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Black Puma - Cat's Claw

Millie Dynamite

Black Puma — Cat’s Claw
Millie Dynamite

Black Puma — Cat’s Claw


A superheroine story


“Millie’s Vast Expanse”



Millie Dynamite



License Notes

This eBook license is for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook is not authorized for resale and may not be for a given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a retailer of eBooks and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.


© Copyright 2017 by Millie Dynamite

Published by Red Kitty’s Publishing

All Rights Reserved

Cover Design by Shiloh Young


This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, actual events, or locales are entirely coincidental.












For Little Momma. Thanks for all the help when I so desperately needed assistance. Wherever you have gone, whatever you are doing, know that you are always in my thoughts.

Part One — To Trap a Cat


At night, in the worst part of the city, she can be seen. A woman, a creature of darkness, stalking the criminal element in their natural habitat. Wearing a cat costume, she moves through the slum, this cat of the night, preventing the abuse of the women forced to make their living on the grimy streets. She stops drug dealers, prevents home intrusions, captures those individuals who would do others harm.

They call her the Black Puma.

This is The City, the second-largest city in the United States and entertainment capital of the world. Two professional basketball teams call the City of Flowers home, as well as two major league baseball, and an old favorite professional football franchise recently returned to the sprawling metropolis. There are museums, planetariums, universities, thousands of restaurants, bars, movie theaters, parks, amusement parks, concert halls, and a host of other entertainment options for the population to enjoy.

Every legal business imaginable, as well as a thriving illicit black market, calls The City home. Then there are the darker trades. Porn is produced here. Thousands of hours of men humping men, women copulating together, and men fucking women. All this in the confines of the legal system, and while it might not be considered acceptable by many, nonetheless, it is lawful. From streaming, cam shows to full-length fuck flix, all available on your computer, TV, or even your cellphone. Drop a few bucks from your PayPal account, lean back, and jerk off to the sundry, voyeuristic delights. It’s a thriving business, highly lucrative, and a prominent employer of ‘talent’ in La La Land.

Then there is the less legal trade of flesh for sale, or at least for rent. High-end escorts provided starting at $1,000 an hour, to be seen gracing your arm at important functions. This is legal; however, afterward, something extra is expected by the escort and the client — cost negotiable and always high. Below this is the $500 an hour call girl, sent out to fulfill your wildest fantasies, in the privacy of your own home, hotel suite, or shady motel. Some acts require an extra dividend — all funds are required in advance of coitus. Services available night or day in The Big Orange, it’s almost out in the open. Still, there lies an even darker place.

This is the place where Jason Griggs reigns supreme.

The City has been called the City of Angels, and there may well be angels here. Any honest assessment of these angels tells you a great number of them have fallen. Sprinkled throughout the population, they work their dark arts in criminal endeavors, congregating in large numbers in an area of our fair city where despair has been a permanent resident for years. A dark place where the worst of the worst live, work, and die. Nestled between two upscale communities in a large ghetto, the area is known by the locals as Shabby Heights. For decades, the region was a no-go zone for police.

Until the day that Puma came to town.


Doctor Lucinda Hildegard sat across from Councilman Drake Urban. Dressed in a striking business suit, she presented an impassioned plea to The City Council, demanding the police put a stop to the vigilante called Black Puma.

“In conclusion, leaving Shabby Heights as it has been for decades is best for The City, best for the council, and in particular, best for you and your family’s health,” she insisted. Urban couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the woman. She looked somehow older than she should. He hadn’t seen her in just over three years after seemingly vanishing right after her husband left town.

“Where have you been, Lucinda?” he asked.

“That isn’t important,” she told him.

“Lucinda,” Drake said, speaking to her candidly, “the last time we spoke, you had hatched a plan which would destroy the mob from the inside. That didn’t work out so well, did it? Oh, I know you brought down the old leader. And when the former boss of bosses fled town, or should I say, your husband, I thought for a day or two that you had succeeded, until the scum who took his place took over … Hell, Griggs is worse than Bryson ever considered being.”

“What I planned … it isn’t important … this message … I’m delivering this message for you,” Lucinda Hildegard said, then leaned forward, her eyes cold. “I’m here representing the person you fear the most. I’m telling you in no uncertain terms that the police must stop this Puma woman, or the repercussions will be monumental.”

