As they climbed down from the volcano, Harold said, “Thanks, Freddy. I don’t know what I’d have done without your help.”
“It’s okay, Harold. That’s what friends are for.”
Harold looked embarrassed and was about to say something when they all heard a familiar voice.
“Hey, pumpkin head, what have I told you about talking to the enemy,” yelled Adam Spanker as he came running out of the Patty Cakes.
“They’re not the enemy, they’re my friends,” said Harold hotly.
“They’re spies, you little dope.”
Freddy faced Adam. “He needed help and we helped him. And you’re his partner, so why aren’t you helping him?”
Adam balled up his fat fists. “You wanna get knocked into next week, nerd?”
The Fries all stood behind Freddy. “I think you’re outnumbered,” said Freddy.
Adam laughed, ran over to his lounge chair, and pulled out his paintball gun from behind it. He pointed it at the gang. “Okay, who wants to get blasted first?”
Things were looking ugly when a calm voice said, “Boys, I think it’s time everyone went home.”
They turned and there was Alfred Funkhouser. He walked over to them. “Hello, Harold,” he said. “How’s your family doing?”
“Fine, Mr. Funkhouser. Uh, Freddy and his friends were just helping me.”
“Actually, I saw them,” said Alfred, with a smile.
“Come on, Harold, you can drive home with us.”
“But he’s my partner,” yelled Adam. “And my dad’s driving him home.”
“That’s right!” roared Stewie Spanker, who had just raced outside. “In my brand new Cadillac over there.”
They all looked over to see Wally sniffing around the car.
“Me smell something really good,” he moaned.
“Hey, get away from my car,” yelled Stewie.
“There’s food in there,” said Wally.
“You bet there is, you big polka-dotted freak. There’s a box of our special super fatted barbecue ribs that I’m taking home for my midnight snack. Now get away from there.”
Wally was drooling all over the Cadillac. “Me love barbecue.”
“Okay, you asked for it,” yelled Adam. He pointed his paintball gun at Wally’s big butt and fired.
“Look out, Wal —, er, I mean, Wilma!” yelled Freddy.
At that instant Wally bent through the driver’s side window to get to the barbecue, and the paintball bullet hit the windshield and splattered it in black paint.
“AAAAHHHH!” screamed Stewie. “My beautiful car!”
“Well,” said Alfred Funkhouser, “I guess you wont be driving Harold home now.”
Stewie didn’t answer. He was too busy trying to get the barbecue ribs away from Wally. And losing.
CHAPTER 12
LYDIA THE LUNATIC
The Funkhousers had a very nice visit with the Pumpernickels. Harold told his family how Freddy and his friends had helped him, and Mrs. Pumpernickel was so grateful that she went into the kitchen and made them some cupcakes from her special recipe.
Alfred Funkhouser proclaimed them the best he had ever tasted. The Fries had to stop Wally from eating them all.
“Please,” he moaned, “I just want a few hundred more.” The Pumpernickels chuckled at the very odd-looking woman in a polka-dot dress with big red hair.
Alfred Funkhouser spent quite a bit of time talking with Mr. and Mrs. Pumpernickel. After they left, Freddy asked his dad what they were talking about, but Alfred just smiled.
The next day after school Freddy and the gang all met at Freddy’s lab. After looking over the plans and checking the things they had gotten from Silas Finklebean’s laboratory, Freddy studied a checklist he and Theodore had prepared.
“Okay, here are the things we still need for the time travel machine.” He split the list in two and handed half to Si and said, “You, Meese, and Curly try to get these things.” He handed the other half to Ziggy and said, “You and Wally see if you can get these things.”
The Fries studied the list.
“Uh, Freddy,” squeaked Ziggy, “where do we get this stuff?”
“Try the hardware store. And Si and Meese and Curly can go to the junkyard that’s over by edge of town. Just do the best you can. Theodore, Howie, and I will stay here and get to work.”
“Sounds like an excellent stratagem for ultimate success, Freddy,” commented Theodore.
“Yeah, and what you came up with might just work too, Freddio,” added Wally.
