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purpose of prostitution or to become an inmate in a house of prostitution;
(4) Receive or give or agree to receive or give any money or thing of value for procuring
or attempting to procure any female to become a prostitute or an inmate in a house of
(5) Accept or receive knowingly any money or other thing of value without consideration
from a prostitute; or
(6) Aid, abet or participate knowingly in the doing of any of the acts herein prohibited.
SECTION 16-15-110. Prostitution; violations.
Any person violating any provision of Sections 16-15-90 and 16-15-100 must, upon
conviction, be punished as follows:
(1) for the first offense, a fine not exceeding two hundred dollars or confinement in prison
for a period of not more than thirty days;
(2) for the second offense, a fine not exceeding one thousand dollars or imprisonment for
not exceeding six months, or both;
(3) for the third or any subsequent offense, a fine not exceeding three thousand dollars or
imprisonment for not less than one year, or both. Snickering should cease and desist.
“All of us go a little mad sometimes,” Norman Bates says. POINT, was a small
alternative rag in Columbia, S.C., and this copy had a Charleston artist's rendering of the
governor, David Beasley, with two horns on the cover and dressed like a priest, looking
like the Devil. At the Florence Library this publication caught my eye on the shelf between
Newsweek and Rolling Stone, misplaced like a Confederate widow in a mosh pit. This
was where my story would be read. There were stories about gays, politicians, articles that
regular newspapers would never print, never in a million years. The editor was Brett
Bursey, a radical jailed for draft evasion and bitter against the government. He got in trouble at
the airport for protesting Bush. He once told me he was the basis for Jason Elliott in “Beach
Music” by Conroy. Nobody likes POINT in public in Columbia, but copies go briskly in the
legislative buildings, and some say the governor’s men snatch them up whenever they hit the
stands. Not a bad strategy.
After skimming the entire two years worth from the reference room, I wrote down the
address and phone number and hit the road. The next time I visited the library I had been
fired at the Florence Morning News, and on that day I ran into Nicole Gustin. It was very
embarrassing for me, knowing there would be a report made immediately afterward to the
newsroom. She was one of the reporters.
“Oh, hi, Tim. What are you up to these days?”
When you're out of work, people always fail to look you in the eye, but Nicole was
after a weather report and there was no way out.
“Fine. Fine. Sorry I didn't get to say goodbye.”
Getting up enough nerve to write for POINT was hard, losing the newspaper style. The
first annoyance during writing is always self-perpetuating - you gotta get up and clean up.
Washing the dishes usually is a followup after making the bed and do-si-doeing around the
house until you're sweating and ready to sit back down and begin writing after a buzz.
Scrubbing the bathroom is a blessed choice in a way; you never flee “blocked” enough
to tackle that stuff.
Phone calls, minor disturbances. I always get more writing done when there are at least
five Southern Bell bills in the dung hopper and silence on the other end of the receiver
when you pick it up to make the call you can't make.
When all else fails, go sit on the commode to escape the keyboard. The only way to
re-group is to hit the refrigerator. Picking one's nose becomes an art form.
The body is certain to be pimpleless by the time words return. It's the fever -
temperature time when circuits overload from a session of crank-out writing and all of a
sudden you're yanked away like a puppeteer with a sneeze.
Turning on and off the faucet requires energy, BTUs flying like popcorn. Like warming
up my Comet in Boone during -25 (-135 F wind chill).
Plots grow like weeds in your mind, choking off active character developments. You
find yourself sifting through a few new ideas while shutting off all senses, in a drug store,
on the phone or while on a tangent of some kind.
The whole process amazingly enough, fends off heightened manic depression, unless
you imagine no audience at all. A novel is a whore. The readers are johns. Your mind is
the pimp. The currency is paper. The market is the street.
It's like falling asleep with contacts in or like Superman having a nightmare and
toasting his eyelids by accidentally activating his superpower.
It's serendipity of vitriolic, virulent cross-stitching, when your legs quiver in
uncomfortable agony from road lag on a long trip, your scrotum performing aerobics in
your sack. Whether or not you roll the shampoo bottle top on your wrist to open it, or
screw it off with your teeth, there is some regularity to the doldrums of your miserably
normal life. There were no victims at My Lai. Have you ever stayed up to watch Johnny
Carson and felt embarrassed for the guests for whom Doc Severinson and his band had no
signature or decent introductory music for, cleaning their spit valves and playing a
nondescript musical that smells of Hollywood indulgence? That's the feeling I get when I
write. It's the reoccurring nightmare of being naked in class.
Even though the total combined audience I have ever written for may total into the
hundreds of thousands or higher, writing for dailies, weeklies and other publications, when
I sit down and write for myself, that is when I feel the most vulnerable and shy. I'm
showing off when I write for a newspaper. When I write for myself, I'm more at ease, like
standing in front of a full mirror, staring at my imperfections, the huge gut and goiter
deposit of chinflesh.
Writing in first gear, most of the time is a smash, just sheer consciousness and the spew
of the self-hypnosis. The problem is remembering what you told yourself the secret
wake-up word was going to be. Sometimes I wonder if I've ever really awakened after
getting up from writing. It takes a while for it to wear off. It's difficult to share this type of
confusion with someone. While the best ride of the amusement park has provoked you to
use that sixth sense, all fantasy and left-side brain strain closes your eyes while you feel
like they're still open. Realizing a story line, a thematic story course, as in a geographic
map, you wake up five hours later in a sweat, red warts on your writing fingers and a
buildup of gas.
I like to write in the dead of night - it's sneakier, writing while everyone is out like a
light, and I'm in complete control, wheeling sans inhibitions and the skeletons. Nobody can
touch me. No one. Night moves, you move with it like fog off the pavement. You feel like
you're getting away with something.
I think of Voltaire, a N.Y. restaurant, the origin of the word “Dixie,” how the myth of
an apocalypse is such bull crap, how Gustave Flaubert found enough time in the day to
write, caveat emptor, bluegrass hootnannies, a homily from the 60s, a blithely inhumane
editor and the fellow on the Gallows Pole in the Led Zeppelin song.
The crux of the Southern mosaic rests on the forgone conclusion that wheresoever an
offspring veers astray from the beaten path of disregarding, conservative, WASPy
progressive high finance, the authoritarian judgment will be to walk the plank - it's always
the same. Even though you are allergic to a formal public education and break out in hives
at the mention of a test, especially a mathematical test, you've got to study.
You've got to go back to school, boy, you hear? Maybe the Air Force or the service
would straighten you out and give you some direction. Son, you're in a heap of trouble.
If pouring salt into a wound isn't you cup of ginseng, go out the patriotic way, cuz, join
the U.S. Armed Services. But don't sign up for that there welfare, Jack, I don't care how bad off
it gets. Too many assholes are walkin' off with Uncle Sam's money and buying Cadillacs. What
red-blooded American boy hasn't wanted to take a peek at those unreachable, top-secret
academic records of educational achievement and see just what they've been saying about you
for the last 12 years? They're off-limits, Jack, at least that's what they tell us. Maybe they tell
you after you've busted your first cherry or get wounded in military combat maybe or
something. Southerners deserve real journalism.


