A Rude Little Monkey - 2

By Kelly Jameson

She quickly vacated my apartment.

I was alone. Again. I couldn't even get any action from a toothless old hag who admired my priceless doll collection.

After six beers, a pint of whiskey, and some scotch, those dolls, with their painted-stiff eyelashes and gluey eyebrows, pouty lips and cheek blush started to look pretty good. They gave me a woody. I could almost understand why the monkey took them up the ass every night. Then I became disgusted with myself for my thoughts, got dressed, and decided to go to a bar. It was 10 a.m.

Before I left, I put the key to the curio on top of the refrigerator. I stood before the glass and eyed the monkey. "Listen you French-fried fuck, you contemptible bit of nothing, you ransacked shit for brains, don't even think about getting out of there and running around this apartment calling me names."

The monkey's lips twitched. "What did you just call me? Did you call me a bung-eyed bunghole?"

The monkey said nothing. I said nothing. "Listen you stringy piece of monkey shit, I get back and find out you got out and were running around this place calling me filthy names and dong-flogging again I'll dress you up like a banana and leave you in the monkey cage at the zoo."

The monkey said nothing.

I said nothing.

Then I left.

As I locked my apartment door, I caught a glimpse of the old hag staring at me from behind her door, which was cracked open slightly. I turned and she slammed it shut.

I didn't have a job. Got fired from my last job as an emergency tech. Guess I shouldn't have showed up drunk and talked about the monkey, that goddamn monkey. Nobody driving an ambulance has any sense of humor anymore.

Not surprisingly, the bar was deserted except for me, the bar tender, and a big fat lady dressed in a purple feather boa and a purple sparkly dress.

She bought me a drink, plopped her wide ass on a bar stool right next to me. She smelled faintly of day-old tacos and cocktail wieners. There was no guessing her age. She could've been 40 or 84.

I drank the scotch and water. She bought me another.

"Do you have any haunted antiques?" she asked. "You look like the kind of man who's haunted. For twenty bucks, I can come back to your place and do, um, a cleansing." She slurped at an amaretto sour with her big sloppy un-doll-like lips.

"A cleansing? Twenty bucks? Does the cleansing involve blowing me?"

"That can be arranged for another ten," she said.

I thought about the monkey. Since I moved into that apartment, I'd never brought a woman home. I couldn't stand the thought of those little black monkey eyes watching me, mocking me while I banged some chick or got some head. Still, I'd felt so bad about putting his little brown body in the trash bin that the same night I'd climbed back in there and got him out, very lovingly washed the crap off him, dried him off, and sat him next to my bed. But I couldn't stand him staring at me so I put him back in the curio. And wouldn't you know it? The very next day he was at it again, sticking his rude monkey thing into those dolls and calling me filthy names when I left the apartment. Bastard. Then I thought, maybe the little guy just doesn't like me locking him up like that. Even though he can get out. So I put him on the sofa. I thought about taking him to the beach, which was only a few blocks away, sitting in the sand, holding his hand. But I decided against it. He was too much of a cocksucker. He wouldn't appreciate it.

"Twenty bucks?" I repeated, thinking maybe the monkey was possessed.

"Twenty plus ten for the blowjob," she said.

"Ok."

I threw a few bills on the bar and we left and went back to my place. We took the elevator to the second floor. She didn't complain when I tried to get at one of her mountainous butt cheeks. She laughed.

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