Cairo - Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang

You already know when I was bodyin’ muhfuckas there was no time for compassion or sympathy. And there was definitely no time for muthafuckin’ regret. Unfortunately, Grant got caught up bein’ at the wrong place at the wrong time, and got got. The shit wasn’t personal. I couldn’t let it be. It was ’bout clockin’ that paper ’cause a bitch was gettin’ paid by the body. Not gettin’ clanked up. So fuck all that ying-yang ya’ll been poppin’. I had’a do what I had’a do. And sheddin’ a buncha tears ’bout sum shit I couldn’t change wasn’t gonna bring the nigga back. He was dead. And a bitch had’a keep pressin’. So, yes, I put back on my wig, slipped my chrome back into my bag and slid outta the hotel room, chokin’ back tears. When I finally made it to my rental and had’a make that call to Cash, that was one’a the hardest things I had’a do. I remember, takin’ a deep breath, tryna steady my voice as I told him, “I know why the caged bird sings.”

Then after I told him that there was another body in the room, I had’a tell him that a bitch needed a break. I knew if I didn’t bounce I was gonna end up snappin’ or doin’ sum other reckless shit. Like I told ya’ll before I knew that shit was in my blood—killin’. Lookin’ into a nigga’s eyes, splatterin’ his fuckin’ brains while ridin’ down on his dick did sumthin’ to a bitch. Made my pussy hot, made it pop. The thrill of the kill turned me on. And it overshadowed the risks. But that shit down in Atlantic City cost me sumthin’. It cost me what was startin’ to feel like love—well, at least the idea of it—and the chance to finally be free.

However, a bitch had’a get the fuck over it. Heartache and cryin’ over a nigga ain’t what I do. My name ain’t Juanita, okay? Uh, duh, the neglectful bitch—yes, you heard me right. I said bitch! —who dropped me outta her hairy pussy for those of you who can’t remember the script. Annnyway, I saw enough of that shit growin’ up watchin’ her dumb ass go nutty over the dick. I swore I would never, ever be her. And I mean that.

Speakin’ of that bird, I haven’t seen or spoken to her ass since that night she came to my spot with her face all banged the fuck up by that young nigga she was fuckin’. Then she had the fuckin’ audacity to bring her sister Rosa wit’ her ass. And that bitch came poppin’ outta bushes tryna bring it, callin’ me out to fight her like the ghetto-ass bird she is. Get real. I’m done wit’ all of ’em. As far as I’m concerned I ain’t got no family. And I made that very clear when I pulled my chrome out on ’em. And, hell muthafuckin’ yeah, don’t get it twisted. I woulda put a bullet in both of them bitches. E’erything Juanita stands for makes me fuckin’ sick. She’s a weak bitch in my eyes. And I don’t respect her. Nor do I have any love for her. But the crazy thing is I don’t hate her ass either. I don’t feel shit for her. I guess ’cause I learned to finally accept who she was, and is—neglectful, selfish, and straight pathetic. Which is why I had no problem lookin’ her dead in her busted-up eyes and tellin’ her flat out that I wanted nuthin’ else to do wit’ her, then slammin’ my door in her raggedy-ass face. I meant that shit on e’erything I love. And that ain’t much, trust.

Anywaaaaaay, enough ’bout all that shit. For the last two years, I’ve been doin’ me. Lovely, I might add. So, fuck what ya heard. I’m stayin’ away from fucked up family, niggas, and guns. Well, uh…shootin’ ’em that is. ’Cause I still gotta few pieces I keep in my personal collection.

Waaaaait one muthafuckin’ minute! Why the fuck did I spend the last ten minutes explainin’ myself to you bitches? Uh, fuck that! I bodied the nigga, I ain’t fuckin’ wit’ my family; period! So, let’s save all that shoulda-coulda-woulda bullshit for the next bitch. It’s a waste’a time ’n energy for a fly, butter bitch like me. A bitch is back, ohhhhhhhhkaaaaaaaay?! And that’s all you need to know. I got shit to do, peoples to check, and paper to spend. So, let’s get this shit poppin’, muhfuckas.

