The Great Brain (5 page)

Who Wants to Be a Horror Millionaire
started at 7.30 p.m., so Kim and Mick began their preparations at 6.30. One very important aspect of the prep was sidelining their old man. He definitely had to be out of the way when the deal went down, or there'd be chaos and disaster.

See, Mr Living-Dead was one of nature's gentlemen and a true sportsman. He valued competition for competition's sake,
regardless of who won, and believed it was
how
you played the game that decided the essential integrity and quality of your character.

It was enough to make you yack.

Problem was, his kids were about to embark on a strategy that involved the one thing he despised above all else. Mr Living-Dead hated cheats and cheating and cheatery and cheaters, refused to eat Cheetos just because of their name and always barracked for the gazelle against the cheetah in animal documentaries. He was so down on cheats he was
up
.

And he wasn't about to sit around and watch his kids cheat to win a bet, no matter how important the outcome. So they had to make sure he wasn't sitting around at all …

Mr Living-Dead had his feet up, watching the box in the dying room, rubbing his forehead distractedly and trying to relax. There wasn't much chance of that. The news bulletin on the TV brought universally rotten news of the deadly meteor – now
thousands of kilometres closer than before – and the Horror space station's laughably unsuccessful efforts to avert its fiery path of destruction.

To add to the relentlessly shabby outlook for humanity's future, there'd been a massive plunge in the Horror Share-market. It was the third bit of bad luck, and calamities come in threes (just like I told you). Plus Mr Living-Dead himself had suffered a crap day at work; his boss was a total nimrod and his rubbish car had broken down
again
on the way home.

Kim approached her father and, as he looked up into her face, she smiled and handed him an egg carton. He took it silently, but the unasked question played quizzically across his face. By the feel of it he instantly knew the carton was full and by the smell of it instantly knew it was full of eggs that could've honestly described themselves as fresh and wholesome about eighteen months ago.

But definitely not now.

Kim handed him a grainy printout of a digital photo. The photo was of an obviously distressed vampire tied to a telegraph pole. The vampire's face was familiar. He was dressed like a used car salesman, and the backdrop of the photo looked like Horror Discount Motor Mart.

‘Isn't that … ?' Mr Living-Dead started to say.

‘Yes,' confirmed Kim. ‘And this photo was taken five minutes ago. We've just tied him up and he's all yours, Dad. Happy Father's Day.'

‘But Father's Day isn't until next week,' said Mr Living-Dead.

‘I know. But we found out through the salesman's kids at school that they're going on a fortnight's vacation tomorrow. Probably funded by the money you gave them for that junk-yard car.'

‘Thanks, kids,' growled Mr Living-Dead as he hauled himself out of the sofa. ‘Thanks heaps.' And with that, nature's finest gentleman departed to take his
stinky revenge on the dodgy used car salesman vampire.

Stage one satisfactorily completed.

That left Mick and Kim a free hand to complete their nefarious business. They headed up the stairs to Mick's room to hook up the mega-knowledgeable contents of the esky to Mick's mega-festy ears via the jump-start leads.

When they'd climbed the stairs, they noticed the bedroom door open and a slurping noise coming from inside. They pushed through the door and stared. Scattered wall to wall were weird strands of pink confetti, grey tube pasta and skanky sausage meat. They were just in time to see their pet dog, Biter, ripping and tearing into the last lumpy scraps of Albert Einstein's brain.

Disaster!

They were doomed. Mick sank to his knees, head in his hands. He felt like crying. Now they'd never be rid of Mr Noel.

But Kim's head was racing, scrambling over some obscure fact they'd read on the
Albert Einstein webpage. ‘Mick. Get up. I've got an idea.'

‘What?' Mick whimpered. ‘Run away? Join the circus? Get nightshift work in a wig factory?'

‘No! Think,' she said. ‘I just remembered something from the Einstein website – humans only use 10 per cent of their brains.' She held up a portion of the grisly remains of the lump they'd wrestled out of Biter's mouth. ‘Well, here's 10 per cent. Let's plug this in and see if it works. It's our only chance. We've got nothing to lose.'

Mick jumped to his feet. ‘Good idea. Let's try it.'

It
was
a good idea, and I'm an authority on these things, because I've had billions. Ten billion and three at last count, actually.

Don't be telling
me
about good ideas.

They attached the jumper leads to the lumpy remnant and then to Mick's head. ‘Ask me a question,' said Mick. ‘Make it difficult.'