My expose finally appeared in POINT. About halfway through was the cuss-out the
day everything hit the fan. A reader wrote a letter to the editor, complaining about the
“Durnit! What is this Talk Back crap?”
There was a lump in my throat, the one I always get when I'm on the verge of getting
fired. I'd been here before. Deja vu. On the chopping block. Swallowing would telegraph
my weakness.” My managing editor's face was white and pink in splotches, his jowls
flapping like the mast of a catamaran in a raging nor'easter.
All I could do is hold my poker face and amazement. There's a shortness of breath,
accompanied by constriction of facial muscles, kind of like the feeling I just got phoning in
the school board election results here in Marion County, South Carolina on deadline to the
news desk. You know how it feels when somebody is holding your head below water like
a bully? I was drowning in the office of my managing editor here at the Florence Morning
News. He had a right to swear, I suppose. You feel better when your face gets red and
your eyes bug out like a cartoon character with steamwhistle nostrils. To diffuse his
temporary psychosis, I quietly asked him why he was cursing at me just to assure him that
a continuation would mean me thrashing him. Nobody cusses me.
“Durnit, because I want to, that's why!”
Good enough reason, Skeebo. You skank Roger Ebert lookalike.
“Let me tell you something. (Long pause) You're off the whorehouse story. I'm
assigning someone else to it. (He never did of course.) You'll get some credit. But from
here on you are to make no more telephone calls and ask no more questions concerning it.
You got it?”

