Leon and the Champion Chip

by Allen Kurzweil

  “Perfect,” P.W. declared.

  “I can barely tell the difference between Fathead and this new guy,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “He’s not as spongy,” said Leon, “but I have to admit he looks pretty good.”

  “What are we calling this version?” Lily-Matisse asked.

  “How about ‘Refill’?” said P.W.

  Leon shook his head. “Nah, that’s kind of boring.”

  “‘Cottontail’?” said Lily-Matisse.

  P.W. grimaced. “You can’t be serious. That’s way, way too girly. What about ‘Pumpkinhead four-point -oh,’ code name ‘Army Boy’?”

  “Forget it,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “How about ‘Lumpy’?” Leon suggested.

  “Lumpy isn’t bad,” Lily-Matisse allowed. “It’s kind of a cross between bumpy and Lumpkin.”

  “Lumpy it is,” said P.W.

  “So when do we find out if Lumpy controls Lumpkin?” asked Lily-Matisse.

  “The sooner the better,” said P.W.

  “No need to convince me,” said Leon.

  “How about tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred?” P.W. proposed.

  “What’s that in real time?” Lily-Matisse asked.

  “Eight in the morning,” said P.W.

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Leon.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The Third R

  By 7:45 A.M. Leon and his two best friends had already posted themselves near the entrance to the school.

  “This is it,” said P.W. “Time for the third R.”

  “You’re sounding awfully confident,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s just say I hope that this time the ‘R’ stands for reanimation instead of reject, or redo, or replay, or—”

  “Relax,” said P.W. “It’ll work. We’ve swapped out the energy source, plus we’ve got a superconductor for starter fluid.”

  “You mean spit,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Exactly,” said P.W.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “What’s your first move, Leon?” P.W. asked. “Still planning to give Lumpkin a turbowedgie?”

  “Of course not,” said Leon. “I’m planning to make Lumpkin give himself one.”

  “I take it a double backflip is out of the question?” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Afraid so,” said Leon. “There’s some stiffness in Lumpy’s left leg. Besides, I want to hold off on the fancy stuff.”

  “Enough gabbing,” said P.W. “Let’s get Lumpy primed.”

  Leon wasn’t leaving anything to chance. He insisted on fresh starter fluid, which Lily-Matisse provided without complaint. Months of scientific research had made her less squeamish around saliva.

  Once Lumpy was properly soaked, Leon bided his time by doing finger exercises—variations on the warm-up drills his flute teacher forced upon him.

  Oh-eight-hundred came and went, and General Lumpkin hadn’t showed.

  “The bell’s about to ring,” Lily-Matisse warned.

  “Bell or no bell, I’m waiting,” said Leon.

  “Me, too,” said P.W.

  Lily-Matisse was about to object when P.W. spotted Lumpkin turning the corner. “Visual contact established!” he announced giddily. “Target in sight. Repeat. Target in sight! Assume attack positions!”

  He and Lily-Matisse planted themselves shoulder to shoulder, giving Leon a shielded post from which to work his magic. He pressed his palms against Lumpy’s waist and gripped the figure’s flexible arms between his own thumb and index finger. “Hey,” he said urgently, “is Lumpkin a lefty or a righty?”

  “Lefty,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive,” said P.W. “He always noogies with his left.”

  “That’s right,” said Leon, wincing.

  “Range … forty-five feet,” P.W. announced.

  “Forty,” he said in a lower, but still excited voice. “Thirty-five!”

  Lumpkin continued to climb the steps, unaware of the ambush.

  “Target in range!” P.W. whispered urgently. “Repeat. Target in range!”

  Using thumb and index finger, Leon bent Lumpy’s left arm behind his back, cautiously curled his tiny fingers, and hooked them onto the elastic waistband of the figure’s custom-made underpants.

  “Bottoms up!” said Leon, giving the shorts a quick, firm yank.

  Suddenly he detected a slight warmth in his fingers. He looked down at Lumpy and noticed his beady eyes seemed to be sparkling.

  “Ohmygosh!” Lily-Matisse exclaimed.

  “Eureka-roonie!” P.W. cried. “Mission Control, we have liftoff! Repeat. We have liftoff!”

