Pimpology: The 48 Laws of the Game

LAW 1

Purse First, Ass Last

If a pimp is going to take a chance, a bitch must give him money in advance. —Father Divine

THE LIFE

A pimp associate of mine, Little Bear, came from a distinguished line of pimps. His daddy was one of the biggest pimps in Milwaukee when I was growing up. Pimpin’ was in Little Bear, not on him. Years ago, Little Bear was running an after-hours joint. Many pimps had these little clubs back in the day as a way of catching hoes. A bunch of us were in his joint when one of the finest hoes I ever saw walked in. She had a body like an hourglass. She was so fine her mama should have had triplets. She was just a gorgeous ho. The scene was live, but when this ho walked in, the place stopped.

Sammy, a half-ass pimp who was sitting in the corner blurted out, That bitch so fine, she don’t need no choosing fee to fuck with my pimpin’!

Out of nowhere Little Bear jumped up and said, Bitch, break yourself!

She walks up to Little Bear and asks, Mr. Bear, what can you do with this money that I can’t do with it myself? If you can answer that, I will break myself.

Bitch, I’m the pimp and you’re the ho, he said. So act like the quarterback and pass the motherfucking bankroll.

She smiled and gave him the trap money. Little Bear then turned to me. That’s a fine-ass bitch, he said. As soon as she makes me twenty Gs, I’m going to have some buck-naked fun with her. Then he posed the same question he’d been asked to me. "Pimpin’, what could you do with that money?"

I stood up, because I was about to perform, and I wanted everyone to hear. For the record, I started, I mean to say, for the album—because the record is too short—if any of you suckers want to know what a pimp can do with that money that a bitch can’t, go to the motherfucking hardware store, get you some duct tape, tape that money on the wall, and piss on it. That’s what a pimp can do that a bitch can’t!

THE ISM

Purse first, ass last is the motto of pimpin’, the very foundation on which pimpin’ is built. What separates a pimp from a trick is that a pimp completely flips the game. A trick pays a ho for the pussy, but a ho doesn’t get to fuck a pimp until she pays him. A ho has got to put it in a pimp’s pocket like a rocket before pimpin’ can begin. It’s not about a pimp breaking a ho, it’s about a ho breaking herself. Violating this first law will guarantee a pimp a career of troubles and stress. If a woman can try you before she buy you, then, as B.B. King says, The thrill is gone.

In life what is expensive seems valuable, and what’s available for free seems worthless. You’ve heard that no one buys the cow when the milk is free, but what they didn’t tell you is that after a while, no one even wants that free milk. To be valued, the key is not to give, but to receive—the more, the better. You don’t want to earn your price, you want to cost it. This is the psychology behind the whole game: anything worth having, you must pay for up front.

LAW 2

Get a Name in a Game

A good name is like a credit card, you can use it when you don’t have no cash at all. —Dope Man

THE LIFE

My daddy’s name was Collie, but people called him Johnny Slick, because he was always hustling somebody. If he wasn’t beating people in pool, he was cheating them in dice. Johnny Slick was known in the pool halls up and down Madison Avenue and Sixty-third Street in Chicago. He was also known on the streets, because he couldn’t lose at shooting craps. He built his name himself, and he taught me the power of public relations and how to build a reputation.

Nigga, I’m Johnny Slick! he would yell in the streets. Can’t nobody fuck with me! I’m the greatest! After hearing it often enough, people were convinced.

As far back as I can remember, my daddy used to sit my four brothers and me down and make us say his name. Who am I?

Johnny Slick! we’d all have to say in unison.

What’s my name, boys?

Johnny Slick!

We would go through this shit for hours sometimes, and I would be so mad. But once I hit the streets and saw how many niggas respected my pops, it dawned on me that he was trying to teach us the importance of having a name. I used to go places and ask people if they knew my father, and they always did.

When I was around fifteen years old, I used to hang hard with my man JD a.k.a. Father Divine, who was also fifteen. Neither one of us had a driver’s license, but we had lots of money from hustling. On the weekends we would rent a nice, shiny stretch limo and drive through our neighborhood, hanging out of the sunroof, throwing stacks of dollars onto the street. With each handful we would shout our names. People would be going crazy. I would throw out about three hundred singles, and with each handful I would say, This is from Ken Ivy, y’all!

We started dressing like the pimps, shopping where they shopped, like Nile Bush and Brass Loop. We would go to school dressed like that. Our teachers looked at us like we had lost our minds, but the kids loved us. Everybody wanted to kick it with us, and all of the older girls wanted to take us to the school dances. We were so popular that we never had to pay to get into those dances. We had already made the investment.

By the time he turned sixteen, JD was an official pimp, with three certified hoes. He was popping like a motherfucker with his pimpin’. His name was ringing like a cell phone. I watched how much shine he was getting, and I wanted some too. One day we were at his house—him, his three hoes, and me. We were sitting at the table, just kicking it, and I said, Man, I got to get into this pimp shit.

No problem, JD said. I got three hoes. Which one do you want?

The light-skinned one, I said, not believing he was going to give me my pick. Her name was Red.

Bitch, excuse my pimpin’, he said. But you’re with my little brother now.

I don’t know who was happier, the ho or me. She was smiling like Miss Kool-Aid. JD, here’s what we’re going to do, I told him. I was always cooking up a plan. We’re going to hang out with the older pimps and steal their game right from under them.

Lil’ bro, all we need to do is what I’m already doing—look good, smell good, and keep a fresh Fleetwood, he said. He was telling me to just build my name and the rest would come—hoes, respect, money, and power. If people respect you, you got it made.

I was able to quickly get a name in my own backyard, but the real test came when I decided to broaden my pimpin’. I decided to go to the biggest city in America—New York—and see how good my pimpin’ was. I got to New York, and the stakes got higher. The pimps up there were so big, I had to really get it right. I couldn’t have been in town more than two hours before I got knocked for the ho I brought with me. My first day in New York, and I got peeled. I was up there by myself, so I had to devise a plan not only to make sure I had me a ho to pimp, but also to get me a big name in the Big Apple. I had to get creative, and quick. I was pimpin’ like crazy, and I decided that every time I peeled a pimp for his ho, I would give him a Wall Street Journal folded around a banana.

It’s in the news, you just been peeled! I would tell him.

If the nigga wanted to talk some shit, I would put a bottle of ketchup under his tire and tell him, You better catch up, because my game is as thick as Heinz, and yours will never be as thick as mine! This would really make a pimp mad. Once I had him mad, he would be talking. The more he talked, the more he spread my name, and the more respect I started getting on the street. People were impressed with my style of serving a nigga. Nobody was doing the things that I was doing.

As I was trying to knock those hoes, I would drive around the track, throwing Payday candy bars out my window. Make it a Pimpin’ Ken payday, bitch! I would say, trying to hit a ho on her ass with the candy bar.

Who is that nigga who keeps harassing us with candy bars? the hoes wanted to know, and they soon found out. Pimps wanted to talk to me about my tactics, because it was really pissing them off. When a pimp confronted me, I was prepared. I would make sure to always have a bunch of lollipops handy and would give one to the angry pimp.

What’s this for? he would ask.

It’s for you, sucker! I was always looking for a witty saying or looking to give some sort of speech, because I knew that would stick with people. Sometimes I could see it in a pimp’s eyes that he wanted to kill