by Gareth Wiles
The passenger hatch of the helicopter opened and a foot appeared on the bar right next to Mr Monkey’s clutching paws. The passenger was The Worm. He stamped on one of the puppet’s paws, forcing him to let go. Now with just one paw clutching on, Mr Monkey found himself severely compromised. The Worm waved his fist in triumph, treading on his other paw. But, this time Mr Monkey kept a firm grip. He wasn’t going to give up that easily. Next came a foot to the face for the flailing puppet. He used his other paw to grab hold of The Worm’s foot. The pilot of the helicopter pushed The Worm out, and both he and the puppet plummeted towards the depths of the crystal clear water below. But, luckily a piece of his polyester fur got snagged on the rock face as he rushed past, and he found himself dangling from it. Below, The Worm clung onto one of his paws. He flapped the other paw across The Worm’s nose, causing him to sneeze.
‘Let go,’ yelled Mr Monkey, feeling himself literally coming apart at the seams.
‘Please don’t kill me,’ The Worm pleaded.
‘Why? After all you’ve done to me, why should I save your life? Go on, answer that,’ Mr Monkey yelled.
‘The Clown was the pilot that pushed me out of the helicopter. He wants me dead! I was under his control all this time, I never wanted to be evil. Please, you must believe me,’ he sobbed.
Mr Monkey relented, hauling himself and The Worm up onto the top of the rock. He pulled a gun out from under his gaping puppet hole and pointed it at The Worm. ‘I don’t believe you, but I can’t kill a man in cold blood like you can.’
‘Can’t you?’ The Worm laughed, but Mr Monkey protruded a button eye, so he stopped. ‘Do you want to know where the helicopter disappeared to?’
‘Try me.’
‘To my, well our – you know, The Clown and myself – ahem… our secret hideout,’ whispered The Worm, covering his mouth with his hands as he looked around to see if anyone could hear him. It was doubtful they could. Even Mr Monkey was having trouble.
‘Never!’ Mr Monkey feigned shock, his spare paw covering his mouth. ‘And where is this hideout thingy of yours?’
‘I’ll show you.’
* * *
‘Nice of you to join us. It seems your new friendship has grown to immense proportions,’ The Clown’s voice announced on the speaker. Mr Monkey shot the speaker, ‘Shut up,’ casually slipping from between his polyester lips.
They were crawling through a narrow metallic passageway leading to the hideout.
‘This is the only other way to get in apart from the helicopter opening,’ The Worm pointed out in frustration, struggling to crawl. He was ahead of Mr Monkey, his bum right in the puppet’s face.
‘Try not to pass wind, please. Anyway, you’re The Worm, are you not? Crawling is your forte.’
‘Metaphorical crawling… squirming, hiding in the shadows,’ he clarified with shame.
* * *
‘Soon they will be in the capable and tactful hands of myself, The Clown. It’s a pity your mother couldn’t make it, isn’t it Francesca?’ sneered the despicable circus act. Francesca, the beauty who Mr Monkey had found tied up on the plane, was tied to one of the chairs around the large table. ‘This would have been a nice family reunion if she’d have made it.’ He turned to face the girl, honking his red nose and giggling: ‘Shame I killed her!’
* * *
‘Where is this leading to, Wormy? Looks to me like I’m being led on a wild goose chase,’ Mr Monkey pointed out as they struggled on.
‘We’re here,’ was The Worm’s overjoyed reply, as he came to a halt.
‘I don’t know why you’re so happy. This could be your final resting place,’ proclaimed the puppet glibly.
‘If it is, then so be it.’ He peered through a wire mesh covering the exit from the passageway into the conference room. The Clown turned around and looked right at him, waving and winking. ‘Francesca’s in there. She’s tied up,’ he whispered.
‘Let’s have a look.’ He squeezed past The Worm for a closer inspection. ‘That’s the girl I met on the plane.’ Mr Monkey was stunned, giving The Worm the chance to make a grab for the gun as concentration lapsed in the puppet’s grip. He snatched it out of his paw, but failed to secure it himself as it fell through a gap in some piping beneath them. Suddenly the whole passage gave way and collapsed, leaving the intrepid pair to tumble to the floor.
