16 Nov 2006
Frederick B. Walters, B. for Buster, aka Freddy Rich, born August 21st 1967 in Oakland, stabbed and shot to death August 19th 1995 in Las Vegas, was a pimp. Born to religious parents, father worked in a bar, mother took in sewing and cleaning, Frederick first realised that he had game in the fourth grade when he had three white girls bringing him candy bars every lunchtime, as he stood by the swings. One day four eighth-graders took him to one side and showed him the outcome of taking advantage of the quarter-back’s younger sister’s generous nature, so Frederick started buying his own candy; and he started carrying a blade. He was a bright student, polite, helpful and was never caught doing anything wrong. 1982 and Frederick’s elder brother returned from service overseas, drove a sweet ride, wore the glitziest suits in the neighbourhood and always had at least three women on the go, calling the house day and night, asking Freddie where his elder brother was, what bitch was he doing, begging to know, cajoling Freddie with all kinds of offers if he would only tell. Frederick thought about candy bars. He lost his virginity to a woman called Rosie Thomas, a gap toothed college dropout who had been dropped by Freddie’s elder sibling. Rosie told Freddie that he was a real man, that he could take care of her. Freddie explained that he had no dough, he was still at school; Rosie told him it was cool, she’d get him money and she did. One night Freddie felt the green notes in his hand, smiled, called Rosie a ho bitch and demanded to know where the rest of his money was. She grabbed him around his knees and wept and cried out that she had no more, that Freddie had it all, and he kicked her away from him and Freddy Rich picked up the phone and called Darlene, a white girl at high school. Rosie picked herself up from the floor and grabbed for the phone but Freddy Rich cocked his left arm and sent her flying across the room and over the bed into the wall with a powerful jab. Mind yo’self he spoke quietly and then back to the phone and turning Darlene out.
1990, Freddy Rich was 23 and he had 17 girls working for his money, out on the streets of Oakland every night, come rain, come shine, you better come on time, bitch. He’d paid for twelve abortions, a small facial skin-graft to cover a nasty knife wound (which he’d made, a little high on PCP one night, a little carried away with his bottom ho, his number one girl) numerous medical bills, countless bail bonds, the odd bag of smack and two funeral wreaths; funerals to which he didn’t go. Freddy drove a Cadillac Coupe De Ville and a Lexus, both decked out with a leather interior of dark purple, to match his favourite custom Armani suits. He was knocking bitches off other pimps every week, keeping his own girls tight and watched over. That year he made a deal with Lieutenant Kowowitz out of the 13th Precinct and every Friday night, poker night for five-o, six of his best girls entertained Oakland’s finest. Freddy Rich’s street cred and infamy grew. He no longer needed to administer beat downs to aggressive tricks or wannabe players trying to stake his turf; no, now he just called 911 and asked to speak to Lieutenant K. He had black, white and yellow bitches; bitches who could swallow two feet of hosepipe, nasty bitches, sweet talking bitches, whips and chains bitches and one double-jointed bitch who could pull in over 10 gees a night when the going was good. And with Freddy Rich, the going was always good.
1995 and Freddy Rich was 27 years old, a mack at the height of the game. He still based his crew in Oakland but he’d run his girls all over the country, hitting big conventions in Las Vegas, the Japanese tourist season in Hawaii, the ski season in Canada. Freddy Rich was now filthy rich. He had met one of Darlene’s regular tricks who was an investment banker for Merrill Lynch and over the course of a couple of years Freddy had taken some of his advice and invested his money in stocks and shares, long term interest accounts, off-shore accounts in the Grenadines and the odd work of art. Freddy was thinking of retiring, leaving the game to the more hungry up and comers he always saw sniffing about or to those he would occasionally deem worthy of hearing a few words of wisdom of how to play the game and not let it play you. Freddy got drunk on Hennesey one night with Rosie, that same first bitch in his stable, and told her he was thinking of quitting the game. She purred and rubbed up against his naked chest and said then it will just be you and me baby. Sure Rosie, you and me. Rosie suggested that Freddy oughta enter for Pimp of the Year at the Players Ball in Vegas in August as how could they not award it to him and what a fine way that would be to leave the game. Freddy Rich grunted.
Freddy Rich won Pimp of the year and was awarded the large trophy in a private room of one of the larger casinos in Vegas, surrounded by his best looking bitches. Darlene was the first to step up and kiss his huge pinkie ring, shaped in gold and encrusted with diamonds, it showed a woman on her back with her legs splayed in the air. All the other macks and pimps cheered as they knew he was a righteous player of the game but they became silent as Freddy started to talk. Gentleman and bitches, from this moment forth I am out of the game. Look after my bitches, they all work real hard for my money and they could for you too, if you treat them right. I ain’t Freddy Rich no more. I am Frederick B. Walters and me and Darlene here are off to Long Island and a life of ease. I salute you! Freddie Walters and Darlene left to rapturous applause.
Freddie Buster Walters never made it to Long Island. Darlene did though, with all the correct account numbers and passwords for Freddie’s extensive wealth. Rosie had brought Freddy’s small derringer from Oakland, had been let into the hotel suite by Darlene and when Freddie was asleep the two lovers finished him off. They weren’t very accurate with the shots or the knife wounds and Freddie took about twenty minutes to die a gurgling death. It just goes to show; as soon as you leave the game you be a chump and a square and you will be played, just like Frederick Buster Walters.
Long time man - sorry to hear about you being canned - probably for the best, eh?
As to the publishing question, you know how fucking apathetic I am! Anyhoo, I'm working on it...watch this space mofo!