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knight’s errand,” Monkey told herself, holding the cheese on-high. “Test me further.”
    The crowd watched, dumbfounded. Slack jawed. Turkey wept quietly.
    Monkey closed her eyes and brought the cheese to her mouth. Her lips plucked it from the toothpick, and she began to chew. Her eyes still closed, she heard Gorilla shout, his voice high-pitched with panic, “Someone call 9-1-1!”
    Monkey ate the cheese yet she did not die. She ate and ate it. She never wanted to swallow, only to chew it, to grind the cheese between her teeth forever and to always savor it. She wanted to live forever so that she could eat nothing else. Worse than killing her, the cheese tasted—incredible. What had been the worst smell in the world, it became the best, and even after Monkey had gulped it down she sucked the wooden toothpick for the last hint of flavor. The cheese was inside her; it was part of her, and she loved it.
    Smiling, Monkey opened her eyes to find everyone staring, their faces knotted in horror. Their eyes bulged as if they’d caught her eating her own scat. As repugnant as she’d seemed before, now she seemed even more repulsive to them, but Monkey didn’t care. With all the animals watching she ate another cube of cheese, and another. She wanted to be filled with this glorious taste and smell until her belly ached.
    That night in her motel room the telephone rang. It was Hamster calling. Hamster said, “Hold on while I get Bison on the other line.” Monkey waited, and after a few clicks a voice said, “Bison, here.”
    Bison said, “On the advice of Legal, we’re pulling the cheese from outlets.” He said, “We can’t risk the liability.”
    Monkey knew her job hung in the balance. She told herself to stay quiet and just let events run their course, but instead she said, “Wait.”
    Hamster said, “Nobody’s blaming you.”
    Monkey said, “I was wrong.” She said, “You can fire me, but that cheese is delicious.” She said, “Please.” She said, “Sir.”
    With a shrug in his voice, Bison said, “This matter is out of our hands.” Over the phone he said, “Tomorrow, you dispose of your stock samples.”
    “Ask Coyote,” Monkey pleaded. “Coyote’s pitching it.”
    “Coyote’s in Seattle,” said Bison. “We’ve promoted him to the Northwest Regional Supervisor slot.”
    Caught in an obvious lie, Hamster said, “Take this one for the team, princess. Or you’re fired.”
    After all of this time pitching perfume and beef jerky and hand lotion, Monkey finally had a product she actually believed in. Until now Monkey had wanted the world to love her, and now she was willing to take a backseat to a cheese. She didn’t care how much the other animals glared at her in undisguised disgust, she’d debase herself completely in the eyes of a million animals out of the slim chance that one would taste what she tasted and affirm her faith. If that were to happen, that brave animal would also love the cheese and Monkey would no longer be alone in the world. She would martyr her dignity for the glory of this cheese.
    According to a text message from Iguana the entire wholesale stock had already been auctioned to a liquidator. The following day, Monkey deliberately missed her flight to Cleveland. For point-of-sale pitch sessions Monkey always wore a pink polo shirt from Brooks Brothers, always a two-button polo with only the upper button open. Pink read as gamine, sporty, preppy, and Monkey never popped the collar. However, with everything at stake today she pulled out her heavy artillery: a chemise top with floss shoulder straps and a hem so short it fluttered above a wide margin of her exposed stomach. She wedged her breasts into a padded bra. To put this cheese across, Monkey would play the temple whore and pimp herself worse than Llewellyn Foods had ever dared. Brazenly, she took her folding table and toothpicks and white cubes of mouthwatering, soul-filling nirvana and went back to the Orlando