by Bill Myers
“Thanks, Mom,” he says as he takes the shirt. Unfortunately, he accidentally breathes on the picture that’s hanging in the hall, and it immediately bursts into flames.
“Oh, Dear!” his mother cries through her gas mask as she quickly whips out a fire extinguisher and puts out the flames. “You’ve really got to be more careful about that breath of yours.”
“Sorry,” B.B. Boy says as he sadly shuts the door. Poor guy. It’s not like he has the worst breath in the world. Actually it’s the worst in the galaxy.
No one’s sure what made B.B. (alias Bad Breath) Boy’s breath so bad. Some say it came from his mom eating too many onions the nine months before he was born. Others insist it came from his dad, a health food nut, making him swallow all those garlic pills. (It may not have given him permanent bad breath, but it sure cut down on vampire attacks.) Whatever the case, Bad Breath Boy’s breath is bad enough to stop a mule... usually by killing it.
That’s why the government always calls him when they’re in trouble. And that’s why the President is calling him now. Quicker than you can say, “This guy’s even stranger than Floss Man, Tidy Guy, or any of those other superheroes of mine,” B.B. Boy grabs a bottle of Listerine, gives a quick gargle, and heads for his computer.
The effects of the mouthwash will only last a few seconds, but that’s all he’ll need to quickly read the screen and turn away before his breath melts it.
He snaps on the computer and punches up the e-mail. There’s the message:
B.B. Boy:
The dastardly disastrous Dollar Dude is on
the loose . . .
(Insert scary music here.)
He’s escaped from the prison of the incurably rich and has launched a satellite. It captures all the sunbeams and changes them into Megabuck Beams . . . special beams that transform everything they touch into money.
“Everything?” our hero asks under his breath.
Everything . . . trees, buildings, little children.
Our hero looks up from the screen and for one brief second wonders if he can talk his little sister into going outside and getting a tan. Then, realizing he’s the superhero of this story, and superheroes are supposed to be role models for impressionable readers like yourselves, he turns back to the monitor and continues to read:
We’ve already fired missiles at it, but its rays turn the rockets into twenty-dollar bills that flutter back to earth. You’re our only hope. Perhaps your breath can dissolve the satellite before it’s too late. Good luck. God bless. Get going!
Without wasting another moment, our hero spins away from the computer screen to look out the window. Unfortunately, the mouthwash has worn off and his breath melts the glass, but not before he sees the leaves on the trees outside turning into five-dollar bills and dropping to the ground. Then there are the shingles on the roof across the street that are turning into twenties and blowing away. Finally, there are the clothes on his next-door neighbor, Mrs. Hubba-Hubba, which are all...well, let’s just say it’s a good thing the window is melting and getting all cloudy so he can no longer see out.
Something has to be done. Who knows what dastardly deeds Dollar Dude is deciding to do? Who knows what absolute awfulness this astonishing author will author? Who knows——
“Wally, it’s time for bed.”
I glanced up from Ol’ Besty. “Okay, Mom,” I shouted. “Just give me a second.”
I looked back at the story. It was definitely one of my strangest beginnings. I mean, on the McDoogle Weirdness Scale of one to ten, it was definitely pushing an eleven. I figured lots of the strangeness had to do with me thinking about all that money Wall Street, Opera, and I hoped to win in tomorrow’s lotto. Little did I realize that the strangeness I’d been writing would be nothing compared to the strangeness I’d soon be living!
* * * * *
“The walrus, whose scientific name is Odobenus rosmarus, resides in blah-blah-blah-blah and primarily eats yadda-yadda-yadda-yadda . . .”
It was another boring field trip brought to us courtesy of Mr. Reptenson, our boring science teacher. This time our class was at the zoo. We’d all gathered around the walrus area at the top of a hill as he (Mr. Reptenson, not the walrus) continued his lecture:
“The male can grow up to twelve feet long and can weigh three thousand pounds . . .”
