"Loser!"
Cliff drained the beer can, focusing his eyes at the source of the
insult. A winged monkey--bristly grey fur, tail curled behind, wings
folded--perched on the railing of his deck. Its beady eyes followed as
he delicately stacked the empty can on the growing tower. Cliff popped
open another, and the creature responded with a wide, toothy grin.
Taking a long slurp, he lowered the beer to see a second monkey land
beside the other. This one wore a gas mask.
"This our recipient?" it inquired.
The first consulted a hand-held computer. It nodded confidently.
"Why da gas mask?" it asked.
"'Cause he's a STINKIN' loser!"
The simians rocked back and forth in hysterical laughter.
Cliff struggled to sit upright in the plastic lawn chair. He was in no
mood for verbal abuse, especially from flying monkeys. He had no
girlfriend, no job, and no prospects of either. He was reduced to doing
odd jobs to supplement his unemployment checks.
"Flying monkeys," he commented with the calm objectivity provided by
four beers.
"Simia volaticus," corrected the know-it-all in the gas mask.
Cliff responded by taking another drink, cautiously peering over the
can's rim.
A third monkey fluttered down to join his compatriots. It lifted the
sunglasses precariously balanced on it snubby nose. "Knock knock," it
said.
"Knock knock who?" came the predictable chorus.
"Loo."
"Loo who?"
"Loo-ser!"
The monkeys laughed riotously, wiping tears from their little, beady
eyes.
"Shove off," growled Cliff. He flung the can at the intruder wearing the
gas mask. It easily dodged the aluminum missile, cocking an ear towards
the ground in response to the hollow clank.
"He 'beer'-ly missed me!" it announced.
The monkeys howled in laughter, holding onto each other to keeps from
falling off the railing.
Cliff staggered up from his chair. "F-ck you." He recovered the
surviving beers and yanked open the porch door.
His sight blackened with flying monkeys. To the flutter of a dozen
wings, rough, little hands pulled him upward. He struggled--punching,
twisting, kicking, until he glanced below. Tree tops passed beneath him.
He froze. He squeezed his eyes shut.
The wind whistled in his ears, accompanied by the rhythmic flap of
monkey wings.
Suddenly, their grip released. He felt himself spiraling downward.
Opening his eyes, his heart stopped at the sight of a police-car's roof
rushing at him. He thumped, bounced, then slithered onto the hood.
Ignoring the wailing alarm, he inventoried his injuries. He decided he
felt Ok, except . . .
His stomach churned. Sour vomit shot from his mouth and up his nose.
Gagging, he rolled off the hood of the car. Then, he threw up beer all
over himself, the pavement . . . and the police car.
Clinging to the door handle and mirror, he climbed back to his feet. He
distinctly heard unrestrained monkey guffaws as the police officers ran
in his direction.
* * * * *
Cliff fumbled his apartment key into the scarred lock. The cold,
disinfectant-stinking holding cell had sobered him quickly. His brother,
a lawyer, was confident the charges would be pled down to misdemeanors
with compensation.
Cliff pushed open the door. He groaned.
His meager furniture was overturned. Bookshelves were emptied, their
contents scattered over the floor. Stale cigar smoke hung in the air,
spiced with the odor of burnt cooking. From the kitchen came the clatter
of plates, pots, and raucous drunken merriment.
Stepping over empty beer cans, books, and frozen food wrappers, Cliff
tip-toed to the kitchen door and eavesdropped.
A bottle clanked onto the counter. "Last-(hiccup)-brown booze," rasped a
simian voice. The distinctive pop of an opening beer can followed.
"Let's burn something."
Cliff was cold sober now, and things would be different this time. He
carefully planned his attack, then threw himself into the kitchen.
The floor was smeared with catsup, mustard, and a few unrecognizable
substances. Flying monkeys were scattered on the counter, in the chairs,
and passed out on top of the refrigerator.
He ripped open a cabinet door, pulling out a heavy pitcher and wielded
it, like Samson swinging the jawbone of the ass. Scattering his enemies,
he slammed one creature in its furry chest. The simia volaticus
bounced across the table, smacked into the wall, and flopped to the
floor.
"Get out of here!"
Swinging again, he slapped one flying monkey against a cabinet. It
screeched in pain, but clung tightly to the pitcher, wrapping its tail
around Cliff's hand. Another tackled his leg, and he pounded it with his
monkey-pitcher weapon. The creature on the refrigerator popped awake,
and flung itself at Cliff. He batted the monkey out of the air with
self-amazing dexterity. Too busy to be surprised by his hand-to-monkey
combat skill, he flailed away with the monkey-clad pitcher--bashing a
swath through snapping jaws, clutching hands, and grasping tails.
A second monkey clambered onto the pitcher. Prying it off, he yanked
open the oven door, and flung the original monkey-pitcher combination
inside. Then, ripping the electric can opener from the outlet, he swung
it by the cord into his chattering enemies. The oven door squeaked open,
and he slammed it shut with his backside.
His winged tormentors rallied into a monkey-phalanx, hooting and
encouraging each other for a counter-attack. Cliff pulled open the
kitchen tool-drawer and pulled out a hammer. Adrenaline rushed through
him, the fire of combat burning in his eyes.
"Come on you Wizard of Oz rejects," he challenged. "Come and get me."
