3.7°C Not observed 
From the heights of Red Rock, Frankie Friday, awash in the dim moon-light of a warm June night’s eve, solemnly gazes upon the village. He is content.
He knows somewhere out there the marmots are smoking their pipes, drinking tea and playing games of scramble with each other. My man Friday remembers his old beer/hockey/quad days and inwardly smiles.
So much more than a mere yahoo.com mustache has Friday become, that many people currently question his authenticity. Friday has become a disco devotee, championing the rights and freedoms of our community’s marmots.
I too used to have a completely different identity. I have not always gone by the name of Dr. Sum-Day-Tuesday (Secret Boundary), but used to be disillusioned telemarketer.
Let us return to this magnanimous ledged of transformation and Lillooetian glory, otherwise known as: The chronicles of Tuesday (Part 7)
The gnome in a bunny suit turned sharply and ran down a side street, taking him into the murky depths of Vancouver’s Chinatown district.
As I continued this mindless pursuit, I remembered the mysterious voice on the telephone earlier that day: “…Follow you must. Unquestioning whiskers you must trust…”
What was I doing? I was following a rabbit!
I started slowing my frenzied sprint after the midget as I recalled the next part of the Cantonese-accented message I had heard at work earlier: “…Spectres shall drone, dragons shall way…”
My rabbit suddenly turned around and started running at me. It‘s an entirely different feeling when the chased all of a sudden turns into the chaser. I stopped and almost turned to flee when the fluffy white fellow quickly dashed sideways down into an alley.
These infamous alleys that line the perimeter of Vancouver’s Chinatown are notorious for being amongst the darkest in Canada.
Without thinking, I picked up my pace again and continued my pursuit. Momentarily, my eyes crossed over a street sign adorned with a dragon. What was I doing?
From high above the alley walls, a tidal wave of whitely clad monkeys, sporting rubber Colonel Sanders masks, crashed down upon me.
In retrospect I sort of understand why the monkeys were dressed like the KFC guy, but at the time I had little time to make sense of the situation.
The monkey horde tore and ripped at my clothing and being as I screamed in horror. Ask anyone who has met a monkey outside of a zoo and they can attest to the aggressive potential of these primates; nothing more frightening than a team of monkeys having their way with you in a dirty Vancouver alley.
Muffling my cries, they stuffed my mouth full of fried chicken, collectively hoisted me into the air, and ran my naked body down the alley.
Next thing I knew, I was being carried three storeys up the side of a wall and across rooftops. From rooftop to rooftop we flew, under the cover of night, till we touched down in a wondrous rooftop garden oasis.
The glow from the streets below provided sufficient light to gaze about this heavenly wonder. There were finely manicured trees, shrubs and flowers forming a perimeter around a rock garden and pond.
The monkeys gingerly deposited my vulnerable form amongst a grove of cherry and maple trees; dazed and abused, I felt the soothe of breeze and rustle of leaves.
Slipping away into nothingness, Colonel Sanders’ primate minions flew.
To be continued!
