Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang Read online

  “Alriiiiiighty then. Next.”

  “What ’bout you; how many baby daddies you got?”

  “None. And I ain’t tryna have one.” I’m kinda shocked when he asks if I’ve eva been pregnant. Although I coulda told the nigga no, I decide to keep shit real. “Yeah, when I was young and dumb. But I handled that situation real quick, trust.”

  “I feel you.” I’m surprised when he tells me ’bout some nuttyass bitch who kept claimin’ he knocked her up. How she tried’a drag ’im into court for child support; how she kept showin’ up at his family’s spot wit’ a baby that looked nuthin’ like ’im.

  “Damn. So what you’d do?”

  “I got a blood test.”

  “Okay, and?”

  “And it wasn’t mine; just like I told the ho from the door. Fuck outta here.”

  “Mmmph, that triflin’ bitch was dead wrong for that,” I say, shakin’ my head. “Tryna pin a baby on a muhfucka. There’s a buncha scandalous bitches doin’ grimy shit like that; lettin’a buncha muhfuckas pop off in ’em, then they gotta pull baby daddy names outta hats ’n shit.”

  “Yeah, that shit was real crazy. She even had my fam comin’ at me sideways; ’specially my moms’ ’n shit. And I wasn’t feelin’ that shit at all. I kept tellin’ ’em the shit wasn’t mine. If it was, I’da manned up and handled my responsiblities.”

  “Well ’least it worked out for you.”

  “Oh, no doubt.” I decide to ask if he’s ever been in a relationship. He shakes his head. “Nah.”

  “Are you serious? Neva?”

  “True story.”

  I twist my lips. “Mmmm, so I guess you one’a them niggas whose gonna spend his whole life runnin’ through a buncha bitches, hunh?”

  The waiter returns to the table to see if we want dessert, or sumthin’ else. We tell ’im no, and send ’im on his way. He waits for dude to walk off, then shifts his attention back to me. He leans up in his seat, rests his forearms on the table. “Yo, check this out. I’ve smashed a buncha pussy, tore the frame outta a ton of ass, and coated a buncha throats and I have no regrets. So up ’til now I’ve been cool.”

  “Okay, so basically you ain’t beat for a relationship?”

  “Nah, I haven’t been. On some real shit, I’ve always thought relationships were whack, feel me.”

  Wow, this nigga’s head is all fucked up. “Okay and now?”

  He shrugs. “The verdict is still out.” He winks at me, grinnin’. “But who knows. That might change.”

  I laugh. “Oh, puhleeze don’t let it be on my account ’cause I ain’t lookin’ for a relationship. And if I were it wouldn’t be wit’ you.”

  “Ouch,” he says, clutchin’ his chest. “You sure know how’ta stab a nigga in the heart.”

  I laugh. “Oh, you’re a big boy. I’m sure you’ll get over it. Fact is you ain’t built to be wit’ one chick. And a bitch like me ain’t willin’ly sharin’ a nigga wit’ another bitch.”

  “Yeah, you right. At least that’s how it’s been. But maybe a muhfucka’s ready to try sumthin’ different.”

  “Yeah, like some new pussy.”

  He laughs. “Nah…like tryin’ out the whole monogamy thing; you know…see if it works.”

  “Trust, it works only when two muhfuckas want it to,” I tell ’im. “Personally, I rather a muhfucka tell me he wants to fuck other bitches than goin’ out there gettin’ his creep on tryna play me sideways.”

  “I feel you.” He takes a sip of his water, then studies me. “Do you think muhfuckas can really change, or they just stop doin’ shit for the moment?”

  I purse my lips, think ’bout my own life. Think ’bout how I stepped outta the killin’ game; how I miss it. Still ache ’n crave for it. I slowly nod. “Yeah, I guess they can. It may not be easy. But, if they really wanna, then yeah.”

  “On some real shit, all my life I’ve been ’round muhfuckas who didn’t give a damn ’bout a relationship. My pops married my moms but kept a string of jumpoffs. He even took me wit’ ’im while he went to one’a his hoes’ spots to fuck ’em. Then he’d buy me shit to keep quiet. I never told anyone this, but a few of ’em he let top me off when I was mad young.” He chuckles. “Damn, a muhfucka must really dig you ’cause I can’t believe I’m sittin’ here tellin’ you all this.” He pauses, shakin’ his head. “On some real shit, I see a buncha miserable muhfuckas caught up in what they call a relationship and they still out doin’ them; lyin’ and fuckin’ ’round on each other. I ain’t beat for that shit.”

  “I feel you on that. Niggas ain’t shit.”

  “Bitches, either,” he adds.

