Dumb Clucks (2 page)

Seven o'clock at night is homework hour in Rotten House, our dorm. So I knew where to find all my friends: downstairs in the Commons Room—our living room—watching TV.

We don't do our homework at night. We do it in the five minutes before class starts in the morning. That way, it's still fresh in our minds.

That leaves more time for important things like watching TV, playing video games, and snapping your fingers in your friends' faces to make them flinch.

You probably do your homework at home. But we don't go home, because Rotten School is a boarding school. That means we live here.

I'm Bernie Bridges. I bet you know me because I'm in the Fourth Grader Hall of Fame.

I know. I know. There
is
no Fourth Grader Hall of Fame.

But if there was, I'd be in it.

I don't like to brag, but I'm the dude who knows how to get the
most
out of fourth grade.

The most
money
, that is.

Tonight I was planning a special sale of awesome T-shirts. I piled the shirts up on a cart and wheeled them into the Commons Room.

I knew my buddies would be fighting over them,
begging
me to let them each buy four or five shirts.

“All right. Line up, dudes!” I shouted. I wheeled my cart in front of the TV.

All my Rotten House pals were there. Feenman, Crench, Belzer, Chipmunk, Beast, Nosebleed…

I rubbed my hands together. I was already counting my money.

“Listen up, guys,” I said. “Did you know it's a
holiday? It's Lucky T-Shirt Day. And every shirt I have on this cart is a lucky shirt!”

“Bernie, you're blocking the TV,” Crench said.

“You can't watch TV while I'm having this special sale,” I said. “Half off every T-shirt! Get up, dudes. Check 'em out!”

“Bernie, you're blocking the TV,” Feenman said.

“Guys, you don't understand,” I said. “I've got your favorites here. Look!
Tweenage Mutant Ninja Tadpoles
shirts. Only five dollars!”

I grabbed Crench by the shoulders and tried to hoist him out of his chair. But he plopped right back down. “Bernie, I can't see the TV.”

“Up. Up! Everyone up!” I shouted, clapping my hands. “I've got the Tadpoles, dudes! I know you're totally into
Tweenage Mutant Ninja Tadpoles
.”

They stared at the screen.

My friend Beast opened his mouth wide and let out a deafening burp. It lasted about two minutes. Big chunks of food flew from his mouth and sprayed the room.

Normally, a burp that good would make my pals laugh for
hours
.

Tonight they stared at the TV screen. No one even blinked.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “You drive a hard bargain. You can have the shirts for
four-fifty
each!”

I held up a T-shirt. “Look, dudes. You can wear your favorite Tadpole. Hey—who wants Herman? I've got Herman shirts. Who wants Murray? Sidney? Melvin? Melvin is your
hero
—right, Feenman?”

Feenman stared at the TV.

“Here's a winner,” I said, pulling a shirt from the bottom of the pile. “This shirt has all
twenty-four
Tadpoles on it! Even Myron, the Shy Tadpole. Check it out!”

Silence.

Then…more silence.

Finally my friend Nosebleed spoke up. “Mernie, me're not mmmminto mmmmadpoles,” he said.

“Huh? Nosebleed, what
language
are you speaking?” I asked.

“Mmmm I'm mmmeaking English,” he said. “I mmmave ummmph tissues stuffed in mmmmy nose. I mmmmhave a nosebleed.”

Poor guy. Everything gives him a nosebleed. Tying
his
shoes
gives him a nosebleed! When the sun sets, it gives him a nosebleed!

“Bernie, Nosebleed was trying to tell you something,” Feenman said. “We're not into the Tadpoles anymore. Too babyish! We're into a
new
show.”

“Hel-lo?” I cried. “A
new
show? You, TRAITORS! I've got
three dozen
shirts with these slimy Tadpoles on them!”

Feenman shrugged. “Babyish.”

“Okay, tell me,” I said through gritted teeth. “What show are you traitors watching now?”

“We'll give you a hint,” Crench said.

And they all chimed in at once, singing…

 

BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK

BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK

BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK.

BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK

BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK

BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK.

I waited for them to stop BLUCKing. It took a long time.

Nosebleed blucked so hard, he got another nosebleed.

Finally they fell back on their chairs, gasping for breath.

“The name of the new show is
Bluck
?” I asked.

Everyone groaned.

“No way,” Feenman said. “Bernie, everyone is watching
Stupid Chicken
.”

“He's totally awesome,” Crench said. “He has Drumsticks of Doom!”

“And Buffalo Wings of Steel,” Belzer added.

I turned to Chipmunk. He's the shyest kid in school. He had a blindfold pulled down over his eyes. Chipmunk only
listens
to TV. He's too shy to watch it.

“Chipmunk,
you're
loyal to the Tadpoles—aren't you?” I asked.

Chipmunk cleared his throat for about ten minutes. It's one of his most disturbing habits. “The Tadpoles are kinda violent,” he whispered. He started to tremble.

“Bernie, don't you watch
Stupid Chicken
?” Belzer asked. “It's the most popular cartoon on Chickelodeon.”

“It comes on every night after
Teriyaki Chicken
,” Feenman said. “You know. The Karate Klucker?”

“Huh?” I stared at the TV screen. There was Stupid Chicken. A fat, yellow chicken in a blue and red cape. He flew across the sky, blucking his head off.

