But I can’t. I can’t tear myself away. The bull terrier is winning. It’s on top of Dad, its fangs bared, ready to sink them into Dad’s neck.
‘No!’ I scream.
But then in one amazingly fast movement, Dad reaches up, grabs the dog’s neck, clamps its jaws shut with his hand and wraps the jeans around its muzzle and head. He ties the legs of the jeans in a knot and pulls them tight.
Dad leaps up onto the fence and swings his legs over onto the other side. The dog is staggering around the backyard, blinded by the jeans, furiously trying to shake them off its head. It crashes into a tree and falls over.
I drop down and join Dad.
‘That was brilliant, Dad!’ I say. ‘Shame you had to give up your jeans, though.’
Dad is wired, electric, alive.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he says, beaming. ‘What do I need with jeans, anyway? I’m a MUDMAN!’
Mudman? He looks more like a madman. His hair’s all stiff with mud and sticking out at crazy angles. His eyes are wide and white and he’s got blood dripping from a wound on his shoulder where the bull terrier must have bitten him. He looks wild.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘We’ve got to keep moving.’
I can’t believe how much Dad’s got into this. It’s like he’s not even my dad anymore.
We make it through the next five backyards without any problems. We jump over the last fence into a laneway.
‘Not far now!’ says Dad.
We sprint along the lane as fast as we can. At the end of the lane we flatten our backs against a wall. We look out across a busy highway. The traffic is bumper to bumper.
Dad’s work is on the other side of the road. There is a factory, a warehouse and a two-storey office block. Dad’s office is on the second floor.
‘We’re almost there,’ says Dad. ‘All we have to do is cross the road.’
‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘Just one question. How do we get to your office? We can’t exactly go through reception.’
‘But we’re mudmen!’ he says. ‘We can go anywhere we want!’
‘But not through reception,’ I say. ‘Think about it.’
Dad thinks.
‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘Mrs Lewis might have a heart attack.’
We stand in the lane and study the buildings.
We’re so close, and yet, so far.
I really thought we were going to make it.
It’s hard to believe that we’ve come all this way for nothing.
Suddenly Dad grabs my arm.
‘I’ve got it!’ he says. ‘See that shed near the fence?’ He points to a small grey building just inside the gate.
I nod.
‘What about it?’ I say.
‘It’s a maintenance shed,’ he says. ‘They keep overalls in there. We can put them on and go and get the key. No problem. No heart attacks. Let’s go.’
The cars are still bumper to bumper.
‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘Are we just going to run across the road? Shouldn’t we wait until there’s a break in the traffic?’
‘It’ll be like this for another hour at least,’ says Dad. ‘We haven’t got time. Just keep your eyes straight ahead and don’t look back!’
I look at him.
He pats me on the back.
‘Come on, mudboy,’ he says. ‘You can do it.’
I put my hands up on either side of my face like blinkers. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me.
We thread our way through the cars.
People are yelling and hooting and honking their horns. They’ve obviously never seen mudmen before.
Dad is just in front of me, moving quickly through the traffic. We come to a four-wheel drive that is parked so close to the car in front we can’t get through. Dad leaps over the bonnet in one bound. I take my hands away from my face and follow him.
‘Andy?’ says a voice, as I clamber across the front of the car.
I look at the driver.
Oh no.
It’s my teacher, Ms Livingstone.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I know this looks a bit strange, but . . .’
She raises her hand and smiles.
‘Not to me,’ she says. ‘I spent six months living with the Mud-people of Papua New Guinea. I’ll never forget it. There was this one time . . .’
Uh-oh. Ms Livingstone’s travel stories are fascinating, but once she gets started she can go on for hours.
‘I’d love to hear about it sometime, Ms Livingstone,’ I say, ‘but I’m kind of in a hurry right now.’
She smiles and nods.
‘I understand,’ she says. ‘That’s exactly how the Mud-people were — never still, always rushing here and there. I remember one time . . .’
I slide off the bonnet and keep running.
We reach the other side of the road and sprint along the fence to the front gates of Dad’s work.
There’s nobody around. That’s good.
We cut across to the maintenance shed.
Dad tries to open the door.
It’s locked. That’s bad.
‘Damn!’ says Dad, slamming his fist on the door. ‘The caretaker usually has this unlocked by now.’
He steps back from the door and looks at the shed.
‘What are we going to do now?’ he says. ‘We’re doomed!’
‘No we’re not, Dad,’ I say. ‘We’re mudmen, remember? We can do anything!’
‘We’re not mudmen,’ he says. ‘We’re just a couple of naked morons covered in mud. I should have known this wouldn’t work. I should never have listened to you. What on earth was I thinking?’
I look at Dad. Something has changed. A few minutes ago he was running through the streets without his clothes on, leaping over cars and fences, and fighting dogs with his bare hands. Now he’s staring at me with wide desperate eyes. I have to take over.
I turn away from Dad and study the shed.
There’s a set of louvre windows above the door.
‘Maybe I can get in through there,’ I say. ‘I could slide out the glass and climb through.’
‘But how are you going to get up there?’ says Dad.
