My Life as Alien Monster Bait

by Bill Myers

  Before I had any answers, the door creaked open. “Next,” the voice called.

  I tried to swallow, but there wasn’t anything to swallow. My mouth was as dry as cotton. Make that freeze-dried cotton. Make that freeze-dried cotton in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

  “Next!” the voice ordered.

  I took a deep breath and said a little prayer. “Please God, I’m sorry about wanting to blow up the science class.” It may seem weird, but I figured if I’m going to die and meet God, the fewer things I had to apologize for, the better . . .

  I stepped inside the black room. The door closed behind me with a loud boom . . .

  Chapter 2

  Behind the

  Closed Door . . .

  It took a second for my eyes to get used to the dark. Suddenly, I noticed a skinny guy standing beside me. He wore a silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, sunglasses shoved atop his head. In his hand was a clipboard. He peered down at me over the top of it.

  “Well, now,” he said with a grin. “You just might do . . . You just might do nicely.”

  He started forward. “This way, please.”

  I followed.

  At the far end of the stage, a woman and a tired old man sat behind a table. They were going through a bunch of papers and photos and stuff. When we arrived, Mr. Hollywood motioned me to the empty chair in front of them.

  “Sit here,” he ordered.

  I obeyed.

  The woman looked up. She was instant smiles and friendliness. “Well, now, Mr. . . . Mr. . . .”

  “Uh, Wally,” I said.

  “Well, now, Mr. Wally, what exactly—”

  “No,” I corrected, “McDoogle.”

  “What?”

  “McDoogle,” I repeated.

  “I’m sorry, what’s—”

  “I’m a McDoogle.”

  “What’s a McDoogle?”

  “Me.”

  “You?”

  “That’s my name.”

  “But you just said your name was—”

  “It is.”

  “Then how can it be—” Her smile was drooping slightly.

  “Wally McDoogle!” I blurted out just a little too loudly. “My name is Wally McDoogle.”

  All the shouting caused the tired old man to look up. I smiled weakly. Things were not going as I planned. It was time to turn on the famous McDoogle charm. “I’ve seen all your movies.” Liar, I thought. You don’t know them from Adam. Or Eve. But I hoped God would cut me a little slack.

  I hoped wrong.

  “Actually,” the older man scowled, “we’re only the casting directors. You haven’t seen a thing we’ve done.”

  “Oh, right, yeah.” So much for slack.

  “Well, Mr. . . . McDoogle.” The woman turned up her fakey smile to HIGH. “Have you had any acting experience?”

  “Absolutely!” Again I was just a little too loud.

  “Really . . .” The older man suddenly sounded less tired. “And what was your latest role?”

  “A donkey!” I was shouting again. I tried to talk softer. Unfortunately, it came out more like a desperate whisper. “In the Christmas pageant. Well, not the whole donkey. Just the back half. Jason Hampsten played the head. I played the back. Of course, Jason got to do all the talking, we were a talking donkey, but I had to follow him all around and stay in step, otherwise we would trip up and—”

  The older man cut me off. “Mr. Wally . . .”

  “McDoogle,” the woman corrected.

  “What?” he asked.

  “McDoogle,” she repeated.

  “What’s a McDoog—?”

  I jumped in. “Wally will be fine.”

  The woman’s smile drooped again.

  The man continued. “Mr. Wally, would you scream for us?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Scream.”

  “You mean . . . just . . . scream.”

  “Scream,” he repeated.

  “Don’t you want me to read any lines or anything? I do a great Porky Pig imitation or maybe a—”

  He gave a hearty sigh. “You’re auditioning for the part of a child who is eaten by a Martian alien. All you need to do is scream.”

  “Well, okay. Just . . . scream,” I repeated.

  He nodded.

  I took a deep breath.

  He folded his arms and waited.

  Well, it was now or never. My entire future hung in the balance. It was all up to my scream.

  I leaned back and gave it everything I had . . .

  “AUHHHHHHHHHH!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wally, that was very—”

  But I’d barely warmed up. I knew I could do better, so I tried again . . .

