by Bill Myers
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Ho-Ho-NOOO!
Copyright © 2011 by Bill Myers. All rights reserved.
Cover illustration copyright © 2010 by Peter Bollinger. All rights reserved.
Designed by Stephen Vosloo
Edited by Sarah Mason
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920, www.alivecommunications.com.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
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Build: 2013-04-01 08:42:28
Contents
CHAPTER ONE: Beginnings . . .
CHAPTER TWO: ’Tis the Season to Be Greedy
CHAPTER THREE: Zmile and Zay Cheeze!
CHAPTER FOUR: Shopping Spree . . . 23rd-Century Style
CHAPTER FIVE: Popcorn and Pop Stars
CHAPTER SIX: An Ideally Unideal Idea
CHAPTER SEVEN: Another Day, Another Job
CHAPTER EIGHT: Too Much (In a WAY Too Much Kinda Way)
CHAPTER NINE: Old Friends Drop In
CHAPTER TEN: Check, Please
CHAPTER ELEVEN: fling-fling-fling SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!
CHAPTER TWELVE: Wrapping Up
To Michael Lau. Thanks for your help
and diligence these many years.
CHAPTER ONE
Beginnings . . .
TIME TRAVEL LOG:
Malibu, California, December 18
Begin Transmission
Subject is not fond of video games. I, on the other hand (spit-spit), am not fond of geraniums.
End Transmission
“Fire proton torpedoes!” Captain Tuna shouted.
“Aye, aye, Captain!” the ever-loyal (and always dim-witted) Lieutenant Herby called back. But before Herby could reach over and push the button labeled
WARNING: Push only if you want to blow stuff up and make a real cool mess!
their spaceship was struck by a powerful explosion. The craft lurched violently to the left and was suddenly filled with the sounds of
“Oh no!” Captain Tuna shouted.
“Oh what?” Lieutenant Herby shouted back.
“He hit us with the Stupid Song Bomb!”
Not only was the entire spacecraft filled with the silly stupidity, but so were the brains of the entire crew (i.e., Tuna and Herby—well, actually, only Tuna for sure, since medical science has yet to determine if Herby has a brain).
“Augh!” Captain Tuna cried, grabbing his head in agony.
“Groovy!” Lieutenant Herby said, tapping his foot in ecstasy.
“Raise the deflector shields!” Captain Tuna shouted.
But Herby was too busy singing along to hear the orders.
Another explosion hit, throwing the craft to the right.
Captain Tuna leaped from his chair and staggered toward the control panel. “Must . . . stop . . . the . . .
music!”
But before he arrived, they were hit again.
And again.
Just when Tuna was about to lose his mind (leaving the spacecraft with a grand total of zero minds), the singing was interrupted by an even worse sound.
“Greetings, zwork-oids!” Tuna spun around and gasped. There, on the giant viewing screen, was the vilest of all villains, Bruce Bruiseabone. He stood on the bridge of his own spaceship, laughing his creepy
laugh.
Captain Tuna watched in horror as the villainous man put his villainous hands on his villainous hips and spoke (what else?) villainously.
“And so, my mini-micro-minds, we meet again.”
“What do you want from us, you fiendish fiend?” Tuna shouted.
“I want you to hand over the keys to your spacecraft.”
“Never!”
“What?” Bruce shouted back. “You dare challenge me, the most villainous of all villains?”
“That’s right!” Tuna yelled defiantly.
“We’re the heroes of this story,” Herby explained, “and heroes always win!”
“Have it your way.” Bruce turned to one of his crew members and shouted, “Fire torpedoes!”
Once again the ship lurched, and Tuna’s brain (and whatever there was of Herby’s) filled with
“AUGH!” Tuna augh-ed. “Shh,” Herby shh-ed. “This is my favorite part.”
“Not only will you hand over your keys,” Bruce shouted again, “but you will give me those giant foam dice hanging from your rearview mirror.”
“Oh no!” Tuna cried. “Not the foam dice!”
“Guys?” a female voice suddenly called from below.
Another bomb struck:
“Guys!” The female creature stuck her head up through the spaceship’s floor. She had dark hair, wore glasses, and was incredibly smoot (at least according to Herby—well, all right, according to Tuna, too). “What are you two doing?” she shouted.
Immediately Tuna grabbed his Swiss Army Knife (sold at 23rd-century time-travel stores everywhere) and closed the blade. The holographic video game disappeared. No more spacecraft, no more Bruce Bruiseabone, and no more irritating music. The fancy starship had changed back into a dusty attic.
“Hey,” Herby complained, “I was really getting into that song.”
He got a frown from the female—a seventh-grade girl better known as Thelma Jean Finkelstein (TJ to her friends—all four of them, if you count her goldfish and hamster). She’d just moved from Missouri to Malibu, California (which explains why she had only four friends). If that wasn’t bad enough, she had become the history project of Herby and Tuna, a couple of goofball teenagers from the 23rd century who’d traveled back in time to do a school report on her. Apparently she was going to grow up to become somebody important (if she survived junior high).
