at Hooters, free Kindles (without "special offers"), and, probably most popular, complete bound sets of the U.S. commemorative quarters series.

They know what's coming, complete and total hell for Tony. And I'm simply going to walk down the hall and do it. They're cool with it because they're cool with me. So there you are. Somebody's gonna die!

The Backwoods Men Are Coming!

This is going to be great for business! The Backwoods Men are coming! Every forward-looking, red blooded American male worth his salt will be up and ready for anything, making my life easier and more prosperous. Hi, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward here, crime boss in charge of the Organization's prostitution operations.

It's always been my theory that the best vice thrives best when under the grip of the vise, some seemingly insurmountable challenge to its existence. When a man thinks he might take a knife in the back for his instinctual prerogatives, that's when he goes at it at peak performance. It's an instinct going back to the ancients, with a battleaxe tearing down a man's tent. He felt compelled to leave something behind before death.

But let's look forward, not backwoods. The backwoods view is the view of the instinct-slayers, a furry, boneheaded, religious tribe from the country, dumb as a post, but very self-righteous. A few of their womenfolk came to town and found good careers, and now they want them back. Back to the woods they must go, according to these chuckle heads. It's always that way with these guys, always backwoods, never forward!

And it's not like their women are even suffering that much. It's not backbreaking work. There's many different positions and preferences. And there's good pay and good tips, three square meals a day, their own room, and counseling if they need it. I don't know, they get to read in their off hours, and they can watch all the TV they want. The only thing they might ever complain about is having to stay up late.

But like I said, I'm all for the Backwoods Men! Let 'em come! Bring 'em on! Make my day! We'll do our best to fend them off, most of them. Realizing, as I do, that if a few of them get through and make something of a mess, a limited mess to our place, it'll be great for business. I mean, who wouldn't want to see one of these guys running through the hall? It'd be something to talk about for a month, the extreme danger you felt. Forbidden fruit is always the sweetest! And if some guy gets killed -- wow, that's wild! They'll all say, "At least it wasn't me!"

My advice would be, The Backwoods Men are coming? Run forward, men! Don't look backwoods at all, look ahead! Remember Lot's wife. As the Good Book teacheth, "He who stumbleth backwoods in the dark walketh not forward in the light."

However, as much as I know the Backwoods Men will be good for business, let me stress, I do not support them in any way. They're ridiculous. What kind of man would be against other guys having a good time? They'd have to be backwoods. There's definitely something backwoods about that kind of thinking. They'd gladly take society backwoods, with all the progress we've made. I might be mean about it and say, maybe they don't know how to be forward with a woman. Forward just ain't their direction! They're just big wooly-looking backwoods bullies!

Anyway, when they get here, we'll see what we're dealing with. And if one of these backwoods, self-righteous wrath-makers could be trusted with a key to the backdoor, at least temporarily. I wouldn't mind seeing him do his thing a little bit, then changing the lock when he goes back to the woods.

Right now, every forward-looking man's nerves are on edge -- the threat is real, and I'm loving it! For our traffic, we're going boldly, ever confidently into the future. In no way will we allow ourselves to go backwoods, never, not at all!

I Am Not Going Soft

Friends, I get your mail, full of proud suggestions. You think you know more about it than me! I'm not saying it pisses me off too much, but just a warning: Watch your back... Anyway, a few of you -- the vocal few -- have expressed a hand-wringing concern that I'm going soft. You're saying my crime escapades don't really match up with the stuff that typically marks crime at this level, i.e., organizational crime. To which I say, Screw you!

The truth is, my blog is gaining some attention around town with the last few honest underlings at the police department, so sometimes I have to cool it. I'm cagey, not soft! Sometimes it's important to keep a lower profile to stymie the bozos. But I'm also scheming to destroy them so I can freely flaunt my so-called evil, which I actually believe, since I'm doing it, is virtue.

