My Life as a Supersized Superhero with Slobber Read online

  Realizing I might have stretched it a bit too far, I pulled back the arm until it

  K-Bamb!

  hit my desk. This, of course, was interrupted by expected screams such as: “AUGH! A GHOST! A GHOST!” and the usual, scared-out-of-their- mind shrieks that janitors often make as they stumble over their

  K-Rash

  glug-glug-glug

  mop and bucket while running out of studios for their lives.

  But I paid little attention. I was too busy concentrating on my EXTENDO ARM Ever so gently I

  k-zing . . . . . . k-zing . . . . . . k-zing . . . . . .

  moved it out toward the camera.

  Finally, with a few more k-zingings (and a minimal amount of K-rashings), I reached the little green switch. I gave it one little

  K-lick!

  Suddenly, a red light on top of the camera popped on.

  And, just as suddenly, a light in the control booth upstairs came on. Junior had broken in. I could see him dashing to the control board. Immediately, he began punching buttons, dialing dials, and knobbing knobs.

  Finally, he looked at me and gave me the thumbs-up. It was now or never. And though never always seems like a better choice, I knew it was time, once again, to be a superhero.

  Chapter 8

  More Superheroics

  Now was my chance—the opportunity to use all of my stupendous superhero powers for the good of the world.

  I reached into my pocket to pull out the speech I should have written . . . which I didn’t . . . which was okay because, as you remember, metal suits don’t have pockets anyway.

  Once again my heart began

  thump-thump-thumping

  louder than the speaker in some rapper’s car.

  I looked at the camera.

  It looked at me.

  My eyes squinted.

  Its red light glowed.

  Finally, after a little prayer to God (and a promise to start treating my little sister better if He let me live), I cleared my throat and began:

  “Gasp-gasp. Wheeze-wheeze. Gasp-wheeze . . . wheeze-gasp.”

  Try as I might, no words would come! It’s not that I was camera-shy. I was camera-horrified. All I could do was gasp and try to catch my breath. The good news was, I was able to get enough air to breathe. The bad news was, I didn’t get enough to sound like a human being (or any other intelligent life form).

  I glanced up at the control booth. Junior motioned for me to take deeper breaths. So, with nothing else better to do than faint from hyperventilating, I took some deeper gasps and wheezes and tried again.

  “Hi, there. I’m Wally McDoogle . . .”

  My voice was about ten octaves higher than normal, but at least I had one. I cleared my throat and continued:

  “People are starving.”

  There. Done. I was brilliant, if I do say so myself. I had made my point, and now it was time to go.

  Well, not exactly . . .

  Junior was up in the booth waving for me to go on. He looked so concerned and desperate, and we had worked so hard to get here, that I took another breath and continued:

  “And not just a few people. I’m talking a thou- sand people every hour. That’s 24,000 people a day dying of hunger!”

  I noticed the door to the control booth flying open and a couple of guys in suits running toward Junior. I didn’t have much time.

  “I know it’d be a lot more fun watching beautiful shows with beautiful actors lost on beautiful islands, or investigating how other beautiful actors are killed, or chasing beautiful actor bad guys, but . . . 24,000 lives a day, people!”

  Up in the booth the suits had wrestled Junior

  to the ground. I talked faster.

  “And we have enough food to feed everyone. In fact, we produce four and a half pounds of food each day for every man, woman, and child in the world! But they’re not getting it, because we’re too lazy or greedy or just don’t care, or—”

  KA-ZOOOOOOO . . .

  Suddenly, the light on the camera went out. The broadcast was done. But that was okay. I’d said what had to be said.

  We had actually succeeded!

  Proudly, I rose from the newsdesk. With head held high, I crossed the studio floor and headed out the doors with the greatest-possible dignity . . . well, with as much dignity as floating underwear can have.

  Yes sir, it was one satisfying experience telling people about world hunger. It was also pretty exhausting. So, on the way home in the taxi with Wall Street (Junior’s mode of transportation was in the back of a police car), I relaxed and got back to my superhero story.

  The only problem was, I didn’t have Ol’ Betsy.

  But I did have a pretty good imagination. So, I sat back, closed my eyes, and did what I know best. . . .

