by Adam Millard
Kevin recoiled in horror. He hadn't meant any offence, but listening to the guy ranting on, his bratwurst-arm slapping against the car door, he kind of felt sorry for him. “I have to ask everyone whether they want—“
“It's not the question,” the red-faced fatty interrupted. “It's the way you ask it; like I should say no, give me the pussy-sized meal 'cos I've already gone and ate my fair share. Well, I'll tell you what...” he pushed his sweaty, bald head out of the window about an inch, his eyes straining to read the nametag pinned to his server, “...Kevin. I will have the fat-bastard size, because I can, and because my doctor says it's too late for me, anyhow, so run along, make it fucking large, and don't be popping any of those goddamned yellow-heads near my motherfucking food!”
Kevin didn't – couldn't – speak. He simply jabbed a finger in the general direction of the second window, feeling sorry for the poor bastard who was working it. Fatty grinned and drove slowly forward, licking his lips at the prospect of his food.
It was a shitty job, but somebody had to do it. Just a pity, Kevin thought, that I didn't pay more attention in school. He could have been a lawyer, or a doctor; if only he'd concentrated in class, instead of slowly masturbating through his trouser-pocket at the sight of any girl close enough.
“You okay?” a voice said, startling him. He turned from the register to find Wendy Dole staring at him with those big, green eyes of hers.
“Yeah,” Kevin said, his trademark stammer making him sound even more remedial than he looked. “Just a bad customer.”
“Did you tell him to fuck off?” she asked, in all seriousness. When Kevin shook his head, she nodded. “Good, because that's exactly the kind of dumbass fucking manoeuvre that'll get you fired.” She was the boss—or she liked to think she was. Her father was the manager, which, by proxy, made her the manageress, or at least assistant. Not many people liked her, but Kevin didn't have an issue. She was simply doing what the rest of them would have done in the same circumstances: abusing power. “You want me to hock a loogie on his burgers?”
Kevin didn't know whether she was serious, or if it was a test. Did he risk instant dismissal by saying yes? She would have to be one low-down dirty bitch to pull that on him; and she was.
Just as Kevin was about to speak, the fat man's food went past. “Is that for the guy at window two?” Wendy said, snatching the bag out of the hands of its carrier.
“Yeah,” he said, trying not to look offended. Looking offended might be grounds for instant dismissal.
Without another word, she reached into the bag, unwrapped a burger, removed the top bun and drooled what seemed like a never-ending torrent of spit all over the meat. She placed the bun back on and squashed it down, smiling to herself. Kevin – being Kevin – dry-heaved. The woman was a maniac; a disgusting, despicable creature who had no place on God's green earth, and yet he found himself strangely attracted to her for her gross actions. She dropped the burger back in the bag and ushered the dumbstruck individual along.
She turned back to Kevin. “Feel better?” she asked.
He nodded. “Thanks.”
“Oh, and by the way,” she said, shoving a half-smoked cigarette into the corner of her mouth. “You're working an extra shift tonight. Roger called in sick, so I had to speak with Daddy, and he said I was good to sack him.”
Kevin opened his mouth, but it was no use. He stood there like a fish out of water for thirty seconds before Wendy gave up and walked away.
“I should have said something,” he muttered, as he watched her ass make its grand exit.
He turned back to the window and sighed, resigned to the fact that he was stuck there for at least another four hours.
***
The car idled its way off the car-park, its suited passengers not speaking to each other, but instead listening to the incessant screeching of the infected monkey in the back. It was like nails on a chalkboard: annoying as fuck. Agent 1 (for that was his assigned name) rolled his eyes.
“Do we have to listen to that all the way to the laboratory?”
The second man, who was called Agent 2 – although his mother called him Barry – said, “Just ignore it. It's obviously pissed at being relocated; either that, or it's gonna go all Planet Of The Apes on us.”
Agent 1 turned in his seat and stared at the monkey, which was staring back at him with a mixture of contempt and confusion. “You're an ugly little shit, ain't you?”
