As another Lame Cherry exclusive in matter anti matter.


His name. His name was Gungha Jinn. He was a sultan, a sultan of swing. He knew all the chords, all the throws, and his rhythm made the boys sing. He had a left handed through with a Michael Jordan glide and a Stevie Wonder sway. Like I said, when he unloaded, he made all the boys want to sing.

Swing blew into town riding a freighter. Well, not just one but two, as he has a big offload and an imprint for two ports. Exotic is what he was, like a slow boat out of China,  he plied his trade, sipping drinks in the shadows as he rode them waves to the setting sun, as that boy could throw them dice.
Did I say that he knew  all the chords, and he know all the throws. He was a real magician, a Zoroastrian, a Q not anonymous, a Barry without the chin, a real prognosticator, a Sukuni with the numbers. Those bones would glide and those bones would slide, and the tally would tally and Gungha Jinn would not even have to look to say, "I have won".

Then she came along. A real Mustang Sally, a real John Fogerty revival of the nethers on Americans whores and shores. She was just laying there waiting for it, like the great satan, alluring, enticing and just letting in anyone to her port who would call.

So she sat there as Gungha Jinn put is manhood on her soil. Laid them out for a real erectile function, but she was there, and everyone knew she wanted it, as her parlor was a parlor, but that sultan of swing kept racking them bones,   time after time, just racking them bones and getting his read.
He was always a good read, like a pulp non fiction novel.

The purr, the throw, always the throw, the dice, one day, three days, five days. Go small, go big, what to do, they cast the flame in ritual, this way and that, they know what they desire, but not what they want.
He had a way about him, and that way was the glide and the slide as he kept racking up them numbers and them dates. A real rootie toot toot roulette sahib of shabieri.

He  played the wheels hard, Wheels turning round and round. I swear it was a trip to Vegas in all them chips flying to the floor and the crowds running through the streets like it was a flying chip jungle. Chips to the right of me, chips to the left of me, but here she was, stuck in the middle with the Gungha Jinn.

Some say that no one could bet on red 14 a hundred times, but that is what the sultan did. He had the throw, he had those bones and there was red, there was the number and there was 14 and he kept throwing that die and it kept coming up, and he kept winning, like it was a nuclear atomic blur, he was moving so fast, it was as if he was sitting on the stool still and you would see this blur of motion. It was something to see if you could have seen it. It was a them bones rat a tat tat coming up red.

She sat there waiting for it. A real wait, but not a long wait, as it was not like really waiting as she knew it was coming. He was on the clock after all, a real clock, like a time clock, a gamblers clock with a time card and a time slot, just like her slot, waiting for her card to be punched.

And then he said it was them bones, and then them throws, and he only worked in two hour shifts in the morning, just before dawn and just after dawn, like six to seven and seven to eight, those were the hours he worked and those were the ours that his manhood would fly like those bones. It was a real climax. A real George Kastanza moment in sports, food and sex, but for the sultan it was his manhood launching the die laying there, as the wheels kept spinning round and round. It was like a game, but it was real, it was like Francis Scott Key fornicating his star spangled banner, it was like sunrise and sunset all in the same moment. It was light and it was darkness, and it was like a turban head Mahabharata, without Krishna or the Karma, it was like a game, and there were these dice and there were these throws, like Johnny Unitas having a super bowl and John  Glenn having his own moon shot. It was spectacular they said, like  a movie that was starring John Q without the public.

Yeah he knew all the throws and he knew how to win. The dice falling the sex launching and hails of Mary and a god and a great satan all in one bed. It was really something that Savannah would have smiled at, coyly mind you like a virgin, but then Sherman burned olde Dixie down like the song says and Saint Peter was waiting for it all, like that Richard III, that Son of York, a winter of discontent and a glorious summer warmed by suns filling the sky and tan lines galore.

If Nostradamus would have lived, he would have written quatrains about a throw of the dice like this, about magic jinns and  about a cock shot that with a fiery spew, but just as milky white Some would call it porn, but do not even the Indian legends have congress in them a real earth meets the sky, a poetry, a shapeshifting antelopes in the grass as behold Oppenheimer would not have anything better to recite as why would a Shylock quote the Talmud as it has it's own prostitute  and bastard.

He was the whole nine yards though. He was really something that Gungha Jinn, throwing them dice and always winning.

Always winning, throwing them bones and always winning, when you're hot you're hot and when you're not you're not.  That's the way it is with a Gungha Jinn after a slow boat, and making port and them bones in his pocket just heating up, and waiting to tell a story of shape and shift

Yeah, that Gungha and the Jinn gives you a shiver in the dark.


Nuff  Said




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