****
The Aftermath
Despite our best efforts, Patrick and I failed miserably. Those poor primates got shuffled right back to the lab for more experiments. Angelista Corp's official press release was that we were a well meaning but woefully misguided group of harmless eco terrorists. They played off the use of animals, saying they're doing 'necessary research' for some kind of big medical breakthrough. My original plan to use the incriminating pictures I took inside the lab as leverage, fell flat on its face. Surprise, surprise, my cell phone was somehow 'lost' before we went to trial.
Six months in lockup, that's what they gave me. All things considered it could have been much, much worse. Fortunately for me, Patrick's rather impressive list of charges dwarfed mine. The judge assumed I was just some poor insignificant sap that got swept up in Pat's drunken rampage. Which is not so far from the truth I suppose.
Still, I feel kind of bad for Patrick. Five years is a long time. I think they might have been more lenient with him if it weren't his fifth drunk driving charge, his third assault, and his ninth burglary. Come to think of it, five years IS rather lenient isn't it? It's not like this is his first visit to prison.
On the day we arrived, he personally introduced me to half the bloody prison, many of whom are his blood relatives. By no choice of my own, I seem to have become a junior member of the Irish mob. Patrick said it was because I didn't testify against him in court. So long as that keeps them from stabbing me in the showers, I'll play along. They even gave me an apt nickname. If they'd let me pick, I wouldn't have gone with “Ape Escape”, but what can you do?
I've been tagged as well. It's not that I don't like the tattoo, shamrocks are all well and good. I just wish they could have put it somewhere other than my left butt cheek. I spent the whole week after I got it done sitting on a slant. Could be worse though. Better to be nursing a tattooed ass, than one that's been broken in. Without Patrick and his lads about, I would have been somebody's girlfriend on my first day.
There's been plenty of good with the bad so I shouldn't complain. The incident has made me something of a local celebrity. I've made appearances on every major network in Great Britain. Some to applaud my bravery in standing up to an evil empire, others to poke fun at what an abysmal failure the whole fiasco turned out to be. Either way, I take it as a compliment. Clyde Simmons is officially in the spotlight.
The media circus has had a number of side effects, not the least of which is the slew of fan mail I've been getting. Granted, it's mostly from fat old hags with twenty cats, but it's the thought that counts. I just wish they would stop putting naked pictures of themselves in with the letters. There are some things a man can't unsee. A pair of floppy seventy year old tits surrounded by an army of bewildered felines is definitely one of them.
Perhaps the most surprising thing is how my story has affected the local parlance. Slang terminology in Cambridge was changed forever that fateful night. Taking a cheap shot to the bridge of the nose is now known as “a monkey bump”, and being arrested whilst knocked unconscious will here to fore be known as “pulling a Simmons”. Not flattering I know, but how many people can say they've been immortalized in derogatory slang?
The real loser in all of this turned out to be my brother. As I thought, Tony had indeed made a substantial amount of supplementary bets after I told him I was about to come into twenty grand. On the up side, his bookies opted not to kill him outright. By the time I get out of prison, he should have most of the casts off. It's unclear how long he's going to need the wheelchair, but at least he's alive.
Sarah has been something of an enigma through all of this. She did show up to the trial, but didn't come over to speak to me once. At a time like that, a man needs his woman to stand by his side. I've been waiting patiently for my opportunity to have a word with her about it and this is my chance. A letter I received from her last week said she'd be coming in to visit me today.
With all the conflicting emotions inside of me, I'm not sure how I'm going to react to her. On the one hand, our relationship has been strained for some time, on the other she's the best thing that's ever happened to me. Ok Clyde, let's not go that far. She's the best wife I've ever managed to snag, not to mention the most attractive. Then again, when held up against a bitter lesbian and a circus clown with a drug habit, most people look pretty favourable.
There she is! Even with all that's happened between us, all I need to do is look into her beautiful blue eyes and it all melts away. I could leap right through this glass and wrap my arms around her in the warmest hug in the history of mankind. What a joyous occasion! What does my perfect angel have to say?
“Clyde.”
“Yes, my love?”
“I want a divorce.” You cheap, third rate turbo slag.