Don’t get me wrong, I like getting out of school (and pretending we’re learning something) as much as the next guy. But Reptile Man (that’s what we call him for short) can take the world’s most exciting subject and turn it into a world-class yawning event.
“However and furthermore . . .” he continued, “in which case, one can only speculate . . .”
Seriously, if you ever get the choice between listening to one of his lectures or hearing the “I Love You, You Love Me” theme song a million times (as if we haven’t already), trust me, go for the purple dinosaur.
But that wasn’t much of a problem for Wall Street, Opera, and me. Today, we had a lot more important things on our minds. That’s why we hung out toward the back of the group whispering to one another. At the moment we were behind the popcorn wagon arguing over the only subject we’d talked about since we bought our lotto ticket . . .
“And I’m telling you,” Wall Street said, “as the brains of the group, I should get half the money. You and Opera should split what’s left over.”
Opera tried to answer, “But—”
I cut him off. “Listen, if it weren’t for me, that guy would never have sold Opera the ticket in the first place.”
“But—”
“And what a great deal your friend gave us, too,” she argued.
“But—”
“Hey, it wasn’t my fault,” I whispered.
“But—”
“That ticket is rightfully mine!” she said.
“But—”
“No way, it’s really mine!”
“But—”
Finally, we both turned to Opera and demanded, “What?”
“Actually . . . ,” he pulled the ticket from his pocket and grinned, “. . . it’s mine.”
“What are you doing carrying that around?” Wall Street cried. “It could get lost!”
“I’ve got it safe in my pocket.”
“That’s not good enough,” she said as she reached for it. “You better give that to me so it won’t get—”
Unfortunately, Opera quickly pulled it away.
Unfortunatelier (don’t try using this word in school, kids), he pulled it in my direction, which meant I lunged for it, instead.
Unfortunateliest, I grabbed it, but bumped into the popcorn wagon pretty hard . . . which released the brake, which sent it rolling down the hill.
No problem, except for the part where I was standing directly in front of it.
Well, I had been standing directly in front of it. Now I was—
K-BAMB!
“AUGHhhh . . .”
riding on the front of it!
Since the hill was steep, in a major Mount Everest kind of way, the wagon took off like a shot.
“Wally, come back here!” Wall Street shouted.
“I want my ticket!” Opera cried.
“You’d better pay attention because we’re having a quiz!” Reptile Man yelled.
I would have loved to answer any of those requests, but it’s hard on answer when you’ve become the hood ornament on a popcorn wagon. Especially, when it looks like that popcorn wagon is about to set the world’s land speed record!
“Look out!” I cried to a little kid who leaped to the side just in time.
“Coming through!” I shouted to a mother who just managed to shove her baby carriage out of the way.
“Somebody move that cotton candy cart, before we—”
K-SMASH!
Well, two out of three wasn’t bad.
So, there I was rolling down the hill, squished between a cotton candy cart in front of me and a popcorn wagon in the back. Talk about meals on wheels.
I must have looked like the world’s weirdest sandwich. And with all that junk food on both sides, it was probably good that there was a little meat in the middle . . . unfortunately, that “little meat” was me!
The good news was that wherever we went I wouldn’t starve. The bad news was that the hill had leveled off. Normally, that would have been good news, too, except for the
TOOT! TOOT!
. . . miniature train ride . . .
CLANG! CLANG!
that was heading straight toward me!
TOOT! TOOT!
CLANG! CLANG!
Once again, it was time for clear thinking. Once again, it was time to do what I did best. Once again, I opened my mouth and screamed my lungs out:
“AUGHHHHH!”
Chapter 3
Zoo Goo
So, there I was racing toward the little engine that could (could kill me, that is), preparing for my daily recommended dosage of pain, when I noticed an important fact: I could actually steer my little concession stand. That’s right! By leaning to the left, I could veer to the left. By leaning to the right, I could veer to the right.