“I swear, I don’t know what Griggs has done to you. You look much older than your years, Lucinda. I’m telling you, and you can take this to your boss, Griggs — we will not order the police to pursue this Puma. The district attorney’s office will not press charges against her. To be honest, not that I can admit it publicly, we’re in favor of what she’s doing. Her presence has a positive effect on the community, and not just Shabby Heights but the entire city. So, there is no deal, no matter how much money he offers, the City Council, the Mayor’s office, nor the Police Department — we will not accept any offer. We are united in this. We welcome her assistance in bringing down the organization.”

Rising, Lucinda Hildegard turned away from Urban, strode to the door, then twisted back. “This is an unfortunate decision on your part,” she told him. “I would have rewarded you. They would have rewarded you. But instead …” she didn’t finish her statement but yanked the door open and slammed it shut behind her.


“Lucinda,” Jason Griggs sighed, standing in front of the distraught woman and rubbing his forehead as if he had a massive headache. He wasn’t angry, more disappointed, and even saddened. “Oh, my dear Lucinda, once again, you disappoint me. Three times you have failed me. On the two previous occasions, I turned you out on the street to earn your living as a common whore. It seems to me this form of encouragement just isn’t working. This failure must be your last.”

He moved away from the woman as she begged for another chance. Ignoring her, Griggs picked up the phone, dialed a number and waited.

“Hector, ole buddy, your men did an excellent job,” he told the man. “As both a reward to them and a favor to me, I have another job for them. I have a woman who needs to be taught a lesson and be put in her place.” He listened as the man spoke, then replied, “As rough as they want,” and again, he listened. “Yes, all twenty of them. As callous as they desire. She’ll be at the usual place.”

Doctor Lucinda Hildegard gasped. She knew Griggs, and if he was allowing 20 men to be as callous as they desired, she was in serious trouble. Paling at the thought, she begged Griggs once more to reconsider. Despite her resolve, tears broke through, beginning as a trickle before the floodgates opened as the reality hit home. There was a real possibility she might not survive the night. On impulse, she rose, stumbling toward the door.

Janice Griggs watched her brother’s face, knowing he was contemplating how badly the Mexicans would treat Lucinda, and how much sick pleasure it brought him. Janice needed to say something.

“Where are you going, Lucinda?” Janice asked her.

“Please not that,” she begged.

“You can analyze the experience,” Janice told the sobbing woman. “Isn’t that what psychologists do? Analyze shit?” Being so hateful to the woman wasn’t sitting well with her, but there was no way she could let her brother know his decision bothered her. She couldn’t let on that his cruelty upset her.

“Yeah, that’s what they do,” Jason said. “Doctor … learn from this,” he told her, then turned to his man. “Max, take this bitch to Miss Stone’s brothel. You wait and see that these men use her, good and hard. You get me the tapes of it for me to watch later. After they are done with the good Doctor, get every last stitch of her clothing, all her personal shit and dump her in the middle of the Heights,” he ordered. Max dutifully picked Lucinda up before she reached the door, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

She blubbered and begged as he took her from the room. Her cries grew softer as the door closed, and soon the pair could no longer hear her. Jason paced for a few moments, debating his next step before looking at his sister and smiling.

“Back to business. I really don’t want to do this,” Jason moved to the phone. “But we can’t let this politician defy us.” He dialed the number.

“Dear brother, why do you lie to me?” Janice said. “We’re twins. I can almost hear your thoughts, and I think you’re going to execute him.”

Jason sat at his desk, smiled at her, but said nothing. He waited for some time as the phone rang until at last someone answered.

“Terrence, I need you and two of your men to pay Councilman Urban a visit tonight,” he told him.

“No, I don’t want you to kill anyone. Urban has an eighteen-year-old daughter — abuse her in front of the man and his wife. Don’t kill anyone, understand?” Standing, Janice walked to the door and paused, smiling at her brother.

“That’ll bring him down a peg or two,” she said. Leaving the room, she pulled her cellphone out and placed a call. Janice Griggs had a decision to make. After all, no one can be two places at once.

“Steven, can you get word to her?” Janice asked.