Unfortunately, the guys’ time-travel pod had run out of fuel and they were stuck here.
Unfortunatelier (don’t try that word in English class), TJ was the only one who could see them.
Unfortunateliest (the same goes for that word), people could still hear them.
“I told you,” she whispered, “no video games after nine o’clock.”
“We were just practicing.” Herby flipped aside his surfer bangs and flexed his muscles. (He was always flexing his muscles to try to impress TJ.)
Tuna explained, “We need to be prepared in case Bruce Bruiseabone reappears.”
“I thought he went back to the 23rd century,” TJ said.
“He did,” Herby agreed as he spotted a tiny fly buzzing around the room.
Tuna continued. “However, there’s no telling when he’ll show up again to torment us.”
“Or—” Herby lowered his voice and watched the fly buzz toward the attic window—“what form he’ll take when he does.”
“Listen, guys,” TJ said. “You can practice all you want when I’m at school and nobody’s home.”
“How can we protect you at school if we’re practicing at home?” Tuna asked.
“My point exactly,” TJ said. “I’ve told you a hundred times I don’t want you following me.” She paused to watch Herby tiptoe toward the window.
“Understood,” Tuna said. “However—”
He was interrupted by the sound of Herby leaping at the fly. But Herby’s lea
per was a little lame and he was unable to stop at the window. Instead, he sort of
leaped through the glass and
tumbled down the roof until he
landed in the flower bed.
Tuna and TJ raced to the window.
“Herby, are you all right?” TJ cried.
“Wuaff mwabom!” Herby replied (which is the best anyone can reply with a mouthful of geraniums).
“What?”
“Mwi maid (spit-spit) false alarm,” he finally shouted. He held out his hand and revealed one very squashed fly. “It wasn’t Bruce after all!”
“Excellent news,” Tuna shouted.
Of course it would have been more excellent if TJ’s father wasn’t shouting from downstairs, “What’s going on up there? TJ, are you okay?”
Luckily, Tuna had an answer for everything. (The answer was usually wrong, but he always had one.) Without a word, he pulled open the Reverse Beam Blade of his Swiss Army Knife and
everything
that had happened
was put into
reverse, until
Herby was back in the attic having the conversation about not following TJ to school.
Not that TJ was surprised. It was just another average, run-of-the-mill evening for TJ Finkelstein and her time stumblers.
TJ climbed down the attic steps and headed toward her bedroom. As she passed Violet’s door, she saw that her middle sister still had the lights on. No surprise there. Violet always had her lights on. How else could she read 50 books a day, be president of every club in her school, and become dictator of the world before she was 16?
TJ pushed open the door to see Violet standing on a ladder. She was writing numbers on a big thermometer chart that stretched up to the ceiling.
“What are you doing?” TJ asked.
Violet answered without turning. “I’m checking to see how much more money I need to earn for Daddy’s gift.”
“Gift?” TJ asked. “For what?”
“Christmas. It’s only 6 days, 2 hours, 6 minutes, and 46 seconds from now.” (Violet liked to be precise.)
“No way!” TJ cried in alarm. “It can’t be!”
“You’re right.” Violet rechecked her watch. “It is now 6 days, 2 hours, 6 minutes, and 41 seconds.” (See what I mean?)
TJ couldn’t believe it. She’d been so caught up in all her junior-high migraine makers that she hadn’t even noticed it was December. It would have helped to have a few clues . . . like maybe a little less sunshine or the temperature dropping below 70 degrees. Still, if she’d been paying attention, she’d have noticed that the beach babes had changed from SPF 69 to SPF 41.
“I’m getting him an 82-inch plasma TV and installing it right in his bedroom,” Violet said snootily. Violet didn’t try to sound snooty; it just came naturally. “What are you getting him?”
“Something better than that,” TJ said. TJ didn’t try to compete with her sister . . . it just came naturally.
“Yeah?” Violet asked. “Like what?”
“Like . . . well, uh . . . it’s a surprise!”
“Right,” Violet snorted and went back to coloring her money thermometer.
“What? You don’t think I can give Daddy a better gift than you?” TJ asked.
“Actually,” Violet said, “I don’t think you can do anything better than me.”
TJ could feel her insides churning. She knew it would do no good to argue with her sister. Violet always thought she was right. To make matters worse, Violet always was right. (Well, except that one time when she thought she was wrong.) But she couldn’t help saying, “Oh yeah?”
Violet gave no answer.
TJ pushed up her glasses and repeated, “Oh yeah?”
“Listen,” Violet said, “don’t take it personally. It’s in our DNA. I got all of Mom’s and Dad’s brains and you got all of . . . all of . . . Well, I’m sure you got something. I mean it’s not like you were adopted.” She hesitated, then turned to TJ. “Were you?”
If TJ was mad before, she was outraged now. So outraged that she returned to her favorite argument. “Oh yeah?”
