Kevin Hinman

“Space Pimp: 2024”

Kevin Hinman

Space. n. – The Final frontier. Pimp. n. – A man of great style and/or wealth

The room was packed tight with American reporters and scientists, all eagerly awaiting the President’s arrival for the DC conference. When he stepped into the room a hush fell over the crowd. The year was 2024, and they were marvelous times. The United States and Japan had agreed to split the world 50/50 after the last war and it seemed to be working out pretty well, despite rebel factions in Mexico and Great Britain (which had had become quite feisty when the US demanded that it drop the “Great” prefix.)

Technologically, nothing much had changed. There was one flying car that ran on smiles, but other than that, the world has slowed down technologically and began to worry instead about gigantic natural disasters and more World Wars. Just last week, the President held a press conference declaring that Spain had succeeded from the Union and a gigantic mudslide had destroyed El Salvador almost simultaneously. Therefore, when the President held a press conference, everyone knew something was wrong.

Only one President had been in office since 2006, when George W. Bush was mysteriously killed in a routine poaching expedition in West Africa. The new President was none other than movie hero, Jeff Goldblum, star of such American classics as Independence Day and The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai. No suggestion of a new President was ever brought up because Americans were happy despite the constant natural disasters and wars. The people loved their leader and, if necessary, would follow him into the gates of Hell. Well, perhaps not right up to the gates, but close.

“My fellow Americans,” President Goldblum started. “I come here today as the barer of bad news. There is an asteroid coming to the Earth, and it will strike in exactly three hours.”

The crowd erupted in questions.

“How big is the asteroid, Mr. President?”

Jeff Goldblum spread his arms out all the way to show people, that it was indeed, very, very big. He cut off all further questions and continued his speech. “I am sorry that I didn’t give anyone enough time to prepare, or say goodbye to loved ones, but damn, I’ve been really busy. So, in conclusion, It’s headed straight for New York City, but it looks really big, so, I wouldn’t be surprised if it takes out the surrounding 58 states as well. Good day and uh, Godspeed.” As he started to leave, a man dressed in a white coat ran into the room yelling.

“Wait! It’s all wrong!” The man yelling was none other than Alan Blackwood, head of SETI (the Search for Extra Terrestrial Intelligence.) “It’s not an asteroid at all…It’s an alien craft. I run the American front of Project Phoenix at SETI. We look for radio signals from other life in the universe. We scanned the so-called ‘asteroid’ and our computers picked up a very strange signal coming from it. It was the theme song from ‘Shaft,’ sir.”

“Whoa, whoa whoa, Dr. Blackwood. You cannot just come in here and argue with the President, or as they call me below the border, El Diablo. If you want to argue my asteroid theory, you first have to answer to that room of skeptics over there.” President Goldblum points to a dusty janitor’s closet. “For now, Ben Affleck, come with me, you’re going to have to destroy the asteroid…from inside of it!”

The crowd hurried out to send Ben Affleck off to certain death and Dr. Blackwood was left alone. He walked over to the closet and peered inside. It was empty and filthy. “Hello?” He called. “Anyone in there to act skeptical and to scoff at my wildly radical and new ideas? Anyone, Michael Moore…anyone?” The room was empty though, and Dr. Blackwood knew there was no time to waste; he had to get to the crash site: New York City.

Three hours later…

As Alan Blackwood arrived at the site, he heard some startling news. Ben Affleck’s rocket had been shot down just 50 feet above the Earth. The world was now ready to accept the horrible truth, they were going to be invaded by aliens. New Yorkers and President Goldblum gathered around, eagerly awaiting the alien’s arrival.

“My fellow Americans, now is our time to fight!” President Goldbum started. “We must repress the alien invasion. Our lives could depend on it. I have passed out a number of weapons I have confiscated from nearby school systems and I have equipped you with a mass amount of ammo. We’re gonna show this alien scum that nobody but God messes with planet Earth!” With that, he lit up a cigar and cocked his pump shotgun.

The craft came down at an incredible speed and crashed into a Starbucks. The craft seemed to be some sort of Intergalactic 1970’s Impala, with amazing rims. The door slowly opened and out stepped one bad mother (shut your mouth!) I’m only talking ‘bout Space Pimp. He was about 5’11, and had the finest silk suit anyone had ever seen and three heavy gold chains around his neck. He looked human, but his race was undeterminable. His goatee was seventeen inches long and braided to perfection. It was obvious this cat was all about the Benjamins, which incidentally had been replaced by McKinleys in 2014. When the creature spoke, his voice was like liquid gold and many women fainted from the sheer ecstasy.

