Mystery Monkey Of Tampa Bay Ushers In New Era Of Awareness

You blame the Internet for everything. I blame the Jews.

I'm just trying to figure out the distinction between "escaped pet" and "living in the wild." Apparently the monkey is one of these two things.

There are monkeys on facebook? I might have to join now.

Back before this here monkey was of national fame, my very own eyes did lay witness to him. No one believed me; everyone thought I was nuts. You'll never understand the need to defend a monkey sighting until one makes a monkey out of you. Seriously.

The main problem with these stories is they leave you hanging. There's no resolution, so you have make it up on your own. Apologies Gary, Renee and Vernon Yates, but this is all you left me with.

"Jeesh, that was fun!"
As he spoke, Gary looked down at the mic clipped to his blue shirt and detached it, pulling the cord through the bottom button.
"I love doing these kinds of stories and you were just fantastic on camera," he gushed.
Renee gave her long brown hair a twist and blushed.
"Really? You really think? I was nervous."
"No! No! You're a natural. Gosh, when you said 'It was bananas' I nearly lost it."
Gary looped the mic cord in his hands and tucked it into the open pocket of a black shoulder bag with Today stitched on the side. The bag slipped off the couch and clumsily dumped a mini-cassette recorder, newspaper and two packages of makeup wipes onto the tile floor.
"Oh good grief," he said, kneeling down to pick it all up. Reflexively, Renee stooped to help. A hand from each played a brief game of tug of war with the newspaper and they both let out a nervous giggle.
"Leggo my Echo," he said, now standing.
Renee laughed involuntarily but quickly caught herself, unsure.
"Everglades Echo," he said, pointing to the masthead on the newspaper as he pushed it into the bag.
"Oh!" She let out a deeper, longer laugh. "I get it. Echo!" She looped her thumb and forefingers together as if to close a link in a chain and pulled at them.
He lifted the bag onto his shoulder.
"Well, that's it I guess… unless you happen to have any more urgent monkey business that needs attending to around the house."
He regretted the words even as they fell from his tongue and cursed himself for making such a stupid, crude joke. It was his turn to blush.
"I'm sorry… I didn't mean."
He made what he thought was his best monkey face and growled, "Me Tarzan, you Jane!" He hoped his self-deprecation would save him.
Renee laughed and touched his arm.
"Would you like lunch?"

Less than a mile away, Vernon Yates crushed out a half-smoked Pall Mall in a tin ashtray, unscrewed the top on a half-filled pint bottle of Jack Daniels and dumped the contents into a plastic cup. He took a sip, flipped over a Polaroid photo that had been face-down on his fold-up kitchen table and studied it for a long time. Finally, he drained the rest of the Jack, set the cup down and gently placed the photo on top of it. In one precise fluid motion, the top of a Zippo lighter snapped open and an orange flame touched a corner of the photo. The monkey in the tree turned black for a moment before melting into a sickly yellowish tint and vanishing. The charred remains of the photo fell into the cup and smoldered quietly. He picked up the Mossburg 935 Magnum semi-automatic shotgun that had been resting against the table, pulled a shell from the left breast pocket of his shirt, inserted it into the chamber and pumped.
"Me Vernon, you dead."
He looked at his watch. It was time lunch time.