My Life as Alien Monster Bait

by Bill Myers

  Almost.

  Melissa Sue Avarice was so excited that before I knew it she gave me a quick little peck on the cheek.

  I was seeing stars . . .

  I was hearing music . . .

  I was in over my head. Way over. And I was getting in deeper by the second.

  Chapter 5

  Lights, Camera,

  Not So Much Action

  Things were not well in McDoogleville—not well at all. Everything was too weird. I couldn’t sleep. Nobody was acting like they were supposed to. I mean, think about it:

  —My brother Brock pretends to like me . . .

  —Dad uses me to impress his boss . . .

  —Reptile Man treats me like a human being . . .

  —Melissa Sue Avarice gives me a juicy smack in public . . .

  I mean, on the McDoogle Weirdness Scale of 1–10, this was definitely pushing an 11.

  Then there was the way I treated Opera—like pond scum. It really bugged me. Amazing . . . one little part in one little movie, and suddenly everybody goes schizoid on me. Everybody, including me!

  I glanced at the clock. It was 12:24 in the morning. Tomorrow was Saturday. The big day. The day we’d begin filming. But I was too nervous to sleep. I reached for Ol’ Betsy and snapped her on. Maybe a little more James Brawn would help me relax. Let’s see, where were we . . .

  When we last left our super spy guy, he was in his Lear jet speeding toward the nation of Hollyweird. His mission: to rescue the world’s TV commercials from the dreaded Lizard Lips. As the wind whips through his gorgeous hair (it’s a convertible jet), James devises a plan. Since Lizzie is a three-hundred-foot-long lizard, chances are she’ll be living in a three-hundred-foot-long lizard hole. Brilliant, huh? That’s why they pay him the big, secret-agent bucks!

  James reaches over and switches on his Handy-Dandy Lizard Hole Finder and:

  Beep...Beep...Beep...BEEP-BOINK, BEEP-BOINK.

  He finds it.

  He down-shifts his jet to “drop-like-a-rock,” and the plane nosedives toward the giant opening. “Strange,” he wonders, “why is this hole surrounded by white, pearly boulders——white pearly boulders that look exactly like——”

  “Leapin’ Lima Beans!” he cries. “They’re teeth! Lizzie’s got her mouth open, and I’m headin’ directly into——”

  But he has no time to finish the sentence. As he enters her mouth, he fires an Emergency Dental Floss Missile. A rocket attached to a thin white cord shoots out from the back of the plane and wraps itself around Lizzie’s upper bicuspid (that’s a tooth for you non-dentist types).

  The cord yanks the jet to a screeching halt.

  “Looks like it’s time for a little flossing,” James laughs as he hops out. But he doesn’t laugh long. Now, I don’t want to say ol’ Lizzie’s breath is bad...but there’s something about the way it melts all the plastic parts on James’s jet that makes our hero a little nervous.

  “Gotta lay off them onions, Babe!” he shouts as he reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a pencil. But this is no ordinary pencil. Oh, no, dear reader. He puts one end into his mouth and starts blowing. The pencil inflates into a giant bazooka——complete with printed instructions in both French and Chinese!

  Next, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the bottle of Listerine that he keeps handy for just such occasions. He loads it into the bazooka and fires it directly into the back of Lizzie’s mouth.

  It explodes, filling the reptile’s mouth with a fine mist of mouthwash. Now the air is fit for human consumption. A little mediciney perhaps, but for the mouth of a giant lizard (they eat bugs and that type of junk), it isn’t half bad.

  Now, at last, James can breathe. “Okay, Lizzie girl,” he shouts. “Where did you hide those commercials?” But there is still no answer, just the boiling and bubbling of digestive juices from down in her stomach.

  James’s keen eye keenly surveys his not-so-keen situation...Ahead of him are Lizzie’s tonsils, throat, and past that what could be a bad case of indigestion...for both of them.

  Behind him, closed tighter than the mouth of a three-year-old not wanting to eat his veggies, are the pearly teeth. But, at this range they’re not so pearly. In fact, it looks like Lizzie girl has missed her last couple dental checkups...for the last couple centuries.