“People of Earth…I have come for your ladies.”

“Over my dead body,” Charlton Heston said as he raised his pistol.

“Relax Charlie,” President Goldblum said. The President was unsure of what to do. Usually his policy was to shoot first and let the UN deal with the pesky details. Unfortunately, Japan and the US had decided that the UN caused nothing but an unnecessary desire to negotiate, and any fool knows that negotiations will agitate a man’s bloodlust but will never quite quench it. President Goldblum was a quencher. He liked to get things done, and when he did them, he did them with a smile on his face (although some sources say the smile may be associated with Botox injections.)

He decided that it would be best to hear the creature out. Besides, he had just punched a child in the ribcage on the way to the crash site and that tided him over…for now. “Alright people, no need to be hostile towards the freak. Everyone drop your weapons.”

“Yeah, ease it.” The extraterrestrial spoke to the crowd. “My name is Space Pimp, and I am the leader of Extraterrestrial Mack Planet D. Our planet is in ruin for one reason and one reason only: the women are extremely ugly.”

A man from New Jersey spoke up, “I feel your pain!”

Space Pimp continued, “My planet is in trouble due to the ugliness of EMPD’s women. I mean, they’re brown baggin’ ugly. They’re so damn ugly that our men our afraid to get down with them. Not only is that keeping us from reproducin’, but all the sexual tension is making it impossible for us to do any work. The cities are crumbling, and it’s all because we can’t get our mack on!”

The President was not paying attention at all; he was too busy checking out Space Pimp’s sweet ride. “Where did this come from?”

Space Pimp chuckled. “From you! Everything we have on our planet is actually shit that you guys threw away. These clothes, my badass Impala, the music we listen too. By the way man, that Rico Suave is one groovy cat. He’s gone be around for a long time.”

The President gasped “It all makes perfect sense now! I remember it like it was two decades ago…” When President Goldblum first took office he decided that the best way for the US to get back on its feet was to a) bring back the fantastic idea of Manifest Destiny and b) forget the 70’s ever happened. How could a country be expected to work if a decade of shame was constantly slapping them in the face? From platform shoes, to Vietnam, to gold chains, to Blaxploitation films, it all had to go. So, they sent a rocket up to space and they never thought of it again, until now.

It was Alan Blackwood’s turn to speak up. “Uh, Mr. Space Pimp…how did you get a regular old Chevy Impala to fly through space?”

“You’d be surprised at how durable those things are. All I had to do was waterproof it, and attach a wicked sweet rocket booster. The rest is Pimp History.”

Despite how little that made sense, the people were awed by Space Pimp’s knowledge and dress. Since everyone had forgotten about the 1970s, they looked to him like a revolutionary fashion god. One man questioned, “Are those fish…inside of your shoes?”

“Yeah, those were fish inside of my shoes. I didn’t know how to feed ‘em, so they died on me. I still keep them around for sentimental value though.” He hesitated and stroked his goatee for what seemed like a fortnight. “Sadly, I am not here to talk about how damn cool I am. I have business to attend to, and if you know EMPD, you know we’re strictly business. So, I’m gonna have to take your women.”

Jeff Goldblum sneered. “There’s no way you’re putting your dirty Space hands on our women. Listen you punk, I’ve dealt with aliens before…and dinosaurs, so do you really want to mess with the Jeff-man? You are not kidnapping our women. We worked long and hard for these women and we don’t want you mucking everything up.”

“Oh,” Space Pimp only shook his head. “I don’t want to kidnap your women…I don’t have to.” It was then that President Goldblum realized that during the course of conversation, over fifty women had flocked to Space Pimps awesome presence. “I think that these women will be more than happy to take a ride in my space-car. That was a little innuendo for the uninformed.” He started to walk towards his Impala to see Dr. Blackwood blocking his way.

“You would like to go home wouldn’t you? Too bad, because it looks like you totaled your space-car with that horrible crash-landing of yours. Oh, it’ll take off just fine, but there’s Starbuck’s coffee allover the fine leather interior.”

The news was so shocking, so horrifying, so shockifyingly horrible that Space Pimp just blacked out right there on the sidewalk.

* * * * * *

He awoke the next day in a daze. He was in the abandoned building of FAO Schwartz that had been long deserted once it was made public that it was built upon an ancient Indian burial ground. Sitting next to him was the President and Dr. Blackwood.