“What? How can you say that Sarah? We're so good together.”
“No, we're not Clyde. This marriage has been a mess for a while now and this little stunt you pulled is the last straw.” Little stunt? I was on the national news. They don't put little stunts on the national news. If I had done a backflip into a swimming pool, that would have been a little stunt. A handstand is a little stunt. What I did was a heroic act, flying in the face of corporate oppression.
“The whole thing was Travis' idea.”
“I don't care who's idea it was Clyde. The fact of the matter is that the whole town knows me as the wife of 'the monkey guy'. I'm not willing to go through life with that stigma Clyde.” Apparently the stigma of 'complete and total bitch' suits you just fine, however.
“It'll blow over. You know what people's attention spans are like nowadays. All it'll take is a little celebrity scandal and everyone will forget about what I did. I'm sure at least one of the princes has a trick baby out there somewhere.”
“As usual, you're not taking this seriously Clyde. That's always been the main problem. You've always got your head in the clouds in one way or another. Reading comic books or watching that ridiculous television program.” This coming from a woman who's seen every episode of EastEnders twice. Doctor Who is not ridiculous. It is a tour de force of avant garde science fiction cinema. A program doesn't last forty years if it's ridiculous.
“You spend time that should be used constructively sitting in a worn out old community center smoking pot with a bunch of jobless wasters. There was a time when this socially conscious martyr act you do was cute Clyde, but those days are long gone. I'm done with it and I'm done with you.” Suddenly I'm pining for a certain cocaine addled circus clown. Or the lesbian. Anybody but the bile spewing sow in front of me.
“You're immature. You're lazy. Any shred of potential you might have had at one point has been pissed away and you've got nothing to show for it. The only ambitious act you ever attempted was this robbery and look how that turned out.” A lecture on ambition from a woman who's worked at the same clothing shop for fifteen years. Hypocrisy, thy name is woman.
“I hate to admit it Clyde, but my mother was right about you from the very beginning. You're beneath me. You always were.” Always hated your mother just as much as she hated me. Senile cow smells like a cat piss grenade went off in a sulfur mine.
“My family all pitched in to get me a really good lawyer. You're getting nothing in the divorce. I only came down here as a courtesy. The locks on the house have already been changed. Those few things that do belong to you are being dropped off at your brother's flat as we speak.” No use in holding back it would seem. You may never have another chance at this Clyde, make it count.
“Ok. You want a divorce? Fine. You want to kick a man when he’s down? Fine. But don’t think for a single second that you can sit there and tell me that you’re too good for me. You hook nosed fucking harpy.”
“How dar-“
“Don’t interrupt me Sarah darling. You had your turn, now it’s mine. It’s shocking to me that a woman who’s only menial skill lies in folding sweaters would consider herself too good for anyone. Feel free to keep the shit
pick house and all of the gaudy garbage you’ve managed to piss our collective funds away on in the past four years as well.” Look at her face, this is hitting home. Pour it on Clyde you’ve got her on the ropes.
“Of course I smoke pot, it’s the only way I could ever tolerate the shit sandwiches you call food, or the vacuous prattle you call conversation. For your information, I have no ambition because there has been an iron weight tied around my neck for some time now. Without you holding me back I’ll change the bloody world.” Now hit her with the haymaker.
“Remember that weekend you went off to France? I had your friend Carol. In our bed. Twice.” Ok that part is a lie, but it felt good saying it.
“Clyde you son of a bitch!”
“I think we both know which one of us is the offspring of a bitch my dear, sweet Sarah. Be sure to tell that chum gargling manatee that I said fuck off will you? Provided you can tear her bus sized arse away from the white wine and daytime soap operas for fifteen seconds.” Yeah, go ahead and flip me off, I love it. Anything else I can swing at while we’re here? I’ve used all my best stuff.
“And EastEnders fucking SUCKS you cunt!” Yeah, take that. It looks like that’s the one that did it. Off she goes in a huff. All the same to me, my visitation time has expired anyhow. So when I walk out of this prison I’ll be a free man in more ways than one. I think I’ll sift through my fan mail for the least vomit inducing pictures. Crazy cat ladies, here I come.