The Kat Trap

by Cairo

  “…I don’t know why the fuck her dumb ass gotta fuck with someone else’s man. That shit is just fuckin’ crazy to me,” Chanel continued, bringin’ me back to the coversation. “Then she got the nerve to have me out ’n about with her ass last night at Mars 2112 and not say shit to me about havin’ beef with these bitches until after shit popped off outside. Four o’clock in the goddamn morning, and these bitches tryna set it off right there in the middle of Times Square. I’m so over that ho right now. What the fuck I look like, tryna fight them big booga bear bitches in my wears. Had the bitch told me shit was hectic I woulda rocked a pair of jeans and some constructs instead of bein’ out in my two-thousand-dollar Chanel dress and diamond-crusted heels, feel me?”

  I sighed, rollin’ my eyes. I hated bitches who knowingly slept with another chick’s man. It’s one thing if a nigga lies to you and gets you all caught up in his shit, and it’s a whole ’nother thing when a ho just don’t give a fuck. Fuck what ya heard. That’s grounds for a serious ghetto-style beat down!

  “Humph. Better you than me. I ain’t fuckin’ with Tamia like that anymore. The bitch is too damn reckless, and I ain’t diggin’ it. So, since she wanna be fuckin’ these niggas, knowin’ they got girls ’n shit, then she gets what she 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, hard, buryin’ all of his dick deep inside me. I thought I would be nervous ’bout what I was plannin’ to do, but a bitch was gettin’ turned the fuck on, knowin’ that I was in control. I was that bitch, capable of bringin’ pleasure or—in his case—death. I wanted this nigga to feel just how deep and wet I could get; wanted him to feel the heat of my boilin’ rage. I reached behind me and started jugglin’ and rollin’ his balls in my hand.

  “Yes…oh, fuck!”

  “Whose dick is this, nigga?”

  “Yours, baby…damn. Uh…oh, shit! It’s all yours…”

  Liar!

  “How many more bitches you fuckin’?”

  “None,” he said in between deep breaths. He was drenched in sweat, pantin’ and moanin’. “Fuck, baby…Aaah, shit.” He thrust his hips up into me, matched my rhythm. “I dismissed ’em all, baby. It’s you and me, baby.” It shoulda always been you and me. I slammed down on his dick again, and moaned.

  Liar!

  “You sure ’bout that?” I lifted my hips up again, and didn’t move while he threw his hips up, stabbin’ and jabbin’ up my pussy.

  “Yesss, baby.”

  Liar!

  I slammed my pussy back down on his dick.

  “Aaah, shiiiiiit…you fuckin’ ’n wettin’ the hell outta this dick, baby girl…Damn…Uh…oh, shit…your pussy’s tighter than a fuckin’ cat trap.”

  Hmmm, cat trap, I thought, smilin’. How fittin’. I like that. I galloped up and down, fast and hard, on his dick, rubbed my pierced clit, then came all over his dick. My warm, sticky juices dripped outta me and down his thick shaft. “Cum for me, nigga,” I said, grindin’ and buckin’ my hips. “Bust ya dick in my guts, nigga.” He pumped deep and hard and fast in me, placed his hands on my hips and went for his. “Yeah, muhfucka, you love this pussy?”

  “Fuck yeah!” he grunted.

  “Would you die for this pussy?” I was smearin’ my wet pussy all up and down and around on his dick, grippin’ it.

  “Damn, baby…What you tryna do to a nigga? Oh shit…”

  Inside I was laughin’ my ass off. This nigga had no clue.

  “Answer the question,” I said, moanin’. I lifted my hips, then slowly repeated it. “Would”—slammed down on his dick. Lifted my hips, again—“you”—slammed down on it again—“Die”—lifted my hips again—“for”—slammed down on his dick again—“This pussy?”

  I could tell the nigga was losin’ his mind. He was gruntin’ and moanin’ and twistin’ his face up. “Oh, shit…Yesssss, you my world, pretty baby.”

  I leaned forward, stuck my right titty in his mouth. He sucked and licked all over it, like the greedy muhfucka he was, then moved over to my other titty. We both were in a zone. He was tryna bust off, and I was tryna nut one last time before it was over. I kissed him on his lips. Slid my tongue in his mouth, then started suckin’ on his tongue like it was his big, juicy dick. The same black, veiny dick he used to fuck my aunt with.

  My pussy was hot ’n poppin’. I lifted up and started pinchin’ my hard nipples, ridin’ down on his cock and grindin’ my clit.

  Damn, this nigga got some good dick. Cheatin’-ass bastard! “I’m cuuuummmin’, daddy…oh shit…uh…ooooh…”

  “Yeah, baby,” he repeated, lookin’ me in my eyes, “I’d die for you…wet this dick up…yeah, that’s it…oh, fuck…you ready for this nut, baby?”

