by Bill Myers
until everything shut down . . . including my ability to stand.
It’s not that my emotions had overloaded and I passed out or anything. But with all the fear and terror I was feeling, I really saw no need to stick around and stay conscious.
The nice thing about having an imagination is that there’s always something for you to do . . . even when you’re knocked out. So, not liking to waste time, I immediately went to work on one of my superhero stories. . . .
It is a normally non-unnormal morning in the unnormally normal home of the unnormally non-unnormal Normal Dude.
TRANSLATION: Things are pretty normal.
Normal Dude hits his snooze alarm for the fifth time as Sister 1 screams at Sister 2 for hogging the bathroom, while Sister 3 screams at Sister 1 for re-stealing her sweater, which Sister 2 stole in the first place, which explains why one of them (by now I’ve lost track) is breaking into tears and sobbing, “I think I’m getting a pimple on my nose!”
(If you’re trying to make sense out of this, you obviously don’t have sisters. If you do have sisters, then you know this is perfectly...normal.)
Suddenly, someone is
knock-knock-knocking
at the front door.
“I’ll get it!” Sister 1, 2, or 3 shrieks. (They all sound the same when they’re shrieking, which is also pretty normal.)
What is NOT normal is...
fisssowitzzzz...
suddenly, Normal Dude is no longer playing tag with his snooze alarm. Instead, he is at the table with the rest of the family eating breakfast.
Of course, the girls do their normal screaming and panic-attack stuff while Normal Dude, with a mouthful of blueberry muffin, simply asks, “Muff juss mapppened?”
“I don’t know,” Sis 1 cries. “I was at the front door and found this remote control that someone left. It only has one button labeled fast forward, so I just pressed it like this
fisssowitzzzz...
and suddenly the entire family is heading back up the stairs to get ready for school.”
“Cool!” Sis 2 shouts.
“But I missed eating!” Sis 3 cries.
“With your weight, you could stand missing a few meals,” Sis 1 snickers.
“Mom!”
“Better fat than looking like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” Sis 2 says, pointing at Sis 1’s pimple.
“MOM!!”
Soon everyone is crying and doing their drama-queen routine until Mom grabs the remote, presses it, and
fisssowitzzzz...
everyone is dressed and heading out the front door.
Mom beams at the remote and says, “Well, now I know what I want for Christmas! Talk about cool!”
What is not cool is that everyone else in the neighborhood also has a remote, which explains why
fisssowitzzzz...
everybody was suddenly sitting in class. (Apparently, someone didn’t like walking to school.)
fisssowitzzzz...
Well, we were sitting in class. Now we’re at the lunch table. But apparently, lunch isn’t someone’s favorite pastime, either, so
fisssowitzzzz...
now we’re heading home,
fisssowitzzzz...
make that watching TV,
fisssowitzzzz...
lying in bed,
fisssowitzzzz...
eating breakfast,
fisssowitzzzz...
eating lunch.
Finally, Normal Dude’s cell phone rings. Faster than you can say, “I thought we’d never get done reading those stupid fisssowitzzzz sound effects, and is fisssowitzzzz really a sound?” our abnormally nice and never-negative Normal Dude flips open his phone and answers with his favorite superhero slogan:
“Think dramatic is icky?
Try Normal and yell, ‘Yippee!’”
(Hey, he’s a superhero, not a poet.)
“Normal Dude!”
Our hero immediately recognizes the voice. “Mister President, is that you? What’s going on?”
The President answers, “The notoriously not-so-nice guy Fast Forward Fiend has just escaped from the prison for the criminally lame.”
“You don’t mean...”
“Yes, he is flooding the country with Fast Forward Fiend remotes! Soon people will no longer have to wait for anything!”
“Why is that a problem?”
“Because——”
fisssowitzzzz...
Suddenly, Normal Dude is off the phone and back in bed——
fisssowitzzzz...
make that school——
fisssowitzzzz...
the weekend...fisssowitzzzz...spring break...fisssowitzzzz...summer vaca... fisssowitzzzz...
