It was one of those crummy Chicago nights you can only appreciate through the haze of a Cuban cigar and the last dregs of a 40 ounce bottle of scotch. The rain was spitting from a leaden sky outside, just like it had been doing for what seemed like a month of Mondays. "I hate this goddamn city," growled Chongo. He could taste rank, overripe bananas calling wordlessly from somewhere deep in his monkey gut. They were contraband bananas smuggled out of El Salvador by Chachi...that lowlife Sicilian spidermonkey with the cast in his right eye where he'd taken a shot from a forty-five in the paws of some hardass gorilla on the East Side. Chachi owed him one, and the bananas were only the first installment.

The more Chongo thought about it, the less he liked it. He could smell trouble like the stink of a ripe durian, like the stale scent of a dirty old orangutan who's pumped way too much iron in some sweaty 13th Street boxing club. Trouble. He could taste it.

Chongo knocked back the last slug of whisky, and eyed his empty glass with disgust. In it he saw the iron jaw and chiseled features of a chimpanzee almost in his prime. Hell, it seemed like only yesterday he'd been in his prime, scaling walls and swinging off lamposts like Nadia Comenici. Now he could detect creeping little signs of age, in the graying around his muzzle, in the red that was shot carelessly around the pupils of his eyes. Those eyes...they'd seen sights most people are spared, sights that would make a grown man cry and make a leopard turn in his spots and get himself declawed for life. What the hell. He could take it. That was the job of a private chimp, wasn't it? Go where no one else wants to go, climb what no one else wants to climb, do what no one else in their right mind would want to do, all for a few more lousy bucks, a kiss from a classy dame, or another bottle of whisky. Chongo didn't drink gin. Gin was for jerks and losers.

When he saw the shadow cross the hallway, he reached for his gat which was nestled cold and ready in its shoulder holster. Safety never on. This could be the trouble he'd been expecting...or was it opportunity knocking on his door? From the sound of the knock it was a lightweight opportunity. "It ain't locked!" he barked, and waited.

The door opened, cautiously, and there she stood. A dame. Just like the last time. Why did all the dames in this dead end town come to Chongo Chimp when they had a problem they couldn't solve? She was blonde and good looking, if a little cold. She reminded him of that actress, what the hell was her name? Nicole Kidman. Yeah. If you were half in the bag and the light was dim enough, you might almost think she was Nicole Kidman. Something about her eyes and cheekbones.

"Mr. Chimp? My name is Betty Frizzell..." (Shit, might've known it wasn't Nicole Kidman!)

"C'mon right in...Miss Frizzell. Sit down. Drink?" Chongo could remember a thousand times he must've said those very lines, apart from the name "Frizzell", that is. Repetition can drive a man mad after awhile, and it doesn't do a chimp much good either.

"Actually, it's Mrs Frizzell," she said, and accepted gratefully as Chongo poured her a stiff shot of Jamaican rum.

"Okay, Mrs Frizzell, I think I get the picture. You wouldn't be here about Mr Frizzell, would you?" He could hear it coming. Mr Frizzell was staying out late and making up stories about working overtime, but actually was banging his secretary, Ramona, and Betty wanted him to climb up the side of a 34 story office building or maybe a 300 foot tall greased poplar tree and photograph the two of them, clutched in a torrid embrace...

"How did you know," she gasped. "Yes, it's about my husband, Lenny Frizzell..." and she burst into tears. "I think he's been murdered!"

* * * * *

(basic premise: Another riveting episode in the life of chimpanzee private eye, Chongo Chimp, in Chicago, circa 1940 except for the Nicole Kidman reference which is a wild card for the benefit of contemporary readers. The city is mostly inhabited by ordinary human beings, like usual, but also has a lively subculture of clothed, talking apes and monkeys of all varieties, many of whom are engaged in the seamy side of life. It's Mike Hammer, with a simian twist. This thread is an attempt at presenting a gift of enjoyment to Frank "Monkey Boy" Cho, who writes the comic Liberty Meadows, and regularly portrays himself as a clothed chimp in his own comic, which is the greatest comic in the world, IMO.) Mudcate maniacs, don't fail me now...