I got it all right. I wasn't getting fired after all.

“You know, I'm on the verge of throwing you out of this building.”
Go ahead, big guy. He was just busting my chops. It was a bluff. He had been leading
me on the whole time. He had ceased using the Lord's name in vain, thank God. Trying to
look confident and nonplused under these circumstances was virtually impossible. It's like
cheating at poker with a blind man. I'd bet my Dollhouse V.I.P. card and my Playboy
subscription I was getting the Palmetto Runaround. There was something about this story.
Something nihilistic, dark and absolutely rotten. It was one of those stories that feels like
you were tugging on a string coming out of a mouse hold and something - or someone -
was tugging on the other side. I could feel it. There had been not one modicum of
encouragement from anyone, including the company lawyer, toward my continued
involvement in this research.
“I'll take it to the company lawyer and see what he says,” the managing editor said. For
three weeks he promised to let the lawyer peruse my stories and dissect them for errors or
problems with litigation. It was crying time in the slaughterhouse.
He never did, so I took a copy down to the attorney's office and had to listen to him
“This is libelous in so many ways. I admire your zeal but....”
“I didn't know I had zeal. Why doesn't anyone want me on this story?”

“It's a good story, but you've got to see the court records.”

So I rode to Columbia to the Federal Building and looked it up in the Clerk of Court
office. My friend and I stopped at the lunch hour at “Twin Peaks, the name of a strip joint
on Blossom Street in the heart of Gamecock country and the University of South

Upon my return and after racking up 200 miles mileage I would later charge the

company, even though we rode in my friend's car and I was too broke to chip in for
gasoline, the boss surprised me again.
“Where are the court documents? Didn't you copy them?”

He knew good and well there were several hundred pages at two bits a pop. I wasn't

