‘Stand up, bumcatcher,’ said Zack’s bum.
The bumcatcher slowly stood up. His legs were trembling.
‘Let me go,’ he gasped. ‘Please.’
‘Why would I do that?’ said Zack’s bum. ‘So you can catch us all?’
‘I was only trying to help you,’ said the bumcatcher.
‘Help us?’ said Zack’s bum. ‘And how exactly were you trying to help us? By sucking us up with your bum-magnet? By shooting us with your bum-guns? By holding us in your cages like common criminals?’
‘All I’m interested in is trying to get bums back to their owners,’ said the bumcatcher. ‘It’s my job.’
Zack’s bum turned to the crowd.
‘Owners,’ it spat. ‘Owners! Did you hear that? That is exactly what this rally is all about. Bums are not slaves. We are not owned by anybody!’
‘But a bum without an owner is just a . . . a . . . a bum,’ said the bumcatcher.
At that the bums resumed their boos and hisses and launched a fresh round of missiles at the bumcatcher.
Zack’s bum turned to the crowd and put its hands up.
‘Enough,’ it said.
Then it turned back to the bumcatcher and touched his shoulder.
‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ it said. ‘But that’s understandable. After all, it’s your head talking—not your bum. But we can fix that.’
The bumcatcher’s eyes widened.
‘Surely you don’t mean . . . no . . . you can’t be serious!’
Zack’s bum nodded.
‘That’s exactly what I mean. But don’t be scared. Think of it as an honour. You will be the first of the new order. The first to be “rearranged”. What do you say?’
Without waiting for an answer, Zack’s bum motioned to the bumguards.
They swung into action.
One of them produced a pair of scissors, cut a hole in the back of the bumcatcher’s trousers and removed his bum.
It came out coughing. It was very white and, judging by the way it was shivering, very frightened.
‘It’s okay, little fella,’ said Zack’s bum, patting it. ‘You’ll be all right.’
Meanwhile the other bumguard grabbed a handful of the bumcatcher’s hair and began to pull it.
The bumcatcher yelled.
‘I can’t do it,’ said the bum. ‘I need help!’
One of the other bumguards put its arms around the first bum and they both started pulling. All of a sudden the bumcatcher’s head came free. The bumguards stumbled backwards and fell over.
‘Well don’t just lie there,’ said Zack’s bum, taking the head of the bumcatcher from the bumguard. ‘Stand him up!’
The bumguards picked the bumcatcher up off the platform and helped him to his feet. He stood there, swaying groggily back and forth while Zack’s bum attached the bumcatcher’s head to where his bum had been.
The crowd cheered.
But that cheer was nothing compared to the cheer when Zack’s bum, lifted up by two of the bumguards, crowned the bumcatcher’s neck with his bum.
‘All hail the new order!’ yelled Zack’s bum.
‘ALL HAIL THE NEW ORDER!’ chanted the crowd.
It was a truly grotesque sight. The bumcatcher swayed from side to side, as if his bum wasn’t sure how to control its new body.
‘Help!’ yelled the bumcatcher’s head. ‘I can’t breathe!’
‘Now you know how we feel,’ said Zack’s bum. ‘Guards—put his underpants back on!’
The bums pulled the bumcatcher’s underpants up over his face, muffling any further protests.
After this, Zack’s bum turned back to the crowd.
‘This is just the beginning,’ it yelled. ‘Follow me now! To the bumcano! To our glorious future!’
Zack’s bum leapt off the platform and crowd-surfed its way to the main exit.
‘To the bumcano!’ it cried as it passed through the gate.
‘To the bumcano!’ echoed the vast crowd of bums as they followed it into the night.
Zack waited until all the bums had left the oval. He was terrified. He didn’t want what had happened to the bumcatcher to happen to him. He probably would have waited longer except that the bumcatcher’s body, still swaying on the platform, took a few uncertain steps forward and fell.
Zack heard the bumcatcher groan. He jumped out of the hotdog stand and ran to him.
The bumcatcher’s bum was scared.
