Monkey Leather

It seemed like such a simple thing at first. I mean, it was just a wallet.  Small, brown, folding and unassuming, it sat there on the edge of the street, leaning against the curb as if it were placed there on purpose.  All I was thinking of doing was picking it up, figure out who it went to, and either return it or bringing it to the police department. 

I didn’t even have a moment to open it before it was snatched from my hands.  The figure that leapt away only stayed in my sight for a moment, ducking around a corner.  I shrugged; it wasn’t my wallet after all, and chasing after someone who could have easily arrived shortly before I did seemed like more trouble than it would be worth.  The metallic sound from the alleyway meant that he was either jumping a fence or climbing onto the fire escape of the building, so either way I didn’t stand much of a chance catching him.


So you can imagine my surprise when, rounding the next corner on the same block, I find the wallet on the ground in front of me, lazily laying on the sidewalk as if it were tired of waiting for me.  It took me a moment to notice the nearby pool of blood that didn’t quite make it all the way to the soft brown leather.  I picked up the wallet once again and followed the path.  Afraid to look but unable to stop myself, I pushed myself around the corner to look down the nearby alleyway.  All I managed to see before I pulled myself back was a human body, broken on the ground, its head twisted at an impossible angle and far smaller than it should have been.


The police station was only two blocks away, and I don’t believe I have run faster in my life.  I escorted an officer to the scene, explaining what had happened and handing over the wallet afterward.  She was quite kind, doing her best to make sure I was ok after encountering my first dead body.  After checking with a few people who were standing nearby, she insisted I go home.


Knowing she was one of the few good police officers I had dealt with in my life made it that much harder when I found her body near my front door, two small, neat holes steaming in her chest right near her heart.  The wallet stood nonchalantly nearby in the grass, open curiously but with no signs of being disturbed.


I looked inside.  There were few identifying objects; no credit cards, no license, just a few of those discount grocer deals and a few business cards, none of which matched.  One of them stood out: a collectibles shop that seemed to sell leather items.  Seemed as good a place to start as any.


The owner of the place seemed as confused as I was when I showed him the wallet.  He did manage to tell me one thing before the display of swords behind him dropped suddenly off the wall, a well-honed katana slicing his hand off at the wrist, the wallet tumbling from his grip and coming to a gentle rest against the inside of my foot.


He told me that the leather was made from the hide of a monkey.  It was enough told that I was not surprised when his hand stood up and ran off on its own long before the paramedics arrived to try and save him.


So please, guy with the gun outside the subway station, I’m telling you one last time, for your own sake: Do not take my wallet.