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Bad Girls

Bad Girls

by Pete T. Williams, Hui Ying Huang

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6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.37(d)

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Bad Girls

Blood Is Thicker Than Water
By Pete T. Williams


Copyright © 2012 Pete T. Williams & HuiYing Huang
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4685-9531-4

Chapter One

Flushing, Queens, NY, 2009

Do I wanna be a mom? What is it like to be a mom with so much to do, when twenty-four hours is not enough? The PTAs, the field trips, the after-school programs, the doctor appointments, the home work, the grocery shopping, the school shopping? Do people have any idea what it takes to be a full-time mom before they become one?

And don't get this whole mom thing twisted, because it does not apply to gold-digging, part-time moms. All they do is ride around all day in brand-new Escalades and Suburbans, with their kids in the back seats screaming, "Mommy, Mommy!" They pull up and park at the hair and nail salon every day, because their hubbies make a six-figure income.

I am so ready to scream and pull my hair out about them. Oh, and let's not forget, the hubby, and the boyfriend, or the friend, the fling, the jump off. The guy just pops up when he wants, and when he does, he could give a rat's ass about if the mom is busy. He sits his lazy ass on the porch and yells, "Honey, I'm home! Can you pass me a cold one?" Meanwhile, he gets his sights set on that skinny, bony, size six nanny who pushes the stroller down the street every day at approximately 1:00 p.m. That bitch, that one' o clock bitch!

Oh, I hate nannies, especially if they are young and hot. Like my neighbor, who just moved in across the street. That bitch—yes, I said it, bitch! Because only a bitch would mow her lawn at 1:15 on the dot, with her ass bopping back and forth. And every two minutes, that neighbor bitch stages a wedgie on purpose. Then she has the nerve to stare across the street at your porch and yank the string out of her crack when she knows your man is out there having a beer. That bitch! And they say love thy neighbor? Yeah okay, if the bitch is fat and ugly, sure!

My clock is ticking, tic-tock, tic-tock, and it won't stop.

Miracle tossed the brochure on the passenger seat, exited the vehicle, and headed to the elevator. She froze, her right index finger was unable to move as if it had come down with a bad case of hyperthermia. Moments later, she found the courage, pushed the button, and stepped in with some disconcerting thoughts. Life as she knew it would never be the same. Will I be able to tolerate sleepless nights? Or even wake up at the crack of dawn to feed and change dirty diapers? What will my belly look like after nine months? Will there be stretch marks and spider veins?

Or will I be lucky to walk in, drop my delivery, and walk out with my belly spotless and mark-free? Is he or she gonna be a blessing, or a curse? Only God knows. Lord, my name is Miracle, and I need a miracle!

"Read the fine prints carefully, then sign here, here, and here, if you still decide you want to go through with it," the receptionist said, and then she whispered, "Between you and me, a lot of women bail after the first step. You will get a list of donors to choose from."

"Thank you," Miracle said, and she sat down and gloated while dotting the I's and crossing the T's.

She couldn't help but strike up a conversation with the white lady who sat quietly to her right with her legs crossed and thinking, "What am I really, doing here?" She said to the lady, "Patty, if you are going to bail, do it now. Put your track shoes on and make like a tree for the back door. Ten thousand dollars is not worth eighteen years of pain and torture. I just hope they got him back there, prepped and ready, because I don't have all day! I done drove three hours to get here, and then I spent another half hour in the parking lot, so that makes it a three and a some, a threesome!"

Miracle smirked. Patty remained in limbo, but it couldn't be all that bad after all. At least one of us is confident.

Miracle said, "What are you getting shot with? I'm getting Mandingos' donation."

"Excuse me, that's private and confidential, thank you," Patty said.

"It becomes private and confidential when it's fired up there, and you walk out of here not sure whether it's a blessing or a curse. What if you get shot up with a Unabomber, or a Jeffery Dahmer by mistake? Shit happens, sister."

Patty yelled, "I'm not your sister, okay? So please, don't talk like that." Patty glanced at her wristwatch, got up, and headed in. She uttered beneath her breath, "Crazy-ass bitch."

Miracle heard this and yelled, "Madea is my identical twin sister—bitch, you'd better get it right!" Still, she turned in her paperwork with a mind full of uncertainties.

The receptionist gave her the list of potential donors to choose from: titles, religions, professions, ethnic back grounds ...

Miracle joked, "He's not on your list of donations. I called prior, and they assured me that he will be here in person, behind the scenes, watching a nasty porno movie so I can get it done the old-fashioned way. Slam, bam, thank you, ma'am, and go on about my business. And in case your system is down, I brought my KY jelly, cause I know me." She whipped it out her purse and put it on the counter.

The receptionist stared at her and said, "You've got some nerve. Are you serious?"

"Call him, 'cause I done drove four hundred miles on "E," and I refuse to go back the same way I came, high and dry, if you get my drift. Call him, 'cause I done seen all these backup hoes go in and come out walking wide, grinning like a donkey. So you call, text, write, e-mail, fax, but get him out here now! He can put a grin on my face, too."

