1 BLOG
The D Word Blog by Jemisha Ford.
Post-August 14, 2020
Today I wanna talk about the Curfluent boutique. Curfluent is owned by a long-time friend of mine, Morris Black. I'm not going to get into any personal details about Morris. But I will say that my friend is a dark-skinned black male in charge of the boutique.
Curfluent was started in 2001. It is on Pieces South next to the shoe store and drug store.
Curfluent has a total of eight workers (Currently Morris is finding it hard to get people to stay.) His boutique offers various things including a foot spa, nail care, and skin treatments.
When I say my friend knows to braid, perm, and curl some of the nappiest hair. You will not be sorry.
But what I really wanted to let people know about Curfluent is, my poor friend's shop was broken into ☹. He owns a small Chihuahua named Pinky.
As stated before, Morris's business is in hard times. I told him I would help him out with a blog post. I have over seven thousand readers who look at my gossip and How to Bitch a Nigga.
How ironic Morris is getting bitched! (My friend doesn't deserve that.) So, to any reading my post or come across my article. Help Morris Black and the Curfluent boutique located on 60608 Pieces South. You can surely email me any questions at JFord@Gmail.com or find me on Facebook, Snapchat, and Twitter.
We are looking for a small brown Chihuahua with a white diamond on her chest. She also responds to the name Tootie. If found, please email me, or contact Morris Black.
If you are looking for a job. Morris is currently hiring and seeing some interested employers would surely make his day.
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That would benefit Quillin Chatman. He grabbed the eviction notice from his computer desk. He grimaced and looked back at the blog. In his head, the thought of gaining some money came to mind. A little dog is worth—what did people give for a dog? Well, if they loved it, maybe a million however he lived on a poor street in the slums. The proper amount of money would be fifty dollars… maybe even less.
Quillin stared at the eviction notice. He wasn't living right. In his room, some panties laid on the floor. On the computer desk, seven Hennessy bottles and one unopen. On his bed, bedbugs collecting through an open hole on the side of the mattress. Spiders in the top corner of the room and a roach that came to visit from a hole in the wall connected to the bathroom.
Quillin pondered on what had he done to get this poor. The answer was clear, he spent about thirty dollars buying mollies from Kyrton down the street from where he lived. He used to work at blockbuster and clearly, he couldn't go back. He tried working at the movie theater until he met the owner of the panties that laid on his dingy rug.
Lord himself knew that hoe wouldn't help. He shouldn't have given her the twenty dollars to go to the bus station. He had been asking himself, why the fuck she needed a twenty. He could have kept that to himself.
He rose from his chair and went to the kitchen. The vinyl plank flooring was tearing up and a big patch was missing from the middle of the floor. The kitchen was connected to the living room, all were separated by a half wall. His carpet was brown, covered by unknown stains and mysteries going back weeks to years.
He went to the refrigerator and opened the freezer. He pulled out a half tub of ice cream but what was inside was a bag of chicken. Quillin took the bag out of the ice cream container and laid it on the counter.
He compared his horrible life to hoarders. Given he owned forty boxes that had nothing in them. He stole his neighbor's tv only to break it. While plugging it into the wall, the apartment short-circuited so strongly, the plug caught fire.
Why would that happen?
Because Quillin Chatman kept a 6 outlet plug in the house that connected to the fan, a stolen game system, two more fans, a heater, and formerly the tv.
In the living room, one sofa collected his mail. In the pile, an old college letter, an old eviction notice, a paper for a car, and several job ads he ripped from the community board near the park. And one more letter—a list of instructions from Kyrton.
How to make Cocaine my way.
· Real cocaine is made from coca leaves. I don't use that, get some smarties from the candy store
· A cup of gasoline
· Get a separate bowl to crush the smarties
· As you crush the candy, pour the gas in
· Add a cap of cough syrup
· Crush one pain reliever.
· Make sure you make some toast in your toaster. It helps with overdosing
· The mix shouldn't be wet so dry it with some newspaper and crush it again.
He knew it sounded deadly. In the reality of it all, Quillin was thinking of ways to make money. He wanted to sell some drugs. He tried last month to record a movie in the movie theater, instead, he went to jail. He jacked a kid for his backpack and tried to sell his books, he went to jail for that.
The point being, he was broke.
A thunder banged against his door. "Aw, fuck." He breathed. Moving to his door in great agony, he took a breath in. The banging repeated, "Quillin!" shouted his bald landlord, Carney. "You were supposed to leave today!"
"Give me two more weeks!" He didn't need two more weeks. He scratched his balls while looking through the peephole. "I ain't giving you shit!" he rolled his eyes. "I want yo' ass out my shit."
"Technically the government owns this shit."
"Then you fucking with the government. And you know what smartass? I can get the government to boot your ass out my damn apartment." That was a threat. He went to jail—was it yesterday? What for? Oh, standing too long at the convenience store. "Carney! Calm down, remember your blood pressure," pointing at the man's overweight size. Given Carney O'Neil's weight 230 pounds for a man standing 5'4. He could see his distorted body. His stomach and chest seemed to combine, his neck was nonexistent, and had no ass which made even more things stranger.
As for his facial appearance, his eyes were bulging. A thin mustache above his thin lips. To make it all worst, he was dark skin.
"I'm calling the police on yo' ass tonight!"
"Is it to help reach my door?" he chuckled. Carney behind the door put his palms in his pockets. "Ok, ok!" he stepped away from the door. "Let's see who laughing when the cops show up to claim yo' ass!"
"Me!" he shouted through the door. "Tenants is complaining about you! You owe me from that time you used the lights in the whole damn apartment!"
"Yada-yada…" he said waving his hand nonchalantly. Carney hissed and made his way down to the lobby. Muttering under his breath, "I'm sick of this nigga."
Quillin wiped the smirk off his face. His mind raced, police sirens in the back of his brain. His legs hurt; he jumped the fence to a house. His pants leg caught on the chain-linked fence. His face sped forward and smacked into the metal. He cussed and the backyard dog ripped at his jacket.
He rubbed his neck. The officers cut him down and let the dog nearly maul him. What did he do to himself? Drugs. How did he get here? Drugs. Why? Depression, bored, a little lonely.
Quillin went to his room in a hurry. He snatched his black jacket with the hood out of the closet and a pair of red satin pants. He went to his dresser pressed against the wall in front of the bed. Inside a magazine, batteries, rubber bands, and bullets scattered. He stuffed the bullets in his pockets and grabbed the gun on the desk.
Quillin took a look at his trash heap of a room. He shrugged his shoulders as the thought came, "Fuck it."
It was for rent. He didn't have any money. He wasn't married and frankly didn't give a shit. All his shoes were ruined and dirty. He traveled to the kitchen to get a black trash bag. Going back to the room, he swept under his bed. Conspiring a somewhat cunning plan. He grabbed his dirty shoes and put them in the bag.
Unplugging the computer, storing the plug and then the whole pc. He couldn't pay internet anymore. Afterward, he went through his dressers and packed his bag with his clothes. "I can sell or something." Quillin tied it up and went to set the bag in front of the door.
He rummaged through his kitchen and finally found a pack of three matches. He shrugged again, "I just stop caring.' His store still worked enough for a fire. He set the match against the iron and carried it with a steady hand to his room. Stopping in front of the door, he threw the lit match on the carpet. "Let's see who's laughing."
