by Nick Falk
Join three friends as they dodge bullies, do their homework and alter the entire course of history in the process!
Mr Pilchard is furious. His class came last in the poetry contest, mostly because of Sid’s terrible effort. He gives Sid an ultimatum – write the winning entry in the upcoming story competition … or be fed to the classroom guinea pig.
Sid turns to his sister, Wendy, and his evil-genius neighbour, the Mighty Professor Skeletron, for help. Together, they consult a psychic cat who leads them to the perfect solution – give a Shakespeare story a sci-fi twist! But when their story comes to life and causes an alien invasion, they have to find a way to travel back in time and change the past.
Will they save the world, or will life as we know it no longer exist?
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Fun Facts
Inventions from the Mighty Professor Skeletron’s Handbook
How To 2 advert
Copyright Notice
For Holly, much loved and much missed
– Tony Flowers
For Louis and Jack, who give me all the Inspiration I need!
– Nick Falk
My name is Sidney Bice. I’m 11 years old. And I’m not very clever.
I’m not saying I’m thick. Not completely thick, anyway. I’m really good at drawing, and I’m not bad at maths. Long division does my head in a bit, but I’m pretty good at adding and subtracting. At least, that’s what my dad says.
No, what I’m thick at is writing. Creative writing. I just can’t do it. I’ve tried, loads of times. I’ve tried writing about pirates. I’ve tried writing about dinosaurs. I’ve even tried writing about fairies. But as soon as I pick up a pen my brain goes blank. There’s nothing there. Nada. Nuffink. Nowt. It’s like my imagination goes missing.
I suppose it doesn’t matter much. Not really. I can do other stuff, like play football, or build Lego models, or practise breakdancing moves I learnt off YouTube.
Except it does matter, because my teacher Mr Pilchard thinks creative writing is the most important thing in the world. He thinks kids who can’t write creatively are idiots.
And that makes me the biggest idiot he’s ever met in his life.
‘Stand up, Mr Bice.’
It’s 9 am on Tuesday morning. Which means I’m at school, about to be humiliated in front of the class. On Mondays we hand in homework. On Tuesdays we get the homework back. And my homework always comes last.
‘I take it this piece of excrement is yours?’
Mr Pilchard is holding up a poem. My poem. The one I spent the whole weekend trying to write.
‘Perhaps you’d like to read your masterpiece out loud?’ suggests Mr Pilchard. ‘That way, the whole class can benefit from your literary genius.’
He’s being sarcastic. I can tell because he’s smiling. Mr Pilchard has the most unpleasant smile in the world. It’s the exact smile a murderer would have just before he does you in with a garden fork.
Mr Pilchard puts the poem on my desk and waits.
I don’t move. I don’t want to read it out loud because it’s rubbish. I know it’s rubbish. He knows it’s rubbish. Everyone in the room knows it’s rubbish. The bullies at the back are going to laugh at me and call me Bogie Brain. They always do after I read out my homework.
‘Now, Mr Bice,’ Mr Pilchard snarls. ‘Before we all die of old age.’
There’s no way of getting out of it. Mr Pilchard never changes his mind, especially when he’s being mean. He loves being mean. He loves it the same way my little sister, Wendy, loves ice-cream. Which is a lot.
I pick up the poem and take a deep breath. Six hours until the end of school. One recess and one lunchtime. That’s not so bad. I can dodge the bullies if I hide somewhere. The day will be over before I know it.
Yeah, right.
I hold the page in front of my face and read:
There are a few quick titters at the back. Otherwise the class stays silent. Drawing attention to yourself is a bad idea in class 6P.
‘Do you know what you are, Mr Bice?’ Mr Pilchard leers, lowering his face towards mine.
‘No, Mr Pilchard,’ I mutter.
He’s so close I can see the flakes of dandruff in his beard. It looks like a mangy dog with a fungal infection.
