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Mega Jump

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“The Authentic Donkey Kong”

An Authentic Story by David Brookes

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The great ape counts to seven: one two three four five six seven.

It is seven storeys high; the wind rips through its coarse brown hair, across the broad leather expanses of his chest and stomach, where the scars remain.  Below is a cacophony of noise that the ape does not understand: clanging metal reverberating from concrete posts and the dull, rough partitions formed between girders.  It is a construction site, a place of creation.

In the creases of the ape’s immense hands, the man-wife’s blood remains.  It encrusts under the ape’s black fingernails.  He picks apart the bloodstuck hairs on his forearms as the man-wife mewls in her torn dress like a baby.

The ape remembers its own baby.  It remembers its mate: slender and dark, sleek-furred and agile.

The whining man-wife had been halfway between asleep and awake during the ascent.  Now her eyes widen to white, frantic globes.  She takes in the grey sky on all sides.  Directly beneath her, the layers and broken beams of the unfinished structure.  And, seven storeys below, the construction site.

She screams.

In agitated response, the great ape bares its yellow fangs.  Its cupped paws beat and beat against its hurting breast.  It slams one fist, then the other, against the brittle girder that supports them both.  The concrete support columns spit out puffs of crumbling mortar with each massive impact: one two three four five six seven.

Enraged, the enormous beast, wrists worn bald by the broken chains it left behind, roars with all the rage and hatred felt throughout its long years of captivity:

[Press the ANGRY APE button on your soundbook now!]

Now turn to p.2 / 7 …

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The mighty bellow resounds through the hollow, unfinished skyscraper.  It drowns out the shrill cry of the captured man-wife.  She crawls as far away from the animal as possible, frail white limbs sore with the bruises implanted there by the ape’s impossible grip.

Somewhere amidst the clamour of manufacture below, and answering cry rises on the wind from across the bay.  It is the Master.

In the mists of memory, like the coiling vapours of the western lowlands, there arise the distinctive faces of the ape’s troop.  Most vividly – black, smooth, glistening with morning due, eyes bright and beautiful, lips pinching the fresh shoots from a trembling branch – its mate.  In her crooked arm, the ape’s tiny son.

And shattering the memory with a single sharp sound, the crack-crack! of the master’s rifle.

Hey kids, turn to p.3 / 7 …!

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Rage fills the beast’s scarred body.  The Master.  Always moving, always busy, but for those first days when he and the man-wife lay about by the ape’s cage.  But after that: busy – and the third day: busy – and up until the last day of the cycle: busy and frustrated by a week’s fruitless trade, tired of studying its caged and chained pet, weary of dressing it in human clothes like the strip of red cloth he ties frequently about its throat, like a noose – the Master vents his pent-up frustrations on the widower ape.

The great ape counts the days that make up its cyclical torment: one two three four five six seven, and beats the crooked girders with its already split knuckles.

And below, the Master is beginning his ascent.  Another flimsy non-ape.  Another frame for the ape to crush and mangle in its enraged paws.  It is weak and encumbered by fat, and gaudy layers of inhibitive clothing; not at all like the powerful, muscular frame of the determined gorilla.

The enemy approaches:

[Press the JUMPMAN 1 button on your soundbook now!]

[Press the JUMPMAN 2 button on your soundbook now!]

Uh oh!  Turn to p.4 / 7 if you dare!

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Stiff hairs bristle on the shoulders of Gorilla Gorilla Gorilla.  Its thick lips pull back from its yellow teeth and long fangs; the black tongue curls back in the maw like a twisting slug.  It bellows again, feeling its own hot breath at the corners of its blood-flecked mouth.  In anger at the approaching Master, the ape once again thunders its split knuckles against the riveted girders.

A noise from behind: wood creaking against wood.  The ape sees the curved edge of a barrel, steel chine-hoops glinting orange in the dusklight.  The fit of rage brings the ape’s arms swinging against the heavy barrel, knocking it sideways.  Thick, black fingers grasp the fallen cask.  Lifting it high over its head, the gorilla roars and hurls the object at the warped slope of mangled beams, where it rumbles over the man-wife’s dropped and forgotten possessions: umbrella, bonnet, bag.  It rebounds from a concrete pillar and caroms out of sight, a rolling weapon racing towards the resourceful Master.

Now turn to p.5 / 7 …

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YOU’VE REACHED THE BONUS PAGE!

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Donkey Kong Classic

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Smash the Monkey -- For Mother Russia(Image via www.Halolz.com – Original artist unknown)


Turn to p.6 / 7 to continue…!

