“MOOOMM!” wailed Peter. “Henry’s calling me names!”
“Henry!” screamed Mom. “For the last time, can’t you leave your brother alone?”
Horrid Henry considered. Could he leave that worm alone?
“Peter is a frog, Peter is a frog,” chanted Henry.
“MOOOOOOMMMMM!” screamed Peter.
“That’s it, Henry!” shouted Mom. “No allowance for a week. Go to your room and stay there.”
“Fine!” shrieked Henry. “You’ll all be sorry when I’m dead.” He stomped down the hall and slammed his bedroom door as hard as he could. Why were his parents so mean and horrible? He was hardly bothering Peter at all. Peter was a frog. Henry was only telling the truth.
Boy would they be sorry when he’d died of boredom stuck up here.
If only we’d let him watch a little extra TV, Mom would wail. Would that have been so terrible?
If only we hadn’t made him do any chores, Dad would sob.
Why didn’t I let Henry call me names, Peter would howl. After all, I do have smelly pants.
And now it’s too late and we’re sooooooo sorry, they would shriek.
But wait. Would they be sorry? Peter would grab his room. And all his best toys. His archenemy Stuck-Up Steve could come over and snatch anything he wanted, even his skeleton bank and Goo-Shooter. Peter could invade the Purple Hand fort and Henry couldn’t stop him. Moody Margaret could hop over the wall and steal his flag. And his cookies. And his Dungeon Drink Kit. Even his…Waterblaster.
NOOOOOO!!!
Horrid Henry went pale. He had to stop those greedy thieves. But how?
I could come back and haunt them, thought Horrid Henry. Yes! That would teach those grave robbers not to mess with me.
“OOOOOOO, get out of my rooooooooooom, you horrrrrrrible toooooooooooad,” he would moan at Peter.
“Touch my Goooooooo-shoooooter and you’ll be morphed into ectoplasm,” he’d groan spookily from under Stuck-Up Steve’s bed. Ha! That would show him.
Or he’d pop out from inside Moody Margaret’s closet.
“Giiiiive Henrrrrry’s toyyyys back, you mis-er-a-ble sliiiiiimy snake,” he would rasp. That would teach her a thing or two.
Henry smiled. But fun as it would be to haunt people, he’d rather stop horrible enemies from snatching his stuff in the first place.
And then suddenly Horrid Henry had a brilliant, spectacular idea. Hadn’t Mom told him just the other day that people wrote wills to say who they wanted to get all their stuff when they died? Henry had been thrilled.
“So when you die I get all your money!” Henry beamed. Wow. The house would be his! And the car! And he’d be boss of the TV, ’cause it would be his too!!! And the only shame was—
“Couldn’t you just give it all to me now?” asked Henry.
“Henry!” snapped Mom. “Don’t be horrid.”
There was no time to lose. He had to write a will immediately.
Horrid Henry sat down at his desk and grabbed some paper.
MY WILL
WARNING: DO NOT READ UNLESS
I AM DEAD!!!! I mean it!!!!
If you’re reading this it’s because I’m dead and you aren’t. I wish you were dead and I wasn’t, so I could have all your stuff. It’s so not fair.
First of all, to anyone thinking of stealing my stuff just ’cause I’m dead…BEWARE! Anyone who doesn’t do what I say will get haunted by a bloodless and boneless ghoul, namely me. So there.
Now the hard part, thought Horrid Henry. Who should get his things? Was anyone deserving enough?
Peter, you are a worm. And a toad. And an ugly baby diaper face smelly ugg potty pants poopsicle. I leave you…hmmmm. That toad really shouldn’t get anything. But Peter was his brother after all. I leave you my candy wrappers. And a muddy twig.
That was more than Peter deserved. Still…
Steve, you are stuck-up and horrible and the world’s worst cousin. You can have a pair of my socks. You can choose the blue ones with the holes or the falling down orange ones.
Margaret, you nit-face. I give you the Purple Hand flag to remember me by—NOT! You can have two radishes and the knight with the chopped-off head. And keep your paws off my Grisly Grub Box!!! Or else…
Miss Battle-Axe, you are my worst teacher ever. I leave you a broken pencil.
