by Bill Myers
!”
h
h
h
h
H
G
U
“A
the officers screamed as they shot into the air.
“Sorry!” I shouted as they sailed past.
l l
l l
a l
’s r
t i
a g
h h
“T t.”
they yelled as they arced over my head and dropped back
K-Rash!
down.
The bad guy’s car raced just ahead. I was closing in fast when suddenly, K-sputter, K-sputter, K-sputter, my trusty propane tank ran out of fuel. With no warning, not even a FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELT. WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE sign, I dropped out of the sky and directly onto
K-Lunk
you guessed it, the car.
The good news was, the impact loosened my drill from the propane tank. The bad news was, when I tried to get up, I immediately shoved the bit into the car’s roof. (Don’t you just hate it when that happens?)
Of course, the bad dudes looked up at me and did the usual bad-dude shouting:
“Hey, you (insert bad-dude language here), what (insert more bad-dude language here) do you think you’re doing?” (Their moms obviously let them watch way too many R-rated movies.)
I wanted to explain that these types of McDoogle Mishaps were only natural (like earthquakes and hurricanes) and that if they would be patient, I’d either pass out or die. But, since the drill was still spinning, I could only answer with my usual, “Whoa!”ing, “Whaaa!”ing, and “Wheee!”ing.
Still, all good things must come to an end.
In my case, it was the end of the road. It turned left, but the bad-guy driver was so busy shouting bad-guy things up at me that he didn’t see and just kept on driving straight— which can really get interesting, especially when straight involves shooting off a 3,000-foot cliff.
Once again, I was flying high. This time attached to a car. And since my drill was still stuck in the top of the car’s roof and the car was no longer on the ground, the vehicle started spinning instead of me!
What a nice change of pace.
And, since the bad guys had done more badguy things, like not fastening their seat belts, they were flung out their doors screaming more bad-guy stuff and throwing in a few
“AUGH!”s
for the kiddies in the audience.
The good news was, we all landed in the tops of some
Crack! Thud! “Ooaf!”
trees.
The better news was, the battery in my drill had finally started to die.
And the best news?
I really wasn’t in that bad of shape.
TRANSLATION: I only needed one emergency trip to the hospital and seven major surgeries.
Unfortunately, even greater news was on the way.
“Mister McDoogle, look this way!”
I sorta turned my head on the hospital pillow and was sorta
K-FLASH, K-FLASH, K-FLASH
blinded by a thousand cameras going off. Then there were the thousand and one TV crews with their thousand and one reporters all talking at once:
“How does it feel to be a hero?”
“What’s it like to be a hotshot!”
“Where do you get such incredible courage?”
I squinted into the lights and frowned. (Luckily, I didn’t blow anybody up.) By the looks of things, the doctors had removed any trace of my Laser Eye Blaster. They’d also replaced my superhero suit of metal with a suit of plaster. (They do that sort of thing when you break every bone in your body.)
Another reporter asked, “Were all those death-defying stunts scary?”
I shook my head. “I’m used to it. Having a black belt in self-destruction makes even getting out of bed a death-defying stunt, so—”
Wall Street stepped in. “What my client means to say is, this is only the beginning. As soon as he recovers, he’ll be performing deathdefying stunts every day.” She turned to me. “Isn’t that right, Wonder Wimp?”
I looked at her and blinked. “Wonder what?”
The reporters continued pressing in until she held out her hands. “Please, please, no more questions for now. Wonder Wimp needs his rest.”
I looked at her in surprise. Could it be? For the first time in history, was Wall Street more worried about my welfare than making money?
“You’ll have plenty of time to talk to him once we’ve sold all the locks of his hair and auctioned off his remaining blood samples to the highest bidder.”
Good ol’ Wall Street. Some things never change.
Reluctantly, everyone shuffled out—everyone except little Willy, sniff-cough, Runeenoze. “Sir McDoogle?”
I turned to see him at the door. “Oh, hi, Willy.”
“Can you help me with my homework now?”
I sighed wearily. “I’m pretty beat at the moment.”
“Right.” He hacked and wheezed. “Being a superhero can be exhausting work, but—”
“Not now, kid,” Wall Street said. “He’ll help you after the parade.”
“Really?” Willy coughed.
“Yeah. Now run along.”
“Great!” With that he grinned, turned, and sniffled his way down the hall.
I looked at Wall Street. “What parade?”
“The one the mayor is throwing in your honor.”
“The mayor?” I kinda squeaked.
“Yeah, the governor is out of the state.”
“The governor?” I majorly croaked.
Wall Street explained. “You’re hot stuff now. And when Junior and I are through with you, Wally the Wonder Wimp will be even hotter.”
I cleared my throat. “About that name . . .”
“Hey, we tried everything else—Wally the Whacky, Wally the Weird One, Wally the Wombat.”
“Wombat? Isn’t that a furry creature who lives in Australia?”
“Like I said before . . . we tried everything. McDoogle the Mutant, McDoogle the Moron, Mini-Mind McDoogle. But nothing had the right ring for an up-and-coming superhero of your supersize.”