  Knowing how sensitive actresses are about perfect smiles, James hates to do what he’s about to do. But knowing he has to do what he has to do, he decides to do it...(or something like that).

  He aims his handy-dandy laser ring (the prize from his Cracker Jack box) at Lizzie’s two front teeth. He’s going to have to blast out a little escape route. Then, just when he’s about to open fire and give her dental work some free air conditioning, he hears a giggle.

  James quickly hits the deck (which just happens to be Lizzie’s tongue), rolls onto his stomach, and takes aim...

  “Don’t shoot! It’s me!”

  James peers into the darkness. He sees nothing. “Who?”

  “Me...” the voice giggles, “Poppin’ Fresh.”

  James watches in astonishment as the Pillsbury Doughboy jumps out from behind a left molar. Although worn and tattered, Poppin’ Fresh is just as white and pudgy as on TV. James has this sudden urge to poke him in the stomach (you know, just to see if he’ll giggle like in the commercials). But he manages to keep from it.

  “What are you doing here?” James demands.

  “I’m hiding.”

  “Hiding?”

  “Yes, Lizard Lips was holding me captive with all the other commercials until I made my escape.”

  “Listen,” James says, “I know you’re just a piece of cookie dough and not terribly bright, but there are safer places to hide than inside a giant lizard’s——”

  Suddenly, Lizzie begins to speak. “Looksssss like I have you two sssssurrounded.” Her voice roars in their ears. “I trusssst you’ll be ssssstaying for lunch,” she chuckles, “ssssince you’re the main coursssssse.” She begins laughing louder. And louder. And louder still. The ol’ girl is really cracking herself up. And the more she laughs the wider her mouth opens, until she provides the perfect escape route.

  “Let’s go,” James shouts to Poppin’ Fresh. “Take me to the other prisoners.”

  Ol’ Poppy boy casts a nervous look at the towering incisors (more tooth talk) high over their heads. One false move and they’ll wind up tooth tartar forever. But how can he be frightened with the great James Brawn at his side? Finally, Poppin’ gives a nod. They leap from the giant mouth and run for their lives.

  “Sssstop!” Lizzie screeches. “Ssssstop it thissssss inssssstant!”

  She flicks her forked tongue and takes off after them when suddenly——

  Suddenly, what? I wasn’t sure. But something inside said their fate wouldn’t be any worse than mine. I shut Ol’ Betsy down and glanced at the clock—1:46 A.M. Five hours to go before I was on the movie set. Five hours and then . . . well, your guess is as good as mine. . . .

  “Wally, the limo’s here,” Mom shouted from downstairs. “Let’s go, Sweetheart!”

  Saturday morning . . . D-Day.

  I glanced in my dresser mirror. I’d washed and combed and sprayed and moussed my hair five different times, five different ways. And each time it came out the same—wrong. I looked as close to being a movie star as my pet turtle. (Which I don’t have because he was squished by a Volkswagen, and we buried him over a year ago. By now he’s probably all rotten, and even at that, he probably still looked better than me.)

  Then there were my clothes . . . Every shirt and pair of pants I ever owned were tossed on the bed—well, except for the pair I decided to wear. I knew plaid was no longer in style, but it was the only thing I could find to wear with my polka-dot shirt and striped suspenders. As strange as it seems, some people claim I have no sense for fashion.

  “Sweetheart, hurry!”

  “Well, here goes nothing,” I sighed into the mirror. (I had no idea how right I’d be.
)

  I stumbled down the steps, and there was Mom. I couldn’t believe it. It was 5:30 in the morning, and she was dressed and smiling! Little sister Carrie and her accident-prone kitty, Collision, were also up. Even Burt and Brock, the human sleeping machines, were awake! Granted, they weren’t thinking yet (that doesn’t start until five or six in the afternoon), but at least they were standing.

  Meanwhile, Dad was behind the video camera taping away. “Look this way, Son . . . give us a big smile.”

  “Nice ’do,’” Carrie smirked, checking out my hair. “Hope the monster’ll still want to eat you.”

  I wanted to fire off a stinging comeback, but since the video was running, I played the “understanding big brother” and just patted her on the head.

  By the time I reached the door, Mom was all in tears like I was going off to war. I wondered if she knew something I didn’t.

