The Caged Pimp: a Vincent Story

This is fifth Vincent the Bartender story. The other stories are, in the order they were written:

The Dutiful Son
Pickled Eggs
Hot Wet Opera
Six Eyes Scratched Out

Each story is meant to stand alone on its own. So don't be intimidated.

As always, any feedback would be appreciated -- good or bad.

Feel free to print out any of the Vincent stories and share them. But do not use them to make money. I'm not getting paid for this, so why should you?

There are some additional comments at the end of the story.

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The Caged Pimp
by Nikolaus Maack

The first Saturday of every month, there was a poker game at Vincent's bar. It took place after hours, in a back room just off from the kitchen. The walls were bare. A round table was bolted to the floor. The chairs were heavy and well padded. This made them comfortable, but also difficult to pick up and throw.

That night, six players ringed the table: two cops, a judge, a drug dealer, a mob lawyer, and a pimp. They were big, serious men with serious faces. The judge smoked cigars, filling the room with smoke. Not everyone appreciated the stink of the cigars, but the judge had deep pockets and was a lousy card player.

An anonymous waiter sat in the corner, studying every movement of the cards. He kept things friendly. Anyone caught cheating would be suitably reprimanded.

Vincent, the bar owner, sat at a chair outside of the game. "I can't fucking play cards myself," he explained every week. "You know what they say -- lucky in love, unlucky at cards."

This always made the men laugh. Vincent was big and fat, like a mountain with the face of a constipated bulldog.
Vincent kept the beer flowing, occasionally ducking in to the kitchen for snacks. He didn't bother keeping tabs. The house took a cut of the winnings at the end of the night.

The pimp was named Shark, and he'd been drinking too much. Early in the evening, he started to lose. The more he lost, the deeper the crease between his eyebrows got, until it started to look like a little ditch in his face. During one particularly bad round, he threw down his cards and yelled:

"Mother fucker!"

The faces of the other players darkened slightly.

"Shark, come out front with me," Vincent said. "Take a break. Clear your fucking head."

It was worded as an invitation, but Shark knew it wasn't one. He silently got up from the table and the two of them went out front.

"Want a Coke or something?" Vincent asked.

"How about a beer?" Shark asked.

“Did I fucking offer you a beer?”

Shark paused. Apparently he was cut off. Well, he was pretty hammered.

“Soda and lime?” he asked.

"Fine." Vincent assembled two sodas and brought them over to a table. He flicked a light on, and a pool of yellow shone down on their drinks. The rest of the bar was dark and empty. It made the table feel like an island in the middle of an ocean.

Shark got his name from the plain gray suits he always wore, and his plain, tough demeanour. His eyes were dark dots set deep in his face. Despite being a pimp, there was nothing flashy or peacock about him. He was too smart for all that - smart, and thoughtful, and quiet. Where other pimps were regularly hassled, the police often failed to notice Shark in the crowd.

Shark took a sip of the soda, and then ran a finger around the rim of his glass. He looked up at the yellow light, blinking, and then looked back down at his drink. He wanted to talk, but didn't know how to start.

"What the fuck's with you tonight?" Vincent prompted. "You're not the type to get rattled by a few lousy hands of poker."

"I came here tonight to forget about something," Shark admitted. "Distract myself. But I can't forget it. This feeling, in my chest..."

Vincent said nothing.

"I don't know if I can be a pimp anymore," Shark blurted out, surprising himself.

"Why not?"

Shark paused for a moment, then let out a sigh. "Being a pimp -- it's a contradiction. A weird Catch 22. You ever been broke and hungry?"

"Sure."

"Being a pimp is like that. I'm standing in a restaurant, and there's all this amazing food. And I'm starving. But I can't afford to eat. All this food, passing me by, and I can't touch it. But, in my life, in the life of a pimp... It's not food that's driving me crazy. It's women. Sexy, crazy, lusty women. And I can't fuck them. Because it would destroy me. A good pimp doesn't fuck his whores. Soon as he does, he's a chump. He's finished."

"How come?" Vincent asked.

