Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang

“Anything you wanna talk ’bout?” I ask, mergin’ onto I-664 headin’ north.

“Nah, I’m cool; gotta handle a few things.”

“Oh, aiight, then. Well, I haven’t heard from you in a few days, so I thought I’d check in on you.” There’s silence. “Hello?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he says, soundin’ all down ’n shit. “I ’preciate you checkin’ in on me.”

“You sure you aiight?”

I sigh. “Yeah. Got some family shit I gotta handle.”

Mmmph. Fuck this nigga. You already know what it is. Put da muhfucka on ignore ’n keep it movin’. “Look, go do you. Hit me up when you beat to talk.”

“Nah, baby, it’s not like that. I’m just really goin’ through it right now. But a muhfucka keeps you on da brain real heavy, ma.”

Then why da fuck you ain’t been callin’ me? “Is that so?”

“True story, baby. As soon as I can handle this shit, I’ma make it up to you, aiight?”

“That’s on you. Look, let me go. I’m in da middle of some shit myself.”

“Oh, word? You home?”

“No, outta town,” I tell ’im, mergin’ onto US-58. It gets quiet on the otha end. I can tell the muhfucka wants to know more, but I don’t give ’im shit ’xtra.

“Yo, all shit real, ma. A muhfucka’s been stressin’ hard, but I’ma handle it. Then I wanna take ya fine-ass away somewhere, aiight?”

“That’s what ya mouth says.”

“That’s what it is, baby. Give me a minute to tie up this shit. And I’m all yours; real talk.”

“Mmmph, we’ll see.” We talk a few more minutes, then end our call. Fuck that nigga. He wanna be on some funny-style shit, cool. His dog-ass is probably somewhere laid up wit’ some dusty-ass bitch, anyfuckin’-way. I dismiss the nigga outta mind. Strike two, muhfucka!

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Hotter than fiiiyah…da object of a nigga’s desires…usin’ this pussy for bait…nigga wanna knock it from da back…wanna test out da dick ridin’ skills…’bout to have ’im poppin’ Viagra like Tic-Tacs…nigga betta run ’fore it’s too late…dumb muhfucka ’bout to get had by a bitch who kills…

After two muthafuckin’ days stuck down in this dusty-ass town, my mark has finally come out to play. My pussy snaps, ’crackles ’n pops at knowin’ this muhfucka is finally gonna get it to the dome. I’m in one’a the local shot houses tucked up in the cut way back in the woods, shootin’ pool and poppin’ shit wit’ one’a the muhfuckas up in this piece. I’m keepin’ it cute in a white five-pocket Gucci mini-skirt and sexy silk jersey halter top. I’m standin’ in a pair of four-inch high-heeled ankle strap clogs, posin’ for all the admirers. I’m surrounded by a buncha thick, hamhock ’n biscuit-eatin’muhfuckas buzzin’ all ’round a bitch. And they all look like they got some big-ass country cock.

That’s right, muhfuckas…all eyes on me! The booga bitches up in here roll they eyes or suck they teeth, but you know a top-dolla bitch ain’t pressed ’bout no shit like that. This is my third round on the table housin’ muhfuckas. Although a bitch is ready to get outta this costume—the curly bob wig, green contacts, and wire-framed glasses—I’m enjoyin’ the fact of knowin’ I’ma finally be able to get at this nigga.

“Eight ball, corner pocket,” I say, bendin’ ova the table just a taste to give ’em all a sneak peek of my fluffy ass cheeks. I hear a few niggas mumble shit when I stand or bend in front of ’em as I go ’round the pool table.

“Ooooh-weee. Looka-here, looka-here, that purty young thang got some sweet cakes on her.”

“I’d sop her up with a biscuit any day.”

I ig the comments, let ’em talk what they talk as I pop my hips up in they faces. My eyes sweep ’cross the room, takin’ in all the stares and sideway glances. I grin, lovin’ the attention. I chalk my pool stick, then sink the ball into the pocket. Muhfuckas start clappin’ ’n shit.