‘All questions are difficult for you, Mick,' Kim replied archly. ‘What's the square root of seventy-seven?'

‘Ludwig van Beethoven?' answered Mick. ‘The Beatles? Puff Daddy? Abba? Snoop Dogg?'

‘What?' said Kim. ‘What kind of answer is that?'

‘I dunno,' replied Mick. ‘That's what came into my head. Ask me another.'

‘Okay. What's the capital of Latvia?'

‘Nick Cave,' replied Mick, ‘Dr Dre and Kylie Minogue. Rolf Harris.'

‘No, no, no,' said Kim. ‘This isn't working at all. We must have the wrong bit of brain. This must be the section concerned with musical accomplishments – and Rolf Harris. Quick, we've gotta find the bit that's smart, not musical.'

Mick grabbed a handful of the chewed, grey mush covered in dog gozz and pressed it into a queasy ball. ‘Here, try this bit. Quick!'

They plugged it in and Kim asked, ‘How many colours in a rainbow?'

‘Seven,' Mick answered. ‘Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.'

Kim looked at Mick. ‘Does that sound right? Did you know that one already?'

Mick shrugged.

‘What am I saying? You don't know
anything
already,' Kim stated, checking her watch. ‘C'mon. We've got no choice. We're way late. We've got to risk it …'

Kim Living-Dead was as bright as her brother was dim – if that's possible. She knew Mr Noel would renege on the bet if the outcome was decided in a private venue, like her house. She knew what would happen if they beat him with no witnesses: Mr Noel would swear on his evil, pestilential black heart that it never happened, God honest, to save his reputation and his job. He would back out of the bet, welsh out
something scandalous, and – being a long-serving member of the teaching staff at Horror High – get away with it.

Unjust.

That wasn't going to happen. Kim was not only smart, she was well-connected too. I don't mean having friends in the Mafia, being fully mobbed-up or having savage criminal associates – it was stacks more hard-core than that. She knew people in
television
. And the people she knew in television made things happen. Kim flicked a few emails through to her ‘contacts' and, quick as a heart attack, she'd organised the final Living-Dead intelligence bet to be staged on TV, hosted by Freddie Quagmire as a
Who Wants to Be a Horror Millionaire
live spot.

Kim didn't have to do much convincing: the television wonks knew it would be a ratings winner. Fact is, with Mr Noel well known (and well hated) across Horror, it'd be a ratings
killer
.

Kim's dad never missed
Horror Millionaire
, but tonight he was out egging a
used-car salesman back to the Path of Righteousness. The coast was clear.

 

‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. I bid you welcome to a showdown between two intellectual titans, representing both ends of the spectrum. We're broadcasting to you tonight from Horror High, where the overly brained and underly charming maths teacher, Mr Cornelius Noel, will rumble head-to-head with the little-known and infinitesimally brained Mick Living-Dead.

‘Ladies and germs, I don't need to tell you what's at stake here. More than winning a million, which, let's face it folks, scarcely buys you a loaf of bread and a tank of petrol these days. No, tonight we've got something
real
at stake. Mick Living-Dead has ponied up $2,500, eked from a year's slavery to McHorrors, where he was casually burgered on a daily basis. And Mr Noel? Mr Noel has … ladies and gerbils, Mr Noel has … oh, I can hardly say it from excitement … Mr Noel has promised to resign!'

The crowd went mental!

A monster line-up at the back of the Horror High theatrette started stomping the floorboards, and a front-seat conga line of leprositic zombies juggled and danced, limbs, fingers and ears shaking loose all over the shop. The cheering, clapping and catcalling went on for a considerable time.

Freddie Quagmire gave a smarmy smile, running his fingers through his oily hair, biding his time. He paused dramatically. This man knew how to play a crowd. Timing was everything.

‘Yes, he'll quit,' he repeated, and grinned broadly, swallowing another long pause. ‘And we all know what
that
means …'

Pandemonium from the crowd.

‘So, without further ado, I give you the contestants in this epic struggle … the massively misinformed Mick Living-Dead!'

The crowd clapped and whistled crazily.

‘And misanthropic maths master, Mr Cornelius Noel!'

Complete silence. Crickets could be heard chirruping outside.

Freddie Quagmire wiped his brow. ‘Whew,' he goofed into the microphone, ‘tough crowd.'

 

‘Correct. Question nine: Who wrote
War and Peace
?'

Freddie grinned into the camera, looking like a grown-up version of Eddie Munster with a bad haircut and a crippling hot-dog habit.

The competition between Mick and Mr Noel was cranking up, and the score was nine all.

Yes! The lump of chewed-up brain was working.

Mr Noel was sweating. He didn't suspect a thing and was totally gob-smacked that the zombie kid could answer
anything
.

‘Tolstoy,' answered Mr Noel. ‘Tolstoy wrote
War and Peace
.'

‘I'm sorry,' said Freddie Quagmire, ‘but I need a full name.'

‘Nigel Tolstoy,' said Mr Noel with immense self-satisfaction at his uncompromising smartypantsness.

‘
Leo
Tolstoy,' corrected Mick, winking at Kim, who sat just out of the television camera angle.

‘Sorry,' replied Freddie Quagmire, bowing slightly to Mr Noel. ‘Mick's correct. It was Leo Tolstoy.'

The crowd howled for blood.

Then, right on cue, the final killer question …

Mr Know-All was in trouble, for the first time ever. Unless he answered the last question correctly and Mick got it wrong, he'd lose his job.

But, as we all know, Mick was
born
wrong.

Like most things in this type of demeaning, gutter-level literature, the above chapter heading is as misleading as the crapulent excuses I get from the publisher's paymaster when I ask them exactly
which
country my pay cheques have been sent to
this
week. The only truly unlucky thing about this chapter is the publisher's dodgy chapter numbering machine, which has obviously just jumped
from 10 to 13. What kind of operation are they running here?

Even Mick could count to 13.

Ignore the chapter title; forget number 13. That's another shoddy proverb we're going to burn to the ground before this gig is up. Everything turned out fine for Mick, though I'm still waiting for my cheque to return from some postal shack in an obscure one-horse town in Inner Mongolia.

I had planned to take this story out with a flourish, bring in some famous names – some A-list celebs – to pen the final chapter, lift it out of the mud and kick it into touch with a big finish. But when I started ringing around they all hung up on me, and nobody returned my calls when I left a message. Mustn't have realised who was calling.

It was well odd.

And now it was too late for the celebrity big finish – they missed their chance.

Freddie Quagmire was about to ask the last question on
Who Wants to Be a Horror Millionaire
. The last chance for Mick to get
shot of Mr Noel. The last opportunity for any kid at Horror High to be free of the pompous, puritanical, pugilistic professor. The last time I'm gonna mention ‘last' in this paragraph. Or maybe the second last – I haven't decided yet. See, repetition is widely acknowledged as a useful tool for building tension in quality literature, and even works in seedy books like this.

And you'll see it's worked. Tension? I'm as tense as a camel with a styrofoam hump, and I don't even care about the outcome of the Know-All/Living-Dead intelligence contest, so imagine how
they
felt.

‘Okay,' said the
Millionaire
host. ‘Last question. What was Einstein's Theory of Relativity?'

‘
E=mc
²
,' barked Mr Noel confidently.

‘The most annoying relatives stay the longest,' answered Mick.

Freddie Quagmire paused over the answer card, grinning, as the tension became unbearable. ‘I'm afraid Mr Noel's answer is
incorrect
. Einstein's Theory of
Relativity states that the most annoying relatives stay the longest. Thank you and goodnight!'

Yes! They'd won!

Mr Noel had a face like a bashed crab. He shook his head slowly and turned to face the jeering crowd, in total shock. He couldn't believe it. Slowly, as though in a dream-state, he turned to face Mick and mumbled, ‘You beat me. You win.'

The crowd went postal! Shouting, cheering, weeping, howling (at least from the werewolves).

Mr Noel stumbled off the stage and into the night.

 

Next morning Mrs Living-Dead turned the TV on to catch the morning news, and a special update flashed across the screen. The monstrous deadly meteor was still heading towards Horror at top speed, closer every second, and seemed certain to collide with their planet.

Everyone was freaking. The world's top scientists met to discuss a strategy. They
couldn't agree what to do and squabbled over small details, like who sat near the heater and who got to eat what colour Smarties. After much bickering and a girly, slappy ‘fistfight' between Professor Dannzig and Professor Doglily – long-time rivals – they finally decided to consult the smartest scientist and smartest brain of all time.

Albert Einstein's brain.

