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Quality
Assurance "Loser!" Cliff drained the beer can, focusing his eyes at the source of the insult. A winged monkey—bristly grey fur, tail curled behind, wings folded—perched on the railing of his porch. Its beady eyes followed as he delicately stacked the empty can on the growing tower. Cliff popped open another, and the creature responded with a wide, toothy grin. Taking a long slurp, he lowered the beer to see a second monkey land beside the other. This one wore a gas mask. "This the right address?" it inquired. The first consulted a hand-held computer. It nodded confidently. "Why da gas mask?" it asked. "'Cause he's a STINKIN' loser!" The simians rocked back and forth in hysterical
laughter. He was reduced to doing odd jobs to supplement his unemployment checks. "Flying monkeys," he commented with the calm objectivity provided by four beers. "Simia volaticus," corrected the know-it-all in the gas mask. Cliff responded by taking another drink, cautiously peering over the can's rim. A third monkey fluttered down to join his compatriots. It lifted the sunglasses precariously balanced on it snubby nose. “Knock knock,” it said. “Knock knock who?” came the predictable chorus. “Loo.” “Loo who?” “Loo-ser!” The monkeys laughed riotously, wiping tears from their little, beady eyes. "Shove off," growled Cliff. He flung the can at the intruder wearing the gas mask. It easily dodged the aluminum missile, cocking an ear towards the ground in response to the hollow clank. "He 'beer'-ly missed me!" it announced. The monkeys howled in laughter, holding onto each other to keep from falling off the railing. Cliff staggered up from his chair. "Fuck you." He recovered the surviving beers and yanked open the porch door. From nowhere a man-sized canvas bagged dropped over him. He struggled--punching, twisting, kicking, only to feel ropes tighten around him. He paused to think through his predicament. Flying monkeys had tied him in a bag. Houdini had escaped from such restraints—-but then, he wasn’t Houdini. Apparently his captors were more interested in shock and awe than results. After nail-pulling effort, he had untied the knots from inside, and pulled the bag from over his head. Cliff whipped open the door and stumbled into his apartment. He groaned. His meager furniture was overturned. Bookshelves were emptied, their contents scattered over the floor. Stale cigar smoke hung in the air, spiced with the odor of burnt cooking. From the kitchen came the clatter of plates, pots, and raucous drunken merriment. Stepping over empty beer cans, books, and frozen food wrappers, Cliff tip-toed to the kitchen door and eavesdropped. A bottle clanked onto the counter. “Last—(hiccup)-brown booze,” rasped a simian voice. The distinctive pop of an opening beer can followed. “Let’s burn something.” Cliff was cold sober now, and things would be different this time. He carefully planned his attack, then threw himself into the kitchen. The floor was smeared with catsup, mustard, and things he didn’t want to identify. Flying monkeys were scattered on the counter, in the dining set chairs, and passed out on top of the refrigerator. He ripped open a cabinet door, pulling out a heavy pitcher and wielded it, like Samson swinging the jawbone of the ass. Scattering his enemies, he slammed one creature in its furry chest. The simia volaticus bounced across the table, smacked into the wall, and flopped to the floor. "Get out of here!" The creature on the refrigerator popped up awake, and flung itself at Cliff. He batted the monkey out of the air with self-amazing dexterity. Astonished by his hand-to-monkey combat skill, he flailed away with the monkey-clad pitcher—bashing a swath through snapping jaws, clutching hands and grasping tails. A second monkey clambered onto the pitcher, rendering the weapon useless. Prying it off, Cliff yanked open the oven door, and flung the original monkey-pitcher combination inside. Then, ripping the electric can opener from the outlet, he swung it by the cord, mowing down his chattering enemies. The oven door squeaked open, and he slammed it shut with his backside. His winged tormentors rallied into a monkey-phalanx,
