My Life as a Screaming Skydiver

by Bill Myers

  It is a nice afternoon in Niceville. The sun is shining nicely, the birds are twittering nicely, and the children are playing (what else, but)... nicely. In fact, it’s so nice that our world-famous superhero and computergenerated character, Gigabyte Guy, decides to take the rest of the day off.

  Just a few hours earlier he had cured a hundred computer viruses, deleted a thousand junk e-mails, and shut down an Internet server that was busy every time you tried to dial up.

  Now he is looking forward to kicking back, munching on a nice bowl of megabytes (even though he is putting on some weight around the ol’ hard drive), and watching some Monday Night Nintendo.

  Before settling in, he strolls across his desktop page to check it out. It’s exactly as he suspects, everything is . . . nice.

  He checks out his CD-ROM. It’s also . . . nice.

  The same goes for his Web site.

  Yes sir, everything’s just the way he likes it, nice and, well,...nice.

  “Excuse me?”

  He wanders into his nicely decorated kitchen and pours himself a nice glass of——

  “Excuse me, Mr. Wally?”

  I stopped writing. It was happening again. One of my characters was talking back to me. I tried to ignore him, but it did no good.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Wally? It’s Gigabyte Guy.”

  Reluctantly, I typed, “Yes?”

  “Listen, I know you’ve had a stressedout day and all, but...”

  “But what?” I typed.

  “Well, why do you have to take it out on me?”

  I frowned at the screen, then typed, “Take what out on you? What are you talking about?”

  “No offense, but this is the most boring story you’ve ever written.”

  I typed back, “It’s supposed to help me relax.”

  “But I’m a superhero. Superheroes are supposed to live superhero lives——you know, with superhero suspense and superhero action (and a little superhero romance wouldn’t hurt either).”

  “This is a kid’s story,” I typed. “Who wants all that huggy-kissy stuff?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, you’re right. But what about the superhero action and superhero suspense?”

  “What’s wrong with just having a nice day?” I typed.

  “It’s not fair. All your other superheroes got to do superhero stuff. Ecology Man got to fight Toxoid Breath. Neutron Dude got to fight Veggie Man. Even Floss Man, who I thought was the lamest superhero of all, got to battle it out with Harry the Hairball.”

  “So?”

  “So, all you’ve got me doing is sitting around and watching NTV?”

  I saw his point. And as much as I hated to do it (you give made-up characters an inch and they’ll take a mile), I typed, “So do you have any suggestions?”

  “Hey, that’s your job!” he complained. “I’m the superhero. You’re the writer!”

  “All right, all right,” I typed, “don’t get your A drive in a bunch.” I scowled hard, thinking over the last few hours. What would be a good bad thing for Gigabyte Guy to stop? Suddenly, I snapped my fingers. “I’ve got it!”

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “It’s not going to be some loser thing like, ‘Suddenly his computer screen gets dust on it,’ is it?”

  “No way,” I typed. “This is going to be great.” Before he could do any more complaining, I went back to my story.

  Suddenly, Gigabyte’s monitor gives a little shudder. He strolls to the edge of his screen, looks out, and sees that a baseball has gently rolled against it. A sweet little boy skips merrily into the room to retrieve it, and——”

  “Boring, boring, boring...”

  “Sorry,” I typed. I hit delete and tried again.

  Suddenly Gigabyte’s monitor shatters into a thousand pieces! He races to the edge of the screen and spots an innercity gang member storming into the room after his baseball. Along with him comes his international-terrorist brother and escaped-convict father.

  “Look what you’ve done to my screen!” Gigabyte cries.

  “It’s not my fault!” the kid yells, as he grabs the baseball. “Blame my brother for making me play with him!”

  “It’s not my fault!” the brother yells. “Blame my dad for giving me the ball!”

  “It’s not my fault!” Dad cries. “Blame the warden for letting me steal it out of his office!”

