I tossed a piece of cooked pork over my shoulder without even turning. A soft thud and the rustle of leaves told me it landed exactly where I wanted.
A monkey—small, scrappy, wide-eyed—scurried from behind a tree, scooped it up like treasure, and disappeared into the brush, dragging it like a stolen jewel.
Ten minutes later, he came back. This time, with a log.
The barter had begun.
It took time. A few trials. Some burned pork. One monkey nearly set his fur on fire trying to climb over the cooking flames. But once the system was in place, it clicked.
Stick and carrot.
Work for meat.
Trade a log, get a snack.
And soon enough, I had a full crew of forest monkeys acting like dock workers—dragging logs, dropping branches, clearing leaves around the campfire. All for pieces of sizzling meat that crisped in their noses and made their eyes widen like kids at a carnival.
They were clever.
Too clever, maybe.
But this was One Piece. A world where skeleton sailed with reindeer doctors and islands were pulled by giants.
So partying with monkeys?
That didn't even crack the top ten of weird.
---
The fire crackled nearby, casting dancing shadows against the trees. I turned back to the pork belly—still cooking slow in its own fat, skin side down, sizzling gently in the metal pan like music.
I sprinkled on a mix of salt, dried herbs, and a bit of chili powder I'd gotten from a spice trader weeks back. It stuck to the fat, melted in the oil, and bloomed into something smoky and sharp.
I lifted the pork belly from the pan and took a bite.
Crunch.
The skin gave way with the sound of shattered glass. A crisp, crackling shell that gave just enough resistance to make the bite satisfying.
Beneath it?
Soft. Juicy. Rich with rendered fat. The kind of meat that melted slightly the moment it hit the tongue. The oil dripped down my chin as I chewed, and I didn't care.
It was perfect.
The condiments hit the back of my throat with heat, the salt brought the natural pork flavor to life, and the texture—the texture—made the effort of butchering, smoking, and cooking all worth it.
I ate the rest in three more bites.
Then I wanted more.
I carefully poured the excess oil from the pan into a small metal container—fat like that wasn't just flavor, it was fuel. Good for pan-frying, for oil lamps, even for trading if things got rough. I set it to the side, well away from the heat.
Another monkey dropped a log near the fire, looked at me expectantly.
I tossed a still-sizzling piece of shoulder cut over.
Fair was fair.
---
I hauled the newest logs to the second fire, the one set apart from the smoker. The logs went in, and I added another layer of vegetation—herbs, bark, green leaves to keep the smoke clean and aromatic.
Then I returned to the cabin.
I paused at the door.
I'd been thinking about it since earlier—since I watched the blood leave those boars and crawl back into my skin. I had a skeleton left.
Time to test a theory.
Grabbing the remaining meat bundle and the skeleton, I brought both back to the fire.
The monkeys were already gathering again, eyeing the smoking rack like it was a golden altar.
One young one was bold enough to climb the side and reach for a half-dried rib.
I didn't shout. Just raised a hand and waved him off.
He flinched—then leapt back, tail curled, chittering guiltily.
I reached up and relocated the finished pieces, then carefully**hooked more slabs of meat to smoke.
Then I walked to the fire, tossed the skeleton straight in.
Bones crackled. Popped. Fire hissed as marrow ignited and steam burst from bone.
I sliced neat cuts from the shoulder and belly—big enough to cook clean and be worth the trouble.
The pork belly went back into the pan—fresh and thick—and the rest I skewered, turning each wooden stick slowly over the flames. The fat dripped, feeding the fire below in spurts of orange flare.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed three monkey kids watching me closely.
And then—they mimicked me.
Each held a thin branch. Each carefully skewered bits of raw meat I'd left on the butchering stump. Then, with intense concentration, they turned the sticks over the fire, just like I did.
The meat started to brown.
Steam rose.
Then, impatient as ever, one monkey bit in too soon and screamed, dropping the skewer and hopping in place, fanning his mouth.
I couldn't help the laugh that escaped.
I took his skewer, checked the heat—still raw inside—and tossed it into the fire.
The others looked at me, understanding blooming in their wide brown eyes.
Don't eat too early.
They began turning their sticks slower now, watching the flames, copying my motions.
Still drooling.
Still tempted.
But learning.
---
A moment later, three older monkeys dropped a bunch of bananas near my foot.
I raised an eyebrow.
They pointed—first at the bananas, then at the skewers, then back to themselves.
I blinked.
A trade?
A trade without utilizing effort on finding logs. Damn they are much smarter than I thought.
I gave a slow nod.
They exploded in celebration—jumping up and down, clapping their hands, doing little spins of joy. A few of the younger ones whooped and blew air on the meat they were cooking, trying to cool it faster.
I watched as one monkey took a perfect bite. Blew on it first, then chewed, then sighed.
He sat down cross-legged like a man who'd just eaten his first real meal in years.
One by one, the monkeys followed, forming a half-circle around the fire, each with a skewer in hand, each watching the flame, waiting for the perfect moment to eat.
I sat among them, pork belly sizzling in the pan beside me.
Smoke curled into the night sky.
The jungle was quiet, save for crackling logs and the occasional happy monkey noise.
-------------
One of the older monkeys barked something sharp and quick, its voice slicing through the chatter like a stone on steel. The younger monkey—small, eager, and clearly caught in the middle of some crime against monkey etiquette—froze mid-bite, cheeks puffed out with half-chewed pork belly.
