Origin of The Prosthetic Monkey

Memoirs of The Sportsman:

“Do you know what that stands for?” asked the old Spanish man from his lawn chair for the 132^nd time that day. He wasn’t talking to me; he was talking to the woman in the lawn chair next to him. I was nowhere nearby. You see: I was on the other side of the lake, playing softball with the greenish monkey, the wolf with the glass mouth, and the entire NYU and UCLA cheerleader squads, but that’s not important. What’s important is the revolving door on the women’s restroom behind the old Spanish man and the hundreds of women lined up beside it. They weren’t lined up to use the restroom. Actually, the chameleon was using that restroom, but no one knew at the time, because no one can ever find the chameleon, for no one can ever see him.

"I.C.B.M.,” said the old Spanish man to the woman who had just sat down next to him. She was glad to be sitting down after standing in line for so long, “Do you know what that stands for?”

“No,” said the woman.

“I.C.B.M.,” repeated the old Spanish man proudly, “Inter-Continental Ballistic Missile.”

Just then, the swinging doors to the women’s restroom swung open. This was when I knew that the chameleon had been in there, ‘cause I didn’t see anyone come out.

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The head cheerleader of the NYU squad was pitching and I was up to bat. She swung her arms around and around in circles before letting go of the ball.

Just then, the old Spanish man noted that a shimmer as one of heat rising from a hot Florida road was walking toward him.

The softball stopped in mid-air and fell slowly to the ground. A horrible scream of pain filled the air. The scream came from the chameleon. On the other side of the lake, the chameleon had tried to pelt his eternal adversary, the old Spanish man, with a softball. In one quick and deliberate move, the old Spanish man caught the ball and flung it back in the direction from whence it came, at twice the speed. The chameleon was struck directly on the funny bone.

We had no clue as to why our softball was behaving so strangely. At the time I was sure that someone was cheating. I was soon to learn that the situation was much worse. Just as the pitcher was bending down to retrieve the ball from the dirt, the ground opened and quickly swallowed the head NYU cheerleader and the greenish monkey into the earth’s crust.

The Cheerleader from NYU who was second in command looked secretly happy as she walked toward the pitcher’s mound to become the new tosser, but we had a problem: no ball.

We could probably have gotten the ball that the chameleon still had, but no one ever knew where the chameleon was, for no one could ever see him.

“Do you know what that stands for?” asked the old Spanish man.

“Not really,” replied the woman next to him.

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The greenish monkey had always been a good friend. Especially to the wolf with the glass mouth, since he learned to blow the replacement mouths himself. And, now he was trapped miles beneath the surface trying to think of a way out for himself and his cheery companion.

He carefully surveyed the cheerleader-leader where she stood. She was a lovely girl, shapely legs, well-developed breasts, full lips, and no obvious indication of a brain. She was the perfect girl for a greenish monkey. She just didn’t know it yet.

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“Do you know what that stands for?” asked the old Spanish man.

“Inter-continental ballistic missile,” said the woman in the lawn chair next to him.

The old Spanish man was stunned, “How did you know that?”

The woman said nothing more. The truth was: this was her second time through the line. She reached into her bra and started feeling around. This went on for several minutes and the old Spanish man was getting so excited that he stopped talking about missiles. Soon however, the woman found what she had been searching for.

The bridge of the old Spanish man’s nose disappeared. In its place came a fountain of blood. The woman had shot the old Spanish man in the face with the small pistol that she carried in her bra. The old Spanish man ceased to exist. In the lawn chair where he had been sitting, formed an inter-continental ballistic missile. After several seconds, the missile detonated, destroying itself, the lawn chair, the restroom with the revolving door, and all of the women who were in line. It may also have destroyed the chameleon, but we didn’t know, because no one ever knows where the chameleon is, for no one can ever see him.

It’s never any fun to play Hide-and-go-Seek with the chameleon.

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“I have an idea,” said the greenish monkey as soon as he thought of a way out of the predicament for he and the lovely captain, “Quick, take off all of your clothes!!” He was immediately slapped.

“You sick little monkey!!” squealed the cute little cheerleader. She was right.

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Since we had lost our ball in the same incident that had taken our pitcher and batboy, we thought that it might be pointless to continue playing softball, so we decided to play another game.

