The Infamous Harry Plodder. Skips form chaper 1 to 4

Everett Q. Parsley was a man not given to nonsense. He hadn’t so much as cracked a smile since the great diptheria epidemic of ’58. In fact, he had no sense of humor of any kind. His job was as the head writer for Veronica’s Closet. His wife, Emphysema, resembled Mrs. Potatohead, only without the sultry sex appeal and their greedy son, Glockenspiel, looked like a gravy-filled balloon and, oddly, smelled like one.
    From around the corner came Alpo Dumbleass, a man whose spectacles sat upon his nose just so. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t be worth remarking upon, except that Alpo Dumbleass kept his nose inside a brown paper bag marked “Nose.” Around his bony shoulders he wore the Cape of Conundrums, while his pants were held up by the Spinning Suspenders of Siu-Ra. His pockets jingled softly with the Wallet of Inverse Proportions, and the Car Keys That Could Not Die.
    In the hand that wasn’t carrying the bag with his nose in it, Dumbleass was holding a peculiar bundle. With the other arm (did we mention he had three arms?), he was rubbing his bottom vigorously, trying to restore some feeling to it. “Damnable alley cats in heat,” he muttered in an irritated voice. “Next time, I shall disguise myself as a large Doberman instead.”
    At the corner of Perfect N. and Faulty, Dumbleass noticed that his Shoe of Mystical Knowledge was loose. He hoisted his loafer onto a fire hydrant to adjust it. Just then, he felt a jolt through his foot.
    “Hey, Dumbleass! Move it or lose it!”
    “Excellent choice, my dear Professor McGonads. I quite mistook you for the real thing.”
    “The main trick was hooking up my bowels to the city’s water pipes. I haven’t retained this much water since I was pregnant with the goblins. Is that the boy?”
    “Of course.”
    “Let me look upon...him. It’s hard to imagine that such a small thing could...well, you know.” “Yes, I doubt that...You Know Who...realized that he had such...potential.”
    “I wonder whether he will grow up and avenge those poor people who...well, perhaps it is best not to speak of such things.”
    Dumbleass looked worried. “Do you think we can keep this to-be-continued crap going for six and a half more books, hinting and alluding to things that might happen, if we sell enough books to get that far?”
    McGonads was silent for a moment before replying. “Time will tell.”
    If Alpo Dumbleass and Professor McGonads made one mistake, it was leaving Harry Plodder on the doorstep on a Saturday night. When the Sunday sun arose, the paperboy never noticed the small bundle with the vaguely unpleasant smell on the doorstep, and heaved a full newspaper directly to the very same spot. And when the Parsley family found him the next morning, flattened under the business section, they noticed the freshness of Harry’s unique scar. For Harry Plodder would always have a 25¢-off coupon permanently imprinted on his forehead.

                                                          


Harry’s life with the Parsley family wasn’t so bad, once he’d gotten used to it. After he had outgrown the mini-refrigerator he slept in, Mr. Parsley generously allowed him to use the full-sized one upstairs. There was even an old brown head of gooey lettuce that had been overlooked in the bottom of the crisper drawer, and Harry used this as his pillow.
    And although Mrs. Parsley refused to buy Harry any new clothes, she agreed to let him save up all the loose squiggly hairs from the shower drain. Harry had collected almost enough to make a sweater.
    And even his obnoxious cousin Glockenspiel Parsley had been nice to him, ever since Harry helped him win third place in the school Science Fair as the subject of Glockenspiel’s “Home Skin Grafts” exhibit.
    Yes, life was getting sweeter for Harry Plodder all the time. The future was so bright, he had to wear shades - although that might also have been due to the irreversible astigmatism he’d gotten from his daily beatings.
    And then the letter arrived.
    Harry had never received a letter before, except for that one two years ago with Dick Clark’s and Ed McMahon’s pictures on the outside. And when it turned out that Harry wasn’t a winner after all, he assumed that it was just another one of those lies that grown-ups liked to tell kids.
    But now Harry had received his second letter ever, and Everett Parsley wouldn’t even let him read it. Harry had also received his third letter, but Parsley wouldn’t let him read that. Then, there arrived Harry’s fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth, seventee-- hey, is everybody getting the point here? Unfair guy, lots of letters, yadda yadda? Okay, then. Let’s move this book along.
    With a deafening BOOM, the door came flying off its hinges as if Harry were inside a Kool-Aid commercial. Into the room stepped a creature so big, so tremendously huge, that he could easily have co-hosted a women’s chat show.
    “’Ello, ’Arry! I wos scratchin’ me noggin, won’nering why fer yeh din’t respond tih me mess’ges.”
    Harry stared at this behemoth, and somehow his tongue curled enough to say the single word, “What?”
    “Mess’ges. Epis’les. Yeh been sent a ver’table plethora o’ ter buggers, ’n I sez, I’d best amble on over t’ ’Arry an’ git der lowdown.”
    “Um, why are you talking that way?”
    “An’ wot way izzit dat yer referrin’ ter?”
    “That. You know, the accent?”
    “Oh, that. Ter accent’s ter create, like, ter illusion of character devel’pmint.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeh, apparen’ly ter li’l snots...er, readers...kin hear, like, my voice insider heads. An’ they gets so hung up on muh funny way o’ talkin’, they dunna notice ’at I’m not hardly sayin’ a single thing ’ats ter least bit in’nerestin’.”
    Harry thought for a moment. “I bet it’s also helpful for the long passages with just dialogue, so you can tell who’s saying what, without having to go back to look.”
    “Yer learnin’ fast, yiz are.”

