A Rude Little Monkey

By Kelly Jameson

It's so hard to live with someone who's mentally ill. Especially when you're the one who's mentally ill.

I had this stuffed monkey. Whenever I left my apartment, I know he ran around saying rude things about me. But every time I came home, there he was, right where I'd left him, in the locked curio cabinet wedged in a collection of priceless dolls I inherited from some aunt of mine who never touched a drop of alcohol in her bisque-porcelain rag-doll life. Yeah, I’m a guy who inherited a bunch of stupid dolls. Get over it.

The monkey, though, he's devious. He wears clothes and shoes. He knows how to get out of that locked curio, that cocksucker. And I know he fucks those frilly dolls when I'm not looking, I just know it, pulls up their lacy dresses and rocks them until their eyes roll back in their pretty porcelain heads and he comes on their rose-bisque cheeks. They don't say anything. Their glass eyes fixed firmly in their sockets and their perfect little teeth motionless in their open-mouths. I shook one once and her teeth dropped back into her neck and I had to take her to a doll hospital, but it wasn't a very reputable doll hospital because I didn't have insurance. She hasn't been the same since.

The monkey is 16 inches tall, an antique-jointed mohair straw-stuff toy monkey. You can't see it, but he has a huge monkey cock that causes all his problems, see.

But now I'm wishing I hadn't put his sorry ass in the big trash bin behind my apartment complex and it's driving me crazy, thinking about him sitting in there with his fuzzy plump little brown monkey ass and worn red lips crying his monkey tears among dead steaks and rotten potatoes and soft cabbage and slimy gravy pork chops and shit like that.

"Don't you ever sell those priceless dolls," my mother always said to me. She'd never had a daughter to give them to. "Don't ever sell them. They're valuable." Inexplicably, the antique monkey had come with the doll collection.

At night those dolls mocked me while I slept. I know that little cocksucker monkey fiend put them up to it. All of them, in their locked glass harem cage laughing, their stupid glazed eyes laughing at me too.

The old hag who lives across the hall from me is fascinated by dolls. She came over and knocked on my door when I first moved in. I didn't let her in, but she saw the curio. "Oh, you have dolls."

I said nothing. I was just waiting for her to take her big fat shitfucked ass back across the hall to her pierogie-smelling apartment. I'm that kind of guy.

"A number one Ponytail Barbie from 1959 is going to be more valuable than a Bubble Cut doll from the mid-60s, even though they have the same face mold," she continued.

I decided I'd rather drink beer than listen to her, so I padded over to my refrigerator, grabbed a bottle, and took a long suck off the neck, followed it with a huge beastly belch. It was a mistake. There I was, in my ripped boxer shorts, my limp cock nearly hanging out the fly (I hadn't had any action for about two years), and she comes in and is staring at the stupid dolls and the monkey. I see the monkey's lips twitch. He wants to call her a big fat bitch but is holding back. Then the monkey is looking at me. I know what he's thinking: you unemployed gutless turd with a giggle-stick I get more cunt than you! I felt like killing that monkey.

"Most older dolls, they were bought with playful children in mind," the old hag said. I drained my beer and got another one. She still hadn't noticed that I had no interest in conversing with her. "They were either loved to death or restyled with writing implements and scissors," she droned on. "Imagine. As collectibles, they don't retain much value unless they survived their early lives relatively unscathed or at least in a repairable state. These dolls look really good. They look valuable. Why does a man have a collection of dolls?"

That incensed me. It was none of her fucking business why I had a collection of dolls and a stuffed monkey. "Oh these dolls have been fucked over and fucked over good," I said. "By that monkey there. He fucks 'em all every night because he's got a huge monkey cock and he's rude and he can't help himself."

She looked at me with wide greasy grey eyes almost as dead as the dolls she admired.

"You wait and see," I said. "During the day, when I'm not here, he finds a way to get out and he makes all kinds of noise and yells obscenities and drinks my beer." I sucked down more beer. "Listen, are you going to suck my cock or what?"

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