by R. L. Stine
Shaking his head, Belzer turned to me. “Bernie, aren’t you gonna break up the fight before they kill each other?”
GRUNT! GRUNT!
GROAN! GROAN!
THUD! THUD! THUD!
Feenman was banging Crench’s head against the floor. “Shaving cream!” he screamed. “All our bubus on shaving cream!”
“No way I’m going to break this up,” I said. “I’m gonna help them fight.”
I hurried back to my room to set my plan into motion.
Chapter 17
PRINCE AWESOME DUDE ARRIVES
I dropped onto my knees in front of the big, wooden trunk. I popped the latches and pushed the lid up.
“Yes! Yes!” I cried happily.
Costumes for Mrs. Twinkler’s pageant. There would never be a pageant. But the costumes wouldn’t go to waste!
THUD! THUD!
GROAN! GROAN!
GRUNT!
I could hear Feenman and Crench wrestling across the hall.
I pulled an armor helmet over my head. I grabbed a shield and a sword from the trunk—and went running back to their room.
They both stopped fighting and stared up at me from the floor. “Bernie, what’s up with the armor and the sword?” Feenman asked.
“I’m not Bernie!” I shouted through the mask. “I’m Prince Awesome Dude of the Doo-Wah Dum Dum Diddys!” I waved the sword.
Their eyes bulged. “Cool,” Belzer muttered. “Is that a real sword?”
“Close enough,” I said. “Dudes, why play the game on that tiny laptop screen when you can play it in real life?”
“Awesome!” Feenman said.
“Sweet!” Crench agreed.
I dragged the three of them into my room. I started pulling costumes out of the trunk. “Feenman, take the blue cape. It goes with your eyes. Belzer, careful with that dagger. You know you’re not good with pointy things!”
They pulled iron masks over their heads. “Doo-Wah-Diddys rule!” Crench shouted.
“Only five dollars a costume,” I said. “Come on, dudes. Cash only. Pay up. Pay up. And NO bubus. I only take American dollars!”
They each forked over the five bucks. I looked up to see more guys in my doorway. “Nosebleed, Chipmunk—get in here!” I pulled out more costumes.
“Five dollars. Pay up. Gimme five!” I shouted, handing out the armor and swords. “Now you dudes can play Wungo Warriors in 3-D!”
Their happy cries rang out:
“Sweet!”
“Awesomely awesome!”
“Totally gnarly!”
“Nighty-night to all Knighty Knight Knights!”
“Owwwww! You poked my eye out!”
“Beast, get in here!” I shouted. “Hey—who else is left? Don’t shove—I’ve got plenty of costumes! One size fits all! Hurry. Get your money out.”
I had a big wad of cash in my hand. The line of Rotten House guys waiting for costumes stretched down the stairs. Even Angel Goodeboy forked over five bucks for a cape and wooden sword.
After a few minutes the Doo-Wah-Diddys all stood there in their armor, holding their plastic shields, waving their swords, singing the Doo-Wah-Diddy Dragons anthem.
Belzer had his visor on sideways. He kept walking into walls. I grabbed the visor and spun it around. I heard Belzer’s neck crack. Maybe I spun it too hard!
“Now what do we do, Big B?” Belzer asked.
“ATTACK! DESTROY! WIN!” Angel shouted.
“YEAH!” Beast let out a roar.
He and Angel ran down the stairs and out of the dorm.
“Yo—wait!” I cried. Too late. The Dum Diddys all ran after them, screaming and waving their wooden swords.
I had no choice. I had to follow them. I shoved the big wad of fives into my pants pocket and took off.
Out on the grass, I could see where Beast and Angel were heading—right to Sherman Oaks and his Knighty Knight Knights at Nyce House.
What had I done?
Chapter 18
“ATTACK! DESTROY! WIN!”
The Rotten House Doo-Wah-Diddy Dragons burst into Nyce House, roaring, chanting, waving their swords.
“Whoa—wait! Pause! PAUSE the game!” I shouted. But I was too late.