Well, you get the picture. If our hero is going to save the day...fissso- witzzzz——er , night...fisssowitzzzz...er, year, he must act now, while there are still a few years left...fisssowitzzzz... make that a few decades left...fissso-witzzzz...
Forget it. I’ll catch you in the next superhero section.
fisssowitzzzz...
Chapter 3
Extreme Makeover
When I finally regained consciousness, I raised my head. “What . . . what happened?” I asked. Only then did I notice I was lying on an operating table. (Not a good sign.)
“I can’t believe it,” Wall Street said. “You’re still alive!” (Another not-good sign.)
“How do you feel?” Junior Whiz Kid asked from the other side of the table. “Can you sit up?”
“I think so.” I rose and with his help threw my legs over the side of the table. They made a strange
K-Clank
K-Creak
K-Groaning
sound. (I’m guessing another not-so-good sign.)
“You just need a little oil,” Junior said.
I frowned and looked down at my body. Well, what used to be my body. Now it looked a lot like a giant can of green beans . . . with me as the beans! Of course, this led to my ever-popular and patent-pending . . .
“AUGH!!”
“Relax,” Wall Street said.
I wanted to obey but wasn’t sure how a can of green beans relaxes!
“What did you do to my body?” I yelled.
“Oh, it’s still in there . . . somewhere.”
“Somewhere?! Where’s the there in the somewhere?”
“The there is in there somewhere.”
“In there somewhere is where the there is?”
Junior shrugged. “Somewhere.”
We were getting nowhere fast (which was worse than somewhere slow) until Wall Street finally stepped in. “The good news is, Junior didn’t surgically implant the superhero tools into your body after all.”
I nodded. “And the bad news?”
“He surgically implanted your body into the superhero tools.”
“HE WHAT?!”
“Don’t worry,” Junior said. “We can cut you out of there anytime you want.”
“Anytime like this time?!”
“This time could be anytime, though in time the right anytime might—”
“Stop it!” I shouted. “We’ve already done that bit!” With effort I slid off the table and
K-Clank, K-Creak, K-Groan
fell flat on my
K-Rash
you guessed it . . . can.
I rolled onto my back and groaned, “How can I save the world dressed up like some Wizard of Oz character?”
“Check out your right hand,” Junior said.
I looked down at my hand. Well, what used to be my hand. Now it was . . .
“A GIANT DRILL BIT!” I screamed.
“I decided not to give you a mechanical arm, but a giant drill,” he said proudly.
“That’s terrible!” I shouted.
“Why’s that?”
“Why’s that? Why’s that?!” It took me a moment before I finally came up with an answer. “How will I brush my teeth?” (Okay, it wasn’t such a great answer, but at least it was a start.)
&
nbsp; “Wally . . .”
“Or floss!” I cried. “You know how important flossing is?” (Now I was on a roll.)
“Wally!”
“And my penmanship! This will definitely not improve my penmanship!”
“WALLY!”
I stopped and looked at Wall Street.
“Try moving your hand,” she said.
“I don’t have a hand!”
“It’s under your suit. Just try moving it.”
“Like this?” I asked.
Suddenly, the drill bit started to
RRRRRR . . .
turn. I moved my hand some more, and it
RRRRRRed
some more.
That was kinda cool, though I wasn’t exactly sure what it would be good for.
“Now rise,” Junior said, “and allow me to display to you other features of your supersuit— such as the LASER EYE BLASTER.”
I put my hands on the floor to get up. At least that’s what I wanted to do. Unfortunately, when I used my right hand it
RRRRRRRRed
even more. No problem, except for the part of drilling into Junior’s floor. I pushed even harder trying to get up, which caused even more
RRRRRRRRRRing.
“Wally, stop!”
Before I could obey, the drill got stuck and quit spinning. That was the good news. But, as we all know, there’s only one thing that follows good news. . . .
