About The 39-storey treehouse
Join Andy and Terry in their astonishing 39-storey treehouse! Jump on the world’s highest trampoline, toast marshmallows in an active volcano, swim in the chocolate waterfall, pat baby dinosaurs, go head-to-trunk with the Trunkinator, break out your best moves on the dance floor, fly in a jet-propelled swivel chair, ride a terrifying rollercoaster and meet Professor Stupido, the world’s greatest UN-inventor.
Well, what are you waiting for? Come on up!
CONTENTS
COVER
ABOUT THE 39-STOREY TREEHOUSE
CHAPTER 1: THE 39-STOREY TREEHOUSE
CHAPTER 2: THE 39TH LEVEL
CHAPTER 3: BILL THE POSTMAN’S STORY
CHAPTER 4: THE ONCE-UPON-A-TIME MACHINE
CHAPTER 5: FUN TIME!
CHAPTER 6: THE LOCK-OUT
CHAPTER 7: JILL’S HOUSE
CHAPTER 8: PROFESSOR STUPIDO’S STORY
CHAPTER 9: THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
CHAPTER 10: BLOOF! BLOORT! BLAP!
CHAPTER 11: BLAM! BLOOT! BLING!
CHAPTER 12: THE AMAZING SPOONCIL!
CHAPTER 13: THE LAST CHAPTER
ABOUT ANDY GRIFFITHS AND TERRY DENTON
ALSO BY ANDY GRIFFITHS AND TERRY DENTON
COPYRIGHT PAGE
Hi, my name is Andy.
This is my friend Terry.
We live in a tree.
Well, when I say ‘tree’, I mean treehouse. And when I say ‘treehouse’, I don’t just mean any old treehouse—I mean a 39-storey treehouse.
(It used to be a 26-storey treehouse, but we’ve added another 13 storeys.)
So what are you waiting for? Come on up!
We’ve added a trampoline (without a net),
a chocolate waterfall,
an active (non-erupting) volcano,
an opera house,
a baby-dinosaur petting zoo,
an Andy and Terry’s Believe It … or Else! Museum,
a boxing elephant called The Trunkinator (he can knock you out with one punch from his mighty trunk),
a not-very-merry-go-round,
an X-ray room (where you can see your own skeleton),
a disco with a light-up dance floor and giant mirror ball,
a high-tech office with laser-erasers, semi-automatic staple guns and jet-propelled swivel chairs,
and the world’s scariest rollercoaster (it’s so fast, so dangerous and so terrifying that even dead people are scared to go on it),
and, as well as all that, there’s a level that is so new that Terry hasn’t even finished it yet … I can’t wait to see what it is!
As well as being our home, the treehouse is also where we make books together. I write the words and Terry draws the pictures.
As you can see, we’ve been doing this for quite a while now.
Sure, it’s easy to get distracted when you live in a 39-storey treehouse … I mean, there’s just so much to do …
but somehow we always get our book written in the end.
If you’re like most of our readers, you’re probably wondering how long it takes Terry and me to write a book.
Well, I guess the answer to that really depends on whether it’s a long book or a short book. Long books take longer to write than short books, which don’t take as long to write as long books, which, as I said, take longer to write than short books, which—oh, excuse me. Here’s Terry.
‘Hi, Andy,’ he says. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m just telling the readers about how long it takes us to write a book.’
‘Did you tell them that it depends on whether it’s a long book or a short book?’ he says.
‘Yes!’ I say.
‘And that a long book takes longer to write than a short book?’
‘Yes!’ I say.
‘And did you tell them how a short book doesn’t take as long to write as a long book?’
‘YES!’ I say. ‘I explained all that.’
‘Okay, okay, there’s no need to shout,’ says Terry. ‘I bet there’s one thing you didn’t tell them, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That this book is hardly going to take us any time at all, no matter how long or short it ends up being.’
‘How do you figure that?’
‘Well …’ says Terry, ‘I—’
That’s our 3D video phone.
‘Hang on, Terry,’ I say. ‘I’d better answer it. It’s probably Mr Big Nose. As you know, he always calls around the beginning of chapter two to remind us about the deadline for our latest book.’
I jet-chair over to the video phone and accept the call. It’s Mr Big Nose all right. Nobody else in the world has a nose that big.
‘What kept you?’ he says.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I was just explaining to the readers how long it takes us to write a book.’
‘Did you tell them it depends on whether it’s a short book or a long book?’ he shouts.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And how a long book takes you a longer time to write than a short book?’
‘Yes!’ I say.
‘And that short books don’t take as long as long books?’
‘YES!’ I say. ‘I explained all that.’
‘And did you tell them that I always call around the start of chapter two to remind you when your next book is due, which in this case is tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon?’ I say. ‘But … but … but … that’s … tomorrow … in … in … in … the afternoon!’
