by Bill Myers
Unfortunately, I only had time to think up two or three hundred before the rhino lowered its horn at me, took a giant breath, and gave another one of its world-famous
SNORTs.
Well, it was now or never (though never is often my favorite choice in these circumstances). My hands trembling, I reached out to the big boy.
“Nice rhino, rhino, rhino,” I said. “Yes, you’re a good boy, aren’t you?”
It cocked its head and waited until I finally touched its snout. But instead of biting my hand off (or any other body part attached to that hand), it instantly
Poof!
disappeared. Well, not entirely. Instead, he had turned into a note card that gently floated down through the air until it landed in my lap.
I looked at Bartholomew.
“Well, don’t just sit there, Ol’ Bean. Open it and see what it says.”
At first I didn’t know what was scarier— dealing with an imaginary rhino or a message from God. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I had nothing to fear. Hadn’t I made the world a better place by capturing those bad guys? Hadn’t I wound up in all the newspapers, made all the TV shows? And don’t forget that megaparade they just had in my honor.
The way I figured it, I was one very successful success. So, no doubt this would be a thankyou card, or a congratulations card, or maybe even a gift card (hmm, I wonder where God shops).
With a growing smile of satisfaction, I took the card, opened it, and read:
Nice try.
But you missed it by a mile.
Chapter 6
New and Not-So-Improved
“Wally, can you hear me?” The voice was very faint, and I tried my best to ignore it.
Unfortunately, it didn’t feel like ignoring me. “Wally?”
I practiced more of my ignoring.
It practiced more of its not-ignoring me. “WALLY!”
That’s the one that popped open my eyes and shot me up in bed. “What?!”
The good news was, Bartholomew, the rhino, and even the note were gone. The bad news was, Junior Whiz Kid and Wall Street weren’t.
“How are you feeling?” Wall Street asked.
“Pas mal,” I said. I frowned and tried again. “Quel est le problème avec ma voix? ”
Wall Street turned to Junior. “What’s going on?”
“He is communicating to us in French.”
“Français!” I cried.
“Yes, it appears the newly implanted translator is giving us some difficulty.” With that, Junior gave the box of buttons on my chest a good
K-thwack!
“How is that?” he asked.
I answered in Spanish. “ Qué está mal con mi voz?”
K-thwack!
Make that Greek:
K-thwack!
“And now?”
Reluctantly, I opened my mouth. Rejoicefully, I was finally speaking English:
“Testing, one, two, three . . .” I shook my head. “Boy, that was weird.”
“It’s only the beginning,” Wall Street said.
“What?”
Ignoring me, she asked, “But everything’s okay now, right?”
I nodded. “Except I’ve got this sudden craving for Greek food.”
Junior stepped in. “I am afraid there is little time to eat.” As he spoke he helped me
creak-groan-squeak
sit up.
“Don’t tell me,” I sighed. “I’m back to wearing my tin can.”
“All right.”
“All right what?”
“I will not tell you that you are back to wearing your tin can.”
It was an old joke, and I let out the world’s second-greatest sigh. (The first-greatest is coming up on page 70.)
Junior continued. “However, I would not fear. I have made some impressive improvements.”
I looked down at my superhero body and said, “Well, at least all the scratches and dents are gone.”
“We took you to a car-and-body shop,” Junior explained.
“And they threw in a wash-and-wax job for free,” Wall Street said, beaming.
I nodded, not exactly feeling the same enthusiasm. But I was impressed with all the gizmos and gadgets they’d added . . . like the little monitor on my chest and the box with all the buttons.
Then there were my cool steel legs, not to mention some very neat boots. My favorite, though, was a belt with a cute little W on the buckle.
“Outstanding,” I said, running my hand over it. “W for Wally, right?”
“Actually, it’s W for Wonder Wimp,” Wall Street corrected.
My finger touched a little switch on the side of the buckle.
WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW . . .
Well, my finger had touched it. But suddenly, my finger disappeared . . . along with every other part of my body!
“What happened?!” I yelled. “Where did I go?!”
“Relax,” Wall Street said. “You’re still with us.”
But where? As far as I could see, I could see nothing. Every part of me had disappeared . . . well, except for my underwear.
“Augh!” I cried, trying to cover up with my hands . . . which, of course, were invisible . . . which, of course, did no good at all!
“Talk about embarrassing!” I cried.
“It could be worse,” Wall Street said.
“What could be worse than me having everything invisible except my underwear?!”
“Us having to look at your underwear.”
Junior shrugged. “Apparently, we have another malfunction. Wally, will you press that switch on your belt buckle again?”
I nodded and reached for it . . . except I could no longer see where the buckle was, let alone the switch.
“Is this it?” I asked, touching something that caused me to suddenly
VVWAhhhhhhh. . .
float off the table.
“No, I am afraid that’s the lever to your ANTI- GRAVITY FIELD.”
I tried again. “What about this?”
flap-flap-flap
“No, those are your PINK RHINO WINGS.”