  When we last left Normal Dude, Fast Forward Fiend was making people zip through time faster than winter break flies by at Christmas. Worse than that, Fast Forward Fiend was only stopping at mealtimes——a nice idea if you like pigging out...not so nice if you hate being a 3,000-pound pig. I don’t want to say people are getting fat and bulging out all over the place, but suddenly the post office is giving everyone their own separate zip codes.

  Once again our heroically handsome, though grossly overweight, hero tries to reason with the fiendish foe. “Please, chew-chew, you must stop fast-forwarding us, swallow-swallow, through time, burp- BURP!”

  But Fast Forward Fiend is too busy opening health fitness centers and Fat Watchers programs to pay much attention.

  Suddenly, in a fleeting thought (which is as long as any thought stays in our hero’s head), Normal Dude leaps up from the dinner table and

  fisssowitzzzz...

  Make that, he leaps up from the breakfast table and

  fisssowitzzzz...

  All right already. He leaps up from any table and starts walking backward.

  “What are you doing?” Sister 3 demands. “And by the way, you don’t mind if I finish up your hot cakes——

  fisssowitzzzz...

  er, sandwiches——

  fisssowitzzzz...

  er, steak dinner, do you?”

  Normal Dude doesn’t answer. Instead, he just keeps getting up from the table and walking backward...until he makes it all the way up the stairs and into the bathroom where he last spoke to Fast Forward Fiend.

  He looks into the mirror and shouts, “!dneiF drawroF tsaF”

  There is no answer and so he tries again: “?ereht uoy era ,dneiF drawroF tsaF”

  Suddenly, Fast Forward Fiend appears in the mirror. “What? I can’t understand what you’re saying!”

  “.rehtien eM” Normal Dude shrugs and begins walking backward out of the bathroom.

  “Wait a minute, stop!” Fast Forward Fiend shouts.

  But Normal Dude just keeps on walking backward.

  “You can’t do that!”

  “?ton yhW” Normal Dude asks as he continues...until Fast Forward Fiend panics and presses his

  fisssowitzzzz...

  remote.

  It’s a new day, and Normal Dude once again stands in front of the mirror. But once again he starts walking backward until

  fisssowitzzzz...

  it’s another new day as he starts walking backward again.

  “What’s going on?!” Fast Forward Fiend shouts.

  “?naem uoy od tahW” Normal Dude says as he continues walking backward.

  fisssowitzzzz...

  “I distinctly made the remotes to only have a fast-forward function. What fancy-schmancy superhero gizmo do you have that puts you into reverse?!”

  “.em toG” Normal Dude resumes walking backward.

  fisssowitzzzz...

  “I’m the bad guy! Bad guys win through cheating and fancy gizmos!”

  Normal Dude resumes walking backward. “?oS”

  fisssowitzzzz...

  “So, you’re the great Normal Dude! You’re supposed to win through honesty and brainpower! Not fancy gizmos!”

  N
ormal Dude shrugs and resumes walking backward.

  And how is he able to do this, you ask?

  (You are asking, right?)

  “I know I am,” Fast Forward Fiend says.

  Sorry. This is only for my readers to know. Now stand over there in that corner and stop looking over my shoulder.

  “Oh, all right,” the bad guy says as he slinks over to the corner.

  I return to my story:

  The reason he can do all that backward stuff is simple. He’s merely pretending to walk and talk backward.

  “He’s what?”

  I open my eyes: Get back in that corner!

  “You don’t have to yell,” Fast Forward Fiend says as he reaches for his remote and

  fisssowitzzzz...

  Suddenly, there’s a

  knock-knock-knocking

  at the front door.

  “I’ll get it!” Sister 1, 2, or 3 screeches.

  Normal Dude starts down the stairs backward when Fast Forward Fiend bursts into the house and shouts, “All right, Dude. I don’t know what you have, but we’re going to duke it out right now!”

  And then, just when you think we’ve come to the obligatory fight scene of this story——

  “Uh-oh,” Wall Street said, jabbing me in the ribs and pulling me away from my story. “Don’t look now.” (Which, of course, meant I had to.)

