plan is off.”
Squeak squinted from behind his goggles. “Where’d your aunt read that?”
“Some women’s magazine. Come on, Itchy,” Boney pleaded. “There must be something you can wear. Go back home and look harder.”
“I’m telling you, we don’t have anything!” Itchy shouted.
“Try again!” Boney insisted. “I ran around collecting everything else.” He pointed toward a pile of stuff to one side of the clubhouse: a length of webbing, a silver bucket, two flashlights, an old hockey helmet, a spotlight, and a feather pillow.
“And I brought all my special-effects materials,” Squeak said. “Foam latex, silicone prosthetics, makeup, hair pomade, gelatin, wigs, false teeth—a creepy eye.” Squeak held this up to his face, the eyeball bouncing lazily on the end of a spring. “I even received my blood capsules in the mail today.” He produced a small cellophane bag filled with little capsules and sniffed it. “Smells like revenge to me.”
Itchy took the bag from Squeak. “How do they work?”
Squeak opened the bag and popped a capsule in his mouth. “You just put them in your mouth like this…and when you’re ready, bite down like a great white shark.” He clamped down on the capsule and the fake blood spurted between the gap in his teeth.
“Cool,” Itchy said.
“See?” Boney enthused. “We’re going to dress you like a zombie-ghost kinda thing and send you flying out of the tree with blood and all kinds of horrible stuff. When Larry gets a look at you, he’s going to cry like a baby for his mother. And we’ll have the photos to prove it.” He held the Polaroid in the air.
“And when they’re begging for mercy, I’m going to tar and feather them—just like in medieval times,” Squeak added, gesturing to the silver pail.
“Where are we going to get tar?” Itchy asked.
“Well, we can’t use real tar,” Squeak confessed. “But I thought of something just as good.” He pulled a large jar of honey from his messenger bag. “If we dilute this by 20 percent with H 2 O, it should have the desired viscosity. It’ll take them weeks to wash this honey from their hair.”
“This could be awesome,” Itchy said.
“It will be awesome,” Boney encouraged him. “Soall we need now is something white for you to wear. I’m sure there’s something at your house. Come on. Squeak and I will help you look.”
OVER AT ITCHY’S HOUSE, Itchy opened the linen cupboard door, revealing a stack of pink sheets and towels.
“See?” he said. “Everything’s pink. There’s not a white thing in the house.”
Boney frowned at the pink sheets, his eyes drifting over to the open closet at the end of the hall. “What about that?” He pointed to Itchy’s father’s gleaming white Elvis costume.
“Oh, no,” Itchy protested. “Forget it.”
“It’s perfect,” Boney said, walking over and lifting the plastic covering from the suit.
“Ahhhh! Don’t touch it!” Itchy slapped Boney’s hand away. “That’s my dad’s spare. Nobody touches his costumes.”
“Can’t you just see it, Squeak?” Boney murmured, his eyes glazed with a trance-like ecstasy. “This costume will be perfect…”
“Those sequins would create quite an effect in the right light,” Squeak agreed. “And those flared cuffs and sleeves will flap brilliantly as he’s flying out of the treelike a…like a…” Squeak’s voice trailed off as he searched for the right word.
“Like a screaming zombie Elvis,” Boney said.
“Am I the only one who isn’t crazy here?” Itchy threw his hands in the air. “I don’t think you understand. If anything happens to that costume, I’m dead.” He yanked the plastic back down over the suit.
“But you said it’s his spare,” Boney said, removing the costume from the rod. “We have to do it.”
“No,” Itchy refused.
“Just imagine how amazing it’ll be…”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“It’s brilliant!”
“Can’t we just build the
Squeak squinted from behind his goggles. “Where’d your aunt read that?”
“Some women’s magazine. Come on, Itchy,” Boney pleaded. “There must be something you can wear. Go back home and look harder.”
“I’m telling you, we don’t have anything!” Itchy shouted.
“Try again!” Boney insisted. “I ran around collecting everything else.” He pointed toward a pile of stuff to one side of the clubhouse: a length of webbing, a silver bucket, two flashlights, an old hockey helmet, a spotlight, and a feather pillow.
“And I brought all my special-effects materials,” Squeak said. “Foam latex, silicone prosthetics, makeup, hair pomade, gelatin, wigs, false teeth—a creepy eye.” Squeak held this up to his face, the eyeball bouncing lazily on the end of a spring. “I even received my blood capsules in the mail today.” He produced a small cellophane bag filled with little capsules and sniffed it. “Smells like revenge to me.”
Itchy took the bag from Squeak. “How do they work?”
Squeak opened the bag and popped a capsule in his mouth. “You just put them in your mouth like this…and when you’re ready, bite down like a great white shark.” He clamped down on the capsule and the fake blood spurted between the gap in his teeth.
“Cool,” Itchy said.
“See?” Boney enthused. “We’re going to dress you like a zombie-ghost kinda thing and send you flying out of the tree with blood and all kinds of horrible stuff. When Larry gets a look at you, he’s going to cry like a baby for his mother. And we’ll have the photos to prove it.” He held the Polaroid in the air.
“And when they’re begging for mercy, I’m going to tar and feather them—just like in medieval times,” Squeak added, gesturing to the silver pail.
“Where are we going to get tar?” Itchy asked.
“Well, we can’t use real tar,” Squeak confessed. “But I thought of something just as good.” He pulled a large jar of honey from his messenger bag. “If we dilute this by 20 percent with H 2 O, it should have the desired viscosity. It’ll take them weeks to wash this honey from their hair.”
“This could be awesome,” Itchy said.
“It will be awesome,” Boney encouraged him. “Soall we need now is something white for you to wear. I’m sure there’s something at your house. Come on. Squeak and I will help you look.”
OVER AT ITCHY’S HOUSE, Itchy opened the linen cupboard door, revealing a stack of pink sheets and towels.
“See?” he said. “Everything’s pink. There’s not a white thing in the house.”
Boney frowned at the pink sheets, his eyes drifting over to the open closet at the end of the hall. “What about that?” He pointed to Itchy’s father’s gleaming white Elvis costume.
“Oh, no,” Itchy protested. “Forget it.”
“It’s perfect,” Boney said, walking over and lifting the plastic covering from the suit.
“Ahhhh! Don’t touch it!” Itchy slapped Boney’s hand away. “That’s my dad’s spare. Nobody touches his costumes.”
“Can’t you just see it, Squeak?” Boney murmured, his eyes glazed with a trance-like ecstasy. “This costume will be perfect…”
“Those sequins would create quite an effect in the right light,” Squeak agreed. “And those flared cuffs and sleeves will flap brilliantly as he’s flying out of the treelike a…like a…” Squeak’s voice trailed off as he searched for the right word.
“Like a screaming zombie Elvis,” Boney said.
“Am I the only one who isn’t crazy here?” Itchy threw his hands in the air. “I don’t think you understand. If anything happens to that costume, I’m dead.” He yanked the plastic back down over the suit.
“But you said it’s his spare,” Boney said, removing the costume from the rod. “We have to do it.”
“No,” Itchy refused.
“Just imagine how amazing it’ll be…”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“It’s brilliant!”
“Can’t we just build the
Similar Books
