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Monkeys (An ORIGINAL Story)

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Time
 (Edited)

This is an original short story, with no connection to Star Wars or any other previously established fictional universe/franchise. It's basically a tidied-up rewrite of an older story I wrote back in 2008/09, which was itself a rewrite of a story I wrote way back in 2003. I have completed it, so there's no chance of me leaving the story to dangle in the wind unfinished. I will be breaking it up, though, and posting each segment once a day, if only to pad the life of this thread (XD).

Anyway, the story begins with the first REAL post, following this intro in 5, 4, 3, 2 ...

“Okay, I’m goin’, takin’ off. See ya… bye….” — Chip Douglas

“This concludes our broadcast day. Click.” — Chip Douglas

Author
Time
 (Edited)

The wind howled and beat against the small building, rattling its meagre foundations and thrusting a lance of fear into the already-petrified heart of the young boy. Something outside the shed suddenly slammed against the door, throwing it back against the inside wall, rattling its frame and splintering the old, dry boards. A black, quasi-human shape filled the open doorway, silhouetted against the backdrop of a furious and negatively-charged thunderstorm, and with a lurch it stepped inside. A bolt of lightning flashed through the air, illuminating the shed with its brief but intense burst of light, revealing the hideous details of the living corpse which now stood poised above the crouching child. Two small pinpoints of red light burned within the ruptured sockets of the revenant, and they flared as they took in the sight of the trembling child. The mouldering cadaver took a step forward, and the boy scrambled backward under the workbench, releasing a heart-rending shriek of terror as the deranged ghoul brought forth the rusted chainsaw clenched in its browned, withered claws. The monster opened its desiccated maw, releasing a deep, fetid moan as it pulled the cord of the chainsaw; the ancient, corroded motor roared to tormented life, and the chain began to scream with eagre ferocity, throwing flakes of long-dried blood from its caked teeth ...

Long, talon-like nails flashed forward, and in an instant the man's face became a mass of gouged flesh. He fell backward with a tortured scream, his rump colliding with a hard boulder, flipping him over onto his side before tossing him to the damp evening grass. He brought his hands up to his face quickly, desperately trying to stanch the flow of blood welling up from his raw, open wounds. The dark, naked woman standing before him, blood dripping from her fingers, watched her ravaged victim flip and flop upon the ground with wide, glowing eyes, her face a hard, unreadable mask. As the poor man released a second tortured cry, the female creature responded with an unholy, utterly inhuman, hiss. She stepped forward, that chilling hiss continuing to pour from her frozen mouth, as her vagina morphed into a pair of testicles and an erect penis ...

The sexy blonde teenager ran through the woods, the jagged limbs of gnarled trees cutting into her pale, curvaceous flesh as she charged forward in a frightened frenzy. Behind her, matching her speed, was an overbuilt man in orange prison coveralls, his square head wrapped in the folds of a tinfoil mask, hiding his face, his hairy left hand clutching an absurdly large straight razor which he used to hack and slash his way through the treacherous foliage. Choosing to look back over her shoulder, the barely-legal nude failed to spot the large branch blocking her path; wood met jaw with a resonating
crack, and she went down hard, a bright spray of blood filling the late twilight air. The masked killer scrambled up behind her, and with his free hands grabbed her right buttock, pinning her to the forest floor. As the enhanced beauty futilely tried to worm her way out from under his grasp, flailing about like a beached fish, he raised the hand with the razor up high. The last, stray beams of light from the vanished sun glanced off the blade, briefly illuminating it with an eerie blue glow, and then ...

“Okay, I’m goin’, takin’ off. See ya… bye….” — Chip Douglas

“This concludes our broadcast day. Click.” — Chip Douglas

Author
Time
 (Edited)

