“The first thing a monster-diner helper needs,” said Fuzzby importantly, “is a special helper hat.”
Joe was not impressed. He had run to the alley straight after school half expecting there to be no door or diner or big green monster, and that he had imagined the whole thing. But there had been a door, and there was Fuzzby waiting to teach him how to be an ‘official monster-diner helper’. Joe had been hoping for something more exciting.
“I feel stupid,” he said, taking the bright red floppy hat. “Why has it got bells on?”
“So that customers know where you are at all times,” said Fuzzby. “And I need to know where you are. You’re a bit on the small side, Joe, and I wouldn’t want to accidentally step on you.”
He had a point. Joe would be squished into a Joe pancake under one of Fuzzby’s giant feet.
Joe put the hat on. He looked ridiculous. More like one of Santa’s elves than a monster’s sidekick. Barry the cat sniggered.
“What?” said Joe hotly.
“Ignore him,” said Fuzzby. “He only wants attention.”
Barry flounced his tentacles huffily. “Everyone has a right to an opinion,” he said in an offended voice. “And my opinion is that your hooman pet looks like a Christmas tree decoration.”
“I am not a pet!” cried Joe, outraged.
“I was talking to Mr Bixington, not you, Jingle Bells!” snapped Barry.
“Now, lads, let’s be civilised about this,” said Fuzzby. “We’ve all got to work together. Otherwise I might have to add ‘hot cats’ to the daily specials,” he continued, glaring at Barry. “Or Joe burgers,” glaring at Joe.
There was silence. You did not mess with Fuzzby Bixington.
Joe had a look at what really was on the daily specials list:
“Hash browns aren’t very monsterish,” said Joe, puzzled.
“It depends where the ‘brown’ comes from,” muttered Barry.
“We had a blocked drain earlier,” explained Fuzzby. “But here at Fuzzby’s Diner every problem is an opportunity. Or a light snack, at the very least.”
The door of the diner opened. “Customers!” called Barry.
“Hello, Mr and Mrs Guzzelin,” Fuzzby said to the open door. “And hello to all the little Guzzelins!”
But there was no one there.
Joe blinked.
“Take a seat while I get your milkshake ready,” Fuzzby continued. “Pongleberry-and-gurglefish-egg-flavoured as usual?”
Were they an invisible monster family?
He looked down and saw a group of tiny creatures peering up at him. They all looked a little like rocks that had grown legs and started walking about. Two were the size of small footballs (Mr and Mrs Guzzelin), while the other four were no bigger than pebbles (the younger Guzzelins). They did not look dangerous to Joe. Not like proper monsters.
“What’s that elf doing here, Mr Bixington?” said the smallest Guzzelin to Fuzzby, staring at Joe.
Barry sniggered.
“Don’t be rude, Lemmy,” scolded Mrs Guzzelin.
But they all gathered round Joe to inspect him anyway.
“That is Joe Shoe,” said Fuzzby, taking a mixer from a cupboard behind the counter. “He’s a hooman.”
“Ooooh,” chorused the Guzzelins in their squeaky voices. They looked a little unsure as to what ‘hooman’ meant but, satisfied that Joe was harmless, they clambered up on to the table next to him to await their milkshake.
“They’re very nice,” Fuzzby whispered to Joe. “But there’s not a lot going on in the brains department, if you know what I mean.” He tapped the side of his head and winked.
Barry snorted witheringly. “They’re as dense as deep-fried concrete,” he said.
“Anyway,” said Fuzzby, looking at Joe. “A milkshake is an easy enough task for a helper to do. All my recipes are kept in my recipe book, which only diner helpers are allowed to look at.” Fuzzby pulled a giant and well-worn book from a cupboard. “Never let anybody or anything see inside it,” he said sternly. “There’s all kinds of magic in here. Now, I’ll read out the ingredients and you get them from the fridge.”
Joe jingled over to the fridge. It towered above him and he heaved open the door with some difficulty.
“Ewwwwww!” he said, wrinkling his nose.
