Frida Kahlo’s Monkey
It all started with Frida Kahlo’s monkey. The plot was his idea. I know it sounds unbelievable, Your Honour, but let me explain.
I bought that monkey on a Mexican beach sometime in the late ‘70s.
No, I’m afraid I can’t be more specific, Your Honour. I was on a mind-altering tour of Mexico. One night, we were exploring the boundaries of reality, when this guy comes over, leathery face with a generous moustache. And he has this monkey perched on his left shoulder, with black eyes like buttons fastened onto a wispy circle of white fur. As soon as I saw those eyes, I knew. “That’s Frida Kahlo’s monkey,” I said.
“Si senor, Frida Kahlo,” he said, and the deal was done.
Yes, I agree, Your Honour, Frida died almost thirty years ago and there was no way of telling whether the guy understood me, but I understood that monkey. I knew it was hers.
Me and him—I called him Diego—drifted back to the states, Your Honour. We spent time in California, then Arizona. He was a good little earner.
How? He’d do tricks, read palms or pose in the style of a Frida Kahlo painting; he knew all the moves and we got by. We had a spiritual connection, Diego and I. He was a true revolutionary.
You may laugh, Your Honour, but he raged with the fire that had burned in the breasts of Frida and her husband. Diego loathed authority of any kind and the hours he spent tickling my ear with his dexterous little hands, imparting his secrets to me, showed me the way to the truth.
No, of course he couldn’t talk, Your Honour, he was a monkey. But I understood him.
How did I come up with the plot? Your Honour, when we heard The Donald would be visiting Phoenix and we happened to be there, we knew it was a sign. He planned it all, Your Honour. Yes, the monkey. We wanted to uncover the truth, go beyond the lies they kept us quiet with.
It was Diego that did it, Your Honour, his tiny hands perfect for snatching that toupee off the president’s head. All I had to do was get him as close as possible.
Well, of course no one saw him. He moves swiftly, Your Honour, jungle memories.
Where is he now?
I couldn’t really say, hiding out, I guess.
I’m aware of what the doctors say, Your Honour, but that monkey, Frida’s monkey, is as real as you or I. You can believe me or not. Lesser and greater men have sacrificed themselves for the truth. Your Honour, what I did was destined, a glorious moment which will beat in my heart forever.
Why, I ate it, Your Honour. I’m not saying it was easy, but man, it tasted good, the taste of victory, the true taste of revolution. I enjoyed it, Your Honour, I enjoyed every last bit of it.
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