Doctor Proctor's Fart Powder: The End of the World. Maybe.

by Jo Nesbo

  Yodolf walked over to Nilly, cocked his head and peered at him as if he were wondering what kind of strange creature this could be. Then he plucked Perry out of Nilly’s hair, held the spider between his thumb and index finger and looked like he was considering crushing the seven-legged thingamajig. But he changed his mind and instead dumped the strength tonic out of Doctor Proctor’s bottle, put the spider into the bottle, screwed the lid back on and set the bottle on the window ledge.

  “Now you can watch as your friend slowly suffocates in there,” Yodolf said.

  Then he stretched his hand out through the bars, grabbed hold of the cobweb thread and pulled it towards him. “Hm,” he said thoughtfully. “Tandoora, can you run out and see where this cobweb originates? If my guess is right, I bet the rest of the accomplices will be at the other end.”

  “I’ll run and check right away, Yodolf,” the smallest moon baboon said, and then disappeared, shuffling quickly away.

  Yodolf bit through the strand of cobweb with an obvious “snap!” and let it fall out the window. Then he put on the pink earmuffs and listened to the silence, but apparently decided that silence is boring, because he took them off again and tossed them over to one of the other baboons, who tried them on. Yodolf stretched in satisfaction, his arms thrust into the air, and yawned, revealing jaws so large that they could have easily accommodated a watermelon.

  “Time for bed. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” Yodolf said. “No wait, ha ha! I forgot. You’re actually going to have a very short day.”

  “Good one!” yelled one of the baboons in a squeaky voice Nilly recognised. Then all three baboons howled with laugher.

  “You stand guard, Göran,” Yodolf said.

  “Me? But I’m the . . .”

  “Commander of the Luftwaffle, I know. But I’m still the one who makes the decisions, right? Hop to it, now! We’re going to go see what Tandoora found.”

  And with that Yodolf chased the other moon baboons out the door ahead of him, locked the door and passed the key ring to Göran.

  “Would it be all right if I just . . .” Göran began.

  “No,” Yodolf growled. “You may not torture them. They taste better untortured.”

  Göran muttered a scarcely audible “filthy britches” and snatched the key ring, and then the other baboons were gone. Nilly heard the scraping of chair legs as Göran sat down somewhere out in the hallway and turned up the music.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Nilly said. “Sometimes that’s just how it goes.”

  “I think that’s how it goes every time, if you ask me,” Gregory sniffed. “Oh, if only they’d turn off that music!”

  “I’m sure the others will be along soon to rescue us,” Nilly tried, but Gregory interrupted him in irritation: “Have you seen the guards around the Palace, huh? They have fifty moon chameleons and a hundred hypnotised Norwegians with rifles running around in traditional waterproof Norwegian boots. Forget about it! We’re toast!”

  Nilly sighed heavily and bit his tongue since it was obvious that Gregory was not in a chatty mood. After a while he heard the guard out there in the hallway start snoring.

  “Hey!” Nilly whispered. “I have an idea!”

  “Oh no,” Gregory groaned. “I can’t take any more.”

  “It’s simple,” Nilly said. “All you have to do is just unfurl your tongue.”

  “OH NO,” LISA said. “They’re prisoners!”

  Doctor Proctor and Mrs Strobe, who were standing next to Lisa, were staring out into the darkness from the window of room 1146 at the Radisson Hotel. Doctor Proctor’s hand was still clutching the loose cobweb they’d pulled back in, once they’d realised that the other end had been bitten off.

  “And soon we may be prisoners, too,” Doctor Proctor said. “Yodolf has most certainly figured out that this web leads here. We have to get out of here. And how!”

  And with that he let go of the strand of cobweb and ran out of room 1146 with the others fast on his heels. They stopped at the end of the hallway to wait for the elevator.

  “We’w in luck!” Mrs Strobe said, and pointed to the illuminated numbers over the lift door. “De elevatow is on its way ub.”

  “What if it’s full of moon chameleons on their way up?” Lisa said.

  “Nonsense, dey’re not dat fast,” Mrs Strobe said.

  It was quiet. The display showed that the lift was moving from the seventh to the eighth floor.

