The monkey snapped closed the lid of the laptop. The Blogathon was over, Bunni and Bakerina no doubt off to bed to catch up on some much needed sleep. He could use a little himself, he thought, as he gave the compass in the frying pan a good shake. Cooking was more tiring then he’d ever imagined, or at least would be tiring, if he were actually cooking something. The monkey was no fool. He knew it was a compass in the frying pan, not a focaccia. He was only going through the motions to entertain the Second Mate, who he’d spotted peering in through the galley door window an hour or so ago.
He gave the pan another big shake then looked over at the door. “Almost ready,” he said. “Can you smell it?”
“Yes, I think I can,” the Second Mate said, his face pressed up against the glass. “It smells good.”
And they called him the stupid monkey, the monkey thought. You don’t fry focaccia. Everyone knows that. He grabbed the compass from the frying pan and slipped it into his pants pocket, then headed to the cooler for something cold. Obviously, cooking was also thirsty work, which would explain the cook always being drunk.
“I’m parched,” the monkey said as he looked through the cooler for a beer, pausing only long enough to unzip his pants and pee into the leftover pot of chowder, the second time he’d done so in as many days. The cook had taught him how, or at least, the cook thought that he’d taught him how, but of course, monkeys have been peeing into things since the beginning of time. It’d actually been the monkey’s idea all along. But the drunk cook had come up with the idea of calling it The Secret Ingredient, even though most of the time he’d just say, “Spice it up, monkey,” which worked for the monkey as well.
“There better be some beer left,” the monkey said, pushing things around the cooler. You don’t mess around with a parched monkey, even the drunk cook knew that.
The Second Mate was pounding on the door, trying to get the monkey’s attention.
“Is the focaccia ready?” the Second Mate was yelling. “I’m starving.”
“Almost,” the monkey replied. “Good focaccia takes time. Would you care for some chowder while you wait?”
“Oh, alright, I guess. I hope it’s better then last night’s chowder.”
“It is. I spiced it up a bit.” The monkey shifted around on his feet, concentrating, seeing if he could pee again so soon. “I think maybe I could crank it up a notch if you’d like.”
“Sure, sounds good.”
The monkey almost felt sorry for the Second Mate, standing there at the door like an idiot, breathing against the glass. He could remember his second mate - young, wiry, a good grappler but with a short tail and too many fleas. High maintenance. He’d peed in her food, too. Second mates never have it easy, he thought.
“Coming right up,” the monkey said, unzipping his pants. Over his shoulder, he could see the small window of the door, steaming up, and from down the alley, voices that seemed to be approaching. His hand touched the outside of his pocket, checking on the compass. Maybe it was about time to get it out and navigate himself a way out of there. The Second Mate would have to wait for his snack.
“Hey, monkey, where’s my—Captain!” The silhouette of the Second Mate’s head disappeared from the steamed up window, and the monkey could hear him scrambling to get to his feet. Too late! The Captain was already here!
“Monkey, I know you’re in there. Now come out with my compass, NOW!”
“You sound hungry, Captain. Chowder?”