The 78-Storey Treehouse

by Andy Griffiths

  ‘I know I do,’ says Terry. ‘But Mel’s not a monkey—he’s a gibbon.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Mel comes over to me.

  ‘Look,’ he says in a low voice, ‘I understand you’re upset. If it’s any comfort, I don’t like it any more than you do. I was hoping to play Terry. But let’s try to be professional about it, okay?’

  ‘Professional?’ I say. ‘The only thing professional about you is that you’re a professional thief. You just stole my part in the movie.’

  ‘I didn’t steal your part, I was cast,’ says Mel.

  ‘Whatever!’ I say, stomping off the set. ‘If anybody wants the real me I’ll be in the scribbletorium.’

  But nobody takes any notice, of course. They’re all too busy making their dumb old movie.

  CHAPTER 4

  SCRIBBLE,

  SCRIBBLE,

  SCRIBBLE

  I don’t know about you, but I find scribbling really helps to take my mind off things. It’s much more fun than making a movie.

  And the best thing about scribbling is that it’s so simple! All you need is something to scribble with …

  and a scribbletorium …

  and then you just scribble!

  And scribble …

  and scribble …

  and scribble …

  and scribble …

  and scribble.

  And scribble!And scribble!And scribble!

  And scribble!And scribble!And scribble!

  And scribble!And scribble!And scribble!

  And scribble!And scribble!And scribble!

  And scribble!And scribble!And scribble!

  And scribble!And scribble!And scribble!

  Uh-oh …

  You know what I said about how scribbling is really simple?

  Well, I forgot to say that it can also be quite messy.

  Especially if you scribble so much that the scribbletorium explodes and scribble goes all over the treehouse.

  ‘CUT! CUT! CUT!’ yells Mr Big Shot.

  ‘WHO SCRIBBLED ALL OVER THE SET?’ ‘Not me,’ says Terry.

  ‘Not me,’ says Mel.

  ‘Not me,’ says Jill.

  ‘I’m sorry, everybody,’ I say. ‘It was an accident.’

  Mel snorts. ‘Sure it was,’ he says. ‘You did it on purpose.’

  ‘Go eat a banana, Monkey-boy!’ I shout at him.

  Mel bursts into tears and Terry and Jill rush to his side to comfort him.

  ‘Andy!’ says Jill. ‘You really need to calm down. I know you’re upset but being mean to a monkey—I mean, gibbon—well, that’s inexcusable.’

  ‘I’m sorry I was mean to the monkey,’ I say. ‘But I didn’t mean for the scribble to go everywhere. I just got carried away.’

  ‘I wish I could believe you, Andy,’ says Jill, ‘but I think you’re being a bad sport … and, worse, a bad friend. This is Terry’s big break—can’t you be happy for him?’

  ‘I am happy for him,’ I say, ‘and I’m trying to be a good friend, but he’s not being a good friend to me. He’s too busy being a big shot movie star. And then he’ll probably just go off to Hollywood and leave me here all alone.’

  ‘I don’t think Terry would do that,’ says Jill.

  ‘Do what?’ says Terry.

  ‘Go off to Hollywood and leave Andy here all by himself.’

  ‘Of course not!’ says Terry. ‘You could come with me, Andy. I’ll need somebody to carry my bags. You can be my butler!’

  ‘BUTLER?!’ I say.

  ‘Quiet on the set!’ says Mr Big Shot.

  ‘BUTLER?!’ I say again, only louder this time. I can’t believe he just suggested I could be his butler.

  ‘I said quiet and I mean it!’ shouts Mr Big Shot.

  ‘BUTLER?’ I say again, even louder than before.

  ‘I DON’T WANNA BE YOUR DUMB BUTLER!’

  ‘Right! That does it!’ says Mr Big Shot. ‘I’ve had enough of your plate-throwing, scribbling and shouting. You are banned from the set!’

  ‘The treehouse is not a “set”!’ I say. ‘It’s my home. And not even a big bossy boots like you can ban me from my own home.’

  ‘Oh, yes I can,’ says Mr Big Shot. ‘Watch this!’

  He picks me up and boots me out of the tree.

  CHAPTER 5

  DAY OF THE

  LIVING PUDDLE

  So here I am.

  Kicked out of my own home.

  Sitting in a puddle.

  Yes, that’s right. I landed in a puddle.

  And to make things worse, the puddle is getting bigger.

  And bigger.

  And bigger.

  And bigger!

  Uh-oh, this is no ordinary puddle. This is the sort of puddle that will just keep getting bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger until it empuddles the whole world …

  ABOVE: An artist’s impression of a puddle empuddling planet Earth.

