A.P.E. Shit

Lance Link worked the tip of his hairy finger into his puckered sphincter. He wiggled it around a bit then plunged it in, not stopping until it was buried all the way to the knuckle. He imagined his digit was probing Mata Hairi’s nether regions during estrus when they are swollen like a wad of bubble gum the size of his head. Then he realized how good his anus felt with his finger in it and thought, who needs Mata?

“Pay attention, Link! This is important,” said Commander Darwin. Briefings at A.P.E. headquarters were serious business and he did not tolerate daydreaming, not even from one of his top agents.

“Try to listen, Lancelot,” Mata said and patted the back of his free hand.

“What’s your theory, Darwin?” Lance asked.

“I’ll tell you what my theory is. A.P.E. is being blackmailed and if we don’t pay up, we’ll be ruined!” Darwin said.

“How could anyone blackmail us? We are on the side of justice,” Lance said.

“And goodness,” Mata added.

“Is that a fact, then how do you explain this?” Darwin said. He reached across the table for a remote control, knocking over a container of pencils that seemed to serve no other purpose than to be in the way. He pushed a few buttons on the remote. The lights in the room dimmed, a screen lowered, and a movie was projected onto it.

The film showed Lance Link lying supine and naked on the floor. His eyes were glazed and he looked quite drunk. Lance only had vague recollections of that moment, but if memory serves he was indeed extremely intoxicated.

Mata Hairi walked into the scene and stood straddling his head. She too was both naked and noticeably drunk.

“Who wants a banana?” screen Mata asked.

“I want a banana,” screen Lance answered.

She then squatted down over him. The memory of this was coming back to Lance. He recalled how glad he was to be drunk then. Mata was not in estrus that day and without its full bloom, her womanhood had deflated into a disappointing mass of mauve suede.

“Rotten banana,” she said. Lance opened his mouth wide and Mata grunted out an impressive bowel movement. It was about eight inches long, ropy with mucus, and studded with bits of walnuts consumed earlier that day. Mata pinched clean and it plummeted into Lance’s gullet. He swallowed it without chewing.

The movie was over and the lights came up. Darwin stared at the two agents, noticeably perturbed that neither reacted strongly to what they had just seen. Lance continued chewing gum stoically while Mata curled back her upper lip until it touched the tip of her nose.

“Well?” Darwin said, full of exasperation.

“I guess I had too many banana daquiris,” Lance said.

“Not to mention the rotten banana, Lancelot. Haaaaa!” said Mata.

“The movie director said it would never be shown outside of Europe,” Lance said.

“And you believed him?” Darwin said.

“He paid us up front and he sounded European,” Lance said.

“Very sophisticated,” Mata said.

“That director was the Baron Von Butcher’s chauffeur, Creto. How could you not recognize him?” Darwin said.

“CHUMP is full of offensive ethnic stereotypes. It’s hard to tell them apart,” Lance said.

“That…that makes no sense at all!” Darwin said. “Listen here. If this movie gets released in America and starts playing in metroplexes, it could cause irreparable harm to our reputation. We have no choice but to give in to CHUMP’s demands. We’ll be handing off the cash for the film’s negatives tonight at that dance club where your rock band plays. You’ll be on stage performing, but you’ll also making sure CHUMP doesn’t double-cross us. I’m counting on you, Link. Don’t let me down.”

“It didn’t taste like banana, rotten or otherwise. I wouldn’t recommend it,” Lance said.

The Evolution Revolution was one of the most popular bands to play at the club and usually drew a sizable crowd. Tonight was no exception and in addition to the rock-and-roll regulars, the entire upper echelon of CHUMP had turned up for the show.

There was Baron Von Butcher. Lance knew he had better beware for he was ruthless, cunning, and didn’t play fair. And there was the chauffeur and director. Creto was his name. And there was Dragon Woman, who was lovely but wicked all the same. Weird Dr. Strangemind ┬áhad come. There was Ali Assa Seen, wicked Wang Fu, and the The Duchess, whose looks could really fool you.

