by Bill Myers
“Super Cluck must have his own identity. No one must ever know you’re the one inside. You must always remain anonymous.”
My smile dropped faster than a kid’s does when he learns that he’s going to summer school. I would become famous, all right. But nobody would know it. How could that be? Isn’t that like saying you’re rich but penniless?
What type of trick was God playing on me, anyway? It wasn’t long before I realized He wasn’t playing any tricks—just teaching lessons. . . .
Chapter 5
Heeeeere’s Wally
When we last left the marvelously muscular Macho Man McDoogle, he was caught in a time warp that made everything run backwards. It was terrible; people were saying “uoy sselB” before people were sneezing, kids with birthdays were having to rewrap their gifts and hand them back to the givers, and everybody was having to eat their desserts before they ate dinner. (Okay, so every cloud has a silver lining.)
Anyway it was all due to the tyrannical...( insert bad guy music here)... Time Trickster.
With superhuman strength our gigantic good guy shouts, “!pots esaelP !pots esaelP !tniop ruoy edam ev‘uoy ,thgir lla ,thgir llA”
“I haven’t even begun,” the Time Trickster’s voice echoes across the universe. “Watch this!”
Before you can say, “Now what?” or is it, “?tahw woN,” everything stops running backwards and starts forward again. That’s the good news. The bad news is it’s going forward at a gazillion. 3 miles an hour.
Macho Man leaps off the float, races a half-mile to his spacecraft, the S.S. Musclebound, and closes the hatch... just about the time his mind thinks, “I think I’ll leap off this float.”
That’s right dear reader, time is moving faster than our hero can even think.
He turns on the ignition Err—err— err—err but nothing happens. He tries again. Err—err—err—err. He slams the wheel, thinking, “I knew I should have taken this hunk of junk in for its 4,0 00,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,00 0 mile checkup. (Actually, at the moment, that’s not what he is thinking. At the moment he is thinking, “I think I’ll head on over to my spacecraft and climb inside.”)
He lets loose a few choice words, “Doggone, tarnation it all, anyway!” (As a registered good guy he only uses official good-guy vocabulary.) Next he gives the control panel a good, swift kick (something he learned in Space ship Repair School) and, sure enough, it fires right up.
K-ROARRRRR
He releases the emergency brake, puts on his seatbelt (a must for all rolemodel types), and drops the ship into “Let’s-get-outta-here-fast.” It zooms off.
Time is moving faster and faster and faster some more. Kids get through school by 10:30 and college by noon (hmm, another silver lining). Christmas is celebrated every twenty minutes. (Hey, wait a minute, maybe Macho Man should reconsider!)
But it is too late. In 3.4 seconds he lands on Time Trickster’s planet and in another 1.2 seconds he finds the fiendish foe’s secret laboratory. (Not hard to spot since every wall is covered with every timepiece ever invented...grandfather clocks, sundials, Mickey Mouse watches——even those awful little timers they set when you have to practice the piano twenty minutes a day.)
Once inside the lab, he spots the Time Trickster standing beside his sinister Time Twister Computer. Like all diabolical scientists, Trickster laughs madly as he switches switches, dials dials, and levers levers. Except for the eight or nine extra arms he had attached so he could wear all the latest wristwatches at the same time, he looks like any other notorious nuts-oid.
Looking up, he spots Macho Man and sneers, “So, we meet again, Muscle Mind.”
Macho Man nods and says, “I knew I should have taken this hunk of junk in for its 4,000,000,000,000,000,000,00 0,000,000,000- mile checkup.”
Time Trickster grins a twisted grin and suddenly pulls the giant lever of his computer back to “Normal.” Everything slows to regular time. Even Macho Man’s thoughts catch up.
“Now,” Trickster snarls, “you’ll be able to fully comprehend the pain and suffering I’m about to inflict.”
It is time to act swiftly. Before the terrible Trickster tries any more tricky tricks, our hero leaps to the computer and begins destroying dials, tearing transistors, and wrecking read outs. Sparks fly everywhere.
