by Bill Myers
“But—” I swallowed nervously.
“Don’t do that either!!”
I stopped swallowing and settled for a nervous breath.
“Thanks, that’s a lot better.”
I stuck out my tongue but couldn’t see a thing. “Wha ar ou oing in ma mouf?” I asked.
“I’m tooth plaque.”
“Ooth aque!?”
“Yeah, something like that. You know, those little germ thingies that sit on your teeth ready to make cavities.”
“Wealwy?”
“Really. By the way, thanks for not brushing tonight. It’s going to make my job a lot easier.”
I pulled in my tongue but was afraid to close my lips. “Wha appen oo da horss?”
“Got me—it’s your imagination, not mine. So how’s it going?”
“Nat so ood.”
“Now, there’s a surprise. So what do you want to do?”
“I wan to go all da way.”
“All the way?”
“Yeah, I wan to go po.”
“You want to go pro?”
I nodded. “Tings ar too weird eing in school.”
“So you think going totally pro is the answer?”
It was getting tougher and tougher not to swallow, so I just shrugged.
“What about the other kids?”
“It ill ee etter.”
“You think so?”
I wanted to explain how getting Opera away from school would be better for him (and all his little victims). And how, if I wasn’t around, poor Sophie could actually play on the team again. Come to think of it, we’d actually have a team.
I wanted to say all those things, but I was so worried about not swallowing that I just nodded.
“What about your family?”
“Wha abou em?”
“You think giving them all this money and letting them have whatever they want whenever they want it is a good thing?”
“Sluur.” (It was supposed to be “sure,” but right now my tongue was drowning in saliva.) “En fak, F wan oo iv em ore.”
“Well, all right then. Starting at midnight, your family will have unlimited funds and you’ll be playing with the big boys. No kid stuff. No school. You’ll be totally pro.”
I wasn’t crazy about no school, but I guess a guy’s gotta make some sacrifices. So I nodded and gave him a thumbs-up.
“An I swallow ow?” I asked.
“As soon as you wake up, sure.”
“Ake up?”
“Even the great Wally McDoogle couldn’t dream up something this weird without, you know, dreaming it up.”
I nodded again. It made as much sense as anything else.
“Here, let me help.”
“Elp?”
“Yeah.” He took a deep breath (Does plaque breathe? Who knows; who cares?) and shouted:
“WAKE UP!”
My head shot up as my eyes popped open.
And, sure enough, I was back in my fancy bedroom staring at my five-story screen with the Pudgy Boy story on it. Not a thing had changed. Well, except for the lake of saliva growing in my mouth. The lake of saliva I immediately
Gulp, Gulp, Gulped
down (yum) as I headed for the bathroom.
I wasn’t sure if what really happened had, you know, really happened. But one thing was sure. I was definitely going to brush, and even floss, before I went back to sleep.
Chapter 6
Perfection! . . . and
other impossible dreams
I have to tell you, it felt great to finally have created the perfect reality.
Now, at last, I would have everything I ever wanted.
Now, at last, I could use all my talents and skills.
Now, at last, things would really begin unraveling and getting weirder and weirderer . . .
First, there was Burt (or was it Brock?).
I suspected there might be a problem when I got to the breakfast table (which was now solid gold and thirty feet long) and saw my brother at the other end. That wasn’t the problem (though seeing my brother when he’s just gotten up is always a scary thing). The problem was, he was lying in a hospital bed!
“Burt (or is it Brock?)!” I shouted as I raced to his side. “What’s wrong?”
He moved his lips, but his voice was too faint to hear. Fortunately, one of his two dozen nurses translated:
“He wants you to get someone to breathe for him.”
“What are you talking about?!” I cried.
“You’ve given him everything he’s ever wanted. Now he wants you to get someone to breathe for him.”
“That’s crazy!” I said, shaking my head. “And why is he in that bed? What’s wrong with him?”
The nurse answered, “You’ve hired so many servants to do things for him that his muscles have withered away to nothing.”