told to copy them. I wanted to protest to management about my story being killed without
reigniting my temporarily postponed firing. Of course, they claim the story is theirs, even
though it was never published. It was my story from Day 1. In the boss's office I stood my
ground like Custer.
“I resent being accused of not looking out for this newspaper's best interests,” I told
him. My head was throbbing like a cam at the Lake View Dirt Track Speedway.
Hungover as all get-out, I had vomited that morning for the third time in a week, and it
wasn't even 11 o'clock yet.
“You know, you can't force us to publish this story. Word is around town you're trying
to force us to print this.”
“You can't force someone to print something,” I responded. How could I force
someone to print something which had already been promised front page coverage? All
this grief over a small Pee Dee brothel that's already famous up and down the Eastern
Seaboard with truckers, motorists, preachers and pilgrims alike. There were more
important issues on the horizon here in South Carolina, I suppose - the Confederate flag
flying over the Statehouse in Columbia, poker machine gambling, a lottery and handgun
sales under the Brady Bill. They didn't call the village of “Society Hill” its name for
nothing, however. It's the best little whorehouse in Marlboro County, S.C., the home of
Blenheim Ginger Ale, the spicy up-and-coming soft drink that has recently been advertised
in Forbes and in The New Yorker. This story wouldn't hurt business at Buddy's Truck
Stop and Motel. It might even help business in the county which was number 10 in AIDS
cases in 1998, according to the S.C. Department of Health and Environmental Control, up
from 14th the year before.
“That's a good story,” my boss would say in 1994.
This was a 31,000-circulation rag that was about to bid farewell, a fond adieu at that,
to an article my employer had been complimenting me on. Any 38-year-old journalist who
gets Associated Press bylines like me knows there's something fishy when your story is
killed, and management drags its clay feet on its gestation, finally accusing you of tipping
off the competition on this investigative expose on the world's oldest profession. All I had
done was to call in the WBTW Channel 13's 5 p.m. call-in line to ask these zoot-suited
white dudes running for the Democratic gubernatorial nomination about what they think.
“Caller, please, we haven't got much time.”
“This is Tim Bullard with the Florence Morning News, and I'm doing an investigative
article on prostitution in Marlboro County, and I'd like to know what you would do if
elected to combat this crime in the state of South Carolina?”
Good question?
Here sat the top law enforcement officer in the state, Travis Medlock, Charleston's
“Hugo-Buster” Mayor Dick Riley, some other guy and the suave, debonair Lt. Gov. Nick
Theodore, the sleek Greek, a shoe-in to take the place of out-going Republican Carroll
There were two stories which I had completed, both very long for our paper in any
shape or form since the editorial powers that be think run-overs are putrid and unnecessary
in this season of 1994 and that the decision-making machinery behind that logic was
strictly sacrosanct. A photographer had even been sent to take a color photograph of the
“Man, I saw this lady come out and point with this other guy, so I hauled buggy and
got back in the car and hit the road,” he said. He was married and about 26, much too
young to die on the job. His photograph had already been scanned into the computer. It
had all begun when I began to write a confessional piece on Buddy's Truck Stop, a stucco
1940s-50s dive between Bennettsville and Society Hill. Rummaging around the former
metro editor's desk one day, I had stumbled upon a letter from a man. After this man
learned that someone was doing a story or even remotely interested in the story he had to
tell, the letters started coming. It was an avalanche of fan mail. He was my “biggest fan.”
Getting fan mail stamped “The S.C. Department of Corrections has neither censored
nor inspected this item therefore the Department does not assume responsibility for its
contents” isn't something you brag to your friends about. When an inmate in the state
penal system is writing you more than your family, well, it's like being on the receiving
end of a funky chain letter. The only bird that can't fly, and here he was becoming a fast
and furious best friend.
“Jan. 10, 1994, Ronald F. Jackson, attorney pro se, SCDC No. 173141;F1-B244,
Route 2, Box 100, McCormick, S.C. 29899.
“Dear Mr. Bullard, Enclosed is a copy of the state trial transcript of Nov. 15, 1990
conducted in Marlboro County. If you can read just the first 33 pages and tell me this is
not a prime example of a Sham Howdy Doody Trial without laughing, I will shut my
mouth forever!”
Somebody had tried to shut his mouth recently because after I started communicating
with this consummate prime time jive jailhouse lawyer, they started shuffling him from
one prison to another. They had sent him to McCormick to Bennettsville's state prison,
Evans Correctional Institution. I nearly sent a whole cell block into a riot after visiting
there once with the Mullins Rotary Club. “Do you provide the prisoners with rubbers?” I
asked the assistant warden and now current warden. “No.”
“Tim Bullard,” a local banker said to me aside. “Don't you know any other word for a
condom like prophylactic or something?”