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The great ape’s barrage does not stop there.  There is little conscious thought in its destruction of the construction site.  The damage is only a product of its frustration and fear, which builds within its scarred breast like a swelling balloon.

It remembers the unbroken cycle of torment; the gruesome scowls of its wrongful Master, whose gloved hands thrust roughly through the bars of the ape’s prison, grasping at tufts of coarse fur and yanking, yanking, or teasing the animal with sharp tools of his trade.

There can be little room for blame in the ape’s conical skull, and yet it has learned to hate the murderer of its family, this bitter man whose motives and innermost thoughts are forever excluded from the ape’s understanding.  It is a smart beast, but not a man.  It can only recognise its suffering and vent its hatred on the people and objects around it.

From somewhere below, the sound of shattering wood.  It comes like a burst of lightning, hard and brief.  The barrel the ape has thrown is no more – it appreciates that much – and so it heaves another down the slope with all its considerable strength.

This barrel does not hit the concrete pillar.  It is thrust aside by a silvery blur somewhere along the girder’s truncated length.  Wood and thick, black oil splatters the wall.

A figure is climbing onto the girder.  The heavy black head of a hammer swings like a pendulum to and fro in the Master’s grasp.  The man-wife, trapped behind the gorilla’s massive bulk, screams for her saviour, whose brows knit in fury above his bright eyes.  His mouth is a down-turned tear of split lip and tousled moustache.  Blood encrusts the hairs of his upper lip from the frantic moments following the ape’s escape.

The Master hefts the hammer atop his shoulder, and speaks from deep in his powerful chest:

[Press the FURIOUS ENEMY button on your soundbook now!]

Whoa!  Turn to p.7 / 7 for the explosive finale…!

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Mortal enemies clash atop the unfinished structure.  The wind tears through the air between and around them, rippling hair and denim, freeze-burning skin of pale white and deep jungle black.  The ape throws down its arms and the Master dodges between them, boots squeaking on the strained iron.  His hammer describes, through the cold evening air, an arc of pain.

The hammer crunches into the ape’s shoulder.  A clavicle splits like a twig and bursts out through the skin.  The shoulder joint becomes a useless pulp of bone and tenderised flesh.  Bellowing resonantly – a bellow heard for miles around – the gorilla is incensed at this act of crippling.  It does not understand how such a small thing can result in such sharp, insistent pain, nor why its limb hangs so heavy and immobilised by its side.

The Master flings his hammer again, causing sparks to ring off the metal platform.  

The ape twists away and hurls all its weight against the sloping platform.  The vibrations throw the Master off his feet; immediately the gorilla takes advantage.  It wraps its great arm around another barrel, the rough pads of its fingertips gripping tightly to the grain of the wood, and heaves it up against its chest.  Its ruined arm dangles pathetically.  Ropes of muscle contort up the length of its body as it hurls the cask–

Splinters of wood and dark splashes of oil, like spilled blood, explode across the wall and gangway.  The Master has avoided the worst of the attack, but spinning shrapnel has caught him against the temple.  Dizzy, he struggles to stand on the inky smears of oil under his boots.  Gloves blackened and slick, he drops his hammer with a whimper.

The ape attacks.  There is enough rage in its tormented body to fuel the ape for days.  The man-wife’s blood tastes fresh on its plump lower lip.  There is precise muscle-memory all through its body: the violent throes of predatory instinct – the chase, the capture, the kill.

With one fist of broken bones, the ape pounds the struggling human body.  The Master’s chest is already a caved-in pulp of red meat and protruding bone.  Life quickly leaves the corpse, but the ape keeps beating, the man-wife’s screams in its ears.  The might fist strikes the grisly bruised face; it strikes him on the ear, on the limbs.  Finally the ape lifts the fresh corpse into the air by its mangled leg and hurls it, dripping and limp, from the seventh floor of the unfinished structure.

Tiny knuckles drum its thigh.  Turning, the ape moves in a position to grab the thrashing frame of the man-wife.  She shrieks in the ape’s ear, a milky white animal squirming amongst the tatters of its bright yet bloody clothing.  The gorilla flings her over the side too, watching her pinkish form disappear into the smog-laced yard far, far below.

There is liberation in revenge.  Even an animal understands this.  There is peace is liberation – but not yet.

With only one working arm, the ape climbs higher.  Step by step, metre by metre by metre:

One two three four five six seven.

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You’ve reached THE END!

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