Googol Boy and the peculiar incident of the Great Quiz Trophy

by John Michael

  At that moment the cogs in my brain started to whir but something just didn’t feel quite right. It was like the wheel was spinning but the hamster was napping, but it didn’t matter either way − I was going to nail this. Everybody knew that girls couldn’t rap − this was in the bag! Savani was about to get served a cold dish of ‘don’t mess with Howie’ with a side serving of ‘in your face!’ But perhaps it was best to start by giving Savani a little entree of ‘Sassy Sootfell!’

  “Whatcha want you lil’ smurf? Why you busting my chops here on my turf?” I said as I attempted my best impersonation of Quockingpoll’s most infamous rapper, Doop Snogg.

  Savani looked at me as if a grotesque carbuncle had appeared where my face used to be.

  “Oh! You want to go gangsta do you? If it’s a rap battle you want, it’s a rap battle you shall have!” responded Savani as she stretched her neck from side to side, as if she was actually warming up for a fist fight.

  “Let’s do it!” She cried. “Savani’s in da house... you wanna be quick on your feet to seize the beat and bust a rhyme so sweet but if you can’t take the heat then get off the street before you’re revealed as obsolete!”

  The crowd of students applauded with hoots and hollering. I could see that Savani meant business so I flipped my baseball cap backwards − maybe looking like a rapper was going to get me over the line, this was getting serious and I was going to need every bit of help that I could muster. This time I really concentrated but the cogs were still a bit rusty and all I got were fragments and snippets of random words: “buzz... bazooka... banana... Batman,” rather than some happenin’ lyrics. Bummer! I was starting to regret my assumption about girls not being able to rap. It seemed that Savani could indeed bust a rhyme − I was going to have to pull out all the stops. I could feel the eyes of Lenny, Fergus and Marsden on me, willing me to fail. Here goes nothing I thought.

  “Good try small fry,” I rapped as I eyed off Savani, “but that ain’t gonna fly.”

  I then cranked it up and let loose. “Bust it! Bada bing. Bada bang. My buzz has got... um... bite, it’s brash and it’s brutal like a big bad... um... bazooka. Beware of my brassy beat: bloated like a blowfish, bent like... um... a banana, brazen like Batman. Bam!”

  I thought that my rap frenzy was a pretty darn good attempt but the students just stood there looking around in awkward silence. I glanced at their faces and I was getting about the same amount of enthusiasm as when I told my parents that I wanted to become a ventriloquist. Even Barney was avoiding eye contact with me. Finally, Lenny broke the silence. “You suck Footsmell!” he bellowed and everybody laughed.

  “Is that all you got rapper boy?” queried Savani. “Let me show you how to bust a beat properly!” Savani did a little hip-hop shuffle and then broke out in rhyme. “You wanna be Doop Snogg but you’re just a goose who sounds like Dr Seuss! You’re already out of juice and you need to get back in your caboose ’cos you’re like a tiny baby in a lil’ papoose and you’re about to see me let loose! I got one word for you... vamoose!”

  Again, the crowd responded with fawning cheers and clapping. I was starting to get irritated − this rap battle certainly wasn’t going according to plan and was beginning to look more like a rap massacre. “Try harder Howie!” I said to myself. “You can still make a come-back!” Again, I tried to channel some inspiration and guidance and, again, my brain didn’t cooperate as I only received a few token offerings: “tram... scram... jam... yam.”

  Yam?! Huh? I didn’t even like yams!

  I could tell the crowd was getting edgy – the jeering and insults were giving it away: “Get on with it Footsmell,” “You’re a birdbrain,” “You stink Howard!” I could feel the pressure but I couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer, I decided it was time to face the music as I dove in.

  “What ya talking about twisted sister? I ain’t speaking about no green eggs and ham. My rhymes rattle off like... um... the 4-11 tram. Rolling you under just like that. Um... Scram! If you wanna jimmy and if you wanna jam, then I’m da man! Um... Yam!”

