Nightmare at the Book Fair Page 9

  “What sound?” I asked. I didn’t hear anything.

  “It’s the car in the driveway!” Lucy said excitedly. “They’re coming home! They’re coming home! They’re coming home!” She was so jazzed, she was running around in circles.

  “What’s the big deal?” I asked her. “I thought you hated them.”

  “I do,” Lucy replied. “But when they come home, it’s dinnertime. There’s the chance that we can get some real food instead of this canned slop.”

  Lucy was so excited, she was jumping up and down trying to get a look at herself in the mirror.

  “How do I look?” she said, at the height of a jump. “Is my fur straight? I should groom myself. Oh, there’s no time for that. Maybe I’ll go hide for a while and make them think I ran away. That’ll freak ’em out. No, maybe I’ll rub up against them so they’ll think I’m being affectionate. Fools. They have no idea I’m marking them. No, no, I have a better idea. I’ll pretend I’m asleep. Yeah, play hard to get. That’s the way to go. I’ll act casual, as if I don’t care whether or not they ever come home—”

  Suddenly, the front door flew open and four humans burst in. Two parents and two kids.

  “Hey, humans!” I yelled. “It’s me! I’m a human too! My name is Trip Dinkleman!”

  “Stop wasting your breath,” Lucy said. “They don’t understand cat.”

  She was right. The humans walked right by us, turning on the lights, picking up the mail, putting down some bags in the kitchen, and hanging up their coats. None of them even petted me. It was as if they didn’t even hear me yelling at them.

  “Hey! I’m talking to you!” I shouted, but they just ignored me.

  Lucy must have decided not to play hard to get after all. She was rubbing herself against the mother of the family, who was telling the kids to wash their hands for dinner.

  “Just shut up and stroke my forehead, you moronic two-legged, eyelashed freak,” Lucy said, purring.

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” I told her.

  But it did. It was the father who reached down and rubbed Lucy.

  “Ugh, he’s touching my belly!” she yelled. “I hate that! Get your paws off me, you clothes-wearing, furless skinhead! Now I’ll have to groom myself for an hour to get rid of the disgusting man smell.”

  “Speaking of smells,” I said. “I smell food.”

  “You’re right!” said Lucy. “They got takeout! Oh, I hope it’s Chinese! I hope it’s Chinese! Yes! It’s shrimp! Oh baby!”

  “You think they have any funnel cake?” I asked.

  “Funnel cake? What is your problem?”

  The humans gathered in the kitchen and started putting plates on the table.

  “Maybe I’ll sit on one of the kitchen chairs and see if anyone notices that I’m not human,” Lucy said.

  “Good plan,” I told her, just before the mother swatted her off the chair.

  “Oh, come on! Don’t make me beg!” Lucy said. “How come you get to eat real food while I get congealed glop in a can? It isn’t even hot. What’s up with that? Wait till you see what we serve you once we take over.”

  I never did find out if she ever got a piece of shrimp. As soon as they all sat down at the table, I felt that sudden and overwhelming need to sleep. I curled myself up into a ball. My eyelids got heavy. I felt myself drifting off into dreamland.

  I was at peace.

  Chapter 10

  Fantasy

  The Quest for the Gold-Plated Knick-Knack

  I was at peace. When I awoke from my deep and long-overdue slumber, darkness seeped from every opening on that cold fretful afternoon as ice formed on the dell like the sound of invisible feet bathing delicately in the shaded depths and ancient whispers of twilight’s soft darkness. The cloudless sky howled indistinctly while creatures of the evening writhed and roiled to the onset of autumn’s further glory, until, finally, silence reigned once more.

  But it doesn’t matter, because none of that crap makes any sense.

  When I forced open my eyes, I realized right away that I was no longer a cat. What a relief!

  An old man loomed over me. His wrinkled, weathered face betrayed years of neglecting to use sunscreen.

  “Who are you?” I asked, rubbing away the last vestiges of sleep. “What am I doing here?”

  “I am Hockaloogie,” he replied, “a wise and mystical sage who occasionally speaks in old English and refuses to give away plot details for his own mysterious reasons.”