‘Exactly!’ says Mr Big Nose. ‘And no later than five o’clock … OR ELSE!’
Before I can explain how completely and utterly and totally impossible that’s going to be, Terry flies over and hovers between me and the screen.
‘No problem, Mr Big Nose,’ he says. ‘It’s all under control. It will be on your desk by five o’clock tomorrow without fail. See you then. Bye!’
Terry hangs up.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ I say.
‘I don’t think so,’ says Terry. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because you just promised Mr Big Nose that tomorrow we will deliver a book which we haven’t even started yet because you’ve been too busy building your secret 39th level!’
‘But that’s what I was trying to tell you,’ says Terry, ‘before Mr Big Nose called. What I’ve been doing on the 39th level is going to solve our book-writing problems forever! Follow me and I’ll show you.’
Terry takes off and I jet-chair after him towards the top of the tree.
We hover outside the 39th level, which is still all boarded up and covered in KEEP OUT signs.
‘Well?’ I say. ‘What is it?’
‘Only the greatest invention that I—or anyone else—have ever invented!’ says Terry.
He cuts a ribbon and the barriers fall away to reveal …
the greatest invention that Terry—or anyone else—has ever invented.
‘Well?’ says Terry. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s the greatest invention that you—or anyone else—have ever invented!’ I say. ‘But what is it?’
‘A Once-upon-a-time machine!’ says Terry.
‘A time machine?!’ I say. ‘Cool! So we can go back in time, write our book and meet our deadline after all!’
‘Well, no, not exactly,’ says Terry. ‘It will help us meet our deadline, all right, but it’s not a time machine. It’s a Once-upon-a-time machine. It will write—and illustrate—the entire book for us!’
‘It can write a whole book?’ I say. ‘All by itself?’
‘It sure can!’ says Terry. ‘It’s got two sets of hands: one pair for typing at super spee
d …
and another pair for drawing. It can draw with both hands at the same time!’
‘Wow!’ I say. ‘And we don’t have to do anything?’
‘No, all we have to do is program it. We just tell it what sort of story we want and turn it on. The machine does the rest!’
‘That’s brilliant!’ I say. ‘How long will it take?’
‘Well,’ says Terry, ‘it all depends on whether you want a long book or a short book. Long books take longer to write than short books and short books take less time to write than long books.’
‘What about a 344-page book?’ I say.
‘About eight hours,’ says Terry.
‘Perfect!’ I say. ‘Let’s turn it on and get started then.’
‘Not so fast,’ says Terry.
‘What do you mean “not so fast”?!’ I say. ‘Our deadline is tomorrow! We haven’t got a moment to lose!’
‘I know,’ says Terry, ‘but the thing is, I can’t turn it on yet. The machine is so big and complicated, with so many different parts, that I used up every last on–off switch I had. I’ve ordered a new one, though, and I’m expecting it to be delivered any moment.’
‘Ah,’ says Terry. ‘That’s probably it now.’
We look down.
There’s a postman at the front door.
But not just any postman.
It’s Bill.
Bill the postman.
But that’s impossible, because … well …
Bill is dead!
Terry and I look at each other in horror.
‘Do you see who I see?’ says Terry.
‘Yes!’ I say. ‘It’s Bill.’
‘But it can’t be!’ says Terry. ‘In the last book we saw his skeleton in the Maze of Doom, remember?’
‘Yes, of course I remember!’ I whisper. ‘Which means that it can’t be Bill down there … It must be a zombie!’
‘Delivery!’ calls the zombie.
‘It sounds like Bill,’ says Terry.
‘That’s part of its evil plan,’ I say.
‘What evil plan?’ says Terry.
‘To deliver our mail and then eat our brains!’ I say. ‘Don’t you know anything about zombies?’
‘Andy?’ calls the zombie. ‘Terry? Anyone home?’
‘He knows our names!’ says Terry. ‘It must be Bill.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘Bill the ZOMBIE!’
‘Come on, you two chuckleheads,’ says the zombie. ‘I can hear you up there. I’ve got a package for you.’
‘Can you leave it at the door?’ I say. ‘We’re kind of busy.’
‘Afraid not,’ says the zombie. ‘It’s a special delivery from Switches‘R’Us … I’m going to need you to sign for it.’
‘We need that switch, Andy,’ whispers Terry.
‘Yeah, and we also need our brains,’ I whisper back.
‘I’m not a zombie, you know,’ calls the zombie.
‘Did you hear that, Andy?’ says Terry. ‘He says he’s not a zombie.’
‘That’s exactly the sort of thing a zombie would say,’ I tell him. ‘We can’t risk it.’
‘All right, then,’ calls Bill. ‘If you won’t come down, then I’m coming up!’