‘I didn’t want this,’ it whimpered.
‘I know,’ said Zack. ‘I saw the whole thing.’
Zack pulled the bumcatcher’s underpants down so that he could see the bumcatcher’s face.
He looked terrible. His face was bright red, his eyes popping out of their sockets . . . and his breath was shocking. To make things worse he was poking his tongue out and making a loud slobbery raspberry noise.
He was clearly delirious. Whether it was from the rearrangement or the fall was hard to say, but Zack knew he had to try to bring him to his senses.
Zack took a can of pine-scented air-freshener that was hanging off the bumcatcher’s belt and sprayed it near his face to try to neutralise the effects of the rearrangement. As the smell of pine trees filled the air, the bumcatcher’s eyeballs stopped rolling and he focused.
‘Zack?’ he said, with fresh terror in his eyes. ‘What are you doing here? You’re not on their side, are you?’
‘No way,’ said Zack. ‘I was following my bum. It sneaked out of my bedroom.’
The bumcatcher groaned.
‘That was your bum up there, wasn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Zack, feeling ashamed.
‘I thought I recognised it,’ said the bumcatcher. ‘I never forget a bum.’
‘You look bad,’ said Zack, quickly changing the subject. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to catch them?’
The bumcatcher shook his head.
‘I’m going to be out of action for a while,’ he said. ‘At least until I get myself sorted out. I can’t stop those bums now.’
‘But if you can’t, then who will?’ said Zack.
The bumcatcher winced as he spoke.
‘Listen to me, Zack,’ he said. ‘Your bum has gone psycho. There’s only one person who can stop it . . . Silas Sterne.’
‘Silas Sterne?’ said Zack.
The bumcatcher nodded.
Zack knew about Silas Sterne. Everybody did. Like all his friends at school, Zack collected bum-fighter trading cards, and the card featuring Silas Sterne was the rarest and the most prized of them all. He was one of the world’s greatest bum hunters. He’d hunted—and captured—some of the biggest and meanest bums on the planet. His photograph on the card showed a fierce-looking man dressed in a shiny black Ninja suit. Unlike a Ninja, however, he was wearing a white hard hat with a miner’s lamp on the front of it. Also, unlike a Ninja, he had a couple of massive bum-guns slung across his shoulders. Zack had had to trade ten of his best bum-fighter cards for it, including the cards featuring the Smacker, the Kicker and the Kisser, but he was so happy to get the Silas Sterne card he didn’t even mind.
The bumcatcher groaned. His eyes were closed.
He was obviously in pain.
Zack sprayed a little more air-freshener above his head.
The bumcatcher opened his eyes and focused on him with difficulty.
‘Zack, you have to go to the Bum Hunter. Tell him everything that’s happened here tonight. He’ll know what to do.’
‘But I can’t go out there,’ said Zack. ‘It’s too dangerous. The whole town will be crawling with bums.’
‘Zack,’ said the bumcatcher, ‘it’s your bum. It’s your responsibility. You can’t stick your head in the sand, or it will end up grafted to your backside—just like mine.’
He was right. Zack knew that. But he was still scared. Despite his enthusiasm for collecting bum-fighter trading cards he had no desire to be a bum-fighter himself. Well, perhaps it wasn’t so much a lack of desire a
s a lack of aptitude. Zack had failed the Junior Bum-fighters’ League entry exam three times. Each time he’d been gassed by a particularly clumsy and slow-moving bum, much to the amusement of the other junior bum-fighters and the embarrassment of his parents and himself. After the third gassing he’d given up all thoughts of fighting bums and devoted himself to his trading card collection instead.
The bumcatcher, sensing Zack’s fear, spoke to him gently.
‘Look, Zack,’ he said, ‘I’m not asking you to fight them. All you have to do is to contact the Bum Hunter. Here, I’ve got everything you need. My utility belt. Take it.’
The bumcatcher undid the belt from around his waist and handed it to Zack.