I'm not going soft. Stay tuned if you think that. You're going to see Ming the Merciless. People are going to die, people are going to be deprived of property, and people are going to suffer petty mischief. And speaking for the mischief-makers, it's not going to be pretty, that is, from people's point of view. From mine, of course, it will be a thing of beauty.

Also, you're concerned about the short term, instant kicks. But I'm looking way ahead. I've learned a lesson from history. If you want to be truly honored as a criminal, you have to go all out, pull out all the stops, then, and yes it might take 100 years, they'll revere your memory. Bullet holes that you've shot in buildings, they'll preserve, even giving tours to see them, and if they ever paint the place, they'll paint around them.

They may say they hate criminals today, but eventually, if you were bad enough, and cagey, they'll have days named after you, like Bonnie and Clyde Days, Al Capone Days, Jesse James Days, etc. I hope to be so bad that they not only have Machine Gun Ricky Wayward Days, but, thanks to my reflected glory, days for my less distinguished associates, Big Brute Days (the first guy ever to force me in love), Rutledge Week, in honor of the guy I blackmailed twice and who subsequently died in an actual blackmail operation, and Tony Day (one day's good enough for him), in honor of my boss, at least at the present moment.

But those tributes of the future, when today's bad news becomes folklore, won't happen without the present moment, and what I do right now. Therefore, onward and upward! Greater bigger and worse crimes lie ahead!  (I did an awesome, though low-level, crime the other day that's had me chuckling ever since. You know the stop sign and other little orange sashes the school crossing ladies use? We found the shed where they keep them and raided it! Tossed all their stuff off a bridge and the last I saw of it it was floating away. Probably sunk by now, waterlogged! LOL! This is virtuous because kids ought to know how to cross the road on their own. If chickens can manage it...)
  
I have schemes in mind not just for society but for the Organization. One, and please don't tell anyone, I'm planning a move on Tony. Seriously, I may as well confess, the chances of anyone ever celebrating Tony Day are not good, because he's not long for this world... I've already said too much.

Getting back to my everyday life, of course I'm still in the market for ways to promote prostitution more effectively. I want it lift it out of the mud in the eyes of folks. I don't want it to have a wholesome amusement park nature, of course, because that would completely destroy the charm of sneaking around. But the more actual danger we can build in, the more attractive I believe it will be. So look for good stuff on that front. Just to pique your interest, how about johns being killed in flagrante delicto?

I love the idea of keeping their nerves on edge. They still come in with the same lust, but it'll be magically heightened with the thought that they might be actually killed. I can see myself doing a cursory investigation -- just enough to assure them things are back to normal. Then I'll get everyone excited about it as the danger is renewed, then wave it off again, then another eruption, then it's calmed down. That'll be great for business. Probably the key moment, the moment of greatest danger, will come just as I announce the building has rock solid security, everyone is safe, and they can go on their way. Delicious!

So, in conclusion, just a note to all the haters, you can rest easy, or put a sock in it. I've got my own criminal operations well in hand. I won't be listening to a word you say. Time for you to take a break. Of course I could invite you up to the hotel -- come on over! I'm so soft, nothing could ever happen to you!

He Paid For Companionship

REALITY:

Clint married Maude back when Maude was a cool name. He did his best over the years, always faithful, and accepting what she offered, leading to child #1, #2, #3, and #4. The children all survived.

She had her good qualities, being completely in tune with his past. They had the same memories and pretty much the same interests. To all appearances, they were the perfect couple.

But his eye wandered, although thankfully it was just his eye, not any other body part. At one point he was tempted, arguing that sex was the same as shaking hands, only with different body parts.

Eventually, he and Maude, in their 80s, died, remarkably only three hours apart, showing their complete soul harmony. They died and the newspaper wrote it up like this: "Clint and Maude died together, basically a double-ring funeral."


ALT REALITY:

Right when it came time to marry Maude, he left her at the altar. He'd had a premonition of what was to come, life as a grind with just one woman.

