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Description
Monkeys and Fruit Juice
By Will Douglas

Chapter 1

Bill sat watching the rain from the grubby window at his desk. Beads of water trickled down across his view, hitting the bottom and seemingly disappearing into the wood of the window frame.
“You’re not gonna get any cleaner for this, are ya?” Bill said to his window, thinking aloud.
He searched his mind for a reason as to why he had wasted three hours staring at the rain, but out of the vast echelons of information that were housed in his brain, he found absolutely no conclusion.
He dragged himself out of his computer chair and slumped down on his bed, checking his clock as he hit the quilt. 21:00 he saw, realising just how long he had sat at the window. He looked around the squalor that was his bedroom. It was a typical homage to the lifestyle of the average twenty-three year old, with girly magazines all over his floor, a Playstation 2 control pad sitting on top of a pile of survival horror games and RPGs. His attire was equally as bleak: A white T-shirt with pot noodle stains covering his pale Caucasian skin, a pair of jeans with rips all over them and a pair of socks without the toes.
He stared at his nude Christina Aguilera poster and considered pleasuring himself, but after having done so six times already that day, he was low on reserves and sore.
“Man…” he said, again to no-one in particular, “I’ve gotta find something to do.” He considered playing his PS2 again but in the end found no games that could motivate him enough.
He looked around for the thirty-third time that day, and still he found nothing to inspire him. This was the last straw for Bill however, and he grew angry.
“Fuck it,” he said, “I’ll go to the bloody pub.”
He put his shoes and a jacket on and let himself out of his flat. He walked down the stairs of his building, admiring the artwork on the wall, no doubt left there by aspiring Chav artists.
“Bloody kids” he thought, “I’m sure I was nicer than this when I was their age.” Of course, the drugs he had done in the last two years of his teenage life had virtually erased his memory of his youth.
As he left his building, he was hit in the leg by a stone. He glanced around to see some twelve-year-old-looking children making obscene gestures at him. He half-arsedly gave them the finger and continued down the road.
Before long he reached The Fox and Hound, his local watering hole. He shoved the door gently and headed in, to be greeted by the usual sights: Frank, the burly landlord, pouring a pint of Stella Artois for a loutish looking bloke in a white pinstripe shirt, two fourty plus year old divorcés sitting on the laps of two guys who were Bill’s age, a group of Chavs doing lines of Coke off the table furthest from the bar, a chain of heavy drinking builders sitting at the bar discussing football, and four little kids running around screaming and generally ruining the atmosphere of what could be a great British pub.
Bill sighed and approached the bar, to be greeted by Frank, who was already pouring him his pint of Foster’s lager.
“How’s it goin’ Frank?” Bill asked, doing his best to sound vaguely interested in something other than the nectar filling his glass.
“Oh, you know,” replied Frank, “Same old shit mate, yourself?”
“Meh,” was the grunt that left Bill’s lips; a sound expressing more than three sentences could have, “Been busy today.”
“Yeah right” chimed in Bill’s voice, “Busy doing fuck all.”
Frank looked totally uninterested, but replied “Yeah I see.” He handed Bill his pint and charged him £2.40 for it.
Bill handed him the money and sat down at the bar. As he chugged at the amber liquid, he wondered how many more he could afford before closing time on his pitiable funds, procured by working two days a week as a Librarian.
