Dead Monkey Rum

By Robert Guffey

"A fantastically rich and entertaining piece of work with an original sharp edge."

-- Jim Woodring (writer/artist of Weathercraft, The Frank Book, and One Beautiful Spring Day)

"A remarkable rush of entertainment and thrills."<

• Language: English
• Publisher: Planet Bizarro
• Release date: Sep 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781915546012

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Dagger Bar

The monkey strolled into the Dagger Bar at Don the Beachcomber in Huntington Beach at around one in the afternoon, slid into his favorite booth, and ordered a glass of tropical iced tea with his Huli-Huli chicken. But he’d need something stronger than iced tea in a few minutes. His contact was scheduled to meet him here very soon. Too damn soon. The monkey would prefer to wait to initiate the deal, but Wilson was always so persistent. Wilson didn’t look like much, but you didn’t want to cross the son of a bitch.

There was hardly anyone in the Dagger Bar. Just an old man wearing an Aloha shirt sitting at the bar, nursing a bright pink Dr. Funk in a frosted glass. A golf game was playing on the TV above the bar. The monkey glanced at the golf game with disgust. He considered the TV an intrusion. A proper Tiki bar shouldn’t have a window of any kind, so the gray realities of the outside world could be blocked from view. And a TV was just another kind of window. The monkey made a mental note to talk to the manager about trashing that TV. The monkey would gladly drag it out onto Pacific Coast Highway, just outside, and bash it in with the mallet sitting in the back seat of his refurbished ’57 Chevy in Don’s expansive parking lot outside. That mallet was just waiting to be used, and this seemed like a noble endeavor. The monkey loved bashing in TVs. He’d done it before. Bad trouble with an old girlfriend. Not worth thinking about now.

The monkey caught the eye of the waitress who’d taken his order, one of the staples of the bar, and waved her over. She was on the older side, probably in her mid-forties, but still attractive. Yeah, he’d hop on top of her, no doubt about it. Hell, the monkey would hop on top of almost anything. And had. Frequently.

As the waitress approached, the monkey tilted back his bowler hat in order to reveal his penetrating gaze and moved his black cigar from one side of his massive mouth to the other.

Anything else I can get you? she asked.

Yeah… well, maybe, the monkey said. I was wondering what you’re doing later.

Oh…. She smiled, as if surprised and flattered at once. She flashed the ring on her finger. I’m afraid I’m married.

"I’m sure you’re afraid of it, honey. Listen, I want to give you a chance to get rid of that fear. After your shift we can rent a room at the 777 Motor Inn just down the street and have a little roll in the hay. No strings attached. Just a token of appreciation. Let’s call it an extra little tip, eh, baby? The monkey winked at the waitress, who looked as if she might haul off and slap him across his furry face, but instead she composed herself and whispered, No, thank you. Your Huli-Huli chicken might be a while. It takes a long time for the cook to prepare it."

I’m sure it’s worth the wait, baby. Just like you. He rested his elbow on the back of the seat and stretched out his thin, hairy legs. I’m not goin’ anywhere.

The waitress smiled nervously, her eyes fixed on the floor, then retreated back behind the bar to help the old man fill up on another Dr. Funk. Well, she’d come around, eventually. The monkey knew. What didn’t the monkey know?

You pickin’ up on the barflies again? said a voice to his left.

The monkey recognized that cocky tone. He snapped his thin neck around to take a gander at the voice’s owner. The familiar silhouette stood framed by the doorway, the bright summer sunlight of Southern California glaring in behind him. Tall and gangly and so damn sure of himself, 140 pounds of walking, talking bullshit topped off with a gray fedora, not unlike the one the monkey had seen William S. Burroughs wearing in so many fading photographs (and in person as well, but that was a whole nother story), not unlike the ones that several infamous pulp heroes used to wear back in the 1930s. There he was: William Wilson, an alcoholic freelance writer and member of at least three powerful secret societies (of which the monkey was aware), a world-renowned expert in microtrends (he’d even written a weighty tome on the subject… the monkey had seen Wilson interviewed on the PBS Newshour about the subject during one of the most boring twenty minutes of his life… PBS sucked the interest out of even the freakiest freaks on the planet and Wilson was without a doubt a freak… he was addicted to at least twelve different aberrant sexual practices that were still considered illegal in certain areas of the United States, but that was of little interest to the monkey, except when he could use this information to blackmail Wilson… so far, the opportunity had not arisen… perhaps it would today? Perhaps…).

