Hell Hooker Problem Remains At Large

New York City has come a long way from the violent, gritty, blood-soaked bygone times of the nineteen seventies. Disney strolled into Hell’s Kitchen and cleaned house, so to speak. Then Giuliani was tagged into the ring and moved all the smut shops, liquor stores, and sex workers two avenues down. The image of New York was transformed in about fifteen years to the kind of place tourists didn’t mind spending outrageous amounts of money on stage adaptations of classics from the Disney Vault. A greasy slice of pizza. A bagel with lox. A family picture in front of the gigantic Coca Cola. At the end of the day a pair of sore feet inside pink rubber crocs, and everyone went back to Boise with stories. New York had become a happy place for the clan of the nomad fanny pack.

How could Giuliani or the Disney Company have anticipated the backlash from the world of vice they sought to purge. Sure enough, such a catastrophic remapping in commercial sex traffic would naturally lead to company-wide confusion. Keeping track of hookers comings and goings, so to speak, would become unmanageable for pimps. Hookers, no longer able to sustain a reliable income inside a commercial zone, now had to rely on interborough traffic in order to keep up with annual returns partial to the greater vice economy—drugs, blackmail, murder squads, etc. Rogue hookers working outside a business outfit rose from the ashes and came into conflict with commissioned whores. Suddenly pimps couldn’t figure out which whore was where, whether this hooker was taking the LIRR to Babylon or this whore was riding the cross town bus to Murray Hill. How to split the money between rogue hookers working in tandem with commissioned whores? How to deal with outfitted hookers making money on the side? These problems would come to a head, so to speak.

Some crooked jobs came into the fore as a means of purging the chaos now endemic to the New York sex trade. One hooker rumored to have been playing outside the terms of her business outfit might be sent on a suicide mission to the Bronx where God knows what happened except that no one ever heard from Trixie again. Unfortunately, the barons of vice were taking their notes from Giuliani and Disney, disposing of their garbage with as little thought as to how there means might justify darker ends for themselves.

Sure enough, dead hookers were being disposed of by the trunk load inside illegal junk yards and sewage waste holds across the Hudson. No one could have expected that these dead hookers’ drug addled corpses would have a unique reaction to the pools of chemical wastes they were now marinating in as a result of their pimps’ cruel, all too hasty means of company termination. The presumed dead hookers were coming back to life in hordes, fully cognizant of all that transpired leading to their gruesome reanimation. These reanimated hookers returned to NYC imbued with comic-book style superpowers as yet another unforeseen result of their exposure to toxic waste.

Word on the street of roving gangs of radioactive hell hookers spread like wild fire, so to speak, through the New York underworld. Eventually the word over flowed into the straight world where the problem remains to this day.

“The pimpin’ days aren’t what they used to be. Back in the ol’ days a pimp didn’t have to worry about some radioactive skank knockin’ down his door with her crazy laser vision asking for money and crack unless she gonna blow my head off,” said one pimp, a Meanjeans Catmo Sheen, who’s lived through the whole ordeal since before Giuliani.

The Bloomberg administration declined all comment as to how they were going to atone for the radioactive hell hooker sins of our New York fathers. “I’m afraid to buy groceries. I’m afraid to leave my apartment or some hell hooker might shake me down with her mind powers,” said seventy year old Inwood resident, Edna Malatorres. Mrs. Malatorres neighborhood has been hit particularly hard by the hell hooker infestation. According to 2007 Cat Fancy study, hell hooker encounters incur an 80 percent mortality rate for tabby cats, a 78 percent mortality rate for manx cats, and a 53 percent mortality rate for street cats. Mrs. Malatorres, an avid reader of Cat Fancy, told me of her constant worry over her cats’ well being.