Just Crazy

by Andy Griffiths

  I see Jemima’s pink bicycle lying on the lawn.

  I don’t really like the idea of riding a tiny pink girl’s bike down the hill, but it’s my only hope.

  I pick up the bike, jump on it and start pedalling as hard as I can. My knees are practically hitting my chin. I feel like an idiot.

  ‘Nice bike, mate!’ yells a kid from the side of the road. ‘Pink really suits ya!’

  This is embarrassing. My face is burning. I just hope Lisa Mackney doesn’t see me.

  Despite how awkward the bike is to ride I’m gaining on Eve. I draw level and then swing the bike around in front of her and skid to a stop.

  ‘Gotcha!’ I say, grabbing her arm.

  But she pushes me away with her other hand. I lose my balance on the bike and fall over.

  She runs back up the hill.

  I pick myself and the bike up, and limp back up the hill, dragging the bike behind me.

  I get back to the house. I’m completely puffed, my leg hurts and Eve is nowhere to be seen.

  I open the front door and walk in.

  I can hear screaming.

  It’s coming from the lounge room.

  I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  Jemima is hanging onto the overhead fan and swinging around.

  I’ve got to hand it to her. Even I’ve never thought of doing that.

  Beside her there is a stack of furniture — a stool on top of a chair on top of the glass-topped coffee table — and on top of the swaying stack is Eve. She’s poised, her arms outstretched, trying to grab onto the fan as well.

  ‘Don’t do it!’ I yell, diving towards her. ‘You’ll break it!’

  Too late.

  Eve jumps. She misses the fan and ends up holding onto Jemima’s waist.

  I go crashing into the stack of furniture. It collapses around me. The chair falls onto the coffee table and smashes the glass.

  Jemima is swinging around on the fan, with Eve hanging off her.

  ‘Wheee!’ screams Eve. ‘This is fun!’

  I run underneath them to try and pull Eve off. I grab her legs, but she won’t let go.

  There’s a cracking noise.

  Eve screams.

  Jemima screams.

  I scream and watch in horror as the fan is wrenched from the ceiling.

  The girls come crashing down on top of me.

  Without thinking, I put my arms around them and roll us all out of the way.

  The fan crashes down onto the carpet, right where we were just lying. The lounge room is covered in white dust and rubble.

  These girls are really out of control.

  I’ve got to stop them before they wreck the whole house.

  But how?

  They won’t listen to me. They only behave in front of adults.

  That’s it!

  I have to disguise myself as an adult.

  And I’ve got just the thing.

  If you don’t stop misbehaving right now I’m going to go and tell Mr Paddywhack!’ I yell.

  ‘Who’s that?’ they say in unison.

  ‘He’s a very scary man!’ I say. ‘And he hates naughty children. He’s going to make you behave yourselves!’

  ‘He sounds stupid,’ says Jemima.

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘That does it! I’m going to get Mr Paddywhack right now!’

  Mr Paddywhack is this crazy character I made up for a school concert last term. I dressed up in a white lab coat, a wig made out of the top of an old mop, a yellow hard hat and a diving mask, and I held a tennis racquet in each hand. It was funny because all the little kids were really scared of me — they thought I was going to whack them with my racquets. That’s how I came up with the name.

  I go up to my room. My costume is still sitting at the bottom of my wardrobe.

  I put on the lab coat, the mop wig, the yellow hard hat and the diving mask.

  I get two tennis racquets from the hall cupboard. I’m not really going to hit them of course. I’m just going to give them a fright.

  I come barrelling down the stairs like a madman waving the racquets above my head.

  Jemima and Eve are jumping on the couch.

  ‘I SMELL TWO NAUGHTY CHILDREN!’ I yell. ‘AND I’M GOING TO WHACK THEM!’

  ‘No you’re not,’ says Jemima, studying my face closely.

  ‘OH YES I AM!’ I yell.

  ‘No you’re not,’ says Jemima. ‘You’re not even real. You’re just Andy dressed up in a stupid wig and hat.’

  ‘I’M MR PADDYWHACK!’ I bellow.