Twenty minutes later, Ziggy and Wally entered the hardware store. They were both dressed in their disguises. The store clerk behind the counter stared at Wally. The purple Fry’s large size would have made him stand out anyway. But in his polka-dot dress, red wig, and high heels, he was impossible to miss.
The man’s gaze went from Wally to tiny Ziggy, whose black hair styled in a bouncy pompadour was in sharp contrast to his very pale skin. His jeans, plaid shirt, and tennis shoes — though the smallest Freddy could find — were too big for him, so he looked even smaller than he actually was.
“Are you a midget?” the store clerk asked Ziggy.
“No, I’m ZIGGY!” He yelled the last word so loud the air blowing out of his mouth knocked the store clerk’s toupee off, and it flew into Wally’s mouth.
Wally swallowed and then gagged. “Hairball,” he croaked. The clerk had not noticed that his hair was missing. He just stared, dazed, at Ziggy.
Ziggy looked embarrassed, cleared his throat, and said in a squeaky voice, “Sorry about that.” He pulled out the list Freddy had given him while Wally stared at shelves filled with absolutely nothing that was edible, though that never stopped the purple Fry.
“What cool stuff!” Wally said, his tongue hanging out at the dozens of cans of paint on the shelves.
“Here’s what we need,” said Ziggy, handing the clerk the list. The clerk was now staring at Wally.
“Hey, didn’t I see you on TV?” asked the clerk.
Wally spun around and looked very happy. “Me, on TV?” He batted the long, fake eyelashes that were part of his disguise.
“Yeah, you’re one of those professional lady wrestlers, right?” He snapped his fingers. “Now I remember, you’re Lydia the Lunatic. You know, you come out tied up in a straitjacket with drool coming out of your mouth.”
“I’m a good drooler,” said Wally. “Ask anybody.”
Ziggy said, “Uh, we’re really in a hurry, mister.”
The man studied the list and then his mouth gaped. “Titanium beams! Glass that’ll withstand three thousand degrees! Four thousand rivets!”
“And don’t forget the last item,” Ziggy pointed out.
“I can’t read it,” said the clerk. He pointed it out to Ziggy.
“That’s a nuclear reactor turbine,” answered the yellow Fry. “Do you have different-sized ones? I think we’ll need a pretty big one.”
“A REALLY BIG ONE,” said Wally, who had opened a can of blue paint and was sniffing it. “And do you have one in purple? That’s my favorite color of all time.”
“A nuclear reactor turbine! That’s a joke, right?” said the clerk.
“Freddy didn’t say that a nuclear reactor turbine was a joke, did he, Wally?” asked a confused Ziggy, who had no idea what a nuclear reactor turbine was.
Wally was licking the paint with his big tongue. “No, but he didn’t say it wasn’t a joke either.”
“That’s a good point,” said Ziggy as he looked back at the clerk. “Okay, you can give us a joke nuclear reactor turbine if you have one in stock. But we don’t have time to order one. So whatever you have that’s close will be just fine.”
“And don’t forget, we want a purple one,” added Wally, who had tipped the paint can to his mouth and was now drinking it.
“Hey,” exclaimed the clerk, “You can’t do that.”
Wally swallowed and wiped his blue mouth, instantly turning his hand blue too. H
e belched and then looked embarrassed. “Sorry, blueberries always do that to me. You wouldn’t happen to have something in a grapefruit, would you? That keeps me regular.”
The clerk looked at them both. “Nuclear reactor turbines! Blueberry paint! You two are nuts.”
“Actually, we’re Fries, but that’s a whole other story,” said Wally, who then caught himself. “Whoops, I’m pretty darn sure I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”
“Get out of here before I call the cops.” The clerk grabbed the can that Wally was holding and tugged on it.
“Give me that!” cried out the clerk.
“Okay,” said Wally, who immediately let go. The clerk went flying backward, and the can of paint landed on his head. As he pulled it off, he discovered his toupee was gone. He yelled frantically, “Where’s my hair?”
Wally burped, and something flew out of his mouth and he caught it. He handed it to the clerk. It was the toupee — which was now blue too. “It’ll go very nicely with your new coloring,” Wally said.
When the clerk saw his hair he jumped up, grabbed a broom, and started charging them.
