Nor will the love, gay as any leaf,
Assuage his anguish. And the lions laugh.




I am older now but sitting on a beach filled with coconuts.  Being a civilized monkey, I am doing no more than turning them languidly --turning them with my finger.  I am still Maurice Monkee and believe in myself and my fate though much has happened in my beloved Kenya.  I must return to the Mara tomorrow, Betty and Shane are expecting me.  But for this evening I shall get inebriated and ponder as in think, think, think.  Thought comes through the haze of alcohol like a predisposed prism – all lovely, sometimes violent and always so poignant and eager to cut the heart out of one that has lived any life at all.



            I arrive back in the Mara.  Betty Chimpo Simba greets me at the airport in a fucking limousine.  Why shouldn’t she?  She is the president of Kenya’s wife.  She lights a cigarette and exhales in my face.  I grimace a bit.

“We have to go to the hospital immediately,” she puffs.

“Why, have I missed anything during my sabbatical?” I inquire in a very wry manner, knowing damn well I have.

“Jesus, Maury.  You know you have so don’t try to be coy,” she smiled between smoke rings.

“Ralph Lyon and Roy Lee Simba are in adjoining suites with hip replacements and Ralph is driving Mildred crazy with his cantankerous roarings and raging against the surgery.”


Former lion president of Kenya, Ralph Lyon, was on a walker.  His wife, Mildred, was trying to keep his flailing tail from sweeping her from the suite.

"I hate getting old," he raged.  "All those wildebeests took their toll on me, bloody hell."

"Ralph, dear, I did the hunting, remember?"

Ralph opened his wide maw to correct her but he knew his Mildred - loving but firm as a daub wall in the summer heat.

Roy Lee Simba, lion superstar as venerable in age as Ralph, roared back in a more good natured manner.

“Shit happens, Ralph,” he sputtered with lion laughter.

Roy Lee had also had undergone hip and knee replacement, having played adventure roles from Spartacus to Robin Hood.  They had taken their toll.

            Betty and Maurice entered the luxurious suite designed for current and retired presidents. 


“My god, Maury, you look like a gay geriatric ape.  What is that hair about?:”  growled Ralph.   

I bent over to place a quick lip smack on his mane.  It moved.  He growled again.

“Merde, Maury, my mane is not all mine now, goddam it all.”

“Neither is my my offering of head hair.  Age takes its toll.”

You bloody think?” he said as he winced at a sudden jolt to his insulted frame.

He turned his still brilliantly golden eyes in Betty’s direction. 

“How the hell do you and Shane still look so comely?” he inquired.

Betty lit a cigarette and exhaled.  “I have Tod Tigeres and his lucrative clinic and Shane has youth.”

“Youth, my ass, Betts,” he said. “Shane is not that damn young anymore.”

“Shane is nine and at his peak.”

Ralph looked into the distance in something of a daze.  His sight remained focused on a stilled television set on the wall in front of him.  Then he gave a great sigh.

“Ah yes.  Nine is still a great age for a male lion,” he recalled.


            The presidential limousine drew into the curving drive and disgorged me, after having received a kiss on the hand and head from first lady, Betty Chimpo Simba. My luggage had preceded me hours before.

I rang the doorbell.  It was a few minutes before a very young leopard in livery opened the great teak door. 

“Ah, Monsieur Monkee, Bertram has been awaiting you,” he said in a simpering manner, attempting the best French accent available to a feline.

The leopard led me to a large, familiar room where an even more familiar figure sat pulled up to a log fire. Bertram Baboon arose and came toward me.  We held each other in a long embrace both covering our tears until we finally pulled apart and gave each other a look that told a story of years of being lovers and then friends.


Shane Simba, lion president of Kenya lay supine in the nude glory that lions possess.  He held a lit cigarette and was reading a brief.  He was also waiting for the arrival of his wife, Betty.  He was about to light a fire on the expensive linens when she arrived. He had dozed off.  She sat down on the bed next to him and retrieved the cigarette, putting it out. 

“Darling, you must not nap while lit,” she said, nuzzling his muzzle. 

“How was Maury?  When is he coming back to work with me?” he asked, his strange green eyes intent on her face and his question. 

“Shane, Maurice is going to take his time in working again.  You burned him out but he loves you.”

“Life burned him out, Betts, not me.”

“It just all got too much, I suppose.”

“Kenya, Kenya, and more Kenya,” he sighed.

She put her hand around his erect penis.

“Is that for me?” she smiled.

“Always,” he said, pulling her on top of him.


            Caroline Cheetah finished taping her nude cooking show which had been successful beyond all the wildest dreams of Irving Impala, owner of MaraTV.  In summing it up, Irving supposed it had been the hard times that Kenya and the globe had undergone.  Frivolity skimpiest of string bikinis and sheer tops was just the ticket for the times.  Irving suspected that lots of males tuned in just to see the beautifully preserved Caroline cavort, connive and cook. 

“Shit,” exclaimed Caroline as she perused her impeccable face in the mirror of her dressing area – thanks to Dr. Todd Tigeres, miracle cat for the ladies of the Mara who treasured staying young – at least in appearance.  For the remaining bodily functions, there was Todd’s bro, Frank.  She decided her appearance ranked ‘hot and hotter’ and changed into something acceptable for general appearances.  ]



Wally Warthog, long time owner and proprietor of several pubs in the area, over looked the gathering crowd in the Watering Hole Pub.  Several sat lined at the long bar.  Among them were Ashley Lyon and Dickey Simba.  They were chatting idly and looking for female chum like assured sharks.  One soon hauled into view. Caroline Cheetah, perfumed and spike heeled to the max made her way to a bar stool between, shoving them apart as she sat.  They didn’t mind at all.  She lit a Marlboro and exhaled.  The reaction of both male lions was an instant hard-on.  But who would bed her that evening?  That remained a matter of who bested whom in canniness although Caroline was not considered to be a difficult lay. 







"The story continues..."