The Battle of the Red Hot Pepper Weenies (10 page)

H
ey, look at
this.” Chester handed a copy of his favorite magazine,
Time Wasters,
to his brother Wyatt. He pointed at the picture. “I'm going to make one of those.”

“A turkey call?” Wyatt asked. “Why would you want to make something like that?”

“Why not?” Chester said. “Come on, it looks easy. And it will be a great way to waste some time.” Chester ran around the house, gathering up the materials that were listed in the instructions.

“Well,” he said a half hour later as he stood in front of an impressive pile of turkey call parts, “I guess that's everything we need.”

“Not really,” Wyatt said. “You got the stuff all wrong. The article said you needed a piece of iron. That's aluminum.”

“So? It's still metal,” Chester said. “That's close enough. It's not like I'm building a helicopter.”

“And the piece of wood is supposed to be six inches wide. That looks bigger. If you don't follow the directions, it's not going to work right.”

“I'm not allowed to use the saw when Dad isn't around,” Chester said. “Besides, it doesn't really matter.”

“But the article said—”

“It doesn't matter. Come on—let's put it together.” Chester got to work. Wyatt helped. In another half hour, the turkey call was finished.

Chester tried it out, scraping the metal bar against the piece of slate inside the small box. “Wow—it
does
sound like a turkey.”

Wyatt shook his head. “I don't know. Maybe it sounds a little like a turkey. It also sort of sounds like a cat or a monkey, or maybe even some kind of giant rat. Who knows what it'll attract?”

Chester glared at his brother. “Look, if that's what you think, I'll go out and use it by myself.”

“No, I want to come,” Wyatt said.

“Then stop telling me I did it wrong. I think it sounds exactly like a turkey.”

Chester went outside and headed down the street toward the woods at the edge of town. He heard Wyatt behind him. By the time they reached the woods, he wasn't angry anymore. He was excited. Following one of the foot trails, he walked far into the woods.

“This looks like a good spot,” Chester said. He held up the turkey call and scratched out some awesome sounds.

Almost immediately, even before Wyatt could say anything else to make fun of Chester, there was a rustling in the bushes. There was a lot of rustling all around them.

“It worked!” Chester used the call again, pressing harder so it was even louder. The more turkeys, the better. That would show Wyatt a thing or two. “It really, really worked.”

“Almost,” Wyatt said.

“I'm tired of your attitude,” Chester said. “Can't you admit it worked just fine?” Then he saw what Wyatt had already noticed. Hundreds of animals burst through the bushes all around him, coming to his call. Animals. Not birds. Small black-and-white animals.

“Skunks,” Wyatt said.

“This call stinks,” Chester said, throwing it down.

In a moment, the call wasn't the only thing that stank.

T
here it is,”
I said when we reached the old movie theater behind the bowling alley. I hadn't been on this side of town in a long time.

“Man, the place is falling down,” Noah said.

“I don't care. It's the only theater showing
Power Drill
.” I'd been dying to see that movie ever since I read about it in
Gore and Splatter
magazine. They said it was the scariest, slashiest, wettest horror movie in years. And the bad guy, Fixxula, was unbelievably warped.

“They won't sell us tickets,” Noah said. “Let's just go rent a video.”

“You go, if you want,” I told him. “I'm seeing this movie.” I checked the sign again. The place had three movies playing. I'd been hoping at least one would be rated G so I could buy a ticket for it and then sneak into the screen that was showing
Power Drill
. But all three movies were at least PG-13. I was twelve. To make things even worse, I looked young for my age.

“Forget it,” Noah said.

“No. We'll sneak in the exit.”

“That does it. No way I'm getting in trouble for a stupid movie. I'm outta here.” Noah trotted off like he couldn't wait to go rent some boring video.

I didn't care. It's better with a friend—especially during the really messy scenes—but I could enjoy the movie all by myself. I went around to the back and checked out the exit door. It was old, the wood in the frame was rotten, and I could see the bolt didn't close all the way. It hadn't latched the last time someone went out. I tugged at it, and the door opened. Perfect. I slipped inside and looked around. I was in a hallway. That was good.

I spotted the sign for the screen with
Power Drill
and ducked into the room. I didn't want anyone to spot me, so I grabbed a seat in the back row.

My timing was awesome. Just after I sat, the lights dimmed. They showed a couple previews, and then a sign flashed on the screen:
THIS FILM IS IN PERCEPTIVISION.

“Cool,” I whispered, though I had no idea what that meant.

Another message appeared beneath it:
SELECT YOUR AVATAR.

The back of the seat in front of me lit up. I realized there was a small screen in it, like the kind they have on laptop computers. The screen showed a dozen different faces. I figured those were the actors from the movie. It was the usual sort of cast—a brave guy, a scared guy, a funny guy, a pretty girl, and so on. I picked the brave guy, since I figured that would be the most interesting.

A final message came up:
ADJUST THE COMFORT LEVEL OF YOUR HEADSET.

