The large male looks strong and virile, with a bulging belly that speaks greatly of its hunting prowess. While not as rare as the red-crested female, it still has the exotic pigmentation and will be able to sire plenty of healthy, human babies, which your sister will be able to sell. Rising your hiding spot, you stalk towards the target.
"What is that," the meatless one chitters, as you move slowly towards the male, claws sheathed. The humans are alert and wary, but don't yet move, frozen to the spot.
"Whatever it is, it's coming right at me," the fat one growls, hefting the knobbly branch in its hands. The sun glints of the surface of the stick, revealing what you had thought to be wood to be polished gunmetal. "Night night, kitty."
With a pneumatic *phut*, a feathered dart shoots from the end. You sidestep the projectile lazily, confused. Where had a monkey gotten its hands on a gun? Guns are so rare that you could probably list the name and owner of every one for a hundred miles. More importantly, how had such a stupid animal learned to fire one and, more pressingly, reload it.
The monkey is chambering a second dart with a purposeful, practiced motion of its stubby fingers. It raises its rifle and you do the same, squeezing the trigger. The human spasms as twin beams of coherent microwave and infra-red radiation wash over him, the baleful light cooking his insides and outsides in an instant, his boiling juices leaking out, his eyes melting, his skin charring and peeling away with a delicious meaty aroma. The underslung flachete launcher goes off with a kick. The spinning, razor-sharp strips of metal cut through him, slicing him cleanly into juicy, bite-sized chunks, which tumble onto the ground and roll across the grass, steaming wetly. You love this gun.
The female begins to shriek at the top of her lungs.