Chapter 6: Wet
The D Word Blog
Tab: Cougars and Sugar
The definition of a cougar is a woman focused on controlling men. Sometimes it is a wealthy woman who seeks men to be her toys. Sugar mommas are women who kindly spend their fucking earnings on poor bitches that can't keep a fucking job.
My mother Kishana was married to my adoptive father, Harden, who gifted her seven niggas on leashes. Did my mother have sex with these men? Yes. I never talk to my brother and sister.
I mentioned in another post that I grew around escorts (I will continue to call them as such). My mother was a cougar, her main interest in having seven men besides Harden was power. I called them my uncles. Three were tasks with taking care of me, shoutout to my uncles, Rene Meyer, Konrad Rose, and Bevis Thomson. R.I.P to Uncle Bevis who was shot up by police during a house robbery gone wrong.
None of my stories will ever have an 'I was molested by my father.' To quote my daddy Harden, 'Pimps train misbehaving women who are too stupid to think.' My father believed in intelligence. If you didn't have it, you might as well give up your life and be a slave.
If it was one thing my daddy couldn't stand was a dumb bitch.
My mother was a cougar who couldn't stand dumbass niggas. And she taught me how to Train a Man. You can read my methods on the How to Bitch a Nigga tab.
.
.
.
Quillin counted the money as he laid on the grass behind a thick bush. In his head, he thought about what to do with three hundred dollars and a credit card. Three hundred dollars came from robbery, a woman headed home to her apartment, an old woman coming from the bank, kids selling lemonade, and punching a white girl in the face. Lucky for him, she also stole a credit card and gave him the pin and everything after pissing on her.
His dick tingled at the amount of money he had. Now all he had to do was find a dealer and buy something strong. He thought about exploring new drugs. Maybe there was a new brand of crack. Like weed, if not, he wanted to be the one to start it.
He put the money to his chest in bliss.
He didn't know much about marijuana. He didn't see the excitement over some fucking grass. It came in different things and that's all he knew.
What if he made a new kind of crack? Blueberry Cocaine, Chocolate Dust, he licked his lips over the thought of chocolate cocaine. Yes, he was a cocaine enthusiast. He enjoyed the gritty powder on his fingers, some people didn't believe it, but cocaine had a scent.
It was flowery, sometimes minty, once he thought it smelled like baby powder. Baby powder cocaine, what about cocaine oils. The first time, he tried cocaine, his penis hardened. Cum dripping off the tip, as he thought about this, his stomach began to ache.
Something in the void bubbled and a foul odor surrounded him. "Goddamn." His nose wrinkled and the terror of thinking he just messed up his boxers bothered him. "Nigga, please don't tell me." He rolled to his side and dropped his hand in his jeans. He felt something wet and grimaced. Yet at the same time, he accepted that he had shit himself.
He withdrew his hand, he expected nothing but smeared shit staining his fingers. His eyes widen looking at red instead of brown.
He knew he wasn't living right. His heart dropped and thought he'd find it escaping under him. His body jolt a hard fart alerting a possible stray dog.
He rolled out from the bush and rubbed down his dry pants leg. A line of wetness stuck to his leg. His head kept repeating, what's wrong with me. He struggled to stand. A sharp pain below his stomach. He looked about the streets, no one in the park but cars passed by. "Help." His voice was low, nearly inaudible. "Help!" he got louder. "I'm bleeding! Help!"
For a minute, he thought he got shot in the back and the blood seeped through his pants. At least he hoped it was that. He needed to get to a hospital and had the money to go.
Quillin started to tear up. His heart raced; his stomach hurt, he cried aloud, "Help! Somebody Help me!"
He crawled from behind the bush, still screaming for someone. "Help!" he crawled to the edge of the street and landed his palms in the road. He toppled over in the middle of the road. An explosion in his pants made his back legs wetter. Quillin's heart picked up speed.
"Help me!" water pored out his eyes. His brains told him, his own soul began speaking, 'It's your fault.'
Was it because of cocaine? It's been weeks going to a whole month without crack in his system. This was how he would die. He surely guessed at one point it would have been an overdose.
He asked himself, how did you get here Quillin?
Quillin was fifteen when he ran from the orphanage. He didn't want somebody coming inside and looking at him as a pet. He knew people who came to adopt had to pay a fee. A minimum of 75 dollars
Of course, that's to keep the business up.
A white couple came to the orphanage once. They weren't bad, Will and Layla Kent. Layla couldn't conceive. She wanted to but things got in the way. Such as having a penis and not being born female. Layla didn't let the orphanage know that at the time.
Quillin recalled that orphanage, there was a swing in the backyard. Once upon a time, he knew a girl named Mona Bunn. Once upon a time, he kissed a girl named Mona. Once upon a time, Mona was molested in the orphanage. Once upon a time, he witnessed a man trying to hang Mona.
And he didn't see Mona again. He hadn't thought about that in a long time. He didn't necessarily want to. Mona, could have been considered his first girlfriend.
He didn't have anything in this world. His biological mother was dead. His father? Somebody named Kenneth. He didn't have anything, he used to care but there was no reward in thinking about it.