How much more adventurous it'd be to pay for companionship. They're always up for it and seemingly more than willing. He wakes up, sees a receipt on the pillow, which goes into his book of memory.

Years of this -- a different woman every time, although once in a while he'd cycle around to the same one -- kept him pretty well satisfied. And his wallet lean as new, in certain respects.

Then came a time, in his mid-30s, when he noticed some of the well-known symptoms, what they whisper about venereal disease. Obviously, somewhere there was a clinker in the mix, which had made her way into his bed and trusting arms. Or could there have been two with a cross-pollination thing gone bad? Sex has its moments...

Clint died, and the newspaper noted that he had paid for companionship over the years, and now he had paid for it indeed, dying alone, leaving behind a number of unlived years (he was 55, so we're talking around 30 years).

The undertaker sent his brother the final receipt.

We're The Playthings Of Destiny

Being a crime boss is quite an adventure!

In my role as head of the Organization's prostitution operation, I have all kinds of duties, some routine and some just out of the blue. I have to be ready for anything. Because sometimes the human drama can be almost too much...

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. There's a lot of fun in it. And I have all kinds of leeway in the Organization. Think about it: Who else gets to engineer a diamond heist, blackmail a guy twice, and smooth the ruffled feathers of a whole team of Associates (our word for hookers), all in the same week?

Really, you never know when your next challenge will be. But I'm ready! My secret is simple: Overall clean living and daily meditation. I do my best to maintain the utmost harmony, focusing my mind, body, and spirit. I'd be a wreck without it.

So there you have it, I'm bearing my soul, laying it all on the line. Hope you're impressed.

And I'm definitely going to keep at it, because keeping a full team of Associates happy and content is not always the easiest thing in the world. Maybe you'll hear them griping, "When you said 'modeling' I had other ideas about what you meant." Or, "If this is 'massage therapy,' it's a lot different from what they taught us in class." Sometimes you can mollify them with some fresh flowers for their table, but it might just take a heart to heart talk. Which I'm always happy to do, especially if I think they'll go for it.

One of our Associates, Lorelei, came to me, all hangdog about her life, and very moody. I had her sit on the couch. Of course I did what you're supposed to do, presented her a few flowers, but she just waved them off. No, she was going to need something more, this sensitive girl from North Dakota, or Arizona, or somewhere. She'd obviously had too much time on her hands, time wasted thinking, and stewing about it. To hear her tell it, this wasn't the life she'd hoped for.

Well, what could I do ... but commiserate.  It is, after all, one of the very best techniques in human relationships, to affirm the other person through identification. And naturally it is more compelling if you have, or can quickly construct on the fly a plausible back-story. As for myself, I'm from a genuine blue collar family. Those who came before me had a tough time in the Depression. There's a history of military service with my grandpa and uncles, all before I was born. And I personally have a disability, a game toe, causing a pronounced limp most noticeable during my annual visit with federal authorities, who have to validate such things.

Lorelei told me some of her disappointments, which caused me to glance down at my foot. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said tenderly, "Does it really hurt so very much?" I held back a tear and said with all the braveness I could muster, "No, I've got a few months till the next evaluation." But still, had it not been for this migrating bone in my big toe, who knows what I might have achieved? With a good toe, and a little bit of height, I could've played for the NBA!

Our talk hit an awkward silent patch, so I pulled out my ace: "Lorelei, you and I both feel like we're the playthings of destiny. Perhaps we haven't achieved everything we hoped for, but we're happy, because we've accepted the challenges of our lives, and are even now in the process of overcoming them. I wasn't always a crime boss. I had to work at it over the last month. And you weren't always a--- an Associate here. But somehow you saw exactly what your options were, so here you are, and I'd say better for it! I'm proud of you." Such poetry, I felt tears in my eyes, natural ones, not spritzed from a bottle.

I patted Lorelei on the back and told her anytime she needed to talk, of course I would check my schedule and we might be able to squeeze in an appointment. Until then, keep a stiff upper lip, don't take any wooden nickles, and remember, them's the breaks.

