Just Tricking! by Andy Griffiths

face.
    â€˜No,’ she says calmly. ‘In fact, I’d love to try some of this amazing food that doubles as a beauty cream. What do you call it?’
    The penny drops.
    I hold up three fingers in front of her face.
    â€˜How many fingers am I holding up?’ I ask her.
    She pauses.
    â€˜I don’t know, dear. I’m blind. Why do you ask?’
    â€˜No reason,’ I say, trying not to gag from the stench of the spew relish, which I just know I’m not going to be able to get out of my skin and hair for months. ‘No reason at all. But I think I’m going to be sick again.’
    â€˜Oh, you poor thing,’ says the old lady, passing me another sick bag. ‘You poor old thing.’

anny and I are about to play the most wicked joke in history. We’ve been working on it all morning. We owe the idea to my mum.

    Mum listens to the radio non-stop. It’s always going in the kitchen. Wouldn’t be so bad if she listened to something good, like Triple J, but she prefers the golden-oldie station Triple B. The B stands for Boredom. Talk about sad music. It’s so sad and boring they have to run competitions all the time to bribe people to listen to it.
    They’ve got this competition at the moment called Beat the Bomb. Every hour they ring up a listener and then start the clock ticking. Every few seconds, over the sound of the clock, a voice says ever-increasing amounts of money, like ‘One hundred dollars . . . one hundred and fifty-five dollars . . . two hundred and three dollars . . .’ and so on. The listener has to tell the DJ when to stop, and if they do it before the bomb explodes, then they get to keep that amount of money. It can last anywhere from a couple of seconds to half a minute.
    The trick is having the nerve to let the clock tick for as long as possible. I’ve never heard anyone win more than a few hundred dollars, but still, that’d buy a lot of CDs, a heap of chocolate, and a lot of drag-racing at Timezone.

    All you have to do to be in it is send a letter with your name and telephone number into Triple B. If they draw yours from the barrel they ring you and you get a chance to play.
    I’ve sent in about fifteen envelopes. I reckon that makes me fifteen times more likely to win. I don’t think anybody else would be clever enough to have thought of that.

    But in the meantime – while I wait for them to call – Danny and I are going to have some fun. We’ve recorded the station signature tune, a couple of advertisements and a couple of songs. And I can do a pretty convincing imitation of a DJ when I try. We’re going to ring Marvin Bonwick and pretend that he’s about to play Beat the Bomb.
    Why Marvin Bonwick? Because we always play jokes on Marvin Bonwick. He takes everything so seriously. We use his name whenever we get the chance. Like writing comments on the service evaluation cards at Kentucky Fried Chicken. We always write dumb things like: This KFC shop stinks. I wanted fish, but the cashier wouldn’t give me any. She said you’ve got nothing but chicken. That sucks! Yours sincerely, Marvin Bonwick. P.S. What does KFC stand for anyway?

    We always supply his full name, address and phone number. I’d give anything to hear what they say when they call him up to discuss his comments.

    â€˜Let’s do it,’ says Danny. ‘It’s ten past four.’
    â€˜Okay,’ I say. I pick up the receiver and start punching the buttons.
    Danny is laughing.
    â€˜Hey, shut up,’ I say. ‘It’s ringing!’
    â€˜Hello?’
    It’s a woman speaking. Must be his mother.
    â€˜Hello – it’s Chris Robbins from Triple B FM,’ I say in my radio voice. ‘Could I speak to Marvin Bonwick please?’
    â€˜Yes, just a minute.’
    â€˜Marvin!’ she calls. ‘Telephone!’
    â€˜He’ll be with you in a minute,’ she says.