My Life As a Tarantula Toe Tickler, page 3
“The problem does not lie with my G.O.O.F., but with the subjects.”
“You mean the rats and guinea pigs?” I asked.
“Precisely. The machine was designed for humans. These are merely rodents.”
“So . . .” I took a nervous gulp.
“So the time has come to experiment on a real person.”
I’d like to say I was going to be surprised, but I’ve lived through enough of these stories to guess what was next. I felt myself going cold. I felt myself growing numb. I felt myself not wanting to ask the question I knew I had to ask, so I asked it, anyway. “So, you want to use me as . . .”
“. . . my next test subject.”
I started backing up. “No way.” I shook my head. “Absolutely not. Forget it!”
“But—”
I turned to Wall Street. “Tell him!” I exclaimed. “Tell him it’s not possible!”
“I’m afraid Wally’s right,” she said.
I nodded, grateful for the support, thankful that Wall Street was taking my side. Unfortunately, she wasn’t quite finished. . . .
“At least not for the price you quoted me over the phone.”
“Wall Street!” I cried.
She shrugged. “For something like this, we’ll have to charge a little extra.”
Chapter 4
Dumbo Jr.
So there we stood in Junior’s lab as Wall Street argued over the cost of my life. I was touched by her love and devotion as she insisted on more than $5.00, on more than $10.00—in fact, I bet we could have gotten up to $14.95 if Junior hadn’t said, “Remember, if the G.O.O.F. works and enlarges his mind, he may invest intelligently for you in the stock market and—”
“—make me a ton more dough!” Wall Street cried.
“Precisely.”
“All right!” Wall Street shouted, grabbing his hand and shaking it. “We’ve got a deal!”
Of course, they also allowed me to express my opinion—which I did by quietly turning, running toward the door, and screaming . . .
“SOMEBODY SAVE ME!”
I almost made it to safety, except for those three or four walls I slammed into. Then, of course, there was that huge stack of worm trays I
K-rashed
into, causing about half of them to fall on top of me. Fortunately, when the trays fell, instead of guinea pigs or whatever, nothing but worms spilled out. Unfortunately, I was knocked too unconscious to appreciate the difference.
When I woke up, Wall Street was helping Junior carry me toward the G.O.O.F. while speaking such comforting words as, “Don’t worry, Wally, even if it fails, think how much money we’ll get to pay for your funeral.”
I don’t like being a spoilsport, but I figured now was as good a time as any to fight for my life. Immediately, I began some karate, then tae kwon do, then the greatest self-defense of them all . . . crying for my mommy!
Despite my heroic efforts (along with my usual begging and sobbing), they managed to get me to the chair. But I’d twisted and squirmed until I was upside down.
“Buckle him in!” Junior cried.
“But he’s upside down!” Wall Street shouted.
“With my numerous failed attempts, I doubt it should make any difference.”
With that bit of encouraging news, Wall Street did what any true-blue friend would do. She walked up to him, she looked him squarely in the eyes, and she said, “Okay.”
Immediately, they began clamping my arms down in the leg clamps and my legs up in the arm clamps. “What about this?” she asked as she reached for the football helmet that hung from the electrical cable. “Where do we put it?”
“It makes no difference,” he said as I continued squirming and kicking. He reached for the “ON” switch and continued, “As I previously mentioned, I seriously doubt that anything positive will—”
“AUGHHH!”
K-kick
The “AUGHHH!” was, of course, yours truly, screaming his head off.
The K-kick was my foot flying and hitting the helmet.
Oh, yeah, and there was one other sound . . .
kuuuzch-kuuuzch-kuuuzch
That, dear reader, is the sound a kicked G.O.O.F. helmet makes when it starts swinging back and forth and all the rays that are supposed to be shooting into the brain start shooting around the room. No problem except for
kuuuzch . . . K-Blamb!
blub, blub, blub
turning Junior’s mug of hot chocolate into a giant hot tub of hot chocolate. Or
kuuuzch . . . K-Pow!
turning a nearby pencil into a giant log. Or
kuuuzch . . . K-Blewie!
turning all those floating dust particles into huge asteroids that started
“Look out!”
crashing into the floor, leaving huge
K-bamb, K-bamb, K-bamb
craters wherever they hit.
“Stop fighting!” Wall Street shouted at me. “This will only hurt for a moment!”
Somehow, I wasn’t encouraged. I kept fighting and squirming until I—
K-KICKed
the helmet so hard that it swung way out to the side and suddenly—
kuuuzch-kuuuzch-kuuuzch
squirm, squirm . . . slither, slither . . .
Remember those escaping worms that I said were no problem a while back?
Well, now they were a problem.
Only, they weren’t exactly worms. Not anymore. Now they were like giant snakes, a hundred feet long, slithering across the f loor toward us!
And if that wasn’t bad enough, there was also the obnoxious
smack, smack, smacking
of their mouths or jaws or whatever giant earthworms smack when they’re about to enjoy a fine dining experience.
Then, just when we were about to become earthworm appetizers (making this the shortest My Life As . . . book in history), they slithered directly into the path of the falling asteroids. So instead of squirm, squirm . . . slither, slither, we were now greeted with
Squish, Squish
Splatter, Splatter.
