by Bill Myers
But, as usual, my expecter wasn’t exactly expecting to get what it expected when it was expecting it . . .
TRANSLATION:
Aw, never mind . . . you’ll find out soon enough.
Chapter 4
Another Day,
Another Billion (or Two)
The next day, as my chauffeur stopped in front of school (how else would the world’s greatest soccer player get there?), I climbed out of the hot tub, dried off, walked past the juice bar, home theater system, and tennis courts, and finally stepped out of my super S ——T ——R—— E ——T——C——H limo (what else would a SUPERjock ride in?).
There to meet me was Opera. Good ol’ Opera.
Only he wasn’t quite as good or ol’ as before. Oh, he still had his headphones permanently attached to his ears, and he was no doubt still listening to his opera music, but there were definitely a few changes.
First, there was his black suit, black shirt, and black tie. (The only time I’d seen him in a tie was when we had a toilet-side funeral service for my goldfish.)
Then there was his size. He’d put on a few extra pounds.
Actually, a lot of extra pounds. Actually, he looked like King Kong on steroids!
Finally, there was the way he spoke:
“Godfather Wally, burp—” (Opera always burps. It’s something about all the candy, cookies, and chips he puts down.) “I am honored dat yas have chosen me and da boys to protect yas from yas, burp, enemies.”
I frowned. “Why are you talking so funny?”
“I am honored dat yas have noticed.” He grinned as he pulled out a book from his back pocket titled:
HOW TO TALK LIKE A
BIG-TIME THUG AND BODYGUARD
“Bodyguard?” I asked. “What do I need a bodyguard for?”
“To protect yas from all yas, burp, enemies.”
“What?”
Without answering, he grabbed my shoulders, leaned forward, and gave me a kiss on one cheek,
“Eeeew . . .”
and then the other.
Double “Eeeew . . .”
His burper breath freaked me out. I don’t want to say it was bad, but he’d just finished his seventeenth bag of Hot ’N Spicey Garlic Chips and I noticed the frames of my glasses had started to melt.
“You said ‘enemies’?” I coughed as I waved aside the toxic vapors. “What enemies?”
He motioned over his shoulder just as a fourth grader came running toward me with a pencil and paper. “Mr. McDoogle, can I have your autograph? Will you sign my—”
But that’s all he got out before Opera’s fingers snapped.
Suddenly, a half-dozen goons, bigger than the Incredible Hulk on a grumpy day, grabbed the kid and started dragging him off.
“Mr. McDoogle!” the kid yelled. “Help me! Help me!”
“What are you doing?” I shouted at Opera. “Where are you taking him?”
“Why, to da lavatory, of course.”
“The lavatory?”
“Where else can we turn him upside down, dunk his head in da toilet, and flush it?”
“But that’s what the bullies used to do to you!” I cried.
“Not no more,” he said, burping.
I couldn’t believe my ears. What had happened to Opera’s kindness (let alone his good grammar)?
“But it’s wrong!” I shouted. “What you’re doing is terrible!”
“Not as terrible as dis.”
He snapped his fingers at a handful of second graders who were running toward me, their cute little faces filled with smiles and excitement.
Well, their faces had been filled with smiles and excitement. But that was before another half-dozen bodyguards appeared, yanked them up by the backs of their underwear, and hung them on nearby tree limbs.
“Help us!” they shouted, kicking and screaming. “Get us down, get us down!”
“Look!” Opera said, laughing menacingly. “Christmas tree ornaments!”
“What are you doing?” I demanded. I raced to the tree to help the kids down. “What made you turn so mean?!”
“I’m friends of da great Wally McDoogle,” he said, grinning. “I can do anything I want.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Children shudder at my presence, bullies drop to der knees, and teachers—”
Suddenly, he spotted our principal stepping out of his office.
“Hey,” Opera yelled. “What did I tell yas ’bout coming outside without my permission?!’
The principal looked up, his eyes widening in fear. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Opera, I didn’t—”
“What did yas call me?!”
“I’m sorry . . . O Great One. I simply forgot.”
“Save yas excuses. Get back inside and order me another truckload of dem Hot ’N Spicey Garlic Chips.”
“Yes, O Great One.”
“And another boxcar of Chippy Chipper potato chips. I’m down to my last crate.”
(Well, now I understood how he’d gained the extra tonnage.)
He turned to me and began an evil laugh
“Moo-hoo-hoo . . .”
that grew louder,
“Haa-haa-haa . . .”
and louder some more:
“Haar-haar-harr . . .”
It was amazing. But by remaining my close friend after I’d become famous, Opera had completely changed. He was entirely different from—
“Burp! Hey, dat was a good one.”
Well, maybe not entirely different, but different enough. And none of it was good.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one who had changed. Because, suddenly, there was a brand-new
Whop-Whop-Whop-Whop
sound effect.
Opera and I looked up to see a sleek, jet-powered helicopter dropping from the clouds.
Kids were running back and forth, yelling and screaming as it set down on the school’s lawn. The door slid open, and who should step out but . . .Wall Street.
