“Let me get this straight. You’re a World War II fighter pilot,” I say to Ack-Ack, the one-eyed, cigar-chomping macaque as he leads me through the corridor of the airship.
“But it’s 2059.”
“What’s your question?” He glares, a daiquiri glass clenched in his left paw.
“How do you fit in, exactly?”
He spins to face me. “I’m the main character, aren’t I? Ack-Ack Macaque, that’s the book’s name. See?