Lev Parker: Fourth Industrial Revolution Pimp

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“I’m a pimp,” I said. “Presumably, you weren’t born yesterday, you know what a pimp is, what a pimp does?”
“Well yes, although I can’t say I’ve ever seen one in Broadstairs. I say, are you local?”
“Yes mam, I live just across the bay in Westgate-on-Sea. I was hoping you might be able to help your local pimp in his time of need.”
“Oh, I see, well it’s not very ethical, is it, what you’re doing? Pimping, you say?”
“Actually mam, I’m an ethical pimp.”
The woman squinted, as though trying to decipher a bugger of a clue in the Times crossword. “An ethical pimp? How do I know you’re ethical?”
I flashed her a card I’d made up for the occasion. “I’m a member of the British Union of Pimps.”
“Okey dokey, and…”
“That’s my membership number, and here’s a link to the union’s website. If you have any complaints about a pimp, we are regulated by an ombudsman.”
“Oh, well that all sounds rather official,” the woman said. “When I think of pimps, I imagine violent characters in garish clothes beating women and dealing drugs.”
I laughed. “Our industry has an image problem, an identity crisis if you will. That’s why in times of need, so few people are willing to help us. But I can tell that you’re a very discerning person. You’re not prejudiced. I wondered, perhaps I could come inside and tell you more about what we do, and how you might be able to help us?”
“Why thank you, my husband never pays me any compliments. What would you like to drink, tea or coffee, or perhaps something a bit stronger?”
I pulled my umbrella down and wiped my feet on the welcome mat. “Scotch on the rocks.”

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