Monkey work; part one of 'The Urban Jungle'

The desk was big. A big shiny desk of polished wood. You could see
your face in it, if it wasn't for the myriad of paper, stationary and
crumbs from fast food snack treats. The desk didn't look big compared
to the man himself, though. He was six foot five, and his belly was
huge. Each button on his shirt was hanging on by its last thread.

His secretary was small. He was short and scrawny. The big man's voice
was deep and loud. The little secretary's was high and a little
feeble.

"Yes" bellowed the big man. The secretary trembled.

"Err..."

"Get on with it!"
His secretary frowned and scratched his head. "Well, Mr Clark from
Health Maintenance International wishes for a meeting with you
about.."

"Yes, I'll schedule a net-conference."

"Emm... the staff have been complaining about..."

"Let them complain!"

The secretary bit his lip. "An inspector from the RSPCA is wishing
to.."

"Tell him to RSPC off!"

"And I..."

"Yes."

"I want a pay rise." There was a few moments silence.

"You want a pay rise," the big man said slowly, his chin against his
chest.

"Yes," said the secretary. His hands started to shake.

"YOU want a pay rise."

"Errm.."

"You, who can't even touch type, who can barely dial a number.. Look at
this!" He snatched a piece of paper off his desk and shoved it into his
secretary's face. "Look at this, notes you took at last weeks meeting.
I mean, a thousand of you could write the world's greatest novel, so
you would've thought that one of you could keep decent minutes!"

"But sir, I've barely got opposable thumbs!" the secretary cried
shrilly.

"You who are the most insolent, incompetent.... I don't think there are
words to describe it. And you have the audacity.... NO, Timothy Monkey,
you will not have a pay rise! You are paid too much as it is!"

Timothy clambered onto his master's desk and held out his hands
pleadingly. "But Mr Stickley, I get paid peanuts!"

"GET DOWN!" Timothy had no choice in the matter, the blast of Mr
Stickley's voice was enough to send him reeling onto the floor. "No,
Timothy Monkey, you do not get paid peanuts. That is utter nonsense."
Mr Stickley got out of his chair and drew a large metal box from under
his desk. On it was a complicated pattern: four spirals starting from
each corner but somehow wrapping themselves round a central disc, on
which was a dollar sign. Timothy could not tell whether it was made of
gold or brass. He would give any amount of each for its contents.

Mr Stickley drew out a pair of tweezers, and opened the box. Timothy's
eyes widened as he gazed upon the precious ovals within. Out of it Mr
Stickley carefully picked out the single smallest peanut he could find
among the millions on offer, and dropped it into Timothy's begging
hands. He promptly put it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed.

"You get paid a peanut a day." said Mr Stickley. "You do not deserve
peanuts in the plural."

Timothy Monkey snorted. He sat down crossed legged and started
muttering. "If I was on minimum wage..."

"Do you think if I wanted to pay minimum wage I would have hired a
talking monkey? No Timothy monkey, you have a choice, this or life in a
cage on a freak show! Is that what you want?"

"No," said Timothy into his chest.

"Don't you think I have enough stress at the moment, with vandals and
wot-not. If Anne hadn't been there to stop them, who knows how far they
would of gone! Do you think, with all these problems to deal with, I
really want to waste my time with you?"

"No," Timothy said with a sigh.

"What did you say."

"No, sir."

"Now, get back to work."

Timothy monkey trod, downcast, out of Mr Stickley's office. He was only
two foot in length, a little black spider monkey with white rings
around his eyes. His belly was bright yellow, but he hardly had the
energy to stand on his legs to show it.

Mr Stickley's voice came from behind him. "Shut the door!"

After about three minutes of heaving, Timothy made his way to his desk,
taking note of each feature of his hated work place in the hope that it
would quicken time. His desk was one of three in the dreary grey front
office. The one nearest to Mr Stickley's office belonged to a badger in
charge of book keeping. The second was placed by the window and used
for sorting deliveries, usually via carrier pigeon (or p-mail as Mr
Stickley like to call it, much to Timothy's irritation.) Next door was
the telemarketing department. It currently had nothing to telemarket,
but continued its operations to remind the public it was still in
existence, especially during meal times.

At last Timothy reached his desk. He glared menacingly at the
telephone, then sat down. His desk was nearly bare, Mr Stickley did not
allow him to use paper to take down notes from telephone calls,
declaring that pens, and paper, were too expensive for so meagre a task
(and employee). Instead he must use memory! Timothy couldn't even
remember his middle name.

The only artefact on Timothy's desk was a stolen picture frame with a
tattered photo of a monkey swinging through the trees in it. He had
found it in an abandoned wildlife magazine. He liked to pretend it was
of his mum. In the background one could make out the lush greenery of
the jungle. He gazed at it wistfully, then slouched over his
desk.

"Don't you do anything bar lazing about?" Anne asked.

"Oh leave me alone," Timothy snapped.

Anne was a bitch. A Rottweiler to be precise, though she had shorter
than normal legs for her breed. She was sat in a plastic red basket
with a single yellow cushion. She was reading a book out of the pile
kept under her blanket, this one was called 'Rebellion and the Roman
Empire', though Timothy was sure she was only reading it to look at the
gory illustrations.

"If you're not going to do what you're paid for then at least do
something!"

"Paid? Ha! It's you who gets a nice bowl of dog food every day!"

With this, Anne whimpered slightly and looked down. A second passed and
her eyes hardened again. "So Mr Stickley turned down your pay
rise?"

"What do you think?" Timothy almost spat as he spoke.

