“AAIIIEEEEEE!” squealed Peter.
“Stop that, Henry!” screamed Mom.
“Leave your brother alone!” screamed Dad.
Horrid Henry glared at Peter.
“Peter is a worm, Peter is a toad,” jeered Henry.
“Mom!” wailed Peter. “Henry said I was a worm. And a toad.”
“Don’t be horrid, Henry,” said Dad. “Or no TV for a week. You have three choices. Wear Steve’s old clothes. Wear your old clothes. Go shopping for new ones today.”
“Do we have to go today?” moaned Henry.
“Fine,” said Mom. “We’ll go tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to go tomorrow,” wailed Henry. “My weekend will be ruined.”
Mom glared at Henry.
“Then we’ll go right now this minute.”
“NO!” screamed Horrid Henry.
“YES!” screamed Mom.
***
Several hours later, Mom and Henry walked into Mellow Mall. Mom already looked like she’d been crossing the Sahara desert without water for days. Serves her right for bringing me here, thought Horrid Henry, scowling, as he scuffed his feet.
“Can’t we go to Shop ’n’ Drop?” whined Henry. “Graham says they’ve got a win your weight in chocolate competition.”
“No,” said Mom, dragging Henry into Zippy’s Department Store. “We’re here to get you some new pants and shoes. Now hurry up, we don’t have all day.”
Horrid Henry looked around. Wow! There was lots of great stuff on display.
“I want the Hip-Hop Robots,” said Henry.
“No,” said Mom.
“I want the new Waterblaster!” screeched Henry.
“No,” said Mom.
“I want a Creepy Crawly lunch box!”
“NO!” said Mom, pulling him into the boys’ clothing department.
What, thought Horrid Henry grimly, is the point of going shopping if you never buy anything?
“I want Root-a-Toot sneakers with flashing red lights,” said Henry. He could see himself now, strolling into class, a bugle blasting and red light flashing every time his feet hit the floor. Cool! He’d love to see Miss Battle-Axe’s face when he exploded into class wearing them.
“No,” said Mom, shuddering.
“Oh please,” said Henry.
“NO!” said Mom, “We’re here to buy pants and sensible school shoes.”
“But I want Root-a-Toot sneakers!” screamed Horrid Henry. “Why can’t we buy what I want to buy? You’re the meanest mother in the world and I hate you!”
“Don’t be horrid, Henry. Go and try these on,” said Mom, grabbing a selection of hideous pants and revolting T-shirts. “I’ll keep looking.”
Horrid Henry sighed loudly and slumped toward the dressing room. No one in the world suffered as much as he did. Maybe he could hide between the clothes racks and never come out.
Then something wonderful in the toy department next door caught his eye.
Whooa! A whole row of the new megalotronic animobotic robots with 213 programmable actions. Horrid Henry dumped the clothes and ran over to have a look. Oooh, the new Intergalactic Samurai Gorillas that launched real stinkbombs! And the latest Waterblasters! And deluxe Dungeon Drink kits with a celebrity chef recipe book! To say nothing of the Mega-Whirl Goo Shooter that sprayed fluorescent goo for fifty yards in every direction. Wow!
Mom staggered into the dressing room with more clothes. “Henry?” said Mom.
No reply.
“HENRY!” said Mom.
Still no reply.
Mom yanked open a dressing room door.
“Hen—”
“Excuse me!” yelped a bald man, standing in his underpants.
“Sorry,” said Mom, blushing bright pink. She dashed out of the changing room and scanned the shop floor.
Henry was gone.
Mom searched up the aisles.
No Henry.
Mom searched down the aisles.
Still no Henry.
Then Mom saw a tuft of hair sticking up behind the neon sign for Ballistic Bazooka Boomerangs. She marched over and hauled Henry away.
“I was just looking,” protested Henry.
Henry tried on one pair of pants after another.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no,” said Henry, kicking off the final pair. “I hate all of them.”
“All right,” said Mom, grimly. “We’ll look somewhere else.”
Mom and Henry went to Top Trousers. They went to Cool Clothes. They went to Stomp in the Swamp. Nothing had been right.