What was it that assembled this motley crew in the first place? The casual racism of a benighted era certainly, but there was more to it than that. Perhaps they were put here for a purpose and that purpose was to put Lancelot Link’s love of freedom to the test. Freedom to live. Freedom to love. Freedom to star in scat pornos without fear of blackmail. CHUMP was the sworn enemy of all these freedoms and the fact that they were all on hand at this venue meant that once again, they were up to no good.

Whatcha gonna do? Lance Link asked himself. What indeed? He was a secret chimp, but he was also the guitarist and frontman for the Evolution Revolution. Tonight he would have do both, but he wouldn’t go it alone.

Mata Hairi was right next to him in her blonde wig and wielding a tambourine. The rest of the band was there, Blackie on drums and the keyboardist with the terrible teeth. Neither of them were A.P.E. agents, but he knew they’d have his and Mata’s back if the situation turned violent.

The A.P.E. courier with the money had yet to arrive, but he would be here soon. In the meantime, the band had a show to perform so for all those young youngsters out there, they started the set with one of their latest tunes, a rocking love song called “Boner Beau.”

After a toe -tappin opening guitar riff, Lance sang:

“Without you, I’m a case of
Chewing someone’s face off
But you can make my heart sublime
So darling if you fancy
This Romeo chimpanzee
Then we could have a Goodall time

Your pudenda
Say it ain’t for show
Sweet as Splenda
Baby, don’t say no
This sex offenda
Wants to be your boner beau…”

The crowd was going wild. Even the CHUMP agents seemed to be getting into the music. Then out of the corner of his eye, Lance saw the courier enter the room, only it wasn’t the usual chimp, Bruce. It was an orangutan.

Lance didn’t trust orangs, not since the Rue Morgue murders. Mata told him that being prejudiced wasn’t very nice, but he was not about to take advice on being nice from someone who had taken a dump in his mouth, thank very much.

So instead of risking the orangutan screwing up getting a hold of the negatives, Lance decided to take matters into his own hands. He accomplished this by reaching into the back of his pants and taking some fecal matter into his hand, which he then hurled at Baron Von Butcher.

Lance’s aim was true and the bonbon-sized projectile hit the Baron in the face, leaving a smear and knocking loose his monocle. The first part of his plan worked perfectly. All he had to do now was pelt all the CHUMP agents with feces repeatedly until one of them dropped the negatives. It would have been a perfect strategy had CHUMP not decided to return fire.

The first salvo came from Dr. Strangemind. He was a brilliant scientist, but also on the spectrum, and one of his quirks from that was the need to say what he was doing as he was doing it.

“You fling your poo. I fling my poo at you,” he said.

He was better at mad science than pitching so the butt nugget he hurled hit Mata Hairi instead. She tried deflecting it with her tambourine, but it hit her head and got stuck in her wig. She was not about to let this call go unanswered so she reached back and unloaded the steaming, gooey end product of her vindaloo lunch into her throwing hand. When she let fly, it was payback time, not at Strangemind, but the one who had started all the trouble.

“Direct this, Creto. Haaaaa!” she said as her rectal custard spattered his face and chest.

At this point, the rest of the band had joined in on the action. The snaggle-toothed keyboardist, who was chucking one handful after another, shouted, “I loves me a good shit fight!” This was true, as was evidenced by the many clubs who would no longer book them for shows.

To be fair, Team CHUMP gave as good as they got. Volley after volley of doodie sailed toward toward the stage, often accompanied by a witticism from the thrower that made full use of their stereotype.

“Try my egg foo dung,” said Dragon Woman.

“Mine are full-awful,” said Ali Assa Seen.

It wasn’t long before even the neutral members of the audience joined in and the scene devolved into a free for all, a GG Allin show where everyone was GG.

Meanwhile on a beach not far away, an escaped human named Taylor fell to his knees and pounded his fist into the sand when he realized that the half-buried thing in front of him was the Statue of Liberty.

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