(no subject)
The saga of trash continued
Chapter 3
Despite all its glamor and pizzaz Las Vegas has a dark underbelly where crime is served up piping hot with a cup of embezzlement from the morning’s grim menu, and murder is the special of the day. While the city is not known for its gangs the few who do operate there would send shivers down the spine of a robot made of steel, steel designed specifically to resist shivering. One of the more well known and ruthless Vegas gangs is called The Bling Getters. The name was coined by a local reporter who noticed their insatiable and often dragon-like means of hoarding coin, some members for instance were known to spend hours on end sitting on a pile of bling. They formed in the mid 80s under the leadership of Malcolm VI, an ex model hired by Circus Circus in the late 70s and then fired for his shrinking hairline and bizarre physique. For awhile the gang consisted of Malcolm VI, his six sons and the people they blackmailed, but over the course of the next two decades it slowly started to shrink to just Malcolm. He was about to call it quits when one day while smoking a joint in a bathroom stall at the old Circus Circus right before a job interview in attempts to get his old job back, he heard a sound that would forever change his life. That sound was the sound of a pager electronically emulating Snoop Dog’s latest hit. Malcolm had heard about pagers before, he had heard Snoop Dog boast about them and Dr Dre rap about them, but he had never heard one in real life, he had never been close enough to get a peek. And at that moment he was getting one hell of a peek.
“Damn,” said the man with the pager. “What’s my ho doing calling me while I’m taking a dump?”
Malcolm was looking through a crack in the door of his stall, and when the man started walking toward the paper towels he went out of site.
“Hey!” said Malcolm instinctively.
“Damn fool, what you be yellin’ for?” said the man with the pager.
Malcolm took a deep breath, traced a dollar sign across his chest and opened the door.
“My name is Malcolm VI, I’m the founding member of The Bling Getters and I’m in need of a playa who don’t got enough pockets to stash all the shit I be givin’.”
“Damn, that’s a lot of pockets. What kinda shit we talkin’ about?” said the man, pocketing the pager.
“The kind that could buy you a whole bucket full of those.”
“These?” said the man, pulling out his pager.
“Fo sure.”
“Damn, that’s a lot of buckets.”
“No, just one.”
“Damn.”
The man’s name was Rufus, and it didn’t take much more then that to convince him to join the Bling Getters. After that things started going well for Malcolm. Over the next few months the Bling Getters got a dozen new members and almost all of them had an intense hunger for coin.
Malcolm stood looking at his newest pile of bling.
“Damn that’s a lot of coin,” said Rufus. “Is that more coin then Snoop Dog has?”
“No,” said Malcolm sternly, hiding a tear behind his infamous glare. “Snoop Dog got a lot more bling then that.”
They were standing in an abandoned fluorescent lightbulb warehouse which they had converted (i.e. stood in) into a headquarters. Boxes of various lightbulbs were stacked all over the place which they periodically opened and took from to light their meetings with.
“How much more benjamins do we gotta stash before we got as much as him?”
There was a long, pensive silence while Malcolm tallied their past accomplishments and like a soothsayer of bling foretold their future.
“A bitch load.”
“Damn. What kinda bitch?”
Malcolm paused. He had prayed to Tu Pac that that question would never come up, but he told himself that if anyone ever had the balls to ask it he would have the balls to answer. He was too overcome with emotion to speak in anything other then a whisper.
“A thick bitch,” he choked.
Now a real tear showed itself, emerging saltily from his shimmering cranium.
“Oh.”
The mood was depressing. It was cloudy, dark and raining outside and all the lights currently burning in the warehouse were pink.
“Well how are we gonna tap all the coin from that thick bling filled bitch?” asked Rufus nervously. He could sense Malcolm’s moody undercurrent. The fact was, Malcolm had been using Snoop Dog’s fortune as a yardstick to measure against the gang’s progress. And things had been going smoothly until the rumors began circling throughout the dreary byways of the west coast that Snoop Dog had been seen meeting with the masterminds at Penthouse, and that they were planning a video collaboration which would feature the Penthouse Pets dancing around some lucky bastard’s backyard in the sun-drenched Hollywood Hills to the gratifying throbs of Snoop Dog’s epicurean rhymes.
“I don’t know anymore,” said Malcolm with unusual candor. “I just....we don’t...damn.”
If Malcolm was a rocket and his anger was fuel he would have had enough of it to take him to the moon.
‘Damn,’ thought Rufus. ‘The silence in this room could fill half an ass.’
Suddenly Malcolm’s pager went off.
“Its Theo,” he said. “I better give him a call.”
He pulled his cell phone out, turned it on and dialed Theo’s number.
“Yo?” said Theo.
“Its me.”
“Malcolm?”
“Yes.”
“Yo.”
“Yo.”