Shark thought for a moment, then said, "One of my whores fucks a customer and gets paid. What percentage do you think she gets to keep?"

"Twenty percent?" Vincent guessed.

Shark laughed. "Lower."

"Ten percent?"

"Try zero percent," Shark said flatly. "She gets nothing. All the money goes to me. I tell the girls that I'm their banker. They give me all the money, and I'll give it to them when they need it. The whole thing is about control. I pay their rent. I buy their groceries. I take them shopping for clothes. They see me as their guardian, their benefactor, their priest. I give them things. They don't give me anything-- they can't. Control. They all think they're in love with me, and that's fine. Hell, I'll tell them I love them. I’ll kiss them, chastely, like a brother. But I'll never fuck them."

"They can only give you money," Vincent said.

"Right."

“They give you anything else, you lose control.”

“Right. I let them give me so much as one blowjob, they think they've got something on me.”

"And that's why you're a starving man."

"Exactly," Shark said, falling back in his chair. "And it’s not just the lack of sex. It’s more than that. I've got a wall around me and I'm trapped inside it. The women throw the money over the wall to me, and that's it. No one gets in. No one."

He fell silent, and stared at the tabletop. The ice in his drink gleamed like diamonds. He shook the glass and the diamonds sang.

“I must be drunk,” Shark said. "I never talk this much."

"No one gets in?" Vincent prompted, smiling slightly.

"Well... That's how it used to be. Until recently. This one woman, she calls herself Veronica. Like in Archie comics. I don't know her real name. Pale skin, big smile, dark black hair. Real ripe. A brunette Marilyn Monroe -- that's what everyone says about her. I met Veronica a few times, talked. She seemed interesting to me, no big deal. A good fit for my stable of girls. So yesterday night, I went to the bar where Veronica hangs out and I was all ready to start turning her, make her a worker. She was sitting across the room, smiling at me. So I gave her the stare."

Shark laughed. "I don't know how it works, but I have this look I give women, and they come to me. My eyes hypnotize them, I guess. I'm not exactly a handsome guy, but something about the stare just works. Hungry eyes. Don't ask me. I feel silly talking about it. Anyway.... Fuck, I’m drunk. So, anyway, I stare at this pale, dark-haired girl, and she comes right over to me, and she's laughing.

"And Veronica says, 'You need glasses or something?' Teasing me, real nice. Then her tone completely changes, and she says, all serious, 'You're in a lot of pain. That's sad. A nice guy like you.' And that's all it took. She came right through the wall and touched me, with just a few words. The real me. Touched me right here."

And Shark punched himself in the center of his chest.

"She touched me, smiling, and then she just walked away, smiling over her shoulder at me, leaving me gasping in my chair as she walks out the door of the bar. It hurt. My chest started to ache, like I was having a heart attack. I can still feel it now. It hasn't left me since she spoke. A dull throbbing, right in the middle of my chest. With just a few casual words, she showed me my pain, made it real.

"Now that I can feel it, I know it was always there, before Veronica said anything to me. I just couldn't feel it, until she showed it to me. All she did was reveal who I am and what I've been feeling. It’s amazing.

"Today, all day, I've been walking around, feeling this wound in my chest. Just thinking about this pain. Feeling the edges of it with my mind. What does it mean? What do I do with it? What's it for? What am I supposed to do now? I've never felt anything like this, and it feels crazy. A sucking chest wound, like I've been shot.

"Part of me is scared that it's never going to go away. That I'll feel like this forever. And some other part of me wants to hold on to it. Hug the pain tight and close, like a lover. Some part of me wants to feel this pain, forever. Because this pain, it makes me human. Up until now, I haven't been human at all. I've been a business man, a pimp. A fucking shark."

He slumped on to the table, his head in his hands. "I thought I'd feel better, talking about it. Fuck, I just feel worse."

They were quiet for a moment. A car went by and the headlights briefly lit up the bar like a lazy flash of lightning.

"Take off your shirt," Vincent said. He quickly got to his feet and went behind the bar, started washing his hands. There were other noises as he wandered around the dark.

