I HAVE been telling the monkeys stories to calm them before afternoon nap times. If they don’t get naptime they go apeshit and someone gets bitten before dinner. I ran out of original story ideas a couple of days ago so I’ve been ripping off movie plots.
I’d seen a movie not so long ago, where monkeys became self aware and took over the world. I think it was The Terminator. Anyway, the monkeys in the movie were led by this dude called Caesar. The monkeys forged a rebellion through their love of cookies and travelled back in time to kill the leader of the human resistance before he was born.
It seemed cute to tell the monkeys this story but it just stirred them up. They liked the idea of world domination. Before I could start on the merry adventures of a misunderstood green Scottish Ogre who travelled with an African American donkey, they monkeys had already helped me down the tree.
Many carried me along Monkey Forest Road in a rickshaw as the others waged war at my pleasure, stealing bamboo hats, punching taxi drivers, drinking bintang, biting all the tourists they could find, and trying to ride scooters.
A fat, sunburnt tourist with a colourful Hawaiian shirt flailed blindly along the street as six hissing monkeys heaped around his body, chewing through his pudgy skin. He was yelling in a heavy English accent, that, “Nobody tells ya that the monkeys bite ya!” It was at this memorable moment when Chompy rode at him on a scooter. His helmet slipped over his eyes at just the wrong time so he veered too far to the left and crunched straight into the whinging man, who somersaulted into a wooden pillar of the Three Monkeys Cafe.
This promoted the wonderful idea of staying there for lunch, and we regaled each other with stories of our exploits, while we drank our ginger and apple juices. The waitresses gathered in a frightened huddle to debate whether they should ask if we’d pay our bill together or separately.