hooting and encouraging each other for a counter-attack. “Man, you could hurt somebody,” whined one. “Yeah, it’s like this is your stuff…” added another like he was speaking from a pulpit. “It’s my apartment!” “Au contraire, you merely rent,” countered the monkey-preacher. Cliff felt fists desperately pounding the oven glass. He pressed his full weight against the door. His first victim had regained consciousness, staggered up on all fours, and delicately examined its tail. Satisfied, the flying monkey shook out its wings and stretched to its full two-foot height. Pointing a murderous finger, it creature growled in a low-voiced mock Austrian accent. “I’ll be back.” The Dorothy nemesis crew fled the kitchen. Cliff heard the porch door slide open, then a barrage of parting insults, followed by flapping wings. “Let me out of here.” The voice from the oven
definitely wasn’t a monkey’s. Hefting the electric can opener as a precaution, he
pulled down the oven door an inch, and peeked inside. Cliff complied. She poked out her head, retreated, slipped out a slim arm and shoulder, then huddled inside. “Uh, Could you get me something to wear?” Cliff bounded from the kitchen, leaping over catsup and mustard puddles, skipping over living room rubble and debris. He hesitated at the bedroom—-he could just give her a towel…no, it might be too small. Going to the closet, he slid open the door and examined his limited wardrobe. Something long enough…something easy to pull on… Flipping through hangers, he found a grey button-down dress-shirt and ran back to the kitchen. She had advanced onto the door, but had arranged to
maintain some degree of physical modesty. He could still She nodded rapidly, clutching the clothing to her chest. “You know, you can leave now.” Stepping over the condiment puddles, he paced back and
forth outside the kitchen, wishing he had a beer. She had rolled up the sleeves, and the front and back tails of the shirt barely covered the subject. “Where am I?” she asked, her voice a mix of emotions. “In my apartment.” Cliff struggled to prevent his eyes from wandering over the short-comings of the impromptu clothing. He tried to compensate by offering more information. “This is St. Louis. It’s March thirty, two-thousand four.” Her eyes went wide. “Two thousand four?” she squeaked.
Her shoulders shook violently, and an explosion of sobs poured out. Tears
streaked down her cheeks. “A year,” she gasped. She futilely swiped at the
tears with her sleeve. Sniffling, she accepted his offering. “You saved me,” she said, her voice hushed. She stepped nearer, blue eyes locking onto his. “It was horrible. They made me one of them. But all the time, I knew…” The tears poured again. “You saved me!” Arms open, she crushed herself to Cliff. Molding her body to his, she kissed him fiercely. In that instant, impressions flooded him—flawless skin, tongue cautiously seeking his, her hips grinding against his groin…. Only a tiny part of his mind heard the fleshy ‘pop’.
Something sinuous caressed his thigh. Bristly grey fur exploded through her
cheeks, teeth became sharp needles. He jerked his head away, watching her
eyes change to dark buttons, the nose flatten and widen, her whole form
shrink to a simian likeness. He tried to push it away, but the sinewy monkey
arms clung around his neck. With a desperate effort he broke the creature’s
grip. It fell The flying monkey shook out its wings and grinned. “Gotcha!” Hooting triumphantly, it bounced off the apartment walls. Pausing, the creature blew him a kiss, then spread its wings and leapt into the air. Cliff watched it shrink to a distant speck, the howling guffaws fading. After a while, he turned in a slow circle, surveying the wreckage--empty liquor bottles, cigar ash, broken CDs, books flung in abandon, scraps of food painted on the walls. “Why me?” Cliff screamed. He pounded the floor with his fists. He shouted complete paragraphs of obscenities, stringing together new and unheard of epithets. The ringing phone caught his attention. Too weary to answer, he let the answering machine take the call. “Mr. Browning, I represent Flying Monkey Quality Assurance. May I ask a few questions about the quality of our harassment—" Cliff hurled himself at the telephone, ripping the handset from the cradle. “The name is Brown! There’s no Browning here!” The monkey voice at the other end hesitated. “This address isn’t six-one-oh-five Afton Way?” Six-one-oh-five was his neighbor. His BMW parking-in- two-spaces, loud-partying, with-a-screaming-girlfriend neighbor. “This is six-one-oh-six,” he roared into the speaker. “Brown! The name is Cliff Brown!” "Are you sure?" it responded, losing its maniacal confidence. Cliff sighed heavily. There was a long silence on the telephone, followed by panicked voices in hurried discussion. “Sorry about the inconvenience," squeaked a voice. The line went dead. |