My Life as a Cowboy Cowpie
Page 7
“WOAAA . . . WHAAA . . . WEEEE . . .”
twirling. Around and around I went, faster and faster, until finally
K-TwanG!
the suspenders gave way, and I took off like a giant slingshot.
The good news was, I was finally free of Satan Breath. The better news was, I was sailing high over his fence. The bad news was, on the other side of the fence was my ol’ buddy, the giant cowpie!
For the most part, it was a pleasant flight, though I wish they’d have included a meal or an in-flight movie. Still, the view was pretty good as I caught a glimpse of Cowboy Roy doing all of his old clown stuff—distracting Satan Breath away from Chad while shouting at Wall Street and Opera to get in there and pull the kid out.
Yes sir, it was a beautiful sight and one I would have enjoyed a bit longer, if it weren’t for my
K-PLOP!
face-first landing.
Still, despite the sudden clogging of my eyes, nose, mouth, and ears, it was great to know that Chad Diamond was in good hands. It was great to know he was going to be okay.
Chapter 10
Wrapping Up
When we last left Chester C. Chessclub he had finally come face to face with the sinister 2-Kool 4 U. Unfortunately, the mind of our author was so taken over with thoughts of revenge that he couldn’t think of anything to write. But now that his brain is clear (as well as his conscience), he finally puts Chester C. into action. In a flash of superior superheroism, Chester C. Chessclub leaps at the creepily chilly criminal. Basically, it’s a pretty good leap, scoring an 8.9 with the Olympic judges——and if it weren’t for the tiny matter of stepping on his cape and
K-Stumble
falling flat on his face, he might have even brought home a medal.
But mere clumsiness is not enough to stop our beloved hero. Not on your life (or his). Jumping back to his feet, he immediately stubs his toe on a stalactite or a stalagmite (I can never remember which is which), hits his head on a stalagmite (or a stalactite), and staggers around so cluelessly that the radical rapper finally raps:
“Quit that messin’ and a-foolin’
Quit doin’ what you’re doin’
’Cause this water I’m a brewin’s
’Bout ta make our world a cool one.”
And then, just when the rhyming can’t get any worse, just when it looks like there’ll never be another song with a real melody again——
Ta-Daaa!
Oh, no .. .
“What’s that?” 2-Kool cries. “What’s happenin’?!”
“It’s me. (Da-da . . . taaaaa) Music Guy.”
“And me. (K-Bang, K-Pow) Sound Effects Guy.”
“Listen,” the author types, “I’m just about done writing this story, can’t you wait until——”
“But you promised me and Sound Effects Guy that we would talk.”
“That’s right, and (K-Boink, K-Bop) by the look of the few pages you have left, we’re almost out of (K-Blewy!) room.”
“Hey, man,” 2-Kool asks, “who are these fools?”
“We help the author tell his (Dee-dee-dum) story.”
“Well, now,” 2-Kool says, “that’s kinda cool.”
“And speaking of cool (K-Bamb), we’re here to tell you that you’re not nearly as cool as you think you are.”
Suddenly, 2-Kool’s face clouds into an un-cool frown. “What you be sayin’?”
“I’m saying that the real cool people (K-Bing) don’t go around trying to look cool or sound cool.”
“He’s (Ta-Taaa) right!”
“Uh, guys . . .” the author types.
“Not now.”
“But . . .”
“We’ll (K-plop) take it from here.”
“You see, cool is (Ta-da Daaaa) just being who you are. It’s not trying to be something or someone else. It’s just being . . . you.”
“That’s (B-oing, B-oing) right. You can be a sound effects guy—”
“Or a (Da-da Taaaa) music guy—”
“Or a superhero?” ChesterC. chimes in.
“Or a superhero. The point is (K-bamb, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle), cool is being who God made you to be and becoming what He wants you to become.”
“You mean I don’t have to be a-talkin’ Or try to be a-shockin’ With these fancy rhymes of mine All the time?”
“Only if you (K-smack) want to.”
“Also (Ta-taaaa) it’s cooler not to force people to fit into your version of cool. Let them be cool how they want to be cool.”
“Well, now, hmmm. That is kinda cool.”
“Exact(K-Boink)ly.”
“Go ahead,” 2-Kool says, “be tellin’ me some more ’bout this cooler way to be cool.”
“You (K-Burp) bet!”
And so the three continue talking— 2-Kool, Sound Effects Guy, and Music Guy——as they stroll out of the cave and toward the setting sun, knowing that the world is a safer and better place to——
“Hey,” Chester C. calls after them, “what about me?”
“I guess you and the author are going to have to dream up another (Dum-de-dum) story with a different bad guy.”
“That’s right,” 2-Kool calls back, “’cause I ain’t gonna be bad no more. I’m just gonna be . .. cooool.”
And so we come to another sappy and somewhat silly ending——
“Let alone stupid,” Chester C. mutters.
“What do you mean?” the author types.
