I know at this point I should come out of hiding and rescue the Andys but, hey, I don’t want to die any more than they do. And it’s their own fault, after all. I mean, I did try to stop them.
‘I don’t think any of them are the real Andy,’ says Jill, studying the Andy clones carefully. ‘I know him pretty well and none of these Andys look quite right.’
‘Then where is he?’ says Mr Big Shot.
‘Probably hiding,’ says Mel Gibbon. ‘He obviously put the Andys up to this to disrupt the filming. Pretty low trick to get a bunch of clueless clones to do your dirty work for you—but that’s obviously the sort of person he is.’
‘Well, he’ll find out what sort of person I am if he ever dares to show his face around here again,’ says Mr Big Shot, pulling his cameras and camera operators from the pile. ‘Come on, you lot,’ he barks. ‘We’ve got to rebuild that observation deck and get this movie back on track. Let’s go!’
As Mr Big Shot and the crew leave, one of the Andys turns to Terry and says, ‘Sorry we disrupted your movie, but it’s not really our fault—you are a terrible observation-deck builder.’
‘It’s not my fault!’ says Terry. ‘The deck wasn’t designed to hold so many Andys. It’s Andy’s fault for letting you all out of Andyland.’
I want to yell, ‘I DIDN’T LET THEM OUT! I TRIED TO STOP THEM BUT THEY WOULDN’T LISTEN!’ but that would mean giving away my hiding place and, all things considered, it’s probably best for this Andy to stay hidden for the time being.
‘Come on, Andys,’ says one of the Andys. ‘Let’s go back to Andyland. It’s more fun there. And, Terry, if you see Andy, can you tell him we’d prefer he doesn’t visit for a while? I think we need a little break from each other.’
‘Sure,’ says Terry. ‘I know exactly how you feel.’
And with that, the Andys start hobbling and limping their way back to Andyland.
‘Poor Andy,’ says Jill. ‘He must be really upset to have done something like this. Maybe you should go and find him, Terry, and tell him you’re not mad at him.’
‘But I am mad at him,’ says Terry. ‘Just because he’s not in the movie he wants to wreck it for everybody else.’
‘I know it looks like that,’ says Jill, as she and Terry and Mel start walking back towards the treehouse, ‘but maybe there’s another side to the story. I’m not sure we can believe everything those Andys are telling us.’
‘Or anything the real Andy tells us, either,’ says Mel.
I’m climbing out of the prickle bush when I hear voices. And mooing. And the unmistakable sound of cud-chewing.
A pair of trench-coated figures emerge from the trees on the other side of the clearing. They are holding microphones and recording equipment. Which is kind of weird … given that they are cows.
I’m going to sneak up on them and find out what they’re up to. I’m pretty well-camouflaged with these prickles all over me—I just need something to cover up my head.
I look around. All I can see is a whole bunch of dried-up old cowpats. Disgusting … but perfect! I pick one up, put it on my head and begin commando crawling towards the cows.
As I get closer I hear one of them moo: ‘Those crazy humans don’t suspect a thing.’
‘Yeah,’ moos the other one. ‘They have no idea that we have secretly infiltrated their treehouse with many spy cows such as ourselves and that we are stealing their movie, scene by scene, to make our own mooo-vie. For years the humans have milked us. Now we’re milking them … for their ideas! Let’s see how they like it!’
One of the spy cows moos quietly into a hoof-held walkie-talkie. ‘Attention, all movie-idea-stealing spy cows! The film crew, director and actors are heading back into the treehouse. Stay alert … and out of sight!’
So that’s what they’re up to! If there’s one thing in the world I hate more than movie-idea-stealing, it’s movie-idea-stealing spy cows!
I’ve got to go and warn Mr Big Shot right away! Then he—and everybody else—will see that I’m not trying to wreck the movie. Mr Big Shot will probably be so impressed he’ll re-hire me and give me a starring role.
There’s no time to lose! I creep across the path to our front door and—when the spy cows aren’t watching—slip inside.
I climb the stairs and poke my head up into the first storey.
‘Eek!’ says Jill. ‘A peeping cowpat!’
‘Urgh!’ says Terry. ‘Cowpats are disgusting!’
‘GET THAT COWPAT OFF MY SET!’ barks Mr Big Shot.
‘I’m not a cowpat!’ I say. ‘It’s me, Andy! I’m just wearing a cowpat hat for camouflage! I came to warn you there’s a bunch of spy cows spying on you. They’re going to steal all your ideas and make their own mooo-vie.’
‘Do you really expect us to believe such a preposterous story?’ says Mr Big Shot.
‘I know it sounds crazy,’ I say, ‘but it’s true! I saw them! And I heard them!’