  “Why not?”

  “If I told you,” he replied mysteriously, “they would no longer be mysterious. My mission, simply stated, is to show up at random points and dispense information.”

  “So what information do you have to dispense at this present moment in time?” I queried.

  “That I cannot divulge,” he answered with a wink.

  “Why not?”

  “It is far too early to dispense information,” he declared. “Perhaps in the sequel. However, I will pose you a riddle to demonstrate my wisdom. Which creature, pray tell, walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening?”

  “A human,” I replied immediately. “We crawl on all fours as babies, we walk on two legs in adulthood, and we use a cane in old age.”

  “Oh,” spoke the wise sage who called himself Hockaloogie. “I guess you heard that one already.”

  “Look, I don’t have time for riddles,” I told him. “My name is Trip Dinkleman. I’ve been through a lot and I want to go home so I can try out for the lacrosse team. What am I doing here? I need answers.”

  “Calm yourself, young squire of Dinkle,” he grunted, as he helped me to my feet. “First, let us share a glass of mead.”

  “It’s Dinkleman,” I corrected him. “I’m starved. Do you have any funnel cake?”

  Hockaloogie lived in a dank cave which, for some reason, had a refrigerator in it. Unfortunately, all he had in there was a jug of mead, so I accepted a glass of it. I raised it to my lips. I drank.

  Ugh. Vomitous! It tasted like a combination of Red Bull and V8. There was alcohol in there too. I spit the vile stuff out.

  “I make only one request of you, my young Dinkle,” Hockaloogie commented after downing a mug of mead. “Do not ask about my mysterious past.”

  “What about your mysterious past?” I asked.

  “I told you not to ask that,” he replied.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, slapping the dust from my pants. “I know your big secret! You’re really my father, right? They did that in Star Wars.”

  “Of course not, silly Dinkle,” he snickered. “Time will tell all. You have been chosen by the Great One to embark on a quest. You will spend an inordinate amount of time journeying from place to place. To and fro. Hither and yon.”

  “Y’know, I bet we can do that whole quest thing online,” I pointed out to him. “I’ve heard you can even set up a teleconference through Kinko’s.”

  “The mysterious Land of Kinko’s of which you speak will not exist for many centuries,” Hockaloogie told me. “We are now in the Dark Ages of Analog. There are no shortcuts. You must journey on foot, by boat, on the backs of beasts of burden.”

  “I’d really like to,” I told him, “but I have some homework to finish.”

  “The fate of the kingdom is at stake!” he exploded, backing me against a tree. “Only you have the power to block the forces of darkness from destroying humanity! Only you can prevent the horrible truth that awaits once the powers of good and evil descend to earth in a battle over mankind. Only you can fight not only for your own life, but the lives of all creatures!”

  “Okay! Okay!” I said. “I suppose I could make up my homework next week.”

  “Your mission, Dinkle,” he proclaimed, almost in a whisper, “is to find the…Magical Gold-Plated Knick-Knack.”

  As soon as the words left his lips, the sound of singing angels came out of an unseen speaker.

  “And what’s so magical about th
is Gold-Plated Knick-Knack?” I asked.

  The eerie singing of angels played again. It was like surround sound.

  “The Gold-Plated Knick-Knack possesses the power to cure ills, defeat demons, and get rid of hard-to-remove stains,” he informed me. “It is in the possession of Mingus Coltrane, the Evil Over-lord of Invisalign.”

  Right after he said that name, I heard creepy music playing on a pipe organ.

  “Do you know where this Mingus Coltrane guy is?” I asked.

  “I do,” he replied.

  It seemed like a no-brainer to me.

  “Instead of sending me off on a wild-goose chase, why don’t you just tell me where this Coltrane guy is so I can get the Magical Gold-Plated Knick-Knack from him?” I suggested. “That would save us all a lot of time.”

  “I cannot,” he replied. “You must embark on your quest.”

  With that, Hockaloogie vanished.