Bill had once been an intellectual, but had made a string of bad decisions after leaving college, and was left with his current lifestyle. Sometimes he dwelt on it and felt like killing himself, but then he would think of his parents and the heartbreak he would put them through if he did it, and would always back down. Perhaps it was the nagging fear inside his soul that there was no afterlife, that the entire species had evolved from a coincidence and that all of religion was just a way to keep people like him from going mad; keep them working.
His musing was interrupted by the loud entrance of an enormous Afro-Caribbean man, wearing a huge fluffy pink, yellow and blue coat, and a large white cowboy hat. His jaw was strong and a small goatee beard hung off his chin. A pair of overly elaborate sunglasses adorned his face and an all-too-obvious joint sat between his lips, leaking green-smelling smoke across the pub. Normally Bill would have ignored such a character, but something drew him to this guy’s face that he couldn’t understand.
As if in response to Bill’s glance, the multicoloured stranger walked straight up and sat next to him at the bar. “Yo, bar keep!” he said in one of the deepest voices Bill had ever heard, “You got change of a fifty?”
“You gotta buy something first mate,” came the response from Frank.
“Shit!” replied the colourful bloke, “Uhh……okay, make it a Pitcher of Sex on the Beach.” he quickly turned to face Bill, “Hey buddy, fancy helpin’ me drink this shit? I’m kinda on the clock here.”
Bill turned around, startled that his silent observation had been broken, and stammered, “Uh…sure…if you want.”
“Nice,” replied the broadly dressed stranger as the pitcher arrived. He took a large drag on his joint, handed Frank a fifty pound note, and received four ten pound notes back. Removing his hat to reveal an afro of moderate size, he once again opened conversation with Bill.
“So, what’s your name kid?” he asked.
“Bill,” replied Bill, “Yours?”
“Charles” said the stranger, killing his illegal cigarette and stubbing it out in the nearby ashtray, “Although I have many aliases. Drink up.”
Bill sank his pint and quickly drank half a pint of sex on the beach, at the behest of Charles, who did the same. He shuddered slightly afterwards, not used to drinking cocktails that fast immediately after lager.
“Hah!” chuckled Charles, pouring at least half of what was left into his glass, “Let’s see what you can do if pushed to the limit!” he reached across and grabbed Bill’s testicles in one gigantic blinged-up hand.
Bill just about managed to splutter “What the f-?”
“Drink!” boomed Charles with a chuckle, “Let’s see if you can drink the rest in one go! Do it or lose a nut!”
Bill immediately complied. He picked up the pitcher, tipped it back and drank. For the first few seconds he was fine, but then he began to suspect that the alcohol would never end, yet still he drank. He reached the bottom suddenly, dropped the pitcher and gasped. He didn’t know where he had found the inspiration to drop that much booze so fast, and he was well aware that it’s effect was hitting him hard, but he didn’t care. This crazily dressed stranger had scared him into doing something he didn’t think he could do. Adrenaline was surging through him, accompanying the alcohol on its journey around his bloodstream.
“Right, I gotta get outa here!” said Charles, rising from the bar and placing the cowboy hat back on his head, “You comin, kid?”
Bill was high on adrenaline. This was the first thing he had found even remotely exciting in a good few months. “Definitely!” he said to the stranger, without any idea of the intended destination. Before he knew what had hit him, he was in the car park with Charles, waiting for him to unlock his black Lotus. In a few seconds he was in the passenger seat and they were off, cruising in the direction of the motorway.