                                                                                                        

Halfwit said, “Ter first thing yeh got to do is, notify ter school ’at yez are comin’. Where’s yer owl?”
    Harry heard Halfwit’s words, but didn’t quite take them in. “Where’s your owl?” The phrase made no sense to him, sounding like “pre-owned car” or “compassionate conservative.”
    Halfwit slapped his forehead so loudly that the department store window across the street shattered. “I keep forgettin’! Yez ’aven’t been raised worth a wombat’s patoot! Luckily, I alwez carries a spare, like.” And from under his immense robes, Halfwit produced a thin, gray owl.
    The owl blinked confusedly at the sudden assault of sunlight upon its glassy eyes. Then, it coughed up a semi-digested hunk of mouse. The cough made half its feathers fall off. It made Harry feel a little sick to look at the owl’s mangy hood and infected feet. He couldn’t understand how Halfwit could bear to hold it. “Note to self,” thought Harry, “never, ever shake hands with Halfwit again.”
    While Harry was lost in thought, Halfwit had written out an acceptance note, and nailed it through the owl’s good leg. “Once they gets this,” boomed Halfwit, “they’ll fix yer up wit’ a room, an’ ’ave it ready fer yez. The kids what forgets t’ RSVP has t’ sleep in trees ter first year.” He released the owl, which fluttered about before bouncing to earth with a dull thud, where it lay dazed and wheezing.
    “Are - are you sure he’ll be okay?” asked Harry in a tone that was half worried, half repulsed.
    “Natcherly! They trains ’em special, like.” Halfwit then seized Harry’s arm, bursting several minor veins. “Now it’s time f’ yez ter do some shoppin’!” Halfwit’s quick step and firm grip had taken Harry almost a full block away by the time the hacking, staggering owl wound up under the wheels of a bus.
    “If yer gwon go t’ Pockmark’s, yiz gotta have ter proper ’quipment, like,” grunted Halfwit, as he hauled Harry along by the elbow. Harry hadn’t felt so manhandled since that time at summer camp, which he wasn’t supposed to talk about. Actually, it was a couple of times. But before Harry could picture it in his mind, Halfwit had pulled him inside a musty old shop. Along one wall, Harry saw a selection of robes. Along the opposite wall stood an assortment of brooms, cauldrons, and pointed hats. At the far end of the room was a glass case filled with 1984 Donruss baseball cards.
    Halfwit directed Harry to a bookshelf which was completely empty, except for a single book. Harry had seen bookshelves like this before. He attended a big city public school.
    “No matter wot book yer lookin’ for, yez just hasta reach in, and yer gets ter book yer lookin’ for, automatic like,” said Halfwit. “This is yer first year, so yer gonna need Witchcraft Fer Dummies.” Halfwit grabbed the book, and sure enough, it was the exact one he’d wanted. And yet, the bookshelf still had the one book in it. “Here, go bring it up t’ ter counter.”
    Harry asked the clerk, “H-how much for this book?”
    “I’m afraid it’s pretty banged up. At best, I can give you $1.80.”
    “No, yuh boobus!,” shouted Halfwit. “ ’E’s not sellin’ ter bloody t’ing! He wants ter buy it from yer!”
    “I see. Well, in that case, the price is twenty-three dollars.”
    “Bah! Alla yer school bookstores are ter same! Don’t he get an orphan’s discount, like?”
    Halfwit tossed the cash on the table. “Now yez needs a wand. Yeh wouldn’t be no proper wizard without one. Ol’ Mr. Salamander’ll fix yez up.”
    A minute later, they were in Salamander’s Fine Wand Makers and Lotto, being measured and appraised by the darting silver eyes of Mr. Salamander. “Ears, five inches. Knees, knobby. Shoulders, unimpressive. Yes, I’ll have just the wand for you. Remember, though, it’s the wand that chooses the wizard, not the other way round. Let’s see how a dogwood will do you.”
    Mr. Salamander snapped his fingers, and suddenly the air was filled with wild commotion. Perhaps four dozen wands had burst from their boxes, and were now running around the room, making yapping sounds. Harry was amazed by the spectacle, until one overly friendly wand suddenly buried its nose in Harry’s crotch. “That means he likes yer,” said Halfwit.
    No sooner had Harry nudged the wand away from his groin when he felt a thirteen-incher frantically humping his left leg. Mr. Salamander squirted the wand with a water pistol, but the wand simply wouldn’t let go. “Well, I guess you’ve been selected,” said Mr. Salamander, handing Harry an empty box. “When he’s done, keep him in here.”
    “Yeah,” agreed Halfwit. “An’ let’s go find yer a pair of corduroy pants. Jus’ in case.”
                                                                                                        

