Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang (3 page)

As soon as Jay-Z’s “Empire State of Mind” comes on, I climb up on top of the stool, lower my hips down onto the head of my rubber companion, then slather Slugger wit’ all of my creamy juices. I match my rhythm to the beat of the music. Imagine I’m on the top floor of the Empire State Buildin’ fuckin’ a nigga named New York. A nigga whose as mean and as gritty and grimy, and as rough as its streets.
“…These streets will make you feel brand new…the lights will inspire you…let’s here it for New York, New York, New York…”

“Oooooh, yes, New York…fuck me…aaaah…mmmm…beat this pussy up, nigga…” I buck my hips, slam my hips down onto Slugger; take it balls deep, rock back ’n forth. Scream out, “Newwwwwww York!” Then, just as I’m nuttin’, a bitch falls off’a the muthafuckin’ stool, bangin’ her dome. I bust out laughin’ as my juices spurt outta me. “Bitch, you done bust ya ass tryna get that nut. What’a mess.”

I get up, wipe the cream runnin’ down the inside of my thighs wit’ my hand, then lick my fingas.
Pussy cream this damn good should be bottled and sold on the streets
, I think, climbin’ my ass back into bed. I pull the goose comforter up over me, closin’ my eyes wit’ thoughts of New York, where paper is made and bitches are paid. The big city of delicious dick and muthafuckin’ sweet dreams.

CHAPTER TWO

Smilin’ faces…changin’ places…things ain’t always what they seem to be…sumtimes life becomes a charade…a mask of disguises… dippin’ outta sight…eliminatin’ da fakes…flushin’ out da snakes… clown-ass bitches can’t eva keep a butta chick down…fuck what ya heard…cream always rises…

T
he next day, I’m on’a ferry goin’ over into downtown San Francisco to get it in. It’s mid-afternoon and packed on this shit for a Wednesday from all’a the tourists and what-not tryna make their way back to Fog City ’cause that’s exactly what the fuck it is. The shit can be so thick that it’s almost spooky. But I ain’t gonna front; a few times I wished I was stuck in the middle of the bay on a boat late at night or earlier in the mornin’ bein’ fucked down lovely in it.

I guess some’a you nosey asses wanna know how I ended up here. Well, on some real shit, I stumbled on Sausalito while I was out here in San Francisco, handlin’ a target three years ago—this big, burly, light-skinned, Magilla Gorilla-type nigga wit’ freckles. Ugh, he made my fuckin’ eyeballs ache lookin’ at ’im. Anyway, I thought Sausalito was
cute
’n cozy wit’ all’a its cafés and pricey boutique shops. Although they ain’t really servin’ shit I wanna buy, I was lovin’ the vibe. So here I am.

After pickin’ up a few cute pieces at Bloomingdales and Louis Vuitton, for some reason, I feel like playin’ tourist today. I’ve been chillin’ in the Bay Area for almost a year and have never done any of the touristy shit, ’cept go down to Fisherman’s Wharf, which is a buncha shops, restaurants, and tourist attractions.

I decide to take a cable car ride. Sumthin’ I’ve never done. Probably ’cause any time I’m downtown over on Powell or Hyde Streets, the muthafuckin’ lines are long as hell. And a bitch ain’t beat to be standin’ in heels waitin’ to be on some damn trolley. But, today…the lines aren’t bad. Probably ’cause I hop on at California Street line at Van Ness. So I dare to be adventurous. Yes, this is what a bitch’s social life has come to, shoppin’ and sightseein’. I find myself laughin’ to myself as we go through the financial district. Ugh!
Borrrrrrin’!

By the time we make it to Chinatown, a bitch is ready to hop the fuck off’a this contraption.
I’ve had enough of this shit,
I think, glancin’ at my timepiece.

W
HILE
I
’M SITTIN’ UP ON THIS TROLLEY, MY THOUGHTS DRIFT TO
Grant—again. I try to blink the nigga’s face outta my head. Usually I can. But, right now—for some reason, I can’t. I ain’t gonna sit here ’n front wit’ ya asses. That nigga Grant haunted me. His eyes were filled with hate when he asked me if I was gonna smoke him, too. I had’a look that nigga dead in his grill, knowin’ I was gonna slump ’im. And it made me so fuckin’ sick to my stomach. And for the first time in my life, regret did creep up on me. But I had’a shake that shit off. I had’a remind myself that there was no muthafuckin’ time for it. I had’a remember my rule. I had’a repeat that shit in my head a thousand times before I raised my gun and aimed it at him.

“It’s what I do,” I had’a tell him, shiftin’ my eyes from his hurtful stare. The nigga had love and hate all wrapped up in his eyes. They were pleadin’ with me. Even though he knew I was gonna blast him, he didn’t blink. He was a real nigga. And that’s what I dug ’bout him. But, at that moment, killin’ was my life. And I wasn’t goin’ down on some soft shit for some dick—for you, or any-fuckin’-body else. Maybe if he hadn’t tried to reach for his piece, maybe things woulda turned out different. Maybe it wouldn’t have. I don’t know. But what I do know is the nigga moved after I told him, warned him, not to. So, I took his head off. And his vacant brown eyes starin’ up at the ceilin’, his blood seepin’ outta his skull, his lifeless body sprawled out on the mattress next to his people’s—all those images had a bitch spooked for a minute. I stayed lifted for weeks, tryna keep that shit outta my head. But e’erytime I closed my eyes, he was there fuckin’ wit’ a bitch.

