The monkey swam through the colorful trees of the Midwestern town, dipping and diving from branch to branch and from lightpost to stoplight. He was scarcely aware of the cars passing on a nearby street as he sped through the trees. Nor were the cars aware of him – which was a good thing. A monkey loose in this quiet community would certainly cause a stir.
The monkey dropped onto a fat tree branch and leaned heavily against the trunk, panting. He looked down at the squirrels running around on the ground and wondered how an animal could be so stupid. He gazed up at the sky and decided that Fall was coming soon. The air had begun to take on that brisk quality that wants nothing to do with Summer.
A small bird sat on a nearby branch chirping and squawking wildly. The monkey wondered what all the commotion was about. He didn’t understand birds. Were they as stupid as squirrels? Why did they eat grain? Why did they poop in mid-air? He had just about decided to ignore the annoying little bird when he noticed the squashed nest at his feet.
“I’m sorry little bird, I didn’t intent to wreck your nest. Please accept my apologies. I am truly sorry.” The bird continued to chirp and squawk leaving the monkey with the vague suspicion that he wasn’t being understood.
“Little bird, you mustn’t be angry with me, it was an accident.” No reaction from the bird. By now it was hopping up and down, flapping its wings in quick little expenditures of fury. The bird was of average bird size. But it had weird markings: a red-orange tint to his head and shoulders but a brown and white streaked body. The monkey decided that this little ball of feathers must be retarded. He grabbed a hold of a branch and was preparing to swing when…
“Fuck you! ‘chirp,” shouted the bird in a strange warbled voice.
“Whaa what?” stamored the monkey.
“You fucked up my nest. ‘chirp. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I.. I.. didn’t mean.. I was just swinging along and…” said the monkey.
“Well, at least my string collection survived. I would have had to pound your ass if it hadn’t.” The bird was gathering together a pile of scraps of string. There was a shoelace, colored yarn, kite string, bailing rope — all little scraps obviously collected over time.
“So who are you?” asked the bird.
“My name is Monkeyman,” replied the monkey. “I’m not from around these parts. I’m kind of lost actually.”
“That’s pretty obvious,” the bird said shaking his head. “I am from around here and I gotta say, you’re the first god-damned monkey I’ve ever seen.”
“I fear that is probably the case.”
“Well anyway, welcome to Dippsville Mr. Monkeyman. By the way, people call me Finch,” said Finch, dipping a wing in introduction.
“Pleasure to meet you Finch,” Monkeyman said. “You’re an odd little bird. I’ve never heard
anyone cuss as much as you.”
“Fuck… if you don’t cuss, ‘Chirp! Then people don’t take you seriously. Cussing makes you
seem more important. It’s like, you can be mad about something. But if you want people to know
you’re really mad, then cuss a whole bunch. People who don’t cuss are not cool.”
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