I've been gone for awhile in case some of you haven't noticed. I've had a lot going on and it's hard to get into the blogging mood sometimes. On top of that I've been feeling censored. I have become friendly with a lot of ya'll and I catch myself avoiding some post for fear of insulting or up setting some of ya'll. I can't work this way. So fuck it. From now on I'm just going to say what I say. If feelings get hurt, I can't help it. Feel free to voice your displeasure with me in the comments section. Please do me a favor. If you're going to bad mouth me that's OK, but leave your blog address so I can stop by and see how perfect people blog. I promise I will not retaliate, it's just that I would like to see who's throwing rocks at my glass house.
Mike mentioned something in a comment on my last post about a middle-aged white slave ring and the fact that Jack and I were both missing. Seems to me that Mike has a lot of info. Info that only someone involved in the slavery of white middle-aged men, would have.
And since ya'll are a bunch of curious fuckers, I'll tell you what happened.
Me and Jack were coming out of a bar late one night, one minute everything was normal (Jack was leaning on me crying and telling me how much he loved me) the next minute I felt a sharp pain on the back of my head. I saw Jack drop to the ground and I started to turn and I heard someone say "Hit him again." BOOM another hit to the head. Then another and another and another. Eventually I passed out.
I woke up tied to a chair with a ball gag in my mouth. Jack was trussed up in a similar fashion next to me. Looking around I could see some weird mother fucker in a leather outfit with matching mask chained to the ceiling behind me. Jack woke up about that time and started trying to free himself. After he got tired of that he looked a t me with a tear in his eye and started to speak around the ball gag. He did good to, so I'm not sure it was the first time he talked while wearing one of those.
Jack: "Ash"
Trash: "Eah ack."
Jack: "Oois ee onin."
Trash: "Aneein."
Jack: "Ii oo et ree oo ont ell ee orl."
Trash: "aa oo rayy."
Jack: "Usss oooo iii."
Trash: "OA OA OA."
Now for the illiterate out there I will translate. You have to understand, somethings I did not understand myself. I will make those parts bold.
Jack: "Trash"
Trash: "Yeah Jack."
Jack: "Promise me something."
Trash: "Anything."
Jack: "If you get free oo ont tell the world."
Trash: "Are you crazy?."
Jack: "Just do it."
Trash: "OK OK OK."
I know it seems crazy but that was our last conversation. The next thing I know two redneck fuckers came barreling though the door. They called each other Life and Death. They said we were in a Life and Death situation and laughed like inbreeds. One of them said something about corn hole and the skinny one. They snagged up Jack and took him in the next room. I could see them bend him over and one of the rednecks dropped his pants, the other redneck closed the door. I panicked. I managed to get free from the chair and the leather clad freak started to jump around so I hit him in the head with the chair.
I found the stairs leading out of the basement of hell and when I got to the top I realized that we were being held captive under a pawn shop. I saw a baseball bat and grabbed it. Then I saw a chainsaw and dropped the bat. The chainsaw started on the first pull. Then I saw a samurai sword. I dropped the chainsaw and grabbed the sword. The next thing I saw was an exit sign over a door. I dropped the sword and ran out the door. I ran and ran and ran some more.
When I finally got home I loaded my gun and backed my ass into a corner. I didn't move for days. I didn't sleep for days. All I could think about was the promise I made to Jack. TELL THE WORLD. So that's what I'm doing. I haven't heard from Jack, so as far as I know he's still being corn-holed by Life.
Oh and Happy New Year. I hope your new one was better than my old one.
Side note: It's official; Texas Stadium, home of The Cowboys will now be known as Brokeback Stadium, because the Cowboys play football like a bunch of queers. I'd quit them if I could.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Annie's Road
Halloween. There's a word you don't read very often, especially around here. The bible thumpers control everything so we have fall festivals. I don't like fall festivals. I like Halloween.
Are you ready for another spooky story from Uncle Trashman? OK, grab your favorite safety blanket and get ready.
I have been involved in two murder investigations. I've driven 150+ miles per hour. I've been with the same woman for 13 years. I have two children. I have fought the devil (literally). I have walked the basements and corridors of empty nut houses (alone). I've swam the waters of Camp Crystal Lake at night (if you saw the piece of ass waiting for me on the float, you would understand). I've seen the dead walk. I've almost shot myself. I've fought a bear. I've risked life and limb on more than one occasion . I even got a little sumpin sumpin on top of a grave once. But I believe the most scared I've ever been is on Annie's Road.
