Run Catch A Kill: A Bitch on a Bike Novella…the new thriller from A.R. Yoba now available for pre-orders

The bitch arrives on e-readers X-mas day. Pre-orders available now at

Excerpt from Run Catch A KillBOAB NOVELLA

Hello. How are you?
How’s your day going?
How’s the weather in your part of the word? I mean, in your part of the world, how’s the weather?
Is the sun beating down on your face, or is the wind whipping through your hair as artic air cracks the skin on your lips?
Did you lotion?
Brush your teeth?
Balance your checkbook?
Feed the cat?
Walk your dog?
Water the plants?
Remember to take out the trash?
Did you tell someone you love them today?

Are you counting down the moments until your name is stenciled in on a death certificate, or is a doctor spanking you on the ass testing your lungs hoping you will cry so your name can be stenciled in on a birth certificate to be filed away in some municipal buildings’ office?

Are you living life in the moment, flying by the seat of your pants?

Or…are you like me? Standing here with no pants on, or shirt for that matter, no bra, no panties, just me and my Mohawk sculpted pubic hair, standing on one side of my bed, staring down the barrel of a .44 semi-automatic handgun, with a red laser dot dancing from one of the piercings in my erect nipples to the other. That’s how my day is going—pretty surreal for sure. Speaking of pretty, I thought I fucked him pretty good. Shows you what I know. But then again, I know I fucked him really good. I know because I’m more than good at what I do. Maybe I should have rephrased it better. That’s it, it’s all in the phrasing and framing of words that can spell the difference of whether or not that thin thread that’s holding your life in the balance snaps…or reels you in. So let me reel you in, pull the curtain back, and give a glimpse of the backdrop canvas this story was painted on.

It started like any other Saturday morning in the City of Angels. That thing we call June-gloom had extended its reach to August—once again cloaking this southern part of the Golden State in that silver lining known as the marine-layer. The sun fought hard, poked through the morning smog, and cast shadows on the Hollywood sign. Traffic was lite on the local streets as I gunned my metallic blue Porsche 911 GT3 west on Sunset Boulevard. The clutch and gearbox seemed to be hardwired to the traffic signals at every intersection; Vine—Cahuenga—Highland—Fairfax—La Brea, turned from red to green every time I upshifted and put the hammer down. I had already punched my zip code into my police scanner—my laser and radar detector were activated. So the last thing that concerned me was crossing paths with local law enforcement, fire department or emergency medical vehicles as the multitude of voices crackling through my transmitter alerted me to who was in the area. And on this morning, at this particular moment I had a clear path straight to the Pacific Ocean. By the time I roared past the steep incline that marks the intersection of La Cienega and this boulevard of dreams I was clocking 120mph. I glanced down at the clock—6:17AM. The way things were going I would be crossing the palm-tree enclaved threshold of Beverly Hills in less than sixty-seconds.

I would say the gods were with me, but I traded my soul for the devils’ long ago. How long ago doesn’t matter. What matters is they hired me to the kill in the shadows. Somehow they figured I was an easy recruit, an orphan who never once sucked on her mothers’ nipple and heard the words, <em “mso-bidi-font-style:=”” normal”=””>‘I love you’, from the first male role model in her life. That is the way it works isn’t it? Let some shrink tell it, I’m an emotionally disconnected sociopath with no moral compass—blah-blah-blah! The therapist was partially right, for I have no qualms whatsoever when it comes to offing presidents, diplomats, politicians, autocrats and any one-percenter that’s responsible for most of the evil in the world. To some degree it takes evil to fight evil, so in a Weird Science kind of way I like to think of myself as the lesser of the two. I’ve already accepted the fact that I’ll have a debt to pay that more than likely will be a hellish one, but rest assure that time was not now. Not on this day. Not during this rising of the sun.

To be frank I’m more than good at what I do. I know I’ve already told you that. Still, I’m going to say it one more time. I’m good at what I do, damn good. Take away an ‘o’ and you could say I was god at it, with a goddess like complex. Once you get good at it, they take away your name (I create my own aliases)—your identity (I wear many faces)—everything you love (I have no one to love me but me)—and turn you into a ghost (I move unseen to the seeing). Making men invisible they say helps keep the order of things. But they never said anything about a woman. Which is probably why I knew that cloak of invisibility was about to be pulled off the minute that motorcyclist showed up in my rear view mirror regardless of what my gender was.

If I was going to be even more honest with myself I can say I should have known this would be a life altering day the night before when I dragged that man out of the bar in Silver Lake. He said he gave good face, and that was before we tossed a few shots of tequila back. Somewhere between that bar and my place I found out his name was Ricky. As we stumbled into my place I soon found out why he was so authoritative and confident with his ability to eat fur-burgers without leaving teeth marks. I fumbled with his belt buckle, unzipped his pants, stuffed my hand inside expecting to stroke a sleeping cobra to life as we found ourselves entwined like the fibers that made up the carpet we collapsed upon in my small living room. Instead, what my fingers found themselves fondling felt more like three little marbles.

Most men would have probably stopped me, pulled my hand out, given some excuse about being too inebriated to have a full erection. But this man encouraged me by holding my hand in place, urging me to take hold of whatever I could. I grabbed the little stub in the middle and soon felt the blood rushing through my fingertips as it began to swell. I figured, jackpot, I’m going to get slammed good tonight. As it were my panties had come off when I excused myself to use the ladies room before we even left that watering hole. Not because I wanted to mount his surfboard right then and there and ride the wave of fluids I felt gushing from a watering-hold of my own, but because they had turned into a soggy annoyance.

No sooner had my fingers felt the swelling between his two little marble sized balls, it stopped. There was no guesstimating the size—I could already feel it was about the size of a Gherkin’s pickle. This little prick, I couldn’t even classify it as a cock. Little Dick Ricky is what I called him in my head. And head is what he was exceptionally good at I quickly found out when he pried opened my legs with the urgency of some sports freak jerking open a refrigerator door to grab a cold beer during a timeout hoping not to miss any moment of a game. That’s when I found out about the piercing in his tongue. I couldn’t tell if it was that ball of stainless steel or my clitoris that suddenly felt hard as a thimble.

I could hear him slurping down there like a dog lapping up water from a bowl—the only sound I truly remember. Time was lost. My body bucked and jerked as if I were being stuck by an electronic pronging device. My ass rose up off that carpet as I clutched his oily black hair and pushed his face further into my crotch. And then it happened—Nirvana. I mean literally Nirvana, the American rock band from up the coast in Aberdeen, Washington. Their song, ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit,’ played out on my phone just as I climaxed. While the ringtone played and the flashing light from my phone illuminated the mostly dark room I looked down to see him looking up at me with glee in his eyes and a bloody smirk on his face. Not only did he reintroduce me to the emotionally disconnected pleasurable pain of oral multiple-orgasms, this little prick brought my period down, and enjoyed it. Crazy fucker!

Maybe I was in denial, trying to shake a recent affair of the heart, but if I wanted to use that as a barometer then I should have ear-marked that as a bad omen of things to come. A bad omen that was now fast approaching in the form of a black clad figure with the throttle open on a crotch-rocket about a mile back in my rearview mirrors.


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