‘You’re a dung beetle,’ he spits. ‘You’re a worthless worm. You’re the most brainless child I’ve ever had the misfortune to teach.’
Spittle sprays across my forehead. I try not to throw up. Mr Pilchard is the most disgusting person on the planet. He should be locked up in a glass case and put in a museum. In the Freaks section.
I stay as still as I can, waiting for him to go away. I listen to his crusty bogies scraping up and down his nostril hairs. Yuck. I’ll never eat Corn Flakes again.
‘Class 6P is a laughing stock,’ barks Mr Pilchard, turning away. ‘Mr Bice here may be the thickest child on the planet, but the rest of you aren’t much better. We came last in the Book Week poetry contest. Last! We even lost to Miss Webster’s Kinders! Well, I’m not going to put up with it for a moment longer. I’m giving you all one last chance to salvage my reputation. The Book Week story competition. Tomorrow morning, at 9 am, you will all be handing in brilliant stories. And I do mean brilliant. Anyone handing in anything less than brilliant will be put in detention for a month.’ He pauses for dramatic effect, beard bristling. Then he narrows his eyes and turns back to me. ‘And as for you, Mr Bice,’ he hisses. ‘You will be handing in a story so good, so fantastic, so eye-wateringly wonderful, that it leaves me speechless. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes. Mr Pilchard,’ I mumble. ‘Perfectly clear.’
‘Good,’ he snarls, narrowing his eyes. ‘Because if you fail to impress me, I’m going to grind you into mincemeat and feed you to my classroom pet.’ He points at Mr Whiskers, his suspiciously fat guinea pig. I gulp. Everyone knows the legend of Mr Whiskers …
Wendy Tarbuck … failed a spelling test on March the third … never to be seen again.
Mr Whiskers licks his pudgy lips.
A shiver runs down my spine.
I’ve got some serious thinking to do.
‘THINK, THINK, THINK!’
I’m squeezing my head in both hands, trying to force my mind to come up with something. But it’s not working.
‘THINK, THINK, THINK, THINK, THINK!’
Nothing. Not one single idea. My head’s as empty as the Sahara Desert. I press my forehead against the desk. Why can’t my mind just work? I never have this problem when I’m thinking up picture ideas. I can draw pictures till the cows come home. And I usually do. But as soon I have to write a story, my mind takes a vacation. What’s wrong with it? Does it want Mr Whiskers to eat me?
‘Sidney! Come and set the table for dinner!’ Mum calls up the stairs.
‘I can’t,’ I shout back. ‘I’m busy!’
‘What are you doing up there?’
‘Trying to save my life!’
Doesn’t she get it? I’m facing death by guinea pig!
I open the pot of chilli powder I stole from the kitchen. It’s time to take drast
ic action.
‘I don’t want to do this, mind,’ I say, ‘but you’ve forced me into it. I’m giving you ten seconds to think of something. Otherwise, I’m sending in the chilli.’
I fill my hand with powder and hold it near my nose. This will work. It’s got to. My mind doesn’t want me to do this any more than I do.
I start counting.
Ten … nine … eight …
C’mon, mind. It’s not that hard. Just one little idea. That’s all I need.
Seven … six … five …
What’s wrong with you, mind? Surely you don’t want me to do this?
Four … three … two … one … a half … a quarter … an eighth … a something-or-other-teenth …
Zero. Zilch. Zip. My mind remains stubbornly blank. I empty my lungs. This is going to hurt. A lot. But it’s for my own good. SNIIIIIIIFFF … AAAARRRRGH!
A red-hot arrow of agony shoots up my nostrils. I leap to my feet, hands clutched over my face. That wasn’t for my own good at all. It feels like my brain is on fire! I stagger around the room, eyes watering, desperately looking for something to mop up the chilli. The only thing within reach is my own sweaty socks. I pull them off and shove them up my nose.
‘Whatcha doing?’ chirps someone behind me.
