by Bill Myers
MY LIFE
as a
Screaming
Skydiver
Books by Bill Myers
Series
SECRET AGENT DINGLEDORF
. . . and his trusty dog, SPLAT
The Case of the . . .
Giggling Geeks • Chewable Worms
• Flying Toenails • Drooling Dinosaurs •
Hiccupping Ears • Yodeling Turtles
The Incredible Worlds of WallyMcDoogle
My Life As . . .
a Smashed Burrito with Extra Hot Sauce • Alien Monster Bait
• a Broken Bungee Cord • Crocodile Junk Food •
Dinosaur Dental Floss • a Torpedo Test Target
• a Human Hockey Puck • an Afterthought Astronaut •
Reindeer Road Kill • a Toasted Time Traveler
• Polluted Pond Scum • a Bigfoot Breath Mint •
a Blundering Ballerina • a Screaming Skydiver
• a Human Hairball • a Walrus Whoopee Cushion •
a Computer Cockroach (Mixed-Up Millennium Bug)
• a Beat-Up Basketball Backboard • a Cowboy Cowpie •
Invisible Intestines with Intense Indigestion
• a Skysurfing Skateboarder • a Tarantula Toe Tickler •
a Prickly Porcupine from Pluto • a Splatted-Flat Quarterback
• a Belching Baboon • a Stupendously Stomped Soccer Star •a Haunted Hamburger, Hold the Pickles • a Supersized Superhero . . . with Slobber •
The Portal • The Experiment • The Whirlwind • The Tablet
Picture Book
Baseball for Breakfast
the incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle
MY LIFE
as a
Screaming
Skydiver
BILL MYERS
MY LIFE AS A SCREAMING SKYDIVER
© 1998 by Bill Myers.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts in reviews.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Tommy Nelson. Tommy Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Tommy Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Scripture quotations identified as (NIV) are from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. © 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Myers, Bill, 1953–
My life as a screaming skydiver / Bill Myers.
p. cm. — (The incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; #14)
Summary: When Wally becomes involved in international espionage, rocket-powered toilet paper, and exploding dental floss, he ends up having to become a skydiver to save his life and the entire free world.
ISBN 978-0-8499-4023-1
[1. Spies—Fiction. 2. Skydiving—Fiction. 3. Christian life—Fiction.
4. Humorous stories.] I. Title. II. Series: Myers, Bill, 1953– .
Incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; #14.
PZ7.M98234 Myi 1998
[Fic]—dc21
98-11458
CIPP
AC
Printed in the United States of America
10 11 12 13 14 EPAC 21 20 19 18 17
To Cathy Glass—
for her love and faithful service to
children over these many years.
“Therefore confess your sins to
each other and pray for each other
so that you may be healed. . . .”
—James 5:16 (NIV)
Contents
1. Just for Starters. . .
2. A Scummy Swim
3. Spy Guy
4. The Gang’s All Here
5. Mush, Fido, Mush!
6. Midair Detour
7. Don’t Forget to Floss!
8. Africa!
9. Going Up?
10. Wrapping Up
Chapter 1
Just for Starters . . .
Don’t blame me! It wasn’t my fault!
Blame my best friend, Opera, the human eating machine. After all, it was his birthday.
Or blame Wall Street, my other best friend (even though she is a girl). After all, it was her idea to throw a party at Destructo Lasers. It was her idea for us to play laser tag.
I was just an innocent victim. It wasn’t my fault I didn’t know how to put on the laser vest.
“No, Wally, it goes over your shirt, not your pants.”
And it wasn’t my fault I got stuck.
“No, Wally, those holes are for your arms, not your legs!”
After the local paramedics swung by and cut me out of the vest with their Jaws of Life, I tried on another one.
“No, Wally, now you’ve got it on backward.”
(Fortunately the paramedics were still around.)
After the third one, I finally got it right. At last things were getting back to normal. (But, as we all know, normal for me isn’t exactly normal for anyone else.)
At first, it was great fun running around the maze of futuristic walls, firing our lasers at each other and scoring points. Well, Opera and Wall Street were running around firing lasers and scoring points. I was too busy getting hit to score anything. It seemed every time I fired my laser, someone was hitting me.
Phring Phring Phring
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Phring Phring Phring
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
It was getting pretty frustrating, until Wall Street stopped by and offered a suggestion. “You’re holding your laser backward,” she shouted over the noise.
“What?” I yelled.
“You’ve got it turned around! You’re shooting yourself!”
I glanced down and saw her point. “Thanks!” I shouted.
“Don’t mention it!” she yelled and then stepped back to fire a few good rounds into me.
Phring Phring Phring
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
(Hey, we’re good friends, but not that good.)
Before I could fire back, she’d dashed around the corner and disappeared.
I tore after her and probably would have gotten her, too—if it wasn’t for the six-foot, three-inch, blond man who raced around the corner from the other direction. Even that wouldn’t have been so bad, if I hadn’t leaped out of his way. Actually, the leaping was pretty good. It was the smashing into the wall that was the problem.
