Demons

His hand falls back down to his side and he gets his composure like nothing happened. "Denim?" He asks smugly.

"Yes?"

"Didn't I ask you to speak with Melatonin in armory, hmm?"

"Yes. Yes, you did. But, see, something happened along the way. Something happened and I can't remember it, but I'm pretty sure I was attacked by something. You say it's a monkey – that's fine. But –"

"Monkeys. You know what the monkeys are for, Denim?" He's looking at his fist again, like he's proud of what he did to it. It's black and blue and bloody all over, like some shitty kid's riddle.

"George, I have a feeling I've been waiting my whole life to find out what the monkeys are for."

"Really?" He looks up at me. George is a bald man, and as he looks up the light from the fluorescents hit his bald head and there's this glare that makes his face look like an apparition from the dead, glowing with angelic power. "The monkeys are for the armies, Denim."

"Yeah, I get that. I know that we make things for warfare, but why monkeys? And who are we at war with? Who is trying to attack Mercury?"

"The armies of the night." He's not listening to me.

"What armies of the night?"

"What's worse than knowing that you have cancer, Denim." He's acting really smug now, like the bad guy in a movie, right before his goons come out from behind some sliding black door.

"I'm not sure. What's is worse than knowing that you have cancer?"
"Not knowing." He lays it out there and then, quickly, "Not knowing you have cancer is worse. Not knowing if some lump is going to end your days. Not knowing whether your boss is meeting with you to fire you or talk about the next mon-key pro-ject." He's talking in sing-song now, so I realize I'm either going to die or kill him here.

"What does that have to do with the monkeys?"

"Denim, Denim, Denim." I'm three years old again.

"Yes?"

"Denim, the monkeys are here for confusion." He's back at looking at his fist now. But, there's something odd about it. It's hanging, as if broken, but it's hanging pointing up, like he's got rigor mortis.

"Well, I'm confused."

"And you should be. We've been trying to confuse you, but you-just-don't-learn!" He twists the fist around and pulls while grimacing hard. A long, metal rod comes out of his arm along with the fist.

George has a weapon now.

I jump off the table and run to the door. I open it and run out, slamming it behind me.

I'm down the hall, near...I have no idea where I am. There's cubicles all over, with people busily working on monkeys or interplanetary confusion, or whatever they do here. I don't know anymore. I look back and George is nowhere.
People are coming out of cubes, looking at me funny. I realize George is the only one who can explain why I'm there. Rather than having to explain myself, I opt to find the homicidal mad thing that brought me here.

I walk back to the conference room and peer in the windows.

George is impaled on his arm thing, laid out on the conference table.

His head is facing me and I realize that