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My name is Mike. I am black. I am a private detective. Ergo, I am a black dick!

In case you don’t know, big money in the black community is in the mortuary business. My family had one of the most prominent funeral homes in New Jersey, the Hamer Funeral Home. I spent two years in Mortuary School before I realized draining blood, injecting formaldehyde, and sewing up dead bodies wasn’t for me. Not to mention propping up dead lady’s tits, so they looked sexy in the coffin. My cuz Albert was real good at that chore, but sometimes he messed with them bodies a bit too much, especially the good lookers. Often we had to wash them babes down after Albert was finished, but he was real good at doing their hair.

I decided to switch to jurisprudence, thinking I’d become a lawyer or a cop, but the road to a law degree was too long for me. Most of the ambulance chasers and shamuses I’d run into, not figuratively, were crooks. And them Judges and politicians who were corrupt slim balls. Do you think these sons of bitches would give Blackmen a fair chance in court, even if they were unaware we were fucking their daughters?

My Uncle Mo Foster was a retired cop, from out of Trenton, New Jersey. After he retired from the force, having made Detective, he opened a detective agency in Newark, New Jersey. I spent three years working for him and getting a P.I. carry license.

Unk Mo was a fucking genius who taught me all I know about being a private dick. Mo understood the behavior and foibles of the human-animal. When Uncle Mo decided to move to Atlanta to open a Strip Club with his younger brother, he offered me a piece of the action. I had a feeling that the strip club life was not for me. I knew I’d end up in some fucking trouble. I also preferred to stay up north. Before Uncle Mo relocated, he signed the detective agency over to me.

When my cuz, Strawberry Jerry, opened a bail bond office in Newark, he offered to put me on a retainer. I figured with Strawberry’s backing, it was time to open with a new riff.

Newark had become over 50% black. For all intents and purposes, we were running the town a hundred and twenty-five years after Mr. Lincoln had freed us. I had some new ideas that I wanted to pursue. I wrangled a detective agency license in the name ‘Mike Hamer Detective Agency’ down at City Hall.

This idea was a blatant attempt to benefit from the fame of the fictional Mike Hammer stories. Uncle Mo had a bookshelf full of those pocket-sized novels. I figured that most people couldn’t spell or were too stupid to know that Hammer had two ‘m’s. In retrospect, perhaps I was wrong in underestimating the average intelligence of my potential clients. I sat in my small storefront office of 450 square feet, waiting for a call for a dark Dick. None ever came.

I even hired one of those kids with a fake surfboard to write ‘Mike Hamer Detective Agency’ and stand in front of my storefront spinning the sign like a top. When no one entered the threshold, I was seriously considering going back to preserving corpses. No business was arriving. Then, after three weeks of sitting there dealing with the humidity and an itchy crotch, at last, an old wrinkled Persian walked in and asked,

“Da bafroom, quick, I gotta pee.”

“What the hell. Sure, take a leak,” I offered.

The old guy with his prune face disappeared into the John. I began to think maybe part of my problem attracting clients was the picture I use to advertise. It was a cartoon of me, big, black, and muscled, swinging a big carnival hammer to crush a circle labeled ‘problem,’ the problem looked like a round piece of dog shit, and the sign maker had colored it brown.

Maybe it was the cartoon or the fact that I am a blackman. I mean, would you hire a black detective if your wife was screwing around, or if you need the goods on someone harassing your family? I don’t think the public has even thought of a black detective since those black exploitation films of the 80s. But then again, I grew up in Newark, now the capital of ‘blackdom,’ and maybe ‘the times they were a-changing,’ as that Jew-boy Zimmerman was singing years back, I wasn’t quite sure if Bobby Dylan had it right after all.

Meanwhile, Ahab is still in the w.c. The old guy must have prostate trouble. He took 15 minutes to empty his bladder. Finally, he comes out of the bathroom, looks at me,

“Vat you doing her? Vasting time? You not busy?”

“Yeah, Pops, summertime is slow in my racket. Can I do you for anything, Man?

“How’d you like go to Persia?”

“What the fuck are you say’n, man? And ain’t it called Iran.”

“Yes, vee know vats it’s culled.”

“Ok, Pops, you took your piss. Now get on your camel and keep going.”

“Vait minute Buster. Maybe I got job for you.”

“Yeah, shoot Pops, and it better be good. There is more happening here than you could cover with a rug.”

“Ok, I left Iran as you cull it, in 1995 lung time go. I have a workshop for gold jewelry. I leave the cunt-try in hurray, only clothes on my beck, but I not forget konya escort double lock the office. Over there, if door locked no buddy bother it.”