Late one night I left the house to fetch some diapers or some such shit from the nearest grocery store. The quickest way there was down what's known as Annie's road. It's a dark road that runs between a river and a graveyard most of the way until you make a hard right then you have the river on your left and a hill that goes straight up on your right. This particular night there was a lot of fog on the river, the mist crossed the road into the graveyard. Now I've never bought into spook stories and I had been up and down this road a million times, so I was scootin right along cutting through the fog at a reasonable speed (I was flying). I came around the sharp right and smack dab in the middle of the road was a chick in a white dress. She had her back to me and was standing there not moving. The dress was blowing around but the fog was still which meant, no wind. It was weird. I had heard the stories of Annie before, I had even lived straight across the river from that exact spot, but Like I said I didn't buy into all that ghost shit. But flying down the road, headed right at this crazy bitch standing on the center stripe, all the stories suddenly came back to me. It was Annie and I was fucking positive of that.
I never took my foot of the gas, in fact I believe I stuck my foot in the carburetor. I passed her and never looked back. I never even checked my mirrors cause I knew if I did I would see this.
I didn't think My feeble little mind could take that sort of image. Plus I was pretty sure she was sitting in my backseat anyway. I got to the store and bought whatever it was I was supposed to buy, and headed home, the LONG way. When I got home Jen looked at me and said "What's wrong with you? You look like you've seen a ghost." I answered "I'm pretty sure I just did." Sorry no funny punch line. No fancy ending. Just a story. A story that made me rethink a lot of my beliefs. Don't forget to click the links.
Next time I'll write about what's wrong with women.
Are you ready for another spooky story from Uncle Trashman? OK, grab your favorite safety blanket and get ready.
I have been involved in two murder investigations. I've driven 150+ miles per hour. I've been with the same woman for 13 years. I have two children. I have fought the devil (literally). I have walked the basements and corridors of empty nut houses (alone). I've swam the waters of Camp Crystal Lake at night (if you saw the piece of ass waiting for me on the float, you would understand). I've seen the dead walk. I've almost shot myself. I've fought a bear. I've risked life and limb on more than one occasion . I even got a little sumpin sumpin on top of a grave once. But I believe the most scared I've ever been is on Annie's Road.
Late one night I left the house to fetch some diapers or some such shit from the nearest grocery store. The quickest way there was down what's known as Annie's road. It's a dark road that runs between a river and a graveyard most of the way until you make a hard right then you have the river on your left and a hill that goes straight up on your right. This particular night there was a lot of fog on the river, the mist crossed the road into the graveyard. Now I've never bought into spook stories and I had been up and down this road a million times, so I was scootin right along cutting through the fog at a reasonable speed (I was flying). I came around the sharp right and smack dab in the middle of the road was a chick in a white dress. She had her back to me and was standing there not moving. The dress was blowing around but the fog was still which meant, no wind. It was weird. I had heard the stories of Annie before, I had even lived straight across the river from that exact spot, but Like I said I didn't buy into all that ghost shit. But flying down the road, headed right at this crazy bitch standing on the center stripe, all the stories suddenly came back to me. It was Annie and I was fucking positive of that.
I never took my foot of the gas, in fact I believe I stuck my foot in the carburetor. I passed her and never looked back. I never even checked my mirrors cause I knew if I did I would see this.
I didn't think My feeble little mind could take that sort of image. Plus I was pretty sure she was sitting in my backseat anyway. I got to the store and bought whatever it was I was supposed to buy, and headed home, the LONG way. When I got home Jen looked at me and said "What's wrong with you? You look like you've seen a ghost." I answered "I'm pretty sure I just did." Sorry no funny punch line. No fancy ending. Just a story. A story that made me rethink a lot of my beliefs. Don't forget to click the links.
Next time I'll write about what's wrong with women.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Principles
First they took away "Without A Trace" then next on the list was "Dexter". Now they have taken away "Monday Night Football". I know you're sitting there thinking that I've lost my mind, that those shows are still on TV. Well it's not my mind that I've lost, it's my patience with the "white guilt ridden, liberal, panty waisted, pussified, cocksuckers" that run Hollywood and the media.
The powers that be have deemed it necessary to ruin three of my favorite shows. For some reason they are trying to force us to learn spanish. A few months ago "Without A Trace" had a scene where the Puerto Rican guy walked past the Puerto Rican girl and they had an entire conversation in spanish. No subtitles, no explanation, no nothing. So it went on my list of never watch again. Then "Dexter" went and did the same thing. Tonight on "Monday Night Football" they ran a commercial in spanish, at least they had subtitles. They still went on my list of never watch again.