“Too tight,” moaned Henry.
“Too itchy!”
“Too big!”
“Too small!”
“Too ugly!”
“Too red!”
“Too uncomfortable!”
“We’re going to Tip-Top Togs,” said Mom wearily. “The first thing that fits, we’re buying.”
Mom staggered into the children’s department and grabbed a pair of pink and green plaid pants in Henry’s size.
“Try these on,” she ordered. “If they fit we’re buying them.”
Horrid Henry gazed in horror at the horrendous pants.
“Those are girls’ pants!” he screamed.
“They are not,” said Mom.
“Are too!” shrieked Henry.
“I’m sick and tired of your excuses, Henry,” said Mom. “Put them on or no allowance for a year. I mean it.”
Horrid Henry put on the pink and green plaid pants, puffing out his stomach as much as possible. Not even Mom would make him buy pants that were too tight.
Oh no. The horrible pants had an elastic waist. They would fit a mouse as easily as an elephant.
“And lots of room to grow,” said Mom brightly. “You can wear them for years. Perfect.”
“NOOOOOO!” howled Henry. He flung himself on the floor kicking and screaming. “NOOOO! THEY’RE GIRLS’ PANTS!!!”
“We’re buying them,” said Mom. She gathered up the plaid pants and stomped over to the register. She tried not to think about starting all over again trying to find a pair of shoes that Henry would wear.
A little girl in pigtails walked out of the dressing room, twirling in pink and green plaid pants.
“I love them, Mommy!” she shrieked. “Let’s get three pairs.”
Horrid Henry stopped howling.
He looked at Mom.
Mom looked at Henry.
Then they both looked at the pink and green plaid pants Mom was carrying.
ROOT-A-TOOT!
ROOT-A-TOOT!
ROOT-A-TOOT!
TOOT! TOOT!
An earsplitting bugle blast shook the house. Flashing red lights bounced off the walls.
“What’s that noise?” said Dad, covering his ears.
“What noise?” said Mom, pretending to read.
ROOT-A-TOOT!
ROOT-A-TOOT!
ROOT-A-TOOT!
TOOT! TOOT!
Dad stared at Mom.
“You didn’t,” said Dad. “Not—Root-a-Toot sneakers?”
Mom hid her face in her hands.
“I don’t know what came over me,” said Mom.
“Boys, I have a very special treat for you,” said Mom, beaming.
Horrid Henry looked up from his Mutant Max comic.
Perfect Peter looked up from his spelling homework.
A treat? A special treat? A very special treat? Maybe Mom and Dad were finally appreciating him. Maybe they’d got tickets…maybe they’d actually got tickets…Horrid Henry’s heart leaped. Could it be possible that at last, at long last, he’d get to go to a Killer Boy Rats concert?
“We’re going to the Daffy and her Dancing Daisies show!” said Mom. “I go
t the last four tickets.”
“OOOOOOHHHH,” said Peter, clapping his hands. “Yippee! I love Daffy.”
What?? NOOOOOOOOOOO! That wasn’t a treat. That was torture. A treat would be a day at the Frosty Freeze Ice Cream Factory. A treat would be no school. A treat would be all he could eat at Gobble and Go.
“I don’t want to see that stupid Daffy,” said Horrid Henry. “I want to see the Killer Boy Rats.”
“No way,” said Mom.
“I don’t like the Killer Boy Rats,” shuddered Peter. “Too scary.”
“Me neither,” shuddered Mom. “Too loud.”
“Me neither,” shuddered Dad. “Too shouty.”
“NOOOOOOOO!” screamed Henry.
“But Henry,” said Peter, “everyone loves Daffy.”
“Not me,” snarled Henry.
Perfect Peter waved a flier. “Daffy’s going to be the greatest show ever. Read this.”
AAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH.
Moody Margaret’s parents were taking her to the Killer Boy Rats concert. Rude Ralph was going to the Killer Boy Rats concert. Even Anxious Andrew was going, and he didn’t even like them. Stuck-Up Steve had been bragging for months that he was going and would be sitting in a special box. It was so unfair.