Now he was dying.
Why?
Why him?
Though, he deserved it. He killed people, at least they would find joy in heaven knowing he was gone. Quillin Chatman was awful. A crackhead with no clear mortals.
He was really considering being a crack dealer, as if that was a genius thing.
He was clearly fucking retarded. He deserved to die; he was stupid enough to do cocaine and not understand the consequences.
What the fuck had he done to himself?
.
.
.
.
Police and an ambulance surrounded Quillin on the street. Paramedics hoisted him up on the stretcher. "Sir, what happened?"
Quillin could only respond, "I don't want to die."
His vision was hazy, flashes of blue and red, the whining of the ambulance hitting his ears. "I don't want to die."
"Just hold on sir. Are you on any medication?"
"Cocaine." He said through a mumbled voice.
"Do you have anyone to call? Family?"
"I don't want to die."
The ride to the hospital was long, he felt the movement of the ambulance turning. It didn't stop, pushing the speed limit, he lost track of time.
Saltplea Community Hospital, women, children, old and young, men. His mind stayed in this loop, 'I don't want to die.'
A doctor came into the room, "Good afternoon, Mr. Chatman. I'm doctor Adeline Harrison." Blankets covered his body, he laid motionless in a white and blue hospital room. "Mr. Chatman, do you know what happened to you?"
"My ass was bleeding," as if it wasn't obvious enough. "Ok," said the doctor. "I hate to bring this up but the police are here. Mr. Chatman are you aware you are a wanted man?"
If he said yes, he feared the police would just roll him out of the building. What if they ordered a lethal interjection while he was in the hospital? "Uh…"
"There are officers outside, Mr. Chatman." She stared at him and wondered if she wanted a response. Two officers walked in, "We'll take it from here doctor." She departed from the room. Two white officers lowered their gazes. "Did you kill Takeo Palmer?" said the officer, his name on his badge read, Atkins. "We understand that you are in the hospital. And we heard from paramedics you admitted to being on drugs."
What the fuck was he supposed to do?
He was in the hospital with a bleeding ass. Yes, he was on drugs and going through withdrawal, and he was homeless because he set his apartment on fire. His eyes shifted to the window.
"Mr. Chatman," said Officer Atkins. "Were you under the influence of drugs?"
Did they want him to answer? Yes. And Yes, was the answer to the question. Quillin nodded his head and face the two, "But I haven't had any in a while."
"Ok," said the officer. "When was the last time you had cocaine?"
"I don't remember." He said.
"Why did you kill Palmer?"
"I'm homeless."
"So, for money?" he nodded. Quillin's chest tightened. What? Why? How? When? "We spoke with the doctors. They told us earlier while you were sedated. Which we requested in case you were faking,"
"Why in the fuck would I intentionally make my ass bleed?"
Atkins shrugged, the officer behind him answered, "A form of suicide."
His mouth hung open, "Are you fucking serious?"
"It's a possibility." Said Atkins. "Are you also responsible The Pears Apartment Burning?"
He blinked, "No."
"Your apartment specifically was burnt."
He had to lie even if it made his situation worst. "I must have left the stove on."
"You're lying." Said the other officer. "At the time of the fire. Were you in the apartment?"
"No. I went to junkyard to turn in some trash." Said Quillin, his words starting to hasten. "You went to the junkyard to turn in trash?" said the officer behind Atkins. "There are two in Saltplea. Hulking Unit and Argo Transport, which one did you go to?"
His brain said what.
"Who are you?" he asked. Good job, said his brain.
"I'm officer Russel Atkins of the Saltplea Police Department and this is my partner Ulises Baxter. Now answer the question."
"A new one." Said Quillin, his hand rustled with the covers underneath. "A new one?" questioned officer Baxter. Officer Atkins leaned on his bed, "Listen, we already know. Why did you set the apartment on fire? Why did you kill a man?" spoke Atkins in a hushed tone.
"My ass is bleeding…"
"You set an apartment on fire because your ass is hurt?" Atkins cocked a brow. "That doesn't make any fucking sense."
"Maybe I knocked over something." Maybe I'm fucking retarded because of a lifetime of cocaine, said his brain. "Mr. Chatman, you are currently in custody. You will remain in the hospital and will receive no treatment for your addiction." Said Atkins. "The doctors are assuming you might have anal cancer. We're thinking of letting you die."
Again, what the fuck was he going to say? Do?
"You don't have any records in Chicago. In fact, you're not from here. You have a record in Pennsylvania for theft." States Baxter. "How did you get in Illinois?"
"I don't remember," and that wasn't a lie. "I'm an orphan."
"Were you kidnapped as a child?"
"No?"
"Do you have any living relatives?"
His sister in Minnesota, Jahtoya. He wasn't about to have the police call her. He hadn't spoken to her in years, and she damn well didn't give a shit. "No."
"What about Jahtoya?" asked Baxter. Why the fuck did they even ask? "I don't know her."
"She's listed as your half-sister?"
"I don't know—"
"Jahtoya Seabury?"
"I don't know!"
"A picture of Jahtoya Seabury—"
"I DON'T FUCKING KNOW!"