The shelves inside were stuffed with the most disgusting-looking objects he had ever seen. There were strange-shaped fruits, tubs of smelly slime, packets of dried-up tentacles and pots of oozing liquid. On one shelf there was a bottle with a label that said mucous mustard. It glowed dangerously with a sickly yellow light. On another shelf a small box with bat hiccups written on its side hopped jerkily about with a squeak. A slab of very green cheese sent smoky fumes curling round a can of figbottom gravy, dissolving the surface of the metal container. Joe thought he saw something hairy moving around in a dark crevice behind a jar labelled pickled truggles.
“You don’t actually eat all this stuff, do you?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Fuzzby. “Don’t tell me you’re a fussy eater! Now, let’s get started. The first ingredient we need is milk.”
That was easy enough, thought Joe. He looked around, but didn’t see the familiar milk carton he knew from home. He reached warily inside, trying not to touch any of the hazardous foodstuffs as he hunted around for something that looked like milk. Yuck! Was that sticky jam he’d just put his fingers into or something else? A vegetable that looked like a grumpy cabbage moved out of the way of his trembling hand with a growl.
If anything grabbed him and pulled him into the fridge, Joe just hoped Fuzzby would pull him back out again!
“I can’t see any milk,” he said finally, relieved to find his hand was still on the end of his arm.
Barry sighed. “There!” said the cat, waving a tentacle impatiently at a bottle with purple liquid sloshing around in it. “Honestly, Jingle Bells, get a move on! We’ll be here all day.”
Joe carefully picked up the bottle. The label said brontosaurus milk. “I didn’t know you could get milk from a brontosaurus,” he said suspiciously.
“You need a ladder and warm hands,” said Fuzzby, taking the bottle and sploshing the milk into the mixer. “And a big bucket. Next ingredient is pongleberry jam.”
Joe was a bit quicker this time and found the jar easily. He took the lid off and had a quick sniff. “PHEWOOOORGHH!” he cried, coughing and spluttering. “That smells like the insides of something that’s died!”
“That’s because that’s where pongleberries grow,” Fuzzby informed him. “Inside corpses. I have to pop down to the graveyard and dig them up. It’s always best to use the least fresh ingredients for maximum smelliness.”
“Yum yum!” chirped the Guzzelins hungrily.
Joe decided they did not look quite so harmless after all.
“Final ingredient: a spoonful of gurglefish eggs,” said Fuzzby. “I wouldn’t sniff them if I were you. They can set fire to the hairs up your nose.”
Joe found a pot full of frogspawn-like gunk and quickly passed it over to the monster. Fuzzby scooped up a large spoonful of the gloopy substance and dropped it into the mixer, swiftly placing the lid on top. The liquid bubbled disturbingly, shaking the counter. The Guzzelins giggled excitedly.
“Stand back!” said Fuzzby sternly. “Milkshakes are unpredictable beasts. Gurglefish eggs can be a bit excitable if not handled properly.”
“I thought you said milkshakes were easy,” cried Joe. This was unlike any milkshake he had ever seen made before.
“I’m going to switch the mixer on,” warned Fuzzby. “Get ready to run for cover!”
Joe ducked behind the counter. Fuzzby gingerly reached out a big furry claw and pressed the mixer’s start button. The machine whirred into life and the purply-green, oozing gunge swirled around as all the disgusting ingredients combined together into a bubbling soup. The milkshake began to glow and the mixer trembled. Then it wobbled and jumped around the counter. The liquid frothed and boiled,
trying to force the lid off the container. The mixer shook more and more violently until the whole diner shook with it.
“It’s going to explode!” cried Joe from under the counter.
The Guzzelins cheered dementedly. “Milkshake! Milkshake! Milkshake!” they chanted.
“Oh dear,” said Fuzzby, over the noise. “I think I might have added a touch too many gurglefish eggs.”
The lid of the mixer flew towards the ceiling with a giant SPLOT as the purply-green milkshake burst out and flung itself over the counter top. Fuzzby dived for cover as revolting splodges of the mixture rained down around him. Some of it hit the floor with a hiss, dissolving the tiles with its nastiness.
Fuzzby grabbed a spatula and launched himself at the milkshake beast, slapping it back into the mixer. “Get in there, you horrible concoction!” he growled.
