99 Monkeys


You know, I think monkeys are really cool. So, one day as I was walking past the pet store on my way home from work, and saw a sign that said, "99 Monkeys for a Quarter", I jumped on the deal. I scurried into the store and threw my quarter up on the counter. The sales-lady looked at me and I shouted, "Gimme the monkeys!"

So there I was, standing on 4th and 3rd with 99 of my own monkeys. I had tied ropes around all their wrists so as to not lose even one. They looked something like a primitive chain gang. Sure, I got looks, but I didn't care. This was my dream . . . well one monkey short of my dream, and no one was going to disrupt it. So, I took my monkeys along with me on the walk home. One of the monkeys sodomized a small boy on the way, but I thought as long they realized who the authority figure was in this situation, I didn't mind. It was kind of fun to watch anyway.

We finally got to my doorstep, and yes of course, I got some more strange looks. This time from my neighbors. I mean most people haven't seen anyone as beautiful as myself after all, but then again, I think the monkeys could have been part of the reason for their stares. I bet they were just jealous. I lead my new monkey friends into my house and strangely enough they did not seem very pleased with their new surroundings - or my cat Freud. One of the monkeys grabbed my poor cat and started violently molesting the little soul. I do not know if it was the same monkey who had violated the small boy. Damn monkeys all look the same.

So, anyway, days passed by and I tried to feed them bananas, as I figured all monkeys ate bananas. But oh no, not these monkeys. They refused. So instead I feed them Freud. Hey, I had 99 monkeys, what use did I have for a cat. Things went quite smoothly over the next couple of weeks, but then their behavior changed. My sweet little monkeys had become violent and demanding.

They would screech and hurl their large bodies at me if I did not give them exactly what they wanted. Sometimes I found this hard, as monkeys are not the easiest creatures to understand. These ones had not been taught sign-language like those laboratory monkeys, although one had quite a way with body language. Soon I was a slave to my once friendly monkeys. I had no life.

I worked all day and then came home to find the house a mess. The floors would be covered in their fecal matter, their hairballs, and whatever other disaster that was left over from their raging. After cleaning, I would feed the monkeys. By this time my grocery bill was HUGE. The monkeys had taken a liking to Big Mac's. The monkeys would often make me play games with them.

Their favorite game (which I stupidly introduced them to) was "Barrel Full O' Monkeys," except of course they preferred to use, not the little plastic monkeys that come with the game, but themselves instead.

Soon they got bored of these games, and used me as an object of their fascination. They made me dress in outrageous outfits, sing songs and dance. This was getting to be too much! I could not take this abuse from these neanderthals (Well, they were not Neanderthals exactly, neanderthals were not monkeys, but hey, it is descriptive isn't it?!)

By this time, three months had passed. I had not seen my friends or my family, as the monkeys persisted with subliminal messages as I slept that they were my friends AND my family. The next day I went, not to work, but instead to the Fire Arm Licensing Bureau. There I got a license (and I must add, I am grateful to the people there to this day!) and went to a small cafe to plan my revenge. But crap, I had to go through the standard waiting period, another five days of this torture . . . damn politicians. If only they had 99 irate monkeys to deal with! The five days passed very slowly. To my dismay, the monkeys were getting wilder and more obscene as the days passed. At the end of the five days, I was overjoyed to pick up my nice, new, shiny Colt .45!

My gun strapped to my side, inside my jacket, fully loaded, I walked calmly and nonchalantly into my once beautiful home. An eerie silence lurked about the living room, the kitchen, down the hall. Where were the monkeys? OH MY GOD. They knew! But where did they go? I crept silently along the wall of the hallway into the dining room. Nothing. No monkeys, so sounds, no movements. WAIT! There, behind the curtain. SHIT! BANG BANG BANG . . . three monkeys flew from the drapes and landed on the floor in a crumpled, bloody pile. My life flashed before me as a stampede of about 20 monkeys came hurtling towards me. SHIT, they found my speed!

These monkeys were doped up and looking for action. One of the monkeys grabbed me and threw me to the ground, knocking the gun from my trembling hand. I was now involved in a body grinding, head crushing, monkey brawl. Thank god the monkeys were close to retarded.

I had a chance to slip out of the wrestling ball of hair and tails and reach for my gun. I fired too many shots to count, changing magazines as each spent itself, and there, yet another pile of dead and half dead monkeys lay writhing on the ground. Hell, sixty six more monkeys to go. This was impossible. I reloaded once more, and started marching like a continental soldier through the house. Monkeys flying from doorways and closets, some feeling the wrath of my .45, others jumping too far and snapping their necks on the walls and perishing. I cautiously stumbled over the monkey corpses that lay on the floor, counting them, to see how many of these non-banana eating monkeys were left. 68 monkeys lay there. . . scattered in a distorted, tangled mess. How many more of these sons and daughters of bastards and bitches were left?

I walked up the stairs and could find no monkeys. I gazed out my window and saw seven of the eight monkeys that were left pouring kerosene on my car, either in revenge for the monkeys I'd killed, or because they were freaking psycho. Little did they know I had a laser scope. I aimed my gun at the car, let a shot ring out and there was a HUGE explosion. Monkeys and monkey parts flew every which way. Tails, heads, boots. Hey, there was this one monkey who had a shoe fetish, OK?

But now there was still one monkey left, somewhere in the house. Somewhere, but where? I searched the whole house, every nook, every cranny, until I opened a cupboard in the kitchen to find Milo. Milo was the smallest monkey of them all. He was a kind little fellow. Never played any of the monkey games, never taunted me, never maimed me for pleasure, he was a sweet sort. He was huddled in a corner of the cupboard with the remains of Freud. (I found it very sweet that he found comfort in carrying around a dead, nearly eaten cat).

He had a look of total fear and devastation in his little black eyes. I began to reach down, so I could pick him up and hold him, cuddle him in this frightening time. Hold him tight and let him know he was safe with me. But instead I shot him right between his glistening, little eyes. I could not let even one of these damn cheap monkeys survive. After all the monkeys were dead, and I was freed from my monkey slavery, I looked around and thought, "Damn, I am missing Jeopardy." I grabbed a bowl of popcorn, pulled up a monkey, sat and watched TV.

The End