  Gigabyte frowns. Something is weird in The Twilight Zone kind of way. Suddenly his e-mail flashes. He punches it up to see the President of the United States on the screen. “Gigabyte Guy!” he calls. “Where are you?”

  “Right in front of you, sir.”

  “Well, it’s not my fault I can’t see you. It’s these stupid glasses.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And it’s not my fault they’re stupid. Blame my eye doctor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t blame me for choosing the eye doctor, blame the person who——”

  “Mr. President,” Gigabyte interrupts, “What are you saying?”

  “It’s not my fault that you don’t know.”

  “Mr. President, nobody is blaming you for anything.”

  “Well, don’t blame me for that, either!”

  Before any more excuses can be made, the President’s image breaks up and dissolves into another——

  “Good evening, Geeko Guy.”

  Our superhero gasps a superhero breath. There, on the screen before him, is the dreaded and definitely notso-nice (insert bad guy music here) Excuso Man.

  “Excuso Man!” our hero gasps. “I might have guessed. You’re the reason everyone is making excuses!”

  Suddenly the sinister sinner sneers a sinisterly snide sneer. (I hope you’re not having to read this out loud.) “Very good, Geeko Guy.”

  “But how...why?”

  The villainous villain steps back to reveal a giant cannon pointed toward the sky. “Behold...my latest weapon.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Excuse-a-tron.”

  “The Excuse-a-tron! Wasn’t that Proverb Guy’s weapon way back in book six?!”

  “Bingo!” The bad-breathed bad boy barks. “But your pal, the author there, never destroyed it. So I’ve swiped it and reversed the effects. Now, instead of stealing excuses from people, it’s flooding the world with them.”

  “You don’t mean——”

  “That’s right. As I release its rays into the atmosphere, our entire world is filling with ir-responsibility. Soon no one will take responsibility for anything again. They will always have an excuse. They will always blame somebody else.”

  “Hey, Mr. Wally!”

  It was Gigabyte Guy again.

  “That’s pretty good.”

  “Thanks,” I typed, “but if you keep interrupting, we’ll never get on with the story.”

  “Oh, sorry. What am I going to do now?”

  “Just be patient.” I went back to typing.

  “Oh no!” our superhero cries. “Alack and forsooth!”

  “Alack and forsooth!?” It was Gigabyte again. “No one ever says ‘Alack and forsooth!’” (See what I mean about giving these characters an inch?) “Why not have me say——”

  Honk Honk

  I looked up from Ol’ Betsy and saw a limo the size of Cleveland pulling up outside my window.

  Honk Honk

  I would have loved to have finished arguing with Giga Guy. Better yet, I would have loved to have finished my story. But at the moment there were a few other details to take care of.

  I shut down Ol’ Betsy, grabbed my coat, and headed out the door. Sometimes, saving the world can be a real nuisance. But a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do.

  Chapter 4

  The Gang’s All Here

  The chauffeur opened the limo door, and I stepped inside.

  “Hey, Wally!”

  I looked down to the far end of the car and saw Wall Street. She was sitting at a computer screen doing what she did best—watching the latest stock reports. (W
all Street has this thing about making money.)

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. But before she could answer, I heard another familiar sound.

  K-RUNCH K-RUNCH K-RUNCH

  I spun around to see my other best friend, Opera, doing what he did best—inhaling his third bag of Chippy Chipper Potato Chips. (Opera has this thing about junk food.)

  And just behind Opera, glued to the big screen TV (hey, it’s a long limo), was my dad.

  “Pass interference?! You’re crazy! He didn’t touch the guy!”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  No answer.

  “Dad?”

  Ditto in the no answer department.

  “He’s kinda involved in the game,” Wall Street whispered.

  I nodded. We may have been out to save the world, but it was still Monday Night Football.

  “Why are you guys here?” I asked, as the limo lurched forward and we started toward the airport. “Did they tell you what’s going on?”

  Wall Street answered. “They said you hurt some government guy and now you have to do his job.”