  “AUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wally—”

  And again . . .

  “AUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHH!” “Mr. Wally, that will—”

  I was finally getting into it . . .

  “AUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” At last I was finished. I had to be. I’d run out of air. In fact, I was about to pass out.

  Suddenly, there was a bright flash. I looked around. It was Mr. Hollywood. He’d just taken a picture of me.

  The tired old man looked back to his papers. It was like I had never been there. “Thank you, Mr. Wally.”

  “McDoogle,” the woman corrected. “His name is—”

  “Whatever,” the man sighed. “Bring in the next one.”

  Hollywood helped me stand. I was still a little wobbly as he led me toward the opposite door. It was gone—my big chance to break into pictures. I’d blown it!

  “I can really do better,” I called back to the table. “Honest, I can—”

  Hollywood’s grip tightened. “Let’s go.”

  “If you’d just give me another—”

  “That will be all, Mr. Wally.” The older man sighed.

  “McDoogle,” the woman corrected.

  “Whatever. Next!”

  That night we all sat around the dinner table: Mom; Dad; my little sister, Carrie; and Burt and Brock, my older, superjock, twin brothers.

  Mom tried her best to get a conversation going. But she didn’t have much luck.

  “How was school today, Carrie?”

  “Fine.”

  “How was football practice, Burt?”

  “Fine.”

  “How is that new girlfriend of yours, Brock?”

  “Fine.”

  “Herb, how was your day at—”

  “Fine,” Dad interrupted, saving her the breath.

  Mom looked back down at the food on her plate. She gave a heavy sigh. So much for “quality time.”

  After dessert and a few more of my own “fines” thrown in, I went up to my room. All the afternoon’s excitement started me thinking of another great movie script. I grabbed Ol’ Betsy, my laptop computer, and f lipped her on.

  Soon, my fingers began f lying across the keys. . . .

  As we join Secret Agent James Brawn, he is madly switching switches, dialing dials, and flipping, er... flips.

  Middletown’s Nuclear Reactor is having a meltdown. The entire nation is in danger. And, since it’s James’s day off, he figured he’d swing by and brighten up things a little by saving their day.

  “Oh, no!” the helpless victims scream. “We’re all going to die. We’re all going to glow like night-lights!”

  “Nonsense,” James chuckles. “Just hand me that stick of Juicy Fruit there, will you, Herb?”

  “But Wally,” the man cries, “you’re no secret agent; you’re my son; you’re——”

  “Father, it’s time you know the truth. By day I may be the incredibly nerdy Wally McDoogle, but by night I’m (Ta-Da-Daaaa!——that’s secret agent music): Brawn...James Brawn.”

  “I had no idea,” Herb gasps.

  “Yes, well, perhaps you’ll think again before asking me to clean out the cat box. Now be a good fellow and hand me that chewing gum.”


  Herb obeys. Immediately, James rips off the foil and stuffs it into an opening labeled “Nuclear Fuse Box.”

  Instantly, the reactor winds down. The day is saved. The crowd goes wild. Someone begins shouting “BRAWN FOR PRESIDENT! BRAWN FOR PRESIDENT!” But James has little time for their undying gratitude and praise...

  His socks are ringing. That’s right. Secret agents always have fancy gizmos and gadgets to help them save the world. And James is no different.

  Dashing into the nearest Men’s Room, he pulls up his pant leg and answers his socks. “Brawn, here.”

  “Oh, James, we desperately need your help.” It’s the President of Hollyweird. Ever since they were forced to secede from the Union (they were never really a part of this country anyway), Hollyweird has had problems.

  “What’s wrong this time?” James sighs his best secret agent sigh.

  “Our commercials. Someone’s stealing our commercials.”

  “I don’t under——”

  “All those lovely advertisements shouting at you to ‘Buy, buy, buy...’ they’re all disappearing, disappearing, disappearing.”

  Quickly, James reaches for his wallet and unfolds it into a giant screen TV (a little invention allowing him to catch all his favorite daytime soaps).

