My Life as a Supersized Superhero with Slobber Read online

  MY Life

  as a

  Supersized

  Superhero

  ... WITH SLOBBER

  Books by Bill Myers

  Series

  SECRET AGENT DINGLEDORF

  . . . and his trusty dog, SPLAT

  The Case of the . . .

  Giggling Geeks • Chewable Worms

  • Flying Toenails • Drooling Dinosaurs •

  Hiccupping Ears • Yodeling Turtles

  The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle

  My Life As . . .

  a Smashed Burrito with Extra Hot Sauce • Alien Monster Bait

  • a Broken Bungee Cord • Crocodile Junk Food •

  Dinosaur Dental Floss • a Torpedo Test Target

  • a Human Hockey Puck • an Afterthought Astronaut •

  Reindeer Road Kill • a Toasted Time Traveler

  • Polluted Pond Scum • a Bigfoot Breath Mint •

  a Blundering Ballerina • a Screaming Skydiver

  • a Human Hairball • a Walrus Whoopee Cushion •

  a Computer Cockroach (Mixed-Up Millennium Bug)

  • a Beat-Up Basketball Backboard • a Cowboy Cowpie •

  Invisible Intestines with Intense Indigestion

  • a Skysurfing Skateboarder • a Tarantula Toe Tickler •

  a Prickly Porcupine from Pluto • a Splatted-Flat Quarterback

  • a Belching Baboon • a Stupendously Stomped Soccer Star •

  a Haunted Hamburger, Hold the Pickles

  • a Supersized Superhero . . . with Slobber •

  The Portal • The Experiment • The Whirlwind • The Tablet

  Picture Book

  Baseball for Breakfast

  www.Billmyers.com

  The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle

  MY Life

  as a

  Supersized

  Superhero

  ... WITH SLOBBER

  BILL MYERS

  MY LIFE AS A SUPERSIZED SUPERHERO . . . WITH SLOBBER

  Copyright © 2007 by Bill Myers.

  Cover illustration by Jeff Mangiat.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, TN, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc. titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please email [email protected].

  Unless noted otherwise, all Scripture references are from the International Children’s Bible® , New Century Version® , © 1986, 1988, 1999 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Myers, Bill, 1953–

  My life as a supersized superhero—with slobber / Bill Myers.

  p. cm.— (The incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; 28)

  Summary: Believing that God wants him to make the world a better place, Wally is thrilled when Junior Whiz Kid outfits him with a supersuit, but he soon realizes that everyday acts of kindness make more of a difference than a superhero ever could.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4003-0637-4 (pbk.)

  ISBN-10: 1-4003-0637-X

  [1. Heroes—Fiction. 2. Inventions—Fiction. 3. Christian Life—

  Fiction. 4. Humorous stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.M98234Mylem 2007

  [Fic]—dc22

  2007005540

  Printed in the United States of America

  07 08 09 10 11 RRD 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Janey and Louis DeMeo . . .

  who know the real secret of serving the King.

  Contents

  1. Just for Starters

  2. An Old Fiend

  3. Extreme Makeover

  4. A Sticky Stickup

  5. The Plot Sickens . . .

  6. New and Not-So-Improved

  7. Late-Break ing News

  8. More Superheroics

  9. In Your Dreams . . . (or Not)

  10. Wrapping Up

  “I tell you the truth. Anything you did for any of my people here, you also did for me.”

  —Matthew 25:40

  Chapter 1

  Just for Starters

  I was having another one of my world-famous daymares.

  It would have been nightmares, but I was sitting in Mr. Reptenson’s science class . . . which meant I was required to catch up on my sleep. I don’t want to say that it’s a law or anything, but the U.S. Surgeon General had posted a sign on his door that read:

  WARNING:Listening to this teacher may cause great boredom, resulting in serious eye glazing, loss of consciousness, and little puddles of drool forming on your desk from sleeping with your mouth open.

  It’s not that Reptile Man (that’s what we call him for short) is boring. But if you ever want to chill down after an exciting day of watching snail races or the leaves changing color, his classroom is just the place.

  So, there I was, conked out on my desk making my own little drool pool, when suddenly I heard tap-dancing.

  I pried open my baby blues and saw an angel in a white tuxedo, top hat, and cane tap-dancing on Reptile Man’s desk.

  “Bartholomew!” I cried.

  “Good afternoon, Wallace.” He spoke in his usual thick English accent.

  Of course, Mr. Reptenson didn’t notice a thing. It’s hard noticing things like tap-dancing angels when you’re only wearing a scuba suit, passing out answers to all upcoming quizzes, and showing Spider-Man XVII on a giant-screen TV that you traded in your blackboard for.

  (Oh, yeah, I was definitely dreaming.)

  “So, how’s the angel biz?” I asked.

  “Smashing,” he said, continuing his dance. “By the way, I loved your My Life As Reindeer Road Kill book.”

  “I mentioned you in it.”

  “My point exactly. Of course, it’s not exactly the same as being in the Book with Gabriel and the other guys, but . . .”

