Mortal Enemy

I take a swig from my glass of J&C and squint at what I see in front of me.

A monkey. A goddamn monkey.

He returns my thousand yard stare, clutching the little hotel bottle of Jack Daniel’s I thought I hid for emergencies.

It’s my buddy Willie’s damn monkey. I owe him five large and he tells me that if I watch his “chim-chim” for a week while he’s in Tomsk visiting his ailing grandfather, were square.

He leaves me a cage for the thing, but that’s no use. Chim-chim’s smart as hell and figured out how to jimmy the lock on the first day he stayed there. Then he proceeds to whip his dirty diaper off and swing it around the room. I come home from the bar and find my joint spackled with doo-doo.

The only time he calms the hell down is when I let him drink and watch old reruns of The Andy Griffith Show.

(I donno. Get Opie turns ‘im on or something. Kid did look like a chimp…)

So here we are. Last day. He’s looking at me and I looking and him. I’m sauced and he’s plastered.

“Make a move, you hairy little ass-clown,” I say aloud.

Then the little bastard shoves his grimy paw into the back of his diaper, pulls out a hunk of poo and tosses it into my drink.

The sumbitch smiles like it was funny or something.

So this is what it’s like to have a mortal enemy…