Uncle Slappy's Quest for Monkey
Out past Interstate 12, on the other side of the truck stop, Uncle Slappy kept a double wide prefab home. Uncle Slappy was a man in his late 50s and often involved himself in activities of a most peculiar nature, thus requiring the use of this special lodging to keep Aunt Slappy from becoming aware of the many odd things Uncle Slappy did in his private time.
You're used to odd calls from Uncle Slappy. Sometimes, late at night, he would need a ride from his gated compound to the store for cigarettes, food, or to refresh his porn, so it comes as no surprise that, when you step outside the main hall at the local strip club, you finally hear your cell phone beeping with a received message from the old man.
His message on the voice mail is like a man hyped up on his own adrenaline but on the verge of a breakdown. "You!" He repeats over and over into the phone with varying degrees of volume and pitch, like a bad actor trying to find the right inflection. "YOU! I need YOU to come but wait til morning. Nothing can be done until morning. Use the code at the gate. Come in through the bomb shelter. If you see the police, go to the truck stop and wait for me there! Hip to the Zip to the Hip Hip HOP! You don't stop the rock or the fever for the flavor of the Monkey! Hee Hee! And pick me up a bottle of Dog Perig non from Lou's. Just tell him to tab it for ole Uncle Slappy. If he gives you any lip, just mention the whores!"
So, tossing a smoldering butt to the sidewalk, you turn back to settle your bar tab and head home. "Code?" You seem to remember one, but was it for the storage shed where your dad kept his '82 Pinto or maybe it was Lotto from last week who knows and you're drunk.
The next morning, you drag yourself from bed, head out of your basement apartment - careful not to wake the neighbor's annoying shit-zu and avoid the canine land mines in the common area between your building and the parking lot. Shit-zu, you think to yourself, must be Chinese for "shits a LOT"
Across town, there's no sign of cops or fire at Uncle Slappy's place. The traffic at the truck stop is light and you've got a little extra time.
Do you?
You're used to odd calls from Uncle Slappy. Sometimes, late at night, he would need a ride from his gated compound to the store for cigarettes, food, or to refresh his porn, so it comes as no surprise that, when you step outside the main hall at the local strip club, you finally hear your cell phone beeping with a received message from the old man.
His message on the voice mail is like a man hyped up on his own adrenaline but on the verge of a breakdown. "You!" He repeats over and over into the phone with varying degrees of volume and pitch, like a bad actor trying to find the right inflection. "YOU! I need YOU to come but wait til morning. Nothing can be done until morning. Use the code at the gate. Come in through the bomb shelter. If you see the police, go to the truck stop and wait for me there! Hip to the Zip to the Hip Hip HOP! You don't stop the rock or the fever for the flavor of the Monkey! Hee Hee! And pick me up a bottle of Dog Perig non from Lou's. Just tell him to tab it for ole Uncle Slappy. If he gives you any lip, just mention the whores!"
So, tossing a smoldering butt to the sidewalk, you turn back to settle your bar tab and head home. "Code?" You seem to remember one, but was it for the storage shed where your dad kept his '82 Pinto or maybe it was Lotto from last week who knows and you're drunk.
The next morning, you drag yourself from bed, head out of your basement apartment - careful not to wake the neighbor's annoying shit-zu and avoid the canine land mines in the common area between your building and the parking lot. Shit-zu, you think to yourself, must be Chinese for "shits a LOT"
Across town, there's no sign of cops or fire at Uncle Slappy's place. The traffic at the truck stop is light and you've got a little extra time.
Do you?