Pimp

Twenty-Two

Max loved to follow the news stories about himself. At Attica, fuck, he must’ve read the stories about his arrest and trial thousands of times and it always brought him such a rush. The only thing more addicting than PIMP was fame. Max couldn’t get enough of himself; he felt the way movie stars feel when they read gossip. Whining about the paparazzi, yeah, right, they ate that shit up — Alec Baldwin probably had TMZ pics of himself hanging over his bed, staring at his own manic face every time he came.

Lately Max had been reading the articles about the search for the mystery man, the Philip Seymour Hoffman-on-a-bad-day figure with an Irish accent, who was responsible for the shootings in Brooklyn and Harlem. It wasn’t as satisfying as seeing the Fisher name in the papers, but it was damn close.

He read an article in the Post that rehashed what had been in the papers about him lately, how they were describing the wanted killer as “twisted,” “heartless,” and “cold blooded.” He remembered his mother once shouting at him, “You’ll never be anybody!”

Well, he’d proven her wrong, goddamn it.

“Look who’s the big kahuna now, momma!” he shouted.

He flipped to Page Six. Nope, no mention there, but wait, what was this? Paula Segal and some Swedish guy, reading from their phenomenal bestseller, Bust? Sounded to Max like a dumb title, God knows why it was selling so well. But that name Segal? Why did it sound so familiar?

Wait a sec, holy shit. Paula Segal was the writer bitch who’d visited him years ago at Attica. Max’s biographer.

He read the description of the novel again, and realized the dumb book was about his life. Now, knowing that the book was about him, he decided that Bust was a great title, slam-dunk fucking brilliant. Whoa, and, holy shit, what was this? They were making a TV show of the book too? Someone was actually going to play him on TV? He had to read this part several times to make sure he was reading this correctly. Either this PIMP was better than he thought, or one of his insane fantasies was actually happening.

Max Fisher, a character? A fucking American icon? Tony Soprano who? This was Max’s time, the moment he’d been waiting for, for like ever. He had to get out to L.A., visit the set, witness this for himself, but he couldn’t just leave town, especially not with a blackmailing nun on his ass.

Max had run through so many scenarios about the nun. Bottom line, no way was she going away. If he were insane enough to actually give her the cash now, it would be only a matter of time before she was back for more. Nuns always came again, ask the Pope.

Max had been chipping at the PIMP, taking it easy, well sort of. He just got a new supply and told himself he needed to test-run it. Whoa fuck, this shit was strong and then some. Gave him a rush like white speed and his mind, that beast was fucking electric and, like Richard Pryor on an 8-ball, it was talking to him. Oh yeah, cajoling him, telling him all the good shit he always got off on, starting with, “Yo, you the Max.”

Better believe it.

Max shouted, “Word!”

And now the PIMP suggested — in its sweetest PIMP voice — “We need a mega flourish.”

Max went, “Wotcha...” — sure sign of Max out of control was his use of Cockney — “...got in mind, Homes?”

Heard the plan, whooped. “That is a doozy.”

He picked up the phone, dialed.

At first the nun was skeptical, asked, “Why do we have to meet at a church?”

Max wanted to shout, ’Cause, I like say so, bitch.

PIMP went with, “Fitting we use a sacred place for sacred business.”

She was suspicious, but went with it.

They arranged to meet at St. John the Divine on Amsterdam Avenue. How do you dress to rub out a nun? Somberly. Max was in a black suit, black shirt and if he’d inserted the tiny white collar, he could have been De Niro in True Confessions. He carried a muted, expensive briefcase, like all top brass in clerical circles. No friggin knockoffs for them unless you were counting altar boys.

The nun had taken center pew and old habits die hard, she was absently polishing the rail.

Max slipped in next to her, noted it was just the two of them in the place, went, “Might we light a candle for those who suffer?”

The nun, dressed in Christian Dior and smelling of Chanel, went, “Cut the fucking shit.”

PIMP, loving the mind fuck, said, “Might we least kneel and pray, for world peace?”

She sighed deeply, an old pro at it, as Max opened the briefcase and, in a PIMP-fueled move, took out a nine-inch blade, gutted her as a recorded choir began How Great Thou Art.

PIMP asked, “Don’t’cha love fucking symmetry?”

Blood splashed all over Max, his black suit showing the spillage like dark martyrdom. The nun was making lots of guttural noises and Max said, “Ah, shut the fuck up already.”

When she had bled out, he managed to put her sitting upright, then wound a rosary round her hands like handcuffs. Nuns do love their beads. As precaution, he slipped the tiny white collar on, getting that priest gig going, he even felt, well, holy.

Then giggled, whispered, “Not as holy as this cow.”

And stood, stared at the high altar, said, “Lord, accept this humble sacrifice.”

Outside, he took a moment to gather his frazzled wits when an old woman stopped and asked, “Bless me father?”

He touched her cheek almost with tenderness. Fuck, he felt... humble in his omnipotence, said, “Child, many are called, nun are chosen.”

Maybe PIMP had been in control during the whole time because reality didn’t hit home till he was back at his apartment and said, “Holy shit, I killed a fuckin’ nun.”

Down from the PIMP, he thought it was a dream. But he checked his dick, saw it was still tiny — nope, not dreaming.

He flicked on the TV to New York 1 News and it was right there:

That pretty much said it all. Max couldn’t tear himself away from the TV all evening, watching every station’s reports about the murder. There was a description of him, maybe from the old woman outside the church, and talk of video footage.

Somehow living across from Manhattan North wasn’t as exciting anymore. He knew it was time to cut his losses and take off — for a while anyway. But where to? He couldn’t go back to fucking Portlandia, not when he was on the verge of ruling the world.

Then it hit him; it was so obvious, maybe even destiny.

Next morning, he was on a flight to L.A., the PIMP muttering, “We are so going to own this fucking town.”