  “Mmmph,” I grunt, glancin’ down at my wrist to peep the time. I can’t believe it’s almost nine o’clock. The waiter returns wit’ the check. Alex looks at the bill, then pulls out his wallet. I pull out mine as well, and toss a hunnid on the table.

  “Yo, ma, put that back. I got this.”

  I smirk. “I thought you said this wasn’t a date.”

  “It’s not,” he says, handin’ me my money back. “But tomorrow night will be.”

  “Nigga, puhleeeze, who said I wanted to see you again?”

  He grins, shakin’ his head as he slides two crisp Ben Frankies in wit’ the check. “Yeah aiight. Whatever, yo. I ain’t tryna hear that shit.”

  I laugh, followin’ behind ’im out the door to his whip. My Gawd, I think, peepin’ his walk, this bowlegged muhfucka walks like he got some big-ass cow balls.

  “YO, I HAD’A REAL NICE TIME WIT’ YOU TONIGHT,” HE TELLS ME as he’s pullin’ up in my driveway.

  “Yeah, it was kinda aiight,” I say jokin’ly. “You ain’t a half bad muhfucka.”

  He laughs. “Yo, one some real shit, I’ma good dude. I’m glad you came to ya senses and stopped all that frontin’ like you wasn’t beat for the kid.”

  “Aiight, muhfucka, you got that. I ain’t gonna front, ya conceited ass is fine and all, but you too over ya’self. And I still think ya ass is mad trouble.”

  “Baby, I’m good trouble. Good dick, good tongue, good fuckin’, good nuttin’…I’m all ’round good, ma; true story.”

  “OhhhhmiiiiiGod, you are so full of ya’self,” I say, openin’ the car door. “I’m out. Thanks for the meal.” He jumps outta his whip comin’ ova to me. “Nigga, what you doin’?” I ask, steppin’ back, placin’ a hand on my hip.

  He grins. “Damn, ma. Put the claws in. I’m only walkin’ you to the door.”

  I laugh, reachin’ inside my bag to get my keys. “Muhfucka, my door’s right here in front of us,” I say, pointin’ in its direction. “You coulda sat in the car and watched me go in.”

  He grins, placin’ his hand on the small of my back as we walk. “Maybe a muhfucka’s really feelin’ you and ain’t tryna see the night end.”

  “Well, maybe, all good things gotta come to an end.”

  “Not all good things,” he says, steppin’ into my space. I step back, backin’ into my door. He looks down at me, slowly pullin’ in his bottom lip. “You sexy as fuck, ma. I don’t know what it is ’bout you, but I ain’t gonna rest ’til I figure it out.” He leans in to kiss me, but a bitch shuts that shit down. Bitch, keep it cute. You know this muhfucka ain’t shit.

  Yeah, but a bitch want some dick.

  Then fuck ’im ’n keep it movin’.

  No, not tonight!

  “Oh, really?” I ask, stoppin’ him wit’ the palm of my hand up on his chest to hold his ass back from pressin’ all up on me. “Well, the only thing you should be tryna figure out is ya way back home; so good night.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, aiiight. I’ma be findin’ my way back to you tomorrow night at six so make sure you’re ready.”

  “I got plans,” I tell ’im, openin’ my door tryna hide my grin. Truth is I don’t have shit planned, but I’m not ’bout to make it easy for this muhfucka to get at me. Bein’ at a nigga’s beck ’n call ain’t what a fly bitch like me does. And, trust. A butter bitch like me won’t b
e home.

  “Cancel ’em.”

  “I don’t think so; wrong answer.”

  “Then I’ma be sittin’ out this muhfucka waitin’ for you to come home.”

  I shake my head. “And ya ass’s gonna be out here lookin’ like a damn fool,” I tell ’im.

  “Yo, you heard what I said. I’ma be here at six.”

  “Muhfucka, and you heard what I said. Now good night.” I shut the door in his face, makin’ my way upstairs to get outta these clothes, pull up Spartacus on On Demand, and ride the shit outta a dildo ’cause that black muhfucka got’a bitch’s pussy boilin’.

  SEVEN A.M. MY CELL STARTS GOIN’ OFF NONSTOP, AND A BITCH’S pissed she didn’t mute the shit. I reach for it off the nightstand, glancin’ at the screen. It’s a 347 area code number that I don’t recognize. I press IGNORE. Three seconds later, the same number calls back. “Yeah?”

  “Kat, when the fuck you bringin’ ya selfish ass back to Brooklyn to see ’bout your moms?”

  The voice catches me off-guard. “Whaat? Who da fuck is this?”

  “It’s ya aunt Rosa, bitch. Don’t play stupid. You know my damn voice. Now why the fuck nobody can get in touch wit’ ya disrespectful ass? What da fuck you changin’ ya numbers for ’n shit?”

