fledermaus
Sep
Pen Name
Carlyle
Kaithe Dame
Otakuforreal
Prince Potter
Tlaloc
Festive
Joshua TamashiiBangoSkank
Officer Bobo the HoboRoboPopo, also he is a Bonobo
Race: Monke
Age: Too Old For This Shit
Status: Retired
Blood and oil mixed in the streets of Old New Chinatown. Blood thick and red, oil thin and iridescent. Both reflecting the pulsing neon lights of a thriving palace fit for worshipping sin and debauchery and other fun weekend activities. The bodies had long ago been dragged away to be mulched up or buried respectfully or whatever exactly it was they did with dead hookers these days.
Damn shame. Them hookers. They'd been real lookers.
Large metal feet step slowly, melodramatically through the puddles of water in the alleyway. It had rained last night. Did most nights. More dramatic that way. Kinda Film Noire like. That shit was cool.
One boot, neatly polished to a mirror shine. Black like the soul of the city. One metal prosthetic monke foot. Graphite Composite, ergonomic, comes with several different attachments to cover your prosthetic monkey foot needs whether you're chilling on the beach or going to a formal dinner.
Two chalk outlines gradually fading away. No one gave a shit about those girls. Just two more souls lost in this den of sin. The puddles were quickly eating away at the outer edges of the chalk. The oil wouldn't mix with the water. There was probably some kind of metaphor there about the nature of man and all sorts of high minded philosophical type shit. But Officer Bobo wasn't here to philosophize. He was here to solve a mystery.
The water and oil wouldn't mix, the water just crept around looking for a way in. That kept the blood isolated, but it was coagulating. It would be dried up soon and then the oil would cover it and the water would mix and soon this would just be another stained sidewalk outside a dingy bar and a massage parlor that would massage more than your back if you paid top dollar. Officer Bobo inserted a Robo-finger into one puddle of blood, sucking it up then screwing off the finger and putting it in his pocket. He reached into the other pocket, pulled out an empty Robo-finger and did the same with the other blood puddle. Gotta make sure not to confuse the two pockets. He was on thin ice after the string cheese incident.
Camera pulls up a little showing an isometric view of Bobo and the crime scene.
Bobo the HoboRoboPop Bonobo pulls a fedora out of another pocket. Them old timey detective coats are just covered with pockets. Dusting it off he places it on his monke head, his monke ears sticking way out still. Because monke.
"I'll find those bastards" he promises himself as he gives the puddles one last look. No one kills prostitutes in Bobo's district. Except that guy who killed those two dead prostitutes. But he would find them. He just promised himself.
Camera pulls further back and lowers a little so the scene is seen through an alleyway. Bobo. Puddles. Chalk outline nearly gone. Blood and oil and water all one now. A grim reminder of just how fa-
Oh shit. Bobo is jumping around splashing in the puddles. Well he is a monke.
*End Scene*
Suicide Deluxe
The rain pelted down on the neon-lit streets, creating a reflective sheen on the pavement that mirrored the grim reality of Simian City. The stench of corruption hung in the air like a thick fog, wrapping its greedy tendrils around everything it touched. Bareass Jimmy hadn't felt the weight of a case like this in ages, his fur matted and clinging to his sweaty frame as he trudged through the shadows, searching for answers in a city gone bananas.
The dame who walked into his office wore trouble like a second skin, and it clung to her like a banana cream pie in a monkey's paw. She had legs that went all the way up to her tail, a tail that could wrap around a monkey's heart and squeeze it until it begged for mercy. Her eyes were the color of a moonlit jungle, and they held secrets darker than the deepest pits of the banana mines. She called herself Lola Bananarama, and she had a case that could make even a seasoned detective like Jimminy Chimp peel back the layers of his own sanity.
"Mr. Chimp, I've got a job for you," she purred, her voice smoother than aged whiskey and just as intoxicating. "My husband, Don Banana, has gone missing. The last time I saw him, he was as slippery as a peeled banana in a monkey's hand. I need you to find him, Mr. Chimp. I'll make it worth your while."
Bareass Jimmy squinted through the haze of cigarette smoke that enveloped his office. The dame's story had more holes than a barrel of rotten bananas, but something about the way she said "worth your while" stirred a curiosity deep within him. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing like the last flicker of hope in Simian City.
