“Who da fuck is you callin’
“You, Booga,” I snap back, slidin’ my hand down into my Hermes bag in case she wants to bring it. I feel for my ice pick. See a big bitch gotta get gutted. Ain’t no time for puttin’ a razor to slice ’n dice a pork roll ho. You gotta poke her ass up. “Ya ass sittin’ here fuckin’ up good smoke wit’ ya bullshit. Who da fuck wanna be smokin’ behind some bitch wettin’ da shit up like it’s a dick. This shit ain’t no damn snack, ho.”
Chanel cracks the fuck up. “Bitch, you is dead wrong. Leave my fam alone.”
“Dead wrong, my ass. Next time, leave this Booga bitch outside where you found ’er.”
Hungry Jack gives me the finga. “Bitch, fuck you; you can suck my dick!”
I laugh. “Sweetie, you look like the kinda chick wit’ them black, nasty fat burns between ya stumpy-ass legs, okay. And there ain’t’a ’nough smoke in this muthafuckin’ world to entice me to wanna eva get between them hamhocks to suck on ya lil’ piggy dick. So you can save that for them Chunky-Monkey bitches you roll wit’.”
“Bitch, I don’t know who da fuck you think you is, you’ve been comin’ at me all sideways ’n shit since ya stuck-up ass got up in here. And I’m about ready to jump on that ass. You don’t know shit about me, bitch.”
“Booga, all you gotta do is jump, and we can make it bounce up in this muthafucka, trust.”
“Ohhhhhhmiiiigaaaaawd,” Chanel says, slappin’ the table wit’ her hand, “will you stupid bitches pleeeease shut da fuck up! I wish you bitches learn to get along. Both of you hoes are tryna fuck up my high. Damn.”
“Ho, you need to be talkin’ that shit to ya girl,” Hungry Jack says, glaring at me. “You know it’s whatever for a bitch like me. I ain’t one to keep lettin’ no skinny, stuck-up bitch talk greasy. Yeah, I’ma big bitch. But I hit hard, okay?”
I raise my brow, tilt my head. “Bitch, yabba-dabba-doo. You don’t really want it wit’ me, Barney, so shut da fuck up wit’ ya double-necked ass and finish eatin’ ya blunt.”
She stares me down, openin’ and closin’ ’er fists like she’s ready to bring da noise. I smirk, waitin’. The bitch rolls ’er eyes, but she keeps ’er ass planted in her seat. Once I see this ho ain’t really tryna bring it, I take my hand off the ice pick and pull out my emergency stash—three blunts packed ’n ready to go—I keep in a Louie eyeglass case. I take one out as I tell Chanel to hand me the lighter, then spark up. I take a deep pull. Hold it in for a few, then blow smoke out over in Hungry Jack’s face. I can’t stand this bitch, so now I’ma fuck wit’ ’er.
Lucky for ’er my cell rings. I fish it outta my bag, then glance at the screen. It’s Nut. “Hey,” I say, shiftin’ in my seat.
“Yo, what’s good, beautiful?” For some reason, a bitch starts grill-cheesin’ it up. “Yo, that was fucked up how you played me the other day.”
I laugh. “Oh, well. I told you what it was; shoulda got there on time.”
“Yo, whatever. I was five minutes late.”
“And now it’s ya loss.”
“Yeah, aiight. I see how you doin’ it. It’s ballgame, baby. The first chance I get to get at you, I’ma bust that ass up; real talk.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“Fuck outta here wit’ that. Yo, where you now?”
“Nigga, don’t be checkin’ for me,” I snap, takin’ another pull off’a my blunt. “The last time I checked I wasn’t da one ridin’ ya dick. You were five minutes too late, remember. And you damn sure wasn’t ridin’ mine.”
He laughs. “Here you go,” he says, lettin’ the shit go ova his head. “Whatever, yo. I wanna see you tonight.”
“Umm, don’t you have some dick hungry hoes to chase down?”
“Yeah, but I ain’t beat for ’em. I’d rather be chasin’ you. But I see you still wanna be on ya bullshit. You dissed a muhfucka, and you stood me up the night before that. You just keep playin’ a nigga to the left. But it’s all good.”
“Nigga, puhleeze.”
“Yo, stop fuckin’ ’round, Kat. A muhfucka’s tryna see you, so what’s good?”