“Oh no!” Time Trickster cries, “look what you’ve done!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh no!” Time Trickster cries, “look what you’ve done!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh no!” Time Trickster cries, “look what you’ve done!”
And so they go round and round, reliving the same moment again and again. Somehow Macho Man has thrown them into a Time Loop. Will they ever get out? Will they ever escape? Will they ever be able to stop saying...
“Oh no! Look what you’ve done!”
“What are you talking about?”
And then, just when all appears hopeless, or as boring as another skincare infomercial, Macho Man suddenly——
“Okay everybody, we’re here!” called Vice Principal Watkins.
The entire school bus cheered. I looked up from ol’ Betsy and frowned. I hated getting interrupted in the middle of writing my superhero stories. I know I said I’d given up writing, and I had. But some habits are hard to break. Especially today, when I was doing everything I could to take my mind off of Opera. Especially today, when our entire class was going to sit in the audience of WART-TV’s “Noontime Middletown.” With special guest . . . Opera Livingston!
That’s right. The producers of the show thought it would be cool to interview Opera before he began his week-long job as a TV sportscaster. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Vice Principal Watson thought it would be even cooler to take us all on a field trip to watch the noontime show being broadcast.
Everybody made a big deal out of it . . . everybody but me. I was too busy trying to hold back the yawns. After all, I was going to be a greater star than Opera ever imagined. I was going to be Middletown’s “Symbol of Victory.”
Of course, I’d be wearing a chicken suit covered in chicken feathers, and a stupid chicken head. And, of course, I would never be able to tell anyone it was me, but that was okay. I kept telling myself, as long as I knew it was me, that was all that counted. (I kept telling myself that, but unfortunately, I wasn’t doing much listening.) The truth is I was sick of the way everybody was hanging all over Opera, especially Melissa Sue Avarice. Talk about superficial! What anybody can see in her is beyond me.
After we entered the studio, the ushers took us on a backstage tour. They showed us how the living room for “Noontime Middletown” wasn’t really a living room at all, but just thin plywood sheets called flats that were painted and wallpapered to look like a living room. Then, of course, there were all the cameras, the lights, the stagehands running around, and all that other boring stuff.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Wall Street whispered as they sat Opera in the guest chair and hooked up a microphone to him.
“Yeah,” I yawned again, “if you’re into this kind of thing.”
“I don’t know, Wally,” she said. “You’ve been acting strange all week.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. If you ask me, I think you’re jealous.”
I broke out coughing. “Me? Jealous? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You never talk to Opera anymore. And every time somebody says something about him you change the subject or act all bored.”
Before I could change the subject or act all bored, Sandy Whatabod staggered onto the stage. “Hii thaar boyz ’n girlzz.”
I don’t want to say the old girl had been drinking, but it took two stagehands to guide her to her seat and another to keep removing all the little flasks that magically appeared from various pockets and folds in her clothing.
“Okay,” the stage manager called out. “We need all you kids to leave the stage and head up to those bleachers for your seats. We’re sta
rting in four minutes.”
I raised my hand. “Miss, can you tell me where the restroom is?” I really didn’t have to go; I just didn’t want to be part of the herd. I still wanted to stand out from the crowd, and every little bit helped.
“It’s on the other side of the set there,” the stage manger pointed, “but hurry.”
I nodded and passed behind the set of the make-believe living room. When I got to the window I poked my head inside and saw Opera with some makeup lady hovering over him, giving last minute makeup touches. Disgusting.
I hung out in the bathroom a minute or so, then heard the opening music to the show and decided to get back.
Now please understand that the following was not my fault. . . .
It was not my fault that somebody left a big coil of cable just outside the bathroom door.
It was not my fault that I stepped into it, got all tangled up, and stumbled into a giant aluminum ladder.
It wasn’t even my fault that the ladder went crashing into the back of the nearest flat . . .which tipped forward with a sickening creak. I looked up.
Uh-oh.
It was like a giant game of slow-motion dominoes. The first flat fell into the second flat, which creaked and fell into the third, which creaked and . . . well, you get the picture.
