‘Everyone will be green with envy when they see me wallowing in my raspberry ripple ice-cream bath!’ shrieked Trevor.
‘I love it, Martin!’ Padraic cheered, as he patted his buddy on the back. ‘It’s like a mobile . . . flavour bath!’
‘That’s right. I call it the Tub Grub 2000!’
CHAPTER TWENTY
OPERATION BATH BUILD
I still hadn’t had a chance to explain to Martin what had happened on the quest, but when I saw how excited he was about his new idea, I began to wonder if telling him the truth was really the right thing to do. Why burst his bubble? Why cause trouble? Or do other stuff that rhymes with ‘ubble’? The reason that we went looking for the Notion Potion in the first place, was to bring him inspiration, and even if we hadn’t quite succeeded, the boy was most definitely inspired! And deluded too, I suppose – since he now thought he was some kind of mad genius. But hey, at least now they had an idea – of sorts.
And over the next few days, Team Trepdem got stuck into the task of turning that weird bath idea into the most exciting invention to ever hit the world of damp-dining.
Martin doled out tasks to them all, and the vital job of finding an old bath was given to Declan Mannion. Martin suggested checking the town junkyard, but instead Declan simply took a hammer and a wrench, and turned his own family’s bathroom into a bathlessroom – to the dismay of his poor, suds-loving dad.
Another dejected dad was Liam Moone, as the team had completely taken over his workshop. Liam had foolishly agreed to play a game of poker with Declan and had lost his coat, his treasured handball*, and all rights to his workshop. So while Declan paraded around in Liam’s favourite jacket, bouncing his handball, the team got to work on transforming the Mannion tub.
Since the invention was Martin’s idea, it was agreed that he should be in charge, and he took to leadership like a duck to ducktatorship, quacking orders at everyone.
‘No, that doesn’t go there; it goes over there!’ he yelled at Padraic.
‘Those screws need to be flat!’ he shouted at Trevor. ‘I want this bath to be aerodynamic*!’
‘Declan, why are you reading the Racing News? It’s not your break-time yet!’
‘I think you’ll find that it is my break-time, Moone,’ replied Declan, with a menacing look. ‘It’s always my break-time.’
‘My mistake. Carry on, Declan.’
Despite Declan’s never-ending breaks and constant reminders that this project had better pay him some gold soon, the Tub Grub 2000 gradually began to take shape. It was exciting to watch, and Martin’s hopes were growing for both the Invention Convention and the Winners Wall.
‘This is all thanks to you, Sean,’ he whispered to me one day. ‘I never could have come up with this if I hadn’t drunk the N.P.!’
At least, that’s what he thought he’d drunk. But the Wonkey and I knew better.
‘Sean, I beseech you!’ whispered Wilbert. ‘You can’t let this go on any longer. The boy deserves to know the truth.’
I still hadn’t got used to the fact that Wilbert could talk now – another unexpected result of our failed quest.
‘Quiet, you!’ I hissed. ‘I tried to tell him before, but it’s too late now. If Martin finds out the truth at this stage, he’ll go bananas. And besides, he doesn’t seem to care what happened on the quest or that we risked our necks for him – all he cares about is his invention. He hasn’t even noticed that you’ve been milked! So let’s just keep our traps shut. You especially. And act more Wonkeyish! Chase your bum or something!’
Wilbert gave a weary sigh, and then proceeded to jog around in circles, pretending to pursue his buttocks.
Being in charge was a new experience for Martin, and every day he grew bossier and more demanding, relishing his position of power. He also grew smellier, as he’d stopped washing himself and let his hair become as wild as Albert Einstein*’s mad mop, keen to look the part of the mad inventor. He stopped trimming his fingernails too, which grew long like those of Howard Hughes*, and looked like claws as he clutched his wallpaper plans, shouting, ‘Build, lads! Build my bath! Bring her to life!’ like a young Dr Frankenstein*.
‘I have an announcement to make, team! I don’t want you to call me “Martin Moone” any more!’ he declared one day. ‘It’s about time that I had a catchy nickname like “the Mad Mechanic”. So from now on, you can call me . . . “the Batty Bathman”!’
