‘God, Mick, you clueless clod, you really are thick as a wedge. I’m telling you I’ve identified exactly what we need for our scheme – Albert Einstein’s brain!’
‘But where would we get Albert Einstein’s brain?’ asked Mick. ‘Isn’t he dead? And didn’t they bury his brain with his body?’
I reckon they were pretty relevant questions, but his merciless sister didn’t; she turned and mauled him savagely. ‘God, are you as dumb as a box of mules’ butts, or what? Don’t you know anything? Don’t you read the papers? Don’t you listen to the news?’
No, no and no.
Kim looked frustrated enough to dice Mick into meat cubes with a samurai sword, but she kept her cool – just. ‘Look. It’s simple, just like you. There’s a museum in Horror. It’s called the Horror Museum. It’s got a wing in it containing human brains. It’s called the Brains Wing. There’s a brain in that Brains Wing that was taken out of Albert Einstein’s body after he died. It’s called Albert Einstein’s brain. And we’re going to steal it. Capiche?’
Mick, who wanted to retain his original form long enough to grow a bad teenage moustache and get slapped across the face by pretty girls, very wisely said nothing, pressing the mute button on his mouth’s remote. But inside the empty wasteland of his brain, a single word was blowing around on the gusty breezes, among the dust, tumbleweeds and litter, and that word was … ‘huh?’
Huh? That was actually my response too. Albert Einstein’s brain housed in Horror – like that would happen. Given a choice of where to keep the finest brain in the history of the world, given the opportunity to store it in, say, the Guggenheim Museum, the Pentagon, or a pub in Germany next to a large jar of pickles – why in the name of King Solomon’s tie-dyed undies would they slop it in some vat in the Horror Museum?
Why?
There are garden variety coincidences, there are ridiculous coincidences, and coincidences so far out of the realm of possibility that they could dress up in the Devil’s pink lingerie, slap on mascara and rouge and go out to the city’s flashest restaurant on a double-date with Attila the Hun and Francis the Talking Mule – and then skip out on the bill.
Albert Einstein’s brain in the Horror Museum? That’s a coincidence that blows them all away.
When I read the details of this absurd coincidence, I rang the publisher straight away and complained bitterly. Presented with such an outrageous sequence of events, how was I supposed to convince normal, intelligent, sensitive, socially aware readers that what I’m reporting is actually the truth?
Okay. So then how was I supposed to convince my readers?
The publisher had an information kit ready. They’d anticipated my complaint and were all over it like Donald Trump on a tube of wig glue. According to their research, the category of reader I’m catering for is like a whole new species of goatfish previously unknown to science, occupying a substrata so low in the slime of human ignorance that it believes anything it reads, hears, sees on a bumper sticker, has tattooed on its rear-end, or even turns up in the scripts of Horror & Away.
What a relief …
So, moving right along. Time’s a dragging by like my cross-dressing Uncle Carla, and since I’m paid by the centimetre, I’ve got to add enough height to this story to finally convince my publisher to scrawl their John Henry across a cheque and send it to my address, quick time. With any luck they’ll hit their head on the door jamb, start seeing double and send me two cheques, allowing me to buy an aeroplane ticket that’ll transport me twice as far from you as I am right now.
Sweet.
You’d think that the Brains Wing at a world-renowned museum would be guarded by intelligent people. You’d think. But then you’d think that the doctor on duty in Horror High’s sick bay would be a qualified physician rather than a dyslexic butcher with a wooden eye and a bad case of the shakes, and you’d be wrong there too.
The sap-headed sentinel who stood guard at the Brains Wing of the Horror Museum was not the most cluey bloke on the block. He was still trying to work out why the Horror Museum had a Brains Wing and, indeed, why it had wings at all. Were they covered in feathers? When would he get to see the museum fly? Or was it one of those large, flightless creatures like the emu, ostrich and Big Bird from Sesame Street?
These questions took up a fairly decent portion of the guard’s already limited brain space, and what small amount was left he devoted to musing over literature. Well, he called it literature. He fancied himself as rather highbrow and intellectual – you know, worked at a museum, read constantly … but he read detective comics.