“So, Pops, what is it that you do be wanting?”

“I leave in safe ten kilos of pure gold from Swiss benk.”

“Sound like the story is gettin better.”

“In those days gold was $384 an oz, each bar den wert $12,000, today it go up, one bar wert maybe $55,000. More or less depends on the day. It go up and down. I got ten bars in safe der, wert maybe $550,000.”

“You good at numbers, huh. Now you have gotten my interest.”

“You go over der wit yo hammer and bring beck my gold.”

“You want me to get it for you?”

“Ya, I give you keys, combination to safe-ty and you go, get gold and bring it back. We split it, hef for you, hef for me.”

“Smuggling gold out ain’t easy. You want the gold or the money?”

“Same-ting.”

“If’ing you are you on the level, why don’t you go get it yo self?”

“I was jeweler to da Shia, my name on the deth list. If I go, they greb me at airpot. They send me to fire squat. You go, Mr. Hummer, node-body know you, you say dat you going for vacation and den come beck, we split.”

“You got a relative who can verify this hodgepodge of a story, Grandpa?”

The sucker pulls out an I-phone 13. He dials a number and jabbers a bit. I see it’s the newest I-phone, the expensive model.

I say, “What the hell you is shout-en in Arab.” and then he hands me the phone.

“This my younger brother Ahmed, a rug Deller ask him if true.”

I spent a while talking to this Ahmed, who sounds like a Philadelphia lawyer. First thing he tells me is,

“Persian ain’t Arabic.”

Then this Ahmet goes on to confirms the old guy’s story.

“We are Muslims, honest people, you get the gold we give you half, no bull shit. We even advance you $5000 for your airplane ticket and expenses.”

“Yeah, man, get the advancement dough over here, and I’m on my fucken way- Sholem Aleichem brother.”

A few days pass. I’m boning up on this Iran thing. Back in my office, I call up my cousin Calhoun who works in the U.S. passport office. He gets me a fast pass passport and a contact at the Iranian consultant whose sister Krishna wants to get married. It turns out the bitch runs a halal kabob place three streets away from my office in downtown Newark.

Calhoun suggests I get to know her. Krishna needs a green card. A half-hour after I hang up the phone, a dwarf comes in the door. He’s smoking a cigar wearing a brown homburg and carrying a long black umbrella.

I say to the little guy, “Dude, you from Fantasy Island?”

“No, that guy shot himself.”

“So they say.”

“You fuck up Uncle Farzad, and I’ll bet you shoot yourself too.”

“You tell’en me, that you killed the midget?”

“You figure it out. See this.” The dwarf pulls a paper out of his inside pocket.

“This is a season’s pass to a booth at the Laker’s games. I got ringside seats. You pull this off this deal, and I’ll take you whenever you like. All the fucken popcorn and beer you want.”

“Hey man, I’d be liken that.”

With that, the dwarf hands me five biggies in packs of hundreds. The bills are paper-clipped together,

“You don’t have to count it- it’s five G’s.” He turns around and is gone.

A few minutes later, he is knocking on the glass of my storefront.

“What da fuck, you back again?”

It’s that same fucken Mini-me.

He leans forward and cocks his head like a Dalmatian listening for a fire engine siren,

“Mikey, if you fly to Iran, you have to go by Dubai. Just a tip. The best pussy in the world is in Dubai. Expensive but worth it. Oh and Hammer has two ‘M’s.'”

I ignore the spelling lesson and say, “I don’t pay for sex.”

“Make an exception. They got girls there with asses bigger than the Kardashian sisters and every color under the sun.”

“Thanks for the tip, little man. Maybe I’ll make an exception. They sell beer there?”

“There ain’t no beer Dufus, but great pussy, or if you prefer anal and deep throat blow jobs.”

“How’s that being it’s a Muslim country?”

“We don’t call it a country. We call it a ‘cunt-tree.'”

And with those words of wisdom, the little guy blows a deep breath of Havana cigar smoke in my face, which ain’t bad at all, and steps outside. It must be beginning to rain, cause he opens his umbrella and is gone. It was like the wind carried him away.

In the next three weeks, I get a visa. I had to eat in the consulate guy’s sister’s, Krishna’s, restaurant almost every day, and by now, I hate them kabobs. The bitch’s saving grace is she plays fiddle beautifully and has a nice big ass. Her brother tells me,

“Why don’t you marry her? Krishna’s a 30-year-old virgin. Her maidenhead is so thick you’ll need a can opener to get inside. If you don’t like her, you can move to Iran and always get another wife.”