I yelp in shock. It’s Wendy dressed in her Little Miss Doctor costume.
‘Go away,’ I gasp, frantically rotating the socks in my nostrils. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Doing what?’ chirrups Wendy.
‘What does it look like?’ I wheeze. ‘I’m torturing my mind.’
‘Why?’ she asks.
I roll my eyes. Wendy is the most persistent person on the planet. It wouldn’t matter if I was on fire with a shark attached to my leg. She wouldn’t help me until I’d answered all her questions.
‘I’ve got to write a story for school,’ I mutter. ‘But I can’t get my mind to work.’
She nods, satisfied. Then she grabs my head and sticks her toy stethoscope in my ear.
‘OW!’ I shriek.
‘Shush,’ she tuts.
‘I’m diagnosing you.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I wail. ‘You’re not a doctor.’
‘Yes I am! I’m wearing a doctor’s uniform. So I’m a doctor.’ She pushes the stethoscope further in.
‘STOP IT!’ I howl. ‘You’re going to burst my eardrum!’
She pulls out the stethoscope. ‘It’s broken,’ she announces.
‘I’m not surprised,’ I wheeze, rubbing my ear. ‘You almost deafened me.’
‘Not your ear,’ she sighs, rolling her eyes at my stupidity. ‘Your mind. It’s broken. I need to fix it.’
‘I don’t need your help,’ I snap. ‘Go aw–OW!’
Wendy just hit me on the head with a plastic hammer.
‘What did you do that fo– OOOOOW!’
She hit me again.
‘It’s a doctor’s hammer,’ she says. ‘I’m fixing your mind.’
‘What are you talking about? Doctors don’t have hamm– EEEOOW!’
I leap up to throw her out of my room, but right then something happens. A thought pops into my head. A little one. About lemons. I can’t believe it! My mind just thought of something! I quickly grab a pen and paper and sit back down at my desk.
‘Do it again,’ I say.
‘Do what again?’ asks Wendy.
‘Hit me. Quickly. Before my brain changes its mind.’
‘Are you sure?’ Wendy double-checks, hardly believing her luck.
‘Yes, yes, yes!’ I cry. ‘Get on with it!’ I hold the pen over the paper, preparing myself.
WHACK!
‘YEEEOOooooowWWWW … YES!’ Another thought! Chickens! Something about chickens … Chickens and lemons? A story about Sunday lunch, perhaps? It’s working. It’s really working!
‘Again,’ I urge. ‘Do it harder. Take a run-up.’
Wendy’s in heaven. She skips across the room and climbs onto my bookshelf. I sit, tense, pen at the ready.
‘READY …’ I shout. ‘SET … GO!’
Wendy sprints across the room. This is going to work. This time the whole story’s going to come … ANNNNNND …
THHHHWACK!
I regain consciousness about ten seconds later. I’m flat on my back on the carpet. Lemons with chicken wings are flying around my head.
‘Did it work?’ I croak.
‘You did this,’ announces Wendy proudly. She holds up my homework book.
ScRugGle, I wrote.
I sigh. It’s not going to be enough.
‘We need professional help,’ I wheeze.
Not many people live next door to an evil genius. But I do. His name is the Mighty Professor Skeletron. He insists on the ‘the’. If you don’t say the ‘the’, he won’t let you into his bedroom.
‘The Mighty Professor Skeletron,’ I call, knocking on his Batman poster. ‘It’s me and Wendy. Can we come in?’
There’s a sound of cursing, and then the door opens. The Mighty Professor Skeletron peers out at us.
‘What do you want?’ he snaps. He’s halfway through drawing an evil moustache on himself with a felt-tip pen. Clearly he’s very busy.
‘I’ve got a problem I need help with.’
‘Do you mean you have a problem that requires the mind of an evil genius?’
He’s got felt-tip ink on his fingers too. His felt-tips must be leaking.
