Posts Tagged With: blogging

Dung of Darkness – Redux

The journey to Bali in a stolen Indonesian ‘feral’ boat from Broome, Western Australia, took two days.  It was quickened toward the end of day one, when an Australian Navy ship under the guise of Operation Sovereign Borders towed me to the maritime border, unhooked my vessel and steamed back south.  Once the cries of “Tony Abbott says stay out!” subsided, I called back, from my slowly sinking boat: “Thank you!”  Little did they know I’d been tasked by their very own government, albeit confidentially through ASIO, to reach the tourist island off East Java and execute a mission which “had, did and would never exist”.  The mission was simple: an Australian national had set himself up in the Ubud Sacred Monkey Sanctuary as the leader, and in fact king, of a group of monkeys, one white tiger, a kidnapped drop bear and the attractive female host, known only as “Gina”, of failed reality TV show Big Monkey.  It was alleged by ASIO that the aforementioned were all serving as his bodyguards, while he set about recruiting as terrorist foot-soldiers Bali natives disenfranchised by drunken and drug-addled Australian tourists.  Well, I guess that part wasn’t simple.  But my mission was: to kill, with extreme prejudice, the Monkey King of Ubud – otherwise known as King Chewbacca.


While the sun set over the South Kuta peninsula and my all-but-submerged boat disrupted angry surfers riding swell pounding the beach off Nusa Dua, I realised I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d do when confronted with the strange man who had put himself in such an unlikely position.  To be sure, I wasn’t sure what he’d do, either.  I’d been briefed in Broome that a group of Aussie surfers would be waiting the morning after my arrival outside a Nusa Dua hovel of a hotel.  All six of them, tired but wired from earlier salt-water endeavours, were preparing for a day trip of monkey-business in Ubud courtesy of a north-bound bus.  Five of them went along with my cover story of being a fellow wave-rider keen to innocently tag along to the island’s interior.  Their leader, paid both to ensure the others’ cooperation and ask no questions, did just that.  I asked them about a rumoured Balinese monkey king.  A couple spoke in sweaty whispers of surfing primates in the line-up, who would drop in on foreign surfers and scratch or chuck shit at any who dared challenge them.  The leader simply sat with me up the front of the bus, throwing knowing glances to the driver and me while silently sipping his Bintang beer.  “Someone needs to take care of that guy,” said another of their number, who had thus far remained silent.  And whose face was covered in still bleeding and yellowing scratches and smelled of monkey faeces.

Their leader upended the dregs from the can into his mouth just before the JI. Raya Tebongkang Ubud Road became the JI. Raya Kangetan, and we turned right.  Minutes later and in the mid-afternoon, we arrived at the sanctuary’s entrance.  The surfers were unnerved by the screaming monkeys and lone, occasional tiger’s roar audible from outside the forest.  So they left me alone at its gates.  Their leader threw me a Bintang, which I swilled greedily before walking calmly under the leafy, cool canopy.  Almost immediately I could hear unnaturally wind-like sounds then heavy impacts of something moving from tree-to-tree above me.  “But he’s a great man,” the trees muttered.  And I knew it was Garrett, the displaced drop bear.

“He stole you from your family, your home, your country, Garrett,” I whispered to the leaves.

Whoosh, thud.

“But he has good taste in music.”

“He caused you to miss Australia Day 2014, Garrett.”

Whoosh, thud.

“But there are so many Australians in Bali, not least himself.  So I need not leave.”

“He made a mockery of the drop bear myth.  Garrett.”

Whoosh, thud.  The snap of a branch.  I whipped the knife from my waist and lingered it in his furry neck just as he landed, fangs bared, on mine.

“Dare you mock this!?” he rasped, drooling on my shirt.  The smell of imported eucalyptus leaves and stale beer almost had me reeling.

“And you, this?” I calmly pressed the knife further into his coat, drawing both blood and a stifled wince.  “Help me, Garrett, and I will remove you from this equatorial nightmare and back to your sub-tropical home.”