"I'll take the case, doll," he grunted, his voice rougher than a tree bark rubbed the wrong way. "But this city is full of deceit, lies, and dirty monkeys. You better be straight with me, or you'll find yourself knee-deep in a cage at the city zoo."
As Lola Bananarama sashayed out of his office, leaving the lingering scent of her perfume hanging in the air, Bareass Jimmy knew he was in for a wild ride. The trail led him through the twisted alleys of Simian City, where shadows whispered secrets and every monkey had a tail to tell. He questioned low-life informants with names like Two-Timing Tony and Slippery Sam, hoping to peel back the layers of the mystery surrounding Don Banana's disappearance.
The city had become a jungle of crime, with corruption crawling through the branches like a plague of locusts. The streets were littered with the fallen, their bodies sprawled out like discarded banana peels. The deeper Bareass Jimmy delved into the case, the more he realized that the missing Don Banana was just the tip of the iceberg. The city's underbelly was teeming with greed, betrayal, and a thirst for power that would make a king cobra blush.
As he followed the trail of clues, Bareass Jimmy found himself entangled in a web of lies spun by a sinister figure known only as the Monkey Kingpin. This shadowy simian controlled the city's underworld with an iron fist, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. Bareass Jimmy knew he was in deep, but he wasn't one to back down. He was a hotshot detective with a reputation for getting to the bottom of things, even if it meant swinging through the darkest corners of Simian City.
The tension in the air was thicker than a monkey's fur in the rainy season as Bareass Jimmy approached the Monkey Kingpin's lair. The rain had subsided, leaving the city glistening with the remnants of the storm. Lightning flashed in the distance, revealing the silhouette of a hulking ape perched on a throne of stolen bananas. The Monkey Kingpin turned to face Bareass Jimmy, a sinister grin spreading across his face like a monkey with a secret stash of stolen treats.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't Bareass Jimmy," the Monkey Kingpin sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "You've been poking your nose where it doesn't belong, detective. This city belongs to me, and anyone who crosses my path ends up as monkey chow."
Bareass Jimmy squared his shoulders, his nerves replaced by a steely resolve. "I've seen my fair share of dirty monkeys in this city, but you're the filthiest of them all, Kingpin. Don Banana's disappearance is just the beginning. Your reign of terror ends tonight."
The tension in the air reached a breaking point as the two simians faced off in a showdown that would determine the fate of Simian City. Lightning flashed, illuminating the glint of a hidden blade in the Monkey Kingpin's paw. Bareass Jimmy knew that this would be a fight for the ages, a battle between good and evil in a city gone bananas.
As the first punches were thrown, the rain began to fall again, washing away the sins of Simian City. The streets would never be the same, but Bareass Jimmy had peeled back the layers of corruption and exposed the dark heart of the Monkey Kingpin. The city might still be a jungle, but at least the bananas were a little sweeter without the taste of treachery lingering in the air.
With the Monkey Kingpin defeated and the rain-soaked streets finally breathing a sigh of relief, Bareass Jimmy emerged from the shadows of the city, his fur matted and his fedora pulled low over his eyes. He had left a trail of chaos behind him, but justice had been served in Simian City. As he walked through the desolate streets, he couldn't shake the feeling that the city's troubles ran deeper than even he could fathom.
In the heart of the city, he stumbled upon a dimly lit alley, the kind that seemed to swallow the light whole. It was there, amid the flickering neon signs and the distant hum of the city, that Bareass Jimmy encountered a peculiar figure – Bobo The RoboHoboPopo Banobo. The metallic sheen of Bobo's limbs glinted in the faint light, and the whir of gears replaced the usual sounds of the urban jungle.
"Well I'll be a monkey's uncle. It's Bobo. You know these are my streets now. You were supposed to retire!"
BangoSkank
Of all the rundown prostitute bloodied back alleys he had to walk down this one. Bareass Jimmy. New monke on the beat. Big Time Bareass as they called him. Well as Bobo called him. When he was drunk in the BoboMobile. Parked along the river. In his underwear. Listening to Motley Crue. Solving the mystery of what lay in the bottom of a bottle. Another case solved.