Great news. Now, all I had to do was see where I was veering! (Not an easy task when your glasses are coated in two inches of cotton candy, better make that three inches . . . er, four.) The point is that the cotton candy machine was going to beat the band and all that pink, hairy stuff was blowing back into my face. (Better make that five inches.) Cool, if you’re a cotton candy nut. Not so cool if you’re trying to veer for your life.
TOOT! TOOT!
CLANG! CLANG!
But beggars can’t be choosers! I had to make a choice. If I was lucky, I’d steer the right way and miss the train all together. If I was unlucky, well, this could be the shortest Wally McDoogle book in history.
After a short prayer, where I carefully reminded God of all the good stuff I’d ever done (which explains why it was so short), I decided I should lean to the right.
But, knowing how bad my luck was, I decided to lean to the left because I actually wanted to lean to the right. Make sense? But knowing my luck was worse than normal bad luck, I decided to lean to the right—because I thought I should lean to the left because I had really wanted to lean to the right. Then again, if that’s what I was thinking, maybe I should—
KER-SPLAT
Well, that took care of my thinking, and my believing in luck. (It nearly took care of my breathing, too.) After wasting all that time trying to decide, I’d run smack-dab into the middle of my little Thomas the Train buddy.
TOOT! TOOT!
CLANG! CLANG!
(Okay, knock it off, will you!)
By now the cotton candy cart, popcorn wagon, and myself were so tangled together, it was hard to tell where one left off and the other began— though I did notice the cart and wagon seemed to be bleeding a lot less than me. I also noticed I was starting to slip. I hung on and turned my head to look through the window of the popcorn wagon. All in all it wasn’t a bad view; it would have been a terrific way to see the rest of the zoo, except I really couldn’t see. Instead of cotton candy all over the place, I was now peering through a window of popping corn.
(Aren’t you getting hungry reading this? Sorry I couldn’t have hit a lemonade stand to wash it all down.)
I peered through all those bouncy little kernels of buttery delight, until I caught a glimpse of an approaching train trestle. An approaching train trestle could only mean there was an approaching drop-off . . . no doubt, the hundred-foot if-you-fall-this-could-sure-ruin-your-day kind of drop-off.
Now I had two more choices to make. Wait and hope I could get all the way across the trestle without sliding off and falling to my death, or jump now and get killed just a little bit sooner.
Decisions, decisions.
But being the type who likes to put off until tomorrow what I could do today (especially when it involves dying), I decided to hang on.
The good news was that we made it about halfway across the gorge before I really started slipping. The bad news was, halfway is not the same as all the way.
Suddenly, the cart, the wagon, and yours truly slid from the train and began to fall. To be honest, I wasn’t too worried about the falling—it was hitting the ground that had me concerned.
Fortunately, we didn’t get to that part just yet. We had to make a few stops along on the way. First, there was the obligatory landing in the top of a pine tree,
SNAP, CRACKLE, . . . BOING!
which bounced us back into the air until we came down and
K-BAMB!
landed on the pitched roof of some building. But, since my cart and wagon buddies still had their wheels, our little McDoogle Mishap wasn’t entirely over. (Oh, no! That would be too easy.)
With all the wheels still working, we started
roll . . . roll . . . roll . . . rolling down the roof until
“AUGH!”
K-RASH
we hit the ground. But the fun and games weren’t over yet. We just kept on rolling . . . down another hill . . . and straight toward Monkey Land.
The good news was that we managed to
K-BASH!
run into a lemonade stand just for you. (See how thoughtful I am.) The bad news was that
K-RANG!
I discovered that steel bars to monkey cages hurt worse than food carts, trains, treetops, and roofs combined.
I don’t know how long I lay there unconscious, but when I finally woke up I was sure I’d died and gone to heaven. But then I finally opened my eyes and saw the scariest angel ever. Granted, my glasses were still pretty smeared with cotton candy, but the big nostrils and huge furry face staring down at me were terrifying.
“AUGH!”