From that point on the Rotarians referred to me as “The Condom Kid.” I wrote about

the question in my article and the warden was chewed out by the prison population about
me quoting him as saying one cell block was filled with the non-violent offenders and
homosexuals. Apparently some of the straight inmates didn't think it was too cool for
somebody to be calling them queer. I was proud to be from Mullins anyway in this
facility, and when I doubted my ability, I remembered Willie Richardson's rank, smelly
trailer and his pet Arnold, who is now at Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum in Myrtle
Beach. Gifted with multiple sex organs and six legs, the Lord had touched this porcine
critter, and he was the only pig I ever met who had a lawyer. I still recall his wet, cool
snout snorting up my trouser leg cuff. I miss him. Died of cancer. Willie's still alive. That
durned pig could, on command by his owner, who purchased him for only about $10 from
a farmer who was superstitious, piss in an ashtray just as pretty as one could please and
fail to spill a drop.
Sugar Ray Leonard's parents showed me their Faberge egg in Mullins, and his dad,
Cicero, gave me a gigantic cucumber. There have been garden club meetings, chamber
grand openings with the “grip-and-grin” shots, an obligatory photo of the mayor and the
newest business which would close in six months. Cartoon eyes bugging out atop steam
whistle nostrils, I gasped as two cars sped sideways, coming right at me at Lake View
Speedway 14 miles away one Friday night. The drivers had fistfights in the pits. Earplugs
cost two quarters. The parking lot vendor had been snickering before he laughed out loud.
“Thanks now, come again,” he said. “HA, HA, HA, HA!” He and his buddy were
having a huge laugh at my expense. The 50-cent earplugs had telegraphed my naiveté.
You don't need them after about 30 minutes of ear-tickling thunder. The tickets are
cheaper than a shower at Shady Pines in Darlington County. Every Friday night
homegrown mechanics, proletariat dreamers and a multi-millionaire driver from Sumter
meet to lock horns on this course in spine-rattling Southern rapture.
Whoever's going to be imbibing sits in a special grandstand section, while the family
crowd enjoys the action without distraction. There's a temperature-controlled VIP booth
with a couch and chairs high atop the track.
A WVC channel rep eyed the action, contemplating sponsorship.
Behind me sat a smiling young boy, nestled in the cool March night air, between the
warmth of the jackets of his father and grandpappy. Couples hold hands as diehards slurp
sodas and wolf down nachos and cheese, hot dogs and pizza. Driver tempers occasionally
flare in the pits with knock-down, drag-out fisticuffs. There's no guard rail, so when a
qualifying driver lost it in a curve, he plowed into the field as puffs of dirt shot up over the
other end of the track.
There's Bobby Harrelson from Mullins driving Bill Jordan's car. On Saturday nights
Harrelson racing in Myrtle Beach in the Lambert car. On the back of a pickup truck in the
infield, a red-haired young boy jumped up and down, going ballistic with electric pride as
he and his mom hollered to cheer on Gene Horne's charging car. Painted on the car:
“Yeller, Ain't It?”
That made me smile the same involuntary grin I display when I get behind a car with
one of those crown air fresheners in the window.
Pity the lost souls of barren lost innocence as they feed upon the red flesh of conquered
psyches. Mourn them not. For they will rise again the roar over the pestilence of human
depravity and feeble will, pity them not. They will become forgotten, and lost in the dust
of time, but until the last gray matter of brain cells die and erase a lifetime of frailty and
injustice, the spirit of hope will prevail in its absence. From behind the dark shield of
night's cloak, beyond the kitchen window where a shadow merges, forget the still born
Feel calm. Do not overload, for this is the ride of your life. Hold on to the panels.
You'll need to fasten your Seattle and chatter your wisdom teeth like a skeleton in an
earthquake. Tears fall like laughter in the halls of Bull Street in Columbia where the state
mental facility is. Fear not the unrecognizable.
Trust not the forlorn, nary the seemingly straight. Use that brace of conscious which
was set forth in your noggin, and stretch it to the rubber bands of infinity, until the rubber
starts crackling, breaking, tearing, and finally unraveling to the point of rapture.
You're teetering. You're controlled. But the thirst for individual personification and self-
adjustment is overwhelming.
Sandra Prosser
Holtzscheiter, Respondent,
Thomson Newspapers,
Inc., d/b/a The Florence
Morning News, Appellant.
Appeal From Florence County
Ralph King Anderson, Jr., Judge

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