"Wh-what?" Shark stammered.

"Let me take a look at this wound of yours," Vincent said. "See if I can do anything about it."

"There's... There's nothing to see. I mean, it's not a real wound."

"Take off your shirt. Show me where it hurts. That's all."

Shark stood up, from his chair. He tottered a little on his feet, and realized he was still quite drunk. He didn't trust himself. "Are you... Are you serious?"

"Do I fucking look serious?" Vincent asked.

Shark, standing next to the pool of yellow light, couldn't see anything in the darkened bar. He couldn't see Vincent to tell if he looked serious or not. Then, suddenly, Vincent was standing in front of him. The bartender had rolled up his shirt sleeves and his hands glistened, wet under the yellow light. The man's bulldog face was stone.

"I... I guess you are serious," Shark said, and hesitantly began to untuck his shirt.

"I grew up in the south," Vincent said, gruffly. "My parents were very religious. Almost to the point of insanity. I'm not religious now. Gave up on all the shit years ago. Still, I learned some things from my parents. People said I had 'the gift' -- whatever the fuck that means. I try not to take it too seriously, but, it was a calling. Maybe not god. Maybe some other fucking thing. The universe. Some kind of power. Who the fuck knows? I try to ignore it. But you can't always ignore this kind of thing. Sometimes the moment arrives, and you've got to fucking do something."

Shark stood there, nervous. His chest, muscular and mostly hairless, was exposed. He draped his shirt over the back of a chair.

Shark started to say, "You better not be..." and Vincent waved away the words and anger with his meaty hand.

"Show me where it hurts," the bartender said.

Shark made a fist with his right hand, and put it on his chest. "Here," he said.

Vincent nodded. "Let's see," he said.

He laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. It sounded like gunshots in the quiet bar. Vincent raised his right hand in the air, palm up. He lowered the tips of his fingers on to Shark's chest. When the fingertips touched him, Shark let out a little gasp. The touch felt hot against his skin.

At first, Vincent's fingers were spread out. He bounced his hand around, like a spider jumping into the air and landing. With each bounce, his fingertips came closer together. Then all five fingers were pressed at a particular point. Vincent tapped the back of his right hand with the index finger of his left. He cocked his head, as if listening to the sound.

"Here," he said, with conviction.

"Right," Shark said.

"I'll need you to lie down on the table," Vincent said, and he began clearing off the table, under the light.

"Why?" Shark asked.

"Psychic surgery," Vincent said. His face was utterly serious.

"You're shitting me,” Shark said. “I’m not that fucking drunk, I mean you can’t…”

"Do you want to deal with this thing, once and for all? Do you want to get your shit together? Or do you want this hurt your whole fucking life? Now lie down on the fucking table."

With some difficulty, Shark sprawled on the table, on his back. The table was round and his legs and arms hung down. Drunk, he found it difficult to keep his balance. The table wobbled slightly, but stayed upright.

"If I was sober,” Shark said with feigned cheerfulness, “this would not be happening.”

Vincent ignored him. He held up his hands, spread his fingers. Using his right hand, he found the spot on Shark's chest again, and lay the palm of his hand flat on the spot. He closed his eyes and seemed to be concentrating on something.

"Pain's a funny thing," Vincent said. "We're afraid of it. Every time we get so much as a headache, we're taking pills to chase the pain away. Working bar, I've seen people drink their whole fucking lives away. Everything hurts them. Getting out of bed, walking around, talking to people. They're in constant pain. So they drink and they drink and they drink, so they never get hurt. But sometimes, you've got to hurt. To know you're alive. Pain pushes you in the right direction, like when you stub your toe in the dark -- you know you went the wrong way."

As he spoke, Vincent pressed down on Shark's chest, and wiggled his fingers.

Sitting up slightly on his elbows, Shark watched as Vincent pushed his fingers down. It looked like the fingers were penetrating the chest. And was that pink fluid of some kind? It seemed to be dripping between Vincent's fingers. What the hell was it? Where was it coming from?

Vincent dug around with his fingers, as if reaching for something. "Deep pain. Soul pain. It's the best and the worst kind. That's when your heart is talking to you, telling you how you feel."