I’m sitting there in her small empty restaurant, having just finished eating, and she’s konya escort bayan fiddling with her violin. Krishna stops playing and moves so close to me her hip is rubbing my cock and says,

“This is a Persian saying, but for you, I translate. ‘The man’s penis is the bow. The vagina is his instrument. Together they make beautiful music.”

I’m not used to hearing a gal spout that kind of stuff, so I instantly pop a hard-on.

“I get your drift honey, I’m leaving for the mother cunt-tree, and when I get back, we gonna do a concert together. We might even go get you that green card you be wantin.”

She’s put her fiddle down and reaches out. She’s holding on to my cock, so tight I’m afraid her long nails are going to pierce it. I push her hand away to get myself free, squeeze her left tit, pat her big ass and say in my best ‘Arnold voice,’

“I’ll be bock.” Arnold ain’t black, but he be a cool cat.

I’m at the JFK Airport getting on an Alitalia plane flying to Malpensa, Milan, the recommended first step to get to Teheran. From Milan, I gotta transfer to Rome, and then to Dubai, and if the plane doesn’t fall outa the sky, the next stop is Teheran. The flight to Milan takes about eight hours. I wait a few hours for the connection, and I’m off to Rome. That’s some crazy airport.

Finally, I’m sittin on Arab Emirate Air, aka Dubai Air heading to Dubai. I’m so jet-lagged and horny I’m thinking of rubbing one out in the men’s room, but I think that may be a capital offense, so I calm down.

The guy sitting next to me is upset that they no longer allow smoking on the plane,

“When you could light up, you couldn’t see three rows in front of you.”

“Sounds great. Yeah, life is really going to hell.”

After we are in the air for about twenty minutes, I notice one of the airline stews starts giving me the eye. I think she is eye-ing my swollen pecker, which is getting into harness a cause of her outfit. She is wearing a long silk transparent veil. I can see she is pretty naked underneath.

After pouring champagne in my glass three times and asking me if I’m married four times, she takes me by the hand and ushers me into the narrow unisex bathroom. The next thing I know, she is auditioning for bride of the week. Since she is devout, condoms are not permitted.

“I’m saving my vagigi for my husband,” she says, “but feel comfy to stick your big banana in my butt.”

“Sure, honey, that sounds fine.”

After a ten-minute break, I leave a load in her ass crack as big as a bag of popcorn. She’s happy, and I’m red-faced. I try to hide my swollen pecker under my hand as I go back to my seat.

The guy across the aisle spots big dick and the wet spot on my trousers and says in a whisper,

“In Iran is the punishment for cock sucking another man is death, but here on the plane, nobody gives a shit. Can I offer you some pleasure?

“Thanks, friend. I’ll let you know before we land if I can pull off a doubleheader.”

I am totally refreshed from the stand-up fucking. If that gal is representative of Dubai Air, it sure offers some excellent service. Thank God I was born in Harlem, where every black gets circumcised by a Hebrew doctor at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. When the fly-gal saw my circumcised dick, she figured I was Muslim, and that was the ticket to fly.

When I’m disembarking, I notice the stews are wearing a different outfit than my Stewie. I figure that is de rigor.

“How was your flight,” says the dark-skinned stew as we are getting ready to exit the plane.

“I must say the service was excellent–more than I had hoped.” But I don’t see her gal who served me champagne.

As we are going down the gang-plank, I spot her. She is, with three other women walking behind an older man.

I ask the guy who wanted to blow me, who’s is now standing beside me, if he knows who they are.

“Oh, that the Sheik of Isfahan and his four wives.”

“Oh, Jesu,” I think to myself, “I was fucking one of the Sheik’s wives.”

I’m supposed to board another plane from Dubai and head for Teheran, but the flight is canceled for some mechanical reason. The airline puts me up at a fancy hotel in Dubai, the Espinas International Hotel.

I check-in at the hotel. For some reason, the desk clerk guy thinks I’m Luther Vandross headed to a songfest in Saudi Arabia. All goes well.

The clerk winks at me and asks if I’d like a massage girl sent up. Sound’s good, I respond.

I’m pooped and fall asleep on the bed, but I am woken up by a haram girl undressing me.

“Massage girl, me, Ragma,” she says.

I let her disrobe me. She says, “roll over,” and I get face down. She gets into a massage session that even Gay Waldo, our wrestling massage guy back in the gym, could not compete with. After an hour of deep tissue massage, she tells me, “Rollover,” and she puts a pillow behind my head.

