by Dave Barry
Nah. The more I thought about it, the more I knew what I had to do: I had to go out into the woods alone. It seemed crazy, like the plot of a bad horror movie where the teenage girl hears a scary noise in the basement, but instead of doing what anybody with an IQ higher than a Chicken McNugget would do, namely sprint out of the house, she goes down into the basement. But I knew I had to do it, because that’s what I always do with my trademark stubbornness: I place myself in grave plot peril when there is no coherent reason to do so. Some people may call this ridiculous, but I am guessing that “some people” have not sold 50 million books to date.
“I’m tired,” I informed Pete, yawning with my mouth for emphasis. “I think I’ll go up to my room now.” I leaned over to give Pete a goodnight kiss, only to trip forward with my trademark heartwarming clumsiness and head-butt him in the temple. He went down like a sack of gravel, out cold on the kitchen floor, eyes open, pupils dilated. I decided it was best to leave him there. I knew that he couldn’t do anything anyway. It was up to me. Only me. Me me me me me.
Just then the doorbell rang, interrupting my thought process. I wondered who it could be and decided to find out by opening the door. Doing so, I saw Sven Lindstrom, a tall, blond extremely handsome boy who’s captain of the Creepstone High football team and incredibly popular. He could have any girl he wanted.
Oh no, I thought internally, knowing what was coming.
“I love you,” he emoted.
“Sven,” I spluttered, “I can’t—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “You already have Phil and Stewart. But I don’t care. I love you, and although I could have any girl I want, I will always love only you. If it makes a difference, in addition to being extremely attractive physically, I am a member of the supernatural-American community.”
“You?” I expostulated. “I thought you were of Swedish descent!”
“I am,” he concurred. “But the males in my family carry a terrible curse. When we’re under great emotional stress, we turn into . . .” Unable to complete the sentence, he looked downward toward the ground.
“Turn into what?” I pressed.
He raised his head and his piercing blue eyes bored into mine, although not literally.
“Zamboni machines,” he blurted.
“No,” I reacted in horror.
“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely. “We transform, then break into skating rinks and resurface them repeatedly, whether they need it or not. We can’t stop ourselves.”
“I thought that was just a myth,” I intoned wonderingly.
“I wish,” he regretted.
I was afraid to ask the next question, but I could not stop myself, because of my trademark inability to cease emitting dialogue.
“What if there’s no ice rink around?” I interrogated.
Tears streamed from his handsome Nordic eyes as a look of shame crept across his chiseled face like a fast-moving caterpillar of emotion.
“We’ll do frozen ponds, or even driveways,” he sobbed ashamedly. “Any reasonably level ice-covered surface.” He put his head in his hands, sobbing. He had really nice hair.
“Sven,” I commiserated, touching his shoulder with my hand. He was muscular, like Phil and Stewart. One thing about these attractive male supernatural beings: In addition to being crazy about me, they are in excellent physical condition. “It’s not your fault,” I added. “You can’t help being what you are,” I added further.
Feeling the touch of my hand touching him, Sven raised his head and looked at me with an expression that I had seen before in the past.
Not again, I reflected mentally.
“Marry me,” he urged.
“Sven,” I sighed. “I can’t. I—”
“I will make you happy,” he broke in persistently. “I will love you and worship you forever. And as God is my witness, you will never again have to contend with bumpy or pitted ice.”
It was very tempting. But I knew, from previous experience with supernatural hunks who found me irresistible, that if I led Sven on—if I gave him even the slightest reason to hope that he could have me—I would only break his heart and probably place him in mortal danger of being killed. I knew I had to make it completely, undeniably clear to him that he had absolutely no chance, or his life would be ruined, and it would be all my fault.
“Maybe,” I declared.
“Really?” he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with joy like twin blue spherical orbs equipped with some kind of internal illumination.
“Yes,” I allowed. Then, with my trademark unbelievably annoying emotional incoherence, I added: “No.”
A look of confusion settled on Sven’s perfectly chiseled Slavic cheekbones, unless I’m thinking of Nordic. I’m pretty sure it’s one of those.
“Wait a minute,” he puzzled. “I’m not sure whether you’re saying yes, or no, or maybe.”
“I am,” I affirmed.
“You are what?” he pressed.
“Yes,” I clarified.
“What?” he chagrinned.
Before I could answer, I felt a jolt as I suddenly remembered something: the main story line. Somehow, I had to get back to it.
“I’m sorry, Sven,” I apologized. “I’m about to get myself in grave plot peril so I have to go.”
“But . . .” he commenced.
“Maybe next book,” I curtailed, closing the door in his perfectly chiseled Slavic (or Nordic) (I should look this up if I get time before this is published) features.
Through the door I heard a wail, followed by groans of pain, followed by clanking, followed by a motor starting, followed by the whooshing sound of sidewalk ice being resurfaced in an emotional manner.
But I had no time to think about Sven. Right now I had to think about how anguished I was, with all these powerful feelings swirling around inside me like a smoothie being blended from a variety of emotional fruits as I stepped over Pete’s body, nearly losing my footing in his drool puddle as I prepared to go out into the woods with nothing to protect me except my various attractive supernatural boyfriends. I did not know what peril I was about to face. All I knew was one thing, the most important thing of all:
Whatever happened, it would involve me.