"I'm too old for this Bareass, looks like you are too. Two dead tarsiers. Barely out of their teens. Tragic."
Bobo, the HoboRoboPopo Bonobo, gestures toward the rapidly vanishing remnants of the chalk outline as a few last flakes of still dry chalk are lifted up by the water, oil, and blood, and slowly become sodden and disappear beneath the surface.
"You wouldn't know anything about that would you, Jimmy?"
Bobo had been hearing rumors. The streets had ears. And lips. Not literal ones, it's a metaphor. Word on the street was Bareass Jimmy could be Bought in a Jiffy. That's a metaphor too. And maybe not true. It would be just like those lowlife local chimps to try and turn the department against itself.
Still. It was awful convenient. Bareass Jimmy happening upon this scene just now, just after Bobo had secured potential DNA evidence. Maybe he was meant to stop Bobo. Bobo narrowed his eyes and his monke ears flattened against the sides of his monke head.
"No evidence left when I got here," it was a fib and Momma Chee Chee ain't raise no fool and it just might save his tail, "Who you thinking? KongPin? Don Banana? Ol' One Paw? Hairless George? BattleChimp Potemkin?"
Babbling so, but also trying to gather intel, Bobo the HoboRoboPopo Bonobo tries to casually assess the scene. Dumpsters. Trash cans. Wet oily asphalt. Fire escapes. Lots of doors, probably largely locked. Pallets resting against walls. Lots of potential weapons. Lots of escape routes. If those two tarsier tarts were a little stronger they might have gotten away...wait...surely they could have...
Suicide Deluxe
Bobo, the HoboRoboPopo Bonobo, seemed to be eying Bareass Jimmy with suspicion, his metallic limbs reflecting the dim light of the alley. The rain continued to pour, washing away Simian City's sins, but the crime scene's stench lingered like a bad banana.
"Bobo," Jimmy grunted, his fedora pulled low over his eyes, "I ain't got time for your robo-doubts. I stumbled upon this mess, just like I stumbled upon your rusty self."
Jimmy took a deep breath, the air heavy with the scent of wet fur and blood, and launched into the tale of the Monkey Kingpin's demise.
"You see, the Kingpin thought he could rule this city with an iron paw. But Bareass Jimmy don't take orders from no one, especially not a dirty monkey with delusions of grandeur. I followed the trail, peeled back the layers of deceit, and it led me straight to the Kingpin's lair."
The rain continued its rhythmic dance on the pavement, drowning out the distant sounds of the city.
"Things got hairy, Bobo. The Kingpin wasn't alone. He had his goons, his lackeys, all ready to protect their banana-obsessed boss. But Jimmy ain't one to back down. We clashed like a couple of enraged gorillas in the concrete jungle, fists flying, fur flying, and bananas going squish underfoot."
Jimmy paused, reliving the intensity of the showdown. The memory of the Monkey Kingpin's sinister grin and the glint of his hidden blade sent shivers down his spine.
"But in the end, it was just me and the Kingpin. The rain-soaked streets were the witness to our final dance. He went down harder than a chimpanzee on a slip 'n slide, and Simian City can breathe a little easier now."
"Now, I don't expect you to believe me, Bobo. You're a cynical piece of machinery, and I respect that. But you can check the Kingpin's lair yourself. You'll find his rotting corpse, a fitting end for a dirty monkey who thought he could rule this city with fear and corruption."
Jimmy met Bobo's gaze, his eyes wearing a mix of weariness and determination. The rain continued its relentless descent, the drops tapping a chaotic rhythm on the metal surfaces around them.
"You might be a RoboHoboPopo, but you ain't above the law, Bobo. I did what needed to be done. Now, if you want to keep playing detective, we can do it together. But if you're gonna stand there doubting every word I say, you might as well find a new alley to rust in."
With that, Jimmy sparked up a banana-flavored cigarillo, the waterlogged fur on his back sticking uncomfortably. The city may be a jungle of crime, but he had just pruned one of its most poisonous vines.
BangoSkank
"That was a nice speech Jimmy. Real nice. I like the cut of your jib see. Sounds like you had a proper dust up in there with that no good two timing monkey's uncle."