The monkey screeched, bounced up and down a few times in its cage, and settled again. It was like watching Gollum have an epileptic fit. Agent 2 shook his head and said, “What part of ignore it don't you understand?”
“It's fucking staring at me,” Agent 1 said. “I can't relax while it's looking at me.”
“Well, try,” Agent 2 said. “We've got a long drive ahead of us, and the last thing I want is you and the fucking monkey bickering the whole way.”
Agent 1 faced the front again, missing the monkey flipping him the bird entirely.
They drove for a few miles in silence, and then they saw it: a burger-joint, all welcoming lights and oversized doughnut statues. It was called MacReady's, and its mascot was a clown with green hair and a miserable face. Somebody, somewhere, should have been getting sued.
“Let's grab something quick to eat,” Agent 1 said. “And I could do with draining the lizard before we get onto the highway.”
Agent 2 glanced across his shoulder at the infected monkey. “I suppose it won't hurt to stop for a few minutes.” As he turned back to the steering wheel, the monkey smiled – or had wind, it was difficult to differentiate between the two.
Agent 2 pulled the car into a free space and turned off the engine.
“Banana?” Agent 1 asked the monkey as he climbed out of the car. The monkey didn't even flinch. It was too busy plotting to even acknowledge the stupid man and his silly, sardonic question.
The agents made their way towards MacReady's to sate their rumbling bellies; the infected monkey was already out of its cage before they reached the automatic doors.
***
Kevin watched as the two men approached the counter. He'd been moved from Window 1 to Till Number 4, which was a promotion of sorts. Wendy was really looking out for him tonight.
Kevin listened as the man on the right ordered food for the both of them. When the food was ready, they took their seats in a booth and began to grunt at one another monosyllabically. Apart from them, there were six other customers. A trio of hi-vis-wearing construction workers, a whore, the whore's pimp – who was rocking the afro as if it was 1979 – and a vagrant, who was mostly harmless, though he did tend to get a little annoyed if people ate all their food.
Kevin was deeply engrossed by the newcomers when a voice snapped him out of it. “What do you reckon?”
Chris Fryer, who worked the fryer – sometimes life was just ridiculous – was now staring over at the two guys in the booth.
Kevin shrugged. “Not sure,” he said.
“Probably Men In Black,” Chris opined. “Either that, or we've somehow been plugged into the Matrix. Just let me know if Trinity shows up; I'd bang the shit out of that.” And Chris, who was not known for his intellect or charm, shuffled off in the direction of his fryer, picking his nose as he went.
Kevin sighed. It was going to be a long night. In the corner, the whore and the pimp were arguing over prices. She was your run-of-the-mill, clear-heel-wearing, almost-see-the-beaver crackwhore, but she obviously knew what she was talking about when it came to her menu; which, as far as Kevin could tell, was reasonably priced and full of choice, though he wasn't sure what an Iranian Ass-bombing was.
The pimp backhanded the woman across the cheek, and she screeched as if she had just been told to complete eighty hours of rehab.
“You mothafuckin' bitch!” the pimp bellowed, picking his burger up and taking a huge bite mid-sentence. “You don't be settin' the prices. I be settin' the mothafuckin' prices.” Kevin tried to count how many grammatica
l errors there were in the man's sentence, but gave up after he realised the answer was: All of them.
One of the black-suited guys stood up as if to intervene, and was ordered by his colleague to “Sit the fuck down!” which he did, although obviously not happy about it.
The argument between the pimp and the whore was shortened somewhat, however, when the sound of a woman screaming filled the entire building. The suited guys were on their feet; one of them drew a gun, and the other drew a cellphone. Realising his mistake, he put the phone away and grabbed the gun from its holster.
The woman screamed again; Kevin recognised it this time: Wendy.
All eyes were on Kevin now. He couldn't figure out what they expected him to do. He looked to the guys with the guns for support. They shrugged.
Then, Wendy appeared, racing through the kitchen like a woman possessed. She was sobbing; her hand pressed tightly against her face. Blood seeped through her fingers, an arterial spray that coated everything crimson.
“Wendy!” Kevin gasped. “Wendy, what happened?!”