‘Nice of you to drop in,’ The Clown remarked in a disappointedly lacklustre way, perhaps unaware he had missed a rather clever pun.
Mr Monkey stood up and knocked the debris off his fabric body. ‘I didn’t realise you were such a good comedian as well as an international terrorist,’ he sneered.
‘There’s no end to my talents.’
‘There’s no beginning either,’ Mr Monkey quipped back.
‘Takes one to know one’s my motto. What’s yours?’ The Clown queried.
‘If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.’
‘I think I prefer the motto: if you can’t beat ‘em, eat ‘em,’ he roared with laughter. Mr Monkey moved forward. The Clown’s tone soon lowered as his finger hovered over a set of buttons on the table. ‘Don’t be foolish enough to do anything you might regret, Brendan.’ He looked over at Francesca, smiling. He became jolly again, giggling. ‘I believe you’ve had a brief encounter with my daughter, Francesca.’
‘Just briefly. Our encounter was interrupted,’ commented Mr Monkey as he turned to eye The Worm coldly. He smiled at Francesca and she smiled back, but no words were spoken.
‘You only got to meet my, shall we say bodyguard, briefly also. Meet Boris, my personal hefty.’ The Clown introduced the puppet to a large metallic door, which didn’t initially open. Upon clearing his throat, it slid slowly open. At first only smoke came out of the door, but in time a large figure appeared. Who stepped out of the door but the man who had head-butted Mr Monkey on the train. He marched over to Francesca, bending down and kissing her on the forehead, before proceeding to The Clown and saluting him. ‘Sit down,’ The Clown ordered, pointing to Mr Monkey and The Worm. Boris marched over to them, picking them both up by their necks. He carried them over to the table and plonked them onto a seat each before sitting down between them.
The door in which Boris had entered closed. A smaller door built into it opened. There was no smoke this time, just a frail woman appeared. She had metal hooks instead of hands. With the hooks she carried a tray with six glasses on it. She walked over to the conference table and plonked the glasses down. Mr Monkey took one glance at her and turned away. On further inspection he recognised the woman as Miss Salifield, the woman he thought he’d managed to kill on the plane. She looked a lot older than last time they’d met as well.
‘An accident with a pair of balls,’ commented The Clown as he glanced at Miss Salifield’s hooks.
‘And was the significant age increase a bonus too?’ Mr Monkey chuckled back. With this, Miss Salifield jumped onto the table and dived for his neck with her sharp silvery hooks. He couldn’t move quickly enough to get out of the way, and found Miss Salifield’s thighs wrapped around his neck. He tried desperately to swing her off as The Worm jerked forward off his chair to help, but was soon stopped by Boris. She kept on squeezing with pure glee as Francesca cried out for her to stop. Mr Monkey’s tongue shot out and he struggled to slip out of her grip, dropping in a heap on the floor next to the collapsed passageway. He picked up a sharp piece of debris and stuck it into Miss Salifields arm. She stopped squeezing as hard. He looked into her eyes and winked, karate-chopping her injured arm. She made a swing for his face with one of her hooks, catching one of his seams and fraying it. He grabbed onto the hook with his mouth and pulled hard at it, managing to pull it off. He now had a dangerous weapon in which to fight with, ramming Miss Salifield out of the way and running past Boris as he jumped onto the table. He was heading to free Francesca, but Boris grabbed hold of his legs and sent him plummeting face first onto the stainless steal-topped table. Poor Mr Monkey gave out a gasp as Boris jumped on t
op of him and grabbed hold of the hook. The big brute bent the metal hook into a more suitable shape for killing and wrapped it around the puppet’s neck.
‘Enough,’ The Clown commanded. Boris stopped, picking up the choked puppet and tossing him back onto his chair. Before he could attempt to stand again, the seat revealed automatic locking straps similar to those that imprisoned Francesca. The straps locked around Mr Monkey’s paws and prevented him from getting up again. ‘You’ve shown yourself to be quite a brutal guy, Mr Monkey.’
‘You’re not a gentleman yourself, Mr Clooney,’ replied the puppet.
‘And as for you Liam, you disappoint me,’ remarked The Clown, turning to face The Worm. ‘Ever the worm, slipping and sliding about… You’ll never make a snake, will you?’
