by R. L. Stine
I recognized him at once. The Purple Rage.
He leaped out from behind the desk. His face turned a darker red when he saw the three of us. “Know what BITES my BABOON?” he boomed. “YOU do! Outta my way!”
He started to the door — then stopped. He stared at Dr. Maniac. His face formed an angry scowl. “Know what GRIPES my GRITS? Seeing YOU here!”
Maniac motioned with both hands for the Rage to back away. “Control yourself, Rage!” he cried.
“Control myself?” Rage screamed. “Control myself?” His face was as purple as his costume now. His eyes bulged, and his big chest heaved in and out. “Control myself? When someone says that to me, it puts me in a RAGE!”
He let out a fierce roar — raised both arms and leaped at Dr. Maniac.
“Hey — !” I let out a shout as Dr. Maniac ducked behind me.
And the Rage came sailing into me. His arms wrapped around my waist and tackled me to the floor.
“OWWW!” I hit the floor hard. My head bounced a few times. I actually saw stars.
Rage jumped to his feet and stuck his purple face in mine. “So you’re working with that Maniac? Okay, kid. You asked for it. I’m angry now. You’ve steamed my oven mitts! I’m going to turn him into Maniac Meat. But first I’ll destroy YOU!”
He raised a huge, purple-gloved fist. “Go ahead, kid. Count to three.”
I gasped. “Huh? Count to three? Why?”
“It’ll give you something to do while I pulp you like a wood chipper!”
Breathing hard, the Purple Rage waved his fist in my face.
“Uh … could I count to one hundred?” I choked out.
He growled like an angry wolf. “Know what CRAMPS my KIPPERS? Jokes. I hate jokes when I’m about to shred someone like a dry sponge. It makes me AAAAANNNNNNNGGGGRRRRRY!”
He pulled his huge fist back and —
And —
End of the Richard Dreezer story?
No. To my shock, Bree reached up and grabbed the big purple dude’s arm. She wrapped her hands around his bicep and held his arm back.
“Listen to me, Purple Whoever-You-Are. Richard isn’t working with that maniac!” she cried. “We don’t know what’s going on here. We’re not comic book characters. We’re just kids.”
“I HATE kids!” the Rage muttered. He clamped his jaw shut and gritted his teeth.
“We’re just kids who came here to do a museum project,” Bree explained, holding on to his arm with all her might. “And now we want to leave.”
Rage squinted at her. “Leave? Know what BOTHERS my BOBBLEHEAD? People who want to leave!”
Dr. Maniac stepped up to the Purple Rage. “Here’s a riddle for you,” he said.
Rage broke free of Bree’s grasp and turned furiously on Maniac. “A riddle? Are you crazy?”
“I’m not crazy. I’m a MANIAC!”
Rage tossed back his purple cape. He brought his face up close to Maniac’s. “Do you really think a riddle will keep me from cracking you like an overripe walnut?”
Maniac giggled. “What’s red, white, and blue, and likes to pound supervillains like you to dust?”
Rage rubbed his chin. “Hmmm. That’s a good one,” he said. “I give up. What’s red, white, and blue, and likes to pound supervillains like me into dust?”
Maniac giggled again. “It’s the Star-Spangled BANGER!” he said. “And guess what? He’s standing right behind you!”
“Huh?” The Purple Rage spun around.
Maniac wasn’t joking. A powerful looking superhero, wearing the stars and stripes and a very ugly scowl under his red, white, and blue mask, rose up in front of Rage.
Without a word, the two of them began to fight. Grunting and growling, they threw each other to the floor. WHOMP. WHOMP. WHOMMMP. They punched each other furiously with gloved fists. And wrestled, rolling over and over.
I breathed a sigh of relief as they reached the door, still punching and clawing at each other. I waited for them to vanish outside.
But halfway out the door, the Purple Rage turned back and pumped a fist at me. “I’ll be back for you, punk!” he shouted angrily. “And I’ll flatten you like yesterday’s wet laundry!”
Punk? Me?
