My eyes fluttered open, and I discovered I was lying on a bench. I saw Opera standing above me in all his P.C.-breath glory. Beside him stood me. Well, not me as the me you last remember me being, but me as the me I was back when I was—look, it was Wally, okay?

  (You think it’s confusing reading this, you should try living it!)

  Anyway, Wally looked down at me and asked, “Are you okay?”

  I let out a quiet groan. “Then it wasn’t a dream?” I asked.

  “Sorry.”

  “And I haven’t died?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Oh, brother.”

  “Better luck next time.”

  “Burp,” Opera agreed.

  I closed my eyes and muttered, “So where am I now?”

  “The boys’ locker room.”

  I looked around. Sure enough, there we were, surrounded by rows and rows of lockers. The one nearest me still had its door open. Inside was a poster of the famous heavy-metal rock-’n’-roller Sludgy Scumbucket. I don’t want to be rude, but the guy really creeped me out. In fact, he had a reputation for being one of the worst human beings on the face of the planet. Folks said he took drugs and drank and was the majorest of major losers. It didn’t help that he wore more makeup than a four-year-old gone nuts with Mommy’s makeup case.

  But he was the least of my concerns . . . at least for now.

  “Am I still in Burt’s body?” I asked.

  “Or Brock’s,” Wally said. “I can never keep them straight.”

  I nodded. “Neither can I.”

  “But the good news is, we came to, burp, help you,” Opera said.

  I gave him a look and wanted to say something clever like, “And that’s good news?” But Wally saved me the trouble when he reached down to help me sit up on the bench. Well, when he tried to reach down and help me sit up.

  He might have had more success if his sleeve hadn’t caught on the corner of the bench.

  No biggie; it could happen to anyone.

  What could not happen to anyone was the way he tugged on his sleeve until it suddenly came loose . . .

  —causing his arm to fly up and hit his chin,

  —causing his head to fly back and knock off his glasses,

  —causing his glasses to fly off and land under the cart loaded with basketballs.

  Still no problem. Until he . . .

  —started toward the basketball cart,

  —stumbled and crashed into the basketball cart,

  —rolled across the floor (and over his glasses) riding in the basketball cart.

  (Now we had a problem.)

  Yes sir, it was just like old times. He shot across the floor, waving his arms and giving the required, “AUGH . . . ,” while we, of course, shouted back the required, “LOOK OUT!”

  But now he was on a roll (in more ways than one).

  Blindly, he grabbed the side wall, trying to slow himself. But without his glasses he didn’t see the fire extinguisher. So you really couldn’t blame him for pulling it off the wall.

  And it really wasn’t his fault that when he grabbed it, he accidentally yanked out the pin, causing it to suddenly

  K-WHIIIIIIISH

  all over the place.

  Luckily, he managed to point it away from himself. Unluckily, it acted like a jet engine, shooting his cart across the room as if he were the Space Shuttle.

  Of course, he increased his “AUGH!”ing a few levels louder, and we increased our “LOOK OUT!”ing.

  But it did no good. No amount of screaming or shouting would move the row of lockers he was heading for at the back of the room. The row of lockers that he suddenly

  K-Blamm!ed

  into at just under the speed of sound.

  The good news was, they stopped him.

  The bad news was, he started them.

  That’s right, the impact was so great that the entire row of lockers tilted back and forth and forth and back until they finally

  CREEEAKed

  fell over and

  K-BANGed

  into the bench directly in front of them. Here, they leaned precariously. (How’s that for a fancy word? See how intellectual these books are?) The slightest push would cause them to fall the rest of the way and into the next row of lockers.

  “Don’t move!” I shouted. “Whatever you do, don’t move!”

  “Can somebody get me out?!” Wally’s voice echoed from somewhere deep inside the lockers. Unfortunately, that was just enough to start them

  CREEEAKing

  again.

  “DON’T MOVE!” I shouted. “DON’T EVEN BREATHE!”

