Author's Note

I'm afraid that four reviews immediately following the publication of my stumpy little prologue is more than enough cause for me to continue. Heh. Not that I wouldn't have forced it upon you all anyway. ;)

I've given more thought to this story than I have my other two, so readers can expect it to be a bit longer, containing significantly more plot. I also don't have a whole lot of research to conduct in order for this to work.

Also – I've created a C2 community dedicated to 'Monk' fiction – the Consortium of Defective Detectives – and cheerfully welcome any story submissions.

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Chapter One - "Strapping on Armor"

Oh . . . God.

Hell had risen up beneath him. Or . . .

Perhaps he had died in his sleep. Hundreds of possibilities – images of swallowing his own tongue, inhaling an odorless poison – poked through the soil of the detective's abnormally fertile mind. His slim frame was wracked with a shudder, shoulders to toes.

The fiery little demons, heavily armored with large, jutting appendages at their foreheads and razor beaks, paraded with a haphazard yet terribly mechanical purpose. He felt the moisture depart his mouth as they angled their procession in his direction. In the next instant, he did the only thing any man might be expected to do in such a predicament: he steeled himself with little more than a twitch before leaping for safety.

Adrian Monk landed hard on the countertop. He cringed at the realization of what he had just done (though whether he was more immediately concerned with the wellbeing of the counter or the seat of his pants was unclear), stared back at the thin ribbon of black ants, then ground his teeth and remained seated. He straightened his spine. The soft pads of his fingers kneaded the palm of the opposite hand for a few extended moments before abandoning it for the smooth, plastic surface of the telephone. His dark eyes slid to the breach in the opposite wall extending into the dining room: the phonebook was in his desk.

Monk set the receiver down for a moment as he dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. Retrieving the device and turning it over in his hand so that he might see the keypad, his fingers wavered only fleetingly before punching out the tones of a familiar number.

It rang. Once. Twice. Three times . . . Click.

"Hello?" Full of skepticism. He took care to keep his eyes averted from the floor as he spoke.

"Uh-uhm . . . Sharona? I-It's me. Monk." When all the answer he received was a rustling – a forceful breath against the mouthpiece of his assistant's phone – he dove in hesitantly. "I-Uh-I. . . know that, you know. . . You needed the time off, but would you l-look i-"

"Adrian. Let me explain this to you again: I can't leave; Benjy has the chickenpox; Gail's never had them, and I've had zero luck in finding anyone else in the middle of the week; I haven't been shopping since your last toilet paper crisis and we're scrounging for food. On top of all that, you've neglected to pay me. Again." Monk rolled his shoulder agitatedly. He adjusted the receiver against his ear.

"It's really important. Do you know where I can find a good exterminator? They're absolutely every-Argghh! Oh . . . God!" He fumbled with the phone, as his gaze had drifted, feeling the device tumble easily from his fingers and he winced at the clatter it produced against the floor amongst the growing ranks of the hell pests. He looked after it, his face strained. He tugged feebly at his shirt collar. Retrieval was out of the question.

After removing, neatly folding, and setting his jacket aside, Adrian Monk wrapped his arms about himself, hugging his sides and awaiting some form of salvation.

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Little doubt lingered in Sharona's mind while she replaced the receiver as to what the scream and subsequent crash across the line had meant. To say that Adrian had an exasperating knack for blowing the most trivial thing out of proportion would be an understatement.

From what little she had absorbed during the conversation around the impediment of her rage, she had an idea that his crisis amounted to little more than a mouse or a rag-winged moth. How such creatures could be expected to function long in Monk's pristine environment was well beyond her . . .

Nonetheless . . .

As insignificant as her friend's present affliction might be, it would probably hang him up for hours, and the man was more prone to emotional scars than most. Throwing her hip against the counter and resting her elbow on its cool surface, Sharona rubbed her knuckles along her temple, blue eyes partially concealed, deliberating. She shot a glance toward her son's room. A moment hadn't the opportunity to pass before she caught her attention easing back to the phone. As slim as the chance seemed, the possibility of any real harm coming to Adrian did not pass unnoticed through that primal gateway of maternal instinct. This no longer surprised her. It was not often that the nurse, even subconsciously, tried to make sense of her relationship with her boss, but more and more frequently now, when it did come up, she could only see herself as the guardian to his interpretation of particularly difficult child. Even on the occasions when he didn't drive her absolutely nuts.

Sharona groaned before effecting a brisk trot to her bedroom door and turning to open her closet. She tore a blue sweater from its hanger (which jumped quivering from its perch and clunked to the floor; she didn't seem to take any notice) and reached to pull a thick and faded blanket for Benjy.

. . . And on to the theatre of war.