20.
   The monkey was back and thirty feet tall. It burst out of the jungle with eyes ablaze. Its creamy, white skin flapped and jiggled. Its gaping maw was full of broken yellow teeth. It stunk of cheap beer, cheap cologne and hairspray. It was Fay Ray time. It was naked, should have stayed home, lefty, commie, pinko for lunch time.

   The jungle shook and the monkey lurched. A huge, sweaty paw reached for my head just as I felt the bonds around my wrists fall free. I turned to run but before I could, the dogs grabbed my hands and lifted me into the air. “You have much to learn.”, said one.
   The monkey reached for my ankles but it was too late. I looked back over my shoulder to see the prostrate sycophants pulling themselves to their feet. The angry looks on their faces were replaced by abject terror. The monkey turned on them and pounced.
   We drifted high above the cartoon horror. The blood curdling screams faded away. A volcano loomed on the horizon. A shimmering sea stretched under a brilliant orange sunset. I looked up at the dogs clinging to my wrists. They were determined, saying nothing as they looked into the distance. This is a hell of a ride, I thought. Wow, flying dogs. Not bad.