My Life as Invisible Intestines with Intense Indigestion

by Bill Myers

  I nodded. “Yes, sir.” My hands shook so hard that when I tried to put my pen into my pocket I accidentally dropped it on the floor. I’d had it on me when I turned invisible, so it had turned invisible, too. But it made quite a racket. I quickly bent down to scoop it up, repeating, “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s a good boy,” he said, looking down to where the noise and my voice had been.

  But I wasn’t there anymore. I’d straightened up to put the pen in my pocket, yet he still thought I was on the floor.

  “Now then . . . ,” he said, grabbing a pair of handcuffs on his belt and kneeling to the floor. “Ms. Simpson was just a little hysterical, that’s all. No one’s going to hurt you, son. In fact, I bet you’ll have the time of your life working for us.”

  He reached out, trying to find my arm.

  It was only then that I realized—if I were quiet, I could step around him. And if I could step around him, I could sneak past him. And if I could sneak past him, I could get out of the room. Ever so quietly, I inched my way around him as he kept right on talking.

  “You’ve seen those James Bond movies, right?” He continued reaching for where he thought my arm was. “Wouldn’t it be just swell to get to be a spy like that?” Still more reaching on his part.

  Still more inching past him on mine.

  “Well, you can be that and more.”

  By now, I was halfway to the door.

  “Drive around in those fancy cars.”

  More reaching.

  More inching.

  “Play with all those neato keen gadgets.”

  I arrived at the door. Slowly, I opened it.

  “Get to beat up all those bad guys.”

  Carefully, I slipped through it.

  “Oh, sure, there may be some dangers, but—”

  And, ever so quietly, started to close it when

  gurgle . . .gurgle .. . gurgle

  Both agents spun around to the door.

  gurgle .. .gurgle ... gurgle

  “After him!!”

  I would have loved to stick around and chat, maybe exchange addresses, ask to see the latest pictures of the kids. But at the moment I had a few other things on my mind, like, oh, I don’t know . . .

  RUNNING FOR MY LIFE!!

  Chapter 7

  Let the Chase Begin

  I raced out of that building faster than Dad disappears on Saturday mornings to play golf. Part of me wanted to stick around and keep helping the football team, but another part of me wanted to live. Call me selfish, but for some reason the wanting to live part won out. Go figure . . .

  But what about Wall Street?

  They’d already captured Opera. I had to warn her before it was too late. Of course, there was the usual, “Stop, stop, we’ll shoot, we’ll shoot!” coming from my FBI pals as they raced out of the locker room after me. But since they couldn’t exactly see whom they were stop, stopping, much less shoot, shooting, I figured I was okay.

  I ran to the football field and quickly checked out the bleachers. Wall Street was nowhere to be seen. She must have already left to start making those big bucks at the haunted house. I twirled around and took off after her.

  By the time I arrived at the house, I was gasping for air. (Hey, a half block can really wear a guy out . . . especially a guy in my great shape.) A line of ten or fifteen people had already formed on the steps leading up to the porch.

  “Yes sir, ladies and gentlemen,” Wall Street called from a table in front of the door, “just $12.95 and you can witness all the ghouls, goblins, and ghosts in action.”

  “I thought you said $7.95,” some guy complained.

  “I know,” Wall Street said, shaking her head. “ Isn’t inflation terrible?”

  I raced toward the steps wheezing my lungs out. “Wall Street, Wall Street!”

  Hearing my voice, the people in line jumped back. “What’s that?” they shouted.

  Wall Street frowned. “Sounds like our ghost friend has been doing a little jogging.”

  “Wall Street,” I shouted, stumbling up the steps, “you gotta listen to me!”

  She tilted back her head, closed her eyes, and answered, “Yes, O great spirit, I hear your attempts to communicate from beyond. Tell us, tell us what message do you wish to—”

  But that’s all she got out before I arrived . . . well, if you call tripping over the last step, crashing into her money table, and sending it, the money, and myself sprawling onto the porch “arriving.”

  “AUGH!” the people screamed in fright.

