What fate worse than death?

I stood there looking at my allegedly former (alleged) comedy-relief sidekick.

I looked at him again; he stood there grinning like some kind of imbecile. Yes, I’d remember that grin anywhere. He wasn’t Jo Jo, though.

“You’re not Jo Jo,” I told the Monkeyboy.

“Of course I am, buddy buck-o bunny buddy bones,” he laughed.

“Nope,” I replied. “You’re not Jo Jo. Believe me, I can tell. Who are you? Mojo?”

“No no no no no. Nuh uh, nope, no sir, negative negatory nugatory, sha na na na na na,” he hopped up and down, then he stopped and looked at me with an eye of seriousness. “I am Jo Jo the Monkeyboy,” he said in a faux upper class accent.

“Sorry,” I shook my head. “I don’t buy it.”

“Well you should, sonny bunny funny money,” he laughed. “I am Jo Jo the Monkeyboy Senior!”

I think things just went from bad to worse.

“Jo Jo Senior?” I asked. “That makes my former sidekick—”

“Jo Jo Jr.” Jo Jo smiled. “Little Joey Jo Jo Jr. was my son!”

Maybe there’s a hole somewhere that I could just stick my head in for a few years.

“So why are you following me around like this?” I asked. “Are you hunting me? Is this about revenge?”

“No no no, pally-o!” he howled. “Why would I want revenge when my boy died ‘kicking for one of the greatest heroes this galaxy has ever known. Watching his face disintegrate over and over was a true honor.”

“Well, I wouldn’t necessarily say greatest,” I chuckled self-consciously. “But I – wait a minute, you weren’t even at Jo Jo (ugh) Jr’s funeral. Why didn’t you go to your own son’s funeral?”

“Oh that?” Jo Jo shuffled his foot and shoved his hands into what I can only assume were pockets. “Well, I was stuck in a time-space loop.”

“You were stuck in a time-space loop?” I asked incredulously.

“Well, I got better,” he conceded.

I’m smart enough to not even touch that with a ten-foot pole.

“OK, so you’ve been following me around, you don’t want revenge,” I said. “What is it that you want? I don’t want another sidekick.”

“No no no no,” Jo Jo shook his head. “I don’t want to be your sidekick; I’m long past my ‘kicking prime. But I do want your help.”

“Want my help? With what?”

From out of nowhere, Jo Jo Sr. pulled out a book.

“It’s a movie script!” he said excitedly. “J’onn Sinew Nu said you’d help me with it!”

“Sinew Nu?” I let out a sigh. “OK, OK, let me see this thing.”

“I’ll give you a consultant credit!” he handed it over to me while hopping up and down. “Maybe even co-writer! Maybe even co-producer!”

I took a look at the script. I read the title.

“Jo Jo: Portrait of a Sidekick Monkeyboy.”