William Fuckin’ Wilson, said the monkey, taking a long toke off his Cuban cigar, it’s been a long time and you’re still as dumb and ugly as the last time I saw you. The monkey jerked his thumb over his hairy shoulder. That ain’t no barfly. That’s the bartender.

Wilson stepped further into the bar. He slid into the booth across from the monkey. He took off his hat and set it down on the tabletop in front of him, pulled a white handkerchief out of his back pocket, and wiped his brow. It was May 5th, the first day of summer vacation for a whole grip of Orange County school kids whose senses had been dulled by an entire year of compulsory education, and it was a helluva scorcher at that. The perfect day to meet at a dark Tiki bar in the middle of the afternoon.

I’ve never approved of female bartenders, Wilson said. Women should be waitresses, not bartenders.

The monkey scooped up the perspiring glass of iced tea in both paws and downed the contents—including the slice of lemon—in a single gulp. That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard, said the monkey. Bartenders with pussies are the best bartenders in the world. He said this loud enough for the old gal to hear him from behind the counter. He glanced over at her, bared his huge, yellowish fangs in an exaggerated smile, and winked. She glared at him in disgust. The monkey was used to that expression. It was the same expression he’d seen on dozens of other women right before they went to bed with him. This situation would be no different.

Jesus, if not for bartenders with cunts my whole life would be different, the monkey added.

Yeah? Wilson said. How so? He didn’t look at the monkey when he said this. Instead he slipped off his sunglasses and took in the entire bar, as if to gauge whether or not any potential enemies were lurking amidst the shadows created by the armada of glowing puffer fish that dangled from the shipping nets hanging between the rafters like immense spider webs made of hemp.

Well, the monkey said, always happy to tell a story about his private sex life, I lost my virginity to a bartender with a pussy. At three in the morning in the back of my ’57 Chevy just outside Club 36/36 in Long Beach.

Jesus, Wilson said. For the sake of that poor girl, please tell me you used a condom.

Unlike with primate-types such as yourself, for monkeys condoms are medically contraindicated. Such prophylactics tend to cause unseemly rashes.

You stupid shit. Wilson pulled a cigarillo out of a silver case that he removed from his back pocket. "Monkeys are primates."

The monkey laughed and shook his head. "You would so love to be related to me, wouldn’t you? All you humans are the same. Freud was right, Darwin was wrong. Darwinism is just wishful thinking on the part of you humans. It’s just penis envy. That’s where Freud comes in. See? I’m edjamacated. I don’t need to go to collitch to know shit, like you."

I barely went to college. Wilson had studied English literature and medicine at Yale University, but hated to admit this. The monkey rarely brought up the subject with him. It seemed to be a sore one.

I like that Hawaiian shirt, said the monkey, reaching out and feeling the sleeve of the brightly colored orange and black Aloha shirt that clung to Wilson’s sweat-stained body. The orange floral patterns were so bright they were almost psychedelic. It looked like a Hawaiian Halloween shirt. That’s rayon, isn’t it? The best Hawaiian shirts are made of rayon. There’s nothing more comfortable than rayon.

I figured you’d be into angora sweaters. You know, like Ed Wood.

Hey, I don’t appreciate the innuendo. I’m no perv.

Who cares if you are? As Voltaire once said, ‘Once, curious. Twice, a pervert.’

Who needs to waste time with this whole Hegelian dialectic thing? Why not be both? Be a curious pervert.

Why not indeed?

Don’t leave me hangin’. You brought it up, bro. Which are you?

Wouldn’t you like to know? Hey, are you sure we can smoke in here? Wilson glanced around, as if searching for caution signs.

The monkey shrugged his scrawny shoulders and waved away his concern. As long as there’s no one around to complain, he said, sucking on the stogie as if it were a pacifier, they let you get away with anything in here.

Wilson cocked one eyebrow. My kind of place. So Wilson lit up, then blew perfectly formed smoke rings into the monkey’s face. The monkey’s nostrils flared and sucked in the smoke rings like some bizarre vacuum cleaner. Wilson’s blue eyes widened in surprise.

Yeah, the monkey said, it’s my kind of place too. Now let’s get down to business. Where’s the merchandise?

I can’t negotiate on an empty stomach. I need something to eat. Wilson grabbed the monkey’s menu and glanced over the selections. Jesus, this place is fuckin’ expensive. You know, Harbor House right across the street has good food and they’re half as pricey.

