The Kat Trap

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

The nigga’s eyes filled with hate. “That’s some real foul shit,” he said, shiftin’ his weight from one leg to the other. He moved his hands from his head, then spread his arms open. “Now what? Am I next? You gonna smoke me, too?”

I looked in his eyes. I felt so fuckin’ sick to my stomach. And for the first time in my life, regret crept up on me. No time for regrets.

“It’s what I do,” I said, shiftin’ my eyes from his 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. “I really dig you. Things with you coulda been great. But I can’t let you live; not after walkin’ in on this. I have a rule that I live by: No witnesses, no evidence. Killin’ is my life, and I’m not goin’ down on some soft shit.”

“Just like that? You gonna shoot a nigga?” He tried to reach for his piece, but I was on him.

Theessrrp! “I’m a killa, baby,” I said, shootin’ him in the left shoulder. He stumbled backward, grabbin’ the place where I shot him. Blood started runnin’ down his shirt. He tried to reach for his gun again. Theessssrrrp!

“Aaaah, shit,” he screeched, clutchin’ his chest. “Whatchu gonna do, kill me? Is that it? I gave you my fuckin’ heart! And you just gonna snake me.” His breathin’ was deep. It hurt me to see him cringin’ from the two bullet wounds. Shit! Shit! Shit! Why the fuck did he hafta come up in here? Why couldn’t he stay where the fuck he was? Fuck! The front of his shirt was soaked with blood and it was now runnin’ down his thick fingas.

On the outside I was calm and collected, but on the inside I was straight fucked up. But this shit was much bigger than feelin’s. It was a matter of life or prison—me sparin’ his life versus me possibly goin’ to prison. He lost. Prison wasn’t an option.

“Grant, please don’t make this any harder than it already is. And don’t try my patience. If you move again, I’ma take ya head off. This shit ain’t personal.”

“Fuck you,” he spat. “I wanted to make shit happen with you.” He tried to reach for his gun again.

“I fuckin’ warned you.” Theessrrp! I shot him in the center of his forehead. He fell back onto the bed, next to his naked brotha.

I swallowed hard, watchin’ blood spill outta his head and chest. “I wanted to give you my heart and make shit happen with you, too,” I finally said, pressin’ my eyes tightly closed, shuttin’ off the pain that was startin’ to burn in the center of my chest. I took in a deep breath, held it in for what seemed like forever, then slowly opened my eyes. His vacant brown eyes—the ones a bitch loved lookin’ into when he was fuckin’ her—were starin’ up at the ceilin’. I looked at his lifeless body, grabbed his crotch area, and rubbed my hand all over the bulge of his big dick. I was gonna miss that good dick. I planted a soft kiss on his lips. “I’ma miss you, nigga,” I said, almost whisperin’. My heart fuckin’ ached. But there wasn’t shit I could do ’bout it now. The nigga was dead, and a bitch had to keep pressin’. I slipped my gun back into my bag, put my wig back on, and headed for the door. I walked through the casino and outta the hotel to my car, realizin’ that after tonight, a bitch’s dreams would never come true. I got in my car, flipped open my cell, and choked back tears.

I took a deep breath. “I know why the caged bird sings.”

“That’s what it is. I’ll hit you later.”

“By the way, there was an extra birdie flyin’ tonight.”

“Did you catch it?” he asked. It was the code for an unexpected witness.

“Yeah, I snatched it by the wings.”

“Bet.”

“Uh, Cash.”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“A bitch needs a break.”

“Oh, word. How long you talkin’?”

“I’m not sure. I just know I gotta take some time and get away for a minute; maybe for good. I gotta do me.”

“I can dig it,” he said, pausin’. I’m sure he was thinkin’ ’bout how he was gonna come at me. It wasn’t like I was under contract or any shit like that, so I could bounce any time I wanted. But outta respect, I felt a sick obligation to let the nigga know. “Do what you gotta do,” he finally said. “You know I’ma miss you, though.”

I sighed, rollin’ my eyes. “I’m sure a nigga like you will manage,” I said, dismissin’ his comment.

“So can a nigga finally get some of that pussy now?”

Yeah, muhfucka! And then I’ma put a bullet in ya head. I smiled, shakin’ my head at the thought of two Hefty trash bags wrapped ’round his face, then one over his head and tied in a knot ’round his neck. ’Cause that was the only way a bitch would ever fuck his ass. “Maybe,” I said, not sure at that moment if it was a lie, or half-truth.

“Oh word,” he said, soundin’ all excited ’n shit. “You already know what it is. Whenever you want it, me and this big, black dick are ready for ya fine ass.”

“Whatever, nigga. Just get the rest of my paper to me.”

He burst out laughin’, then got all serious ’n shit with me. “Listen, Kat, on some real shit. No matter how hard you may want to, you can’t run from this. It’s in ya blood, baby. I knew that shit the moment I peeped you housin’ that bitch on the floor at the Brooklyn Cafe; the minute you said you was gonna take it to her throat if she ever came at you again. I knew then. It was in ya eyes, Kat.

“It’s twisted muhfuckas like you and me who can do this shit in our sleep. It takes a cold, vengeful, mean- streaked muhfucka to look a nigga dead in his eyes, then smoke his ass and never blink. Somewhere in our twisted minds, we think ain’t shit wrong with takin’ a muhfucka out. And what keeps us doin’ this sick shit is the fact that we like takin’ chances, livin’ on the edge, thinkin’ we’ll never get caught. Killin’ is ya callin’, baby. You’ll be back. And when you ready, I’ma be here waitin’ for ya.”

Crazy thing, the nigga was right. It was in my blood. The thrill of the kill turned a bitch on. It overshadowed the risks. But it cost me somethin.’ It cost me what was startin’ to feel like love, and the chance to finally be free.

I didn’t say shit else. I hung up and drove in silence, sparkin’ the half blunt that was in my ashtray. I took two long, deep pulls, then exhaled. I turned on the CD player, then pressed disc four. Lauryn Hill’s “Peace of Mind” blared through the speakers. I smoked and listened, lettin’ her words fill the car along with the weed smoke. Finally, a bitch broke down and cried—hard, clutchin’ the steerin’ wheel. Snot and spit was flyin’ e’erywhere. I cried for all the shit I kept locked inside of me over the years. But most of all, I cried knowin’ that no matter how much I might wanna walk away, in my heart, I knew a bitch like me would never have peace of mind. I knew the Kat Trap would be open again, and I’d fuck another nigga and smoke his ass with no hesitation; with no regret, and no fuckin’ remorse. And with the promise of good pussy, a slow wet dick suck, and toe-curling orgasms, another muhfucka would be lured into his grave. ’Cause I was that bitch!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cairo resides in New Jersey, where he is finishing up his next two literary creations, The Man Handler, and Daddy Long Stroke. His travels to Egypt are what inspired his pen name. You can email him at: [email protected]

Copyright

Strebor Books

P.O. Box 6505

Largo, MD 20792