  Dad shouted from behind the camera, “Don’t forget to get Mr. Feinstein on the set.”

  “Right,” I nodded.

  “And help Valerie get into the biz,” Brock muttered.

  “Got it,” I answered. Then, turning to Carrie, I smirked, “What about you, don’t you want anything out of me?”

  She took a moment to think. Then, using all of her six-year-old wisdom, she said, “Try not to make a total fool of yourself.”

  I nodded. Out of the mouths of babes . . .

  Well, at least the fond farewells were over.

  Not exactly.

  I opened the front door and saw half the neighborhood standing on our front lawn! Many were still in their bathrobes. Several were half asleep. But as soon as they saw my face, they got all excited.

  “There he is!” someone called.

  “Wally’s here!” another shouted.

  “It’s about time,” someone mumbled.

  They began to clap and cheer.

  “Knock ’em dead,” a neighbor cried.

  “Do us proud,” another shouted.

  “Don’t embarrass us,” the mumbler mumbled.

  The limo waited at the end of the sidewalk. It was long and black. The driver stood with the back door open. He was old and gray. “Right this way, Mr. Wally.”

  I stepped forward and climbed inside. I’d never seen anything like it. The seats were all leather. There was a telephone, a bar, a color TV, and, well, talk about room . . . if it were any bigger I could have played a game of table tennis. Forget the table, I could’ve played real tennis!

  The chauffeur shut the door. It went “Wuff.” Not “Bang,” not “Boom,” not “Slam” . . . but “Wuff.” Talk about class. There weren’t even cookie crumbs or soda stains on the seat.

  We pulled off as the crowd clapped and cheered. Mom was dabbing the corner of her eyes, Dad was video-taping, Carrie was coaxing Collision out from under the rolling wheels, and Burt and Brock were dozing.

  A half-hour later we pulled onto the set. It was a fake city street. Oh, the fronts of the buildings looked real enough, but they had no backs. Come to think of it, they had no sides or f loors or roofs either. They were just false fronts of buildings. Talk about fakey.

  But they weren’t the only fakey things . . .

  The chauffeur opened the door, and I stepped out. Everybody was running around shouting. There was cable and lights and yelling everywhere. They probably all knew what they were doing, but they sure had me fooled.

  Right above me towered ol’ Gertrude— almost three stories high. She didn’t look like a machine anymore. Now her steel girders were completely covered with slippery, green rubber. Now she looked like a real monster—half dinosaur, half outer-space alien, half who-knows-what . . . complete with one giant red eye, four arms, three feet, and the obligatory drool hanging from her mouth.

  “I’m supposed to get in there?” I kinda croaked as I pointed to the mouth.

  But before the chauffeur could answer, two people grabbed me—a man and a woman (at the moment I couldn’t tell which was which).

  “You’re late, Mr. Wally! We must get you into wardrobe immediately!”

  “Oh, this hair is wrong,” the other cried, running his (or her) hand through it. “Wrong, wrong, wrong. You don’t look a thing like a punker.”

  “A punker?” I asked as they dragged me toward a trailer. “I thought the director hired me ’cause I looked like—”

  “That was yesterday,” the first sighed, “but today is today. You know artists . . .”

  “You don’t mind if we pierce your ears, do you?” the first asked.

  “Well, I—”

  “Not a lot . . . Just four or five times . . . per ear.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Where did you get these ghastly clothes?” the other cried. “Was Bozo the clown having a garage sale?”

  “Well, I—”

  Suddenly, the sound of glass crashed and tinkled inside a nearby motor home. A voice screamed. “I’m not going near that machine! That’s the stunt-man’s job!”

  “But Chad, Sweetheart, Baby,” another voice tried to reason, “we need those closeups.”

  There was another crash of glass. “And where’s my Perrier—you promised me chilled Perrier!”

  My first companion threw a glance over at the second. “Looks like Chaddy is having another one of his tizzy-fits,” he (or she) smirked.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Mr. Steel,” the other answered, “the star of this little migraine maker.”

  “You don’t mean Chad Steel?” I asked.

