- Main Menu >>
- Fiction Home >>
- Authors >>
- Dizghuye Ovadhere >>
- Mohegun Sunshine
Mohegun Sunshine
by Dizzy Ovadhere
So how did I get here? Well first let's establish where exactly here is, which you may be wondering unless you already found something else more entertaining than the childish shenanigans of a hell-damned Jewish girl with a will more powerful than the curses forced upon her as changes, however superficial, declare the victor before time can attest to whom it shows favor as the winner.
Here, here where I once washed away sin after sin in the wastelands of wayfarers destined to begin a new ending to their own tales of yesteryear and once had been; here where metallic coins and paper measuring units disappear as drunken youthfulness emerges in a blissful ambiance of sugar-coated breezes infused with a temporal sustenance; here at a casino enjoying a bag of pretzel bites with some cheddar cheese sauce after having been denied the right to gamble a quarter at the quarter slots or a dollar at the dollar slots or any other form of payment unworthy of the hourly wage dispensed for the multiple paper shuffling teams charged with the accounting of payables and receivables. Why deny my try to rejoice at a small victory that brings a tear to my lover's eye as his coin and bill return to his pocket, unwelcomed, unwanted, and unnecessary.
With no hair on my body except where it doesn't belong anyway, the rudeness and arrogance of the minimum wager explaining the minimum waging of fives and up, received with the same contempt used upon its delivery. They only take five dollar bills or higher, even at the penny slots. So that's five hundred games at a penny a piece, a guaranteed day of pennies endlessly streaming forward and reverse while artificial oxygenation invigorates the scandal behind the wasting away of a five dollar bill where pennies and nickels once shuffled to a beat.
I'm not here to gamble; I'm here because when you find out you have cancer and only a few weeks to live, you start taking day expeditions on the daily just far enough to return to the hospital where hope swims in nurse's veins as they withhold the horrifying truths you couldn't possibly register regardless of the impact on your future endeavors. There's tears, for sure, but after the first round, their not yours anymore, not unless the treatment's sides of effects affects the pain indicators your brain reluctantly reads aloud regardless of the audience available for public scrutiny.
When I trained with the dark lord, learning the wushu style was a side effect of the wutang style he was intentionally teaching me. So yeah, I know wushu kungfu by accident; and wutang, yeah, I know that too, no accident. The lessons stopped when It became clear in training I no longer required any direction from an instructor, but that wasn't clear to me for months afterwards. Even when I did realize I had elevated to a level beyond the master teaching me, I still yearned for his guidance and wisdom.
He refused, and still refuses.
Even now as I face death head on with a force of will so strong no cycle of treatment can deny or reject or shake a stick at without catching an eye from a sweet little Jewish kid with a hook that thrives to a beat and drives home any point I may fancy on that particular occasion. And on the subject of beating, that beating doesn't stop until I sense an alarm that I've gone too far, and even then, a momentary evaluation of potential consequences legal or otherwise may render my victim in for an evening of the beating of a lifetime. I can defend against any current style known in the world of kungfu except for one, my own, but luckily I'm the only one that knows it.
Those that once mocked my amateur techniques now compare my feats to those of legendary proportion, and by no small portion, unless the very denial adds fuel to my fire. I'm my own worst enemy, for better or worse, and that which keeps me alive, that for which I strive, that for which I remain deprived, is and shall remain that which destroys me from the inside.
So here I am. A disciplined student of my lord, a master in my own right, feared or respected or some dangerous combination of the two. It doesn't matter if you don't believe, aren't scared, or just want to test the water, I'll mess up your night with a bite so vicious in so many different forms, a combination of endless styles, you'll stay your craves as the pain betrays your sense of physical touch as the point of contact grows, the throbbing steadies and levels out at an emergency worthy of an electric push cart to wheel what's left of the corpse who once dared to challenge the deadly Jewish kid with a heart once of gold but now just drenched in the fuels of Hell's ashes. Yes, hate to break the news to you, but someone so little CAN hit that hard with a punch so venomous, tremendous in power from a short-fused Jewish hammer, what's left of the rebellion ends quicker than the smell can.
Mister, it's simple math, ya just ain't man enough to take on another blast of my power, so enjoy bowing endlessly from the pain planted deep with a single left thrusted deep within your bowels for you to keep.
Tomorrow, should your misfortune lead you back to me, you'll cower, but today you stood a test and lived to tell the tale of the day a woman planted a seed in a man's belly, in your belly, with a power packed punch from a pretty small hammer named Dizzy.
So where is here really then? Here is already dead but still alive on this earth, the little sissy girl who would have went running to the nearest slot machine melted away as a cloaking layer vanishes to reveal the Goliath hiding underneath, all powerful creature, more wisdom than sense, now comes with a dollar and change and even less interest in fortune and fame.