Good News -- You're Being Blackmailed

We all know what blackmail is. You've had a little bit of fun, then, wham, someone blackmails you. Then it's time to pay. Of course you're all nervous when the call comes. "What?" you tremble, knowing if you pay, that won't be the end of it. The guy gives his instructions, you're in terror, but you can't realistically do anything but pay.

Some of our regulars were at the hotel this afternoon, not for the hookers, but just sitting in the lounge having coffee. In my place as the head of the Organization's prostitution operation, I have a bank of TVs to keep track of people's comings and goings, no pun intended. I saw among them a couple of the ones who said one of their fetishes was wanting "the danger" of being blackmailed.

Of course I like to make people happy. That's the business I'm in. So I thought I'd play around with this one guy, a guy named Rutledge. He's the kind of guy who would probably scare easily. And who knows how happy that might make him!

I dialed his number and watched as he answered the phone. "Mr. Rutledge," I said calmly, disguising my voice, "don't hang up..." He goes, "Who is this? What do you want?"

"What-do-I-want?" I repeated, adding a menacing chuckle. "You tell me ... You've been a very bad boy. I've been watching you." He sounded like he was getting sick. "What's this all about?" I just chuckled again, like a cat with a mouse, then said, "You know what it's about, you being a very bad boy."

In the give and take, definitely fevered at his end, I finally described the monetary payment I would need "to keep my big yap shut" and where he should make the drop. Of course I added a few snarling remarks about "What a terrible pity" it'd be for his wife to find out, especially considering all the child support he'd be liable for, with eight kids. "That'd wipe me out," he complained, to which I only replied, "I know."

He wanted to meet me face to face. It was a confused conversation because in there somewhere he started thinking maybe it was me. "Is this you, Ricky? Is this what we were just talking about?" I expressed that I didn't know anyone named Ricky. Probably more unbelievably, in spite of Ricky Ricardo and Ricky Nelson being famous Rickys, I said I'd never even heard the name before. Before he could interrupt, I cleared my throat.

"Mr. Rutledge,"  I said, "The plain truth is, I know where you go, and I know what you do there. And if you don't do exactly as I tell you, I will be sharing some very interesting facts with your lovely wife..."

"OK, dammit to hell," he blustered, "what do you want?" I explained a complicated procedure that he must perform. He should put $300 in small unmarked bills in a package, come to the hotel, catch a taxi to a particular corner, walk to a mailbox, take another taxi from there to where he started from, walk to a fire hydrant, catch a taxi back to the same particular corner, clap three times, and catch a taxi back to where he started. Then he would re-enter to the hotel and say to the receptionis, "Give this package to Mr. X when he arrives."

"That's all, then you can go back home ... to your loving wife and kids ... or carry on as you've been doing."

I could see in the monitor he was sweating a rainforest. But he was relieved, it appeared, that it was only $300. Could he be so fortunate? I brought him back to earth with a dispiriting promise, "I'll talk to you again ... next week!"

UPDATE: Rutledge did exactly as I commanded. Later, I called him up to my office and gave him back his money. He was pleasantly surprised and said, "Don't ever do that again!" and was totally relieved. I was laughing my ass off and asked how he liked it, since it was his fetish. He laughed, too, and said, "Not as much!"

I Have Johns Begging To Be Blackmailed

I was just saying "Forbidden fruit is sweetest." With my psychological background and my skills in human environmental science, of course I knew I was playing with dynamite, but the reaction of some of the guys was still nothing short of amazing.

It's amazing all by itself that I, raised to be a moralizing prude, should have such a mastery in running an upscale brothel, the entire prostitution operation of the Organization! But there's no disputing my success, as I have in just a few days doubled our clientele, and there's no end in sight. Certainly the girls are happy. No more sitting around being bored. And the guys -- WOW! -- it's like a little community. Tons of thrills and camaraderie to boot!