  To be honest with you, I was glad to be rid of him. That guy was annoying. I’d rather walk a hundred miles than listen to the old coot blab.

  So I set out on the road. On my journey. My quest.

  Why me? I thought to myself. Why was I chosen by the Great One, whoever that is? Why? Why? Why? I said why a few more times, just in case there was somebody out there who hadn’t heard. Then I realized that I was thinking to myself and nobody could hear me anyway.

  As luck would have it, I had not ventured more than a few short steps when I bumped into the first of many improbable creatures I would encounter. He was a short odd-looking being, dressed in all green. His shirt was green. His socks were green. Even his shoes were green. I introduced myself to the funny-looking man, thinking how easy it must be for him to pick out his clothes in the morning.

  “My name is Kooky Sidekick,” he divulged.

  “Are you…human?” I asked, not wanting to insult the little fellow.

  “I am half-elf and half-dwarf,” he replied. “I’m a dwelf. Can I join you on your quest?”

  “How did you know I was on a quest?” I asked.

  “Everybody is on a quest,” the dwelf responded mysteriously. Then he pulled out a lute and merrily began to play the only tune he knew, “Stairway to Heaven.”

  Together, Kooky the dwelf and I set out on our journey. We journeyed to the Gates of Bill, through the Woods of Tiger, cross the Rivers of Joan and into the Forest of Whitaker. Very quickly I grew weary of hearing “Stairway to Heaven” and heaved Kooky’s lute off a cliff.

  Although his musical ability was lacking, he was a superb navigator who need not consult a map or compass and relied solely on his instincts and a GPS navigation device.

  Along the way, we encountered various orcs, druids, halflings, and other extremely short non-threatening creatures. Kooky the dwelf led me to a shortcut through ancient dwarven mines, and at long last we approached a large body of water with a sign in front of it saying “Veronica Lake.”

  “There is someone here who can help us,” Kooky remarked. “Gazeth upon the horizon and tell me what you see.”

  “Looks like a homeless guy,” I said.

  “On the contrary,” Kooky mumbled with a chuckle. “The world is his home.”

  Kooky the dwelf informed me that the man sleeping in a large cardboard box under a highway overpass was in fact the legendary warrior Sir William of Sonoma. We approached him cautiously, not wanting to startle the man.

  “We request your assistance to defeat Mingus Coltrane and find the Magical Gold-Plated Knick-Knack,” Kooky begged, “so we might save humanity in a race against time to stop the destruction of all that is alive and real.”

  “You guys got any mead?” asked Sir William of Sonoma.

  My dwelf friend somehow produced a flask of mead, which seemed to placate Sir William. He got up unsteadily, as if he had already partaken of one too many flasks of mead.

  “My time has come and gone,” Sir William told us. “I was once on a quest to defeat Mingus Coltrane. He vanquished me. And now I am lost, without home, without food, and without health insurance. The same undoubtedly will happen to you.”

  He was a sad man. Kooky said we must take our leave.

  “If you insist on persisting,” Sir William told us, “please accept this gift. It is no good to me now.”

  He went into his cave and emerged with a large sword, which he called Mr. Man. He placed it in my hand.

  “Cool!” I gushed. “Does it have a built-in phone or camera or MP3 player?”

  “No!” he thundered.

  “Maybe it shoots laser beams or gives off a magnetic force field?” I asked.

  “No!” he thundered.

  Bummer. When James Bond goes to meet with Q, he always gets outfitted with cool gadgets. But this sword looked lame.

  “All citizens of the kingdom know the power of Mr. Man,” maintained Kooky. “When it is thrown, it returns to the thrower.”

  “Well, that’s pretty cool anyway,” I agreed.

  “I must warn you,” Sir William of Sonoma whispered, “you must never use Mr. Man, ever.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “It brings only death and destruction,” he replied.

  Well, what else would you expect it to bring? It’s a sword.

  Kooky saw the look on my face and wordlessly implored me not to hurt the feelings of Sir William.

  That guy was a loser. And now I had to shlep his useless sword around with me.