I suck my teeth, rollin’ my eyes at Chanel for bein’ all down my throat. “Bitch, what da fuck,” I say to ’er, shiftin’ in my seat.
She gives me da finga. “Ohhh no, bitch, don’t try ’n get cute. Let me find out you got some nigga on da low I ain’t heard about.”
“Yo, who’s that in the background?” Alex asks.
“Nobody,” I tell ’em, takin’ another toke, then blowin’ out the smoke. “Just sum nosey bitch tryna be all up in mine.” Chanel gives me da finga again.
“Oh, word? What, you smokin’?”
“Yeah, sumthin’ like that.”
“So, what’s up for later? I told you I’m tryna see you. So what’s good? You think you can squeeze a muhfuck into ya life, or do I gotta keep beggin’?”
I grin. “Let me think on it. And I’ll hit you back.”
“Yeah, aiight. I heard that shit already. Don’t front on me.”
“Nigga, whateva.” We go back ’n forth a few minutes more wit’ me tellin’ him I’ll hit ’im back later tonight, then disconnect.
Chanel points ’n wags a finga at me. “Oh noooooo, Miss Bitch, who’s this nigga you all goo-goo, ga-ga ova?”
I laugh. “Bitch, ain’t nobody goo-goo, ga-ga-in’ nuthin’.”
“Mmmph, sounds like it to me,” Hungry Jack says, rollin’ another blunt to eat.
“Bitch, who asked yo’ ass?” I snap, shootin’ ’er a look.
She laughs. “Slut, you’se a real funny-style bitch, but I ain’t sweatin’ it.”
“Unh-uh, ho,” Chanel says to ’er, puttin’ her hand up, “not now. Save the dumb shit for later. Right now”—she turns ’er gaze on me—“back to yo’ ass, you sneaky ho. I wanna know who this nigga is you all grin ’n giggles wit’.”
I roll my eyes, flickin’ my hand at ’er. “What-da-fuck-
“Yeah, whatever, tramp; just tell me who da nigga is and why I ain’t heard ’bout his ass.” I tell ’er it’s the nigga from All-Star Weekend. “As funny style as ya ass is, I didn’t think you was even fuckin’ wit’ that nigga like that.” I tell ’er nosey ass ’bout the lil’ outin’ he took me on. “Get out!
I shrug, takin’ another pull. “He’s aiight. It ain’t nuthin’ serious, trust.”
“Okay, skip all the silly shit. A bitch wanna know did you fuck ’im, yet?”
I frown, knowin’ damn well I wanna fuck the skin off that nigga’s dick. “Hell, no.”
She sucks her teeth. “Bitch, yo’ ass is always tryna play like you Miss Goodie Two Shoes. You act like you don’t like dick, boo.”
Hungry Jack grunts. I shoot ’er a look. The bitch blows smoke in my direction. But I ain’t mad at ’er ’cause it’s the same shit I’ve been doin’ to ’er. I decide to make ’er invisible.
“Annnnnyway…Bitch, puhleeeze. Just ’cause a bitch ain’t suckin’ ’n fuckin’ e’ery thing movin’ that don’t mean she ain’t lovin’ da dick. It means she ain’t beat for havin’ a beat up snatch, okay? So don’t get ya fronts knocked.”
Chanel flicks ’er hand at me. “Whateva; it sounds good. But that Virgin Mary shit you talkin’ is gettin’ real old, boo. It’s time for you to let ya freak flag fly.”
I give ’er the finga. “Fly on this, trick.”
Hungry Jack rolls her eyes up in her big snow globe head. “Bitch, get real,” she says, lookin’ at Chanel, then shootin’ a look at me. “I know this ho’s kind. Her ass is an undercover freak, okay. So she can spare us the okey- doke.”
“Bitch, why is you all up in mine?”
“Like I said, I know ya kind,” she repeats, splittin’ open another blunt, then packin’ it wit’ Kush. “Sneaky, freak-nasty hoes.”
“And I know ya kind, too, sweetie. You the kinda bitch who lets a nigga come through after the clubs close —all sweaty and drunk da fuck up—when he can’t get his dick wet nowhere else. Niggas call on yo’ ass ’cause they know you a sloppy-ass, maneatin’ dick gobbler who’ll let ’em fuck you in ya crater ass e’ery-which-way.”
Jabba Jaws licks the blunt, seals it. Then slides it in and outta her mouth, like it’s a damn toothpick. She sits
