by Bill Myers
Excuso Man laughs. “You actually think you could take me?”
“With one D drive tied behind my back.”
“Talk is cheap, binary brain.”
“That’s right,” our hero answers. “But do you see those virtual reality goggles and bodysuit over there? The ones conveniently placed nearby by our brilliant and incredibly clever author?”
“Yeah.”
“If you put those on, you could enter my world, and we’d prove who was superior.”
“I already know,” Excuso Man scoffs.
“So prove it,” Giga Guy challenges, “unless that Excuse-a-tron is also making you come up with too many excuses.” He waits as the arch-antagonist starts to weaken. Finally, he goes in for the kill. “So, what are you?” he demands, “a man or a mouse? Come on now, squeak up!”
That’s all it takes. Excuso Man’s pride is pricked, his arrogance is assaulted, his machismo maligned. (Looks like it’s time to pull out the ol’ dictionary, doesn’t it?) In a flash, the deranged dude (there’s another one) races to the suit, slips on the goggles and gloves, and prepares to meet our hero in cyberspace. He crosses to the computer, hits the Enter key, and suddenly...
Beep beep beep beep . . .
I glanced up from Ol’ Betsy IV and looked around, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. Mr. Blond heard it, too. In fact he was already on the intercom shouting something to the pilot. When he was done, he turned and slipped into the seat across from me.
“What’s with the sound?” I asked.
He reached over to my trusty shaving kit and pulled out the toothbrush. To my surprise, the bristles were flashing and the handle was beeping.
“It’s the tracking device,” he said. “The Giggle Gun is right below us. Better buckle in, Wallace. The pilot’s going to have to drop in fast, so things could get a little . . .
K-BAMB! K-RASH! K-SLAM!
. . . bumpy.”
“What’s happening?” I cried.
“There’s no landing strip in the area! We’re having to make our . . .
K-SLAM! K-RASH! K-BAMB!
. . . own.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” I shouted.
“Nah . . . Just as long as we don’t smash into any . . .”
K-SMASH!
Suddenly a giant tree ripped off our left wing and
K-RRREEEEKKKkkk
tore off the entire left side of the plane.
It was kinda interesting watching the African countryside pass by. And I might have enjoyed the tour, if I hadn’t been screaming my head off. Then, of course, there was all my praying. Forget about emptying the trash and taking care of the cat box—now I was promising God I’d clean the entire house every week for the rest of my life!
And then, just like that, we came to a
K-THUDD!
stop.
“Well now,” Mr. Blond cleared his throat and reached down to unfasten his seat belt, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I could only look at him. If this was his definition of “not so bad,” I’d hate to be around when he thought we had some real trouble.
“Uh, Wallace?”
“Yeah . . .” I croaked.
“I think we have some real trouble.”
I swallowed hard.
“Do you see that family of giraffes over there?”
I turned and looked out the ripped-off side of our plane. Just a few yards away stood a terrified baby giraffe. Beside him was one very startled mamma type. And beside her was one very angry dad.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Mr. Blond continued, “I believe that bull giraffe there is about ready to attack us.”
“What . . . what do we do?” I stuttered.
“Well first, I’d very carefully unbuckle my safety belt.”
I did.
“Good. Next, I’d grab my shaving kit and slowly rise to my feet.”
I did that, too. “Now what?” I asked.
“Well now, I think, it might be a very good idea to . . . RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!”
With that bit of handy advice, Mr. Blond dashed down the aisle and leaped out of the plane. I did my best to follow—which wasn’t a bad idea since papa giraffe had already begun to charge!
Once outside, leaves and branches slapped my face as I ran for all I was worth (which wouldn’t be much if I became giraffe shoe goo). Meanwhile, the toothbrush in my shaving kit was going crazy.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
“Why’s it doing that?!” I cried.
“We’re right next to the cave!” Mr. Blond shouted.
“Are you sure it’s a cave? I don’t see anything!”
“Me either, but the tracking device can’t be—”
“AUGHhhhhhh . . .”
