I had a monkey named
Steve when I was little.
Everybody had their friends, or their pets, or their friends which were their pets, and I had Steve. I spent a lot of time with Steve when I was young. The
friendship that I found in Steve was a strong one. He was all in all, a pretty cool
monkey, in his own way. Steve... well, Steve spit on things.
When I first got Steve, he spit on me. Mom started yelling at him, so he spit on her. Mom proceeded to hit him with a rolled up newspaper, but she knocked him out cold and he drooled all over her new shoes, which made it as if he'd spit on her again. I congratulated Steve on his efforts, adding another wad of saliva to my mother's person so that she'd be thrice spat upon. Following this, I spit on my sister in celebration. She knocked me out cold.
When I came to, I was laying on the floor of my room with my ankles bound to my wrists by electrical tape. I was stuck there, lying prone. Steve was not. Steve had a few pieces of tape on his ankles, but he'd been able to chew them with his mouth, as he was such a flexible monkey. He was mainly concerned with running around my room, smattering my stuffed animals with his spit and feces. I wasn't happy with Steve any more. I began to wriggle toward the door of my room, shouting my mom's name, but Steve turned his attention to me and smattered me with his spit and feces. I was less happy with Steve now. But now that my room and my body were smattered by his spit and feces, I thought that my mom might make him stop, at least, so I called out her name again, and heard her feet running upstairs.
I had wriggled quite a ways from the middle of the room, so that by the time mom opened the door, she was able to hit me in the head with it. She knocked me out cold. Then she saw what Steve had done to my room. She threw Steve out the window and, when I came to, apologized for having taped us up without the realization that Steve would've gotten loose. I thought this was okay, but it turns out that I was in shock, because of the severe trauma I'd suffered with Steve and my mom and my sister and all the spitting and hitting that had been done that day, so I got to spend some time in the hospital with Steve.
The fall had hurt Steve pretty bad, and he wasn't moving too much on the first night. Without telling anybody or making too much noise... I spit on him.