“I mean, isn’t the hero supposed to be the one who gets to save the day and not a bunch of music and sound effects guys?”
“Well, yes, that’s true, but I was going for something a little different here.”
“So what am I supposed to do now?”
“Why don’t you let me finish this last paragraph and then maybe——”
“Hey, I got a better idea,” Chester C. says. “Why don’t we go to Wal-Mart and look at all the new pocket protectors?”
“Well, I don’t——”
“Or how ’bout those neato-keen chessboards they got in?”
“Um ...”
“Better yet, I hear they got a brand-new shipment of laptop computers. Maybe the two of us could——”
“Laptop computers!” the author types. “What are we waiting for! Let’s get going!”
And so, as the sun sinks slowly into the West, our hero and his author race to the nearest Wal-Mart with the assurance that the world is once again a safer, saner, and yes, even cooler place to live, now that everybody can be themselves.
“Hey, Wally, munch, munch, your folks are out(burp)side waiting to go.”
I glanced up to see Opera standing at the door to our bunkhouse. I nodded, hit “Save,” and quickly packed Ol’ Betsy away. Once outside I saw all the campers were busy loading into their cars, saying their good-byes, and promising to write.
“Hey, McDoogle.” I turned to see Chad Diamond. He was already in the backseat of his limo getting ready to go. “What you did in that arena for me . . .” He cleared his throat, and I could tell it was pretty hard for him to continue. “It was, uh, well, it was pretty cool.”
I shrugged. “I figured it was the least I could do, considering what I did.” Then, lowering my voice a little, I added, “I really want to apologize for that. Even though Wall Street and I are best friends, that’s no excuse.”
It was his turn to shrug. “Forget it, I did the same thing to you, only worse.” Then with a grin he added, “Maybe we’ll do it again next year.”
I shook my head. “No, I learned my lesson, Chad. It doesn’t matter what you do to me, I’m not going to try to get even.”
He looked at me kinda funny. “Really?” he said. “That’s kinda lame.”
“Actually, seeking revenge is what’s lame.”
“Besides . . .” We both turned to see Mrs. Cowboy Roy approaching the limo. “It don’t look like there’ll be a next year.”
My heart sank. “We messed things up that bad for you?” I asked.
�
�No”—she shook her head—“just the opposite. Remember how I was a-sayin’ that Roy Boy and me was only running a kiddies’ ranch to help meet expenses? You know, so the bank wouldn’t shut us down?”
“Yeah.”
“It seems yer little prank helped my husband get his courage back.” She spat in her cup. “For the first time in years he’s back to his old self. Now there’s a good chance we can get the ranch up on its feet without havin’ to put up with all you kids.”
I broke into a grin. “That’s great.”
“We sure think so.” She tousled my hair. “’Course, Roy would never say it to you in person, so I’ll have to say it for him.”
“Say what?”
It was her time to grin. “Thanks, Wally.”
I nodded and looked up just in time to see Dad pulling the van beside us. “All right,” he called, “let’s get going, Son.”
My mouth dropped open. “Son”? Had he actually called me “Son”? I couldn’t believe it. I mean, usually it’s “Hey you,” or on a real good day, “Wallace, you moron!!!” But, “Son”? For a minute it almost sounded like he was happy we were related. And by the smile creeping around the corners of his mouth, I almost figured he was.
After saying my good-byes and promising to write, I finally climbed into the van.
“Good news,” Dad said as we started to pull away. “Since you did so well here, I’ve found a bunch of great camp ideas for next year.”
“No kidding?” I croaked.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Now that you’ve proven yourself a real man, there’s all sorts of camps we can choose from. For starters, what do you think of the World HeavyWeight Wrestling Camp?”
I tried not to groan. “Not bad,” I said, “if you don’t mind me being crushed by some hairy gorilla.”
“Actually, that’s another camp,” he said. “The Baboon Training School in Africa.”
“The what?!”
“Sure. Then there’s that Snake Handling Camp in South America, or the Alligator Wrestling Camp in Florida, or the Skydiving School in Arizona, or the Lumberjack Camp, or Hang Gliding, or Bungee Jumping, or . . .”
Dad continued rattling off one method of dying after another. I didn’t want to ruin his fun by explaining that the only way I could go to another summer camp was if I somehow survived another school year. (And, as we all know, the chances of that are pretty slim.) Instead, I glanced out the window to see Mr. and Mrs. Cowboy Roy, waving to the kids and spitting in perfect unison.
And still Dad kept going down his list: “Then there’s S.W.A.T. Camp, or the Bomb Squad Camp, or Nuclear Reactor Camp . . .”
Yes sir, somehow I expected that the fun and games weren’t entirely over; that my incredible worlds would just keep on getting more incredible.
“Or the Vampire Trapping Camp in Transylvania, or the Guided Missile Camp in Russia . . .”
Anyway, I’ll see you again next time . . .
“Or the Polar Bear Feeding Camp in Alaska . . .”
. . . if I’m lucky.