CHAPTER THREE
Peril
I stumbled through the woods, tripping with clumsy endearingness over the logs that lay everywhere, like the corpses of dead trees knocked down by gravity. It was getting dark, and I knew that Phil would be out looking for me with his tawny eyes nestled in the chiseled perfection of his face. Stewart would also be looking for me in his lanky way with his bulging, rippling muscles or giant snout, depending on what form he was in. I knew that if Phil and Stewart ran into each other, they would probably get into a supernatural high-speed fight, and one or both of them could be badly injured or even killed, and it would be my fault because they were both so crazy mad in love with me.
I felt guilt gnawing at the pit of my stomach from within like a family of angry gastrointestinal ferrets. I wished I could die. I wished that a big electrical thing of lightning would come shooting down from the sky and kill me, or at least that an editor would cut out some of these interminable monologues about my feelings.
But I knew that could never happen, as it would be a violation of my contract. And so I continued to stumble endearingly forward as total darkness fell over the woods while a full moon rose into the sky to provide visibility for the climactic action sequence.
I came to a clearing completely surrounded on all sides by the dark forbidding woods. I walked into the clearing as the cold wind blew my hair around into a big trademark mess, although fortunately I don’t care about hair or makeup because the last thing I need to do is make myself even more irresistible. With a feeling of even greater foreboding than usual, I kept walking forward, putting one leg in front of the other in an alternating sequence.
Suddenly, I saw movement at the far edge of the clearing. I stopped and stared. A chill slithered up my spine like an a
scending iguana wearing tiny booties made from pieces of Fudgsicle as I saw the terrifying shadowy figure step menacingly into the clearing. With a shock of recognition I recognized who it was:
Barbara Walters.
No, sorry, there I go with my trademark endearing nearsightedness. As the shadowy figure drew nearer, I realized with a second shock of recognition that although she wore her hair the way Barbara Walters does, it was actually somebody far more dangerous; somebody who had been subtly foreshadowed in previous chapters:
Denise.
“So,” she hissed, gliding vengefully forward as if on gliders.
I took a step back and stumbled over something. I screamed in horror as I realized that it was a human thigh—part of what had only days ago been a living, breathing hiker who, if he had been a male and cute and had met me, would probably have wanted to marry me. But now that was never to be, I reflected sorrowfully as I fell backward and landed on my back. I looked up to see Denise standing over me, her vampire eyes glowing with redness like two hot eyeball-sized coals.
“Please,” I pleaded.
“So,” she hissed again, and in that instant I realized that she was not big on dialogue. She bared her teeth, revealing her needle-like fangs, which glinted brightly in the moonlight like some kind of sharp highly reflective things used in a simile. I squinched my eyes shut, preparing myself to be killed in a horrible manner, which I knew I deserved after causing so much pain because of my uncontrollable irresistibility. The dramatic tension mounted to a fever pitch as I waited to feel Denise’s teeth plunge vengefully into my neck and suck my blood out like a giant supernatural mosquito. I wondered how much it would hurt, and how long it would last before I was dead, and who, if anybody, would take over as narrator.
And just then it happened, a dramatic turn of events so unexpected and shocking that nobody could have predicted it in a million years without having read the previous books. I heard a snarling sound and opened my eyes to see that Denise, instead of attacking me, was fighting for her life. And the person she was fighting against—the person who, against all odds, had appeared at the last possible instant to rescue me, was:
Barbara Walters.
No, I am leavening the narrative with humor. It was really Phil. In the moonlight he looked more perfect and tawny-eyed and chiseled and gorgeous than ever. I still could not believe, as I watched him bite off Denise’s right ear and, with characteristic godlike gracefulness, spit it into the woods, that he found me—Me! (Me!)—so attractive. I sighed, anticipating the moment when he was finished disassembling Denise so I could finally kiss his perfectly sculpted lips, despite the risk of frostbite.
But my fantasy was interrupted when his eyes flashed me an alarmed look of tawny ominousness.
“Run away!” he commanded.
“Why?” I questioned.
“They’re coming!” he explained.
“Who’s coming?” I prompted.
“They are,” he elaborated as he pointed toward the edge of the clearing with Denise’s left arm.
I looked in that direction, and my mouth gaped open as I saw them emerging from the woods:
The Gambinis.
They were a family of ancient and powerful vampires whom I had encountered in the previous book. They controlled all of the vampire activity in the world, as well as a large sector of the waste-management industry. It goes without saying that they were all really good-looking and obsessed with me.
“What do they want?” I inquired.