Well, I thought it was Wall Street. It was hard to tell with the sunglasses, briefcase, power-business suit, and high heels. Then, of course, there was the cell phone she had to her ear.
“No, no, no!” she shouted into the phone. “He’s on David Letterman that night.”
“Hey, Wall Street,” I called.
She gave a nod but continued shouting into the phone. “No, then he’s starring in a Flex Pecs bodybuilding commercial. No, after that he’s having dinner with the Pope!”
I nervously glanced at Opera.
Wall Street continued shouting into the phone. “Tell him to stop being a baby. He’ll just have to wait in line to meet the great Wally McDoogle like everyone else. Good-bye!” Angrily, she snapped off the phone.
“Who was dat?” Opera asked.
“The President,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Of the United States??” I squeaked.
She nodded. “Third time he’s called this morning. I hate it when world powers break into tears.”
“Not me, burp.” Opera grinned. “I kinda likes it.”
Wall Street turned and shoved a briefcase the size of Cleveland at me. “Here, these are for you to sign.”
“What are they?”
“Endorsements, movie deals, that billion-dollar mansion you bought at the other end of town.”
“A billion-dollar mansion?”
“Well, one of them, yeah.” With that she turned and started back into the helicopter, just as the school bell rang.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Gotta negotiate that deal for you to appear on the cover of Sports Illustrated.”
“I’m going to be on the cover of Sports Illustrated?”
“Not one cover, twelve covers. I wanted more, but there’s only twelve months in a year.”
I blinked, not believing my ears.
“So we’ll see you later.”
“But what about school?” I shouted. “You’re going to miss Mr. Reptenson’s science quiz. It�
�s coming up first period.”
“I dropped out of school months ago. You know that.”
“You dropped out of school?!”
She buckled in as the helicopter revved up. “Of course! Somebody has to manage your career.”
“But . . . dropping out of school?!” I shouted. “That’s stupid! What about getting your education?”
The chopper started to rise. “Who needs an education when there’s all that money to be made . . . and it’s all off you.”
“But . . . it’s school!” I shouted. “You need an education. You need . . .”
No longer hearing me, she waved as the helicopter rose up and into the clouds.
I couldn’t believe it. Wall Street had actually dropped out of school because of me? That was terrible!
Feeling sad, I turned and started toward the classrooms.
“Hey, Wally!” Opera shouted. “Where yas goin’?”
“We’ve got to take Reptenson’s quiz.”
“Yeah, right,” he said, smirking.
I came to a stop. “Don’t tell me you dropped out, too?”
“Nah, burp. But me and da boys, we don’t got to take tests no more. And yas don’t got to neither.”
I frowned. “Why not?”
He began cracking his knuckles one after the other. “Let’s just say (CRACK) dat dem teachers (CRACK, CRACK), they’re all afraid (CRACK, CRACK, CRACK) of giving us bad grades (CRACK). ”
My mouth dropped to the ground. “You’re bullying the teachers into giving you passing grades?!”
“Nah (CRACK, CRACK, CRACK), not passing grades.” Since he’d run out of fingers, he kicked off his shoes and started working on his toes. “Straight-A (CRACK) grades. Burp! ”
Soccer tryouts weren’t much better.
When I got out on the field, there wasn’t a soul in sight. Just a hundred trophies on the bench with a note from Coach Hurtumuch.
Dear Sir Wally:
Since you’re such a great superstar, everyone on the team is embarrassed to play with you. You are now the school’s entire soccer team . . . and coaching staff.
Good luck!
Coach Hurtumuch
I was stunned. I couldn’t believe no one wanted to play with me. What about Sophie Stompuregut? I mean, soccer meant everything to her. I glanced back down at the note.
P.S. Sophie Stompuregut is so discouraged that she’s given up soccer and is now teaching coloring classes at the preschool.
I felt my throat tighten and my eyes begin to burn. Soccer had been Sophie’s whole life. I just wanted to score higher than her, not destroy her.
And what about all the trophies on the bench?
I looked back down at the note.
P.P.S. Since all of the schools are afraid to play you, they have also quit, which automatically makes us All State Champions. Yea team!
When I finally started for home, I knew things were not good when I tried three different mansions before I found the right one.
I knew things were “notter” than not good . . . not only because Opera’s grammar was wearing off on me, but because I found one of my older twin brothers, Burt (or was it Brock?), floating on a mattress in our indoor pool with five beautiful babes peeling grapes for him.
Then there was Brock (or was it Burt?) driving his gold-plated Jet Ski (it’s kind of a big pool) around Burt (or was it Brock?), while pulling Mom, who was parasailing behind him (it’s kind of a big room).
“Hey, Mom,” I shouted. “Where’s Dad?”
“Upstairs in his chair watching the game.”
I let out a sigh of relief. It was good to know that at least one thing hadn’t changed. I entered the nearby elevator, searched the buttons until I spotted the one labeled
Dad’s Floor,
and pressed it.
I shot up what seemed like twenty to thirty stories until the doors finally opened and, sure enough, there was Dad sitting in his favorite recliner watching a football game.
The only problem was, the game wasn’t on TV. Instead, he sat before an entire football field that he had all to himself . . . well, except for the two pro teams playing against each other for him.