The pacified koala muttered Midnight Oil, Cold Chisel and even a little Ball Park Music (Rich People Are Stupid), while the forest sucked us further toward its heart.  And my designated, mysterious foe.  I had to brandish the knife again when he began a Killing Heidi number.  Which silenced him.  He was less startled when intermittent growls and flashes of white started coming from and appearing around us.  “Calm,” he urged as we loped through the undergrowth.  I kept the knife handy.  It seemed Garrett was already midflight, fangs bared, not to mention screaming “Thunderstruck!” (an AC/DC number) when ferns to our left suddenly disgorged an enormous white tiger.  I was still running while the vision of a snarling gray ball of fur attached in combat to a growling white behemoth stuck stubbornly in my mind like a heavy footprint in mud.  Distant dog-like howls and pained roars shook the jungle to my rear.  Sensing my prey was near (a heinous smell was growing stronger), I pressed on.

A steaming pile of monkey shit landed beside me as I began my final approach to the promised royal tree house, adjacent the 14th century-built Holy Monkey Temples.  I glanced upward, only to see an angry cousin of my evolutionary family sitting in a tree, stroking a spear.  A baboon, which surely meant Rafiki the king’s head priest and part-time evil wizard.  Presently I saw the first of the surfers I’d accompanied on the journey from Nusa Dua, beside Rafiki.  Head removed from his body.  Attached to a spike.  Face contorted in a strange mixture of terror and humour.  Sploosh: more shit.  Another monkey: sitting spear stroking in a tree.  Mojo, the thief, royal footrest and, reportedly, dunce.  Horror: another head on a grisly spike.  Another three times this happened, much to my regret (as much due to the smell of the shit, as to the fear of the monkeys, as to the revulsion of the severed heads).  Jo-Jo, the King’s Paw; Timmy, the escaped mental patient; and Simeon, the stuffed monkey.  Until I came face-to face, albeit from ground to tree house-top, with the Monkey King – the severed head of the surfer group’s leader sitting prominently on a final bloody spike at his side.  “Word Journeyer,” he giggled, confident in his elevated position and surrounding of me by his minions.  “What took you so long?”  A rope ladder unfurled from above and landed at my feet.

The Monkey King lay sighing, much less commanding than at the moment I’d first sighted him, upon a hammock after I’d finally scaled the 50-foot ladder.  A woman, brunette, green-eyed and captivating, was sitting on a stool and stroking his head.  Meanwhile, a positively ugly monkey so disfigured by some kind of past attack that she had an extra nostril (whom I took to be Scar Face – the king’s obstinate suitor) jumped madly around the room while throwing her shit at Gina – who calmly ducked each acrimonious attack and maintained her attentions on the king’s throbbing forehead vein.  I was unprepared for such a scene.  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

“Oh, y’know, Word Journeyer,” he started.  “Too much power.  And too many crazy, beautiful, and crazy and not so beautiful, and completely insane and hideous women after me, as a result.”

Gina silently nodded, Scar Face threw another clumsily-aimed crap and I insincerely nodded empathetically.  It was then I noticed in a cobwebbed corner the computer he’d been using to organise his kingdom, recruit his anti-atavistic-Aussie-tourist terrorists, and blog about it.


“You’re a lucky man, Monkey King,” I said, which he responded to by looking wistfully up at Gina, then glancing warily at Scar Face, but ignoring me as I inched toward his outdated Compaq laptop.


“Yeah,” I moved closer.  “People either fear you, or want to be you.”

He nodded.

“But they don’t want to smell like you, sorry.”  Within striking distance.

“Ah, that’s ok.  The plumbing in this tree house isn’t. . . .

I plunged the knife repeatedly, viciously into the laptop’s screen and keyboard.  Damaging it beyond repair.  Chewbacca screamed and struggled in vain out of the hammock, Gina silently held her right hand over her mouth; Scar Face threw what was surely her last shit for a while at me.  I ducked, grabbed a vine hooked inside the window, and swung out of it into a blood-red tropical sunset barely penetrating the sacred forest.