I nodded. Once again I recalled God’s invitation for me to:
Make the world a better place.
From what I could tell, it was definitely happening. And, with Wall Street’s help, a lot sooner than I’d expected . . . or wanted.
“Now, hurry up and get some rest,” she said. “We need you well by the time of the parade.”
“When’s that?” I asked.
She looked at her watch. “About four minutes.”
I closed my eyes. Yes sir, some things never change.
Chapter 5
The Plot Sickens . . .
On the Superhero Superparade Scale of 1 to 10, mine was definitely an 11.
At least for the first couple of hours . . .
But by the fifth hour (Wall Street likes long parades), as the people kept cheering and cheering, and I kept waving and waving, it dropped to a 7.6.
By the ninth hour (she really likes long parades), we were down to a 6.8. . . .
And by midnight we’re talking 4.7 . . . though it quickly dropped to a 0.5 when the blizzard hit.
FUTURE NOTE TO ALL SUPERHEROES: Never do a Superhero Superparade in the middle of January at night—especially if it involves wearing thin superhero tights.
Don’t get me wrong. I appreciated the appreciating, but I’d been smiling so much I was afraid my mouth was forever stuck in Perma- Grin. Then there was the boredom factor. Luckily, I’d brought along Ol’ Betsy, my faithful laptop. So, instead of letting the parade become a cure for insomnia, I went back to work on my Normal Dude superhero story:
When we last left our notoriously natural and non-novel hero, Normal Dude, the author of this little epic was way into overdoing the fisssowitzzzz...sound effect.
(You think it was bad before, wait till you see what’s coming up.)
Realizing Fast Forward Fiend has infiltrated the entire world with fast- forward remotes, our hero races outside and shouts to his neighbors:
“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your remotes!”
But since nobody is into reading Shakespeare these days, the entire neighborhood steps out onto their porches and shouts, “HUH?!”
“You must give up your fast-forward controls,” he yells, “before anything worse happens!”
“No way!” his next-door neighbor shouts.
“Forget it!” his next-to-his-next- door neighbor screams.
“Do these pants make me look fat?” Sister 3 cries.
Doing his best to ignore his sister (something that comes naturally from years of practice), he continues shouting to his neighbors. “You can’t just skip through time whenever you want.”
“Why not? I’m bored!” his neighbor across the street yells.
“Why not? I hate now!” the next- door neighbor to the neighbor across the street screams.
“Why not? I still have my pimple!” Sister 1 cries.
“Because you’ll never enjoy life,” Normal Dude explains. “Instead of always looking to the future, you must learn to enjoy the now.”
The neighbor behind him yawns. “You’re boring me.”
The next-door neighbor to the neighbor behind him stretches. “Me, too.”
“I forget,” Sister 1 says, reaching for the remote, “what does this little button do?”
fisssowitzzzz...
Suddenly, Normal Dude has finished his speech and discovers that he is now walking into his house.
“No!” he shouts, and races back out into the street.
“This is really getting old!” another neighbor (from who knows or cares where) says, reaching for his remote.
fisssowitzzzz...
Suddenly, Normal Dude is in bed.
“No!” he yells as he throws on his clothes and races back out into the street.
“Give us a break!” the neighbor next to the neighbor from who knows or cares where shouts and
fisssowitzzzzes
him to the breakfast table.
Again Normal Dude races out into the street.
“You forgot to put the cap on the toothpaste!” Sister 2 whines and
fisssowitzzzzes
him into the bathroom where he’s brushing his teeth before bed.
“Moh foam-foam-foam mo!” our hero yells through a mouthful of toothpaste.
“Mwat mill I bubble-bubble-bubble moo?”
Then, just when it couldn’t get any more confusing:
Ta-da-Daaaa...
the bad-guy music plays. Our hero looks around but can’t find the viciously vile villain anywhere. Until he hears Fast Forward Fiend call:
“Over here.”
“Mwhere?”
“Right here in front of you, Normal Dude!”
Our hero turns to the mirror just as his freaky foe flashes a fabulously fantastic reflection of frowningness. (Say that with a mouthful of toothpaste.)
“Mast Morward Miend!” our hero foams. “Mis mat moo?”
“Of course, it’s me. Didn’t you see my fabulously fantastic reflection of frowningness?”
“Mait ma minute. ‘Mrowningness’ misn’t ma mord!”
“I don’t care if it’s a word. Just rinse and spit so we can get on with the story.”
Our hero obeys. Suddenly
fisssowitzzzz...
his mouth is once again full of toothpaste. But instead of brushing before bed, he’s brushing after breakfast.
“Mat’s mot munny,” he shouts and spits, only to be
fisssowitzzzzed
to the evening, where he’s brushing again. Then
fisssowitzzzzed
to the morning, then to the
fisssowitzzzz...
well, you get the picture. And just when you think this silliness will go on forever, he’s
fisssowitzzzzed
so far forward that he’s run out of toothpaste!
