Tales From The Screaming Monkey's Head
Another Stranger In Town
The Train
Looking for a place to warm his hands, and then fill them with alcohol, the man rounded a corner and was startled by the image of a screaming monkey’s head suspended over a rough hewn black door. He turned to the door but paused, hairs standing on the back of his neck while he considered the grotesque image above.
The door opened, and a couple came out laughing and tipsy. This must be the place, he thought, and went through the door into the tavern.
He paused to let his eyes adjust to the shadowy interior. Across from the door was the barkeep, wiping out a glass. “Come in, come in!” he cried. The man walked across the floor, taking in his surroundings, noting the booths like alcoves, some with curtains, some curtains closed. “What’ll it be friend?” “Whiskey, neat, water back.” “Ah, I like a man that knows where he’s going,” and the barkeep pulled a glass, poured a double, and set down another glass with an equal amount of water. “Strange weather for May, eh?” he said.
From an alcove with partially open curtains came a wavering voice, “Is it May?”
“Dunno,” replied the barkeep. “But my observation remains true.”
“I s’pose…” the voice trailed off along with its interest.
The man peered up at the barkeep, started to say something, then turned his attention to more important things. Gently he picked up the water and carefully he poured a small amount. He watched as the water entered, watched as it created tiny eddies in the whiskey, watched as it became one with the whiskey. Dipping in his forefinger he gave a quick swirl, then picked up the whiskey and took a sip. Approving, he took a good swallow, set it down, and looked up into the oddly blue eyes of the barkeep.
“You can call me Kindly Bob,” said the barkeep. “What shall I call you?”
“Oh,” he looked around, “My name is Gordon. Most call me Gord.”
“Ok Gord, let me know if you need anything.” Gordon nodded and watched him walk away. Over the next 30 minutes as he sipped deliberately at his drink, Gordon watched Kindly Bob. His movements were light and quick, and he treated everyone with the same friendly opacity. Kindly Bob looked over and caught Gordon staring. He held up his glass, and Kindly Bob came over, “Same thing?” “Yup.”
Gordon went through the same ritual, and then asked, “What’s with the monkey out front?”
“Ah,” said Kindly Bob, “took you longer than most to ask that. This is my tavern, and its moniker is The Screaming Monkey’s Head.” Gordon squinted up at him. “You’re at The Sign of the Screaming Monkey’s Head,” Kindly Bob said brightly and picked up another glass. Peering through it at Gordon, he said, “It’s an interesting place, attracts all sorts, and many tales are told here.”
“Oh?” asked Gordon. “Oh, indeed, and you bet Gordo.” Gordon winced, and said, “I could use a story.”
“Well then,” Kindly Bob pulled up a stool, and began to weave a tale.
“There is this guy, named Jim,” he began. “He’s a graphic designer and works in New York.”
“ A graphic what? New York? Where’s that?”
“Doesn’t matter, anyway Jim was done for the day and headed to the train station…”
“The what station?”
“Doesn’t matter. Do you want to hear the story?” Gordon nodded…
Jim sat down on the train, in his usual spot, third car from the front. Putting in his earbuds, he opened his book and settled in for the ride home to Jersey.
“Earb…”
“Nope, you can’t interrupt every time you hear something you don’t understand.” Kindly Bob continued…
On the same train, second car from the front, sat Senator Hogarth and his entourage. He was heading back home to get ready for a flight to DC where he would vote “No” on an appropriations bill. Underneath him a bomb was fixed to the undercarriage.
In a room on a floor in a high rise that was under construction, three men crowded around a fourth seated at a computer. Plastic sheeting flapped over an opening that would be a window someday. Unpainted sheetrock was up over most of the framing. The building was not supposed to have power, and the men were not supposed to be there.
“The train is leaving the station,” said the guy at the computer.
“Give it 15 minutes to get up to speed,” replied the apparent leader.
They waited, watching the collection of pixels move on the screen. A readout was below, tracking speed and direction, and another window was open with a red button. Under the red button was a digital representation of a gauge showing signal strength. As the train speed increased so did the signal strength. The train was moving toward Jersey.
“Now!”
Computer boy clicked on the red button, and everyone looked out the window and off into the distance.