  “Not to worry,” Wall Street cried. “It’s just his little way of saying hi.”

  “Well, I gots a way of makin’ him say goodbye,” a voice cackled from the back of the line.

  I looked up to see a crazy old man with crazy white hair sticking out from under a yellow construction worker’s hat. He was approaching the porch. He had a gizmo attached to his back (which looked a lot like a fire extinguisher), and he held a black nozzle attached to the gizmo (which looked a lot like a fire extinguisher hose). On top of his hard hat were two little radar dishes that rotated back and forth and kept on

  beep, beep, beeping.

  “Who are you?” Wall Street asked.

  “Iggy Norant, Spirit Exterminator, at your service.” He shoved a business card at her. “If ghosts ain’t yer cup o’ tea, I’m the one to make ’em flee.”

  Wall Street glanced around nervously. “Well, actually, this ghost is kind of a good—”

  Unfortunately, that was about the time I rose to my feet. Which would have been okay, if I hadn’t risen into him, which sent him staggering backward.

  “Augh!” Iggy screamed. “He’s on the attack, he’s on the attack!” With these words ringing in everyone’s ears, he reached to his backpack gizmo, flipped a switch, and suddenly a greenish liquid began to

  HIISSSSS . ..

  out of his hose, spraying in all directions.

  Of course, everybody panicked, doing their usual shouting, screaming, and fainting routine. And, of course, Iggy tried his best to calm them down with such reassuring words as: “Don’t worry, folks, I’m a professional. He’ll only be able to kill a few of you before I get him!”

  “What is that stuff?” Wall Street cried, trying to dodge the green liquid as it sprayed in her direction.

  “Gatorade,” Iggy yelled back. “Gets ’em every time.”

  And get me, it did. Before I could duck for cover, ol’ Iggy managed to cover me in the sticky green liquid. Now, normally you’d think this wouldn’t be a problem since I was invisible . . . except (and there’s always an except in these stories) the part of me that got wet could now be seen as a shiny, green outline.

  “Augh!” the people screamed. “The ghost is appearing to us! The ghost is appearing to us!”

  To which Wall Street, always the quick thinker, added, “That’ll be an extra two dollars! That’ll be an extra two dollars!”

  Seeing my outline, Iggy turned his hose on full force. “Take that, you foul varmint from Hades!”

  Now, everybody saw me—or at least the green liquid that was sticking to me. Having no clue what to do, but getting tired of drowning in Gatorade, I turned and ran into the house . . . which would have been okay, except that I was followed by the shouting Iggy, “You can run, but you can’t hide!” . . . who was followed by the screaming mob, “Get him good! Get him good!” . . . who was followed by the yelling Wall Street, “Better make that three dollars! Better make that three dollars!”

  I’ll save you all of the gasping and wheezing details. Let’s just say that after running a few hundred miles inside the house (with Iggy and the gang right behind me), I thought I’d try some new scenery and check out what the basement had to offer. Unfortunately, this would involve the tiny detail of opening the door and trying to run down the steps without falling, which, of course, for me is a complete impossibility. So, instead of running I sort of

  bounce, bounce, bounced,

  tumble, tumble, tumb
led

  down them until I hit the

  “Oaff!”

  concrete floor. But even that wasn’t good enough for a full-time klutz like me. I chose to keep right on

  roll, roll, rolling

  across the floor until I hit the coal pile next to the old-fashioned coal furnace. Actually, it wasn’t as much a coal pile as it was a pile of coal dust, which would explain my

  cough, cough, coughing.

  It would also explain the new black outline of coal dust that completely covered me as I rose to my feet.

  “There he is!” Mob Member 1 shouted.

  “We got him cornered!” Mob Member 2 cried.

  “Stand back, folks,” Iggy warned, “this is where it gets tricky.” Slowly, he started toward me. “Nice ghosty, ghosty, ghosty.” Doing his imitation of a smile, he held out his hand. “Come on, fella, nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

  Call me suspicious, but somehow I had my doubts about not getting hurt. I glanced around. There was no way out. Well, except for the coal chute. The coal chute that I spun around to, and immediately scampered up!