“She’s coming down!” the stage manager screamed.
Everyone scrambled for their lives—cameramen, technicians, Sandy Whatabod, even Opera. Everyone but me. I was still doing my human braiding demonstration as I tried to untangle myself from the cable.
Flats continued falling, props continued crashing, and I continued trying to squirm out of the cable. All this as the music played and the prerecorded announcer said:
“And now, live, it’s ‘Noontime Middletown’. . . .And here’s your host, Sandy Whatabod! ”
I finally pulled myself out of the cable and staggered to my feet. Even by my standards the catastrophe was pretty impressive. Everything had fallen. In fact, I was the only thing left standing. Just me and a single camera that happened to be pointed at me with its little red light glowing.
Someone off to the side hissed and waved, but I already knew what was happening. The little red light meant the camera was on, which meant I was standing in front of at least 50,000 viewers. All across the state, people were watching me. Me, Wally-I’m-finally-going-to-be-famous McDoogle.
The person off to the side kept hissing, “Psst, pssst!” But I kept ignoring him. I knew what to do. This was my chance. The big break I deserved. I cleared my throat.
“Pssst, Psssst . . .”
I forced a smile. It was now or never.
“Psssssssst!”
“Hi,” I said, “and welcome to our show. My name is Wally McDoogle and I’ll be sitting, er, standing in for Sandy this afternoon—”
“Pssssssst, Wally!” It sounded like Opera. Obviously he was trying to muscle in on my opportunity. I tried to ignore him.
“In case you’re interested, I go to Olympic Heights Middle School and one day plan to be a great—”
“PSSSSSSSSSST!”
Opera had stepped closer to the camera so I could see him. He was waving wildly, pointing to his pants. I tried to ignore him but he kept pointing. What was his problem? This was my moment to shine. But he wouldn’t let up. I finally glanced down. Maybe my shirt was untucked, maybe I’d lost a button.
And then I saw it. It wasn’t a button. It was my zipper. During all that squirming out of the cable I had somehow managed to unzip my pants—all the way!
So there I was, standing before the whole world, letting everyone know I wore Fruit of the Looms. Yes sir, I had done it. I had finally reached incredible and overwhelming fame. Unfortunately, at that moment, I was wishing for incredible and overwhelming death.
Chapter 6
Opening Night Jitters
The following Monday I got to be just as famous but a lot more dressed. It was the Super Chickens’ first game. Actually it was just a practice game, but we had enough crazies on the ice (and in the stands) to make it feel (and hurt) like the real thing.
It was also Opera’s first night as a TV sportscaster. He was up in the press booth taking notes for the 11:00 newscast, right along with all the other hot shots.
Down in the locker room my team was getting all worked up. It was typical jock stuff—shouts, punching lockers, eating light bulbs—the usual things to get pumped.
I, on the other hand, sat on the far end of the bench, sneezing my head off.
Ahh-choo!
I had been in my chicken suit a grand total of 2.5 seconds before I had learned a very important fact. I was allergic to chicken feathers.
Ahh-choo!
And by allergic, I’m not talking your typical runny nose or watery eyes. I’m talking about sneezes they name hurricanes after, sneezes that NASA will use to launch their next space shuttle.
AHH-CHOOO!
“McDoogle!” Bruno Pistarini grabbed a towel and wiped off the side of his neck. “If ya don’t mind, I’ll take my shower afta da game!”
“Sorry,” I shrugged. But that was only the beginning of my problems. I soon made another discovery. I turned to Arnie, who had just helped me into my chicken suit. “My arms—AHH-CHOOO—where do I put my arms?”
“Chickens don’t have arms,” Arnie said.
“Yeah, but, AHH-CHOOO! ”
“Now duck down and let me put this head over you.”
“Arnie-CHOOO!”
He fought to get the head on. It was way too tight and when he finally got it over my ears, I was afraid it wouldn’t come off. There was one other little surprise . . . as soon as he shoved the head on, all the lights went off.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“I can’t see a thing.”