  A bitch is too fuckin’ through. And not in the muthafuckin’ mood, okay?! She’s one’a the last bitches I wanna hear from. “How the fuck did you get my number?” I ask, swingin’ my comforter off, then sittin’ up on the side’a the bed. I realize it’s a stupid ass question, knowin’ damn well Chanel’s stupid ass gave it to ’er. I’ma fuckin’ curse that retarded bitch out for filth!

  She starts spazzin’. “Bitch, ya muthafuckin’ mother is in the goddamn hospital on life support and the only fuckin’ thing you worryin’ ’bout is how the fuck I got ya number, is you fuckin’ serious?”

  “Yeah, Rosa, I am. And what?”

  “Rosa? Oh, bitch you done ran off and got real glossy callin’ me some muthafuckin’ Rosa. I’m ya aunt, ho.”

  “Sweetie, you ain’t shit to me. And for da record, I’ve always been shinin’. So, yeah, I’m real glossy, ho. Now how can I help you? You got three minutes to say what you need’a say and then get da fuck up off my line.”

  She gasps. “Bitch, I’ma fuck—”

  “Two minutes and forty-seven seconds,” I warn, cuttin’ her off. “Say what da fuck you called to say, and be done wit’ it.”

  The crazy bitch keeps tryna bring it. “Bitch, on e’very-muthafuckin’-thing I love, I’ma beat the dog shit outta you. You ain’t shit for turnin’ ya back on ya family; especially ya moms. I’ma give you the beatdown she shoulda gave ya ass a long time ago, you stuck up lil’ bitch.”

  I laugh. “Bitch, you must be back on crack talkin’ that whack ass shit to me. You need to grow da fuck up; for real ho. You got da nerve to be someone’s grandmother actin’ like a certified trick-ass, gutter-rat bitch. Fuck outta here wit’ ya clown ass. Boo-boo, you got da game fucked up if you think I’ma stand ’round and let you or any muthafuckin’-body else do shit to me. You got two minutes, and countin’.”

  “YOU FUCKIN’ SNOTTY-ASS BITCH!” she yells into the phone. “FUCK ALL THAT DUMB SHIT YOU TALKIN’. MY FUCKIN’ SISTA IS ON MUTHAFUCKIN’ LIFE SUPPORT AND YOU NEED TO GET YA ASS DOWN TO THE GODDAMN HOSPITAL TO SEE HER!”

  Interestin’ly, I keep it cute; stay calm. “Thanks for the public service announcement, Sweetie. Time’s up,” I say, disconnectin’ the call. My cell rings, again. This time it’s Chanel’s ass. “Oh, bitch, you must know you ’bout ta get cursed da fuck out for givin’ that crazy bitch my muthafuckin’ number after I specifically told ya cock-washin’ ass not to give my muthafuckin’ number out to none of them bitches.”

  “Damn,” she says, suckin’ her teeth. “I was hopin’ to get to you before she called you.”

  “‘Damn hell, ho. I hate e’erything ya stankan azz stands for right now. You always doin’ dumb shit, bitch.” She laughs. “Bitch, ain’t shit funny. That ho called here tryna bring da noise. And you know a bitch wasn’t feelin’ that shit.”

  “Ooops, my bad,” she says, gigglin’.

  “Ho, I should slap the shit outta ya ugly-ass face.”

  “I’m sorry, boo. I knew you was gonna be heated, but Patrice sounded real fucked up when she called me early this mornin’. And I felt bad.”

  “Bitch, what da fuck you feelin’ bad for?”

  “’Cause it sounded like she was cryin’ ’n shit.”

  “Boo-hoo,” I say, suckin’ my teeth. “I don’t give a fuck. You still had no muthafuckin’ business givin’ out my digits. You shoulda called me, first, before doin’ some corny-ass shit like that.”

  “I know, I know. But ya ass woulda said hell no, anyway.”

  “Exactly, ho. But you turn ’round and do what da fuck you want. Fuck it. It’s done now. And ya ass done loss diva points for that bullshit, bitch.”

  She starts laughin’. “Now you goin’ too damn far, bitch, snatchin’ my diva points ’n shit.”

  “Whateva. You make me sick. I hate e’erything ya slutty ass stands for.”

  “Okay, bitch, that shit’s all good ’n all, but are we still smokin’ today?”

  “Hell no, I ain’t smokin’ wit’ ya crusty-ass. Go burn wit’ Rosa ’n Patrice since ya no-count ass was so quick to give them bitches my cell number.”