He hadn't liked the rust cracks. It was a real problem. You wouldn't believe the lengths a monkey gotta go to to get some some Brasso out here. Specially one like Bobo. A HoboRoboPopo Bonobo, down on his luck?
Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit...
One look at him and they assume he's deep in his cups. Full blown alcoholic ape. Swinging from the chandeliers. Riding in the pink elephant parade. Probably the ringleader. With a little hat. Maybe pedaling a tricycle. Maybe juggling. Or playing a little fucking drum like on of those stupid little drummer monkey toys. Fuck Bobo hated those. So stereotypical...oh shit...Bobo had lost his train of thought.
Distract from his distraction. That hadn't happened. All part of the plan. Yeah yeah. Part of the plan.
Bobo smiles really sly like. Like a real wise ape, and pulls out a little smoke of his own. Big shit eating grin stretching out across his face.
"Genuine Congos Jimmy," he explains pulling an oddly thick yellow cigar from one of his many old timey detective coat pockets and lighting it up. It takes a bit. He'd have to explain.
"It takes a bit," Bobo explained.
His thoughts returning to the rust. The fucking rust. So hard to get out. You had to use Brasso. That was the ticket. But they'd never sell it to Bobo. Too worried he'd start making Brass Monkeys. Never liked those. Whiskey and Brasso, they tasted like ass-o. Too funky those Brass Monkeys.
"Genuine banana peel," he mumbled around the cigar, fiddle fucking with his old lighter until it finally sparked up.
Bobo takes a deep draw, surprised to be enjoying a moment with the New Chimp on the Block, and decides to give a little respect where it's due. Old chimps can still learn new tricks right?
"You can be a pain in my ass Jimmy, I miss the force, never should retired shoulda died with my boots on...well my robo-boots on...doesn't have the same sound to it...."
Bobo wasn't good at this whole compliment thing.
Walking up to the young Buck and doing a little Smokey smoke trick, inhaling through the mouth and out through the nose Bobo fidgeted with his badge before finally putting a little compliment together.
"Good work Jimmy. Sending that cretinous Kingpin to the Big Banana Boat in the sky. That's some good work."
It wasn't much of a compliment. Bobo was really more for the solo work.
Bobo the HoboRoboPopo Bonobo Preferred To Go Solo.
In the near future though he would be happy to have company. As while he was making that little rhyme in his head about preferring to go solo some monkey rat bastard had whipped a bottle of Howler Head straight at his head.
He was lucky it had only dislodged his hat...but there were four of them and they looked pissed.
As their eyes shifted from Bobo to Bareass and then to the bare spot where the tarsier tarts had been dumped Bobo had no doubt things were about to get interesting.
SuicideDeluxe
Bareass Jimmy took a long drag from his banana flavored cigarillo, watching Bobo fumble with his cigar and rust issues. The rain continued its persistent drumming, but the tension in the alley seemed to rise with the smoke.
"Well, Bobo, you might need some Brasso for those rust problems, but I've got a different kind of polish for the streets of Simian City. It's called justice," Jimmy replied, the corners of his mouth curling into a wry smile.
He listened as Bobo rambled about Brass Monkeys and his reluctance to retire, a sentiment Jimmy could understand. The streets had a way of calling you back, even when you thought you were done.
"Yeah, retirement's for chimps who've lost their edge. You and I, we've still got a few swings in the trees left in us," Jimmy said, giving a nod of agreement.
As Bobo complimented him on taking down the Monkey Kingpin, Jimmy couldn't help but appreciate the rare moment of camaraderie. He flicked his cigarillo into a puddle, the ember fizzling out as he turned his attention to the approaching trouble.
"Thanks, Bobo. But it looks like we've got company," he said, noting the angry eyes of the approaching simians.
Jimmy cracked his knuckles, a grin spreading across his face like a monkey who'd just found a banana stash. The rain-soaked streets were about to witness another showdown, and Bareass Jimmy was ready for whatever the city had to throw at him.
5 Years Prior
Bareass Jimmy's mind briefly drifted back to a time when the rain-soaked streets were replaced by the polished halls of the Simian City Police Academy. It was a memory that crept in like a shadow, a flashback to the day he graduated from the academy. As he stood on the stage, freshly minted badge pinned to his chest, the applause of the audience echoed in his ears.