Gross? You bet.
Messy? The worst.
But worth it, if you like to live.
Which I did.
Which I might have.
Which I would have . . . if Wall Street hadn’t taken advantage of my distraction, flipped me around in the chair, and slapped the helmet on my head.
“Okay, Junior!” she yelled. “Hit it!”
Junior turned the switch and
kuuuzch-kuuuzch-kuuuzch
the rays, or whatever they were, shot out of the helmet and into my brain. Well, that’s what they were supposed to do. Unfortunately, they hit a little detour along the way . . .
My little ears.
Only they weren’t so little anymore. Because with each
kuuuzch-kuuuzch-kuuuzch
(and there were about fifty of them), my ears grew about an inch.
Now, I’m no math genius, but if you take fifty kuuuzch-kuuuzch-kuuuzches and multiply them times one inch, you’ll get ears the size of—don’t tell me, I’ll figure this out. Uh . . . 1 inch x 50 is . . . uh, er . . . Well, let’s just say it’s not bad if you’re planning to dress up like Dumbo the elephant for Halloween, or if you don’t mind looking like you’ve got satellite dishes stuck to your head. But if you want to pass as a normal human being, you might get a little, oh, I don’t know . . .
“AUGHHHHHH!”
freaked.
The good news was, the helmet could no longer contain my head (or at least my ears), so it
K-Blewie!-ed.
The bad news was, I finally broke free of the barber chair and raced out the door.
And why is that bad news, you ask? (You are asking, right?)
It’s bad news because . . . remember that windy alley I talked about outside Junior’s door? Well, once I got outside and started running down it, the wind began whipping my ears. No problem until they started lifting me off the ground! At first I rose only a few inches, then a few feet, and then . . . well, let’s just say I quickly became the world’s first living human hang glider!
Actually, it wasn’t too bad. Almost fun. Of course, it would have been more fun if I could have somehow controlled where I was going.
Which I couldn’t.
Which explains the
ZZZ . . . ZZZ
crackle-crackle
smoke-smoke
I heard (and smelled) when my pants leg brushed against the overhead electrical wires.
No problem, except for the part about my pants catching fire.
MY PANTS CATCHING FIRE?!
(Sorry, I’m yelling again, aren’t I?)
So there I was, sailing above the street with pants f laming like one of Dad’s backyard barbecues. But, being a fairly intelligent person (or at least knowing how to fake it), I reached back and tried smacking out the flames.
Unfortunately, all that smacking caused more ear f lapping, and I really started to gain altitude. In fact, before I knew it, I was so high that
K-WOOOOOOO—
“AUGHHHH!”
—OOOOOOSHHHH
I was playing tag with jet airliners!
Actually, it wasn’t tag. It was more like badminton. But instead of using those little birdie things, we were using
K-WOOOOOOO—
“AUGHHHHH!”
—OOOOOOSHHHH
dink!
K-WOOOOOOO—
“AUGHHHHH!”
—OOOOOOSHHHH
dink!
me!
But they weren’t the only ones who wanted to play. Word quickly spread, and soon I was visited by a couple of
Wooosh!
Wooosh!
fighter jets.
They seemed kinda friendly. In fact, they didn’t even bat me around. No sir. Instead, they were more interested in shooting me down!
SHOOTING ME DOWN??!!
(Yes, I’m yelling again, but it’s hard hearing over the noise of fighter jets shooting warning shots.)
FIGHTER JETS SHOOTING WARNING SHOTS??!!
(Sorry.)
The best I could figure, they were a little nervous about me being up there. Which was fine, ’cause I was a bit nervous myself. Soon, the planes began circling me, the pilots motioning through the cockpit with their hands. As best I could tell, they wanted me to grab the ends of my ears and pull them down. Not a bad idea since this would definitely stop them from being wings.
So, wanting to keep the guys happy (and me alive), I reached out, grabbed my ears, and pulled them straight down.
I tell you, the guys knew exactly what they were talking about. Because just as soon as I pulled down my ears, I quit flying.
Good.
There was only one problem.
As soon as I quit f lying, I started
“A
U
U
U
U
U
G
H
H
!
!”
falling.
Chapter 5
Sealed Lips
So there I was doing my world-famous “Auuuuughh!! I’m going to die! Auuuuughh!! I’m going to die!” routine (You know, the one where my life flashes before my eyes?) when, suddenly, everything flashed just a little differently.
Flash 1. I saw all the work I’d gone through trying to fix Mom’s vase ’cause I wouldn’t tell her the truth and take responsibility for my actions.
Flash 2. I saw all the worry I’d gone through trying to fix Mom’s vase ’cause I wouldn’t tell her the truth and take responsibility for my actions.
Flash 3. I saw all the pain I’d gone through trying to fix Mom’s vase ’cause I wouldn’t tell her the truth and take responsibility for my actions.
Call me overly intelligent, but I was starting to see a pattern.
Call me overly ignorant, but I refused to believe it.
So there I was, hanging on to my ears and falling to the earth just faster than the speed of light, when I suddenly had a brilliant idea . . .
