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!

Diamond Heist Yields Millions In Diamonds

Oh boy! This was a biggie! And I'm happy to say it was all my idea! Thank God for the devious subconscious, because that had to be where it came from! I was really worried for my reputation after my plan to fix the pro wrestling match failed. So I'm thinking about that, that my ascension in the realms of the criminal glitterati was stymied, when I came up with a great idea. To stage a diamond heist! And it turned out better than I could ever imagine!

My brainchild was, Why not create a diversion? Then while a few police officers, the active patrol at that moment, checked it out, we would use what could only realistically be a 10-minute window to rob one of the local jewelry stores. I thought we would have to work fast, because the city's finest would quickly deal with the diversion and be back on patrol in no time. But I also had this crazy idea that we might get more...

I went with this psychology: A huge diversion would point to a huge crime taking place. But a small diversion might not even seem like a diversion. But it'd still be enough to keep the few guys on patrol busy, and even complacent. So it was very small, a normal sized garbage can with a few gasoline-doused rags afire in it, squarely in the middle of a large parking lot, adjoined to a defunct grocery store, absolutely no danger to anyone. With a guy watching from behind the trees on a nearby hill, telling us what's going on with a walkie-talkie app on our phones. Complete with cool bursts of static sound effects between transmissions.

He lit the rags and went to his place. Someone called the cops, then they started showing up. At that point, the rest of us were at the jewelry store. We busted in and started shooting the place up, obviously scaring the crap out of everyone. I saw my phone light up and called for quiet. "Shut up, youse guys!" I commanded. I took the walkie-talkie call, and it was amazing: It wasn't just a few officers on the scene. It looked like the entire police force was out there to investigate the little fire, including what looked like every emergency vehicle in town!

We were still working with some urgency, because Who knows?! And then -- oh no! -- I thought we were done for; I heard sirens and pressed my nose up against the glass. A string of police cars (black and white with a cherry on top) came into view, but, thank God, they were speeding by, heading west. With civilians along as well! I got a call later that confirmed it. Police headquarters had apparently emptied out, including all the secretaries and even the dispatchers! What a scene it must've been, 50-75 unnecessary personnel gathered around a (by now) smoldering garbage can!

It seemed like we had all the time in the world! We bound up the jewelry store guy, his wife, his kids, and the rest of his staff. They watched us move around the store with impunity, emptying out the place right down to the wall. Then we had an unexpected windfall: A delivery truck pulled up in back, with diamonds and other jewelry not just for that store but for every store in the area. We opened the door, bound that guy too, and started carrying his load to our own vehicles. This was diamonds in big buckets, heaping over, a huge payday! At one point I had one big bucket in one hand, another in the other, and a smaller, daintier bucket held in my teeth!

Our guy called on the walkie-talkie and said no one was leaving. It appeared they figured it was close enough to 5:00 that they might as well close out their shift socializing. Although there was some official business at the scene, with forensics carefully measuring the distance from the empty store to the garbage can. And it seemed important to dust the unburnt pieces of rags for prints.

We had everything out of the store, everything out of the truck, and time to spare. And here's where it gets good. I stepped out and saw a young kid with tattoos. I knew he had to be a delinquent, so I called him over. I said, "Do you know where the police department is?" He says, "You mean the cop shop?" I said, like Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, "Good boy, delightful boy!" I told him I'd give him 10 bucks if he'd run over and take a piss on the police chief's desk. And a hundred bucks if he really had to go! The youngster let a fart, which I took as a promise. So I was better than my word: I gave him a hundred bucks and a bucket of diamonds and sent him on his way...

We left then, headed back to the hotel, and took our time getting the loot up to our rooms. After splitting it between us, I went back to my room, took a shower and nap, watched Jeopardy, and went over to the corner for a milkshake. It wasn't till then that I saw the police cars come speeding back into town, sirens full blast, headed for the jewelry store.

Help The Parotid Kid Beat Parotitis

Hey, all you buckaroos! You all know I'm in a very big battle, to knock out and beat parotitis! And I'm askin' once again for everyone's help, all the help I can get, with parotitis coming in like it does, rustlin' and puttin' its brand on a lot of jaws.

