Living with a whore–even the best whore in the world–isn’t a bed of roses.― Henry Miller
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER EIGHT: PART THREE: THE FALL
Coach Crump was the most notorious slum landlord in all of Noxtown,
and that’s sayin’ something, Yob. Nobody knew his real first name. Old
Crump was a shouting cove. A waxy-faced, ferret-nosed and nasty old
fossil and a known loocher—mad for frails—many’s an overdue rent he
took out in trade on the third or fourth of the month—what did he care?—the rat-trap tenements he ownded and controlled had already been paid for fifty times over; the rest was just gravy; what is more money when
instead you can stick your dirty dingus into a fine figure of a
woman–or even a mere slip of a girl?
Livin’ in the Old Town district was a lot like being at a job of work—just like
in every small neighborhood, every Yellof and old lady nebby-nose allus kept one eye on the bairns, and vicey versa.
So. I seen Old Crump’s way with the Girlies and I didn’t like it—he was in every way your typical John–save one—he throwed his weight around—because he could—as the gals would say, he was a three inch man with an eight inch way about him. An ordinary Yellof with delusions that he was the Boss Ace—he even walked around with a coon bone—on a rawhide thong hung ‘round his neck–as though he was a big-time gambling cove and a swell sport, instead of a miserable old slumlord with a turkey neck and squinchy eyes. It’s not so much that he talked big—most men do—but that half the time he didn’t know what he was talking about.
I heerd him talking to Little Jane, who I had a mad mash on. At first, they was fussin’ and flutterin’ like two starlings fucking in the rain and then he got into humpin’ and I heerd her say, “Oh, Mr. Man, what a big one–I’m afraid of it!” And he says back to her, “Listen Girlie, Don’t kid a kidder.”
And they made the beast with two backs.
Afterwards, she bounces back right smart and says, “I’m sorry I tried
to jolly you along Daddy, and you bein’ a wised-up Gee. What’s your
line? Are you some kind of big boss man?” “I’m Coach Crump,” says he,
“I’m in the building trade and own about half the lots in town.” And
she bounces back right smart and says “Oh, you’re that s–,” but she
catches herself. “You’re that shrewd Yellof behind the Whiteman
Apartments.” “The very same,” says he, “and if you want a job I can fix
you up with indoor work—good pay–short hours, too.”
My heart leapt in my throat at the thought that my sweet Little Jane would fall in with a rogue like Crump, but she played it KKK—kool, kalm, and
kollected. “Hm, I don’t know, Mr. Man—I kind of like it here.” “Well,”
says he, “if you change your mind you allus know where to find me,
Girlie.” “Thanks, I will,” said she, and there was an end on’t–or so I thought.
In spite of his proclivity for girlin’, Old Crump was infamous for not only owning half the tenement slums in Old Town and points north—but the vain old fool was also known for givin’ his slum dumps highfalutin names, like The Lance,and the Pierre, and the Floyd, and The Roger, and the Saint Peter.
And he also owned some swanker properties, like the Longfellow, the
Shelley, The Swinburne and the Emerson. He fancied himself some kind
of poetical sort—another weakness of his’n—pretentious prick–and he
liked to pay what he called his “humble tribute” to “the old masters.”
They warn’t much a cut above the tenements he rented to the down and
out—only they were in a pretty good location, as John Dillinger would
say, just north of Uptown, and he priced his rooms at top-out-of-sight
rates to keep the riff-raff out, said he, but he was never one to
overlook the chance to make a buck at some loaded Yellof’s expense.
As I told ye, Old man Crump also owned the Whiteman Apartments– No
Colored Need Apply–over in Brand Plaza, just Northeast of the
city—these cribs were the crème de la crème, Yob—furnished rooms with
indoor shitter, cold AND hot running water, a live-in handyman, and a
lobby with a fancy chandelier—more like a swellegant hotel than a glorified
All the big-time Movers and Shakers maintained secret rooms there—what
they called a Key Club—and for a set fee they had access to rooms as
was always kept vacant—many’s a Badger game was also played there—eh? you don’t know the Badger Game? What are you—a greenie, Yob? Ain’t I learned you nothing?