Beast raised his sword and started slashing away at the curtains. Angel swung hard and shattered a lamp. Crench stabbed a couch and a chair. Feenman was painting the floor red. (That guy just didn’t give up with the red paint!)
“Don’t wrinkle your costumes!” I shouted. “No stains! No stains! I have to return them!”
There was no way they could hear me over their screams of attack.
CLANG! CLANG!
Chipmunk and Nosebleed had their helmet-visors down and were head-butting each other. Paintings crashed to the floor.
“ATTACK! ATTACK!”
Belzer screamed. And he stabbed himself in the foot!
It was out of control. I offered one hundred bubus to anyone who would put down his sword and stop fighting. But helmets clanged, and swords slashed and hacked.
And we burst in on Sherman Oaks, Wes Updood, and a bunch of Nyce House dudes in their Commons Room. They didn’t hear us coming. They were perched in front of a widescreen TV, clicking away, playing Wungo Warriors.
“SURRENDER, OR ELSE!”
Angel shrieked. The Dum Diddys leaped into the room.
Sherman, the great Wungo Wango, jumped to his feet. His eyes bulged. “Hey—what’s up with this?” he shouted.
I had to stop it before it got ugly. Or before my costumes ripped.
I grabbed Belzer’s sword and ran to the middle of the room. “I claim this dorm in the name of Prince Awesome Dude of the Doo-Wah-Diddy Dum Dibbly Dabbly Doo-dah Dragons!” I shouted. “The Knighty Knight Knights are defeated!”
“Not fair!” Sherman screamed. “Not fair! You can’t do this! You don’t have access codes from the Wungo Wango. You can’t come in here without access codes!”
“We don’t need access codes!” Chipmunk shouted. “We’ve got SWORDS!”
“Not fair!” Sherman wailed. “Not fair!”
Beast swung his sword and hacked the arm off a couch. Angel lowered his helmet-visor and ran headfirst into the TV screen.
“Wait! Stop! Pause the game!” I shouted. “Sherman is right. It’s gotta be a fair battle. I’ve got plenty of costumes for you guys, too—if you’ve got the cash!”
I spun Belzer around by the visor. “Belzer, quick—go bring the trunk. We all want a fair battle, right? Get your money out, dudes. Five dollars a costume! Belzer, hurry. We don’t want the swords to get cold!”
Belzer took off back to our dorm.
Crench stepped up to me, shaking his head. “Bernie, what are you doing? You’re gonna rent costumes to the enemy?”
I winked at him. “Do you have to ask?”
“But, Bernie—”
“My middle name is Fairness,” I said. “You know me. I only care about fairness. Get your money out, dudes. Five dollars. Come on. No wrinkled bills. I don’t have time to iron ’em!”
A few minutes later Belzer returned, groaning, sweating, and lugging the heavy trunk. I heaved the lid open and started handing out capes, helmets, shields, swords, and daggers.
The Nyce House Knighty Knight Knights grabbed everything I had left. My pockets were bulging with cash.
I slammed the trunk lid shut. It was a signal for the battle to begin.
“It’s Dum Dum Doomsday for all Dum Diddys!” Sherman cried. He and his pals charged, screaming and waving their swords.
My Rotten House buddies fought back. Wooden swords clacked. Helmets clanged. Rubber daggers daggered. Belzer stabbed himself in the other foot!
Thanks to Bernie B., the Wungo Warriors game came to life. The two sides battled out the front door and onto the grass. The dudes were having an awesome time.
It was like a party! Especially for me. I unrolled the wadded-up fives and started to count. “Looks like Prince Awesome Dude is the big winner tonight!” I ex
claimed.
But then I looked up from my huge pile of cash. I gasped—and let out a scream of horror.
“NOOOO! NOOOOOO!”
Chapter 19
“THIS SCHOOL MUST BE CLOSED—TONIGHT!”
Why did I scream?
Because I saw where the battle was heading. To Pooper’s Pond!
“Get away!” I went chasing after them, shouting. “Get away from the pond!”