  “The Book?” I asked.

  “The Bible, Wallace.”

  “Oh, yeah, that the Book.”

  “Not as many laughs as yours, but definitely worth the read.”

  I nodded. “Where did you learn to dance like that?”

  “Oh, this?” He did a flurry of tapping. “I’ve been watching old Shirley Temple movies.”

  I glanced around the room and saw every kid in class was playing video games on monitors that were built into their desks. Not only that, but the cafeteria lady was going around serving pizza with a crust that was actually fit for human consumption.

  Yes, I was definitely dreaming.

  “Listen, Wallace, I have another invitation for you from God.”

  I suddenly got a little nervous. Remembering my numerous near-death experiences from the last one, I asked, “What is it this time?”

  He opened his hand to reveal a glowing envelope. Instantly, it turned into a pigeon and flew across the room where it landed on my shoulder. Talk about cool. It was even cooler when it turned back into the invitation.

  I took the invitation and read:

  The Lord requests your help in

  making the world a better place to live.

  “God wants me to help . . . Him?!” I asked in astonishment.

  Bartholomew nodded.

  “Wow! What an honor! Why me?”

  “Rumor has it He likes the underdogs. And they don’t come any more und
er than you.”

  I nodded. When he was right, he was right. “But how can I help make the world a better place to live?”

  “He will show you when the time is right,” Bartholomew said as he started to fade.

  “Wait a minute, don’t leave!” I jumped to my feet. “God wants me to help Him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But . . . what about tools or weapons and stuff? What am I supposed to use?”

  “Your tools will be provided. . . .”

  “But . . . wait a minute! You gotta tell me more! I need more information!”

  “Well, Wally, this is a pleasant surprise,” Mr. Reptenson said.

  I blinked. “Huh?”

  Bartholomew was gone, and I was standing beside my desk with Mr. Reptenson talking to me: “I appreciate your wanting more information. Stay after class and I’ll be happy to discuss, in greater detail, the unique and fascinating process of photosynthesis.”

  “Thanks . . . ,” I squeaked as my face kinda turned beet red as my body kinda melted back into my seat.

  That was the bad news. The good news was, Bartholomew had only been a dream. Or so I thought. . . .

  If you’ve ever watched old westerns on TV and seen cattle stampedes, you know what our school hallway is like when the lunch bell rings.

  My best friend Opera, aka the Human Eating Machine, and I had just joined the herd, trying not to get trampled, when a little voice beside me said:

  “Mister McDoogle! cough-sniff, Mister McDoogle!”

  I looked down to see little Willy Runeenoze beside me. He’d been sick for just under a gazillion years and had returned to school. The bad news was, he was so behind in his work that unless he got a tutor, they’d hold him back a year. The badder news was, Principal Yellinyerface thought I’d be the perfect tutor to help him catch up with his studies.

  So, a day or so ago I had promised to help . . . just as soon as I found a free minute.

  “Mister McDoogle? sniff-cough, Mister McDoogle.”

  “Willy,” I said, “will you please stop calling me Mister.”

  “I’m sorry, sneeze-wheeze. How ’bout Sir? Is Sir McDoogle okay?”

  It kinda had a catchy ring to it, so I nodded.

  “Can I come over to your place for help on my homework tonight?”

  “Not tonight,” I said. “God needs me to save the world for Him.”

  “Oh, wheeze-sneeze. What about afterward? I can stay up till nine o’clock.”

  He looked up to me—so eager, so hopeful (so uninformed of my reputation as the Disaster Master). What could I do? Break the little guy’s heart? No way. So, I did the next best thing. I lied. “Yeah, sure.”

  “All right!” He broke into a round of joyous hacking. “Because I really need—”

  “Hey, Wally!”

  Willy’s hack attack was interrupted by Wall Street, my other best friend (even though she is a girl). “I just got a call from Junior Whiz Kid,” she said as she joined us.

  Just the sound of his name made me colder than an ice cube in a freezer in the middle of Antarctica . . . on a cloudy day.

  “What’s he want?” Opera asked, chomping away on his third bag of Chippy Chipper potato chips. (It was taking longer than normal to get to the cafeteria, so he’d broken into the emergency stash of chips taped to his belly under his shirt.)

  “He’s got a new invention he wants to try out on Wally.”

  I shivered. “Why me?”

  “Because you’ve worked with him before. Once with that rocket-powered skateboard that nearly killed you, and once with that giant tarantula . . . that nearly killed you.”

  “They were both disasters,” I argued.

  Wall Street shrugged. “I guess he believes the third time’s the charm.”

  “Or,” Opera suggested, “three strikes and you’re out.”

  (Opera doesn’t always look at the bright side of things.)

  “Relax,” Wall Street said. “I’ve taken out a good insurance policy on you.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning if you die, I get a bazillion bucks.”

  “WHAT?!” I didn’t mean to yell, but I always get a little touchy when best friends plan my death.

  “No, no,” she said. “This time it’s cool. Junior says he’s got all sorts of superhero weapons he wants to hook you up to.”