The burliest member of the UCLA cheerleader squad pulled out of her back pocket: a crate. It was filled with assorted guns and small colorful spheres. She shouted, “PAINT BALL!!”

Every one within earshot grabbed a gun that was right for them and a few clips of ammo. Then, to the surprise of the wolf with the glass mouth and I, all of the cheerleaders turned their uniforms inside out. The insides of those uniforms were printed with camouflage.

“This is going to be tough,” I whispered to the wolf with the glass mouth. He nodded.

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“Are you sure that this is gonna help us get out of here?” The head NYU cheerleader tilted her head slightly to the side as she started to remove her skirt.

“Fairly,” he said, “now, hurry up; it’s getting hot down here.”

“Kay, now what?” asked the cheerleader when she had finished stripping. She had been wearing a surprising amount of clothing and it was now strewn all around their large cave. The pleased greenish monkey turned to look at her.

“Just as I thought,” said the monkey.

“What?” asked his nearly naked companion, innocently.

“You wear a chastity belt,” responded the greenish monkey.

“Yes, my boyfriend makes me wear it while he’s not around”

“What’s it made of?”

“Brass.”

“Perfect!” The greenish monkey exclaimed.

“Perfect for what?”

“My plan to get us out of here.”

“Oh,” The cheerleader seemed non-plussed.

The greenish monkey got out his fountain pen that doubles as a blowtorch. It was given to him by Frankenstein’s monster as a gift, the day before he died in that awful and bloody dodge ball game. That’s another story.

The cheerleader cutely raised one eyebrow, but did not protest as the monkey went to work removing the chastity belt.

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“Let’s play!” I whispered as the game began.

Just as I said this, I heard a pain-filled yelp alongside the sound of breaking glass, and purple paint sprayed the grass at my feet. The wolf with the mouth of glass had been smashed square in the jaw by a paint marker.

The wolf with the broken glass mouth was certainly out of the game, leaving just myself to fend off two squads of ferocious cheerleaders, some of them well known to be strategic geniuses. To make matters worse, the greenish monkey was carrying the replacement mouths.

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It was taking quite some time to cut through the brass chastity belt with the tiny pen-torch that the greenish monkey was wielding. He sat down to take the strain off of his knees.

“Yow!” he screamed.

“What’s the matter, Greeny?” asked the cheerleader with genuine concern.

“I sat on something,” Said the greenish monkey through his teeth. He stood up and emptied his back pocket, which the cheerleader was quite surprised to find out that he possessed. Broken shards of glass began to litter the rock surface around them. The look of concern on the cheerleaders face became understandably stronger.

“Glass mouths,” He explained, “they’re for the wolf, now I’ll have to make a whole new batch… assuming that we ever get out of here, that is.”

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I kept hoping that some one would come and rescue me from the melee below. For the time being, I was safe hiding in a highly foliaged tree.

Above me, I heard rustling noises, yet when I looked up, no one was there, so I turned my attention back to the game on the ground. With luck, the two teams of pretty girls would finish each other off, allowing me to descend from the tree in victory, but I had a feeling that luck was not with me that day.

I couldn’t tell the difference between the two squads any longer, they all seemed to be wearing the same camouflage skirt. It made me wonder if there was some difference in the uniform that I didn’t notice, or if the girls simply knew their teammates well enough not to shoot them. I quickly realized that it didn’t matter, either way; I was probably going to get shot.

I heard the rustling above me again, and again there was no one with me in the tree. Could it be that-?

Yes! There was a distortion in the air next to me, as of heat rising from a hot Florida road. It was the chameleon passing me on his way to the ground. I looked toward the base of the tree and watched the gun crate open and the last gun, a small paint-pistol, seemed to float into the air along with several rounds of ammunition. They hovered there for a moment, I think pondering what to do about me. I closed my eyes tightly as I awaited the inevitable sting of a high-velocity paint-ball. None came. When I opened my eyes again, I saw the small gun and its ammunition speeding off toward the battle on the softball field. I smiled. The chameleon wanted to play, and he wanted to be on my team. That meant I had a chance of wining.

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The cheerleader’s concern abated as the greenish monkey brushed the glass shards away with his foot and went back to finish removing the chastity belt. Several more minutes had the device open. The greenish monkey’s hand was slapped away as he tried to remove the metal peices. He sighed as he picked up her uniform handed it back to her.

