Rum and Monkey: The Interview

In my first stumble into the twin worlds of journalism and feeble satire, I decided to interview some very important people. Not anyone vital to humanity, like the Pope or anyone like that. I must admit, I'm a little scared of his hat. And the thought of eternal damnation for my crispy, non-Catholic soul. I'm pretty sure the Pope can smell non-Catholics, so I'll just stay away from him.

But I digress.

No, the important people I'm talking about are the famous Rum Monkeys, authors of Rum and Monkey. Yes, I talked with these charming young men. Not only did I escape with my body and organs intact, but I also got some information out of them. Which is what journalism is all about, right?

First on my list was little-known-but-still-important Iain (Ee-an, my fellow Americans) F.

Iain F: …and then, that damnable parakeet flew off with my eye.
C: But…you're not even wearing an eye-patch. And I'm pretty sure that's not a glass eye.
IF: Sure, but you never let me finish the story.
C: Um. Go on then. Please.
IF: I'd gotten a feather off of that animal in the struggle, and – What?
C: Nothing. Nothing. It's just…a parakeet is such a small animal. I can't imagine a very difficult struggle with one.
IF: …I was weak with pneumonia.
C: Oh. Do go on.
IF: You don't like my eye story. Why should I?
C: Well, I'm interested to know why you can move both your eyes around to glare at me. The way you're…glaring…at me right now.
IF: I'm not glaring at you.
C: Um… I'm hungry, are you hungry? Is there a place we could get something to eat? … In public?
IF: Why in public? Are you nervous?
C: Well… there is that knife in your hand… Tell you what: we go out to eat, in public, and I listen to your eye story without so much as a peep. Deal?
IF: Deal.
C: Oh, ass. I forgot to ask you about Rum and Monkey.
IF: You said you'd listen to my parakeet story.
C: So I did. What color was this monstrous bird of doom?
IF: Rainbow. Rainbow colored doom-bird.

Next up is Benjamin, who will, no doubt, take over the Earth in the near future. And everyone will let him, because he's “a jolly nice man”.

C: Hi, Mr. Benjamin.
Ben: Ben, please.
C: Hi, Ben.
B: Hi.
C: So… you're now an adjective. How's that feel?
B: Kind of squishy. The good kind of squishy.
C: Like Gak?
B: What?
C: Nevermind. You write quizzes and articles for Rum and Monkey. Some people think they're offensive. What do you think of that?
B: I hate them. With so much passion, it's incredible. They're trying to censor me. They don't even know who I am, and they're trying to censor me! THEY'RE MY WORDS, YOU BASTARDS!
C: …
B: Sorry.
C: 'Sokay. Um…you have a little rage-spit on your face. All over it, in fact. Take my hanky-thing.
B: Thanks. Here you go.
C: No, no. You just hang on to that. You should be the keeper of your own rage-spit.
B: Thanks. Now what?
C: Um. Peeg. You draw Senor Peeg.
B: Yes. I've drawn him lots of times.
C: You drew a Peeg for me, once. But...I've always wondered. Why a pig?
B: Are you kidding me? Look at those floppy ears. He's so cute! [Snorts while laughing]
C: Yes. He is cute. My mom likes pigs. She's only got 9 fingers.
B: Really? Wow.
C: Yeah.

Owen G was my next victim. Interviewee. Not victim. Interviewee. Yes.

C: Hello, Mr. Goodbar.
Owen G: What?
C: G. Mr. Owen G. I was thinking about candy.
OG: Candy is good.
C: Yes. Um. You write articles.
OG: Yes. Yes I do.
C: One of your articles seemed to involve eating someone. Why?
OG: Because it's funny.
C: Yes it is.
OG: That reminds me. D'you mind if I eat during this? I didn't get breakfast.
C: Go ahead. Is that a sandwich?
OG: Yes. Best meat ever.
C: That doesn't look like chicken.
OG: It's not.
C: What is it?
OG: Human.
C: …
OG: Hah. I mean pork. Pork sandwich. Not human. I'd never eat human. That's silly.
C: O…kay.
OG: You don't believe me, do you?
C: Not so much, no.
OG: Hmm. You look delicious.
C: I'm…uh…going to go now.
OG: WAIT!
C: What?
OG: You'd go great with the sriracha I've not been able to use. Please stay.
C: …I'd like to, but I need to…milk my cat. Back in America. [Runs away, screaming, into the night]

Sven, who has an article all about him, is last, but certainly not least.

Sven: Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?
C: I have an appointment. For an interview.
S: Right. I remember now. You look shaky.
C: Yes.
S: Owen tried to eat you, didn't he?
C: With sriracha sauce.
S: That's a compliment. He never uses his sriracha on interviewers.
C: You knew about this?
S: …No. What makes you say that?
C: No one warned me.
S: That's why you should have interviewed me first. Or at least before Owen.
C: …
S: Irn Bru?
C: No, thanks. I'm afraid I'll grow red hair and develop an unholy obsession with servers.
S: You've been stalking me, haven't you?
C: No.
S: If you're lying to me, I'll send you back to Owen.
C: I swear! I only read your livejournal.
S: Oh. Okay. Irn Bru?
C: Um…okay.
S: Ah…puts hair on your chest, doesn't it?
C: I think I'm having a seizure.
S: Hmm…you're of no use to Owen now. You'd better just interview me.
C: All right. Do you help Owen arrange interviews so that he can continue eating people?
S: Yes. He pays me in Irn Bru, you see.
C: Oh.
S: Yeah. Quite a nice arrangement.
C: Not for his interviewer.
S: Journalists aren't real people anyway.
C: That's why you don't write articles for Rum and Monkey?
S: Sure. That sounds good.
C: Any ideas on how I should end this article?
S: Not a clue.
C: Oh.
S: Want some food?
C: Is it human?
S: Pot Roast.
C: Stoner Meat?
S: It's delightfully good.
C: Why the hell not? Pass me a fork.