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It was a cold day. A very cold day. A very, very, very cold, day. It was cold. People everywhere were cold. They were wearing coats and hats and gloves and long johns. Yes, some of them were wearing long johns. It was that cold. But Ricky wasn’t cold. He was dead. The detective was concerned. This was the third killing in as many days, and who knew when the next one would be. Tomorrow maybe. Each murder was more gruesome than the last. The first was a simple strangling, the second, a less simple strangling, and the third was quite complicated. Here was the victim. He was dead, strangled, but he had been found in a locked room, which had been locked from the inside, and the key that had locked the door was in the victims inside pocket of his jacket. It was a veritable conundrum. The detective didn’t know what to make of it, but he quite fancied a lettuce sandwich. So he meandered over to the fridge. He opened the door, and out came a barrage of spoons, flowing like some crazy river of spoons. It shocked him so much, that he gasped. He gasped so loud that everyone else heard him, and all dropped their coffee. There was coffee and spoons everywhere. The crime scene was ruined. Who had put these spoons everywhere? Oh yes, now he remembered, they came from the fridge. But who had put the fridge here? Oh yes, the owner of the house. But where was he? Oh yes he was dead. But who had killed him? The detective had far too many questions and nowhere near enough lettuce sandwiches, so he decided to go to the Budgen’s Express.
He liked the Budgen’s Express in Lordship Lane, it was cold and they had lots of magazines. He liked it cold. It kept him cool under all that hair. It was hard being a monkey, because no one listened to you. The only way to communicate was through killings. This was the only way that most monkeys managed to survive. His specialty was stranglings. He loved to strangle things. It was a like an addiction, he would strangle anything in sight, any day or night, in his jet black lex and snow white. He was browsing through a copy of reader’s wives when an elderly man in a blue coat walked in. This was unusual, as men rarely came into the Budgen’s this late at night wearing clothes. Then he remembered. He had recently made a killing in this area, and perhaps this was the police. This threat had to be neutralised. He got out his strangling gloves, and moved silently towards the man.
A slight breeze hit him as he passed through the doors into the cool neon glow of the overhead strip lights. He had never liked these shops, but they made damn fine lettuce sandwiches, and he had always enjoyed reading the pornographic magazines as a child. As he was searching the shelves for what he was looking for, he noticed something in the corner of his eye. It was only a slight movement, but the detective recognized it. He had seen that shape before. He fell to his knees.
The monkey was confused. From his perch high up on the cold cabinets, he watched as the policeman whipped his head round in his direction. He just managed to dive behind one of the biscuit aisles. He peeked out, through some packets of bourbons, and saw the policeman rocking back and forth on his knees, mumbling something to himself. This was the opportunity of his lifetime. He got out his strangling wire, and fixed it to his strangling gloves. He moved silently towards the lonely figure amongst the packets of sandwiches that had been thrown to the floor in his hasty fall to his knees. The monkey could feel the blood flowing to his hands, and he could feel the adrenaline flowing through his veins. He could feel it coming. HE WAS MONKEY, HE STRANGLED THINGS.
This is where the story took a strange turn. As the monkey reached up to the neck of the detective, a huge roar was heard. It shattered the large glass plate windows of Budgen’s Express, scattering glass shards everywhere. The monkey and the detective both turned to the place from where the noise had emitted. There stood a small woman. She would have been about eighty or so, and she was brandishing a particularly knobbled walking stick in her left hand. She had theme music. It was the theme tune to the A-team.
As they both looked on in astonishment, she whipped out a small blade, and with ridiculous speed, she moved towards the two stunned characters. She was upon them within seconds. The detective reacted first, swiftly pulling out his police badge. But before he could say what he wanted, his fingers had been sliced off, much in the style of a sharp cooks knife slicing through carrots, and with much the same sound and accuracy. He screamed, and fell to the floor once again, along with his severed fingers, which sprouted legs and ran around like particularly fiendish mice.
The monkey was frozen to the spot, and watched in horror as the old woman severed the fingers of his next victim. As he watched in horror, he saw the eyes of the woman. She was crazy. Her eyes were alight with the madness of a thousand demons. There was a fire there that he could never have imagined. Her eyes fixed on him, and the expression changed. She opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was a squeak. The old woman fell to the floor, dead.
As the monkey looked to the crumpled heap of woman on the floor, he remembered the policeman, and remembered his initial mission. As he moved to the blood soaked figure of the man, writhing in the corner, and holding the stumps on his hand, where his fingers used to be, he realised the futility of what he was doing. HE WAS A MONKEY. People loved him, because he was amusing. He stopped dead in his tracks. He started signing.