The key to their happiness, believe it or not, is the increased danger of getting caught. Which makes a lot of sense. Because if "forbidden" fruit is sweetest, the sweetness has to be even sweeter with this added element, the fact that your wife could storm in at any moment with a hatchet. In my opinion, this is really something to exploit, since keeping people happy is among my priorities.

OK, I said it's like a little community with the guys. They're down the hall doing their thing, proudly. Then they're coming back to my room to brag about it. And they kind of like it that I'm a moralizing prude, not taking part in any of the festivities. (I wouldn't touch one of these girls if I drank a whole keg. That's just the way I am.) But if the other guys are happy, I'm happy.

So we're talking and one of them confesses a secret desire, or fetish, that he would enjoy the danger of being blackmailed. It's not that he actually wants to be blackmailed just-like-that. But he fantasizes about someone calling him anonymously and genuinely blackmailing him, just out of the blue. That's wild! I myself would hate being blackmailed, but this guy, then a few of the others said they wouldn't mind it at all! I should've thought that anyone desperate enough to sleep with hookers has to have other issues...

I'm amazed at this. I've got guys coming to me, more or less begging to be blackmailed, or something close to it. We kicked it around a while, then they started confessing a whole bunch of stuff -- past offenses, embezzlements, robberies, murders, affairs, failure to return library books, stealing at work, premarital sex, Oedipal complexes, poisoning Tylenol, sincere allegiances to Al Qaeda, watching Fox News, being moonshiners, bullying in school, dunking pigtails in inkwells, being part of the hackers group Anonymous, war crimes, having smoked marijuana in college, selling atomic secrets to the North Koreans, and downloading illegal MP3 files! And I seriously think they were holding back. Another couple days and I'll clear Oswald...

So it went on like that, and finally I had to wave them off. My office was like a confessional. But they persisted, working on the same idea, or some variation on it: That the more they spill, the more danger they're in. I had no choice but to give in. They've tasted the forbidden fruit of our honorable little establishment. And now I've got enough dope to hang them all! I'm busy taking down all this information on note cards and putting it in my files. Then they had me swear that if they do anything at all to offend me, that I must blackmail them. It's so weird to realize that I've got these desperate epicureans in the palm of my hand!

The terms of the various agreements are very loose. But I could definitely mess with their lives if I wanted! And I'm thinking, I would love to do some psychological experiments with eunuchs, you know, something in the field of group dynamics, one of my specialties -- if I only knew some. Eureka! The Organization has some shady doctors who'd be glad to help!

Forbidden Fruit Still The Sweetest

I'm sorry to be posting so late. But I've had a busy day here at the hotel in my role as the head of the Organization's prostitution operation. It's kind of amazing, what all I've done in just the last month, since I turned to a life of crime. That first night, when I was out cutting people's screen doors and tipping garbage cans, I didn't even imagine I'd be involved in the actual flesh trade! But here I am!

They put me in charge, like I said, and I haven't wasted my time celebrating my good fortune. I've been using my power to make some changes, always with the goal of increasing our clientele, their satisfaction, and so our profits. A couple of cosmetic changes I've made: The girls must take a shower at least every other day, and they're all scheduled for an annual doctor's visit for their good health.

But the biggest thing I've done is to go back to my psychological, human environmental sciences roots and try something radically different. Here's how I reasoned it out: Forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest. Now, prostitution by its nature is forbidden fruit. So it's already pretty sweet. But the nature of forbidding something means there is the chance of getting caught. Which is very exciting! But if we always have the place set aside, apart from the path of anyone who might notice, other than a few random guys with their heads down passing in the hall, there's very little excitement in that.

So I've basically opened the door and said, "Come in, take a look!" Please don't misunderstand me. We still have plenty to hide. We're always going to have guys who will be looking out for their reputation first and foremost. For them, though, they'll be the most excited! They still don't want to get caught, most of them, but there's definitely a lot of fun in the chance it might happen. Think about some of your own fetishes. You can attest that half the fun is the idea that someone might notice, and say, "Hey, is that pink underwear?"

