On May 1, 1979, seventeen capuchin monkeys escaped from a lab in Morehouse Parish, Louisiana. The monkeys thrived, and there are now an estimated 10,000 capuchins living in Felsenthal National Wildlife Refuge in southern Arkansas.

1. They steal my beer. I installed window locks, and they broke the windows. I installed bars, and they broke into Mac McCuller’s garage and stole his angle grinder. I left out poison bait for them, and they burned down my truck.
2. I drove up to Missouri, picked up a couple dozen Maine coon cats, drove home and let the cats loose on this end of the park. Helen from the Park Service fined me 1500 bucks, but she’s been driving a brand-new truck and I think the monkeys paid her off.
3. I came home from work a week later and found a Mainecoonskin driving coat on my front lawn.
4. I paid Junior Heller a case of Old Forester to make me a monkey-proof grisgris. I’ve been wearing it on my belt, and it smells so bad my boss is making me work in the trailer.
5. I stopped by Junior’s to be sociable, and we both had a little Forester. When we woke up, we were face down in a pine brake with our pants around our ankles and grisgris up our ass.
6. Me and Junior talked to some of the boys and organized a monkey-shoot. We put sugar in Helen’s gas tank to slow her down, and convoyed out to the park 4:30 Saturday morning. None of us could find our wallets. Gave me a bad feeling.
7. Tucker was the first man down. He started itching and swelled up so bad Neil and Stubby had to drive him back to town.
8. About an hour later Hank broke his ankle like he stepped in a chuckhole. But I didn’t see any chuckhole.
9. Right after that Junior started puking his guts out. The timing sure was suspicious.
10. The first thing the monkeys did after they caught me was show me some driver’s licenses. Tucker’s was green with poison ivy. Hank’s was bent in half. Junior’s was sticking out of a pile of dogshit. Mine, they showed me, then they threw it in the fire.

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