I blinked nervously. I had no idea the world’s greatest soccer star could make so much money.
Don’t get me wrong, I was glad to help out my family . . . but I was getting a serious feeling that things were going seriously wrong.
Chapter 5
Don’t Forget to Floss
Things were getting more and more confusing, so I decided to work on my superhero story. It wasn’t hard to find my Ol’ Imax. (It used to be my Ol’ Betsy, but even she had changed. And with her screen filling my entire five-story bedroom wall, what other name could I give her?)
When we last left Pudgy Boy, he’d been asked to hold off ordering his pizza so he could save the world. (Talk about a sacrifice.)
But it just might be worth it. Because everywhere he looks people are walking skin and bones...and getting skinnier and bonier by the minute.
And not just people; so are their pets...
Poodles are passing out from too many pull-ups.
Turtles are tipsy from trotting on treadmills.
Parakeets are panting from a plethora (trust me, it’s a word) of push-ups.
And cats...of course, they’re too lazy to do anything but sleep (except cough up an occasional fur ball).
Without a moment to spare, our plumpish pal races across the Fat Cave and hops into his Blubbermobile, only to discover
K-Squish
it’s five sizes too small!
(I don’t want to say it shrank, but picture a VW Beetle left in the clothes dryer on extra hot for forty-five minutes, give or take a month.)
Using all of his supersized heroics (plus a can of bacon grease that he keeps handy for just such occasions), our hero squirms his way out of the
KER-Pop!
car and races toward his Micro-Flab computer for answers.
But even his computer is getting skinnier (whose isn’t?). Within moments, he can no longer get his chubby fingers on the shrinking keys.
Looking around, he sees the entire Fat Cave downsizing in a major he-better-get-out-before-he-becomes-its-cream-filled-center kind of way.
He rushes to the exit and barely squeezes through before he is met by six skinny men with six not-so-skinny guns.
“This is the F.B.I.”
“Great!” our hero shouts.
“Waddle away from the cave with your ham hocks up!”
“You don’t understand,” our hero explains. “I’m the good guy!”
“You’re under arrest.”
“No, no, no! You’re the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You’re supposed to help me catch the bad guys.”
“Sorry, sir, we are now the Fitness Bureau of Indigestion. And according to our Flab-O-Meter, you’ve got way too much pudge.”
Quickly, our hero searches his mind. (Luckily, with so little to work with, it takes only 2.4 seconds.) In a flash of perspiration, he turns to the leader and asks:
“Say there, you look great. Have you been losing weight?”
The leader lowers his gun, blushing slightly. “Why, yes, a little—— can you tell?”
“Oh, yes,” our hero says, smiling. “And that bulletproof vest you’re wearing is so very flattering.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Sir,” the assistant agent calls.
Pudgy Boy turns to him. “And you. Did you know that wearing vertical stripes will make you look thinner?”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. They could make you look at least five pounds lighter.”
“Wow!”
But before they can run off to SprawlMart for a new wardrobe, a third agent shouts, “Sir, it’s a trap! He’s pretending to care about weight just so he can escape!”
Our husky hero spins to him and shouts, “How can you say such a terrible thing without any proof?”
“Proof? I’ll show you pro
of!”
Suddenly, the agent produces a giant chocolate cake (complete with double-fudge chunky-chocolate frosting) and sets it on the ground in front of our hero.
Pudgy Boy looks at it and begins to sweat.
Then he begins to shake.
Soon he drops to his knees, drooling like Homer Simpson over a box of doughnuts.
“So you like it, do you?” the agent taunts.
“Does it come with fries?” our hero asks.
“Regular or supersize?”
Sensing a trap, Pudgy Boy uses all of his superhero strength to resist. But it does no good! Before he can help himself, he shouts: “SUPERSIZE ME!”
Suddenly, the truth becomes clear, and the agents swarm in.
Suddenlier, our hero is handcuffed and thrown into the fatty wagon.
“Where am I going!?” he shouts.
“To the Fat Farm,” the agent yells.
“That’s where you will be taught to hate yourself for being overweight.”
“But I like myself!”
“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of that!”
Within minutes, the fatty wagon rolls through the gates of Alkaflab Prison, where our polysaturated pal is escorted past all sorts of prisoners undergoing rehabilitation.
Here he sees:
——Girls forced to stare at photos of models with skimpy bodies wearing microskimpy clothes.
——Boys taunted for belonging to the chess club instead of the lettermen’s club.
——Grownups being sold memberships to gyms they will never go to after the first week.
Great beanpoles! Who will rescue our hero before it’s too late?
More important, whatever happened to our bad guy, Boney Boy?
And most important, did they just leave that chocolate cake on the ground at the Fat Cave so nobody gets to eat it?
These and weightier worries weigh upon our overweight wonder, when suddenly——
“Hey there,” a familiar voice said. “How’d it go?”
I glanced around, trying to find out where the voice came from. It sounded so close, but there wasn’t a horse in sight.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“In here.”
“Where?”
“Your mouth.”
“My mouth!”
“Don’t shout, I’m right here.”