It was a few months later, and the detective had quit his job in a fit of rage, after people refused to believe his fingers were cut off by a raving mad super granny in the Budgen’s Express in Lordship Lane. He had subsequently married a Sainsbury’s plastic bag called Sharon. The wedding was poorly attended, and the detective became so distressed that he eventually suffocated himself during one of his milk rounds. The monkey meanwhile was making a mint as a professional hitman for the Columbian cartel. He had made several messy strangling hits, including the head of a rival gang, and the brother of the head of the Chinese mafia. Many people wanted him, mainly the Eastbourne ladies sewing circle, for the alleged murder of Iris the Invincible. They are the most deadly adversaries of all, and to this day, the monkey never travels alone, especially when near a bingo hall.
He liked the Budgen’s Express in Lordship Lane, it was cold and they had lots of magazines. He liked it cold. It kept him cool under all that hair. It was hard being a monkey, because no one listened to you. The only way to communicate was through killings. This was the only way that most monkeys managed to survive. His specialty was stranglings. He loved to strangle things. It was a like an addiction, he would strangle anything in sight, any day or night, in his jet black lex and snow white. He was browsing through a copy of reader’s wives when an elderly man in a blue coat walked in. This was unusual, as men rarely came into the Budgen’s this late at night wearing clothes. Then he remembered. He had recently made a killing in this area, and perhaps this was the police. This threat had to be neutralised. He got out his strangling gloves, and moved silently towards the man.
A slight breeze hit him as he passed through the doors into the cool neon glow of the overhead strip lights. He had never liked these shops, but they made damn fine lettuce sandwiches, and he had always enjoyed reading the pornographic magazines as a child. As he was searching the shelves for what he was looking for, he noticed something in the corner of his eye. It was only a slight movement, but the detective recognized it. He had seen that shape before. He fell to his knees.
The monkey was confused. From his perch high up on the cold cabinets, he watched as the policeman whipped his head round in his direction. He just managed to dive behind one of the biscuit aisles. He peeked out, through some packets of bourbons, and saw the policeman rocking back and forth on his knees, mumbling something to himself. This was the opportunity of his lifetime. He got out his strangling wire, and fixed it to his strangling gloves. He moved silently towards the lonely figure amongst the packets of sandwiches that had been thrown to the floor in his hasty fall to his knees. The monkey could feel the blood flowing to his hands, and he could feel the adrenaline flowing through his veins. He could feel it coming. HE WAS MONKEY, HE STRANGLED THINGS.
This is where the story took a strange turn. As the monkey reached up to the neck of the detective, a huge roar was heard. It shattered the large glass plate windows of Budgen’s Express, scattering glass shards everywhere. The monkey and the detective both turned to the place from where the noise had emitted. There stood a small woman. She would have been about eighty or so, and she was brandishing a particularly knobbled walking stick in her left hand. She had theme music. It was the theme tune to the A-team.
As they both looked on in astonishment, she whipped out a small blade, and with ridiculous speed, she moved towards the two stunned characters. She was upon them within seconds. The detective reacted first, swiftly pulling out his police badge. But before he could say what he wanted, his fingers had been sliced off, much in the style of a sharp cooks knife slicing through carrots, and with much the same sound and accuracy. He screamed, and fell to the floor once again, along with his severed fingers, which sprouted legs and ran around like particularly fiendish mice.
The monkey was frozen to the spot, and watched in horror as the old woman severed the fingers of his next victim. As he watched in horror, he saw the eyes of the woman. She was crazy. Her eyes were alight with the madness of a thousand demons. There was a fire there that he could never have imagined. Her eyes fixed on him, and the expression changed. She opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was a squeak. The old woman fell to the floor, dead.
As the monkey looked to the crumpled heap of woman on the floor, he remembered the policeman, and remembered his initial mission. As he moved to the blood soaked figure of the man, writhing in the corner, and holding the stumps on his hand, where his fingers used to be, he realised the futility of what he was doing. HE WAS A MONKEY. People loved him, because he was amusing. He stopped dead in his tracks. He started signing.
It was a few months later, and the detective had quit his job in a fit of rage, after people refused to believe his fingers were cut off by a raving mad super granny in the Budgen’s Express in Lordship Lane. He had subsequently married a Sainsbury’s plastic bag called Sharon. The wedding was poorly attended, and the detective became so distressed that he eventually suffocated himself during one of his milk rounds. The monkey meanwhile was making a mint as a professional hitman for the Columbian cartel. He had made several messy strangling hits, including the head of a rival gang, and the brother of the head of the Chinese mafia. Many people wanted him, mainly the Eastbourne ladies sewing circle, for the alleged murder of Iris the Invincible. They are the most deadly adversaries of all, and to this day, the monkey never travels alone, especially when near a bingo hall.
Thanks for the positive comments guys.
I like monkeys.
I like monkeys.