‘I really don’t think cows would do that,’ says Jill. ‘They are such honest, trustworthy animals.’
‘Not these ones,’ I say. ‘They’re spy cows! And if you don’t believe me, go back through the book and see for yourself. There’s a spy cow hiding on every single page!’*
____________________
*It’s true … there really is. And sometimes there’s even more than one.
‘Are you out of your mind?!’ says Mr Big Shot. ‘We’ve got a movie to make. We haven’t got time to be looking at boring old books—especially ones that haven’t even been written yet.’
‘Fine!’ I say. ‘I was only trying to help. Let the spy cows steal your stupid movie. See if I care!’
‘Hey, Andy,’ says Mel Gibbon. ‘If what you say is true, why don’t you go and audition for the mooo-vie-making cows? You make a very convincing cowpat!’
‘Yeah,’ says Terry, ‘you not only look the part but you smell like one, too!’
‘High five, my hu-man!’ says Mel, holding up his paw.
Terry high-fives him and they both dissolve into helpless giggling.
‘Guess I’ll be going, then,’ I say. ‘Have fun with your new best friend, Terry. Goodbye … FOREVER!’
CHAPTER 8
MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY
OF MY LIFE
BY ME (AND NOT TERRY)
I stomp down the stairs, out the front door and fling my cowpat hat into the forest. The movie is not my problem any more. And neither is Terry. We are done.
Who needs him anyway? Not me. I can draw my own pictures. And now I can finally get started on the autobiography I’ve always wanted to write.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and look up. It’s Jill.
‘I came to see if you were okay,’ she says.
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I’m quite busy, actually. I’m writing my autobiography.’
‘That’s great, Andy,’ says Jill, ‘but won’t Terry be too busy to illustrate it?’
‘Yeah, probably,’ I say. ‘But it doesn’t matter because I can do it myself. Look.’
I hand Jill the pages.
Jill hands the pages back to me.
‘So?’ I say. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think the title’s a bit long,’ she says, ‘and it’s kind of confusing.’
‘Why?’ I say.
‘Well, for a start, “autobiography” already means that you’re writing the story of your life so there’s no need to say, “My autobiography of my life”. You’re just using extra words for no reason.’
‘But I was just trying to be clear that it was about my life and not Terry’s,’ I say.
‘Well, that’s another thing,’ says Jill. ‘You say it’s about you, but all you’re really doing is going on and on about Terry and, I don’t mean to be rude, but it isn’t very nice … and it’s a little bit boring.’
‘Yeah, I guess you’re right,’ I say. ‘Terry isn’t very nice and he can be quite boring. I’ll make a new one.’
I write another version as fast as I
can and give it to Jill.
‘Is this better?’ I say.
‘Stop it, Andy!’ says Jill. ‘It’s too scary!’
‘Yeah, I know,’ I say. ‘But it’s pretty exciting, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so,’ she says, ‘but … an autobiography is supposed to be true, not a made-up horror story. You’re supposed to tell the true story of your life.’
‘Hmmm,’ I say. ‘These autobiographies are trickier than I thought. There are a lot of rules.’
‘Just imagine you’re telling a reader the true story of your life from the very beginning,’ says Jill. ‘That’s not so hard, is it?’
‘No,’ I say, picking up my pen again.
I write a new version and hand it to her.
‘ANDY!’ shouts Jill. ‘Stop writing, “And bigger. And bigger. And bigger!”’
‘But why?’ I say. ‘It’s true!’
‘It may be true,’ says Jill, ‘but it’s not very interesting.’
‘But I tried to make it interesting and you said it had to be true.’
‘You need to make it true and interesting,’ says Jill.
‘I give up!’ I say. ‘Writing an autobiography is just too hard.’
Suddenly animal noises start coming out of Jill’s pocket.
‘Excuse me, Andy,’ says Jill, checking the screen of her intergalactic space-animal rescue service emergency pager.
‘Uh-oh,’ she says. ‘There’s an intergalactic spaceanimal emergency on Planet Zonkatroid. A space-ladybird’s house is on fire and she’s not home. I have to go and put it out immediately. Here comes my team now!’
Jill jumps aboard her space-cat-powered intergalactic space-animal rescue spacecraft.
‘I’ll see you, later, Andy,’ she says.
‘Yeah, see you, Jill,’ I say, but she doesn’t hear me. She’s already gone.
I’m all alone. Again.
Some day this is turning out to be. I’ve been fired from my own movie and replaced by a monkey. Abandoned by my own best friend. Kicked out of my own treehouse. Disowned by my own clones and banned from Andyland, my own kingdom.
