by Bill Myers
No one’s sure where the gorilla got his smarts or why he used them for such evil purposes. Some say it was after eating too many bananas with those little round stickers still on them. Others say it was after being exposed to seventy-two hours of nonstop rap music. Then there’s the theory of his mom never buying him brand-name clothes.
Whatever the reason, after breaking out of the Brooklyn Zoo (and taking a few night courses at Harvard), Dr. Ghastly set up his secret underground laboratory. Here he became the most feared (and hairiest) scientist of all time.
But, back to our story...
“Mutant Man,” the gorilla sneers as only the world’s slyest and most sinister scientist can sneer, “I know you’re out there.”
Our hero stares at the TV screen and gasps a manly gasp.
“I thought you might want to know... I’ve just created another one of my little inventions,” says Dr. Ghastly.
The TV picture grows wider. We see this baddest of all bad guys (or guyettes for that matter) standing beside a giant vacuum cleaner.
“It’s my Handy Dandy Wisdom Sucker Upper. All I do is flip this little switch.” He reaches over to snap it on. “And it begins to suck up all of the world’s wisdom.” Dr. Ghastly laughs his sinister jungle laugh, “Oo-oo-ah-ah-ee-ee,” and suddenly disappears from the screen.
A searing pain rips into our superhero’s manly jaw. “Augh! My wisdom teeth!” he cries. “They’re gone!”
But, alas, it’s not just his wisdom teeth. Every wisdom tooth in the world has been stolen. Fearing the worst, he spins around to the nativity scene left over from last Christmas. Just as he suspects. The Three Wise Men have also disappeared.
“Great Scott! Everything to do with wisdom is being sucked into the machine! This sounds like a job for...Ta-Da-Daaaa (that, of course is superhero music)... Mutant Man McDoogle!”
He presses the button on his secret Muton-Belt. Suddenly, his mighty powers are released. With one giant step his rubberized legs reach out the door, stretch down three flights of stairs and into the street. A neat trick. Unfortunately, it always means having his mom buy him a new pair of jeans.
Outside it’s worse than he suspects. Everywhere people are acting crazy. Cars honking and plowing into each other. Decent, law-abiding folks screaming and beating up other decent, law-abiding folks. I mean, it’s worse than Christmas shopping at the mall. Well, maybe not that bad, but close.
“People! People, you must stop this at once!” Mutant Man shouts.
But nobody listens. He grabs a passing mother who’s stuffing her mouth full of chocolate. “It’s Dr. Ghastly! Don’t you understand? He’s taking all your wisdom!”
But Mom won’t listen. She’s too busy shouting at her kid who’s also gobbling up candy. “Hurry and eat!” she screams at the child. “If we don’t finish off this case of Three Musketeers before dinner, we won’t spoil our appetites!”
“It’s no use, Mutant Mind!”
Our hero snaps his handsome head up to see the gruesome gorilla. He is circling in a helicopter high overhead. Behind him trails the Wisdom Sucker Upper... still sucking up.
The hairy ape continues his threats. “Soon all wisdom will be mine!” he shouts through the loudspeakers. “Soon the entire world will be in total chaos. Oo-oo-ah-ah-ee-ee...”
“Not if I can help it!” our hero shouts. Then with a mighty deep breath (the type that only superheros can breathe...so don’t try this at home, kids), Mutant Man begins a little sucking of his own.
His tremendous lungs pull in all of the surrounding air. And with that air comes the helicopter. Try as he might, Dr. Ghastly can’t pull away. Our hunk of a hero is sucking too hard. Closer and closer the chopper comes.
“Let me go!” Dr. Ghastly cries. “Let me go!”
But our hero doesn’t let go. He continues to inhale. And the helicopter continues to be sucked in.
But, alas and alack, it’s been a long day, and Mutant Man begins to grow weary——not to mention a little dizzy. He has no choice. Our incurably handsome hero must stop.
Still, all is not lost...
He makes one of his world-famous jumps toward the helicopter. Unfortunately, he only soars two or three hundred feet into the air. (Like I said, he’s a bit tuckered.) He nearly misses but not quite. After all, he is the hero of the story. In the final second, his arm stretches the last fifty feet, and he manages to grab the chopper’s landing skids.
