Seven of the eight burly apes seated around the mahogany conference table at Miami's Monkey Jungle were not very happy to be there. The eighth ape, a Gibon known as Stretch, the one responsible for calling the meeting, was not very happy either. In fact, he was downright livid and the object of his anger was the other seven apes.
"God! Whatta buncha morons!", he screamed. His particular manner of screaming was his most outstanding feature and the one which had gotten him to his current position of power within the South Florida monkey underground. Gibons aren't noted for their quiet retiring natures anyway, but Stretch had been forced into a shotgun marriage with a Red Howler monkey named Dolores and, well, after twenty years of marriage and thousands of arguments, a fair amount of Howler howl had made its way into Stretch's voice. "Do you idiots have any idea how much time and money has been put into this project? And for what? So we can see the whole thing go down the tubes on accounta some damned chump Chimp private dick in Chi-town? Who in the hell is this Chongo anyway? Shit! What was the last thing The Boss said before he left for Havana? Anybody remember? How about you Fat Freddy?"
A large, no, make that "very large" chimp looked up from the fingernail he had been carefully studying during the bulk of Stretch's remarks. "Gee, Stretch," he said in a voice that would normally have struck fear into any right-thinking Simian but which had been totally subdued by the Gibon's tirade, "We all know what The Boss said. He said that for this thing to work, it hadda be done with military precision. No leaks. Nobody outsida th' mob could know 'bout it or it'd blow up in our faces."
"That's real good, Fat Freddy," Stretch howled, "I see you have a few working brain cells. So whose job was it to keep those Baboons in Chicago in line? Huh? To make sure their sorry multi-colored asses didn't spill the beans? You, ya friggin' moron! You! So what happens? First, the damned Baboons make a side deal with a friggin' human for Chrissakes. A human! Then the human's friggin' bimbo of a wife goes to a nosey Goddamned Chimp private dick and next thing ya know we've got a major shit-storm on our hands! And it's your fault, you sorry sackashit! I really should just shoot your sorry ass and be done with ya, but, ya know what? That'd be too easy. Your ass is on a plane to Chicago in one hour. Ya unnerstan'? You go find that Chongo chump Chimp and fix his ass and I don't care how ya do it. And while yer at it, get ridda the human and his bimbo wife. And if you screw up you better just hop a ship for Africa 'cause The Boss will be hot and the ape he'll be hot at is me and I don't like bein' outta The Boss's good graces. Ya unnerstan'?"