Harry looked around with amazement, as Halfwit walked him through the hallways of Pockmark’s School of Wizardry.
    “Yer gonna be ter top pupil Pockmark ’as ’ad since yer parents, I kin tell.”
    “Did you know my parents?”
    “I’m not s’posed ter do this,” said Halfwit, and Harry’s heart soared. Because he knew that every time Halfwit said that, every single time, it was going to happen in about six seconds. Harry’d caught on already, and there were still six and a half books to go.
    “You kin see ’im, ’Arry. I can show yeh yer parents.”
    “Bleccch,” thought Harry. “They’ve been dead for about ten years. They must be pretty ripe by now.”
    Harry followed Halfwit down a squeaky corridor lined with oil paintings. Harry couldn’t help but notice that the subjects of each painting turned to watch him as he passed by. Oh, brother. They give these Harry Plodder books writing awards by the truckload, yet half the stuff could fit comfortably into any episode of Scooby-Doo. Honestly.
    Anyway, Harry was so distracted by the spoooooky paintings that he didn’t notice Halfwit had stopped walking, and bumped right into the giant’s rump. If you’ve never walked face first into the five-foot-wide ass of a behemoth whose diet includes burrs, consider yourself lucky.
    “This is it,” barked Halfwit. “Th’ secret bathroom.”
    “Aren’t you coming into the bathroom with me?” asked Harry, unaware of how staggeringly wrong a question it was on so many levels.
    “Nope, some things yeh has ter handle fer yerself.”
    Harry stepped gingerly inside, and was relieved to see that there was no Screaming Sink of Sorrow, no Tiles of Terror, no Hand Dryer from Hell. The only thing strange was a toilet bowl perched atop a tower that swayed high into the air. Seeing steps curving around the column, Harry figured that he was supposed to go up there.
    After a long climb, Harry reached the toilet bowl. On its lid was a golden inscription. “He or she who lifts this lid shall see the longings they have hid.” Harry wondered what this meant. He had seen strange writings while inside public bathrooms, but those generally dealt with other topics.
    Harry lifted the toilet seat with a trembling hand, almost expecting an explosion. There, in the shimmering water, he saw his own reflection, and next to him, a man and a woman he had never seen before. For a moment, he thought he was looking at a pair of Smurfs, until he realized that the water itself was dyed blue for springtime freshness. He had never seen these faces before, and yet there was something familiar about them.
    “Harry,” said the woman, “Comb your hair. It looks like a rat’s nest.”
    “Yes, and tuck in your shirt,” added the man. “I didn’t raise you to be a bum.”
    “Technically, we didn’t raise you at all,” said the woman. “Maybe that’s because we DIED!”
    Slowly the pieces of the puzzle were coming together in Harry’s mind. Sometimes it takes him a little while.
    Then a light came into Harry’s eyes. This couple...Harry knew them. Bending over the bowl so severely that the tip of his nose got a faint tinge of blue from the toilet deodorizer, Harry blinked twice. “E-E-Elyse? And Steve Keaton?”
    Harry Plodder was a major Family Ties fan, and sometimes he liked to pretend that Mallory was his sister. Nobody ever said the kid was a genius.
    “You carry them for nine months and this is how they repay you,” griped the mother. “You’ve got some serious explaining to do, mister,” grumbled the father. “And stand up straight! God gave you shoulders, hold them up!”
    As Harry listened, the two faces in the toilet tried to make up for ten years of missing nagging, from his messy room, to his poor grades, to how he could spend all night running around with his friends yet not even have enough energy to rinse out a glass after he’d used it.
    It was during this ordeal that Harry realized suddenly how very lucky he was to be an orphan. Then a more physical realization came upon him. Shifting back and forth from foot to foot, in the thin altitude atop the toilet tower, Harry’s bladder suddenly felt like it was filled with firecrackers. He had never had to go so badly.
    He tried waiting until his mother stopped haranguing him about his CDs, about never lifting a finger, about not walking the poor dog (what dog?), and about two hundred other things he’d apparently been doing wrong. But she wouldn’t stop. And the instant his mother finished talking, his father started in. Finally, Harry could take the building pressure no longer. He unzipped his pants.
    “Just what on earth do you think you’re doing? Have you heard a word we’ve been saying?” screamed the reflection of Harry’s mother. Then his parents’ nagging was silenced by a gentle tinkling sound.
    “I’m sorry, Mom,” whispered Harry. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

                                                                                        Again with the skipping.