Last time I checked football was an American sport. In America we speak American, so it's only natural that the commercials are in American. Plus I think in America we pretty much have a lock on the serial killers , so "Dexter" should be in American also. Every word of it. Last but not least "Without A Trace" is about the FB-fucking-I, which I KNOW is an American institution. So why would it be in spanish?
The bean eaters have their own channels. If they want to watch these shows they can either learn American or if they can write, they can send a letter to their local spanish stations requesting the programs in spanish. I shouldn't be forced to hear that shit in my own house, it's bad enough I can't go through a drive-thru with out needing a translator.
Speaking of translators, if you need one get the fuck out of America. You want to work here, you want to live here, then you need to learn the fucking language. If you've been here for six months and you still can't speak American, it's time to get the fuck out.
The mexicans are pissed because they don't want a fence (which isn't going to be built but that's a different story for a different day), they say we should figure out how to live together. How's this for a fucking idea. Get car insurance. Don't steal license plates. Use a real social security number. Don't party all night in your fucking front yard. Don't throw your beer cans in your neighbors fucking front yard. Turn your fucking oompah music down, we don't want to hear it. Have some fucking respect. Control your kids. Learn to speak American. Fill out the proper paper work to stay. Stop killing innocent people. Stop bringing dope into this country. Stop cramming 51 mother fuckers into one apartment. How about you start there and then we'll see if we'll let you stay.
Trashman. OUT.
The powers that be have deemed it necessary to ruin three of my favorite shows. For some reason they are trying to force us to learn spanish. A few months ago "Without A Trace" had a scene where the Puerto Rican guy walked past the Puerto Rican girl and they had an entire conversation in spanish. No subtitles, no explanation, no nothing. So it went on my list of never watch again. Then "Dexter" went and did the same thing. Tonight on "Monday Night Football" they ran a commercial in spanish, at least they had subtitles. They still went on my list of never watch again.
Last time I checked football was an American sport. In America we speak American, so it's only natural that the commercials are in American. Plus I think in America we pretty much have a lock on the serial killers , so "Dexter" should be in American also. Every word of it. Last but not least "Without A Trace" is about the FB-fucking-I, which I KNOW is an American institution. So why would it be in spanish?
The bean eaters have their own channels. If they want to watch these shows they can either learn American or if they can write, they can send a letter to their local spanish stations requesting the programs in spanish. I shouldn't be forced to hear that shit in my own house, it's bad enough I can't go through a drive-thru with out needing a translator.
Speaking of translators, if you need one get the fuck out of America. You want to work here, you want to live here, then you need to learn the fucking language. If you've been here for six months and you still can't speak American, it's time to get the fuck out.
The mexicans are pissed because they don't want a fence (which isn't going to be built but that's a different story for a different day), they say we should figure out how to live together. How's this for a fucking idea. Get car insurance. Don't steal license plates. Use a real social security number. Don't party all night in your fucking front yard. Don't throw your beer cans in your neighbors fucking front yard. Turn your fucking oompah music down, we don't want to hear it. Have some fucking respect. Control your kids. Learn to speak American. Fill out the proper paper work to stay. Stop killing innocent people. Stop bringing dope into this country. Stop cramming 51 mother fuckers into one apartment. How about you start there and then we'll see if we'll let you stay.
Trashman. OUT.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
People Are Strange
Angi tagged me, I guess cause she likes to torture me. Then she went and complained about the number of these things floating around out there in Blogville. Typical chick.
I have to list 5 weird things about me or my pets then I'm supposed to pass the torture on to 5 people but I'm going to kill this one right here. I wouldn't want to upset Angi by sending more of these things out.
One reasons I'm doing this is because I need to post, this will be short, and I don't have the energy to rant or dig up my past.
On to the agony. This will be all about me. There's nothing weird about my pets.
1. My sunny disposition is a facade. I'm really very angry.
2. The voices of Fran Drescher, Rosie Perez and Megan Mullally really turn me on.
3. When I'm in a high place looking over the edge I have to really fight the urge to jump. It's not a suicide thing, it's an "I bet I could fly thing".
4. I like to shop.
5. I'm fascinated with death. In fact I really want to see what's on the other side.
Stay tuned for a new rant coming soon.
I have to list 5 weird things about me or my pets then I'm supposed to pass the torture on to 5 people but I'm going to kill this one right here. I wouldn't want to upset Angi by sending more of these things out.
One reasons I'm doing this is because I need to post, this will be short, and I don't have the energy to rant or dig up my past.
