Chuck Wendig has another FFFC; this time to write a story with three sentences. I’m probably going to hell for this one.
Monkey’s brains are filled with cotton wool, the stuff that comes from yarn stores, though he once told Teddy that it came from the bra of a flat-chested stripper from Vegas, and that’s why he thinks the thoughts he does, and he’s made from socks worn by a lumberjack, too, so he could kick anybody’s ass, even the boy who sneaks out the window late, late, late at night.
He knows he’s a he-Monkey because when he wishes he could masturbate, he wants to yank, not to finger, not like the girl who isn’t little anymore, lonely quick movements under her covers, who doesn’t realize his button eyes see in the dark, sewn wide open, watching her, tail stiff and quivering.
His red smile stretches wide, wide, wide, for he will be there long after the boy is gone, smothered up against her soft breasts as she cries; he’s not a jealous Monkey –after all, Teddy doesn’t have a penis either– and no one looks as good in a sock cap as he does.