  “On the other hand,” Doctor Proctor said. “It is healthier to take the stairs.”

  The lift was on the ninth floor.

  “Stair climbing is very good for you,” Lisa said.

  Tenth floor.

  “Taking de staiws will help you liw longew,” Mrs Strobe said.

  “Come on,” Doctor Proctor urged.

  And they all ran for the door with the green glowing EXIT sign over it and darted out.

  The door clicked shut behind them just as they heard a loud, obvious pling sound from the lift as its doors slid open.

  “The banister,” Lisa said, looking down the stairwell where the banister descended in circles, appearing smaller and smaller, until it finally came to an end way down below them on the ground floor. “Nilly would take the banister if he were here.”

  Then she swung her leg over to sit astride the banister, let go and started careening backwards. And before she’d even reached the first turn, she saw Doctor Proctor helping Mrs Strobe up onto the banister.

  They went around and around, faster and faster. Walls, stairs and fire escape doors swirled past. And Lisa was so dizzy after she plopped onto the floor at the bottom, on the ground floor, that after she managed to stand up she just stood there swaying back and forth. Then Mrs Strobe arrived. Plop!

  “What happened to Doctor Proctor?” Lisa asked, peering up the stairwell.

  And then he appeared. Sliding slowly, squeezing the banister tightly between his thighs as he moaned in pain.

  “Don’t squeeze so hawd!” Mrs Strobe yelled.

  And the professor must have done what she said. Because suddenly he came swishing down and – plop! – there he lay too, as the scent of burned trouser fabric spread through the air and he frantically attempted to blow on his thighs.

  Lisa heard a door way above them slam and peered up the stairwell. And there, at the top, she could see the silhouettes of faces looking down at her. Black faces framed by grey hair. And then a voice echoed through the stairwell, a voice that said: “Filthy britches! There they are! Back into the lift, hurry!”

  “Come on,” Lisa urged, running towards the only door she could see.

  Through the door was the lobby, which was full of people. Lisa didn’t stop, but proceeded out of the revolving door with the professor and Mrs Strobe tight on her heels. They ran across the intersection at Holberg Square to the streetcar stop.

  “Dey’re behind us!” she heard Mrs Strobe gasp behind her.

  “And they’re catching up,” she heard Doctor Proctor pant from even farther behind.

  Lisa ran as fast as she could. She knew what she needed to do to keep from being made into waffles.

  So she jumped up, sailed through the air, landed on the seat of the MWS – Motorcycle With Sidecar – flipped the ignition to ON and stamped as hard as she could on the starter while twisting the accelerator. It didn’t start.

  She stamped again.

  Nothing.

  One more time.

  Nada.

  She heard Mrs Strobe tumble into the sidecar. And saw Doctor Proctor. She looked behind her. She didn’t see anyone. But she heard them, heard the rapid shuffling footsteps made by feet with long, unbelievably ugly toenails dragging across the asphalt. The camouflaged beasts were invisible, but obviously hard on their tail.

  Lisa jumped up and landed on the starter.

  Vrooom!

  She’d started it, but what now? Lisa had never driven a motorcycle before.

  “Clutch and gear!” Doctor Proctor called out. “Clutch and
gear!”

  Clutch this, clutch that, Lisa thought, fumbling around on the handles.

  The footsteps had reached them. Lisa pressed and shoved. She felt something sit down on the seat behind her and put its arms over her shoulders.

  “Like this.” It was Doctor Proctor.

  The motorcycle surged off the edge of the pavement and down the street.

  “MOVE YOUR TONGUE to the right now,” whispered Nilly, who had turned his head so that he could see Gregory’s bluish frog tongue, which he’d unrolled, through the bars of the cell.

  “Whith way?” Gregory groaned with his mouth open.

  “To the right. You have to get your tongue around the corner. Göran is sitting a ways down the hallway over there.”

  “Thith ithn’t that eathy,” Gregory groaned.

  “But you have to do it,” Nilly said. “It’s our only chance.”

  Gregory groaned weakly. But managed to roll out more tongue. He also actually managed to get it to turn the corner, where it disappeared from their field of vision.

