Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang

don’t exist. Two minutes later, we are breezin’ right up to the front of the line.

“Mmmph,” I whisper, smirkin’. “Let me find out ya ho-ish ass done broke that nigga off wit’ a dose of throat action.”

She laughs. “Fuck you, ho. He’s one’a Divine’s cousins.”

“Ain’t that special. Now let’s see if them juicy dick suckas of yours get us free drinks for the night.”

She continues laughin’. “Bitch, let me find out ya high-post ass finally wit’ the program lettin’ muhfuckas buy you drinks.”

I suck my teeth, usherin’ her toward the stairs. “Ho, walk.”

As we make our way up the steps, Juelz Santana’s joint “Back to the Crib” is knockin’ through the speakers. The idea of grindin’ up on a nigga’s cock on the dance floor makes my pussy twitch. I swear I hope they got some fine, sexy muhfuckas up in this biiiotch!

Chanel and I keep it real sexy in bangin’-ass brown Gucci slip dresses that wrap ’round our dangerous curves like a windin’ road. She rocks her wears wit’ a pair of chocolate brown Chanel pumps and a beaded clutch. While I kill it in a pair of orange Jimmy Choo strappy stilettos and Judith Lieber clutch. Niggas peep our swag and do double-takes as we make our way through the crowd. I peep a few hoes tossin’ haterade in the air, which makes me pop ’n shake my hips real extra. Just enough to let ’em know what a bitch is workin’ wit under these wears.

I scan the club and peep a few muhfuckas over by the bar who look like they might be worthy of a dance, or two, posted up bullshittin’ wit’ they boys. The club is mad packed and the beats are sick.

“I need a drink,” Chanel yells ova the music. I agree, followin’ ’er to the bar. Niggas step back, eye-fuckin’ us—lettin’ us get through, but we pays ’em dust. I hand ’er a fifty. Tell ’er the first two rounds are on me. Of course this lush bitch orders a double shot of Remy and a Corona to chase it. I frown at the combo. But let ’er do ’er.

“Bitch, ya ass get drunk, you crawlin’ home.” I order the same thing, but I ain’t chasin’ shit. I’m takin’ the shit straight.

She laughs, givin’ me the finga. “Crawl on this.” We take our drinks, clink our shot glasses, then toss ’em back. She guzzles down the Corona. Muhfuckas got they eyes on us, grinnin’ as Chanel orders ’nother ’round. We take it to the head, again.

“Damn, ya’ll pretty ladies know how to get it in,” this golden brown nigga wit’ light brown eyes says, smilin’. For some reason the nigga looks familiar, like I seen ’im somewhere before, but I don’t put no energy into tryna figure the shit out.

“That’s how we doin’ it,” Chanel says, lookin’ the muhfucka ova.

He laughs, starin’ at me. He puts his finga up. “Yo, I know ya’ll.”

Chanel and I frown. “Nigga, you don’t know us. You buggin’.”

He smiles. “Nah, ma, I never forget a face. The Forty-Forty club. Ya’ll the two beauties who housed me ’n my man on the pool table.”

Chanel blinks at ’im. Of course her ass don’t remember the nigga. But I do. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. We spanked that ass, and walked off wit’ ya paper. Let me find out you ready to get that ass beat again.”

He laughs. “Ouch. Kat, right?”

“Yeah.”

He turns to Chanel. “I’m Bronze. And you?”

“Bored,” she says, turnin’ ’er head.

“Oh, shit. I got you, ma.”

I laugh. “Don’t pay ’er cranky-ass no mind. It’s Chanel. She gets crazy when she don’t take ’er medicine.” He laughs. “Damn, you gotta good memory. How da hell you remember my name? We mopped ya’ll asses up on that table ’bout two years ago.”

“Yo, a muhfucka never forgets gettin’ his ass spanked by a beauty who likes to talk a buncha shit on the table. Me ’n my man, Leo, still laugh ’bout that shit. Yo, we still wanna rematch.”

I eye ’im. “Well, anytime you wanna bitch to run ya pockets ’n give you ’nother round of whoop ass, let me know.” He laughs. Asks for my number, but I tell ’im to give me his. We bullshit a few more minutes ’til Chanel’s had ’nough’a standin’ in one spot.

“Bitch, it’s hot in here. Let’s go outside.” I tell the nigga I’ll hit ’im up for that rematch, then dip. As soon as I get outta his view, I toss the nigga’s number on the floor and pop my ass out onto the rooftop.