Don’t get me wrong – detective comics rock. But this sissy simpleton read Daisy Dimple: Girl Guide Detective, and they do not rock. They do rotate, but not in a good way, and they’re definitely not realistic – not one bit. The last one I read had Brown Owl bawling out Daisy Dimple for not selling enough fundraising chocolate bars, and I know that’s not accurate. Guides don’t sell chocolate, that’s for sure, because our pack sold Fairy Biscuits. I mean, get real – if you’re going to write about something serious, know your facts.
Amateurs.
But this guard was not as smart as some people I could name (me) and didn’t realise he was reading unrealistic rubbish. And he sure didn’t realise he was about to be hoodwinked in a much more nefarious and disconcerting manner.
It was dark and there was no moon. The stars shone like a million miniature suns. That’s because it was night-time. Mick and Kim crouched in a bush in front of the museum, punching a number into a mobile phone.
Fifty metres away they could see the guard at the front door, pacing back and forth, occasionally checking his watch. He was yawning deeply when his phone rang, snapping him back to attention. He took the call.
So far, so good.
‘Hello,’ the guard said. ‘Brain Wing.’
‘Hello,’ said Kim, ‘it’s your mother.’
‘Hello Mum!’ the guard replied brightly.
‘Don’t you “Hello Mum” me, you rotten horrible lunk of a son. Didn’t I warn you to make your bed before you left? Well, didn’t I?’
There was no answer, but even from this distance the zombies could see the guard turning pale and sweat breaking out on his brow.
‘Didn’t I warn you?’ Kim whispered tersely into the phone. ‘And you remember what I threatened to do? Well, now I’m going to do it!’
‘No! Please, Mum!’ the guard whimpered. ‘Not my Daisy Dimple comics – please don’t burn them. I’m coming home. I’ll make my bed. I’ll never leave it unmade again.’ The pansy guard bolted out of the building, moaning, holding his head in his hands. He left in such a rush that he didn’t turn the lights off. Didn’t even lock the front door.
Careless.
‘Right,’ said Kim, stepping out from behind the bush. ‘Let’s book.’
The two zombies snuck along the line of bushes in front of the museum, glanced over their decomposing shoulders to make sure the coast was clear and made a dash for the door. Kim knew the layout. She’d been there before, done a complete reccy and made straight for the main chamber where the brains were stored.
It was an eerie feeling pacing along the forbidden, echoing corridor, filing past a long line of brains lurking quietly in glass vats of fluid. It was spooky and felt almost as though the brains were watching them and thinking rude, unspoken thoughts to themselves.
The very air reeked of intelligence, and just breathing in the stinky smart-mist made Mick daydream he was a world famous zombie scientist who’d save Horror from the disastrous meteor threatening to wipe them off the globe.
Planet Reality to Mick, Planet Reality to Mick, come in Mick …
As his eyes became more accustomed to the half-light, Mick began to distinguish the labels on the vats. Some of the brains belonged to very famous people, some to very infamous people, and some to complete jackasses who died in such silly and embarrassing ways that the Dept of Dodgy Deaths requisitioned their grey matter to distil it and vaccin
ate the general population against future stupidities.
The leftovers were donated to science, and brain surgeon students mashed and diced and minced them up them for homework in brain surgeon school.
It’d be fascinating to document the various pink blobs floating in formalde-hyde fluid in the huge glass vats, but there’s no time to squander on such trivialities – Mick was there for a purpose. But, being Mick, he’d completely forgotten what that purpose was, so let’s trivialise a bit while he takes a few deep breaths and brings himself up to speed.
Some of the brains here had implants hooked up to them, with microphone and headphone outlets. It was mad – and seemingly pointless – but you could actually ask these brains questions. After a few moments there’d be a slight shudder of the large pink organ in the viscous fluid. A few bubbles would slowly rise up like a koi letting off in a fish tank, and a disem-bodied, computer-generated voice would answer your questions through the headphones.
