Welcome to Smellville

TWENTY-THREE

Hey, remember me? Your old friend, Adam Bomb. It’s my turn again to tell the story . . .

That night after dinner, Ptooey the Parrot and I were having one of our insult battles.

I leaned over the squawking bird and said, “I’ll feed your feathers to the cat!”

“Ptooey! You don’t have a cat!” the bird shot back.

“I’ll buy one. And you can change your name to Cat Food!”

“Ptooey! Ptooey! Change your name to Litter Box! Squawwwk!” And just like that the bird lifted its leg and plopped something onto my shoulder.

“GAAACK!” I cried and stepped back. Sometimes that feather-faced idiot makes me so mad, I think I’m going to explode.

“Hey, give it a rest,” Handy Sandy called out. “I thought we were having a house meeting.”

“Ptooey! Ptooey! Come back here, Litter Box. I’ve got another present for you! Squawwwwk!”

PLOP!

I turned and trudged into the living room, muttering to myself and wiping my shoulder with my hand.

Everyone was sprawled around the room, still burping from our dinner—meatballs with a side of meatballs on top of meatballs in a meatball sauce.

Awesome.

There’s a meatball restaurant around the corner from us. And it’s the place to go, especially if you like meatballs.

They don’t have anything else. Well . . . they do have dessert. But . . . dessert is coconut meatball pie. And not even Junkfood John will eat that.

“We need to talk about Cranky Frankie,” I said.

Nervous Rex gazed around the room. “Where is he?” Rex asked. “Is he s-sick? Is he lost? Did he break something? Does he need a doctor? Is he in trouble? Did he leave? Is he g-gone forever?”

“Don’t be so nervous, Rex,” I said. “Frankie’s in his room. He said he’s too sad and depressed to come out.”

Junkfood John’s eyes lit up. “Did he finish his meatballs?” he asked.

“He didn’t have an appetite,” I said.

“Can I have them then?”

“Not now, John—” I started.

Junkfood John held up a bowl. “I have pickled eel sauce from a week ago, if anyone is interested.” He raised the bowl to his mouth and poured the sauce down his throat.

“We have to get serious about Frankie,” I said.

“Yes, he’s totally depressed,” Brooke chimed in. “He didn’t throw anything in the food fight today at lunch. And he didn’t say anything cranky at dinner, either.”

“He just sat there,” I said, “with a blank look on his face. His eyes were dull, and he stared into space. His mouth hung open, and he never even raised his head.”

“So what’s different about him?” Wacky Jackie exclaimed, then laughed at her own joke.

“It isn’t funny,” Brooke scolded her. “He’s too sad and depressed to be cranky. We have to cheer him up.”

“Ptooey! I’ll cheer him up!” the parrot squawked from across the room. He lifted one leg. “Bring him here! I’ve got a present for him!”

“Shut your yap, Ptooey!” Luke Puke yelled.

“You shut your yap!”

“No, you shut your yap!”