Dial M for Monkey Read Online Free PDF

smile cracked across Mac's face as the memory played back in his mind.

Sandwiches
    D ave is sitting on a bench in a shopping mall between two old people thinking about sandwiches. He has been there for over an hour and is undaunted by the presence of the old lady to his right (smelling overpowering of lavender) and the old man to his left (smelling faintly of wee). Beads of sweat have formed on his brow as he thinks as hard as he has ever though on any subject, about sandwiches.
    What is the best sandwich I have ever eaten? How can he possibly gauge this? Surely, he wonders as he becomes more and more worried, it must be there, hidden in his mind. His eyes flicker up top-right; he is trying to remember, trying to catch the memory wherever it is hidden but he cannot find it.
    He rubs his leg, trying to keep it from pins and needles and mentally probes further. It may not have been the best sandwich that was ever made. No. But the best sandwich he personally had ever tasted. He fidgeted because he knew it was something he should know.
    He knows what his favourite film is. It is ‘Every Which Way But Loose’ because he loves Clint Eastwood and he loves monkeys. It combines both flawlessly and therefore it is his favourite film. Every other film he has ever watched could be compared to it and graded accordingly. In the unlikely event that a better film be made then the whole system would have to be mentally adjusted to accommodate. Simple.
    But he just couldn’t do the same thing for sandwiches.
    There was a steak sandwich he remembered eating some three years previously. The waitress in the restaurant had asked him how he wanted the steak. He chose rare and the sandwich had some sort of dressing that complimented the meat perfectly. But indecision was rife. He is not certain that this is the best sandwich he has ever tasted.
    One thing Dave is sure about us that he can rule out any sandwich he has made himself as his own sandwiches never seem to turn out as well as those that are prepared by others.
    The old woman turns to look at him and stares in a way that demands he turn and address her. He resists. And decides to buy a notebook so that he might chronicle every sandwich he eats from that moment on.
    He rises to his feet and walks on from the bench safe in the knowledge that his life once again has order.

Self Assembly
    ‘W here’s the painting?  The canvas, Clint - where is it?’
    Big Terry pushed the gun into Clint’s temple, forcing him down to the ground, his face pressed against cardboard packaging.  Clint inhaled sharply and cardboard fibres rushed into his lungs.  For once he wished for sleep to escape this nightmare, even for a second.  This time it didn’t come.  Apparently the drugs did work.  Bugger.
    ‘I favor the Tate Modern myself,’ said Big Terry, continuing an already established monologue.  ‘Last time I was in London I went in there and it was inspiring.  Not that I understand all of it, mind you.  And I don’t think they put much thought into people like me coming along when they hang the paintings.  Well why would they?’
    ‘I’m sure they don’t do it on purpose,’ said Clint.
    Big Terry stood over Clint, staring at him with little beads of sweat starting to form above his thick, black eyebrows.
    ‘That was a rhetorical question,’ he said.  ‘When I want an answer from you, it will be preceded by a sudden feeling of pain, do you understand?’
    Big Terry carefully stood on Clint’s hand, he yelped and twisted to try to extricate himself.
    ‘Yesyesyes. Yes I understand.  Jesus, this is nothing to do with me I keep telling you.’
    Big Terry began walking away, looking for something.
    ‘You can open the box now.’
    Clint did as he was instructed and began to try to tear his way into whatever this flat-pack furniture Big Terry had forced him to drag out here.  Of course he had been contemplating its contents ever since Big Terry turned up at his home.
    It hadn’t