  And what a liftoff it was!

  Henry Lumpkin managed (with the help of Leon and Lumpy) to reach around and pull up on his own underpants so energetically that they rose halfway up his back. More incredibly, he maintained that improbable grip from the bottom of the steps all the way to the doors of the school, at which point he moved out of range.

  As soon as Lumpkin had disappeared, P.W. turned to give Leon a high five but settled for slapping Lumpy’s palm, since Leon had his hands full.

  “Talk about action figures!” said P.W.

  “And if I know Leon, the action’s just starting,” said Lily-Matisse.

  The next chance to test-drive Lumpy came during science lab. Leon grabbed a stool within range of Lumpkin, but far enough away that his hocus-pocus would escape detection.

  “Henry, is anything the matter?” Mr. Sparks asked soon after class had begun.

  “Uh, nah,” Lumpkin answered unconvincingly. He wasn’t about to admit that his underpants had taken on a life of their own.

  “Well, try to control the squirming,” said Mr. Sparks. “I’ve got something cool to show you. I’ll need a volunteer.”

  Leon couldn’t resist a little covert fingerwork. Lumpkin’s arm suddenly shot up straight as a flagpole.

  “H-Henry?” Mr. Sparks stuttered, as startled by the offer as Lumpkin was himself. “Well, well. This is a pleasant surprise. Come up to the front.”

  Lumpkin had no choice but to approach the teacher’s bench.

  “Right,” said Mr. Sparks. “First things first. What kind of chips should we use for today’s experiment? My stockpile currently contains garlic, plain, and peppercorn.”

  “Garlic, I guess,” said Lumpkin.

  “Fine choice,” said Mr. Sparks. “While I retrieve the chips and chemicals, could you please fetch the stainless-steel mixing bowl and wooden spoon that I set beside the sink?”

  With the chemicals and equipment assembled, Mr. Sparks put on a pair of heavy-duty gloves and safety glasses and made Lumpkin do the same.

  “All set,” said Mr. Sparks. “Let’s get started.” He handed Lumpkin the garlic chips. “Think you can pulverize these?”

  “Yeah,” said Lumpkin. “I’m good at crushing stuff.”

  “He sure is,” said Flossy Parmigiano.

  “Henry Lumpkin can crush up just about anything,” Thomas Warchowski noted.

  “And he usually does,” P.W. whispered to Leon as Lumpkin effortlessly turned the garlic chips into garlic powder.

  “That’s perfect,” said Mr. Sparks. He again faced the class. “You all recall I said I had something cool to show you. Here it is.” Mr. Sparks reached for a special thermos and unscrewed the top.

  A vapor cloud rose up and spilled onto the lab bench.

  Everyone oohed.

  “Nothing to worry about,” chirped Mr. Sparks as he waved his students to the front of the room. “Liquid nitrogen. Minus three hundred and twenty degrees Fahrenheit. It’s the science teacher’s best friend—after potato chips, of course. Horror movies use this stuff by the tank-load for special effects.”

  The class gathered around Mr. Sparks as the fog was clearing.

  “Are you ready, Henry?”

  “I guess.”

  “Here’s what I want you to do.” Mr. Spar
ks tapped a flask containing a thick white fluid. “Pour this emulsion of fat globules and casein micelles into the bowl. Then add this glucose powder and stir the two together with the wooden spoon. While you’re stirring, I will add the liquid nitrogen. Then, on my say-so, sprinkle in the potato chips. Whatever you do, Henry, keep stirring!”

  “What the heck are we making?” Lumpkin demanded.

  “You’ll find out in about thirty seconds,” said Mr. Sparks. “You can begin pouring and stirring. That’s excellent, Henry. Now for some liquid nitrogen. Keep stirring, Henry. Good. Now add the chips. Keep that spoon moving until the fog disappears.”

  “What is that?” P.W. asked.

  Mr. Sparks removed a packet of plastic spoons from his satchel and spread them out on the bench. “Find out for yourselves!” he told the class.

  “You mean we should taste that gunk?” said Antoinette Brede, unable to hide her terror.