On to the agony. This will be all about me. There's nothing weird about my pets.
1. My sunny disposition is a facade. I'm really very angry.
2. The voices of Fran Drescher, Rosie Perez and Megan Mullally really turn me on.
3. When I'm in a high place looking over the edge I have to really fight the urge to jump. It's not a suicide thing, it's an "I bet I could fly thing".
4. I like to shop.
5. I'm fascinated with death. In fact I really want to see what's on the other side.
Stay tuned for a new rant coming soon.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Choices
Through out our lives we are all given choices to make. I chose to stop playing football after 8th grade because I didn't want to play in a corrupt system that would let me get away with the shit I did. Texas football used to be a major deal even in grade school and junior high. Since I no longer played football I had to work for my grades, by that time I had become lazy and had really shitty study habits. I was also used to getting away with things so I tried to keep getting away with them. Therefore I was given the choice of being expelled for the remainder of my senior year or quitting. It was the first time I ever quit anything and that was just because I was leaving on my terms (or so I believed).
Now Trash Jr has to make some of the same choices. He plays football, at least until Friday when he gets his report card. He is failing History. At the beginning of the year I met with all of his teachers and told them this would happen. I told them we could stop it from happening if they would call me when they first saw any problems. My phone never rang. When I asked the teacher why she didn't call, all she said was "In retrospect I see that I should have done that." Fine she has hindsight, but that still didn't answer my question. After asking her why, four different times, I got retrospect four times. Which still doesn't answer my question. I hung up on her so I wouldn't threaten her life or start cussing or some such juvenile white trash thing.
I've tried my best to make sure he doesn't follow in my footsteps. He's smart but I don't think he can walk in my shoes and remain a free man, and I see a lot of me in him. This is not a good thing.
Like I said, choices. I chose to lie, cheat, steal, deal, hustle, con, pimp, rip off and swindle my way through life. I don't want him making those same choices. I want him to be better than me, much like I'm better than my dad. I want him to break free of the white trash shackles. I want to be the last member of my family that embraces my heritage. Once you head down that road it's damn near impossible to find an exit. I found an exit.
I turned my life around. I have car insurance. I attempt to pay my bills. I get up everyday and go to work usually for at least 12 hours a day. I don't have to sweat when I see the cops (but I still do). I work my ass off, hopefully so my children won't have to. Once again these are my choices. But sometimes you have to wonder if you're making the right choices.
Being the phil-os-o-fiser that I am, I've always said that I have no regrets in life, because every choice I've made is the right one. I know they're the right choices because God wouldn't let me make the wrong one (I know it may surprise a lot of you to hear that I'm a god fearing man. Well I was raised in a Southern Baptist Church, nuff said).
I'm starting to rethink my whole philosophy. I'm starting to think maybe I'm just an experiment to God. I'm thinking maybe he gets a good laugh out of me. In fact I think he's sitting on his puffy little cloud right now wondering what he can do to me next.
I've had to move twice since June, my business is going under (quickly), my son decided he wants to be like me, on top of that I'm short, fat, bald and I have a little dick. Not to mention the fact that I’m diabetic which makes me piss like a race horse. My vision is going bad probably due to the diabetes and Macular Degeneration which I inherited from my mother. And I don’t think I’ll ever get that book deal.
I think it's time to make some new choices. Choices that could affect the rest of my life (which is really a stupid statement because all of our choices affect the rest of our lives). Let's just say the title of my blog could become a self fulfilling prophecy.
I know you've all heard the saying "Crime doesn't pay." Well here's a new saying for you "Bullshit. Crime does pay and I think it's time to get paid."
Now Trash Jr has to make some of the same choices. He plays football, at least until Friday when he gets his report card. He is failing History. At the beginning of the year I met with all of his teachers and told them this would happen. I told them we could stop it from happening if they would call me when they first saw any problems. My phone never rang. When I asked the teacher why she didn't call, all she said was "In retrospect I see that I should have done that." Fine she has hindsight, but that still didn't answer my question. After asking her why, four different times, I got retrospect four times. Which still doesn't answer my question. I hung up on her so I wouldn't threaten her life or start cussing or some such juvenile white trash thing.
I've tried my best to make sure he doesn't follow in my footsteps. He's smart but I don't think he can walk in my shoes and remain a free man, and I see a lot of me in him. This is not a good thing.
Like I said, choices. I chose to lie, cheat, steal, deal, hustle, con, pimp, rip off and swindle my way through life. I don't want him making those same choices. I want him to be better than me, much like I'm better than my dad. I want him to break free of the white trash shackles. I want to be the last member of my family that embraces my heritage. Once you head down that road it's damn near impossible to find an exit. I found an exit.