The head of the NYU cheerleader squad covered herself carefully before removing the chastity belt. When she was finished she handed it to the greenish monkey and asked him, “Now, what will you be doing with that, Greeny.”

“You’ll see,” he said, and the cheerleader was quite charmed by his mysterious manner.

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“Flamarkey” was the word of the day on the battlefield. I’m not sure what it means, or even if flamarkey is a real word. All I know is that every time one of the cheerleaders would say the word, Spell Chequer would appear.

“Don’t you mean ‘lamprey’?” he would say mockingly and disappear again. Spell Chequer was a nasty little troll who absolutely hated words that he didn’t recognize. He would pop into existence when he saw one, and suggest an alternative word that was spelled in a similar fashion, even if that new word didn’t make scense in the context.

“Don’t you mean ‘Sense’?” asked the evil Spell Chequer.

“Why yes, I do, Mr. Chequer, thank you!” I told him, “I guess you aren’t totally evil after all.”

Flabbergasted by my gratitude, Spell Chequer remained a moment too long and was pelted into unconsciousness by a volley of paint-rounds. Knowing that that paint had been meant for me, I searched frantically around for a way to escape my tree. That’s when the pitcher’s mound exploded.

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“Okay,” said the greenish monkey as he stood up. In his hands was a nearly perfect brass sphere; a small hole in the top was the only irregularity in the surface.

“You made that from my chastity belt?” she asked him. She was obviously impressed.

"Yes,” he declared, “Now, stand back against that opposite wall, and turn away.”

“Why?” the cheerleader was confused.

“Just do it please, for me.”

“Alright,” she agreed, smiling. She slowly turned and stepped toward the far side of the cavern. The room around her became painfully bright and the sound of a million firecrackers filled her ears. Her entire backside felt hot, and her head felt as if her skull had crashed inward. It was a horrible feeling and she couldn’t handle it, so she didn’t. Her small body crashed to the floor. The stone was hard and rough, but she didn’t notice. She couldn’t have noticed.

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Dirt and rock was blown forty yards high by the force of the blast. Needless to say, the paint-ball game ended quickly as everyone came out of hiding to see what had happened. Every one, that is, except for the chameleon. He never actually comes out of hiding, because no one ever knows where the chameleon is, for no one can ever see him.

The hole in the middle of the softball diamond was about four feet in diameter, and it went straight down, I couldn’t see the bottom. I had one of the cheerleaders find some rope and the whole group of girls helped lower me down into the hole. At the bottom, I found a small cavern. Within it was some clothing, a soft ball, an unconscious cheerleader, some scraps of brass, and a furry green monkey’s paw. I carried the unconscious girl and the paw with me as I was hauled back to the surface.

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The cheerleader was quite distraught when she awoke on the ground, where I was kneeling next to her. “He sacrificed himself,” she observed, “for me! FOR ME! What a great monkey! He… He was the only monkey I ever loved,” The girl’s words became incoherent as she began to sob.

I leaned close to her and pushed her hair out of her face. Her sobs slowed as I held her face in my hands. Her make-up was smeared down her face, and even that couldn’t mar her glowing cuteness. She looked sadly into my eyes, and I felt that I had to do something. “I will rebuild him,” I promised.

She threw her arms around my neck and hugged me tight as her disappointed second-cheerleader-in-command looked on. “Bring him back to me!” she pleaded, “Bring him back to me, and I’ll love him and never let him go! Pease!” She turned her face into my neck and her multi-colored face smeared my collar as she continued to sob.

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I spent the next few weeks reviewing the latest advances in prosthetics technology. Then, I devoted a year and a half to repairing the greenish monkey’s body, using the knowledge that I had gathered.

“How long has it been,” asked the prosthetic monkey when I awoke him.

“About nineteen months,” I replied.

“The cheerleader?” he inquired.

“She’s forgotten, I’m sorry to say. She’s married now, with four children.”

“Wait,” the prosthetic monkey scratched the top of his head with his right hand, it was his only remaining original body part, “you said nineteen months?”

“Ya,” I affirmed.

“That’s a fertile young lady.”

I nodded my head in further agreement as I held out a twice-baked cookie stick. “Biscotti?” I offered.

The prosthetic monkey took the cookie, “Thank you” he said, “for every thing.”

END

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