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘I have a problem that requires the mind of an evil genius. Oh, and your mum told me to tell you that your toast is ready.’
The Mighty Professor Skeletron scowls at us. Then he shuffles past to the kitchen, mutters a thank you and returns carrying a plate of peanut butter toast. ‘You may enter,’ he snaps.
The Mighty Professor Skeletron is one year older than me. He’s 12. He’s a lot older than Wendy. She’s only six. But she’s pretty much the only girl he’s ever talked to, so he doesn’t mind her tagging along when I visit.
‘Your arrival is most untimely,’ mutters the Mighty Professor Skeletron, munching on his toast. ‘I am in the middle of inventing a death ray capable of destroying all life on Earth. But I’ve run out of sticky tape.’
I look at what he’s working on. It’s impressive.
‘You could use Blu-Tak,’ I suggest.
The Mighty Professor Skeletron glares at me in disgust. Then he tuts loudly and reaches for the Blu-Tak.
‘For what reason have you interrupted me?’ he snips, Blu-Tak-ing a ping-pong ball onto the barrel of his death ray. Although I don’t think it’s supposed to be a ping-pong ball. I think it’s meant to be something else. But I don’t know what. That’s why he’s an evil genius and I’m not.
‘Mr Pilchard,’ I say. ‘He’s going to murder me if I don’t come up with a story before tomorrow morning.’
‘Ah, yes.’ The Mighty Professor Skeletron nods wisely. ‘Teacher-cide. A common cause of death among the under 12s. Why not just write the story?’
‘Because his mind’s broken,’ pipes up Wendy. ‘I hit it with a hammer but it didn’t work.’
The Mighty Professor Skeletron peers at her. ‘What kind of hammer?’ he asks.
‘This one,’ replies Wendy, showing it to him. ‘My mum bought it from Toy World.’
The Mighty Professor Skeletron takes the hammer and inspects it under his microscope. ‘Hmmm …’ he mutters to himself. ‘Fascinating. Reinforced plastic crossweave with a hollowed gaseous interior. I’m surprised it wasn’t effective. This is precisely the right hammer to use.’ He sits for a moment, stroking his felt-tip beard.
‘Please, Eric,’ I urge. ‘Hurry up and think of something. I don’t want to die.’
The Mighty Professor Skeletron glares at me. I quickly correct myself.
‘Please, the Mighty Professor Skeletron, hurry up and think of something. I don’t want to die.’
The Mighty Professor Skeletron nods, satisfied.
‘What we need,’ he declares, ‘is Inspiration.’
‘It’s your Spiderman statue,’ chirrups Wendy excitedly. ‘She’s staring at his knees!’
‘No, no, no,’ whispers the Mighty Professor Skeletron. ‘Wait until she crosses the dimensional vortex. She is yet to enter the mists …’
We’re hiding under his bed, staying as still as we can. Distracting a psychic cat can be fatal.
‘Now!’ announces the Mighty Professor Skeletron. ‘Look at her eyes! The sight is upon her! She is about to show us the path!’
We hold our breaths, eagerly following Inspiration’s gaze.
‘It’s the laundry basket,’ whispers Wendy, hardly able to contain herself. ‘The laundry basket holds the key to the future! Your socks have been prog-nose-tick-ated!’
Wendy’s got no idea what ‘prognosticated’ means. She just loves saying it. Come to think of it, I don’t know what ‘prognosticated’ means, either. I probably should, though. This isn’t our first prognostication.
‘Silence!’ hisses the Mighty Professor Skeletron, putting a finger to his lips. He tiptoes very, very slowly across the room and carefully removes Inspiration’s Prognosticator. We all breathe a sigh of relief. The danger of death has passed.
Wendy races over to the laundry basket and starts rummaging around in the Mighty Professor Skeletron’s dirty underwear. ‘Aha!’ she announces, pulling out a book.
The Complete Works of Shakespeare by William Shakespeare.