Of course I'm spending a lot of my time trying to explain the concept to some of the guys who are leery of it. The mayor, he's not exactly sold on the idea, to say the least. The chief of police, he doesn't officially patronize the place, I should stress. And if they ever actually saw him here, it'd be hell to pay. Yes, this is the same guy whose desk the kid crapped on! If he finds out I was behind it, there might be trouble... But with everything I know, I don't think he'll talk!

One of my big ideas today was to open the lobby to kids walking home from school, and we had a receptionist serve them free ice cream cones. It's kind of kinky, I know, the danger that one of them might see their dad in there, but if there's no real danger, why bother? I saw one dad behind a potted plant, sweating it out. So much so, that when the kid left, the dad needed an ice cream cone, too! He was shaking, and still sweating, when I helped him into the elevator to go up for his date. But I have to think he was secretly very happy!

A couple of the ideas I have, but haven't had a chance to get them going yet, are: 1) To invite the Daily News photographer to walk the halls and snap pictures, randomly, of course, and only when it's least expected; and, 2) To hire a limo to pull up in front of the place at random times of the day and night. There won't be anyone in it, but there's nothing that makes people look like a limo! And if they catch a glimpse of a neighbor guy, their priest, the handyman, or whoever, in the doorway, so much the better!

How fun! And I'm thinking it's going to be very profitable!

Rugs Is No Life For A Woman

As the new guy in charge of the Organization's "massage parlors," "modeling agencies," and "escort services" (prostitution), one of my ongoing interests will be procuring new girls. Just stepping in, I'm thankful to learn of one time-tested method we're using all the time.

Coincidentally, it ties in with the fly-by-night carpet store business I was just recently part of. So I have experience in that too! They've found that one very effective way to lure, entice, or convince a woman into prostitution is to appeal to her domestic side. Then we make a quick shift in that presentation that calls into question the emptiness and vanity of that life. Here's the way it goes, as I understand it:

For the ruse, we have a storefront, which appears to be an actual store, where is set up all kinds of household wares. It's quite a display, everything the lady of the house might want, a real paradise to behold. There's couches, TV trays, lamps, curtains, and so forth. Somehow we get the candidate into the store, and maybe she's given some spending money -- I'm not sure how that works.

Then -- and here's where the switch comes in -- there's the greatest inducement toward domesticity followed by a quick shift away from it. She's looking at flooring, linoleum, hardwood, and more importantly, carpeting and rugs. Let's just jump to the carpet and rugs. She's immediately seduced by the gorgeous patterns -- symmetrical lines, ornate blossoms of flowers, etc. -- and it is indeed amazing the many patterns carpet makers have come up with. Just like they were on LSD... So she's driven toward domesticity.

Now, in this whole ruse, think of the vast experience the underworld has in the carpet trade. It's one of our biggest moneymakers, selling sub-par, shoddy carpet in fly-by-night stores. Carpet is that one consumer product that might be good and it might be bad. Just looking at it doesn't tell you much. It's not like a tire that you can kick and immediately know if it will keep your family safe. The only way to judge carpet is to run your hand across it and see if the tufts come off with the touch. And that's not as easy as it sounds. A good carpet dealer, that is, a good underworld carpet dealer, distracts the buyer with lifetime warranties and the benefits of various cleaning products, so much so that they never actually touch the carpet. 

Be that as it may, then, let's say we've got the woman, now a domestic princess, in our fake store. There's a few hardened, deceitful prostitutes walking around in normal clothing, pretend shopping, to lure her into a sense of security. Then we start putting the psychological screws to her. It turns out this or that item doesn't bring satisfaction. It costs money, big money to keep up the house. There's always something else you need, something else that costs big money. Finally, you throw up your hands and say, What's the use?