Suddenly he disappeared from sight.
“AUGHhhhhhh . . .”
Without warning, I joined him.
After several seconds of tumbling and rolling out of control (not, of course, without the daily minimum requirement of bruises and broken bones), we finally came to a stop when we both hit
K-LUNK-“OW!”
K-LUNK-“OW!”
one extra hard, industrial strength rock.
Everything was very quiet and very dark. The reason was simple. I was very unconscious. When I came to, I could hear Mr. Blond moving around beside me.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I groaned. “Just the usual broken body parts.” I opened my eyes and saw it was even darker than when I was unconscious. “Where are we?” I asked.
“ The best I can figure, we’re at the bottom of the cave—with the Giggle Gun.”
“How can you tell?” I rubbed my eyes, trying to peer through the darkness.
He lit a match and light flooded the cave. “Because, my dear Wallace,” he broke into an ominous laugh, “I’m now holding it in my hand.”
I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the brightness. Sure enough, in his hand was a cool-looking gun with all sorts of flashing gadgets and electric doohickeys.
He laughed again. It was a weird laugh—the type that gives you goose bumps.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“All right?” he sneered. “Everything is perfect. With this gun, I’ll control the entire free world.” He repeated his laugh and suddenly my goose bumps got goose bumps.
But he wasn’t quite done.
“And you, my dear Wallace, Agent 001/7th—or should I say DOUBLE agent?” He pointed the gun toward me and prepared to fire. “You shall be my first victim.”
Chapter 9
Going Up?
So there I was in a dark cave, in darkest Africa, with the meanest bad guy I’d ever met. It’s not that I minded darkness. I didn’t even mind helping Mr. Blond out with his target practice—I just wasn’t crazy about being the target.
And then, suddenly, I heard voices high above us.
“All right, Blond, zee game iz up!”
“Drop zee gun or vee blow you to kingdom cume!”
Yes sir, it was my old buddies from Switzerland. My heart skipped a beat. I had been rescued! I was safe! I was secure!
I was wrong . . .
With one swift move, Mr. Blond pulled me in closer and shoved the Giggle Gun into my ribs. “Try it,” he shouted, “and I’ll send this kid into eternal laughter!”
My heart pounded (more than making up for that beat it skipped a couple paragraphs earlier). Don’t get me wrong, I like a good yuck as much as the next guy, but suddenly the phrase “dying of laughter” had a brand new meaning.
Lucky for me, Tall Guy and Short Stuff seemed to agree. They reholstered their guns and waited for Mr. Blond to make the next move. Unfortunately, he did. He began dragging me with him up the steep slope of the cave.
Of course my pals tried the usual, “You’ll nefer geet avay wiz zis!” And the ever popular, “Juz put down zee gun so vee can talk.” But Mr. Blond had seen the same TV shows and wasn’t about to fall for their cliché-riddl
ed dialogue.
We continued toward the mouth of the cave. The good news was it was a lot less painful going up than going down. The bad news was it was a lot scarier with a Giggle Gun permanently attached to my side.
We reached the top. For a moment, the daylight blinded us. That’s when my buds tried to make their move. But Mr. Blond cocked the Giggle Gun and shouted out his own cliché-riddled dialogue: “Everyone stay back or the kid gets it!”
My wannabe rescuers obeyed and stepped back. I tried it, too, but by the way Blond grabbed me, I guess he didn’t exactly mean . . . everyone.
Now that we were out of the cave, he began looking for an escape. Of course there was our trashed cargo plane, but it had more rips and twists than a piece of modern sculpture. Then he spotted it—the plane Tall Guy and Short Stuff had come in . . . a two-seater jet fighter.
“Let’s go!” Blond growled as he dragged me toward it.
I knew the time had come. It was my chance to finally be a man, to show the type of courage I was really made of. It was time to drop to my knees and beg for my life: “Please, please, please, don’t make me go up in that! Please, I’m scared of heights, remember. Besides, it wasn’t my fault. They made me. I’m not the one that wanted to be a double agent—”
“Stop it!” he barked. “No one forced you into this mission. No one forced you to become a double agent. Those were your decisions, so take responsibility for them!”
