This tale went a bit off the rails, but I wanted to continue on the story of Monkey & Man from the 34th Fire. It's weird, it's dysfunctional, and it's probably what I would write on the regular. While I might have missed the humor mark, at least it is still strange enough to leave an impression.

Simian Savior

“Listen you degenerative fuck, I wanted my walnut cracked WITHOUT any pieces left in.” Monkey spit a hunk of bloody phlegm at a the feet of a small, trembling man. “I nearly killed myself and you’re to blame.”

“Please master, I promise never to do it again, never to displease or try to hurt you.” The quivering man weakly begged.

“You already have hurt me.” Monkey pointed with his grimy index finger on his left breast. “In my heart.”

Monkey gave a wave of his hand. “Let the punishment fit the crime. Have his nuts crushed.”

“NO, No master, please!” The previously nut-encapsulating servant begged of Monkey all the way to having his testicles placed in a walnut cracker and smashed repeatedly by Monkey’s “loyaler” servants. Namely, his single bodyguard Teeto, who often enjoyed Monkeys punishments to the point of keeling over in laughter while he set on the tasks Monkey ordered.

Monkey liked that in an “employee”. He needed more like Teeto.

Here in southwest Toronto, down in the gutterable ghetto, Monkey reigned supreme.

How? Well Monkey basically funneled Man’s fortunes into drugs and got a whole hood addicted. That was it. Monkey liked to keep things simple, and him having the only addictive drug available was as simple as being Jesus.

Men, women, and children began to worship him. They said he was the return of the true savior, of the one prophesied to the lost tribe of Israel. Monkey had become a messiah, both in the minds of his drug-addicted followers and his own.

As the nutless servant foamed at the mouth in pain, Teeto still giggling with every squeeze, Monkey only had one wish. One wish that even he, Black Jesus, couldn’t make into fruition.

All he wanted was for Man to be proud of him.

---

Man had searched the world over for Monkey. From Beirut to Boise, Man chased lead after tale after mysterious charge to his credit card account.

It was the only way Man knew Monkey was still alive. He had told him the credit card was to be used for emergencies only. He hadn’t seen Monkey since. From that moment on, Man began to get charges from DhongZhou, China. And it was all for a compound called Fetty Nal.

Man went to the address and found a dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of the infamous industrial city in China. What he found inside was the stuff of nightmares. Mid-90’s sudo-celebs jerking off into bags of dry ice and cocaine, the substance instantly drying, bonding, and becoming something else, something dark.

A kindly old Chinese man kept proudly explaining how it had taken him decades to figure out which profession made the saltiest semen and therefore the most addicting to its users.

He called the foul concoction Fetty Nal, named after the Chinese translation of Watto from Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace.

Man still did not understand, but kept nodding his head and smiling as the speckled old man wiped his spectacles off with his tattered traditional chinese plaid shirt.

“You know it good when it sizzle and pop” The old man said, putting his ear hairs next to one of the containers currently being filled up by Sinbad.

“This is madness” Man said under his breath, taking the whole thing in like a seasoned acid user taking a triple dose.

“And where does it all get sent?” Man asked aloud of the old man whose head was still near the dry ice container, occasionally shaking it with his old, trembling hands.

“Ah, that is a question now, isn’t.” The old man gassed a laugh. “I can only tell the one who pays the order the answer to your riddle.”

Man produced his passport, faded and worn from all these countless flights searching for Monkey and the answer.

“It’s a question, not a riddle, and I am Man, the one who has been paying for Carrot Top and those other “celebrities” over there to jerk off into tubs of dry ice and cocaine.”

The old man fixed his spectacles and focused in on Man’s passport, bearing his name and information the old man had seen on order forms for the past six months now.

“Ahhhhh, Mr. Man, so wonderful you come and explore your fine establishment I build for you!” The old man looked truly thankful, the same look upon his face as when he put his ear to Sinbad’s tub.

“The address, please.” Man said sternly, looking at the whole mess made from his money. He was used to investing in weird shit. But this right here, this was the magnum opus of craziness funded by extravagance. Well, other than Space-X.

The old man produced a slip of paper out of his pocket, the same paper he used to carefully make sure the address was right on each package. He gave the paper to Man.

Man looked at it and smirked. Monkey was a hard one to find, and this setup and misdirection game he played had been fun. But now it was time to end this. It was time to take Monkey home.

Man exited the place, like waking from a surreal nightmare. He got into his awaiting limo and pulled out his blackberry. A few flicks and button presses later, he put it up to his ear.

“Yes, I found it. No, BB, there is nothing to be done to the factory and its expenditures. It is to keep running and kept under our supervision.” Man readjusted the phone on his ear. “This thing is to powerful to fall into another madman’s hands. Just bury the payments under a few different corporations and get my credit card off it.”

Man stared out at the dilapidated warehouse, it’s rusted exterior hiding a business that has no holiness on earth. It was the most interesting thing Man had ever seen done with his money. He found himself rather impressed at Monkeys skills and ability to pull such a thing off.

“And BB, get me a ticket to Toronto. We found the ape.”

---

Monkey was swigging some rum, dancing like the rest, all gyrating his hips and swinging his arms far and wide, hitting people and knocking them down into the floor. Hard. Most people tried to stay away, but Monkey’s favorites were always kept at arm's length, the effects of Fetty Nal keeping them subtly sedated.

“OOO-ooo, I WANNA BE LIKE YOOO…” Blasted the speakers of the top floor of the Ghetto stacker, 35 floors in the sky, towering over all the other apartments the territory Monkey now controlled.

Fetty Nal had been an effective tool, and Monkey had wielded it well. He was glad he did this instead of play Fallout 76.

As Monkey swayed over to his throne, a big Lazy Boy recliner, he caught a familiar figure standing out from the rest of the crowd.

Man strode over to Monkey, a new aura of confidence and surety blanketing him, far from the sniveling, over-polite human filth Monkey had been stealing from over the past half a year.

“Man, you son of a bitch.” Monkey motioned for Deboo who instantly grew grinning towards Man.

Man put out his finger in front of Monkey, the quickness and firm manner catching Monkey off guard. Man had had it with Monkey’s bullshit.

“Monkey, it’s time to end this.” Man voice carried across the slowly emptying floor, the majority of people ready to leave and miss a boring reunion.

A helicopter shined a spotlight on them, it’s blades slowly whirling down

Monkey came slowly over to Man and held his hand out for Man to grab it. Man did so, completing the promo for Matthew Broderick’s greatest film, Project X.

“I didn’t miss you” Monkey flatly said.

“I’m impressed by what you did, but I’m disgusted by it also.” Man yelled to Monkey as they headed to the whirling helicopter settling down in front of them, the name MAN INDUSTRIES stenciled on the side.

“Fuck you” Monkey said, a cold tear of pride swelling under his puffy eyelids.

“I love you, too” Man replied as they jumped into the helicopter, slowly rising above the Toronto cityscape at night and away from the hell that Monkey had created with Man’s money.