The Black Puma — The Trap
By
Millie Dynamite
Puma studied the file, leafing through page after page of the rap sheet on Griggs, she saw his numerous crimes. Suspected by the police in twenty-two murders, fourteen home invasions, forty-seven rapes, and of course all the drug trade was controlled by him from his hidden, fortified lair, buried deep in the ghetto waste of Shabby Heights.
He had the illusion of safety, Black Puma aka Shawanda Jones, knew otherwise. Sipping her coffee, she studied the purloined computer files, his record, his past, and the stolen plans of his granite and stone sanctuary.
“Oh, Jason, my love,” she said, speaking to no one, “your days are numbered, and that number is thirty, for next month you die. It won’t be quick, or easy, there must be a reckoning. You will pay for your sins.” Picking up her cell, Shawanda selected her contact.
“Hey,” Steven said, “been expecting your call, they’re finished. I based the design on Beretta’s PX4 Storm, .45’ caliber the one for your right hands pretty normal, standard right side ejection. But for your left hand, oh my lovely feline, I have a treat for your left-hand firearm. It’s left side ejection, thought you might like that. Double sized clip capacity so 20 rounds each. The big clips make them, somewhat, bulky but you’ll have no trouble. Oh, and they are compensated so hardly any recoil.”
“And my new protective suit?” Shawanda asked, looking at the outfit as she asked the question. She ran her fingers over the rounded ears of the hood. Nice touch, she thought.
“MS Puma,” Steven answered with a chuckle, “it’s blacker than your skin, more durable and much more bullet resistant than a Kevlar vest, and no heavier than the leather you currently wear. In fact, it looks and feels like leather; however, it’s more elastic, I think is how you would say it, the material will allow you to move freely. Now you can lose your vest, and the protection stretches from head to toe. Or is it ears to claws?”
“Mr. Denton, is that an attempt at a pun? I didn’t realize that you had developed a sense of humor,” Puma told him.
“Always had one,” he said. “I was fearful the first few months. You’re a formidable woman, a dangerous client. I didn’t relish the thought of upsetting you.”
“Payment will be in your account within the hour,” Black Puma said, a total lack of emotion in her voice. “You’re quite clever and witty.”
“Delivery is accomplished, only awaiting you or an agent of yours to retrieve it.”
“Yes, I’m looking at my new attire and toys as we speak.”
****
Jason Griggs leaned down to the man, stepping on his already shattered hand. The man squirmed under him, his ribs ached, blood gushed from a cut on his forehead, one eye was swollen so badly he couldn’t open it. Grabbing a handful of the man’s hair, Griggs yanked his head up to look him in the eye.
“Next time you’re late with a payment I’ll break that other fucking hand. What good will you be as an artist then?” Griggs said. Releasing the man’s hair, he stood, turned to his associate, and walked away from the injured person. “No more book from this bastard, not one wager until every dime is paid…with interest.”
“Boss, he was only two days late,” a man said, standing near the car a safe distance from the action. Griggs turned to him, glaring.
“On time means on time…he was warned. Let one weasel get away with it, they’ll all give it a try,” Griggs barked out, unhappy his subordinate defended a deadbeat. Jason Griggs is what you call a bad man, drug dealer, pimp, murderer, rapist and kingpin of the Lost Souls gang. At thirty-eight, Jason had risen to the top of his field, operating in that part of ‘The City’ known to everyone as Shabby Heights. That area abandoned by everyone who can get away from it, ignored by police, a place where vice rules and the king is Griggs.
The prostitutes wander on the fringe of Shabby Heights selling their wares in the more respectful neighborhoods for those afraid to venture inside the borders of the forbidden inner city. The entire area held an atmosphere of despair. This gloom extended beyond Shabby Heights by several blocks in every direction. The avenues and boulevards surrounding the area had a nightly ritual. Cars prowled this street with men who were better off, even if only a little, than those denizens subjugated in that horrid area. Sharks with the scent of blood, they circled looking for just the right piece of meat.
Other whore seekers went inside the zone, a braver, or dumber batch of ingrate. Find street meat or going to the houses. There were over hundred houses with women, booze, dope and gambling for the lower classes.
Then there were those wealthy clients, looking for women, gambling, or drugs. These men usually knew where they were going, went straight to the place and cautiously entered this den of inequity, that casino, or found their dealer. The special places, it cost more, the furnishing were nicer, but the danger still abounded for the client.