The milkshake gurgled menacingly and for a moment it looked as if Fuzzby would have a fight on his claws. But the milkshake hadn’t counted on the Guzzelins. A large drinking straw appeared from behind the counter and jabbed the angry beverage. The little rock monsters were standing on top of each other to form a short tower of thirsty menace. Lemmy Guzzelin held the straw between his little teeth and sucked the putrid liquid from the counter. There was no hope for the milkshake as the rest of the Guzzelin family quickly produced straws of their own.
With a frothing cry of defeat from the milkshake and a fragrant burp from Lemmy, the last traces of the drink disappeared up the straws and into the Guzzelins’ formidable tummies.
“Wow,” said Joe.
“I told you,” said Fuzzby cheerily. “Easy. But what’s happened to your hat?”
Joe pulled the hat from his head and looked at it. There was a large hole burnt right through from one side to the other. The bells jangled forlornly.
“It must have been hit by a drop of milkshake,” said Fuzzby. “You were lucky! Any lower and it would have been straight between the eyes. It’s a shame to lose a good hat, though.”
Joe sighed with relief. “I’m sure I can manage without it, Fuzzby,” he said.
“We’ll see,” said the monster. “There’s plenty more action where that came from. Helping out at a diner is a dangerous occupation. You never know when the food might try and fight back, never mind the customers. A good hat can make the difference between life and death.”
“Oh yes, there’s never a dull moment here,” said Barry, licking at a dollop of the Guzzelins’ milkshake that still lurked on the floor and was trying to make its escape. “Cats love milk, you know. Purr.”
“No time to talk,” said Fuzzby. “Here comes the rush!”
The door opened and in walked, marched, oozed, crept and scurried the strangest collection of creatures Joe had ever seen. Had he not met Fuzzby, he would have been scared out of his wits. As it was, he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. But then neither could the customers. The first couple of monsters stopped suddenly when they saw Joe, making those behind them crash into each other in a pile-up of fur, claws and tentacles.
“What is this?” said a monster with a face like a scared frog, its big eyes popping out from its scaly head and peering at Joe.
“Is it on the menu?” asked another very small monster that seemed to be made up of purple fur and not much else.
“I’m Joe,” said Joe, becoming Joe the Fearless suddenly. “And I’m not dinner, I’m the new diner helper.”
“That’s right, folks,” said Fuzzby, coming to the rescue. “Fuzzby’s Diner is happy to welcome everyone, even hoomans! Now take your seats and we’ll get serving!”
The big green monster went into action, shouting out orders for ingredients or asking Joe to fetch plates, mugs, knives and forks.
A monster with eyes on stalks like a snail and shiny red skin wanted a plate of boiled fartweed. It spat a huge gob of acidic saliva on to the plate, dissolving its food, which it then sucked back into its mouth using a stalk on the end of its tongue.
“That’s Gordon,” said Fuzzby. “Not the best table manners, but he always clears his plate. I like that in a customer.”
Then there was Bradwell, a rotund and friendly monster with large sharp fangs and a pair of horns. He asked for a chip sandwich with beetle curry sauce, then went and sat next to the dozing Guzzelin family. From a bag he produced some knitting.
“He’s making a jumper,” said Fuzzby. “He lives up a mountain and it gets a bit chilly.”
Next came Mr Jubbins, who looked like he was made out of blue jelly. He ate a plate of dripping snotburgers that could be seen being slowly digested inside his gigantic transparent tummy. Even Fuzzby looked a bit queasy at the sight.
Mr Jubbins was followed by a decrepit old sea monster called Doreen, who slithered in on her many barnacle-covered tentacles, bringing a wave of briny water with her. She wanted squidspawn jelly with seaweed custard.
“We’ll need a mop later,” moaned Barry as a crab scuttled through the puddles.
And so it went on: more strange monsters wanting stranger food; Fuzzby looking things up in his precious recipe book; Joe cleaning tables and Barry being rude to everybody. Despite not having a jingly hat, Joe managed not to get squashed under Fuzzby’s feet and quickly got the hang of the way things worked.
Soon it was almost time for Joe to go home.
“You’ve been a great help, Joe,” said Fuzzby, beaming happily. “Now there’s just one thing left to do.”
