"Well, well, well," said the young gorilla to the philanthropist, "I see you brought your flambé pan."

"Always do, always do," responded the philanthropist congenially.

"What's on the menu for tonight, my friend?" questioned Demetrius, the gorilla.

"I haven't quite yet decided. Let me search the trash out behind your lovely grass hut," Ruprecht responded. "Back in a jiffy."

Rufus hustled out of the finely furnished entryway, past the grandfather clock and the black and white photo of Demetrius with his grandmother, and around the hut to the trash pile. As he moved to the back he noticed that the jungle had a particularly exuberant coloring this time of year, vigorous and veritably dripping with robust shades of green and yellow. The palm fronds tickled his feet playfully while he walked, and he chided them good naturedly, "Cut it out you wacky, zany palm fronds," pointing his finger down at them and smiling coyly. The sky spit on him. A big, wet raindrop landed right on his nose and splashed him in the eye. He thought he could hear a parrot cackle in the background, "Squawk, moron, squawk."

But he shrugged it off as imagination and made it back to the trash pile. Rummaging through the pinapples and banana peels and half-eaten croissants and coffee grounds, Ruprecht found a copy of yesterday's Times. "Perfect," he mumbled to himself and began leafing through as he walked back to the front door.

Unbeknownst to Ruprecht, as he searched through the pile, a deadly jungle parasite had crawled onto his finger and began marching toward his head.

Ruprecht reentered Demetrius's lovely grass hut and headed to the dining room where Demetrius awaited him.

"Find anything good?" posed Demetrius.

"Well, I'm not sure yet. I haven't made it very far," Ruprecht confessed. "I became engrossed in this article about a lady in Des Moines who drives around all day planting flowers in the city. She plants flowers every single day, in all sorts of random places, parks, cracks in the sidewalk, office buildings. But she never talks to anyone. No one knows why she does it, or where she gets the money for the flowers. She doesn't even talk to the florist. She just writes down her order. It's not that she's a mute either. People knew her as a child and say she can speak perfectly well. It's just a matter of choice not to speak."

"How absolutely wonderful!" Demetrius chimed.

"Isn't it though? Well, anyway, I'll look for something else," said Ruprecht.

Several minutes passed while Ruprecht flipped through the newspaper and Demetrius sipped quietly on a cup of steaming tea. "Aha, I've got it!" Ruprecht exclaimed. "It's just perfect. It's Bush's latest statement of U.S. trade policy with China. They still have favored nation status."

"Shall we baste it?" queried Demetrius.

"Oh most definitely we shall," Ruprecht chirped back.

The two friends went to work in the kitchen. An hour and a half later they emerged together, beaming over a large serving tray. They sat down excitedly and began dishing out the article. After a short toast--"To your health. Oh, no, no, no, to yours," etc.--Demetrius and Ruprecht dug in with relish.

"Oh, the best yet I would have to say. Wouldn't you agree, Ruprecht?" Demetrius exulted.

But before Ruprecht could answer, something strange happened. Ruprecht's head started snapping to the left in a sort of spasm, like an unconscious tick, only more violent and frequent. Just before he passed out, Ruprecht realized something was eating his brain.

As he came to, Ruprecht noticed the world had changed. It looked a lot like a color negative. And not only that, Demetrius's voice was changing. His frantic, concerned utterings were beginning to sound very different, like a guitar almost, familiar though. Yes, yes, he could almost place it. Jimi Hendrix's Purple Haze. But he only heard it when Demetrius spoke. Otherwise, it was silent.

By this time the parasite was full and decided to leave. Maybe he had eaten a little too much, thought the parasite, as he crawled out Ruprecht's ear. He would have to nap now.

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