I took up the fight a long time ago, when one side of my dear old Ma's face swelled up big as a steer's head. I said, "What's the matter with your face, Ma?", and she said one word I'll never forget: "Parotitis!" The old doc told her, "Yep, ma'am, that's what you got!"

And she stayed like that, tryin' her best to break the thing's grip, but she just couldn't. So before we knew it, she wasn't chewin', swallowin', or even talkin' quite right. She could only make a few bare little peeps, just enough for us to know she was restless and needed put back in her bunk. And that's where she kicked the bucket, with her boots on, and her face all puffed up big as a barn.

When you see somethin' like that, and it gets your own mother -- as good a ma as I'm ever likely to know -- it sticks with you. My ma was special, but she didn't do anything special to come down with parotitis. All she did was get up one day and start complainin' of some little puffy spot under her jaw. Then it got bigger and bigger, and before we knew it, it was full grown and all spread out!

The old doc said this was a problem in somethin' called the parotid gland, with there being one on each side of the face. He said somethin' about them being "found wrapped around the mandibular ramus," and that they "secrete saliva through Stensen's ducts into the oral cavity, to facilitate mastication and swallowing and to begin the digestion of starches." Wee doggies, it was all I could do to follow the old boy! A lot of 50 cent words there!

Well, it turns out -- and wouldn't you guess? -- things can go wrong with these glands, and they sure did with ma! You might've heard about, or even had, the mumps? That's the most likely cause of parotitis. But they vaccinate for mumps, so there's not so much of that anymore. But other random bacteria, varmints you can't see and don't expect, can also crawl in there, like a dog maybe to die, but they find a decent home and start eatin' away. Then they start breedin', and pretty soon you've got a whole herd of bacteria stampeding under there and no place to go! And next thing, that's a tumor!

Now, you're sayin', we can cut out a tumor! Well, yes and no. Because there's somethin' called "the facial nerve parotid lodge," and that's where you'll see a lot of the gang holed up. A lot of the gang. But if you don't get the whole blamed bunch, and leave behind even a few stragglers, maybe watchin' out in the hills, the whole bunch can just come back! And madder than hornets! So these varmints, you gotta catch 'em early!

Well, you know The Parotid Kid's in the fight, that's for sure! But I need a bunch more pardners to lend me a hand. So how about you? If I can get you and you and you and you to help out, and let everyone know about one tough hombre, called parotitis, maybe we can get 'em all corralled and wipe out the whole blamed gang, once and for all!

I Try To Fix A Pro Wrestling Match

I had a bright idea that the Organization should get involved in the professional wrestling game, specifically, to fix the biggest match in this area in some time, coming up tomorrow, Polish champ Stanislaus Zbyszko vs. dried up Jack Taylor.

I told Tony -- Mr. Big -- my idea, and he was dubious we could pull it off. One, he's never heard of pro wrestling being fixed before; it's always on the up and up. Still, I had his blessing, if I could successfully arrange it. He said he'd put 50 Gs on the match with a Zbyszko fall. Because of course Zby's the overwhelming favorite.

We got ahold of Al Reynolds, the promoter. I heard him yawn on the phone, "Surrrre, come over, bring your boys, whatever..." Tony told me to take the only former pro wrestler in the Organization, Big Brute, to help out, who was also skeptical. In short, we made threats, we used the old strong arm technique, both usually effective as an opening gambit ... but not in the field of pro wrestling! Those guys would not bend!

So Tony and Brute were right. And I'm thinking, You mean to tell me pro wrestling's on the up and up? Why aren't there reports of matches in the daily news, sports journals, and almanacs? You're telling me those big garish belts are actually awarded to legitimate winners? I couldn't believe it!

I said I wanted Zbyszko and Jack Taylor to trade falls, then for Zby to take a powder in the 3rd and final fall. Geez, what money there'd be! Stanislaus is a future hall of famer, no one expects him to lose! Taylor's best days are far behind him. Why they even picked that half dead layabout, I'll never know. Not when guys like Earl Caddock and Ed "Strangler" Lewis of headlock fame were available! You tell me!

Anyway, I didn't want to take no for an answer. I pulled out my gun. Brute tried to calm me down. I went up on the ring, shot 40 shells in the mat, and said, "That could've been your head!" They weren't impressed.

