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If you've purchased a copy of Monkeybicycle's first print issue, you have undoubtedly noticed that the final story, "The Stck-Up," ends rather abruptly. This is because there was terrible trouble with the files that we had sent to our printer. Our best guess is that, after we had finished the book's layout, an army of highly trained beast-men, obviously hired by a rival literary journal, made light work of our night watchman (who is now missing) and broke into our offices, only to steal these final two pages and attempt to ruin us. We were not aware of this problem until the books came back from the printer. You can imagine our distress. Nonetheless, we have persevered! We have put the pages here so that you can read them, despite the efforts of those unruly beast-men. We are sorry that there has been confusion, and we would never intentionally hurt you. We love you. Please rest easy knowing that we have beefed up security at the office, and enjoy the conclusion of Monkeybicycle Issue 1: After another minute, what seemed like ten, of back and forth, I saw him look over my shoulder and I knew that this would be over soon, that it already was. I looked back and saw the driver coming, adjusting his pants. I noticed the kid's reflection when I did. He must have only been about sixteen or seventeen. I saw his face was now pale, like mine, and his eyes were frightened. I just wanted to beat the hell out of him. How dare he do that to me! "You real lucky," he said as he stood up, hand again gripping his jeans. As he walked down the aisle, I felt like standing up and taunting him, telling him that if he was going to rob someone he'd better learn how to do it right. But I didn't, because while he got nothing from me, he was still effective in scaring the hell out of me. "Oh, you decided to come on and get warm?" the driver said as the boy made his way down the stairs. The driver started the bus back up at last and shut the door. We pulled away. As we did, I saw the kid, outside again, looking up at me, probably wondering what just happened, like I was. I'd spent so much time imagining things like that, preparing. And all of those situations, it seemed, were going to be completely different in real life, if I'd ever found myself actually in them. I wanted the exchange to be violent and fast, smooth. I wanted to be shot, or at least punched. Instead, it was awkward and clumsy. The difference between imagination and reality seemed vast and surreal. I was unfulfilled. "That kid just tried to rob me," I told the driver. "Oh yeah?" he said. "That happens all the time." | ||