Since the drill was stuck but the motor was still turning, there was only one thing left to spin. And that one thing could only be
RRRRRR . . .
“Whoa!”
RRRRRR . . .
“Whaaa!”
RRRRRR . . .
“Wheee!”
me.
“Stop it!” Junior cried. “Stop it at once!”
But, of course, I didn’t know how to stop it, which would explain Junior jumping on my back to help, which only led to both of us
“Whoa!”ing, “Whaaa!”ing, and “Wheee!”ing
along with the drill participating in its everpopular
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRing.
“HOW DO YOU TURN IT OFF?” I shouted.
“DISCONNECT THE POWER?” Wall Street yelled.
“YOU CANNOT!” Junior explained. “YOU MUST WAIT FOR THE BATTERY TO DIE.”
“WHEN WILL THAT BE?” I shouted.
“TWO OR THREE HOURS!”
Since time is money (and money is all Wall Street has time for), she leaped in. Using some of her strength (which is a lot more than all of mine), she was able to pull the drill out of the wood.
Of course, the drill was still spinning—but we weren’t. Something we were all grateful for.
“Thank you so very much,” Junior said.
“No problem,” Wall Street answered.
Unfortunately, the fun and games weren’t exactly over. Since I wasn’t exactly the happiest of campers (or human drills), I scrunched my eyebrows into a frown.
“No, Wally,” Junior shouted. “Do not frown!”
“What?”
“Your frown muscles are attached to the Laser Eye Blaster!”
I didn’t understand, which made me frown harder. “What?”
“NO!”
Suddenly, a red glass dropped in front of my eye, and a laser beam shot
ZZZZZZZZZAAPPPP
K-BLEWIE
out of it.
Yes sir, it was just like old times. And remember that little old lady we caught taking a shower in her bathroom? Well, now we were suddenly watching her
“EEEEEK!”
dressing in her bedroom.
“Sorry!” I shouted, frowning harder.
“Wally, no—”
ZZZZZZZZZAAPPPP
K-BLEWIE!
There went her bed in a puff of smoke.
“Sorry . . .”
ZZZZZZZZZAAPPPP
K-BLEWIE!
And say good-bye to her closet.
Then last, but not least, there went
ZZZZZZZZZAAPPPP
her dresser.
But, strangely enough, there was no explosion. The reason was simple. My little laser beam didn’t hit the dresser, but the dresser mirror. So, instead of blowing it up, the laser reflected right back at
K-BLEWIE
me. Which explains why I once again decided to drop by and visit the Land of Unconsciousness.
I woke up inside a racing van that was throwing my tin-can body from one side
roll-roll-roll
K-CLANK!
to the
roll-roll-roll
K-LUNK!
other. That was the good news.
I looked at the driver’s seat and saw Junior below the wheel. (He should have been behind the wheel, but, like I said, he is only seven.)
“What’s going on?” I shouted. “Where are we going?”
“The police radio said there’s a bank robbery in progress,” Wall Street yelled from the passenger side. “And you’re going to stop it.”
(Well, now we know the bad news.)
“There they are!” she shouted. “Stop the car!”
Junior hit the brakes while I, of course,
roll-roll-roll
K-HIT!
the windshield.
Then, being the kind, sensitive friend Wall Street is, she shouted, “Stop clowning around, Wally! It’s time to be a superhero!”
To help make her point, she opened the door and sorta kicked me out.
To prove I got her point, I sort of
roll-roll-rolled
across the street until I smashed into somebody’s leg. Somebody’s leg attached to somebody’s body that was attached to somebody’s face in a ski mask.
But it wasn’t the ski mask that worried me. Nor the fact that I had managed to scratch and dent my brand-new superhero body. It was what Mr. Ski Mask held in his hand that made me nervous. Not the hand with the big sack of money—but the other hand.
The one with the big gun . . . the big gun that was pointed down at me.
“Hi, there,” I kinda mumbled.
“Grrr,” he kinda growled.