‘When you throw me out of a helicopter, what do you expect me to do?’
Boris moved from behind Mr Monkey to The Worm, placing his gigantic hands on his shoulders and pressing down. The Worm was crushed in his seat, squirming and wriggling about as he begged for mercy.
‘I pushed you out of that helicopter for one very amiable reason – you delivered Mr Monkey to me without me even risking a hair on my head.’ The Clown ran his fingers through his tight bright red curls. ‘Ingenious, isn’t it?!’ He sneered at a job well done.
‘Quite,’ the puppet replied, ‘but why do you need me?’
‘Ah yes, let me think…’ The Clown answered calmly, ‘maybe because you’re trying to kill me!’ he yelled, pulling an impossibly tiny bicycle from his jacket pocket and riding it around the room. ‘Now listen here you stupid little puppet, I’ve had the chance to kill you thousands of times in the past. But no idiotic, buffoonish loonaticic imbasillic nickumpoopish mastermind of the century Colin “The Clown” Clooney spares your life just because he’s got a soft spot for you,’ he finished, jumping off the bicycle and leaping through the wall, which happened to be made of paper in that specific spot. He poked his head back through the hole he’d made, pointing his finger frantically at Mr Monkey.
‘Number one, it’s rude to point. Number two, please learn to count. At most you’ve had three chances to kill me,’ the puppet cleared.
‘Seven, actually,’ The Clown confirmed, calming down as his huge floppy feet stepped through the hole. He was excited at the thought of having somebody with as much improvisation and wit in them to crack a mastermind such as he. If anything, he adored the puppet. He saw him as his only worthy adversary. ‘We’ve had our moments together,’ he said with warmth.
‘I do believe we’ve shared some moments, too,’ The Worm butted in.
‘Ah yes, we have,’ The Clown sighed, his life wasted with The Worm. He didn’t even glance at him. He was too busy watching Mr Monkey get interrupted by Francesca’s beauty. ‘You enjoy women, don’t you Brendan?’ He stepped up to his daughter with a seedy grin.
‘Well I can’t help noticing that she is very attractive… especially for something that came from your genitalia.’
‘Perhaps you want to see more of her? I wouldn’t want your final hours to be so, shall we say, restless. I’d like to know you were doing something constructive,’ The Clown tittered. He was in his absolute element, he couldn’t even be happier putting a spider in his sister’s purse.
‘You’re sick in the head, you’re no dad to me,’ Francesca cried out.
‘Everything’s gone to pot. I can’t believe it. Get me out of here. I’m supposed to be your partner. Are you too scared to release me? Scared of what I’ll do. Haha,’ The Worm suddenly ranted as he twisted and turned in his chair.
‘Oh shut up,’ everybody shouted at him in unison.
‘Tell me, if I am to die, what does ARSEN mean?’ Mr Monkey just came straight out with it. He thought it best not to play with The Clown’s mind too much at this stage in the jigsaw.
‘Ah yes. Baby always comes back to its mother, doesn’t it? A bird back to it’s old nest. A frog back to the pond in which it was once a tadpole. Now let me see, ARSEN. Where have I seen that before? Arsenal? No. Oh yes, I know now. ARSEN stands for; All Rudiments Should Evolve Nicely!’ The Clown proclaimed. There was a pause as Mr Monkey puzzled over it.
Finally, with some hesitation, he asked: ‘What does that mean?’
‘You like asking questions, don’t you?’ The Clown had no reply off the puppet, so he continued. ‘Well, let me take you on a journey. Not in space. Not under the sea, well it is under the ground. Even further under than we are now. Let me show you.’ He nodded to Boris to press a switch on the wall by where Miss Salifield lay unconscious. Without a word of warning, just a grin from Boris, the entire floor proceeded to move downwards. The Worm remarked that the idea of the floor moving down was his and not The Clown’s. They fell into darkness… down, down, down. The lowering floor stopped, and both Mr Monkey and Francesca were curious to see where they had ended up.
‘Now, Mr Monkey,’ The Clown announced proudly.
‘Yes, Mr Clooney?’
