Below are the 3 most recent journal entries recorded in monkgently's LiveJournal:

Sunday, July 30th, 2006
12:36 am	Momo Mojo, Part One Day broke over New Jersey.  The sun peeked out as if to check the street ahead for muggers, failed to see any, and tentatively stepped out.  Almost immediately a gang of clouds fell upon it, beat it, and threw it down into the gutters where it hid until tomorrow. Pancake Jackson awoke at ten o’clock and flipped the TV to the news before muting it and crawling off the couch.  She shuffled into the kitchen and poured a bowl of Peanut Butter Crunch, put on a record, and sat back down on the couch.  David Byrne sang spastically as people on the television talked silently about terrorism, politics, and Tom Cruise.  At ten thirty the phone rang, which she answered.  “Mister Robinson, yes, good morning.  And how are you today..?” Pancake was a professional skeptic. That is, she was paid by rich clients to be skeptical about their ideas; a service she thought was vital in today’s egocentric and inflated economy.  With people too afraid to tell someone no, she figured, they’d go bankrupt.  So she moved from London to New Jersey and spent two years attending a toll booth before securing enough steady clients to be a full-time skeptic. She was never really sure why she chose New Jersey, but was pretty sure it had something to do with Bruce Springsteen. “No Mister Robinson, I read your proposal and its rubbish.  America isn’t ready for crucifix-shaped toilet patties.  Oh, Jodie liked it?  She also thought the tie you wore to the Christmas fundraiser was a good idea.” All her clients were about the same, men too rich and powerful for most people to have the pluck to speak up to.  Luckily, Pancake was British.  They invented pluck. “No, I don’t think even baby Jesus is reasonable.  The only people who want to see God in their toilet are locked up in white rooms where they can’t hurt themselves.” And the best part was, her clients could tell people that they had “professional opinion”, when asked.  She had eggshell-colored business cards with little other than her name and phone number.  In the corporate world, something like that gave you more credibility then a reference from someone with the last name “Trump”. “Okay Mister Robinson.  Yes, have a nice day.  Uh-hunh, same time next week.  I’ll keep on eye on my inbox, of course.  Yeah.  Good bye.  Yeah.  Bye.” She hung up and counted to three before the phone rang again. “Oi, Carter!  Yeah, just finished with ‘em.” Joshua Carter was one of her first clients, and the only one who grew to be a friend for multiple reasons.  He was young, not very rich, and the things he required her to be skeptical about were a lot more interesting than toilet Jesus.  Aliens, Bigfoot, Mole-men, and even on one occasion the CIA were all things she’d had to tell Carter were not in his garbage, backyard, and closet. He hadn’t seen Jesus in his toilet yet, but she was waiting for it. “Missouri?  What’s there?” Not that Carter was less than sane.  In fact, he was very intelligent, determined, and serious.  The problem was, Pancake thought, that he was too sane.  The normal world bored him, so he was constantly searching for something to make it more interesting. “Momo?  What the hell’s a mo-mo?” Of course, he wasn’t actually a client anymore.  She’d long ago decided that the fun she had barging through remote parts of the country looking for his latest whatever and telling him they’d never find it was enough payment.  “Missouri monster.  I see.  And what’s it supposed to look like?  Bigfoot.  Alright, lemme get pants on.” Overall, she thought, it was a good life. Current Mood: French Current Music: Harvey Danger - War Buddies (Comment on this)
Friday, March 3rd, 2006
5:38 pm	The Bizarre Adventures of Carter and Pancake: Passion of the Moth “So, what are we looking for again? Batman?” Pancake¹ Jackson asked, scratching her nose with a well-chewed fingernail. Carter sighed. “For the last time, it’s MOTHman, not Batman. Moth. Y’know, those butterfly-like things that get in your room at night and irritate the living hell out of you by beating their heads into the light over and over again making a tiny ‘plink’ sound every time it does?” “So’s if they’re so common in your room, why’d we have to come all the way out to Buggerall, West Virginia to find one?” Carter sighed the sigh of a man who wonders why he keeps the company he does. “’Cos we’re not looking for just a regular moth, Pan, we’re looking for a Mothman.” Pancake wrinkled the previously scratched nose. “Oh.” She waited for Carter to turn away, convinced the conversation was over before continuing. “What’s a Mothman? Didn’t Mel Gibson make a movie about those?” “No,” Carter said, “He was in a movie that had nothing to do with Mothmen, despite having them in the title. But that has nothing to do with what we’re doing, keep focused!” “It had aliens.” Pancake contributed, shining he flashlight around the tall grass. “What?” “The movie. I think. Oh! But it wasn’t Mel… some other guy middle-aged housewives go crazy for. Richard Gere?” Carter spun around. “Will you cut it out? This is serious!” Pancake rolled her eyes “Sure thing, Mothboy.” Carter grunted and decided to ignore the comment. Pancake poked her shoe into a bush quizzically. “He should, though.” “Do I want to ask what you’re talking about?” Pancake shrugged. “Mel Gibson. He should make a Mothman movie. ‘Passion of the Moth.’ Tragic story of a moth who falls in love with the light but perished when the light turns out to be a candle. The moth’s last words ca-” she said, but stopped when she noticed Carter’s glare. “Alright, alright, I know.” His face softened a little and a grin crept onto his face much in the same way a cat creeps up on a curtain it is about to turn to patches. “That is a pretty good idea.” Pancake smiled. “So what’s a Mothman look like?” Carter pushed his way onto a dirt road and peered in both directions. “Well… about the same height as an adult human… stands on two legs, big wings, and glowing red eyes. Caused a big scare in the sixties.” Pancake followed him onto the road and they set off in the direction of an old bridge. “And in the forty years between now and then no one’s seen a thing.” She asked as she kicked a rock into the brush. “The absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence, alright?” Carter responded and peered into the darkness beyond his flashlight. Pancake scoffed. “That’s a load of bollocks and you know it. I bet it was just some great bloody owl and every started freakin’ out and yellin’.” “Yeah?” Carter said, “Then what’s that by the bridge?” “I’ll be buggered… so, what now?” Carter shrugged. “Hell if I know. Forgot the camera.” ¹Not her real name, but the explanation is pretty long and this is supposed to be a short story. Current Mood: Toothless Current Music: Talking Heads - Papa Legba (Comment on this)
Wednesday, October 19th, 2005
12:10 am	The Adventures of Nigel Hornblower, Erotic Adventurer: Part One "Ish!" a man with a large gut and very british teeth bellowed. "ISH!" The man, with his dark hair, mustache and stocky build stood in front of what appeared to be a large hole in the side of a mountain, which may or may not have been a bear's den. As he bellowed, a smaller, darker-skinned man scurried up to him. "Yes, what?" he asked. "What do you need, Mr. Hornblower sir?" The smaller man, known at this point only as Ish, was almost an exact contrast to the larger one, who has been established as Mr. Hornblower. Ish was slender, but considering the sizable pack he shouldered, he was certainly full of muscle. His head was shaved, as was his face save for two bushy eyebrows, and he spoke with an accent that caused most people to place him from India. This was actually not true. In fact, most of the things people thought about him were untrue. "Ishpu, I've found a cave," Mr. Hornblower, who's first name was Nigel, said. This was only partially true. Ishpu had found the cave two days previously when Nigel had asked him to check the path ahead, and had directed Nigel to it without telling him he knew it was there. This may seem very silly, but there was a reason Ishpu only nodded and congratulated Nigel. Ishpu's name was not really Ishpu, it was Hari Bharadwaj. He let Nigel, and this everyone else, call him Ishpu because it was be a terrible bother to try to explain to him what his real name was. That was the same reason he never told anyone he was actually from Pakistan and not India. It was just too much trouble for something that seemed to trivial in the grand scheme of things. "I suspect there may be bears inside," Nigel continued, squinting into the cave. Ishpu more than suspected, he had already spotted the paw prints five feet from where Nigel was standing. Nigel, like Ishpu, often had things assumed about him that were untrue, but for different reasons. The reason he was hailed as the last great adventurer was because of Ishpu, who very often did most of the work on any adventures they participated in. There was also a reason Ishpu let people think this, and it wasn't just because it made things easier for him (although it did). Nigel Hornblower was the only son of the late Lord Crispin Hornblower. His mother was an Irish cargo-plane worker with whom Lord Crispin had bedded among the crates and boxes of a cargo plane that was currently moving at very great distances over South America. Popular word is Nigel got his wanderlust from being conceived as such high speeds. His mother would not argue to the speed of the conception. Nigel's early life was quite uneventful and consisted of a large amount of baths. Things changed when his father, owner of the largest strip-diamond mine in Africa, was beheaded with a saw of sorts in what the papers called "A bizarre environmental protesting accident". To be fair to the protester, it was self-defense. When he died Nigel was already at the age of nineteen and hadn't done much besides bathing, drinking, whoring, and watching rugby while in the bath. Not long before he died, his father had hired Ishpu and asked him to show Nigel the world. "That damn lad's a slug," he said, "A lazy, stupid sloth who has absorbed so much water in his life he raises the humidity of the whole damnable country by sitting down heavily. Do something with him, dash it all, and make him worthy of the Hornblower name." While doing that exactly proved to be impossible, Ishpu was rather good at making him seem worthy, which is what he had been doing for fifteen years. And, knowing what he had to do, he pointed behind Nigel and cleared his throat. "Yes sir, I think there's one running towards you right now." Later that night at a bar, Nigel exclaimed his victory over the vicious, monster bear, which Nigel had shot after Ishpu tripped attempting to run. Ishpu only smiled and congratulated him, and offered to get him new bandages for the scrapes on Nigel's elbows. Current Mood: Hairy Current Music: Decemberists-The Sporting Life (4 Comments |Comment on this)