the naked heelers

A bipedal primate ape called James Healy enters the bookshop in Kilcullen seeking a comely she chimpanzee with which to propagate his bio chemistry, or perhaps a browsing antelope to slay and feed on its blood and entrails, or failing that maybe just to buy a book.
He is stark buck naked.
Except for his clothes of course which in any case are merely talismanic representations of genetic aspiration and hardly worth mentioning.
James is a fifty three year old hitherto unmated ape.
He looks around the bookshop warily.
In the corner sits a similarly naked, except for his clothes, ninety two year old silverback gorilla called Desmond Morris.
Desmond Morris is one of the most famous writers in the English speaking world.
His fame is prodigious.
At various and continuing times in his life he has been a renowned scientist, a celebrated writer, an avant garde thinker, and ultimately now something of a cultural icon.
His most famous book is The Naked Ape.
In it he asserts that human beings are animals and nothing else.
Although the book seems to have a scientific and philosophical narrative import, it is really nothing more than a sort of extended mating call, a bullock belling in the evening mist as it were, or a bull. Although Desmond Morris had already mated at the time he wrote it, you can never be too sure in these matters.
He's kept writing and publishing up to the present for some reason.
Or more probably, for no reason at all.
Poetry, socio biology, and art criticisms, and, er art, so it seems to me.
But in actuality nothing of the sort.
In actuality his every book, his every painting, his every word, is merely the meaningless clarion call of an animal, the excresence, the accidental genetic by product, of our aforementioned bullock belling in the fields, or maybe in moodier moments, a lone wolf baying the moon, or more charmingly a Jack Russell yelping for a biscuit, and with no other meaning.
His every book boils down to "Moooooo," or "Awoooooooooooo," or "woof."
The naked James stands at the counter of the bookshop.
He can hear Desmond Morris talking about his books. (Desmond Morris is talking about Desmond Morris' books not James Healy's books which scholarly simians might guess he hasn't read because like God they don't exist.)
The talk sounds coherent but is of course merely the grunting of an ape.
Tantor unk monganis unk, as we do unk in the trade.
The proprietress of the shop, a young mated gibbon, also naked except for her clothes, looks nervously at James.
What on earth is she thinking?
Does she think James is going to be rude to one of the most famous atheistic ape writers in the English language?
Truth be told, James wants to beat his flabby manboobs (James' own flabby manboobs of course) and thereby challenge Desmond Morris the superior dominant male.
Failing that, he'd really love to talk to him.
"A pity you don't have another table here," James unks sotto voce to the proprietress. "I'd love to just sit there and listen in to that guy."
The proprietress doesn't seem to hear and contents herself by bringing a libation of something to Desmond Morris, in a ritual herd ceremony known among Kilcullen apes as giving someone a cup of tea.
While the boss gibbon is tending to Desmond Morris, a pleasantly apportioned naked but for her clothes marmoset, obeying her genes in being a counter assistant (also mated), approaches James.
"Can I help you?" she unks.
James would dearly love to impress Desmond Morris.
The desire to impress the older gorilla is probably attributable to one of James' selfish genes (Mortie Steinervotzel in Sector 7-G) making unealistic demands again.
James is also unsure whether he has enough coconuts in his pocket to pay for any purchases.
A little sheepishly he unks: "I'm here to collect my books."
"What books?" unks the counter assistant loudly.
James shrugs his evolved shoulders.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
"I have about five on order," he unks, "A Man For All Seasons, you know the Saint Thomas More thing, The Song Of Bernadette by Franz Wurfel about the apparitions at Lourdes, The Life Of Saint Patrick In His Own Words with a new introduction by the author. That's hilarious I think. A new introduction by the author. I didn't know Saint Patrick was still bringing out new stuff. It was a real coup by the publishers to get him. Oh and Finbar O'Leary's Interview With Vicka, the Medjugorje visionary. Even though I haven't endorsed Medjugorje much less Vicka. And Ron Schoeman's Honey From The Rock about Jewish people who entered the Catholic Church."
The counter maruspial rummages for the books and charges James eighty five meaningless tokenistic Euro for them. The price includes a libation of hot chocolate which they don't throw in for free.
James sips his hot chocolate and wonders if he buys a copy of The Naked Ape would that serve as a pretext to go over to Desmond Morris and ask for an autograph.
He is trying to summon up the courage.
But Desmond Morris has beetled off and is no longer in the shop.
The proprietress smiles.
"Thank you James," she unks. "You were very restrained.
"What must you people think of me?" unks James. "You think I'm going to be obnoxious to a preeminent writer, philosopher, artist, poet and socio biologist just because he's famous? What am I? Some yob down the boozer who wants to punch George Best just to be able to say he's done it? Even if I disagree with someone, I still respect them, particularly someone like Desmond Morris who has obtained such a prodigious and lasting fame while being wrong about everything. You've gotta admire the genetic determinants it takes to pull that one off.  He was mugging God in back alleys when Richard Dawkins was just a random variable of inherent probability in the milkman's eye. He's the non pareil, I tells ee. Phenomenal achievement. Did I mention he's wrong about everything? He's like an anthropological Robert Fisk. Other's abide my question he is free. I'm surprised at you young Gibbon. I respect him I tell you and would never embarrass him or you. And when we were momentarily beside each other browsing at the book shelf over there, I only gave him the faintest of elbow jostles. If you'd blinked, you'd have missed it."