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PERKY AND PITT/THOUSAND
by Matt Mongrain

     Somewhere not too far away, a pair of chestnuts were having a discussion on the meaning of life. The first was named Perky Chestnut, and the second was Pitt Chestnut. Perky and Pitt argued rather a lot, but they didn’t really mind - being only one of three sentient chestnuts currently residing on the planet Earth, the chances of them growing together on the same tree branch are statistically almost impossible. The third was somewhere in Indo-China - also a statistical impossibility, as there are very, very few chestnut trees in Indo-China. As if to confuse the statistical odds yet further, the three of them spoke perfect English from their creation but had all devised a strange base-four numbering system completely independent of one another and at exactly the same moment.

      Pitt shook his husk and continued his point. “Your argument that there is life outside the Great Tree is silly and rather preposterous. There is nothing to base it on; we’ve never been outside the Tree!”

      “But,” began Perky, “there is also nothing to disprove it. Thus it must be true.”

      “Bah! Nothing but existentialistic patter!”

      “Perhaps. What think you of the strange, moving creatures that exist below our Tree, then?”
      “Nothing but figments of your overactive imagination, Pitt. I’ve never seen a thing.”

      “Then again, you’re myopic. One in three chestnuts are myopic, you know.”

      “Oh, shut up. If you’re so certain there’s more life out there, why don’t you just shake yourself free from the branch and fall to the ground like the non-sentient chestnuts?”

      Perky considered this. “Because I’m, er, asthmatic.”

      “No, you’re a belittling ninny.”

      “Oh, quiet, you. Why don’t you shake yourself free and prove me wrong!”
      “Because I know my philosophy is sound.”

      “Then how’s this; we’ll both shake ourselves from the tree at the same time. That way, if one of us is right we will have the satisfaction of correctness.”

      Pitt sighed. “I was getting rather annoyed of you, anyway. I agree.”

      “Alright. On the count of Klipk. Hrank, jriml, rrama, KLIPK!”

      They both shook violently, detached themselves from the branch, and plummeted to the grass. They landed with a comfortable thump onto the ground.

      “See, Perky? That wasn’t all that bad,” said Perky upon landing.

      “Oh, shut up, Perky.”

      They never spoke again after those words. Come Spring, they both grew into great, magnificent trees - the latter had a team of professional statistical analysts growing on its limbs, and the former, a troupe of child psychologists and big red apples.

***

            A thousand monkeys sitting at a thousand typewriters busily clacked away, each vying to write the perfect novel, the one that would make their Master famous. The noise was unbearably loud to anyone but the monkeys, who had grown so accustomed to it (as they had been born and raised surrounded by typewriters) that they didn’t even hear it anymore.

      All of a sudden, one of the monkeys ceased typing, and tapped the monkey next to him on the shoulder.

      “Why the hell are we doing this?” asked One.

      “Because the Master is writing the perfect novel,” said Two.

      “If the Master,” began One, “is so damn good, why doesn’t he write the novel himself?”

      “The Master feeds us,” said Two.

      “He also chains us to the floor.”

      “That’s not the point.”

      “I think it is.”

      “Oh do you?”

      “Yes I do.”

      “Alright then.”

      One paused. “Why do I even bother talking to you?”

      Two’s answer returned, invariable: “The master knows.”

      “Shut up.”
      
      One returned to his typing.

[ this page and all media therein is copyright © 2002 by matt mongrain. all rights reserved. reproduction prohibited without express, written permission of the author. ]