Chris Fryer – of the fryer – rushed across to see what all the fuss was about. When he saw the state of Wendy's face, he took a step back, wincing. “Shit, girl! You got torn the fuck up!”
Wendy managed to speak, finally, which was a relief to all as the suspense was palpable. “It...it came at me...I don't...I...it scratched me.”
“What did?” Kevin said, hoping that the next sentence contained less periods.
“A...monk...a...monk...”
“I fucking knew those bastards couldn't be trusted,” Chris spat. “Sitting all day, copying bibles. I mean, who does that?”
“A MONKEY!” Wendy screamed, which was both terrifying and uncalled for. “A little shit-throwing monkey scratched my beautiful face.”
Now the suited guys stepped forward, weapons re-holstered. “Ma'am, are you saying that you came into contact with a monkey?” the one on the left asked.
Wendy nodded, tears and blood dripping down her face in equal measures.
The suit on the right drew his weapon again. “Right, everybody get the fuck back! You, scratch-face, move over there! I need you to move slowly, calmly, and don't try anything funny, or I'll have no choice but to blow your face off.”
Wendy, who had already been hysterical, was now a-frenzy. “What? I don't—”
“Do as he says,” the suit on the left said, drawing his gun and pointing it at Wendy, who recoiled in yet more horror.
“Erm,” Kevin interjected. “What is all this nonsense? Why are you pointing your guns at Wendy and threatening to shoot her face off?”
The suit on the left sighed, tried to work his lips around the impossible words. “Wendy,” he said, “has been scratched by an Ass-rabies Monkey.”
Silence.
Yet more silence.
“A what now?” Kevin asked.
“Ass-rabies Monkey,” the suit on the right said. “The only way we can stop the spread of Ass-rabies is to kill its host. If Ass-rabies gets out into a populated area, who knows what might happen. It could be the end of the world as we know it. How the fuck did that monkey get out of the car?”
Agent 1 shook his head. “Clever little fucker,” he said. “And now that he's out, he's going to try to give everyone Ass-rabies. I knew we should have just driven straight to the laboratory.”
Kevin listened, but part of him was looking around the room for hidden cameras. This was exactly the kind of stunt Candid Camera would pull. If Ashton Kutcher jumps out on me, Kevin thought, I'll knock the pansy-haired twat out. There were no cameras, though; at least, none that he could see.
Then, Wendy did something that made Kevin realise it wasn't a cruel prank; she screeched so loud in pain that the cords stood out on her neck. She reached around and grabbed her ass, as if she was about to shit herself. Her eyes were wide with confusion and fear. Both of the agents levelled their weapons at her.
“Don't move, miss!” Agent 1 bellowed.
“If this is nothing to do with us,” the bad-ass pimp said, dragging his whore along the room like a dog on a leash, “we'll be getting our asses gone.”
Agent 2 spun on the spot and jabbed the gun towards the pimp. “Stay where you are,” he said. “Nobody leaves this place until we find that fucking Ass-rabies monkey.”
The pimp was about to argue, but there was something about staring down the barrel of a pistol that changed his mind.
Wendy yanked her skirt down, screaming. She turned so that everyone present had a better view of what was happening. “Please!” she screamed. “Make it stop!”
Her ass suddenly began to grow, expanding outwards as if it was being inflated by an industrial foot-pump. Kevin, being Kevin, took another step backwards, pushing himself against the drinks-dispenser. Sprite began to pour out, drenching his elbows, but that didn't seem to matter. What did matter was the fact that Wendy, the woman who thought she was boss, was having a bit of trouble controlling the size of her ass; and were those teeth?
Yes. Her crack was starting to spread, revealing razor-sharp teeth that wouldn't have looked out of place on a great white shark. Froth began to seep between them, dropping out onto the tiles, where it bubbled and fizzed. Kevin had the strange urge to locate the “Wet Floor” sign.
“Everyone get back!” Agent 1 yelled. “Gotta take this bitch out!”
Wendy's eyes shot open over her shoulder; she knew that her fate had been sealed. Her ass had rabies; the only thing to do was put a bullet in it.
