All the Pimps

A pimp merchandizes the bodies of whores. Beatings and insults maintain the necessary inferiority complex that keeps her beholden to him. Lies and mindgames keep her in awe of him, and even more fearful of leaving him, because how will she survive these streets without him? Never mind that she actually feeds them both, the fact that he takes all her money and gives her a fraction of it leaves her thinking she needs him. The occasional drug fix instils dependency through a soul-destroying addiction which only the pimp can supply. At the end of her beauty and usefulness, when she is worn down by daily rough usage at the hands of the tricks whose money she takes and hands over to the pimp, and when the drugs have reduced her brains to porridge, she is discarded by the pimp if she is lucky enough not to have already died on the job or at his hands.

Capitalism pimps out the minds of people. We work to sustain an economic system which exists to exploit us. The best part of our labor and mental capacity is funnelled into narrow and repetitive  routines which maximize investor profits. For all this sacrifice of our time, our productive lives, hemmed in by austere corporate policies the whole while, we earn salaries in exchange with which we may Go Out And Consume, sustaining the system, hoping against hope to eventually earn that deserved promotion that will perch us high in the stratosphere above the worries of the non-selfactualized masses who will stare wistfully up at us as they hang on our every word, giving us a heady rush of power. But most of us won't get quite that high up the pyramid. So we die on the job, or our productivity declines and we retire; meanwhile the machine on the intake end sucks in another fresh-faced starry-eyed aspirant of the verdant heights.

The pope pimps out souls. Making claim to the souls of men he boasts a monopoly of the keys to heaven and hell, thus all should be found in his good books or else eternal fiery tortures greedily await. Many unhappy with their lot in this life comply with his edicts and enrich his coffers for a stake in eternal felicitude insured by the old white man. Inevitably the pope's customers die, earning their chance to verify his claims to mastery over the spirit world, and to test just how far his dearly purchased Get Out Of Jail Free Card will go in those realms. Just too bad if no route be found by which to return to the land of the living and claim a refund from the self-appointed pimp of the underworld.

Spectre

It was hard to accept that Daddy was dead.

Mum was devastated.

Oh man, we prayed fervently, little brother and I, for GOD to bring him back to life. We were serious.

And then we waited expectantly for him to walk in through the door as usual, with his exuberant booming bass reverberating throughout the house as the carried us aloft in his strong arms and hands that tickled. But no such miracle occurred.

And then one day his car came trundling towards the house. We ran out to meet it, little brother and I, our hearts in our mouths, palms skyward in jubilation, thinking GOD had answered our desperate prayers.

But from within the car emerged one of his former colleagues, newly assigned his company car.

We instantly hated that stranger for not being Daddy, though he came to offer condolences for his loss.

Even little sister, at the time a blissfully ignorant, inarticulate toddler, eventually caught on to the extended absence of a strong, familiar presence. She then cried for days.

The years passed and reality sank inescapably,  the hard reality of his continued absence, the oppressive expectation that we would never see him again. The best we could hope for was to eventually come to terms with that Daddy-shaped gap that would never be filled.

To this day his ghost in my dreams is cause for rejoicing. I eagerly pursue it with urgent questions demanding answers, half glad to be reunited at last, though it evades me studiously. Usually people run from ghosts, but this is one ghost I have never forgiven for having the guts to die on me.

Of course I should know better. It was not his fault.

Goodbye Daddy.