By Iceberg Slim

The publication that introduced black literature to the streets is again to teach the Hip-Hop iteration what it’s all approximately, the place they got here from.

A blueprint. A bible. What solar Tzu’s paintings of conflict was once to old China, Pimp is to the streets. this is often the tale of Iceberg Slim’s existence as he observed, felt, tasted, and smelled it. a visit via hell by way of the only guy who lived to inform the story. the hazards of penal complex, dependancy, and demise which are nonetheless all too accepted.

By telling the tale of 1 man’s struggles and triumphs in an underground international, Pimp exhibits us the sport doesn’t swap, it simply has a distinct swagger.

Iceberg Slim’s tale is now depicted in a tremendous movie. The documentary, Iceberg narrow: Portrait of a Pimp, indicates Slim’s transformation from pimp to the writer of 7 undying books

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Additional info for Pimp : the story of my life

Sample text

For several months I had been screwing the luscious daughter of a popular band leader. She was fifteen. Her name was June and she had a wild yen for me. She had a habit of waiting down the street from the gambling joint until Jimmy left, then she would come up and get on the army cot with me. She would stay until seven o’clock at night. She knew I had to clean the joint for action around nine. ” I put my clothes on and went to the street and saw an old gambler whom I knew was a trick and told him what was upstairs.

Apparently he was still square because now his eyes were closed and I could hear bits of prayer as he whispered softly. Oscar’s prayer was abruptly cut off by the screech of the van’s brakes as it stopped in front of the prison check-in station and bath house. We clambered out and stood in line to have our handcuffs removed. Two screws started at each end of the line unlocking the cuffs. As they moved toward the middle of the line they stifled the thin whispers of the men. They said to each man, “Button it up!

I was starting my long plunge to the very bottom of the grim pit. I guess my trip downward really was cinched when I met a petty hustler who was very likeable and we became pals. My hustler pal was called Party Time. By the time he was twentythree he had done four bits in the joint. On each fall he had been jacked up for either strong-arm robbery or till tapping. He got his moniker hung on him because as soon as he scored for scratch he would make fast tracks to the nearest underworld bar. When he got inside the door he would shout, “All right you poor ass bastards, it’s party time and Joe Evans is in port with enough scratch to burn up a wet elephant.

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