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Flash Fiction Friday: Sleep is Dumb

by Nathan W. Taynthoemer

One sun-brewed Monday in July, there was a monkey.

He was incredibly drunk.

For no real reason at all, the monkey bellowed “Fuck you, God!” toward the heavens at an ear-bleeding volume. The monkey god didn’t take too kindly to this, so he summoned a plague of locusts upon the monkey’s town. Thinking better of it, he called off the locusts and rained down flaming toads instead and set the entire town ablaze.

“Holy conflagration!” cried the townsfolk, in between putting one another out.

“No shit,” said the monkey, likewise preoccupied with not burning to death.

“Insolent whelp,” whined an old man who had pissed himself to put out his pants. “This is your fault! Look what you done made me do!”

Despite the fact that he was covered in his own urine, the old man was an excellent orator and had managed to incite the smoldering townsfolk into a frenzy. Grabbing whatever stones, pitchforks, and flaming remnants of buildings they could find, the town went after the monkey.

Not particularly fond of being on the receiving end of an angry mob, the monkey left town. Since his car was destroyed by the fiery amphibians, he hijacked a bus full of mute rodeo midgets en route to Atlantic City.

“The fuck?” questioned the monkey as he stepped on board.

“The shit?” answered one of the midgets in reply to the talking monkey.

“I thought you were mute,” said the monkey.

“My god, I’m cured,” replied the midget.

She was promptly thrown off the bus.

After dropping off the midgets in Las Vegas Junior, the monkey realized he was now stuck in New Jersey, where the shortest distance between two points doesn’t exist. He sat in traffic and rain for several hours, got annoyed, drove the bus into a ditch, and started walking.

Eventually, the monkey found a bar. He picked it up and used it break the window of a liquor store. The monkey looted the place, emptying the cash register and taking all the Jack Daniels his prehensile tail could carry. Of course, being a monkey, his tolerance for alcohol wasn’t all that high. He quickly drank himself into a coma and collapsed.

The monkey awoke in a field, filthy and naked. He had been filthy and naked prior to that, but he didn’t actually realize it until just then. He jumped into a conveniently located lake and cleaned himself as best as water and mud would allow. He paused mid-bath, distracted by something shiny on the horizon.

“Oooh, shiny,” said the monkey. He headed toward the glare and found himself face to face with a blind, wizened chicken gnawing on aluminum foil. Being both blind and wizened, the monkey immediately realized that this fowl was an ancient seer.

“Oh, kind sage,” said the monkey, kneeling down, “I’m so confused. Help me, please.”

“What the fuck?” said the chicken. “I’m a feathered animal and I’m noticeably wizened? Who the hell is writing this? Buy a fucking dictionary, you fucking hack!”

“What?” replied the monkey.

“What nothin’,” said the bald, unfeathered, but still blind and wizened asshole of a chicken. “What’s your problem, monkey?”

“My life is as boring as a comatose prostitute, and about as fulfilling. I’m lost in New Jersey, I’m hungover, I cleaned myself in a lake, the monkey god’s more than a little pissed off at me, and I’m not even sure what the hell type of a monkey I actually am.”

“You’re a fucking idiot is what,” replied the chicken. “Haven’t you ever looked in a mirror? The tail, the bulbous larynx. You’re a black howler monkey, for crying out loud. Jesus fucking Christ!”

The chicken walked away but was immediately struck dead by a ridiculously fragrant and inconvenient bolt of lightning. His roasted carcass fell to the ground in all its divinely hickory-smoked goodness.

“Shit,” said the monkey, who was technically an Alouatta caraya but didn’t care enough to change his self image.

The monkey stood there for a while, mulling over all that he had seen. Eventually he ate the chicken, drank another half a bottle of whiskey, and realized that he was on a farm. The monkey shrugged and finished the rest of the bottle, this time retaining his consciousness. He made consensual love to a pair of sexy female pigs, stole a tractor, and got the fuck on with his life.

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Nathan W. Taynthoemer is a Virgo and enjoys papercrafting, artisanal pork products, and long walks on the beach by candlelight. Visit taynthoemer.blogspot.com for all the goods.

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