by M. D. Whalen
He was about to say something angry, when Peter exclaimed, “If only that dumb Skyler hadn’t asked for a birthday present!”
Of course, Willy thought. He’d almost forgotten the Rule of Little Brotherhood:
When all else fails, blame your sister.
Kookie pulled them toward an opening in the side of the cave. Bright sunlight seared Willy’s eyes.
Something outside was chewing really loud, then, with a huge, wet ka-TOOEY, a spit wad the size of a baseball struck him in the chest. Well, luckily it struck his balloon bindings and slid right off.
Willy was face-to-face with a camel. Not just one, but three!
Strong hands lifted Willy onto one animal’s back, and Peter onto another. A word from Kookie, and the camels began to move, rocking Willy up and down and side to side. He tried hard not to cry, but a tear dribbled down his cheek. Worse, with both hands tied down by balloons, he wasn’t able to clear the creamy snot from his nose.
“Where are you taking us?” Peter said, more angry than scared.
Kookie, behind them on the third camel, said, “You’ll smell it when we get there,” and finished with his ugly, squishy laugh.
They rode for hours across a pale, rocky landscape. Willy had heard of desert islands, but this one really was a desert. He’d never felt so uncomfortable, bouncing on a hairy back, encased in balloons under a blazing hot sun.
At last, they stopped in the shade of a huge boulder. Kookie squirted strawberry soda into Willy’s and Peter’s mouths, then spread food on the ground for the camels.
“We’re hungry too, you idiot!” Peter shouted. “And sweaty and itchy under these stupid balloons!”
Kookie’s evil clown face looked up with an evil grin. Reaching into his evil hat, he pulled out an evil-looking hat pin the size of a Chinese chopstick. Then he rushed at Peter like an evil clown swordsman.
Willy couldn’t look, partly because he was crying.
A loud burst, then another. The clown stood beside Peter, popping balloons and laughing. Soon Peter was free.
It was Willy’s turn next. He nearly wet his pants while colored rubber spattered around him. What a relief to move his arms again, but watching the camels eat made his stomach growl.
“What about us? We’re hungry,” he said.
“You’ll eat when we get there,” Kookie said. “Onward ho!”
Bouncing on the camel again made Willy’s hunger worse. He felt inside his nose, but it had nothing to offer.
When Kookie wasn’t looking, he reached into the camel food bag strung over the animal’s side, and shoved a handful into his mouth. It tasted awful, like dry weeds and mud. But at least it gave his stomach something to do.
Just then his camel’s body rumbled and trembled like an earthquake he could feel through his legs. A long, violent buzz filled his ears like a power lawnmower.
His camel lurched forward.
“Ewwwww!” Peter shouted from behind.
Willy turned around. Peter’s face turned from green to yellow to purple to white. The air around him shimmered.
“That was the longest, loudest, grossest, stinkiest fart in the entire history of fartitude,” Peter shouted with joy in his voice.
Then his own camel cut an even bigger, longer, louder fart. But was it stinkier?
Riding behind them, Kookie the Clown’s white makeup changed to light green, his eyes bugged out, lips crunched together and he swooned side to side, nearly falling off his mount.
Yes, definitely stinkier.
It wasn’t long before Willy’s own insides started to tremble. His belly felt like it was full of lava boiling and bubbling just before a volcanic eruption.
Which was a pretty good comparison, because moments later, a gas jet spewed from his butt with an ear-twisting BLRRRRRRRRRRRPPP, so hard and long and loud and gross that his camel lurched forward like a turbo-powered race car.
“Ewwwww!” Peter shouted from behind. His face again went green, then yellow, then purple. “What did you eat?”
“Just some camel food.”
“Whoa!” Peter said. “I gotta try some!”
The brothers spent the rest of the journey competing to make the biggest, greasiest, ugliest-sounding camel food farts.
They were a bit disappointed when they reached the foot of the mountain, and Kookie announced: “Play time’s over.”
Leaving the camels behind, they marched up a steep, narrow path to a heavy wooden gate. Kookie honked an old-fashioned bicycle horn hanging outside.
After a short wait, the door squealed open and a red clown nose emerged.
“A couple more for you,” Kookie said.
A pair of mean-looking clowns dragged Peter and Willy inside, and sealed the door behind them with a massive iron bolt. Then they hurled the boys through the air.
“Aaaahhhhhh!!!” How many times was that today? Willy had lost count.
Somewhere deep inside the rock, a crazy laugh echoed back.
“Hoo hee ha ha walla walla wing ding!”
CHAPTER 6
Unfunny Farts
Willy came down hard. But instead of breaking every bone in his body...he bounced up.
Then hit the floor and bounced again.
Peter dropped beside him, springing up and down like a basketball.
“This whole place is a big, stupid, babyish bouncy castle,” Peter said.
“Hoo hee ha ha walla walla wing ding!”
That laugh again!
It came from a red inflatable throne in the middle of the room.
The weirdest, evilest clown Willy had ever seen peered down at them.
Purple hair puffed out like weeds from the sides of a white egg-shaped head. His face was covered in bright-colored tattoos: bats swirling across each cheek, leaving trails of puffy green clouds, while a dragon shot fire across the forehead...only the flame came not from its mouth but from its green and orange butt.
The clown’s thick red slug-like lips smiled, revealing teeth painted in a rainbow of colors.
“Welcome home,” it said in a squeaky clown voice.
“Wh-what do you mean?” Willy said.
“Because once you enter this door, you never, ever leave! Hoo hee ha ha walla walla wing ding!”
The clown’s eyes rolled in circles, while his head wagged side to side, laughing like a broken cuckoo clock.
“What are we doing here? Why can’t we leave?” Peter demanded. “Who are you?”
“So many questions!” the clown said. “Though sadly, not the right ones, nor in the right order. Ah, but you must be thirsty after your long journey.”
Not again, Willy thought. He tilted his head so nothing would squirt in his eyes.
Splash!
Sticky liquid poured onto his upturned face: grape soda this time. Way overhead, a clown on a swing emptied a bucket over him and Peter.
Tattoo-face leaned forward, the bouncy castle throne wiggling around him. “Welcome, my young friends. I’m Booby the Clown. Yes, the Booby the Clown. Here’s my card.”
A little card spun through the air and landed at Willy’s knees.
Willy tucked it in his shirt pocket.
“Haven’t you heard of me?” Booby the Clown said. “No, I can see by your faces you haven’t. Alas! Nobody’s heard of me, not in years and years!”
He pressed his hand to his forehead in a fake dramatic pose.
“And that’s why you’re here. To make sure the whole world never again forgets my name. You, my lucky young gentlemen, will assist me in becoming President of Our Planet in Eternity. Hoo hee ha ha walla walla wing ding!”
His cuckoo clock laugh echoed off the rubbery walls.
Willy had to admit he was a teeny bit scared. He blinked back tears, but couldn’t control his other end. His insides still rumbled from all that camel food. His butt whistled a stinky little fff-thweeeee. Peter snort-laughed.
Booby the Clown stood up on his seat. “Guards!”
Two clowns rushed in. One sh
oved a giant cork into Peter’s mouth.
“Farts are not funny!” Booby the Clown jumped up and down on his bouncy throne, waving his fists. “Did you hear me? Farts! Are! Not! Funny!”
The other clown guard grabbed Willy and another giant cork, but instead of Willy’s mouth, it seemed to be aimed at his bottom.
“Wait!” Willy shouted. “I’m—I’m—I’m s-s-sorry to d-disagree...uh...sir. But most people think farts are kind of funny.”
Booby the Clown leapt from the throne, plopping down so close to Willy their noses nearly touched. Long, white-gloved fingers pinched Willy’s chin. The clown’s breath smelled like a baloney and mayonnaise sandwich.
“Is that so, my little friend? Can you explain to me why farts are funny?”
Willy tried to shake his head, but it was caught in the clown’s grip.
“No? Come now, try,” Booby said. “Still can’t explain why they’re funny? Do you know why? Because they’re not! They’re disgusting. They’re dirty. They’re cheap! By the time I’m finished putting my plan into effect, nobody on the entire planet will ever again laugh at another fart!”
Willy couldn’t control his tears any longer.
Not only was he frightened, not only did he want to go home now, but he couldn’t imagine a world where no one laughed at farts. What a sad and miserable world that would be.
Snot oozed down Willy’s upper lip. He didn’t dare suck it in or touch it, for fear that this weird, crazy clown would also declare that boogers weren’t tasty.
“Those boogers look pretty tasty,” Booby the Clown said, licking his puffy lips. “Mind if I eat ’em?”
Willy gulped hard, gathering all his courage.
“Only after you tell me why you captured us. Why do you care if people have heard of you? Why do you want to take over the world? And why, oh why, oh why, do you want to make farts not funny?”
“That’s a lot of questions for one measly booger. Promise me at least one of tomorrow’s batch.”
“Deal,” Willy said.
Booby the Clown finally released his grip on Willy’s chin. He even pulled out Peter’s cork. Then he returned to his throne.
“Here’s my tale. Hoo hee ha ha walla walla wing ding! Prepare to weep!”
CHAPTER 7
Booby’s Tale
“When I was growing up as a young clown, my parents pressured me with ridiculous expectations. You know what that’s like, right?”
Willy and Peter nodded.
Their parents expected them to always wash hands after using the toilet, to tuck in shirts, eat kale salads, not retch when Aunt Bertha kissed them, and to even—get this!—tidy their own room on weekends. They knew what unrealistic parental expectations were like.
“I come from a long line of clowns,” Booby the Clown said, “dating back to the Circus Maximus in ancient Rome. Even before I knew how to silly-walk or honk a bicycle horn, my parents told me: ‘You’re going to be the funniest, most famous clown in the whole world.’ And they expected it!”
Booby shifted in his plastic seat, making a noise like a One-Cheek Squealie. Willy bit back a chuckle.
“I was three when they got me my first squeezy nose. They piled me with books about famous clowns and hired tutors to teach me unicycle riding and how to trip and fall funny. I was never allowed to clean up or do chores; they demanded I just play-play-play all the time.
“They forced me to read comic books and watch cartoons. Worst of all, they expected me to always burp and snort at the dinner table, and they only ever served hot dogs, and we had to squirt mustard and throw whip cream pies in each other’s faces. Yes, you’re lucky you don’t have clown parents.”
Willy tried to look sympathetic, but it actually sounded kind of good to him.
“I was sent to the best private clown school in the country. I goofed off harder than any other student, and came out top of my class. I gave the graduation speech, which was a ten-minute-long uninterrupted belch. I got a standing ovation!
“I thought my parents would be so proud. But it still wasn’t good enough for them. No no no. Nothing was ever good enough. Know what I mean?” Booby buried his face in his hands.
Willy and Peter blinked at each other. Then Peter said, “Uh, yeah. We know exactly what it’s like to squirt mustard and throw pies at, like, your sister, and goofing off and belching in school, and your parents for some reason acting like they’re ashamed of you.”
“You understand!” Booby happily honked his red rubber nose.
“I found work with the most famous circus in the country. My first performance was at the greatest show of the year, under the biggest big top. All the big clown superstars were there—Doozie and Dollie and Binky Winky and Honeypop.
“Drums rolled. Tubas blasted. I rolled out on my unicycle, juggling goldfish and teapots, then bumped into an elephant’s big fat butt, exactly as I’d practiced, month after month.”
Booby shut his eyes and wiped away a pretend tear.
“Then what?” Willy said.
Booby squeaked like a sad little mouse. “Nobody laughed.”
“Oh,” Willy and Peter said together.
“Nobody ever laughed. Not at anything I did. I played all the classic skits: kick-in-the-pants leapfrog, musical saws, soccer with dogs. Day after day, in big cities and country towns. Never got a single laugh.
“Kids tossed popcorn boxes at me. Grownups threw bottles. The ringmaster gave me one last chance.
“That night, I was doing the greasy rope climb with another clown. Nobody was laughing, as usual. I’d eaten some stale burritos that afternoon. In the middle of the act, halfway up the rope, I accidentally let out this humongous, loud, greasy fart right in the other clown’s face.
“The audience laughed so loud, I fell off the rope right on the other clown’s head just as another fart blasted out. The crowd went wild. Hey, don’t laugh!!”
Willy and Peter clapped their hands over each other’s mouths.
“They changed my name to Chucklebutt. They made me turn my whole act into fart gags. I even played tunes with my butt. All the artful and creative routines I’d spent a lifetime perfecting—all worthless.
“My entire career, my identity—my whole life—became nothing but a bunch of stupid fart jokes.
“When people saw me on the street they’d plug their noses and chuckle. You have no idea the humiliation I felt. I’m an artist, not a fartist! I said, don’t laugh!!”
Peter held back a snicker. But Willy was starting to feel sorry for Booby.
“One day I plotted my revenge. During the lion tamer’s act, while the lions and tigers were leaping through a burning hoop, I somersaulted into the center ring.
“I’d been saving up a fart all morning and let it roar. It caught fire like a blowtorch.”
“The audience laughed and laughed...until the tent pole went up in flames. Luckily, everyone escaped unharmed, including the lions and tigers, who disappeared into the hills. Naturally, I was fired.”
Willy felt so sad for the people, the animals, and for Booby losing his job, his lips started to tremble.
Booby stood up and paced with hands behind his back. “I wandered the country, but I couldn’t even get a birthday party gig tying balloon animals. All people wanted from me was farts, farts, and more farts!”
“But what’s wrong with that?” Peter said. “If people think it’s funny, then that’s what you should do.”
Booby spun on his heels. “Wrong! Wrong wrong wrong! People don’t recognize true genius! I am a clown of the highest pedigree and world-class comic achievement. Farting is ordinary. Farting is cheap and ugly! It produces no sense of wonder, requires no wit. Do you understand yet?”
Willy couldn’t hold back his tears anymore. Booby’s story was just too sad.
“No crying! I can’t stand crying!” Booby yelled. “Only laughing is allowed! And I, the great Booby the Clown, will have the last laugh.
“Here on Wize Krakker Island I’ve dev
ised a plan so grand, so clever, so utterly...stinky! When I am through, no one will ever again think farts are funny. The entire world will laugh only at me! At long last, I will be the funniest, most famous clown in the whole world! Hoo hee ha ha walla walla wing ding!”
Willy reared back in terror as Booby leaned toward him and stretched a long, gnarly finger.
“And now for that yummy booger.”
CHAPTER 8
The Labs
Booby the Clown snapped his snot-slippery fingers.
Clown guards wearing garbage pail helmets rushed into the room and hauled Willy and Peter down a long staircase chopped into the mountain rock.
Willy cried out loud. He wanted to go home.
“He’s wacko,” Peter said. “People have laughed at farts for millions of years. I’ll bet even dinosaurs laughed at their own paleo-gassers. I don’t see how he can ever make people stop thinking farts are funny.”
“That’s what you’re about to find out,” said the tough blue-haired clown whose blue-gloved fist grabbed Peter’s hair.
He shoved them into a zebra-striped laboratory filled with dozens of cages and clowns in zebra-striped coats. Some held clipboards, others shoveled brussels sprouts and pickled onions through the cage bars.
Willy stepped over to see which circus animals were in the cages. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
Inside, a boy around Willy’s age, with dark skin and curly hair, knelt on the floor. “Eat!” a zebra clown shouted. The boy put a pickled onion and brussels sprout in his mouth. “Swallow!” the clown ordered.
“What’s going on here?” Peter said.
The food clown moved to the next cage and said, “This is the FLATULAB, the Fart Letting and Tooting Underground Laboratory.”
“You mean you want kids to fart?” Peter said. “But—”
