The Forbidden Love of a Monkey and a Pornstar
Gregory Gregyon
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Gregory Gregyon
CHAPTER ONE
It was inevitable that if man taught monkeys to master the use of computers, then some monkeys would one day find themselves addicted to pornography. Fiddle was one such monkey. Fiddle had been chosen from hundreds of other monkeys, the best and the brightest, and was undergoing vigorous training to prepare him for his trip to Mars. Fiddle was to accompany six men and women, and one other monkey, on the first ever manned mission to Mars, and, once there, he and the other monkey, a female named Chortle that had previously worked disarming landmines on the Korean peninsula, were to be sent down into a cave in search of evidence of life. Microbes, they informed him. It’s not like he was going to go down there and make smoke signals. He was going to go down into the narrowest crevices, where humans couldn’t reach, and collect soil samples and put them into test tubes. All of this was to happen less than a year from now. There was much to do before then.
But Fiddle could not stop fapping.
There was talk, amongst the bosses, of castration. If Fiddle could not stop playing with himself, then they would take his balls away. And so they castrated a control monkey, to see the effects. The control monkey went batshit crazy and ripped out somebody’s eyeball. The bosses were in agreement that this was not the best solution for their multimillion dollar monkey investment.
They debated whether they should try to interest Fiddle in Chortle, thinking that consensual monkey sex would surely be better than endless monkey masturbation, but some of the more female members of the board complained that to do so would be tantamount to prostitution of Chortle, who was, was she not, a war hero, of sorts, and they wouldn’t stand for it. The point was moot, anyway. Fiddle saw Chortle frequently over the course of a week’s work, and never once had he viewed her as anything but an equal to be professionally respected. The more female members of the board commended Fiddle for this. “What an enlightened species Fiddles belongs to,” they said. As Fiddles sat at a computer and fap, fap, fapped.
They limited his internet access, of course they did. That was the first thing they tried. But he stopped responding to life. He sat in the corner of his enclosure and rocked to and fro, and wouldn’t attend the workshops on spacesuit applications or space shuttle toilet etiquette, and the board voted in favour of letting him have his pornography back, if it meant getting him back to work. What’s the harm, they asked, rhetorically. It’s not harming anyone. Some of the more female members of the board said, on the contrary, pornography is staggeringly damaging, to the women who star in it, to the teenagers who consume it, to the values of the nation, and then they produced folders and pie charts displaying all this in great detail, as if they had been waiting for someone to say this exact phrase. The men, who outnumbered the women on the board, read through these materials with interest, and then voted in favour of letting Fiddle get his porn back anyway.
And so.
Fap, fap, fap.
Their most recent move was to limit his access to the pornography to evenings only, so that he could concentrate during the day, only to have Fiddle show up to the early morning seminars having not slept at all. How can someone watch pornography all night long, someone on the board asked, and then someone else on the board started absentmindedly singing the Lionel Ritchie song ‘All night long’, and the first person said, no, seriously though, how? His penis must look like doner meat. They looked at the video footage of his enclosure, from the cameras that they’d put in there for just this reason, and sure enough, there he was, at three, at four, at five a.m., fapping, fapping, fapping.
Dr Science, who had legally changed his name to Dr Science at the age of twenty-five, was the scientist in charge of Fiddle’s training, and had argued to the board that they needed to replace Fiddle with a less porn-addled monkey, and to do so immediately, if they wanted this Mars mission to go ahead, but the board were not willing to write off their financial investment in Fiddle. But Dr Science had grown tired of coming in to work in the morning and having to wipe down the monkey’s keyboard and monitor and, more often than not, the walls and roof, and so, for the past few nights, had been ‘accidentally’ leaving the door to Fiddle’s enclosure unlocked. Of course Fiddle, fapping, had not noticed this, and so one night, before leaving, Dr Science disconnected the internet. Fiddle was not happy, and generally swung from the rafters of his room and threw things about. Soon enough, one of the things he threw hit the door, and Fiddle noticed it was unlocked. And so he left. He crept through the corridors, and climbed out of a window, down a fire escape, and into a car which had its keys in the ignition, and Fiddle, who had been trained in the operation of space-buggies, fired up the car and drove away with ease. But where, you might ask, would Fiddle, a porn addicted monkey without a penny to his name, go?
There was only one place he wanted to go. California. And there was only one thing he wanted to do. Make it in the porn business. He had seen the bestiality sites, and he knew there was probably a need out there for well hung apes like him.
What he wasn’t expecting was that on his very first day out there, he would fall in love.
CHAPTER NUMBER TWO
Her name was Veronica Squirtz. Well, it wasn’t, obviously, but that’s how she introduced herself, and that’s the name tens of thousands of teenage boys moaned to themselves as their spunk dribbled down the back of their hands, so that’s the name we may as well keep on using now. She was the most beautiful thing Fiddle had ever seen. She had a lioness’s mane for hair, lips the colour of a freshly torn apart antelope corpse, and each of her breasts was the size of Fiddle’s head. It was enough to make him screech with delight and fling some poo about, which, inevitably, caused him to fail his audition. “We’re sorry,” said the casting director, “but we’re looking for a monkey with a little more control of his animal instincts.”
If he’d had a home to go to, or an emotional sense broad enough to feel forlorn, he would have walked home forlornly. But he didn’t have either of these things, so all he could do was leave the studio and sit on the grass and pound his head. Soon enough, someone came along and said, “Lol, a monkey,” and happened to have a banana so gave it to him, and so Fiddle ate this banana and cheered up a little. Everything had gone so well, so perfectly well, that it was hard for his tiny monkey brain to compute everything going so wrong so utterly. He had driven all the way to California without being stopped by the police for driving whilst being a monkey, he had found the porn district with ease by following the musky scent of a thousand leaking vaginas, and when there, found an audition that wasn’t prejudiced against non-humans. And then. And then. And then there was Veronica Squirtz. How had he never seen this woman before, in all those months of fapping? Veronica Squirtz, oh, Veronica Squirtz. Fiddle had never read Plato, and even if he had, might not have been able to understand it, being a monkey, but had he read it, and had he understood it, then surely he would have screeched it from the treetops, that Veronica Squirtz was the form of the good. And how is a monkey to react to such a beauty, if not by shitting in his hands and hurling it with joy?