  Again, an awkward silence ensued, but was quickly filled with some additional namecalling: “You daft pillock!” “You’re a dopey dingbat!” “You nobble head!” I’m not exactly sure what some of these words meant, but I was sure that they weren’t compliments and these insults were starting to affect my confidence. This was one tough crowd; I was giving them my all but obviously these bunch of ungrateful nincompoops had lofty expectations. If they thought that a school rap battle was going to be some super stellar display of rhythm and rhyme, then they were going to be bitterly disappointed.

  “That was limp as wilted lettuce Sootfell!” stated Savani. “Watch me take it to the next level, super stellar is what I’m talkin’ about!”

  “Oh great!” I thought to myself. And that’s what Savani did. Unfortunately for me, she did take it super stellar.

  “You are in the vicinity of a rapping divinity and it’s hard to keep up with my fluidity!” The words were coming out of her mouth like bullets. “Skippity boop and skippity bop, you can’t make me stop when I’m giving you the chop while going full speed like a spinning top, flippity flip and flippity flop, this is a mike drop which will make your ears pop!” I couldn’t keep up with her words which seemed like a blur of vowels and consonants − but still she went faster and faster. “You’re hearing only one of me, but I’m sounding like a trinity, popping like artillery, and it sounds like infinity, like a synchronicity of verbosity and acuity exploding like a symphony of ecstasy.” Savani was like some speed rapping demon. “You can’t keep up with my tenacity and vivacity and veracity and pugnacity!” She took a deep breath. “Oh... I forgot... and my audacity!”

  As she finished, the crowd of students again erupted in wild cheers and applause. They were chanting Savani’s name as if she had invented the wheel, the light bulb and the printing press all in one hit — the wheeliebulb-printer. But for me, there was no coming back from that showy exhibition of Savani’s posturing and pretentiousness. I had to bite the bullet and accept my humiliating defeat.

  “Alright... enough!” I proclaimed as I hung my head in shame. “You win!”

  “Of course I win you buffoon! Was there ever any doubt?”

  “I just never knew you were into rap.”

  “I’m not... but I do know my poetry! And rhyming is rhyming. There’s an awful lot that you don’t know about me Sootfell!”

  “You just got lucky Savani, if only I was able to –”

  “Enough of this banal chitchat! My patience is wearing thin. Have you forgotten that we had an agreement?”

  “An agreement? What agreement?”

  “May I remind you that yesterday during lunchtime, I slapped you on the cheek with my glove.”

  There was laughter from the crowd and I did my best to ignore them and try to uphold a decorum of dignity.

  “Yeah... so?” I mumbled.

  “That was the agreement you dunce!” shrieked Savani.

  “You slapped my face! How is that an agreement?”

  “You know what I’ve realised Howard?”

  “What Savani? What did you realise? Please tell!”

  “Well, I’ve realised that you’re just plain sut-ped!

  “Sut-ped? What does that even mean?”

  “Sut-ped because you’re too dumb to know how to spell stupid!”

  “Well... uh... you’re dep-suts... no wait... make that dip-uts,” I responded. “That’s right! Stupid spelled backwards! Take that Savani!”

  “Sootfell! Your ignorance astounds me. I will have you know that the glove slap has a rich and honoured tradition relating back to medieval codes of chivalry. You had insulted my honour and tarnished my good name. When I slapped you with my glove, that meant that I demanded satisfaction and satisfaction I shall have. The moment my leather glove made contact with your effeminate cheek, that constituted a binding contract. Furthermore Sootfell, throughout the 17th and 18th centuries such disputes were
settled with swords and rapiers and you should be rather grateful that is no longer the case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well... need I remind you that I’m the State Fencing Champion.”

  “Ahem.” I cleared my throat. “Ah yeah, right, forgot about that one.”

  “If we were to use swords instead of duelling it out at the Great Quiz, it would go the same way as the rap battle!” warned Savani. “But a lot messier!”

  “But the trophy has been stolen! With no trophy, there will be no Great Quiz. It’ll be called off!”

  “Yes... I too have heard those rumours,” replied Savani as she nodded her head.

  “Well then, checkmate!” I responded.

  “That’s why I thought I’d pay you a visit Sootfell. I have spoken to the principal and have managed to convince him not to cancel the Great Quiz.”

  “You what? But there’s no trophy!”