Gratefully, Normal Dude spits out the last of his foam and is preparing for a normal conversation when——
fisssowitzzzz...
his mouth is now full of bacon and eggs, until: fisssowitzzzz...now it’s a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, until: fisssowitzzzz...now it’s Mom’s macaroni-and-cheese dinner. And so on, fisssowitzzzz, and so forth, fisssowitzzzz, it goes as he has to eat meal after meal, never getting the chance to empty his mouth.
Of course, Fast Forward Fiend throws in his copyrighted, bad-guy
“Moo-hoo-hoo-ha-ha-ha...”
laugh. And, of course, Normal Dude shouts his required, “Mou’ll mever met maway mith miss!”
Meanwhile, his sisters are having their own panic attacks with such insightful observations as: “I’m getting fat from all this food!”
And, “Don’t worry, we’ll just print ‘Goodyear’ on your side!”
And then, when this story has degenerated into total chaos——
“Hey, Wonder Wimp?” Suddenly, someone was shouting. I looked up from Ol’ Betsy. The good news was, the parade was over. The bad news was, my life wasn’t.
Junior Whiz Kid and Wall Street had picked me up and were carrying me off the float.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“We have recently decided that combating unseemly characters is not worthy of our substantial efforts.”
“And in English that means . . .”
“We’re going to use you to warn people of world hunger,” Wall Street said.
“World hunger?” I asked.
“That is correct. In the time it has taken me to say this single sentence, one person has died of hunger in our world.”
“Yes, I remember that from book #25,” I said.
“And in the time it takes me to say this second sentence, another person has died.”
“That’s in there, too!”
“And in the time it takes me to say this third sentence, another person—”
“He gets the idea, Junior.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Why, back to my laboratory, of course.”
“Because . . .”
“Because we must outfit you with even more of my astonishingly cool gizmos to tell people of world hunger.”
Wall Street nodded. “And to fill my bank account.”
Tap-a-tap-tap. Tap.
Tap-a-tap-tap . . .
I pried open my eyes and looked up to see Bartholomew tap-dancing above me.
“Wh-where am I?” I asked.
“It’s your dream, Ol’ Bean. Where would you like to be?”
I sat up and leaned on my elbow. Looking around, I saw Junior standing nearby.
He was frozen and wearing a surgeon’s gown and mask. Beside him was a table full of hightech junk. On the other side was Wall Street— also in a gown and also frozen.
“Is this an operating room?” I asked.
“I believe so.”
“And—”
“You have been knocked out so they can attach more superhero gizmos to you.”
“Oh, no,” I groaned.
“Oh, yes,” he said, grinning.
“And you’re back because—”
“I have another message for you.”
“Wasn’t stopping those bad guys enough?” I asked. “Didn’t I help make the world a better enough place by doing that?”
Bartholomew gave one last flurry of
Tap-a-tap-tapping
before he hopped off the table. “Let’s see what the Boss says, shall we?” He took off his top hat and reached inside.
As I leaned forward to see, he suddenly pulled out a snorting pink rhinoceros head.
“AUGH!” I cried.
“AUGH!” he agreed.
“What are you doing?” I shouted.
“It’s your dream, Wallace, not mine!”
To be honest, the snorting pink rhinoceros head wasn’t so bad. Not compared to the rest of th
e animal as it fought and strained to climb out of the hat!
Of course, Bartholomew did what any angel I dreamed up would do—he dropped the hat and raced around the operating table to hide behind me.
We watched as the cranky rhino finished squeezing out of the hat and arrived in the operating room. Of course, Wall Street and Junior were still frozen and totally oblivious.
And, of course, I wasn’t . . . unless you call being “totally oblivious” wanting to crawl under the blanket and scream for your mommy. And I would have, except there was no blanket there. And, as far as I could tell, no mommy.
The weird news was, the rhino didn’t charge. The weirder news was, it sprouted little wings and started flapping them.
Bartholomew peeked around me. “I say, Wallace, that is one very strange imagination you have.”
“Tell me about it,” I sighed as the rhino rose off the floor and started circling around the room.
“I wonder what he wants?” I asked.
“Actually,” Bartholomew said, nervously clearing his throat, “he’s not a he, he’s an it.”
“An it?”
“Yes, a message, remember?”
I looked at him, not understanding.
“Just as you received a message in the form of a pigeon in Mr. Reptenson’s class, so you’re receiving a message in the form of a rhinoceros.”
“No way,” I exclaimed. “It’s not landing on my shoulder!”
He looked at me and shrugged. “It’s your imagination.”
Before I could answer, the operating table shook with a loud
K-thud.
Ol’ Pinky had landed ever so gently (well, as gently as flying rhinos can land) on the table beside me.
“H-h-h-hi there?” I kinda stuttered.
“SNORT!”
it kinda snorted.
“What do I do?” I whispered to Bartholomew.
“I’d reach out and take it.”
“Take it! Take it where? It weighs four gazillion tons!”
“It’s a message, remember? Just treat it like a message card.”
“You mean touch it?” I asked.
“For starters, why not?”
Actually, I could think of a thousand why nots. Each and every one of them starting with the phrase: “The reason I’d prefer to keep on living is . . .”