The Badger Game is the oldest shakedown racket they is—you meet a
doxy and ye take her to a crib to sex her up—her idea—sometimes money
changes hands, sure—sometimes not—it don’t really signify–but
whatever the lay-out, this is no ordinary whore, thinks the Sucker.
Sooner’n you can say Smoochy-smooch th’ pore Yellof is scrooched up on
the bed all kissy-kissy with the surprisingly amenable Lady of
Pleasure, and he’s dead-bang sure he’s going to get his ashes hauled.
But then there’s a scrabbling sound in the wall. Rats, thinks he.
When all of a sudden a closet door busts open and out pops a big,
mean-looking Yobbo—preferably a known Bluto with a moniker like
Scardol or Scardini or Scarpone—and he fires off a pistol and screams
You Son of a Bitch Whatta You Doing With-a My Wife. The Sucker ain’t so happy now. Like as not, he’s white with fear. Girl cries. Don’t Kill him, Scardol! Can’t We Talk This Over? says she. Yeah, Can’t We Talk This Over? says The Sucker. You can bet by now his pecker has shriveled to the size of a black walnut. Hubby glares at him. Takes a nip from a hip flask. Glares some more. Another nip. Thinks it over. Finally relents. A G note will square the beef. Sucker empties his wallet–pronto—anything to get out of that fix.
Allus remember—a prick has a mind of its own, Yob—and that’s what
comes of lettin’ it do all then thinkin’ I used to call mine “the
Hound.” Why? Because once it found a fine scent of twitchet it would
Anyway, that was the short con over t’ the Whiteman Apartments.
Probably still is! Long con is that she’s underage and it’s the
“Father”—an old Farmer Daddy with goat whiskers and bib overalls and
maybe three teeth in his rotting skull–and he busts down the door
with a shotgun and hollers Hold It Right There City Slicker That’s
Thar’s My Sweet Daughter How Could Yew Do It, Mister, She’s Only a
Baby I Have a Mind to Plug You Right Here and as he keeps the shotgun
level he says Shootin’s Too Quick For the Likes of You I’ll Go to Law
and I Swear You’ll Hang For This–but then in busts the Hotel Dick,
actually a confederate, and calms the “Father” and gentles him, saying
“Be reasonable Hiram, or Hepsipah, how was he to know she was your
daughter” and Hiram or Hepsipah allows as cash money on the barr’lhead
could square things right smart and so a visit to the bank is made to
quell that beef and so then the sucker can go his merry way, back to his
old life, or so he thinks, only now he is prey to blackmail.
Well, well, well. The way of a man with a maid is beyond all
fathoming. Old enough to bleed, old enough to butcher, I allus said,
but some civilized folks don’t see it quite that way. When fussin’
about with loose women there’s allus a knife in the window, Yob. You’d
be smart to remember that when you go mucking about for a bit of
Now, sometimes the sucker would balk at the shake-down, and would call
in the coppers, and then the higher-ups would get involved. Always
this meant a call–to Police Captain Tom Aston. As rotten a bull as
ever screwed a poor sucker to the wall. Oh, he’d stop the blackmail,
all right—only just so long as a fat “fee” went to “The Magistrate” to
quell the beef. Of course, I don’t have to tell you who “The
Magistrate” was and into whose wonderful tin box the “fee” drapped.
T’was Police Captain Tom Aston.
Who was as crooked and twisted a rogue as ever walked the earth.
I will have more to say of him another time.