We've passed through the kitchen area, the appliance area, the bathroom area, etc., and we come to the carpet and rug department. Oh, this is sly! We show the incredible variety of rugs and carpets, how perfect they are. All that just before we bring out a piece of shoddy carpet. "Just run your hand over this masterpiece!" And as she does so, it comes apart in her hand! The "salesman" goes ballistic. "This is my job, to offer only the finest carpet, and someone has fallen down on the job!" The woman is disappointed, and the salesman's disappointment increases both her disappointment and anxiety exponentially.

He's sobbing, she consoles him, they embrace, they make mad love on a roll of fraying, falling apart, flaking away carpet. She suddenly sees the ultimate vanity of trying to be a domestic goddess, that the whole thing is a sham you can never trust. But the sex act, which she just experienced, that's something that endures! He leads her on. This perfection, this beautiful joining together of man and woman -- with all his fetishes -- can be hers. He knows a guy, a friend of a friend, who can set her up, etc., to experience it ... forever!

The other women shoppers -- the disguised prostitutes in on the ruse -- come over and appear to be falling in line with her decision. "You have shown us the way!" is their attitude. They all fall into a giant orgy, and next thing you know, she's set up with a room at the hotel, and an endless parade of visitors. She's well away from the disappointing world of housekeeping, the men of town are out of the house and away from their nagging wives, and we, the Organization, have a brand new source of income.

Everyone wins!

I'm Now In Charge Of Prostitution

Hi, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward here...

Time for an update. Remember the other day? Tony (Mr. Big of the Skidrow organization, the Skids) called me to the hotel and put me in charge of the organization's prostitution interests. Let me rephrase that: "Modeling agencies," "massage parlors," and "escort services." Need to be accurate.

I spent yesterday getting settled in. And guess what? I'm back in a nice bed every night, not spending it outside or with other snoring, farting guys in the various cellars of Skidrow. Because my office/personal space is provided by the organization, a suite at the same hotel. We have permanent occupancy of an entire floor. It's me and the rooms for the girls, with Tony on another floor. I wouldn't doubt it if the organization owned the whole place!

Being in charge doesn't mean I'm personally doing all the work. There's lots of other guys who take care of the grunt work. I haven't seen my job description in full, but I'm over them, to hire and fire, kill or rough up, and supervise as I see fit. I've got three body guards/assistants living together in the room across the hall, to back me up if we need to put the old squeeze on someone.

I'm coming into this job with high hopes. I want to be the best damned guy they've ever had, to bring in a ton more money than anyone ever has. I guess it's strange: Even though I'm now a criminal, prone to plenty of random mischief, I still have my normal sense of responsibility and striving. Honor among thieves. So all the money the organization is entitled to is going to make it to the powers that be. I won't be skimming off anything beyond whatever cut they give me. And if I catch any of these other cretins doing so, they're dead!

The place is already very busy, but I'm hoping to make it busier. I want to reach out to civic organizations, lodges, churches, the teachers association, and various conventions, to let them know how welcome they are, and how top notch the place is going to be run. That's one way to up the income. And when I get going, everything's going to be as clean as can be, and a man coming in will know he's going to get his money's worth, with discretion to boot. At this point, there's no plans for blackmailing any of our clientele. And from the sound of things, some of them are very bad boys indeed!

I have to keep reminding myself that rocks are no respecter of persons. Because there's some definite vanilla-looking guys coming in. Boring-looking twerps who'd probably blush to hold a girl's hand. But they're in here, walking respectfully down the hall, presumably shucking their pants and turning into amorous casanovas once the door's closed. Or maybe they're into something kinkier, some kind of humiliating role play. That'd be my guess. Just like mass murderers, it's always the quiet guy edging his yard. Which we don't usually think of as a psychological problem. It is, however, their meticulous attention to detail that shows they're storing up the worst wrath, then once they erupt, there's no one in their path they miss.