“Oh, boy,” said Ziggy. “Come on, Wally, run!”
Wally didn’t move. “Does this mean you don’t have any grapefruit? How about the nuclear reactor thingie?”
“Get outta here!” yelled the clerk, continuing to charge with his broom. He collided with massive Wally and flew backward into the shelves of paint. As the cans cascaded down, they popped open and showered him with twenty different colors of paint.
“You know,” Ziggy whispered to Wally, “I don’t think he’s a very good clerk. Look at the mess he made.” He tore the list out of the clerk’s hand, and they raced out of the store.
“Hey, Ziggy,” panted Wally as they ran down the street. “I’ve got an important question.”
“What is it?”
Wally said hopefully, “Do I really look like Lydia the Lunatic?”
CHAPTER 13
THE JUNKYARD JOUST
On the outskirts of Pookesville, Si, Meese, and Curly arrived at the junkyard owned by Irvin Dubowski. Mr. Dubowski’s smiling face was plastered on a large billboard over the entrance to the junkyard. In the picture on the billboard the owner was puffing on a large cigar and the caption read, I’VE NEVER MET JUNK I DIDN’T LIKE.
“Sounds like my kind of guy,” said Si happily. He and Meese were dressed in an orange jumpsuit with heavy work boots.
“Wowlookatthisplace,” said Curly, staring at the mountains of junk everywhere. Curly had on his football sweater, sweatpants, and tennis shoes.
They watched as a pudgy man in a shiny suit came out of the stacks of junk and approached them. He held out his hand for Si.
“Irvin Dubowski,” he said, smiling and chomping on a cigar.
“I know that name,” cried out Si.
“It’s the guy on the billboard!” said Meese in exasperation.
Dubowski pointed a finger at Si and smiled. “I can tell you’re gonna be a real tough negotiator, slick. I better watch myself.”
Si puffed out his chest. “Well, I have been around the block a few times. Yessir, it’d be pretty tough to pull anything over on me.”
Dubowski held up his hands in mock surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of trying. Just make me look pretty silly going up against a smart feller like yourself.”
Meese whispered to Si. “Watch out, I think he’s trying to lull you into a false sense of security.”
Si laughed. “Lull, stimuli, he’s just very perceptive of my outstanding deal-making abilities.”
Dubowski glanced over at Curly. “You feeling okay, son, you look a little green.”
“I’mfinethankyoubutldon’ttrustyou,” mumbled Curly.
“Uh huh,” said Dubowski, who obviously had no idea what Curly had just said. He looked back at Si. “So what can I do for you?”
Curly handed him the list and Dubowski studied it. “Steering wheel, check. Dashboard, we got that. Suede seats. Got a nice set right off of Elvis’s own Cadillac. That’ll cost you extra.”
“Elvis! Cool,” exclaimed Si.
Dubowski continued with the list. “Muffler, check. AM/FM/CD player, okay. Yep, we got all this stuff.” He whistled at some workers in the yard and barked instructions. In a few minutes all the items had been assembled.
Dubowski took out a calculator and added everything up. “Okay, that’ll be four thousand eight hundred and sixteen dollars.”
“What?!” said Meese. “That can’t be right.”
“Whoops, you know what? I did make a mistake,” said Dubowski. “I forgot to add in the sales tax. It’s actually an even five thousand dollars.”
“Great,” said Si. “What a bargain.”
“Are you crazy?” said Meese. “It’s just a bunch of junk. Why, I bet all that stuffs not worth more than few dollars.”
Dubowski looked very offended. He rubbed his hand along the blue suede car seat. “Why, this is the very seat where the King of Rock and Roll himself, the one and only Elvis Presley, situated his one and only posterior.”
“Yeah, Meese,” said Si. “It’s got the King’s butt marks right on it. That’s probably worth more than five thousand dollars all by itself.”
Dubowski slapped Si on the back. “I knew I liked you, son. You’ve got style.”
Meese said, “If Elvis Presley sat on that, then I’m a monkey’s uncle.”
“Boy,” said Si, “what fun you must have had swinging around those trees and eating all those bananas with your nephew.”
“I give up,” said Meese.