  ‘Where’s Andy then?’ says Jemima.

  ‘He’s . . . he’s . . .’ I say. I didn’t expect this question.

  ‘You don’t know where he is,’ says Jemima, ‘because you’re Andy!’

  Jemima jumps from the couch and grabs the racquets out of my hand. I try to get them back but she’s too fast. She hands one to Eve.

  ‘Whack him!’ she says.

  Eve whacks me in the leg with the bat.

  ‘Ouch!’ I yell.

  Jemima whacks me on the bum.

  ‘Take that, Mr Paddywhack!’ she squeals.

  Eve whacks me on the foot with the edge of the racquet.

  I’m getting out of here. I can’t take any more.

  I start running.

  They chase me.

  I run out of the lounge room, into the kitchen and down the hall. But I can’t shake them. They’re hot on my heels. I run back into the lounge room, through the kitchen and out into the hall again. I run around and around, trying to get away from them. They’re maniacs.

  I run so fast that I almost lap them. It’s hard to tell who’s chasing who.

  ‘COME HERE!’ I roar.

  The girls look over their shoulders, startled to see me so close. They squeal. I lean forward and snatch the racquets off them.

  Fantastic! For the first time today something has gone my way!

  ‘NOW I’VE GOT YOU,’ I yell, as we run down the hallway. ‘PREPARE FOR A WHACKING!’

  ‘Andy! What on earth do you think you’re doing?’

  Mum is standing in front of us.

  When did she get home? I didn’t hear her come in.

  ‘Help!’ screams Jemima.

  ‘Help!’ screams Eve.

  They run to Mum and hug her legs.

  ‘Save us!’ screams Jemima. ‘Andy’s gone crazy!’

  ‘I haven’t gone crazy,’ I say. ‘They have!’

  ‘What do you mean by dressing up and scaring the girls like this?’ says Mum, her arms around them, trying to comfort them. ‘I ask you to look after them and I come home and find you chasing them and threatening to hit them with tennis racquets!’

  "They were chasing me!’ I say.

  I can see Mum looking around the lounge room, taking in the destruction. The stool and the chair lying on top of the broken coffee table, the wrecked fan, and the chunks of ceiling all over the floor.

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me all this is the girls’ fault as well?’ says Mum.

  ‘Yes!’ I say. ‘It is. I tried to stop them. In fact I saved their lives.’

  Mum snorts.

  ‘Don’t make it worse by lying,’ she says. She strokes the girls’ heads. ‘Are you all right? You poor darlings. What happened?’

  ‘We were just trying to have our tea party,’ says Jemima, sniffling, ‘and he came into the kitchen and started bossing us around.’

  ‘He wouldn’t let me play with my dolls,’ says Eve.

  ‘But,’ I say. ‘She was . . .’

  ‘Then he held us out of his bedroom window,’ says Jemima. ‘And he hurt my arm.’

  ‘And he said rude words,’ says Eve.

  ‘But,’ I say. ‘They were . . .’

  ‘He left us on the roof!’ says Jemima.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I say. ‘I was . . .’

  ‘He swung on the fan and broke it!’ says Jemima.

  ‘And he broke the table too,’ says Eve.

  ‘No, I didn�
�t,’ I say.

  ‘You did!’ says Jemina. ‘It was your fault.’

  ‘Well, it was sort of my fault,’ I say, ‘but . . .’

  ‘Then he dressed up as that scary man and chased us round the house,’ sobs Jemima.

  ‘And he tried to hit us with tennis racquets,’ wails Eve.

  Gee. I’ve got to hand it to them. Those girls are the best truth-twisters in the world. They’re pretty good at fake crying too. They’re even starting to make me feel sorry for them.

  They’re standing there with their sweet innocent faces and big tear-stained eyes. I don’t stand a chance. There is nothing I can say. No way is Mum going to believe the real truth.

  Poor Mum. I feel sorry for her too.

  I think the full extent of the damage is beginning to dawn on her. She’s just staring into the lounge room, shaking her head.