Still, ol’ Ghastly has more than a hairy elbow up his sleeve. Suddenly, he throws the helicopter into reverse.
“Look out!” the crowd screams from below.
Mutant Man turns just in time to see the 203-story Bank of Africa building coming straight at him. “What luck!” our hero cries. “This must be where Dr. Ghastly banks! Maybe he’s stopping to take out a little money!” But in a second he realizes Dr. Ghastly is not making a withdrawal. It’s more like a deposit. And not a deposit of money but of Mutant Man... right against the side of the building.
They race toward the bank at lightning speed.
“Come on, Doctor!” our hero shouts nervously. “Stop monkeying around.”
But the gorilla has gone ape. He will not listen. He is set on smashing Mutant Man into the side of the building.
By now the bank is so close our hero can see the horrified expressions of the people inside.
Oh no! What will happen? What will the incredibly groomed and well-flossed Mutant Man do? How will he get out of this one?
Then suddenly——
“Hey, Wally, put that computer away and get ready for lunch!”
It was Dale.
Rats, I hate it when that happens. Every time I get to a good part in one of my stories, somebody has to interrupt me. But I figured this interruption was for a good cause. I mean, he did say “lunch,” right?
I pressed F10 and shut Ol’ Betsy down for a while. I figured I’d have plenty of time to get back to Mutant Man and Dr. Ghastly the gorilla . . . that is, if the real Gary Gorilla didn’t get me first. . . .
The three of us stumbled out of the cafeteria. The “cafeteria” is what the counselors called it. But by now we’d all given it another name . . . “The Toxic Waste Site.” The only thing decent to eat were the half-frozen burritos. Well, they weren’t supposed to be half-frozen, but the cook wasn’t crazy about slaving over a hot oven, so there they were, direct from the freezer and onto our plates. The trick was to think of them as cheese and bean popsicles instead of burritos. And with the extra hot sauce poured on top, they were actually pretty good—weird, but good. I was busy crunching away on my third one as we staggered out the doors.
“You call that a lunch?” Wall Street groaned, holding her stomach. She was a Latino girl about my age.
“What were those hard blue things?” I asked.
“Mashed potatoes!” Opera shouted. “Or butter balls!”
I threw a look over at the chubby kid beside us. Even though his Walkman was cranked up to ten, it’s like he could still hear. Either that or he was the world’s greatest lip reader. Amazing. Right then he had been listening to “Barber of Seville” by Fetuccine or Tortellini or one of those opera-type guys.
“How can you stand to listen to that junk?” Wall Street shouted. “You can’t even understand the words.”
“Can you understand today’s stuff ?” Opera shouted back.
Wall Street gave a shrug.
“So what’s the difference?”
He had her there.
The three of us had met at lunch. Opera and I were the first to spot each other. Immediately, we recognized the other guy for what he was . . . a fellow “Dorkoid.”
DORKOIDS. You know the type. While everyone else is wearing hot new fashions, we’re sporting frozen-oldie hand-me-downs. While everyone else has these terrific put-downs, we usually say something stupid or, worse yet, polite. And while everyone else’s chests begin looking like Sylvester Stalone (if you’re a guy) and Marilyn Monroe (if you’re a girl), we just keep on looking
like Pee Wee Herman and, well, Pee Wee Herman.
Like I said, Opera and I were the first to meet. Wall Street didn’t join our little club until the meal was nearly over.
“You almost missed lunch,” I said as she sat beside us.
“I’ll try harder next time,” she joked, poking at the frozen burrito on her plate.
“I think they’re hot dogs,” Opera shouted over his Walkman.
“Or giant caterpillars. It’s hard to tell when they’re frozen like that.” I shrugged.
“Thanks for the warning.”
“How come you were so late?” I asked.
“I was looking for an electrical outlet—there aren’t any in the cabins.”
“Why do you need an electrical outlet?” Opera shouted.
“To recharge my cell phone,” she said.
