Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang

by Cairo

  “You lucky ya grandmother’s here. She saved you from a beat-down. But, bitch, be clear, I’ma jump on that ass so fast you won’t know what da fuck hit you.”

  Instead of escalatin’ the shit, I straight spin-off on them bitches. Bottom line, my mind is made up. If the bitch comes at me on any kinda shit, I’ma push ’er fronts all the way to the back, then I’ma be makin’ that call for anotha clean-up crew. And a bitch don’t have’a problem tossin’ Cash’s freak-nasty ass another pair’a panties to make this ho go away—permanently.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, ME AND CHANEL ARE SITTIN’ UP AT ’ER SPOT, blazin’ ’n tossin’ back a bottle of Moscato while listenin’ to Eric Roberson. As usual Devine is out grindin’ and Chanel is sittin’ here schemin’ on how she can get ’er creep on. “Do you know if Allstar got any niggas on his squad I might wanna chill wit’?”

  I shrug, frownin’. “Bitch, how da fuck I know?”

  “Well, da next time you talk to ’im, ask.”

  “Ho, I ain’t askin’ ’im shit. You already gotta man. So be happy wit’ what you got.” She rolls ’er eyes. “Bitch, pass me da damn blunt.” I laugh. “Annnnway, wassup up wit’ ya’ll any-damn-way?”

  “Trick, why is you always askin’ me wassup wit’ me ’n that nigga? Ain’t shit up. I keep tellin’ you we chillin’; that’s it.”

  “Does he know ’bout the baby?”

  This bitch has had’a ’nough smoke for one night, I think, starin’ ’er ass down. I kick my shoes off, then curl up on ’er sofa. “What’s there for his ass to know? I keep tellin’ you da nigga ain’t my man, ho.”

  She flicks ’er wrist, dismissin’ me. “Yeah, whateva. I don’t know why you keep frontin’; you know you diggin’ da nigga. Face it.”

  “Okay, ho, you got me…busted. Guilty as charged. And?”

  “And give da nigga some rhythm.”

  “That nigga gets all the rhythm I’ma give.”

  She pours us both ’nother round. “Kat, be real. What da fuck you afraid of?”

  I buck my eyes open. “Afraid? Who said anything ’bout bein’ afraid?”

  She stares at me. “Aren’t you?”

  “Hell no.” Bitch, shut ya lyin’ ass up. Keep shit real. I toss back my glass, gulp down my nerves.

  “Bitch, you lyin’.”

  I huff. “Aiight, damn, ho. I hate ya ass; for real, for real. Real shit. I don’t eva wanna end up like Juanita. All fucked up ova a muhfucka. I saw what that ho went through. Saw what she was. All broke down ’n pitiful ’n desperate. I don’t wanna be that kinda bitch, you know. Cryin’ ’n fightin’ ova a nigga.”

  “Girl, not you. That’s not even ya steelo. You too damn strong-willed to let a nigga do you sideways.”

  “Yeah, you right. But some’a the strongest bitches have been broken down gettin’ too caught up wit’ a muhfucka.”

  “Kat, that ain’t you.”

  “Still, the shit haunts a bitch.”

  “Girl, puhleeze. Don’t let that keep you from gettin’ close to a nigga you feelin’. Shake that shit off.” She looks at me. “You eva think ’bout how you mighta turned out if ya moms was a different kinda woman, or if ya pops was in ya life?”

  I shake my head. “No, what for? Fantasizin’ ’bout shit that is already done can’t change shit for me. Juanita was a dick junkie, and my pops is a career criminal. I’m kinda thinkin’ that’s how shit was ’posed to be. But, it’s not shit I’m tryna live. It’s not how I wanna be. And it’s damn sure not what I wanna become.”

  She twists ’er lips. “I feel you. Do you think they gonna eva find that nigga who did that shit to ya moms?” she asks, fillin’ our glasses to the rim wit’ more wine.

  Hopefully not before I do. “Who knows. All I know, that nigga needs to get served, lovely. I want that muthafucka’s head on’a platter wit’ his dick stuffed in his mouth.”

  “I feel you, girl. I know you don’t wanna hear it. But what that nigga did to ya moms is mad crazy. And now there’s a beautiful lil’ baby wit’ no parents.”

  What that nigga did is a blessin’ in disguise, I think, gulpin’ down the last drop of wine in my glass. Chanel asks if I want more. I tell ’er no. Tell ’er I ain’t for beat any more’a that fruity-tooty shit. Tell ’er to spark up ’notha blunt. We change up the subject and start talkin’ ’bout takin’ a trip to either Italy or France.”