If hanging on to my ears causes me to fall, there must be something I can do to cause me to stop. After careful calculations and seconds of research, I decided to try a radical approach. I decided to let go of my ears.
I know, I know, it was a courageous move on my part, but desperate times call for desperate dorkiness.
Because the decision was so frightening, I had to work up my courage by counting to three.
“One: Okay, McDoogle, here goes. Deep breaths, now . . .
“Two: Don’t worry, you’ve done all the calculations . . .
“Thr—”
K-Rash!
This, of course, is the sound of a big-eared body hitting hard-packed earth . . . when it took too long to count to three.
The nice thing about unconsciousness is you don’t remember those long, boring rides in the ambulance, those monotonous hours on the operating table, or all those little-kid sing-along videos Mom plays for you when you’re at home recovering.
But all good things must come to an end. When I finally woke up, I noticed two things. First, my ears had shrunk back to normal. Second, I was greeted with many kind, sensitive questions, including:
“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!”
That, of course, would be Dad. He gets a little upset when he, uh, gets upset.
Then, there was Mom:
“Would you like to pop in another video so we can all sing along?”
And, finally, dear, sweet, little Carrie:
“Give me twenty bucks for keeping my mouth shut about the vase.” (She’d obviously been taking lessons from Wall Street.)
Here I’d gone through all this pain and misery, but I was no closer to solving the vase problem than when I started. Of course, I could have confessed right then and there. I could have told Mom the truth and taken responsibility for my actions. But then I wouldn’t get to enjoy all the upcoming pain and misery.
It was a tough decision—to be destroyed or not to be destroyed, that is the question. But since I’ve never scored high on learning from my mistakes and since we were only halfway through this book, I voted for keeping my mouth shut. Yes sir, some pain is just too good to pass up.
So, instead of doing the right thing, I grabbed Ol’ Betsy and passed away the hours by working on my superhero story. . . .
When we last left our burper buddy, Burping Boy (or is it burping buddy, Burper Boy?), he was busy watching the sinisterly sinister and startling stupendous (or is it startling sinister and sinisterly stupendous——)
“Hey, can we just, burp, get on with it, please?”
“Who . . . who said that?” I type.
“Me.”
“‘Me’ who?” I type.
“Me, your superhero.”
“You can’t talk, you’re just an imaginary character.”
“And by the looks of things, burp, you can’t write.”
“Sorry, I’m just a little, I don’t know . . . preoccupied.”
“Whoa, ‘preoccupied.’ Pretty fancy word for a kid. But then again, writers use big words and you’re serious about this writer thing, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“And I’m serious about this superhero business, so can we get on with the story——or are you going to keep worrying about your mom’s vase?”
“How do you know about the vase?”
“I’m your imagination. Where you go, I go.”
“Everywhere?”
“Yup.”
“Like, even to the bathroom?”
“That’s the way it works.”
“Eewww.”
“Tell me about it. Now, about the story? I don’t want to complain, but remember that dust bunny you had growing under my bed?”
“Yeah,” I type.
“Well, now it’s the size of a—
ROAR
grizzly bear. ”
“What happened to his giggles? He’s supposed to giggle.”
“Hey, it’s your story, not mine. All I know is——”
ROOOOOAAAAR
“You know what I said about grizzly bears?”
“Yeah?”
“Forget it. Now we’re talking the size of a small tree. In fact, he’s starting to grow through my ceiling!”
“But——”
“Can we PLEASE get on with this, before he breaks through my——”
RIP, CRASH
Bang, Blam
Clatter, Clatter, Clatter.
“Never mind.”
“Sorry.”
“He’s still growing....”
“Oh, right. Here goes, then.”
Suddenly, the giant dust bunny bursts through the roof and is now the size of...the size of——
“A GIANT tree!”
“Right.”
Suddenly, the dust bunny has grown to the size of a giant tree. But this is no concern for Burping Boy. Taking a giant swig of ginger ale, he builds up maximum burp pressure, points his head to the ground, lets forth a giant
BURP!
and takes off like a rocket, shooting through the hole in his roof. Then, with a series of smaller
burp, burp...burp... burp,
burp, burps
he makes midcourse corrections until he’s face-to-face with the dreaded creature.
“Hold it, dust bunnies don’t have faces. They’re just——”
“Excuse me?” I type.
“You just wrote, ‘face-to-face.’ But they don’t have faces. They’re just fluffy bunches of dust that stick together under beds and——”
“Excuse me, I’m on a roll. Would you mind letting me write?”
“Yeah, but——”
“Just stick to your superhero business.”
“What business? Looking into the face of a stupid dust bunny? Not exactly the thrill of my life——”
Suddenly, the giant dust bunny opens its mouth and roars with such force that it throws our hero across the street—— “Much more interesting.”
“Thanks.”
Then, racing back across the street he
HONK! HONK! HON—
narrowly misses being hit by a giant semitruck.
“That was close. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. ”
He arrives just in time to see his bad bunny buddy hop from his yard and stomp onto the neighbor’s house. But how is that possible? How can mere dust particles form a real-life bunny, let alone make it strong enough to crunch other people’s houses?