“Oaff!”
K-THUDD
The “Oaff!” was my muscle-challenged body hitting the hard wood wall. The K-THUDD was my newly broken body hitting the even harder concrete floor.
The blond guy hadn’t done much better. By trying not to trample me to death, he also stumbled and fell—just as two other men, a tall guy and a short guy, came barreling around the corner and started firing at him.
As I lay there, flat on my back, counting how many bones I’d broken, I thought how unfair it was that they let grownups play with kids. I mean, I was living proof (well, now semi-living proof) that if you weren’t careful, someone could really get hurt (or at least killed). But what I thought was really unfair was the way they let the grownups play with real guns.
Play with real guns?!?
K-BLEWY! K-BLEWY! K-BLEWY!
I couldn’t believe my eyes or ears. They were shooting real guns at the blond guy! The good news was they seemed to miss every shot. The bad news was they turned the wall behind him into a pile of splinters.
I thought of warning them that the owner could be a little sensitive to this type of behavior a
nd maybe even throw them out. But when I saw the damage their guns did, I figured it might be a good idea not to rile them.
K-BLEWY! K-BLEWY! K-BLEWY!
Now the blond guy was firing back.
Talk about cool! It was just like the movies. Well, except for the part of nearly getting killed. My heart was pounding like a jackhammer on top of a pogo stick in the middle of an earthquake. I flattened myself against the wall and quickly began making deals with God to let me live. I’d barely gotten to the part of promising to empty the trash without being asked when the bad guys ducked around the corner to reload.
The blond guy took advantage of the moment and rolled out of sight into the shadows—just as the two ran back in with their guns blazing.
After turning another wall into kindling, the tall guy shouted at me in a thick accent, “Vhere iz hee?” I knew it was time to speak up. It was time to do what I did best. It was time to deny everything. “I didn’t do it!” I cried. “I was just minding my own business, and he just sort of tripped and—”
The short man interrupted and shouted to his partner, “Hee muust hav gone to zee ozer zide!”
They took off and raced right past me (without so much as a “thank you”—or would it be a “zank you”?) as they continued their pursuit. It was then I heard the blond guy give a quiet groan. I turned around and spotted him crouched in the corner only ten feet away.
“Mister . . . ,” I whispered, “Mister, are you all right?”
More groans. I started toward him. “Mister . . .”
When I arrived, he was gasping and trying to get up. “Must . . . stop . . .” But his leg collapsed, and he tumbled back to the floor.
“You’re hit!” I cried. “They shot you!”
He looked at me and grimaced. “You!” he gasped in a thick English accent. “You’re responsible.”
“It’s not my fault!” I cried. “I didn’t do it!” (I told you I was good at this.)
He shook his head and continued. “Now . . . you must help.”
“What?”
Again he tried to stand. “Now you . . . must protect . . .” And again he fell.
“Take it easy,” I yelled. “We’ve gotta get you to a hospital!”
He shook his head violently.
“But you gotta see a doctor!”
Again he shook his head. “Must protect . . .”
“Must protect what?” I cried. “What are you trying to protect?”
“Giggle . . . Gun.”
“Giggle what??”
“Giggle . . . Gun. ” It was getting a lot harder for him to breathe, but he forced himself to continue. “World peace . . . at stake . . . must stop them from finding . . .”
“Stop who?” I shouted. “Stop who from finding what? The Giggle Gun?”
He nodded, painfully.
“You’re not serious.”
But I could tell he was very serious . . . deadly serious.
“Where . . . where is it?” I asked.
“Cave . . . ,” he gasped. “Africa . . .”
“Listen,” I explained. “I’d love to save the world, but it’s getting close to dinnertime and—”
He reached out a trembling hand and pointed to something on the floor just a few feet away. It was a pack of chewing gum that looked like it had been placed there on purpose.
“Take it,” he groaned. “You must take it.”
“Uh, no thanks,” I said staring down at it. “My mom only lets me chew sugarless.”
“You must . . . help. Take it. It’s your responsibility. Just add water.” And suddenly he collapsed. Just like that. Without even saying good-bye.
“Mister . . .” I knelt down to him. “Mister, wake up!”
But he wasn’t in the mood for waking up. Come to think of it, he wasn’t in the mood for breathing either.
“Mister, please!” I shouted. “Don’t die! I don’t want to get any Giggle Gun!”
But he was no longer listening.
Unfortunately, his buddies with the guns were. They had raced around the corner and had heard the last part of my plea. “He’z wiz zee kid!” they shouted.
I thought of sticking around to chat, but since they didn’t exactly look in a chatty mood, I grabbed the gum, leaped to my feet and
K-BONK!
ran into the wall. I spun around and
K-BONK!
ran into the other wall.
I had to get out of there. Seconds counted. There was only so much time before the bad guys would stop laughing at my antics long enough to take aim and fill my body with more lead than a number two pencil.
Fortunately, I’d run out of walls. Now I had a clear shot at the exit, and I raced for the door.