I GLANCE AT MY TIMEPIECE. IT’S ALMOST ONE-THIRTY A.M. Chanel and I are still out on the rooftop, standin’ at the bar, talkin’ to these cats from Uptown. She’s already on her third Red Bull vodka. And we’ve already tossed back two shots of soco—uh, Southern Comfort. Something told me to keep it light, after we tossed back those two shots of Remy earlier so I’m slow slippin’ this shit.

Cypress Hill’s “Bang Bang” is blarin’ through the speakers. I finga pop and wind it a bit, but ain’t really beat to drop it on the floor. “Girl, I’ll be back,” Chanel says, rudely spinnin’ off on the nigga she was talkin’ to. I watch her poppin’ her hips back inside.

I continue half-listenin’ to this nigga wit’ the curly ’fro, bobbin’ my head to the beat while tryna figure out why he’s out here rockin’ dark-ass shades.

“I had’a feelin’ I was gonna run into this bitch,” I hear someone say in back of me. As soon as I hear the voice, I already know it’s ’bout to be a situation. “Oh, you fly wit’ it, hunh? You can be all up in da club shakin’ ’n poppin’ ya ass ’n shit, but a bitch too good for her family ’n shit, talkin’ real slick ’n greasy to my mutha like you got it like that. Is that how you doin’ it, bitch?”

I take a deep breath. Ignore the bitch standin’ in back’a me. Look over at the nigga I was talkin’ to and say, “Do me a favor and tell that bird in back’a me to shoo.”

“Ho, shoo hell! You disrespect ya grandmutha, sign complaints on ya aunts ’n get restrainin’ orders ’n shit on ’em. Bitch, that shit ain’t cute.”

I keep my back to ’er. Let the bitch keep poppin’ shit, but in a minute I’ma ’bout to take my glass to ’er face. I keep sippin’ my drink. “How da fuck was you gonna pull da plug on ya mutha and kill ’er baby, hunh, ho?”

I take a deep breath. Finish up my drink, then turn to face Patrice, tuckin’ my clutch under my arm. She’s standin’ in a black sequined Donna Karan scoop-neck tunic dress. Her neck, lobes ’n wrists are lit the fuck up. I can’t front. The ho looks fabulous. But I still can’t stand her snake ass!

I eye her. She’s cut off all’a ’er hair for a short tapered do wit’ a sweepin’ bang. In another life, me and this bitch coulda been a real problem together. “Bitch,” I snap, twistin’ my lips, “step da fuck away from me ’fore you end up pickin’ ya face up off da floor.”

“Bitch, hol’ da fuck up,” she snaps, handin’ her bag to one’a ’er girls. A shapely brown-skinned chick dipped in low-end jewels, wearin’ a one-shoulder, black draped Jersey getup that clings to her body. I can’t figure out the designer so I decide it must be a low-end piece. I peep her burgundy Marc Jacobs leather satchel. Cute, I think, bringin’ my attention back to Patrice.

“Girl, don’t,” Miss Low End says, grabbin’ ’er arm. “This ain’t the time. We ain’t come out for all the extras tonight; let it go. You can get at this ho some other time.”

“Ho? Bitch, I will rock ya eye sockets,” I say to her, layin’ my clutch on the bar ’cause in a minute I’ma ’bout to knock this bitch in both ’er eyes. Of course Chanel’s somewhere wit’ ’er juicy ass pressed up against some nigga’s cock on the dance floor.

Muhfuckas peep the ruckus goin’ on between this bitch and me. But I know she don’t really want it. Not out here for all to see.

“You know what. You right, girl,” Patrice says to Miss Low End. “Let’s do what we came out do; fuck this bitch.”

I laugh. “You get a pass tonight, Sweetie,” I warn. “But, trust. There won’t be no othas.”

“Bitch, you wish.” She starts walkin’ back ova to me. I close my fist, ready to bring it to ’er face. She peeps this, keepin’ her distance. “You know what. You need to get ya mind right. All ya selfish-ass eva cares about is ya’self. You’re one hateful-ass bitch.”

“Whaaaateva, bitch. Back da fuck up from outta my muthafuckin’ face.”

“I ain’t in ya face, yet, bitch. But—”

“But nuthin’, Trick.” I flick my fingas at her. “Poof, bitch, be gone!”

“You know what, ho. I’m real sick of you thinkin’ you can disrespect me. Bitch, I ain’t them hoes on da street