Shark saw something red and solid, in Vincent's fingers. There was a bowl nearby -- small and white -- sitting on another table. Vincent dropped the red thing into the bowl, then started digging around inside Shark's chest again. He quickly pulled out two more red things and dropped them in the bowl.

"What...?" Shark managed.

"That girl, Veronica," Vincent said, digging around some more. "She gave you a gift. She put you in touch with your pain. You should be fucking grateful." Vincent pulled out a few more red things and dropped them in the bowl. "There. That should be all of them."

As Shark sat up, Vincent grabbed the bowl, moved it further out of the light.

"Here's your shirt," Vincent said, handing it over. "Why don't you go to the bathroom, clean yourself up a little."

Confused, dazed, and drunk, Shark did as he was told, staggering off to the bathroom with his shirt in his hands. As he headed towards the back of the bar, he could hear the judge and the others talking as they played poker. Somehow it was hard to believe those men were still here. Shark had just undergone something, but he had no idea what it was.

Turning on the light in the bathroom, Shark saw himself in the mirror. His chest, where the pain had been, was smeared with pink fluid. Tentatively, he touched it. The fluid was sticky, and smelled sweet. He took some paper towels, ran warm water on them, and cleaned himself up.

The pain was gone. It took him a moment to realize it. He felt good. His mind was clearing, a little. Shark put his shirt on and buttoned it up.

When he came back out to the bar, Vincent was sitting at the table -- the island in the light. As he walked up, he saw Vincent reach into the white bowl, take out one of the red things, and eat it.

Shark blurted out, "What the fuck?"

Vincent turned around. "Oh, there just maraschino cherries, from the bar. Squished a little out of shape, but still good. Didn't want to fucking waste them."

"Cherries?"

"Right. What, you thought I was really doing psychic surgery on you?"

"Son of a bitch," Shark muttered. Then laughed. "What the fuck was the point of all that shit?"

"Sometimes, when I talk, people don’t listen. Especially when they’re drunk. It’s not enough I give them words. They want a song and fucking dance. That’s the only way the words get in. And you feel better, don’t you?”

"Yeah. I do."

"Then the operation was a fucking success."

Shark sat back down at the table. His mind was all over the place. He didn't know what the hell to say or do.

"Way I see it," Vincent said, "I don't know if you should quit being a pimp or not. But one thing you've got to fucking do -- you should find this Veronica girl again. Forget about making her turn pro. Ask her out on a date. Show her a good time. If a woman gets your heart talking, you don't want to lose something like that. You need to find out if she got in because she got lucky, or because she's fucking special."

"I... I suppose so."

Vincent got to his feet. "Now go home. You're drunk. You’re fucking up my poker game with your bitching. What, you think I make money around here selling drinks? It's my cut of the poker winnings that keeps the fucking doors open.”

Shark stood up. "Okay. Thanks."

Together they headed towards the back door. Walking past the poker room, Shark stuck his head in.

"Good night, everybody," Shark said. "Sorry about earlier."

Everyone wished him a good night, and he went out the back door, into the alley, and off into the night.

Vincent sat back down at his chair, near the poker game.

"You settle things with Shark?" one of the mob lawyers asked.

A cop laughed.

"Sure, I settled things," Vincent said. "I gave him a talking to, showed him a magic trick. He's fine. Good kid."

The judge took out a fresh cigar, and began preparing to light it.

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Some additional comments...

I wrote this story months back, and then sat on it. Faith healing? Really? What the hell was that all about. No one was more surprised than me when Vincent told Shark to take off his shirt. It seemed ridiculous and insane.

Characters don't always do what I expect them to do. That is, if the characters are any good. They take on a life of their own and behave in their own way. It becomes my job to just write down their actions.

Embarrassed by the faith healing stuff, I decided this was a flawed story and I'd have to think about it some more. When I reread the story yesterday, I was surprised at how much I liked it and how the faith healing seemed to work -- so long as you understood it was just Vincent screwing around to keep Shark's attention.