"Horror movies suck".
Aaren Heptesz sat in his faded brown recliner, his feet propped lazily up on the footrest, a black remote control gripped loosely in his hand, his eyes bloodshot and sagging with boredom. He sat there, in the centre of his living room, lights turned down low, gray tabby cat sleeping peacefully on his lap, with a blazing television set before him, his fingers working sluggishly against the remote's buttons, as he flipped from one channel to the next in a failing attempt to find something worth watching. Unfortunately, tonight was Halloween - Aaren's least favourite holiday, and there was nothing that wasn't horror-related - Aaren's most loathed genre - playing this night.
Aaren groaned with indignation. Had it been any other day in the year, he'd have had some something decent to watch, like Star Trek: Portals or Mutants 2.0. Yet it was Halloween, and everything worthwhile had been pre-empted for the sake of showing proven shit like Diabolical Death 2, Transgenderizer, or Porn Star Razor Massacre. It irked him - how could anyone in their right mind air films like these? Anyone could see they were all made from the same recycled bit parts from the same negatives tossed out by the same failed film students who had never learned to read beyond a Playboy-grade level and move out of their parents' basements. With all the letters of complaint he had written and sent out to the various stations, one would think the corporate bigwigs would take his well-argued arguments to heart and finally take action. Things went on as they always did, though, the same old scenario playing out year-by-year without the slightest deviation. Aaren, at least, had one tried-and-true method for bucking the system which never failed to work; no trick-or-treater came to his front doorstep after 4:00 PM, the time he turned all his lights off for the evening.
Aaren continued to surf through the stations, one at a time, pressing the arrow button with unceasingly coordinated rhythm, for the next five minutes. His screen flashed blue-to-white between brief captures of various maurading monsters and screaming victims; blue-white-roaring vampire, blue-white-stabbing killer, blue-white-burning victim. When the various maniacal screams and fits of laughter came to a sudden halt to be replaced with relaxing Carribean music, Aaren's hopes quickly went up; there, on-screen, was a fine sand beach with palm trees swaying gently in the breeze of a bright blue sky - this was obviously not a horror film! The camera panned to the left, and a homely bleached blonde with mismatched breast implants suddenly came into view. A hoarse female voice issued various salacious promises off-screen, and Aaren noticed the ten-digit phone number enblazoned on the bottom of the screen. His hopes sank as he realized what it was he had found: a phone sex ad, and a bad one at that.
With a sigh, Aaren hit the POWER button, and with a brief white flash of light and a pop of static, the TV went dark. He set the remote down on the tray to his right, then nudged his sleeping cat, Cornelio, awake; the feline rose, stretched, gave a silent yawn, then leapt down to the carpeted floor and trotted off into the darkness. Disinterestedly watching the cat depart, Aaren issued his own yawn, then pushed himself up and out of the recliner and started on toward his bedroom. He shut the single lit lamp standing by his bedside off, casting the room into complete blackness, then - after taking a moment to fluff up his pillow - collapsed atop the mattress. In moments he was out light a light, and in a few minutes more he began to snore. Before long he was already slipping into a deep sleep.

“Okay, I’m goin’, takin’ off. See ya… bye….” — Chip Douglas

“This concludes our broadcast day. Click.” — Chip Douglas

Author
Time
 (Edited)

At that moment, the telephone in the living room began to ring.
He bolted upright, instantly awake. Grudgingly, he rolled over, pushing himself up off the bed onto the floor. He made his way back to the living room, to the west wall where the phone hung. He took the handset up from its cradle and brought it to his ear.
"Hello?" he inquired. "It's kind of late, so whatever you want, please just make it -"
"Ten little monkeys jumping on the bed. One fell off and bumped his head. The momma called the doctor, and the doctor said: 'No more monkeys jumping on the bed'".
There was a click, and the line went dead.
His eyebrows contorted with confusion. "What? Are you still there?"
No answer.
With a shake of the head, he replaced the receiver, then turned to make his way back to the bedroom. As he passed through the doorway, the telephone began ringing again. He turned and hurried back, picking the phone up with a flash of movement.
"Yes? If this is you again, what the hell is it?"
The raspy voice answered in reply: "Nine little monkeys jumping on the bed. One fell off and bumped his head. The momma called the doctor, and the doctor said: "No more monkeys jumping on the bed'".
Click.
Aaren hung up. The ringing began again instantly. He snatched the handset back with rage.
"Look here, asshole!" he spat angrily. "Cut the bullshit out! I'm -"
"Eight little monkeys jumping on the bed. One fell off and bumped his head. The momma called the doctor, and the doctor said: 'No more monkeys jumping on the bed'".
Aaren's heatbeat began to race with distress. "Cut it out, motherfucker. Don't think I won't call the police, 'cause I will, goddammit!"
"Ten kilometres in all. Three down, seven to go", the eldritch voice dripped with malice and dark glee. "I'm coming for you, asshole - don't think that I won't. I'll be there soon".
The line went dead once again, and that's when Aaren went to action, punching 911 into the machine. He waited a number of seconds as it rang, then there was a click as someone picked up from the other end.
"Hello," a pleasant female voice announced. ""911 emergency services. How may I help you?"
Aaren quickly summarized his problem to the dispatcher.
"You're sure this is an emergency, sir?" she questioned.
"I think so, yeah," Aaren declared. "I'm sure, anyway. It sounds like he's coming here. The son of a bitch's dangerous!
"Your name and address?"
"Aaren Heptesz. 1308 King Street".
"Okay, Mr. Heptesz," she proclaimed. "I'll send an officer out to your home. He'll drive by your neighbourhood, check things out, see if anything's amiss, probably check up on you. He'll be there in about twenty minutes. Is that okay?"
"Yeah, sure".
"Do you want to stay with me on the line until he arrives, or will you be fine?"
"No, that's okay," Aaren said. "I'll be fine. Thanks anyway.
With that, he hung up, placing the receiver back in its cradle. It began to ring. He retrieved it.
"Seven little monkeys jumping on the bed. One fell off and bumped his head. The momma called the doctor, and the doctor said: 'No more monkeys jumping on the bed'".
The caller hung up. At that moment, Aaren wished he had stayed on the line with the female dispatcher; her voice, so maternal and soothing, had been so calming.
He grew stiff there as he waited, fear encircling his heart, causing his muscles to stiffen and cold sweat to roll down his back. He shambled over to his recliner and collapsed in a heap into it, but the anxiety wouldn't leave him. He called haltingly for Cornelio, but the cat was elsewhere. Aaren became petrified; the shadows of the dark house grew oppressive, pressing down on him, making it impossible to do anything - turn on the lights, search for his pet, anything. When the angst grew too powerful to tolerate, he escaped by collapsing into a fitful sleep. Yet even then he could not truly escape, for in his slumber he could still hear the far-off ringing of a telephone; whether those incessant rings issued from the living room phone or his own fevered dreams was impossible to discern, and completely irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.