I asked the wrestling boss if he had any pictures of his kids. He tossed me his wallet. I took out a big string of pictures, stuck them on a nail on the wall, and shot the shit out of them. These photographic memories of his children, once so recognizable you could pick out each one as a distinctive individual, were like New Year confetti. You couldn't tell which were girls and which boys. All traces of gender were gone, as were all traces of anything, except you could still see the original photos were in color, since the pile of resulting confetti was colorful, as confetti generally is. It didn't matter, he said, the integrity of the sport was too important.

You mean to tell me?.....

I still had one huge ace up my sleeve. Before arriving, some of the guys had abducted some of these guys' mothers. We led them in in chains. They were crying, etc. But everyone remained very calm. The mothers were assisted into the ring, and some of the other boys brought in a full arsenal of machine guns. We were going to get a deal or the mothers would die!

But now it was the mothers' turn to plead, which turned out badly. Instead of pleading for their lives, they pleaded for their sons to keep intact their honesty. "We will gladly die, please allow us to die! Just do not stain your honor or that of professional wrestling for any reason as selfish as keeping us alive. The sport must be Number 1, it must go on! We've lived a good life. We are ready to die." They laid it on thick, as you can tell.

Meaning, we eventually let the mothers go, and gave up. I couldn't believe the sport of pro wrestling was indeed a sport, so entirely above board and incorruptible. I thought it was a sham. But every word is true. It happened just like I said...

In the end, I was philosophical about it: Into every life a little rain must fall. At least I thought that was the end. Al Reynolds and some of his bruisers grabbed us and tossed us around the ring like rag dolls, supplying us a full and vicious pummeling for good measure, their feeling on the subject, not mine.

My Name Shows Up In The Daily News

OK, Daily News, we get it: You hate crime! Which is a little hypocritical, because you don't have any qualms about playing it up with big garish headlines and profiting from it! Huh? Did I hit a nerve?

MURDER RING PROBE ON -- Oh, really? A few bozos get killed and they need to do a whole probe? Oh yeah! It's ON, their word. And they call it a "Murder Ring." LOL, that might be a bit overblown, but anything to sell newspapers, right, Daily News?

I might be a little sensitive, I realize it. I'm still fairly new at being a criminal, so I'm touchy. It's the first time I've ever seen my name in the paper in connection with a crime. But there it is, big as life:

Police are seeking the whereabouts of Machine Gun Ricky Wayward in connection with the murders, and other clues as to his background and identity.

It turns out there aren't any Waywards in the area. They must have checked around. "Have you ever heard of Machine Gun Ricky Wayward?" "No, I've never heard of him." They probably looked it up in the mugshot book, and of course I'm not in there. At this point, I'm probably safe. I doubt if the Tastee Freez had video surveillance, and probably the funeral homes were cool too.

To me, though, the most obvious thing in the world would be to Google me! Although, thank God, they'll probably never think of that. I mean, really, what's the chances I have a blog that I update virtually everyday? And a blog that I've had since 2008 at that, with my grandmother's picture and name, as well as my real name, always featured prominently? If they thought of that, they'd catch me in no time... Ouch! As for my recent whereabouts, which the "Police are seeking," the idiots, I've written right here that I'm staying in the hotel downtown, of which there's only one! LOL, the dumbasses will never catch me!

As for the Daily News, they're not helping matters. Who knows? Could someone there really be intrepid enough to Google me? That's definitely conceivable, now that I think of it. Getting warm, I'm starting to perspire a little. I guess my defense on the murders will have to be, It was all just bluster, I didn't really do it! Someone else hacked into my account and wrote all that! Everything I blogged about, it was for entertainment purposes only! Anyway, search me, you won't find the gun!

LAKE IS DRAGGED FOR GIRL -- I don't know one damned thing about it! And the less said, the better...

BARBECUE CAUSES DEATH -- This is one I do know about. The meat was fine when I put it on the grill. Hell, I was even eating it, picking at it, when it was almost done. All I know is, I had to go back to the kitchen to get a platter. And someone else might've gotten to it in that little bit of time. Whether someone spritzed poison on it, or whatever, I don't know. And it might've been meant for me, perish the thought! The next thing I know, the girl takes a few bites -- suddenly no one else was hungry -- and collapses. How she ended up in the lake, if indeed that's where they took her, I, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward, have no clue...