"It's not my fault!"

"It was you're stupid idea!"

"I didn't say it would work."

"Then why did you say it at all?"

Anne was silent. Timothy laid on his desk with his head in his arms,
sulking.

"Well," said Anne, "it was better than just putting up with it."

"I don't know why he even pays us what he does. Why doesn't he just
sell us. I'm sure he'd get far more money that way."
Anne laughed out loud. Timothy had never seen Anne laugh before and it
set him slightly on edge. "How much do you think he would get?" Anne
asked.

"For talking animals? He'd make a mint!"

"You think? Timothy, talking animals are ten a penny, monkeys
especially. Have you never watched T.V?"

"But that's just dubbing!"

Anne smiled condescendingly.

"Or puppetry."

"It certainly is not," she retorted. "Old Badger could back me up on
this, couldn't you Badger? Badger?" She looked to Badger for support,
but he was too busy eating mashed potato.

Giving up on Badger, she approached Timothy's desk and with a small
jump put her two front paws upon its top. She spoke in a whisper that
was meant to be conspiratorial, that is if the conspiracy included all
ajoining rooms. "What do you would happen if the humans knew we could
talk?"

Timothy scratched his chin. "A new season of Pets Win Prizes?"

"Don't be silly. They'd panic, they'd think we were planning to take
over. And panicking people are unpredictable people. And if there's one
thing governments don't like, it's unpredictability. That is why the
governments cover up any reports of talking animals, and they make sure
they we're not too inclined to talk to humans anyhow. Why do you think
in the movies animals can only talk to each other? And any animal
clever enough to talk is clever enough not to draw attention to itself,
fearing they will be exposed to horrible, horrible tests. Those animals
that are in laboratories are there as examples!"

Timothy glanced to his side as Anne prattled on, and saw that two
carrier pigeons were sat by him, listening. They were perched silently,
waiting to sip once more from the fountain of wisdom that was Anne the
Rottweiler, or at least peck at some of the morsels dropped by its
visitors. This was ridiculous.

"You're just making it all up," said Timothy, jabbing his finger
towards Anne with each word. "Either that or you're mad. Or
paranoid."

"Just because your paranoid doesn't mean everyone isn't out to get
you," replied Anne, tilting her head to one side.

"Oh, come on Anne," said Timothy. "You just ripped that off the
X-files."

"I did not."

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

"Liar! Liar!"

Anne growled and launched herself up towards Timothy. The pigeons fled
in a flutter of feathers. Timothy leapt and landed on Anne's head,
grasping an ear with each hand so tight that Anne whimpered with pain.
She shook and shook her head, but Timothy only clenched harder. She
boundered off the table and resorted to smacking her head against the
wall.

There was a noise, a banging, a clink of a door. They both stopped at
once. Mr Stickley! Timothy jumped off Anne's head and onto his desk.
Anne ran back to her basket, and busied herself with his book. Timothy
even managed to whistle.

Timothy risked a glance at Mr Stickley's black oak door. It was shut.
What was happening? A minute later, there was another glink from the
door, and it opened. This time Badger came out, looking down and
shaking his head.

Now certain that there was little danger, Timothy started tapping on
his desk. Anne looked up, and Timothy stuck out his tounge at her. She
growled quietly, showing her teeth.

Timothy tapped his finger against the desk another few times then
muttered "Liar," under his breath.

Anne's ears perked. She began to growl. It began to get louder, louder,
and just as it was transforming into a bark, it stopped. Her teeth were
once again hidden within her snout, and her eyes had the blankness that
is only found when eyesight has been abadoned for deep thought.

"Take that back," she said, only just breaking her silence, with her
words just bobbing above her breath.

"Or what?" Timothy retorted, loud and boisterous.

"Or I won't tell you where to get free peanuts."

Timothy hopped onto his legs, displaying his lean and yellow stomach.
His eyes grew wide, beginning to resemble fried eggs with dark yolks. A
drop of saliva dropped out of his mouth and dribbled down his chin.
"Free peanuts," he whispered, for fear someone might overhear. "Free
peanuts," he said again, this time with more confidence. "Where?
Where?!"

"First take back what you said,"

"Take back what? What did I say?"

"You said I was a liar."

"Why would I ever say that? You're going to show me how to get free
peanuts after all. I'd never say anything bad about you! Well, apart
from how wonderful you are!"

Anne got up from her basket, but turned her head away. "And how
wonderful is that?" she asked with mock disdain.

"As wonderously wonderful as wonder itself!"

Anne's snout broke into a smile. She looked to Timothy, her eye
catching a glint from the office lightulb. "Come closer," she
whispered. Timothy cautiously dropped down from his desk, and crawled
towards Anne. "Closer," she urged. "Good. Now I'm going to tell you
about a place monkeys dream of, a monkey paradise if you will."

Timothy grinned widely and began rubbing his hands together. Anne
continued slowly: "Many monkeys spend their whole life looking for ir,
but never find it. In this place, peanuts are in abundance and monkeys
live in freedom."

"Where is it? What is it called?" Timothy's hands began shaking with
excitement.

"It's called... The Urban Jungle."

"The Urban Jungle." Timothy uttered these words in a reverent whisper,
and stared as though gazing at a distant star. "The Urban Jungle. How
can I get there?"

"I don't know," Anne responded, waving her tail very gently. "As I
said, monkeys spend their whole lives searching for it. But the
rewards, the rewards are..."

"Peanuts!" Timothy exclaimed. "Lots and lots of peanuts." Timothy's
gaze was locked on the heavens once more.