First off, cave paintings—
Not human. Not man-made. Who made marks? We had some apes then, what you call specialists. Maybe some of you call elitists. Smartass apes think they could help their man neighbors. For why? Betterment of allkind. We had allkind then. No mankind. Allkind. For better or worse, one specialist known for smearing stuff in common patterns was tempted by early human groups to do up their caves. He was rejoiced. Like what you think of as celebrity. He brought on the new end. We had many ends before, but this new end was most creepy—lit up, flash color and drone, endless noises.
"If you walk on those things once in a while, you will be expected to walk on those things all the while."
Then, fashion designing—
There came a time soon after the “paintings” when one of our femmes who liked to hobble on rotted out tree branches was recruited by our man neighbor’s femmes. They wanted her to help them walk on these things you’d call high heels. I warned them. They hear but do not believe in me. I warned her, and I warned the neighboring femmes. They see but do not fear me.
I spoke, “If you walk on those things once in a while, you will be expected to walk on those things all the while. You become captive to things on your body.” The femmes said, “Who? Who would demand that? Our males hate these things and throw their poop on us whenever we near. It wards off suspicious strangers, we tell men. We would never ask it of our sisters or daughters, never demand.”
While one of the neighbor femmes got shards and splinters of wood chewed off her big toe, what you may call pedicure, she said, “Yeah, don’t worry, everything’ll be fine, we decide how we’ll walk and what we’ll put on our bodies.” Yes, she said everything’ll be fine. Now, I ask, modern mankind, is everything fine?
Fair is fair—channeling a defense from an ancient man
Retort from an ancient man—
Lies. I won’t bother shouting or screeching like you Bobo because we all know it’s lies. You know it’s lies, don’t you modern man? I was filled with joy when you started using the chimp descendants to test on. It fills the heart. You use them to make man better. What beauty is this? Perfection. Because paybacks are a bitch, as I have heard said. They used to use us; you know that? Used us to kill food, gather, so they could steal it. Treated us like slaves. We didn’t recruit them. Damn dirty apes, to quote.
The end came with a question—what’s that smell?
No, we didn’t recruit them, ever. No. It was more like after we got some of our clan to stop playing with fire, it soon was clear that those chimps were teasing some of our kind into more fire play. Chimps dared some youths, those who loved the smell and taste of burnt things, to walk through a burning bush. Convinced the youths it was a holy thing. So. It was not long, even after pleading with them not to listen or even look at chimp kind, that fire turned on one of us.
My friend Drek yelled and yelled, up on a rotted stump, he called us to gather and hear his pleas. He wanted justice for his gutted tree cave. “It smells of charred flesh and urine. Now don’t look sad-faced, Cleenk, you grabbed the nearest thing to you to help stop fire. It’s not you I blame. Those chimps, damn them. Those chimps.” They had to be stopped, he pleaded.
The good doctor—
So. We had what some of modern man call a witch doctor. He spoke out, “You want an end to this?” “Revenge,” Drek yelled. “Well, how about we start by stopping the attacks, work our way around to revenge. Can we agree to that, Drek?” “What’s your plan?” That’s a yes in Drek speak.
The witch doctor had some elder, feeble, innocent-type in our clan creep into the chimp hovel, acting blind. Not so much an act—they were blind. So. It worked. They asked for a cup of fur to make hand muffs. Chimps, such mooks, give fur. Elders give fur to witch doctor. She disappears into a brush pile too high and thick to see in. We only see bright flashes like lighted streaks in sky. We only hear her screech like chimp and lit up, colors flash and new low noises drone.
What’d he do? Who knows. All we know is that next time we run into chimp clan, Drek laughs as their numbers fell and they seem to scratch a lot and have red eyes. We told them that we got ‘em good this time. They denied it. They said, “Bobo would not allow it. Bobo, god of all mercy, would not overlook as we fall into ruin.”
"Well, how about we start by stopping the attacks, work our way around to revenge."
Finally, don’t make me laugh—
Allkind? Allkind, my ass, as some say. Chimps raided untold peaceful man clearings—and there’s no way one of their femmes was kindly gnawing out splinters. It’s more like she was biting off all our femmes’ digits, one chomp and gone. I cannot get up to the number of friends and family I had who lost fingers and toes, scrotums, as you say, too, due to an emotional rage by some evil chimps. Allkind. Truth, Bobo? Lies, damn you.
But now, OK, but now I come to you modern man for a calm question, and I mean it. Seriously. Is everything fine?
No. No. Wait. Don’t answer. I know it is. I know it’s fine. I’ve seen the chimp tests, chimps in cages and chimps thrown up into sky, space, as you say. I’ve seen their numbers shrink and ours rise. Wu shows me. Yes. There’s all I need to know. That’s enough, and enough is fine.