  ‘Andy, how could you?’ she says. ‘The place is a mess. Everything is wrecked!’

  I wish there was something I could say. Something I could do that would make her feel better.

  Hang on! There is!

  ‘No, Mum,’ I say. ‘Not everything!’

  ‘Well, it certainly looks that way to me,’ she says.

  ‘But I saved these,’ I say. ‘Your crystal animals. Look.’

  I put the tennis racquets down and reach into my pocket.

  That’s funny.

  I thought I put three in there but it feels like a lot more.

  I hold out my hand.

  ‘Um-mah,’ says Jemima.

  ‘Um-mah,’ says Eve.

  ‘Well?’ says Mum, bending down to pick up one of the tennis racquets. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

  I look down at the shattered crystal in my hand.

  ‘Um-mah,’ I say.

  anny is in my bedroom, pressing his face up against my goldfish bowl, staring intently at my new goldfish. He’s got his hand above Goldie’s bowl.

  ‘Here fishy, fishy, fishy,’ he says, as he follows Goldie around with his fingers.

  ‘Danny,’ I say. ‘Quit it.’

  ‘Did you know this guy in Texas in 1970 swallowed two hundred and twenty-five live goldfish?’ he says. ‘It’s the world record.’

  ‘Shush!’ I say. ‘Goldie might hear you!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ says Danny. ‘Goldfish can’t hear anything — they’re underwater’.

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether they can hear you or not,’ I say. ‘Goldfish are very sensitive. They pick up on your vibes. Especially Goldie.’

  ‘What do you think it would be like to have a live goldfish in your stomach?’ says Danny. ‘Do you think you’d be able to feel it swimming around and around inside you?’

  ‘I’m warning you, Danny,’ I say.

  But he’s not listening.

  He dips his hand into the bowl and grabs Goldie. He tips his head back and dangles her above his mouth.

  ‘That’s not funny!’ I yell. ‘Put her back!’

  Danny just laughs.

  He lowers Goldie until she’s almost touching his lips.

  He’s going to do it. He’s really going to do it. I’ve got to stop him.

  I throw myself across the room, but I’m too late.

  Danny drops Goldie into his mouth and swallows her. In one gulp. Whole.

  ‘Hey!’ I say, pushing him in the chest. ‘You ate my goldfish!’

  ‘It was an accident,’ he says. ‘It slipped.’

  ‘That’s a lie and you know it!’ I say. ‘You deliberately ate her!’

  ‘Shush,’ says Danny. He tilts his head as if listening to a faraway sound.

  ‘Hey,’ he giggles, ‘I can feel it! It tickles.’

  I’m so angry I’m shaking. Not only has he swallowed Goldie, he doesn’t even care. Well, I’ll make him care.

  I clench my fist tight and swing at his head, but he steps nimbly to the side and I end up punching the air.

  I look at my fist. I look at Danny. He is bouncing around on his tiptoes like a boxer.

  ‘Missed me,’ he says. ‘Have another go!’

  I punch again, but Danny skips out of the way.

  ‘Too slow,’ he says.

  I line him up again.

  Then I let fly. And this time I connect.

  KAPOW!

  Danny’s head snaps back.

  There’s an enormous cracking sound and the next thing I know Danny’s head is flying across my room towards the window.

  It bounces off the glass and splashes down into my fishbowl. His head completely fills the bowl. His distorted face looks out at me, his mouth slowly opening and closing.

  This is crazy. It can’t be happening. Punching someone can’t make their head come off, can it? And even if it could, shouldn’t they be dead? Their headless body shouldn’t be staggering around bumping into walls should it?

  Because that’s what Danny’s headless body is doing.

  And what’s that noise?

  It sounds like laughter. But it’s horrible laughter. Evil and high-pitched. And it’s coming from inside Danny’s body.

  This is too crazy. I mean, his head coming off was crazy, but this is TOO crazy.

  I’m getting out of here.

  I try to run but I can’t lift my feet off the ground. They feel like they’re nailed to the floor.

  I bend down and try to lift them up with my hands, but they won’t budge. The high-pitched laughter is getting louder and louder and louder . . .