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  Opera nodded and, with a mouthful of chips, added, “Mand mou may mou’re mot memofmobile . . . Burp.”

  (Translation: “And you say you’re

  not responsible . . . Burp.”)

  Having been best friends forever, I understood him perfectly. “It’s true,” I insisted, “I’m not responsible!”

  Wall Street nodded. “Yeah, they said you’d say that.”

  “But I’m not!”

  “ They said you’d say that, too. Anyway,” Wall Street continued, “they thought you’d like some company, so here we are.”

  “You guys would do this for me?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Wall Street grinned. “Well, for you and for all the cool stuff they’re giving us.”

  “Stuff?”

  “You know . . . the digital TV, the monster sound system, and all the videos and CDs we want.”

  “You’re letting them bribe you?!”

  “Sure.”

  “I can’t believe you’re that shallow, that you could be bought so cheaply.”

  “Yeah,” Opera agreed, finally coming up for air. “At least I held out for a lifetime supply of potato Belch! chips.”

  “Don’t worry, Wally,” Wall Street said. “They didn’t forget you.”

  “Mhat’s miight,” Opera said, cramming a fresh supply of chips into his mouth. He reached over and plopped a little shaving kit on my lap.

  I looked down at it. “A shaving bag? They gave me a shaving bag?”

  “It’s not just a bag,” Wall Street laughed. “Open it.” I did.

  “See?” she continued, doing her best to sound cheery. “ There’s all kinds of stuff inside. A nice toothbrush, here’s some toothpaste, oh, and here’s a nice pair of toenail clippers. I think they’re Swiss army,” she said even more cheerfully.

  “Terrific,” I sighed. “They’ve got me risking my life for a set of toenail clippers.”

  Suddenly Opera’s nonstop crunching stopped. So did Wall Street’s nonstop cheeriness.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Did you say . . .” Wall Street took a breath, “risking your life?”

  “Of course. Didn’t they tell you how dangerous this would be?”

  She shook her head. “They just said we’d be taking a free trip around the world with you.”

  I looked at them. They looked at me. Finally, Opera said what we all were thinking:

  “Muh-moh . . .”

  But before anyone could respond, the limo swerved hard to the left, and we flew across the car. I shouted, Wall Street screamed, and Opera belched.

  Even Dad managed to glance up from the game just long enough to yell, “Hey, you’re spilling my soda!”

  But that was only the beginning. Suddenly our car picked up speed—a lot of it. We took another hard left and then a right.

  “What’s going on?” Wall Street cried.

  I raced to the back of the limo and looked out the rear window. We were zipping by all the cars like they were standing still. Well, all the cars but one—the one that was right on our tail. The one that veered hard to the left when we veered hard to the left . . . and veered hard to the right when we veered hard to the right.

  I yelled over my shoulder, “I think we’ve got company!”

  “They better have brought their own food!” Dad shouted.

  Without warning, the limo suddenly spun into a 180-degree turn as we resumed our chorus of shouting, screaming, and belching. I wound up smashed against the side window and managed to look out just in time to see the other car zooming past. Sure enough, there were my old pals, Tall Guy and Short Stuff.

  After the limo made a few more swerves, skids, and squeals (accompanied by our shouts, shrieks, and screams), we finally got to hear a new “s” sound.

  SCREECH!

  The car stopped suddenly, and we flew forward.

  SMASH!

  (Oh boy, another new “s” word!)

  With our faces scrunched against the front glass we could see the airport. But that wasn’t all we saw.

  “Say, Dad?”

  “Yes, Son.”

  “How come our chauffeur is running away from the car as fast as he can?”

  “Got me,” Dad shrugged. “It probably has something to do with those guys who are chasing us— you know, the ones who are trying to kill us.”

  We all looked at each other and then, in perfect unison, cried:

  “TRYING TO KILL US!?”

  “What do we do?” Wall Street screamed.