Groaning and shouting, they began to wrestle again. And rolled right out of the museum.
I stood staring at the doors for a long time, my whole body trembling. I wanted to make sure they were really gone.
Then I turned to Dr. Maniac. “Wh-what’s going on?” I stammered. “Tell me. What’s happening here?”
Maniac kept his gaze on the museum doors. “I think I know,” he said. When he finally turned to Bree, Ernie, and me, his face was solemn. “Sorry to tell you this. But I think it’s a pretty big deal. I think it’s the end of the world.”
I let out a sharp cry. Bree’s mouth dropped open. I could see she was breathing hard. Ernie scratched his head, his face twisted in confusion.
“It’s the end of the comic book world as we know it,” Maniac said softly.
“Excuse me?” I cried. “The comic book world?”
Bree frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”
Dr. Maniac’s eyes flashed. “I have another riddle for you,” he said. “What’s the difference between an angry bumblebee and Christmas morning?”
Bree rolled her eyes. “Can we skip the riddles? Can you just tell us what you mean?”
“Give up?” Maniac said.
“Yes, we give up,” Bree replied.
Maniac grinned. “I don’t know the answer, either. But it’s a pretty good riddle — isn’t it?”
“Please,” I begged. “Tell us what’s happening here.”
He swept his leopard-skin cape behind him. “There was always a wall between the comic book world and the real world,” he said. “But do you see what has happened? Someone has opened the door between the two worlds. And the comic book characters are escaping into the real world.”
I swallowed. “You mean like you, and the Purple Rage, and the Star-Spangled Banger?”
Maniac nodded. “Yes. We’re all out in the real world now.” He shook his head. “This could be a total disaster, kid. There’s no way comic characters can fit in. No way we can get along with real people. There will be fights on every street corner. It will be WAR!”
I gasped.
“Uh … can I go home now?” Bree said. “I’m not really into comic books. This is kind of boring.”
I turned to her. “Bree, you heard what he just said. Don’t you want to save the world?”
“Not really,” she answered. “I have a lot of homework.” She tugged at a thick strand of her blond hair. “Also, I really don’t want people to see me hanging out with you, Richard. You understand, right?”
Ernie burst out laughing. “Because he’s a jerk?”
I gave Ernie a hard shove. Dr. Maniac stepped between us. “Forget about going home,” he said. “I can’t let any of you leave.”
Bree scowled at him. “What do you mean?”
“I need you three kids to bring the comic book characters back to the museum.”
“Us?” Bree cried. “You’re crazy.”
“I’m not crazy. I’m a MANIAC!” he exclaimed. He tossed back his head and laughed up at the ceiling.
Bree took off, running to the front doors. But Maniac flew across the hall, swooped in front of her, and blocked her way. She dodged left, then right. But he stayed with her.
“You can’t keep us here!” she cried.
“Yes, I can,” Maniac insisted. “You’re my hostages now.”
A stab of fear made me gasp. “Hostages?”
“That’s my brilliant plan,” he said. He grinned, thinking about his own brilliance. “It’s going to work. I know it will.”
“What’s your plan?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“Simple,” Maniac replied. “I’m holding you three as hostages, see. I’m going to tie you to chairs. Then I’m setting up TV cameras. Then I’m going to torture
you with live tarantulas until you scream in agony.”
“Th-that’s your plan?” I stuttered. My heart was thudding in my chest. I glanced down at Ernie. His eyes were wide with fear.
“We have to get away from this nutcase,” Bree whispered in my ear. “How can we get out of here?”
Dr. Maniac grinned at me. “That’s my plan. Brilliant, huh? Especially the tarantulas part.”
“But — but — how does that help with the escaped comic book characters?” I asked.
“Simple as pineapple upside-down cake,” he said. “The comic book characters see you three kids screaming in pain from tarantula bites — and they come rushing back here to rescue you.”
I stared hard at him. “And then?”
“Then I send them back to Comic Book World,” he replied.
“Huh?” Bree uttered. “You call that a plan? That’s insane.”
