January 22, 1978
It appears that in the future, the world is inhabited by a strange race of bird people. I am a happy fellow indeed!
Lok-laach-do is my boon companion, though he is molting.
His teeth are the razors in my soup! His hat is silly! Most egregious is his mustache.
And now, I sing.
About the Photographer: Toulouse Le Grandfig was a surrealist painter, photographer and writer who never gave up dadaism. Also, his pate was paddled.
December 37, 1932
My voyage begins on the Ukranian Steam Ship, the Plotnik. On the first day, I met our captain. A diminutive, if stern fellow, by the name of Agamon Destroyer of Life. His constant companion was a mute who went by the name of Piffles. (Though he also answered to “Ahoy Gregor you great walloping pederast.”)
We set sail from Kiev, a week before I left Paris. The sea breeze! The flying monkeys of the Ukraine. Ah, it was a dream come true.
About the Photographer: Toulouse Le Grandfig was a surrealist painter, photographer, writer, and a tremendous watchtower, glistening in the fetid fields of the mind. He ate truffles, magnets and things that made him feel “squingy.” Also, he was a parakeet.
This story has been published a few times: first in Trunk Stories #2 (Dec. 2004), and then it was reprinted in Broken Pencil #29 (2005) and most recently in Yareah Magazine, (Feb. 2009). I thought I would repost it here in it’s entirety and add this is audio version, as a bona fide of my long obsession with monkey-related fiction.
Here’s the audio:
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And a link to the file if the embedded player doesn’t work properly — The Monkey’s Tail … by Mark A. Rayner
by Mark A. Rayner
I had this friend who was obsessed with having a monkey tail grafted to his ass. Actually, to call him a The Monkey’s Tail….friend is stretching the truth. Toulouse was more of a colleague. An ex-colleague, if you get my meaning.
He went to great lengths to achieve his ends. At first, he was convinced that it would be possible to grow a tail. After all, we used to have them: they are part of our vestigial anatomy. He knew a biologist from Pigalle who was willing to help pull out his tail bone. Not literally. No, he would attempt to stretch it outwards by digitally manipulation.
Oh yes, it was quite painful, but Toulouse was bent on it. He was mad for the monkey tail, wasn’t he?
Eventually, Toulouse accepted the anatomist’s ministrations were not going to work, and went in search of other answers. He tried occult methods: spells, potions and unguents. It was about this time people started to avoid him. The unguents were too pungent by far. Yes, even for Paris in summertime.
Finally, Doctor V moved into town. You must know him. The one who grafts primate glands into the body cavity. Yes, for men unable to … I see you’ve heard of him. His cure was often worse than the disease, if being unable to . . . could be called a disease. It could be restful. Several flaccid gentlemen died, but septicemia did not frighten Toulouse.
He asked the surgeon to graft a tail to him. The tail? It came from a monkey — a Barbary Ape, if you must know the details.
Yes. Yes. It did come from Gibralter. Normally Dr. V. worked with chimps, which have no tails, so he had to find a species with a tail, no matter how underdeveloped. The poor beast had been living with Madame Sélavy, the noted philatelist and prodigious eater of *cerveaux de chèvre*. Hmm. Yes, nasty, I agree. Cow brains are better. In a fit of whimsy she had named the creature “Alonsy.” The little beast was adept at licking stamps and quite useful. So Dr. V. returned the creature to its mistress after he’d removed the small, pathetic vestigial tail. Covered with wiry brown hair it was.
Oh, yes, Toulouse was ecstatic when Dr. V showed him the new appendage prior to the operation. I imagine the Russian must have looked like some demented maître d’, presenting the severed appurtenance on a silver platter. Yes. Yes! The ether was the wine and the surgical tools the cutlery!
By all accounts the monkey was happier after this interlude. (Though they are called Barbary Apes, they are really monkeys you know.) Yes. Yes. Alonsy flew into paroxysms of monkey song, chattering gleefully; he moistened postage with aplomb and joy thereafter. He was much improved.
My ex-colleague did not fare as well, but such is the price of progress.
The End
Originally published: Trunk Stories #2, Dec. 2004
Reprinted: Broken Pencil #29, 2005, Yareah Magazine, February Issue
© 2004, Mark A. Rayner
The marketing for “The Cannon, The Ride of a Lifetime” was a tad misleading, if accurate:
Hey kids, do you want to fly? Then come down to Uncle Savage’s Funzateria for Orphans and Undomesticated Children. We have the greatest ride ever invented by the cybertronic minds of NaziWorks 3000! (The Caring Company)! It’s free! And it makes you fly!
Just run into the gaping maw of the NaziWorks Happy Harlequin™ and you’ll be whisked upwards at the speed of sound.
Don’t worry about paying, because you’ll be airborn before we can even ask for your money.
It’s the most fun you’ll ever have. IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE!
Dr. Fleshrender had been trying to learn ancient Egyptian mummification techniques for years, but he’d yet to master even the most basic principles.
First of all, he just wasn’t into all that yucky stuff with the internal organs and putting them in jars. Coptic (a feel, heh) or not.
Secondly, he found the mixture of soda ash, bicarbonate and household salt he was meant to bath his mummies in just unpleasant. Natron my ass, he’d mutter.
Thirdly, most of his volunteers did not want to have a red-hot poker shoved up their nose so he could remove their brains. (Though he was keen to try.)
He did enjoy the wrapping process though.
Julie: Happy Ending Pleasure Borg
A service unit barely intact (after her encounter with a rogue Penetrator 15000).
We can rebuild her.
We have the technology. We can make her better than she was. Better…stronger…faster…
We can’t do much about the crying jags though.
From Toulouse Le Grandfig in the Land of the Future | photo by Litmuse