  “AFTER HIM!”

  It took a little doing, but after a lot of slipping and sliding, I finally made it to the top of the chute. Now there was only the coal chute door, which I had to

  BAMB, BAMB, BAMB,

  a few million times before it finally gave way and opened. I stumbled out into the cold night air and my freedom.

  Cold night air, yes. Freedom, well, not exactly . . .

  “AFTER HIM!”

  I spun toward the new voices. It was my FBI buddies. They’d just climbed out of their car and were racing at me.

  “AFTER HIM!”

  I turned back to the house. Iggy and my other pals were piling out of the front door and also coming at me.

  Oh, boy! What fun.

  Now don’t get me wrong, I like parties as much as the next guy—especially when I’m the guest of honor. It’s just when they start passing out FBI guns as party favors, and ghostbusting Gatorade for refreshment that I get a little nervous. Then there was that screaming mob. I’m sure they loved me dearly, but they didn’t exactly look like they were going to break into a rousing chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

  So, with no other alternative, I decided to do what I do best . . .

  Run.

  Run and

  “AUGHHHHHhhhh . . .”

  scream.

  The only problem was, I had no idea where I should be running and screaming to. China was out of the question. And, though I hear Antarctica is lovely this time of year, I left my decisions. Finally, I made up my mind and took off.

  The good news was, the lab was not that far away and I knew a shortcut through our neighbors, the Lynches’, backyard. The bad news was, the Lynches just got a brand-new dog. I’m not exactly sure what breed Muttly was—some sort of cross between a grizzly bear and a Tyrannosaurus rex—but I do know the type of teeth it had . . .

  Sharp.

  Yes sir, just as soon as I threw my feet over the fence and nimbly landed on the other side,

  “OAFF!”

  while breaking a minimal amount of body parts, I

  GRRRRR . ..

  “Nice doggie, doggie . . .”

  CHOMP

  “YEOW!”

  knew what type of teeth it had.

  Leaping to my feet, I dashed across the yard as fast as I could (which isn’t all that fast when you have a grizzly-saurus attached to your rear). Unfortunately, it was that new attachment that sort of threw off my balance, causing us both to

  “AUGH . . .”

  K-Splash

  into the swimming pool.

  After the usual thrashing, screaming for help, and nearly drowning, I made it to the edge of the pool and pulled myself out. The bad news was, my little dip left a nasty Gatorade and coal-dust ring around the pool. The good news was, it washed me clean, allowing me to become totally invisible again.

  Yes sir, it was just like old times . . . which allowed me to race to the fence without Muttly practicing his sink-teeth-into-Wally’s-rear routine. It also allowed me to sneak up behind the critter and (WARNING: IF YOU’RE AN ANIMAL LOVER DO NOT READ THESE NEXT SIX WORDS) tweak him soundly behind the ears.

  (Hey, I warned you.)

  The creature dashed off, howling and yelping, though it was difficult to hear him over my own gruntings and groanings as I dragged my body up and over the fence. Then, of course, there was that nasty shattering sound that bones make when you fall off high objects (like, oh, say, high fences), drop through some lovely branches, and hit something hard (like, oh, say, a hard sidewalk).

  Unfortunately, despite my long shortcut, I hadn’t lost my pursuers.

  “There he is!” Iggy shouted as he rounded the corner. “I see the branches moving.”

  I looked up and saw the old guy leading the pack as they ran straight toward me. I leaped to my feet. After resetting a broken leg or two, I spotted one of those new scooter thingies in the Lynches’ front yard. And, never being shy to borrow toys from friends (just as long as I return them in as few pieces as possible), I grabbed the scooter, stumbled to the sidewalk, and took off.

  For the most part it was a pleasant ride . . . well, except for those barricades surrounding that open manhole. Well, actually, the barricades that

  “AUGH!”

  K-RASH! K-RASH! K-RASH!

  had been surrounding the open manhole.