‘On your shoulders,’ I say. ‘Crouch down.’
Dad crouches and looks around nervously.
‘Okay’ he says. ‘But hurry. People will be arriving any minute now.’
I put one foot on his mud-caked shoulders. The mud is half dried and gives my foot plenty of grip. I grab Dad’s right hand and pull myself up onto his other shoulder. I grab his left hand and steady myself.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’m ready.’
Dad stands up and I rise up to the level of the window.
I let go of his hand and try to remove the first pane of glass. It’s not easy though. It won’t budge. I try to loosen it by rattling it and it moves a little, but not much.
‘I can’t get it,’ I call down to Dad. ‘It’s stuck.’
‘Try the next one up,’ he says. ‘Hurry!’
I try it. Much better. It slides out smoothly. I place the glass on the gutter above me and start work on the next one. It slides out easily too.
I go back to the first bit of glass.
It’s still stuck.
I feel a drop of water on my head.
And another.
I look up.
Uh-oh. It’s starting to rain.
Just what we didn’t need.
There is an enormous clap of thunder. The clouds open up properly and the first few drops give way to the most incredible downpour. It’s like the cloud above us has been holding on for weeks, months — possibly years. But not anymore. Down it comes. Right on top of us. On top of our mud. And begins to wash it away.
‘Hurry up, Andy!’ says Dad.
‘I’m trying to!’ I yell, ‘but the window is stuck.’
‘Just break it!’ pleads Dad. ‘I’ll replace it later! We have to get those overalls!’
I can hardly see anything. The mud is washing off my hair and in
to my eyes. It must be even worse for Dad because all my mud is washing off me and down onto him. I wipe my eyes and try to work out how to break the window.
I’m just about to karate chop it when I hear a noise. A car is pulling up alongside us.
I look over my shoulder.
Uh-oh.
It’s Mr Bainbridge. Dad’s boss.
He’s getting out of the passenger side of the car.
The car is being driven by Mrs Bainbridge.
‘Andy?’ says Mr Bainbridge.
‘Who is that?’ says Dad, turning around to see.
‘No!’ I scream. ‘Don’t turn around!’
But it’s too late.
I teeter on his shoulders as he turns. Dad puts his hands up to steady me. I grab them.
‘Aagghh!’ says Mr Bainbridge.
‘Aagghh!’ says Dad.
‘Cover your eyes, dear!’ yells Mr Bainbridge, running around to the driver’s side of the car to stand in front of Mrs Bainbridge’s window.
Now don’t get me wrong, but I’m not too worried about the Bainbridge’s seeing me in the nude. It’s happened so many times now that it’s almost routine, but I feel for Dad. This is his first time ever.
‘So this is where he gets it from,’ says Mr Bainbridge. ‘Like father, like son!’
‘I’m very sorry, Mr Bainbridge,’ says Dad. ‘I know this seems highly irregular but I can assure you there is a very good reason . . .’
Mr Bainbridge puts up his hand.
‘Don’t waste my time and your breath,’ he says. ‘As you well know I am a man of high standards and I demand the same from my employees. I do not expect to come to work and find them naked, covered in mud and performing acrobatics in the driveway. I’ve come to expect this sort of behaviour from your feral son, but for a man of your age and in your position it is inexcusable! I will not tolerate it. You are fired.’
‘But Mr Bainbridge,’ splutters Dad. ‘I . . . I . . . I . . .’
Poor Dad. He’s struggling here. He’s obviously not as used to making up excuses as I am.
‘It’s okay, Dad,’ I say ‘I’ll handle this.’
I look down at Mr Bainbridge.
‘You can’t fire my dad!’ I say.
‘And why not?’ says Mr Bainbridge.
‘Because this isn’t really happening,’ I say.
‘Not happening?’ says Mr Bainbridge. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s a hallucination,’ I say. ‘You’ve been working very hard lately. We’re just products of your confused mind. You should get back in the car, go home and have a good long lie-down . . .’
‘That’ll do, Andy,’ says Dad.
‘Don’t listen to him, Mr Bainbridge,’ I yell. ‘He’s a hallucination. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’
‘No, Andy,’ says Dad, ‘no more lies.’
Dad bends down and lowers me to the ground. He stands up straight, and faces Mr Bainbridge.
‘Mr Bainbridge,’ he says, ‘I don’t mind at all that you’ve fired me, because you’ve just saved me the trouble of quitting.’
Mr Bainbridge gasps in shock. So do I. And so does Mrs Bainbridge, who is peeking out from behind Mr Bainbridge.
‘You see,’ says Dad, ‘I realised something about myself this morning. I realised that I’ve been living a half-life. A safe life. A boring life. A life of too much responsibility and not enough fun. Not enough danger.’
What is Dad on about? Obviously the stress of being locked out of his house without any clothes on has driven him over the edge.
‘Dad,’ I say, ‘do you know what you’re saying? Are you crazy?’
