Monkeyprints on the Ceiling

“Robert Vestal was the most hated man in this rotten burg,” Jonny said, flicking a finger toward the stiff cooling on the floor. Boris rode his shoulders like a bad idea, nose inches from the ceiling, muttering to himself about cracks in the plaster only a professional lunatic could love. “Any one of his enemies would’ve paid good money to see him dead—and most of ’em already had.”

Linda and Pussy, the dames the boys had dragged along in hopes the night would end softer than it started, traded looks sharp enough to cut glass. “But the nice police detective said the place was sealed,” Linda said. “Doors locked. Windows bolted. Nobody could’ve gotten in.”

“No HUMAN could’ve gotten in,” Boris snapped, finally peeling his eyes off the ceiling. “That’s where the badge boys stop thinking. They stare straight ahead and never bother to look up. If they had, they’d have seen the monkeyprints—right there, crawling out of the air vent. Same prints made by JoJo, Vestal’s pet macaque and the only beneficiary of his dirty little empire. Congratulations, gentlemen. Your killer likes bananas.”

Pussy screamed before the echo had time to settle. They all turned and saw JoJo in the doorway, Vestal’s own pistol clutched in his hairy paw, barrel steady, eyes cold. He thumbed back the hammer with a neat little click.

“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Pug,” the monkey said, smiling without warmth. “It’s a real shame the four of you won’t live long enough to enjoy it.”

Miss Jonny Pal

The big moment finally slunk into the room like a bad debt. Under the hot lights, the entrants in the Miss Jonny Pal Beauty Contest squirmed in their postage-stamp bikinis and duct-taped dreams, sweat shining like cheap varnish. Jesse Merlin—once a golden-throated crooner back when jukeboxes still mattered—lurched toward the microphone. Alimony had chewed him down to the bone, and now he paid the tab by hosting carnivals like this. He blinked, steadied himself, and tried to sound sober. The “Jonny Gals,” as the socials had christened them, traded one last round of razor-edged glares, smiles sharp enough to draw blood.

Merlin cleared his throat and sang out the verdict. “Pussy Cat.”

The room froze. The stage went quiet enough to hear hearts misfire. The judges hadn’t crowned a silicone siren with a smile bought on credit—they’d handed the gold to a common alley cat. An alley cat who just happened to be the girlfriend of Boris Pug, second in command of the Jonny Pals and a permanent fixture in Van Nuys. The sash swallowed her whole, a sunburst of satin ten sizes too big, while her influential canine beau bathed her with that famous tongue of his. Out front, the lovelies’ eyes went red. Whispers slithered through the crowd. The word “fix” made the rounds like a loaded gun, and the also-rans decided right then they’d prove it.

Jonny & Boris Meet J.J. Gittes

Finally confronted with a direct question of what Boris’ relationship actually was to him, Jonny shot a furtive glance at the pug and quietly answered “He’s my partner.” “Okay, so he’s your partner,” replied Gittes. “So why the…” “He’s my pet,” interrupted Jonny.

Gittes had finally had enough. He slapped Jonny across the face with enough force to rattle his teeth. “He’s my partner…” Gittes slapped him again. “He’s my pet…” Another slap. “My partner, my pet…”

Gittes delivered a barrage of slaps that reduced Jonny to hysterics. “I said I want the truth!”

“He’s my partner AND my pet!” screamed Jonny. “And when I’m lonely, sometimes I get him to lick peanut butter off my wang. Got it now? Or is it too tough for you?”

The Tragedy of My Asshole Teen Son

Hack saw the brilliant film Hamnet about how Shakespeare was inspired to write his masterpiece Hamlet by the death of his young son and was so moved that he wrote a Jonny & Boris “Time Machine” novel where they go back in time and save the kid. Unfortunately, Hack then got inspired by his relationship with his own abusive father so that the thing went completely off the rails from there.

Sharp-Dressed Sinners

Hack watched the vampire horror movie Sinners with Boris and Jonny and didn’t like what he saw, in part because the bloodsuckers were all hayseeds dressed in rags. Hack longed for the day when movie vampires wore white tie and tails and opera capes, so he wrote this rip-off of the Ryan Coogler flick and recast the vampires as European aristocracy wearing formalwear from circa 1930. It was Hack’s way of making brutally murdering someone by torturously sucking the fluids out of their body classy again.