“Can’t you read?” snapped the monkey.  It waved
a threatening baton over the yellow tape; I stepped back
in surprise.  “It says, police line, do not
cross,” the monkey said.  “This means
you.”  “Who put you in charge?” I snapped
back.  No simian with a badge makes
a monkey out of me.  “Evolution is running
backwards,” it said.  “Darwin died and made me
god.”  “Not mine,” I answered.  “What’s the crime here?”

“Building a better mousetrap, with malice
aforethought.”  It raised a paw, pushed
the uniform cap back and scratched
its head.  “What do you know
about this?”  “Nothing,” I said.  “I never
fore thought in my life.”  “None of you
did.  That’s the crime.”  “You’re contradicting
yourself,” I pointed out smugly.  “That’s my
prerogative,” it answered, “now you move
on, there’s nothing to see here.”  “I want
to see the mousetrap.”  “You can’t, it’s been
impounded, expounded, and re-
pounded.  Also classified, eyes only.”  “Whose eyes?”
I asked.  It answered, “That’s 
the question, isn’t it?” 

Liz Huck