And now what did he have. Nothing. Not even a banana, because that was finished, and all that was left was the peel, which, being a monkey, and not caring about littering, he discarded with a casual toss over his shoulder. The banana peel landed right in the path of a doddery old lady, and she doddered onto it, and slipped and tumbled into the road and splatted her face on the hard concrete. “Oh my God!” screamed Veronica Squirtz, who had just that second come out of the studio for a hard-earned cigarette break. “An old woman has twatted her face into the road and a truck is hurtling towards her!” Which was true. A truck really was hurtling towards the old woman, and Veronica Squirtz, hands on her face, mouth in an O, frozen Munchian, was powerless to help. The driver of the truck, knowing he could never brake in time, honked his horn, no doubt thinking that the sound of the horn may awaken the old woman from her concrete-induced slumber and inspire her to get her decrepit old bones out of the way, but her face really had smacked into the road with some force and she was way unconscious, and probably wouldn’t have responded to a brass band playing right in her face, nevermind a little light honking.
Fiddle saw all of this unfolding. It is difficult to know exactly what a monkey might be thinking at the best of times, but one can speculate that perhaps as Fiddle watched all this, what he was thinking was this:
If I save this old woman from certain death, then perhaps my heroism will cause Veronica Squirtz to fall in love with me, and she will take me back to her house and fuck my monkey brains out.
Or perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps he was thinking:
Banana banana banana faeces tits.
Either way, he didn’t actually move to help the woman, and the truck ran over her, disconnecting her spine from her brain and killing her instantly. Veronica Squirtz burst into tears at the sight of the old lady’s head bobbling on down the road, and Fiddle hopped up the stairs towards her and tried to comfort her by rubbing his belly on her shin. She looked down at him, and then picked him up, and hugged him close to her chest, and she sobbed and sobbed and sobbed right onto his little monkey head. Fiddle’s heart ballooned with joy.
CHAPTER THREE
Dr Science was summoned to a meeting with his immediate superior. His immediate superior was a lady by the name of Jeremy. Yes, she would say, Jeremy can be a lady’s name too, but the truth is, it can’t, and the truth is, sometimes, when Jeremy had to work late, you could definitely see a shadow of stubble on her face. People talked a lot about Jeremy, around the water cooler, in the canteen, on their social network websites on a Friday evening when they were relaxing with a Pixar movie and a nice cold glass of pinot grigio. They said things like, transvestite? They said things like, transsexual? They said things like, what the fuck? But they also said things like, I don’t care whether it’s got a cock or a cunt, she’s always been a fair boss to me, so Jeremy, who listened in to their conversations and had added all of them as a friend on these social networking sites under the assumed alias of Pedro the copy guy in order to monitor them, was happy enough to let all the talk continue.
“Hi Jeremy,” Dr Science said as he entered the office.
“Hi Dr Science,” said Jeremy. “Please, take a seat.” He did. Jeremy smiled. “Do you know why you’re here, Dr Science?”
Dr Science shook his head. “Cooking tips?” he asked.
“Cooking tips?” Jeremy asked. “Really? Why would you be here for cooking tips?”
“Not for them, but to give them. Just because everyone here knows that I like to cook, and people like to ask me for advice. I have no idea why I’m here, but you made me guess, and so my best guess is that last night you tried to make gnocchi or something, and it went wrong. Maybe you were using too much flour, maybe you didn’t separate the egg white from the yolk, I don’t know.”
“I never knew this about you,” Jeremy said. “Now that you mention it, my boyfriend’s parents are coming into town this weekend and I would love to know the recipe for a good marinade. We’re supposed to barbeque for them. I always say, just throw a steak on there, steak is so good it doesn’t need seasoning, but then you go to the Outback Steakhouse and you taste their steaks and you realise, holy fuck, I should get my seasoning on.”
“Indeed,” Dr Science said.
“But no, the reason I called you in here was to slap you about with an official warning.”
“A what?” Dr Science exclaimed. He employed incredulous face. He had practised incredulous face for some hours in the bathroom last night in preparation. He wished he had a mirror so he could see how it was going right now.
“An official warning,” Jeremy repeated. “Because of the Fiddle situation.”
“For what?” Dr Science asked. “I didn’t let him out on purpose!”
“A ha!” said Jeremy, standing up and pointing at nothing in Poirot-like triumph. “Who said anything about letting him out on purpose?”
“Nobody,” said Dr Science. “I just presumed you must think that, because to give someone an official warning for something they did accidentally would just be harsh.”
“Harsh?” Jeremy exclaimed. “Harsh? Is that what you said? Harsh?” Dr Science didn’t reply. “No, I’m really asking,” Jeremy said. “Was it ‘harsh’ you said?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Well, I disagree. If you were in charge of a nuclear submarine and you accidentally let off one of the nuclear warheads, would it be harsh of me to give you an official warning for that?”
“Harsh?”
“Yes.”
“Probably not, no.”
And so Jeremy nodded the nodding of a smug fuck who just made a good point. “No, Dr Science, there is nothing harsh about this situation we find ourselves in right now. Do you have any idea how much money we invested in that monkey? How much time?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am aware of all these things.”
“How about what we’ve taught it to do, Science? How about the things it’s seen? Are you comfortable with that, Science? The things it’s seen, and now it’s out there somewhere.”