Among the sea of familiar faces, Jimmy's eyes had caught a glimpse of an unusual figure in the audience. Bobo, the HoboRoboPopo Bonobo, was there, his metallic limbs standing out like a silver beacon in a sea of uniformed chimps. Jimmy remembered the distinct hum of gears and the clink of metal against metal as Bobo offered a salute of respect, a gesture that stood out amidst the cheers and claps of the crowd.
At the time, Jimmy had been a rookie, full of idealism and the burning desire to make Simian City a better place. Bobo's presence had been a mystery, a symbol of the city's quirks and unspoken tales. Little did Jimmy know that their paths would cross again, that he'd find himself in a rain-soaked alley, facing down trouble with the same Bonobo who had acknowledged his graduation.
The memory flashed like lightning, illuminating the connection between the seasoned detective and the old RoboHoboPopo. In the chaos of the present, Jimmy couldn't help but appreciate the strange twists that fate had woven into the fabric of Simian City.
"Let's show these punks that the streets of Simian City are no place for monkey business," Jimmy declared, his fedora tilted low as he stepped forward to face the oncoming storm. The rain, the rust, and the echoes of the Monkey Kingpin's demise all converged in this dark alley, where justice swung like a vine, unpredictable and fierce.
As the first bottle sailed through the air, Jimmy's instincts kicked in. He ducked and weaved, his movements fluid like a monkey in the treetops. The bottle smashed against the wall, shards scattering like fallen leaves.
"Looks like the party's just getting started, Bobo," Jimmy called over his shoulder, ready to dance through the rain-soaked chaos of Simian City once again.
BangoSkank
Can't teach an old homeless robot monkey new tricks. Pretty sure that was how the saying went. It was an apt if oddly specific bit of wisdom. Maybe when Bobo was neither Hobo nor Robo he could have dipped ducked and dodged like that. Not anymore. He swiped at the bottle that came his way. Not quick enough to grab it or agile enough dodge it, but he was able to redirect it. Slightly.
The bottle crashed against the wall and splintered into a thousand shards of glass. Like the shattered hopes of the this teenaged tars-
A wet thud as another bottle cracked hard against the fleshy side of Bobo's head. Cut his scalp, cut his lip, and it hurt too.
He shook it off and a devious grin spread across his face as the blood dripped down. Shiny white teeth bared, though the white gradually reddened as his split lip leaked crimson.
Bobo was vaguely aware of the two chimps that were converging on Bareass Jimmy and the bandana wearing orangutan jumping from one fire escape to another as it made its way down to the alley. That would be trouble. Later. Bareass could handle his shit. Bobo had trouble all his own.
Three chimps. The two bottle throwers a bit further back but a third very much in Bobo's face. Performing a dropkick. At his face. Bobo didn't have time to do much of anything but take the hit in his chest and bounce against the wall.
"Oww," Bobo replied.
Then it was on.
Dropkick Murphy, as Bobo named the Dropkicking Monkey, did a little breakdance spin kick move to get up off the alley floor after landing that dropkick. It was pretty impressive. But he made a fatal mistake.
Dropkick Murphy bent down to retrieve his goofy little Boston Irish hat. Not nearly as nice a hat as Bobo's and certainly not worth the beating Bobo laid out. As Dropkick Murphy bent down to retrieve his scally cap Bobo grabbed him by the ears and swung him bodily against the wall, then as Dropkick Murphy scrambled to regain his footing while gripping the bleeding sides of his head Bobo snap kicked him hard with a mighty metallic monkey foot. Trapped between a wall and a MechaMonkey Dropkick Murphy could do little in the near future but whimper and wail and wish he'd shipped out to Boston.
The other two chimps paused a second to assess if their monkey mate was dead or just injured, allowing Bobo to get a head on the orangutan who was now just hanging off the side of one of the fire escapes hooting and hollering and gesturing around with those long orangutan arms of his. Weird fucker.
As the other two chimps decided they couldn't do much for their mangled monkey mate Murphy Bobo reached for a small step ladder and prepared himself. He'd seen Rumble in the Bronx before. He had an idea.