The music video's shot opens up to the inerior of an underground parking lot bathed in an insidious red glow from recessed halogen lighting scattered above. Grafitti splashes over the walls betwixt a sea of nondescript vehicles parked nearby in the blurry background.

The sound of screeching tires and the roaring pur of a high-performance engine splits the air, heralding in a Ferarri rolling into the shot and into a smooth stop in front of a sleek elevator retrofitted with a retinal scanner, out of place in the old garage.

A driver's door flicks open, blooming outward into the air to reveal a pair of long, shapely legs swinging out as an unknown woman unfolds from behind the wheel. She's seen sashaying around the high-class vehicle and toward the elevator with a swish of hips, her raw silk pumps clacking away. The doors open, she steps in, and disappears off shot.

Muffled music begins, a mash-up of techno-pop and experimental transient ambience, as the scene flickers to a panoramic view inside a nightclub. Laser lights pulse and flash across a dance floor crowded with sweaty gyrating bodies as scantily clad women work their bodies erotically in faux cages suspended above them.

The shot pans upwards toward a balcony enclosed in reflective tinted glass, transitioning past it to look in on an ongoing meeting between opulently dressed businessmen sat around a digital-interfaced table.

A swarthy young gentleman presiding over the meeting sits back in his chair, setting aside a whisky glass. A custom-made timepiece glistens in the low of the lighting before he raises his hand, bringing silence to the bickering around him.

"She's late," he remarks coolly, power radiating from his thick-accented baritone, the nearest men around him grimacing at the stated fact. "If she is not here within ten minutes, I will consider this forfeit."

The shot pans backward to highlight over the restless and worried expressions of some of the men before turning to the interior of an elevator.

A light dinging chimes as the elevator doors slide open, revealing the shapely silhouette of the woman from earlier, her features obscured against the harsh white lighting of the wall lights around her.

The slinky soulful instrumentals of Sangre from Lala's Made Woman album marks the start of the song, a delicious sample, cued in upon a montage of those beautiful golden raw silk stilettos sashaying through the club scene from behind.

Flashes of gunfire heralds in waves of bodies dropping all around her at every turn of the angles, chaos and panic sending crowds scattering like wild animals fleeing to safety.

A bassline fades in, unrushed and poignant in its throbbing reverberations, turning the indistinct singer's vocals into an amalgamation of dark, powerful melodies as the throbbing bass heightens to a quickening, fluttering bass, instilling a chilling sense of suspense and dread as the violence and mayhem unfolds in a beautiful massacre.

"6 inch heels, she walked through the club like nobody's business," Juju's sultry soprano kicks off the first verse, a touch of auto-tune echoing out in a suttering trail in after-reverb behind her. "Goddamn, she creased every mano and I was her witness."

The heroine comes to a stop in the middle of the emptied out club as the barrage of gunfire comes to a brief lull, shell casings tinkling like sweet music as they're discharged from her pistol. She waits, those iconic stilettos tapping impatiently over the blood-spattered marble.

A team of suited men with identities hidden behind featureless chicken masks come out from a stairwell, dragging the hog-tied form of a man behind them. He's thrown onto the floor and made to kneel in front of the heroine.

"Murder for the money," Juicy Vee's voice fades in on a digital mix of post-dubstep, echoing out the phrase as twerk-worthy percussive beats reign. "Mur-mur-murder for the money. Murder for the money. Murder for the money; leave no witnesses."

The shot pans downward to reveal the man to be the swarthy young gentleman from scenes earlier, his suit torn and bloodied with his beautiful face now a mess of cuts, bruises, and heavy swelling. Blood dribbles down his bearded chin as he breathes raggedly, every breath painful while hazel eyes struggle to track the path of silken stiletto pumps that slowly sashay around him to stand slightly behind and to his left.

"Murder for the money, mur-mur-murder for the money," Juicy's digitally distorted vocals fade out to a refrain of synthesized melodies. "From start to finish, she's paid by the minute."

Cold hard steel glints in the low light as The Heroine lifts a revolver, cocks it, and brings the barrel to the back of his head. The music wanes subtly, the suspense building to a painful high as the swarthy man draws his last breath...

... and then, his brains spatter across the floor with a *BANG*. He sags sideways to slump lifelessly on the ground, the group walking away.

Images of the woman's retreat from the club and smooth getaway in her Ferrari flicker across the screen, racing away into the night as it erupts in an inferno of flame.

"Ask yo' friends 'bout her, got no time to be emotional." An angelic soprano serenades ever so sweetly, carrying out every word like a lover's caress, and Juju is singing the next verses in beautiful harmony with Juicy's rich tenor: "Creased all feeling, that cold-hearted bitch unapproachable."

A hazy scene flashes onscreen; a raised stage armed with a single strip pole bathed in sinful red light. Lala is a half-naked beauty dancing seductively, gracefully twirling around the pole for a figure seated in a lone armchair. Her ass claps onbeat to the sensual rhythm of the song.

Smoke from her lit cigar obscures Asiatic features briefly until it clears to unveil Alivia, curvaceous body clad in a tight business skirt and half-buttoned blouse. She looks on through half-shut blue eyes, almost high out of her mind, bloody diamond-weave pumps glistening in the dim light.

"Prettiest pussy with a fanbase, robbing suit 'n tie manos who crave roleplay," Juicy's vocals take centerfront, and it becomes unclear who is the heroine and villainous in the sexually charged, tasteful scene of Lala busting it open to a hundreds of thousands in crisp chyen notes raining down around her. "But when it comes to chyen, she play no games."

The superstar latina glides down the pole, ending in a split as her shapely derierre pops and bounces; left cheek, right cheek. Sliding forward, she arches her back and grinds provocatively, coming to a head-stand as other pretty erotic dancers come into shot, groveling and simpering around Alivia, but only Lala holds her attention.

Instrumentals hit a downtempo, stalling out to accentuate the emergence of Lala's vocals starting up the final verse, sinfully provocative, "That girl licks it like it's candy, good men abandoning their family. Destined for a life so fancy, only material things make her happy."

Lala remains the apple of patrons' eye, more money floating around her than realistically possible. A shift of scenery sees her surrounded by crisp stacks of chyen, fanning herself with it as a leather-clad submissive licks and polishes her stiletto heels with his mouth in a nondescript backroom.

But no matter how much chyen one has, it can't keep away the lonely nights. A side-by-side reel follows perspectives of Alivia and Lala going about their lives; one diva murders her enemies mercilessly for the chyen, while the other scams and cons men out of their money. Then, in equally opulent homes, they drink alone as they plot out the next step in their illicit careers.

"Real love's hard to find, so they don't waste their time..." Alivia's crooning vocals returns in a disembodied voice-over, angelic and sweet as the music slowly winds itself down. "So they won't waste their time, oooh.."

The music video ends, transitioning into a brief commercial reel.

A scene late at night, on an unknown street. A nondescript black car idles nearby, its driver's window crackled slightly to reveal an anonymous woman waiting within.

A tricked out Katana 600 screeches to a halt across the street, its engine dying with a smooth pur as a helmeted man dismounts and strides across to the woman in her vehicle. With his back to the camera, stylized red and black symbols come into view: black club and spade beset by a red diamond and heart.

He hands over a package discreetly and vanishes off into the night, leaving the woman satisfied with her delivery before she zooms off down the street. "Although life's a gamble, we can promise you'll have the winning hand every time with BlackJak.