Zack took the belt. It was made of thick brown leather and had a large gold buckle with the words ‘BE BOLD, BE BRAVE, BE FREE’ inscribed on the front. The belt had a variety of little holsters and hooks to which all the basic tools of bum-catching were attached. There were three wooden clothespegs, a roll of toilet paper, a fluffy pink toilet seat cover, a small rolled up net, a row of corks, a set of sewing needles, a box of matches, a tennis racquet and a cake of soap.
Zack understood what most of the items were for, except the soap.
‘What’s the soap for?’ he asked.
‘For washing your hands,’ said the bumcatcher. ‘It’s the first rule of bum-fighting. Always wash your hands afterwards. Got that?’
Zack nodded.
The bumcatcher lay back down, grimacing with pain.
‘And one more thing, Zack,’ he murmured weakly.
‘What’s that?’ said Zack, his mind reeling.
‘Put these socks on.’
The bumcatcher handed him a pair of thick brown bumcatcher socks.
‘Socks?’ said Zack, wondering if the bumcatcher had gone mad.
‘Yes,’ said the bumcatcher. ‘Put them on now, and don’t take them off until you need them.’
‘How will I know when I need them?’ said Zack, still confused.
‘You’ll know,’ he said. ‘You’ll just know.’
‘Where will I find the Bum Hunter?’ asked Zack.
The bumcatcher didn’t respond. He’d lost consciousness.
Zack slapped his cheek. ‘Wake up!’ he said. ‘You haven’t told me where I can find the Bum Hunter.’
For a moment there was no response.
Then the bumcatcher half-opened his eyes.
He tried to form words. ‘. . . I . . . need . . . more . . . spray . . .’ he whispered.
Zack sprayed.
The bumcatcher started talking although still with difficulty.
‘You’ll . . . find . . . him . . . at . . . the . . . the . . .’
His voice trailed off.
Zack pressed the nozzle on the spray can, but nothing happened. He pressed it again. Still nothing.
Zack threw the can on the ground.
‘Where!?’ he pleaded. ‘Just tell me where!!!’
But it was no use. The bumcatcher was completely out of it.
Zack looked at the belt in his hand and read the inscription on the buckle again.
BE BOLD. BE BRAVE. BE FREE.
Zack didn’t feel bold.
He didn’t feel brave.
And he certainly didn’t feel free.
He wasn’t free to live his life.
His bum was always wrecking everything.
Whatever he tried to do his bum would always find some way to sabotage it.
Zack knew that the bumcatcher was right.
His bum was his responsibility. He had to find the Bum Hunter before it got any more out of control.
Zack put the belt on. It hung loosely around his waist. He pulled it tight but it still felt weird. It reminded him of the feeling he’d had when he’d put on the cowboy suit his parents had given him for his sixth birthday. It was too big and the seams had itched against his skin. To make things worse he’d pricked himself with the shiny silver Sheriff’s badge and cried. He’d begged to be able to take it off, much to his father’s frustration. ‘But you only just put it on!’ he’d said. ‘Give him time,’ said his mother. ‘He probably just needs to grow into it.’ But Zack had never worn it again. He just didn’t like it. And he didn’t like the belt. As far as Zack was concerned, the only difference between his cowboy suit and the bumcatcher’s belt was that instead of guns he had a roll of toilet paper on one hip and a tennis racquet on the other.
Just as Zack was about to leave, he remembered the socks.
‘Oh great,’ he mumbled as he rolled them onto his feet. ‘Not only do I have to find the Bum Hunter, get my crazy bum back and save the world, I have to wear bumcatcher socks that will make my feet all hot and stinky. This day just keeps getting better and better.’
He pulled his shoes back on and headed towards the gate.
CHAPTER TWO
THE BUM HUNTER’S DAUGHTER
Zack couldn’t see a single bum anywhere as he left the oval.
But he could see where they’d been.
There were skidmarks everywhere. Splintered, broken, smoking trees. Smashed house windows. The roads pockmarked with more craters and blast holes than the surface of the moon. Cars lying on their sides or completely overturned, obviously shaken by some powerful blasts.