Violet sighed. “Haven’t we already had this discussion?”
TJ wanted to fire back with a classy put-down, but somehow she knew another “oh yeah” wouldn’t do the trick.
“Guys?”
They both turned to see their youngest sister, Dorie, standing in the doorway. She was as cute as a button and almost as small.
“Can I borrow some markers?”
“Hey, Squid,” TJ said. “Why are you out of bed?”
“I’m working on Daddy’s Christmas gift.”
“You too?” TJ groaned.
“Uh-huh,” Dorie said. “I’m making him a tie clasp.” Her face beamed with excitement. “I already found the clothespin. Now I just need to color it with markers.”
“You’re giving Dad a clothespin for Christmas?” TJ asked.
Dorie shook her head. “No. I’m giving him a clothespin colored with markers for Christmas.”
“I see.” TJ smiled. She always smiled when she talked with Dorie. Of course she tried to hide it. After all, Dorie was a younger sister, and younger sisters are supposed to irritate older sisters. (It’s like a law or something.) So TJ just tousled Dorie’s hair and said, “Let’s head to my room to see if I have any.”
“Yippee!” Dorie said as she skipped into the hallway.
But even as they headed toward her room, TJ’s mind raced back to Dad. She had to get him something. Granted, she had no money, but somehow the gift had to be bigger and better than Violet ever dreamed.
Unfortunately, some dreams turn into nightmares—especially with help from the 23rd century.
CHAPTER TWO
’Tis the Season to Be Greedy
TIME TRAVEL LOG:
Malibu, California, December 19
Begin Transmission
Subject applied for first job. A gonzo success thanks to Tuna’s incredibly smart brain, my incredibly good looks, and our incredible incredibleness.
End Transmission
All night long, TJ tossed and turned, worrying about what gift to get Dad. Finally she had her solution: a nice, big wad of cash . . . exactly one dollar more than the cost of Violet’s big-screen TV. There was the slight problem of being totally broke, but she could get an after-school job. After all, it was Christmastime. Plenty of stores needed help at Christmas.
Now it’s true, somewhere in the back of her mind, there was a whisper that Christmas just might be more than gifts and money. But the next day, as she headed down the school hallway with Naomi Simpletwirp, it was quickly forgotten.
“Isn’t this (click-clack) something?” Naomi said.
The click-clack came from the breath mint Naomi chewed. (Naomi lived in constant fear of bad breath.) And the something she spoke of was the student lockers—each and every one decorated to the max for Christmas.
“Wow” was all TJ could say.
“Yeah (clack-click), it’s a tradition around here. Everyone tries to beat everyone else for the best-decorated locker.”
TJ nodded as she noticed a techno geek’s locker to their left. Besides the standard flashing lights (in perfect sync to “Jingle Bells”), the entire locker door had been replaced by a 3D video panel of Santa Claus
his heart out in THX surround sound.
Next to this was some goth chick’s locker. It was draped in black velvet, covered in dripping red paint (at least TJ hoped it was paint), and had almost as many rivets punched into the door as the girl had in her ears—arranged, of course, to look like a Christmas tree.
“This is amazing,” TJ said as she ducked a remote-controlled sleigh and reindeer flying overhead. “You guys really go all out.”
“Sure do,” Naomi said. She finished off her breath mint and dug into her purse for breath spray. “Christmas is like a major religion here.”
TJ was surprised. Religion was not exactly a word she associated with the kids of Malibu Juni
or High. “Are you sure about that?” she asked.
“Sure, I’m sure,” Naomi said as they passed a locker with a snowman made from real snow in front of it. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t see any religious decorations,” TJ said. “You know, like baby Jesus in the manger or the three wise men or—?”
“Who would buy that stuff?”
“Buy?” TJ asked.
“If nobody buys it, what’s it got to do with Christmas?”
TJ frowned. There had to be an answer there, somewhere, but before she could find it, Naomi changed subjects. “So what do you think Doug is going to get me?”
“I don’t know,” TJ said as they passed a Christmas tree with giant glass ornaments shaped like diamonds (at least she thought they were glass).
“Well, it better be something expensive,” Naomi said as she gave up on the breath spray and began searching for a toothbrush and toothpaste. “Real expensive.”
“Why expensive?” TJ asked.
“Hello? Because it’s Christmas.”
TJ nodded, once again remembering how broke she was and how she had to find work. “Listen,” she asked, “you don’t know someplace I can get a job, do you?”
“What do you need a job for?”
“Extra money.”
“Just use your credit card.”
TJ looked at her friend and blinked. “You have your own credit card?”
“Hello?” Naomi said. “This is Malibu, California.”
Of course; what was she thinking? “But what if I, you know, don’t have one yet? Any idea how I could get some real money?”
“Real money?” Naomi scowled. The concept was obviously new to her. “Well . . . there’s Bags Fifth Avenue department store. They always hire people for the holidays.”