“You mean he can’t walk?”
“Or sit or talk or eat or drink.”
“He couldn’t have gotten that lazy!”
“Sure he could; after all, we’re talking about your brother Brock (or is it Burt?).”
I noticed another nurse sitting beside him eating piles of bacon, ham, sausage, scrambled eggs, fried eggs, poached eggs, hash browns, hot cakes, waffles, and a giant stack of toast with strawberry jelly.
“What’s she doing?” I demanded.
“Eating his food,” the nurse explained.
“You don’t mean . . . ?”
“That’s right,” she said, nodding, “your brother’s too lazy to chew it.”
Suddenly, a gross thought ran through my mind. “What about the swallowing?” I asked. “Who does the swallowing?!”
(I told you it was gross.)
“Relax,” the nurse assured me. “She does.”
“Because . . . ?”
“Because he’s too lazy to even swallow it.”
I felt a slight wave of relief. But only slight. “And my other brother? Where is he?”
“Prison,” the nurse answered.
“Prison?!”
“He wanted some baby’s lollipop, and you wouldn’t buy it for him, so he stole it.”
“He’s in prison for stealing a lollipop?!”
“No, he’s in prison for stealing the baby who wouldn’t let go of the lollipop.”
I turned from the table, my head spinning faster than our cat the time she got caught in the dryer. Using all of my strength, I cried out to the one person who could fix any mess ever made. I mean, you name it, and she’d cleaned it.
“MOM!”
“She’s not here, either,” the nurse said.
“Where is she?”
“Switzerland.”
“Switzerland?!”
“Yes. She was tired of cleaning up after everybody, so you bought her that nice chalet in the Swiss Alps.”
“What about Dad?” I yelled. “What did Dad do when he heard she left?”
“Actually, he’s never heard that she’s gone. Or seen that she’s gone.”
I swallowed nervously. “Because . . . ?”
The nurse shrugged. “How can you see or hear anything if you’ve had miniature TV sets attached to your glasses and earphones implanted in your ears?”
My mouth dropped open.
“Don’t look so shocked. How else could he make sure he never missed a football game?”
“And I paid for it?”
“Sure. Since he never has to go to work, you had to do something to help him fill his time.”
Things were not going well. I glanced around the room. “And my little sister, Carrie? Where’s she?”
“You helped Carrie start her own chain of restaurants.”
My face brightened. “I did?”
“Yup. Of course, she’s gone twenty billion dollars in debt because of all those food poisoning lawsuits. But at least she’s got a catchy slogan.”
“Which is?” I asked, expecting the worst.
The nurse cleared her throat and recited:
Enjoy yo
ur food twice as much—
once going down, Once coming up!
I nodded, for once not surprised.
What did surprise me was the familiar
Whop-Whop-Whop-Whop
of Wall Street’s helicopter.
Well, I thought it was her helicopter. But when I caught the elevator and headed up to the roof, I was surprised to see that my chauffeur was the pilot.
“Hurry, Mr. McDoogle, or you’ll be late for your endorsements!” he shouted.
“Where’s Wall Street?” I yelled as I stepped inside and moved past the same tennis court, home theater, and hot tub as my limo. (I guess some things never change.)
“Where’s who?” the chauffeur shouted back to me.
“My best friend, Wall Street!”
“You mean President Wall Street?”
“President?” I shouted as we lifted off from the roof.
“Yes. She’s still your sports manager, but she’s made so much money off you that she was also able to buy the entire country—well, except for California, which of course isn’t really part of the country.”
“Wall Street is President?” I shouted. “That’s great!”
“Yes, sir. Well, except for all the riots and demonstrations.”
“Riots and demonstrations?”
“Some folks aren’t crazy about all the new taxes she’s created.”
“Taxes? Why did she create taxes?”
“How else can she become the richest person on the planet?”
“What types of taxes?” I shouted.
“Well, let’s see, there’s the one she’s added for skateboarding.”