  “Great Granola, Mr. President!” James shouts. “You’re right. There are no commercials anywhere. But how can——”

  Suddenly, another voice vibrates through our hero’s socks.

  “I’m holding them ranssssom, Mr. Brawn.”

  Before you can say “How much weirder is this story going to get?” James recognizes the voice. “Lizard Lips?” he shouts, “is that you?”

  “That isssss correct,” the voice hisses.

  Once a famous monster starring in several old Japanese sci-fi movies, Lizard Lips’s popularity had slipped over the years. Now, this three-hundred-foot-long lizard was doing everything she could to get back on top.

  She continued talking. “Hollyweird mussssst get me into three Sssstar Trek epissssodessss and pay me five gazillion dollarssss by midnight. Otherwisssse, there’ll never be another commercial again.”

  “But...”

  “Sssssee you in the moviessssss.” There was a loud click. Lizard Lips hung up.

  “Mr. President,” James shouts, “did you hear that?”

  “What will we do?” the President cries. “What will we do?”

  “Relax, Sir. I’ll take care of this personally.”

  “Oh, thank you, James, thank you.”

  With that, James pulls down his pant leg, steps out of the Men’s Room, and gives three low whistles. Immediately, his remote-controlled Lear jet roars to his side. Racing up the plane’s steps, James waves a fond farewell to the citizens of Middletown before climbing behind the wheel, shifting into first, and laying a patch of rubber as he roars off to Hollyweird.

  There were only 28.3 minutes to stop Lizard Lips before——

  “Wally . . .”

  I looked up from my computer. Mom was calling me.

  “Can you come downstairs a moment?”

  Rats, I hate getting interrupted when the story’s cooking. “Okay!” I shouted. “Let me finish writing this one little—”

  “You can finish it later. We need to talk.”

  “But, Mom.”

  “It’ll only take a few minutes, Wally.”

  “Mom . . .” I planned to keep whining—you know, the ol’ Wear-Her-Down game.

  Then I heard the other voice. The voice of Dad. “Now, Son.”

  Well, so much for wearing her down. When Dad stepped in, the game always ended. If it didn’t, he’d invent whole different games with titles like “You’re Grounded for the Weekend” or “No TV for a Month”—none of which are my favorites.

  Mom continued, “Someone from Sludge Productions called. They want you to be in some sort of movie.”

  I don’t remember turning Betsy off. I don’t remember running downstairs to get the details. I don’t even remember sleeping that night. But I do remember worrying what Sly Stallone, Arnie Schwarzenegger, and all those other superstars were going to do for a living now that the great Wally McDoogle had been discovered.

  Chapter 3

  School Daze

  The following morning I was on automatic pilot. I’m sure I ate breakfast. (But I don’t remember.) I’m sure I got dressed. (But I don’t remember.) And I’m sure I walked out to the bus stop. I had to. How else did I get soaked when the bus splashed to a stop in front of me?

  Besides dreaming how I was going to spend all my millions, I had spent most of that morning thinking how I’d break the news at school. I wouldn’t do it immediately. No sir. I’d wait till the money rolled in. Then I’d have my private chauffeur start dropping me off. Better yet, I’d wait until Academy Awards night and thank all the little people who helped make it possible. Or—

  But there was no “Or—” because the moment the bus doors hissed open, I knew something was up. Most days you’re lucky to get a grunt out of Mr. Kauffman, our bus driver. Or, when he’s feeling particularly frisky, maybe an “I told you kids to be quiet!”

  Not today. Today as I stumbled up the steps he greeted me with a “Good morning, Wally.”

  I stopped a moment, startled. He tried to smile, but it came off more like a snarl. Still, I appreciated the effort.

  Next, I noticed the kids. They were all staring at me. But it wasn’t the usual stare. You know, the glare stare that says, “Don’t you even think of sitting beside me.”

  This was a different type of stare. I couldn’t figure it out.

  Suddenly, the bus lurched into gear. I did my usual stagger and tumble routine toward the back until I spotted an empty seat and crashed into it.