I didn’t mean to scream, but it’s hard not to when you’re scared half to death. (Well, actually, in my case, I figured I was scared completely to death.)
But instead of offering words of comfort, the angel leaped back and let go an unearthly . . .
SHRIEK!
To which I calmly replied:
“AUGH! AUGH!”
To which the angel replied:
SHRIEK! SHRIEK!
To which I . . . well, you get the picture. It was only then that I looked down and saw the angel had a tail. And it was only then that I realized I wasn’t in heaven, but the other place!
Fortunately, it didn’t look like the creature was in the mood to torment me with any pitchforks. Instead, he reached down and raised a handful of popcorn to his mouth. Sadly, I realized my pal, the popcorn wagon, hadn’t made it to the good place either. (By the way, where do concession stands go when they die? Not that anyone really cares . . . unless, of course, it’s Opera.)
Anyway, the hideous creature took a sniff of the popcorn, then a nibble, then threw it away in disgust. With the other hand, he raised a banana to his mouth and began to eat. Oh, no, I thought, even when you’re dead they make you eat your fruits and vegetables!
Then, with great effort, I raised up on one elbow and looked around.
It was worse than I expected! I wasn’t in the other place at all! Somehow, someway, I’d been thrown through the bars and had landed smack-dab in the middle of Monkey Land!
No problem, except for the dozens of wild apes and monkeys that were slowly closing in—dozens of furry faces, little eyes, and not so little fangs. It was about then that I recalled how great passing out had been. So, looking for something to do to kill the time before they killed me, I decided to give it another try. . . .
* * * * *
“You say this sort of thing happens all the time?” the head zookeeper asked Dad.
“Well, not all the time,” Dad answered. “Sometimes when he sleeps, nothing much happens. But when he’s awake . . . well, let’s just say that Wallace is the only living human who has been declared a National Disaster Area.”
“Amazing.”
“That’s one word for it,” Dad said.
All three of us . . . Dad, me, and Mr. Zookeepe
r, sat in the main office of the zoo discussing the problem. Well, they did the discussing. I just sort of sat there doing a lot of praying. I was glad they’d rescued me from the cage. I was not glad about what might happen next.
“You know, we really should press charges,” Mr. Zookeeper was saying.
“I understand,” Dad agreed.
“But,” Mr. Zookeeper sighed, “since it wasn’t intentional, I guess we won’t. Although,” he turned to me, “we will expect full reimbursement for the damaged items.”
I nodded so hard my head almost broke.
Suddenly, the intercom buzzed.
“Excuse me.” Mr. Zookeeper reached over and pressed a button. “Yes.”
“Mr. Chambers, this is Lawrence at the leopard’s cage. It’s feeding time, and I’m having trouble with one of the locks. Could you hit the override for me?”
“Certainly.” With that the man rose and crossed over to some fancy computer. He pulled a notebook from the shelf above it, read something inside, and then entered a few numbers on the keyboard. There was a brief hum and a click over the intercom and then Lawrence’s voice answered: “Thank you, sir.”
“No problem,” Mr. Zookeeper answered. “We’ll have the electrician check out the problem in the morning.”
With that he turned back to Dad. “Where was I? Oh, yes. There will be a sizable cost in replacing all of the equipment your son has destroyed. And, of course, . . .” Mr. Zookeeper rambled on for a few more minutes about the cost and everything until it was finally Dad’s turn.
Dad’s speech was the one he used after all my little mishaps. The one where he talks about the special bank account he’s set up to pay for my catastrophes as well as the various insurance polices he’s taken out on me. It was all pretty normal.
Unfortunately, none of us realized it then, but what had happened at the zoo that afternoon was small potatoes compared to what would be happening there that night.
Chapter 4
And the Winning Number Is . . .
The lotto drawing wasn’t until 9:30 that night, which meant I had plenty of time to battle my homework and get ready for bed. My latest enemy was complex fractions, complete with all those wonderful little things called numerators and denominators. (I say, just bring in the Terminator and divide and conquer.)