‘Oh no!’ I yell. ‘It’s a zombie attack! Grab the flame-throwers, Terry!’
‘What flame-throwers?’
‘The ones you were supposed to make to protect us against zombie attack!’
‘Oh, those flame-throwers,’ says Terry. ‘I didn’t get around to it. I was too busy working on the 39th level.’
‘They won’t be necessary,’ says Bill as he climbs onto our level. ‘I’m not a zombie. I’m very much alive.’
‘But we thought you were dead,’ says Terry.
Bill grins. ‘So did I when I read The 26-Storey Treehouse and saw that picture of a skeleton wearing my postman’s cap. I was very sad for a while until I realised that if I was feeling sad, then I must still be alive—so it couldn’t have been me in the picture after all!’
‘But if it wasn’t you,’ says Terry, ‘then who was it?’
‘Well, it’s a bit of a long story,’ says Bill, ‘and as you know, long stories take longer to tell than short stories, which—’
‘Yes, we know!’ I say. ‘Can you make it a short long story?’
‘Sure,’ says Bill, beginning to tell his short long story. ‘Well, you may not know this but a postman’s life is not an easy one. We get chased by dogs …
attacked by birds …
and spat at by camels.
But worse than any of these things is the ever-present threat of being ambushed by the Birthday Card Bandits.’
‘The Birthday Card Bandits?’ says Terry. ‘They sound bad.’
‘They are bad,’ says Bill. ‘Badder than you can imagine, and feared by postal workers throughout the land.’
‘Why?’ I say. ‘What do they do that’s so bad?’
‘Well,’ says Bill, ‘they dig holes in the ground …
cover them with sticks and leaves …
and then wait for poor innocent postmen like me to fall into them.’
‘Once they’ve caught a bunch of postmen, they take their uniforms …
dress up in them …
and then go through the sacks of mail and steal the money in the birthday cards that kind grandparents have sent to their grandchildren for their birthdays.
And as if that’s not bad enough, they write back to the grandparents pretending to be the child …
and ask the grandparents to send more money to replace what was stolen …
and when they do send more money the Birthday Card Bandits steal that as well!’
‘That’s terrible!’ says Terry.
‘I know,’ says Bill, ‘but that’s not even the worst thing they do.’
‘What could they possibly do that is worse than stealing a child’s birthday money?’ I say.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ says Bill. ‘Sometimes they intercept the children’s birthday party invitations as well!
Then they go around to the houses where the birthday parties are being held …
and steal the balloons right off the front gate!
And that’s not all … They steal the children’s party hats,
party blowers,
presents
and sometimes they even steal the birthday boy or girl’s birthday wish by blowing out the candles on their birthday cake first!’
‘Those fiends!’ says Terry.
‘Those fiendish fiends!’ I say. ‘But how does all this explain what that fake postman was doing in the Maze of Doom in your uniform?’
‘Well,’ says Bill, ‘like many postmen, I too was captured by the Birthday Card Bandits. They stole my uniform and tied me up.
I guess the bandit who was wearing my uniform must have gone into the Maze of Doom to hide from the police and, of course, couldn’t find his way out again. If only he’d taken those warning signs seriously.’
‘Well, I’m glad it wasn’t you in the Maze of Doom,’ I say.
‘Me too,’ says Terry, ‘and I’m going to add another sign to the entrance so there’s no chance of that ever happening again.’
After Bill leaves, Terry opens the package and installs the switch.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘The Once-upon-a-time machine is ready to write our book for us. All we have to do now is decide what sort of book we want it to write.’
‘A funny one,’ I say.
‘Good idea,’ says Terry, ‘but exactly how funny would you like it?’
‘So funny,’ I say, ‘that if you were reading it and drinking a glass of milk at the same time, you would laugh so hard that you would snort milk out of your nose.’
‘No problem,’ says Terry, ‘I’ll just set the FUNNY dial to MILK-SNORTINGLY FUNNY and the machine will take care of the rest!’
‘Cool!’ I say. ‘This is going to be the easiest book we’ve ever written!’
‘You mean the easies
t book we’ve never written!’ says Terry. ‘What else would you like in it?’
‘Lots of action!’ I say.
‘One action-packed book coming up!’ says Terry, turning the ACTION dial as far to the right as possible.
‘What about characters?’ says Terry.
‘I guess we want all the regulars,’ I say, ‘like you, me and Jill, and also a few new ones, just to keep things interesting.’
‘You got it,’ says Terry.
‘Okay,’ says Terry, ‘where would you like the story to be set?’
‘What are our choices?’ I say.
‘Let me see,’ says Terry, reading from the SETTING panel. ‘The treehouse … Jill’s house … the forest … underwater … outer space … the dark side of the moon … the fourth dimension … Cheeseland—’
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