Description
Monkeys and Fruit Juice
By Will Douglas

Chapter 1

Bill sat watching the rain from the grubby window at his desk. Beads of water trickled down across his view, hitting the bottom and seemingly disappearing into the wood of the window frame.
“You’re not gonna get any cleaner for this, are ya?” Bill said to his window, thinking aloud.
He searched his mind for a reason as to why he had wasted three hours staring at the rain, but out of the vast echelons of information that were housed in his brain, he found absolutely no conclusion.
He dragged himself out of his computer chair and slumped down on his bed, checking his clock as he hit the quilt. 21:00 he saw, realising just how long he had sat at the window. He looked around the squalor that was his bedroom. It was a typical homage to the lifestyle of the average twenty-three year old, with girly magazines all over his floor, a Playstation 2 control pad sitting on top of a pile of survival horror games and RPGs. His attire was equally as bleak: A white T-shirt with pot noodle stains covering his pale Caucasian skin, a pair of jeans with rips all over them and a pair of socks without the toes.
He stared at his nude Christina Aguilera poster and considered pleasuring himself, but after having done so six times already that day, he was low on reserves and sore.
“Man…” he said, again to no-one in particular, “I’ve gotta find something to do.” He considered playing his PS2 again but in the end found no games that could motivate him enough.
He looked around for the thirty-third time that day, and still he found nothing to inspire him. This was the last straw for Bill however, and he grew angry.
“Fuck it,” he said, “I’ll go to the bloody pub.”
He put his shoes and a jacket on and let himself out of his flat. He walked down the stairs of his building, admiring the artwork on the wall, no doubt left there by aspiring Chav artists.
“Bloody kids” he thought, “I’m sure I was nicer than this when I was their age.” Of course, the drugs he had done in the last two years of his teenage life had virtually erased his memory of his youth.
As he left his building, he was hit in the leg by a stone. He glanced around to see some twelve-year-old-looking children making obscene gestures at him. He half-arsedly gave them the finger and continued down the road.
Before long he reached The Fox and Hound, his local watering hole. He shoved the door gently and headed in, to be greeted by the usual sights: Frank, the burly landlord, pouring a pint of Stella Artois for a loutish looking bloke in a white pinstripe shirt, two fourty plus year old divorcés sitting on the laps of two guys who were Bill’s age, a group of Chavs doing lines of Coke off the table furthest from the bar, a chain of heavy drinking builders sitting at the bar discussing football, and four little kids running around screaming and generally ruining the atmosphere of what could be a great British pub.
Bill sighed and approached the bar, to be greeted by Frank, who was already pouring him his pint of Foster’s lager.
“How’s it goin’ Frank?” Bill asked, doing his best to sound vaguely interested in something other than the nectar filling his glass.
“Oh, you know,” replied Frank, “Same old shit mate, yourself?”
“Meh,” was the grunt that left Bill’s lips; a sound expressing more than three sentences could have, “Been busy today.”
“Yeah right” chimed in Bill’s voice, “Busy doing fuck all.”
Frank looked totally uninterested, but replied “Yeah I see.” He handed Bill his pint and charged him £2.40 for it.
Bill handed him the money and sat down at the bar. As he chugged at the amber liquid, he wondered how many more he could afford before closing time on his pitiable funds, procured by working two days a week as a Librarian.
Bill had once been an intellectual, but had made a string of bad decisions after leaving college, and was left with his current lifestyle. Sometimes he dwelt on it and felt like killing himself, but then he would think of his parents and the heartbreak he would put them through if he did it, and would always back down. Perhaps it was the nagging fear inside his soul that there was no afterlife, that the entire species had evolved from a coincidence and that all of religion was just a way to keep people like him from going mad; keep them working.
His musing was interrupted by the loud entrance of an enormous Afro-Caribbean man, wearing a huge fluffy pink, yellow and blue coat, and a large white cowboy hat. His jaw was strong and a small goatee beard hung off his chin. A pair of overly elaborate sunglasses adorned his face and an all-too-obvious joint sat between his lips, leaking green-smelling smoke across the pub. Normally Bill would have ignored such a character, but something drew him to this guy’s face that he couldn’t understand.
As if in response to Bill’s glance, the multicoloured stranger walked straight up and sat next to him at the bar. “Yo, bar keep!” he said in one of the deepest voices Bill had ever heard, “You got change of a fifty?”
“You gotta buy something first mate,” came the response from Frank.
“Shit!” replied the colourful bloke, “Uhh……okay, make it a Pitcher of Sex on the Beach.” he quickly turned to face Bill, “Hey buddy, fancy helpin’ me drink this shit? I’m kinda on the clock here.”
Bill turned around, startled that his silent observation had been broken, and stammered, “Uh…sure…if you want.”
“Nice,” replied the broadly dressed stranger as the pitcher arrived. He took a large drag on his joint, handed Frank a fifty pound note, and received four ten pound notes back. Removing his hat to reveal an afro of moderate size, he once again opened conversation with Bill.
“So, what’s your name kid?” he asked.
“Bill,” replied Bill, “Yours?”
“Charles” said the stranger, killing his illegal cigarette and stubbing it out in the nearby ashtray, “Although I have many aliases. Drink up.”
Bill sank his pint and quickly drank half a pint of sex on the beach, at the behest of Charles, who did the same. He shuddered slightly afterwards, not used to drinking cocktails that fast immediately after lager.
“Hah!” chuckled Charles, pouring at least half of what was left into his glass, “Let’s see what you can do if pushed to the limit!” he reached across and grabbed Bill’s testicles in one gigantic blinged-up hand.
Bill just about managed to splutter “What the f-?”
“Drink!” boomed Charles with a chuckle, “Let’s see if you can drink the rest in one go! Do it or lose a nut!”
Bill immediately complied. He picked up the pitcher, tipped it back and drank. For the first few seconds he was fine, but then he began to suspect that the alcohol would never end, yet still he drank. He reached the bottom suddenly, dropped the pitcher and gasped. He didn’t know where he had found the inspiration to drop that much booze so fast, and he was well aware that it’s effect was hitting him hard, but he didn’t care. This crazily dressed stranger had scared him into doing something he didn’t think he could do. Adrenaline was surging through him, accompanying the alcohol on its journey around his bloodstream.
“Right, I gotta get outa here!” said Charles, rising from the bar and placing the cowboy hat back on his head, “You comin, kid?”
Bill was high on adrenaline. This was the first thing he had found even remotely exciting in a good few months. “Definitely!” he said to the stranger, without any idea of the intended destination. Before he knew what had hit him, he was in the car park with Charles, waiting for him to unlock his black Lotus. In a few seconds he was in the passenger seat and they were off, cruising in the direction of the motorway.