“Of course it’s insane,” Maniac replied. “I’m a MANIAC!”
He forced us over to three folding chairs by the wall. Then he pulled out long black cords. “Don’t just stand there. Sit down so I can tie you to the chairs,” he said. “Then I have to go find me some hungry tarantulas.”
I opened my mouth in a loud, explosive sneeze. “I have bad allergies,” I told Maniac.
He squinted at me. “So?”
“So … I’m allergic to being tortured by tarantulas.”
“I have to go home now,” Bree said. “You can have your little comic book war without me. Seriously.”
Ernie looked up at Maniac. “Torture Richard first — okay?” he said. “Not me. Richard really wants to go first.”
Nice kid, right? I told you. He’s a peach.
I sneezed again. My brain was spinning. I was trying to come up with a way to escape from Dr. Maniac. I pictured my body covered in tarantulas. Snapping tarantulas crawling all over me, dozens of them, snapping and clawing and biting while people all over the world watched on TV.
My whole body itched and throbbed. I could feel the intense pain already.
I had to do something. But what?
Maniac was already strapping Ernie’s hands behind the chair.
Think of something … anything!
“Dr. Maniac, are you ticklish?” I asked.
He was leaning over Ernie, wrapping the cord around his hands. “Me? Ticklish? Yes, I am. Why?”
I dove to the floor. I grabbed one of Dr. Maniac’s boots and quickly pulled a bunch of yellow feathers off it. Then I jumped to my feet and began to tickle him under the chin.
Maniac started to giggle. He tried to squirm away, but I kept the feathers under his chin.
He giggled some more. His giggles turned to wild laughter.
He stood helplessly as I tickled him harder. Faster.
The dude was incredibly ticklish. While he laughed and squirmed, Ernie ripped the cords off his hands. He and Bree raced to the front doors.
“Stop! Stop! Oooooheeey! Oooohey!” Maniac laughed like a maniac. Tears rolled down his face. He laughed till he couldn’t breathe. He laughed till he choked.
Then he toppled onto his back, giggling and snorting. His arms and legs thrashed in the air, like he was a big turtle that had fallen over.
That’s how we left him. Laughing at the top of his lungs, flopping like a fish on the floor. Totally helpless.
I followed Bree and Ernie out the door. I didn’t look back.
We ran down the steps. The sun was nearly down. A cold evening breeze gusted at us. I could see a pale half-moon in the sky.
I couldn’t wait to get home. I knew Mom and Dad would be worried about Ernie and me.
“We could take the bus to your house,” Bree said.
“Let’s just run,” I said. “I don’t want to wait for a bus.”
We darted across the street and started to run along the sidewalk side by side. We only made it half a block.
Then we stopped — and gasped in shock.
“I — I don’t believe it!” I cried. “This is too horrible!”
Across the street, two red-caped superheroes were fistfighting on the roof of the bank. The bank alarm blared. The doors shot open — and two other masked characters ran out, carrying big bags of cash.
A gigantic dude with red lobster claws instead of hands slapped his claws against the window of a jewelry store. The glass shattered. The claws frantically grabbed up the jewels in the window.
People screamed. A group of frightened teenagers ran down the center of the street. Cars crashed. Sirens cut the air.
Two costumed characters battled on top of a black SUV, trading punches while the driver screamed at them from down below. A brown-fur-covered supervillain as big as a rhino grabbed a screaming woman’s purse and bounded off with it. Two hawklike characters with wide bird wings flapped into the air and took off after the enormous thief.
The frightened screams. The sirens. The THUD of fists as costumed characters pounded one another. The pounding footsteps as ordinary people tried to run from the scene …
It was all too much.
I covered my ears as I watched in horror. Dr. Maniac was right. It was definitely a war. The real world was being taken over by battling, robbing, screaming, out-of-control comic book characters.
Bree huddled beside me, her hands pressed to the sides of her face. “I knew we should have gone to a different museum,” she said. “What a mistake.”
