The bus station security guard opened the door to the bathroom stall. The man inside jumped and quickly zipped his pants closed as he ran out, knocking the guard down. George wasn't so lucky. Because he was standing inside a paper shopping bag to hide his feet from outside view, he tripped while trying to escape. The guard scrambled up and grabbed George by the arm.

"Well, well," said the security guard. "What an odd thing to see. I've busted gay prostitutes in here before, but I've never busted a monkey."

George was embarrassed. He didn't want to sell his little monkey body, but he needed money for drugs. He looked sadly up at the guard.

"I'll tell you what, monkey. I won't call the police this time. But if I ever see you in my station again I will." He released George's arm. George ran outside before the guard could change his mind.

-----

The man with the yellow hat still felt terrible. He hadn't wanted to beat George, but it was for his own good. The monkey was just too curious, always causing trouble. When he stole those balloons it had cost the man a lot of money to pay for them, and that was the last straw. While he was punishing George, the monkey had squirmed out of his grip, bit him, and ran away.

That was a month ago, and he hadn't seen George since.

-----

"I wish I had some smokes," thought George. He patted himself down, but didn't find any money. The man in the bathroom had run away without paying! "If I had a pimp, that man would be sorry. Oh, well. I can steal cigarettes."

He quickly climbed a light pole and, from there, jumped to the top of a bus. When they passed a liquor store he jumped off, landing atop a homeless man sleeping on the sidewalk.

George looked through the window. There was a customer inside. She was yelling at the clerk and waving her arms, and she had bad skin. "She's not really mad," he decided. "She's probably just a meth addict."

He waited, and when she opened the door to leave he slipped inside. George wasted no time. He jumped straight onto the counter and reached for a carton of cigarettes. "Hey!" yelled the fat clerk. "Monkeys need money just like everyone else!" George snatched up the nearest bottle and smashed it against the man's head. He knew it was wrong to waste good wine like that, but he really wanted a cigarette.

The man fell down and went quiet, and a lot of blood came out of his ear. George took the smokes. Then he grabbed another bottle of wine and took that, too. "Why waste an opportunity?" he thought.

-----

The man with the yellow hat put down the phone, then slumped in his chair. That had been the third person to call about the "Lost Monkey" poster, and it had been the third false alarm. Maybe George was gone for good.

He picked up some paper and began writing.

"Dear George. I'm sorry I beat you and drove you away," read the note. "I can't live with myself. Maybe dying will make the pain stop."

The man stood, walked to the kitchen and put the note on a table. Then he removed his yellow hat, turned on the gas oven, and put his head inside.

-----

"That man with the yellow hat is to blame for everything," thought George. "None of this would have happened if he hadn't smuggled me out of Africa." He took another long drink from the bottle. "He's a poacher. I hate him, and I hate his stupid yellow hat."

Then George had an idea. He knew where the man kept his money. He had another swallow of wine, then jumped atop another bus.

Fifteen minutes later George dropped to the man's lawn. "I'll kill the man and take his money. Then I'll never again have to sell my little monkey body to buy drugs." He lit a cigarette and entered the house.

Inside, George wrinkled his nose. "Humans smell terrible," he thought. He tip-toed through the house, hefting the half-empty bottle, ready to swing it into the man's head as soon as he saw him.

He spied the yellow hat on the kitchen table and turned. Wherever the hat was, the man was sure to be close by. As he got closer, he saw the man's lower body sticking from the oven. Too late, he realized what the bad smell was. He had just enough time to remember the lit cigarette before the explosion blasted it from his mouth.

-----

The cause of the explosion seemed obvious to the Fire Marshall, and the investigation was soon closed. Nobody ever noticed the charred and broken little monkey body in the rubble. Nobody but the crows.

The yellow crayon stood on the edge of the battlefield, holding the binoculars to his eyes, surveying the surrounding layers of colorful pieces of paper and shavings of fallen crayons. A cigarette dangled between his lips, smoke drifting lazily into the sky.

“Private Yellow!” The voice snapped from behind him, causing him to spin in place. His binoculars dropped with a solid tug around his neck while his hand snapped to his head in a crisp salute. General Red stood with rage emblazoned on his cheeks. Steam was almost visible pouring out of his ears.

“General Red, Sir!” Beads of sweat formed on the crayon’s forehead. He trembled with fear at what he had done wrong now. He began to mentally run through his checklist to make sure he had done everything he needed to do.

The General turned to the tent behind him. It was formed from a sheet of paper folded in half. The outside was decorated with a blue sky, yellow sun and red mountains. A rainbow dominated the page and was drawn in the same three colors, but three was all it needed. As the General turned, Sergeant Blue came out of the tent. He had a steely look in is eyes and a deep, quiet demeanor.

“Sergeant Blue!” the general barked. “I thought I ordered you to fire that cannon at the opposing forces!”

The Sergeant had snapped to attention but kept has same calm demeanor. “Yes Sir, you did, Sir.”

“Then why hasn’t it been fired yet?”

Private Yellow spoke up in little more than a quiet whisper. “That would be my fault, Sir… I’m… I’m… scared.”

“Scared of WHAT, soldier?” The red in the General’s cheeks seemed to burn even brighter.

It was hard to stand at attention while still cowering in fear, but somehow the Private pulled it off. “Sir, that’s my family over there. I have brothers over there… well, half-brothers anyway.” Yellow glanced around quickly. “Green is an… indiscretion that my mom had with…” He glanced over at Blue who continued to glare back at him in a way that said ‘Don’t go there.’ “…with someone else”.

“PRIVATE YELLOW!” The General’s furor hit an all-time high. “You WILL fire that cannon. You WILL blast the enemy. You WILL blow them to the tiniest smithereens of dust particles. You WILL blast the color right out of there wrappers until the other side is wiped clean to a slate of pure white and the total absence of colors! DO YOU HEAR ME PRIVATE?!?!?”

“Sir! Yes, Sir!”

“We are the primary force here. The enemy is secondary.” The General marched back and forth leaving a trail of red that grew steadily deeper. “We all have family over there. And… indiscretions. But we are the pure colors. We are the focus of all color charts. We are dominant. And we will achieve victory!”

Sergeant Blue and Private Yellow stood at attention, listening to the General command his troops.

“You will fire that cannon… NOW!”

Yellow removed the cigarette from his mouth and approached the cannon holding the lit end towards the fuse. As he approached, a blast of sound and fury exploded from the other side of the battlefield. Loud drops began to rain all over with a smell of smoke that made Yellow want to gag, when Blue began to call out “NAPALM!”

Suddenly everything around them burst into flame. The tent went up in a puff of smoke and flame began to tickle their surroundings. As Yellow began to run towards the General to get orders, he felt a burning in his side. He looked down to see the gelatinous ooze beginning to burn through his waxy layers and beads of yellow began to streak his legs.

Stumbling with a flailing and thrashing of arms and legs, he plodded head-first into the general, catching a last bewildered look on the General’s face before falling to the ground in a puddle of melted skin.

Blue stood over them pouring buckets of water and creating layers of steam that made it impossible to see. As the smoke cleared, the Private looked at the General just scant inches away with a scowl on his face. They both turned and looked down at the same time to see their bodies in solid primary colors on top, each fading into a blended puddle of a now solidifying orange mass on the ground.

Before either could say a word, they realized there were onlookers standing out on the battlefield. Orange stood at the front of the throng, smiling at the chaos.