 

“Hello, sports fans! This is Hermaphrodite Granger, and with me is my color commentator Runt Greasy. Say hi to all the listeners, Runt!”
    “Uh, hah? What listeners? Who the hell are you talking to?”
    “Ha, ha, great commentary, partner! The Waffle is airborne! And this house championship game of Squamish is underway! The Waffle is grabbed by Dom Grillo. Oooh! And Grillo is blindsided by Chris Meisner! Absolutely crushed! No foul called on the play, though, because Grillo’s eyes popped out the back of his skull. Only frontal eyeball attacks are penalized. Runt, have you ever seen such action?”
    “Are you insane? Why are you saying all this stuff, just sitting all alone here in the bleachers?”
    “I’ll tell you who’s crazy, Runt. It’s rookie sensation Harry Plodder, for trying to penetrate this Cuspidor defense! Here comes the double team of Laura Guenego and Pearse Wonderchild, coming up on Syphilis Captain Andy Laitman. Dropping back are Jen Elliott, Rich Levey, and the terrible Tosaris Twins.”
    “I hate to interrupt you while you’re talking to NOBODY, Hermaphrodite, but what’s with all these names? I never heard of half these people.”
    “That’s okay, Runt. Counting us, there’s only about four students and two teachers you have to pay any attention to in this entire book. The other fifty names just pop up to make it sound almost like a school. You know, like the people sitting on the other side of the bar in every episode of Cheers.”
    “Great. Is there any chance you could explain the point of this nutty game to me?”
    “The point, Runt, is to stage a whole bunch of flying around for a big action sequence, once we get the movie rights to this mutha sold. Chris Columbus is gonna love this! Anyway, while we were talking, each team scored 87 points. Let’s look at that last replay through the Harry-Cam.”
    “Aba daba honeymoon! A judo a chop chop chop! It’s crackers to slip a rozzer the dropsy in snide!”
    “Runt, are you feeling okay?”
    “Sure! I just realized that no matter what gibberish I spit out, this convoluted Squamish “game” is so ridiculously confusing that no reader will ever catch me! Unga bunga! Oxygen is for losers!”
    “You finally caught on. And what’s really sad is, this sport is already more popular than hockey.”
                                                                                                          SKIP! Final Chapter!

As Harry entered the final chamber, there were three strange figures waiting for him. The first one was the oldest, but Harry could tell that he was a powerfully built man underneath his flowing cape. His hands were empty - his magic must be powerful to require no weapon, thought Harry with a shudder. The second one was a pretty young girl, dressed in rags and holding a splintered broom. The third figure was a teenager not much older than Harry, and carried a glowing blue sword. Before Harry could decide whether to attack, run, or get help, they spoke.
    “We have been expecting you for a long time,” said the man in the cape.
    “We have watched your adventures with growing irritation,” said the woman.
    “Did you really think you would get away with it?” snarled the teenager.
    “Huh?” began Harry. “Get away with wh--?” Just then, a searing pain shot up his right arm.
    “A little heat vision’s the least of your worries,” laughed the man in the cape. “Just wait until Time Warner’s lawyers get a hold of you. I had that parents-killed-grow-up-to-be-a-hero schtick copyrighted back in the 1930s.” Despite the flames licking at his shoulder, for some reason Harry suddenly noticed the big red S on the man’s chest.
    “AndI'm the one whose adoptive parents abused and mistreated me, while favoring their natural child,” said the woman. “Next thing you know, a jerk like you will be riding around in a pumpkin.” Harry felt the dull whack of a broom breaking over the back of his neck. Through a red haze of pain, he heard the woman giving unpleasant orders to several nearby mice. “Sure thing, Cindyrella,” they chirped, then turned towards Harry with malice in their eyes.
    As the rodents sharp teeth sank into his flesh, Harry’s third tormentor spoke. “And that business about realizing and developing the incredible powers that were always hidden inside you? That’s real original,” growled the teenager. Now blind with agony, Harry could hear the dull hum of his enemy’s glowing saber, getting louder with each step closer. “May The Force be upside your head” was the very last thing Harry heard, and then he heard no more.