“Listen S.P., I don’t want to squabble with you about petty intergalactic problems. So, perhaps what would work out best is if you stay here on Earth. That way, our women stay here, and you can still dabble in your pimpery, and what not. We just, can’t let you leave the planet. After all, you did shoot down Ben Affleck’s rocket.”

“Actually,” Dr. Blackwood interjected “Mr. Affleck shot down his own rocket when he realized it wasn’t an asteroid. It looks like this asteroid saving stunt was his last futile attempt to get back into the public limelight after Gigli II: Electric Avenue.”

The President reflected, “Yes, that was an awful, awful movie. Still, Space Pimp is not allowed to take U.S. women with him back to Space! It’s simply unethical, and mean.” With that statement, he got up and left with Dr. Blackwood close behind.

“Are you sure this is a good idea Mr. President?” Dr. Blackwood asked.

“Sure, what harm could he do?”

Within 24 hours, Space Pimp had called up his planet using his Verison cellular phone, which the U.S. government got rid of in 2010 when they realized that they didn’t cause brain tumors. It was just another government mind control scheme down the drain. To make up for the money lost the President had to reissue some classic Beanie Babies that he swore would stay off the market for good.

Soon, New York City was infested with Pimps, and not just the regular NYC kind anymore. These Space Pimps had turned the city into one gigantic block party! All they played was old 80’s and 90’s chart toppers. Because of the time it takes for the radio signals to get to the planet, all of EMPD’s music was about four decades old, and dag-nabbit they liked it that way.

Unfortunately, no one else did. Now it was New York that couldn’t get any work done due to the incessant partying and wooing of the ladies going on. It was like an R-Kelly music video, except these women were consenting and of age.

Meanwhile the President and Dr. Blackwood were becoming fast friends due to their hatred of the Space Pimps and love of Backgammon. As they played another riveting game of Backgammon, they discussed what should be done about the Space Pimps.

“Well,” Dr. Blackwood started “You could fly a spacecraft into their mother-ship like you did in Independence Day.”

“Alan, those times are long behind me. I’m an old man, besides, I am not even sure that these space creatures have a mother ship. All they know is partying and stealing our women. I mean, I haven’t had sexual relations in two years because of them.”

“Sir…the Space Pimps landed less than a week ago.”

“Never mind that, Alan. Hmm…it looks like I’m going to have to do something I prayed would never have to be done. I’m going to have to ask Japan for help.”

“Sir, NO! We’re Americans for God’s sake! We don’t admit defeat to anyone. Besides…I think I might just have an idea of how to rid New York of all of this Tom-Foolery.”

The plan was simple, start enforcing immigration laws on New York City. Jeff Goldblum rounded up every alien, and illegal alien in the 5 boroughs and shipped them off to the rebel faction of Mexico. There would be no more interfering with the work of U.S. citizens, not on his watch.

The plan ran smoothly, a little too smoothly that is. New York City was apparently made up entirely of illegal immigrant workers, so instead of increasing work productivity, President Goldblum had managed to destroy it, and leave NYC completely abandoned! It was his worst moment since he made Holy Man.

Even worse, there was news coming back that the surge of people in Mexico had completely revitalized their economy. They had become the nation’s third superpower with a capitol on Polyester Jackets and 12” records. This was simply not acceptable to the President of the United States of America and Eurasia! Something drastic had to be done, something involving nuclear missiles.

On June 12^th, 2024, just seconds after sunrise, a military plane flew over Mexican soil containing 10,000 nuclear weapons. It really only took one, but the President wanted to make sure Mexico went out in style. Dr. Blackwood begged him not to go.
“It’s foolish, Mr. President! You could kill us all.”

“Doctor, sometimes a man has to step up and take control and show those sons of bitches that there is only one pimp on this planet…and that’s the US government, and the rest of the world is our whore.” With that he took off, and one hour later the sky was filled with hundreds and hundreds of missiles bombarding our neighbors below the border, squealing like death as they hit the soil. When President Jeff Goldblum returned home to his country, his people eagerly awaited his arrival. He stepped off the plane and saluted Dr. Blackwood.

Blackwood looked horrified. “Sir, thousands are dead…thousands,” he said as he choked back his tears and disgust.

The President just smiled and asked, “Do you smell that Dr. Blackwood? That’s the smell of American Pride.” Thus, the world was safe once again.

El fin.