“Just look through the eye opening.”
“There is none.”
“Sure there is.” He poked his hand through the eye hole. Unfortunately he was touching the bottom of my chin. It was six inches too low.
AHH-CHOOO! (ring-ring-ring). The ahh-choo-ing was another sneeze, the ring-ring-ringing were my ears since the sound had no place to go but straight into my head.
“Tilt your head back,” Arnie suggested. “Tilt it way back and look down through the hole.”
I did. Farther and farther until at last I saw daylight.
“What do you see?”
“My shoes.”
“Perfect.”
“But, Arnie, AHH-CHOOO (ring-ring-ring), I can’t walk around seeing the tops of my tennis shoes.”
“Oh, right,” he said, “I’m glad you reminded me.” Suddenly he produced a giant pair of chicken feet and started slipping them on me. They were a lot like swim fins only five sizes too big, twice as clumsy, painted bright orange, and AHH-CHOOO (ring-ring-ring) covered with chicken feathers.
“Okay men.” It was Coach Krashenburn’s voice. “Everybody out on the ice! Let’s show them what we’re made of!”
Everyone shouted and growled as they raced out of the locker room.
“You too, McDoogle—it’s time to be a star.”
I nodded AHH-CHOOO (ring-ring-ring) and headed off. I could hardly wait to make my debut in front of the screaming fans. Although it would have been a little easier if I could walk, move my arms, see, or AHH-CHOOO (ring-ring-ring) hear.
It was incredible . . . people screaming at each other, slamming into each other, pounding on each other. And those were just the fans! It was even worse out on the ice. I guess Krashenburn figured what our team lacked in skill, we could make up for with an impressive body count. Of course there were a couple nice guys like Cole Dawson. But for the most part, they sat on the bench while monsters like Gary the Gorilla and Bruno Pistarini kept racking up points by racking up players. In no time we earned the reputation of being the meanest and dirtiest team in the league.
It might have bothered me, but I had other things on my mind. As our team’s “Symbol of Victory,” my job was to whip the crowd int
o a frenzy of excitement and support. And I succeeded. With my incredible clumsiness I already had them shouting such slogans as, “Get that chicken out of here!” “Our mascot’s a moron!” and “Where’s Colonel Sanders when we need him?”
Yes sir, I had them eating out of the palm of my wing.
It might have helped if I could see where I was going or if I could climb the steps without falling ever few feet. Or, when I fell, if I were able to put out my hands to catch myself. But, of course, none of those little luxuries were available. So, whenever I slipped on a step, I would roll and tumble all the way down until I hit the Plexiglas wall at the bottom.
BOUNCE, “OUCH, AHH-CHOOO”(ring-ring-ring), BOUNCE, “BOY THAT SMARTS,” BOUNCE, BOUNCE, K-RAAASH, “GROAN . . .”
But practice makes perfect. By the third period I was so good at falling, I actually had fans rooting me on—guys with tape measures and felt pens taking bets on how far I’d bounce and roll. Nice fellows and really encouraging. “You can do it, Super Cluck. You can beat your record of 74 steps. I know you can.”
I don’t remember much toward the end. I do remember lying upside down on my back, staring through the eye hole and seeing the press box at the top of the steps. Inside, I caught a glimpse of good ol’ Opera. He was sitting with all the other media bigwigs, scribbling notes for his upcoming broadcast.
Oh, and I remember one other thing. I remember some prehistoric type who smelled like a couple hundred six packs, lifting me over his head and passing me on to the next cave man who passed me on to the next, and so on and so forth.
“Hey guys, AHH-CHOOO (ring-ring-ring), put me down, put me down.”
“Hey, HAR-HAR-HAR—listen to the chicken, he talks.”
“Come on guys, AHH-CHOOO (ring-ring-ring), chickens aren’t supposed to fly.”
As if proving my point, every so often someone would accidentally drop me on the floor or onto the sharp edges of seat backs.
Yes sir, it was a lot of fun, but all good things must come to an end and eventually the game buzzer sounded.