‘I love it, Martin!’ cried Padraic, as he worked a blowtorch on the bath. ‘And I’ll be “the Whimsical Welder”!’
‘No, you don’t have a nickname; you’re just the welder,’ snapped Martin.
‘Okey-doke!’ replied Padraic brightly. ‘“No Nickname Padraic”, that’s what you can call me!’
‘Wait a second – what are you doing?’
Martin was staring at the bath and realized that Padraic had welded three large Taste Tanks to the wrong end of it.
‘No no no! That’s all backwards! You can’t just lash on the Taste Tanks willy-nilly – there’s an art to this, Padraic! We’re not throwing together some kind of bargain-basement bath canteen! This is the Tub Grub 2000! This is the next must-have invention of the world! But not if it looks like some kind of sloppy, souped-up bath with a few wheels stuck to it!’
‘But Martin—’
‘Batty Bathman!’
‘But Batty Bathman,’ continued Padraic, ‘there’s too many large Taste Tanks on one side. It’ll be off balance and could topple over when it’s on the move. And besides, does it really matter if they’re here or there?’
‘Does it matter?!’ asked Martin incredulously, scratching his head where flies were buzzing in his matted mop. ‘Does it matter if the bicycle has nine saddles and one wheel? Or if the airplane has fifty-two wings shaped like trumpets? Or if the kettle is built out of gorgonzola cheese?’ he asked, glaring at Padraic with a demented look in his eyes. ‘Yes it DOES matter!’
Padraic looked at his friend, a bit concerned. ‘Are you OK, Martin? I mean, Batty Bathman. Maybe you should get some rest.’
‘And a wash,’ muttered Trevor.
‘And maybe you two should follow my instructions and stop making a hames of* my genius invention!’ retorted Martin.
‘Well, they’re welded now,’ pointed out Trevor. ‘Can’t we just leave them there?’
In a sudden (and quite impressive!) move, Martin karate-kicked the newly welded Taste Tanks, sending them clattering off the bath. However, he hadn’t realized that one of the tanks was filled with fizzy orange, and it now sprayed all over him like the blowhole of a fizz-filled whale.
‘That was your fault! You’re fired!’ yelled a drenched and sticky Martin. ‘You’re both fired!’
‘You can’t fire us!’ snapped Trevor. ‘We’re the only ones doing any work here!’
‘You think I need you? I’m the inventor! I’m the Batty Bathman!’
Padraic threw down his welder in annoyance. ‘You know what? Fine! I’ve had it up to the wazoo with all your orders. You’re on your own, Bathman. I quit!’
‘Me too!’ agreed Trevor.
‘Me too!’ blurted Declan, suddenly waking up from his fourth nap of the day. ‘With pepperoni!’
‘You’re quitting as well?’ asked Martin.
‘Eh. Sorry, I thought we were ordering pizzas. But yeah, sure, I quit,’ said Declan with a shrug. He rolled off the couch and followed Padraic and Trevor outside. ‘But you still owe me that gold, Moone!’ he called. ‘And that pizza!’
Declan slammed the door shut and the trio of Tre, P and De stormed off leaving M all alone with a head filling with regrets and a face fizzing with Fanta.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE TRUTH BOMB
It was the day after the Trepdem fallout, and Martin was absolutely miserable. He was lying on his bedroom floor, dejected, and as I stood over him, an old Realsie phrase came to mind: ‘Never kick a man when he’s down.’ Obviously, I wasn’t about to kick him. For one thing, that’s f
orbidden in the ‘IF Regulations for Reasonable Regard of Realsies’.
IF Regulations for Reasonable Regard of Realsies
Rule 17. Never kick your Realsie, especially when they’re down.
Rule 18. Never pretend that you’re really a ghost.
Rule 19. Never tell your Realsie to set stuff on fire.
Rule 20. Never show them your weird gills.
But I feared that what I was about to do to Martin would feel like a kick. A kick of words to his puny, defenceless ears. You see, I’d decided to tell him the truth. The Wonkey had talked me into it, and I suspected that this truth bomb would not explode into confetti and gumdrops and fill his heart with joy. It would be more like a stink bomb of filthy facts and rotten revelations, and I certainly didn’t fancy dropping it on him when he was already down.
