Bongo the Toxic Monkey

I hunkered on the craggy rocks beside the shore. Burnt the tip of my spliff and gazed out towards Alcatraz. Paused for a minute and contemplated all of the legendary men of crime and influence which filled its blocks and corridors.

I wondered if any of them smoked weed.

After all, it was legal much of the time the prison was open. The guards wouldn’t know what it was, but a well cultured convict might. He could probably grow it in the prison garden, smoke it literally under the guard’s noses, and ride out his whole stretch laughing at seagulls.

I pulled a long drag for the great Al Capone. The smooth steady smoke blew out into the distant horizon. The breaking kush clouds unravel into curled strands revealing a ghostly vessel.

As the last plumes rejoined the air the eerie vibes die.

It was just another boring ugly cargo ship. Probably filled with a bunch of worthless foreign crap for us to mindlessly consume and dispose of. As it dredged closer to the pier I thought I could hear the faint whimper of our world slowly dying.

But I was wrong

DEAD WRONG!!!

Six weeks prior Mother Nature woke up in her palace bedroom with a steaming headache. She sat up rubbing her temples looked in the mirror and puked. Popped the white top off the brown bottle and chugged 3 or 4 plasticodones down her burning dry throat. She swung her arms wildly atop the battered nightstand until she found the fifth of gasoline. A few generous swallows later she returned the blackout shades to her eyes and collapsed unconscious under the bed.

Bongo, her trusted pet monkey, stepped cautiously into the room. Mother Nature could get pretty mean after a bender, especially since she started partying with the humans.

He looked on her greying hair and sagging skin. It was painful to see this once vibrant nurturing soul reduced to a withered husk of debauchery.

Bongo had to look away. That was when he saw the pipe, blowtorch, and the small baggie stuffed with tiny black rocks.

Mother Nature was freebasing coal.

Bongo got mad. Really really mad. His knuckles dropped to the floor. His head turned to the ceiling as he roared and raged towards the heavens. It

At that moment Bongo’s life became clear and uncomplicated. Mother Nature was sick. Bongo needed to help her. Humans made Mother Nature sick so humans had to die. Bongo had to kill them.

ALL OF THEM!!!

I never saw the ragged wooden crate drop off the side of that ugly cargo ship. Never saw it wash up on the shore near my house. Was completely unaware that the monkey inside busted the wood into toothpicks with his brute monkey strength.

But I did hear a friendly knock on my front door.

I looked in the peephole and saw nothing. Figured I was just being high so I headed back to my couch and porn hub tablet.

Another knock. This time a for real one.

I threw on some pants and opened the door to a three foot tall monkey. I don’t know if that’s the Politically Correct term and this time I really didn’t care. Because Bongo was the cutest most adorablist widdle monkey I had ever seen. Yes he was. Tiny little lips, clear blue eyes, and mousy brown hair swept up like an elderly fohawk.

He pointed to his mouth. I lead him to the kitchen assuming he wanted a banana.

But I was wrong

BONGO WANTED ALL MY BANANAS!!!

Bongo leaped atop the wooden counter to reach the straw banana basket. Shucked the peels of all ten in a single swipe scattering them across the room. . Guzzled the white fruit down his throat like Coney Island hotdogs. He spied the the half crate of canned apple sauce I scored from the food bank. He grabbed a can, let out two aggressive grunts and squeezed the lid clean off. With the can open he poured the applesauce down his throat like Popeye’s spinach. Twelve cans back to back.

He lumbered towards the porn hub tablet. I block him, but with the slightest flick of a finger he send me crashing to the floor. I glimpsed him switching off The Hub before the screen disappeared from view.

I tried to peak over his shoulder. He snarled. I stood back.

Over the next three days Bongo worked tirelessly on that tablet. Every so often he’d point to his mouth to demand more bananas. He must have ate a small forest worth. It was all I could do to keep his cruel snarls and brutal flicks at bay.

Finally, on Wednesday 3:45 AM, Bongo heaved the tablet to the floor. It shattered and dimmed before my feet. He dropped his knuckles to the ground. His head turned up towards the ceiling as he screeched and cackled towards the heavens. It sounded like a cross between a mad villain and a primate banshee. All that was missing was a well-timed thunderbolt.

Bongo could have left through the front door, but instead he grunted, punched a hole through the kitchen window and wandered out.

I patch the hole with duct tape, shuffle off to bed and wake up. It’s 10:30. The sun pummels my lowered blinds and I don’t care. I grab the youtube tablet and turn on the news.