"Man, you could hurt somebody," whined one.
"Yeah, it's, like, this isn't your stuff." added another.
"It's my apartment!"
"Au contraire, you merely rent," countered the monkey-preacher.
Cliff felt fists desperately pounding the oven glass. He pressed his
full weight against the door.
His first victim had regained consciousness, staggered up on all fours,
and delicately examined its tail. Satisfied, the monkey shook out its
wings and stretched to its full two-foot height. Pointing, it growled in
a low-voiced, mock Austrian accent: "I'll be back."
The whole crew collectively fled the kitchen. Cliff heard the deck door
slide open, then a barrage of parting insults, followed by flapping
wings.
"Let me out of here." The voice from the oven definitely wasn't a
monkey's.
Cliff crouched, peering through the oven's little glass window. He
looked directly into a human female face graced with ocean-blue eyes and
perfect eyebrows. A torrent of wavy, blonde hair covered her
shoulders.
Hefting the electric can opener as a precaution, he pulled down the oven
door an inch, and peeked inside.
"Please let me out." Her voice progressed from demanding to plaintive.
Cliff complied.
She poked out her head, retreated, slipped out a slim arm and shoulder,
then huddled inside. "Uh, Could you get me something to wear?"
Cliff bounded from the kitchen, leaping over catsup and mustard puddles,
skipping over living room rubble and debris. He hesitated at the
bedroom--he could just give her a towel . . . no, it might be too small.
Going to the closet, he slid open the door and examined his limited
wardrobe. Something long enough . . .something easy to pull on . . .
Flipping through hangers, he found a grey button-down dress-shirt and
ran back to the kitchen.
She had advanced onto the door, but had arranged to maintain some degree
of physical modesty. He could still glimpse a lithesome thigh, a finely
toned shoulder, the soft curve of a breast . . .
Cliff offered the shirt. "I think it's big enough."
She nodded rapidly, clutching the clothing to her chest. "You know, you
can leave now."
Stepping over the condiment puddles, he paced back and forth outside the
kitchen door, wishing he had a beer.
After a few moments, in a less than confident voice, she called him
back.
She had rolled up the sleeves, and the front and back tails of the shirt
barely covered the subject.
"Where am I?" she asked, her voice a mix of emotions.
"In my apartment." Cliff struggled to prevent his eyes from wandering
over the shortcomings of her impromptu clothing. He tried to compensate
by offering more information. "This is St. Louis. It's May, two-thousand
two."
Her eyes went wide. "Two thousand two?" she squeaked. Her shoulders
shook violently, and an explosion of sobs poured out. Tears streaked
down her cheeks. "A year," she gasped. She futilely swiped at the tears
with her sleeve.
Cliff fidgeted, not sure how to comfort a woman who was formerly a
winged monkey. In a moment of inspiration he slipped past her to recover
a handful of unburnt paper towels.
Sniffling, she accepted his offering. "You saved me," she said, her
voice hushed.
She stepped nearer, blue eyes locking onto his. "It was horrible. They
made me one of them. But all the time, I knew . . ." The tears poured
again. "You saved me!" Arms open, she crushed herself to Cliff. Molding
her body to his, she kissed him fiercely. In that instant, impressions
flooded him--flawless skin, tongue cautiously seeking his, her hips
grinding against his groin . . .
Only a tiny part of his mind heard the fleshy 'pop'.
Something sinuous caressed his thigh. Bristly grey fur exploded through
her cheeks, teeth became sharp needles. He jerked his head away,
watching her eyes change to dark buttons, the nose flatten and widen,
her whole form shrink to a simian likeness. He tried to push away, but
sinewy monkey arms clung around his neck. With a desperate effort he
broke the creature's grip. It fell to the floor, bundled in the shirt.
Small furry hands reached from inside, unbuttoning its way out. Cliff
stared wide eyed. The flying monkey shook out its wings and grinned.
"Gotcha!" Hooting triumphantly, it bounced off the apartment walls.
Pausing, the creature theatrically blew him a kiss, then spread its
wings and leapt into the air.
Cliff watched it shrink to a distant speck, its howling guffaws fading.
After a while, he turned in a slow circle, surveying the wreckage--empty
liquor bottles, cigar ash, broken CDs, books flung in abandon, scraps of
food painted on the walls.
"Why me?" Cliff screamed.
He pounded the floor with his fists. He shouted complete paragraphs of
obscenities, stringing together new and unheard of epithets.
The ringing phone caught his attention. Too weary to answer, he let the
answering machine take the call.
"Mr. Browning, I represent Flying Monkey Quality Assurance. May I ask a
few questions about the quality of our harassment-"
Cliff hurled himself at the telephone, ripping the handset from the
cradle. "The name is Brown! There's no Browning here!"
The monkey voice at the other end hesitated. "You're not Cliff
Browning?"
He roared into the speaker. "Brown! The name is Cliff Brown!"
"Are you sure?" it responded, totally devoid of its maniacal
confidence.
Cliff sighed heavily.
There was a long silence on the telephone, followed by panicked voices
in hurried discussion. "Our mistake," it apologized.
The line went dead.
****
I can think of a few folks I'd like to send a 'monkeygram,' can't
you?
Comments to the BBS, please--gm
x x x
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