  When I looked up, I saw everyone was STILL staring at me. I went through the standard idiot checklist.

  Nose clean? .................... Check.

  Shirt clean? ..................... Check.

  Pants zipped up? ............ Check.

  So why was everyone staring?

  “Excuse me?” It was a second grader. Nice enough kid. It was the dreamy look she had in her eye that kind of threw me. She held out a piece of paper and a violet-blue crayon. “Can I have your autograph?”

  Suddenly, I understood. Mom must’ve called Aunt Thelma about my part in the movie. If you tell Aunt Thelma anything, it’s kinda like taking out an ad in the paper . . . a big ad . . . on the front page. You see, Aunt Thelma loved to gossip. And telling her that her little nephew, Wally McDoogle, was going to be a movie star would be enough to keep her on the phone all day . . . and night . . . for months.

  So that’s what was going on. They already knew. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t official, that the director still had to make the final decision. And it didn’t matter that I only had one line. . . . Actually, it wasn’t even a line, just a scream. The point is, everybody thought I was a somebody.

  And maybe, just maybe they had a point. Maybe I finally was a somebody.

  But even as I took the pencil and piece of paper, even as I started writing, “See ya in the movies, kid,” a still, small voice whispered in the back of my head.

  “Be careful . . . watch your attitude.”

  There’s one nice thing about still, small voices in the back of your head—you can ignore them. You can drown them out . . . at least for a while.

  “Hey, Wally, take a look at this.”

  It was Opera. As we headed down the hall, he kept shoving a little match box at me. So far it had been a pretty good day. Word of my fame spread like wildfire. My popularity rose at least one hundred points before lunch. Already I’d had:

  —four autograph requests (mostly from the Crayola Crowd),

  —five “Hey Wallys” from the Jocks and Studs,

  —two “Wally my mans,” from the Metalheads,

  —and almost a dozen smiles from the female types! That’s right! A dozen! As in twelve! As in . . . well, you probably get the picture.

/>   Suddenly, it looked like my days as a Dorkoid were over. Imagine, just one little audition, one little phone call, and suddenly I was king of the mountain. Well, maybe not king. Maybe prince. Well, maybe not prince but. . . . Well, at least I wasn’t the court jester anymore.

  So you can understand why I wasn’t thrilled about Opera leeching on to me. Oh, sure, we were still friends and all. But . . . I don’t know. It’s like people were finally treating me like a somebody. Me, Wally McDoogle. Then along comes this . . . this nobody (just like I used to be fourteen hours earlier). And his very presence reminds everyone of my past.

  I felt pretty lousy thinking this. After all, we were best friends. But still . . .

  “Hey, Wally.” I looked up. It was Wall Street.

  Oh, great, I thought, another Dorkoid.

  “I heard the news.” She grinned. “Congrats.”

  “Thanks,” I said, glancing around nervously. To be seen with one Dorkoid was bad enough. To be seen with two at the same time might be more than even my new reputation could handle.

  “I just called up my stockbroker,” she said as she patted the cell phone inside her backpack. “I’m buying five shares of Sludge Productions.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Hey,” she said as she turned and headed off to class, “if you’re going to be a star, the least I can do is make a buck off you!”

  I grinned, grateful that she wasn’t sticking around (and also feeling guilty at feeling grateful). What was wrong with me? We were friends, right? Then why was I embarrassed by her company?

  Meanwhile, Opera kept shoving his little match box at me. “Take a look inside,” he nagged. “Take a look inside.”

  “What is it?” I finally snapped.

  “Just look.”

  With a heavy sigh, I opened the box and looked inside. There were half a dozen little bugs. “What on earth is—”

  “Fleas,” he beamed.

  “Fleas?” I shouted as I fumbled with the box, trying to close it. I only succeeded in dropping it to the f loor. I guess instant fame is not a cure for terminal klutziness.

  “It’s for science class,” Opera said, scooping up the box and counting the fleas inside. “Good, they’re all here. I picked them off of Fluffy last night.”

  “What?”

  “It’s for our science project, don’t you remember? We’re going to be partners.”