  Everyone obeyed. We didn’t move a muscle. Not a hair. Unfortunately, muscles and hair aren’t exactly the same as stomachs. Especially Opera’s. Because as we stood in the absolute silence, you could clearly hear the

  rumble, rumble, rumble

  of his tummy.

  I frowned at him, but it didn’t help. The rumbling just kept growing—building and building, then building some more.

  “Opera . . . ,” I whispered.

  He nodded his head and slapped his hand over his mouth. But you could see the pressure building up inside him.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I warned.

  More head nodding, accompanied by even more

  rumble, rumble, rumbling.

  Poor guy, he was slowly inflating like the Goodyear Blimp.

  “Opera . . .”

  He tried his best, but he just couldn’t hold it in. Finally, he had to let go with the queen mother of all . . .

  “BURP”s.

  Talk about loud. The whole room shook.

  (Unfortunately, so did the row of lockers.) Not a lot, but enough to cause them to slip off the bench and fall the rest of the way.

  No problem, except for the part where they slammed into the next row of lockers, causing them to fall and slam into the next row of lockers, causing them to fall and—well, you get the picture. Suddenly, I was at the end of a giant set of dominoes as row after row of lockers slammed after slammed, until the row right in front of us was hit and started to fall.

  Opera looked up at them. “Uh-oh,” was all he said. Well, that and “burp!”

  I looked up at them and wanted to add my two cents worth by screaming my head off. But I had no time. Instead, all I could do was look at the open locker falling forward. The one with the poster of Sludgy Scumbucket coming straight at me.

  Great, I thought. Just great. Not only do I get smashed to death, but the last thing I ever see is a poster of the biggest jerk of all time—Sludgy Scumbucket, the most vile and pathetic loser that ever walked the face of the—

  But that was all I thought before

  there was that far-too-familiar sound. And that far-too-familiar switch.

  Chapter 7

  A Tate of

  SuperstarDUMB

  The good news was, I didn’t feel the lockers hit me.

  The gooder news was, I was in the middle of a thousand heavy-metal rock-’n’-roll fans, all screaming their undying love and devotion for me.

  Talk about cool!

  Actually, it was downright chilly! ’Cause along with all the screaming came all the tearing off of my clothes.

  (Well, most of them.)

  So there I was in my Fruit of the Looms trying to get off the stage through a gazillion crazed rock-’n’-roll fans . . . all trying to grab me with their crazed rock-’n’-roll fan hands!

  “OPERA!” I shouted. “WALLY!”

  But there was no Opera there. Or Wally. Well, actually, there was a me, but not the me as you last remember me being me, but the me as me when—wait a minute, didn’t we already have this conversation?

  “Sludgy!” a skin-and-bones woman screamed. “I’m your biggest fan!!”

  “No way,” a huge, heavyset one bellowed, “I’m his biggest fan!!” (And at 450 pounds, she might have had a point.)

  “AM NOT!”

  “AM TOO!”

  “AM NOT!”

  I would have loved to stick around and listen to the debate, but I was too busy being dragged off the stage by an older guy who was such a giant he made Gary the Gorilla look like Gary a munchkin from the Wizard of Oz. “Let’s go, Mr. Scumbucket!” he hollered.

  With great effort (and several bruised bones), Giant Guy dragged me through the mob and into the dressing room, where he tossed some clothes at me. As I dressed, I noticed my ripped skin and ripped-out hair.

  But that was nothing compared to my exhaustion. I was tired in a majorly cannot-move-any-body-parts kind of way. I tell you, I must have put on some concert, because I could barely stand.

  Some other guy in a fancy suit appeared beside me shouting, “Okay, Sludgy Babe, sweetheart. We got a press conference across town in ten minutes, a TV appearance in thirty, then we’ve got to head to another studio to tape your spot for—”

  “Can’t I—” I swallowed, surprised at how raw my throat felt. “Can’t I just rest a minute?”

