My Life as a Computer Cockroach

by Bill Myers

  “Wall Street!” I was on my feet racing toward her. But by the time I arrived, she’d already finished. I looked down at the screen and stared in disbelief:

  Choco Chum, make Wally’s home a separate country.

  “Oh, no!” I groaned.

  “Don’t take it so hard,” Wall Street said. “Instead of a governor, you’re now the President of an entire country.”

  I buried my face in my hands. “No, no, no, no . . .”

  But even as I spoke, Wall Street had gone back to her typing. I no longer had the courage to look, and when she finished I could only mumble, “What is it now?”

  She was just about to answer when, suddenly, there was a huge

  ROAR . . .

  whoooosh

  followed by another, and another, and another.

  “What’s that?” I cried as I raced to my window for a look.

  I wished I hadn’t. Because there—at the far end of my street—were a bunch of jet fighters coming in low and fast.

  “We’re under attack!” I cried. “They’re about to bomb us!”

  “No way!” Wall Street shouted.

  “Yes, way!” I cried.

  She shook her head and started to answer but it was impossible to hear over another sound that began pounding the air.

  Whop, whop, whop, whop . . .

  I craned my neck to look up through the window and saw a half-dozen helicopters dropping down from the sky.

  “And helicopters!” I cried. “They’re attacking with helicopters, too!”

  “This is not an attack,” Wall Street shouted over the noise.

  “What?!”

  “This is not an attack!” She started for the door. “They haven’t had time to declare war on us.”

  “Then what is it?” I shouted.

  “Follow me.”

  “What?”

  “Come on, I’ll show you!” And with that she was gone.

  Reluctantly, I followed. I threw a glance at Opera. His feet were still under the bed. I figured I’d leave him alone. After all, everyone’s entitled to a last meal.

  By the time I got down the stairs, Wall Street had opened the front door and was heading outside to join my family.

  K-WHOOSH

  K-WHOOSH

  K-WHOOSH

  As I approached the doorway, I saw that the jets weren’t flying overhead to bomb us; instead, they were landing on the street in front of us!

  K-WHOOSH

  K-WHOOSH

  K-WHOOSH

  “What on earth . . . ?” I said to myself.

  When I finally stepped outside, it was even crazier. The helicopters were

  WHOP, WHOP, WHOP, WHOP

  landing in my front yard.

  I’d barely joined Wall Street and my family when the door to the first helicopter slid open and out stepped a general-type guy with a gazillion medals on his chest. He quickly walked toward us, scanning each of us up and down. “Which one of you is Wally McDoogle?” he barked.

  My family, being the loving, supportive type they are, all stepped back and pointed. “He is!”

  The General turned and marched straight toward me.

  I knew it was over. I knew it was curtains. I knew I had better straighten out my cheating problem with God before I met Him face-to-face . . . because, by the looks of things, that meeting was about to happen.

  “President McDoogle?” the General shouted. He raised his hand . . . probably to beat me or shoot me or whatever they do to foreign dictators.

  I closed my eyes and nodded, expecting the worst.

  “General Pending reporting as ordered, sir.”

  I opened my eyes. The General was saluting me.

  “Wh-at?” I asked.

  “General Patton Pending with the troops you requested, sir.”

  I cut a look at Wall Street, who was grinning ear to ear. “What did you write on Ol’ Betsy?” I asked. “What’s Choco Chum done now?”

  She said nothing.

  “Wall Street?”

  Her grin grew bigger.

  “Wall Street!”

  And bigger some more.

  “Wall Street, answer me!”

  Finally she spoke, but I wished she hadn’t. “What good is it being president of a country,” she said, “if you don’t have an army to defend that country?”

  Chapter 9

  This Means War!

  “Wall Street!” I cried.

  “Don’t worry”—she grinned—“the General and I, we’ve got it covered.”

  “Got it covered?” I yelled. “Got it covered! The United States of America is about to declare war on us, and you’ve got it covered?!”

  “Sir, please . . .” The General crossed to my side and lowered his voice. “As commander in chief, it’s important that you don’t let the troops think you’re panicking.”

  “But I am panicking!”

  “Listen”—he glanced from side to side then back to me—“if you just leave everything to me, I guarantee it will all work out.”

  I held his gaze. He did his best to crank up a smile, but it came out as more of a grimace.

  “How can you be so sure?” I asked.

  “Trust me”—(more of his grimace smile)—“I’m a professional.”

  “Well . . .” I took a deep, uneasy breath. “I don’t know what other choice we have, so I guess it might be okay if—”

  Before I could finish, he spun around and shouted, “All right, men, secure this house and make it headquarters.”

  Suddenly, a hundred soldiers leaped out of the helicopters and raced toward our house.

  “Now, hold it just a minute!” Dad shouted. He held out his hands, trying to stop them. “You can’t just land in the middle of our front yard and expect—”

  “Immobilize him!” the General barked.

  Instantly, a dozen soldiers threw Dad to the ground, slammed a dozen booted feet on top of his chest, and pointed a dozen rifles at him.

  “On second thought”—Dad nervously cleared his throat—“please make yourselves at home.”

  “Release him!” the General ordered. Then, as the soldiers obeyed and turned to race up the steps, the General kneeled down to Dad and whispered, “I’ll be keeping a special eye on you, mister.”

  “General . . . Mister General?” I raced up to him. He spun around. “Yes, sir?”

  “You say you’re going to fix things. How exactly are you going to do that?”

  “Well, sir, it’s rather complicated. I’m sure someone in your position wouldn’t be interested in—”

  “Try him,” Mom said as she joined me.

  The General gave her a stern look, but she held his glare and wouldn’t back down. When he finally realized who he was up against (nobody crosses Mom and gets away with it), he turned and looked over the neighborhood . . . a neighborhood where people were exiting their houses and running for safety as fast as possible. “War is a game,” he said overdramatically. “And, like any other game, there are certain rules, certain guidelines, certain principles . . .”

  “Meaning?” Mom asked.

  “Meaning . . .” He turned back to her and continued, “The best defense is always an offense.” With those simple words, he turned and started up the steps.

  “But . . .” I raced to his side. “What does that have to do with the United States declaring war on us?”

  He sighed wearily and slowed to a stop. “What it means is, the only way to defend ourselves from the U.S. declaring war on us . . . is to declare war on them first.”

  “What?”

  Like a gentle father, he reached down and patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about a thing, sir. We’ll take care of the details.”

  “Details!?”

  Suddenly, loud grating sounds echoed up and down the street. We spun around to see all the manhole covers on the road being lifted up from below. A moment later frogmen in wet suits and scuba gear began climbing out.

  “Ah, good.” The General smile
d. “The navy’s finally here.”

  “The navy?” I cried.

  “Yes, it was a bit difficult for them since the nearest ocean is two thousand miles away, but they have a great fleet of submarines, and you have a great sewer system. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I have a war to win.” With that he turned and entered the house.

  “Wallace!” It was Dad. To say he was in a lousy mood might be an understatement. To say he was so mad he was about to blow a heart gasket . . . well, you’d be getting close.

  “Yes?” I asked, giving him my best wide-eyed, innocent routine.

  But, before he could respond there was a low

  rumble, rumble, rumble,

  that quickly grew to a loud

  RUMBLE, RUMBLE, RUMBLE.

  “Now what?” I moaned.

  The good news was that I didn’t have to wait forever to find out. The bad news was that even forever wasn’t long enough. Because coming down both ends of our street were dozens of giant tanks. But they weren’t only coming down the street. They were also busting through:

  CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH

  the fence of our backyard, and

  SMASH, SMASH, SMASH

  through the neighbor’s house across the street.

  “Great,” I groaned, “now we’ve got tanks for our little army.”

  Wall Street came to my side. “Actually—”

  “Haven’t we seen enough?” I interrupted.

  “Actually, uh—”

  “I mean, how many more weapons do we need?” “Actually, uh, Wally . . .”

  “What?” I finally turned to her.

  “Those aren’t our tanks.”

  “They’re not?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then whose are they?”

  “Guessing by the American flags, I’d say they might be American.”

  I slowly turned back to the tanks. As if on cue, they all began grinding to a halt. A moment later there was only silence.

  So there we stood in my front yard, completely surrounded by tanks, completely frozen in fear. That is, until each of the giant guns on those giant tanks swiveled toward us, bringing us into their sights.

  “Say, Wall Street?”

  “Yes, Wally?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any suggestions, would you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Well, maybe just one.”

  “I see. And what might that be?”

  “Actually, it is not my best, I mean, I have had better.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “And I really haven’t had much time to think it through.”

  “I can appreciate that,” I said. “But given this particular situation, in our particular time frame, what in particular would you suggest?”

  “Something we’ve had a lot of experience at.”

  “I see.” I nodded. “Please continue.”

  “First, I suggest we turn around like so.”

  I followed her example. “Okay, good.”

  “Then I suggest we take a deep breath.”

  “All right.” I took in a deep breath. “Now what?”

  “Well, now, I suggest we

  “RUNNNNN!”

  You’d think by now I’d have gotten tired of following Wall Street’s suggestions. But, considering the options (her way, or death’s way), this one didn’t sound half bad. So the two of us ran up the porch steps as fast as we could. Any second I expected those giant guns to open fire, any second I expected to be turned into a little pile of McDoogle dust. But nothing happened. Nothing at all. Well, unless you count the part where Wall Street opened the door and I

  K-Bamb

  ran into the edge of it.

  “Come on, Wally!” she cried as I began my typical stumble-and-fall routine. “Quit clowning around.”

  I nodded, doing my best to stay on my feet as I staggered back toward the door and

  K-Bamb

  ran into it the second time.

  By now, I’d been on the porch just slightly longer than forever, and I couldn’t figure out why they hadn’t already opened fire on me until

  K-Bamb

  I hit the door the third time. That’s when I heard the snickers coming from the direction of the tanks, then the laughter, then the out-and-out knee-slapping guffaws. It was a great comfort to know I was entertaining the troops (it would have been an even greater comfort if they had been my troops—but I suppose you should spread goodwill wherever you can).

  Finally, Wall Street grabbed me by the collar and yanked me through the doorway. Once inside, she cried, “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded, still dazed from all the door K-Bambing. “I wonder why they didn’t shoot me.”

  “Must have thought you were on a suicide mission,” Wall Street said as she examined the three giant bumps on my forehead.

  By now, my vision had pretty much stopped blurring, at least long enough to see what they’d done to the house. I suppose it wasn’t too bad . . . if you don’t mind a few walls knocked down to make room for the machine guns, or that the kitchen was now being renovated into a missile launching center. Then, of course, there were the trenches and foxholes being dug in the living room. (War can be a real hazard to carpet sometimes.)

  “Wall Street . . .” I slowly turned to her.

  “I’m thinking,” she said. “I’m thinking, I’m thinking . . .”

  Knowing that she was thinking brought little comfort, although I appreciated the effort.

  “BURP.”

  I spun around to see Opera coming out of the back bedroom. “Hey, these rations aren’t BELCH half bad.”

  “What are you eating now?” Wall Street sighed.

  “Spam chips.” He grinned.

  Her expression made it clear she was sorry she’d asked.

  “Mister President?”

  I turned to see the General motioning for me to join him at the front window. (Well, it had been a front window—now, with the glass smashed out, it was more like a front opening.) “We’ve reestablished the electricity and utilities for this quadrant, sir.” He held out a pair of night vision goggles. “Would you like to survey the troops, sir?”

  I walked over to join him. “Did you see those tanks outside?” I asked.

  “No problem, sir.”

  “Did you see all those guns pointed at the house?”

  “No problem, sir.”

  Suddenly, a half-dozen red laser beams poured into the room, filling it with a half-dozen bright red circles.

  “What’s that!?” I cried.

  “That might be a problem.”

  Before he could explain, the phone rang and a nearby soldier picked it up. “Hello?” he said. Then, with a trembling hand, he held it out to me. “It’s for you, sir.”

  “Who is it?” I asked. Unfortunately, I didn’t have to wait long to find out.”

  “President McDoogle?” the voice on the other end asked.

  “Uh, this is Wally McDoogle, yes.”

  “This is the President of the United States. How are you doing today?”

  “Um . . . not real good, sir.”

  “Oh, sorry to hear that. Well, listen, do you happen to see a bunch of bright red laser dots filling your room there?”

  I glanced around. “About half a dozen,” I said. “Ah, excellent.”

  “What are they?”

  “Well, they’re part of our laser-guided bomb system.”

  “Your what?”

  “We have about, oh, I don’t know, a hundred or so bombers circling your city. Each has several of those fancy laser-guided bombs, which, coincidentally enough, all happen to be aimed at your house.”

  “A hundred bombers!” I choked.

  “Give or take a dozen. Anyway, before they drop their bombs, you have about thirty seconds or so if you’d like to make any last requests.”

  I opened my mouth then closed it. Then opened my mouth and closed it. I suppose I co
uld have stood there doing my fish imitation the rest of my life, which by the looks of things wouldn’t be all that long, but I had to think of something and it had to be fast.

  Chapter 10

  Wrapping Up

  “Thirty seconds . . .” That’s all the President of the United States said we had left before we were bombed to smithereens! I glanced at my watch. Better make that 29 seconds. Er, 28. The point is that we were running out of time. Without a moment’s hesitation, I dropped the phone and raced for the stairs.

  “Mister President!” the General shouted after me.

  “Wally!” Wall Street yelled.

  “BURP!” Opera cried.

  But this was no time to talk. It was time to do what I should have done when I had time to do what I should have done when I had time to do it.

  Translation: No more cheating or trying to fix the cheat.

  I arrived at the stairs, taking them two at a time, which (thanks to my athletic ability) only meant spraining both ankles . . . twice. But it didn’t matter. It was time for the truth.

  I glanced at my watch: 22 seconds and counting.

  I arrived at my bedroom, which now served as a lookout post.

  19 seconds.

  There on my desk was Ol’ Betsy, looking just as innocent as she always did. And why not? It wasn’t her fault I’d gotten us into this mess.

  17 seconds.

  “Excuse me,” I said, squeezing past a bunch of soldiers with binoculars, telescopes, and listening devices, “excuse me, please, excuse me,” until, finally, I reached Ol’ Betsy.

  “Wally!” Wall Street arrived outside my door, shouting. “What are you going to do?”

  I glanced at my watch:

  14 seconds.

  “What I should have done at the beginning,” I yelled. I picked up my computer, started unwinding the extra-long phone cord connecting her to the wall, and headed for the door. “I’m putting an end to Ol’ Betsy!”

  “You’re what?” she cried as I squeezed past her and into the hallway.

  I didn’t answer but headed down the hall toward the bathroom. I suspected Dad had filled the tub and sink to store more drinking water, but if I did this right, all of our problems would be over in a few seconds. If I didn’t do it right, we’d be over in a few seconds. Speaking of which . . .

  10 seconds to go . . .