  “Trophy or no trophy you dunderhead... you’re still going down!”

  “But you can’t have the Great Quiz without the Great Quiz Trophy! That would be like having a hotdog without... um... without the dog!”

  “You know Tweedledee, if I didn’t know any better I would think that you stole that trophy just so you could get out of the quiz!”

  “What? I scoffed. “Now you’re talking crazy talk!”

  “Crazy talk? I’m talking crazy talk Sootfell? Have you been listening to your own blabber?”

  “You think I’m scared of you? Bring it on Savani!”

  “Save it you simpleton − haven’t you had enough of a drubbing for one day. We’ll settle this at the Great Quiz. By the way, never call checkmate... unless it’s really checkmate,” stated Savani. She then turned around and walked off. As she proceeded a little distance down the corridor she turned around and mouthed the word “checkmate” and then disappeared down the stairwell. Oooh, how I dislike that Savani!

  Now that the spectacle was over, the crowd quickly dispersed and the only remaining bodies were Lenny, Fergus and Marsden and they were all still leering at me with their troglodyte faces.

  “Got a beat-down there Footsmell?” snarled Lenny. “By a little girl!’

  “Hehe... good one Dr Seuss, we’ll be seeing you real soon,” snickered Fergus.

  “Yeah Footsmell!” laughed Marsden. “Real soon!

  Great! That was all I needed − the school bullies had already singled me out to be the new Tommy Kilkenny. Things had just gone from bad to terrible to belly-up in a ditch. Well, at least I had hit rock bottom (or so I thought).

  Chapter eleven

  splash

  Luckily we managed to catch the bus just as it was leaving. Bus driver Doris wasn’t too impressed that she had to use her brakes because of a couple of tardy students. “Ya made it by the skin of yer teeth... next time youse won’t be so lucky.”

  Barney and I clambered on board and sat in gloomy silence − well, apart from the intermittent snickers and wise-cracks from the other students.

  After a while I let out a doleful sigh.

  “Don’t worry Howie... it wasn’t that bad,” responded Barney.

  “You’re right, it wasn’t bad. It was beyond bad... it was brutal!” I replied as I reflected on the entire rap battle disaster.

  “Well Howie... why didn’t you use your special powers?”

  “I tried! But it’s not like I can switch it on and off like a toaster!”

  “Mmm toaster... I’m hungry,” mumbled Barney.

  “I don’t know what happened... maybe I’m losing my mojo,” I muttered.

  “Well okay, it was pretty bad. But look on the bright side,” replied Barney. He then proceeded to stare out of the window with an absent-minded look on his face.

  “Well? What’s the bright side?” I enquired with eager curiosity. I was hoping for this dark cloud of gloom to have some silver lining.

  “Wait, I’m thinking.”

  “You can think all you want. It was a disaster. First Savani ridicules me, then she humiliates me, then she out-raps me, and then the school bullies want to make me their new Tommy Kilkenny. I might as well just become a hobo.”

  “Tommy Kilkenny? Hobo? What hobo?”

  “Yes... Hobo Joe.”

  “Huh? Tommy Kilkenny has become Hobo Joe?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Well okay... maybe you’re right Howie... there is no bright side... but it could have been worse.”

  “Worse? You were there. How could things have been worse?”

  “Well... Savani could have finished off the whole battle by giving you a purple-nurple,” snorted Barney.

  “Eww! I guess you’re right,” I responded with an involuntary laugh. “That would have been worse!”

  “Don’t worry Howie, you’ll show that Savani who’s Tus-pet,” chortled Barney.

  “Ha ha... you mean Sut-ped.”

  “Yeah... that’s what I meant... Sut-ped,” chuckled Barney.

  “Well... let’s hope that’s it for the bad luck for today,” I said, in part to reassure myself but, of course, I spoke too soon. We were just past the midpoint of Main Street when suddenly the school bus started to tremble and the engine started to splutter and, without warning, the shuddering vehicle came to a grinding halt.

  “What’s going on?” enquired Barney.

  “Looks like the bus has given up the ghost,” I replied.

  “Oh! Not again!” replied Barney. “That means we’ll have to hoof it.”