“With all due respect,” Dr Science said, “I don’t think it’s going to be telling anyone about the things it’s seen.”
“You’d better fucking well hope not.”
“It’s a monkey, ma’am. We taught it well, and some of the things we taught it to do are unarguably fantastic, but one of the things we didn’t teach it is speech.”
“We taught it sign language, dammit.”
“No, ma’am. We taught it to ask for a banana.”
There was a silence. Dr Silence filled this silence with a big sigh.
“Something on your mind, Science?” Jeremy asked.
“I feel underappreciated,” Dr Science said. “I feel like you care more about the monkey than you do me.”
“I do.”
“I work eighteen, nineteen hour days,” Dr Science said. “I’ve dedicated my entire life to this. I have no social life. No girlfriend. I used to travel, you know. See places. Deserts, mountains, lakes. Wonders of the world. Touch foreign girls on their magic places. I gave all that up to do this.”
“We have hookers in America too, you know,” Jeremy said.
“They’re so expensive,” Dr Science replied, all forlorn and such.
“This is the price we pay,” Jeremy said firmly, banging her fist on the desk, “for being American.”
Dr Science didn’t say anything.
“Are we done here?” Jeremy asked.
“I want to go to Mars,” Dr Science said.
“Well, you can’t.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“I know, I know,” Veronica Squirtz said to Fiddle, strapping him into the baby seat she had stolen from her sister’s garage. “I know what you’re thinking, so you can just save it.” She clicked the seatbelt into place, slammed his door shut, and walked round to the driver’s seat. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” she continued. “I know.” She looked over him and shook her head, smileyfaced.
Fiddle gesticulated wildly in return. For the past five minutes, he’d been doing the sign for banana, with no success. He was beginning to wonder whether the sign for banana was something all humans knew.
“I didn’t come out here wanting to be a porn star,” she said, starting the engine up. “And then, when I got into porn, I didn’t get into it wanting to be on the fetish end of things. You know how uncomfortable it is deepthroating a cock whilst wearing a leather mask? Doing anything whilst wearing a leather mask, I suppose. I remember, when I first moved out here, I was an extra in this period film. I don’t mean period like bleeding, this was way before I was doing the fetish stuff. I mean period film like a real legitimate film, with scientologists producing it and everything. It was set in the olden days, and I had to wear a corset, and I complained all day about wearing that corset. Now I’ve worn the leather mask, that corset seems like heaven. You sweat, you know? Inside that thing? And it smells of days old semen. I asked the producer if anyone had washed it, and you know what he said to me?” She looked at Fiddle like she was waiting for his reaction, but having realised he wasn’t going to be getting a banana anytime soon, he had stopped interacting with her. “He said, we don’t pay people to wash masks, we pay people to suck cocks. But surely you need to pay someone to wash masks. You can’t just have cocksuckers on your payroll. Every company needs a cleaning staff, right?”
She finally eased the car off the driveway.
“But I know what you’re thinking,” she said again. “And I’m thinking it too. I shouldn’t be doing this. I was the best Lady MacBeth in the history of my high school, did you know that? Someone gave me an award that said that. And then in my yearbook, I was named most likely to succeed. In mine, underneath, someone wrote, Get it? Most likely to suck seed! Prophetic little cunts. I didn’t get that for a long time, and then when I did get it, I still thought it was wrong. I still thought I was destined to be a Shakespearian heroine. And I came out here looking for casting calls and of course nothing happens and nothing happens and you suddenly realised you’ve not eaten for three weeks and then all of a sudden you’re on a porn set and someone’s waving their cock in front of you and you think to yourself, if I put this cock in my mouth, will I ever get to play Lady MacBeth again?”
She slammed on the brakes as they approached a traffic light, and then looked over at Fiddle and smiled a big toothy smile. “You’re such a good listener,” she said. Fiddle waved his hands about in reply. She didn’t understand, so smiled some more and rubbed his head, but in actual fact, Fiddle was doing his best to remember the sign for ‘please shut the fuck up’.
“It’s not like I don’t have doubts,” Veronica continued, undeterred. “I mean, this movie that I’m making today. I know it’s no masterpiece.” She sighed a lengthy sigh. “You know what I wanted to be when I was a little girl? An astronaut. Now look at me.”
The movie she was making today was indeed no masterpiece, though it did, at least, have tenuous links to astronauting. It was named Space Invaders Of The Anus and Veronica was to play two parts: the first was an unnamed alien who fell in love with a girl from Earth, a role which required hours of wearing a sweaty green latex suit under hot hot lights, and the other was Sexbot #3, which required her to wear an outfit made of tinfoil and partake of more than a little sexing with mechanical appendages. She was informed of this a couple of minutes before filming began, as the latex was being applied. “So who’s my character today?” she’d asked. “What’s her motivation?”
The make up girl looked at her like she was speaking Hungarian, and said, I don’t know, crack money? And then the director swept in and saved the day by saying, look, honey, your character’s motivation is she wants a hundred thousand men around the world pumping their cocks and screaming her name. Your character’s motivation is, mine will not be the scene they watch on fast forward. Mine will not be the scene they use for endurance wanking. All those men watching my scene will be powerless to stop themselves cumming all over their gummy little bellies. That is your character’s motivation, alright love?
To which Veronica Squirtz said, “So it’s like a fourth wall thing, and my character knows she’s in a porn movie?”
To which the director said, “I’m going to go over there now.”
And go over there he did.
Veronica Squirtz managed to wrangle a copy of the script and read over her lines as the make up girl splashed her flaps with babyoil. She was starting to feel better about this film, discovering that it had a script and pre-prepared lines and everything, and just when she decided to relax and start enjoying this experience, the director started screaming, “Whose fucking monkey is this? What the fuck is a monkey doing on set? Where the fuck did this monkey come from?” and she started to wonder whether maybe he was talking about Fiddle. She slid out of her seat and ghosted across set and, sure enough, the director was talking about her monkey.
