Lincoln Lee shivered and stamped his feet in the cold dark night as Peter knocked on the front door of the Markham residence.
"Maybe he's not here?" Lee asked hopefully.
The two of them were being forced to seek out temporary shelter until Lincoln's apartment was fumigated and professionally cleaned and repaired after the beer-swilling cockroach and polychromatic frog incidents. Lee was surprised and grateful that Broyles had volunteered to pay for the repairs and cleanup; it was probably the only reason he hadn't been evicted by his landlady yet.
Of course, the local SWAT team was really the reason they'd been turned out for the next few nights. They had apparently decided to use the incident as a field training exercise, and had proceeded to use flash-bang grenades, sub-machine guns and a machete to slay the giant frog that had taken residence in his apartment.
"No, I told him what time we'd be here," said Peter. "He would never pass up a chance for me to owe him one."
They'd spent the afternoon loading their possessions into Lincoln's car. Peter, of course, had next to nothing, since he'd only returned to existence scant months before, and his possessions filled one army rucksack which took five minutes to pack at most. So with plenty of time to kill, Peter had spent the rest of the afternoon mocking Lincoln's comparatively abundant and glamorous material goods as he helped him pack.
The door opened. The two Fringe Division agents were confronted with the sight of a four foot tall chimpanzee wearing a stereotypical butler uniform. The chimp held a crumpled piece of paper out to Peter.
"Oh, God," Peter said in a resigned tone. "He was serious about the butler-monkey."
Peter took the note from the chimpanzee and carefully smoothed it out against the wall, then read it out loud.
"Dear Friends" said Peter in an imitation of Markham. "Sorry, but I had to step out to get some supplies for your visit. The monkey's name is Merve. He can help you move in. Don't worry, he's harmless; just make sure you tip him. I'll be back soon."
Peter sighed, then turned to the chimp. "Okay, Merve! Follow me."
He started walking back towards the car, followed by his simian assistant.
Lincoln stammered. "Uh...I'm not sure I want a chimpanzee touching my stuff."
Peter smirked. "Whoa, Linc, I didn't know you were a racist! Or...a specieist?"
"I'm not! It's just... Where have his hands been, you know?"
Peter laughed at his squeamishness. "Probably nowhere Markham's haven't. Look, he's an extra pair of hands. We can get the car unpacked in ten minutes tops with his help."
Lincoln couldn't think of a good argument against that logic. And sure enough, the chimp proved to be a capable porter, and they had the car unloaded in ten minutes flat.
The chimp added the last suitcase to the neat pile on the foyer, then turned to Peter, clapped his hands and held one out, palm up.
Peter looked amused. "I think Merve wants a tip!"
Lincoln chuckled. "What do you tip a monkey, anyway?"
"Markham probably has treats in the fridge for him." Peter entered the kitchen and opened the fridge. "Huh."
The refrigerator was filled with small, green, unlabeled bottles. He pulled one bottle out and used the can opener on his multitool to open it. He took a sniff and winced, then cautiously took a sip, and proceeded to have a coughing fit.
Lincoln entered the kitchen. "Hey, Pete? You aright?"
Peter nodded, still coughing. He handed the open bottle to Lincoln.
"What's this?" Lincoln said, eying the bottle with distrust.
"Markham's Best. It seems he has started making moonshine."
Both of them were dumbfounded when Merve the chimpanzee reached one long arm into the kitchen, snatched the bottle out of Lincoln's hand and took a sip. Then the chimp casually walked into Markham's living room, sipping shine.
Lincoln did a double take. "Were we supposed to give the monkey moonshine?"
Peter shrugged. "He seems used to it...let's see what happens."
Upon returning home, Ed Markham knew something was amiss. His instincts, honed by voracious reading of mystery novels, caused every little detail to stand out. The front door, hanging from a single hinge. The fire in the garbage can. The smell of burning corn whiskey.
These were clues that someone of less perceptive nature would easily miss.
He wondered if his friends from the FBI – Peter Bishop and that Lee guy – had been attacked by a serial killer or international terrorist in his home. He desperately hoped so; he was in need of a good story to tell at the bookseller's convention next month.
Markham cautiously opened the front door. His house was a mess. Furniture was thrown around, pictures were askew, and there were unknown, organic substances splashed on the walls. He proceeded into the living room, to find Peter Bishop using a fire extinguisher to put out the inferno engulfing his couch, and Lincoln Lee giving CPR to a monkey in a butler costume.
This was going to be a great story, he thought. He wondered how he could make himself out to be the hero.
Peter jumped when he noticed his diminutive friend.
"Oh, hey, Markham...um...we're sorry, but the chimpanzee got into your stash of moonshine..."
Markham looked at Peter, puzzled. Behind Peter, he saw Lee seal his lips to the chimp's mug and exhale forcefully into the primate's lungs.
"...Chimpanzee?" Markham asked.
Bishop glared at him. "Merve! Your butler-monkey!"
Markham shook his head. "What are you talking about? I don't have a chimpanzee! I was just pulling your leg about that!"
The three of them froze in stunned silence for a moment as the couch smouldered and the chimpanzee cradled in Lee's arms finally started gasping for breath on his own, until at last Lee verbalized the mystery each of them was pondering.
"...Then who the hell's monkey is this?"