By Matt Ruff
Jane Charlotte has been arrested for homicide. She says she's a member of a mystery association dedicated to struggling with evil. She says she's operating with the dept for the ultimate Disposition of Irredeemable Persons—aka "Bad Monkeys." Her confession lands her within the jail's psychiatric wing and earns her numerous hours of poking, probing, and wondering via a certified. yet is Jane loopy or mendacity? Or is she enjoying a complete assorted online game altogether?
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Additional info for Bad Monkeys: A Novel (P.S.)
It was the downpour I’d wished for and then some, but instead of making me happy it set me on edge. I went down the hall to the front door, flicked on the front-porch lights, and spent a long time looking out, making sure that the hiss of the rain was just rain, and not tires creeping up the drive. ” NC gun? Capital N, capital C. ” Now, ordinarily I wouldn’t have gotten that one either, but it just so happened that we’d been reading Jane Eyre in class that week, and the teacher had given us the rundown on the whole sorry Brontë family, so I knew that the loneliest Brontë was CHARLOTTE.
The cops were already in their cars, and Felipe was revving the pickup, and I looked over and saw the janitor standing in his front doorway, still in his underwear, staring at me. He’d dropped the bewildered routine and put a whole new face on. A hostile face? No. He didn’t show any emotion at all. He was just . . intent. Like he wanted to make really sure he’d recognize me next time we met up. It was good for a few weeks’ nightmares. In my dreams, he’d drive up to my aunt and uncle’s place after midnight with his headlights off, and sit smoking dope and looking up at my bedroom window.
Pot of course, speed, Valium, coke on special occasions, acid when I needed a cheap vacation. I know that probably sounds like a lot, but at that point in my life I had it under control. Anyhow, the last time I’d gone to see Ganesh, about a month before the jury call, he’d come to the door looking scared. Now Ganesh was always a little shaky. ” This time, though, he wasn’t just nervous, he was sick with fear, ashen with it, like he’d just come from watching his twin get autopsied. “I can’t see you right now, Jane,” he said, and started to shut the door on me.