  “Mmmmm-hmmm. And when ya crazy-ass aunts jump on that ass you make sure you remember that shit ’cause I’ma sit there ’n smoke up all they shit while they peelin’ da skin off’a that ass.”

  “Bitch, you sit there and let them hoes jump on me and you don’t jump in ’n help set it off on ’em wit’ me, I’ma toss acid in ya face ’n set ya hair on fire, okay? Try it if you want. Ya ass’ll be laid up at the nearest burn center, okay. Then let’s see how many niggas gonna be checkin’ for ya bald-headed, crispy-baked, hoass.” We both bust out laughin’.

  “Girl, ya ass is stoopid.”

  “Yeah, okay.” She decides to ask how my phone convo went wit’ Rosa. I tell ’er.

  “Damn.”

  “Mmmph, girl, that crazy bitch sounded like she was back on crack.”

  “So she was wildin’ like that?”

  “Girl, that ho was blackin’ like someone smoked da last rock.”

  “Daaaamn. That’s some shit. I think it’s really fucked up ya’ll can’t get along, though; especially now wit’ ya moms bein’ brain dead.”

  “Please, I don’t know what da problem is. The bitch calls here poppin’ a buncha rah-rah talkin’ ’bout I need to get to da hospital to see her sista ’n shit, and the bitch’s dead. How stupid is that? The bitch ain’t ever gonna know I was there, so what’s the fuckin’ point? Not that I was goin’ up to see ’er ass, any-damn-way. Then they fuckin’ wastin’ taxpayers’ dollars keepin’ the bitch chained to a tube. Hello, she’s dead! What da fuck they tryna keep ’er ass alive for?”

  “’Cause she’s pregnant, Kat.”

  “Say, whaaat?!” My muthafuckin’ mouth drops open. I am certain I haven’t heard ’er right. I ask ’er to repeat what she just said. She does. And a bitch feels like she’s ’bout ready to pass the fuck out!

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Close my eyes ’n count ta ten…take’a deep breath…blaze’a few trees…then do it again…tryna wrap my mind ’round da dumb shit muhfuckas do…how many times’a bitch gonna keep gettin’ burned…’til she wakes da fuck up…takes control of ’er life and sees da lesson to be learned….

  It’s been two days since Chanel dropped the bomb on me ’bout Juanita’s retarded ass bein’ pregnant—again! Why I’m feelin’ some kinda way ’bout ’er ho-ass bein’ knocked up is beyond me. But I do! Maybe it’s ’cause—once again—the selfish bitch didn’t think ’bout no one else but herself. No, scratch that shit. The bitch was thinkin’. She was thinkin’ ’bout the sorry-ass muhfucka who beat her silly ass. Only a stupid bitch would keep lettin’ a nigga pump ’er insides up ’n not be on
some kinda birth control. That nigga kicked ’er all up in her stomach the last time he put ’er in the hospital. And she still went back to his ass. Got her dumb-ass knocked again. And now she’s brain dead. Shit makes no sense. Now I gotta wonder how many other times the bitch got knocked. How many other babies did she have stomped outta ’er.

  For some strange, sick reason, I am consumed wit’ wantin’ to know what the fuck happened; need to know why her dead ass is still carryin’ a baby that she ain’t ever gonna be able to take care of. So I wait ’til after midnight—when I know I won’t run into any of my nutty-ass aunts; particularly Rosa, then hop into my whip and make my way to the parkway toward the Verrazano Bridge.

  As I’m drivin’ I start to feel my nerves rattle as images of Juanita’s lifeless body shoot through my head. The thought of seein’ her after all this time has a bitch all antsy ’n shit. I need a blunt, I think, pushin’ in the lighter, then reachin’ for my stash. My cell rings. I reach for it, glancin’ at the screen. It’s Nut.

  “Hello?”

  “Yo, wassup, ma? How you?”

  “Nigga,” I snap, sparkin’ my blunt, “do you know what time it is?” I take a deep pull.

  He laughs. “Yeah, it’s time for ya sexy ass to spend some time wit’ a muhfucka. You played me the other day when I came through. That was some foul shit, ma.”

  I laugh. “Nigga, I told you what it was. Nobody told ya dumb-ass to come out tryna check for me.”

  “Yeah, aiight; whatever. You got that. So when I’ma see you again?”

  “Neva,” I say, crackin’ my window and blowin’ out weed smoke.

  He sucks his teeth. “Yo, fuck outta here. Where you at?”

  “Nigga, what I tell you ’bout tryna check for me?”

  He starts laughin’. “Yo, you mad funny; for real for real.”

  This time, I suck my teeth. “Whateva. I ain’t laughin’ muhfucka. Why is you callin’ me this time’a night, anyway?”