The sunset cast an orange hue over the sea as the first fingers of darkness crept over The City. A few miles inland, Terrence Spencer followed his instructions, watching the house of the Councilman while waiting for the lights to darken. Looking to his right, he frowned at the man playing with his sidearm. Twisting around, he gazed at the man in the back seat, also fidgeting with his gun.

“Put those away. They’re just for show tonight,” Terrence snapped. The last light in the house went out, and the trio exited the car. Treading over the lawn with practiced precision, they made their way to the front door. Spencer shoved a little tool inside the lock, pulled a trigger a few times until the ‘click,’ announced the door was unlocked.

In silence, the trio filed inside, quietly closing the front door behind them. Two staircases on either side of the room curved upward to a landing. As they began their journey to the stairs, their attention was suddenly drawn to a lone figure standing in the middle of the landing. Instinctively, despite being told no gunfire, one man raised his gun but was too late. The dark figure dropped something and moved back stealthily.

The explosive flash blinded the men while its loud report deafened them. The first blast was immediately followed by the second detonation causing thick smoke to fill the air. Their unknown assailant jumped over the banister of the second floor, dropping to the tiled floor. Rising quickly, the assailant rushed forward, slamming a fist into one man’s jaw, and dropping him to the floor, out cold. Spinning again, the black-clad person’s foot found the second man’s jaw. He tumbled to the floor just as unconscious as his cohort. Just as Terrence Spencer regained something of his sight, he felt a hard-as-a-brick fist strike his solar plexus. Falling backward, his head struck the bottom step as he tumbled to the floor.

Standing amid the chaos of smoke and downed men, Black Puma stood and admired her handiwork, or footwork, as the case may be. The room lit up as lights were turned on from above her. It illuminated the framed photo of two men on the wall before her. Turning back, she saw Urban at the top of stairs and gave him a nod. Puma pulled some zip restraints from her belt, smiled at the man, and quickly restrained the unconscious burglars.

“Hope you don’t mind,” she said.

“Not at all,” he answered her. “I’ll call the cops.”

When he returned, Puma was gone. Disappearing into the night long before the zip-tied trio woke to the police taking them into custody.

Puma could still picture the photo on the wall of Urban’s home. The same photograph hung in her father’s office. That of her father and Urban holding up champagne glasses. A picture from thirty years before, of the two friends celebrating the birth of Jackson Jones’s daughter, Shawanda. The very same Shawanda Jones who now roamed the streets of the ghetto at night as the masked vigilante known as Black Puma.


“Steven Denton,” the man said into his cell.

“I’m taking the rest of the night off,” Puma told him. “Unless you have new information on something?”

“Nothing new,” he told her. “Only that I have your new suit about ready.”

“Will it be lighter than this current suit and vest?” Puma asked as she wriggled out of the suit. “Because I hate this damn vest.”

“Much lighter, and no more need for the vest,” he replied, almost seeing the smile of relief from her on the other end of the phone.

As quickly as she could, Shawanda Jones, aka Black Puma, changed and rushed to her appointment. Walking in the bar, she wondered if the young woman had waited for her. She had. The shy, younger woman held her hand up to get Shawanda’s attention. Thankful that the girl had waited, Shawanda Jones made her way to the table.

The younger girl stood, stepped out to meet the older woman with a grin on her face. “You’re glowing.”

“It might be perspiration,” Shawanda admitted. “I didn’t have time for a shower. Sorry, I’m so late.” Shawanda gave the girl a light hug, then sat at the table. The younger girl did, likewise, gazing at the older woman.

Removing pad and pen from her purse, the girl kept up her pretext that there meeting was an interview. The young journalist wrote a question, then looked at Shawanda with a slight smile.


Late the following day, Max delivered Lucinda to her new home. A scruffy apartment in one of the tenements of Shabby Heights. She curled up on the grody shag carpet, curled into a ball, softly crying. Max put her clothing in the doorless closet, then placed clean sheets on the nasty mattress that sat on the floor of the one-room apartment. He considered the condition of the bathroom and frowned.