You can barely call it a pond. It’s more like a scummy, smelly, muddy ditch. If they fought in Pooper’s Pond, the costumes would be caked in its putrid mud.
And who was responsible for the costumes? Bernie B.! I’d have to pay big-time to have them cleaned.
“Get away! Get AWAY!”
Too late.
Beast took a running jump into the pond. Angel followed him in—and everyone else followed Angel.
Swords clacked. Kids screamed and roared. The mud flew.
They rolled in the mud and came up fighting. Knighty Knight Knights and Dum Diddys dove into the muck. Thick gobs of mud oozed down their faces, their capes, their armor.
In seconds, the great battle turned into a disgusting mud bath.
“Not good,” I muttered. “Not good at all.”
I started to figure what this would cost me. I didn’t realize that the horror was just beginning.
Then I turned—and started to choke.
Headmaster Upchuck stood behind me, his eyes goggling out of his head as he stared at the mud fight. Next to him stood five horrified people in gray suits.
The inspectors!
Upchuck pointed a trembling finger at me. “Bernie—I know you’re responsible for this!” he cried.
“I—I—I—” It never happened to me before. I was speechless!
The shocked inspectors all started talking at once:
“This is an outrage!”
“Unspeakable!”
“The students are out of control!”
“They’re berserk! Totally berserk!”
“This school must be CLOSED—tonight!”
Chapter 20
THE UGLY DUCKLING
“I—I—I—” My brain was still frozen.
And then Mrs. Twinkler stepped forward. She was the only person who didn’t look horrified and shocked. She had a big smile on her face.
She strode right up to the inspectors. “This is our annual school pageant!” she told them. “Didn’t Bernie do a fabulous job?”
“P-pageant?” one inspector stammered. “This ugly mud fight? What kind of pageant is this?”
“It’s the Battle of Rotten Town of 1650,” Mrs. Twinkler told him. She turned to Headmaster Upchuck. “I knew Bernie was the right person to lead the pageant.”
Upchuck put a big smile onto his little bald head. “Yes, yes!” he said. “I was the one who picked Bernie. Excellent job, Bernie.”
He patted me on the shoulder. “Ha-ha. You inspectors weren’t fooled—were you? Did you really think my wonderful students were having a mud fight?”
“It…looked so real,” an inspector said. “Wonderful job. I guess.”
My brain finally started chugging. “I did my best!” I told them. “But I can’t take all the credit. Mrs. Twinkler had the idea to stage it in Pooper’s Pond. A brilliant idea! I think she deserves a round of applause—don’t you?”
The five inspectors clapped.
“The students all deserve applause,” Mrs. Twinkler said. “Have you ever seen a pageant that looked so real?”
“Guess we made a mistake,” an inspector said. “I’m very impressed. Best school pageant I ever saw. I think we’re all going to file an excellent report on this school.”
Another inspector squinted at me. “But what is that wad of cash in Bernie’s hand?”
I stared down at the money. “Oh, this?” I said. “Just a small gift from my cast and crew. They wanted to show me how much they appreciated all my hard work.”
“Bernie is so wonderful,” Mrs. Twinkler gushed. “Guess what he’s doing. He’s giving all that money to the Rotten School Theater Fund.” She grabbed the money from my hand.
“This will pay for our second-grade production of The Ugly Duckling.”
The Ugly Duckling?
My money…my hard-earned money…
Upchuck slapped me on the back. “Congratulations!” he cried. “Job well done!” He and the inspectors turned and walked away.
I watched Mrs. Twinkler counting my money as she trotted off with it.
I let out a long, sad sigh.
“Guess the game is over,” Feenman said. I could see only his eyes. He had about three inches of mud all over his face. He looked much better with it.
The other warriors climbed wearily out of the pond. Dudes were dripping mud, groaning and sighing. “I’m toast,” Sherman muttered. “Toast.”
“I could sleep for a week,” Billy the Brain said, yawning.
“Everything HURTS,” Beast declared wearily. He started licking mud off his arm.
“What a battle. Thank goodness it’s over. We’re all totally wrecked.” Joe Sweety groaned.