Aunt Ruby, you can have the lime green cardigan back that you gave me for Christmas.
Hmmm. So far he wasn’t doing so well giving away any of his good things.
Ralph, you can have my Goo-Shooter, but ONLY if you give me your football and your bike and your computer game Slime Ghouls.
That was more like it. After all, why should he be the only one writing a will? It was certainly a lot more fun thinking about getting stuff from other people than giving away his own treasures.
In fact, wouldn’t he be better off helping others by telling them what he wanted? Wouldn’t it be awful if Rich Aunt Ruby left him some of Steve’s old clothes in her will thinking that he would be delighted? Better write to her at once.
Now, Steve. Henry was leaving him an old pair of holey socks. But Steve didn’t have to know that, did he? For all Henry knew, Steve loved holey socks.
Right, Mom and Dad. When they were in the old people’s home they’d hardly need a thing. A rocking chair and blanket each would do fine for them.
So, how would Dad’s music system look in his bedroom? And where could he put Mom’s clock radio? Henry had always liked the chiming clock on their mantelpiece and the picture of the blackbird. Better go and check to see where he could put them.
Henry went into Mom and Dad’s room and grabbed an armload of stuff. He staggered to his bedroom and dumped everything on the floor, then went back for a second helping.
Stumbling and staggering under his heavy burden, Horrid Henry swayed down the hall and crashed into Dad.
“What are you doing?” said Dad, staring. “That’s mine.”
“And those are mine,” said Mom.
“What is going on?” shrieked Mom and Dad.
“I was just checking how all this stuff will look in my room when you’re in the old people’s home,” said Horrid Henry.
“I’m not there yet,” said Mom.
“Put everything back,” said Dad.
Horrid Henry scowled. Here he was, just trying to think ahead, and he gets told off.
“Well, just for that I won’t leave you any of my knights in my will,” said Henry.
Honestly, some people were so selfish.
“Watch out, Gurinder! You’re smearing your nail polish,” screeched Moody Margaret. “Violet! Don’t touch your face—you’re spoiling all my hard work. Susan! Sit still.”
“I am sitting still,” said Sour Susan. “Stop pulling my hair.”
“I’m not pulling your hair,” hissed Margaret. “I’m styling it.”
“Ouch!” squealed Susan. “You’re hurting me.”
“I am not, crybaby.”
“I’m not a crybaby,” howled Susan.
Moody Margaret sighed loudly.
“Not everyone can be naturally beautiful like me. Some people”—she glared at Susan—“have to work at it.”
“You’re not beautiful,” said Sour Susan, snorting.
“I am too,” said Margaret, primping herself.
“Are not,” said Susan. “On the ugly scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being the ugliest, wartiest toad, you’re a 2.”
“Huh!” said Margaret. “Well, you’re so ugly you’re minus 1. They don’t have an ugly enough scale for you.”
“I want my money back!” shrieked Susan.
“No way!” shrieked Margaret. “Now sit down and shut up.”
Across the wall in the next garden, deep inside the branches hiding the top secret entrance of t
he Purple Hand fort, a master spy pricked up his ears.
Money? Had he heard the word money?
What was going on next door?
Horrid Henry zipped out of his fort and dashed to the low wall separating his yard from Margaret’s. Then he stared. And stared some more. He’d seen many weird things in his life. But nothing as weird as this.
Moody Margaret, Sour Susan, Lazy Linda, Vain Violet, and Gorgeous Gurinder were sitting in Margaret’s garden. Susan had rollers tangling her pink hair. Violet had blue mascara all over her face. Linda was covered in gold glitter. There was spilled nail polish, face powder, and broken lipstick all over Margaret’s patio.
Horrid Henry burst out laughing.
“Are you playing clowns?” said Henry.
“Huh, shows how much you know, Henry,” said Margaret. “I’m doing makeovers.”
“What’s that?” said Henry.