Ever have one of those days?
(Unfortunately, I seem to have one of those lives.)
Chapter 4
A Sticky Stickup
“Get up,” Mr. Ski Mask ordered.
Remembering what I did to Junior’s lab floor, I tried to explain. “I really don’t think you want me to.”
“NOW!”
Having been taught to honor my elders (especially the ones with ski masks and guns), I reluctantly obeyed. I put my hands on the ground and began to push up, which immediately started my drill
RRRRRR . . .
spinning.
Unfortunately, drilling into an asphalt road is a little harder than a wooden floor.
Actually, it wasn’t the drilling that was the problem.
It was the getting stuck.
Once again the drill could no longer turn, which, of course, left yours truly to do all the
“Whoaaa! Whaaaaa! Wheeeee!”
work.
On the McDoogle Scale of Fun, I’d give it about a .000½—rating it just below getting dumped along with a truckload of spinach into a giant blender and being squished into a tube of Spinach Toothpaste. (Hey, with me, it could happen.)
Still, all that turning did come in handy for spinning around and knocking down Mr. Ski Mask again and again . . . and again some more.
We could have drilled like this forever (or at least until I struck oil), but his partner pulled up in a getaway car and shouted, “Get in!”
Mr. Ski Mask rolled out of my way, got up, and leaped inside the car.
I wanted to join them, but I only had a few more thousand miles to go before I hit China, which I hear is really pretty this time of year.
The getaway car squealed off, and the cops began pursuit.
Meanwhile, Wall Street, always full of helpful ideas, shouted out her best advice ever: “Wally, do something!”
I nodded, frowning to think.
“NO!” Junior cried. “DO NOT FROWN! DO NOT—”
ZZZZZZZZZAAPPPP
K-BLEWIE!
There went the bank building, then
ZZZZZZZZZAAPPPP
K-BLEWIE
the Quickie Mart across the street, then
ZZZZZZZZZAAPPPP
K-BLEWIE
a nearby car.
Yes sir, I was blowing up more things than a terrorist on steroids. Next up was a gas station. Knowing that couldn’t be good, I manipulated my magnificent McDoogle Mind.
TRANSLATION: I thought for a change.
I kinda glanced down at the asphalt that my drill was stuck in . . . which kinda
ZZZZZZZZZAAPPPP
K-BLEWIEd
it up . . . which kinda freed my hand . . . which kinda threw me staggering backward.
Ah, free at last!
(If you buy that, then you obviously haven’t read enough of these stories.)
I kept staggering backward until I hit the propane tank at the back of the gas station. The good news was, I didn’t frown at it. The bad news was, my hand hit it, and I sorta
RRRRRRed
a little hole into it.
No biggie,
. . . except for the hisssss of propane shooting
through it,
. . . and the sparks flying from my metal
drill bit,
. . . and the fact that sparks and propane
don’t play nicely together.
To make a long story short (but just as painful), the hissssing propane caught fire and created the first rocket-powered propane tank. That’s right, it broke from its stand and shot up faster than the hand of a first grader in class who has to use the bathroom.
It felt great knowing I’d make the history books as the inventor of the very first rocket-powered propane tank. It did not feel great knowing those same books would include me as its first passenger.
But since my hand was stuck in the tank, I didn’t have a lot of choices but to practice my tried-and-true
“AUGHHHHH!”
while shooting above the highway at just under the speed of light.
Now, I don’t want to complain, but the in-flight service was terrible—no movie, no soft drinks, not even those miniature peanut bags holding a grand total of 3½ peanuts. Still, the view was pretty good, and I did like the interactive video game. You know, the one where you frown down at the cars on the road below with your LASER EYE BLASTER, and you kinda K-BLEWIE them up?
Actually, that wasn’t my intention. I was more than happy to see the police cars closing in on the bad guys. I would have been happier than happy if each time I saw one of those police cars, I hadn’t frowned and accidentally K-BLEWIEd them up.