‘Ahem. Now, I introduce to you level ARSEN of my empire. This is purely for your benefit, Mr Monkey, in seeing how your body, after your use of it, will go to helping my kingdom – my kingdom of workaholics where I am their leader… where I give them instructions on what to do in life, or shall we say what to do in Zombie.’ He paused, waiting for a small chuckle from his guests due to his brilliant wise crack made prior. There was nothing. He sighed and his shoulders fell. The wall facing Mr Monkey began to disappear into the floor and The Clown introduced a devilish looking device to the group. ‘Behold, the ultimate cloning machine.’ The device in question looked quite sinister. There was a large table-like surface area in which a perspex cubical stood on top. Towering above all that was an indescribable pole-shaped metal item. About two metres away was exactly the same again. Like a mirror image, except the opposite way round, so the poles were as close together as possible. All in all it resembled some kind of grotesque Victorian experiment.
‘Cloning device?’ Mr Monkey sighed. ‘Laaaaame.’
‘Yes well, watch this.’ He clicked his fingers at Boris, who picked Miss Salifield up and carried her over to the device. The left cubicle rose, and he tossed her in. It lowered on top of her and The Clown outstretched his hand, showing the group a ring on his wedding finger. He pressed a small red button on the top of the ring and suddenly a slurping noise sounded. A pile of peach-coloured goo splattered from the top to the bottom of the right cubicle, before a flash of light blinded the onlookers. When it had faded, to their astonishment, there stood a second Miss Salifield in the right cubicle. She even had hands again. The original version, sans hands, still lay slumped in the left one. ‘Ingenious, isn’t it?’
‘That’s impossible,’ Mr Monkey responded in awe, ‘it must be one of your circus tricks.’
‘You were the one that wanted to know about ARSEN. The Worm can back me up.’
‘I’ll kick you in the back once I’m out of this chair,’ was The Worm’s angry response.
‘What do you need me for, Clown?’ The puppet was beginning to get uneasy now.
‘You’re the one I’ve chosen for cloning. Your physical and mental strength will bring credit to my evil team,’ he stated with menace.
‘Oh, no. No, no. You’re not cloning me. No, no,’ Mr Monkey stuttered, shaking his head. Without even a hint to him, Boris clacked his head with his fist, sending the poor thing into an unconscious daze.
* * *
Mr Monkey awakened upright in the so-called “cloning dome”. He struggled to move but was unable to do so. The Clown appeared in front of the cubicle.
‘Ingenious, isn’t it?’ The pesky pale-faced one looked pleased with himself.
‘What on earth do you want to clone me for?’ Mr Monkey queried, curious.
‘I’ve already told you.’
‘Very evasive, aren’t you?’ Mr Monkey snapped.
‘You do lack courage in your conviction, Mr Monkey. Sit back, well, stand back, and let nature take its course,’ The Clo
wn upbraided softly.
‘So I’m being used as a scapegoat for the horrible memories you have of your brutal childhood in which the evil of your mind was founded?’ Mr Monkey snapped back firmly.
The Clown spoke no more. He stared blankly at the puppet for a time, before suddenly disappearing from view. Mr Monkey attempted to move his head to see where he’d disappeared to. He couldn’t. The conference room was no longer in sight. The cavity wall which concealed the cloning laboratory must have been replaced.
Mr Monkey had seldom been in such a precarious position that didn’t end up with him coming out on top. In fact, as he reminisced about the past, he had always come out on top. His wits had always got him out of trouble at the end of the day.
The Clown re-appeared, tittering to himself as he pointed a remote controlled device at his opponent.
‘What do you hope to achieve by this?’
‘Now let me consult my evil scheme book,’ The Clown giggled. ‘Ah yes. I plan world domination, with you as my puppet.’ He had not consulted his diary at all. He merely scratched his head.
‘Why, Clown, why?!’ Mr Monkey despaired.
‘So many questions, so little time. Boo hoo, sob sob,’ The Clown lamented. ‘I will merely use your clone for random tasks that will involve your face to make an appearance. As for your body and its contents, well… You’re just hollow inside,’ he sighed.
‘Ya what?’ Mr Monkey yelled.
‘I think you’ll find the term is, “what did you say?” not, “ya what?” or whatever inscription you polluted the English language with.’