That was fantastic.
i read the first 4 lines and dosed off i might rea it later
It was a cold day. A very cold day. A very, very, very cold, day. It was cold. People everywhere were cold. They were wearing coats and hats and gloves and long johns. Yes, some of them were wearing long johns. It was that cold. But Ricky wasn’t cold. He was dead. The detective was concerned. This was the third killing in as many days, and who knew when the next one would be. Tomorrow maybe. Each murder was more gruesome than the last. The first was a simple strangling, the second, a less simple strangling, and the third was quite complicated. Here was the victim. He was dead, strangled, but he had been found in a locked room, which had been locked from the inside, and the key that had locked the door was in the victims inside pocket of his jacket. It was a veritable conundrum. The detective didn’t know what to make of it, but he quite fancied a lettuce sandwich. So he meandered over to the fridge. He opened the door, and out came a barrage of spoons, flowing like some crazy river of spoons. It shocked him so much, that he gasped. He gasped so loud that everyone else heard him, and all dropped their coffee. There was coffee and spoons everywhere. The crime scene was ruined. Who had put these spoons everywhere? Oh yes, now he remembered, they came from the fridge. But who had put the fridge here? Oh yes, the owner of the house. But where was he? Oh yes he was dead. But who had killed him? The detective had far too many questions and nowhere near enough lettuce sandwiches, so he decided to go to the Budgen’s Express.
He liked the Budgen’s Express in Lordship Lane, it was cold and they had lots of magazines. He liked it cold. It kept him cool under all that hair. It was hard being a monkey, because no one listened to you. The only way to communicate was through killings. This was the only way that most monkeys managed to survive. His specialty was stranglings. He loved to strangle things. It was a like an addiction, he would strangle anything in sight, any day or night, in his jet black lex and snow white. He was browsing through a copy of reader’s wives when an elderly man in a blue coat walked in. This was unusual, as men rarely came into the Budgen’s this late at night wearing clothes. Then he remembered. He had recently made a killing in this area, and perhaps this was the police. This threat had to be neutralised. He got out his strangling gloves, and moved silently towards the man.
A slight breeze hit him as he passed through the doors into the cool neon glow of the overhead strip lights. He had never liked these shops, but they made damn fine lettuce sandwiches, and he had always enjoyed reading the pornographic magazines as a child. As he was searching the shelves for what he was looking for, he noticed something in the corner of his eye. It was only a slight movement, but the detective recognized it. He had seen that shape before. He fell to his knees.
The monkey was confused. From his perch high up on the cold cabinets, he watched as the policeman whipped his head round in his direction. He just managed to dive behind one of the biscuit aisles. He peeked out, through some packets of bourbons, and saw the policeman rocking back and forth on his knees, mumbling something to himself. This was the opportunity of his lifetime. He got out his strangling wire, and fixed it to his strangling gloves. He moved silently towards the lonely figure amongst the packets of sandwiches that had been thrown to the floor in his hasty fall to his knees. The monkey could feel the blood flowing to his hands, and he could feel the adrenaline flowing through his veins. He could feel it coming. HE WAS MONKEY, HE STRANGLED THINGS.
This is where the story took a strange turn. As the monkey reached up to the neck of the detective, a huge roar was heard. It shattered the large glass plate windows of Budgen’s Express, scattering glass shards everywhere. The monkey and the detective both turned to the place from where the noise had emitted. There stood a small woman. She would have been about eighty or so, and she was brandishing a particularly knobbled walking stick in her left hand. She had theme music. It was the theme tune to the A-team.
As they both looked on in astonishment, she whipped out a small blade, and with ridiculous speed, she moved towards the two stunned characters. She was upon them within seconds. The detective reacted first, swiftly pulling out his police badge. But before he could say what he wanted, his fingers had been sliced off, much in the style of a sharp cooks knife slicing through carrots, and with much the same sound and accuracy. He screamed, and fell to the floor once again, along with his severed fingers, which sprouted legs and ran around like particularly fiendish mice.
The monkey was frozen to the spot, and watched in horror as the old woman severed the fingers of his next victim. As he watched in horror, he saw the eyes of the woman. She was crazy. Her eyes were alight with the madness of a thousand demons. There was a fire there that he could never have imagined. Her eyes fixed on him, and the expression changed. She opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was a squeak. The old woman fell to the floor, dead.
As the monkey looked to the crumpled heap of woman on the floor, he remembered the policeman, and remembered his initial mission. As he moved to the blood soaked figure of the man, writhing in the corner, and holding the stumps on his hand, where his fingers used to be, he realised the futility of what he was doing. HE WAS A MONKEY. People loved him, because he was amusing. He stopped dead in his tracks. He started signing.