Suddenly, he was sounding exactly like Dad— well, except for the shouting (and the Giggle Gun stuck in my ribs). But he was right. I was doing it again. I was using excuses.
He dragged me to the fighter and pushed me up the ladder toward the open cockpit.
“Get in the back!” he ordered.
I obeyed. There were a couple of parachutes on my seat, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to put one on. Of course I practically choked myself to death until I figured out where all the straps went. But Mr. Blond paid no attention. He was too busy standing up in the front of the cockpit and letting go of some more sinister laughter. Then, just to make things a little more interesting, he turned the gun off of me and spun around and fired it at Tall Guy and Short Stuff.
But instead of a K-Bang! K-Boom! or even the ever popular K-Pow!, all I heard was
zing . . . zing . . . zing . . . zing . . .
as a fine mist shot from the gun and covered my two buddies.
Slowly, they turned to each other. At first it looked like nothing had happened. Then a tiny giggle escaped from Tall Guy. Then one from Short Stuff. And then one from both of them. They fought hard, trying to keep straight faces, and they almost succeeded—until Tall Guy burst into a major case of the guffaws, followed, of course, by Short Stuff’s giggles. Now there was no stopping them. Now they were going at it like a couple of hyenas.
Mr. Blond and I traded looks.
But they didn’t notice. They were laughing so hard, tears streamed down their faces. Every once in a while, when it looked like one was getting control, the other would bust out even louder, and it would get even worse. Soon they were doubling over, dropping their guns, and gasping for breath.
But Mr. Blond had other things on his mind. He turned to me and barked, “Sit down!”
I did. But my mind continued to race. I knew it was time to get back to taking responsibility. But what could I do? All I had was my shaving kit and . . .
Suddenly Mr. Blond fired up the jet’s engines. Their piercing whine grew louder and louder, and louder some more. He pressed a lever and the cockpit roof automatically slid shut over our heads. We started rolling forward. I threw one last look over to Tall Guy and Short Stuff. They were flapping around on the ground, howling hysterically, and having the time of their lives.
I wish I could say the same for my life—whatever little was left of it.
We continued to roll, picking up speed, faster and faster, until Blond pulled back the stick and we shot up into the air. The force was so great that it shoved me deep into my seat. I was scared in a major Scream XVIII sort of way. But I was also determined. Even though I was petrified of flying, I was determined to be responsible. I was determined to do something, hopefully the right thing. But, even if I failed, that was okay. At least I’d give it a shot— and at least I’d take responsibility for it.
We were several miles up by the time I finally quit praying. I had just added to my list of carrying out the garbage, emptying the cat box, and cleaning the house, by also promising never to fight with my brothers and sister again. (Wait a minute—am I out of my mind?!)
Because I was afraid of heights, I knew the last thing in the world I should do is look out the window. So, of course, that was the first thing I did.
“AUGHhhh . . .”
That’s about all you could hear of my scream over the jet engines. Still, I knew I had to start taking responsibility. But how? Where to begin? All I had was the extra parachute that Blond hadn’t put on and my shaving kit. I opened up the kit and started rummaging through it.
Let’s see, there was my remote-tracking toothbrush. No, that wouldn’t help.
How about my rocket-powered toilet paper? Nah, probably not a good idea to shoot around inside a jet fighter cockpit.
I pulled out what was left of the toothpaste tube. It was almost empty—not enough to do anything, except maybe play a game or two of cat’s cradle.
I was starting to get nervous. I had to think of something. The only thing left was the exploding dental floss. Not a bad idea—if you wanted to blow up the plane. Not a good idea if you wanted to live to tell about it.
Wait a minute . . .
A plan slowly started to form. Carefully I pulled off a few inches of the floss. I didn’t want to blow up the plane, but if Mr. Blond thought somebody else was trying to, then maybe he’d get frightened enough to set us down somewhere.