“PINK RHINO WINGS! I thought those were only “ in my dream!”
“They were, but you transformed them into an image with your DREAM PROJECTOR.”
“DREAM PROJECTOR?”
“Any dream you’ve had may be transformed into a holographic representation of reality by simply pressing the correct button.”
“A holographic repre-who?”
“Do not worry, it is merely a picture, nothing real. However, if you would find the correct switch—”
“What switch?” I said. “I don’t see any switch!”
“Yes, that does appear to be our problem, doesn’t it?”
“Wait a minute, I feel something. What about this?”
quora . . . quora . . . quora . . .
“No,” Junior cried, “not that—
SPLAWK!
switch!”
Suddenly, I had this desire to make money. Lots and lots of money. And I didn’t care what I had to do to make it.
And if that wasn’t weird enough, Wall Street started running around the operating room screaming, “This is embarrassing! Turn it off! Turn it off!” as she jumped behind a table to hide.
“What is embarrassing?” Junior asked.
“All you can see is my underwear!” Wall Street cried.
“What are you talking about?” I said. “I’m the one with the underwear.”
“But I’m the one feeling it!” she shouted. “Turn it off, turn it off!”
Junior turned to me and explained. “You hit the switch to the Emotion Exchanger.”
“The what—”
“Once it is activated, you exchange feelings with the person you last looked at.”
I nodded, starting to get it. “That’s why Wall Street is so embarrassed and I’m feeling so greedy?”
“Precisely.”
“Please!” Wall Street cried. “Turn it o
ff!”
I wanted to help her, but at the same time I couldn’t stop thinking about all the money I could make.
“Turn it off, Wally! Turn it off!”
“How much will you pay me?” I asked.
“I’ll give you one-half of all I make! Please, this is so embarrassing!”
One-half sounded good, but I was greedy for more. “Make it a fourth, and we have a deal.” (I was never great at fractions.)
“Yes, yes. Whatever you say, just turn it off!”
SPLAWK!
quora . . . quora . . . quora . . .
Wall Street and I both shook our heads.
“How do you feel now?” Junior asked me.
I looked down at my floating underwear. “Embarrassed.”
“Perfect.” He turned to Wall Street. “And you?”
“I wonder how much money we can make off this thing.” Then, shuddering, she added, “That was awful!”
“Welcome to my world,” I said.
She shuddered again. “It was . . . I can’t think of the word. . . .”
“Incredible?” I offered.
“Exactly! What an incredible world!” Suddenly, her eyes lit up. “Hey, that’d be a cool title for a book series. The Incredible Worlds of . . . of . . .”
“Wally McDoogle?” I suggested.
“No, that’ll never sell. But . . . The Incredible Worlds of Wonder Wimp! Now there’s a title!”
Junior interrupted. “As much as I find this discussion stimulating, we should be going. Every second wasted is another person starving.”
Wall Street nodded. “And another dollar slipping out of my hands.”
They turned and started toward the door.
“Wait a minute!” I said. “What about me in this floating underwear? And what about all these other switches and gizmos? What do they do?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” Wall Street said. “Unless you want to pay me $19.95 for the instruction booklet.”
I reached into my pockets to see what money I had. A good idea, except tin-can bodies seldom have pockets.
“I’m broke,” I said.
“Then I guess you’ll just have to wait. . . .”
Chapter 7
Late-BreakingNews
We borrowed a topcoat from Junior’s dad’s closet and threw it on me. It was better than just underwear, but the headless look was a little tacky (and a lot freaky), so we grabbed a ski mask and pulled it down over my face. I knew it made me look like a bad guy, but I figured it was better to look like a bad guy than a no guy.
Meanwhile, Wall Street called a taxi.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we climbed in.
“WACK-O TV,” Wall Street explained.
“Why?”
“In order to warn people about world hunger, we have to tell them about world hunger.”
“So, we’re going to tell one of their reporters?” I asked.
“Actually, you’re going to be one of their reporters,” Junior said.
“I’ll WHAT?!”
“Relax,” Wall Street said. “You’ll just sneak into the studio, climb into the news anchor’s chair, and give the report.”
“I’ll WHAT?!”
Junior explained. “I attempted to reason with them. I even asked them to do a special report about the hungry.”
“And?”
“And they said people were more interested in watching reality shows.”
“What could be more real than people starving?” I asked.
“He means real reality,” Wall Street said. “Like silly people being dared to do silly things, or date silly people, or make and wear silly clothes.”
I frowned. “But that’s so . . . so . . .”
“Silly?” Wall Street offered.
I nodded.
“Which is why you’ll be going on TV to tell them what’s really real.”
“I’ll WHAT?!” (Hey, when you find a good phrase, it doesn’t hurt to wear it out.)
We arrived at the station, climbed out of the taxi, and slipped into the lobby. All the time I kept trying to reason with the two of them. “I can’t go on TV, I get tongue-tied just giving book reports in front of our class.”
“This will be an entirely different experience,” Junior assured me as we dropped to our knees and snuck past the receptionist’s desk toward the studio doors.