The monkey wiggled his hand in the air. They’re okay, but they don’t serve Dr. Funks. And they definitely don’t have fuckin’ glowing puffer fish hanging from the god damn ceiling. I peg you as a cheeseburger man. Just go for it.

You have me completely wrong, but that’s cool. I haven’t had a good cheeseburger in a long time. I think I’ll take it. He snapped his fingers at the waitress. Hey! You! With the pussy! Come over here!

The old man glanced over at Wilson, as if annoyed. I’m not talkin’ to you, Wilson said to the old man, I’m talking to the mixologist over there.

The bartender came over with an impassive expression on her face, ready to take down Wilson’s order. The monkey knew she’d dealt with ruder freaks than Wilson over the years. Personally, the monkey couldn’t stand rude people. Why couldn’t everyone be as charming as himself?

I’ll take the cheeseburger, said Wilson, and a bottle of Tahitian beer.

We don’t have Tahitian beer, the waitress said.

What? You must! It’s perfect for a place like this. It’s got a hula girl on the label.

You can get a beer anywhere. Besides, there’s no such thing as Tahitian beer.

No such thing as Tahitian beer? Wilson stared at the monkey, dumbfounded. You see? This is why women can’t be bartenders! They’re as dumb as a load of unused bricks at the back of a shithouse. I could hop into my car right now and drive over to a liquor store in Redondo Beach that sells the very Tahitian beer you claim doesn’t exist. And what will you say when I slam the bottle down on your counter over there? The two of you just stay here. I need to prove this wench wrong.

Wilson began to rise to his feet until he saw an immense figure standing in the doorway of the Dagger Bar. This silhouette was far, far larger than Wilson’s. He looked like twelve Wilsons combined into a mass of muscle interwoven with protoplasm and still more muscle. The figure stepped into the darkness of the bar, revealing features more closely akin to some of the monkey’s burlier relatives in the San Diego Zoo than any human he’d ever seen in person. In fact, this guy looked like a gorilla that had escaped from captivity and had shaved off all his hair in order to blend in with the human population. The bruiser glanced over at Wilson and the monkey and the bartender, then sat at one end of the bar. A couple of seconds later, another bruiser appeared in the doorway of the bar. Impossibly, this one looked even meaner than the first guy. The second gorilla took a seat at the far end of the bar, several stools away from the first, as if they didn’t know each other at all when it seemed clear that they had been grown in the same exact test tube.

Their presence clearly disturbed Wilson. Wilson lowered himself back into his seat and said, On second thought, I think I’ll just order a Zombie.

A Mai Tai for me, said the monkey. The bartender returned to her place behind the bar in order to make the two drinks. She asked the bruisers if they wanted anything. The monkey couldn’t hear what they said. They seemed to reply in grunting monosyllables.

The monkey glanced back at Wilson. He was definitely spooked. The type of sweat pouring out of his forehead now seemed to have nothing to do with the intense heat outside.

The monkey leaned over the table towards Wilson. Hey, what’s goin’ on? Who are these guys, and do I need to be worrying about them?

Well, to answer your questions in order: 1) It’s a long story, and 2) Yes. I suggest we both hightail it out the front door while their massive butts are planted in those seats. At least it’ll give us a few seconds head start before they haul ass after us. They’re not the quickest runners in the world. It’s one of their drawbacks.

’Us’? Why would they be after ‘us’? What’d I do?

You were seen talkin’ to me. That’s enough, I’m afraid. Wilson glanced over his shoulder and almost jumped out of his seat when he saw a third bruiser framed in the doorway. Oh, fuck. We’re gonna have to fight our way out.

"Fight our way out? I didn’t sign up for this. My constitution can’t handle it. I’m a lover, not a fighter. My particular species wasn’t made for violent physical altercations."

Well, same here, Beppo, but sometimes you’ve got to stretch beyond your comfort zone, and I’m afraid we’re both gonna have to do that right now.

The monkey sighed. The last bar fight I was in didn’t end well. I had bruises for a month. The monkey shrugged. "Oh, well. What the hell. The other guy walked away from that fight with several less fingers on his right hand. And that was the hand he painted with. Heh. The monkey smiled, showing off his dagger-sharp teeth. And don’t call me Beppo."

"Well, these fellas aren’t painters, Wilson said. In fact, they’re not even human."

Excuse me?

"You heard me. They’re not human. Now let’s go. The longer we stay, the worse it’s gonna get."

The monkey glanced at the doorway again. The third bruiser was still standing there, his arms crossed