Is it Strange?

When the primate first came up to John and asked for a cigarette, John had the following thought: "I really wish I could be surprised." It wasn't that a talking monkey was normal, far from it; it was simply that John had seen a lot weirder things in the past few days, and hey, at least the monkey was bipedal.

His response: "All I've got're Marlboro Reds."

"Perfect," said the monkey. It stood some four feet tall and had a hell of a grin -- the idea occurred to John that he could get the monkey shilling toothpaste, but he hadn't been in that business for three years. He raised his pack, flipped the top, and held it out; the monkey took the proffered gift, and raised a Harley Davidson zippo like he would raise a glass for toast. "Don't worry about a light, got one meself." The monkey sparked the zippo and engulfed the tip of John's Red -- his last one, John realized in crushing agony -- into a nice smolder, then took a drag.

Trying to avoid eye contact with the little guy, John raised his head to gaze at the stars. He had always loved the stars, but for the past few days they'd been acting a little funny. The one he had been focusing on started to drift sideways, then froze for a second, as though it had been caught -- and then it was back where it belonged. "Crazy question." John couldn't take it any more. "Did They send you?"

The monkey took another drag. "Right as rain, boyo. How'd ye know?"

For a second, John's face clouded. There was a lot his mind was still processing, and for some reason, the monkey's accent stuck out like a thorn, halting his brain's progress. "How'd I know..." echoing the question clarified how stupid it was. "What, the giant spider spraying graffiti on my wall wasn't clue enough?"

Sure enough, splattered in baby blue and neon green right behind John -- and partially overlapping the glass door that led to the deck they were standing on -- were the words "WE JUST WANT TO TALK" in overly stylized lettering. Stranger things indeed. The monkey turned around to see the sign, and then took an extra deep drag of his cigarette.

"Funny story, that." The monkey grinned. "Tain't Theirs. Spider's working on the deep side, the dark ugly, ye get me drift? We're the heroes here. An', fer what it be worth, ye kin trust me. Cross me heart an' hope ta die."

John had been keeping his eye on that star that had tried to flee the night sky; he wasn't going to let it disappear on his watch. It quivered a little, but otherwise didn't move. The vigil gave him time to process what the monkey was saying. After two minutes catching up to reality, his thoughts found voice again. "Yeah, that's my hope." A thick cloud of smog and dirt covered the sky, and when it rolled away, the star was gone. Drat.

The monkey didn't notice. "Hey, ye wouldn't happen ta have another fag, would ye? This messenger business is hard work; killin' me with stress, it is. Still got another five after you, ye know, an' time is runnin' out. So what do ye say, eh? Gonna come for a chat wi'Them?"

Absent-mindedly, John held his empty pack out. The monkey stuck his grubby little hand in the box, but when he realized it was empty, the monkey pulled his way onto the porch's fence, the butt of his cigarette sticking out his mouth, which was still contorted into that ridiculous grin. The sudden movement caused John to look forwards and outwards, and take stock of how things really were. Big mistake.

The suburbs were on fire. This wasn't a normal fire, either; it glowed iridescent instead of red and blue, and in it faces could be seen, crying. The buildings had been burning for a few days now, since John had quit his job at Advanced Aerodynamics. His house was the only one not wreathed in flame, due in equal parts to diligence and luck. Diligence meant ignoring talking monkeys. In John's mind, the hellfire was the result of bargaining with Them, and John had been proud enough of his two-story, four bedroom two bathroom house to not want to see it gone. In the distance, there was an explosion, and yet, the ambient light seemed to diminish. It seemed that today was the day the sky would just up and quit.

"C'mon. Ye want ta leave 'fore them damnable big uglies get ye, don'cha?" The monkey paused, then hopped down, changing tactics. "At the least, let's get us another pack of fags, alright? Proper ones, camels. I'm really dyin' here."

Reluctantly, John acquiesced. Now that he thought about it, he really could use a cig himself. The last few days had really weirded him out. One foot followed the other, trudged for some time, and stepped off the porch.

The second his right foot landed on solid ground, the house's ceiling burst into flame; an ungodly chorus of wails and screams reverberated into John's skull, drawing him to his knees, slamming his head into the ground, putting as much pressure as possible and made him cringe, whimper, and pray to Gods he knew didn't exist to end the sudden screaming.

He didn't know how long he was there, the abandoner of his home, the traitor of civil life, crawling and writhing. What brought him to was a thin stick stuck in his mouth. A small gout of flame ignited in front of him.

The monkey had a lit cigarette clamped tightly between his teeth, and his zippo was held dangerously close to John's face and unwashed hair. "No helpin' it now, eh? Gonna see 'em, so might as well be prepared." Dumbfounded, John nodded, lit his cigarette, and took a drag. The world cleared; the screaming faded away. John stood, strong, and brushed off several days of accumulated dirt and grime. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, exhaled cooly, and stared into the distance. "Let's get ye goin' now, me time's runnin' out an' I wouldn't want ta see Them when They're angry." The monkey trundled away, leaving John to face his destiny, armed with nothing but a Marlboro Red.