  The bus driver tried the ignition and the engine turned over but the grinding noise sounded like a death rattle. She let go of the key for a few seconds and then tried again, this time pumping the accelerator with vigour. The engine continued to rattle and whine but slower this time.

  Doris turned around in her seat. “That’s it folks!” she bellowed. “The party’s over! Everybody off the bus!”

  We all gathered our school bags and slowly shuffled down the aisle. As I walked past the bus driver she gave me a look of disappointment. “Well, grease-monkey boy?”

  “Huh?” I replied rather absent-mindedly.

  “Why didn’t ya give us a heads-up?”

  “Heads-up?”

  “Yeah... about the bus breakin’ down,” grunted Doris.

  Great! It seemed that even the bus driver was on my back.

  “Um sorry, I guess,” I replied.

  “Ah... stuff ya sorries in a sack mister, they ain’t gonna do us no good now!” she snapped as she lit a cigarette.

  I continued walking with my head lowered and shoulders hunched − it felt like today was ‘everybody punch Howie in the face day.’

  As we disembarked the bus, all the students quickly scurried off in different directions to get to their homes. Another reason they were scampering away so hastily was that there was a good chance that Doris would force them to push the bus back to the depot. It happened once before.

  Unfortunately, Barney and I had quite a trek to get home. We still had to get to the end of Main Street, walk through Lord Shaftesbury Park, take a left at the Town Hall and continue past the orphanage for another fifteen minutes. We’d be lucky if we got home before dinner.

  It was a rather non-eventful journey although my string of bad luck did continue. I stepped in some dog poop as we travelled through the park and then ripped the back of my shirt as it got snared on a tree branch near the Town Hall. By the time we arrived at the orphanage I just wanted this day to end.

  The orphanage was situated in an old castle which stood on the largest hill at the edge of town. The estate had initially belonged to the esteemed industrialist Earl Sherwood Higginbottom who had made his fortune in diapers. Since the orphanage had been the biggest consumer of diapers in the entire county, he found it fitting to leave his estate to the “impoverished little blighters” as he called them, so his property was bequeathed to the town after his death.

  Higginbottom had builtthe mostextravagant castle in all of Quockingpoll Flats (actually, it was the only
castle in Quockingpoll). It was in a gothic style and constructed of imposing granite blocks with supporting buttresses angled against the walls. The rooftop was covered with patterned slate shingles and there were a number of double rose-windowed spires around the central courtyard. The side turrets were decorated with menacing gargoyles* perched on columns and, yes, a moat encircled the entire structure. The alligators were long gone now but Higginbottom did get into a bit of strife at the time after a couple of his gardeners were eaten.

  Barney and I stood at the entrance to the castle, in front of the imposing wrought iron gates as we admired the view before us. There had always been rumours that the place was haunted and the scene seemed like something out of a Grimm Brothers fairy tale. The sun was setting over the distant hill with the rays of light peeking out amongst the long grey clouds which looked like skeletal fingers reaching out across the sky. The castle glowed a bright orange in the fading light as the day came to an end. As the sun started to ebb below the horizon the temperature dropped quite suddenly, making me wish that I had brought my sweater (and that I didn’t have a gaping hole in the back of my shirt). The only sound that could be heard was the soft rustling of leaves as a light westerly breeze moved across the grounds, chilling us to the bone.

  wailed Barney out of the blue.

  “Don’t do that!” I yelped. “You scared the bejesus out of me!”

  “Oh sorry Howie.”

  “You gave me a heart attack! For a second there I thought that you were the ghost of Billy-Bob!”

  “Billy-Bob? Ooh no, not that fellow!” stated Barney as he looked around in fright.

  Rigor Billy-Bob Mortis, who was a recluse hill-billy bootlegger back in the day of prohibition, used to live by the swamp near the Totenkopf Abattoir, which was another seven klicks down the road. One day, one of the moonshine boilers blew up and scattered his parts all over the swamp. And that would have been pretty much the end of ol’ Billy-Bob, a long forgotten footnote in the obituary section of the Quockingpoll Flats Gazette except for the fact that he started turning up in the form of a scary apparition.