Ghetto Undercover Vice Cop

"Can I help you, Miss?"

"It's mister, Mister!" Some detective! "I'm here to talk to Lt. Johnson. I just graduated from my High School Police Auxiliary and I want to work undercover--to clean up our streets."

"Oh, you do, do you? What's your name--uh, Mister?"

"Babicock. Bunni Babicock."

"Oh. OH! Oh, yeah. Lt. Johnson said to put you right to work. Undercover, in vice. On Martin Luther King, Jr. Street & Grand Boulevard. That's a real hot-spot. Maybe you can take down Jerome Slick or "Big J" Jamal Washington." The desk sergeant leaned closer. "They's pimps. Now see here, here's what you do..."

He whispered some top-secret undercover instructions in my ear.

"Oh, boy! A real live undercover top-secret job! Tonight?"

"Yeah, tonight. Oh.... and make sure you dress the part. You know, whorish. And use Ebonics. You'll fit right in."

"Solid, my Soul Brother!" I winked.

"Wow, that's great."

After "Officer" Bunni left, Sgt. Jackson asked, "Why'd you do that?"

"I dunno. For a joke? Kinda wish I was there to see what happens... Anyway, how 'bout them Bulls?"

I was---kind of--following in a long family tradition.

You see, my mom was a vice squad decoy cop, my dad was, too. He was a "Master of Disguise," and even practiced his dressing up on his days off. I always thought that was weird. His favorite "disguise" was Trixie Nichols, Streetwalker. Funny, right?

My undercover assignment was to dress up like a sexy whore, and "work the street" until approached by a big-time Negro pimp. I would be under constant police surveillance and protection. If I got in a jam, I was to holler out, "Yoo-hoo! Big Nigger pimp wants to rape me! Help!" That was my "safe" code word phrase---help would surely soon be on its way. Sounded like a good plan! What could go wrong?

Shaved, plucked. Check! Dolly Parton wig and whorish outfit? Check! (I had masqueraded as a hooker at Halloween, silly.) Make up! (I Googled it.) That took a while, and I might have used too much. Oh, well. That's what whores--I mean "Ho's" do. LOL!

I borrowed my sister's sluttiest high heels, and she smirked when I whispered, "I'm going undercover!"

"I'll bet! And no one's surprised. Well, have fun."

If I bagged Big Jerome, or Slick, or Johnny Cox, I might make detective in six months, the Sarge had said. It was still early, so I went on Youtube to polish up on my Ebonics.

"What's goin' down, dawg?, I be's wantin' a date, no cap!" I intoned. Damn, I was "fire"! This'll be easy-peasey!

A pimp known as Big D pulled up in a gold-colored old-school Cadillac Eldorado. He lowered his shades and snapped his ring-encrusted fingers. Big D was big, hell, he was a giant. Expensive, colorful clothes, a big gold chain with a diamond-studded 'D' medallion shown on his chest.

And muscles--well, he had muscles on his muscles, glistening ebony skin... He looked mean. Mean but fair. In a way, I felt bad for the big Negro pimp. He was so busted!

He was also the spitting image of my girlfriend's private Pilates instructor, weird.

He drawled in a deep voice, "I'm toe-tappin' mad because I just don't know your name, gurl."

"I'm--I'm--Barbie Hörr." (my 'working girl' name.)

"Bitch, get in my ride!" he growled. Bass thundered from his stereo, a jungle-rap tune. "Kill a cop, kill a cop, Pop! Pop! Pop!" I 'twerked' nervously.

"So, why you be down here, whitebread? You a cop?"

"No---no, dawg," I said. "I ain't no Five-0. Hells no, homes. I just be a ho, bro. Pimp man, Sir." I smiled, winked.

He backhanded me, then bitch-slapped me, hard. "With all this real pussy on the street, whyfor a nigga wanna go stick it in a white punk like you?" he snarled.

"Huh?! I means, 'cause I got skills, home skillet." I winked at Big D. "I can work it, jerk it, or twerk it. I can tease it, squeeze it, and freeze it. I can eat it, beat it, and meet it. Besides, I'm a girl! What you mean, dawg?"

"I mean, you a white boy. Dumb ass cracka. You prob'ly a cop."

I was busted!

Quick! The code word! "Yoo-Hoo! Big Nigger... " Ka-Pow! He socked me one! Lights out. The last thing I heard was that gangsta rap song blaring loudly from the speakers: "Killa cop, killa cop, Pop! Pop! Pop!" Then, nothing.

* * *

Now I have a new life, a simple life. I don't have to think, not at all. Big D tells me what to do, where to go, and who to fuck.

Nothing left to do but fuck, suck, and fuck some more. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Wanna date, Mister?