Pimp Read Free Page A

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    Max stood up, accidentally grabbing onto the urinal’s flusher and some water and piss sprayed in his face. He didn’t care, though—nothing could bring him down from this high.
    Still on the floor, Sage went, “H-hey, where you goin’ with my PIMP, bruh?”
    “I had a rough upbringing,” Max said. “My father was killed when I was three, he was a mason and a chimney collapsed on his head.” Max didn’t know why he was saying this shit—maybe it was some side effect of the drug, making him chatty. He pulled himself together and went, “And my mother, my mother was distant, worked all the time, was never home, but she told me one thing I’ll never forget—
always
take candy from strangers.”
    He kicked Sage in the face and left the bathroom.
    Max told the bar manager there was an emergency, left his shift early, went to his apartment and, as that kid book says, “Let the wild rumpus start!”
    And, man, did it get wild! The next two weeks were a blur, reminded him of that time in Texas when on a drinking binge he’d gotten, um, a little too close to some Chinese dude. Thankfully there were no Chinese dudes this time, but there was lots of fucking. Max was with the best-looking chickitas he’d ever seen—yep, better looking than the girls at Hooters—and they were in exotic locations—London, Paris, Venice, Attica. Max was in jungles, swinging naked from vines, and fighting in wars. He was partying with the ancient Greeks and he even hung out with Jesus.
    PIMP wasn’t all sex and fun, though. Before the drug took hold there was usually a short intense feeling of impotence, Max called it the Bieber effect. Also, once in a while, there was some incontinence, Max called it the Betty White effect. But these periods were always short-lived—or at least in Max’s mind they were—and then the shits ended and raging hard-ons took over. Max had the best sex of his life in his mind, banging everybody from Cleopatra to Britney Spears to Judi Dench. Dench was a dynamo and loved it from behind with Max yanking on her hair, glaring back at him over her shoulder, shouting, “Gimme dat big boy! Gimme dat big boy!”
    Yeah, this PIMP was some seriously good shit.
    The best part was the feeling of power it brought Max. It brought him back to the days when he was the CEO of NetWorld, the computer networking company in Manhattan, and his major way to get off was by firing his employees. Sometimes, just for a rush, he’d fire some technician, usually some Russian, for no reason at all. He’d call Slav or Vlad or whoever the fuck into his office and go, “You’re terminated, go home,” and feel the rush, like Trump and Schwarzenegger rolled into one. This was like that, but better, because he didn’t have to fire anybody, or do
anything
, to feel like he was the baddest motherfucker in the world. He just knew it and that was enough. Was it enlightenment in powder form? Not bad, he could use that. See, Max’s mind was already churning, working OT, planning his next move.
    Oh, another thing about PIMP—it was addicting as hell. When the contents of the Baggie ran out it was a sad, desperate day. He went back to O’Hennessy’s and was told he’d been fired, but he didn’t care about that, he just cared about PIMP. He had to find Sage.
    It took about a week of searching around, but he finally tracked Sage down, in some rundown off-campus apartment, the back unit of a house.
    When Sage opened the door he saw the rage in Max, thought he’d get his ass whooped again, and when Max forced his way inside, Sage pulled a blade on him. Max judged things by the size of his cock and this blade was cock-size, about three and half, okay, three inches.
    “Stay back,” Sage said, arm with the blade extended in front of him, shaking. “Just stay the fuck back.”
    “I’m not here to hurt you,” Max said. “I’m just here for your PIMP.”
    Knowing how ridiculous this sounded, but seeing no humor in it