Barbara and Jack: A Tail of Two Assassins January 15, 2010Posted by Who? in Funny.
Barbara and Jack: A Tail of Two Assassins
The year was 1991. Bush is in the White House, Reagan was creating international turmoil with the Iran Contra affair and Jefferson was single footedly running this country into the ground…
A monkey walks into a bar in Detroit on a snowy winter day. (Isn’t that how all tragic love stories start?)
The bartender says “Hey, there is a monkey cover charge of $5 and we don’t validate.” The monkey, being a monkey and all, just continues making his way towards the bar. Why should he care? Monkeys can’t even drive. He, the monkey, is dressed in the finest bright blue polyester tuxedo monkey money can buy. He whistles an eerie tune as he saunters defiantly from the door to the bar. He swings his cane lazily. The other patrons scattered around the room look on with intrigue and jealousy. They couldn’t put their finger on it, but something juuuuuust wasn’t right about this tuxedo wearing monkey. A mystery indeed…
Suddenly and without warning, he, the monkey, performs a dazzling spinning jump kick and launches his monkey person on to a bar stool next to said bar and proceeds to suspiciously order a scotch on the rocks. “Scotch…dramatic pause as he spins around and looks at the room…on the rocks,” he says to the bartender because that is what he wants to drink and that’s what it says he ordered in the previous sentence. PAY ATTENTION! The bartender, shocked at this brazen display of monkey disrespect, slams his hammy fist onto the bar and says “Listen up Chimp,” he says, “we don’t” he says “serve” he says,” your kind here.”, he said all that. The air is thick with smoke, tension and molecules. So thick in fact one could cut it with a knife…if one so happen to have a portable molecular knife. HA! You idiot, there’s no such thing. Anyways, Monkey, he goes by Barbara, gasps in shock and awe at this brazen display of bartender disrespect but remembers his training and calms himself by repeating ancient haiku poetry in his head.
Monkey, monkey up in the sky.
Monkey, monkey finish your tuna on rye.
Monkey, monkey focus your shit and smoke this guy.
Monkeys don’t like poetry you might say and it might sound something like this. “Monkeys don’t like poetry.” you would say confusedly to yourself out loud but silently under your breath under a chair. And to that I would say, nay. Nay sir indeed. Monkeys love poetry, they hate interpretive dance.
And then, in a blinding flash of fabulousness, a single parade float VROOOOMS!! by the front window doing like 94 in a 15 and the driver is yelling something about “no taxation without retardation” while a Spice Girls track blares over the vehicles PA system. “So tell me what you want what you really really want. I’ll tell you what I want what you really really want. (high kick) I wanna I wanna I wanna what I really want. (sexy head snap) If you want my future, better forget my past. (Spin and arm flare showing generous boobage) If you wanna get with me, better make it fast. Now don’t go wastin my precious time. Get your act together and we can be just fine. (suggestive hip thrust (ask Harry to show you w/ his walker (Ugh Ugh Ugh))) (is that the right amount of parenthesis? Its so hard to remember order of operations, PEMDAS.) (Algebra joke: check).
The monkey doesn’t even know what the driver meant by that. Lost in thought, he ponders to his monkey self. Taxation? Retardation? Speeding parade float but no parade in the dead of winter in Detroit? Not even his blazer sharp assassin-mind could derive any meaning. Suddenly, he shoots the bartender a stupendous look of love, confusion and bean burrito. He is a master assassin, surprised you didn’t know that, not even an out of control parade float doing almost a Benjamin down main street with the tight beats hittin hard can distract him from his objective.
“My name…dramatic monkey pause as he looks around the room again… is Barbara A. Monkey. I’m here…for my tuba lesson, new Jack.” Jack is the bartender’s name but he is not really new. He is more of an old Jack. Stupid monkey. Old Jack is caught off guard by this brazen display of secret information revelation and freezes for a split millisecond. Jack always knew that his day would come; a man can’t run from his history forever. He never enjoyed his work, but he was good at it and besides monkeys are overpopulated in this region. They’re decimating the grub worm population!
New, but actually old, Jack, quickly remembered his counter-monkey-assassin training and regained his composure. But, this was not this monkey-assassins first rodeo and Barbara saw the fear in new/old Jack’s eyes. Hoping to not tip his cards, Jack quickly but carefully pulled his tuba from under his navy blue petticoat and proceeded to engage in a jolly rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In”. I fucking hate that song.
