Welcome to the thirty-fifth Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
The topic this week was selected by Lee from Read Strange and he chose Monkey Business.
Nine stories were submitted this week. Singe digits? Boo!
No rookies this week? Boo! Boo! Double Boo!
And, as always, the usual madness by Planet Z.
Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):
WE GOTS PRIZES:
I will be sending the winner the cost of a cup of coffee through PayPal. And who’s on the five dollar bill? Heh heh heh…
So listen, vote, and tune in next week to find out who won!
The full text of each story:
T.A. MARQUETTE
Ben stood at the door and surveyed
the false paradises of his living room.
“No Monkey Business! Understand?”
he said to 3 sets of angelic kitty eyes.
Click when the door.
“What the hell is he talking about?”
“We don’t got no stink’n monkeys” moued Squeaks.
“Let’s get to work,” mewed Sukie
“Positions.” purred PityPat.
It was a Mexican standoff kitty style
ready to release feline fluids.
Gaaaact Piiissss Plooop
Squeaks throw up on Ben’s first edition of LOTR.
Sukie peed down Ben’s 27 in monitor.
PityPat pooped in Ben’s Air Jordans.
“Let’s go watch some Marx Brothers.”
“Why?”
“Research.”
LAIEANNA
“Welcome to Flying Monkey Express. What we don’t destroy, we ship.
What can I do for you?”
“I need to send this to my sister.”
“Region?”
“South.”
“Any perishables?”
“It’s a Fruitcake.”
“Oh, that should easily make the trip.”
“I’ll write down her address.”
“I need to send this a long distance.”
“Seems light enough to carry.”
“It’s a pair of shoes.”
“Destination?”
“Kansas.”
“Just fill out this form.”
“Welcome sir. Here for a package?”
“Yes, some straw. I’m running low in my legs.”
“Was that insured?”
“No.”
“I’m afraid we lost that in Poppy Field.”
“So now what?”
“Well…”
LISA
“You need to feed the ones down in cell seven,” Mr. B yelled to Phil, “and make sure you clean Mr. Tibbs up, someone’s rented him for a birthday party.”
Great, Phil thought. I get to clean up Mr. Tibbs, the one who always liked to throw his feces around the room. Phil never dreamed he’d end up working for an agency like this, but he really needed the paycheck.
Things were hard in Hollywood but Phil knew someday he would make it big himself – he wouldn’t always be looking after the occupants at Mr. Bubbles’ Human Rental Agency.
ANDREW
“Monkey business”? I paused before continuing, “you think the band
lark is monkey business!”
“You’re a bunch of 30-somethings in a mid-life crisis playing in a
band when you should be settling down and growing up,” she retorted
sneering.
“You mean giving up don’t you?” I blustered back. “Who says you can’t
be a grown up and have a band.”
Then I said something back at her as I walked on stage… “You know it
ain’t just about sex, drugs and rock & roll…there’s artistic merit in
doing your own music!”
“What the…” My brain screamed.
I’d become a musician.
ELISSON
Charley strode into the cavernous drafting room to announce the good news: Simionics had won the contract to design the DFW Airport!
Simionics, Incorporated was on a roll. The new job followed right on the heels of their last project – the Hartford, Connecticut interstate highway network.
Somebody once said that if you put an infinite number of monkeys at an infinite number of typewriters, eventually you’d end up with the complete works of Shakespeare. Simionics wasn’t quite that ambitious. They had 500 chimps, 500 drafting tables: just enough.
A hard-flung turd caught Charley on the chin. Fucking monkey business.
ALPHA K9
Brother Jerome smiled as he walked through the abbey.
It was the third Tuesday of the month. Vespers was
over, reverently he genuflected before the cross and
headed over to the dining hall. Once there he
dispensed with his robe and donned a Hawaiian shirt.
Grabbing a beer in a mug made from half a coconut, he
helped himself to a chunk of pineapple on a stick, and
made his way over to listen to Brother Silas play the
ukulele. Third Tuesday was luau night, the one day a
month when the brothers could dispense with all that
monky business.
CAROLINE
“Hello. Fran is that you?”
” Yea I dot a really bad told.”
” Sounds bad how did you get that?”
“Well young Brayden had one last week.”
“You won’t be party poopering by the sound of it.”
“Doh I won’t.”
” I was hoping you’d come to New Years but I guess you’re not fit.”
We love your hors-d-oeuvres.
” Sorry Sheila. Wouldn’t want to spread it.”
” Cold indeed!” Said Frank arriving home.
” I want to cosy up with just the two of us.” She lied. She was tired of Franks and Sheila’s monkey business.
CALEB
And now, the business report. An infinite number of monkeys successfully sued noted playwright William Shakespeare for one million pounds sterling claiming that he stole their script for Hamlet which been running successfully now for almost 500 years. Fortunately for Mr. Shakespeare because of the difficulty inherent in dividing one million pounds into an infinite number of equal payments, he will not have to make any payment until an infinite number of accountants and mathematicians work out this conundrum and take their 10 per cent. When asked for comment, Mr. Shakespeare said nothing as he has been dead for centuries.
HOUSTON KEYS
Old Hand- Hello there!
New Guy- Hi, I’m new here.
Old Hand- Obviously, since you aren’t covered in poo.
New Guy- What’s going on?
Old Hand- The boss figured out he could pay Pakistanis to do American’s jobs. Then he figured out he could pay Mexicans to do the Pakistani’s jobs. He kept going until it the work quality got so bad he found out he could get Monkeys to turn out the same crummy stuff, and, well, around here they aren’t kidding when they say the food by product hits the air circulation device.
New Guy- I don’t follow you.
Old Hand- You know, the hits the fan. I’ll show you around.
Z
Twenty years ago, Senator Gary Hart saw his presidential hopes run aground by a trip on a boat called Monkey Business.
Tonight, out on Lake Michigan, Barack Obahma orders the first mate of the “Jolly Roger” to scan the water for photographers with his skyglass.
“None of them scurvy dogs to be seen, Senator!” cries the grizzled pirate.
“When I’m on the boat, you’re supposed to call me captain,” says Obahma. “Call me Senator again, and I’ll have you keel-hauled.”
“Aye aye, Captain,” said the pirate. “Salmon trawler to Starboard. Shall we board her?”
“Aye,” said Obahma. “And take no prisoners. We dine well tonight!”
Thanks to everyone for sending in their stories, and I look forward to what you’ve got to write (and say) next week.
The theme for next week’s Weekly Challenge will be posted shortly.
(In case you’re interested, I’ve settled on “Clair de Lune” as the opening music and “Moonshine” by Michael Oldfield from the Tubular Bells II album.)