‘Yes,’ says Dad, putting his arm around my shoulders. ‘I’m crazy all right. Crazy for life! I want to take more chances, climb more mountains, swim more rivers and watch more sun-sets. Life’s too short to waste, Andy. You, me, Mum and Jen — we’re going to escape this rat-race. We’re going to leave the city. We’re going to live off the land — in the wild — in the raw.’
‘We are?!’ I say.
‘Yes,’ says Dad, sweeping his arm through the air. ‘We don’t need all . . . this! Come on, son, let’s get out of here.’
‘But, Dad,’ I say, ‘what about the overalls?’
Dad kneels down and picks up a fresh handful of mud and starts slapping it all over himself.
‘Overalls?’ he says. ‘Who needs overalls when we’ve got mud?’
‘But the key,’ I say. ‘We haven’t got the key.’
‘We don’t need a key,’ he says. ‘We’ll climb onto the roof and go down the chimney like we should have done in the first place! It’ll be a challenge. And, more importantly, it will be fun!’
He slaps a few more handfuls of mud carelessly across his body and marches off down the drive, not even looking back.
It’s stopped raining. The clouds have broken up and golden rays of light illuminate my dad, highlighting every muscle in his body. He looks stronger than I ever imagined he could.
Mr and Mrs Bainbridge are just staring, slack-jawed.
I give them a shrug and run after my dad.
Well, what else can I do?
I’m a little worried about how our new life is going to work exactly, and what Mum and Jen are going to think about it when they get back home, but speaking for myself, I think it sounds kind of fun.
Crazy, but fun.
WHAT PEOPLE SAID ABOUT JUST TRICKING!
‘Mad, fun and way out there!’
DISNEY ADVENTURES
‘Entertaining tales of pranks and mischief will have the kids giggling with delight’
THE AGE
‘Just Tricking! with its anarchic, irreverent style has few literary pretensions. It is a book to read for fun’
MAGPIES
WHAT PEOPLE SAID ABOUT JUST ANNOYING!
‘Over the top tales from a born story-teller’
MAGPIES
‘The stories are far-fetched and imaginative — every young trickster will love them’
AUSTRALIAN BOOKSELLER AND PUBLISHER
‘Original, funny and lots of fun’
SUNDAY MAIL (Brisbane)
‘This boy needs some discipline!’
SUN-HERALD (Sydney)
‘Children aren’t going to learn much of any benefit from this book — in fact, they may pick up a few tricks you wish they’d never learnt’
CAIRNS POST
WHAT PEOPLE SAID ABOUT JUST STUPID!
‘Another beauty’
COURIER MAIL
‘Exaggerated, over-the-top, lunatic humour’
VIEWPOINT
‘Short, sharp, witty stories’
PAGES & PAGES
‘Highly original, hilarious and hysterically stupid tales’
THE INDEPENDENT READER
‘Andy’s version of anarchy’
MAGPIES
WHAT PEOPLE SAID ABOUT STINKY STORIES
(illustrated by Jeff Raglus)
‘Four books which will rocket scratch-and-sniff into the new millenium’
THE GEELONG ADVERTISER
‘So revolting kids will clamour for them’
THE AGE
‘They fall into the horrible end of the good taste spectrum’
TWEED HEADS DAILY NEWS
‘Aromatherapy humour for kids’
THE SUNDAY AGE
JUST TRICKING!
By Andy Griffiths
Illustrated by Terry Denton
Is this the right book for you?
Take the TRICKING TEST and find out.
YES NO
Do you ever pretend that you are dead to get out of going to school?
Do you like to ring people you know and pretend to be someone else?
Do you leave banana skins in the middle of busy footpaths?
Do you own any of the following items: fake dog poo, rubber vomit, gorilla suit?
Do you wish that every day could be April Fools’ Day?
SCORE: One point for each �
��yes’ answer.
3-5 You are a practical joking genius.
You will love this book.
1-2 You are a good practical joker.
You will love this book.
0 You are not a practical joker You are what practical jokers call a ‘victim’.
You will love this book.
JUST ANNOYING!
By Andy Griffiths
Illustrated by Terry Denton
Is this the right book for you?
Take the ANNOYING TEST and find out.
YES NO
Do you ask ‘Are we there yet?’ over and over on long car trips?
Do you like to drive people mad by copying everything they say and do?
Do you hog the shower and use up all the hot water?
Do you enjoy asking silly questions that have no real answers?
Do you swing on the clothesline whenever you get the chance?
SCORE: One point for each ‘yes’ answer.
3-5 You are obviously a very annoying person.
You will love this book.
1-2 You are a fairly annoying person.
You will love this book.
0 You don’t realize how much fun being annoying can be. You will love this book.
JUST STUPID!
By Andy Griffiths
Illustrated by Terry Denton
Is this the right book for you?
Take the STUPID TEST and find out.
YES NO
Do you worry about getting sucked into the top of escalators?
Do you push doors marked PULL and pull doors marked PUSH?
Do you believe the bogeyman hides under your bed?
Do you automatically turn around when somebody calls ‘Hey, Stupid!’?
Do you think that being able to stuff your mouth full of marshmallows is a sign of superior intelligence?
SCORE: One point for each ‘yes’ answer.
Just Crazy Page 11