Phil scratched his tousled hair with Denise’s hand. “Apparently they want to be part of the climactic action sequence,” he postulated, adding, “and it appears there’s going to be a lot of action.” Using Denise’s head, he nodded toward the opposite side of the clearing. My jaw dropped as I saw a pack of enormous werewolves, including Stewart, who gave me a look of desperate werewolf longing before he turned away and resumed forlornly licking his private parts. As I watched, saddened and guilt-ridden because of the pain I had inflicted on him by being so attractive without making any conscious effort, I saw more shapes emerge from a third side of the clearing. This time it was Denise’s jaw that dropped, as it fell from Phil’s hand when he saw who it was:
His vampire family: Grover, Buck, Scooter, Eldridge, DeeDee, Trixie, and Skeeter. Despite the obvious seriousness of the situation, there was no mistaking how good-looking they all were. Grover nodded to Phil with a special code vampire nod, indicating something ominous was about to transpire.
“Stay here,” asserted Phil, flinging aside what I think was Denise’s thorax. “Stay perfectly still. Whatever you do, don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself.”
I wanted to shout something that would stop Phil, such as “Stop, Phil!” But he had already become a blur of speed like a really chiseled supernatural Road Runner as he raced toward the middle of the clearing, where an incredible battle had erupted between the werewolves and the various attractive sets of vampires. There were snarls and roars and hideous supernatural screams as the fighting raged at fantastic speeds all around me. It was incredibly exciting and terrifying, although because of my trademark inability to describe action in anything except very general terms you are just going to have to take my word for this.
It was all happening so fast that I couldn’t tell who was winning and who was losing. But as the battle raged on, an alarming thought crept into my mind: I was not playing a central role. I realized that I needed to do something. But what could I, a mere human, although a highly endearing one, do? Then it struck me: I could draw attention to myself.
Frantically I looked around, searching for a sharp object. Suddenly I saw it, lying on the ground, clearly visible in the bright moonlight:
A sharp object.
I picked it up and stabbed at myself. I was aiming for my arm, but because of my trademark clumsiness I actually stabbed one of Denise’s arms, a piece of which broke off and flew into my right leg, leaving a deep gash. Blood streamed redly down my leg. Suddenly there was a vampire stampede coming my way at the speed of vampire, with the werewolves right behind. The vampires came from all directions, their fangs extended to the length of No. 3 Phillips screwdrivers. In the crowd I caught sight of Phil, who had a look of deep horrified concern on his face, and even in that moment, knowing I was definitely going to die in seconds although obviously I didn’t because here I am narrating this, I remember thinking how good-looking he was, and wondering how he got his hair to always stay at exactly that level of tousle.
Now they were almost on me, dozens of blood-crazed vampires and enraged werewolves. I knew there was no way I could be saved. I heard Phil shout, “No!” Then I heard a howl of despair from Stewart. Then, in the distance, I heard the distinctive hydraulic sound of an anguished Zamboni.
And then, at the absolute climactic height of the action sequence, everything went dark.
CHAPTER FOUR
Resolution
“She’s coming around,” I heard Phil’s voice intone. Raising my eyelids, I opened my eyes. I was lying on my back, and a small piece of Denise’s back. Hovering above me were Phil, Stewart, and Sven, as well as Phil’s family, and the Jonas Brothers.
“What happened?” I queried weakly.
Phil shook his head lovingly. “You almost got yourself and all of us killed because of your unbelievably irresponsible, deranged, and self-centered behavior,” he remarked, adding, “but that just makes me desire you more, you crazy, quirky, irresistible woman, you.”
Stewart and Sven moved their heads vertically up and down in nods of agreement.
“But how did you win the climactic fight?” I pressed.
“Through a lot of action,” Phil explained.
“Wow,” I stated. “It must have been incredibly exciting.”
“It was,” he concurred with a twinkle in his tawny eyes.
“But what are the Jonas Brothers doing here?” I persisted.
“We love you,” they stated in unison.
“Join
the club,” I sighed in rueful resignation, drawing hearty supernatural chuckles all around. “Well,” I went on, “at least our other troubles are over.”
Phil looked at me with an expression of not totally agreeing with my assertion.
“What is it?” I interrogated, adding, “Is something wrong?”
“The Gambinis are very upset,” he replied pensively. “They vowed to return with a huge vampire army and kill everybody in the Pacific Northwest, including Boise.”
I nodded, struck once again by the way Phil’s gorgeous cheekbones accented the chiseled perfection of his chin.
“Also,” he went on, “it turns out that all those recent hiker deaths were not caused by Denise, but by a long-dormant supernatural race of giant homicidal pine cones who have been awakened by global warming and now prowl the woods around Creepstone each night, savagely attacking every living thing in their path.”
“I thought that was just a Native American legend,” I protested, fighting the urge to run my hand through the tousled perfection of Phil’s hair.
“If only,” he muttered. “It’s only a matter of time before they come into town and are attracted to you. And on top of all that, there’s also the fact that Stewart and I are still mortal enemies who could very well kill each other in our relentless struggle to possess you.”
“Don’t forget about me,” chimed in Sven.
“And us,” assented the Jonas Brothers.
“Me too!” called a voice from a distance.
“Who was that?” I inquired.
“Zac Efron,” observed Phil.
Oh no, I reflected.
“I love you!” shouted Zac Efron, getting closer. “I want to—”
His voice was suddenly cut off. I heard a harsh chomping sound.
“What happened?” I ventured.
“Pine cone got him,” responded Stewart. “Those things are fast.”
“We’d better get back to town,” suggested Phil warily.