  “No time for rest, babe, we gotta get you to the limo.”

  “But just a minute, just let me close my eyes for a—”

  “Sorry, Sludge Man, time is money.” He gave a nod to Giant Guy, who picked me up and carried me out the door toward the limo.

  “I just need to catch my breath!” I cried. “Just a little sleep!”

  “You can sleep next month!” Fancy Suit shouted as we arrived at the limo and Giant Guy dumped me into the back. Fancy Suit slid in on one side of me; Giant Guy slid in on the other. They slammed the doors, and we squealed away—nearly hitting a few fans in the process.

  “Just a few minutes!” I pleaded. “I need to sleep!”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Fancy Suit said, laughing. “That’s why we have these.” He produced a bottle of pills that didn’t exactly look like vitamins.

  My eyes widened. “What’s that?” I cried.

  “You know what these are,” he said, opening the bottle and pouring a handful into his hand. “It’s the only way for you to stay awake and meet your demanding schedule. Now, open up.”

  “Those are drugs!” I shouted. “I don’t do drugs!!”

  “Come on now,” Fancy Suit said with a sigh, “we’ve had this argument a hundred times.” As he spoke he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the minibar.

  “I don’t drink!!” I cried.

  “It’s how we’ve always washed down your pills. Now open up.”

  “No way!” I yelled. I reached for the door, but Giant Guy grabbed me and forced open my mouth.

  “NO!” I yelled. “STOP IT! STOP—”

  But that was all I got out before they shoved the pills into my mouth and poured in the awful-tasting alcohol.

  I coughed and gagged. It was terrible. Worse than terrible. I thought I was going to die. (And was afraid I might.) But as bad as the stuff tasted and as scared as I was . . . a part of me began to understand how someone even as creepy as Sludgy Scumbucket was a real person, too. Granted, he was a piece of work, and he made majorly wrong choices . . . but he was still a human being. A human being who struggled and fought with awful and ugly situations every day of his life . . . terrible things that I could never have imagined.

  And maybe, if I made it through this, the next time I thought about him I’d be a little slower to judge him . . . and a lot quicker to pray for him.

  I closed my eyes, but those awful pills wouldn’t let me rest. So I just sat there in the limo, exhausted but unable to sleep. I tell you, if this is what I could count on being a rock star, then you could count me out.

  I tried to think of something else, of anything else, to take my mind off it. The best I could come up with was my superhero story. And that was okay with me. Maybe a little time with Random Man would help. . . .

  When we last left our incredibly incurable instigator of insufferable incongruence––(this sentence actually makes sense, really––and these are all real words, reallier . . . well, not that last one). Anyway, our hero is rolling down a five-thousand-foot hill (complete with a nice lake at the bottom suitable for drowning) using a baby carriage for a skateboard.

  Normally, he would have bailed out of the carriage to save his life, but as you may remember, he still has that innocent little passenger with him.

  “Goo-goorent, Goo-goorent, Goo-goorent.”

  Ah yes, the sound of her little voice brings it all back, doesn’t it?

  (And if the sound of her voice doesn’t do it, how ’bout the smell of her diaper?)

  So, as much as he wants to save his own hide (and all the bones, muscles, and organs inside that hide), he cannot ditch the little human drooling machine. Actually, it’s not that he can’t ditch her, it’s that he doesn’t want to. If he ditched her, he’d lose his superhero license, which means he’d have to take those tests all over again (which aren’t too bad except for the essay questions, which can really be tough).

  So, in a burst of superhero superheroism, Random Man sticks out his foot and

  SCRAAAAAAAPE

  drags his shoe, which

  smoke smoke smoke

  “OUCH! OUCH! OUCH!”

  wears down, up to his pants, then up to his shirt, then up to his collar. (Looks like Mom’s got some serious mending to do.) But he finally brings them to a stop and leaps into the water to

  HIISSSssss . . .

  cool down his smoking clothes (not to mention his smoking body).

