What Trump could have learned from me and The Who about hookers
by Regis Boff
I was Keith Moon’s fixer. I never paid a prostitute to be quiet because The Who never gave a shit what they said and neither should Trump because people would have voted for him anyway and his wife certainly knew. Besides, many of our hookers worked for tickets.
I do not care if you believe this story because most of us who were there are dead and the rest are addled beyond restoration.
So our security calls me for cash around five in the morning because Moon has hired twenty hookers and they are playing scrabble on his bed and will want to be paid.
More than twenty naked women smell a certain way.
Half of them were staring at something in the center of the king bed. Keith was concentrating too.
It was the Scrabble board.
“You better be winning,” I challenged him.
“You are finally here, took your time about it, didn’t you?” he says to me, as his head bobs up from his private forest of breasts.
“I had to get more cash,” I lied, knowing that this answer always settles him.
Even hardened whores calmed in Keith Moon’s atmosphere. Not one looked up at me.
“Well, you’re in time enough, I may need to buy a vowel,” he loudly confused our two most famous American letter games, Scrabble and Wheel of Fortune.
“Come to sit” he patted the bed beside him. ” I have these ladies of the night on the run, but things are very condensed.”
I glanced down and saw that five words had found their way onto the board, but none of the wooden squares forming them were touching each other.
“You guys ever play this game before?” I said to the girls.
A stunning black girl with bruised blood colored hair and long shoulder length bone earrings heaved out in a sexy dark voice, “I got one,” as she carefully laid down “zit,” forever impressing four of the other girls who I reckoned must be on her team against the drummer.
Moon kicked the board off the bed in a losing hissy fit.
He grabs my briefcase.
“Does it have lots of money tonight?” He asks.
“You bet,” I said.
He tosses the case to the middle of the bed, and the girls lunged on it like it was a jungle musk satchel.
I was half thinking of how early I could get hold of a spray bottle of disinfectant from housekeeping when he puts his mouth on my ear. He says in a British spy voice, “I have my eye on that little brunette down there, think I have a chance?”
I have this job owing to my two strengths; I am trustworthy with money, and that my reality is not easily overwhelmed by the unreality of anybody else’s.
“Easy,” I returned enthusiastically, “she hasn’t taken her eyes off you even while her mouth is on my case.”
“Ladies, the briefcase please,” he ordered putting his arms out like the prongs on a forklift.
“I will need quite a bit tonight,” now back to me.
“How much?” I said.
He gravely calculated, employing his demanding ” pin the tail on the donkey arithmetic.
“Twenty-thousand might cover it,” he said, now nearly giddy with relief that the stress of the mathematics was over.
Opening the case, I began counting out the money. The girls surrounded me like cats watching a toilet flush. I handed it to Keith and made him sign for it, which he did, dramatically sweeping my pen in semi-circles like a crashing propeller plane, before landing close enough to the dotted line.
He picked up the cash and tossed it to Dougal, his friend who caught some of it and I went back to bed.