THREE FREDS ARE BETTER THAN ONE
Back at his lair, Joe the Bad Guy decided to clone three Freds for starters. He could always add more later. He placed Fred’s toenail on the ground and zapped it with the Clone-o-Matic 6000. This was what he meant to do, at least. But his aim was off. Instead of zapping the toenail, he zapped a cockroach. Now there were two. He tried again—ZAAAAAAP! Another miss. Now he had two sets of dirty dishes. Again he tried, but he only succeeded in duplicating the cobwebs hanging off the couch.
Concentrate, he told himself. His lair was getting worse and worse.
Only he couldn’t concentrate. He was too excited about finally getting his revenge. His aim was all over the place. Here a ZAP, there a ZAP, everywhere a ZAP, ZAP. Two half-eaten pizzas. Two copies of Bad Guy’s Digest. Two piles of dirty underwear.
Finally, he got it right. He zapped Fred’s toenail dead center—ZAAAAAAP! A cloud of dust erupted and spun around like a tornado. It rose to the height of a full-grown man. When everything settled, there stood a Fred, fully clothed, the spitting image of the original.
“He’s the spitting image of the original,” Joe said.
He made two more Freds and stood back to admire his work.
“Master,” the Freds said, “your wish is our command.”
Joe decided to send Fred One to rob a bank, Fred Two to steal a car, and Fred Three to cause general trouble. “And make sure people see you,” he told them. “If possible, get yourself on tape.”
Joe didn’t want there to be any doubt that it was Fred of The Grateful Fred doing all these dastardly deeds … or sinister deeds, for that matter.
The Freds turned to leave.
“Wait a minute,” Joe said as an idea popped into his head. He’d send the Freds out in due time, but first things first. “Fred One, make me a tuna sandwich, extra pickle. Fred Two, grab the broom and sweep up this lair. And get those cockroaches, while you’re at it. Fred Three, massage my feet.” As long as his wish was their command, Joe was going to take advantage.
He didn’t send off the Freds until he’d eaten three triple-decker sandwiches. And now his lair absolutely sparkled. His walls were still dented, of course, but they were the cleanest dents he’d ever seen.
The Freds left. Joe’s plan was going perfectly. And his feet felt great! There was only one thing that could mess it up. And that was Melvin Beederman.
But Joe had supplies on hand in case anything went wrong in the Melvin department. Fortunately, he knew about Melvin’s major weakness. Everyone did, since it had once been blabbed to the world on the Unofficial Melvin Beederman Web site. The Web site no longer existed, but the damage had been done. Everyone knew what made Melvin lose his strength, including Joe the Bad Guy.
It was bologna, the gourmet lunch meat itself. Bologna was to Melvin what kryptonite was to Superman. And Joe had stocked up on it, just in case.
If Melvin came near, Joe would be ready for him.
“Melvin Beederman doesn’t have a chance,” Joe said to himself. “Neither does Fred.”