“War is tough,” I said. “But remember, dudes—we’re all winners here! Thanks to us, our school is saved!”
Groaning, aching, sighing, we started limping toward our dorms. But we all stopped when we heard the loud, shrill cry.
“WAAAAAA
HOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
I saw Jennifer Ecch first. And then the rest of the girls. In capes and full armor! Waving shiny swords and battle-axes in front of them.
“Prepare to surrender!” Jennifer screamed. “Prepare to surrender to the Dum Dum Daughters of the Doo-Wah-Diddy Dum Dum Diddy Princess!”
“No! Please! Please! Give us a break!”
“We surrender! We surrender!”
“You win!”
The boys’ cries couldn’t stop the battle. Act Two of the pageant was about to begin! And it was going to be a slaughter.
“Belzer, quick!” I said, pulling him aside. “Go get the Nutty Nutty Bars.”
He squinted at me. “Bernie, you’re still trying to cash in? You’re gonna sell candy bars during the battle?”
“No way,” I said. “I need something to eat while I watch you fight!”
HERE’S A SNEAK PEEK AT BOOK #13
R.L. STINE’S
LIGHTING UP THE DIMPLES
I hurried down the empty hall and stopped at a door at the end. I read the words on the window: ROTTEN EGG.
That’s the name of our school yearbook. The Rotten Egg. How did it get that name? Who knows? Maybe they just couldn’t think of a better one.
I pushed open the door and looked around for the editor. He’s a tall, skinny, redheaded sixth grader named Leif Blower.
Blower is really into the yearbook. He has a tiny silver egg stuck through one earlobe. And he wears a green-and-yellow cap that says: ASK ME ABOUT ROTTEN EGGS.
“Yo, Blower! What’s up?” I knew he had to be there. He never went to class. He just stayed in the Rotten Egg office all day and worked on the yearbook.
Blower had his face buried in a stack of photos on the table in front of him.
He kept shaking his head. “I can’t decide,” he said. “Bernie, maybe you can help me.”
I hurried across the room. “What’s the problem?”
He held up three photos. I squinted at them. I saw a window with gray curtains.
“Which photo of Headmaster Upchuck do you like best?” Blower asked.
I squinted at them again. “I don’t see Headmaster Upchuck,” I said. “I just see a window.”
He frowned. “That’s the problem. Upchuck is too short. His head didn’t come up to the camera lens. I only got the window behind his desk.”
“Maybe you should have lowered the camera a little,” I said.
Blower scratched his red hair. “Maybe.”
I took the photos from his hands and set them down on the table. “Can we talk?” I said. “I know you’ve been
thinking about my yearbook photo. I’m here to help. I’d like a blue sky in the background. With just a few puffy clouds. Think you can handle that?”
Blower didn’t answer. He stared blankly at me.
“I need backlighting,” I said. “You know. To capture the silky glow of my hair. I’m not sure which is my best side. You’ll have to shoot me from both sides. Then we can decide later—okay?”
He stared at me blankly.
“Or maybe we should do a straight face shot,” I said. “I mean, we need to show off both of my dimples. Everyone says I have killer dimples. Shall we work out special lighting for that? Perhaps a light for each dimple?”
He blinked several times. “Sorry, Bernie,” he said. “I didn’t hear a word you said.”
“But my photo—” I started.
He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got something much more important to think about, Bernie.”
More important than my yearbook picture?
What could that be?
“ACK. ACK. ACK.”
Blower picked up a bottle from the table and took a long drink from it. He made a face. “This root beer tastes funny.”
“It isn’t root beer,” I told him. I took the bottle and read the label. “India Black Ink.”
“ACK. ACK. ACK.” Blower grabbed his throat and started hacking and coughing and sputtering.
“You should probably see the nurse,” I said. “You’re gonna scare people with that black tongue.”
“ACK. ACK. ACK.”
I picked up the root beer bottle—next to the bottle of ink—and took a slurp. “But before you go,” I said, “can we talk about my photo?”
“ACK. ACK. ACK.”