  Kooky and I took our leave of Sir William of Sonoma and continued on our quest. Day after day. Night after night. Page after page. Nothing much happened. We traversed the Land of Backward Spelling and the Land of Misspelling and the Land of Tori Spelling. Finally, I could go on no longer. I sat down on a rock to rest my weary bones.

  “I miss my family,” I said absentmindedly. “I want to go home.”

  “Your family was killed long ago,” brayed a voice.

  “What? Who said that?”

  I turned around to see a woman dressed in colorful silk sitting at a table. On the table was a glass ball about the size of a bowling ball.

  “It is I,” she declared, “Velveeta.”

  “She is a fortune-teller,” submitted Kooky the dwelf. “A soothsayer, a predictor of the future, a knower of all things.”

  “I know what a fortune-teller is!” I told him. “They’re all a bunch of phonies.”

  “If you distrust me,” Velveeta replied, sniffing, “I beg you to ask a question whose answer one could not possibly know.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Who sang ‘Sexyback’?”

  She gazed into the crystal ball for a moment.

  “Timber Justinlake,” she replied.

  Wow! Not bad! The thing really worked, sort of.

  Velveeta put a glove on her right hand and gazed into the crystal ball once again.

  “You were a farmhand in Uzbekistan,” she proclaimed. “Your family will be killed in a bungee accident, and you were taken in by a kindly shepherd in the Ukraine.”

  Clearly, she had mistaken me for someone else, because I grew up on Long Island. But I didn’t want to insult the kind woman. After all, she did almost get the Justin Timberlake question right.

  “Tell me,” I asked Velveeta. “We have been on this quest for many days, and nothing seems to happen.”

  “Thou may wisheth to skip ahead numerous pages in one’s own quest to reach the Point Where Something Happens. That is where you must go.”

  “Of course!” Kooky the dwelf thundered. “The Point Where Something Happens! I should have thought of that from the beginning.”

  “Do you see anything else in there?” I asked Velveeta. She put on a pair of shoes with the number eight on the back of them and gazed into the ball.

  “You will meet a princess.”

  “All right!” I exclaimed. “Is she hot?”

  “I must warn you,” Velveeta continued. “Something awful will happen.”

  “Tell me more about the princess,” I begged.

  “She…has hair…and�
�eyes,” Velveeta testified, struggling to read the ball. “A bad man will try to kill you. But you will fight back. Someone will die….”

  “That’s pretty vague,” I told her. “Can you give me any specifics? Names? Dates? Who dies? Will it be me? Will I find the Magical Gold-Plated Knick-Knack?”

  “The ball is cloudy,” she sighed. “It is over.”

  “You probably need new batteries,” I told her. “Is there a RadioShack around here?”

  “Ignore my advice at your own peril,” Velveeta told me.

  “What advice?” I said. “You didn’t tell me anything.”

  “I must go,” she grumbled, putting the crystal ball into a large zippered bag. “I’m late for my bowling league.”

  I didn’t believe a word of what she told me. Well, maybe that part about Justin Timberlake. But other than that, she seemed like a phony. Besides, why should I take career advice from somebody who grew up to be a fortune-teller?

  Kooky the dwelf and I continued our journey through the Straits of Dire, the Isles of Langerhans, and Sea of Botox. Then, just as we entered the Tombs of Hibachi, I detected the muffled sounds of a person gagging.

  It was a blond-haired girl in a lavender cloak. She could not speak, but she was clutching her throat.

  “She is truly hot, sir!” Kooky opined.

  She was, indeed, seriously hot. She was also, seriously, about to die. I grasped her from behind and pulled my fists against her midsection, as I had once seen in a poster on the wall of a restaurant. The object that had been lodged in her throat, possibly a jawbreaker, flew out of her mouth.

  “You saved my life!” she yelped, turning around to embrace me.

  When she turned around, I was startled to discover that I recognized this girl. It was Carrie, the girl who had saved my life in the haunted house and when I was pushed out of the plane! She was back!

  “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” I asked.

  “I bet you say that to all the damsels in distress whose lives you save,” she teased.