I gave Opera a look. It sounded like the Dorkoids were about to increase membership by one. I was almost afraid to ask the question, but I knew somebody had to. “So . . . what do you need a cell phone for?”
“Why do you need a computer?” she countered.
“I’m going to be a screenwriter.”
“And I’m going to be a stockbroker.”
“Maybe we should start charging dues,” I muttered.
“Pardon me?”
“Never mind.” I grinned as I reached out to shake her hand. “Welcome aboard.” I wasn’t sure what type of stock a ten-year-old girl could buy and sell, but that didn’t make much difference. The point was, she definitely qualified for membership.
Fifteen minutes later, the three of us crossed the courtyard toward our cabins. We were friends forever . . . or at least until the end of the week, whichever came first.
And then it happened . . .
Suddenly, Gary and his two Goons showed up behind us. They didn’t say a word. Neither did we. In fact, everything got very, very quiet. Everything except Opera’s Walkman. At that moment some fat lady was screaming her lungs out like she was about to die.
How appropriate, I thought.
We continued to walk, and they continued to follow. Other kids also started following. Like vultures they all seemed to know when someone was about to meet their Maker.
Soon we (and most of the camp) arrived at our cabin. But I’d had enough. I mean, if I was going to die, I might as well do it now before I had to face another meal at the Toxic Waste Site.
Well, here goes, I figured. It’s now or never. Suddenly, I turned around. “Oh, hi, Gary.” I pretended to be surprised. “So how’s it going, man?” I raised my hand to give him a high five. But instead of slapping my hand, he just looked it over, probably checking for more peanut butter and jelly.
Everyone waited. There was only silence . . . except for the fat lady singing.
Finally, Goon One cleared his throat. “In the spirit of friendship, different groups are chipping in to help Gary out on his chores.” Maybe it was just my imagination, but suddenly the kid started to sound like one of those guys from the gangster movies.
“The Babes are doing Kitchen Duty on his day to do that. The Jocks are carrying his stuff on the canoe trip. And the Eggheads are going to pick up his outdoor garbage. So that just leaves you guys—the Dorkoids.”
“What’s left?” Wall Street asked hesitantly. “There’s nothing left, is there?”
“Latrine Duty,” Goon One said with a grin.
The rest of the camp gave a little chuckle.
“But there’s no Latrine Duty,” Opera shouted. The fat lady was singing even louder than before. “Every cabin has to clean their own bathroom.”
Gary just gave him a look.
“Well, that’s the truth,” Opera shouted. “Those are the rules. We can’t go against the rules.”
But Gary wasn’t much interested in rules. He suddenly ripped off Opera’s headphones, threw them to the dirt, and ground them under his foot.
The fat lady died sooner than we had hoped.
For a moment Opera just stared down at the remains. Then, when we were sure he was about to break into a good case of tears, he looked up at Gary, gave a loud sniff, and threw himself at him—all 187 pounds worth!
The crowd gasped at Opera’s stupidity. This was going to be better than they’d hoped.
Of course, Gary easily sidestepped Opera and had him in an armlock faster than you could say, “Oh well, nice try.” But the Gorilla wasn’t finished. In true bully fashion, he threw Opera to Goon Two, who tossed him to the ground and started yanking his arm back even further. Feeling a little left out, Goon One also joined in.
Opera screamed in pain and for good reason. I had no idea arms could bend so far back. Without stopping to think, I suddenly leaped at the Goons and tried to pry them off. I would have had them too—if I wasn’t holding the burrito in my hand and if I wasn’t outweighed by a few hundred pounds. Finally, one of them grabbed me by the shoulder and sent me spinning right back into my ol’ buddy Gary.
For a moment the expression in Gary’s eyes was shock. I didn’t understand—until I looked lower and saw my smashed burrito with extra hot sauce smeared all across his neck and chin.
By now the whole camp was there, and in a second everybody was laughing.
Not great news. Gary was still a little sensitive in the “Being Laughed At Department.”
Then someone began to clap. And then another. And then another. Before we knew it everyone in the camp was laughing and clapping.
Everyone but Gary . . . and me.