“Stoop!” they shouted. “Vee muust talk to you!”
Part of me thought I should be polite and answer, but since you’re not supposed to talk to strangers (especially if they have giant guns pointed at you), I decided it was time to get a little fresh air.
I reached the door and
K-LUNK!
opened it into my face. (Don’t you hate it when that happens?)
I tried again, this time stepping back. My new approach worked brilliantly. I threw open the door and dashed outside.
“Stoop!” they shouted. “Dun’t let hem geet avay!” After the usual crashing into a half-dozen pedestrians, I was back on my feet and racing across the street for all I was worth—which, if I wasn’t careful, would be about eighty-nine cents (the price of that chewing gum I’d stuffed into my pocket).
And then, if that wasn’t enough . . .
“Stop! Thief!” Oh boy, a brand-new voice was added to the chaos. “Come back here with my laser vest!” It was the owner of Destructo Lasers. Apparently he wanted to join in the fun and games, too.
Yes sir, it was getting to be a real party—just like old times. Call me a Gloomy Gus (or at least a whining Wally), but for some reason I suspected I’d stepped smack-dab into another world-famous, custom-designed, patent-pending McDoogle mishap.
Chapter 2
A Scummy Swim
Yes sir, it had turned into quite the parade.
There I was in the lead, doing the usual running-for-my-life routine (not, of course, without the expected tripping and stumbling along the way).
Immediately behind me was my old buddy, Tall Guy, yelling: “Stoop, lettle boy! Vee muust talk to you!”
Next up was his partner, a charming fellow who hadn’t quite mastered the fine art of sweet-talking: “Stoop or vee blow you to kingdom cume.” (See what I mean?)
And finally the owner of Destructo Lasers. “Stop, thief! Stop!”
The good news was the street was pretty crowded. With any luck I could get across it and lose them. The bad news was we all know about my luck. . . .
With my incredible agility and superhuman skill (yeah, right), I managed to dodge the first two cars.
HONK HONK
SQUEAL! SQUEAL!
But with my klutz-oid clumsiness and incredible lack of coordination (that’s more like it), I managed to step right in front of a speeding motorcyclist.
BEEP BEEP
K-THUDD!
“Yeow!”
K-BLUB-Blub-blub . . .
If you’re an experienced McDoogle reader, you’ve probably figured out what the BEEP BEEP and K-THUDD! were. And if you guessed that the “Yeow” was me flying up into the air and over the handlebars, you got that right, too. But the K-BLUB-Blub-blub was a brand-new sound—the sound of a thirteen-year-old boy smashing into the chest of a very overfed biker with a long white beard. (I don’t want to say he was fat, but as I sat on his lap I had this sudden urge to start telling him everything I wanted for Christmas.)
But Beefy the Biker Boy had other things on his mind—like trying to see where he was going. “Get out of my way!” he shouted. “I can’t see the road! Move it, move it!”
I tried to obey, but we were going so fast I was pinned across his front like a bug plastered to a windshield
.
“Move it! Move it!”
“I’m trying! I’m trying!”
“Move it! Move it!”
“I’m trying! I’m trying!”
After a few more minutes of this stimulating conversation, I realized it was getting us nowhere. Unfortunately, I couldn’t say the same thing for his driving, or lack of it. I turned my head just far enough to see that we were heading directly for the sidewalk.
“Look out!” I cried. “Turn right!”
“What?”
“Turn right, turn right!”
“Your right or mine?”
“Yours!” I shouted. “No, mine!”
“WHAT?”
“JUST TURN!”
He did. Unfortunately, it was the wrong way. Now we were swerving down the sidewalk at a gazillion miles an hour.
“EEEK! AWKK! CRY! SCREAM!”
That, of course, was the sound of pedestrians leaping for their lives.
The good news was we didn’t hit a single one.
K-CLANG K-CLANG K-CLANG
The bad news was we snagged a few parking meters along the way.
But that wasn’t the end of our little bumper car performance. Oh no, we were just warming up. . . .
We bounced back onto the street. Fortunately, there was no oncoming traffic. Unfortunately, it was because of the MEN WORKING sign dead ahead.
K-RASH!
Well, it had been dead ahead. Now it was sailing high into the air and joining our collection of parking meters somewhere behind us.
Next up were the little orange cones.
K-BOP K-BOP K-BOP
And finally, although Mom said never to pick up hitchhikers . . .
“AUGH!”
K-BLUB-Blub-blub . . .
Our duo had suddenly become a trio. One of the “men working” was suddenly sitting beside me on the lap of Beefy the Biker Boy.
“Hi there,” I said, sticking out my hand to shake his. “My name is Wally McDoogle.”
“WHAT’S GOING ON?!” he cried.
“Oh, just one of my little mishaps. Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon.”
“WHAT?”
“I said, don’t worry, these catastrophes only last a few minutes and then they’ll be—” It was then I spotted the giant open manhole we were approaching. “See,” I said, calmly pointing. “It’s just like I said. It’ll all be over in a . . . AUGHhhhh!”