The Kat Trap

gets. Somebody is gonna stretch her ass if she doesn’t slow her roll. I really don’t know what the fuck is wrong with these bitches. Did I tell you her ass is poppin’ E’s?”

“Say what?” she asked, surprised. “Get the fuck outta here, no way!”

“That’s what I hear.”

“Who told you that bullshit?”

“A source that I’m slowly startin’ to believe,” I said. “I almost didn’t wanna believe it, but the way them bitches been movin’ I don’t put shit past either one of ’em now. I meant to confront her ass ’bout it the other night, but I got sidetracked with Iris’s nasty ass.”

“Humph. Girl, I’m done.”

The Kat line started ringin’. I got up and pulled it out of my D & G bag, then checked the number. It was Cash. Don’t ask why I always checked the number, knowin’ damn well he was the only nigga callin’ on that line. I just did outta habit, I guess. I let it go into voicemail.

“…I’ve heard it all,” Chanel continued. “But poppin’ pills, Kat, c’mon…that’s a bit much.”

“Listen, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just sayin’. The next time you talk to her ass, ask her.”

“Oh, trust. I will,” she said, pausin’. “Well, let me go. Divine is on his way over. I swear he gets on my last nerve, but—”

“The nigga takes good care of you.”

“Exactly,” she said, laughin’. “But that’s not what I was gonna say.”

“Well, it’s all you should be sayin’. ’Cause if ya ass keep followin’ behind Tamia and Iris, ya gonna end up losin’ a good thing. So be thankful for what ya got.”

“I know, I know.”

“Uh-huh, bitch. Don’t say I didn’t try ’n warn ya,” I said, lookin’ at the clock. It was almost seven p.m. I yawned, coverin’ my mouth. “Oh, shit. Excuse me. I’m fuckin’ beat. Hit me up tomorrow.”

“Later,” she said. I closed the phone shut, then retrieved my other cell and checked the message Cash had left me. I rolled my eyes, listenin’. He had another job for me; this one in San Diego. I ain’t beat for him right now. I’ll call that nigga in the mornin’. I stripped off my clothes and headed upstairs in my white- laced panties. Until my next mark, it was gonna be another vibrator night.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Yeah, muhfucka…caught ya ass with ya pants down…deep strokin’ it from the back…dick slick from the next bitch…all caught up in bustin’ ya nut…as a matter of fact, ya never suspected I’d be watchin’ ya… never realized there’d be a price to pay…thought you knew…I ain’t one to play…ya best believe…fuckin’ over a bitch like me…tsk, tsk…ya worst mistake…look me in the eyes…ain’t no need to lie…you been busted muhfucka… Surprise, surprise, nigga…welcome to ya demise!

You know, on some real shit, sometimes I wonder if a bitch is a borderline psychopath, or if I’m just straight sadistic ’n shit. I mean, I really get off on fuckin’ these niggas, knowin’ that in a matter of minutes, I’m gonna take their lives. It does somethin’ to me. It really gets my pussy hot and poppin’ ridin’ a muhfucka’s dick, then splatterin’ his brains. It’s like I’m goin’ through an out-of-body experience or some shit, watchin’ the shit in slow motion while floatin’.

I read somewhere once—uh…yes, a bitch can read—that there were different degrees and types of psychopath. You know, a crazy bitch or nigga who is just straight noodles; someone who doesn’t feel shit for or ’bout nobody else; a bitch who goes bananas over the littlest shit. Well, that’s not me. I do care ’bout others. I just don’t care for a bitch who tries to play me. And I care even less for a nigga who tries to be on some slick shit. Hold up. Yes, I can be manipulative and calculatin’. No, I’m not dishonest. I keep shit real. I give it raw, whether you like it or not. Yes, I always try to be two steps ahead of the next muhfucka. Yes, I can be dangerous. And? That still don’t make me a psychopath, or a bitch on some serial killer-type shit. No, there’s no sympathy or remorse for what I do. Noooo, there’s no fuckin’ guilt. Guilt for what? Please. I provide a service, one I like to refer to as mercy killin’. Yeah, that’s right. I put muhfuckas outta they misery. Even when a nigga don’t know he’s miserable, or that he’s worn out his welcome in the world, I’m the bitch that’s gonna bring his ass peace of mind.

Anyway, I also read somewhere that obsession, greed, and revenge were three reasons why someone ended up bodied. So take ya pick. But I can’t offer ya ass no convo on bein’ a bitch obsessed ’bout nothin’, and I damn sure can’t tell you shit ’bout bein’ a greedy bitch. Oh, but revenge…now you talkin’. And as the sayin’ goes, payback is a muthafucka!

It’s said that most vengeful murders aren’t thought out, or premeditated. It’s done outta anger. Humph. Not with me, trust. ’Cause if you cross me, I’m the type of chick who’s gonna plot on ya ass, fuck all that actin’ on impulse. Like I always say, an impulsive bitch is a reckless bitch. So, fuck what ya heard. If I’ma slump ya ass on some revenge-type shit, you best believe I’ma slow walk ya ass. I don’t give a fuck if it takes days, weeks, months, or years. I’ma smile in ya face, mind-fuck ya, then lay ya ass to rest.

By the time I was twenty, I had already had another nigga’s blood on my hands. Yeah, I bodied B-Love, and? Like most niggas, he was so wrapped up in gettin’ his dick wet that he didn’t think twice ’bout the consequences if his ass ever got busted. I didn’t give a fuck how many times he apologized, or swore he’d never do it again, his ass couldn’t be trusted. As far as I was concerned, he was no different from the crab-ass nigga who snuck into my room every other night and played in my pussy. And he confirmed what I already thought, what I already knew at fifteen—that the only way to stop a no-good nigga in his tracks was by dumpin’ a clip in his ass. Fuck what ya heard. I had no time to be stressin’ over no cheatin’-ass nigga. I was gonna get over him, move on with my life, and chalk this shit up as another reason why a nigga couldn’t be trusted. So now…instead of one body on my hands, I had two.

For three weeks after I busted B-Love’s little fuck party with Patrice—before I shut his lights, splatterin’ his brains—the nigga dipped deep in his pockets, lacin’ me with dough, jewelry, flowers, cards, shoppin’ sprees, and every other fuckin’ thing else niggas do to make up when they know they done fucked up a good thing. And while he was spendin’ his loot, beggin’ and apologizin’ and professin’ his love for me, thinkin’ shit was gonna be peace, I was plottin’ on how I was gonna take him out.

He wanted pussy; he craved its warmth so much that he couldn’t control himself from runnin’ his dick up in my fuckin’ aunt—I didn’t give a fuck if she was tryna get at him or not. What the fuck I care ’bout her brushin’ her titties all up on him and braggin’ ’bout how sick her brain game was; ’bout how deep and wet her pussy was. Why should I give a fuck ’bout how he never meant for it to happen; that he just got caught up. The nigga still crossed the line. He allowed his dick to think for him. Allowed it to fuck her raw, fuck her in our bed. And now he had to pay the price. And, yes, the cost of fuckin’ with another bitch’s pussy was death!

As far as I was concerned, pussy and money were a weak nigga’s downfall. The more they had, the more powerful they thought they were. It gave them a false sense of security. B-Love’s delusions of bein’ invincible made it that much easier for me to set this nigga up lovely. Like I said, he didn’t give a fuck ’bout me, so I didn’t give a fuck ’bout takin’ his life. There’s one thing I can’t stand: a weak nigga or bitch!

See, the funny thing ’bout death is you never know when it’s gonna come snatch ya. Yeah, it’s a fact of life, it’s guaranteed to us. But when it comes in the still of the night to silence you, to yank ya last breath outta ya chest, there is no time for plannin’, no time for thinkin’. When ya least expect it, when ya least prepared, it swoops down on ya and pulls ya under. And it’s the element of surprise that excites a bitch like me.

“You still want that bitch’s pussy?” I had asked, bouncin’ up and down on his dick. I was fuckin’ him down into the mattress, givin’ him this pussy nice and wet and tight, grippin’ and milkin’ his dick for the last time.

“No,” he said in between grunts. “Oh, shit. Damn…Oh, shit. Damn, baby, this pussy good.”

Yeah, okay, I heard this before, I thought, glarin’ in his face. His eyes were half- closed, the lazy slits of a nigga bein’ sexed down. “Better than that bitch’s?” I asked, slowly liftin’ my hips up ’til my pussy wrapped just the head of his dick. I twirled my hips a tease, slid halfway down his thick shaft again, then back up to the head. I did that eight or nine times, then slammed all the way down on it,