The D Word Blog by Jemisha Ford.
Post August 17, 2020
Good morning all! Welcome back to my blog, The D Word. I received an email asking why did I name my blog such a thing? Well, not many of you know this about me.
Pimping is an art. Men do it all the time however, not one nigga on this planet owns a dick that tells the truth. You might meet a nigga and claims to have the body count of someone like Denzel Washington.
Despite my occupation, I believe men are the true bitches of society. No one is more out of control than a broke a nigga with little to nothing. Men's biggest weakness? Pussy.
And a nigga may believe otherwise. Ladies, niggas even like nigga pussy. Don't let them fool you out here. The baddest bitch you know that calls himself a thug might be dreaming about ass and penis.
They all think dick is the power of the world. It's the coochie. All my power is in my coochie.
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Quillin didn't look back to the apartment. He hurried down the street in a haste with a bag over his shoulder. How simple he must have looked running with a trash bag but that wasn't the point.
He could go to his mother's house. Dead. His uncle? Shot. His friend's? Ghost. Once a upon a time, he went to church and if his former pastor was around, he'd say something like. When one is in need, he will come to face with the lord and never know loneliness.
Which was pure bullshit.
He knew a pawn shop about thirty blocks away from the apartment going south. Broke N' Goods, he went there enough he knew Berton opened at nine and closed at eleven. He didn't check the time before he left.
Good thing he knew Zean Thomas, who also worked at the Pawn Shop. Zean had a—business on the side.
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Once he found a phone booth. He desperately tried to remember the number. 312-668-99? 312-456-669? It definitely had a six in it. 312-347-969—fuck. The number that popped in his head was 312-887-9696, he dial the number and heard a voice. "Who the fuck is calling at two in the morning?"
"Look, I'm sorry man." He leaned in the phone booth. "I'm looking for Zean."
"Who the fuck is that?" the phone clicked instantly. Come on brain, think. He dialed another number in his head, 312-712-9996.
The phone rung—1… 2… 3… click. He took a deep breath. A man walked by, with a cigarette in his mouth. Quillin parted from the booth to stop the man briefly, "Say man, you know Zean?" the stranger shook his head and moved on. "Fuck!" he shouted. He went back and picked up his bag.
Choices in his head appeared.
Go to jail. No
Go to the Pawn Shop and wait. It's cold.
Be homeless. That's already happening.
The third option was the best. But he could get robbed. Maybe he should wear a sign that says 'I only have shoes'. It was a trash bag. Who would rob a man for trash? A raccoon? Maybe.
Cops on the street would probably think he was stealing. He could rob a house but then he'd be in jail. He just set an apartment on fire.
This was a huge backfire.
He should have taken a knife from the house beforehand. Somebody could kill him if they wanted. Quillin was scruffy already. Unshaven. A crooked tooth that was bent inward, a golden smile about to rot with progressive gum disease.
What if he had to shit? Make it on the grass, that's all he could do. Or a bucket.
Being homeless had him in a bind. Money was the goal; the concrete was the enemy. And what about the balls of hair in his coarse hair? He'd have to go bald; he'd have to pull out his teeth, what would he sleep on? The streets, his bag of trash, he'd have to eat rotten food. He might kill a dog to survive, maybe the rubber off a tire.
He shook the ridiculous thoughts from his head. What was he thinking? How fucked up was he to think he would eat a dog? He blamed his ridiculous thought on the mix Kyrton gave him. He didn't get high; he was mostly sick and full of vomit.
Now he was thinking of real cocaine. He could be high as fuck right now. What about heroine? He didn't know anybody that sold it. One thing was for sure, he needed a new dealer. Kyrton was changing on him. Talking about turning his life around, Kyrton was thinking about going to work again. He used to be a chef in an restraunt. Then he started talking about his son who graduated middle school.
Quillin didn't understand. Weren't kids a lot of work? Weren't they annoying a didn't know shit? Why keep them? He recalled a conversation some months ago.
Kyrton stayed in a one-story home with two bedrooms a bathroom. The grass was greener than the rest of the neighborhood. He was living right compared to Quillin. He walked on to the property, a white tank top with blue jeans full of holes. Banging on the screen door for attention and spit in the corner of his mouth. His breathing labored, eyes red and holes in his arm.
He waited until Kyrton came to the door, he smiled. "Hey man, how you doing?" said Quillin. "It's whatever," Kyrton was a tall light skin man with lean muscle. A tattooed neck and ring on knuckles and a gold chain around his neck. "What you want?"
"Uh…," Quillin clapped his hands together. His smile becoming disgusting in front of Kyrton. "I came over to see if had snow white over."
Kyrton sniffed and wiped his nose, "Nah, I got my son over."
"Awww," he grimaced, "Whatever you do don't let that little nigga get in it. He might think it's snow."
He ignored that comment as best he could, "Look, go on somewhere. I got my kid around."
"I understand that but let me have my juice and I'll leave." Said Quillin.
Kyrton's lip contorted, "What the fuck is wrong with you? I ain't got it!" And surely wasn't about to let his baby mama see him lying. He just told her; he was quitting this life. "K, I've been itching all—"
"You itch cause ya nuts nasty. Wasn't you fucking with that hoe from the movie theather?" Kyrton growled. "Get away from my door with yo' simple ass."
Quillin gawked, "It's not that simptax, K. I got crabs."
This was stupid. "Do you also have fucking sniffles?" he mocked.
Quillin stepped forward, much too close for Kyrton's kindness. He sneered harder. "Just give me like a little baggy of snowflakes. Come on—" Kyrton's fist met his nose, cheek, and lips. He forgot what hand he used. "Nigga I said get yo'ass on somewhere!"
Kyrton sniveled. "Yo' ass needs fucking help!"
At the wrong time, his son appeared behind his father, "Daddy?"
"Get back in the house Dominique," his hand took the boy's shoulder and guided him inside. "Tryin' embarrass me in front of my kid. If I catch yo ass near my fucking house, that's it. Remember I carry guns, nigga."
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It was some months ago but felt like yesterday. Or was it? If he had some crack, he would remember.
See, what people didn't understand about cocaine. It was previously a medicine that came from a hospital in Compton. A doctor working at the hospital created a new anesthesia. This was complete bullshit and made up in the mind of a crackhead named Quillin. It was his excuse for everything. He was using the methods of an imaginary doctor to continue his outlandish condition of crack appropriation.
Why did he do cocaine? Because he got shot in 1896. He was 36 years old.
Why did his balls itch and sometimes burn? Because he thought bleach would kill crabs. Was he high when he thought that? Absolutely. Does he believe that bleach can kill crabs? No. Did he believe he probably had some kind of testicular cancer? Well, if he did, one would have to ask Quillin Chatman if he believed in death and the answer would be yes.
He wasn't living right and it took seventeen years to figure this out. It started on the tongue, just a lick. He went to college, dropped out when he couldn't pay for classes. And back then he used a straw, he licked the straw and covered it in cocaine powder. When he was 24, he cut his arm and sprinkle powder in the wound. When he turned 29, he met Kyrton and thought he found heaven. He used a needle then.
At 31, he went behind a restaurant and sucked a dick for some coin. At 34, he became a prostitute. Being a hoe wasn't bad and it paid. He could go back to doing that.