“Yeah,” Wall Street whispered. “You won’t be seen by a bunch of dopey kids.”
“That’s a relief,” I sighed.
“You’ll be seen by millions of them . . . and their parents, too.”
“I’ll mwat?!” (That was supposed to be another “I’ll WHAT?!” but they managed to cover my mouth before I finished.) When they were sure I was under control, they removed their hands, and we continued toward the studio doors. Once we arrived, we pushed them open and entered.
The place was darker than a piece of licorice stuck to a black cat during an eclipse in the middle of the night.
TRANSLATION: It was dark.
Except for the empty newsdesk. It was lit up brighter than a vanilla shake dumped on a white cat during a snowstorm in the middle of— well, you get the picture.
Once inside, we stood up and looked around.
The good news was, nobody was there. The bad news was, we were.
“I r-r-really don’t think I can d-d-do this,” I stuttered.
“Wally, you must relax.”
“B-b-but—”
“Actually, Wall Street was quite incorrect when she said you’d be seen by millions,” Junior said.
“Sh-sh-she was?”
“Yes. In reality, you won’t be seen by anyone.”
“I won’t?”
“That is correct,” he said as he removed my coat and stood on a chair to take off my ski mask. “All those millions of viewers will see is your underwear.”
(For some reason this gave me little comfort.)
Once we arrived at the newsdesk, I looked at Wall Street, and she looked at me.
I turned to look at Junior, and he turned to look at me.
Finally, with the world’s biggest sigh (hey, I told you it was coming), I stepped around the desk and plopped into the chair. To be honest, it felt good to be hiding behind the desk. Well, actually, it felt good to have my underwear hiding behind the desk. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“How’d you kids get in here?!” a voice shouted.
We spun around to see some old janitor. He’d been mopping in the back of the room, but now he was coming at us.
“Well, hello there,” Junior politely said.
“What are you doing?” he impolitely growled.
“We have come to utilize your Electronic Optical Image Enhancer.”
“My what?!”
“Your TV cameras,” Wall Street explained.
Junior glanced toward me and continued. “Particularly the one directly in front of the newsdesk with the little green switch on the side.”
I frowned, not understanding what he was saying.
Janitor Man frowned and didn’t particularly care. Instead, he grabbed both Junior and Wall Street by the arms. “You two don’t belong here.”
But Junior wasn’t finished. Still looking in my direction, he continued, “The green switch, which when clicked to its upright position turns on the camera and sends the signal to the control booth, which then broadcasts it to the entire region.”
“That’s enough!” Janitor Man pulled them toward the door. “You two skedaddle, ’fore I call the cops.”
“Well, all right then,” Junior said. “I just hope that camera does not switch on by itself.”
“Yeah, right,” Janitor Man said as he pushed open the doors and threw my friends out. “Now get.”
Once they were gone, he turned back to the newsdesk and squinted.
I froze. I was pretty sure he couldn’t see me, but he was sure seeing something.
He started toward me.
My hear
t began
thump-thump-thumping.
I glanced down. My underwear was perfectly hidden, but he kept right on coming, and my heart kept right on
thump-thump-thumping.
Finally, he arrived and slowed to a stop. He was less than four feet from me. And then, just when I was about to jump up and shout, “All right, you got me, I’m the one you can’t see in the tin suit with all the gizmos including a giant W for a belt buckle that has made me invisible, except for my underwear, that you see floating before you!” Anyway, just before I got around to sharing that little tidbit of info, he reached down and grabbed my topcoat and ski mask that had been left on the desk.
“Silly kids,” he muttered as he turned and headed back across the room to his mop and bucket.
I breathed a sigh of relief and closed my eyes. What had Junior been talking about—cameras and green switches and control booths? Suddenly, my eyes popped back open and I knew. Unfortunately, I knew.
I was sitting at a newsdesk ten feet in front of a camera. According to Junior, all I had to do was switch a little green switch on the side and we would be broadcasting.
Of course, a huge part of me didn’t want to. But a huger part knew I had to. Somebody had to tell everyone about the hungry. Someone had to be the hero and tell the world. Once again, my heart returned to its favorite pastime of
thump-thump-thumping.
Unfortunately, my brain thought it would join in with some
think . . . thinking . . . thinking
(never a good sign . . . at least in these stories).
Still, wasn’t I in a position to do exactly what Bartholomew had asked? By turning on that camera and broadcasting, wouldn’t I be making the world a better place?
I looked up and stared at the camera.
Of course, I couldn’t exactly get up and stroll over to turn it on. (Well, I could, but I hear oldguy janitors have a tendency to have heart attacks whenever they see underwear floating across rooms.)
There had to be another way.
Unfortunately, my brain was still
think-think-thinking,
which meant I eventually came up with a plan.
First, I tried moving my newly installed EXTENDO ARM (the very one Junior had destroyed half a city block with). And, sure enough, just like old times, it
K-ZIIIING!
shot out and
K-Rash!ed
into the far wall at the other end of the studio.