by Bill Myers
“That’s right,” I said as I brought the Choco Chum story up on the screen.
“See”—Wall Street pointed—“right there it says, ‘Choco Chum, make sure Coach Kilroy no longer teaches at our school.’ ”
“That’s the last thing we typed,” I said.
“Only we didn’t fill in the details, so Ol’ Betsy’s fried circuits did it instead,” Wall Street said.
“By getting Coach arrested?” Opera asked.
“Exactly. Ol’ Betsy contacted whatever computers were necessary to make that come true, and those computers changed their data to make it a reality.”
Opera seemed to be getting it . . . although he obviously had something else on his mind as well. “So, you mean if you were to type something in like, oh, I don’t know . . . , ‘Opera gets a giant dump truck load of Chippy Chipper Potato Chips . . . ,’ then that would happen?”
Wall Street nodded. “The computers would make it become a reality. Go ahead, show him, Wally.”
“Guys,” I said, “I really don’t think we want to keep messing with—”
“Go ahead,” Wall Street insisted. “It won’t hurt anything.”
I turned to her. “Don’t you think we’ve done enough—”
Before I could stop her, she reached past me to the keyboard. “Honestly, Wally, sometimes you can be such a chicken.” I watched as she typed:
Choco Chum, deliver a dump truck full of potato chips to Opera.
“That’s it?” Opera asked. “That’s all you do?”
“Yup.”
“Are you sure? Because I don’t feel like anything has changed.”
“Of course you don’t feel anything,” Wall Street sighed. “Unless you’re a dump truck or a load of potato chips, you wouldn’t. But just be patient, they’ll show up.”
“Cool. Maybe you could order me a couple of double-decker cheeseburgers with—”
“Guys,” I complained, “we’re supposed to be clearing up the problem with Coach Kilroy, not creating new ones.”
“So go ahead,” Wall Street said, scooting back and letting me get to the keyboard. “Clear it up.”
It took a moment to decide what to type. Obviously, there was a major mix-up in the computers about Coach Kilroy and the fingerprints and the video surveillance tapes and everything. So, I finally reached for the keys and typed:
Choco Chum, clear up all of the confusion about Coach Kilroy.
“There,” I said. “That should do it.”
Wall Street nodded. “Things should be getting back to normal in no time.”
I looked back to the screen, pleased that for the first time in history I had actually ended a major McDoogle mishap before it had grown out of hand. Incredible.
Little did I realize how incredibly wrong I was.
Chapter 4
Uh-Oh
After Wall Street and Opera left for home I tried to relax a little. Normally, I would have whipped out my computer and unwound by writing my superhero story. But I was still a little nervous about Ol’ Betsy’s fried circuits, so I grabbed a tablet and a pencil and went to work the old-fashioned way . . .
When we last left Choco Chum, he was not changing Wall Street’s and Wally’s grades, and he was definitely not getting rid of any middle school P.E. teachers (particularly any whose names start with Coach and end in Kilroy).
(Even though I was only writing this on paper, I figured better safe than sorry.)
Instead, our stupendous and sometimes sticky (but only when he sits in the sun) superhero sits in his Choco-mobile racing toward Outrageous Ray the Wrestler’s secret hideout. (I’d like to tell you where it is, but it’s a secret.)
No one’s sure what made Outrageous Ray so outrageous. Some say he just liked neon green tights, flamboyant capes, and shoving his finger at ugly opponents, screaming, “I want you! I want you! I want you!” Then there is the ever-popular theory that Ray really wanted to be president, but found politics far too rude and violent for his tastes.
Whatever the reason, Outrageous soon became the most famous (and outrageous) wrestler in the world. I mean, the guy ate, drank, and slept wrestling. Now it looked like he wanted to eat, drink, sleep, and watch it on every TV channel as well.
As Choco Chum squeals around the last corner and pulls up to Ray’s hideout at Mold’s Gym.…(Oops, now you know its location. Well, at least I didn’t tell you it was the one in Cleveland. Oh, there I go again. But at least I didn’t mention it’s at 3427 Rutledge Drive.)