  “And now feel your way forwards,” Nilly whispered. “The key ring is probably in his lap.”

  “Ow!”

  “Whath ith it? I mean, what is it?” Nilly asked.

  “My tongue ith frothen to the barth.”

  “Heh?” Nilly said.

  “Ow! Ow!” Gregory wailed.

  “Shh! You’ll wake up Göran,” Nilly urged. But at that moment he saw Gregory’s tongue and under stood what Gregory was trying to tell him. His tongue was stuck to one of the frozen iron bars! He shuddered, thinking back on all the times kids had dared him to touch frozen metal sign posts with his tongue. And he’d done it and his tongue was stuck. And he’d got it off again in the most painful way he could imagine. Tearing his tongue free. And that had just been a teeny tiny tongue, whereas Gregory’s tongue was . . .

  “Yank it free,” Nilly urged.

  “It hurths,” Gregory moaned, on the verge of tears.

  “Now!” Nilly said in a stern voice with his eyes closed. And he heard the ripping sound of the surface being torn off Gregory’s tongue and saw Gregory’s body shudder as he hung there shackled to the cell wall.

  “Ow! Ow ow!”

  Triple ow! Nilly thought, opening his eyes again. Gregory’s frog tongue lay like a piece of blue, frozen whale meat on the cold, dirty stone floor.

  “Heroically done, Gregory. Fight on!”

  The piece of blue meat wriggled and moved. But then stopped again.

  Gregory sighed. “I’m tho tired, Nilly.”

  “Remember, we’re saving the world here, Gregory.”

  “But I hate thith world!” Gregory wailed.

  “So remember you’re saving Mrs Strobe here.”

  Gregory didn’t say anything for a minute, then his tongue started moving again.

  “I feel a leg. Shinth,” Gregory whispered.

  “Higher,” Nilly said.

  “Kneeth,” Gregory said.

  “Higher.”

  “Thighth.”

  “Higher.”

  “And that’th a . . . a . . . what ith that? Thomething thmooth and bulbouth . . .”

  “Uh . . .” said Nilly, who was picturing where Gregory’s tongue was at that moment, realising that it was good that Gregory couldn’t see this for himself. But it was obviously too late.

  “Eeeeew!!” Gregory squeezed his eyes shut and spit and spit again.

  A steady snoring sound could be heard from out in the hallway, occasionally combined with a satisfied grunt. And Nilly just couldn’t hold it in any longer. He had to laugh. So there hung Nilly, doomed to death, bolted firmly to the wall, shaking with laughter. “Don’t give up, Gregory,” Nilly whispered, choking with laughter. “Did you find the keys?”

  “Thewe!” Gregory said. “I hawe the key wing. It’th in hith lap.”

  “Good! Bring ’em here.”

  Nilly watched Gregory’s tongue move, slowly rolling up like a streamer, until just the tip of the tongue was sticking out between Gregory’s lips. And, sure enough, a key ring was dangling from the tip of the tongue. With keys for anything they might like to unlock, Nilly thought. The padlocks keeping their shackles shut, the barred door to the cell, the main door to the dungeon tower, the back door they could escape through unnoticed. Anything with a lock. There was just one problem.

  “How awe we going to unlock the padlockth when we can’t even uthe our handth?”

  Handth? What was that? Oh, hands! They couldn’t use their hands. Nilly hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  He stared longingly at Perry, who was just looking weaker and weaker, trapped in that bottle. He couldn’t help them either.

  Freedom was so close and yet so far.

  “Freedom is so close,” said a voice right by his ear. “And yet so far.”

  And even though Nilly had been freezing cold for a long time now, the voice made him feel even colder. Yodolf had let himself into the cell so quietly that they hadn’t heard him. And they hadn’t seen him either. But now portions of the stone wall in front of them changed, and the large baboon-like moon chameleon materialised.

  “Now you’re going to tell me who your accomplices are,” Yodolf said. “And where they’re holed up.”

  Even in this desperate situation, Nilly felt a little shiver of joy. Because Yodolf’s question meant that Lisa, Doctor Proctor and Mrs Strobe must have got away!

