IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES...

There was the morning rustle. The snap-crack of the paper, the fresh newsprint sending scent fizzing through the air like a punctured fruit skin. Ink meant news. Sweet unopened news, meant only for him. Blurry Saturday eyes finding a place to settle, in the sports pages maybe, or the nascent tagline of a promising feature.

So what, then, prompted him, this particular morning, to glance first at the classifieds? Perhaps the golden glow of sweet Kenyan blend wafting steam gracefully at his eyes, perhaps the random thought of an old street name gently deposed by sleep, or perhaps just that sudden wish for change. Whatever it was, he was now looking at one particular ad, whose words snagged his roaming eyes.

WANTED: 99 Monkeys, 1 Typewriter. Reward offered.

And he thought: why did the last monkey leave his typewriter behind?