Categories: Australia, Bali, BIg Monkey, Humor, love, Relationships, Romance, television shows, travel advice | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Another stupid D&M post about having a reflective New Years

I haven’t engaged with the blogosphere much in the last two weeks. There are many reasons and excuses, but mainly I didn’t want to write while I’ve been trying to escape a hardcore hangover.

I’m sort of seeing the light of day now. I’m leaving the bedroom before 4pm now.

Fake drunk Chris

Also, I’ve set a goal to finish the first draft of my novel by New Years Eve. It’s achievable, but time consuming. I’ve been working on it since last October. 14 months and I’ve just hit 120,000 words. I don’t brag about word length anymore. It’s juvenile and who gives when most of it isn’t a good combination of words. Word length says absolutely nothing about word quality. It just means more to edit, and I don’t look forward to doing the rewrite.

How come you’ve never heard about my novel before? I’ve been embarrassed to talk about it. The monkeys laugh at me and I didn’t want humans to do the same thing.

What do Monkey Kings write books about? Well, I don’t know about other monkey kings, but the novel is a supernatural murder mystery, drama, and school yard romance. There are no monkeys in it, but in the first draft the main character might release a poisonous snake in his English class to get out of his oral presentation. I’m still tweaking the label but I have plenty of time before I’m ready for an agent.

But I didn’t really write this post to talk about my book. I came on here to procrastinate writing the last scene. It’s a scene set years later from the rest of the book. All grown up, like in Harry Potter. It’s necessary to have this scene because without it, the ending is too savage, abrupt and dark to be popular. Now it will be a wistful and bittersweet ending.

Actually, I want to write about what New Years means to me and maybe even to you. For sure, the meanings of holidays have changed. Christmas has shifted from celebrating the birth of Jesus to simply enjoying life with friends and family (debatable) and if you listen to the monkeys opinions, living the teachings of the Black Eyed Peas.

The meanings for New Years Eve and Day have also changed.

Because really, it’s a time to reflect what we want out of the next year, and to evaluate whether we need to change our plans from the following year. In this fast paced time of consumerism, it has become harder to take time to be still. To pause and to reflect. One of the only times we really do this naturally is during these two days.

I want to quote part of Queen Elizabeth’s 2013 Christmas speech.

“We all need to get the balance right between action and reflection. With so many distractions, it is easy to forget to pause and take stock. Be it through contemplation, prayer, or even keeping a diary, many have found the practice of quiet personal reflection surprisingly rewarding, even discovering greater spiritual depth to their lives.”

At the risk of having already sounded a little preachy and a little pro-establishment, the Monkey King thinks she has got it right. Hear, hear, Queen Elizabeth! We Monarchs sometimes say some wise things.

While at some point I want to make a more elaborate list of New Years resolutions filled with silliness and good humour, I want to give you some earnest and genuine points I wish to achieve in this post, especially relating to All Hail the Monkey King.

We reached about 2000 views and 130 followers in the seven months since this blog began. We could have had more but I didn’t want to follow a heap of blogs and then not read them. I wanted to read all the blogs I followed, get used to doing so, and then add some more blogs to actively engage with. It’s proving to be a challenge.

Three blog posts a week has also been difficult, and disheartening. Certainly, I have had a small group of loyal and engaged readers who understand what I am trying to do. And this is to make a unique, fun and creative fictional blog that almost takes the piss of the current main blog genres. Commentators, you are the reason I am continuing to write this. However, I haven’t had as much time to spend on each blog post, and the quality of grammar has dropped.

While I listen to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Tuesday’s Gone” on Spotify in a Starbucks café overlooking a temple lilypond, I am promising you (the reader) that I will be cutting down to one post a week. I will also be focusing on other aspects in my life, such as seeking employment in Bali, and at least dating a few times without being stupid about it.

The Monkey King isn’t saying that he’s going to go tame, not at all, but he does need to spend less time obsessing on the internet.

Now with the risk of getting a bit soppy and awkward, I love you all, especially my engaged readers. This isn’t a goodbye, only a written renewal of some form of friendship we have made the last seven months.

Here’s to sharing our lives with complete strangers for another year.


Categories: Humor, Philosophy | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

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