  “Shit,” I say, takin’ the blunt from ’er. “We can do both. We young, fly, butta bitches who can do whateva da fuck we want.”

  She laughs. “Hell yeah, Boo. We two siiiiick bitches doin’ it up. Oh, wait…you sponsorin’ me, right?”

  I bust out laughin’. “Ho, I can’t stand nuthin’ yo broke ass stands for. You know Divine got you.”

  She laughs wit’ me. “Bitch, you know Divine ain’t gonna give me ’nough paper to live it up. His cheap ass’ll only give me few bullshit gees, then ’pect me to stretch it out for da whole time we gone.”

  “Well, if ya cheatin’ ass started suckin’ ’n fuckin’ top-dolla niggas instead of them nickel ’n dime muhfuckas you be chasin’, you’d have ya paper up.”

  She rolls ’er eyes. “Whateva, tramp. Pass me da damn blunt.”

  We go back ’n forth for a few rounds, draggin’ each otha for filth, laughin’ and whatnot ’til Eric Roberson’s joint “Dealing” starts playin’. Wit’out any thought, we shut the fuck up and go into our own lil’ zones, bobbin’ and puffin’. I’m sure ’er horny ass is imaginin’ ’im wit’ them big, juicy lips swallowin’ up ’er titties. I’m stuck in mine, wonderin’ if I should give the nigga Alex a go, or cut the nigga off now ’fore shit gets too hectic.

  TWO DAYS LATER, CHANEL IS BACK UP AT THE HOSPITAL WIT’ ME. I just finished talkin’ to the doctor ’bout the baby’s progress. And so far he’s doin’ good. The doctor is optimistic he’ll make it through this. But, for now, he is still in ICU. And on some real shit, a bitch can’t stand seein’ ’im and all them otha lil’ babies in incubators wit’ all kinda tubes comin’ outta ’im. They are so tiny ’n fragile. The shit is really fuckin’ my nerves. I stare at ’im. Feel myself gettin’ all choked up.

  What am I gonna do?

  Bitch, you was poppin’ mad shit ’bout ’im goin’ into foster care. ’Bout you not bein’ beat. Now ya confused-ass standin’ here switchin’ it up. Ho, make ya mind up.

  My mind is made up. I can’t let these muhfuckas take ’im. I can’t do it.

  “Oh, bitch, puhleeze. And you think you can raise ’im? Get real.

  “Do you have any idea what you wanna name ’im?” Chanel asks, cuttin’ through my thoughts.

  “Huh?

  “Hello, hello? Anybody home? I asked whadaya gonna name ’im?”

  “Fuck if I know. All this shit is new to me.” On some real shit, I really haven’t thought the shit all the way through. It feels like shit is movin’ type-fast for a bitch. I’m torn…okay, okay, and fuckin’ scared to death. I don’t know the first thing ’bout carin’ for a baby. Shit, who knows if it’s sumthin’ I even got in me. All I know is, from the moment I laid eyes on that lil’ boy, he’s been on my brain, heavy. And I can’t turn my back on ’im.

  “Well, you need to think of sumthin’, soon. We can’t keep callin’ ’im ‘baby’. Our lil’ man needs a name. I’m gonna start lookin’ through some baby books for a name.”

  I grin. “Oh, he’s our lil’ man, huh?”

  “Damn straight ’cause you know I ain’t tryna stretch my snatch all outta shape tryna pump no babies outta it. So we gotta share ’im.”

  I laugh. “Girlfriend, as much mileage that kat-box of yours got on it, it really ain’t gonna be that much stretchin’ goin’ on. You real loosey-goosey wit’ yours, boo. All you gotta do is squat down low and a baby’ll drop right out wit’ ya big-pussy self.”

  She laughs. “Whateva, tramp. Shut ya cum-trap and come up wit’ a name for our baby. And da shit gotta be fly.”

  I laugh wit’ ’er. “Yeah, you right. I don’t—
”

  “Umm, ’scuse me. Are you Miss Rivera?” I turn in the direction of the voice. There are two chicks—one black, the otha white—standin’ wit’ notepads. The black chick is the one talkin’ to me. She has a real strong face, mannish-like. And ’er short blonde ’fro ain’t helpin’ matters. I look ’er up ’n down. Take in ’er cheesy makeup job. The ho got on foundation that is two shades lighter than ’er neck wit’ a buncha eyeliner ’round ’er eyes. She’s a makeup artist’s nightmare. I glance down at ’er footwear. Cheesy patent-leather heels; mmmph, a Payless booga.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m Samantha Hillinger-Brown, and this is my colleague, Dana Movella.” I glance at the white chick. The first thing I peep are a pair of white seashell earrings danglin’ from ’er lobes. She’s all dolled up in ’er Sunday best; a purple dress wit’ large white polka dots. All the bitch needs is a pair of white gloves and a Bible. “We’re with Child Protective Services.” She extends ’er hand. I glance at it, raisin’ my brow. She quickly puts it down.

