Adam Ford’s first book, Not Quite the Man for the Job (Allen & Unwin), is reviewed here by The Age. His poems have appeared in Australian journals including Overland Express, The Age, Verandah and Visible Ink. He is editor of & and Going Down Swinging. Evil Robot Monkey with Flaming Sword Evil Robot Monkey with Flaming Sword, I smell the Brimstone of your Arcane Engine and stand hypnotised by the sound of cogs and levers that emanate from your soot-blackened metallic form. Is that sword the Sword that the Adversary carried into battle in his campaign against Heaven? Where did you find such an unholy implement and what evil do you intend with it? Who will stand against you, Evil Robot Monkey? Who has the courage to stare into those pale green eyes to feel their glow wash over their face and not be overcome by fear? What dread purpose do you fulfill? Oh that I could call down the Warrior- Angels and pit them against your Malevolent Program. Yours is an evil that only the purest of heart and deed could stand against and hope to survive. The dire grind of your gears on one another announces your coming, the heat from your sword blisters the clouds themselves and I fear for my very soul. You Should Have Killed the Monkey First It’s funny – all those years ago I was sitting in my pyjamas on a Saturday morning, watching the supervillain once again being carted away by the next-to-useless police after the good guys had triumphed, and I remember thinking how did they do it? He had had them dead to rights, all trussed up in his crazy death-trap machine bristling with lasers, its titanium skin gleaming in the dim light of the basement dungeon but there he was, handcuffed and humiliated and laughing insanely as he promised that they hadn’t seen the last of him and added unconvincingly that he’d get them next time and I screamed with all of the power in my eight-year-old lungs, though I knew that there was no way he could hear me. I screamed the truth as I saw it then, my child’s mind understanding what he had overlooked: "You should have killed the monkey first." Because of course it was the monkey that snuck between the bars on the window and pressed the plainly-labelled off switch on the death-trap which allowed the heroes to free themselves and surprise him as he sat upstairs in his hideout gloating prematurely and planning what his first decree as Emperor of the Universe would be. I had seen it time and time again: the monkey hands the hero the confiscated utility belt or the dog loosens the ropes that bind their arms behind them or sometimes it’s even a kind of bird that flies in at the last minute and snatches the paralysis ray from the villain’s hand. You’d think they’d have picked up on the pattern eventually but it seemed to be a universal blind-spot in would-be world-conquerors, crime bosses, alien menaces and evil geniuses alike. They never saw the mascot as anything other than comedy relief, and they paid the price every time. So now I stand here, blood all down my arms, the tiny decapitated body at my feet. Its little cape is crumpled and pinned underneath its weight and though I’ve levelled mountains with alien machinery and held entire planets hostage, this is the first time I’ve felt remorse for my actions. I learned from the mistakes of my predecessors but now I wonder if there might have been more to their omissions than ignorance. I remind myself that the best plan is one that you stick to no matter what and kick the little corpse into a corner before I step forward. They’re quiet now, though a moment ago they were claiming I’d never get away with it. I think the paradigm shift has been uncomfortable for them. All that remains is for me to tighten the straps and charge up the dynamo and then I can head upstairs. It’ll be hard not to anticipate the door bursting open and their colourful forms zooming in and flying me off to the cops, but somehow I don’t think they’ll be laughing smugly with their hands on their hips as the credits roll this time – the funny thing is I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.