  I turned to the window as we pulled up to my house. There were about a thousand bazillion angry people marching around it. (Okay, I’m exaggerating—more like a thousand gazillion, but they were still pretty angry.)

  Some were shouting, others were holding picket signs with such clever slogans as:

  And finally, the ever-popular . . .

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Looks like they weren’t thrilled about you interrupting their TV shows,” she said.

  “But . . . they have to know!”

  She looked out the window. “You want to tell them that?”

  I swallowed. “What do you think they want to do to me?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” Wall Street reached for her door.

  Before I had a chance to take a deep breath for bravery (or at least drop to the floor and beg her to stop), Wall Street opened the door, and the people pushed forward.

  The good news was, I was still invisible.

  “Where is he?” someone shouted.

  At first, Wall Street played ignorant. “Who?”

  “You know who! That terrible creep!”

  “He’s destroyed our lives by making us watch reality!” another shouted.

  “That’s right!” a third said, sobbing. “Now I’ll never know who won on Cockroach Eating Cookout!”

  “Or Extreme Manicure Makeover!”

  “Or see the end to Lawyers in Luxury!”

  “Where is he?” they repeated. “Where is Wally McDoogle?”

  And Wall Street, being the thoughtful and dedicated friend she is, did what any thoughtful and dedicated friend would do. She turned toward my underwear, pointed, and shouted: “THERE HE IS!”

  Good ol’ Wall Street. Faster than you can say “Benedict Arnold,” they raced around to my side of the car and yanked me out. And, since they couldn’t exactly see what part of me to yank, they yanked

  “AUGHHHH!”

  every part. Arms, legs, toes, you name it—if it was connected to some part of my body, they tried disconnecting it from my body.

  Soon, they had me out of the car and hoisted above their heads. But since carrying invisible people isn’t always the easiest (in some states you have to take a special test for it), they managed to drop me on my

  K-Thud

  head more times

  K-Thud K-Thud

  than I could

  K-Thud K-Thud K-Thud K-Thud K-Thud

  K-Thud K-Thud K-Thud K-Thud K-Thud

  K-Thud K-Thud K-Thud K-Thud K-Thud

  K-Thud K-Thud K-Thud K-Thud K-Thud

  K-Thud K-Thud K-Thud K-Thud K-Thud

  count.

  The good news was, all that K-Thudding managed to shake the invisible switch on my belt until it finally

  WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

  shut off.

  The bad news was, now everyone could clearly see which part of my body they were tearing apart.

  I couldn’t believe it. How could people be so upset about my interrupting their TV shows— especially when it meant telling them about others who were starving to death?

  “Please!” I yelled. “I was only trying to let you know there are suffering people!”

  “Yes,” a beautiful, model-type lady said as she wiped her eyes. “You taught me all about suffering.”

  “I did?” I said, pleased that someone had listened to me.

  She nodded, trying to hold back her tears. “I was watching Greed TV where they had a sale on Automatic Eyebrow-Pluckers.”

  “And?” I asked hopefully.

  “And you came on and”—she broke into hysterical sobbing—“and I never got to order it!”

  Her emotional pain sent the crowd into a fury.

  “PEOPLE! PEOPLE!”

  I turned to see Wall Street climbing out of the car. It looked like she’d finally come to her senses—like she was actually going to help me.

  (Hey, everyone needs to dream.)

  “I UNDERSTAND THE PAIN WALLY HAS CAUSED YOU!” she yelled.

  “Shout, shout! Grumble, grumble! Complain, complain!” the people shouted, grumbled, and complained.

  “AND I’M GOING TO MAKE IT UP TO EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU!”

  “Yeah, yeah? Really, really? Is she kidding?”

  “JUST TELL ME HOW MUCH YOU SUFFERED, AND I’LL PAY YOU FOR ALL THE DAMAGES!”

  “Yea, yea! Cheer, cheer! Yippee, Yippee!”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Wall Street was finally coming around. Maybe it was all the talk about helping the hungry. Maybe she’d finally stopped being so greedy.

  “That’s great!” I called to her. “I’m so proud of you.”

  She beamed. “Thanks. Of course, there will be a slight interest-and-handling fee.”