If it could. Some of the brains were clearly not up to it, and some were barking mad. Hitler’s brain kept ranting the single phrase ‘Gott und Himmel!’, which according to my dodgy translation book means ‘God eats Himmels’ – a popular brand of hot-dog back in the dark days of World War II.
Hitler’s brain was stored down the left bank, with all the misfits, murderers and malcontents. Right next to him was the 1920s gangster Al Capone, who’d smoked so many big, fat, gangster cigars during his extensive crime spree that his brain now exuded nicotine like a toxic sponge, staining the vat a nutty brown.
Beside Capone’s mucky brown brain was the brain of Jack the Ripper, the evil contents of his demented noodle floating in corn flakes, milk and sugar, like you’d expect for history’s most notorious serial killer.
The next tub contained the fifth Wiggle – the infamous Black Wiggle, who wore a black skivvy, sold his soul to Satan and ran amok in the Horror Kindergarten, using his middle finger for the trademark finger wiggle and scaring the children before punching himself unconscious.
Down the right bank lay the brains of the good guys. Charlie Chaplin was there, saying very little, along with The Three Stooges, their three brains all banged up in one vat, slapping and pinching and poking each other. Willy Wonka’s brain floated happily in a chocolaty sauce, and next to it rested Queen Victoria’s, which repeated over and over, ‘We are not amused.’
Arnold Schwarzenegger’s was there, though I didn’t even realise he was dead. I guess the presence of his brain in the Horror Museum explains the flipped-out timbre of his shoddy movies.
Captain Cook’s brain was also there, retrieved from his ocean grave in the Sandwich Islands, and now it sailed serenely on a deep blue sea of formalde-hyde fluid.
There were a bunch of generals and politicians and do-gooders and time-wasters and community-minded clowns, but they’re just wasting our time. The most important pink blob for the purposes of our convoluted, too diluted, unripefruited story lay there silently, thinking deep and lofty thoughts to itself, wondering what relevance E=mc2 has when most people can’t even remember their PIN numbers. Yes folks, right at the end of the line was the smartest and fattest and pinkest blob of the lot – Albert Einstein’s.
Brainy.
Back when Kim had been doing the prep for their great brain robbery, she allotted Mick one task, and one task only. Do the maths – you’ll know she was courting trouble. One task was too many for her low-IQ bro.
Mick’s job was to prepare a substitute brain to replace the one they were going to steal. After all, no matter how dim the museum guard, he would surely notice an empty vat that only hours before had contained Albert Einstein’s world famous, big-thinking brain.
So Kim had briefed Mick on procuring a surrogate brain, and it was no tough task, even for a twit like Mick. After all, Mrs Living-Dead cooked brains for dinner every other day. Mick could snaffle a frozen one from the deep freeze – it’d never be missed – and job done.
But that was not Mick’s style. That seemed way too straightforward. He had a better idea.
Mick and idea? Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?
Uh oh.
Now Mick pulled his backpack off while Kim clambered up beside the glass vat. She plunged her arms into the mucky fluid and fished around until her hands closed on a slimy, pink ball the size of a large grapefruit. Quickly and efficiently, she tugged at the electronic implants, which slipped with a gluggy ‘plop’ from the sides of the spongy blob.
Kim gingerly hoisted the gross, greasy orb out and passed it down to Mick, who slid the brain into a plastic shopping bag. He then held up a different bag containing the substitute brain he’d prepared earlier. Looking around at all those brains, Mick’s mouth started to water. He nearly bit a chunk out of the brain he was holding, but luckily Kim snatched it up in time and slipped it into the vat.
Mission accomplished, they scarpered off into the night.
Early Monday morning they were eating breakfast when Mr Living-Dead came rushing in, running late, flapping his hands and flipping out.
‘My car battery is flat again,’ he panted to his wife. ‘Damn that flaky vegetarian vampire salesman to Hell and back! Can you grab the jumper leads and give me a jump-start from your car?’
‘Yes, dear,’ replied Mother L-D, giving the kids a knowing look and following the old boy out the back door.
Kim looked at Mick. ‘I think we should borrow those jumper leads after she’s finished,’ she whispered.
‘But you don’t have a car,’ Mick replied.