  “Superhero . . . weapons?”

  “Yeah, to fight against the forces of evil and help make the world a better place.”

  The phrase sounded more than a little familiar. “He said that?”

  “Yeah, along with the fact that it’s been a while since any of his inventions backfired, and he needs a few laughs.”

  I looked at her, and she shrugged.

  It was obvious Wall Street was using me . . . again. But it was equally obvious that Junior could provide exactly what Bartholomew had promised . . . a way to make the world a better place. Of course, I was more nervous than a worm in the middle of a fishing-hook convention. But, let’s face it, there are worse things that could happen than being hurt as a superhero.

  (At the moment none come to mind, so I’ll have to get back to you on that.)

  The point is, Wall Street might be right— maybe the third time really is the charm.

  Then again, there was Opera’s comment about baseball and three strikes.

  But since I’m allergic to sports (I break out in a bad case of broken bones every time I get near them), I bought what Wall Street was selling instead.

  Unfortunately, I was about to find out there were no refunds and all sales were final.

  Chapter 2

  An Old Fiend

  After winding through creepy dark streets that gave me the chills, and chilly dark alleys that gave me the creeps, we finally arrived at Junior Whiz Kid’s laboratory.

  “Go ahead and knock,” Wall Street said.

  I nodded and

  knock-knock-knocked

  on the door—all the time praying my little heart out. There was no answer, so once again I

  knock-knock-knocked.

  “Okay, Wally, that’s enough knocking.”

  I nodded and

  knock-knock-knocked

  some more.

  “Wally, enough already.”

  I nodded in full agreement. But the knocking had nothing to do with the door or my knuckles. Instead, it had everything to do with fear and my

  knock-knock-knocking

  knees.

  The good news was, it finally stopped.

  The bad news was, it was replaced by a slightly louder and more obnoxious

  ZZZZZZZZZAAPPPP

  K-BLEWIE!

  If you guessed that was the sound of a laser beam blowing up the door, you’d have guessed right. And if you guessed that standing on the other side of the door was seven-year-old Junior Whiz Kid, then maybe you should stop reading this book and start writing your own.

  “A pleasant afternoon to you, Wally.” Although Junior was only seven, he had the vocabulary of a seventy-year-old. On his head was a football helmet with a miniature camera lens attached to the top. But instead of shooting pictures, the lens was shooting

  ZZZZZZZZZAAPPP ZZZZZZZZZAAPPP ZZZZZZZZZAAPPP

  K-BLEWIE

  beams.

  (If you guessed that one, you definitely need to be a writer . . . or see a good brain doctor.)

  “Dreadfully sorry about that,” Junior apologized while accidentally

  ZZZZZZZZZAAPPPPing

  and K-BLEWIEing

  up the next-door neighbor’s wall. No problem, except it belonged to some granny’s bathroom . . . which wouldn’t have been so bad except Granny was in the middle of her daily

  “EEEEEK!”

  shower.

  At last he found the off switch. He hit it five or six times, but with no result. Luckily, he had a nearby baseball bat, which he

  K-thud, K-thud, K-thudded

  a few more times, giving himself a major headache, but finally shut
ting the thing down.

  Fortunately, he didn’t knock himself out.

  Unfortunately, he reached out to shake my hand.

  Don’t get me wrong, I like being as friendly as the next guy. But when the hand is a mechanical arm that

  K-ZIIIING!

  shoots out at a thousand miles an hour, forcing you to

  “AUGH!”

  duck as it keeps going another mile or two, stopping at nothing, including more bathroom walls . . . with more folks taking showers (not to mention other bathroom things) . . . well, you can see why it might make a cowardly person like myself just a bit more, oh, I don’t know . . . cowardly.

  “Please,” Junior said, pulling the mechanical arm back in, “do come in.”

  I tried to move, but my body had this thing about wanting to live.

  Unfortunately, Wall Street had this thing about wanting to make a gazillion dollars. “It’s good to see you again,” she said as she stepped inside.

  Junior turned to me. “Please, Wally, join us.”

  I didn’t know which was worse—admitting I was scared to death of some seven-year-old kid, or having my heart stop ’cause I was scared to death of some seven-year-old kid. Either way, my feet finally decided to obey—which was good for my ego, but not so good for my health.

  Wall Street motioned to the smoking door, the blown-out walls, and all the screaming wet and naked people. “What was that about?”

  “Just my latest invention,” Junior explained.

  Wall Street nodded. “Looks like you still have a few bugs to work out.”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yes, there are a few bugs to work out; but no, because as soon as I surgically implant them into Wally’s body, they will work perfectly.”

  “What?!” I screamed sorta hysterically.

  “Relax.” Junior laughed sorta creepily.

  Unfortunately, the laugh loosened his helmet’s on/off switch, which sorta caused a few more

  ZZZZZZZZZAAPPPPs

  K-BLEWIEs,

  which sorta ruined the privacy of a few more neighbors, which sorta caused Junior to grab the bat and do a few more

  K-thud, K-thud, K-thuddings