I turned my life around. I have car insurance. I attempt to pay my bills. I get up everyday and go to work usually for at least 12 hours a day. I don't have to sweat when I see the cops (but I still do). I work my ass off, hopefully so my children won't have to. Once again these are my choices. But sometimes you have to wonder if you're making the right choices.
Being the phil-os-o-fiser that I am, I've always said that I have no regrets in life, because every choice I've made is the right one. I know they're the right choices because God wouldn't let me make the wrong one (I know it may surprise a lot of you to hear that I'm a god fearing man. Well I was raised in a Southern Baptist Church, nuff said).
I'm starting to rethink my whole philosophy. I'm starting to think maybe I'm just an experiment to God. I'm thinking maybe he gets a good laugh out of me. In fact I think he's sitting on his puffy little cloud right now wondering what he can do to me next.
I've had to move twice since June, my business is going under (quickly), my son decided he wants to be like me, on top of that I'm short, fat, bald and I have a little dick. Not to mention the fact that I’m diabetic which makes me piss like a race horse. My vision is going bad probably due to the diabetes and Macular Degeneration which I inherited from my mother. And I don’t think I’ll ever get that book deal.
I think it's time to make some new choices. Choices that could affect the rest of my life (which is really a stupid statement because all of our choices affect the rest of our lives). Let's just say the title of my blog could become a self fulfilling prophecy.
I know you've all heard the saying "Crime doesn't pay." Well here's a new saying for you "Bullshit. Crime does pay and I think it's time to get paid."
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Nuttin' To Say
I know I've been gone for awhile. Right now my whole world is upside down, but I'm not going to get into that. Instead I'm going to dig down deep inside and try to entertain y'all.
These are 20 things the Trashman will never say.
1. I don't care how fat you get, I love you for you.
2. Welfare? I think it's a great idea.
3. But I don't want a blow job.
4. Michael Moore is a genius.
5. Undocumented workers.
6. George Bush did not lose his mind.
7. We should let everyone come to America. After all aren't we all brothers?
8. Do you have stripper boots in a mans size 11 wide?
9. I'm going to the Dixie Chicks concert.
10. What happened on One Life To Live today?
11. Not tonight I have a headache.
12. Do these pants make my ass look big.
13. Katrina Victims.
14. I don't need a lawyer. You got me, I did it.
15. I'll have the vegetarian platter.
16. Do you have any Jazz music?
17. That guy is hot.
18. That's OK. When I said medium rare I meant burnt to a crisp.
19. Are you up for a game of Dungeons and Dragons?
20. Honey, strap this on, bend me over and make me squeal.
Now I'm going to put three of y'all on the spot. I want to know 10 things you'll never say. Jack, Jethro, and Kim.
These are 20 things the Trashman will never say.
1. I don't care how fat you get, I love you for you.
2. Welfare? I think it's a great idea.
3. But I don't want a blow job.
4. Michael Moore is a genius.
5. Undocumented workers.
6. George Bush did not lose his mind.
7. We should let everyone come to America. After all aren't we all brothers?
8. Do you have stripper boots in a mans size 11 wide?
9. I'm going to the Dixie Chicks concert.
10. What happened on One Life To Live today?
11. Not tonight I have a headache.
12. Do these pants make my ass look big.
13. Katrina Victims.
14. I don't need a lawyer. You got me, I did it.
15. I'll have the vegetarian platter.
16. Do you have any Jazz music?
17. That guy is hot.
18. That's OK. When I said medium rare I meant burnt to a crisp.
19. Are you up for a game of Dungeons and Dragons?
20. Honey, strap this on, bend me over and make me squeal.
Now I'm going to put three of y'all on the spot. I want to know 10 things you'll never say. Jack, Jethro, and Kim.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Very Bad Things
Today is the anniversary of this blog. This year will be two years since Jack first introduced me to y'all. It's also my 42nd birthday. So I thought this year I would give y'all a gift. I'm going to step away from the political paranoia and conspiracy post and tell you a little story. A story that had it gone the wrong way I probably would be carving my blog on a prison wall. So get yourself a slice of cake, have some punch and enjoy.
All over northern Jersey there are little motor lodges. They are what you would expect them to be in the larger city's but in the smaller towns they can be quite nice. We used to use the ones in the smaller towns for the incall service. Most of these little motels are owned by people of the Hindu persuasion (is that PC for dot heads?). I had a deal with one of the proprietors of a motor lodge in a little town loaded with corporate headquarters of a lot of BIG companies. I would give Mr. Patel a percentage of what the girls would bring in and every once and awhile he would get a little action for himself (when Mrs. Patel was out of town).