  But never fear … as well as making books, Terry and I are the greatest puddle-fighting duo the world has ever known.

  We are every puddle’s worst nightmare. Terry stomps them and then I suck them up with a straw. The Stomper and The Sucker … (Come to think of it, our story would make a great movie!)

  But this is no time to be thinking about movies. This is real life. I have to send out the secret puddle-fighting call and get the old team back together!

  ‘Stomper!’ I yell.

  ‘Stomper!’

  ‘Stomper!’

  ‘It’s no use,’ says the puddle. ‘Nothing can stop me from empuddling your treehouse!’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ I say, removing my T-shirt to reveal my secret puddle-fighting identity. ‘You just picked a fight with the wrong guy. I’m The Sucker!’

  ‘You’re a sucker all right,’ sneers the puddle.

  ‘A sucker for punishment!’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘not that sort of sucker.’

  I pull a super-sized drinking straw from the quiver on my back and wave it menacingly at the puddle.

  ‘You’ll never drink me alive!’ says the puddle.

  ‘That’s what you think!’ I say.

  I put the straw up to my mouth and bend down.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ says the puddle.

  It rises up like an enormous wave and crashes down on top of me.

  Over and over I tumble. Only my straw keeps me afloat …

  The puddle gets me in a headlock,

  but then I get the puddle in a headlock.

  ‘I’ve got you now!’ I say. I stick the straw into the puddle and start sucking …

  and sucking …

  and sucking …

  and sucking …

  and sucking …

  and sucking …

  and sucking …

  and sucking.

  And the puddle starts to shrink …

  and shrink …

  and shrink …

  and shrink.

  And I keep sucking …

  and sucking …

  and sucking …

  and sucking …

  until, at last, the puddle is nothing but sludgy brown sludge.

  If only Mr Big Shot had been filming that! It would make a much better movie than all of Terry’s fake re-enactments put together.

  Hang on.

  Maybe he was filming it!

  Maybe Mr Big Shot arranged for this whole thing to happen so he could secretly record it.

  I look around but I can’t see anything except a few dumb-looking cows.

  Never mind.

  I can’t really think about all that right now because I’ve got a more urgent problem.

  Will you excuse me for a moment, readers?

  I may be some time, so do feel free to go on to the next chapter and I’ll join you there.

  CHAPTER 6

  TROUBLE IN ANDYLAND

  Ah, that’s better.

  Thanks for waiting.

 
; Now, where was I?

  Let me see … Ah, yes, I remember now.

  Mr Big Shot kicked me out of the treehouse … and I landed in a puddle … and we had a big fight … and I sucked it up … and then I had to go to the bathroom.

  But what now?

  Where can I go?

  I can’t hang out with Terry because he’s too busy being a big shot Hollywood movie star.

  And I can’t hang out with Jill because she’s too busy helping to wrangle the animals for the movie.

  Hang on, I know who I can hang out with … a bunch of the funniest, smartest and best-looking guys in the world. Yep, you guessed it—I’m off to …

  ANDYLAND! I’ll have lots of friends here because everybody is me! As the sign says, it’s The Andy-est Place on Earth.

  ‘Hi, Andy!’ I say to the Andy guarding the gate.

  ‘Who goes there?’ he says.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Andy!’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to need to see some identification,’ he says.

  ‘But you only have to look at me!’ I say. ‘I look exactly like you.’

  He shrugs. ‘I know,’ he says, ‘but we’re being extra careful. We had some cows try to sneak in disguised as Andys the other day.’

  ‘Cows?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah,’ says the guard, shaking his head. ‘Go figure. But don’t worry, we caught them, milked them and sent them on their way.’

  ‘Wow, I had no idea cows could be so sneaky,’ I say.

  ‘Yep,’ says the guard. ‘Which is why I’m going to need proof that you’re a true Andy and not an impostor.’

  ‘What sort of proof?’

  ‘Hmmm … let me see,’ he says, stroking his chin. ‘What’s 2 + 2?’

  Uh-oh. I can’t even count from 1 to 10 in the right order. I’ve got no hope of solving a sum as difficult as this!

  ‘Er, ah, um …’ I stutter. ‘Um, er, errr, errrrr, um, ummm, ah, umm, errr, um, ah, er, eep, ah … I don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t know either,’ the Andy guard says. ‘Congratulations, Andy, you passed the test! You may enter.’

  ‘Thanks, Andy!’ I say, stepping through the gate.

  ‘Hi, Andy!’ yell a bunch of Andys coming towards me.