But then again, maybe more bad news might actually make him feel better. Two negatives make a positive, right? Or do two negatives start a family and make lots of baby negatives? Who knows . . . ? But I was about to find out.
‘Martin, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.’
He looked up. ‘Did the guys come back?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Eh . . . No.’
‘Did all the other teams get disqualified from the Invention Convention except for us?’
‘That seems unlikely.’
‘Did you and the other imaginaries sneak into the workshop and secretly finish building the Tub Grub 2000?’
‘Em. Nope, we can’t really do that, since we’re . . . imaginary.’
‘But you’ve got good news, right, Sean? Surely you wouldn’t tell me any bad news right now?’
I gulped, and carried on. ‘Well, Martin, I did try to tell you earlier, but . . . the truth is . . .’
My throat went dry, and I glanced at the Wonkey. He gave a supportive look and tried to do an encouraging thumbs-up, which was a bit tricky with a hoof. It just looked like he was pointing at the ceiling, which confused me a bit.
‘The truth is what?’ asked Martin.
‘The truth is . . . I, eh . . . I actually forget what I was going to say now! Isn’t that weird? Hahaha!’ I laughed loudly at a baffled Martin.
Wilbert glared at me. ‘Oh, spit it out, Sean! You can’t keep deceiving the boy!’
Martin stared at Wilbert in amazement. ‘You can talk now?’
‘Oh, he’s a great talker! And an even better truth-teller!’ I added, edging away. ‘So I’m now going to hand this over to Wilbert to continue. And I’ll just be under here . . .’ I said, diving under the bed, ‘organizing these dust balls!’
Wilbert sighed and turned back to Martin. ‘Very well. I shall tell you the truth myself.’
The Wonkey sat down on a chair and pulled out a pipe from somewhere in his matted fur. He puffed on it a few times, and then began his story.
He told Martin about everything that had happened on the quest – about Nelly, the Dorcs, the old merchant at the Well Well Well, and how I had traded my beard for a bottle of Notion Potion.
‘’Twas late in the day when we descended from the peak of Mount Figment,’ recounted Wilbert. ‘Sean and I were both feeling upbeat and triumphant. We had successfully secured the genius juice, although Sean had paid a dear price with the loss of his beard and the exposure of his hideous mole.’
‘Don’t call Gerald that!’ I snapped from under the bed.
Wilbert ignored me and carried on.
‘At the Figment foothills, we found the magical turtle Nelly waiting for us, and climbed aboard her magnificent shell. We rode south for many hours through the great Desert of Doziness. The night grew hot and humid, and I found myself overcome with a powerful thirst.’
Martin gaped up at him, listening to every word.
‘I’m not proud of what I did, Martin, and I dare say that I didn’t give two hoots about how much you needed that drink. I simply seized the nearest beverage within reach – which happened to be your Notion Potion – and brought the bottle to my parched lips.’
‘You drank it?!’ gasped Martin.
Wilbert gave a regretful nod. ‘Every drop.’
‘How could you, Wilbert?!’ Martin wailed in despair.
‘Yeah, Wilbert, how could you?’ I sniped accusingly from under the bed.
Martin turned to me angrily. ‘And where were you when this happened?’
‘Don’t blame me! I was asleep! I always fall asleep on turtles. Those shells are surprisingly comfy.’
Martin shook his head in frustration and turned back to Wilbert who continued his tale.
‘What happened next is a bit of a blur. My toes started to spasm. My ears popped. I did a small barf in my mouth. And then suddenly my head was filled with all the wisdom of the world. And like your story of the Salmon of Knowledge, it was the wrong person who’d been given this gift. I was like the young servant boy, Fionn mac Cumhaill, who poked the fish and accidentally gained all of its powers.’
Martin stood up and paced around, trying to make sense of all this. ‘But – I don’t understand. You brought back the Notion Potion. The bottle was full! Did you go back up the mountain?’
The Wonkey shook his head. ‘When Sean awoke and realized what had happened, he was furious. We talked about going back, but without a spare beard, we knew we’d get nothing from the old merchant.’
‘From now on, I’m never going anywhere without a spare beard!’ I vowed.