This spot was a gold mine. The executives liked to run out at lunch and get a little, so I kept girls at most of the motels in the area.
I had picked up a new girl in Newark earlier in the day. She wasn't anything special. Really quiet and kind of mousy, plain face, plain brown hair, ordinary body but willing to trade ass for money. On the way to the motel I found out she didn't bring ID, that meant I was going to have to check her in, so we started off bad. I took her to the only place I could put her without having to answer a bunch of questions. We went to see Mr. Patel.
Mr. Patel: "Hello, Mr. Trashman. How are you my friend."
Trashman: "Yo. I got a new girl I need to set up here."
Mr. Patel: "Bring her in so she can check in."
Trashman: "She doesn't have any ID."
Mr. Patel: "OK we check her in as Miss. Smith."
Trashman: "I'll sign for her."
Mr. Patel: "Maybe I'll visit her today."
Trashman: "Don't waste your time. Something weird about her."
Mr Patel: "OK my friend. You know what is best. Room 116. This way I can keep eye on her for you."
Trashman: "Cool."
Now I knew why he wanted to keep an eye on her, it was so I couldn't cheat him on his percentage. I set her up in the room and explained how things worked. As customers called they were given descriptions (not always accurate) of the girls working in the area that they were interested in. From these descriptions they would pick a girl, then they were given the name of the motel. When they arrived at the motel they were to call back from a certain pay phone (for caller ID reasons) if the girl was not busy at the time they were given a room number. As soon as the girl had the money she called in and the timer was set for one hour. After the customer left the girl would call back and the next guy would be sent in. It went around and around like this all day. Sometimes. Sometimes there were problems. Problems like she ran with the money or said the guy didn't show up and ripped us off, or sometimes she quit answering the door. This time she quit answering.
Just as soon as I got word from WBG that the stupid bitch stopped answering the door I rushed over to the motel. She had already done about eight calls and I wasn't about to lose that much money. I looked around for the police before I approached the door (you can't be too careful). The coast seemed clear so I walked up and beat on the door. Nothing. I kicked the shit out of the door. Still nothing. I walked over to the office and was greeted by Mr. Patel.
Mr. Patel: " My friend you are back early."
Trashman: "I thought you were going to keep an eye on her."
Mr. Patel: "Is there a problem?"
Trashman: "She's missed a couple of calls and she's not answering the door. Give me a key."
I walked over, stuck the key in the door and tried to turn it. Nothing, it wouldn't turn, I went back to the office.
Trashman: "Wrong key. It won't turn."
Mr. Patel: "She must have the key in the door on the inside. It stops the outside from being unlocked. I have a special key for that. Come, my friend I will let you in."
We walked back over to the room an Patel used his "special" key. It worked. Now there was a new problem, the fucking chain was on the door.
Mr. Patel: "I'll get a tool and take the chain off. Wait here my friend."
He comes back with a screw driver and snakes his skinny little arm through the door and removes the screws and the chain drops. He turns and looks at me, grinning like an idiot and throws the door open. All I see is a naked blue whore with a needle sticking out of her arm sprawled out on the bed. He must have seen something on my face because he turns and looks in the room.
Mr. Patel: "OH MY GOD SHE IS DEAD."
Trashman: "Shut the fuck up. Go back to the office and forget you ever saw any of this. Don't call anybody. I'll take care of this. Forget it. Just forget it all."
Mr. Patel: "But she is...."
Trashman: "She's not even here. Miss Smith doesn't exist. Get rid of the paperwork. Go. NOW."
Patel ran back to the office never looking back. I looked around to make sure no one heard his screaming, stepped into the room and closed the door. All I could do was stare at the dead naked bitch and think "What the fuck am I gonna do now?" I called WBG with my cell phone. I wasn't about to touch anything in the room. Except I tried to feel for a pulse. The bitch was already cold.
Trashman: "We've got a problem."
WBG: "Did she skip?"
Trashman: "No. She's here."
WBG: "What's the problem?"
Trashman: "She's dead."
WBG: "HAHAHAHAHA yeah right. Quit fucking around."
Trashman: "I ain't kidding man. She's fucking 86. Looks like she OD'd"
WBG: "Oh fuck."
At this point I started going though her bags looking for my money. I was ripping open drawers, closets, lifting the mattress as best as I could with one hand.