“Huh?” I gaped at her. “We didn’t cause this. Just because we were there doesn’t mean —”
I ducked as a bald-headed, silver-costumed character flew low over our heads. I recognized him — the Bullet.
“This is cool!” Ernie declared. “Like being in a video game.”
“But it’s real,” I said. “And it’s dangerous.”
“Look OUT!” Bree shrieked.
Two characters wearing tiger masks and yellow-and-black capes leaped off a building and crashed to the ground right behind us. I heard their bones crack as they hit. But they climbed to their feet and continued punching each other.
“We’re out of here!” I cried. I dodged around the two battling tiger-dudes, lowered my head, and started to run.
The three of us ran without stopping until we reached my house. We passed two store robberies, an explosion, and several fistfights. A car squealed to a stop, and with a deafening crash, three cars piled into the back of it. The drivers burst from their cars and started punching one another.
Strange shadows swept over us as we ran, the shadows of comic book characters flying low in the sky.
I ran up the driveway to the back of the house. I pulled open the kitchen door and darted inside. Ernie and Bree followed closely behind. Did my parents have any idea what was going on out there?
“Mom! Dad!” I shouted. “Where are you? Mom! Dad!”
The kitchen was dark and empty. No food on the stove. The table hadn’t been set for dinner.
“Mom? Dad?”
I ran through the hall, into the living room. And stopped with a startled cry. “Oh, nooooo!”
Ernie couldn’t stop himself and banged into me. Bree stepped up beside me, her eyes wide with horror.
The two characters I’d seen on the way to school that morning — Captain Croaker and Terry Tadpole — slouched in their green costumes on our living room chairs. And Mom and Dad —
Oh, wow. Mom and Dad —
My parents were in cages. Metal dog crates. They were down on their hands and knees, crammed into cages against the wall.
“Mom! Dad! Are you okay?” I cried.
Inside her cage, Mom lifted her head. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for your father,” she said.
“My fault? How is it my fault?” Dad demanded.
“You opened the front door and let them in,” Mom replied.
“I did not!” Dad said. “They hopped in through the window. If you hadn’t left the window open, maybe we’d be okay.”
Mom banged her cage bars with her fist. “Shut up, Bar
ry. Can you just shut up?”
I couldn’t believe it. Locked in cages — and they were still arguing!
I turned to the two froggy villains. “What are you doing here?” I shouted. “Let my parents out!”
Captain Croaker raised his feet to the ottoman and settled deeper into the chair. He patted the chair arms. He took his time answering me.
Finally, he croaked, “Don’t make waves, kid. This is our lily pad now.”
Terry Tadpole jumped to his feet. “You got a problem with that?” he growled in a deep, raspy voice. He stood straight up on the chair cushion. He was only about a foot tall.
“You — you don’t belong here!” I stammered. My voice cracked. My heart had jumped to my throat. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. “Let my parents out. You can’t DO this!”
Bree gave me a shove and started to back out of the room. “I’m out of here,” she said. “I have to see if my parents are okay.”
Captain Croaker let out a long, deep croak. “Mmmmeeeep. You’re not going anywhere, babe.”
He opened his wide mouth — and lashed out a long, slender pink tongue.
The tongue flew across the room. It made a SLAAAP sound as it hit Bree.
Bree screamed as the tongue wrapped around her waist. She struggled to pry it off her. But the tongue wrapped tighter around her and started to pull her toward Croaker.
“Let go of me!” she screamed. “This is sick. Ohh, this is sick. Let me go!” She tugged frantically at the tongue with both hands.
Croaker’s eyes flashed with excitement. He had a big grin on his green face. He pulled his tongue in, pulling Bree close, tightening it … tightening it.
“Can’t … breathe …” she gasped. She turned to me, her face red, twisted in horror. “Richard … can’t breathe … help …”
“Let her go!” I shouted. I tugged at the disgusting tongue. But it was coiled too tight. I couldn’t loosen it.
Terry Tadpole laughed an ugly laugh. It sounded more like vomiting than laughing. “Come over here, jerk,” he growled. “And I’ll spit tadpole juice in your eye.”