Lucinda lay whimpering in her fetal position. The aches and pains in her body reminded her, with every breath, of how filthy, clawing men stripping her naked, and reducing her to nothing but flesh. The way they shoved their pricks into every opening with forceful, hard thrusts. Their nasty mouths, kissing and biting her breasts, face, butt cheeks, every inch of skin. Some were angry; all were uncivilized. The spit running from their mouths, grunts, and groans like so many pigs at a trough feeding. Consuming her. Ripping her apart. Her body could never again be free of their filth. Her insides would never again be clear of their grotesque secretions.

“I’ll come by tomorrow and help you clean this sty,” he said. The hulking man turned to her. He had always liked the woman, her being one of the few who had always been kind to him. Few women were ever kind to Max, and in return, he was seldom kind to women. But Max was kind to Lucinda. “I got a few more things to bring up, then I have to go, ma’am.”

“They fucked me up, Max,” she said, barely hearing what he had said as she spoke.

“Yeah, I know, ma’am. Just, just … try and get over it,” Max told her, fumbling with trying to find something right to say. Though he had kind feelings toward her, if the boss said he could have any other woman, he’d beat them up and violate them in a heartbeat. He gained such pleasure from hurting, especially when it involved women. Sadistic souls are so twisted and Max, well, his sadistic streak ran deep. Except with this woman.

“Sure, I’ll just wash it all away and be all-new,” she replied, as a fresh round of tears fell.

“That’s my girl,” he said.

“Could you lend me your cellphone for a minute?” she asked, raising to her knees, pressing her hands together as if she prayed. “Please?” she asked quietly. Pulling the phone from his shirt pocket, Max handed it to the woman.

“Thanks,” she said as Max left the room. She pressed the numbers, attempting to compose herself, slamming her eyes shut at the images refusing to leave her mind. The phone was answered with a brisk hello on the other end. She hesitated a moment, then plunged in. “Tatyana. It’s uh … it’s Lucinda.” She paused, and when the woman, on the other end, said nothing, continued. “I need to get a message to Bryson.”

“Why would he want to hear from you?” Tatyana asked, her harsh voice and thick Russian accent giving a cold edge to the question.

“I want to come back,” Lucinda said, attempting to stop the quiver in her voice. “Please.”

“To him, or to serve me?” Tatyana asked.

“Him,” she said. Realizing in her fuzzy mind, that was the wrong thing to say she added. “But I’ll serve you. You’re the most wonderful mistress in the world.” Her words came in a rush now.

“I am. But why do you want to come back when you know I will take great pleasure in hurting you.” Tatyana said.

“I miss your beautiful, cruel touch,” she told her, hoping the quiver in her voice would not betray the lie.

“Really,” Tatyana replied, and it was a statement, not a question.

Exhaling heavily, Lucinda gave the truth. “Because uh, I think serving you at your meanest,” she cleared her throat, “is better than this … life. This living death, I have fallen into,” Lucinda admitted.

“We will see. Now, what do you say to your Mistress?” Tatyana asked.

“Thank you, Mistress Tatyana,” Lucinda told her, relief pouring over her. Closing the phone, she clutched it her breast, then forced herself to her feet and stumbled on shaking legs across the room.

2450 miles away from Lucinda, Tatyana looked out her window, surveying her own sprawling city. A sneer on her lips, she watched the people scurrying from one place to another. Turning, she raised an eyebrow and walked to the man sitting on the edge of her bed. When she touched his shoulder, he flinched, letting out a whimper as the pain exploded from the fresh bruises.

“Oh, poor baby. Did Tatyana hurt him in our play?” she asked.

“Yes, Mistress. But the pain is good,” he told her.

“She wants to come back. To you, and to me,” Tatyana told him.

“I don’t see how I can manage that,” he said.

“Fate will lend a hand,” Tatyana told him.


Puma studied the file, leafing through page after page of the rap sheet on Griggs, listing his numerous crimes. Suspected by the police in twenty-two murders, fourteen home invasions, and forty-seven sexual abuse cases. And of course, all the drug trade was controlled by him from his hidden, fortified lair buried deep inside the ghetto waste of Shabby Heights. Yet the crimes listed in the file only scratched the surface of his criminal involvement.

Jason Griggs occupied her time and thoughts with an all-consuming desire to destroy him. She wanted — needed — to break his organization. Jason Griggs was her obsession. Puma would bring him down and end his grip on The City.

