My cousin William worked as an animal research technician at Institut Pasteur,
slighty further West from Lyon. There were also 19 monkeys.
Monkeys who were used for medical research. At that time the word
'political correct' wasn't invented yet.
One day, when visiting my cousin:
“You climb!” William said. “No way.” I answered, “It’s your monkey.”
We were standing in the courtyard of the Institut, figuring out how to
catch monkey number 19. One had died from drug poisoning.
My cousin injected the apes with new medicine before they could recover
from the previous ones.
Monkey number 19 was on the roof, jumping nervously up and down. It was the
biggest monkey of the bunch. How he got there, William wouldn’t acknowledge.
My cousin was wearing his long white coat. He got promoted by his boss for
doing some testing by himself. He’d succeeded by breeding a different mouse
specimen. (Not for the sake of the already overpopulated world with these
stinking rats, but for his portfolio!)
My cousin’s mice looked like Dutch cows without udders. White with black
spots. I was truly amazed.
William had reached the rooftop from one of the second floor windows.
Monkey gone. William pissed off. I’m laughing. William disappeared. I ran
around the building. William slipped. Monkey jumping. Monkey in tall
tree. William in tree. Monkey on top of electrical pole. I yelled “Shit!” in French.
Monkey playing with wire box. Monkey in electric chair. Then William
yelled “Merde!” Monkey explodes. “18!” I yelled.