Pimp: The Story of My Life
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The book that brought black literature to the streets is back to show the Hip-Hop generation what it’s all about, where they came from.
A blueprint. A bible. What Sun Tzu’s Art of War was to ancient China, Pimp is to the streets. This is the story of Iceberg Slim’s life as he saw, felt, tasted, and smelled it. A trip through hell by the one man who lived to tell the tale. The dangers of jail, addiction, and death that are still all too familiar.
By telling the story of one man’s struggles and triumphs in an underground world, Pimp shows us the game doesn’t change, it just has a different swagger.
Iceberg Slim’s story is now depicted in a major motion picture. The documentary, Iceberg Slim: Portrait of a Pimp, shows Slim’s transformation from pimp to the author of seven timeless books.
wanta be a stickup man or a dope peddler. I sure as hell won’t be a porter or dishwasher. I just wanta pimp that’s all. It’s not too bad, because whores are rotten. Besides I ain’t going to croak them or drive them crazy. I’m just going to pimp some real whitetype living out of them. “So Lord, if you’re up there listening, do one thing for me. Please don’t let me croak before I live some and get to be somebody down here in the white man’s world. I don’t care what happens after that.” I looked
could slap a bum rap on you. You’re too dumb to know I’m gonna raise you. You rammed your funky finger in your sore ass. You took a powder from the track with a lousy double saw. You let those peckerwood coppers fuck you front rear, sideways, and across. You simple bitch, I’m gonna find you another street to work? Now you got like a license to hustle this one? “You ain’t got to worry about Max and that other roller. Bitch, you can work it forever just so you don’t get cancer of the cat or
but my legs were too weak.” I said, “Bitch, I already passed the death sentence on you. It’s good you had your last meal. I’m gonna send your dead ass to your daughter, Gay. Take off that gown and lie on your belly, bitch.” I went to the closet. I took down a wire hanger. I straightened it into one long piece. I doubled and braided it. I wrapped a necktie around the handle end. I turned back to the bed. She was still propped in the bed. Her mouth was gaped open. She had both her hands clapped
cliches, but to a small town boy he came off witty as Hell. I was in that brain-picking mood so I put the snow machine into high gear to hold him. My eyes bucked in mock awe as I lit the square. I said, “Thanks Man, for the square. Christ! That’s a sporty vine you got on. I wish I could dress like you. You sure are clean aplenty.” He took the bait like a rapist in a nudist colony for the blind. He flopped down on the stoop beside me. He poked his chest out, his eyes flashing like a pin-ball
central jail. At dawn a jail trusty brought a basket of bologna sandwiches down the line of cells. A moment later another trusty brought a gigantic kettle of black stinking chicory. I passed up the delicacies. The tiny cell was too small for two men. Eight of us were in it. I was lying on the concrete floor. I was using my rolled up benny as a pillow. My lid shielded my eyes from the bright bare bulb in the corridor. My cellmates were bums and junkies. Two of them were getting sick. They were