  Before they could answer, the door to the motor home f lew open and out stepped the director. He looked pretty worn and frazzled. In fact, he reminded me a lot of Carrie’s cat, Collision, the time he got caught in the dryer. He had come out all wide-eyed, hair sticking out, and a little dazed.

  Behind the director stepped out Chad Steel. Well, it sort of looked like Chad Steel. Only this Chad Steel was about a foot shorter than I figured and twenty or thirty pounds wimpier.

  “Look,” the director pleaded. He pointed to the towering machine. Gertrude was tossing her head back and forth and moving her jaws like she was eating again. “All the bugs are worked out. See. She’s perfectly safe now. Perfectly.”

  “I can’t see a thing,” Chad whined. “The sun’s too bright, it’s hurting my—”

  “Here.” The director took off his sunglasses and handed them to Chad.

  Unfortunately, this was just about the time ol’ Gertrude’s mouth decided to hiccup. Well, that’s how it started. But pretty soon it wasn’t just her mouth hiccuping. Pretty soon it was her head, then her neck, then her entire body. Pretty soon the mechanical monster was jumping around like a kangaroo! A swaying, out-of-control, thirty-foot, hiccuping kangaroo!

  “Look out!” the crew yelled, running for cover. “She’s going to blow again!”

  And then, right on cue, Gertrude’s head blew up. That’s right. One minute she looked as normal as any other mutant monster from Mars— the next, her head blew up and there was nothing but steel girders, shredded rubber, and hanging wires.

  “I want my manager,” Chad shrieked. “I want my manager, and I want him now!”

  “Good,” my first wardrobe companion half laughed, half giggled. “Looks like we’ll have more time to fix Mr. Wally.”

  “Hope you brought a book,” the other sighed to me. “No way will we be filming today.”

  Chapter 6

  A Day Off . . .

  or an Off Day?

  I spent the rest of “Superstardom: Day One” in the wardrobe trailer. It was hot and sticky and cramped. (Not exactly the type of glamor I was expecting.) With Gertrude on the fritz (not to mention Chad), we wouldn’t start filming until Monday. But the man and woman (I still didn’t know which was which) kept me around to try out a bunch of clothes and makeup. The clothes got weirder every second. By the end of the day they’d settled on a leather shirt and chiffon pants. I’d say that about covers it for weird, wouldn’t you?

  When I wasn’t trying on
clothes, I was trying out different rub-on tattoos for my arms, or begging them not to turn my ears into Swiss cheese with their ear-piercer thingie. They agreed to hold off on the ears till Monday.

  They didn’t agree to hold off on cutting and dying my hair . . .

  The guy (or gal) began snipping as the other guy (or gal) tried red, then green, then purple, blue, orange. . . . We must have tried every color in the rainbow. And by the end of the day, that’s exactly what I looked like—a spiked, punked, mohawked rainbow. “Don’t worry,” they said. “A little soap and water, it’ll wash right out—same with those rub-on tattoos.”

  That’s what they said as I climbed into the limo Saturday night.

  But as I sat in church Sunday morning, I knew it wasn’t so.

  I’ve got to hand it to Pastor Bergman. He did a pretty good job of not staring. Well, okay, he stared, but at least his mouth didn’t hang open. Well, at least it didn’t hang open all the time. Only when his eyes scanned over to my section of the church—which for some reason seemed to be about every four or five seconds.

  Then there was the rest of the congregation. I know they did their best to pay attention to the pastor. But no matter how hard they tried, their eyes kept darting over to my “illustrated arms” and my “Technicolor, glow-in-the-dark ’do.’”

  Even with all that, the sermon was good. Too good. Pastor Bergman read something out of the New Testament about how we shouldn’t treat some people as more important than others. . . .

  “My dear brothers, you are believers in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ. So never think that some people are more important than others. Suppose someone comes into your church meeting wearing very nice clothes and a gold ring. At the same time a poor man comes in wearing old, dirty clothes. You show special attention to the one wearing nice clothes. You say, ‘Please sit here in this good seat.’ But you say to the poor man, ‘Stand over there,’ or ‘Sit on the floor by my feet!’ What are you doing? You are making some people more important than others. With evil thoughts you are deciding which person is better.”