  “And?”

  “We’re here on the matter of Baby Rivera.”

  Okay, now a bitch’s radar kicks up a notch. “What’a ’bout ’im?”

  “We understand your mother had been on life support until he was delivered. And we understand the father is a person of interest in her death.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. What does that have to do wit’ me, or you?”

  “Well, now that he’s born we need to begin planning for—”

  “Oh, no, Sweetie,” Chanel cuts in, shiftin’ ’er handbag from one hand to the otha. “We don’t need no plannin’ committee. We got this. So thanks for ya interest. But you can go hop scotch on back ova to ACS. He’s in good hands.”

  “And you are?” Sam the Man asks.

  “I’m his aunt.”

  “Can we have your name?”

  “It’s Aunt,” Chanel says fuckin’ wit’ ’em. “A-U-N-T.”

  I tilt my head. “So the only plannin’ there’s gonna be is what color I’m gonna paint his room.”

  “Well, here’s the thing, Miss Rivera,” Miss Sunday’s Best says. “We’re here in the interest of the child. We’ve received several calls from concerned parties on behalf of the infant.”

  “Concerned parties like who?” I ask, lookin’ ’er dead in ’er blue eyes.

  “Well, I’m not at liberty to disclose who the parties are. However, we’d like to discuss with you some concerns…”

  Right at this moment, I ain’t tryna hear shit this ho is sayin’. And although I wanna drag this bitch for filth, I know I gotta keep it cute. So I force myself to keep my mouth shut and pay attention. The bitch starts talkin’ ’bout allegations. Someone called in and told ’em that a bitch sells drugs and sits ’round blazin’ all day; that a bitch is aggressive and violent; that I assaulted my grandmother and attacked my aunts; that I get drunk and fuck a buncha men.

  I blink, blink again.

  “You wait one damn minute,” Chanel snaps, pointin’ ’er finga at ’em. “That’s a buncha bullshit.”

  “And that may be so,” Sam the Man says. “But we still have to follow up with every call received. Our priority is for the safety and well-being of the child.”

  “Hmmm,” I say, twistin’ my lips up. “And so it should be. So know this. I don’t have shit to hide. So you can ask me whateva you want. Bottom line, I have my own money, and my own home. I don’t sell drugs; neva have, neva will. And I don’t do ’em.” Okay, yeah a bitch blazes, but that ain’t none’a these hoes’ business. Besides, Kush ain’t no damn drug any-damn-way. I continue wit’ my story. “And in terms of bein’ aggressive or assaultive. I neva slapped my grandmother. I grabbed her arm. So what? The bitch slapped me.”

  “Well, did you threaten her?”

  “Ho,” I snap, puttin’ a hand on my hip. “What that gotta do wit’ da baby? If I threatened ’er, then it should be the police standin’ here, not you. But since you asked. No, I ain’t threaten ’er. I warned ’er. I told ’er the next time she put ’er hands on me, I’ma forget she’s my grandmother and beat ’er old ass up. I don’t care who you are. Don’t put ya hands on me. Otha than that, I like to keep it real simple. Don’t fuck wit’ me, and I won’t fuck wit’ you. But if you bring, then I’ma sling it. And there you have it. Now go back and tell whomeva called you that I said ta fall da fuck back or get knocked da fuck back. Anything else?”

  They both blink. I guess they shocked that a bitch brought it to ’em like that. These bitches got the wrong one.

  Miss Sunday’s Best says, “We’re gonna have to follow up and do an investigation and background check on you.”

  “That’s fine by me. Do whateva you need ta do ta rest ya minds.” I give ’em my contact info, then spin-off on ’em. As soon as me and Chanel get into the elevator and the doors shut, I snap. “Can you believe this shit?! They send out sum muthafuckin’ low-budget booga bitches to try ’n eye scan me. Bitch, puhleeze. They can investigate all da fuck they want.”

  “Who da fuck you think called them hoes?”

  “Who you think? Them whore-ass trick bitches Elise and Patrice. Shit, they old, crusty-ass mammy probably called ’em too; dusty bitch!”

  “I know you gonna keep it cute, though?”

  “Sweetie and you know this. First things first, a bitch gotta flush out these insides in case they try ’n get crafty wantin’ me to do piss tests ’n shit. Then I’ma invite them trashbag hoes into my home and serve ’em wit’ grace, okay?!”