  “What’s the matter?” said Mr. Sparks. “Don’t you guys want to be the first to taste test instant garlic-flavored potato chip ice cream? If you do, you’d better hurry. This stuff melts a whole lot faster than your run-of-the-mill store-bought ice cream.”

  The fifth graders couldn’t believe their ears. They couldn’t believe their eyes. And soon they couldn’t believe their taste buds.

  But the fascination didn’t last very long. Moments after nibbling the frozen concoction (and once their tongues began to thaw), they all rushed to the sink to rinse their mouths.

  “I guess Ben and Jerry can sleep well tonight,” said Mr. Sparks. He checked the thermos as the students reclaimed their places. “We still have some liquid nitrogen left. Might as well put it to good use. Any of you want to see a potato chip shatter like glass?”

  The question prompted widespread cheering.

  “I thought so,” said Mr. Sparks as he poured the last of the frigid liquid into a Styrofoam cup. “Henry,” he said. “Grab a pair of insulated tongs, pick up a potato chip, and dip it into the liquid nitrogen.”

  Leon was tempted to use Lumpy to make Lumpkin do something stupid, but Lumpkin beat him to it.

  “Henry!” Mr. Sparks shouted. “Don’t!”

  Lumpkin ignored the warning and tried to eat the frozen chip. Instantly tongs and tongue bonded together, chip fused to lip, and Lumpkin began to yell—insofar as it’s possible to yell with a potato chip and a pair of metal tongs frozen to separate parts of your mouth.

  The whole class watched in stunned silence as Mr. Sparks rushed to the sink, filled a beaker with warm water, and splashed it on Lumpkin’s face.

  Eventually chip fell from lip, tongue and tongs parted company, and Lumpkin slunk back to his stool.

  “Henry,” said Mr. Sparks. “Go and see the nurse.”

  “Yeth, Mithter Thparkth.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The Human Hot Fudge Sundae

  Finally! After five years of hurt and humiliation—half a lifetime of noogies, wedgies, and less common schoolyard maneuvers—Leon had a chance to even the score.

  The next morning he waited on the school steps, with Lumpy by his side. For the first time ever, he wanted to see Lumpkin.

  The bully failed to appear by the time the first bell rang.

  “Must be out because of the tongue injury,” Lily-Matisse speculated.

  “Maybe,” said Leon disappointedly.

  Lumpkin was a no-show at homeroom, and at first-period math class, at second-period English, and at third-period social studies.

  Things took a turn for the better at lunch. Strategically seated at a table that had views of the lunch line, sundae bar, and cleanup area, the trio watched and waited. Their surveillance eventually paid off.

  “There,” cried Lily-Matisse. “He just cut the line.”

  “Figures,” said P.W. “I bet you he hits someone before he has dessert.”

  “You’re on,” said Lily-Matisse.

  P.W. won the wager moments later, at the tray station.

  Leon reached for his pouch.

  “Sure that’s wise with so many people around?” asked Lily-Matisse.

  “Get real,” said P.W. “After all these years of Lumpkin being Lumpkin?”

  “P.W.’s right,” said Leon. He began working Lumpy’s legs just as Lumpkin was about to take some pizza.

  “Not so fast,” Leon said in his best teacher voice. “Where are your manners, Mr. Lumpkin?”

  The whole lunchroom watched in amazement as the bully marched himself to the very back of the line.

  “Much better, Mr. Lumpkin,” Leon intoned. “You are learning.”

  Each time a student got on line, Leon made Lumpkin bow and give the new arrival frontsies.

  “This is like having our very own move-back-three-spaces card,” P.W. marveled. “Do not pass Go. Do not collect your lunch!”

  “Now, now,” said Lily-Matisse, warming to the possibilities. “Growing boys do have to eat.”

  “You know, Miss Jasprow, you have a point,” said Leon. “What do you propose we serve Henry?”

  “Not pizza,” said P.W.

  “Certainly not,” Lily-Matisse agreed. “Pizza is hardly nutritious enough. Still, we cannot allow him to starve.”

  “Actually, starvation sounds kind of tempting,” said P.W.

  Leon looked around until he found the perfect substitute for pizza. “Might we consider brussels sprouts?” he asked primly.

