Well, the nice people behind the Awfully Cheerful Engine! asked me to write a foreword for their terrifingly fun little game. They said they chose me because of my boyish good looks, but I refused to send them a photograph anyway. So … things came up, and I wasn’t able to write that foreword after all. Sorry guys. This is my explanation why. 

I decided that before sitting down to the gruesome endeavor of writing the Awfully Cheerful Engine! foreword, I’d stop by the store and get some snacks. You know – pork rinds, crappy 7-11 nachos, diet Dr Pepper. To fortify the inner man for the task. Before I left, I called to my wife upstairs. “Hey, you want something from the store?” She was in the shower, and all I heard was “garble garble Red Monkeys burble.” Red monkeys? Must be some new thing. Maybe a brand of glue for one of her projects? Who knew. 

Anyway, I walked into the store, and, having no idea what red monkeys were, walked over to the proprietor and asked, “Do you have any red monkeys?” 

“WHAT did you ask?!” he shouted, his face turning as red as a monkey. 

“Red monkeys, dude. Got some?” I was still oblivious. 

“Get out of here at once or I’ll call the cops!” he hissed. I was appalled. I backed up slowly, but he charged forward, literally grabbed me by my collar and the seat of my pants and threw me onto the sidewalk. Holy smokes, I didn’t expect that. 

There was a cop car in the convenience store parking lot, and he was staring, so I walked over. “That guy just threw me out of his store for no reason!” 

Naturally, the cop asked, “No reason?” 

I told him, “Yeah, all I did was ask if he had any red monkeys.” 

The cop’s eyes bugged out of his head. “You pervert! You’re going down!” He rolled out of the cop car, fast as anything and clubbed me over the head with his tonfa baton. When I came to, he’d handcuffed me and dragged me into the back seat of the car. 

“Wait!” I yelled. “I didn’t do anything. I just want to get home and write the foreword for the Awfully Cheerful Engine! game! It’s amazingly entertaining! They did a lot of yeoman work on it, and it needs that foreword!” All I saw was the back of his bullet-head, hunched over the steering wheel. 

They threw me into a cell. I called my lawyer, and he asked for an immediate hearing. That afternoon me and my lawyer went before the judge. 

“Why is this indictment so rushed?” asked the judge. 

My lawyer explained on my behalf. “Sandy has responsibilities. He needs to write his foreword for the Awfully Cheerful Engine! – it’s a roleplaying game of parodies on well-known topics. You know, like Ghostbusters, Indiana Jones, Stranger Things, Star Trek, and so forth. Everyone who plays it loves it.” 

The judge nodded sagely, “Okay, let’s get on with it.” 

My lawyer put me on the stand, and I said, “Look, the cop clubbed me and arrested me. He didn’t even give me a reason. I’m sure it’s some misunderstanding. I love cops! Just let me go and we’ll hear no more of it, though it would be nice if you paid my lawyer’s fee.” 

The judge said, “Well, what had you done just previous to your arrest?” 

Like an idiot I said, “I told him I was looking for red monkeys.” 

The judge’s face darkened. “What?! That’s it, sonny boy. I ought to sentence you to death! It’s life, for you anyway.” 

“What?” I shrieked. “How can you do that? This is just a hearing! What happened to all the delays and blockages and left-wing advocates that talk radio assures me keeps capital punishment from its full effect?!” 

I turned towards my lawyer, but he was scowling too. He declaimed pompously, “You’ll get no argument from me, your honor. Lock him up and throw away the key. Or whatever. I withdraw my services.” 

Stunned, the bailiff dragged me back to my cell. I asked for a phone call, and I used it to tell Morrus, at the Awfully Cheerful Engine!, that my foreword would be a little delayed. Sorry about that. Morrus said they’d hold open the slot as long as possible. If I was too late, though, they’d have to get Harlan Ellison instead. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Harlan had passed away a couple of years ago. I got the impression that Morrus wasn’t “with it” if you know what I mean. 

Anyway, the next day I was sent to the state prison. What a nightmare. This huge guy, buff from years of the prison work-out gym, shoved me in the courtyard, and asked me what I was in for. He could tell I didn’t belong I guess. I said, “Look, all I did was ask about red monkeys.” Then I flinched. 

But the guy flinched instead. “You were looking for red monkeys! Whoa.” He backed off. Huh. 

The next day I asked for a pencil and paper so I could write that damn foreword for the Awfully Cheerful Engine! They gave me a crayon, not a pencil, so I wouldn’t kill myself with it. I guess they’d seen that scene in The Dark Knight once too often. 

While I was FINALLY writing the foreword, the huge guy came sneaking back. He said, “Look, Sandy. You want out of here?” 

“DO I? You know it!” I ejaculated. 

“Well we’re planning a break for tomorrow night. The guys all agreed they want you in on it as extra muscle.” I wondered, extra muscle? I’m 65 years old and my only workout is carrying cases of Mountain Dew Code Red to my drink fridge. But hey a chance to get out of here? I’d take it. 

The next day there was a huge prison riot. You probably read about it. About a dozen guards were hurt, and 3 inmates were killed. But, in the confusion, two of us managed to get over the wall and outside without being noticed. We ran into the scrubby Texas woods. 

The other escapee turned to me and said, “Look, you give me the heebie jeebies, so let’s split up. I’m headed to Mexico. You go just south – here’s why. The answer to your questions is down there, in Ding Dong. Go find it.” 

Yes, Ding Dong, TX is a real place. Look it up. The Gatesville Correctional Facility is only about 40 miles away, so I headed there. Obviously I just had to know what the hell was a red monkey. Oh, and Morrus – if you’re reading this, yes I managed to write most of your foreword with my crayon, but in the escape, it got left behind. Probably burned to ashes in the fire. Sorry about that. 

Anyway, after a few adventures you don’t want to hear about, I made my way into Ding Dong, which is pretty ding dang small, but it did have a few buildings. There was the fire station, a Country Pride market, and Holy Crap, right there across the freeway, a small building had a hand-painted sign that said DESMOND ZZYPT, LICENSED DISTRIBUTOR FOR RED MONKEY PRODUCTS 

My mind was focused. My body was ready. All I could see was that sign, looming mightily before me. I remember wondering why the guy didn’t use red paint for his sign, but it was just the usual black on yellow. I staggered across the highway. I never heard the air horn. 

Halfway over, a semi hit me straight up. Killed me dead as a doornail. Always wondered about that phrase. You’d think a coffin nail would be deader than a doornail. Anyway, what with being dead, I feel I’m off the hook for writing the Awfully Cheerful Engine!’s foreword. This message is being sent to the well-known medium Lady Zenobia. She says she’ll pass it along to Morrus, so he can try to get Harlan Ellison instead (snigger). 

Sandy Petersen, Author Ghostbusters RPG 

 P.S. I know some of you want closure on this, so I’ll get another message to Zenobia. You see, when I died, like all game designers, I went straight to Hell. It’s not great here. It’s like the worst game convention of all time. The dice are all rubber, so they keep bouncing off the table. The diet coke is room temperature. Your gaming area is set in between the arcade machines and an ElfQuest Howl. Gaming in Hell. 

Oh yeah, but the Devil lets you ask him one question before you register for the next million years of GehennaCon. So naturally, I asked, “Scratch, whatever in heck are red monkeys?” 

He answered, “Well I could tell you, but really it’s just a long pointless story without a real punchline.”