“It’s when you change how people look, dummy,” said Margaret.
“I knew that,” lied Henry. “I just wanted to see if you did.”
Margaret waved a flyer in his face.
Makeovers? Makeovers? What an incredibly stupid idea. Who’d pay to have a moody old grouch like Margaret smear gunk all over their face? Ha! No one.
Horrid Henry started laughing and pointing.
Vain Violet looked like a demon with red and blue and purple gloop all over her face. Gorgeous Gurinder looked as if a paint pot had been poured down her cheeks. Linda’s hair looked as if she’d been struck by lightning.
But Violet wasn’t screaming and yanking Margaret’s hair out. Instead she handed Margaret—money.
“Thanks, Margaret, I look amazing,” said Vain Violet, admiring herself in the mirror. Henry waited for the mirror to crack.
It didn’t.
“Thanks, Margaret,” said Gurinder. “I look so fantastic I hardly recognize myself.” And she also handed Margaret a dollar.
Two whole dollars? Were they mad?
“Are you getting ready for the Monster’s Ball?” jeered Henry.
“Shut up, Henry,” said Vain Violet.
“Shut up, Henry,” said Gorgeous Gurinder.
“You’re just jealous because I’m going to be rich and you’re not,” said Margaret. “Nah nah ne nah nah.”
“Why don’t we give Henry a makeover?” said Violet.
“Good idea,” said Moody Margaret. “He could sure use one.”
“Yeah,” said Sour Susan.
Horrid Henry took a step back.
Margaret advanced toward him wielding nail polish and a hairbrush. Violet followed clutching a lipstick, hair dye, and other instruments of torture.
Yikes! Horrid Henry dashed back to the safety of his fort as fast as he could, trying to ignore the horrible, cackling laughter.
He sat on his Purple Hand throne and scarfed some extra tasty chocolate cookies from the secret stash he’d swiped from Margaret yesterday. Makeovers! Ha! How dumb could you get? Trust a pea-brained grouch like Margaret to come up with such a stupid idea. Who in their right mind would want a makeover?
On the other hand…
Horrid Henry had actually seen Margaret being paid. And good money, too, just for smearing some colored gunk onto people’s faces and yanking their hair around.
Hmmmm.
Horrid Henry started to think. Maybe Margaret did have a little eensy-weensy teeny-tiny bit of a good idea. And, naturally, anything she could do, Henry could do much, much better. Margaret obviously didn’t know the first thing about makeovers, so why should she make all that money, thought Horrid Henry indignantly. He’d steal—no, borrow—her idea and do it better. Much much better. He’d make people look really fantastic.
Henry’s Makeovers. Henry’s Marvelous Makeovers. Henry’s Miraculous Makeovers.
He’d be rich! With some false teeth and a red marker he could turn Miss Battle-Axe into a vampire. Mrs. Oddbod could be a perfect Dracula. And wouldn’t Stuck-Up Steve be improved after a short visit from the Makeover Magician? Even Aunt Ruby wouldn’t recognize him when Henry had finished. Tee-hee.
First, he needed supplies. That was easy: Mom had tons of gunk for smearing all over her face. And if he ran out he could always use crayons and glue.
Horrid Henry dashed to the bathroom and helped himself to a few handfuls of Mom’s makeup. What on earth did she need all this stuff for? thought Henry, piling it into a bag. About time someone cleared out this drawer. Then he wrote a few flyers.
Horrid Henry, Makeover Magician, was ready for business.
All he needed were some customers. Preferably rich, ugly customers. Now, where could he find some of those?
Henry strolled into the living room. Dad was reading on the sofa. Mom was working at the computer.
Horrid Henry looked at his aged, wrinkly, boring old parents. Bleeeccch!
Boy, could they be improved, thought Henry. How could he tactfully persuade these potential customers that they needed his help—fast?
“Mom,” said Henry, “you know Great-Aunt Greta?”
“Yes,” said Mom.
“Well, you’re starting to look just like her.”
“What?” said Mom.