  Lily-Matisse suppressed a giggle. “Brussels sprouts are nutritious.”

  “Very,” said P.W. as he turned to Leon. “Maestro, if you please?”

  Leon worked Lumpy’s legs so that Lumpkin moved straight to a steam table piled high with brussels sprouts.

  “Do remember,” said Lily-Matisse, “the school has a strict ‘take all you want, eat all you take’ policy.”

  “As well it should,” said P.W.

  Leon worked Lumpy’s arms. “Hmm,” he said. “I’m feeling a little resistance.”

  “Is that a problem?” asked Lily-Matisse.

  “I don’t think so,” said Leon. After five minutes of diligent manipulation, he managed to devise a move—a tricky wrist flick and leg-lunge combination—that dispatched Lumpkin with a plateful of brussels spouts.

  “He’s heading toward the garbage bins,” Lily-Matisse warned moments later.

  “Not for long,” said Leon. A bit more finger work seated the reluctant vegetarian next to Mr. Groot.

  “That should fix him,” said P.W. “Now he’s got to eat those suckers!”

  Lumpkin tried his best to ignore the food on his plate, but Leon wouldn’t let him.

  “Time to take your medicine,” he said, handling Lumpy’s arms like an expert crane operator.

  “That’s one,” said Lily-Matisse gleefully as Lumpkin shoved a brussels sprout into his mouth.

  “That’s two!” said P.W.

  “Three!” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Four!” said P.W.

  Leon kept at it until every sprout was gone.

  “Phew,” he said, after he’d finished the forced feeding. “That was rough!”

  “I bet it was rougher for Lumpkin,” said Lily-Matisse. “Look at the way he’s slumped over.”

  “You know what might just improve his mood?” P.W. said with a sly grin.

  “Oh, boy, here it comes,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “A food fight,” P.W. said. “I mean, after all, it’s practically a tradition.” He recalled the goopy cafeteria clash he had set off the previous year, soon after gaining control of Miss Hagmeyer.

  “That was different,” Lily-Matisse pointed out. “Leon had the teachers start it. None of us got into trouble.”

  “She has a point,” said Leon. “And anyway, somehow Lumpkin throwing food is too—I don’t know—Lumpkinian.”

  “Plus it’s a waste,” Lily-Matisse noted. “There’s got to be a better way to teach Lumpkin a lesson.”

  “There is,” said Leon.

  “What do you have in mind?” said P.W.

&nb
sp; “Take a look at where Lumpkin is heading.”

  “The sundae bar?” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Yup,” said Leon.

  “You’re kidding, right?” said P.W.

  “Why not?” said Leon.

  “What am I missing?” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Simple,” said Leon. “You’re about to see Henry Lumpkin make himself a hot fudge sundae.”

  Lily-Matisse’s eyes widened.

  P.W. licked his lips. “Well, this should be sweet!”

  It’s too bad the judges from the Guinness Book of Records weren’t on hand for Leon’s next maneuver. Had they been, they could have confirmed a new entry for their record book: “Biggest human hot fudge sundae.”

  Leon began his dessert making with three scoops of vanilla ice cream—one scoop for each shoulder (easily targeted, thanks to the silver stars) and a third scoop applied to the head.

  Next came the hot fudge. Using Lumpy, Leon forced Lumpkin to ladle a generous amount of the sauce on each of the three scoops of ice cream.

  “What about his face?” said P.W.

  “Don’t!” cried Lily-Matisse. “You might burn him.”

  “Relax,” said Leon. “I’m done with the hot fudge.”

  “Don’t be a wuss,” said P.W.

  “I’m not being a wuss,” said Leon. “I’m saving the face for the whipped cream.”

  “Oh,” said P.W. “Sorry.”

  “You better hurry up,” said Lily-Matisse. “Groot is heading over there.”

  Leon swiftly worked Lumpy’s hands so that Lumpkin would grab hold of the whipped cream. A few quick jiggles of the tiny forearm prompted Lumpkin to shake the can.

  “Here goes,” said Leon. He made Lumpkin shoot off a thick stream of whipped cream.

  “Ohmygosh!” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Misfire!” P.W. said joyfully.

  The whipped cream smacked Mr. Groot in the eye.