In the middle of it all was Griggs. A hard, vengeful, greedy man, his brutal nature served him well as the Boss of Bosses. Recently problems filled his time, one particular problem bothered him the most. A vigilant stalked his men and the men of the other bosses, killing some, while others were delivered to the police tied in bows with all the evidence necessary to arrest, try and convict them.
The mobs pain had a name, and the name of their pain was Black Puma. Why she called herself that was anyone’s guess. Her name or handle didn’t matter. What mattered and mattered a lot, was simple as blood - she hurt them. The Black Puma damaged their business and endangered the cash flow. Griggs had to end this bitch...he wanted her dead. With that goal in mind he put a $10,000 bounty on the woman known as Puma.
The trap would spring that night, and if that trap didn’t work…well, there was always tomorrow night.
****
The tall Nubian woman strolled down the street, walking into her gym. She had a regal bearing, caring her head high and body straight in a moving exhibit of perfect posture. The dark skin stood in sharp contrast to her white clothing. Almond shaped eyes gazed out into the room. Her high cheekbones and small button nose with its broad nostril, were quite lovely. Her mouth was drawn tight, in this controlled pout. As if she had just consumed a lemon and yet there was an elegance to her face. Even though she had textbook features of an African woman—one would associate this beauty more with a tribal princess or even an ancient female pharaoh than a dark, avenging angel.
Her ass moved sharply with each of her steps. Her rounded cheeks swayed under the tight fitting stretch pants in an enticing ballet. Neither small nor large, the mounds were of a perfect size and shape. Her lower body was covered by the thin white material. That striking contrast caught each person’s eye, pure white beside deep, dark chocolate flesh. Her belly was bare, and her abdomen showed well-defined muscles. The ripped t-shirt she wore hung just below her small breast. Her arms showed hard muscles that made her look like a fitness instructor as she sauntered directly to a weight machine.
Sitting down, she grasped the handles and went straight to work. Her muscles tightened, bulging as she worked the weights. Next, she moved to a rowing machine, then a tread mill. At last, she worked out on a heavy bag, hitting it, kicking it. The bag would bounce around, and she would either stop or wait for it to become motionless, then tear into it again.
The boxer watched her, shouted encouragement, to which she turned, giving him a hard glare. Shawanda listened as he talked to her, sweet compliments designed to get in her pants. She knew when his fame didn’t get her noticing him, and his sweet words fell on deaf ears, the conceited bastard would approach her. And approach her he did, walking up next to her.
“Need someone to help?” he asked. “I can spot the bag for you.”
She turned to him with a hard stare. “No, not the bag, how about I kick your ass in the ring. Sure, there’s the ticket, want to spar?” Shawanda asked him. At first, her sass amused him. Soon it would infuriate him.
“Well, I’m a boxer, I’m pretty dangerous,” he bragged.
“Do…you…want…to…spar? You can wear gear, I’ll go the way I am, I practice martial arts,” she said it slow, deliberate with a touch of malice.
“I might hurt you,” he said, his voice filled with confidence.
“I’ll take that chance, I’m pretty good myself,” she said.
“Well, I’m a pro,” he boasted. The banter went back and forth for a few minutes as the boxer grew angry with her attitude, then more enraged.
“Either spar with me or don’t,” Shawanda said, walking to the ring before she climbed inside and moved to its center. Standing in the middle of the ring she waited on him. He donned head gear and gloves, while his trainer tried in vain to keep him from fighting with a woman.
He ignored the words of warning, “If you lose you’ll be called a pussy. If you beat her then you’re a bully, so you can’t win.”
“You should put on protective gear,” the boxer told her.
“Pussy,” Shawanda said, turning sideways to him as he approached her.
“Start at the bell,” the trainer said, then he hit the bell.
The boxer moved in, throwing a few jabs that Shawanda pushed away with an ease that caught him off guard. He began to jab at her face with his left hand, but she moved it away with her right wrist each time. He threw a hard, haymaker, right-handed hook, she caught it with her left wrist, deflecting it before her open left hand crashed to his neck. The boxer staggered to his left nearly falling as he looked at her. The expression on her face hadn’t altered. The anger flashed inside him and the boxer rushed toward her. Her right foot hit his left side heart high, and ribs throbbed as he crashed to the mat.