“Okay, I’m goin’, takin’ off. See ya… bye….” — Chip Douglas

“This concludes our broadcast day. Click.” — Chip Douglas

Author
Time

He awoke suddenly when bright white light flooded the interior of the living room.
He croaked a short, shrill cry, toppling out from his chair onto the floor. Brilliant light seared his eyes, blinding him. His heart began pounding like a jackhammer, threatening to rupture like a bloated corpse. He nervously scrambled to his feet, and sprinted across the living room for the door leading out to the front porch. His hands fell upon the flat white wood, and he peered out the small glass window set into the frame.
Outside, sitting out front in his driveway, was a motionless police cruiser, overhead lights dead by the headlights blazing. The shadows of the night obscured the view of the vehicle's interior.
With trembling, sweat-slick fingers Aaren unfastened the door's lock; he turned the brassed knob, then pushed the door forward. He stepped outside, and the evening's chill bit into his exposed skin instantly, freezing his sweat immediately. He stood on the porch, shivering uncontrollably, and brought up a hand to shield his gaze against the intensity of the broadcast light. No soul within the cruiser acknowledged his presence.
"Hello?" he called out. "You're the cop who was called out about the phone caller, right?"
No reply - no answer, no greeting. No door opened, no officer crawled out. All remained still and silent. The lights continued to burn, however, refusing to diminish or die.
His very nerves beginning to shiver along with him, Aaren stepped out toward the car. He climbed down the porch steps onto the barren gravel beyond. He slinked closer to the cruiser, each succeeding step bringing him closer and closer. He stopped before the passenger side window, bent low, and gazed into the vehicle's interior.
There was no one, driver or passenger, in the car at all. There was, however, seating stained with fresh, red, wet blood. Above the blood, atop the driver's seat, a derelict police cap sat perched like a squat raven which had died in its sleep.
Aaren screamed, blind hysteria claiming his soul. He leapt back, tripped over his own feet, toppled over backward and collapsed to the hard-packed ground. He shrieked again, then once more, as he clawed his way back toward the porch and safety - safety from this foreboding vehicle and its morbid contents. He hauled himself to his feet and raced up the steps onto the porch. Seizing the knob in a vice-like grip, he twisted it clockwise, and pulled the door to him.
From the dark threshold of the opening, a tall figure lunged out.
Aaren's throat tightened, sealing shut, allowing nothing but the slightest choked wheeze to escape. Solid muscle collided with him, and he was driven backward. He toppled over the steps, and his skull made violent contact with the hard earth. The figure fell atop him and lay still. Aaren's eyes grew wide, nearly popping out of his head, as a severe stroke arrested him.
Collapsed upon him was the cadaverous cop who had arrived in the now-derelict police cruiser, his eyes glassy, his shredded throat thick with clotting gore.
As he left this mortal coil, Aaren Heptesz absorbed one final scene into the depths of his failing brain. There, beyond the fallen corpse of the slain officer, within the depthless darkness of the open doorway, a tall and menacing figure stepped forward. The man-like shape, clad in a gray trench coat with a rubber gorilla mask pulled down over its visage, was revealed in the headlights of the car. Its right arm came up, unveiling a humanoid hand covered in gray fur with fingers sporting a set of sharp, bloodstained claws. The impossible hand reached up and clawed away the mask; the faux simian face fell to the porch deck, discarded like a shed skin.
"One little monkey jumping on the bed. He fell out and bumped his head. The momma called the doctor and the doctor said: 'Send that monkey straight to bed'".
The snarling, gray-furred-and-yellow-eyed felinoid looked unsettingly like an anthropomorphized version of Aaren's beloved pet tabby cat, Cornelio.

“Okay, I’m goin’, takin’ off. See ya… bye….” — Chip Douglas

“This concludes our broadcast day. Click.” — Chip Douglas

Author
Time
 (Edited)

And that, dear friends, is "The End".

“Okay, I’m goin’, takin’ off. See ya… bye….” — Chip Douglas

“This concludes our broadcast day. Click.” — Chip Douglas