And when I stepped up in his funeral like I was the black Jackie O—the
real
Jackie O. Mrs. Kennedy, that is. Not that busted-ass rapper broad—laid out in my Chanel wears and bling, for one hot minute, all eyes were on me as I swayed my hips up to the double caskets. I touched the side of Grant’s face, then leaned in and kissed his forehead; the same spot my bullet hit when I shut his lights. Then I walked over and took his grievin’ mother’s hand, slidin’ her a card wit’ ten crisp Ben Franklins in it while expressin’ my condolences. She dabbed at her eyes, thankin’ me. Then I took my seat in the back of the room among the sea of mourners and scanned the room, takin’ in the faces of e’eryone. Oh, it was terrible listenin’ to the family and some’a his man’ ’n ’em scream and sob and fall out over the loss of two of their loved ones. I shifted in my seat a few times, dabbin’ at my eyes. But sittin’ through that ordeal was more torturous than B-Love’s funeral ever was. It ripped a hole in my heart to sit through the
whole service starin’ at that nigga stuffed in a casket. Oh, it was terrible! But I survived it. And got over it!

And on some crazy shit, if I inhale deep enough, I can sometimes smell the muhfucka. His cologne and his sweaty, musky, I-just-finished-fuckin’-the-shit-outta-ya-ass scent is stamped in a bitch’s head. Other times, I can hear him whisperin’ in my ear, tellin’ me how good and deep and juicy this pussy is. Or I can taste his dick ’n balls on my tongue. Then there are times when I am in bed and I snap up, feelin’ the nigga’s hands runnin’ up ’n down and along the dangerous curves of my body.

For three months straight, the shit had’a bitch jumpin’ up outta bed and flickin’ lights on ’n shit. And that’s exactly why—well, one of the reasons, I bounced the hell up outta Jersey when I did. It felt like the walls were closin’ in on me. And it was rattlin’ my fuckin’ nerves. The other reason I dipped was if I had stayed I knew I would still be bangin’ niggas’ brains out. I needed to prove to myself that I could walk away; that a bitch wasn’t controlled by the shit.

On some real shit, I’ve bodied a buncha muhfuckas and none of ’em ever fucked me up like what went down in AC. Shit. Even when I took B-Love’s head off after I caught him fuckin’ Patrice, I didn’t feel any kind’a way ’bout it. Probably ’cause I plotted on that nigga. I knew what it was. But Grant…nah, there wasn’t a bullet wit’ his name on it, not from me. That shit was different. I was diggin’ him. Wanted to build wit’ him. Bottom line, the nigga wasn’t supposed to be there. But he was. So the nigga had’a take one for the team. And that’s what it is.

You already know when I was bodyin’ muhfuckas there was no time for compassion or sympathy. And there was definitely no time for muthafuckin’ regret. Unfortunately, Grant got caught up bein’ at the wrong place at the wrong time, and got got. The
shit wasn’t personal. I couldn’t let it be. It was ’bout clockin’ that paper ’cause a bitch was gettin’ paid by the body. Not gettin’ clanked up. So fuck all that ying-yang ya’ll been poppin’. I had’a do what I had’a do. And sheddin’ a buncha tears ’bout sum shit I couldn’t change wasn’t gonna bring the nigga back. He was dead. And a bitch had’a keep pressin’. So, yes, I put back on my wig, slipped my chrome back into my bag and slid outta the hotel room, chokin’ back tears. When I finally made it to my rental and had’a make that call to Cash, that was one’a the hardest things I had’a do. I remember, takin’ a deep breath, tryna steady my voice as I told him, “I know why the caged bird sings.”

Then after I told him that there was another body in the room, I had’a tell him that a bitch needed a break. I knew if I didn’t bounce I was gonna end up snappin’ or doin’ sum other reckless shit. Like I told ya’ll before I knew that shit was in my blood—killin’. Lookin’ into a nigga’s eyes, splatterin’ his fuckin’ brains while ridin’ down on his dick did sumthin’ to a bitch. Made my pussy hot, made it pop. The thrill of the kill turned me on. And it overshadowed the risks. But that shit down in Atlantic City cost me sumthin’. It cost me what was startin’ to feel like love—well, at least the idea of it—and the chance to finally be free.

However, a bitch had’a get the fuck over it. Heartache and cryin’ over a nigga ain’t what I do. My name ain’t Juanita, okay? Uh, duh, the neglectful bitch—yes, you heard me right. I said
bitch!
—who dropped me outta her hairy pussy for those of you who can’t remember the script. Annnyway, I saw enough of that shit growin’ up watchin’ her dumb ass go nutty over the dick. I swore I would never,
ever
be her. And I mean that.