They'd agreed the best thing to do was travel to Horror to the Brains Wing of the Horror Museum and ask Albert Einstein's brain for an answer.

‘Uh oh,' said Mick, watching the news broadcast from the breakfast table.

‘Cripes,' added Kim.

The Living-Dead kids had left a substitute brain when they'd stolen Albert Einstein's real grey matter. Mick had decided against leaving a frozen brain pilfered from out of his Mum's deep freeze. He thought
that
was too easy.

No, Mick had to do something cool, the jackass. He should've left the cool stuff to
me. He had a great idea, or so he'd thought. It wasn't great at all. The only thing Mick could unearth as a substitute brain instead of the frozen one came from a dead rat he retrieved from the garbage bin across the street.

Mick had cracked open the rat's skull, pried its brain out with a fork and plugged his bike pump into the greasy grey mess. Then he pumped it up with air to the size of a human brain and tied it off with a rubber band.

Now Mick watched the TV report in silence as the scientists prepared to consult the brain, which was wired up with electrodes. The boss scientist – the one with the maddest frizzy haircut and thickest nerd glasses – spoke into a microphone, directly to the brain.

‘Mr Einstein, sir, we need your help. A meteor is heading straight for Horror and we need to know what to do. We're all going to die. Can you suggest a possible solution?'

The answer came back immediately. ‘Cheese,' the brain replied calmly.

‘Pardon?' asked the lab dude.

‘Cheese,' the brain repeated.

‘Cheese?' murmured the group of scientists.

‘Cheese,' the rat brain said again. ‘Cheese, cheese, cheese.'

‘Okay,' the head scientist said. ‘If you say so …'

 

That night the scientists fired an enormous ball of mondo sticky cheese at the rapidly approaching meteor. The humungous, yellow blob wobbled and spun through the atmosphere at the speed of sound, powered with rockets, guided with satellite technology and mildly flavoured with garlic and garden herbs.

The cheese hit the deadly meteor with an enormous splat, fully clogging its craters, goo-ing it up and slinging the meteor out of its orbit. Amazingly, it stuck to another passing planet like a snot ball sticking to a hanky, shooting off into a deep, dark pocket of space, never to be seen again.

And the Earth was saved, thanks to Albert Einstein's brain.

No, scratch that. The real Albert Einstein brain had gone heaps festy after Biter had chewed it up, and Mick had thrown it on the compost heap. The soil from the compost heap would grow brainy vegetables for years to come. Indeed, some very succulent, remarkably well-informed water-melons and tomatoes would grow in the compost of Albert Einstein's brain, but the Earth was actually saved thanks to some anonymous rat's brain and the legendary genius of that undoubtedly intelligent superzombie, Mick Living-Dead.

 

Obviously Horror High went ballistic with joyfulness and errant celebration when it heard the outcome of the intelligence bet. Some rascal kids broke into the belfry and started ringing the huge brass bells, scaring the bats up there half to death and causing the Horror Fire Department to go into meltdown mode thinking it was World War III.

At the Living-Dead house they were celebrating too, and they had much to celebrate. Mr Living-Dead had egged the rip-off used car salesman vampire back to the Stone Age. The poor man had crawled off his dodgy car lot honking of sulphuric egg fumes and crying like a stinky little girl. Mick had won his intelligence bet and rid the school of Mr Know-All. And the meteor had been cheesed off course to cause grief and havoc on another planet, but not ours.

And
it was Mick's birthday.

Kim doused the lights as Mrs Living-Dead made a triumphant entrance from the kitchen with a special surprise for Mick, who sat expectantly at the dinner table. It was a big pink blob punctured with multiple candles, the lights of which highlighted the glow of simple pleasure on Mick's face. It'd have to be a simple expression to be on Mick's face.

Dinner was served.

The birthday brain was fresh and plump and brainy. It had been caught
fresh. When Mr Noel announced his resignation from Horror High, two things happened. The students went berserk with elation, and Mr Noel's teacher immunity clause immediately expired.

That meant he was fair game.

He'd only taken three steps out of the gothic school gates when he was suddenly set upon by Mrs Living-Dead. It was a short, one-sided struggle.

Now Mick was presented with the tasty treat, a symbol of all his hard work and success. He blew the candles out and, with a drooly grin, set about methodically devouring Mr Noel's brain, the ingestion of which transformed Mick into a world class academic genius overnight.

Extraordinary.

And if you believe that, you'll believe anything.