Anyway, as he squeals around the corner to the now not-so-secret hideout, he slams on his brakes and gasps a good-guy gasp. For there, across the street in the J. C. Nickel’s display window (it used to be J. C. Penney’s, but you know how inflation is), a hundred TV sets are tuned to a hundred different stations…each showing a hundred different professional wrestlers sharing their most intimate feelings: “And after I rip your arm off, I’m going to rip off your other arm, and then rip off your other arm, and then…” (Listen, I know they said “arm” three times, but these guys are athletes, not mathematicians.)
Still, their lack of math skills is not the problem. The problem is the dozens of impressionable kiddies standing outside the display window staring up at the screens, all wanting to be just like these guys (as soon as they can find an opponent with three arms).
Without a moment’s hesitation, Choco Chum leaps out of the car, races up the steps to Mold’s Gym, and throws open the doors: “Outrageous Ray,” he shouts. “Outrageous, where are you?”
Suddenly, our hero is hit by blinding beams of light. The beams are coming from all sides. He shades his eyes and sees it’s the reflection of the sun off a dozen wrestling championship belt buckles——each brighter and more gaudy than the next. But that’s only the beginning of Choco Chum’s concerns. For the longer the sunlight shines, the hotter he becomes. And the hotter he becomes (you guessed it), the more he begins to melt.
Suddenly, he hears a sickeningly sinister snicker: “Moo-who-ha-ha-hee-hee…” (the type of snicker taught at bad-guy schools everywhere), and he knows it can only come from one place:
(insert bad-guy music here)
“Outrageous!” our hero cries. “Is that you?”
“Moo-who-ha-ha-hee-hee…”
The laughter makes Choco Chum shudder with fear. But this is no time for cold feet. In fact, as he glances at his tootsies, he detects that they’re turning just a tiny trace too toasty. (Say that seven times fast.) Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing bad about having warm feet…unless, of course, those feet happen to be made out of 100 percent pure milk chocolate. Because, as any chocolate creatures will tell you, if their feet get too warm they soon come down with a dreaded case of...puddle paws.
The beams grow hotter.
“Outrageous…”
A voice booms from behind the light of the belt buckles. “I’ve always said you were an old softy,” it shouts. “Now you’re proving my point!” Our hero glances at his knees. They are weakening and also turning into goo…then his waist…then his chest…then his face… “Outwaggouus!” he cries. “Com ou inn thhh opp... ennn…” But that’s all our heroic hero can holler. (It’s hard hollering anything when your mouth is melting.)
Great Scot! What can our little puddle of dude goo do? Will he ever be able to pull himself together? And, more important, is he really 100 percent pure milk chocolate or did they mess him up by putting in those stupid nuts or fruit or crispy rice thingies?
“Wally . . .”
I tried to ignore the voice and kept on writing.
And then, just when all is lost——
“Wally, come on downstairs!” It was Mom. “They’re talking about Coach Kilroy on TV again. You won’t believe what’s happening now!”
I paused for a second and looked at my story. It was getting pretty weird. But even as I looked at it, I feared Choco Chum’s little fantasy was nothing compared to Coach Kilroy’s great big reality . . .
I raced down the stairs doing
my usual crash-and-burn routine. You know, the one where my feet kinda get tangled in the carpet at the top of the stairs and I kinda
Crash, Crash, Crash
tumble down the steps (making sure to catch each one on the way down) until I hit the lamp at the bottom, breaking it into a bazillion pieces.
Of course, Dad was already there ready to help me up. Poor guy. All he wants is for me to be a real man like my superjock brothers, Burt and Brock. But before he has a chance to say anything, Mom shouts, “Hurry up, guys. The police chief is talking about Coach Kilroy.”
“The police chief ?” I cried as I limped into the room.