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!

The Funerals Of Those I Killed

I gotta tell you, I'm numb, wrung out. It's been a very downer day, one of the worst. It's tougher being a criminal than I could've ever imagined. A weird mix of adrenalin and testosterone and we kill easily, then it wears off. "Did I do that?" There was a story the other day about a guy who lived with the skeletal remains of his girlfriend for six years. I know the feeling. It's tough to get over what you've done.

It's even tougher for me, because I'm still a fairly new criminal. I just started this month! And I'm having a hard time shaking the person I've always been, a non-criminal. Killing guys has its upside, don't get me wrong, but there's something unnatural about offing other people's enemies who aren't your own.

So far, though, I'm relatively innocent. I've only killed three guys, two I didn't know and one I was familiar with, the Ciggie gang member who wanted to bar me from Tastee Freez. The first two, I'm not sure what they did to deserve death. Maybe it's like the minister said, they were "senseless deaths." As for the Ciggie, try as I might to be merciful, I believe he had it coming!

Don't worry about me, though, please, because I'm going to get it. Although I'll probably have to do something different than I did today, which was to go to these sons of bitches' funerals. That might be a first in the world of crime, to have three funerals in one day for guys who were killed, then to have the guy who did it in attendance. But nobody knows I had anything to do with it. So I, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward, can come and go as I please! LOL, kind of funny, to be sitting there as these scumbags are canonized! Assuming indeed they were scumbags...

The first two, I don't know. Maybe they owed something on a bet, or hooker fees. And that's fair. You owe, you pay. We provide a valuable service, but it doesn't pay for itself. Their funerals were similar, each in the same funeral home, one in the morning, one in the afternoon. The two ministers consoled the families. One guy had a wife and a couple of kids, the other was single with an elderly mother, looking to be on her last legs. Of course I had my natural sympathy, offering the wife, then the elderly mother my condolences, while reflecting they were straight out of Central Casting. Right down to the worry wrinkles on Mother.

The ministers didn't make a full exploration of how they were mixed up with criminals. Possibly they didn't think it was the time or place. One's biggest lamentation was reserved for the "animals" who did this, and for how "senseless" it all was. I had to wince at the "animals" remark, prompting me to remember him, remember his name, then any physical characteristics that might stick out were I to encounter him some night in the dark.

The Ciggie's funeral had more spirit to it. They were playing '80s rock music, and a contingent of about 15 actual Ciggie members were there. I was dressed in a suit and tie and kept closer to the normal mourners. None of them seemed to recognize me, which was just as well; I may predate the '80s in my basic musical background, but I'm still too young to die.

The minister here, though, was just as conservative and reserved as the others. He paid tribute to the Ciggie's life, naming among his hobbies, painting farm scenes on saw blades and restoring wagons to share with handicapped children. He and his wife -- she with a sad stoic look -- also volunteered at the nursing home, handing out bananas and other prizes to the folks there enjoying Bingo night.

I had to check the program to make sure I was in the right place. This guy deserved to die?! Over a possible misunderstanding about Tastee Freez?! I'm thinking, What kind of animal would do this? Then, of course, it all came back to me... Oh yeah, he was a son of a bitch!

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.

Bedman's Downfall

We're getting too many dancing people dressed in pizzas! They're clogging up the side of the road! It's too much! It's making me hate pizza!

What happened to the good old days, when the merchants simply waited for us to show up or had faith? They don't leave anything to chance now, taking every opportunity to stick it in our face, as though we didn't know they were there.

Probably the worst one has to be the income tax preparers. Seriously, income tax preparers dancing on the side of the road. Dressed like the Statue of Liberty, cheapening one of our best loved statues. I don't really see the point. You might stop in for a pizza on impulse, but I never just happen to be carrying tax papers and receipts.

The whole thing reminds me of the only guy I ever knew personally who was a road dancer. He's Kevin something, but to protect his anonymity I'll just call him Bedman, since that's the job he had most recently.