“Hi,” she said. “Don’t worry, he’s mine.”
“Who told you to bring a monkey on set?” the director yelled. “This isn’t that kind of film! This is a reputable fucking company!”
“No no,” she said, “he’s not for sexing, he’s my friend!”
Fiddle did not like the sound of that.
“I don’t care if he’s your fucking friend,” the director said, “he can’t be on my set! He’s gonna go apeshit mental and try to fuck the talent!”
Which was pretty much true, in fairness. In the week since he had fallen in love with Veronica Squirtz, Fiddle had not had a single sticky ape orgasm, as he had not seen any porn at all, and Veronica wasn’t letting him sleep in the same bed as her, ever since that first night they shared together when he tried to slip his penis inside of her when she was sleeping. The sight of real life pornography unfolding in front of him would probably have blown his tiny monkey mind, and caused him to discharge his massive monkey load all over somebody’s leg. Still, Veronica Squirtz knew none of this, and so her instincts were to stand up for her little simian friend. “How dare you?” she said. “He is a respectable monkey and you owe him an apology!”
Unfortunately, she said this whilst standing over Fiddle in a crotchless latex suit, and the sight and stench of her newly polished vagina did indeed unleash in him a little frenzied screeching, and the director raised an eyebrow like a comedy villain and said, “Get the little fucker out of here now.”
Veronica Squirtz picked Fiddle up tenderly and hugged him close even more tenderly and took him out and put him into the car and tenderly cracked a window for him. “If you don’t want me to go in there and finish making the movie I’ll understand,” she said. And then she closed the door behind her and walked off. Fiddle slammed his face against the window in sadness and protest, but she didn’t turn around, and so he flopped down on the back seat and thrashed about for a bit, screeching like the monkey he was.
Ten minutes later, he’d ripped the door off the glove compartment in curiosity, and found a pornographic magazine. It fell open to page thirteen, an Icelandic beauty named Helga who could get not one but both legs behind her head, and Fiddle was fapping, fapping, fapping.
CHAPTER FIVE
Fiddle was doing his best not to be jealous. She was going off to work, fucking and slurping and such, and he was stuck in the apartment, not allowed on set, and of course it was hard for him, so of course it was only natural that he had begun to show her how upset he was by shitting in her pots and pans when she was gone. Veronica Squirtz was no fool, and could see the change in her monkey, and so one evening she decided to show him just how important he was to her by making him a lovely meal of banana pancakes.
She lit candles and turned on nice background music and served the pancakes and for the first time since he’d been kicked off that set, he seemed happy. When the pancakes were done, they opened a bottle of wine and moved over to the couch, and she laid him down on her lap and stroked his belly. She turned the television on, thinking she would find some nice nature documentary for him, but he didn’t even look at it. He was just looking up at her. “Oh, Mr Pinkerton,” she said, because, of course, she had no idea his name was Fiddle, and so had come up with her own name for her monkey, “I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you lately. I wish I didn’t have to leave you here all day. But I just want you to know, whenever I’m at work, fucking those other guys and girls, I’m thinking of you.”
Fiddle was a simple monkey, but he knew as well as the next man when he was about to get laid. And so he stood up in her lap, and put his arms around her. “Awwwww,” she awwwwed, and she put her arms around him and hugged him closely. “I love you, Mr Pinkerton,” she said. And then Fiddle put one foot on her breast, and then the other one on her shoulder, and pushed himself up, and flopped his penis into her mouth.
“Oh my fuck Mr Pinkerton no!” she shouted, pushing him off her so firmly that he catapulted ten feet across the room and into the wall. If a monkey could stand up indignantly and say, lady, what the fuck, he would have done, but he couldn’t, because he was a monkey, and also because he was knocked out a little bit. When he came back round a few seconds later, he was in good mind to do some screeching at her, but when he looked at her, she wasn’t looking at him, she was looking at the television.
“Mr Pinkerton,” she said. “Mr Pinkerton, is that… you?”
It was.
Breaking news, the banner said as it rolled across the bottom of the screen. Space Monkey worth millions of dollars escaped from NASA. Above the banner, a picture. Of Fiddle.
And Veronica Squirtz was looking at the picture, and looking at him, looking at the picture, and looking at him. She didn’t know much about monkeys, and, if you’d asked her before she’d met Fiddle, she’d have probably said that all monkeys look alike. But she knew. Looking at that picture, and looking at him, she knew.
“Mr Pinkerton,” she said. “We’re going to have to send you home.”
CHAPTER SIX
Dr Science was summoned once again to a meeting with Jeremy. “I suppose,” Jeremy said, “you know why you’re here.”
“Not really,” said Dr Science, “but I’m guessing you’re going to give me an official warning for something that wasn’t really my fault. Maybe you fucked up the marinade on the steak at your barbeque and can only imagine that it must be the person who wrote the recipe rather than the useless tool who can’t tell cumin from cinnamon whose fault it is.”
“As a matter of fact,” Jeremy said, “the marinade was delicious.”
“Good then!”
“But yes, regardless, you are somewhat still mired in the shit.”
“Ok,” Dr Science said.
“I trust you know by now,” Jeremy said, spinning on her spinny chair as dramatically as she could, “that someone has leaked the escape of your monkey to the press?”
“No, I did not know this,” Dr Science replied. “I don’t really have the time to watch the news. I was working nineteen hour days before Fiddle went missing, can you imagine how long I have to work now I have his replacement to train?”
“I don’t know, twenty hour days?” Jeremy guessed.
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Jeremy nodded. “Well,” she said, “whether you watch the news or not is irrelevant. This isn’t one of those trees not making a sound because nobody is around things, this is one of those things that is real whether you were watching it or not.”