GUNS IN THE CAULDRON
WILD WEST LORE
TOP 12 SIGNS YOU’RE DEALING WITH TROLLS
CODEINE COUGH SYRUP FUELING RASH OF OAKLAND STREET CRIME
Minnesota Accused of Using ‘Occupy’ Protesters as Ganja ‘Guinea Pigs’ blogs.wsj.com/law/2013/07/24/state-accused-of-using-occupy-protesters-as-guinea-pigs/
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
RACING SNAILS DRIVER RACIAL STEREOTYPES IN “TURBO”
PITTSBURGH THE POWERFUL: THE NEGROES OF PITTSBURGH
6* DAILY UTILITY
HISTORICAL THEME MYSTERIES
30 THINGS LIBRARIANS LOVE
THE GOLDEN AGE OF SOVIET CHILDREN’S ART
THE DISTURBING EVOLUTION OF MY LITTLE PONY
WHAT CITY YOU GROW UP IN DETERMINES YOUR ECONOMIC FATE
HEAT MAP OF HIPSTERS YUPPIES AND FRAT BOYS IN YOUR CITY
REGIONAL BIAS AND HOW NPR COVERS AMERICA
CHIMPS HAVE HUMAN-TYPE MEMORIES
A TABLE OF REMARKABLE ERAS AND EVENTS
Facebook is an awful lot like 3rd grade. The boys all show
off–supposedly to establish dominance but mainly to impress the
girls. And the girls all talk about their feelings, and each other,
and pretend to ignore the boys. Actually, some parts of facebook are
more like 1st grade. Lots of nyaah nyahh nya nyaaah nyah.
IDEAS TO KEEP YOUR DATA SAFE FROM SPYING
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
SONG SEQUELS THAT WEREN’T (PART THREE)
Stairlift To Heaven
If You’re Really My Sweet Lord, Why’d You Let Them Sue Me?
Precious and None
Full Breed (How I Learned to Love the Word)
Nazi Punks, We’ll Give You ONE More Chance.
No More Chances–You’ll Never be Able to make It Up To Me
Big Shithead. By the Diamonds. (Though some say the Gladiolas version
I Want Me (I’m So Lightweight)
The Laughter of a Ringmaster
Schlock and Roll. By The Aluminum Boring Machine.
Been in a Riot.
Do They Owe Us a Living? Actually, No.
Completely Unperturbed. By Elvis Presley.
Oldster I No Want You. By Bread.
Dueling Banjo Controllers
Resumption Of Calm In Detroit.
The Day Chicago Recovered
Doctor My Thighs
Making Lunch Out of Nothing at All
I’m So Lonesome I Could Diet
We Ate the World
Laughter on Tenth Avenue
We Can Wok it out
When a Ma Loves a Woman
Sitting In Cop Car Man
The Devil Went Up To Iowa,
Take This Internship and Shove It
Knock Me Out Before You Stay Stay
It’s the beginning of Mars as we know it and I feel shitty
Too Old to Churn out Tripe-y Heavy Metal Flute Music; Too Greedy to Retire
Take a Walk on the Mild Side
(With a tip of the hat to Johnny Angel, Jim Sullivan, Jon Hall, Russ
Gershon, Kurt Hoffman, &c.)
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 698.
BOYCOTT ALL NATIONALLY ADVERTISED PRODUCTS
When you think about all the money that is wasted upon devising newer
and more ingenious advertising, you have to wonder: What would happen
if a significant minority of consumers decided to BOYCOTT ALL
NATIONALLY ADVERTISED PRODUCTS? Perhaps the companies would donate the
money to worthy causes–and employ a much more low-key strategy to
advertise that they have done so. Then the Boycott could be lifted. Or
Blessed silence might be preferable to being barraged by their idiotic
lunacy. But I am well aware that there is no easy answer. Especially
since some people seem to actually enjoy being complicit in their own
oppression. Meaning that they actually enjoy Big Br–er, I mean the
As Upton Sinclair suggested, over 100 years ago, One manufacturer
sells you poison and the other manufacturer sells you an antidote.
Jim MacQuarrie suggests that some ads can be useful:
“We had watched the original “Bedazzled” and then saw a commercial for
some luxury item and I went “whoa.” It totally works. “Buy Pepsodent
toothpaste and chicks will dig you.” [So] if you know the classic
“Seven Deadly Sins” (lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, sloth, pride,
vanity) just apply them to the ad. If the ad primarily addresses one
of them, it’s a product you don’t need. If the ad tells you what the
product does and what actual problem it solves, it may be worth
buying. Example: Car A tells you your friends will be jealous and
strangers impressed when they see you driving in it, that it’s lushly
appointed with indulgent features and that owning it will make you
important. Car B tells you it’s safe, reliable and gets great gas
mileage. One of them is selling you things you don’t need and hoping
to profit from encouraging you to be a worse person.”