I took the floss in my fingers and gave it a tiny little flick.
K-BAMB!
Perfect. I did it again.
K-BAMB! K-BAMB!
It did the trick. “ They’re shooting at us!” Mr. Blond shouted.
I smiled. He was playing right into my hand.
K-BAMB! K-BAMB! K-BAMB!
“Brace yourself!” he cried. “I’m taking evasive action!”
I wasn’t sure what evasive meant—until he threw us into a hard steep dive and a sharp right turn.
“AUGHHHHHHhhhhhh . . .”
Now I understood:
Evasive:adj. A method
of scaring your passengers to death.
Blond wasn’t going to land the plane. He was going to dodge the imaginary enemy by diving, spinning, and turning.
Uh-oh . . .
“Where are they?” he cried, as he brought us out of a steep power dive, then veered hard to the left. “I can’t see them! I can’t see them!”
I wanted to answer, to say the truth, but it’s hard to say anything when your stomach is doing a pinball imitation inside your body.
Then suddenly, amidst the diving and turning, I spotted the Giggle Gun. It had come loose from Blond’s side and was flying back toward me. I lunged for it. The good news was I grabbed it. The bad news was I grabbed the wrong part . . . the trigger part . . . the part that I accidentally squeezed . . . the part that accidentally fired the Giggle mist all over Mr. Blond.
zing . . . zing . . . zing . . . zing . . .
“Uh-oh” x 2
“WALLACE!?” he began to chuckle. “WHAT HAVE YOU . . . Ho-ho . . . ha-ha . . . he-he . . . DONE?!”
I was about to answer when he suddenly got the idea that things would be even funnier if he started flying the plane like a madman. Without a word (but plenty more laughter) he began taking us into a series of tight little loop-the-loops.
“Uh-oh” x 3
“WHOA . . . ,” I shouted.
“HAR-HAR-HAR!”
“WAAAHH . . . ,” I cried.
“HO-HO-HO!”
“EEEEEE. . . .”
But my screaming made lit
tle difference. By now he was laughing so hard he was doubling over. Then he was gasping for breath. Then he was accidentally grabbing the eject lever on his seat.
The eject lever on his seat?!
Yes sir, one minute Mr. Blond was in front of me flying the fighter. The next minute
K-CRASH!
his ejection seat fired, and he was shooting up through the cockpit and sailing high into the air.
The good news was Mr. Blond no longer had control over me. The bad news was that I didn’t either. I was several miles high in a jet fighter, traveling six hundred miles an hour, without the slightest clue how to fly it. Then there was the other matter. The one of Mr. Blond tumbling toward the earth without a parachute.
Yes sir, things were not good in a migrainemaker kind of way.
And there was no one to blame but me.
Oh sure, I could have blamed the Giggle Gun for misfiring or Mr. Blond for hitting the ejection lever or anybody else for a hundred other things. But the truth was, I was the one who had pulled the trigger. I was the one who had gotten the two of us into this mess.
And instead of making excuses, I would continue taking responsibility until I got us out of it.
Chapter 10
Wrapping Up
At first I thought I’d try . . .
Plan A: Land the Fighter Myself.
After all, I flew the space shuttle way back in My Life As an Afterthought Astronaut. And now that I was so much older, I figured landing a jet fighter would be a piece of cake. (Hey, I said older . . . not smarter.) But since there was nobody around to talk me through the process, I went to my old standby . . .
Plan B: Panic and Scream for My Life.
I opened my mouth and:
(silence)
I tried again:
Ditto in the nothing department. (I guess it can be a little hard screaming into a six hundred mile an hour wind.) Now it was time for . . .
Plan C:
The only problem was I didn’t have a Plan C.
All I had was the extra parachute I was still hanging onto and my trusty shaving kit. I looked back into the kit. I’d tried everything in it— well, everything but the rocket-powered toilet paper. And what good was rocket-powered toilet—
