My Life as a Computer Cockroach by Bill Myers

be serious,” I said.
    â€œIt’s the only way. Here”—she reached for Ol’ Betsy—“let me have that.” Before I could stop her she typed:
    Choco Chum, turn Wally into the state’s governor.
    â€œWall Street!”
    She hit “ENTER.”
    â€œWhat have you done?” I cried. “That’s crazy!”
    â€œWhy do you say that, Mister Governor?”
    â€œMister Governor? Stop that, I am not the—”
    â€œStop what, sir?”
    â€œThirty seconds,” Coach called.
    â€œWall Street, you’ve got to put an end to all of this, right now!”
    â€œSir, I’m not the one with the mixed-up computer that tells all the other computers in the world what to believe. Nor am I the one responsible for all of this mess.”
    She was right, of course. I glanced down at Ol’ Betsy. I don’t know what had gotten into her (other than all the salt water, the fish, those half-dozen cockroaches . . .). But, whatever it was, it was definitely the cause of our troubles. (Well, that, and the minor fact that we’d been trying to cheat.)
    â€œFifteen seconds!” Coach shouted.
    â€œListen,” I said. “Enough is enough.”
    â€œWhat do you suggest we do, Mister Governor?”
    â€œStop calling me that!”
    â€œTen seconds.”
    â€œHere.” I nudged her away from Ol’ Betsy and stared at the screen. There had to be some way to stop all the craziness . . . some way to wipe the slate clean and get everything back to normal.
    â€œFive seconds!”
    Suddenly, I had it! I reached for the keyboard and started typing.
    â€œFour . . .”
    Choco Chum, clear up all the computer messes by—
    â€œThree . . .”
    â€”wiping their slates clean!
    â€œTwo . . .”
    â€œNo!” Wall Street shouted. “Wally, not that!”
    But I’d made up my mind. Before she could stop me I reached over and— “One . . .”
    â€”hit “ENTER.”
    Suddenly, there was a squeal of brakes outside, followed by a loud crash, and then a scream.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Opera cried.
    â€œAnd so it’s begun,” Coach answered grimly.
    â€œWhat?” Opera shouted. “What’s begun?”
    There was another crash and another scream . . . and then another . . . and another.
    â€œWhat’s going on?!” I shouted. “People are getting hurt. We’ve got to go out there and help them!”
    Before Coach could grab me, I squeezed past him and raced up the steps to the bunker’s door.
    â€œDon’t!” he yelled. “There’s nothing we can do!”
    â€œOf course there is,” I shouted as I pushed open the door. “We’ve got to help!”
    â€œMcDoogle—”
    But he was too late. I’d pushed open the door and stepped outside. There was more squealing of brakes, more crashes, and more screaming. I scampered out of the bunker and raced toward the back fence to see what was happening.
    When I arrived I could only stare in horror. Just beyond the fence was something that looked like a combination war zone and demolition derby. All of the traffic lights were out and car after car was crashing into one another. Up above, the transformers on the light poles were blowing up and sending showers of sparks over everyone. And the people . . . everywhere they were running, shouting, screaming. It was terrible, everyone was out of control, it was almost as bad as the Day After Christmas Sale at the mall!
    Wall Street was the first to arrive at my side.
    â€œNice work, sir.”
    â€œI don’t understand,” I said. “What happened?”
    She handed me Ol’ Betsy. “Take a look at your screen. Look at what you typed.”
    I glanced down at the screen and read:
    Choco Chum, clear up all the computer messes by wiping their slates clean.
    â€œI still don’t understand,” I said, straining to hear her above the