Zombie Pimp

by Lee J Minter

  ZOMBIE PIMP

  A Night Turner Tribune Novella

  Lee J. Minter

  Copyright © 2019 Lee J. Minter

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Top Circle 05/17/2019

  This novel is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Original Stories: by Lee J. Minter

  Art Work: by Lee J. Minter

  Cover Design: by Rebecacovers @ Fiverr

  Ebook formatting by ebooklaunch.com

  ISBN 978-1-7327753-9-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019904653

  The Night Turner Tribune II: Five Tales of Horror + 1 Spellbound. Is an anthology of ghastly and terrifying stories written by the self-proclaimed rock star of horror Lee J. Minter himself, author of the best selling hit “The Night Turner Tribune: Five Tales of Terror” is back again with six more stories designed to scare the living s#!t out of you. Make a hole and make it wide for the new master and self-proclaimed rock star of modern day horror and beyond aka Mintboogie. Horror will never be the same, stay tuned for the aftermath of carnage that his imagination leaves behind.

  P.S. Before you pick it up, remember to leave the lights on if you dare.

  “How can we prove something if we were never intended to see it in the first place,”

  Luna Dye

  Dedicated to family, friends, and fans here and abroad. Thanks for all your love and support, but most of all believing.

  To my number one fan and lovely wife Kathy Nadine Minter.

  Contents

  Zombie-Pimp

  Bonus Excerpt: Midnight Rain

  ZOMBIE PIMP

  Breezy as he was known on the streets of Oakland, California was a well-known pimp and wheeler and dealer in the skin trade game. A pimp that took pride in having some of the best ass-sets money could buy working the tough and gritty streets of Oakland.

  “If your head ain’t in the game your ass better be,” was the favorite line he would say to the new girls that he introduces into what he calls “the business.”

  “But I would prefer both,” he would add. Often to the new girl’s nervous giggles.

  He had a team of twelve girls that he was working bringing in twelve-thousand dollars a day on an average three-hundred-sixty thousand on a good month, which came to four hundred million three hundred and twenty thousand dollars and maybe some cents, a year, If the girls got their tricks for their pocket change too, all tax-free.

  See, Breezy had figured out what most men did not know; the government had already figured out how to tax pussy, it was called marriage, so he was just subleasing it as a commodity.

  When business was slow, which was seldom, Breezy would loan some of his girls out to the porn industry to make some spank your monkey movies on VHS.

  He was a ruthless millionaire pimp that had to climb his way to the top by turning out young girls on the streets with the finesse and verbal skills of a master manipulator, as well as a verbal virtuoso of telling them just what he thought they wanted to hear as he lured them into his inner circle.

  “Wine ’em and dine ’em then trick ’em and pimp’em was one of his mottoes.

  His street cred was established, his pimp game un-challenge by up and coming pimps and old heads that had been around in the game for some time.

  With all the money that he had coming in, Breezy definitely did not have to be out on the streets, watching his girls while they work. It was a task he usually left up to his right-hand man “Big Jesse” who he appointed as a manager and look-out for the girls while they work.

  Big Jesse, was also was responsible for making sure that their asses were up, and their heads were down as they put in their shifts, because as Breezy had told him “No play, no pay.” And making sure that those dead presidents came in correct and they weren’t skimming any of their earnings off the top and stuffing it up their va-jay-jays to spend to get high later.

  Just like every master pimp would, worth his glass heel Stacy’s and mink fur coat into Pimpdom hood.

  Breezy’s bottom bitch was a butterball who he refer to as “Whiplash” that kept the other girls in check when they got catty, and out of order. She also oversaw and ran his whorehouse for his more exclusive clientele. Like businessmen, politicians, doctors, judges, and lawyers. Men who rich wives had come up with them in status but were no longer interested in what their penises look like unless they were attached to the young teenage pool boys, strapping gardener and occasionally the bartender or waiter at their favorite high-end restaurants.

  They were old men with lots of money and power that still wanted to feel desired by the pretty young things that were willing to do whatever they ask to separate that almighty dollar from their almighty wallets.

  Breezy reflected on a joke that one of his high-end clients had once told him about his wife. “That if he would have known that she would stop giving him blow jobs once she had her first million after one year of marriage, he would have dish that one million out to her one buck at a time.”

  “Tricks were bitches and bitches are tricks,” he thought, with a smirk on his face. As he watches one of his street girls turn a trick in a clients car from a distance inside of his brand-new white on white Caddy, (exterior and interior) with white walls, shiny aluminum rims and an eight-track player in the deck belting out the smooth sounds of the impeccable Marvin Gaye.

  No, Breezy normally would not be out on the streets playing lookout and babysitter to one of his street whores, but tonight was different.

  Different, because he had got the word that a suspected “serial killer” that the police had dubbed “Hands On” was on the loose in Oakland and had already brutally raped and killed several of his competitor’s girls.

  This sonofabitch he felt needed to be dealt with and dealt with quickly.

  Breezy’s attention went back to the car of “The John” a brown Riviera that was parked in front of him. Inside that car was one of his girls’s a southerner he nicknamed “Dixie” servicing a john with some righteous head game.