  But crashing through them wasn’t nearly as annoying as

  “AUGH!”

  K-SPLASH

  falling into the open manhole.

  Still, such obstacles are a minor inconvenience when you’re busy racing for your life. It’s the other nuisances—like climbing out of the manhole, draining all that water from your lungs, and taking off on your scooter again . . . right through a major intersection—that get to be bothersome.

  Actually, going through the intersection wasn’t that big of a problem. It was that pesky traffic light that turned red just as I approached it. The one I would have stopped at if I knew where the brakes were. The one I breezed through at just slightly under the speed of sound. And even that wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for those four cars coming from different directions. The ones that had to hit their brakes and swerve hard to miss me. Fortunately, they did miss me. Unfortunately, they didn’t miss

  SQUEAL

  K-RASH

  tinkle . .. tinkle . .. tinkle

  each other.

  Finally, there was that police car, which happened to have policemen in it, who happened to have seen the whole thing. For some reason they thought it would be a good idea to kick on their siren and flashing lights to join in the chase.

  Yes sir, I was drawing quite a crowd. With Iggy, the mob, the FBI, a few angry drivers (with a few destroyed cars), and one very loud police car (complete with two policemen), it was getting to be quite a party.

  Unfortunately, every party needs some games to break the ice. And, as I approached the lab, I couldn’t help thinking that those games were about to begin. Come to think of it, the breaking was about to begin, too. But, as we all know, it wouldn’t be the ice that was breaking. . . .

  Chapter 8

  Back to OOPS

  The good news was, Science Lady had left the front doors unlocked and was waiting for me in the lobby. The bad news was, the TV crew for the news show 591.2 Minutes was also there.

  I burst through the doors just as reporter Dan Rathernot was asking, “So tell us, Ms. Simpson, is there any truth to the rumor about your creating an invisible boy who runs around terrifying the citizens of this town?”

  I don’t know how he knew, but I appreciated Science Lady trying to sidestep the question. “Well, actually,” she said, “that is, er, it all depends upon how you, uh, define the word, um, ‘invisible.’ ”

  She might have been able to stall a bit longer if I hadn’t accidentally plowed into the cameraman . . .

  “AUGH!”
<
br />   K-Bang!

  broken camera piece here

  broken camera piece there

  and another one right over there . ..

  as well as the soundman

  “LOOK OUT!”

  K-Blamb!

  broken microphone here

  broken recorder there

  and broken soundman right

  over there . ..

  “Wally, you’re here!” Science Lady cried. Obviously it was a lucky guess on her part (either that or she’d read one of my books and knew all about my entrances).

  Either way, I calmly rose to my feet and as gently as possible screamed my head off. “WHAT DO I DO? HOW DO I GET UN-INVISIBLE?!”

  “Just follow me,” she said as she ran to the lobby doors. She locked them and leaped back over the unconscious TV crew on her way to the next room.

  I did my best to follow . . . though my leaping was a bit . . .

  K-Bang!

  K-Blam!

  lame . . . which would explain why the TV crew, who was just waking up, once again hit the floor and returned to unconsciousville.

  I did my best to untangle myself from all their cords and cables as Science Lady stood at the door crying, “Hurry, Wally! In here, hurry!”

  At last I freed myself and headed toward her. Meanwhile, a few well-meaning folks began banging on the door. Folks like (and if you can sing this to the tune of “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” good luck):

  Five mob mem-bers .. .

  Four angry drivers,

  Three FBI,

  Two po-lice-men,

  And a friend trying to make an extra buck.

  (Hey, you’re good. Very good.)

  At last, Science Lady slammed the door shut.

  “OW!”

  Then opening it, she tried again—this time waiting until I was inside.

  “You said you could help me,” I cried. “You said you could make me un-invisible!”

  “I can,” she said, “but it will take time.”

  And then, right on cue

  K-SLAM

  tinkle-tinkle-tinkle . . .

  my “Twelve Days of Christmas” pals finally crashed the party. (Well, at least the outside lobby doors.)