“Yup,” said Horrid Henry, “old and ugly. Except—” he peered at her, “you have more wrinkles.”
“What?” squeaked Mom.
“And Dad looks like a gargoyle,” said Henry.
“Huh?” said Dad.
“Only scarier,” said Henry. “But don’t worry, I can help.”
“Oh really?” said Mom.
“Oh really?” said Dad.
“Yeah,” said Henry, “I’m doing makeovers.” He handed Mom and Dad a flyer.
“So, how many makeovers would you like?” said Horrid Henry. “Ten? Twenty? Maybe more ’cause you’re so old and need a lot of work to fix you.”
“Make over someone else,” said Mom, scowling.
“Make over someone else,” said Dad, scowling.
Boy, talk about ungrateful, thought Horrid Henry.
“Me first!”
“No me!”
Screams were coming from Margaret’s garden. Kung-Fu Kate and Singing Soraya were about to become her latest victims. Well, not if Henry could help it.
“Step right up, get your makeovers here!” shouted Henry. “Miracle Makeovers, from an expert. Only $2 for a brand-new you.”
“Leave my customers alone, copycat!” hissed Moody Margaret, holding out her hand to snatch Kate’s dollar.
Henry ignored her.
“You look boring, Kate,” said Henry. “Why don’t you let a real expert give you a makeover?”
“You?” said Kate.
“Two dollars and you’ll look completely different,” said Horrid Henry. “Guaranteed.”
“Margaret’s only charging $1,” said Kate.
“My special offer today is 75 cents for the first makeover,” said Henry quickly. “And free beauty advice,” he added.
Soraya looked up. Kate stood up from Margaret’s chair.
“Such as?” scowled Margaret. “Go on, tell us.”
Eeeek. What on earth was a beauty tip? If your face is dirty, wash it? Use a lice comb? Horrid Henry had no idea.
“Well, in your case, wear a bag over your head,” said Horrid Henry. “Or a bucket.”
Susan snickered.
“Ha ha, very funny,” snapped Margaret. “Come on, Kate. Don’t let him trick you. I’m the makeover expert.”
“I’m going to try Henry,” said Kate.
“Me too,” said Soraya.
Yippee! His first customers. Henry stuck out his tongue at Margaret.
Kung-Fu Kate and Singing Soraya climbed over the wall and sat down on the bench at the picnic table. Henry opened his makeover bag and got to work.
“No peeking,” said Henry. “I want you to be surprised.”
Henry smeared and coated, primped and colored, slopped and glopped. This was easy!
“I’m so beautiful—hoo hoo hoo,” hummed Soraya.
“Aren’t you going to do my hair?” said Kung-Fu Kate.
“Of course,” said Horrid Henry.
He emptied a bottle of glue on her head and scrunched it around.
“What did you put in?” said Kate.
“Secret hair potion,” said Henry.
“What about me?” said Soraya.
“No problem,” said Henry, shoveling in some red paint.
A bit of black here, a few blobs of red there, a smear of purple and…ta-da!
Henry stood back to admire his handiwork. Wow! Kung-Fu Kate looked completely different. So did Singing Soraya. Next time he’d charge $10. The moment people saw them everyone would want one of Henry’s marvelous makeovers.
“You look amazing,” said Horrid Henry. He had no idea he was such an awesome makeover artist. Customers would be lining up for his services. He’d need a bigger piggy bank.
“There, just like the Mummy, Frankenstein, and a vampire,” said Henry, handing Kate a mirror.
“AAAARRRRGGGGGHHH!”
screamed Kung-Fu Kate.
Soraya snatched the mirror.
“AAAARRRRGGGGGHHH!”
screamed Singing Soraya.
Horrid Henry stared at them. Honestly, there was no pleasing some people.
“NOOOOOOOOO!”
squealed Kung-Fu Kate.
“But I thought you wanted to look amazing,” said Henry.
“Amazingly good! Not scary!” wailed Kate.
“Has anyone seen my new lipsticks?” said Mom. “I could have sworn I put them in the—”
Horrid Henry and the Abominable Snowman Page 2