Headset? I looked around. Everyone had some sort of red headband, with knobs on the side. I guess they'd been handed out by the ticket taker. There was no way I could get one. I didn't care. The movie would be fine without any gimmicks.

A moment after the movie started, I found out what Perceptivision was. When the brave guy—his name was Rocko—walked out into the rain, my face felt wet. I looked around, trying to figure out how they did that, but I didn't see any hoses or anything.

When the scared guy got his head cut off and Rocko was splashed with the blood, I felt something warm and wet splash my face. It was so realistic, I reached up and touched my cheek, but there was nothing there.

Rocko and Fixxula were chasing each other all over this huge abandoned hardware store. When Rocko tried to punch Fixxula and hit the wall instead, my fist hurt. But not a lot. This was so cool. Noah had really missed out.

Then Fixxula almost caught Rocko. He cut him in the shoulder with a hedge clippers.

“Ow!” My shoulder stung. But it wasn't all that bad.

Besides—Rocko was obviously the hero. He might get hurt, but he'd survive. I noticed that people were playing with the dials on their headsets. I guess they could control how much pain they felt. I glanced back toward the entrance, wondering whether it was too late to get myself a headset. But I knew they'd never give me one. It didn't matter. I could handle this.

The next time Rocko was surprised by Fixxula, he got stabbed in the leg with a screwdriver. That hurt a bit more. I started to think about leaving. But I really wanted to see the rest of the movie. I could always leave if it got too painful.

Two more of Rocko's friends got killed by Fixxula. Man—Noah was missing an awesome movie. I couldn't wait to tell him what a loser he was. I checked my watch. The movie was about half over. The action should get even more extreme pretty soon. As I looked back up at the screen, Fixxula jumped Rocko from behind and hit him hard in the head with a toolbox.

My own head jolted. I got dizzy for a second.

“Okay—that's enough.” I'd had it. I wasn't going to sit there and let myself get hurt any more—especially not when the bad guy had a whole storeful of power tools, and I didn't have a helmet with a control knob.

I tried to stand. Something held me to my seat. I tried harder. No luck. I couldn't even move my arms. I looked down, but didn't see anything. I looked back up at the screen. Fixxula had tied Rocko to a chair. I could feel the pressure of ropes around my arms and chest.

Fixxula grabbed a nail gun from his table. “This is going to hurt a lot,” he said.

I screamed for help. Nobody in the theater turned toward me. They were all screaming, too. Though nowhere near as loudly.

I
was hanging out
in front of the corner store after school, drinking a Coke and killing a bag of garlic pretzels, when the kid came strutting down the street. He had that walk—you know, the walk that says,
I'm cool. Don't mess with me
. When I see someone flashing that attitude, I can't help thinking of ways to prove to him that he's wrong.

“Hey,” I said as he passed in front of me. “Who are you?” I didn't recognize him. He wasn't from Madison High, and I didn't think he went to St. Pat's or Winslow Academy, either. He probably came from over in Sunnington.

The kid spun toward me so quickly, I figured I'd startled him. “You noticed me?”

“Hard not to,” I told him. My eyes scanned him from top to bottom, then back up. He was wearing cheap sneakers, jeans, a white T-shirt, and a Red Sox jacket. He had on a cap, brim forward, with the letters
BL
stitched on the front. Beneath the cap was the kind of face ten-year-old girls like to cut out of magazines and grandmothers like to pinch.
And on his face was the kind of smirk kids like me like to erase. “Who are you?” I asked again.

“I'm bad luck,” he said.

I laughed. The kid didn't lack guts. I had at least five inches on him, and thirty pounds. I figured I could flick him across the street if I wanted—not that I was in the mood. But I couldn't let the kid's words go unanswered. “You don't look so tough,” I told him, getting ready to dodge if he took a swing at me.

He shook his head. “I didn't say I was tough. And I didn't say I was bad luck for you. Though I could be. I said I was
Bad Luck
.”

I could hear the capital letters when he spoke, but I still didn't get it. “You're Bad Luck?”

“Yeah.” He glanced over his shoulder, then pointed to a car that was coming down Bradshaw Street. “Observe.” He snapped his fingers.

Paboom!

The right front tire blew, just like that. The car skidded to a halt, and the driver hopped out. He looked at the tire. Then he kicked the flat and started swearing.

“Bad Luck,” the kid said, grinning at me with a smug look like he'd just performed a magic trick.

Before I could say anything, he pointed across the street toward some first-graders walking home from school. “Let me demonstrate.” He clapped his hands. The kid in front tripped on the sidewalk and went down hard on his left knee. He started crying. The others laughed and walked ahead.

“You did that?” I asked, remembering when the same thing had happened to me back in second grade.

“Sure did.”

I chewed on the information for a moment. “So what you're saying is when a kid catches a baseball in the face, or loses his homework, or gets snagged in the thumb by his own fishhook, you're to blame?”

He made a small bow, then straightened up, still wearing that smug expression. “I can't take credit for every single bit of bad luck on the planet, but I do get around.”