  The good news is, he has stopped the carriage and Baby Mess-N-Pants before they shot into the lake.

  The bad news is, the lake has one very suspicious periscope sticking up out of it.

  The badder news is, suspicious periscopes are usually connected to suspicious submarines.

  The badderer news is (if you’re still keeping score), suspicious submarines usually have

  “Moo-hoo-hoo, Ha-ha-ha-haaaa . . .”

  bad guys lurking inside them. (At least in these books––even if it is one of those new fancy-schmancy hardback editions.)

  Anyway, our hero barely has time to slip into the new shoes, pants, and shirt he keeps in his pocket for just such occasions before the submarine surfaces, the hatch opens, and out pops

  Ta-Da-Daaaaaaa ...

  (That’s right, fancy-schmancy hardback editions

  still have cornball bad-guy music)

  Blendo Boy.

  But instead of his usual fancy, bad-dude duds, he’s dressed in gray like everybody else. Not only that, but his face, his hair––and yes, even his fingernail polish––are also the same boring gray.

  “Greetings, Random Runt,” he shouts.

  “Blendo Boy!? Are you behind all of this?”

  “Yes! Isn’t that what the President said back on page 18? Honestly, don’t you read these stories?”

  As he speaks, a giant crane appears from the sub and telescopes out and over Random Man’s head. A giant crane holding an even gianter net.

  “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?” our hero shouts.

  “Because they had a sale on giant cranes and gianter nets.”

  “No, no, no. Why are you making everybody in the world the same?”

  “Because they were different. And different is wrong!”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me, just two sentences ago. Man, you really don’t read these stories, do you?”

  “No, I mean, why is it wrong that people are different?”

  “Because they’re not 100 percent like me.”

  “But can’t that be a good thing?”

  “Look, I’d love to continue this great debate, but I gotta hurry and drop this net over your head to capture you.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can bring you onto the sub and have our fight scene.”

  “The fight scene? Is that coming up already?”

  “In the next section.”

  “But––”

  “Hold still!”

  “But, but––”

  “Say cheese. . . .”

  “But, but, but––”

  Before our hero continues his motorboat imitation (and his cheesy grin), the cargo net falls on top of him.

  Quicker than you can say, “Why was he standing still and smiling? For a superhero, he’s sure not supersmart––”

  “Hey, I heard that!”

  Sorry. He may not be supersmart, but he still has superhearing.

  “I heard that, too!”

  See what I mean? Anyway, quicker than you can silently think, For a superhero, he’s sure not supersmart, the net scoops him up and lifts him high into the air like a human piñata.

  Oh, no! What will happen next?

  Are they really coming up to the fight scene already?

  And by the way, who’s looking after the baby during all this action?

  These are the types of incredibly intense questions running through our superhero’s intensely empty brain when suddenly––

  “Okay, Sludgy Babe, we’re here for the press conference.”

  Before I could stop him, Giant Guy did what he does best—dragged me out of the car and carried me into the TV station . . . while I did what I do best—kicked, screamed, and cried for my mommy.

  We headed down a long hall filled with pictures of famous people. Then we entered the makeup room full of lights and mirrors. Giant Guy threw me into what looked like a barber’s chair, and some lady in an apron started redoing all my white makeup. I don’t want to say she overdid it, but when I looked into the mirror I was whiter than Dad gets when he sees Mom’s cell-phone bill.

  “I don’t want all this junk on my face!” I cried.

  “You have to,” Fancy Suit answered from the door. “It’s what your fans expect. Besides, it’s in your contract.”

  I folded my arms and scowled. I tell you, for a guy who’s supposed to be all crazy and free, Sludgy Scumbucket could not have been more trapped and miserable.

  I glanced up at the TV monitor in the corner, the one showing highlights from last week’s football game. Everybody and their brother was excited that our very own Middletown Mutants were going to be in the Super Bowl tomorrow. And everybody and their sister was in love with our star quarterback . . . Hank Heartthrobber.

 

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