Free The Ape Man's Brother by Joe R. Lansdale Page A

spoken like someone who had never fucked an old lady. I am not suggesting that I have… Oh, hell. A few times, at fundraisers for charities back in the States.
    “You should inject yourself as well,” said The Woman to me.
    “I can try,” I said, but Dr. Rice and I had discussed this, and it was possible that I was a different enough species it might not take. I didn’t mention that to them, but as you can tell, sitting here with me, my fur as gray as cigar ash, it didn’t work.
    I drew The Big Guy’s blood into the needle, gave a shot of it to The Woman, in the rump, which was a pleasant experience for me, if not her. When it was done, I put the medical tools away, hugged them both, and climbed down to sleep until the break of light. That was when Bowen and I would start our trip to Greenland, and then home. Or we would crash in the ocean when our fuel ran out. I was, of course, hoping for the former.

[16]
     

W e didn’t make it to Greenland. We crashed in the ocean, and damned if the plane didn’t float for a full day and night, and only began to sink the next day. By then we had spotted a steamer and it had spotted us. We were rescued by the crew, and as the ship was on its way to New York City, we were saved.
    So, now, here I am, in my modest apartment, quite aged, having never gone back to my lost world. For the most part, my money is gone, except for a little old age pension, which, of course, is why I have to charge you for the pleasure or my company. And need I mention that I prefer cash, not a check?
    Bowen died some fifteen years ago of a heart attack. Dr. Rice is now a figure of ridicule, as am I and The Big Guy. Who we were, what we did, and where we came from, has been poorly remembered, taken out of context, or forgotten. What is remembered has been mixed with lies. People these days believe more than ever that our story is nothing more than a swindle.
    The entire world from which we came, all that happened to us, is now thought to have been a big fat lie, that I am a man with a strange, hairy condition, and nothing more. Finally that lion screwing event has become even better known, and with the crassness that has become the Americas, it is now shown at a number of venues, and presented frame by frame in numerous magazines. It has robbed The Big Guy of what reputation he once had, and with the money mostly played out from our films, both our reputations have taken a greater hit. Money keeps the paint fresh. When it plays out, the paint begins to peel.
    It’s not all bad. Explorers say there is no such place as we claimed those years ago. There are also plenty who have said my insistence on its existence is merely senility, that I have come to believe the story myself. This protects The Big Guy, and I know you don’t believe me either. I can see it in your eyes.
    That’s okay. I have aged. The serum didn’t work on me. I think it has to do with a different number of chromosomes or something. Yet, I am not senile. I have described it as it was. My mind still works and I still like to visit the ladies. It’s probably a good thing that my species can’t reproduce with yours, or the world would be filled with hairy folks with long toes.
    I am growing tired. I doubt there is anything else left to say that is worth saying. I sit here and remember the old days, and from time to time wonder if I made the right decision to come back to civilization. It’s not a thought that occupies a lot of my time, however. I am for the most part quite happy being civilized; in my old world the weak, the tired, and the wounded die young.
    Looking back, it’s strange the way The Big Guy’s path crossed mine. Stranger yet, the ape has become the man, and the man has become the ape. I was fortunate to know him, and to know The Woman.
    I wonder what happened to them. Did the injection I gave her work? Are they still alive in the jungles of the lost world, hale and hearty, dwelling in their tree house, having