“What?”
“Exactly,” Jeremy said. “So, you can guess what we want from you now, right?”
“You want me to continue to train the replacement monkey you brought in so that he can replace Fiddle on the Mars mission, exactly as I have been doing?”
“Close,” Jeremy said, “but no, that’s not the one. No, what we want you to do is to go out there and find Fiddle.”
“What? Why?”
“Because now the news will be looking for him too. And if the news find him, the news are going to find out what he knows. And so we need you to find him before the news finds him.”
“But why me?” Dr Science asked. “I was just the scientist in charge of his intellectual training, I don’t know anything about monkeys in the wild. Why don’t you send one of the zoologists after him? Or the PETA representative? God knows we’d like to get his annoying face out of the building for a few days.”
“You had the biggest connection to the monkey,” Jeremy said, “so it must be you to bring it back.”
“And what happens if I can’t bring it back?” he asked.
To which, Jeremy smiled. Dr Science figured there must be more to her answer than smiling, and so waited, and was proved right. She bent at the hip and pulled something out of one of her desk drawers and slapped it down on the desk dramatically.
“A hole punch?” Dr Science asked.
“What? Hold on a second…” She returned the hole punch to the drawer, and, this time, actually looked at what she was supposed to be retrieving. She found it, and slapped it down on the desk dramatically.
“A gun?” Dr Science asked.
“Yes.”
“If I don’t manage to bring him back, I’m supposed to kill myself?”
“Well, I was thinking more along the lines of you killing the monkey, but sure, you should go ahead and kill yourself too. You clearly have issues if that’s the first place your mind goes.”
“I’m not going to kill the monkey!”
“It knows too much,” Jeremy replied, zen faced.
“It knew too much yesterday too, but we weren’t going to kill it.”
“Yesterday, nobody knew it was a space monkey. If someone found it, they’d probably just ignore it or put it in a kebab or something. Now, if someone finds it, they’re going to know they can exploit it.” She slid the gun over. “Take the gun. And bring the monkey back. Or shoot its monkey fucking face off.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
That night, Veronica crept into Fiddle’s bed and curled her arm around him, and wept.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fiddle woke to the smell of bananas on toast. It was a pleasant smell, but to be honest, he was getting kind of tired of bananas. Yes, bananas are a monkey’s favourite food, but that doesn’t mean they want them every day, breakfast, lunch and dinner. Veronica had endeavoured to make her banana meals as diverse as possible - which had lead to the banana soup disaster of four days ago - but still, there were days when Fiddle just longed for a cheese sandwich.
He stretched, yawned, farted. He padded over to the kitchen. “Morning beautiful,” Veronica said. “I made bananas on toast!” Which he knew already, of course. He climbed up to the breakfast nook and started eating. “I feel like we need to talk about last night,” she said.
He didn’t say anything.
“Not the thing about you being a runaway from NASA. The thing about you trying to put your penis inside me. I just, I need to reiterate that I don’t think of you that way. Not as a lover. But nor do I think of you as just a pet, you should know that too. I don’t know if a word exists for it, how I feel about you. Maybe I should make one up.”
And then she paused, and screwed up her face and glanced from side to side to side, and though on some level Fiddle knew she was trying to think of a good term to sum up their relationship, on another level he thought she was having some kind of seizure.
After thirty seconds or so, she breathed out, and raised her eyebrows, and said, “Monkeylove?”
And then she said, “No, that’s shit.”
She poured herself some coffee. “The point here is that you are not just a pet to me. You are a friend. But more than a friend. I mean, I have some people that I call friends that I never see. Other friends who I hate. I even have one friend who, the last time I saw her, she told me that when we were kids she’d had sex with my dad, just to spite me. So I think friends isn’t a good enough word, either.” She paused to drink some coffee. “The saddest thing,” she said, “is that she said she did it with a strap-on.” She did some wistful headshaking.
“Anyway, the point here is that you are special, but not in a penis way. Now eat your banana toast.”
He did. She went off to have a shower, and he ate up all his bananas on toast. When she got out of the shower, she told him she was sorry, but she had to go to work now, but that they would call NASA that evening. And then she went off to listen to 70s disco music and get dressed, and he formulated a plan. A plan that he immediately put into effect when she emerged from her bedroom, ready to leave, half an hour later. “Goodbye sugarlump,” she said to him, like always, and then, like always, she kissed him on the forehead and slapped away his hand before he could grope her breasts a little. “Have a good day and don’t miss me too much.” And then she turned and walked out of the door and kicked it shut behind her, like always. Unlike always, however, Fiddle was not this time on the other side of the door. He had followed her out of the door, stealthy ninja like, and then immediately leapt, stealthy flea like, vertically up to the ceiling, and clutched to a light fixture, like a scared child clinging onto her teddy bear for dear life, only, you know, stealthy.
He needn’t have bothered. She didn’t look back. She started walking down the stairs. This time Fiddle didn’t follow her. He knew which was her car, and so he took the direct route to it, jumping through the open window at the top of the stair well, pouncing from windowsill to windowsill, down. He was on the ground way before her. He darted across to her car, but found no door or window open or unlocked. Foiled!
But no. Walking out of the building, Veronica zapped the car, the locks flew open, and Fiddle opened the rear passenger door furthest from her, slipped inside, and let it close silently behind him, all before she’d arrived at the car. By the time she fired the engine of the car up, he was safely nestled beneath the front passenger seat, hidden well away, eating crumbs.
Half an hour later, they pulled up at the set, and Fiddle used the five minutes it took Veronica to unbuckle her seat belt and turn off the car and check her lipstick in the mirror to his advantage, slipping silently out of the rear door again. He was out. He was out and he was free, and this was the moment when he could have run, far away from Veronica Squirtz and her promises to call NASA and return him to them, far from this life. This was his moment to disappear again. But he couldn’t. He looked at her, sitting in the car, pushing up her boobs, primping the curls of her hair, and he felt it, in his heart, in his soul, in his massive throbbing erection, that he couldn’t leave her. No, he knew what he was really doing here was not escaping, but making a bid to be with her, always. And so, stealthy mechanic like, he hid beneath the car until she exited, and then followed her into the warehouse that was doubling as the set, and once there, leapt up into the racking that covered the walls, and disappeared amongst the goods. From this vantage point, he had a great view of the set, which consisted of a huge painted mural of a jungle, and, in the foreground, what appeared to be papier mache trees. This might, had he been capable of such emotion, have instilled in Fiddle a sense of nostalgia, if only he’d ever seen a jungle before, but alas, he had been born in a zoo in Siberia, where the jungle murals painted on the walls of his enclosure had been even less convincing than the one some intern for this porn company with no previous experience of painting had fired out in a couple of hours earlier that morning.
Soon, Veronica Squirtz was making her way to the set. She was wearing a rag, apparently made of leopard skin, from her breasts to her hips, and her hair towered from her head like an erupting volcano, and already she smelled and looked and exuded sex, and Fiddle knew that he wasn’t here to make a bid to be with her, not really, because she had made it clear that was never going to happen, no, why he was really here was that he knew he was leaving, that night, and he was not going to leave without seeing this goddess, this living human goddess, in all her fucking divine glory. Even the sight of her walking onto the set, barefoot, ready, was enough for him, and he was fapping, fapping, fapping.
A couple of minutes later, she was joined by a man. A man in a loincloth. He shook Veronica’s hand and did a funny little bow, and she smiled and nodded, and then the man climbed up one of the papier mache trees, and it looked as if it would fall over, so one of the interns, possibly the same one that had painted that shitty mural, came over and held it up with all his might whilst trying to stay out of camera shot. And then, some lights dimmed, some brightened, the director shouted, “Action!” and the man in the loincloth did an odd bellow that Fiddle, having never read or seen or heard of Tarzan, was beffudled by. Loincloth man jumped out of the tree and landed by Veronica’s side and made some grunting noises, and Fiddle was utterly baffled, and fapping, fapping, fapping.
Loincloth man was circling her now, touching her experimentally, prodding and poking. And then he hooked his finger between her breasts, on the rag she was wearing, and tugged. The rag fell to the ground. Veronica did surprised and embarrassed face. And then Loincloth man was touching her breasts experimentally, and Veronica’s surprised face morphed in to ooohlala face, and then his hands found her vagina and Veronica’s face turned snarly and Fiddle’s hand tightened around his cock and he fapped like he had never fapped before. Loincloth pushed her down to the ground and spread her legs and faceplanted himself on her and began sucking cunt. Even from the racking Fiddle could hear the slurping and slap of his tongue as Loincloth went at her like a dog licking the wind. “Yes,” Veronica said. And, “Yes.” And then, a couple of seconds later, “Yes, tongue my twat you dirty jungle man.” Her nails digging into the back of his neck. His fingers pressing into her hips. “Suck me dry you vile fucking beast.” These were words that Fiddle had longed to hear. This was literally the best moment of his tiny monkey life, and right then, he knew, no matter what happened, no matter if he had to go back to NASA, no matter if he never got to see Veronica Squirtz again, it wouldn’t matter, because nothing would be able to take this moment of perfect, complete happiness away from him.
But he was wrong. Because three seconds later, it was taken from him, horrible crashing, devastating.
CHAPTER NINE
Fiddle fapped some more as Veronica reached beneath Loincloth’s loincloth and grabbed hold of something, presumably a cock, and Loincloth did more animal groaning, and then, from one of the papier mache trees, a monkey jumped down and joined them.
“Cheeta!” Loincloth said, rubbing the monkey on the head as he joined them. Veronica, stroking Loincloth’s penis with one hand, also petted him on the head with the other. And then, right in front of Cheeta, she put Loincloth’s penis right into her mouth.
Fiddle lost his fap.
It is difficult to know what a monkey might be thinking at the best of times, but one can guess that in this particular situation, at this particular time, this particular monkey might have been thinking something along the lines of what the fuck. Or maybe he didn’t think at all. His penis receding, the woman he loved fondling another monkey whilst mouthsexing another man, maybe thoughts were unnecessary, and what was required was action. Action, and a really fucking loud monkey scream.
Scream he did, as he flung himself from the racking on the walls, landing on the papier mache tree, and then bouncing off the tree, landing directly on the other monkey’s head. Cheeta. Cheeta just got kicked in the fucking face, and consequently, that fucker was down. But Fiddle was not satisfied, and he was not finished, and Cheeta’s face needed to get kicked and punched a whole lot fucking more.
“Mr Pinkerton, no!” screamed Veronica Squirtz. She grabbed Fiddle by his neck and tried to pull him away from the other monkey, who was already unconscious, but Fiddle lashed out and struck her on the jaw, and she fell to the ground, dropping Fiddle at the same time. Fiddle landed, stealthy cat like, but he didn’t carry on the beating. Instead, he turned to Veronica, and looked at her, on the floor and holding her face, and saw what he had done. He stepped toward her, put his hand out, wanting to make amends. But, “No!” she said, as she cowered from him. And “No!” said Loincloth, as he kicked Fiddle full on in the face, sending him flying across the room, into the wall, and unconsciousness.
CHAPTER TEN
Dr Science had been looking for Fiddle for a week. His first thought had been, hey, Fiddle may well have run away to an exclusive island resort in the Bahamas, so maybe I should take NASA’s fairly sizeable expense account and search for him there. And so for a week, he’d searched the island fairly extensively. He’d searched for him in the resort’s five star restaurant, he’d searched for him in the bar, he’d searched for him both by the pool and in the pool, he’d searched for him in the sauna and the tennis courts and the massage therapy rooms, and one glorious evening, he even searched for him deep inside the vagina of a drunk fortysomething divorcee. He hadn’t found him yet, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t here, and so he couldn’t rule out another week of searching before he moved on.
And then. And then he met Madame La Mesmo.
“You are searching,” she said to him, in the bar on Saturday night, “for something.”
“No,” he said, not even looking up from his airport thriller novel, “I’m not.”
“You are,” she said, taking his hand. “You are searching for something here.” She put his hand to her chest.
“Whoa,” he said, looking at her now. “You’re forward.”
“I am not trying to pick you up for sex,” Madame La Mesmo said. “And nor,” she added, “is this what you are searching for. The one time from earlier this week has already improved on your yearly average anyway, right?”
“Who are you?” he asked.
And she said, “Madame La Mesmo.”
“And is that your real name?” he asked.
“No,” she said. And then she said, “I am a psychic.”
“What are you doing here?” Dr Science asked.
“Vacationing,” she said with a big breezy smile. And then she let the smile drop away and adopted serious face again. “But I can take a break from my vacationing for you, because I sense that you are searching for something of vital importance and you need my help.”
“I really don’t,” Dr Science said. “And it’s really not of vital importance.”
“Don’t lie to me!” she said, crushing his fingers in her own. “After everything we’ve been through!”
“I’m sorry?”
“I forgive you,” she said. “Now, for the advice. You are looking for him in the wrong way. You are looking for him physically, when you need to be looking for him intellectually.”
“I need to be what?”
“Get into his head,” she replied. “To find him, think like he does.”
“I don’t know how he thinks,” Dr Science scoffed. “How can I possibly…”
“Yes, how can anyone possibly know how another thinks,” she said. “How can anyone possibly know how another dreams. Whether the colours they see are the same as the colours we see. Everyone is ultimately unknowable, I understand this.”
“But?”
“But give it a go anyway,” she said, with a shrug. “Now, you must excuse me. I left my boyfriend handcuffed to the ceiling upstairs quite some time ago.” And with that, she left. Dr Science ordered another drink, but found that he was quite unable to concentrate on his airport thriller, which suddenly seemed so tinny.
Get into the monkey’s head.
Think like the monkey.
Get into the monkey’s head.
You have to ask yourself, If I were the monkey, what would I be doing now?
Would I be reading a inconsequential thriller where characters with ludicrous names like Dirk and Kirk and Colin find themselves all tumbled up in situations where the fate of the world is on the line and every chapter has to end in a cliffhanger? Is that what I would be doing?
Or would I be looking at porn.
And fapping.
Fapping.
Fapping.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fiddle had been in a coma for a week and a half. Kind of. Shortly after Loincloth had punted him into the wall, and his body had flubbed down to the floor, Veronica Squirtz had picked him up and run out to the car and driven to a nearby all day veterinarian. The vet, an attractive lady in her twenties, had shook Veronica’s hand and introduced herself as, “Michelle, but everybody calls me Dog Bones.”
“Why?” Veronica Squirtz asked. “Don’t they like you very much?”
“I never really thought about that,” Dog Bones replied. “I guess it’s because I’m like a doctor, so they call me Bones, but an animal doctor, so they call me Dog Bones. It’s probably not much more complicated than that.”
“It sounds like a porn star name,” Veronica Squirtz replied. “Have you ever done any porn?”
“No.”
“Do you watch any?”
“No.”
“Ok. Anyway, my monkey’s unconscious.” And with that, she handed Dog Bones the monkey.
Dog Bones spent the next hour testing and retesting Fiddle, and came to the following conclusion: there was nothing wrong with him.
“That can’t be true,” Veronica said. “Look at him, he’s in a coma.”
“No, he’s not,” Dog Bones said. “He winced when I took a blood test. And he tried to grab my boob when I was monitoring his pulse.”
“He did what?”
“He still had his eyes closed, and the movement was minimal, but I definitely felt some minor league groping. My professional opinion is that he is fine.”
“But he’s unconscious,” Veronica said.
“No, he’s not.”
“Then your professional opinion is actually that he is faking,” Veronica said.
“Yes.”
“But he’s a monkey. There’s no lies in a monkey.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” said Dog Bones.
And so Veronica Squirtz had taken Fiddle home and every day given him water and banana smoothies and banana paste and other banana mushy foodstuffs he could eat without chewing. She had placed him in her bed and mopped his brow when he became too sweaty and tilted him to the side when he needed to urinate and she had held him closely when he was sleeping, but never once had he indicated to her that he was faking. He was in a coma, she was sure of it. And so, beginning to despair, she had called Dog Bones on the telephone and begged her to come down and check on him again, and she had reluctantly agreed, and come to the same conclusion. Faking. Faking. Faking.
“Look,” Dog Bones had said, at the door, ready to leave. “It may be that physically he is not in a coma, but mentally, he is trying to be.”
“How do you mean?”
“He may deliberately be trying to shut down his mind,” Dog Bones said. “Did he go through some kind of trauma before falling into this pretend coma?”
“He got kicked in the fucking face,” Veronica replied.
“No, I mean, real trauma. Psychological trauma.”
Veronica Squirtz looked over at her monkey tenderly. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, he did.”
“Well, that’s probably it,” Dog Bones said. “Maybe you should try to cure his mental trauma. Talk him through it. He can hear you, you know. I know this because when I said ‘anal probe’ just now, he got an erection. Go talk to him. See if you can heal his pain.”
“Ok,” Veronica said. “Thank you, Dog Bones.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I wish I could repay you somehow. Dinner, perhaps. Cunnilingus?”
“How about I just send you a bill,” Dog Bones said. And she left.
Veronica Squirtz went over to Fiddle’s bedside and stroked him gently and dropped her head onto his chest and cried. “Oh, Mr Pinkerton,” she said, “I am so sorry. I know this is all my fault. I know, you saw me with that other monkey and just presumed the worst, that I rejected you and then just went off with the first other monkey I saw, but it wasn’t like that, I swear! Remember when you and I first met, at that monkey audition when you got all excited and threw poo everywhere and then that old lady got her head crushed by a truck? Well, this was the movie they were auditioning for, and that monkey that you beat the shit out of a week ago, he was the one that won the part. I know I should have said no to the movie after meeting you, but I couldn’t, Mr Pinkerton, the contract was already signed! I can’t imagine how much I have hurt you. But I just want you to know, I felt nothing for Cheeta. You are the only monkey I have ever loved. You.”
And she put her hand to his face and then put her lips to his lips, and she kissed him. And wouldn’t you know it. Like a fairytale, the little monkey came back to life, and he kissed her right back. He put his arms around her neck. And they kissed, and kissed, and kissed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
And then she stopped. “No,” she said. “No, we can’t.”
If Fiddle could speak, Fiddle would undoubtedly have said at this moment, “But I love you.” But Fiddle couldn’t speak, and didn’t know how to articulate this in sign language, either, because all the scientists at NASA had cared about were teaching him scientific things, pointless, meaningless scientific things, like forward, back, left, right, mayday, and never once had they bothered to teach him the language of love, and so here he was, a frustrated monkey, and all he could do was point at his erection.
She looked at it. “No!” she said. “No, Mr Pinkerton.” And then she started sobbing. “Oh, Mr Pinkerton, don’t you see? I have enough sex in my life. I have so much sex that my body literally overflows with it some days. The fluids, I mean. Sex is meaningless to me, Mr Pinkerton, and what I need, what I desperately need and crave is pure, endless, unconditional love.”
How was Fiddle to respond to such words? With screeching, with chest beating? Probably not, but that’s what he tried. He didn’t know how to respond, and then she didn’t know how to respond to this screeching and chest beating, and it was all very awkward all of a sudden, but then luckily, someone knocked on the door, and they were saved. Veronica walked over and opened it. “Hello,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“I believe,” said Dr Science, “you have my monkey.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It had all happened remarkably quickly for Dr Science. Getting himself into the frame of mind of Fiddle, he had gone to his hotel room and taken out his laptop and searched for some pornography. And, well. There was quite a choice. If I was a monkey, he had asked himself, what kind of pornography would I choose?
And so he had typed into Google the words ‘banana porn’, and before he knew it, there was an attractive girl who couldn’t be more than a few weeks out of her teens, right there on his screen, jamming a banana into her anus. Not even her vagina. Her anus. And the question he wanted to ask was, Why? But there was nobody to ask, and, he ventured, probably no answer anyway. And so, with nothing else to do, he watched this girl ramrod her anal passage with an unpeeled banana for four minutes, and then, suddenly, the video was done, and he noticed that not only did he have an erection, but that his pants were round his ankles and he was clutching his balls with his left hand. When did this happen?
If you liked this video, said a link beneath the video, you might enjoy this. And so he clicked the link, and the teenage girl on his screen was replaced by a different teenage girl. This teenage girl wasn’t interested in bananas. She was interested in the pointy end of a tennis racket. And the question he wanted to ask this time was, What the fuck.
Three hours went by. There were dozens of different girls, dozens of different things they could put inside of them in dozens of different ways, and part of him wanted to puke. But the other part could not let go of his penis. After these three hours had gone by, Dr Science decided that was enough, and he went for a lengthy, cock soothing shower. What have I learned, he asked himself, as the water ran over him. What have I learned?
There was no answer to that question.
He finished his shower and got into bed, and slept, and dreamt of a myriad of girls doing unspeakable things to themselves and each other, and having unspeakable things done to them by faceless, bodyless men. Floating penises. Enormous cocks attached to interchangeable torsos. He dreamt and he dreamt of this, and he woke, and he was terrified of the damage he had done to his brain with just one evening of fap.
And then he began his second day of research.
Silently wondering whether he would be able to sue NASA for the repetitive strain injury he would inevitably suffer in the course of this research, he entered his second hour of the day. He was watching a porn blooper in which an errant cumshot hit a cameraman in the eye, and lolling to himself, when he noticed a link beneath the video. If you liked this video, said the link, you might enjoy this. He clicked the link.
There was a girl, and there was a man, and the man was dressed like Tarzan, which made the girl presumably Jane, although she was dressed more like a jungle girl than a member of the English aristocracy, Dr Science noticed, and they were building up to copulation with some standard vagina and penis sucking, and then, suddenly, a monkey appeared. Dr Science instinctively loosened his grip on his penis. What, he wondered, is afoot? Besides, of course, Tarzan’s penis.
They started stroking this monkey whilst they stroked each other, and Dr Science found this all very offputting, and for the first time that morning, his penis flopped flaccid. He watched intently. Another monkey appeared, screeching, battle fever rising. The second monkey kicked the first monkey in the face, and the porn stars acted terrified, and for thirty seconds or so there was chaos, violent chaos, that ended when Tarzan kicked the second monkey right in the teeth. The second monkey careened offscreen. Dr Science did something he hadn’t done before, something that never needs to be done in a world with an endless supply of pornography, and hit rewind. The monkey reappeared. Dr Science pressed pause. The second monkey. It was undeniable. It was Fiddle.
Dr Science started working immediately. He took a screengrab of the female porn star’s face, and then went to find a forum or message board dedicated to pornography. He found many. The sheer inanity of them threatened to divert him from his task - how could he not read a thread named ‘Who likes tits’? Page after page of replies:
I do!
Me!
I love tits!
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