He bounded up, smacked his gloves together, and again he charged. He couldn’t tell if she kicked the right side of his head or the left. The protective gear seemed to have no effect in protecting his brain. It bounced off both sides of the skull several times as he dropped in a heap to mat. He lay in a near fetal position, and Shawanda stepped over him as she moved to the trainer. She climbed through the ropes and descended to the floor.
“Praying Mantis,” she said, “in case he asks.” She strolled away stopped and turned back, “I also know Tiger. But that was all Mantis.” She knew the man on the floor was the number three light heavyweight in the world. It felt so good, kicking his arrogant ass. Then again, the best thing about men to her, was hurting them.
****
They called him Max, just Max, no last name. It’s doubtful that Max is his real name. You can compare him to the Hulk if you want, seven feet two inches tall, three-hundred-thirty pounds of muscled up rage. For his immense size, he was deceptively fast, able to punch through a brick wall without even bruising his knuckles. He’s a killer and rapist, and his profound hatred of women runs ever so deep, one can’t help but wonder what his mommy did to him.
The whore squirmed under him, desperate to get away, he pounded into her ass with a violent wrath as though he wanted his cock to break her in half. At last, he spewed his issue deep inside where it mixed with blood and shit. Grasping her hair, he twisted and yanked until she gawked back at him. He touched her chin, tender and sweet. Smiling at her, he clutched her hair harder pushing downward with that hand while yanking upward with the other. The cracking pleased him. Max withdrew his pecker, moved up on the bed and shoved the fat cock into her dead mouth. Moving it around to wet it, then Max dried his dick with her hair.
They’d hold the cost of the whore’s funeral, and other expenses of her death out of his pay, but killing bitches after you fuck them…oh, to Max that’s priceless.
Later that night, Max sat across the desk from his Boss, Jason. Sliding two boxes across the table to Max, Jason smiled. Max opened the box, removed the hefty handgun, and tested the weight and balance of the gun.
“Nice,” he exclaimed.
“Custom .50’ caliber, Desert Eagle, armor piercing ammo, ten rounds,” Griggs told him. “It’ll go through any body armor on the market. Kicks harder than anything you’ve used. I had that made special just for this bitch.”
“After I get her down, can I rape her?” he asked.
“If you know she’s down for good you can do what you want. But I want her dead…dead…dead!” Jason Griggs told him, then added. “Do not let your dick override your brain, she’s fucking dangerous.”
“This,” he said, holding the gun up as he shoved the clip into place, “will make her a pile of mush for the fucking, and turn the Puma into a pussy.”
****
Three blocks outside Shabby Town, a hooker gets out of silver Caddy. Turning back, she smiles at the driver he nods at her. Shutting the door, she lifts her hand to wave bye, and he speeds off, the whore turns looking around at her pimp Johnny waiting on her. The belt dangled in his hand, the big brass buckle shining in the light from the street lamp. This will hurt, but the compensation is worth her pain. He hoped the bitch would show up soon, he didn’t like doing this without a real reason. The hooker, likewise, wished she wouldn’t talk long. At least it was a belt, yeah, anything was better than a coat hanger twisted into a crop.
“You been holding on out on me,” he said, watching out of the corner of his eye for Puma. She had beat him bad for disciplining a whore this way just two weeks ago, and Puma was there before the second blow. How she knew when things went down no one knew. How she got there so fast when she did, no one had a clue. He switched ends, not wishing to damage the merchandise too bad, and opted for just leather on flesh.
Throwing the belt up over his shoulder he prepared to bring it down on the pale, white flesh of his bitch. Throwing down with his arm it stopped in place before he was yanked backward, falling against the hard body behind him. The smell of Red filled his nostrils. It was her perfume. The belt went around his neck, suffocating him as he struggled to get away. She held him tight to her body, lifting him by the belt, kicking his feet from under him while yanking upward hard on the belt.
The tramp watched in terror as the tall, muscular woman hung her pimp with his own belt. A sharp cracking greeted her ears, and his head lolled to the side. Puma let go of the belt, letting the pimp slump down her body to the ground.
She was covered from head to toe with some black leather suit, rounded cat ears atop the cowl. All that showed from the hood was her chin and mouth, that pouty mouth with the bright red lips curled into a sadistic smile. She looked feline living up to her nom de plume. She shifted her weight to one leg, standing there staring at the woman.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well what?” the whore replied. The gun barked out loud, hitting Shawanda in the back, knocking her off her feet. Like a brick thrown by Nolan Ryan in his youth, it pounded her lung, knocking the air from her. The Puma crumpled on the dirty sidewalk, sucking in air, trying to catch her breath.