Jim looked up momentarily from his book. The senator ordered another scotch.
Nothing happened. Well, many things happened, were happening, would continue to happen, but nothing that mattered to the men in the building. Or so they thought.
“DETONATE!” cried one of the men. Computer boy clicked frantically, then stabbed the Enter key rapidly 10 – 15 times. Nothing.
Except of course everything that they didn’t think mattered.
“What happened?” Computer boy looked up, eyes frantic, and said, “Nothing wrong here, signal is strong, everything is functioning, so - it’s at the bomb. Something went wrong there!”
The man barking the orders had an ugly dangerous look on his face, and his clenched fist was white-knuckled. The other two instinctively distanced a foot or two, one sweating, one licking his lips nervously.
Angry man jerked his other hand from his pocket and the rest flinched as they caught sight of something hard and dark. It was a phone. Angry man started making calls, and the others stood and sat silent and scared.
The train continued on while angry man finished his call.
“Come on; not you, you stay,” and computer boy stayed with his computer and the other three men went to the station. As they traveled, after the train arrived in Jersey, the second car was taken out of service and shunted to a side rail.
They arrived at the train yard and found the car and watched it until nightfall and went to inspect the bomb. The sweaty man looked it over carefully. “It should have worked,” he finally announced. The angry man stood there, phone in hand, brow furrowed, eyes shut, knuckles white. The other two knew to stay silent and wait.
Composing himself, angry man said darkly, slowly, “It didn’t.” Sweaty man sweated some more, nervous man backed up slowly. Minutes stretched, a dog barked, and a train went by muffling two shots. Nervous man opened his eyes, surprised he could. Sweaty man, double tapped in the chest lay still, oddly staring at the bomb that did not work. “Get him in the trunk.” Nervous man did as he was told while coldly angry man made another call.
He endured two minutes of invective from the other side of the phone; when there was a pause he said, “Someone needs to come get this bomb and figure out what happened.” He hung up, walked to the car, got in and said, “Let’s go.” “Where?” asked nervous man. Cold angry man looked at him a moment, then looked toward the back of the car, then back at him. “Oh.” He drove. He knew where he was going. He just didn’t know if he was coming back.
“Wait, wait,” interrupted Gordon. “What the hell is this story?” Kindly Bob just looked at Gordon, his odd blue eyes placid. “OK, OK, go on.”
Jim walked in the door, said, “Honey, I’m home,” like something out of a 50s sitcom. Becky called out, “Yay!” and Shep barked. Jim smiled, and walked into the kitchen to find Becky working on some pastry something. He reached around from behind, hugged her and nuzzled her ear. “Stop it, why do you always do that when I’m busy?” He laughed. It was good to be home.
After dinner, Jim got up and went into the living room and stopped in front of the chest they used as an end table. Moving the latest issue of New Jersey Monthly, a coffee cup and the remote off the chest and onto the couch, he opened the chest and reached inside, pulling out a can of Play-doh. “I thought I had lost you,” he said to no one in particular, and put it back.
Senator Hogarth met some lobbyists for dinner, took a limo from the train to the airport, got on a private plane without event and arrived in Washington an hour or so later. Checking into his hotel, he poured himself another scotch, briefly considered calling his usual diversion, decided he needed rest and settled in for the evening.
Coldly angry man, his need for violence assuaged by the dispatching of sweaty man, helped nervous man wrap the body in black plastic, weight it with some pig iron, and toss it into the quarry.
He was almost conversational on the way back to the empty building. They stopped for some Chinese and he even asked what computer boy liked. “Orange beef, I think.”
The next day he got the report on the bomb. The packet of C4 – was Play-doh. He was glad he killed sweaty man.
“Ok, last call everyone, closing in 30 minutes,” Kindly Bob bellowed to the mostly empty tavern.
“Wait, what? Aren’t you going to finish the story?”
“Not tonight.” Kindly Bob leaned in and whispered, “But, if you need a place to stay, we have rooms in the back.” Gordon nodded. “Down that hall, first door on the right. The bathroom’s on the left. Use it before you go to bed.” Gordon turned back to ask why, but Kindly Bob said, “And lock the door, won’t you?”
