Natural Freedom

The businessman from Phoenix finished his scotch and looked at his tab. He rose a little from his chair to reach the wallet wedged in his side pocket. As he sat down again, he looked up and noticed Brock, who had just entered “The Player's Inn.” Brock noticed the man noticing him and quickly sized him up: another White trick, no question about it. “Look at you,” he thought to himself, “you poor emasculated bastard, I'll bet you're even looking down at me right this minute, 'cause you see this Black face and these custom-made threads, and you're thinking I'm scum, aren't you, you poor deluded asshole?"
Phoenix gazed at Brock and wondered. “How the hell can a nigger afford clothes like that? Must be some kind of gangster or a pimp, yeah, he's probably a damn pimp coming into a place like this. Wonder how many whores he's got? How does he get them to give him their money? Son of a bitch probably finds innocent young girls, gets them strung out on dope. Maybe he beats the shit out of them every night. Poor girls. They oughtta lock up guys like that.”
“Bet I know everything about you, Mister,” Brock thought. “I know how your Mama brainwashed you to be a poor slob who works his ass off every week, then comes home to some bitch who hasn't done a goddamn thing all day but spend your money. Does she take all of your paycheck and give you an allowance, you miserable sucker, or does she let you at least keep the illusion that you're deciding what to do with the money? Bet she's a cold, frigid bitch who thinks you're a degenerate if you ask her for a blow job. I can see your suburban house with the color TV and the Chevy station wagon. I can see her lying there in her curlers with junk on her face watching the TV, talking to her friends on the telephone, telling them about the next vacation to Hawaii and the new coat. I can also see how she would act if you lost your job and that cash stopped flowing, and how strong her love would be for you if you couldn't find work."
“How can a man be so degenerate as to be a pimp,” Phoenix thought. “I would never let my wife work; it would be an insult to my manhood to think that I couldn't provide for her and the kids. How rotten, how sick-to be supported by a woman. And I have the satisfaction of knowing they're all covered by my insurance plan if something happens to me… Jeez, but I bet that nigger sure has some good times with all those broads, orgies an everything.”
Brock thought: “He probably envies me a little, probably thinks I screw my dick off every night. He doesn't know that three women can get as boring as one, 'cause each one acts like she's the only one in your life, each one wants to own your dick. Well, none of 'em own it: I do. And I give up as little as possible. This clown actually feels lucky if he can get some pussy; he doesn't know how soon you tire of it as a steady thing."
Phoenix's mind focused on the whys and wherefores of pimps; he was baffled. “How can the girls give their money to a man like that? They probably think he loves them. Don't they know when they are being pimped, used, conned?” Eddie had placed “the usual” –Chivas and water ---on the bar. Brock raised his glass and took a sip. As the rich liquid ran down his throat he wondered why a trick didn't catch on. “How can a man let himself be used like that? Doesn't he ever wake up and see how the boss in his office is pimping him? How the boss loves him, adores him when he makes sales or brings in accounts, and how that same boss is angry , cold, distant when he goofs up, wants a day off, isn't making his usual quota? Won't he ever get hip to the way the boss's boss pimps the boss so the company will produce, how Uncle Sam steps in and takes his cut of anybody's action, how this poor sucker's wife and kids get all his money off of him? And he's got no satisfaction with his work; just does the same dumb job every day, never accomplishing a goddamn thing.”
“And this man, this man,” Phoenix fumed inwardly, “he doesn't contribute anything to society, he's dumb and brutal and too lazy to work. This dumb nigger, he's sitting there looking at me with a condescending, contemptuous little smile on his face!”
“Poor, poor bastard,” Brock chuckled as he turned away from Phoenix and began to direct his earnest efforts towards the whiskey, “poor bastard's probably sitting there thinking how superior he is to ME—the flawless Black diamond!" He finished the drink and placed the glass on the bar. “But, of course,” he mused, “I wouldn't have it any other way, trick. Because without you and your fucked-up illusions, without your fucked-up sex life—I'd be out of business tomorrow.” He laughed again and ordered another Chivas.

I'm finally getting to the point where I have little to no emotional response to people acting like they are superior. Like one of those stingrays chilling on the bottom of the ocean

WELL IT'S ABOUT DAMN TIME!!...NOW we can get somewhere.

You didn't have that much trouble?