A maniacal chuckle came from behind her, hard footfalls echoed on the empty streets. The whore ran, not looking back, her high heels clicking out a frantic tune of despair. The giant of a man stood over the woman, expecting to see blood gushing from a gaping hole. But there was no blood. No hole. The only indication of harm was a sick sucking sound, as Shawanda tried desperately to get air.
The big man beheld the vision of the cat of prey in disbelief. From nowhere the foot struck his hand, and the gun spun away in the air. Crashing to the pavement, it skittered and slammed into the curb on the opposite side of the street. He started to move when the other foot stuck his midsection, pushing back two steps. He charged Puma, hitting her hard on the right side of her face with his mammoth mitt of a fist.
Again, Shawanda crashed to the ground before bounding to her feet again. Running toward Max, she jumped into the air, spun around in midair with her leg out, letting her boot hit his iron jaw. Max crashed into the bricks of the building. Puma jumped toward him, extending her foot, striking his ribs under his outstretched arm, causing him to crumple into the bricks before sliding down the wall.
He had never been hit that hard before. It cracked a rib and shattered his confidence. The bitch hurt him, which fueled his rage. Maybe that would be all he needed, his hatred of women. No, just his hate of this woman.
With surprising speed, he got to his feet, charged Shawanda, hitting her in the chest with his ducked head. She sprawled out on the pavement of the street. Jumping up she twirled around, kicking, thrusting her foot into his solar plexus with hard sharp snap, dropping him to the ground. Try as he might he couldn’t inhale, yet he rose anyway as his harsh rasps filled the night air as Max staggered toward her. Drawing her weapons, Puma aimed and fired as he approached. The bullets tore through his knees and Max collapsed on the ground.
Air filled his lungs, at last, as he willed himself to stand, moving his hands under him as he attempted to push up. Yet his anger failed him. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stand up, instead collapsing to the sidewalk. One of the guns barked. The bullet tore through a bicep and sparked on the concrete, careening off someplace. Pushing the guns back in place, pulling the strap over them she bucked them securely on her hips.
Her tongue darted out of her mouth, running it over her lips in a twisted smile. Puma ambled to him, gazing at the goon. Her wry smile turned to a vicious snarl. Turning she saw the big gun laying in the gutter. With a cat-like gait, she strolled to where it lay on the street. Picking it up she returned to tower over him.
Her prey whimpered in pain and gawked at up at her. Shaking his head, he kept saying something in between sobs. He clutched his knees with his big hands, feeling the blood run over his fingers, terrified he might bleed to death on this gritty sidewalk.
“My, you’re a big boy, aren’t you?” she asked. “And what a big package you have,” holding the gun for him to see. “Can your actual goods match this?” she sneered, waving the firearm around. Turning, Shawanda Jones walked a few feet from him. Unbuckling the utility belt holding her handguns, Puma let the item drop to the ground. She sat his gun on top of the belt and pulled a knife from her boot. Holding the knife high in the air for him to see she smiled at him, almost a soft smile.
“See, I have a big one too,” she said. Puma ran the few steps back to him, kicking his face and mouth, repeating the action until his mouth bled profusely and Max spat out teeth. Shawanda turned her attention to his ribs, kicking him continually until she heard several distinctive cracks.
Tears streamed from his eyes as he whimpered like a small girl who had fallen and scraped her knees. Crying, he began to blubber out for her to please stop.
“You’re hurting me, please stop,” he begged.
She did, at least momentarily. Reaching down, Shawanda unzipped his pants, unbuckled his belt, and opened the button. She worked the slacks and boxers down over his hips. Grabbing his fat balls, she twisted them.
“What you doing?” he asked, sniveling in fear. Holding the knife up for him to see, her smile twisted into the most sadistic scowl Max had ever seen.
“Taking my souvenirs,” she hissed.
****
His eyes fluttered open to reveal a sterile and bland room with pale green walls. A flimsy curtain hung from the ceiling in a track, a bag held fluid on a pole, while a tube ran from it into his arm. The TV news channel was blaring in his head, with a report of a woman vigilante. “The vigilante, known by the citizens of Shabby Heights as Puma, has once again struck a blow at the gangsters that run Shabby Heights. Killing one alleged pimp, and seriously wounding a reputed a mob enforcer.” He found the controller and shut off the set.