WBG: "Find the fucking money."
Trashman: "I'm looking for the fucking money."
WBG: "What are you gonna do with the carcass?"
Trashman: "Get a hold of JJ and tell him where I'm at."
WBG: "What are you doing with the bitch?"
Trashman: "Fuck you man, you don't need to know shit. Call JJ."
WBG: "Fuck you too man. Find the fucking money."
Trashman: "I just did."
WBG: "How much? All of it?"
Trashman: "$2500 that's $900 more than she should have. Bitch was holding out."
Meanwhile a miracle was taking place behind me. The dead was rising.
Dead Whore: "What's going on man?"
Trashman: "WHAT THE FUCK?"
WBG: "What's happening? "
Dead Whore: "What are you doing with my money?"
Trashman : "FUCK YOU BITCH. PUT SOME FUCKING CLOTHES ON."
WBG: "Who the fuck are you talking to?"
Trashman: "I'm talking to this fucking zombie."
WBG: "Huh?"
Trashman: "The bitch came back to life."
WBG: "Get her the fuck out of there."
Trashman: "You want to handle this shit?"
WBG: "Fuck no."
Trashman: "Then stop telling me what to fucking do."
Dead Whore: "I want my money, man."
Trashman: "Pull the fucking needle out of your arm."
WBG: "When you're done come back to the office."
Trashman: "Blow me."
Dead Whore: "I don't blow anybody."
Trashman: "Not you, skank."
WBG: "HAHAHAHA later."
I put the bitch in the car and headed for Newark, at the first stop light she had already nodded off and when I hit the brakes she fell into the floor board. I did what any decent person would of done and left her there. When I pulled up in front of her house I threw the car in park and got out. I walked around, opened her door and grabbed her under the arms. As I was pulling her out she came to again.
Dead Whore: "Where's my money, man?"
Trashman: "You were a dead junkie whore, now you're a broke junkie whore, you give me any shit and you're going to be a dead junkie whore, again."
Dead Whore: "You ain't right, man."
Trashman: "Fuck you."
I hope you enjoyed the cake and punch.
Special thank you to micki for the new gravatar. SHE remembered my birthday.
All over northern Jersey there are little motor lodges. They are what you would expect them to be in the larger city's but in the smaller towns they can be quite nice. We used to use the ones in the smaller towns for the incall service. Most of these little motels are owned by people of the Hindu persuasion (is that PC for dot heads?). I had a deal with one of the proprietors of a motor lodge in a little town loaded with corporate headquarters of a lot of BIG companies. I would give Mr. Patel a percentage of what the girls would bring in and every once and awhile he would get a little action for himself (when Mrs. Patel was out of town).
This spot was a gold mine. The executives liked to run out at lunch and get a little, so I kept girls at most of the motels in the area.
I had picked up a new girl in Newark earlier in the day. She wasn't anything special. Really quiet and kind of mousy, plain face, plain brown hair, ordinary body but willing to trade ass for money. On the way to the motel I found out she didn't bring ID, that meant I was going to have to check her in, so we started off bad. I took her to the only place I could put her without having to answer a bunch of questions. We went to see Mr. Patel.
Mr. Patel: "Hello, Mr. Trashman. How are you my friend."
Trashman: "Yo. I got a new girl I need to set up here."
Mr. Patel: "Bring her in so she can check in."
Trashman: "She doesn't have any ID."
Mr. Patel: "OK we check her in as Miss. Smith."
Trashman: "I'll sign for her."
Mr. Patel: "Maybe I'll visit her today."
Trashman: "Don't waste your time. Something weird about her."
Mr Patel: "OK my friend. You know what is best. Room 116. This way I can keep eye on her for you."
Trashman: "Cool."
Now I knew why he wanted to keep an eye on her, it was so I couldn't cheat him on his percentage. I set her up in the room and explained how things worked. As customers called they were given descriptions (not always accurate) of the girls working in the area that they were interested in. From these descriptions they would pick a girl, then they were given the name of the motel. When they arrived at the motel they were to call back from a certain pay phone (for caller ID reasons) if the girl was not busy at the time they were given a room number. As soon as the girl had the money she called in and the timer was set for one hour. After the customer left the girl would call back and the next guy would be sent in. It went around and around like this all day. Sometimes. Sometimes there were problems. Problems like she ran with the money or said the guy didn't show up and ripped us off, or sometimes she quit answering the door. This time she quit answering.