Ever so slowly Gary reached up and wiped the burrito goop off his neck. Then he smashed the goop right into the center of my chest—a little harder than I felt necessary to make his point. Next, he clenched his right fist. Uh-oh, I thought, here it comes: a little free dental work. But then, just before he let loose, I heard:
“That’s enough, Gary.”
It was Dale. All right, Dale! The guy was getting pretty good at this rescue business.
Gary slowly turned around. He was obviously taller than Dale—by a good three inches. And we’re not talking three inches of fat. We’re talking muscle—major muscle.
But Dale wouldn’t back down. “I said that’s enough.”
Gary eyeballed him for a long minute, trying his best to scare the guy. But Dale didn’t budge. Not an inch. Finally, with a heavy snort, Gary let go of my shirt. “That’s three, Weasel,” he snarled at me under his breath. “I owe you for three.”
(Actually, I figured it was only two. The bus and here. But hey, with his muscles, I guess the guy didn’t have to be a math whiz.)
Still, that wasn’t the worst. For as Gary and his Goon Patrol turned to leave, the rest of the crowd started to chant . . . “Wal-ly, Wal-ly, Wal-ly . . .”
I guess they thought it was pretty funny.
Not me. Because with each “Wal-ly,” I knew I’d be feeling even greater pain from the Gorilla. Sure, maybe not at that moment, but let’s face it, there’s no way Dale could keep showing up all the time.
Meanwhile, Opera rose to his feet and started comparing the lengths of his arms.
“Come on,” I mumbled, “let’s get out of here.”
All this as the crowd continued to chant: “Wal-ly, Wal-ly, Wal-ly . . .”
I changed T-shirts back at the cabin. For a long moment, I held the one with the burrito and hot sauce smeared all over the front. As I stood there, I couldn’t help but make the comparison. Somehow I figured that burrito goop symbolized my whole life at Camp Whacko. “A smashed burrito,” I mumbled half aloud. “Now doesn’t that just figure . . . a smashed burrito with extra hot sauce.”
Chapter 3
Testing . . .
One, Two, Three
The rest of the day went off pretty smooth. We managed to survive another meal at the Toxic Waste Site. I managed to stay out of Gary’s way. And that evening Dale even managed to give a pretty good talk. Don’t get me wrong, it was still about wisdom and stuff, but somehow it started to make more sense. Mostly it was about how it’s wise to choose good
friends.
“Be with wise men and become wise,” he read from somewhere in the Bible. “Be with evil men and become evil.”
Like I said, it made pretty good sense. Course, I wanted to add a couple of my own verses, like . . .
“Be with Dorkoids and become a Dorkoid.”
“Be with Gary the Gorilla and become dead.”
But seriously, Dale had a point. Since you become like the people you hang out with, why not hang out with the good guys? Plain and simple, right?
I just wished I could have remembered how plain and simple it was a couple of hours later.
Wall Street had come over to our cabin. The three of us sat out on the porch and talked about a lot of nothing. But that’s okay, sitting around talking about a lot of nothing with friends is a lot better than talking about a lot of something with strangers. (Whatever that means.)
Anyway, everyone else was down at the snack bar trying to wash the taste of dinner out of their mouths. Or they were up at the video games trying to save the universe from the latest Space-Droids. Then of course there were the usual handful who were somewhere out in the bushes practicing the highly overrated and germ-infested art of making out.
But not us. We were having an in-depth conversation about a major world problem—what we were going to wear on the canoe trip—when suddenly the bushes near the cabin started to rustle.
“Did you hear that?” Wall Street asked, lowering her voice.
We nodded in silence.
The rustling grew louder.
“Do you think it’s HIM?” I whispered.
“Don’t . . . don’t be stupid,” Opera stuttered.
“Great, then, if it’s not HIM, why don’t you go out and see who it is,” I suggested.
Opera gave me a glare.
Now by HIM we’re talking about the local Camp Mauler. I suppose every camp has one. You know, some local monster who lurks in the woods just past the lights. Usually, they’re big and hairy and just dying to gobble up poor, unsuspecting kids who haven’t gotten back to their cabin by Lights Out.