Barry cackled evilly. “And I know what it is!” he crowed. “The toilets need cleaning! It’s the worst thing ever, especially after Mr Jubbins has been in there! Tough luck, hooman!”
“Yes,” said Fuzzby with an even more evil cackle. “Which is why you’re going to clean them, Barry. Joe deserves to go home early after all his hard work.”
“This is cruelty to cats!” moaned Barry. “Last time I almost didn’t make it out alive. Send the hooman in!” He turned towards Joe.
But Joe had already gone and was halfway down the alley.
Barry sighed. “He’s a fast runner, I’ll give him that,” he said. “Pass the flame-thrower, Fuzzby…”
“But WHERE do your customers come from?” said Joe to Fuzzby one afternoon. “I’ve never seen any monsters in the street and they have to come from somewhere.”
It was a question that had been bothering him all day. They’d been particularly busy, with the specials proving very popular with the customers. Joe looked at the board.
Sausage à la bogey was a favourite of the round monster called Bradwell. His knitting was coming on very well. “Just got the sleeves to do,” he rumbled, showing his enormous jumper to Joe. “Then I’ll start work on the socks.”
“There aren’t enough sheep in the world to make wool for those feet,” Barry muttered, looking at Bradwell’s gigantic paws.
Gordon, the monster who digested his food before swallowing it, wasn’t fussy about what he ate and ordered the splatterbugs and the toad tongue. There was a brief awkward moment when he accidentally spat on Lemmy Guzzelin, and the rest of the Guzzelins thought he was about to eat them, but fortunately the little rock monster wasn’t affected by the acid and things quickly calmed down.
“There’s a door in the alley,” said Fuzzby in answer to Joe’s question. “It leads to… somewhere else. And that’s where the monsters come from.”
It was the kind of answer Joe’s mum would give when she didn’t really want him to know the truth.
“I didn’t see any door,” said Joe. Then he remembered that he hadn’t seen the door of the diner at first. Perhaps these magic doors only showed themselves when they wanted to be seen.
“Come outside,” said Fuzzby. “I’m expecting a special visitor at any minute.”
Joe followed Fuzzby into the alley. There was no sign of any other door.
“Any moment now…” said Fuzzby, just as the wall opposite began to shake and tremble. Light streamed briefly from between the old bricks and with a scraping shudder a section of the wall slid back, l
eaving a gaping hole filled with darkness. Joe held his breath.
From the hole emerged the tip of a tree branch. Then the whole branch, then another branch. Finally an entire tree stepped out into the alley, or rather ‘grew’ into the alley, as it didn’t have anything Joe would call ‘feet’, more like a load of roots. The tree gave itself a shake, sending leaves gently falling all around them. There were strange fruits hanging from its branches that appeared to move by themselves, but with a gasp Joe suddenly realised that they weren’t fruits at all, but eyes.
Many eyes. The eyes focused on Fuzzby.
“They make these doors too small, you know,” sighed a rather grand voice from somewhere inside the tree trunk. Joe noticed a mouth-like crack in the bark. “One has such trouble fitting through.”
“Afternoon, Mrs Trumptious,” Fuzzby said to the tree in his usual cheery way.
“You could always saw a bit off,” said Barry from the doorway.
The tree shuddered and turned its fruit-eyes on to the cat with contempt.
“I am not some common-or-garden shrub that benefits from a bit of rough pruning,” said Mrs Trumptious with a haughty ruffling of leaves. “I need proper cultivation.”
“Show some respect, Barry,” Fuzzby scolded.
“Beg your pardon, Mrs Trumptious,” said Barry, squirming back into the diner. But under his breath he muttered, Fuzzby introduced Joe to the tree.
“A hooman?” creaked Mrs Trumptious, sweeping an eye-laden branch down low to inspect him. “I’m not sure I approve, Mr Bixington. Such troublesome little creatures. Far too fond of fire and axes.”
“He’s a good lad,” said Fuzzby. “He’s been a great help to me.”
“He’s about the same size as one of my saplings,” said Mrs Trumptious. “Twig? Where are you, Twig?” The eyes peered around, looking up and down the alley at the same time.
Monster and Chips (Colour Version) (Monster and Chips, Book 1) Page 2