I rollover. I’m embarrassed. My dick has come awake and looks like a cop’s nightstick. My erection doesn’t put her escort konya off. She starts massaging my balls,

“Very big,” she says.

I just lay back and close my eyes as she starts mouthing my cock and squeezing my balls. For a second, I think it’s the guy from the plane, and I snap my eyes open, but no, it’s Ragma or whatever the fuck her name is, trying her best to get my whole dick in her throat.

“It’s ok, Honey, don’t hurt yourself.” But she keeps at it, and little by little, all ten inches of my knob are inside her. Ragma is tickling my balls with one hand and working a finger on the other hand into my ass.

“I can’t take it,” I shout. “Oh, you bitch, Mother fucker” and my dick lets go with a half-pint of antifreeze right down her gullet.

Ragma scarfs it and slowly lets the old black snake slide out of her mouth. My cock is looking more red as it passes her swollen lips. I notice that the snake has begun to soften. Ragma leans over and kisses the penis head. I reach for my wallet and hand her a crisp $100 tip. She smiles and closes the door behind her, and I’m off to dreamland, well relieved.

In the morning, the phone rings. It’s the check-in desk telling me my flight is now rescheduled and the plane will take off in three hours.

I taxi out to the airport. A uniformed guy goes over my passport, then nods approval. I board the Qatar airline plane headed for the capital of Iran, the City of Teheran.

The flight is without incident, and the passengers are quiet. The women are covered from head to tail like fine bottles of wine.

We land in Teheran with a rocky jolt, the runway seems short and looks old, there is an abandoned aircraft in a corner. It looks like pieces of that plane have been scavenged.

Everyone, except the women, is wearing a beard. To me, it looks like a Z.Z. Top convention. And they are all scratching furiously. It must be fleas. I figure I’ll wear the three-day growth and never shave again till I get back home. I reach down to adjust my dick. When I pull out my hand, it smells really nice. It must be the camel oil lube the massage girl squirted on me (later, I find out it is oil mixed with camel piss). I’m learning a lot, and I’m just beginning this jaunt. At least the sex life is good here in the Muslim world!

After deplaning, there are two lines, one for those passengers with visas and one where the traveler can get a quick short-term visa. I get through the visa line, and I’m one of the first into the taxi stand with my roller suitcase.

Not a woman in sight, all the bureaucrats are male, although one looked gay to me, but what do I know? He had dark curly hair, a pimple spot on his cheek like Robert De Niro. He just kept smiling and opening his big eyes and asking how and where I’d be staying, as if he was planning on coming to visit me on a dick-sucking mission.

I get a cab, the driver’s name is Ruffi, a wise guy Armenian who speaks good English. I give him an index card with the address I want.

“You a basketball player?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, “Got team?”

“Could you give my son some lessons while you are here?”

“How old and how tall is the teenager?”

“5’3″, and 15 years old.”

“Get him some hormone growth shots or tell him to take up chess. He’s not going to make pro unless he’s at least 5’10” and preferably way over six feet.”

The cabby looks disappointed when he learns I don’t have time to be coaching his son today, but I tell him, “I’d try to fit it into the trip.”

Ruffe tells me that he lives six months in Iran and six months in Glendale, California. Naturally, he has a wife and kids in each home.

“We can have as many as four wives here,” he says,

“But one wife is more than enough.”

I slip him the address written on an index card and ask Ruffe if he knows where it is.

“Sure, old downtown street, no problem.”

He drives me into the downtown area and pulls into a side street.

“This is the place,” Ruffe says.

“It looks abandoned.”

“Yeah, not too much business here since the revolution.”

“Wait for me,” I say, “And keep the fucken meter running. I’ll be back, don’t worry.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cut the sir-crap. I haven’t be knighted.”

When he smiles, I see a long scar on the side of his head.”

He realizes I notice, and he says,

“A revolutionary guard insulted me because I have US citizenship and hit me with his carbine.”

“I shake my head from side to side, showing I understand and commiserate.”

Ruffe points to a large blackened door, “That’s the place.”

I get out of the Toyota cab. My legs are stiff from all the traveling, and I make my way through the ancient stone archway limping. The doorway is dark. I hear rats squeaking. Spider webs have filled the place where the key slot is. I try to use the phone to light up the keyhole. Stupidly, I drop the keys. I have trouble finding them. They somehow ended up behind me. Suddenly the crickets have hushed.

I pick up the keys and struggle to get them in the keyhole. With effort, I’m able to open the door. If the old key weren’t so large, it probably would have broken. Of course, there is no working electricity anymore, if there ever was. I pull a dusty cloth covering a small barred window and trip over some shit on the floor.

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