One humid evening in a West Ward barbershop, beneath a flickering fluorescent halo and the drone of Clippers and Curtis Mayfield, I was handed a cassette tape and a warning: “This ain’t for tourists.”

The voice on the tape? Grit-graveled. Revolutionary. And unmistakably simian. Not a monkey. A chimpanzee—that ancient mirror of man, with eyes full of ancestral memory and a smirk that whispered, “We used to rule the trees… now we write the rules.”

This shirt chronicles that myth. Midnight black. Ring-spun cotton. On the back: “The Guerilla”—lettering that drips like wet paint over a precinct wall. Centered below: our primate publisher—stoic, streetwise, battle-worn. Hoodie adorned with a feral yellow emblem. High-top sneakers dirtied by decades of truth-telling. The tail? Artistic liberty. Call it metaphor.

Anchoring the rebellion: “Publishing Co”—curved across the hem like the final line in a banned book.

You don’t wear this to be fashionable. You wear it to remind the world that the revolution may not be televised—but it will be published.