“A skateboarding tax? You’re kidding!”
“And the one on dodge ball.”
“A dodge ball tax?!”
“And don’t even ask about the speech tax.”
“Speech tax? But this is the United States of America! We have free speech!”
“Actually, it’s now the United States of Wall Street. And speech is free only if you’ve got the money to buy it.”
“Money?!”
“Fifty cents a word—except for those fancyschmancy ones they use on TV news shows. They cost seventy-five cents.”
I sat back in my seat, stunned. I knew Wall Street could get a bit greedy, but this . . .
Reaching for the remote, I flipped on the TV and came face-to-screen with another surprise. There, in all of his yelling glory, was my other best friend . . . Opera.
Only, instead of going around bullying little kids all day at school, he was standing on some wrestling-ring ropes and screaming:
“I WILL, burp, DESTROY YOU!
I WILL, burp, ANNIHILATE YOU!
I WILL, burp, TERMINATE YOU!”
(And that was just his greeting to a visiting kindergarten class— don’t even ask what he was yelling at his opponent.)
I have to admit it was a little hard recognizing him with the black hood over his face and the additional five thousand pounds of fat he’d gained. Of course, the giant skull and crossbones tattooed across his back didn’t help much, either.
But there was no missing the headphones attached to his ears, the Chippy Chipper potato-chip crumbs falling from his pierced lips, and, of course, his ever-present burping!
By the looks of things, Opera had taken the art of bullying to a brand-new depth.
The fact that he was jumping off the ropes and crushing some grandmother in a wheelchair who’d just booed him made the depth even deeper.
I shouted to the chauffeur, “So Opera is a professional wrestler?”
“Yes, sir. He got so good at destroying fans trying to talk to you that he decided to make a full-time living at destroying other folks.”
I shook my head. Hard to believe that so few changes could make things go so bad.
But, as you might have already guessed, the badness had barely begun . . .
Ten minutes later, my helicopter set down in a TV studio parking lot. And there, among the million fans waiting to greet me, was my old buddy.
“Wall Street!” I shouted.
I hopped out of the chopper and raced for her. But I’d barely taken a step before a dozen Secret Service agents
K-Thud—“OAFF!”
tackled me to the ground and immediately started to strip-search
Rip—“OW!”
Tear—“OUCH!”
Shred, Shred, Shred—“STOP THAT!”
me.
Actually, it wasn’t that big of a problem until they completed their search and left me standing 7/8 naked before my millions of adoring fans.
(Now you know why they call it a “strip search.”)
Fortunately, the remaining 1/8 of my clothes included my underwear—well, at least the important parts.
Unfortunately, there was still enough of my body showing to make my fans go nuts. What can I say? Pretty soon, everyone was screaming hysterically:
“AWWK! PUT SOME CLOTHES ON!”
“EEK! IT SHOULD BE ILLEGAL
TO LOOK LIKE THAT!”
“ARRK! I THINK I’M GOING TO—
(BLaaaaa . . . )
—NEVER MIND, IT’S TOO LATE!”
Wall Street arrived at my side and helped me toward the studio. “Sorry about that,” she said. “But I’ve made lots of enemies, and we can’t be too careful.”
I nodded, resetting my neck and checking other items in need of repair.
We entered the hallway, and I was immediately met by the director. He was throwing up his hands and doing what directors do best— screaming instructions at a bunch of people.
“HURRY, HURRY, HURRY! WE’RE TAPING HIS ENDORSEMENT IN FIVE MINUTES!”
Suddenly, a bunch of makeup and wardrobe folks swarmed all over me.
“What am I endorsing?” I called to Wall Street.
She said something, but I couldn’t hear over all the screaming.
“FOUR MINUTES, PEOPLE. FOUR MINUTES!”
Moments later, I was standing in front of a bunch of cameras wearing more makeup than an entire goth band and so much eyeliner even Michael Jackson would be jealous.
“STAND BY, PEOPLE!” the director screamed. “STAND BY!”