‘Idiot!’ Kim said. ‘We’ll try it on the brain.’
‘Oh,’ said Mick. ‘Good idea.’
It was a good idea (something I’m fully aware of, having spawned millions of them myself), and it worked. The stolen brain had been hidden under Mick’s bed, floating in an esky of saltwater with a few dead flies for company. They pulled it out, dried it off on an old dishrag, retrieved the greasy jumper leads from the back of the garage and rigged them up, clamping one end on Albert Einstein’s juicy, information-charged brain and the other end on Mick’s putrid, decaying ears.
Instantaneously Mick received a tremendous charge, a rush of facts and figures, and was suddenly imbued with all sorts of excellent data, statistics, information, train timetables, office protocols, my phone number, your granddad’s vital statistics, all things known and bulk other irrelevant tidings and gossipy hearsay.
Success!
Mick was suddenly cleverer than a wise old owl with a double PhD in fox studies; more intelligent than a super computer with a lubed-up, tricked-out motherboard and sharper than a razor blade with a scholarship to the sharpening school on Sharp Island.
But would he be smarter than Mr Know-All? They had to be certain …
Grimsweather’s Annual Maths Test was a traditional, compulsory and much-hated event on the Horror High calendar. Very few students passed, nearly all failed, none got even half decent marks and just a couple died … a second time, only more painfully.
Kim saw the maths test as the perfect opportunity to test their brand new stolen brain.
The maths test was actually a thinly veiled excuse for Grimsweather to slaughter a couple of the lower, slower students to feed his relatives at the Annual Grimsweather Family Reunion Barbeque. Grimsweather hated shelling out his hard-earned wages on butcher’s meat for his unlikeable, ravenous rels and had devised the maths test and its bloody carnage outcome as a viable, workable alternative.
Cheapskate.
Correction – financially shrewd, good-use-of-local-resources cheapskate.
Consequently the first Friday of every October, just before the Annual Grimsweather Family Reunion (which was held the first Saturday of every October), the students of Horror High filed reluctantly into their classrooms for the bogus maths test. One hour later the same group filed out again, a couple of ghouls lighter than before.
Customarily it was the two students who scored lowest on the maths exam that got the chop, literally. So, if Mi
ck Living-Dead was the epitome of numbskullery and nincompoopery, as previously claimed, how come he hadn’t been butchered years before? Surely Mick would’ve scored the lowest mark every time in the past? Why hadn’t Mick ended up as Grimsweather Family Reunion Barbeque steaks?
Well may you ask.
And well may you keep asking until your face falls off. How would I know? Do I look like an encyclopaedia? I get paid to scribe the facts as the publisher lays them on me. That’s precisely what I write, and half the time I don’t get paid anyway.
Far as I can tell, this plot has more holes in it than my granny’s undies, and this is a relatively good one. You should see some of the shonky storylines they’ve forced me to write up. Honestly, one of their plots was found in the public toilets at Horror bus station, and another came out of a stale fortune cookie the publisher received after a meal at a Horror Chinese restaurant.
And some of their plot outlines really have whiskers on them. Whiskers? Crikey, by the time they land on my desk, they’ve sprouted full-blown bushranger beards. You can’t see the story for hair.
Hirsute.
Listen to your school’s careers adviser on this one, because for once they’re not speaking with a forked tongue – writing is a shameful and disreputable occupation pursued by social misfits, walking abnormalities and frog-faced, bed-wetting oddities. I’m the only normal dude doing it, and the disgrace of working beside all these dangerous freaks means that sometimes I don’t sleep at night for days on end.
But then I figure the smart thing to do is write the whole gig off as an embarrassing social irritation – like your mother playing on the National Nude Netball Team – and I zen out and chill, baby.
Peace out.
Hang about. We were talking about Grimsweather’s evil annual murderous maths exam, and why Mick escaped the chop and avoided becoming a chop. I hadn’t finished telling my side of the story. What sort of place is that to put a chapter break? How dare they treat my work like a piece of meat, just butchering it into bite-sized chunks and skewering a chapter break in between like it was a shish-kebab stick?
The Great Brain Page 3