“That doesn’t change the facts,” a voice said. Max twisted his head the direction of the sound. His boss sat in a chair. “I warned you about her.”
“The bullet bounced off her. Like…like…you know…like she was Superman or Wonder Woman or something,” Max told him.
“Bullshit, you missed,” the boss said.
“No, I didn’t miss,” he said, crying as he spoke. Turning his head to the pillow he cried hard, “She nutted me boss,” sobbing he continued. “Cut them right off, for trophies.”
“I know Max, I know. The cops want to talk to you. They’re on the way up right now. They’re going to offer you a deal I’m sure,” Griggs said.
“I won’t say shit, Boss,” Max insisted.
“I know, Max, I know. I put you a little—something extra—in with your meds. You should be feeling a tingling numbness spreading over your body right now,” he told him.
“Boss,” he said, but whatever he wanted to say to him, Griggs would never know. Max’s heart stopped mid-sentence. Jason Griggs walked out the door of room 303, slipping down the stairs at the east end of the ward with a deliberate speed. Once outside, he got inside his dark blue Rolls-Royce.
“Take me home John, I’m expecting a guest tonight. Hopefully this one will do a better job than Max.”
****
Darkness covered The City as her bright lights shone in the darkness. Shabby Heights lay quiet that night as fear gripped the pimps, hoods, thugs and even the bosses. Across town, the mansion of retired tennis pro, Shawanda Jones lay cloaked in the gloom of night. The structure sat obscured from view in the thick forest, nearly swallowed by the blackness of the night. A lone light shone from a window in the east wing of the impressive edifice.
Lacey Barton sat in chair in the hall, waiting. Nervously, she fidgeted with her purse, looking down the corridor as she waited for Ms. Jones to return. Collins, the butler, had been insistent that she not move from this place. Obviously he didn’t trust the girl. Waiting wasn’t her strong point. They had met a few weeks before and an instant, mutual attraction formed. They had been to dinner twice and a movie once but never been truly alone.
Lacey arrived early only to learn that Ms. Jones would be late. For three hours, she had sat in that chair, walked from the chair to the bathroom, or to the head of the stairs and peered down, hoping that Shawanda would be coming up the stairs.
“I’m sorry I’m so late,” Shawanda said, standing behind the chair next to the window. Lacey jerked around and looked at her.
“How did you get there,” she asked.
“I walked right by you,” she said, the lie rolling effortlessly off her tongue.
“Oh, God, I must have dozed off,” she said, standing as she moved ever so slightly toward Shawanda. Shawanda stood her ground, not moving toward the girl, raising her hands offering a hug. Lacey rushed into her arms. Shawanda lowered her face to the girl and their lips met.
What followed was a jumble of movement, as they moved from hall to bedroom, from clothed to naked. The two of them made love on the kings sized bed, lips to lips and fingers pressed inside each other. Kissing private areas with hard passion, their tongues tracing the contours of each other’s bodies. Hour after hour, the two women explored their passions and emotions. At last, they lay spent, entwined and tangled together in a loving embrace, as they slept as one.
In the morning, Collins followed the trail of clothing to his mistress and her lover. Tidying up quietly he left the box on the bedside. Treading lightly to the door, he opened it and started to exit.
“Collins, is this it?” she asked opening the box.
“Yes, all bronzed and ready for the collection.” Standing like a statue at the door he awaited her instruction.
“Breakfast in bed for two please,” she said.
“Right away ma’am,” he answered then left. Lacey pulled herself up next to Shawanda and peered into the box.
“Holy shit,” she exclaimed, “that looks like a man’s testis and sack.”
“Doesn’t it, it’s art prepared by a friend of mine,” she told the girl. Her smile seemed odd to Lacey, almost evil. Closing the box, Shawanda sat on the bedside table pulling the girl tightly to her.
“I was at Flushing Meadows when you played your last Grand Slam game, your seventh…” Lacey rattled it off until Shawanda put her finger on the girl’s mouth.
“Ssshhh, that’s the past, over and done with,” Shawanda pressed her mouth to the girls. Lacey melted into the woman’s arms. A few of the bruises hurt, though not bad. Still, Shawanda’s pain was a good pain.