  ‘Hi, Andys!’ I yell back. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You are!’ say the Andys, lifting me onto their shoulders and carrying me down the main street.

  I love coming to Andyland.

  More and more cheering Andys come out onto the street until there are so many Andys we can’t go any further.

  They are chanting my name.

  ‘AN-DY! AN-DY! AN-DY!’

  (Or are they just chanting their own names? It’s a bit hard to tell with Andys. They’re kind of excitable.)

  The chanting is getting louder and louder. It’s time for me to speak to them.

  The Andys lower me to the ground. Then they arrange themselves in a pyramid and help me to climb up.

  A cheer goes up from the crowd.

  ‘Quiet down, everyandy,’ I say.

  But they don’t quiet down. They’re getting louder. And louder. And louder.

  ‘Everyandy!’ I yell. ‘SHUT UP!’

  ‘No!’ they yell. ‘YOU shut up!’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘YOU shut up!’

  ‘No, YOU shut up!’ they say.

  ‘No, YOU shut up!’ I yell.

  ‘No, YOU shut up!’ they yell back.

  ‘No,’ I shout as loudly as I can. ‘YOU shut up infinity times more than whatever you say!’

  The Andys are silent. You’ve got to hand it to me: I sure know how to shut my selves up.

  ‘Thank you!’ I say. ‘And thanks for the parade. I love parades.’

  ‘WE KNOW!’ they yell in unison.

  ‘It is good to know that I can count on Andys like you to cheer me up.’

  ‘WE KNOW!’ they yell again.

  ‘You will be pleased to hear that I will be staying in Andyland until they finish filming the Treehouse movie.’

  The Andys gasp. ‘There’s going to be a movie?’ they say.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but—’

  ‘YAY!’ shouts the crowd. ‘A Treehouse movie! We’re going to be movie stars! We’re going to be famous!’

  ‘Hold on,’ I shout. ‘Before you get too excited, you should know one thing: we are not in it. We’ve been replaced by a monkey, and Terry is the star.’

  The Andys gasp again. ‘TERRY is the star?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, shrugging. ‘I’m as surprised as you are. He’s not even that funny.’

  ‘Yes, he is!’ say the Andys. ‘Terry is really funny! We love Terry!’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ I say.

  ‘YES, WE DO!’ shout the Andys. ‘TERRY is COOL!’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘he’s NOT!’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ say the Andys. ‘Infinity times more than whatever you say!’

  Darn. They’ve got me there but, hey, who can blame them? They learned from the master.

  ‘Okay, you win,’ I say. ‘But it doesn’t change the fact that we’re not in the movie.’

  ‘Who cares?!’ they shout. ‘Terry is our favourite anyway. Let’s go see the filming!’

  ‘Bad idea,’ I say. ‘We’ve been banned from the set.’

  But the Andys just ignore me. They’re too busy charging up Andy Street towards the main gate.

  ‘No,’ I yell. ‘Wait! Come back! You’re supposed to be on my side!’

  ‘We are,’ they say, surging past me. ‘But we like Terry better. Sorry!’

  The Andys swarm out of Andyland …

  up the ladder …

  and onto the observation deck where Mr Big Shot is filming a re-enactment of the time Terry got caught in a burp-gas-filled bubble-gum bubble.

  ‘Hey!’ yells Mr Big Shot. ‘No Andys on the set!’

  But the Andys ignore Mr Big Shot. They just keep climbing … and climbing … and climbing …

  Mel Gibbon is whacking golf balls at the Andys, trying to hold them back, but there are too many Andys … and not enough golf balls.

  The observation deck—overloaded with way too many Andys—is swaying dangerously.

  ‘Abandon set!’ yells Mr Big Shot. ‘ABANDON SET!’

  But it’s too late. There is an enormous crack … the observation deck crumbles and we all crash into the forest below.

  CHAPTER 7

  COWDUGGERY!

  All the Andys land in a big sprawling pile …

  but I land headfirst in a nearby prickle bush. The Andys are groaning and yelling and shouting as they try to untangle themselves. Some of them are angry.

  Some are laughing. And some are crying. Which is understandable. They’ve—I mean, we’ve—all had a pretty big fall.

  Mr Big Shot crawls out from under the pile of Andys and stands in front of them, his hands on his hips. ‘Which one of you clowns is the real Andy?’ he demands.

  ‘Me!’ they all shout. ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’

  ‘Let me put it another way then,’ growls Mr Big Shot, rolling up his sleeves. ‘Nobody destroys my set and gets away with it. So which one of you wants to die first?’

  ‘Not me!’ shout the Andys. ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’ ‘Not me!’