And as if all that isn’t bad enough, now I’ve failed at writing my own autobiography. Fail. Fail. Fail. Fail. Fail.
I guess there’s only one thing left to do. Yep, you guessed it. I need to remember my favourite inspiring motivational quote that always helps me when I’m feeling down and think I can’t go on. Now, let me see, what is it? I think it’s something about chips …
When the chips are down …
Um…
Er …
Ah …
Hmm …
I’m having such a bad day I can’t even remember my favourite inspiring motivational quote.
Is it, When the chips are down, and you feel like you can’t go on, that’s when you know you’re halfway there?
No, that’s not it. Not even close.
Maybe it’s: When the chips are down, the chips get going.
That’s more like it, but no, it’s still not quite right …
Hang on! I remember now!
When the chips are down, go eat some chips.
YES! That’s it!
The chips are down so that’s exactly what I’m going to do!
I’m going to go to my high-security potato chip storage facility and eat some chips!
I feel better already.
CHAPTER 9
THE CHIP THIEF
The good thing about a high-security potato chip storage facility is that it keeps your chips safe from chip thieves. The bad thing about a high-security potato chip storage facility is that it can be quite hard to get into, even for the rightful owner of the chips.
First you have to tiptoe through 1000 loaded mousetraps without getting snapped …
And then you have to evade a deadly network of 100 laser beams …
Next you have to avoid getting crushed to death by a 10-tonne weight …
And then, if you survive all that, you have to …
And, in the unlikely event you manage to defeat the very angry duck, then you are faced with the most advanced safe lock ever created—a locking system so complicated, in fact, that there’s only one person in the whole world who is smart enough to open it (and that’s ME!).
Hold on … that’s not right!
The door is unlocked!
Somebody has unlocked my safe!
Somebody who is not me!
Oh no! My chips!
My precious chips!
Somebody has stolen my precious, perfect, potato chips!
Oh, hang on. No they haven’t. The packet’s still here.
I probably just forgot to lock the door. Oops.
That’s funny. There’s only one left. I thought I had more than that.
I take the last chip out and bite into it. Mmmm … it tastes as good as ever!
Actually, no it doesn’t—it tastes like cardboard!
Ptooey!
That’s because it is cardboard! Somebody (probably Terry!) snuck in here, unlocked my safe, stole my chips and replaced them with a single cardboard replica in the hope I wouldn’t notice.
I can’t believe it … that chip thief Terry has stolen my chips! This means war! But first, a rage-filled rant . . . that rhymes!
Once Terry was a friend
On whom I could depend.
I could not comprehend
How the fun would ever end.
But now my trust he’s trashed.
Into my vault he crashed.
A wicked plan he hatched:
My precious chips he snatched.
He stole my chips, that rotten thief!
It is a crime beyond belief.
My endless grief will not be brief.
For from this pain there’s no relief.
I loved those chips and to me it seemed
That all night and day of my chips I dreamed.
Whene’er I thought of my chips I beamed,
But then that chip fiend intervened.
Him and his evil chip-stealing scheme!
How could he be so horribly mean?
It makes me want to shout and scream!
My rage is totally and utterly extreme!
My chips he did so cruelly rob
To shove in his big fat slobbery gob.
It makes me want to sadly sob
To think of my perfectly precious chips
Pinched between his fingertips
And perched upon his drooling lips—
A stolen-chip apocalypse!
From this betrayal I will never recover,
We are no longer friends with one another.
I’m warning him now, he’d better take cover,
He’s my worst ever friend, my ex-blood brother.
I’m going to hunt that chip thief down!
Him and every last Terry in Terrytown!
They won’t be laughing then, those clowns,
I’ll turn their smiles into permanent frowns!
I’ll wreak my stolen chip revenge!
His punishment will never end!
I’ll tell the world of his infamy,
Of how he stole my chips from me.
His name will go down in history
Synonymous with chip thievery!
So now he’d better prepare his tomb—
That gangly-limbed, crazy-eyed,
curly-haired loon,
’Cause I’m coming at him faster
than a supersonic boom—
That greedy, grasping, chip-stealing goon.
Closer and closer to him do I zoom—
That traitorous, treacherous
BFF of a baboon,
And when I get there
It will be safe to assume
That, very soon, you know whom
Will get what’s coming
When I deal out his
DOOM!!!
CHAPTER 10
ANDY VERSUS TERRY
I storm out of my high-security potato chi
p storage facility and into the kitchen.
Terry and Mel Gibbon are making popcorn with the lid off the pot. Freshly popped popcorn is popping in all directions while Mr Big Shot and his crew film the whole thing.
‘Hey, chip thief!’ I yell at Terry. ‘You stole my chips!’
The 78-Storey Treehouse Page 3