Just as soon as I got word from WBG that the stupid bitch stopped answering the door I rushed over to the motel. She had already done about eight calls and I wasn't about to lose that much money. I looked around for the police before I approached the door (you can't be too careful). The coast seemed clear so I walked up and beat on the door. Nothing. I kicked the shit out of the door. Still nothing. I walked over to the office and was greeted by Mr. Patel.
Mr. Patel: " My friend you are back early."
Trashman: "I thought you were going to keep an eye on her."
Mr. Patel: "Is there a problem?"
Trashman: "She's missed a couple of calls and she's not answering the door. Give me a key."
I walked over, stuck the key in the door and tried to turn it. Nothing, it wouldn't turn, I went back to the office.
Trashman: "Wrong key. It won't turn."
Mr. Patel: "She must have the key in the door on the inside. It stops the outside from being unlocked. I have a special key for that. Come, my friend I will let you in."
We walked back over to the room an Patel used his "special" key. It worked. Now there was a new problem, the fucking chain was on the door.
Mr. Patel: "I'll get a tool and take the chain off. Wait here my friend."
He comes back with a screw driver and snakes his skinny little arm through the door and removes the screws and the chain drops. He turns and looks at me, grinning like an idiot and throws the door open. All I see is a naked blue whore with a needle sticking out of her arm sprawled out on the bed. He must have seen something on my face because he turns and looks in the room.
Mr. Patel: "OH MY GOD SHE IS DEAD."
Trashman: "Shut the fuck up. Go back to the office and forget you ever saw any of this. Don't call anybody. I'll take care of this. Forget it. Just forget it all."
Mr. Patel: "But she is...."
Trashman: "She's not even here. Miss Smith doesn't exist. Get rid of the paperwork. Go. NOW."
Patel ran back to the office never looking back. I looked around to make sure no one heard his screaming, stepped into the room and closed the door. All I could do was stare at the dead naked bitch and think "What the fuck am I gonna do now?" I called WBG with my cell phone. I wasn't about to touch anything in the room. Except I tried to feel for a pulse. The bitch was already cold.
Trashman: "We've got a problem."
WBG: "Did she skip?"
Trashman: "No. She's here."
WBG: "What's the problem?"
Trashman: "She's dead."
WBG: "HAHAHAHAHA yeah right. Quit fucking around."
Trashman: "I ain't kidding man. She's fucking 86. Looks like she OD'd"
WBG: "Oh fuck."
At this point I started going though her bags looking for my money. I was ripping open drawers, closets, lifting the mattress as best as I could with one hand.
WBG: "Find the fucking money."
Trashman: "I'm looking for the fucking money."
WBG: "What are you gonna do with the carcass?"
Trashman: "Get a hold of JJ and tell him where I'm at."
WBG: "What are you doing with the bitch?"
Trashman: "Fuck you man, you don't need to know shit. Call JJ."
WBG: "Fuck you too man. Find the fucking money."
Trashman: "I just did."
WBG: "How much? All of it?"
Trashman: "$2500 that's $900 more than she should have. Bitch was holding out."
Meanwhile a miracle was taking place behind me. The dead was rising.
Dead Whore: "What's going on man?"
Trashman: "WHAT THE FUCK?"
WBG: "What's happening? "
Dead Whore: "What are you doing with my money?"
Trashman : "FUCK YOU BITCH. PUT SOME FUCKING CLOTHES ON."
WBG: "Who the fuck are you talking to?"
Trashman: "I'm talking to this fucking zombie."
WBG: "Huh?"
Trashman: "The bitch came back to life."
WBG: "Get her the fuck out of there."
Trashman: "You want to handle this shit?"
WBG: "Fuck no."
Trashman: "Then stop telling me what to fucking do."
Dead Whore: "I want my money, man."
Trashman: "Pull the fucking needle out of your arm."
WBG: "When you're done come back to the office."
Trashman: "Blow me."
Dead Whore: "I don't blow anybody."
Trashman: "Not you, skank."
WBG: "HAHAHAHA later."
I put the bitch in the car and headed for Newark, at the first stop light she had already nodded off and when I hit the brakes she fell into the floor board. I did what any decent person would of done and left her there. When I pulled up in front of her house I threw the car in park and got out. I walked around, opened her door and grabbed her under the arms. As I was pulling her out she came to again.
Dead Whore: "Where's my money, man?"
Trashman: "You were a dead junkie whore, now you're a broke junkie whore, you give me any shit and you're going to be a dead junkie whore, again."
Dead Whore: "You ain't right, man."
Trashman: "Fuck you."
I hope you enjoyed the cake and punch.
Special thank you to micki for the new gravatar. SHE remembered my birthday.
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