small brush shouldn't fuck with big timber

Death's Door, the view from the Spanish announcers table: blast from the past......whorehouse

Tuesday, October 18

blast from the past......whorehouse

Since I’ve been throwing the word whore around as of late, I thought I’d drag something about whores out of the archives just to show that I’m not against the whore.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. It even made sense in a fucked up kind of way. I was doing the hard way bouncing routine at this blues club in Westport and I had a night off and was choking back a few drinks with a couple of friends. In those day’s I hadn’t yet discovered the cheap qualities of Old Crow and Jim Bean so I drank Wild Turkey 101 instead. You know what stupid drunk is? It’s having a beard and knockin down a shot of Wild Turkey 101 while it’s lit. It’s amazing the shit bikers can talk a cat into.

Anyway, I’m talking to two old friends and we were discussing the hooker problem Westport had back then. Yeah, believe it or not back in the eighty’s Westport was stupid with the working girls. There’s a lot of soccer moms nowadays running around in SUV’s that used to flatback for money back in the day. It didn’t make it a bad thing; it was just the way shit was back then.

So we were all sitting around talking about this issue when we were joined by a few of the local working women. They had the big bitch on about getting hassled by the cops and what a chore it was trying to make a few bucks. One of the guys’s said something about would it be any easier if they had a central location to work out of, and if it was he might be able to help em out? Remember, back then Westport was nothing like it was now. You had Kelly’s, Blayney’s, Buzzard Beach and a few other small bars and restaurants.

You still had homes and apartments scattered throughout the area, and in the center of all this was a huge fucking bread factory. My buddy just happened to have a small house down the block he was trying to rent. Hmmm, whisky soaked brains and hookers, what a bad mix. We all put our heads together and worked out this plan.

We would open the first whorehouse in Westport since Al Capone dropped in for a drink. It made sense at the time. I‘d be the muscle and watch over the girls. My buddy that owned the house would front the startup money and collect our share of the take. The other girls would recruit and take turns being head bitch in charge. We even thought out fucking advertising and a start date.

Two days before we opened I walked into the club and saw my friends sitting in a dark corner. Without saying a word I grabbed a drink and joined em. It was me, the money guy and the girls setting in silence, smoking, drinking and thinking hard. After about an hour I stirred and said; “well, I guess I’ll be the first to say it. What the fuck was we thinking”? We must’a been high to think we could get away with this.

"and the monkey flipped the switch"


Blogger Nightmare said...

I think it is a brilliant idea! I want two of them!

10:30 AM  
Blogger Cerberus said...

A many good idea that started with the slurred words, "wait, wait, wait...listen to me, I got a greeaaatt idea", had been destroyed after the buzz wore off. Damn you sobriety.

11:23 AM  

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