Bad Monkey Glen: The Interrogation and a Happy Outcome!
After I had been tended to by my medical team it was time to speak with Glen. Suffice it to say I was not happy. My gut was twisting in disgust, like saltwater taffy being made at the seaside. However, while saltwater taffy is a tasty confection, my gut still felt very uncomfortable.
Monkey Glen was curled up in the corner of the cell.
“Hey, Monkey Glen,” I hooted, “I don’t see you or hear you or smell you for 20 years and you burst into my home, finish my best schnapps and then regurgitate all over my study?” I hopped from foot-to-foot, swinging my arms in wide arcs to extenuate my point.
“Monkey Glen bad monkey,” he chattered, drawing his left hand down his face to show me how bad he felt. “Bad, bad monkey.”
Our conversation went on like this for several hours this afternoon. I shan’t recount it in full because it is very tedious speaking to a monkey for any great length of time. They use very simple syntax and their vocabulary is generally not extensive. Glen, like most monkeys I know, has a very high opinion of himself and dislikes being chastised in any way. But chastise him I did — over and over, for that is what it takes to get a message through a bad monkey’s thick skull!
Here is the take he told me, apparently in the hopes that I would sympathize and forgive him his DISGUSTING transgression.
Shortly after we parted ways in Ohio back in 1997, Glen had fallen in with a bad crowd. Now “bad” is a relative term but Glen hooted and hopped and spun, raising and lowering his arms the whole time to let me know they were very, very bad. At times he was almost impossible to understand!
“Slow down, slow down,” I hissed, encouraging him to continue. All monkeys have some form of prejudice and Glen was no exception. The bad crowd he’d fallen in with were the group that he most dreaded and for which he held a dark stain of hate in his beating monkey’s heart: the Scandinavians.
The lot Glen had connected with were exactly the hale and healthy, robust and happy sort that he despised most. He went on and on about their height and strength. He spat out chopping strings of words about the blond hair and blue eyes, spinning like a dervish the whole time.
One of the “Scandis,” as Glen called them, was a fellow called Karl. Karl played the panpipes and could play them like old Pan himself. No matter what he was doing, as soon as Glen heard the pipes he would begin to dance. He couldn’t help himself, he sobbed.
Anyhoodle, these Scandis, with Karl as the ringleader, had planned an ingenious series of robberies. Glen was going to play two roles, they explained, whether he liked it or not!
The first was as a distraction. Karl would walk with Glen through the lobby of a band or other place where a lot of money was stored. All of the people were happy to see a big, hale and healthy Scandinavian man with such a lovely monkey.
Then Karl would start to play and Glen would begin to dance. The delight of the crowd of onlookers — including bank tellers, bank managers, loan officers, notaries of the public, security guards and customers — was almost too much. Karl was a wily one, according to Glen. With the monkey in a panpipes-induced dance trance Karl would slowly skip around drawing Glen along with him, and the bank tellers, bank mangers, loan officers, notaries of the public, customers and security guards followed along too, in a trance of their own.
Once they had been lured out of the bank, Karl’s cronies would waltz in and walk out with sacks bulging with money! These Scandinavians, Glen spat out to me, had hit pay dirt by luring his poor monkey self into a life of crime!
It wasn’t as though he were appreciated though, no, not at all!
These dastardly “Scandis” would finger him if things went south on a job, he chattered at me. Once, he said, they’d used him as a monkey shield when the police gave chase. This Glen, the manipulative monkey, then started to cry as he recounted the fear he’d felt on that occasion.
Just as I was starting to feel the smallest smidgen of sorrow for him myself at team of my men burst into the room. “Andy!” they shouted, “We have some news for you!.”
I held up a finger to Glen and turned to my men. “You see,” I said, “that I am in the midst of interrogating this bad monkey. What is it, quickly!”
What it was was a murder most foul. Not far from the compound a security detail came across what appeared to be an abandoned mobile home. Upon closer inspection the team discovered the lifeless bodies of four people, two adults — a man and a woman and two youngsters, both boys under the age of 10. All, according the my me, appeared to be Nordic.
As they told their tale Glen became increasingly agitated. Hooting and shouting for them to stop. Nevertheless, they went on. They called in a forensics team from the LAM LAB. The team did a thorough examination of the scene and found an abundance of banana peels in the camper.
They also found coarse dark hair, hair that clearly had not come from the slain Scandinavians. Glen, by this point was jumping and spinning and slapping himself violently.
I shusshed everyone to think. I thought for nearly four hours, demanding that everyone remain STOCK STILL for the duration. In the end, I realized that it was very possible that a monkey — especially one with a hatred for Scandinavians — might be the culprit.
With this thought in mind, I told my security team to go back out and begin searching the area around the compound to see if they could find a monkey fitting the bill. They saluted and went out.
I turned my attention back to Glen, who was sobbing on his bunk.
“And as for you,” I said, wagging my finger, “you have been a naughty monkey indeed. Will you promise to be a better monkey now?”
Glen nodded and promised. He reached through the bars and shook my hand long and hard. “I promise, I promise,” he told me.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that a monkey’s word is his bond and I was very happy that Glen had seen the light. I ordered my men to give him provisions and to accompany him to the edge of the compound so he might find his way again in the world as a changed and better monkey.
It’s tales of redemption like this that give me hope!
Feeling happy about a positive outcome to a difficult situation, I am . . .