The Fear of Monkeys - The Best E-Zine on the Web for Politically Conscious WritingThe Banded Leaf Monkey - Issue Twenty
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The Blanded Leaf Monkey: photo from Christian ArtusoThe Banded Leaf Monkey is a species of monkey which is endemic to the Thai-Malay Peninsula and the island of Sumatra. It is diurnal and is found in mixed mangrove, primary freshwater, riverbank, primary lowland logged, scrub-grassland riverbank, and secondary riverbank habitats. Arboreal and gregarious, it is primarily frugivorous, as its diet consists principally of fruit and immature leaves. It is found in taller trees of swampy peat forest in Malay Peninsula, while in Singapore it is limited to primary, secondary, swamp, and dryland rainforests of the Central Catchment Nature Reserve where less than 40 individuals still struggle to exist. Considering the extensive habitat loss that has taken place within the range of the species, there is reason to believe that this species is in decline, probably at a rate of less than 30% over three generations (approximately 30 years), thus qualifying if for listing as Near Threatened. Additionally, infant mortality rate is extremely high for these monkeys - probably more than 50 per cent, which greatly affects their replacement numbers. Deforestation and conversion of habitat would appear to be the major threats to this species. It is particularly affected by oil palm plantations, which are expanding very rapidly within its range. In Singapore, which cites the monkey as precious to their history, there is an effort to protect the remaining forest habitats, and to police its habitat against poaching and human disturbances.


Shake Off the Night: A Peabody Winston Back Porch Tale


Peabody Winston

The door to the bar opens. A man in a big Levi jacket steps in. He stamps his boots and some snow falls off, his laces are undone.

He's got an old Beech-Nut Chewing Tobacco, greasy-dirty baseball cap. He takes this off, and hangs it on his Levi jacket. He's got long johns under a red and blue lumberjack shirt. Brown hair, average looking, brown and gray scruff of beard. He's somewhere between 5'10 and 6'0 feet tall. He walks over to the bar and gets a stool.

"Gimme three shots of rum and a Rolling Rock or Coors-whatever beer you got."

"I got Rolling Rock."

"Which bathroom?"

The bartender points to it and he heads there. He comes back and takes a hit from the green bottle, then downs a rum. He taps out a Marlboro light and lights it.

"How's the property?"

"OK. I got some house and barn work to do."

"Nice set up. Property paid for, trained as a trucker now. And I hear you get military checks."

"Yea, retired checks, house, and inherited pop's rig and pick up."

He takes a drag, downs another rum and tips the bottle.

"One more?"

"No, I'll stick to my usual."

He heads over to the door and gets his jacket and hat. He waves at the bar.

Under one of the lights in the parking lot, his purple rig sits. "Value Trucking-Since 1975" it reads on the cab doors.

He opens a door, gets in and shakes out another smoke. He starts her up. He heads to his little farm. His mother and father left him the place when they were killed in an auto wreck. He was away in Iraq. He did his time from 1992-2011.

The property was real secluded, with acres all around. These days, except for some animals, not a soul in sight.

The purple rig had its' own garage, which had all the things needed to work on it and other farm equipment.

He jumped out and opened the garage doors, then he pulled it in. They built it half as long again as the truck for nights when they unloaded behind closed doors. Inclement weather. He shut off the engine and shut the doors to the garage.

The man opened the trailer doors, and there were 5-6 wooden crates, a couple of larger ones in the back towards the cab. He walked in and went to one at the very back of the trailer. He pulled a piece of wood away and there was a number pad, like in a government building. He tapped in the number. It opened.

Inside there was a big container that looked like it had something fragile in it. It had another pad. He pressed these numbers, it opened, and there sat a middle-eastern looking man, bound and gagged.

Inside a prison you can hear screams, and see blue and orange lights of electricity bouncing off the walls. We see the passage ways and some prisoners in their orange "terrorist" suits. In one room a man, an army officer, is lifting a black hood off of a prisoner. It is the same two men from the garage on the farm.

On the news:

"The last of the prisoners being transferred from the Guantanamo Bay facility took place today."

The picture shows an overhead view of the facility.

At an Army transition point:

"Sir, you are just about wrapped up here."

An army Sgt. First Class is handing a file to an officer.

"Well, you look like you made it in one piece sir."

The future truck driver stares at the file.

"If you wouldn't mind sir, I would like to salute a 20 year man."

The two men stand, they salute. The man stands and his folder reads: retired.

On a talk show:

"There is no question that the Iraq war will have a lot of mental illness going home with the troops."

"Can you give us examples?"

"Flashback, post-trauma, tremors, ADHD, ADD, nightmares, etc."

"A real mix of problems. We are finding cases, like years earlier in the Vietnam war, of soldiers who feel like they have unfinished business. They can't shake the feeling of having orders they couldn't make happen."

An outside view of the farm. Through a window you see the blue, orange light. You can hear a man scream. The farm is dark.

Peabody Winston is a teller of children's tales on the front porch. A teller of adult business, tales, politics and BS with the folks on the back porch. Peabody Winston and Sons Country Store and Bait Shop in Prescott, Arizona. We got specials for wife-beaters and pedo-filo-freaks in the woods just off the store. Your scream will echo off the lake. Schlitz, JD, Beech-nut chew and Marlboro lights will be provided.You may find Peabody Winston at
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