His only chance for survival was to dance his face off…and he knew it. It was game time. Jack was hopping around like an A.D.D. frog stuck in one of those sticky mouse traps with his lederhosen flapping in the wind. Tuba-afuckin-blarin! (Ugh Ugh Ugh!) Just as Jack is losing himself in the music, Barbara pulls an oversized Battle Axe (think BattleToads for NES) (Author’s note: are there any normal sized battle axes cuz I kind of feel like they are all oversized. Know what I’m saying? I feel like that is one of the weapon’s strong points…mental domination brought on by its lack of proportion. You have to win mentally before you can win physically. Anyways, I digress) So he pulls the oversized/relatively normal sized Battle Axe from his monkey trousers and raises it high into the air. He braces his monkey lungs for a mighty battle cry…but it never came…
Just as Barbara began to bring the axe down, something tugged on her monkey heart strings and she hesitated for a monkey moment. (shake your head in disgust at this flagrant violation of assassin protocol. Pffft. I’m disgusted.)
You see, Barbara was at one time in her life a man. That’s right, she was a he/she. A transgendered chimpanzee-assassin named Barbara A. Monkey. All his/her life all Barbara had ever wanted was an overweight, tuba playing bartender from Detroit to love him/her. And now his/her job had placed him right in front of him/her. All these years of ruthless killing for monkey money and Chinese take out for 1 could end right now. Could it be true…after all these years…was this love?
Barbara was lost in her thoughts. Not that Lost you idiot. Lost like this. Her assassin instincts have taken a backseat to her infatuation with Jack’s sick tuba skills. She notices his thick sausage fingers (that’s hot) masterfully manipulating the tuba buttons (is that what they are called? I don’t even know.). She shudders as her surgically altered man/lady parts get in on the action. YAHTZEE! A monkey in lust. All thoughts of her murderous task at hand were gone. His/her ballgina was in the driver’s seat now and they just bought a one way ticket to Funky Town. He/she didn’t know it yet, but this would cost him/her his/her monkey life. Unlike cats, monkeys only have one life to live. Again, surprised you didn’t know that. She was truly up a creek without a paddle.
While Barb was lost in her tranny lust, Jack snapped to. (C’mon…just click it. Don’t be scared. Did you click it? GOTCHA! You’re a pervert.) He pooped his pants, but only for a second, as his eyes took in the medeival weapon about to be dropped upon his person. This was his chance to end this once and for all. But first he had to finish the song. Jack was a little OCD and would have a fucking melt down if he didn’t finish it. Luckily for him, Barbara was pervin out something fierce and all like “Oh yah, do me do me.”
He picked up the Tempo and brought it home. The last note seemed to hang in the air like a really bad fart. Just sitting there and lingering. Five minutes went by and it was still there…hovering…lounging…
THEN in a blinding FLASH, Jack raised the instrument high above his head and brought it down with great vengeance and fury. SLOW MOTION SHOT. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKK YOUUUUUUUU MONNNNNKKKEEYYYYYYY RAWWWWWRRRRRRR!!!!!! A blur of blue polyester and monkey brains splashed about and richocheted off the jukebox. Barbara was dead. The coroner would later offically record the cause of death as smooshed by a tuba.
The deadly instrument came to rest on the floor. Jack had painted his masterpiece. The final chapter in a long and storied career as the worlds most notorious monkey assasin. Stories would be written about him (See: this email).
He breathed deeply. It was finished. He stepped over the smooshed monkey-assassin lifeless body and headed for the door. He needed to beat feet before the 5-0 showed u and started asking a bunch of irrelevant questions like “Does anyone know where I can buy a blue monkey tux?” or “Who manufactured the tuba?”. Jack was a professional. He didn’t have time for stupid questions.
Jack adjusted his top hat and pulled his petticoat tight as he opened the door. The cold winter air rushed in the door. As he stepped through the door, Jack stopped and reached into his inside pocket because inside pockets are badass and Jack is straight old-school BA. He pulled a tobacco pipe out, placed it in his mouth and lit the delicious fodder contained within. He turned his head slightly, one foot out the door and spoke quietly over his shoulder.
” I told you”…dramatic pause…”we don’t serve your kind here.”
He shook out the match and disappeared into thin air like the smoke from his pipe.