"Ma'am, this is not a porn studio—this is a fertility clinic. Our clients, do not engage in sexual activities. They are here on official business," the receptionist said.

Ironically, screaming and moaning echoed from beyond the walls of Lindsdale Fertility Clinic. Ladies knew right then that that type of scream and moan was not caused by a pump or syringe, and they wanted in. "Ahh ... ahh ...! Shit! Mandingo, you black bastard!" Patty just got her sensation!

Miracle said, "That's him, that's his nickname, the black bastard. I thought you said he was MIA? Lying-ass trick, can't trust white woman around big black men. I'm going in with or without your blessing."

"Ma'am! You can't go in there without the doctor's permission!" the receptionist yelled.

Miracle stopped and stared. "Oh really?"

"That scream you heard just now was artificial insemination, being administered by the doctor."

"Artificial, my ass. Did she gasp or say hi? No! That was old-fashioned, okay?"

The scream continued, followed by "Oh shit."

Miracle said, "That means every last inch was deposited!" She stepped back and noticed she had a few fans in the waiting room. She addressed Them directly. "Wait! Where the hell do y'all think y'all are going? Not in room sixty-nine? "You, where are you from?"

"Nepal," a woman named Venariciola said.

"Nepal?" Miracle uttered with a surprising tone. Then she noticed Patty come out walking wide. Miracle pulled up her skit, glanced at her, and gloated while Patty straightened out her skirt.

Patty said, "Oh shit, sister, Is he a big, black, bastard, a straight shooter."

"You got shot? Now all of a sudden I'm your sister?" Miracle said. "Y'all heard that? "Y'all sure you wanna go back there? 'Cause once y'all go back there, that's it! Nepal, once you go black, you can't go back. It's not myth or a legend back there—it's a big, black beast!"

The ladies in the waiting room sighed. The smell of fear was inevitable.

"Y'all got your KY?" Miracle asked. The ladies whipped theirs out. "Let's go!"

Eight months later

On a sunny afternoon, an armored truck pulled up and powered down at L&L Supermarket for a routine cash pick-up.

"Your pick-up or mine?" Tate asked.

"You're up!" Miracle assured her fellow officer.

He gasped while he exited the vehicle—either a sign of old age or his laziness. He headed in, flashed his badge to the cage, and was buzzed in.

Tate signed in and waited to be cashed out. At times he thought about striking up a conversation with the hot cashier, a Hispanic chick, but he was happily married with a family of four. He knew it cost more to get a divorce than to stay married. He stared down and lusted after her, flirting discreetly.

The market's bakery fired up for the day. The smell of bread and of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, getting Miracle in a fixed frenzy. She itched like a dope fiend to vacate her post, and race for a quick caffeine fix. But she held her ground and stood between the market's front door and the armored vehicle's rear end, glancing around for potential threats with her right hand massaging her Glock semiautomatic handgun.

She heard screaming from the market's parking lot. "Thief! Thief!"

She followed protocol and glanced at the direction where the desperately plea for help echoed like a 747 flying low. She brushed it off thinking it was just a lovers' quarrel. Hell, this is Chinatown—expect the unexpected.

While across the street, with hazard lights flashing, MTA Bus 22 pulled up northbound, doing its routine stops. Boarding and seated passengers were distracted due to the L&L Market saga.

A wannabe media mogul, a Caucasian fellow who thought he was Jimmy Justice, got the fever. He whipped out his Black berry and hopped off the bus. He hustled across the street, ducking between cars and SUVs. He then tiptoed into the parking lot and began to film discreetly.

"Aiee, you thief, you cockroach! Let goooo!" the woman fussed and fought.

Miracle heard the scuffled as it escalated and grew closer to the armored truck. She was on alert, but again she ignored the cry. She remained focused, not knowing there was a robbery in progress, a fierce battle of tug of war.

The woman, named Pong, hung onto her purse for dear life, pulling back and forth with the bandit, with had no intention of backing down. She reached for a corn and kept lunging at the bandit with her right hand, using all her might.

The bandit kept ducking and shifting, left and right. But with a hard tug, the bandit prevailed. "Cucaracha strikes again!" the bandit yelled, slipping away behind the building with a cocky, bossy air. "Wow, there must be a fortune inside her cookie jar."

Pong dove in her cart, grabbed her mop by the handle, and made after the bandit with her hands up in the air, not knowing her cart was cruising away. She was 5'5" and thought twice about starting another physical altercation. Instead, she swung at the bandit, a sign of intimidation.

The man backed off, raising the disguise of fake dreads with a smirk that said, "Yeah, bitch, look at me now. A bitch, snatched your shit." Pong's eyes widened at the bandit, and she bitched, yelled, and cursed in her native tongue.

"Speak English-Korean no good," Bandit said. The bandit gestured, shaking her body fiercely at Pong. Pong spat at her and then kick with so much rage that she almost fell on her ass.

Finally the cart reached its destination and slammed into Wing, a Chinese lady, pinning her feet next to the bumper of her '09 Honda. Wing gasped in pain. "Uhh!" She then tossed her grocery bags in the trunk and spun around fueled with rage. She shoved the cart aside and reconstructed the scene from where the killer cart seemed to appeared. She zeroed in on Pong and watched her erratic behavior, bouncing around the parking lot with her cell phone up in the air trying to get a reception to call 911.