“What’s been happening?” asked Theo.
“Today I’ve just been at the warehouse looking at bling.”
“Well I’ve got some good news.”
“Spill it T.”
“I think Snoop Dog might be dead.”
“What do you mean dead?” asked Malcolm hopefully. “What kind of dead?”
“His career, or I mean body. I think the president shot him.”
“How do you know this?”
“Gomel said.”
“Who the hell is Gomel?”
“I don’t know.”
“Damn....think of something.”
“I can’t, not this time...I have other things on my mind.”
Every day Theo was supposed to call Malcolm and fabricate various ways in which Snoop Dog’s personal life or career had crumbled, but today Theo had something else to tell him.
“Spill it,” said Malcolm.
“Remember that ho I told you about, the one who lives in my car?”
“Yeah.”
“Well she had a baby last night and I didn’t even know she was pregnant. I got in the car and I was about to step on the gas peddle, but instead of a peddle under my foot I saw a baby. ‘Where’d this come from?’ I asked her. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, gettin’ all defensive. After we had been driving around for a while I said, ‘This is yours isn’t it?’ ‘No, it ain’t. Just like I told you before,’ she said. ‘Then whose is it? Cause if it ain’t mine then I’m not picking it up off the floor,’ I said. But it kept rollin’ around and gettin’ between my feet and the peddles. ‘Damn,’ she said. ‘You’re gonna smash that thang.’ ‘You wouldn’t care unless its yours,’ I said. “Aright aright,’ she said. ‘Its mine.’ ‘Is it mine?’ I asked. ‘No, no it ain’t yours,’ she said. ‘Praise god,’ I said.”
“So what’s this about?” interrupted Malcolm. “What do I have to do with this?”
“Here’s the problem. That ho needs to find the baby’s daddy, and she thinks its one of the members of the Bling Getters.”
“Who?”
“She doesn’t know.”
“Well which ones could it be?”
“I sure as hell don’t know.”
“Well why doesn’t she just come down here?”
“Is she allowed in the building?”
“Fool, I have better things to worry about. Just bring her in here so that we can get this out of the way.”
“Aright.”
Theo hung up.
“What did he want?” asked Rufus.
“He’s bringing some bitch down here that says one of my gang members knocked her up.”
Rufus gulped. To ease his anxiety he put on one of his favorite videos, which was of course made by Penthouse.
This was fallowed by twenty minutes of stripping and hooting.
Chapter 3
Despite all its glamor and pizzaz Las Vegas has a dark underbelly where crime is served up piping hot with a cup of embezzlement from the morning’s grim menu, and murder is the special of the day. While the city is not known for its gangs the few who do operate there would send shivers down the spine of a robot made of steel, steel designed specifically to resist shivering. One of the more well known and ruthless Vegas gangs is called The Bling Getters. The name was coined by a local reporter who noticed their insatiable and often dragon-like means of hoarding coin, some members for instance were known to spend hours on end sitting on a pile of bling. They formed in the mid 80s under the leadership of Malcolm VI, an ex model hired by Circus Circus in the late 70s and then fired for his shrinking hairline and bizarre physique. For awhile the gang consisted of Malcolm VI, his six sons and the people they blackmailed, but over the course of the next two decades it slowly started to shrink to just Malcolm. He was about to call it quits when one day while smoking a joint in a bathroom stall at the old Circus Circus right before a job interview in attempts to get his old job back, he heard a sound that would forever change his life. That sound was the sound of a pager electronically emulating Snoop Dog’s latest hit. Malcolm had heard about pagers before, he had heard Snoop Dog boast about them and Dr Dre rap about them, but he had never heard one in real life, he had never been close enough to get a peek. And at that moment he was getting one hell of a peek.
“Damn,” said the man with the pager. “What’s my ho doing calling me while I’m taking a dump?”
Malcolm was looking through a crack in the door of his stall, and when the man started walking toward the paper towels he went out of site.
“Hey!” said Malcolm instinctively.
“Damn fool, what you be yellin’ for?” said the man with the pager.
Malcolm took a deep breath, traced a dollar sign across his chest and opened the door.
“My name is Malcolm VI, I’m the founding member of The Bling Getters and I’m in need of a playa who don’t got enough pockets to stash all the shit I be givin’.”
“Damn, that’s a lot of pockets. What kinda shit we talkin’ about?” said the man, pocketing the pager.
“The kind that could buy you a whole bucket full of those.”
“These?” said the man, pulling out his pager.
“Fo sure.”
“Damn, that’s a lot of buckets.”
“No, just one.”
“Damn.”
The man’s name was Rufus, and it didn’t take much more then that to convince him to join the Bling Getters. After that things started going well for Malcolm. Over the next few months the Bling Getters got a dozen new members and almost all of them had an intense hunger for coin.