  “How much?” I asked.

  “For every dollar I pay out, you’ll pay me back seven.”

  With that bit of cheery news, the crowd finally set me

  K-thunk

  down.

  As I was dragging myself up the porch steps toward the house I heard:

  “Sir McDoogle, sniff-sniff, Sir Mc, cough- cough, Doogle?”

  I looked up to see little Willy Runeenoze standing above me. “Can you help me with my homework now?”

  “I’m a little busy,” I said. “Think you can catch me tomorrow?”

  “Sure, hack-hack, thing.” He grinned, then he went wheezing off.

  Finally, I dragged my superhero body into the house. It would be great to have Mom and Dad there to comfort me. It would have been greater if they weren’t standing in line to get their money from Wall Street.

  So, doing my best not to cry (metal superhero bodies tend to rust), I dragged myself up the stairs and plopped into bed to get some sleep.

  Actually, it wasn’t the sleep I was interested in. It was the dream. At least Bartholomew would appreciate my work.

  And, more important . . . so would God.

  Chapter 9

  In Your Dreams . . . (or Not)

  “Hello . . . ello . . . ello . . .” I shouted into the darkness. “Can anybody . . . ody . . . ody hear me . . . me . . . me . . . ?”

  Nobody answered.

  I paused a minute and thought, “How strange . . . ange . . . ange. Hey, wait a minute . . . ute . . . ute. . . . These are just thoughts . . . oughts . . . oughts. Thoughts don’t have echoes . . . oes . . . oes. . . . Do they . . . ey . . . ey . . . ?”

  That’s when I realized I wasn’t in reality, but in one of my “dreams . . . eams . . . eams. . . .”

  “Oh, knock it off . . . off . . . off . . . ,” I thought.

  “Sorry . . . orr
y . . . orry . . . ,” I thought back.

  Anyway, if I was back in dreamland, that meant I ought to be able to talk to Bartholomew, right? The only problem was, Ol’ Bart wasn’t anywhere to be seen. At least not in this dark void full of echoes . . . oes . . . oes. . . .

  I closed my eyes (a neat trick since they tend to be closed when you’re dreaming, anyway) and pictured myself back in Reptile Man’s class. When I reopened them, sure enough, there I was, sitting at my desk surrounded by the same bored kids listening to the same boring teacher.

  But there was no Bartholomew. No white tux. No top hat. And no tap-a-tap-tap. Tap. Tap- a-tap-tap . . .

  I tried again and closed my eyes. This time I pictured myself in the operating room with the flying rhino SNORTing away.

  Again, there was nothing. Except . . . there, on the operating table beside me, sat Bartholomew’s top hat. Of course, I wasn’t crazy about reaching inside it, but since he wasn’t around and that’s where the notes always came from, I figured I didn’t have much choice.

  So, with trembling hands, and more than a few trembling prayers, I reached inside to find . . . a folded piece of paper. I nervously pulled it out, grateful it didn’t turn into a fire-breathing dragon, a boy-eating T. rex, or any of the usual stuff I dream up.

  I had no idea what it would say. I had succeeded in stopping those bank robbers, but apparently I’d not done what God wanted.

  Would the same thing be true with telling the people about world hunger? I mean, despite the embarrassments, catastrophes, embarrassments, mishaps, and, of course, embarrassments, I had succeeded. True, not everyone wanted to hear, but that wasn’t the point. I had succeeded in telling them.

  So, with growing anticipation and excitement, I unfolded the note and read:

  Out to Lunch

  What?! After all I’d done?! After all I’d been through?!

  I glanced back at the paper. Only then did I notice the fine print in the bottom-right corner. It read:

  (over)

  The message was on the paper’s other side. Bartholomew must have stepped out for lunch and left it. I quickly flipped the paper over and in one breathless moment read:

  You still don’t get it, do you?

  Get it? Get what? What more could I do?! I had used my superhero powers to the max, and I had succeeded! So, what was the problem? I know it’s not cool to be mad at God, but I was getting a little steamed. I was just about to crumple up the paper and toss it when I noticed the fine print at the bottom right-hand corner of this side. It also read: