4. Monkeys in My Pockets

“Who among us doubts the word of Baal?” the prophet yelled. Silence fell over the crowd. Then the prophet stooped over to touch a small child on the head. “Would you like a monkey, little boy?”

The child turned his head from side to side with a puzzled expression. Then, in one grand swooping motion, the prophet stood erect with his hand pointing towards the heavens. “That’s right folks, I’ve got 20,000 monkeys in my pockets!” The crowd stared. Disbelief filled the air, and a sense of amazement spewed from their eyes.

“Not only that!” shouted the prophet after an appropriate amount of hang time. “But I have 20,000 pockets in my pants!!!” The prophet swung his arm over the audience, with the digits of his hand extended in such a fashion, that they cast the horrible shadow of a spider about to devour its prey. The shadow crawled over the faces of the audience. No one breathed. Even the babies shut-up.

Then suddenly a man came forth, “Man, you ain’t got 20 pockets, let alone… even one monkey!” The crowd made slight coo-ing noises, and the prophet folded his arms in a defensive manner saying, “I do not know who you are, nor do I care; but Sir I can assure you,” the prophet stopped when he noticed a baby about to cry. “I’ve got a monkey just for you,” he said as he knelt in front of the tot, “So Baby don’t be blue, ‘cause Ball loves you, and every monkey too.”

“Well…,” the man said, “Give the child his monkey.”

Well, the prophet was not pleased one bit. “Silence ye non-believer, or Baal will turn you into a son-of-a-llama farmer!” The prophet spit at the soiled ground between the two.

“Man, even if you could fit a monkey in your pockets, how long would it stay there? Two or three minutes, tops.” The man shook his head. “I once had a cousin that could fit up to three squirrels in his mouth, and an uncle that claimed to keep a kinkajou in his underwear for good luck, but this is Baal-shit! Show us the god-damn monkey!”

“Destroy him!!! Shouted the monkey lord. “By the powers of Baal invested in me, I spit lightning at you from my lips, and drown your ears with waves of my congruent hatred. Let lions take pleasure in your wasted flesh, and eagles eat out your eyes, and 100 bulls break your bloody balls! This I declare in the name of Baal, the Almighty, and let nothing remain to remind us of this non-believer!!!”

The prophet raised his hand, and in the name of Baal the crowd hissed and pounced upon the lone man. The crowd savagely ripped and tore at the un-believer. The sounds of the jungle itself came to life as the pack circled round, and the sounds of the dying man were inaudible over the call of the wild.

Finally, the crowd parted. Blood stained, they stared at the spot where the heretic was, and shunned from what they saw. Young Edward Chesterfield stepped forward, his socks and penny-loafers drenched with blood. He looked at what lay before him, and misjudging entrails for a tail he said, “A monkey. Look everybody, a funny monkey!”


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