No one was a bigger Rats fan than Horrid Henry. Henry had all their albums: Killer Boy Rats Attack-Tack-Tack, Killer Boy Rats Splat!, Killer Boy Rats Manic Panic.
“It’s not fair!” screamed Horrid Henry. “I want to see the Killers!!!!”
“We have to see something that everyone in the family will like,” said Mom. “Peter’s too young for the Killer Boy Rats but we can all enjoy Daffy.”
“Not me!” screamed Henry.
Oh, why did he have such a stupid diaper baby for a brother? Younger brothers should be banned. They just wrecked everything. When he was King Henry the Horrible, all younger brothers would be arrested and dumped in a volcano.
In fact, why wait?
Horrid Henry pounced. He was a fiery god scooping up a human sacrifice and hurling him into the volcano’s molten depths.
“AAAIIIIIEEEEEEE!” screamed Perfect Peter. “Henry attacked me.”
“Stop being horrid, Henry!” shouted Mom. “Leave your brother alone.”
“I won’t go to Daffy,” yelled Henry. “And you can’t make me.”
“Go to your room,” said Dad.
Horrid Henry paced up and down his bedroom, singing his favorite Rats song at the top of his lungs:
“I’m dead, you’re dead, we’re dead.
Get over it.
Dead is great, dead’s where it’s at
’Cause…”
“Henry! Be quiet!” screamed Dad.
“I am being quiet!” bellowed Henry. Honestly. Now, how could he get out of going to that terrible Daffy concert? He’d easily be the oldest one there. Only stupid babies liked Daffy. If the horrible songs didn’t kill him then he was sure to die of embarrassment. Then they’d be sorry they’d made him go. But it would be too late. Mom and Dad and Peter could sob and boohoo all they liked but he’d still be dead. And serve them right for being so mean to him.
Dad said if he was good he could see the Killer Boys next time they were in town. Ha. The Killer Boy Rats NEVER put on concerts. Next time they did he’d be old and hobbling and whacking Peter with his cane.
He had to get a Killer Boys ticket now. He just had to. But how? They’d been sold out for weeks.
Maybe he could place an ad:
That might work. Or he could tell people that the concert was cursed and anyone who went would turn into a rat. Hmmm. Somehow Henry didn’t see Margaret falling for that. Too bad Peter didn’t have a ticket, thought Henry sadly, he could tell him he’d turn into a killer and Peter would hand over the ticket instantly.
And then suddenly Horrid Henry had a brilliant, spectacular idea. There must be someone out there who was desperate for a Daffy ticket. In fact there must be someone out there who would swap a Killers ticket for a Daffy one. It was certainly worth a try.
“Hey, Brian, I hear you’ve got a Killer Boy Rats ticket,” said Horrid Henry at school the next day.
“So?” said Brainy Brian.
“I’ve got a ticket to something much better,” said Henry.
“What?” said Brian. “The Killers are the best.”
Horrid Henry could barely force the grisly words out of his mouth. He twisted his lips into a smile.
“Daffy and her Dancing Daisies,” said Horrid Henry.
Brainy Brian stared at him.
“Daffy and her Dancing Daisies?” he spluttered.
“Yes,” said Horrid Henry brightly. “I’ve heard it’s their best show ever. Great new songs. You’d love it. Wanna swap?”
Brainy Brian stared at him as if he had a turnip instead of a head.
“You’re trying to swap Daffy and her Dancing Daisies tickets for the Killer Boy Rats?” said Brian slowly.
“I’m doing you a favor, no one likes the Killer Boy Rats anymore,” said Henry.
“I do,” said Brian.
Rats.
“How come you have a ticket for Daffy?” said Brian. “Isn’t that a baby show?”
“It’s not mine, I found it,” said Horrid Henry quickly. Oops.
“Ha ha, Henry, I’m seeing the Killers, and you’re not,” Margaret taunted.
“Yeah, Henry,” said Sour Susan.
“I heard…” Margaret doubled over laughing, “I heard you were going to the Daffy show!”