Kevin/Bedman actually did start as a dancing pizza, but he was just a big single slice. He told me all about it. He was full of complaints. He had what you'd call a sadistic boss, one of those guys who liked to grind it in his employees' face that he's the boss and they're the underlings. He'd be out there dancing quite a bit without a peep from his boss. But if he slacked off, Boss would call on the phone and criticize him. He was looking out his office window (a one-way mirror), so you couldn't tell when he was watching. He'd call to complain, that Kevin was "too lazy," or if he was dancing wildly, he was "too manic." "I'm paying you! I don't want to lose my reputation!" That kind of crap. In the end, he got fired.

Other jobs he had around town: He was a dancing cookie, a dancing pulled pork sandwich, a dancing oil filter, and the dancing dollar sign outside a payday check-cashing place. He didn't get fired from those jobs, but he was in demand because he could stand the changes in weather, the long hours, etc.

The last job I know about along these lines was when he became Bedman, obviously for a bed store. Bed World, Bed Universe, something like that. He was inside a big mattress, of course carved out so he'd fit in it. He was perfect, because they needed someone with strength. It's not a job for a small or even medium-sized woman, certainly. It'd take a man, or a very husky gal, and he was perfect.
 
Among the skills needed, other than carrying that much girth, is watching the wind. If southerly, you have to put the edge of the bed into it. Then be able to adapt to any shifts, along with the man-made gusts coming from traffic. Then somehow keep up a dance good enough to provoke people to come in and buy a bed. That's a lot to ask. Especially with the wind, because you've got the enormous broad surface. You have to have the skills of a cruise boat captain, or someone more competent, to keep it righted.

But what if the wind gets super tricky? A southerly breeze that shifts to the east just like that! Or that whips from the east instantly to the west, if that's possible. Or does a quadruple whammy and goes through the four directions and all the angled combinations in random order. Something like that must have happened because he definitely got flipped into the road one day.

To hear him tell it, it was terrifying. How he struggled to keep up with the wind before he fell or was pushed into the road face down. That'd be very terrifying, hearing the traffic honking, trying their best to avoid hitting him, because no one wants to mess up their car. I'm just trying to picture it. Bedman's out there struggling, flopping around. And nothing's any good. But what can he do except keep up the fight? Then somehow, thanks to the strength in his legs, he got the damned thing flipped over, which was half the battle.

Now he could at least push his head up, like a turtle, so people could see it wasn't just big debris on the road but an actual person craning his neck out to get their attention. He's doing everything he can to get to his feet, he said, when a semi truck going by helped him with a big gust of wind, pushing him back, and toppling him, on the curb. It still wasn't all the way, but far enough to keep from getting killed.

Then, getting his breath, he was able more easily to push himself with his legs all the way on to the parking strip. He said he looked up at the sky and thanked God. Then he heard the honking of geese and saw them fly by, heading south, and reflected on the miracle of life, which is a happy ending.

Kevin had a better boss at the bed store, who when he finally came out was understanding. Of course he didn't lose his job, but in fact was given an extra 5 minutes (on top of his normal 15 minute break) before waddling back out to finish his shift.

I'm Really Having A Hard Time Killing

When I gave up my normal life for my present life of crime, there were certain things I was sure of. One, that I would really enjoy it, especially the thrills. Thus far I am completely convinced it was the best choice. In fact, my conviction goes so far as to proclaim, This is the only life worth living, the life of a criminal. But, two, I was also sure my reputation would take a hit, and it has.

I'm like anyone else. All this time, I've had the sense that my readers looked up to me, and even looked to me as a role model. I've gotten your emails, and have treasured the confidences you've placed with me about the hang-ups in your lives. For a while, yes, I answered them one by one, giving advice on how to overcome certain difficulties. Then when it got too much, I set it all aside, feeling the mountain of need was too much for one lone man. But I kept you in my thoughts and prayers, always wanting the best for you. And along with that, I was careful to set the best example I could, knowing that in looking up to me you would be greatly encouraged.

I should probably just admit it, now that I've turned to a life of crime, you've been a lot less willing to trust me. My blog traffic has completely fallen off. I figured you'd still be checking in just to see if I'd "returned to my senses" and rejoined normal society. The short answer to that is, I haven't! But it doesn't mean I'm not still the same basically good person somewhere down deep. Because I still am!