“I don't believe you dudes are sitting here watching
a flying chicken,” I said. “How
could
you abandon the Tadpoles?”

The chicken flew into some kind of house made of ice. “Who lives there?” I asked. “Frozen Chicken?”

The guys usually love my jokes. But nobody even smiled.

“That's the Henhouse of Solitude,” Crench said. “That's where Stupid Chicken goes to think things over.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, perfect. A birdbrain that
thinks
!”

I stared at the screen. “What's that dumb-looking featherball rolling behind Stupid Chicken?” I asked. “Something he coughed up after breakfast?”

Beast jumped to his feet and shook a fist at me.

His fist was bigger than my head! “Are you making fun of America's National Chicken?” he boomed.

“Of course not,” I said. I took several steps back. Beast can
be dangerous. Especially if he hasn't had his rabies shots.

“That featherball is Little Cluck-Cluck,” Feenman said. “He's always getting into trouble. He's so funny.”

I stared at my worthless pile of T-shirts. “Ha-ha,” I said bitterly.

What was I gonna do with these shirts?

Maybe I could take a marker and draw feathers on the Tadpoles. I'd tell the guys it's what Stupid Chicken looked like when he was a baby.

No. No way they'd believe it.

“Crench, tell me,” I said. “How can a chicken be a superhero?”

“Are you kidding?” Crench said. “First he pecks your knees to bring you down. Then he kicks gravel on you.”

“Exciting,” I muttered.

I slapped the pile of T-shirts. I
had
to sell them to
somebody
!

Suddenly I had an idea.

The first graders LOVE the Tadpoles. And they're gonna LOVE these shirts!

I pushed my cart out of the dorm and raised my binoculars to my eyes. “First graders! Where are you? Where
are
you?”

I spotted a whole bunch of the little dudes on R.U. Dumm Field. That's our soccer field.

It must have been their evening gym class. But I couldn't tell what kind of game they were playing. They were running around in crazy circles, flapping their arms.

Coach Manley Bunz was blowing his whistle so hard, he was as red as a tomato. His eyes bulged at least an
inch
out of his head.

I wheeled my T-shirt cart onto the grass. “Coach Bunz—what's wrong?” I shouted.

“GULLLLP!” Coach made a strange sound. Then he started dancing around with his tongue flapping, going, “Unnh unnnh unnh.”

“Coach? Coach, did I startle you?” I asked.

I finally guessed the problem. He had swallowed his whistle.

I slapped him on the back till the whistle came flying out, along with his breakfast. He wiped the whistle off with a handkerchief and started blowing it again.

The first graders were still running around in crazy circles, flapping their arms, and…CLUCKING?

“Coach Bunz, what's up with this?” I asked. “What game are they playing?”

“It…it's supposed to be soccer,” he bellowed. “But they're all pretending to be
chickens
!”

“No way,” I muttered. I ran over to two little dudes who were having an argument.

“He says it like this,” the first kid said. “Cluck-luck-luck. Cluck-luck-luck.”

“You're joking!” the other kid shouted. “He goes Cluck-
bluck
-luck. Cluck-
bluck
-luck.”

“You're a jerk! He does not!”

A third kid—a big, beefy, redheaded bruiser—pushed the other two kids aside. “You're both stupid,” he growled. “Little Cluck-Cluck goes Cluck-bluck-gluck-luck-pluck-luck-gluck.
Everyone
knows that! It's Cluck-bluck-gluck-luck-pluck-luck-gluck.”

They all began blucking and glucking their heads off. But I wasn't listening.

I stared goggle-eyed at their T-shirts.

Yes. You guessed it. They were
all
wearing white shirts with a fat, yellow blob on the front.

And that fat, yellow blob was…Little Cluck-Cluck!

“Dudes! Dudes!” I shouted. I waved my hands over my head to get them quiet. “Dudes—you all know me, right? You all know I'm in the Fourth Grader Hall of Fame—right?”

“Cluck cluck,” the big redheaded dude sneered.

“Listen to me, guys!” I shouted. “You all know me. I'm the guy who sells you tickets to the sunset every night. I wouldn't lie to you—would I?”

“Cluck cluck,” the kid repeated. What a joker.

“
The Tweenage Mutant Ninja Tadpoles
are much more awesome than Stupid Chicken!” I shouted. “Little Cluck-Cluck is a dumb cluck! The Tadpoles rule!”

“Peck him!” the redheaded kid growled. “He can't say that about the Courageous Caped Cluck-Cluck!”

“Peck him! Peck him!”

Other kids took up the shout.

They all rushed forward, clucking and blucking and glucking. “Peck him! Peck him!”

I couldn't back away. I was trapped inside a circle of clucking, flapping first graders.

“Dudes, check out these shirts! Here's Herbie, the Sneezy Tadpole! You love him—right? How about Norman, the Hungry Tadpole. Isn't it funny how he's always hungry? Who wants to buy—”

They pushed the cart over. Then they dove at me.

 

“OW! OW! OW!”

 

That was me, yelling in pain.

They pecked my arms and legs. They pecked my chest and my back. They pecked the top of my head!

I went down on the ground. They turned their backs and started to do a chicken strut, kicking dirt and grass on me.

“Help! Coach Bunz! Help me!” I cried.

He was blowing his whistle too loud to hear me.

Was this the end of Bernie B.
?