  “I know that’s right. So, I guess we ain’t rollin’ today?”

  My cell rings. I fish it outta my bag, then glance at the screen. It’s Alex. I press IGNORE. The elevator doors open. “Bitch, puhleeze, ain’t shit changed for today. We gonna burn down da muthafuckin’ forest all day. But come tomorrow, a bitch gotta shut shit down ’til after lil’ man is released from da hospital and I’m bringin’ ’im home.”

  “That’s right. Right where da fuck he belongs.”

  Bitch, how da fuck you get ya’self into this shit?

  Ho, you doin’ da right thing.

  Bitch, puhleeze, ya ass ain’t tryna be nobody’s mammy.

  “I swear I hope a bitch can handle this shit,” I say as we exit the glass doors. “The last thing I wanna do is fuck his life up da way Juanita fucked up mine.”

  “Girl, trust me. You won’t.” Chanel loops ’er arm ’round mine and we walk arm ’n arm.

  I sigh, lookin’ up at the sky. For what, who knows; maybe for a sign. “Let’s hope so.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Ain’t gonna front…bitch loves ridin’ down on da nigga’s dick…nigga wanna be my daaaaddy…wanna eat it up ’n beat it up…pussy like crack…one hit…got da nigga cummin’ back…got ’im wantin’ this sticky nut-nut…got ’im whisperin’ my name…fly, buttery bitch got ’em all fucked up in da game…nigga, what?

  “Aye, yo, what’s good wit’ you?” Allstar asks, soundin’ kinda tight. Truth is the muhfucka probably is since I’ve been playin’ ’im to the left for the last two weeks. On some real shit, I just ain’t been feelin’ it. This whole baby situation gotta ho’s cage rattled. I’m startin’ to feel like I’m gettin’ into some shit way ova my head. And a bitch don’t like feelin’ like she ain’t in control of shit. Still, I don’t wanna see ’im in the system. And damn sure don’t want ’im bein’ placed wit’ Elise or Patrice. But I keep askin’ myself ova and ova, “what da fuck am I gonna do wit’ a baby? One voice in my head says: “Love it.” The otha is tellin’ me: “Fuck up its life.”

  Real shit, that’s the last thing I eva wanna do. Give ’im a fucked up life, or mistreat ’im. Still, I don’t know if I really got it in me to love—someone else, that is. I thought I did. Howeva, now a bitch gotta wonder. Not blazin’ the last two weeks hasn’t helped shit, either. It gotta ho on edge. And it has me thinkin’ ’bout shit. Like love and life and niggas. I’ma young, fly, beautiful bitch, got paper for days, good puss
y, a sick throat game and muhfuckas tryna get at’a chick, hard. Muhfuckas sweatin’ to rock a bitch on their arms, but I ain’t beat.

  When I was fuckin’ Naheem, I thought he was the muhfucka I was in love wit’. He wasn’t. I cared for that nigga, true. But I realize it wasn’t shit more than a crush, and me lovin’ the fact that the nigga helped a bitch get outta a fucked up situation. When the nigga got knocked, I really thought the achin’ I felt was from a broken heart. It wasn’t. All it was was a bitch stressed ’bout how she was gonna keep from endin’ up back in the projects—stuck and miserable.

  But a bitch was able to snatch up the nigga B-Love and bubble-up lovely. But I know I neva gave a fuck ’bout his ass. I only cared ’bout makin’ sure I didn’t end up eva bein’ one’a them bottom of the barrel bitches. All I cared ’bout was that nigga’s paper. And, keepin’ shit real, I know the nigga didn’t really care ’bout me, either. The only thing he cared ’bout was havin’ me as his. Catchin’ that nigga wit’ his naked dick up in Patrice’s fuck-box, then offin’ his ass, was the best thing I coulda did. And it gave me all the fetti I needed to get on top, and stay on top.

  And Grant. Well, Grant was the nigga I thought was gonna be my savin’ grace from myself. ’Cause I knew I was gettin’ too caught up and comfortable poppin’ a muhfuckas cork. But the truth is, the only muhfucka who could really save me, is me. Grant was only anotha escape, maybe an excuse, for me.

  “Shit,” I tell ’im, walkin’ into the kitchen, openin’ up a bag of Ranch Doritos. I start crunchin’ in his ear. I know, rude; whateva.

  “Oh, word? I can dig it. You home?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I see you ain’t really been feelin’ a muhfucka. I’ve called and text you and you couldn’t even hit a muhfucka back. That’s some pussy-ass bullshit, Kat. And you know it.”

  “Shit happens,” I say, nonchalantly.

  “So, it’s like that, right?” It sounds like this muhfucka is strugglin’ to keep it together.