How is this for evidence: I'm really having a hard time killing people. It's damned tough. I've had the opportunity for probably 15 hits so far. That's all these guys think of, needing to kill an enemy for some perceived slight. The "normal" side of me says that's going way overboard. You should try to work things out. He might be your enemy today, but with patience -- and dare I say, grace, forgiveness -- you might work it out and be best of friends. But, no, that's not in their basic nature, for whatever reason. Shaken as babies?

So a couple times, frankly just to take the edge off their nerves, so I myself wouldn't be killed, I've had to go out and off a couple of guys. Their offenses were explained to me, albeit feverishly and without benefit of adequately knowing the other guy's side of the story. I've watched these guys go ballistic over getting revenge, knowing, saying to myself, their relief would be brief. Why don't you off them yourself? I'd ask. And you probably know the answer, They've got a lookout for me! But you, meaning me, could get in there and pop them, and no one would be the wiser.

It's distasteful to me to have to do it, but it's hard to quibble with the reasoning. I'm a newbie. I don't quite have the gritty, sour look of a hardened criminal yet. I might be the pizza guy. I might just be an honest neighbor out for his exercise. I have that friendly look. I wave over the hedge, "Great night, isn't it!" But then, I pull out the gun and pop 'em right in the temple, and I'm off. So I had two jobs like that. Idiots who had it coming.

The only killing I've done for myself -- and I swear there's only been one so far -- is the Ciggie who tried to scare me off from Tastee Freez the other day. I hated that roughneck son of a bitch telling me that I couldn't go to Tastee Freez! Imagine the nerve of the guy, a bonafide hoodlum if ever there was one. Well, I drove by a few times, and, guess who I see? Him, standing there with one foot on the side of the building and the other foot naturally supporting his body weight. He looked like what he precisely was, a real creep.

What I did next I know sounds coldblooded. But I didn't want him to get the jump on me. And the best way to do that is to take him completely by surprise, and kill him without the slightest mercy. I parked in the farm implements parking lot just west of there, across the street. I darted across the road to the north, then came up behind the building. It was amazing. He didn't know what hit him, just one deadly blast in the vital organs. I didn't wait to do an autopsy -- I was gone before he hit the ground! But I shall return to the scene of the crime very soon, for a refreshing sundae!

I confess these incidents not to titillate or to brag, but only to throw myself on the mercy of my readership. I'm not so bad! It's only three killings ... out of a dozen or more that I could have done by now. So you can still trust me. I'm still here for you.

The New Valentine's Day -- Adolf Hitler's Birthday

If you like Valentine's Day on February 14, enjoy it while you can. Because I see a day coming -- and the way the world is going, with lots of hatred, etc. -- when everything might change!

The problem, like I said, is hatred and love together. They're getting mixed up. Or maybe it's always been that way, but people have been too dishonest to say so. They certainly don't love one another. They don't even like one another. It's sad but unfortunately very true. Not everyone, but many.

OK, Valentine's Day, Febuary 14, is a day for telling your supposed love one how you really feel. But, according to the new honesty, you might say, "I really don't love you. It's all been a sham." It's harsh, I agree, but the advantage of saying it on Valentine's Day is that the general spirit of the day, a day of love, cushions the blow. She or he thinks, Maybe it's a fluke, maybe it's a joke. But, no, it's no joke, as you reiterate the negative sentiment, with finally a torrent of hate-filled invective pouring forth from your mouth, by now a non-stop stream of poison.

You can see what would happen if enough people did that -- and they're aching to, for sure. It wouldn't take long until the cushioning effect in general was worn away, because the day would be known for so many break-ups. By then, the spirit of the day would have changed entirely. It would become a day known for domestic crimes, murders, harshness, people flipping each other the finger, and so forth. If it happens it will give the phrase "St. Valentine's Day Massacre" a whole new meaning!

Eventually, then, the day being completely ruined for love and becoming a day representing total hate, those who still want a day for love will cast wide (and fervently) for another day. But what other day is there? They're all basically occupied by something, and you can't have too many holidays right in a row. You need a buffer space so each holiday can have its own niche. Certainly the adherents of other holidays won't want to yield to the orphaned idea of a day of love. Christmas? Arbor Day? Columbus Day? Never! So there will be troubles all the way around.