  “Listen here, you clumpy-bummed, unshaven baboon,” Nilly said. “You can do whatever you want to me, because I’ll never say a word. You’re going to make waffles out of us anyway. What could you do that’s worse than that?”

  “A little torture?” Yodolf said.

  “Torture away,” Nilly said with a big smile. “Redheads love pain. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Hmfrh,” Yodolf said, and turned to look at Gregory. “How about you, froggy? Are you a fan of torture? Or what do you say we turn up the volume on the music?”

  Nilly eyed Gregory nervously.

  “The only thing I want to awoid,” Gregory said, the key ring still dangling from the tip of his tongue, “ith mowe baboon hemowhoids. They tathte like camel poop. Othew than that, bwing on the towtuwe.”

  And Nilly couldn’t help it. He had to start laughing again.

  Yodolf stared at him in disbelief, slowly shook his head and scoffed, “Humans! You people really aren’t normal.”

  Then he walked over to the window ledge, grabbed the bottle and shook it, jerking a lifeless Perry back and forth.

  “Well, in any case, this one is ready,” Yodolf said, and chucked the bottle out the window. Nilly held his breath. They heard the bottle break on the cobblestones in the courtyard below. Yodolf pressed his baboon face right up against Nilly’s face. “What’s wrong, you dwarf? Aren’t you laughing anymore?”

  Nilly gulped.

  Yodolf laughed, snatched the key ring from Gregory’s tongue, marched out of the door and slammed it shut and locked behind him.

  IT WAS APPROACHING midnight in Oslo. And yet the city hadn’t even begun to settle down for the night. As the king strolled towards the palace, he saw people scurrying home with their arms full of food containers, and soldiers driving by in camouflage-coloured trucks. They looked very warlike sitting there in the back of the trucks, staring straight ahead. Warlike and kind of hypnotised. And the strange thing was that no one seemed to recognise him even though he was the king. He had just had a small glass of beer at an inn to drown his sorrows about his loved – but alas, lost – Rosemarie. But the waiter had demanded payment even though the king had told the man, “Good Lord, man, I’m the king!” Yes. And it wasn’t even just that. He was a king with a broken heart! And when the waiter realised that the king only had Swedish money, the man had thrown him out! The king’s own subjects didn’t recognise him. And he didn’t recognise them. It was sad. And when you got right down to it, quite eerie. And now he had to find somewhere to spend the night. He had called a few people he thought were his
friends to ask if he could crash with them, but they had all just hung up when they realised who was on the phone. Maybe he should try the Salvation Army. They had a homeless shelter, didn’t they?

  He walked past a cluster of white stone buildings in the middle of a field. He knew all the buildings so well. The TV and radio headquarters of the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation. That’s where the folks came from who recorded his annual New Year’s speech from the Royal Palace. And as if his legs had a will of their own, they proceeded to take him over to those white buildings. In through the revolving door towards the TV studios. And right up to the reception desk.

  “I’d like to talk to Nømsk Ull,” the king told the female security guard seated behind the counter. She scrutinised him with her strict security guard eyes.

  “I don’t believe you know him. Nømsk Ull is a big TV star.”

  “And I’m the king,” the king said.

  The security guard peered over her glasses and smiled wryly: “Oh you are, huh, sweetie? What did you do, borrow that ermine cape from the costume department?”

  The king focused his eyes on her. Not a penetrating Strobe Stare, but a gentle, sleepy look with heavy eyelids. And then he started talking. His words came out in a monotone, sort of a chant, slowly like viscous syrup on a super-cold day:

  “My fellow countrymen. The old year is now over and it brought us a great deal, both in terms of progress and reasons to celebrate. For example, our average weight is rising steadily, and Norway is one of the world’s happiest countries. We won a gold medal in classic combined Nordic skiing biathlon snow camping, and Honningsvåg has once again been named one of the world’s most northerly towns.”

  The security guard yawned. And the king continued:

  “But the year also brought new challenges and problems that we will have to tackle together as a people in the year to come . . .”

  The security guard’s head nodded forwards a little, but the king bent over so he could maintain eye contact.

  “And right now, there is the issue of saving Norway and the world from catastrophe. Repeat after me: catastrophe.”