  Although it was dark, he could see a silhouette of her head bobbing up and down through the Riviera’s back window, like a bobblehead.

  The guy must have be hung like a horse for her to keep coming up for air like that he first thought. But upon closer observation, Breezy could see that wasn’t what it was at all. He could now see the trick had his hands around Dixie’s throat forcing her head down inside his car. He could now see the trick was attempting to kill his street girl as she struggles for her life.

  “Motherfucker!” Breezy shouted out to himself, as he took out the gold plated .45 with a pearl handle grip, from his glove compartment and chamber a round into its slide.

  Breezy exited his Cadillac quickly, with the .45 hanging alongside his right leg as he made his way over to the John’s vehicle. The trick never notices Breezy as he stealthy crept up next to the driver’s side of his vehicle with pistol in hand. Maybe because he was too busy choking the last bit of life now left out of Dixie as her eyes bulge out of her head as she struggles to breathe.

  Breezy gave the car door handle a tug, but it was lock and would not open. He then rapped on the trick’s window loudly with his gun to get his attention and to stop the assault on his working girl.

  “Motherfucker open this door!” Breezy shouted out at him.

  His aggressive directive caught the man’s attention inside the car as he stops strangling Dixie and released his death grip from around her throat. She gagged for fresh air, grabbing her throbbing and aching throat. As he turns around to face Breez
y, she pops the door lock on the passenger side and quickly escapes the vehicle almost falling out of it before she gains her footing.

  “You sick sonofabitch!” she shouted back at the trick.

  “What the fuck?” Breezy said, jumping back startle! As the John’s or Trick’s hideous face came into view. It had to be the worst case of disfigurement he thought that he had ever seen on someone. With his girl Dixie out the car, Breezy fired several shots into the window of the car, shattering it, and striking the man in his chest multiple times. He could see the trick now slump on his seat after the bullets had torn into his chest. Breezy cautiously approached the car with his gun still pointed at Dixie’s assaulter as he went to open the trick’s car door.

  The man suddenly sprung up with a growl, through rotten teeth, staring at Breezy through grayish cloudy cataract like pupils.

  Breezy fire off another round that struck the trick in his shoulder, but that did not stop “The John” from pushing the door open violently knocking Breezy down in the process as the door flung open striking him.

  Dixie let out a scream as she watched what now look like a monster to her, the same monster that she was performing oral sex on earlier exit the car slowly, walking towards Breezy, grunting and growling like an animal.

  “Breezy, no. Get up, baby!” she shouted out.

  “Get up!”

  Dixie rushed the trick in defense of her pimp (Breezy) with a straight razor that she had retrieved from her purse. As she swung the blade, it met the trick’s ear and completely sliced it off as if it was a piece of fungus attached to the head of a cabbage.

  “How, you like that muthafucker?” she said.

  But the ear had come off too easy, she thought, with little resistance.

  Almost as if all you would had to do is tug at it and it would have fallen off on its own.

  Unfazed by the loss of its rotting ear, the thing only growled inhumanly, before it backhanded Dixie in the face and sent her sprawled out to the sidewalk.

  What the hell is this thing? Breezy thought as he reached for his .45 that he had dropped when he was knocked down by the car door. Suddenly he felt the thing’s rotten teeth sink into his arm.

  “Goddammit!” he screams out in pain, as he punched the thing in its face with his free hand while jerking his bitten arm free out of its rotten mouth.

  Boom! It sound like a cannon had went off as Breezy watched the thing’s head explode like a melon in front of him, splattering blood matter all over his face and his fine threads.

  “What the fuck took you so long?” he said.

  “Sorry but my corns on these damn feet had me moving slow,” Big Jesse said, wielding the saw-off shotgun that was still smoking at the barrels as he helped his boss to his feet.

  “What the fuck was he on PCP? Big Jesse asked.

  ‘How the fuck am I supposed to know? All I know is that muthafucker all most killed Dixie and tried to bite my fucking arm off like it was a delicious slab of ribs!” Breezy said, retrieving his .45 off the ground as he brushes himself off.

  “You okay baby?” he asks Dixie.

  “My throat hurt daddy,” she said as she wiped dead penis flesh from off her mouth.

  Big Jesse looked at her with a smirk on his face.

  “That muthafucker look like “The son of Frankenstein” why would you want to get in the car with him?” Breezy ask, as he took out a handkerchief and begin to wipe the dead man’s cerebral cortex off his face and clothes.

  “I am sorry daddy, it was dark,” she answers feebly.

  “Ain’t that much darkness in the world,” Breezy retorted.

  “And that muthafucker stinks like something dead,” Big Jesse added.

  Breezy looked down at the deceased man’s mushy head at least what was left of it and noticed a name tag badge clip onto his coat.

  Apex Labs & Bioresearch - Dwight Kimbo - Lab Tech.

  Breezy unclips the name tag and stuffs it in his pocket.

  “Do you think this joker is “Hands On?” Dixie asks in a Southern drawl.

  “Could be?” Breezy answers apprehensively, while massaging his goatee.