“Aiight, who wanna get whipped next?” I say, lookin’ directly at my target ’cross the room. He’s at’a table playin’ cards wit’ three otha muhfuckas. A bitch is feelin’ frisky and ready to earn a lil’ lunch money in the process. I look ’round the room, know-in’ aint’ nobody in here ready to bring it. I turn it up a notch when I peep my mark eyein’ me on the otha side of the room. He’s kept his eyes on me practically the whole night, which is exactly how it’s ’posed to be. I can tell the nigga is likin’ what he’s seein’. Dumb muhfucka, too bad I gotta take you outta ya misery. “I gotta gee for da baddest muhfucka up in here who thinks they can handle me on da table.” I open my bag, pullin’ out a wad’a bills, wavin’ it in the air, then tossin’ ten Ben Frankies on the pool table. A few niggas shift in they seats; some move away from the table ’cause they pockets are on low. “Goin’ once, goin’ twice…”

“Rack ’em up, shorty,” this deep, boomin’ voice says behind me. I glance ova my shoulder. There’s a big, black greasy-ass muhfucka walkin’ up on me, grinnin’. And the muhfucka gotta nerve to have a nice smile. I turn to face ’im. I cringe when I spot two brown-skinned boogas wit’ ’im. Mygaaawd, they some big linebacka bitches. One of ’em is a real live amazon. She’s ’bout five-eleven, and a good two hundred-and fifty- plus pounds wit’ humongous-ass titties bustin’ outta some kinda blouse that crisscrosses in the front. And she has a set’a ’xtra juicy dick sukas. The bitch kinda reminds me of a moose. It looks like all she does is sit on her fat ass stuffin’ her big face wit’ muthafuckin’ Ho Ho’s and Ring Dings. The other ho is tall, too; but not as hefty. She looks like a chipmunk, though, wit’ er chubby cheeks and two big front teeth. I peep the booga has more stomach than titties. And the bitch is rockin’ a black dress wit’ some kinda powder blue sash—a fuckin’ sash?! —wrapped ’round what I guess is supposed to be her waist. Mmmph, straight country coon-trash, I think, shiftin’ my eyes. I gotta hurry da fuck up outta this hick-ass town wit’ they backward-ass fashion.

I smirk. “Oh, you ain’t said nuthin’ but a word, Big Man. Show ya paper, and let’s get it poppin’.”

He snaps his finga at the Chipmunk wit’ the sash. She digs into her blouse pullin’ out money. She counts out ten Ben Frankies, then stuffs the rest back down in ’er titties. I take his money, count it, then scoop up my paper and hand it all to the amazon. Why I choose ’er ova the Chipmunk is beyond me.

I eye ’er, walkin’ ova to ’er. “Here, Boo, you hol’ this. But don’t hol’ on to it too tight ’cause I’ma be takin’ it back in a minute.” Big Man laughs. Tells me he digs my cockiness. Tells me is gonna beat me softly. I roll my eyes. Tell the nigga instead’a yappin’ his trap to break the balls and let the games begin.

The first round I fuck wit’ the muhfucka, give ’em all’a good show and let ’im win. Then I dare the nigga for anotha round; double or nuthin’. At first he wants no parts of it; pussy muhfucka wants to run wit’ his change. But muhfuckas start eggin’ ’im on, gassin’ the nigga up that it’s an easy win. The nigga starts feelin’ himself, gettin’ all caught up in the hype. Fifteen minutes later, I rock the nigga’s socks off, moppin’ ’im up off the table. Niggas start high-fivin’, and poppin’ mad shit. Big Man runs me my paper, then I step, walkin’ right into my mark.

“Hey, beautiful, I see you know how’ta handle a stick,” he says, grinnin’.

I look ’im up and down. He has on a V-neck Polo tee and a pair of faded blue jeans. His curly hair is tucked under a blue Yankee fitted. Seein’ this no-good, women beatin’ muhfucka makes my guts churn. But my clit jumps, anticipatin’ finally spinnin’ the nigga’s clock back. “That’s not da only thing I can handle.”

He stares at me as if he’s tryna remember me from somewhere. But the nigga’s only seen me once, and Juanita wasn’t the kinda ho to have a buncha flicks of me all round ’er spot, so I ain’t beat.

“Oh, is that so?” I nod. “Where you from? I can tell you ain’t from around here.” I tell ’im I rest in Cali; that I’m here for a family reunion. “Oh word? That’s wassup. How long you in town for?”

“’Til Sunday,” I lie, glancin’ ’round the room for a spot to sit. I peep two empty seats ova in the corner. “How ’bout we finish our talk ova a drink, then see what else pops off; if you know what I mean.”

“I got you. How ’bout you go grab them seats, and I’ll go get us some drinks.” He tells me they only servin’ moonshine and brandy up in this muhfucka. Oh, and beers. I tell ’im to hit me wit’ some brandy, then walk off, feelin’ the muhfucka starin’ at my ass as I spin off.

“Here you go,” he says, five minutes later when he comes ova, handin’ me a plastic cup. He grabs the chair next to me and sits it in front of me. He sits so he can face me. “Damn, ma, you look real familiar. You got people in