It was a few months later, and the detective had quit his job in a fit of rage, after people refused to believe his fingers were cut off by a raving mad super granny in the Budgen’s Express in Lordship Lane. He had subsequently married a Sainsbury’s plastic bag called Sharon. The wedding was poorly attended, and the detective became so distressed that he eventually suffocated himself during one of his milk rounds. The monkey meanwhile was making a mint as a professional hitman for the Columbian cartel. He had made several messy strangling hits, including the head of a rival gang, and the brother of the head of the Chinese mafia. Many people wanted him, mainly the Eastbourne ladies sewing circle, for the alleged murder of Iris the Invincible. They are the most deadly adversaries of all, and to this day, the monkey never travels alone, especially when near a bingo hall.
He liked the Budgen’s Express in Lordship Lane, it was cold and they had lots of magazines. He liked it cold. It kept him cool under all that hair. It was hard being a monkey, because no one listened to you. The only way to communicate was through killings. This was the only way that most monkeys managed to survive. His specialty was stranglings. He loved to strangle things. It was a like an addiction, he would strangle anything in sight, any day or night, in his jet black lex and snow white. He was browsing through a copy of reader’s wives when an elderly man in a blue coat walked in. This was unusual, as men rarely came into the Budgen’s this late at night wearing clothes. Then he remembered. He had recently made a killing in this area, and perhaps this was the police. This threat had to be neutralised. He got out his strangling gloves, and moved silently towards the man.
A slight breeze hit him as he passed through the doors into the cool neon glow of the overhead strip lights. He had never liked these shops, but they made damn fine lettuce sandwiches, and he had always enjoyed reading the pornographic magazines as a child. As he was searching the shelves for what he was looking for, he noticed something in the corner of his eye. It was only a slight movement, but the detective recognized it. He had seen that shape before. He fell to his knees.
The monkey was confused. From his perch high up on the cold cabinets, he watched as the policeman whipped his head round in his direction. He just managed to dive behind one of the biscuit aisles. He peeked out, through some packets of bourbons, and saw the policeman rocking back and forth on his knees, mumbling something to himself. This was the opportunity of his lifetime. He got out his strangling wire, and fixed it to his strangling gloves. He moved silently towards the lonely figure amongst the packets of sandwiches that had been thrown to the floor in his hasty fall to his knees. The monkey could feel the blood flowing to his hands, and he could feel the adrenaline flowing through his veins. He could feel it coming. HE WAS MONKEY, HE STRANGLED THINGS.
This is where the story took a strange turn. As the monkey reached up to the neck of the detective, a huge roar was heard. It shattered the large glass plate windows of Budgen’s Express, scattering glass shards everywhere. The monkey and the detective both turned to the place from where the noise had emitted. There stood a small woman. She would have been about eighty or so, and she was brandishing a particularly knobbled walking stick in her left hand. She had theme music. It was the theme tune to the A-team.
As they both looked on in astonishment, she whipped out a small blade, and with ridiculous speed, she moved towards the two stunned characters. She was upon them within seconds. The detective reacted first, swiftly pulling out his police badge. But before he could say what he wanted, his fingers had been sliced off, much in the style of a sharp cooks knife slicing through carrots, and with much the same sound and accuracy. He screamed, and fell to the floor once again, along with his severed fingers, which sprouted legs and ran around like particularly fiendish mice.
The monkey was frozen to the spot, and watched in horror as the old woman severed the fingers of his next victim. As he watched in horror, he saw the eyes of the woman. She was crazy. Her eyes were alight with the madness of a thousand demons. There was a fire there that he could never have imagined. Her eyes fixed on him, and the expression changed. She opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was a squeak. The old woman fell to the floor, dead.
As the monkey looked to the crumpled heap of woman on the floor, he remembered the policeman, and remembered his initial mission. As he moved to the blood soaked figure of the man, writhing in the corner, and holding the stumps on his hand, where his fingers used to be, he realised the futility of what he was doing. HE WAS A MONKEY. People loved him, because he was amusing. He stopped dead in his tracks. He started signing.
It was a few months later, and the detective had quit his job in a fit of rage, after people refused to believe his fingers were cut off by a raving mad super granny in the Budgen’s Express in Lordship Lane. He had subsequently married a Sainsbury’s plastic bag called Sharon. The wedding was poorly attended, and the detective became so distressed that he eventually suffocated himself during one of his milk rounds. The monkey meanwhile was making a mint as a professional hitman for the Columbian cartel. He had made several messy strangling hits, including the head of a rival gang, and the brother of the head of the Chinese mafia. Many people wanted him, mainly the Eastbourne ladies sewing circle, for the alleged murder of Iris the Invincible. They are the most deadly adversaries of all, and to this day, the monkey never travels alone, especially when near a bingo hall.