Which Agent 2 did.
The sound of the report was deafening, and Wendy's ass exploded in a mess of flesh and shattered teeth. She fell forward onto her front, tripped by her skirt (which was still around her ankles). If she screamed, it was inaudible over the sound of the gunfire. Both agents were shooting now, blasting away at the gigantic buttocks, which seemed to be growling and grimacing with each connecting bullet. After several seconds of mayhem, the ass exhaled its last breath and fell still.
Agent 1 put a final bullet right in the hole, as if to be sure it would not return from the dead.
The trio of workmen were cowering in the far corner, holding each other like something out of a Village People video. One of them was crying, sobbing so hard that his big, butch moustache was drenched with tears.
The whore gripped onto her pimp as if he was Superman, and in his own mind, he was.
Chris Fryer was the one to break the silence, though he did it in the form of an uncontrollable bodily function. Agent 1 shook his head in disgust.
“So, this is all very strange,” Kevin finally mustered. “Wendy's dead, shot in the ass, and you two are...who are you?”
“We're the good guys,” Agent 2 said, and Kevin could tell that the man had been waiting his entire life to say something so heroic. “We were transporting the Ass-rabies monkey to a new laboratory,” he continued as he reloaded his pistol. “I knew it was a bad idea coming in here.”
“You can say that again,” Chris said, kicking the motionless body at his feet. “We're never gonna get paid now. She did the fucking wages.”
Kevin rolled his eyes. “So, this monkey of yours is diseased, correct?”
Agent 2 nodded. “Ass-rabies,” he said. “Created for use on our soldiers to give them a decent chance against the Taliban.”
“Didn't think it through, did you?” Kevin sneered. The agents looked at each other and shrugged.
Just as Kevin was about to tell them how stupid they were, the Ass-rabies monkey launched itself out of a MacReady's bin and, covered in soggy lettuce and mayonnaise, landed on the pimp's shoulders. The whore screamed and tried to pull it off, but its claws were sunk in too deep. It reached around and began to gouge the pimp's eyes out, which caused him to fly backwards.
Agent 2 began to fire at the monkey, but only succeeded in hitting the pimp twice in the face. After a millisecond of remorse, the agent fired again, but the monkey was too quick. It leapt off the pimp and disappeared into the disabled t
oilet at the opposite end of the room.
The whore was crying, and it was quite clear why: her arm was torn open. Blood dripped out of the wound, which was deep enough to reveal bone. The Ass-rabies monkey had infected her, and within seconds her knickers were around her ankles and the savage, snapping ass was dragging her screaming body across the tiles.
“Get out of the way!” Agent 1 said, but it was too late. The whore's ass had already latched onto Chris Fryer's leg. He fell to the floor, trying to pull her buttocks apart. It was like being caught in a bear-trap—a horrible, fleshy, farting bear-trap. The only thing that Chris could think of was sticking a finger in the ass; it worked with Pit Bulls, didn't it? He jabbed his hand into the gross, expanding mass, and suddenly wished he hadn't. When he pulled his hand out, it was not there anymore, just a bloody stump, spraying a crimson geyser into his own face. He passed out then, which was probably for the best.
Agent 1 put a bullet in the centre of the whore's ass, and it slumped lifelessly down.
“Get the monkey!” the other agent said, racing across the room, and almost slipping on the bloody tiles. “Somebody put a ‘WET FLOOR’ sign down, will you?”
Kevin nodded and did just that.
It was just him and the agents out front now; he was a little confused as to what had happened to the rest of the kitchen staff.
He didn't have to ponder long.
A row of them, wearing MacReady's uniforms, appeared at the counter. They were all sans-trousers, all infected with Ass-rabies. Kevin didn't know what to do; the Agents were trying to find the monkey, although the disabled toilet was empty. There was just a monkey-shaped hole in the ceiling.
“A little help out here!” Kevin yelled. The encroaching asses were snapping at him, trying to latch onto his flailing limbs, but he managed to avoid the fanged buttocks like the plague—pardon the pun.