Speakin’ of that bird, I haven’t seen or spoken to her ass since that night she came to my spot with her face all banged the fuck up by that young nigga she was fuckin’. Then she had the fuckin’
audacity to bring her sister Rosa wit’ her ass. And that bitch came poppin’ outta bushes tryna bring it, callin’ me out to fight her like the ghetto-ass bird she is. Get real. I’m done wit’ all of ’em. As far as I’m concerned I ain’t got no family. And I made that very clear when I pulled my chrome out on ’em. And, hell muthafuckin’ yeah, don’t get it twisted. I woulda put a bullet in both of them bitches. E’erything Juanita stands for makes me fuckin’ sick. She’s a weak bitch in my eyes. And I don’t respect her. Nor do I have any love for her. But the crazy thing is I don’t hate her ass either. I don’t feel shit for her. I guess ’cause I learned to finally accept who she was, and is—neglectful, selfish, and straight pathetic. Which is why I had no problem lookin’ her dead in her busted-up eyes and tellin’ her flat out that I wanted nuthin’ else to do wit’ her, then slammin’ my door in her raggedy-ass face. I meant that shit on e’erything I love. And that ain’t much, trust.

Anywaaaaaay, enough ’bout all that shit. For the last two years, I’ve been doin’ me. Lovely, I might add. So, fuck what ya heard. I’m stayin’ away from fucked up family, niggas, and guns. Well, uh…shootin’ ’em that is. ’Cause I still gotta few pieces I keep in my personal collection.

Waaaaait one muthafuckin’ minute! Why the fuck did I spend the last ten minutes explainin’ myself to you bitches? Uh, fuck that! I bodied the nigga, I ain’t fuckin’ wit’ my family; period! So, let’s save all that shoulda-coulda-woulda bullshit for the next bitch. It’s a waste’a time ’n energy for a fly, butter bitch like me. A bitch is back, ohhhhhhhhkaaaaaaaay?! And that’s all you need to know. I got shit to do, peoples to check, and paper to spend. So, let’s get this shit poppin’, muhfuckas.

CHAPTER THREE

Silky hair; pretty face…first glance…got ’em thinkin’ a bitch’s outta place…too soft for da streetz…gotta bitch ice-grillin’ ’n talkin’ slick…tryna punk’a fly chick…wrong move…it ain’t neva that deep…now a bitch gotta knuckle up ’n creep up… trick-bitch gotta get put ta sleep…One, two…I’ma shatter ’er jaw…three, four…slide da whore to da floor…five, six…da bitch’ll need ’er face fixed…seven, eight… puttin’ a bullet in da stupid bitch ain’t neva too late…

I
’m dressed in my wears zippin’ down I-580 East in my rental, a slick-ass XK convertible Jag, toward Oakland. It’s bright skies and sixty-eight degrees out, and I’m chillin’ wit’ the top down, lettin’ the cool breeze whip through my hair as I make my way down the highway. If I were in Brooklyn right now chillin’ wit’ Chanel we’d be blazin’ and poppin’ mad shit to niggas tryna push up on us. But, I’m here, and it’s me on some solo type shit—for now.

Anyway, I’m on my way to meet up wit’ this nigga Tone—a tall chiseled nigga who reminds me of a browner version of that sexy-ass Boris Kodjoe—for a hot meal. I met the nigga in one of my real estate classes I took a few months back. Uh…yeeeeeah, a bitch’s been in school. And I’ve completed all’a my coursework;
just waitin’ to take the exam for my broker’s license. Thank you very much. What? Ya’ll thought a bitch was layin’ low, trickin’ up my paper on wears ’n trips ’n dumb shit? Bitch, puhleeze. I’m tryna make power moves. I’m sittin’ on stacks, and I’m tryna clean that shit up. So far, I’ve been fortunate not to have heat wit’ the Feds or IRS, and I’m tryna keep it like that. So while I’ve been out here I decided I might as well do sumthin’ constructive to occupy my time. Shit, there’s only so much shoppin’ and travelin’ a bitch can do ’fore that shit gets played, anyway. Besides, I’m always gettin’ at Chanel ’bout doin’ sumthin’ wit’ her life, so I figured I needed to be a true bitch and step shit up a notch and do the same. The way I see it, I can get a Cali license, then go back to New York or Jersey and get my papers there, too. There’s fetti to be made and I’m tryna get at it on both ends. And if Chanel decides to get her mind right, I’ma put her on, too. That’s what real bitches do!

Anyway, this nigga Tone finally convinces me to meet up wit’ ’im at this spot called Soul’s Restaurant. Actually, it wasn’t that he talked me into shit. The nigga caught me at the right time. I was bored, and wanted sumthin’ to do. So that’s what it is. He claims the shit is bangin’, so we’ll see. Although I’m not really feelin’ him on any extras—aside from the fact that he’s mad young; like twenty-four, he’s a cool nigga. Partly ’cause he’s a Jersey head and he got swagger and he’s also tryna make moves, still…