  “Get anything that can be trace to us cleaned up - Jesse, and meet us back at the pad,” Breezy instructed him.

  “No problem Boss,” Big Jesse said.

  “Good, I gotta get “Doc” out and get a rabies shot and this bitch some glasses,” Breezy said, pointing to Dixie.

  “Sorry Daddy,” Dixie interjected.

  “Get your ass in the car,” Breezy said, as he shoves Dixie in the front seat of his Caddy.

  Big Jesse laughed.

  “That wasn’t meant to be funny,” Breezy said with a stern look on his face.

  “Sorry Boss,” Big Jesse said apologetically.

  “By the way, I have another job for you when you finish this one.”

  “Yeah what’s that boss?”

  Breezy reached in his coat pocket and took out the name tag badge and toss it to Big Jesse who caught it in his mitts and begins examining it.

  “I need you to get the 411 on this biter?”

  “Consider it done,” replied his crony.

  Big Jesse watched as his boss Breezy walked back towards his car before he begins his task of cleaning up all evidence that they were involved in the demise of the clump of shit that now laid headless on the sidewalk.

  He takes out a small bottle of cologne opens it up and sprays his fingers, then dabs his nostrils to deaden the scent of the headless body.

  As Big Jesse begins the arduous task of cleaning up the scene something to him doesn’t sit right with this dead guy right off the bat as he goes through his pockets for other proofs of identification. One, this cat has only been dead for a few minutes now but smell and looks like Rigor Mortis has already set in and he had already been dead and stinking for some time.

  And two, growing up on the streets of Oakland California, Big Jesse was no stranger to new death or old death but to him this was a weird mixture of both. As he gathers up the shell casings from his bosses gun, he could hear the distinct sound of “Five O” in the air approaching; he hurriedly picks up the remaining evidence. It was time to get the fuck out of dodge he thought as the sound of the sirens grew even closer. And find out who and what they were dealing with before he reported back to his million-dollar pimp boss.

  And the nostril cologne stop working.

  •

  According to Big Jesse’s resources and connections, Mr. Dwight Kimbo was about as L-seven as you could get with a wife and some kids in an affluent neighborhood up in Orange County, and a good job at Apex Labs & Bioresearch. He had also been reported missing by his wife several days ago but had not yet made the local news, until his body was discovered in Oakland with his head blown off to pieces.

  The cops were investigating it so far as a carjacking or robbery went wrong and had not tied the trick in as being the serial killer “Hands on.”

  Question, was, “What the hell was Mr. Kimbo doing on this side of town strangling prostitutes?” See, Big Jesse had also got another piece of information through his paid informants on the Police payroll. Information that had not been released to the general public yet.

  Information such as, “That the “serial killer” at large had not just killed his victims but had cannibalized them as well.

  And if his memory serves him right, this cat did attempt to take a nice chunk of meat out of his boss arm before he spread his brains like jelly all over the sidewalk with his trusty street sweeper.

  Two plus two always made four as far as he knew, and he was sure once the dental records came back along with the fingerprints that Mr. Kimbo would be identified as the sicko that was going around “offing” women in Oakland.

  As far as he was concern this was solid information he could relay too “Breezy” as he entered the spacious confines of his boss’s laid out digs, decorated with white art-deco furniture and zebra print rugs laid out across the floors jazzy pimp style.

 
Breezy was being attended too by an older gentleman that Big Jesse only knew as “Doc” an on-call physician on Breezy’s dime and payroll.

  “That should do it Mr. Breezy,” Doc said, as he secures the wrap around bandage on Breezy’s arm.

  He hands Breezy two bottles of pills one for pain and one to prevent infection.

  “Take these as needed, and make sure you change the dressing,” he said.

  Breezy open one of the bottles and pop two of the pain pills in his mouth and down it with some E & J.

  “Thanks, Doc,” he said, as he caught the doctor side-eye balling one of his girls a pretty almond colored curvaceous girl that had just turn twenty-one named Cashmere.

  Breezy reached in his pocket and pulled out several hundred dollars and handed it to Doc.

  “Does this cover it?”

  “More than enough, kind sir,” Doc said.

  Breezy laughed, what incredible luck he had, he thought. He must have been the only pimp in the hood with a Black British Doctor.

  Doc’s admiration of Cashmere had not gone unnoticed by him either.

  “Do you like her?” Breezy ask him, as he pointed at Cashmere.

  “Yes, she’s quite lovely indeed,” said Doc, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a pocket handkerchief.

  “Indeed,” said Breezy.

  Big Jesse, smiled, watching the whole scene unfold from across the room as Dixie made him a drink at the bar.

  Breezy waved Cashmere over to him.

  “Take care of Doc before he leaves,” he said.

  “Okay Daddy,” she said, as she took the doctor forty years her senior by the hand and began to lead him to one of the nearby bedrooms.

  “Cheerio,” Doc said with a grin.

  “And fruit loops to you too,” Breezy said sarcastically.

  Big Jesse walked over to where Breezy was sitting and sat down across from here on the beanie chair.

  “Give me the low-down Jess, and give it to me real,” said Breezy.

  “24-7 Boss,” said Big Jesse.