‘We carried on towards home in defeat,’ continued Wilbert. ‘I still needed to be milked, but Sean was too angry to do it for me. And so, using my newfound intelligence and the remaining supplies in the adventure-backpack, I built a contraption to milk myself, and refilled the empty potion bottle.’
Martin’s jaw dropped. ‘Oh, good gravy. So that’s what I drank?! Wonkey milk?!’
At this point, I was trying to crawl quietly out of the bedroom, but Martin grabbed me by the ankles and yanked me back. ‘Sean Murphy! Why didn’t you tell me the truth?’
‘I tried,’ I whimpered. ‘But before I could get a word out, you were already chugging down the bottle. And the weird thing, Martin, was that it kinda worked! I mean, it didn’t work, since it was just Wonkey milk – and imaginary Wonkey milk, at that – but you thought it was Notion Potion, and so you thought you’d become a genius! And that was all you needed, Martin. That gave you the confidence to write up your ideas for the Tub Grub 2000 – ideas that were already in the back of your mind anyway. So in a weird way, the quest succeeded! It helped you unleash your idea. And that’s all that really matters – right?’
Martin glared at me and then sank down on his bed, looking defeated. ‘All this time I thought I was a genius,’ he muttered. ‘But I was just an idiot.’
‘I’m sorry I kept the truth from you, buddy,’ I told him. But he didn’t even look at me. He just stared at the ground.
‘Out, Sean,’ he muttered.
‘Out . . . ? Of your room?’
‘Out of my imagination.’
‘But, Martin—’
POP.
I vanished from sight.
‘Well, that’s that,’ said Wilbert, looking refreshed. ‘At least now you know the truth, and I can drop the charade of acting like a dopey animal trying to lick my own armpits. Now I can just smoke my pipe, read philosophy and ponder the meaning of life. I might start work on a new opera too. A playful, little burletta* about our jaunt to Mount Figment—’
POP.
Martin was alone now.
He picked up the empty bottle of Notion Potion and flung it across the room. It hit the wall and smashed into a million imaginary pieces.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ROUND TWO
Feeling betrayed by his trusty BIF (me) and abandoned by his friends (TrePDe), Martin was quite down in the dumps. And since his sister Trisha had basically become a walking rubbish bin, it was starting to feel like he was actually living in a dump. Her junk jewellery was stinking up the Moone home, so Liam strongly encouraged her to try sellin
g her creations to the neighbours.
Trisha liked the sound of starting her own business and was soon going door-to-door with her trash trinkets. This was met with some befuddlement, but she also made several sales. She was lucky enough to catch Debra’s friend Linda in a very generous mood as she sipped her fourth glass of wine. She bought a necklace made from old crisp packets, some tuna-can earrings, and even one of Trisha’s ankle-bracelets made from a plastic six-pack ring.
Her biggest seller was definitely her ‘Power Tie’. Businessmen love a power tie. It’s basically a tie that’s a strong, bold colour (usually red) and seems to yell ‘I’m the boss!’ But Trisha’s Power Ties had a unique twist. They were made out of batteries – which doubled their power! They were Power-Power Ties. And soon, every business person in Boyle wanted one.
To Liam’s bewilderment, his friends Gerry Bonner, Jim Mannion and weird Frank each ordered one. Bridget Cross, the butcher queen, and Martin’s school principal, Mr Maloney, both ordered two. Francie Feeley, the stinky fish king, wanted three, and the town mayor ordered six!
Trisha was selling them as fast as she could make them, and it wasn’t long before Martin found himself fruitlessly jabbing buttons on the TV remote.
‘Mam, Trisha nicked the batteries again! How am I supposed to change the channel?’
‘Just get up and change it, ya lazy leech,’ snorted Trisha, who was taping together her third Power-Power Tie of the evening.
‘Get up and change it? Like I’m living in the flippin’ Bronze Age*?! I refuse to do it!’
Trisha shrugged. ‘Fine. Then just sit there and watch Winning Streak.’
‘Fine!’ snapped Martin, as the game-show began. He yelled at his parents who were sitting at the table with Fidelma. ‘You see what your daughter has done to me? I’m watching Winning Streak over here! This is my life now! I’ve officially hit rock bottom!’
But his parents ignored his complaints, deep in conversation with their first-born.
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