  I leaned forward, pressed my body close against his, then reached under the side of the mattress and felt for my .380 with the silencer. I gripped it and kept my hand hangin’ over the side of the bed, waitin’. I whispered, “Yeah, daddy, I’m ready for your nut. Oh, yes…uh, uh…you got my pussy real wet with ya big, black dick, nigga!” My pussy was so overheated from the thought of this cheatin’-ass muhfucka’s blood and brains and chunks of his skull bein’ splattered all over the place, a bitch almost had the shakes from just knowin’ what was ’bout to pop off.

  The minute he closed his eyes, I lifted up and hid my right hand behind my back, then placed my left hand on his chest and bounced up and down on his dick and waited…

  “Here it comes, baby…Aaaah, aaah, aaah…I’m cuuu—”

  Thessrrpp! I shot him right between the eyes.

  “Welcome to the Kat Trap, nigga!”

  I got up off his dick and stared at his lifeless body, then glanced at the clock. It was two in the mornin’. I rushed into the bathroom, sink-washed my pussy, then splashed water on my face. Reality set in, and now a bitch had to put the rest of her plan in motion.

  I spotted the jeans he had worn earlier over in the corner on the floor. I raced over to check inside his pockets for the keys to his three lockboxes he kept hidden in a secret compartment up in the ceilin’ of his walk-in closet. There were three sets of keys with at least fifteen different keys on each ring. I grabbed them and went into his closet, knockin’ boxes of sneakers and hard-bottoms off the shelves. I ran back into the kitchen to get one of the barstools, then climbed up on it and lifted up the corner panel. I pulled it down, tossin’ it to the floor, then reached for the metal boxes. I pulled each one down, then tried every key until I found the ones that opened each box. Bingo!

  There were forty thick rolls of hundreds wrapped with double rubberbands in the first box; another forty rolls in the second box; and the third box had thirty-two rolls. Each roll had one hundred crisp hundred-dollar bills. You do the math.

  Next, I went into his other closet to try the keys on the custom-designed floor safe hidden underneath the carpet. I dragged the dresser outta the way, pulled back the rug. I almost screamed when I saw that it was a combination-and key-lock safe. Here I was on my knees, with a body in the next room, and a bitch wanted to snatch up as much of the nigga’s cheddar as I could. Fuck what ya heard. The nigga owed me for my pain ’n sufferin’ and for me havin’ to use a bullet on his ass. And I was gonna take e’ery muthafuckin’ dollar up in that piece.

  I leaned back on my knees and thought. Okay, think, bitch. What would that muhfucka use as his combination? I tried a first set of numbers—nothin’. I tried again—still nothin’. I took a deep b
reath, rubbed my sweaty hands across my ass, then tried the numbers in his birthday: 9-26-8-0. When the shit clicked, I almost passed out. I opened the door and smiled. There were stacks and stacks of benjamins.

  I knew this wasn’t even half of what he was holdin’. He had a safety deposit box at Citibank, probably loaded with cheddar. And he had guns and drugs tucked away at his stash houses. But who gave a fuck! This paper was gonna set a bitch up lovely and keep my ass from sinkin’ until I figured out my next move.

  I jumped up, snatched my Louis Vuitton duffle bag, and started fillin’ it with the money. Once I cleaned e’erything out, I tossed some clothes and other personal items in another bag, then I put e’erything back in its place. Made sure I wiped the bathroom down, and his body. Just before I was ready to bounce, I glanced over at B-Love one last time, wishin’ things coulda turned out different. Oh, well. “Be careful what you ask for, muhfucka,” I said, walkin’ over to the bed and tossin’ the covers up over his body and head, “’cause you just might get it.”

  I tossed all of his keys into my satchel, and smiled when I remembered his secret spot over in Prospect Park. I’d only been to it twice, but I knew it was where he kept major paper. Nigga, thanks to you and your cheatin’-ass dick, you just helped a bitch bubble up. I quietly snuck out of the buildin’, then drove the two hours back down to AC where I already had a suite at the Borgata. I was smart enough to drive down earlier that afternoon to check in. I dropped off my bags in the room, then turned right back around and drove back to Brooklyn. If anyone asked, I was gamblin’ and partyin’ all night—alone.

  The next afternoon I walked back up in that piece like e’erything was e’erything, then ran outta the apartment, screamin’ hysterically through the hallway, bangin’ on doors. By the time Brooklyn’s finest arrived on the scene I was a mess. They were at the crime spot, tryna piece together clues to who took down one of the street’s biggest, most dangerous known drug dealers. They questioned e’erybody in the buildin’. And of course, no one heard, seen, or knew shit. They even had the fuckin’ nerve to interrogate me. But a bitch kept it cute. I rocked and screamed and cried through the whole questionin’. Finally, the muthafuckas left me alone. I guess they felt I was too damn distraught to offer up any info. I took one of the detective’s cards and promised to call him if I remembered anything. I never did.