“That stinks,” I said, stepping away from the wall. I'd had my share of bad luck, but I'd never expected to find myself face-to-face with someone who was responsible for most of it. I thought about a June day two years ago when I'd broken my leg right before summer vacation. Compound fracture. I'd spent half the summer in a cast. “That really stinks.”

“Careful,” he said. “It's bad luck to pick a fight with Bad Luck.”

I curled my fingers into a fist. It would feel so good to flatten him. But he was right. This guy could sink a ship or strike a house with lightning. I'd have to be crazy to mess with him. “I'm not a fool,” I told him.

“I didn't think so. Well, it's been charming chatting, but I must be going.” He started to walk on past me.

“Hey,” I said. “I have to know one thing.”

“What?” he asked, turning back toward me.

“Why?”

“No reason,” he said.

“There has to be a reason,” I told him. “There's a reason the sky is blue. There's a reason leopards have spots. There has to be a reason for bad luck.”

I think he was about to answer when he glanced back down the street at a man walking a dog. He got a glint in his eyes as he pointed his finger at the man.

Snap.

The leash broke with a twang and the dog went running. The guy chased after him.

“Sorry, couldn't resist,” Bad Luck said. “But, as I was going to tell you, how should I know why I'm here? I just do what I do. And I do it very well. But I can't explain it. I mean, is there any reason
you're
here?”

“Not till now,” I said. Before I could talk myself out of it, I closed the distance between us and hit him as hard as I could. I slugged him square in the jaw, and he dropped like a sack full of rocks.

I stared down at him. Now what?

There was no way I could leave him there. He'd find me when he woke up. I didn't want to become Bad Luck's pet project. I lifted him up, threw him over my shoulder, and headed home.

I guess other people couldn't see him, because nobody asked me what I was doing carrying a body down the street. Good thing he wasn't too heavy.

I put him in the room over the garage where my folks store all the old furniture. I tied his hands behind his back. From what I'd seen, he seemed to need them to make stuff happen.

Yeah, it was crazy for me to hit him, but I'd had my share of bad luck, and I figured that, if nothing else, I'd be doing everyone a favor. Naturally, as soon as I finished tying him up, I started to have doubts about the whole thing. He couldn't really be Bad Luck.

But after a day, he hadn't asked for food or begged to use the bathroom. After two days, he hadn't even asked for a drink of water. As far as I could tell from my frequent trips
to the garage, he never slept. And every time he looked at me, that stupid smirk twitched across his lips.

A week passed. Then another. “I haven't noticed much of a change,” I told him one evening. I'd fallen into the habit of sitting with him, talking. “The world is pretty much the same.” Somehow, I'd expected to make a difference.

“I'm not responsible for all the world's problems. Don't forget Stupidity. He's pretty busy. And all the others: Coincidence, Tragedy, Glitch, all those guys. Hey, you should meet Poetic Justice. Talk about a guy who's full of himself.”

I thought about those forces running loose in the world, causing problems for a reason nobody knew. Big troubles and small misfortunes. Nothing I did would make a difference.

“Are you the sort who holds a grudge?” I asked.

He shook his head. “We're cool. But don't expect any favors, either.”

“Fair enough.” As I untied him, I couldn't help laughing.

“What's so funny?” he asked.

“Don't you get it?” I tossed the ropes into the corner of the room. It felt good to laugh.

“Get what?” He stood up from the chair, but he didn't stretch or act stiff, even though he'd been sitting in one position for a couple weeks.

“Think about it,” I told him.

He grinned and shrugged. “Not a clue.”

“Well, was it
Good Luck
that you ran into someone who could see you and knock you out?”

He stared at me for a while. Finally he admitted the same thing I'd already realized. “I guess it was sort of bad luck….” For once, his smirk faded completely.

“How about that?” I opened the door. When I'd first met
Bad Luck, I'd been furious at the idea of this force, this
thing,
that could cast misfortune about him like a child flinging a handful of gravel on a playground. When he'd told me he didn't even know the reason he was doing it, that had been too much.

He went out and headed down the steps that led to the driveway. Halfway there, he stumbled.

Bad luck.

Even though I was pretty sure he didn't feel any pain, I winced as I watched him tumble to a landing on the hard asphalt.

For a moment, he didn't move. Finally, still lying there on his stomach, he pointed across the street to Mr. Jurgin's house. A tree branch fell from the large maple in the front yard, crunching the roof of Mr. Jurgin's new Porsche. I guess Bad Luck needed to make sure he could still function. He staggered to his feet. He didn't look back as he walked away.

“See you,” I said.

He sort of waved over his shoulder. I knew I'd be seeing him again. I'd be seeing him all my life. We all would. There was no escape from Bad Luck. That didn't seem fair. But at least I knew we weren't alone. Bad Luck, and all his buddies out there, had a force to deal with also.

They had their own Bad Luck. I guess they had all the other misfortunes, too. Somehow, that made it all seem just a little bit more fair.