Silky hair; pretty face…first glance…got ’em thinkin’ a bitch’s outta place…too soft for da streetz…gotta bitch ice-grillin’ ’n talkin’ slick…tryna punk’a fly chick…wrong move…it ain’t neva that deep…now a bitch gotta knuckle up ’n creep up… trick-bitch gotta get put ta sleep…One, two…I’ma shatter ’er jaw…three, four…slide da whore to da floor…five, six…da bitch’ll need ’er face fixed…seven, eight… puttin’ a bullet in da stupid bitch ain’t neva too late…

I’m dressed in my wears zippin’ down I-580 East in my rental, a slick-ass XK convertible Jag, toward Oakland. It’s bright skies and sixty-eight degrees out, and I’m chillin’ wit’ the top down, lettin’ the cool breeze whip through my hair as I make my way down the highway. If I were in Brooklyn right now chillin’ wit’ Chanel we’d be blazin’ and poppin’ mad shit to niggas tryna push up on us. But, I’m here, and it’s me on some solo type shit—for now.

Anyway, I’m on my way to meet up wit’ this nigga Tone—a tall chiseled nigga who reminds me of a browner version of that sexy-ass Boris Kodjoe—for a hot meal. I met the nigga in one of my real estate classes I took a few months back. Uh…yeeeeeah, a bitch’s been in school. And I’ve completed all’a my coursework; just waitin’ to take the exam for my broker’s license. Thank you very much. What? Ya’ll thought a bitch was layin’ low, trickin’ up my paper on wears ’n trips ’n dumb shit? Bitch, puhleeze. I’m tryna make power moves. I’m sittin’ on stacks, and I’m tryna clean that shit up. So far, I’ve been fortunate not to have heat wit’ the Feds or IRS, and I’m tryna keep it like that. So while I’ve been out here I decided I might as well do sumthin’ constructive to occupy my time. Shit, there’s only so much shoppin’ and travelin’ a bitch can do ’fore that shit gets played, anyway. Besides, I’m always gettin’ at Chanel ’bout doin’ sumthin’ wit’ her life, so I figured I needed to be a true bitch and step shit up a notch and do the same. The way I see it, I can get a Cali license, then go back to New York or Jersey and get my papers there, too. There’s fetti to be made and I’m tryna get at it on both ends. And if Chanel decides to get her mind right, I’ma put her on, too. That’s what real bitches do!

Anyway, this nigga Tone finally convinces me to meet up wit’ ’im at this spot called Soul’s Restaurant. Actually, it wasn’t that he talked me into shit. The nigga caught me at the right time. I was bored, and wanted sumthin’ to do. So that’s what it is. He claims the shit is bangin’, so we’ll see. Although I’m not really feelin’ him on any extras—aside from the fact that he’s mad young; like twenty-four, he’s a cool nigga. Partly ’cause he’s a Jersey head and he got swagger and he’s also tryna make moves, still…

My cell rings. I peep the number, and pick up. It’s him. “Wassup?”

“Yo, ma, you left yet?”

“Yeah,” I say, quickly glancin’ at the GPS. “I’m actually gettin’ ready to turn onto MacArthur Boulevard.’

“Oh, aiight. You almost here. I’ll be outside waitin’ for you.”

“Aiight, peace.” I disconnect, tossin’ my cell onto the passenger seat. Five minutes later, I’m pullin’ up into the restaurant’s parkin’ area. I spot Tone leanin’ up against the passenger side door of a black S550, talkin’ on his cell. He hangs up when he sees me pullin’ up toward him. I park two cars down, shut off the engine, rake my fingas through my hair, then step out like the fly bitch I am in a pair of stone-washed jeans and a brown pullover and a pair of six-inch light brown python Gucci platform pumps. My Gucci jungle tote hangs in the crook of my arm. The nigga watches and grins as I sashay over to him. His eyes lock on the sway of my hips. I bet the muhfucka thinks I’m throwin’ the pussy at ’im. Niggas!