Then at the other extreme, of course, we have the party animals, coming in from drinking. Their yards probably look like crap. The edges growing wild. And they themselves are so wild they don't care who sees them. It might be for the best that so many people do see them. Because these idiots could get easily rolled and disappear. So it never hurts to have witnesses who remember your whereabouts.

As for me, right here is my whereabouts! And here I'll stay. I've got people saying, "Mr. Wayward, this! Mr. Wayward, that!" It's great!

The Criminal -- Machine Gun Ricky Wayward

I'm advancing steadily in the organization. A few short weeks ago, when I started my life of crime, I was a abject nobody, passing my time in basic mischief, tipping garbage cans and slashing random screendoors. But then it all took off.

I worked my way up quickly. I took on the dirty jobs no one else wanted, like managing the organization's fly-by-night carpet racket. That taught me many valuable lessons, chiefly, that crime does pay. Even now, I picture a bunch of disappointed customers hauling worthless carpet to the curb, their furnace filters clogged from floating tufts of shag. To me, that's funny. The saps. It serves them right, trying to save money buying crap carpet!

Then things got dirty. I became the go-to guy for some of the worst hit-jobs, since I'm not in the least reticent to off the bastards. I figure, hey, they're criminals, what's the difference? I'm saving society the cost of expensive trials if they were caught, and the greater long-term expense of keeping them in prison. So I look at it as a public service. Admittedly, there's a touch of irony in my service, since I too am a criminal!

I might seriously worry about such ironies, at least back in my normal life. But I'm not worried about it now precisely because I am a criminal! We're beyond the normal rules of behavior, one, and I extend that to questions of logic and consistency. If I need to off someone who isn't a criminal, I'll also have a justification for that, or maybe I won't. ...

But this isn't a place to get into the philosophy of criminality. I haven't got time for it. I'm too busy looking out for myself and my future, which appears to be well in hand.

As an example of what I mean, I've been up to see the Boss of the Skidrow organization, the Skids. I've been in his sights, the good ones, not his gun's. He noticed me, and he likes what he sees. He has a nice hotel room on the square. He's got security. I had to walk by a ton of guys to get to his room. Once there, he offered me refreshments and patted me on the back.

He said he liked the cut of my jib, praised me for having moxy on the ball, and said I was the cat's meow. I agreed, having a lot of self confidence, saying when they made me they threw away the mold. Then I made his day by saying, "When they cracked open the nut of life, they looked down and saw me waving, the meat of the goodie." He had to laugh, which seemed clear I reminded him of himself. He stuck out his hand and said, "Call me Tony."

I said, "Tony, I know your time is valuable. What did you call me here for?"

Unexpectedly, he handed me a gun, and told me to aim it at him. I did, putting the bead right on the Katastha (or Ajna) chakra, right between the eyebrows. He said, "You could be Mr. Big, just like that."

I stood there with steely resolve, feeling a thrill right in that same area of my face, with my spiritual sight descending (in Tony's head) from that point in an arc to the medulla oblongata, then centering in the point between those two poles. Obviously Tony had never seen that kind of intensity. I call it Kundalini Whispering. I use it to keep my dog calm, but you can just as easily drive people crazy. Then as quick as a wink, I diverted the gun to the right and blew a light bulb out of its socket. Immediately, one of the security guys barged in, but Tony waved him off, saying nonchalantly, "Ricky saw a fly, that's all."

When the guy left, I said, "Ricky? My name isn't Ricky. It's not even in the Ricky family of words." But Tony said, "You're Ricky!" I said, "OK, I'm Ricky. Ricky what?" Then he said, apparently having given the matter some thought: "Machine Gun Ricky Wayward."

"Wayward," I said, "like the wayward wind. I like it."

In short, I now had a cool name. Then he went on to explain to me, I was the new man in charge of the organization's "modeling agencies," "massage parlors," and "escort services." Maybe you know it better as prostitution, the skin trade, the old pokeroo for money business.