John Frum The Reluctant Messiah

The Howler Monkeys

Harleys were never known for their quiet, subtle idle. It was loud and commanding in 1944 and time did nothing to diminish that. John reverted to hand signals, hopped aboard, motioned to Em who slithered in behind him leaving the professor to squeeze his less than svelte body into the sidecar. He grimaced as he endeavored to find any position that might offer the slightest comfort. 

Bucking and snorting, they made their way noisily down the dirt trail that would eventually lead to the old meeting house where the trial was to be held. Not long into their ride they rounded a wide corner and came upon a small group of howler monkeys congregating in the middle of the trail. John slowed as he completed the turn, inadvertently squaring off as they all stopped and stared. Even John knew, in his limited experience, one or two were cute-mischievous, but cute. A group like this, however, could be serious trouble and their sudden presence along with the blatting Harley had clearly agitated them. 

John immediately shut the bike down. As he looked around, he realized the howlers that were in front of him were merely the tip of an extraordinarily large primate iceberg. He cautiously glanced up into the surrounding trees and saw hundreds of reinforcements, their mouths agape, their eyes blinking, waiting, watching for a signal to join the party. This was not good. Not good at all. 

Professor was the first to speak, albeit quietly.

"Everybody easy."

"This is one group you do not want to piss off," Em whispered.

"Ok. We're all going to get off. Very slowly," he added. "Don't face them directly, don't look into their eyes. No smiles- especially smiles with teeth. Now, try to look as big and as bad as you possibly can...slowly!"

They began puffing themselves up, blowing out their cheeks and standing on tiptoes with arms and fingers outstretched. Pretty much looking ridiculous, actually. And it soon became clear it wasn't really working- at all. 

The obvious leader began slowly advancing, testing their resolve, challenging the group. John, Em, and the professor were standing with eyes straight ahead, motionless, doing their best to talk without moving their mouths.

"Watch this grey one." John whispered. "He's the loudest one of the bunch,"

"They can get up to 128 decibels," Em, always at the ready with the facts, informed them. 

"A jet engine gives off 140. But never mind the grey. He's got the smallest testicles... and the rest of them know it."

"What?" John whisper shouted.  

"Studies show that the ones with the smallest testicles are the loudest. They compensate for the lack of... well you know...by howling the loudest. Keep your eye on the big red one. He's the boss."

"Kind of like guys in a bar," quipped Professor Wharton.

It wasn't that funny, perhaps it was the nervousness wrought by the situation, but it caught John off guard, and he let out a loud, open mouth guffaw. Teeth and all. Professor Wharton's head cocked back,and his eyes rolled skyward in disbelief. This did not sit well with the howlers. The grey was the first to register his displeasure. He began hooting and howling, slapping the ground with his open palms,thrashing, and throwing dust in the air. 

For the recruits in the trees, this was the bugler's call, the playing of charge! and down they came, descending from every tree within a half mile. There were now at least a hundred of them gathered, the sound, terrifying. 

Then out of the growing dust cloud, came Big Red, doing that sideways gallop that monkeys do, wild-eyed and baring his four, very sharp, front fangs. Em was right. This was the ringleader and he and his monstrous testicles were racing straight towards them.