Don't call me Pimp

I’m not a pimp; I’m a gentleman who just so happens to own women. If it sounds like I’m defending myself, I am. There’s no short way of saying how and why that is, it’s going to take possibly hours if not days to go over the entire answer which is pretty convenient that I wrote a book that you’re currently reading right now. I must go over a few things before I begin this tale of weird happenstances, pure luck, many misunderstandings, and blessings in disguise.
Now I should point out that as of this moment, I’m currently being held inside the Edmonton State Penitentiary, typing on an olden day typewriter with my cell mate Benny who’s currently sleeping on the top bunk. Benny’s a cool guy, a burly and brute man with a gentle heart. Sure he’ll stab a few guys and constantly switch prison gangs but in the end, he’s one of the only few people in here that can protect me and really he’s the only friend I’ve got.
I HOPE you (the reader) aren’t at all turned off yet. This book you are reading is my side to the infamous story of the Canadian Crack and Whore House Raid. Yes, I was busted by the police on site with floating white powder that might have been cocaine and surrounded by women in nothing but sexy lingerie but there’s a very funny and clear explanation to that. And because I’m already typing out my story from before, I’ll also write out the going-on’s of my life right now in prison, switching back and forth here and now. I bet that’s something new. So without further ado, I’ll take you back to May 4, 1990 in the small Canadian town of Delisle… before the prison guard finds out I’ve got a typewriter in here.