So, here you have a great story with one of the best titles I've seen in a long time. Without further ado.....
RETURN of the NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD MONKEY from SUNSET BOULEVARD.
Judge, there’s a good reason I was trespassin’. It’s on account a my friend, see. He showed his mug in a talkie, way back when. That flick with the old movie-star broad creaking around a crumbling mansion on Sunset. A real movie director played the manservant, bald as an egg and stiff-backed as a Prussian general. Maybe youse remember? Saps and suckers can’t recall anything happened before last Tuesday, but standup guys like you n’ me, we remember, huh Judge?
The actor I’m referrin’ to, he played a corpse laid out on a massage table. One hairy arm swung down, limp as death, when the movie star pulled back his shroud. I guess by now ya got it figgered he was the monkey, right?
Since 1950 he’s been buried in the back yard ‘o dat rotten old mansion. I knows for real, see. His only company is a pair of goats next door. Yeah, goats. It’s an eco-freak thing; goats eat the grass insteada mowin’ it. Those dang goats are noise sensitive. The slightest thing sets ‘em off bleatin’ and baain’ all night.
Drama students useta love goin’ up that old place, practicin’ lines under the moon. But they disturbed the goats so much neighbors called the coppers. I had a hot tip a coupla them were goin’ up there, on account of it bein’ the anniversary of the monkey’s death. Which brings me to the legend of my story.
See, the old chimp knew he wuz goin’ ta kick the bucket, but said he was comin’ back. Return he called it. Alls he needed was a few magic words recited by a young, virgin actress, and he could spring back to life an’ take revenge on all those lousy Hollywood mokes that made him a star and then dropped him like a chump. He was a chimp, not a chump, dammit.
An’ now it’s been sixty-one years and tanight’s the night. If the magic line gets said by a virgin dollface over his grave at midnight, he’ll come back. The magic woids is the ones SHE spoke at the very end a the movie, “All right Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close up.” What a dame! You hoid it before, didn’t cha Judge? Cause if ya can’t finish dat line by heart, yer nuthin’ but a patsy from Palookaville in my book. And if ya can finish it, yer a stand-up jake.
Anyways do I need ta tell ya how hard it is finding a virgin in Hollywood? It’s harder than gettin’ a clean piss-test from Charlie Sheen. Harder than the implants in Jenna Jameson’s chest. Harder than translatin’ Norse runes into Urdu. But I done it. I found her in a little acting class. Chickadee she calls herself. An’ I tole the whole class that a couple a C-notes was waitin’ if they showed up at the old place before midnight and ran lines from the movie.
It’s around eleven in the pee-em, and I’m already at the old mansion. I hear the kids comin’ in, walkin’ past the empty, rat-choked pool and trampin’ through the weeds. I warned ‘em about the goats, so they knows to be quiet. So far, no bleats from next door. Lady Luck is runnin’ wit me so far.
I sez hello to the actors, shows ‘em the C-notes, and they warm up a little. Finally Chickadee gets her chance. She stands inches from where my monkey pal is buried ‘an I sez to her, “Chickadee, I wanna hear the greatest movie line in the woild. An’ call me Mr. DeMille, like I’m really him. ‘Kay?”
Chickadee flashes her gams and tosses her curls. “All right Mr. DeMille…I’m going to screw the quotes up!”
“C’mon doll,” I sez, “Try again.” It’s a minute to midnight, and under the earth, I imagine my zombie monkey pal’s dusty ear twitchin’, dried like an old leaf but slowly comin’ to life.
Chickadee screws up her face and sez, “Alright Mister, be chill. I’m ready for my close up.”
An’ then I hears it. I swear, I can hear Zombie Monkey’s teeth chattering. He’s wakin’ up!
I say, “Get it exackly right, sweetheart. A little louder.”
Chickadee takes a deep breath and shouts, “All right, Mr. DeMille…I’m ready to wake the goats up!”
I fergot about the goats. Bleating starts to beat the band. The neighbors start screamin’. I yell, “Cheese it, da cops!” and we all stampede outta there.
Sirens was yodelin’ in the distance and searchlights was piercin’ the sky, an’ the Zombie Monkey gnashed his teeth and sank into the big sleep for another sixty-one years.
Judge, dat’s nuttin’ but the truth, I swears. Let me go and I’ll be on my way if ya don’t mind… Judge?
In Hard Bite & Other Short Stories, meet a wheel-chair bound vigilante with a deadly helper-monkey assistant, a woman who murders the wives of men she wants for herself; and see what happens when cannibals overtake the California State Capitol. Anonymous-9 "came from no-where" in 2005 and gained critical acclaim for her hardboiled vision and darkly humorous take. Hard Bite & Other Short Stories collects her award-winning fiction for the first time.
Hard Bite is available here UK, and here US.
Bio: Short stories by Anonymous-9 have earned a Thriller Award nomination by an International Thriller Writers judging panel, Spinetingler Magazine’s Best Short Story on the Web 2009, another nomination for the same award in 2010, and two Derringer nominations.
RETURN of the NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD MONKEY from SUNSET BOULEVARD, featured below, is brand new from Anonymous-9's e-book collection HARD BITE & OTHER SHORT STORIES. Spinetingler recently published an art critique of the cover--awful, off-center and out-of-focus--by renowned thrillerchick Rebecca Forster entitled, "Why This Book Cover is so BAD it's Brilliant. http://www.spinetinglermag.com/2011/09/20/why-the-cover-of-hard-bite-is-so-bad-its-brilliant/
Anthony Neil Smith did a humorous take on his site: http://anthonyneilsmith.typepad.com/hermansgreasyspoon/2011/09/and-now-a-word-from-our-sponsor.html
Find out more at www.anonymous-9.com.