Ascertaining simian golf scores helps polish the thin veneer of a research institute. Next door, cages hold a couple dozen monkey duffers.
Yorick swings his 3-wood and whiffs. As I call a mulligan an idea hits me. I grab a bag of clubs and open cages to free the primate inmates.
The monkeys follow me outside where I toss them clubs and golf balls and ask “Ready to play through?” I shout “Fore!” and duck back inside.
As I hand Regi the papers I realize they’re invoices for other cadavers from Founders Cemetery. “Keep these safe.” “OK. I’ll stuff them in.”
I still have the book Yorick hurled at me. It’s titled “Existential Reality Update Prototype Template.” What the hell? I open it at random:
“Reality Update 64: You CAN go home again. If home doesn’t exist in your current reality, windows allow you to go into someone else’s home.”
“When leaving one reality, please turn off lights and lock up.” What the hell? I hear screams outside. I don’t have time to read further.
I pocket the book and help transfer Granger’s packaged body to a gurney. “Are you ready for this?” I ask. “I was born ready” Regi replies.
“What are we doing?” “Steering your Dad through chaos to the parking lot. I created a diversion. ” “What kind of diversion?” “Monkey golf.”
“Monkey what?” “You know how Yorick freed himself? I opened all the monkey cages and then gave them something to do with their freedom.”
We push through the lab exit and watch faculty, students and staff go ape, battered by a monkey-driven golf ball barrage. Now’s our chance.
The warm night air fills with screams of terror and a steady “thwack thwack thwack” as club meets ball. Regi says “Monkey golf to be sure.”
Window glass shatters. Small fires break out. Monkeys who have used up their allotment of golf balls search for other things to swing at.
Someone has released other animals from the veterinary school and cows, horses, pigs, goats, turtles and hamsters stampede across campus.
A puff of smoke rises from the generator building. The entire school plunges into darkness. Salt water pours from the desalinization plant.
Scores of still-inebriated or hung-over medical school denizens run for cover. Ducking low, we push forward. Our progress halts abruptly.
Regi yells “We hit something!’ I run to the front of the gurney. The Chancellor lays across our path, a goose egg bump on his forehead.
He’s out cold. His accountant bodyguards are nowhere to be seen. “We’ve got to go! Leave him!” “I can’t leave him! He could get run over!”
“Arkaby!” “Give me a minute. I can save him!” Some bolting bystanders have jumped into cars and their headlight beams cut the darkness.
“ARKABY!” I reach beneath the gurney for a water bottle and splash it in the Chancellor’s face. His eyelids flutter. He says “Oww. My head!”
“Easy big fella. You’ve had a busy day.” He tries to sit up and fails. “You’re that detective. I thought I told you to stay off my island.”
(The Twitter Mystery continues daily at @Twitstery)