“We’ll take it,” said Si. “Here’s our money.”
Dubowski took the cash, counted it slowly, and then his round face flushed. “We got ourselves a little problem here, fellers. This is only twelve dollars.”
Si slapped him on the back. “Twelve dollars, five thousand dollars, what difference does it really make between friends?”
“The difference,” said Dubowski firmly, “is four thousand nine hundred and eighty-eight dollars. And if you don’t have it, you don’t get any of this.”
“Well, what can we get for twelve dollars then?” asked Si.
Dubowski picked up the rusted muffler, tore off one corner, and held it out. “Here, you can have this for twelve bucks and consider it a gift.”
“Wow, thanks,” said Si, reaching for it, but Meese slapped his hand down.
“You can keep that thing. It’s not worth twelve cents.”
“YeahsothereandImightstickoutmytongue-atyoutoo,” mumbled Curly.
Dubowski glared at them. “We got us a couple of special employees for dealing with customers like you.”
“Wow, special employees just for us,” said Si.
Dubowski whistled and they could all hear the sounds of something hurtling toward them.
Curly saw them first. “Ohboythisdoesn’tlook-goodsodon’tevenlook.”
Two very large and very fierce guard dogs flashed around a corner of junk and headed right toward the Fries with their very big fangs bared.
“Get ’em, boys,” yelled Dubowski.
“YEOW!” yelled Si, and he took off, dragging Meese along. Curly started running too, but in a different direction. “CatchmeifyoucanbutIdon’tthinkyoucan.”
The two dogs ran after Curly. The green Fry, however, was very, very fast, and the dogs were not gaining on him. In fact, he was so speedy he had to keep stopping to let the dogs catch up.
Curly flew up the side of a large crane and ran out onto its arm. Swinging around and around, he then let go, uncoiled his long arms, and snagged a weathervane on top of the junkyard’s office building. From there he sailed to the ground, did a forward roll, popped up, came around behind the two dogs, and zoomed in circles around them so fast they finally fell over, dizzy, with their tongues hanging out.
Curly used a water hose to fill up a car hubcap he’d found on the ground. The dogs thirstily lapped up the water while the green Fry scratched them behind the ea
rs. When they were done with the water, the dogs licked Curly’s arm. He said, “Comeonlet’sgoseemyfriends.”
When Dubowksi saw his dogs meekly following Curly, the cigar fell out of his mouth. From the top of the fence, Si yelled, “Atta boy, Curly. You sure have a way with mean dogs.”
“They’renotmean,justmisunderstood,” mumbled Curly.
“Hey, you stupid dogs,” growled Dubowski. “What do you think you’re doing? I told you to sic ’em.” He cuffed one of them on the ear and it yelped.
“Don’thitthemagainorI’llhavetogetroughwithyou,” Curly warned him.
Dubowski walked over to Curly and balled up his fists. “They’re my dogs and I’ll treat ’em any way I want to.”
Curly looked at the dogs and mumbled, “Okay-guysgogethimbutnobodilyharm.”
The dogs started growling and moving toward Dubowski, who backed up, looking terrified.
“Ihopeyoucanrunreallyfast,” mumbled Curly.
With a scream, Dubowski took off running, and the dogs flew after him.
Si and Meese jumped down from the fence and ran over to join Curly.
Si said, “Okay, let’s get out of here while the getting is good.”
He made a move to leave, but Meese refused to budge.
“Meese, let’s go before that guy gets back. I’m sure he just loves me because he could see what a great wheeler-dealer I am, but I don’t think he likes you very much.”
“Give me the twelve dollars,” said Meese.
“What?”
“The twelve dollars, give it to me.”
Si handed him the money, and Meese laid it on the ground and put it a stone on it so it wouldn’t blow away.
“What are you doing?” asked Si.
“Paying for this.” Meese picked up the blue suede car seat.
Si beamed. “Meese, you do think it’s true, don’t you?”
“I don’t know, but if Elvis Presley did sit his butt on this thing, I guess it’s worth twelve bucks.”
The three streaked away while Irvin Dubowski ran screaming around the junkyard, the dogs right behind him.
The Mystery of Silas Finklebean Page 5