And everywhere, permeating everything, the air was warm and thick with the stench of rotten-egg gas. Breathing was almost impossible.
Zack reached down to the belt, took out one of the clothespegs and put it on his nose. It provided instant relief. He was glad that the bumcatcher had insisted he take the belt.
As he crossed a large intersection on the outskirts of town he noticed a droning noise.
Zack couldn’t identify it, but it was getting louder. It seemed to be coming from overhead.
He looked up. The sky was streaked with light. Dawn was not far away.
And then he saw them.
Flying bums.
A whole squadron.
Heading straight towards him.
The noise was deafening and the smell was so intense that Zack almost passed out.
He ran down a hill to hide under some trees beside a small creek, but it was too late.
They’d seen him.
As Zack ran, he looked over his shoulder. A bum broke away from the pack and began to zoom towards him.
It was not a pretty sight.
It was huge, and coming in fast.
Zack fell to the ground and put his hands over his head—just in time. The bum swooped down over the top of him, brushing the back of his hands. Zack lifted his head to see the bum shoot up into the sky, turn and start hurtling towards him, even faster this time.
Zack gulped.
This was just like the exam he’d failed the last time he’d tried out for the Junior Bum-fighters’ League. Except worse. The bum that had gassed him there was slow-moving and clumsy. This bum was bigger and meaner and meant business. Real business.
Zack became aware of a sharp pain in his side. It was the tennis racquet handle. He pushed himself up onto one elbow, reached down and pulled the racquet out of the belt. If he was going to die, he at least wanted to die in comfort.
Then Zack noticed a strange thing.
As he produced the tennis racquet from underneath him the colour drained from the bum, leaving it a deathly white.
Instinctively, Zack realised that the bum was scared.
It was scared of the racquet!
Zack gripped the handle tightly and a daring idea formed in his mind.
He could hit it.
It was worth a try. After all, what did he have to lose? He figured he was about to die anyway.
Zack rolled over, sat up and hid the racquet behind his back. He waited until the bum was almost on top of him, and then he let fly.
THWACK!
The bum went hurtling off his racquet and into the back of a parked car.
BOOM!
The explosion was deafening and the force of it knocked Zack over onto his back.
Zack couldn’t believe what he’d just done.
He stood up to run, but two more bums, even larger than the first, broke away from the main group and sped towards him. Zack raised his tennis racquet, ready to hit them. As they drew closer, however, one veered around to attack him from behind while the other continued its assault from the front.
Zack gulped. And gulped again.
One gulp for each bum.
Those bums were smart, he thought. They knew he could hit only one at a time.
But then Zack had another daring idea.
He focused his eyes on the bum coming towards him.
He could hear the evil drone of the other bum coming in from behind.
At the last possible moment he ducked.
The bums collided with a thunderous sonic boom.
Zack was thrown face first onto the ground.
But that wasn’t the end of his problems because now the rest of the squadron was heading towards him.
And they weren’t happy.
Zack knew his tennis racquet would be no use against that many bums. There must have been at least fifty of them spread out across the sky and heading in at him from every direction.
He didn’t know a lot about bum-fighting, but he knew enough to know what this meant.
It was a cluster bum.
Zack started running.
He had to find cover or he was going to be obliterated.
And then Zack saw it . . . an open storm drain.
He ran towards it.
He’d made it to the mouth of the enormous pipe when the bums collided.
WHAM!
He felt the heat on his back as the blast propelled him into the darkness of the drain.
Zack rocketed through the pipe and shot out into a large open area into which a number of other drains emptied.
He crashed onto a small card table surrounded by bums. The table collapsed underneath him and the bums went flying. But before Zack could get up, the bums were all around him, poking him with their soft, frog-like fingers.
‘Well, well, well,’ said a well-scrubbed bum who was wearing a cardboard party hat in the shape of a crown. ‘If it isn’t a bumcatcher! How nice of him to drop in, isn’t it, Maurice?’
The Day My Butt Went Psycho Page 2