The Attack Of The Flying Monkey Boy

I need to establish, right from the very beginning, Modern Philosophers, that I rarely frequent Monkey Bars.

They smell horrible (even more so in the Summer), the Flying Monkeys who frequent them are quite rowdy once they’ve had a few drinks, drunk Flying Monkeys tend to fling feces (hence the horrible smell), and no one wants to be around a Flying Monkey who’s been told he’s too drunk to fly home.

Despite all those reasons, and my better judgment, I still decided to pay a visit to Magilla’s this afternoon.  I blame it on the relentless Summer heat.

And an overwhelming desire to have a frozen banana daiquiri.

Monkey Bars are known for that particular drink, and Magilla’s supposedly has the best frozen banana daiquiris in Maine.

It had been a rough week, and I leave work at 3:00 on Thursdays, so I figured I’d drop by Magilla’s before the place got busy.

Even Flying Monkeys have to work, Modern Philosophers.

I slipped into the dark establishment, took a seat on the stool closest to the door to accommodate a quick exit, and did a quick scan of the joint.

I appeared to have it all to myself, aside from the bartender.  A Flying Monkey with a bum right wing, he brought me over a bowl of dried banana chips and took my order.

The silence was broken only by the sound of the blender.

Once the barkeep set my drink in front of me, I smiled like a sweaty toothed madman.  I’d been craving this treat all day, and it was finally time to give in to my wanton desire.

I raised the glass to my lips and took a long sip.

“His money is no good here,” announced a booming voice from the shadows.  “Put it on my tab, Gabriel.”

Apparently, I didn’t have Magilla’s to myself after all.  I set my glass on the bar and peered into the darkness.

A figure emerged from the shadows where booths line the walls.  It was a familiar face.  An older, distinguished Flying Monkey, who smiled at me as made his way from the shadows into the light.

It was Boega, the closest thing the Flying Monkeys had to a King.

“The Modern Philosopher does not pay for drinks here ever, Gabriel,” he instructed the bartender, who nodded that he understood.  “This is the man who makes people from away understand how welcome Otherworldly Beings are in Maine.  He is our champion, our friend, and very patient when it comes to Flying Monkeys on his roof.”

I smiled in greeting.  Boega and I went way back.  He often kept Gary the Gargoyle company on the roof of The House on the Hill, and I knew Gary had a deep respect for the old monkey.

“You’re too kind, Boega,” I informed him as we shook hands.  “Thanks for the drink.”

“I’d love if if you would join me in my booth,” he said as he grabbed a handful of dried banana chips.  “We should chat.”

It sounded ominous, but the banana daiquiri was already kicking in, so I decided to throw caution to the wind and head over into the dark corner with him.

“Bring us a pitcher of those,” Boega ordered the bartender as he pointed to my glass.  “And a loaf of that freshly baked banana bread.”

Gabriel nodded and limped off to do his bidding.

Turns out I had nothing to worry about, Modern Philosophers.  Boega didn’t like to drink alone, and he sorely missed intelligent conversation when he frequented his favorite bar.

He also had some big news for me.

“I often accompany Gary when he follows you on your morning runs,” he mentioned.

My loyal Gargoyle liked to provide aerial coverage, so if I ran into any sort of emergency on my runs, he could swoop in and rescue me.

“I’ve been very impressed by your dedication, especially during this week when the heat has been sweltering,” Boega continued.  “I know you refer to your large feet as Monkey Boy feet, and since you were practically flying down the road on your runs, I thought I’d make you an honorary Flying Monkey Boy.”

I knew it was probably the banana daiquiris talking (we were on our second pitcher), but I loved the sound of that.

“That is an incredible honor, my friend, and I graciously accept.”

I stood up (with some difficulty…Gabriel clearly had been pouring with a heavy hand!) and bowed to show my thanks.

“You’re a good friend to the Flying Monkeys of Maine, and we are lucky to call you one of us now,” he said as he raised his glass in toast.  “Now, when you go into battle, you will have a legion of your simian brothers behind you!”

“Let’s see how bad ass Snow Miser is now that I’ve got that kind of backup!” I yelled as I raised my glass and tapped Boega’s in a triumphant toast.

Now my head is throbbing, my belly is filled with banana daiquiris and yummy banana bread, and I have an awesome new title.

This Flying Monkey Boy has had some pretty good days lately, Modern Philosophers, but none get much better than this!