“That’s a big fat lie,” said Henry hotly. “I wouldn’t be seen dead there.”
Horrid Henry looked around the auditorium at the sea of little baby nappy faces. There was Needy Neil clutching his mother’s hand. There was Weepy William, crying because he’d dropped his ice cream. There was Toddler Tom, up past his bedtime. Oh, no! There was Lisping Lily. Henry ducked.
Phew. She hadn’t seen him. Margaret would never stop teasing him if she ever found out. When he was king, Daffy and her Dancing Daisies would live in a dungeon with only rats for company. Anyone who so much as mentioned the name Daffy, or even grew a daisy, would be flushed down the toilet.
There was a round of polite applause as Daffy and her Dancing Daisies pirouetted on stage. Horrid Henry slumped in his seat as far as he could slump and pulled his cap over his face. Thank goodness he’d come disguised and brought some earplugs. No one would ever know he’d been there.
“Tra la la la la la la!” trilled the Daisies.
“Tra la la la la la la!” trilled the audience.
Oh, the torture, groaned Horrid Henry as horrible song followed horrible song. Perfect Peter sang along. So did Mom and Dad.
AAARRRRRGGGHHHHH. And to think that tomorrow night the Killer Boy Rats would be performing…and he wouldn’t be there! It was so unfair.
Then Daffy cartwheeled to the front of the stage. One of the daisies stood beside her holding a giant hat.
“And now the moment all you Daffy Daisy fans have been waiting for,” squealed Daffy. “It’s the Lucky Ducky Daisy Draw, when we call up on stage an oh-so-lucky audience member to lead us in the Whoops-a-Daisy sing-along song! Who’s it going to be?”
“Me!” squealed Peter. Mom squeezed his arm.
Daffy fumbled in the hat and pulled out a ticket.
“And the lucky winner of our ticket raffle is…Henry! Ticket 597! Ticket 597, yes, Henry, you in row P, seat 10, come on up! Daffy needs you on stage!”
Horrid Henry was stuck to his seat in horror. It must be some other Henry. Never in his worst nightmares had he ever imagined—
“Henry, that’s you,” said Perfect Peter. “You’re so lucky.”
“Henry! Come on up, Henry!” shrieked Daffy. “Don’t be shy!”
Onstage at the Daffy show? No! No! Wait till Moody Margaret found ou
t. Wait till anyone found out. Henry would never hear the end of it. He wasn’t moving. Pigs would fly before he budged.
“Henwy!” squealed Lisping Lily behind him. “Henwy! I want to give you a big kiss, Henwy…”
Horrid Henry leaped out of his seat. Lily! Lisping Lily! That fiend in toddler’s clothing would stop at nothing to get hold of him.
Before Henry knew what had happened, ushers dressed as daisies had nabbed him and pushed him onstage.
Horrid Henry blinked in the lights. Was anyone in the world as unlucky as he?
“All together now, everyone get ready to ruffle their petals. Let’s sing Tippy-toe daisy do/Let us sing a song for you!” beamed Daffy. “Henry, you start us off.”
Horrid Henry stared at the vast audience. Everyone was looking at him. Of course he didn’t know any stupid Daisy songs. He always blocked his ears or ran from the room whenever Peter sang them. Whatever could the words be…“Watch out, whoop-de-do/Daisy’s doing a big poo?”
These poor stupid kids. If only they could hear some decent songs, like…like…
“Granny on her crutches
Push her off her chair
Shove shove shove shove
Shove her down the stairs.”
shrieked Horrid Henry.
The audience was silent. Daffy looked stunned.
“Uh, Henry…that’s not Tippy-toe daisy do,” whispered Daffy.
“C’mon everyone, join in with me,” shouted Horrid Henry, spinning around and twirling in his best Killer Boy Rats manner.
“I’m in my coffin
No time for coughin’
When you’re squished down dead.
Don’t care if you’re a goony
Don’t care if you’re a loony,
Don’t care if you’re cartoony
I’ll squish you!”
sang Horrid Henry as loud as he could.
Horrid Henry On the Go Page 3