Then someone will think, what about Hitler's birthday? That's a date, April 20, that's long been more or less kicked off the calendar. I know when the day comes around, there's a lot of hushed tones. Everyone goes, "It's Hitler's birthday, damn it!" No one calls in sick because they want an appointment with the many therapists out in force that day, counseling those who have terrible issues with Hitler. So they decide, Why not rehabilitate Hitler's birthday? It's not good for anything anyway. We could have Valentine's Day then!

In fact, it's perfect! It's long been known for the hatred of its namesake! Why not claim it as the day of love, and completely turn it around? With the hearts and candies and everything that we used to associate with Feb. 14 simply transferred over. I know, it's close to when Easter sometimes is. But Easter, being a nomadic holiday, is always going to be in the way until it finally settles on when it wants to be.

So that's it. That's the future. It sucks, yes, to have to change. If everyone decides to keep Valentine's Day a day for love -- and drop the honesty business -- then maybe we can avert this alternate future. But if you actually do feel like pouring out your true feelings -- I hate you, darling -- then just know we have a fallback date for the true lovers.

Now it's known as Hitler's birthday -- BOO! -- but it wouldn't take much to make it a day of love!

Crime Report: How Crappy Prison Is

Me and some of my fellow Skids gang members were sitting around shooting the breeze. It's pretty cool. Just a couple weeks into my new life of crime and they've accepted me as an actual criminal. And of course that's what I am. Fie to normal society and its life! Fie, I say!

A few of the guys have already been in prison in their life, which gives them something to talk about. I always thought if I'd spent time in prison I wouldn't want to be blabbing it around. But that's one of the dictates of life on the outside, like if you're trying to get a job. If you're with other criminals, it's a plus.

One of the guys started talking about his experiences in the slammer, how crappy he said it was. I hope I didn't look too shocked, but at one point I felt my mouth drop open. Because some of the conditions indeed sound shocking.

According to him, and this is bad, meal time really sucks. He said they have spinach every meal. Not the leafy kind that tastes fairly good on salad, but the canned vinegar spinach that looks like pond moss. Spinach really sucks. To me this is stupid, serving it to these guys. It rubs them the wrong way, leads to mess hall riots, and tastes terrible.

As for the comfort of the cells, he didn't have much good to say either. The bars on the cells are unheated, so they're cold all the time. They have color TVs, but the tint is 100% pure green, and it's restricted to only religious channels. He spent a lot of time reading up on the law in the prison library, and says watching Pat Robertson an hour a day is unconstitutional, cruel and unusual punishment. Of course I agree with that.

Then there's the other prisoners. It's just like driving. It wouldn't be half bad if there were no other drivers on the road. The same goes for prison. All the coughing, farting, snoring, and clanging of tin cups against the unheated bars -- it's enough to drive you insane. If you weren't already a killer, it about pushes you over the edge.

He said the biggest thing people ask him about is the sex. Is prison sex as bad as everyone makes it out to be? My teeth were chattering 100 mph, because I've always heard it was pretty bad. But he said no, actually sex is one of the best things. As long as you're discreet, you're always getting plenty, and everyone expects it. They're cool with it. Even the guards are cool if you don't make a nuisance of yourself.

According to him, you can pair off, which is good for your personal security. Or you can join in swinging group sessions, with your mate's permission, and it can even include some of the wilder guards, too, if you want. He says it's all very kinky and very hot. Which is good, because you don't want to be denied, especially if you have nothing else to live for.

I've been thinking it over. Do I really want to pursue a life of crime? I could quit right now. I haven't done anything so bad yet. Certainly I haven't been caught, let alone charged with anything. Listening to this guy, the thought definitely came to me, I could walk away right now and go back to my normal life. It was almost enough to scare me straight.

That just about happened, but not quite. Yes, eating spinach at every meal is a complete turn-off. And the unheated bars, that's bad, but it's not a deal-breaker. It's hard to imagine, but you have to expect some inconvenience. Then there's the green tinted TVs and only religious channels. For me, I don't watch much TV anyway. And I could probably plug my ears when Pat Robertson was on. It's bad but I could probably work around it.