Smoke Damage (smokedamage) wrote,
Smoke Damage
smokedamage

  • Mood:
  • Music:

The Disability Monkey

in case you missed it i started writing again. Creative energy around me does that, it bleeds into my brain.

Part One is here



I woke up feeling pretty underdone, after a sizable Saturday. Had I been able to stand I doubt I could have. I’d kept the monkey off the piss so that he could wait on us all night. He sulked mightily but credit to him, he did his job while the party was on. Once it had wrapped up and I had passed out, he decided a change was in order.

So sometime Sunday I woke up, and there’s no sign of the bugger anywhere. Nothing unusual there, of course. I figured he’d be pouting and pulling long faces on the verandah, while sucking down one of my cigs. I clamber gracelessly onto the wheels, and make like an Autobot (autobots… roll out…)

The door is shut and there’s no sign of him. So I roll into the kitchen. The house is silent, no signs of the monkey anywhere. The place looks like ground zero, bottles everywhere, pizza ground into the carpet, and fag ends scattered like wedding confetti. I note all my friends are curiously absent, just like them to clear off without helping clear up. Oh well. I start to hum "Everybody’s got something to hide except me and my monkey". Except, of course, the monkey is hiding.

I finish my tour of the devastation, and can’t find the little bugger anywhere. I swing by the back verandah again and try to have a look in the backyard, except that the door is deadlocked. It will not open and I don’t know where the key is. It should be on a hook next to the door, but it’s not. I look out the window to the garden, silently cursing the furry bastard.

He hits the glass hard, a blazing shrieking mess of fur and teeth. He has the keys in his grabby little hand. He’s been out and decided to lock me in. Where he got the knife from is anyone’s guess. I’m more than slightly worried, I’m not able to move that fast, and my hand eye co-ordination is shot to shit because I’m hungover to hell.

I wheel back into the lounge to have a proper look around. There’s blood stains on the couch, what that means I’m not real sure, but it can’t be good. The fish are all floating, there seems to be a good portion of the liquor cabinet submerged in the tank, and I’m wondering whether fish get pissed or just plain die, when I hear the key in the lock and the door swing open.

He’s in and he’s cranky by the sound of it. The cuteness of his pattering feet is off-put by the scratchy sound of the knife he is dragging behind him. I wheel backwards scattering beer bottles and hooking up some smokes along the way. If I’m going to war with my irate helper monkey then I’m not doing it without a Silk Cut, that much is certain.

I’m still wondering what it is that’s got him quite so worked up, I mean I’ve had my fair share of obnoxious drunken nights, and I’ve never had a jealous and angry girlfriend or a pissed off flatmate come after me like this. He’s supposed to be a fucking helper monkey, and I don’t consider this particularly helpful.

I wheel backwards scooping up some beer bottles as ammunition and it’s then when I notice the little white bag of powder. Or more correctly, the little empty white bag and the white powdered foot prints leading away.

Yes, someone has brought along some go-ey or cocaine and you-know-who has got into it. And it’s made him a wee bit cranky.

So there I am with a lapful of empty beer bottles half a pack of Silk Cut and a nursing a hangover like the English Rugby Team, facing up to a coked up, knife wielding, chain smoking, cranky as fuck monkey.

He comes into the room and leaps to the top of the couch, stabs a cig with the knife point and raises it to his lips. He breaks eye contact for a second to find a light, which is my window of opportunity. The stubby collects him and he sails off the couch and the knife clatters from his stunned hand. The bottle shatters on impact and I see him bleeding slightly, so first blood to me.

As I line him up for another, he slithers away behind a table. I know he’s got to get the knife, so I wait for him to break cover again. I hear the flick of a lighter and see a little cloud of smoke rise from behind the coffee table. I lob a bottle over it to remind him that the game is on. It shatters and he shrieks and leaps upward onto the table, red eyes gleaming with hate and angel dust.

He charges over the table, enraged and barehanded, and I clout him with a longneck, knocking the wind out of him, and I feel his grabby little hand tear across my brow. Now we’re even, both blooded…

The force of the blow sends him sprawling to my left and the trickling blood begins to obscure my vision. I’m not sure where he’s got to, but I can hear the pattering of little feet.

A beer bottle misses me narrowly, he’s not strong enough to throw with much accuracy or force and he screams angrily and scampers further away. The patter of feet ends and there is silence.

I have no idea where my mobile is, and I can see the phone cord chewed through. There will be no reinforcements for me.

The silence is eerie and I’m wiping blood from my eyes and wondering where he’s got to. Silence continues, and I light another cig. A bloodied hand comes up and gestures to me from behind the couch. Aw, he’s out. He wants a cig. What a shame. Still fair is fair. I throw him a cig and I hear him squeak in annoyance and it comes sailing back to me. He hasn’t got a light, or he’s too fucked to use one.

I light the cig for him, making the butt as soggy as possible, for just that little bit of passive-aggressive payback, and lob it over. I see a little smoke cloud rise, and I too rise as best I can. I’m wobbly on my feet, and I’m in a lot of pain, I can tell you, but this could be my big chance. It’s all I can do not to cry out, and tears of pain mingle with the blood in my eyes, but I have a collection of glassware that needs dropping on this monkey. As I peer over the top of the couch, I can just see his feet covered in blood as he leans with his back to the couch, desperately dragging on his cig. Correction. My cig.

He looks up just in time to see me come crashing down, hurling the glassware at where he is. I smack my face into the top of the couch and black out to the shriek of terror and the splintering of glass.

I don’t know how long I was out for, but I woke and peered over the couch again. There was plenty of blood and glass, but no monkey. There was a trail of bloody monkey footprints though. I climb back into my wheelchair and follow along the trail until I’m confronted by a semi conscious monkey wielding a knife again. He charges as best he can manage, wobbly as all fuck on his feet, slashing wildly at me. He leaps up, slashing at my arms and I bat him away and retreat.

I wheel my way back into the kitchen with him hot on my trail, and he’s still following, I can hear his dark monkey mutterings coming after me.

I prop myself up against the counter and look for more things to throw. Armed with condiments I wait.

He appears in the room, cig dangling and one arm dragging beside him uselessly. He hops from stool to the counter, dodging my depleted armaments, I mean who was I kidding, throwing salt packets is only ever going to worry a crazed helper-slug.

He still has the knife and comes after me. The knife plunges into my outstretched hand and I howl with pain, and he chirps with a victorious cry of delight, which turns to anguish as I close my hand around the blade and he realises that he’s not getting the knife back. He twists and pulls at the blade which fucking hurts, but this is my final chance. I grab his stinking money tail with the other hand and lift him up and smash him down on the counter. The concussion of the blow stuns him and the pain makes me pause for a split second and it’s then that I see my salvation. My way out. My final strike.

I reach over for the catch on the front and wrench the door open, spraying blood across the counter, and shove him in. Now it wasn’t my plan, but it was on autocook from the night before with a lasagna in there it turns out, and as I passed out I could see his little monkey face pressed up against the glass of the microwave, like he was leaving on a jet-plane. As I slumped down from the counter, I waved once as he started slowly turning away.

Suffice to say, they would not give me another monkey.
Subscribe
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
  • 0 comments