  “Met’s met mout mof mhere!”

  I couldn’t agree with Opera more. I slid across the seat and pushed at the door.

  Nothing.

  I pushed harder.

  Double nothing.

  “We’re trapped!” I cried. “Like fish in a barrel!”

  “Like rats in a trap!” Wall Street screamed.

  “Like going to the movies without money for popcorn!” (Apparently Opera had finished his chips.)

  I leaned back and slammed into the door with all my might.

  K-CRACK

  Something gave way. Unfortunately, that something had nothing to do with the door—and everything to do with my body.

  “Oww,” I groaned, “my shoulder.”

  “Hurry!” Wall Street screamed. “Hurry!”

  “Uh, Wally?” Dad asked.

  “Not now, Dad, I have to save our lives.” I leaned back and hit the door even harder.

  K-CRACK!

  Double the volume, double the pain.

  Things were getting desperate. Not only had I run out of shoulders to break, but the bad guys would be there any minute.

  “Uh, Wally?”

  “Dad, not now.”

  I leaned back a third time and hit the door for all I was worth.

  K-SMUSH!

  (That’s the sound bodies make when there are no more bones left to break.)

  “Wally?”

  I love my dad, but he was really getting on my nerves. “What do you want?” I demanded.

  “Maybe if you unlocked it first?”

  I glanced up to the lock. “Oh.” (Don’t parents ever get tired of being right?) I yanked up the lock and the door popped open.

  “Thanks!” I cried as I grabbed my stuff and tumbled out of the car onto the pavement.

  “Don’t mention it,” he said tumbling out right on top of me. (And they say clumsiness isn’t genetic.) As we struggled to our feet, a car’s headlights blinded us as it sped around the corner.

  “Oh, no!” Wall Street cried. “What do we do?”

  I looked at Dad.

  Dad looked at me.

  We both had the same answer:

  “RUN!!!”

  Chapter 5

  Mush, Fido, Mush!

  Opera and Wall Street took off toward the airport. Dad and I were right behind—well, except for the part where w
e ran into each other.

  K-THUDD!!

  Like father, like son.

  By the time we pulled ourselves up off of each other, my bad boy buddies were leaping out of their car and racing toward us while doing their usual shouting routine:

  “Vee muust talk. . . . Stoop or I vill blow you to kingdom cume!”

  We took off running without bothering to look behind. Unfortunately, we didn’t seem to be looking ahead too well either.

  K-RASH!

  roll . . . roll . . . roll . . . roll . . .

  We hit a stray luggage cart and began rolling down the sidewalk at just under 1.2 billion miles an hour.

  “AUGH!”

  “AUGHhhh!”

  We were both screaming and lying spread-eagle across the cart—Dad on the top, me on the bottom. I was about to mention how nice it was to finally share a father and son moment (and that we’d finally found a hobby we could both enjoy) when I happened to glance up and see Opera and Wall Street straight ahead.

  “Look out!” I cried. “Look out!”

  The good news was they spotted us coming. The bad news was it was too late.

  K-THUDD! K-THUDD!

  Our little duet had now become a quartet. And, for the most part, our harmony was pretty good: “AUGH!”

  “AUGHhhh!”

  “AUGHhhhhhh!”

  “AUGHhhhhhhhhh!”

  But before we had a chance to audition for any recording contracts (or at least lay down a hat for people to drop spare change into), we picked up a fifth member of the act.

  K-POW!

  It was a giant pet cage.

  The impact was so great that it knocked open the cage door, and a pet the size of Seattle bolted out. I couldn’t tell if it was a Great Dane or a baby elephant . . . until he began to bark.

  WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!

  The sound was so loud that it hurt my ears. But that was nothing compared to the pain the rest of my body would soon be in. Because as Fido—the Monster Dog—began to bark, he also began to run.

  Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, except that his leash was tangled around the front of our luggage cart. So the faster he ran, the faster we rolled.