His wide eyes darted between me, the fire, and the elder.
Then he did what any guilty kid would do.
He ran—meat still in his mouth, dragging two of his friends by their arms. The elder grunted again, less a rebuke this time, more a signal.
Whatever they were doing, it wasn't over.
I didn't chase. I had no idea what kind of monkey drama I'd just witnessed, but my role in this jungle dinner theater was clearly that of the cook, not the chaperone.
Instead, I turned my attention back to my pork belly.
The one on the pan hissed as it cooked in its own rich fat, skin curling slightly at the edges, beginning to blister and harden. I slid it across the surface with the back of my knife, letting the heat sear every inch.
The scent rising from the pan was almost criminal—the crackle of fat, the spice mix caramelizing on the meat, the sweet smoke curling from the embers.
I poured the rendered oil into my container again, careful not to spill even a drop. It glistened in the light like liquid gold—an asset too valuable to waste.
Then I picked up the last cooked piece and bit in.
Crunch.
The monkeys all turned at the sound.
It was unmistakable.
That clean, crisp snap of skin breaking beneath teeth—like biting into flame-crackled sugar. Their eyes followed my every chew, every movement of my jaw. Drool dangled shamelessly from the mouths of more than a few.
I didn't rush. That would've been cruel.
But I did savor it. The contrast between the crisp shell and the tender, juicy meat underneath made every bite feel earned. My hands were sticky with grease. My face probably glowed in the firelight like a demon king from some old tale.
And that's when I heard the commotion from the trees.
The younger monkey was back—and this time, not empty-handed.
Trailing behind him were several others, all hauling containers: half-coconuts carved into bowls, hollowed bamboo tubes, cracked clay jars with rope handles, even an old rusted tin that definitely came from some long-lost marine ration pack.
The smell hit me first.
Bitter. Herbal. Pungent.
Even with the pork smoke hanging in the air, this scent cut through. Sharp. Complex. Something between fermented fruit and crushed medicine.
Wine.
I had smelled wine before on Meshi diner. But this was stronger. Better. And if I wasn't wrong. Monkey Wine.
In Chinese Mythology, Monkey Wine—rare, almost mythical—was said to grant godlike properties.
And now, monkeys were offering it to me, holding up their containers with the same serious eyes they used for trade.
For a cultivation-weeb wine lover, this would have been a dream come true.
The elder pointed at the pork belly still cooking on the pan.
I nodded.
Deal.
The moment I agreed, the elder stepped forward—lifted a stick, flipped the belly once, and waited. Not rushing it. Not fumbling. Just… cooking. Perfectly.
I stared.
How smart.
This world never stops surprising me.
I grabbed two of the biggest containers—one a smooth gourd sealed with tree sap, the other a hollow log sealed with banana leaf plugs—and carried them toward the smoking fire.
The coals were still alive, the smoke curling lazily into the dark sky.
I threw in logs and blew air on it, igniting the fire. I threw in the vegetation making the smoke rise again.
I uncorked the wine and poured a stream directly onto the fire.
It hissed like a dragon, then flared—a brief, flickering blaze, not explosive, but intense. And the smell that followed?
Unreal.
That sharp herbal tang hit the air with the richness of slow decay and old trees. Something primal. Something ancestral. It laced the smoke, wrapped around the drying meat, and seemed to soak into the jungle itself.
I took a breath and felt it all the way to my bones. My knees went a little loose. Either from heat, hunger—or maybe the scent was enough to get a man tipsy.
Whatever it was, it worked.
The smoked meat would carry that scent now. That flavor.
I carried the last sealed container back to the cabin. It was heavy. Aged. You could hear the slosh of fermented fruit and bark inside. I found a place behind my bedroll and tucked it into a dry box, wedging it in with cloth. This one was for later.
When I stepped back outside, the party had begun.
---
The fire was surrounded now—not just by monkeys eating, but by monkeys dancing.
One had jumped into the center of the circle, spinning wildly on two legs, holding his arms above his head like a drunken martial artist. The others laughed—yes, laughed—and clapped, stomping their feet, bouncing in rhythm.
Every few seconds, one would take a bite of pork, blow on it theatrically, then toss the stick into the air and howl at the sky.
Their faces were bright, flushed from the heat—or maybe the wine. A few had already curled up near the coals, bellies full, eyes glassy.
I sat down on a log, just far enough from the fire not to be roasted but close enough to feel the warmth.
The monkeys didn't mind my presence. If anything, they welcomed it.
One small monkey climbed up beside me and handed me a half-skewer—two bites left on it. He pointed at the dancers, then back at me, as if asking, Why aren't you up there?
I took the skewer, nodded, and patted his head.
"Maybe after one more drink."
The air was thick now—not unpleasant, just dense. With smoke. With scent. With the invisible weight of meat and fire and wine.
It wrapped around all of us, bound by no language, no plan—just the shared miracle of food and flame and night.
---
The pork kept cooking. The logs burned low. The smoke curled high.
Monkeys danced, tumbled, laughed, and swayed.
Some passed out with arms across their chests like tiny drunks at a wedding.
Others still sat chewing slowly, eyes half-lidded in meat-filled bliss.
And me?
I jumped right in with the crowd.
Let the world be weird.