Wing's pain was so intense that it become unbearable. She took two steps forward to see if her legs were still operational. She took off increasingly fast toward Pong, who was still steaming due to a lack of reception. Pong glanced and saw an authority figure, and she felt somewhat relief. She made her way over to Miracle with a funny, humorous, dainty approach ...

"Didn't you hear me screaming for help?" Pong asked. "You just stood there like a racist! 'She's not black, so oh well!' What kind of a cop are you!"

"I'm armored security! I guard and protect money, not the public—that's NYPD," Miracle replied. "And you need to back away from this vehicle!"

"Hey, lady, your cart injured my legs!" Wing told Pong.

"I don't understand you. I'm not Hawaiian, lady. Speak Chinese!" Pong shot back. She turned and addressed Miracle, speaking fluent English. "I screamed and begged for help! You didn't help. You just stood here like a fat, black, log, lah lah lah! You selfish, black, fat pig-alotomus."

"Pig-a-what?" Miracle said. Then she warned Pong, "China doll, don't make me step out of these company clothes and put on my welfare suit."

Wing noticed Pong was full of shit. She tried a different approached, lifting up her skirt and flaunting her cuts and bruises. "I'm gonna sued you!"

"Sue me? No money! No good," Pong replied.

"For every penny, you got," Wing continued. "Starting with your car, then your home, and even your pets, if you have any!"

"See! Hawaiian Chinese no good, too much, cha cha cha!" Pong said as she shook her hips. "Chinese cucaracha just took my purse. No money! No good! You Chinese or Hawaiian? Your English no good!"

Wing pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911.

"Look, the time you take standing here and talking gibberish, you could have chased the robber and got your money back," Miracle pointed out.

"Did you not see the size of that monster? Damn Amazon! I'm only 5'5", no good!" Pong said.

"Oh, well, you should have put some kung-fu on his ass, Jet Lee did it all the time, and he's only 5'2". You got three inches on him. You must be a Hawaiian Asian?"

"That's in the movies, my kung-fu no good! And do I look Hawaiian, or Chinese?" Pong mimicked Chinese kung-fu tradition, making a mockery of it. "Fly in the air, run on tree branches in the rainforest, tiptoe on water like Bruce Almighty—no good. Chinese American kung-fu no good—Korean kung-fu is better." Pong demonstrated. She karate kicked, and Miracle backed off. But Wing got caught in the crossfire with a hard right foot to her back, pitching her to the ground. She was out cold, and her cell phone hit the ground while the dispatcher kept repeating, "This is 911, what is your emergency?"

Pong gasped with a deep sense of regret. "Oh shit! She dead? Your fault, I told you my kung-fu no good!"

Miracle said, "Check her pulse by her neck. You knocked the bitch out cold, when she wakes, she's definitely gonna sue your Korean ass."

"Your fault, this Chinatown, you need to understand Korean language," Pong said.

"And this is America, you need to learn how to scream for help in the universal language, English!"

"You need Rosetta Stone, you fake, perpetrating fat cop! And I need my money!" Pong started heading toward the security truck. She put her right foot on the back bumper and then tugged on the handle of her door with both hands to get it open.

Miracle quickly brandished her weapon and aimed at Pong's forehead. "You need to back away from the vehicle now, China doll! There's a twelve gauge right behind those doors, pointing dead at you. This is the only warning you get, and then they are gonna take you apart like Chinese food."

"Twelve dollars? No, you owe me three hundred!" Pong said.

"I said twelve gauge," Miracle said.

Pong tugged and kicked at the door, and then she went to her car, popped her car trunk, and got her crowbar. She went straight to work on the door handle, thinking, it is the bandit.

Miracle radioed to Tate. "Hey, T! Maintain your position—I got a situation out here!"

Tate brandished his piece and snapped his fingers at the cash office, which quickly went on lockdown, followed by the supermarket's main door.

Miracle took a step closer and flicked her weapon right in Pong's face. "I'm dead serious, move it now, China doll!"

Pong paused and stared at Miracle, her face fueled with rage. Miracle thought to herself, It's about to get ugly. Pong raised the crowbar like a baseball batter, gesturing back and forth.

Miracle secured her weapon and called Tate. "Hey T! All clear!"

"Ten-four," Tate said. He proceeded with caution, Miracle told Pong, "Go ahead, China doll, Hi-yah!" She mimicked her kung-fu. "I dare you to swing that crowbar at me. You think I'm George Bush in the middle East, ducking and scooting from a smelly Iraqi shoe? We' re in America. Swing!"

Tate exited and saw Miracle removing her accessories—earrings, watch, heels, weapons. Company cloths were scattered on the ground as she exposed her girdle and her eight-month pumpkin.

"You're pregnant? And I thought you said it was all clear!" Tate said. "What are you doing? Where's your weapon, and why is she pointing that steel to your face?"


Excerpted from Bad Girls by Pete T. Williams Copyright © 2012 by Pete T. Williams & HuiYing Huang. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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