I spotted Wall Street by one of the cameras and again asked, “What am I endorsing?”
“Just read the cue cards,” she said.
“But—”
“Trust me.”
Coming from Wall Street, those were not exactly the words I wanted to hear.
A guy with one of those clapper board thingies leaped in front of my face and shouted: “World hunger commercial, take one!” He clapped it shut and disappeared.
I turned to Wall Street and whispered hopefully, “World hunger? We’re doing a promo about world hunger?”
“That’s right,” she said, smiling. “We’re doing a commercial about world hunger.”
I smiled back. I can’t tell you how relieved I was to hear that she was finally using her power for someone other than herself.
“AND . . . ACTION!” the director screamed.
I turned toward the cameras, looked at the cue card, and began to read:
“HI THERE. AS YOU ALL KNOW, I’M WALLY MCDOOGLE, THE WORLD-FAMOUS SOCCER PLAYER.”
Even as I said the lines, I kept thinking how things were finally working out. Sure, I had my worries at the beginning, but now it looked like everything was turning around.
“AND AS SOMEONE SO INCREDIBLY SUCCESSFUL, I CAN’T TELL YOU HOW STRONGLY I ENDORSE WORLD HUNGER.”
I frowned slightly. That didn’t quite make sense, but I kept on reading:
“THAT’S WHY I’M EXCITED ABOUT THESE FABULOUS NEW NUTRITION BARS, Eat All You Want.”
I held up the bar one of the props people had slipped into my hand.
“WHY, WITH JUST THREE BARS A DAY, YOU’LL NEVER GET FULL AGAIN.
YOU’LL BE ABLE TO EAT ALL DAY LONG WITHOUT EVER HAVING TO STOP.”
I glanced at Wall Street with a look of concern, but she kept motioning me to re
ad—
“AND IF YOU’RE ALWAYS EATING ALL THE TIME . . . YOU, TOO, CAN DO YOUR PART TO SUPPORT WORLD HUNGER. YOU, TOO, CAN MAKE SURE THERE WILL NEVER BE ENOUGH FOOD, SO OTHERS WILL ALWAYS BE STARVING TO—”
“Hold it; wait a minute,” I said. “That’s not right.”
“CUT, CUT, CUT!” the director screamed.
I headed over to Wall Street and did my own version of getting angry. “You lied to me! You said I’d be promoting the cause of world hunger!”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing,” she said. “You’re promoting world hunger so we’ll always have it.”
“That’s terrible!”
“How can it be terrible if it’s making me even more money?”
“This is nuts!” I shoved the EAT ALL YOU WANT bar into her hands. “You’re making money off other people’s suffering!”
“Not if you don’t do your part. Now, get in there and promote these puppies!” She shoved the bar back into my hands.
I couldn’t believe my ears. “No way!” I shouted. “This is crazy!” I turned to storm off.
Unfortunately, all those Secret Service agents had other ideas. They suddenly formed a human wall around me.
I twirled back to Wall Street. “Are you saying I can’t leave?”
She shrugged. “You can leave anytime you want . . . just as long as you finish the commercial.”
I stood there blinking. Had she really turned into such a monster? “Are you serious?” I demanded. “You actually expect me to do this commercial?”
She nodded. “And the other.”
“The other??”
“Sure, we still have to sell my new Three-in-One Health Shots.”
One Health Shots.”
“Three-in-One Health Shots? ”
“That’s right.” She grinned. “One shot and you’ll get three sicknesses—measles, mumps, and malaria.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “But . . . why?!” I demanded.
She looked at me as if I were the crazy one. “Because if people don’t have the disease, how can I sell them the cure?”
I could only stare. Wall Street was no longer just making money off my misfortunes . . . now she was making it off everybody’s.
“So let’s get started,” she said, grinning again. “The sooner we finish these endorsements, the sooner we can get to the stadium and start that game.”
The game. I closed my eyes, afraid to even imagine what that would be like.
