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CHAPTER TWELVE
Okay, since you know how I get down, you can see slumpin’ muhfuckas comes easy to me. My first two bodies were strictly personal ’cause a bitch felt wronged. As far as I was concerned, they deserved what they got. Not only for me, but for anyone else they fucked over. But a bitch ain’t on that revenge shit anymore.
I ain’t gonna front. A bitch was mad nervous the first time I had to actually body a nigga that hadn’t disrespected me, or tried to play me close. I mean, blastin’ a nigga who fueled my anger was one thing, but killin’ a muhfucka who I had no beef with, was a whole ’nother situation, feel me? But trust. I promised myself that I would never murk anyone else for personal reasons. Well, okay, not at the moment. ’Cause on some real shit, if a muhfucka tried to play me again—I just might have to take his head off. I really can’t say I wouldn’t slump his ass, feel me?
Anyway, no matter what type of beef I might have with another bitch, I will never, ever, push a slug in her ass. I’d either fight the ho with my hands, or slash her ass up with a blade. But killin’ another chick was and will always be a no-no. Well, that is, unless the bitch is tryna body me, then it’s open season for an all-out slaughter. And I’m definitely not fuckin’ with political figures. That comes with too many risks—well, at least for me.
Anyway, I had made this very clear to Cash when I agreed to work with him. No chicks, no children, no niggas caught up in politics. And I meant it. Anythin’ else was fair game.
Call me what ya want, contract killer, hit man—or in my case, the hit bitch. The only difference between me and the others in the murder game is that I added my own twist to the shit. As you already know, I fuck the niggas first. Twisted or not, I don’t give a fuck. As far as a bitch like me is concerned, ain’t no sense in takin’ a nigga’s life without givin’ him a taste of pussy for the last time. Call it mercy fuckin’. I mean, on some real shit, the nigga’s already ’bout to catch it, so why not fuck ’im, feel me? Hell, it’s the least a bitch who loves to fuck could do. In the end, I get to get my fuck on without niggas tryna put my shit on blast, and get paid in the process. A bitch can’t beat that.
On some real shit, though, this fuckin’ world is so gotdamn goddamn crazy. And there are some really sick muhfuckas out here who have no problem puttin’ a hit out on someone for their own personal, political, or professional gains. From silencin’ witnesses to eliminatin’ rival drug leaders, gang leaders, or politicians who refuse to take bribes; from bitches and niggas lookin’ to collect on insurance policies or estates to someone who just wants out of a fucked-up relationship but is bein’ forced to stay—someone is always ready to pay out the ass for a hit, and it ain’t ’bout race. These white muhfuckas and bitches are real gangsta with theirs. And the shit that really cracks me the fuck up is the fact that most of these fools really think just because they’ve hired someone else to do their dirty work that their dumb asses still can’t be linked to the murder; that they can’t go down for the shit too if one of us gets knocked. Uh, hello…ya ass ordered a body to go, duh!
It doesn’t matter whether ya ass got an airtight alibi ’bout bein’ outta the country or in some spot where many people see ya ass and can verify ya whereabouts. You still can catch the heat, trust. Yeah, I mighta pulled the trigger, but at the end of the day, it was the customer who paid for the shit, so his or her ass can be found guilty, too. Don’t get it twisted. Yes, a bitch did her homework before gettin’ all caught up in this. And I’m aware of the legal shit that comes with what I do. Still, there’s somethin’ ’bout bein’ on top of a nigga, ridin’ his dick, anticipatin’ puttin’ a slug in his head that turns a bitch on.
Anyway, dependin’ on the needs of the person puttin’ out the hit, some of our hits are obvious murders, while some are staged as either suicides or accidents. Others, the only ones I take, are the hits where, after the muhfucka’s been slumped, the bodies are destroyed so that it looks like a disappearance instead of an actual murder, feel me?
Although a bitch like me is considered a professional killer, I typically only like the hits where there is not much danger involved. Fuck what ya heard. A bitch ain’t tryna get caught up in no shit way over my head. I like my hits simple. My motto: fuck ’em and slump ’em. No hassles, no drama, no damn confusion.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A bitch is in heat…come stoke this fire…got a nigga lustin’ with desire…got a bitch’s pussy poppin’…spark a blunt, got that chronic liftin’ ya…as I sit ’n spin on ya dick…fat ass clappin’ ya, deepthroatin’ ya…neck snappin’ ya…got ya knees shakin’…bust ya nut, nigga…sexy bitch with the slanted eyes…deep, wet pussy makin’ ya weak…got ya eye on the prize…fuck what ya heard…I’m a hustler baby, a bitch from the streets…
Seven a.m., the Kat line started ringin’. I let out a disgusted sigh. I was too fuckin’ beat to be bothered, so I let it roll into voice mail. A few seconds later, the beepin’ started to let me know the caller had left a message. I turned over in my bed, yankin’ the covers up over my head. A few minutes later, the shit started ringin’ again. Again, I let it go into voice mail. This time the caller didn’t leave a message. It rang again. “What the fuck!” I screamed, jumpin’ outta bed, then snatchin’ it off the dresser. Next time I’ll put this bitch on vibrate, I thought as I opened it. “Yeah.”
“You get my messages?”
“Messages? I got the one from last night,” I said, yawnin’ and stretchin’. “I haven’t checked my phone for any others. I was gonna call you when I woke up. So why is you callin’ me so fuckin’ early in the mornin’?”
“’Cause I wanted to hear ya sexy voice,” he said, laughin’. I let out a disgusted sigh. He got the hint. “Nah, on some real shit. I need to know ASAP if you in on this next gig before I send someone else.”
I really wasn’t feelin’ up to it, but since I’d never been to San Diego before, I decided to go, do a little sightseein’, and see wh
at was really good there. Mmm, I could really use some dick. “When?” I asked, slippin’ on my silk robe, then slidin’ my feet into my slippers. I opened up the glass door to the balcony, then stood in the middle of the doorway and let the cool mornin’ air rush in. My nipples hardened under my robe.
“Like yesterday.”
“Send me the paperwork. And if I accept, I want my money—”
“I know, I know. I got you.”
“Humph,” I grunted. “Make sure you do, Cash. I’m really not beat for cussin’ ya black ass out again.”
He laughed. “Yeah, keep talkin’ nasty. You know that shit gets my dick hard.”
I rolled my eyes and igged his ass. But I had heard his ugly ass had a long, thick, juicy, black dick, though. Ugh. The thought of that fat, nasty nigga smashin’ me down into a mattress, smotherin’ me and sweatin’ and gruntin’ on top of me, made my stomach turn. But the freak-nasty bitch in me wanted to see the nigga’s dick. I shook away the thought.
“Expect ya package sometime this afternoon,” he said. “Then hit me back when you look the shit over.”
“Aiight,” I said.
“Right back,” he snapped.
“I heard you, damn!”
“Oh, aiight…One!”
“Later.” I said, disconnectin’ the call.