Malcolm stood looking at his newest pile of bling.
“Damn that’s a lot of coin,” said Rufus. “Is that more coin then Snoop Dog has?”
“No,” said Malcolm sternly, hiding a tear behind his infamous glare. “Snoop Dog got a lot more bling then that.”
They were standing in an abandoned fluorescent lightbulb warehouse which they had converted (i.e. stood in) into a headquarters. Boxes of various lightbulbs were stacked all over the place which they periodically opened and took from to light their meetings with.
“How much more benjamins do we gotta stash before we got as much as him?”
There was a long, pensive silence while Malcolm tallied their past accomplishments and like a soothsayer of bling foretold their future.
“A bitch load.”
“Damn. What kinda bitch?”
Malcolm paused. He had prayed to Tu Pac that that question would never come up, but he told himself that if anyone ever had the balls to ask it he would have the balls to answer. He was too overcome with emotion to speak in anything other then a whisper.
“A thick bitch,” he choked.
Now a real tear showed itself, emerging saltily from his shimmering cranium.
“Oh.”
The mood was depressing. It was cloudy, dark and raining outside and all the lights currently burning in the warehouse were pink.
“Well how are we gonna tap all the coin from that thick bling filled bitch?” asked Rufus nervously. He could sense Malcolm’s moody undercurrent. The fact was, Malcolm had been using Snoop Dog’s fortune as a yardstick to measure against the gang’s progress. And things had been going smoothly until the rumors began circling throughout the dreary byways of the west coast that Snoop Dog had been seen meeting with the masterminds at Penthouse, and that they were planning a video collaboration which would feature the Penthouse Pets dancing around some lucky bastard’s backyard in the sun-drenched Hollywood Hills to the gratifying throbs of Snoop Dog’s epicurean rhymes.
“I don’t know anymore,” said Malcolm with unusual candor. “I just....we don’t...damn.”
If Malcolm was a rocket and his anger was fuel he would have had enough of it to take him to the moon.
‘Damn,’ thought Rufus. ‘The silence in this room could fill half an ass.’
Suddenly Malcolm’s pager went off.
“Its Theo,” he said. “I better give him a call.”
He pulled his cell phone out, turned it on and dialed Theo’s number.
“Yo?” said Theo.
“Its me.”
“Malcolm?”
“Yes.”
“Yo.”
“Yo.”
“What’s been happening?” asked Theo.
“Today I’ve just been at the warehouse looking at bling.”
“Well I’ve got some good news.”
“Spill it T.”
“I think Snoop Dog might be dead.”
“What do you mean dead?” asked Malcolm hopefully. “What kind of dead?”
“His career, or I mean body. I think the president shot him.”
“How do you know this?”
“Gomel said.”
“Who the hell is Gomel?”
“I don’t know.”
“Damn....think of something.”
“I can’t, not this time...I have other things on my mind.”
Every day Theo was supposed to call Malcolm and fabricate various ways in which Snoop Dog’s personal life or career had crumbled, but today Theo had something else to tell him.
“Spill it,” said Malcolm.
“Remember that ho I told you about, the one who lives in my car?”
“Yeah.”
“Well she had a baby last night and I didn’t even know she was pregnant. I got in the car and I was about to step on the gas peddle, but instead of a peddle under my foot I saw a baby. ‘Where’d this come from?’ I asked her. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, gettin’ all defensive. After we had been driving around for a while I said, ‘This is yours isn’t it?’ ‘No, it ain’t. Just like I told you before,’ she said. ‘Then whose is it? Cause if it ain’t mine then I’m not picking it up off the floor,’ I said. But it kept rollin’ around and gettin’ between my feet and the peddles. ‘Damn,’ she said. ‘You’re gonna smash that thang.’ ‘You wouldn’t care unless its yours,’ I said. “Aright aright,’ she said. ‘Its mine.’ ‘Is it mine?’ I asked. ‘No, no it ain’t yours,’ she said. ‘Praise god,’ I said.”
“So what’s this about?” interrupted Malcolm. “What do I have to do with this?”
“Here’s the problem. That ho needs to find the baby’s daddy, and she thinks its one of the members of the Bling Getters.”
“Who?”
“She doesn’t know.”
“Well which ones could it be?”
“I sure as hell don’t know.”
“Well why doesn’t she just come down here?”
“Is she allowed in the building?”
“Fool, I have better things to worry about. Just bring her in here so that we can get this out of the way.”
“Aright.”
Theo hung up.
“What did he want?” asked Rufus.
“He’s bringing some bitch down here that says one of my gang members knocked her up.”
Rufus gulped. To ease his anxiety he put on one of his favorite videos, which was of course made by Penthouse.
This was fallowed by twenty minutes of stripping and hooting.