The reporter tells me that the police are on the lookout for a tiny little monkey known only as Bongo McCutesiepants. He was last seen operating a free vegan popup in Buena Vista Park. With two hours half of San Francisco showed up for a plate. What they didn’t know is that every serving contained a small amount of Bongo’s poop.

The poop contained a virus that made your skin break out in small pock like sores. Two hours later your bowels expelled every solid and liquid you can push through your anus. You would writhe on the ground in your own filth as you starved and thirsted in agony desperate for death.

That sweet merciful death finally arrived 30 minutes later. At that point whatever was left of your skin and organs exploded into a cloud of invisible infectious dust. Should Somebody breath in that dust they got sick too. So far there was 10,000 known casualties, but the invisible nature of the corpses made it hard to know for sure.

I immediately opened the blinds and shut the window. A police sniper’s rifle laser beam moved frantically to my chest. My front door exploded. Six cops dressed like soldiers bust into my bedroom. Three of them aimed their gunsights between my ass and shoulders.

So here I am, cuffed and shoved in the backseat. Out the cruiser window I see the black tinted SUV flank us just rear of the passenger side.

At the precinct interrogation room Very Special Agent Louie Kapato of Homeland Security waves a badge in front of my face. He wears a grey hoodie, blue Levis and a black pair of New Balance sneakers. This man is so forgettable and boring that you might overlook the scars across his cheeks or the sadistic malice in his bloodshot grey pupils.

He slaps a warm slimy arm across my shoulders. “hey pal” he empaths. “Looks like you’ve had a pretty rough morning. Kind of started off with a bang huh?”

It takes every ounce of might I have left in my being not to roll my eyes.

He prattles on “when we searched your living room with a black light I noticed that you had a tablet used specifically for porn. Most guys we pick up will go right from flogging the dummy to making a sandwich and texting their mom. Not you though. You’re a hygienic son of a gun. That’s very commendable these days.”

“However, it looks like a few days ago you stopped scraping the sword fish and took on a few new hobbies.”

He steps closer, towering over me like a tedious behemoth. The stench of spearmint lies heavy on his breath.

“Mind telling me about some of these hobbies?” He questions.

I shrug. “I couldn’t tell you. Between the lockdowns and restrictions one day just melts into another.”

His eyes cut into my soul

“So you know nothing about the Cryptocurrency Pump-and-dump we traced to your IP Address”

“Never heard of it.”

“The three grams of Afghani Heroin ordered from the dark web…”

“Nope”

“That you had delivered to the city councilwoman in exchange for an emergency vegan popup permit?”

“Is that even a thing?”

Agent Kapato ignores my dismissals. His tone dims as his scars melt into a sympathetic glow.

“You don’t seem like a bad guy.” He begins.” I bet you’re a decent hard working taxpayer. In fact, I think it’s quite noble that you want to save the world. Unfortunately there are times when even our best intentions can get us in over our heads.

“So what are you saying?” I ask.

He does the sitcom dad head tilt and lean

“Son, we found monkey fur all over your house. We know that Bongo is the real mastermind behind all of this horrible death and suffering. Confirm what we already know and we can all go home, drink beer and watch sports.”

Kapato is full of shit.

I don’t drink beer and I’m far from decent. The last guy who accused me of working hard or paying taxes got punched in the throat.

I ask for a lawyer. They drag me to an empty holding cell next to the police breakroom. I’m finally uncuffed as the door slams behind me.

I hear a TV faintly play the news in the background of the officer’s fishing trip stories. They laugh mercilessly about the homeless burgler they caught with a list of goals in his pocket.

The laughter slowly silences. The first scream calls like a scalded kitten. The pathetic begging to Jesus soon follows. More screams start. In the midst of the madness two of the wailings end with a clean loud gunshot followed by a peaceful thud.

A half hour later the final screams stop. The putrid smell of blood and dangling entrails stings the air. The popping sounds like a soft bed of fluffy popcorn. This sound would be soothing if it wasn’t so deadly.

I take off my shirt and immediately hold it over the vents. I desperate to keep the infected skin cells away.

That’s when I notice the red pocks all over my hands.

I drop the shirt and press my ear to the bars to hear the TV. I’m hoping the slight sounds of another human might dull my impending agony. The reporter tells me that this new monkey pox has completely wiped out San Francisco with major outbreaks reported in Los Angeles and Reno.

My stomach makes its first fatal churn.

Maybe I was still high, but I thought that I could hear the faint whisper of Mother Nature saying “yay”.

I was right

DEAD RIGHT!!!