  Oh no . . . I don’t believe what I’m seeing . . .

  Hundreds of mini-Dannys are pouring out of the neck of Danny’s headless body.

  Wave after wave after wave.

  Hundreds of them.

  Thousands.

  They’re pouring out of his neck, down his arms and leaping to the ground . . . and, worst of all, they’re heading towards me. Laughing their tiny heads off.

  They’re really close to me now. They swarm around my feet and start climbing onto my runners.

  ‘Hey!’ I say, shaking my foot. ‘Get off!’

  But they don’t stop.

  They keep leaping. I shake even harder. They fly off and land on the carpet, but immediately regroup and keep trying to climb onto my shoes. It’s like standing on an ants’ nest. They’re getting crazier and crazier. And there are more coming. They keep streaming out of Danny’s neck. They’re everywhere.

  I’ve got no choice.

  I’m not normally a violent person, but I’m going to have to squash them.

  I start stomping.

  But it doesn’t stop them.

  As I flatten them they split into two and each mini-Danny becomes two even minier-Dannys. And the minier-Dannys laugh even harder and louder than the mini-Dannys.

  They all start leaping onto the bottom of my jeans. They’re climbing up my legs like spiders. I’ve got to stop them. If I don’t they’ll be all over me in seconds.

  I look around.

  There’s a can of flyspray on the windowsill. I brought it into my room to use against mosquitoes — I hope it works against mini-Dannys.

  I snap the lid off and start spraying my legs.

  As the spray hits them the mini-Dannys fall backwards onto the floor, spin around on their backs and kick their legs in the air.

  But it doesn’t stop the others from trying.

  For every one that I kill, two take its place. And when I kill those two, four more jump on, laughing the whole time. The noise is incredible.

  This is so horrible. It can’t be happening.

  Hang on.

  Maybe it’s not happening.

  Maybe it’s just another one of my crazy dreams. I’ve been having a lot lately.

  If it’s a dream then all I have to do is pinch myself and I’ll wake up and everything will be fine.

  I put the flyspray down on the windowsill and pinch the skin on my forearm. Ouch.

  I blink.

  The light hurts.

  I look around.

  I’m in my bed, dr
enched in sweat.

  At least I hope it’s sweat.

  What a relief!

  It was just a dream.

  A nightmare.

  But at least I’m awake now.

  I look over at my fishbowl.

  That’s strange.

  Goldie’s missing.

  But I only dreamed that Danny swallowed Goldie . . . didn’t I? If Goldie’s really gone, that means I wasn’t dreaming and if I wasn’t dreaming that means that . . . well, I’m not sure what it means . . .

  And why is the room shaking?

  Is this an earthquake?

  The plaster on the roof above my bed is cracking. A big chunk of it falls onto my bed.

  I hear a loud splintering sound. Dust and bits of plaster rain down onto my bed and the room is filled with light.

  It’s like the roof has been lifted off the house.

  Maybe it’s not an earthquake. Maybe it’s a cyclone.

  No!

  It’s a gigantic Danny!

  A Danny that towers into the sky.

  A Danny that looks as big to me as I must have looked to the mini-Dannys.

  He’s hideous.

  He’s horrible.

  But he’s unmistakably Danny.

  He tosses the roof away as if it’s no heavier than the lid of a shoebox. It crashes to the ground. The whole house shakes.

  Danny throws back his head and laughs. An enormous ear-splitting laugh that seems to fill the whole world.

  He reaches down, picks me up by the collar of my pyjama top and lifts me high into the air. He tilts his head back and holds me above his mouth.

  Oh no!

  He’s going to eat me — just like he ate Goldie!

  It is a horrible view from up here.

  I can see every filling in his mouth. His big disgusting tongue. I can see every crack and fissure — and there’s this yellow gunk all over it. But the worst thing is his breath. It smells like dead fish. And it’s blowing all over me.

  I don’t want to go in there.

  I don’t want to die.

  But there’s nothing I can do.

  I’m dangling in the air.

  And then Danny lets go.