Chapter One: Morning rituals at Monkey house

I woke up earlier than usual--it was 9 am. The sun already shined through my little room in the Monkey house. I thought what an irony, in the State of New York, on Long Island, in Brookville village, where the real-estates are among the most expensive ones in the world, for the past three months I’ve been waking up in the biggest fucking dump. Horrendous! The Monkey house, or rather a little stinking building with nine rooms about fifty two s. . .

        He walked, head bent into the wind.  The tail of his coat danced behind him as his collar clung to his throat.  The images were seared into his mind.  He had arrived at the apartment and found the door kicked in, the jamb splintered like so many toothpicks.  He felt a weight in his hand.  He had unholstered his gun by instinct.  He slipped through the doorway and padded quietly down the hall.  There was light in the living area but the shadows were off ki. . .

One breezy morning, where the wild flowers grow and the soaring birds sing high and low, beyond the river and through the wood, upon a hill six young bucks stood.

They lowered their heads and kicked the ground! Once they collided, you heard the sound, "Clickety clack! Bang and rattle!” Pairs of bucks in playful battle.

This morning’s lesson is competition, these tough young bucks all have a mission. Each buck’s duty is the same: learn to fight or lose the game. Dama di. . .