sometimes went to sleep in the sun. Not on the roof, repairing the dish antenna (he kept turning it around so that he could ‘talk to Mars’). I guessed he’d be in his garden shed then.
I opened the door of the shed—it was almost falling apart. I don’t know why they didn’t just break it down and build a fancy whatchamacallit—pergola? Mom’salways saying pergola in front of her fancy friends, who wear high-heeled shoes and make holes in Gra’s vegetable patches. She likes the way pergola sounds. She also says ‘zucchini’ and ‘terranium’ and ‘hors d’oeuvres’ and words like that when her fancy friends come.
Anyway, Gra was not in the shed. Phoooo! What did he keep here? It smelled like rotten, dead bodies. (If you watch police videos, you’d know what that was like—well, you can’t smell the videos, you’d just know!) So of course, I had to go poking around. If you suspected your grandfather was a secret mass murderer who kept dead bodies in his pergola, you’d have to find them, right?
Most of the smell I guess was coming from the sacks he kept manure in—ugh! I opened up a few and almost puked. In the corner, behind stacks of sacks, I found a rusty wheelbarrow, and when I managed to pull it out, I saw a small door in the floor.
I was totally excited now! I yanked at the door knob, and the stupid thing, of course, came off in my hand. So I took one of Gra’s rakes and levered up the door after much huffing and puffing, and discovered a dark (and very smelly) hole in there. A secret tunnel?
‘Grrrrr!’ I almost fell into the secret hole—I was so surprised. I whipped around to see if my mass-murderer grandfather had come to axe me. But it was only BigaByte’s stomach growling. I felt a bit safer.
It was too dark to see inside the hole, so I lay down on the floorboards, and pushed my hand in—it touched something rough. I screamed again. A dead body?
After I’d swallowed my scream, I pulled at it. The thing came up easily, with a whole cloud of dust. I began to cough and sneeze, staring at the sack in my hand.
Another smelly sack? Why all this hidden, secret mass-murderer pretend stuff for another smelly sack?
I opened the string that held the sack together, and I saw something purple in there—clothes.
No way! After all this . . . the hidden treasure was a bunch of old clothes? C’mon Gra, that’s not fair. I couldunderstand if it were Mom. I mean, she’s just the kind of loony who would keep clothes for years and years (she thinks someday she will fit back into them), but Gra!
I pulled out the purple smelly thing—phew, it really stank! And I almost fell backwards. To my shock, it was a spandex suit, a bigger version of the one I was wearing. What? Why? There was a cape too! Along with a pair of smelly boots . . . and smelly gloves. And then right at the bottom, there was a brown cardboard file that had almost turned into dust.
I pulled out the file and sifted through some ancient newspaper clippings.
‘The Grazor foils the Kangaroo Kidnappers!’
‘The Grazor saves the city from the Spying Saucers!’
‘The Grazor stops the Great Train Robbery!’
I had to squint to make out the images of the purple spandex man, rippling with muscles, the sun slanting off his shiny black hair as he raised his hand in triumph.
The Grazor! It was true then—those stories the kids in Superhero School told in whispers—of the greatest superhero in this part of the world who just disappeared one day.
Why was his suit in here? Had Gra murdered him and dumped him here, under his turnip patch?
A shadow filled the door, along with a cough. I screamed (for the tenth time that day) and turned around. ‘Don’t kill me please, I’m underage!’ I begged of the mass murderer who had silently appeared at the door.
Dad coughed gently again. ‘Hmm, so you’ve found it. I was afraid you would one day. I guess it’s time you and I had that little talk.’
18. Dig up some roots.
I opened the door of the shed—it was almost falling apart. I don’t know why they didn’t just break it down and build a fancy whatchamacallit—pergola? Mom’salways saying pergola in front of her fancy friends, who wear high-heeled shoes and make holes in Gra’s vegetable patches. She likes the way pergola sounds. She also says ‘zucchini’ and ‘terranium’ and ‘hors d’oeuvres’ and words like that when her fancy friends come.
Anyway, Gra was not in the shed. Phoooo! What did he keep here? It smelled like rotten, dead bodies. (If you watch police videos, you’d know what that was like—well, you can’t smell the videos, you’d just know!) So of course, I had to go poking around. If you suspected your grandfather was a secret mass murderer who kept dead bodies in his pergola, you’d have to find them, right?
Most of the smell I guess was coming from the sacks he kept manure in—ugh! I opened up a few and almost puked. In the corner, behind stacks of sacks, I found a rusty wheelbarrow, and when I managed to pull it out, I saw a small door in the floor.
I was totally excited now! I yanked at the door knob, and the stupid thing, of course, came off in my hand. So I took one of Gra’s rakes and levered up the door after much huffing and puffing, and discovered a dark (and very smelly) hole in there. A secret tunnel?
‘Grrrrr!’ I almost fell into the secret hole—I was so surprised. I whipped around to see if my mass-murderer grandfather had come to axe me. But it was only BigaByte’s stomach growling. I felt a bit safer.
It was too dark to see inside the hole, so I lay down on the floorboards, and pushed my hand in—it touched something rough. I screamed again. A dead body?
After I’d swallowed my scream, I pulled at it. The thing came up easily, with a whole cloud of dust. I began to cough and sneeze, staring at the sack in my hand.
Another smelly sack? Why all this hidden, secret mass-murderer pretend stuff for another smelly sack?
I opened the string that held the sack together, and I saw something purple in there—clothes.
No way! After all this . . . the hidden treasure was a bunch of old clothes? C’mon Gra, that’s not fair. I couldunderstand if it were Mom. I mean, she’s just the kind of loony who would keep clothes for years and years (she thinks someday she will fit back into them), but Gra!
I pulled out the purple smelly thing—phew, it really stank! And I almost fell backwards. To my shock, it was a spandex suit, a bigger version of the one I was wearing. What? Why? There was a cape too! Along with a pair of smelly boots . . . and smelly gloves. And then right at the bottom, there was a brown cardboard file that had almost turned into dust.
I pulled out the file and sifted through some ancient newspaper clippings.
‘The Grazor foils the Kangaroo Kidnappers!’
‘The Grazor saves the city from the Spying Saucers!’
‘The Grazor stops the Great Train Robbery!’
I had to squint to make out the images of the purple spandex man, rippling with muscles, the sun slanting off his shiny black hair as he raised his hand in triumph.
The Grazor! It was true then—those stories the kids in Superhero School told in whispers—of the greatest superhero in this part of the world who just disappeared one day.
Why was his suit in here? Had Gra murdered him and dumped him here, under his turnip patch?
A shadow filled the door, along with a cough. I screamed (for the tenth time that day) and turned around. ‘Don’t kill me please, I’m underage!’ I begged of the mass murderer who had silently appeared at the door.
Dad coughed gently again. ‘Hmm, so you’ve found it. I was afraid you would one day. I guess it’s time you and I had that little talk.’
18. Dig up some roots.
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