 Griggs had the illusion of safety, but 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 a 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 have 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, with one eye 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 man. “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 and ignored by the police. A place where vice ruled and Griggs was king.

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 ingrates. Finding street meat or going to the red-light houses. There were over a 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 furnishings were nicer, but the danger still abounded for the client.

In the middle of all of it was Griggs. A hard, vengeful, greedy man, whose brutal nature served him well as the Boss of Bosses. Recently problems filled his time, but one particular problem bothered him the most. A vigilante 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 mob’s 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, and nothing else would suffice, but her death. With that goal in mind, he put a $20,000 bounty on the head of the Puma.

The trap would spring that night, and if that trap didn’t work … well, there was always tomorrow night, or the night after that.


The tall Nubian woman strolled down the street, walking into her gym. She had a regal bearing, carrying 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 nostrils 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 breasts. Her muscled arms 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 treadmill. At last, she worked out on a heavy bag, hitting it, kicking it. The bag bounced under her pummeling, and each time she waited for it to become motionless, then tore into it again.

A well-known 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 or not? You can wear gear; I’ll go the way I am. I practice martial arts,” she said, mocking him.

“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 his headgear 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 struck 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 gawked 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 his 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 was 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 getaway. 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 her 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, then snapped her neck. Max withdrew his pecker, moved up on the bed, and shoved the fat cock into her dead mouth, wetting 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 Griggs. 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 type of 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 fuck 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.” Max almost drooled on himself, seeing in his mind how he would beat her up before he fucked her raw. Break a rib here, maybe an arm or leg. Break the bitch in half, fuck her good and hard, then kill her. Make her death slow, painful, and so satisfying. He hadn’t beat a woman to a bloody pulp for a long time. Max grinned, and Griggs turned away.


Three blocks outside Shabby Heights, a hooker got out of a silver Caddy. Turning back, she smiled at the driver, who nodded at her. As she watched the car drive off, the whore turned to see her pimp, Johnny, waiting on her. And he was not pleased. The belt dangled in his hand, as the big brass buckle shone in the light from the streetlamp. This was going to hurt, but the compensation was worth her pain.

Johnny almost hoped the Puma bitch would show up soon, as he didn’t like doing this without a real reason. The hooker, likewise, longed to see the leather-clad woman intervene. 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 had been 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. But with arm raised, instead, he was yanked backward, falling against a 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 getaway. She held him tight to her body, lifting him by the belt. Puma kicked 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 in black leather, rounded cat ears atop the cowl. All that was visible was her chin and mouth, that pouty mouth with the bright red lips curled into a sadistic smile, and her eyes. She looked feline, living up to her nom de plume. Shifting her weight to one leg, Puma stood staring at the woman.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well, what?” the whore replied. A tingling ran up the Black Puma’s back, a subtle warning of danger. The gun barked out loud as a hard thud hit 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 twirled 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 Cat leaped up, her other foot stuck his midsection, pushing him 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. Running toward Max, she jumped into the air, whirled 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 crumble 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. No woman had physically hurt him before her. It humiliated him and stung his pride.

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 a 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, 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, he attempted to push up. Yet his anger failed him. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stand. Instead, he collapsed 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, Puma buckled 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 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 dirty 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 items 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, 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 Max 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 blubbered for her to 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. Pleading went against his nature, panic-filled him, and his courage fled as fear engulfed Max. The knife sliced through its intended target, but his screams fell on deaf ears.


Max’s 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 the Black Puma, has once again struck a blow at the gangsters that run Shabby Heights. Killing one alleged pimp, and seriously wounding a reputed mob enforcer.” He found the controller and shut off the set.

“That doesn’t change the facts,” a voice said. Max twisted his head in 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 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 a 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 the plush 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 does not move from this place. Obviously, he didn’t trust the girl, but waiting wasn’t her strong point. Instead, she thought of Shawanda. 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, and offering a hug. Lacey rushed into her arms. Shawanda lowered her face to the girl, and their lips met. A flash of lightning lit the hallway, bathing it in a momentary brilliance. Immediately, a rumble of thunder rattled the windows as the storm sprang from nowhere.

That was a preview of Black Puma - Cat's Claw. To read the rest purchase the book.

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