“Shh.” She motioned for me to be quiet as I joined the rest of the family, who were already watching the show. Sure enough, there was Police Chief O’Brien holding a news conference. Camera lights were flashing, videotapes were running, and Chief O’Brien was talking.
“By enhancing all of the video images and fingerprints, we are now positive that Mr. Kilroy is indeed the perpetrator of all seventeen bank robberies.”
“What?” I cried.
“Shhh . . .” Mom and Dad both motioned for me to be quiet. “And by running a computer check, we’ve discovered another remarkable fact: Mr. Kilroy’s fingerprints and video image are an identical match to every unsolved crime in our city for the past five years.”
“That’s not true!” I shouted.
“Shhhhhhh . . .” Now everyone in the family was giving me the leaky tire routine.
“But, Ol’ Betsy is—”
“Wally!” they all cried.
The chief continued, “We are as surprised as anyone that all of these crimes have suddenly been cleared up, but the evidence is crystal clear. One man, and one man only, is responsible . . . Coach Morton Kilroy.”
The reporters began shouting a bunch of questions, but I barely heard them. I was still in a daze when the phone rang and Mom answered. A moment later, she called out to me, “Wally? Wally, it’s one of your little friends.”
I don’t know how I managed, but somehow I shuffled over to the phone and answered, “Hello?”
“Did you munch munch hear the news?” I could tell it was Opera by the perpetual crunching in my ear.
“Yeah . . .”
“There’s crunch crunch more.”
“More?” I croaked.
“Yeah, we’ve got to crunch munch have a meeting. Wall Street’s on her way over here now. You’ve got to munch crunch come, too. And bring Ol’ Betsy.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“Just get over here as fast as you BURP can. It’s worse than you can BELCH believe. I gotta go!”
“Opera . . . Opera!” No answer. He’d hung up.
I returned the phone to its cradle. Because of his perpetual munching, I knew something was wrong. Normally, Opera eats a little junk food most of the time, but when he’s really nervous he eats a lot of junk food all of the time. And by the way he was scarfing down those empty carbos, I knew we were in for some major, big-time trouble.
Chapter 5
Uh-Oh x 2
I knew things had gotten weirder the moment I saw the mound in Opera’s driveway. From a distance I couldn’t exactly make out what it was, but I didn’t have to. The sound gave it away:
Crunch, Crunch, Crunch
Crunch, Crunch, Crunch
Crunch, Crunch, Crunch
Then, of course, there was the smell. Nothing comes close to the delicately scented aroma of extra crispy, extra extra salty, extra extra extra greasy Chippy Chipper Potato Chips—the chips preferred by heart surgeons around the world (who are looking for more bypass operations to perform).
When I got close enough to see the details, it was exactly as I feared. There in the middle of the driveway was a giant mound of potato chips. And there, at the top of that mound, happily eating his way down to the bottom, was my ol’ pal Opera.
“Opera!” I shouted. “Opera, what’s going on?”
Munch, Munch, Munch
Munch, Munch, Munch
Munch, Munch, Munch
“Opera!”
“He can’t hear you.”
I spun around to see Wall Street standing in the front doorway.
“What happened?” I asked. “What’s all this about?”
“Remember the last thing we typed on Ol’ Betsy about Choco Chum ordering a dump truck load of chips?”
I felt a huge knot growing in my stomach. “Yeah . . .”
“There they are.”
I glanced back at Opera as he sat atop the golden pile of chips, slowly, but surely, eating his way down toward us.
“How do we get him off there?” I asked.
“Got it covered,” she said. “I just had to find something he liked better than chips.”
“What could he love better than chips?” I asked.
She grinned and produced a giant tub of Greaso (the cooking grease preferred by those same heart surgeons everywhere). Without a word, she grabbed a pile of chips from the mound and shouted, “Hey, Opera!”
He looked down just long enough to see her dipping the chips into the tub of lard.
“Umm . . . ,” she shouted, pretending to lick her lips. “Yum, yum, yum.”
He scampered down the mound in a flash as Wall Street held out the grease-dipped chips, urging him to follow her into the house . . . “Come on, boy, attaboy, come on.”
He trotted obediently behind her. I followed. Once we got inside, she tossed him the chips, and he gobbled them down while she quickly locked the door—making his escape impossible.
“Okay,” she said, turning to me, “we’ve got a problem.”
“No kidding.”
“Opera,” she asked, “are you sure your parents won’t be home until late?”
He looked up from his eating and answered, “Burp!”
“Great, then we’ll make this headquarters.”
“Headquarters for what?” I asked.
“Turn on Ol’ Betsy, plug her into that kitchen phone line there, and let’s get to work.”
“What are you talking about?” I demanded as I set up the computer and plugged in the phone line. “We typed out that Choco Chum would make everything okay with Coach Kilroy, and just the opposite happened.”
“Not exactly,” she said. “Bring the story up on the screen.”
Reluctantly, I turned on the computer and brought up our last Choco Chum command:
Choco Chum, clear up all of the confusion about Coach Kilroy.
“See!” I pointed to the screen. “It’s right there.” Wall Street shook her head. “No.”
“What are you talking about? It’s right there in front of you.”
Again she shook her head. “We typed in the command for all of the confusion to be cleared up.”
“And?”
“And it has. Ol’ Betsy decided to clear up the confusion by making it one hundred percent clear that Coach Kilroy was guilty.”
“What?”
“We typed in that Choco Chum should clear up the confusion about Coach Kilroy. That’s exactly what happened. There’s no more confusion. Ol’ Betsy cleared it up by making Coach look completely guilty.”
I could only stare at the screen and groan. “This is terrible.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So what do we do?” I asked.
“We gotta go down to the jail and clear it up.”
“No way,” I cried. “They’re not going to listen to a bunch of kids.”
“You’re right,” Wall Street said.
“BELCH!” Opera agreed.
“So what do we do?” I demanded.
“Just give me a second,” Wall Street answered.
Opera and I exchanged uneasy glances. Of the three of us, Wall Street was definitely the brains. Unfortunately, her brains often involved our bruises. Still, we were the ones responsible for this mess, and we were the ones that had to do some—
“I got it!” she shouted. “You say they won’t listen to a b
unch of kids, right?”
Opera and I both nodded. “Right.”
“But what if we were more than just kids? What if the three of us held important offices?”
“What do you mean?” I asked nervously.
“Here, I’ll show you.” She moved in front of the screen and started typing:
Choco Chum, make Wally the new police chief.
“What!?” I shouted.
“If you’re the police chief then you can get everybody to listen you. You might even be able to get Coach out of jail.”
“That’s loony tunes!” I cried. “No way am I going to the city jail all by myself and pretend to be the police chief.”
Wall Street saw my point and began to nod. “You’re right,” she agreed, “you shouldn’t have to go in there by yourself.” She reached back to the keyboard and typed:
Choco Chum, make Wall Street the police chief’s secretary and . . .
She paused to think for a moment (which made me even more nervous) until her face suddenly lit up:
. . . make Opera the jail’s new dietitian!
“What’s that?” Opera asked.
“You know,” she said, “like a cook.”
“Wall Street,” I protested, “don’t be ridicu—”
But that was all I got out before she reached down and hit “ENTER.”
I stared at Ol’ Betsy helplessly. There must have been a hundred things I wanted to say all at the same time. Unfortunately, the only thing that came out was the tried-and-true:
“Uh-oh . . .”
Opera nodded, belched, and added, “Times two.”
The next day was New Year’s Eve. Since the following day was a holiday—and since Coach Kilroy wasn’t around—his survival workshop had been canceled. This fit in perfectly with Wall Street’s plan . . . something about three very frightened kids putting on their best clothes, heading down to the city jail, and pretending to be the police chief, his secretary, and the new jail dietitian. Of course, it would never work (the only thing more dangerous than my clumsiness was Wall Street’s plans), but we had to do something.
