The Help-Yourself Disclaimer

Concerning the material on this website, if you insist on reading it, please make the maximum amount of changes mentally, and not only in order to correct my spelling mistakes, but especially to improve the spell.

The most valuable parts of my writing fall into two categories: things that can never be copyrighted and things that I am overwhelmingly in favor of sharing. My work is no one’s private property, and all imitations, criticisms and parodies are welcomed.

However, if I may suggest, should you earn a handsome income, please use that money to build a better world, not better orphanages, hospitals, schools, and so on, but a whole world, from the foundation up. For, if I may be excused for saying so, a grand fool fixes a leaky bathtub while the whole house sinks into a bog.

If you like, send me your parodies and I’ll publish them right here.

Peter Dudink

On a Sinking Ship

They were chasing Doctor Death or someone very smelly. For seven days and seven nights they searched the seven seas. On the eighth day they lost hope. They lost the coast, too. They were lost.

“Don’t worry,” said his father. “Everything is okay.”

The waves grew bigger and bigger, and their boat filled with water. Well, it wasn’t really a boat; it was an old hotel bathtub. Sharks and waves knocked against their tub. Maybe it was their last adventure.

“Dad, I feel thirsty and hungry. I feel like I could drink the sea dry,” Cootie said. His father didn’t like the sound of that. He stood up and said,

“What a beautiful sea! Wow! Look around you!”

The bathtub leaned and the old man slipped and his arms went flying and as he crashed to the bottom he pulled the plug. Water filled the tub.

“DAD!! WE’RE SINKING!”

“Stay calm, son. We have a few minutes left. Enjoy them.” Then he stood up again, put one foot on the edge of the tub and moved his arms in circles. “Ahhh! Wowzers and holy schmoly! What an amazing world! Drink it up, son! Open your senses! Look, I can see the end of the world!”

“DAD! Help me empty the tub,” said the terrified boy as he splashed water out of the sinking tub.

“Forget it! Smell the air! Can you smell the salt of the sea? Ahhhhhh. It’s delicious. And listen, I can hear the universe breathing.”

“Dad, I’m still young. Please, help me!”

“Boy, if you want to live, us your seven senses!”

“Seven – seven? Dad, stop talking nonsense! We only have five senses. We can hear, see, smell, taste and touch,” he said, splashing madly.

“Son, I can taste you, touch you, see you, hear you but I can also humor you. Our sense of humor is an important sense. I mean, just taste this seawater. It’s,” he said as he scooped up a handful of salty water and drank and cried out “AGGHGEBBLAH!!!!!” in a spray of seawater. “Sorry, son, it tastes like your mother’s sweat.”

Cootie turned green. “I forgot about your sense of humor.”

Cootie’s father tried to grab a floating bar of soap. He wanted to wash.

“Dad, do you have a sense of right and wrong?”

The soap floated away; John reached for it.

“Dad, careful. Keep your balance! DAD! LOOK OUT!”

John fell overboard, into a wave, and cried, “Swim away while they eat me!” Before Cootie could text message his mother, a plastic helicopter flew at them from the bathroom door. Rose Bugle, his mother, stood there, hands on her hips.

“And who will clean up this mess?” she cried, pointing at the water and soap on the floor.

The Miracle Man

1

When I was a teenager, I always wanted to be a saviour. Trouble was, I could never find people less fortunate than me, and one day I so got desperate that I decided I had to help the ones more fortunate than me. Anyway, one day while I was puttering about in a garbage can I heard this pitiful groaning next door: “Oh sweet Jesus, how long must I wait for a child? I’ve been a good girl all my life, haven’t I?”

Without hesitation, I straightened my shirt and rang Ms Lucky’s doorbell. Yes, that was her name. Anyway, she didn’t answer, so I heaved a brick through the window and shouted, “EXCUSE ME! I THINK I CAN HELP!”

The wailing stopped. The woman picked up the brick and looked at me in astonishment, possibly because the brick was made of baked dung.

“Ms Lucky, I know a spell that can make you pregnant,” I said and waved my wand to help her understand.

The brick plunked onto her foot, filthy slang leapt from her tongue, and in the ensuing silence her loneliness returned and she considered my offer. Perhaps she was mulling over what people would think once she was pregnant, since it was common knowledge that her man was sterile.

“Well,” she finally began, “it’s certainly very kind of you to offer. But can you promise that the child will be good?”

“Hmm. What would God do?” I wondered, and suddenly realized I should check the woman’s qualifications to rear a child. Still, I had already raised her hopes, and I didn’t want to add insult to her despair.

“It will be a fine child,” I promised.

“Sweet! But hey, is this cheaper than the fertility clinic?”

I stood there, stunned by her insensitivity. She noticed, apologized and took me in. The filthy apartment needed help too, but that wasn’t the time. I cast my specially formulated spell of immaculate impregnation and departed, confident of a job well done.

2

A few months later some depressing journalist reported domestic violence connected to the very residence where I had provided copious succour. So, the following week I stopped by to determine the truth. I could hear the screams and the violence a block away and dared not ask about the plume of smoke rising from thereabouts. Undaunted, I skipped onwards, danced up the steps and rhythmically rang the doorbell.

Mr Lucky opened the door, belching smoke.

“Hi. My name is Cootie Bugle. Could you get Mrs Lucky for me?”

He hesitated, looking at me with suspicion.

“COOTIEEEE!” a woman cried inside.

The moment I grinned a great fist grabbed my collar and held me flush with the giant oaf’s face.

“So it was you! You slept with my wife and gave us a colic baby!”

“Ah, no, no, m-m-my wand did it, I swear!” I beseeched him to spare my life and produced the diminutive branch as proof of my innocence.

“Oh,” he growled. “Then is it my child?”

“Sure, if you accept it.”

“YOU IDIOT! I mean, am I the father?”

“I’m sorry, I never thought to–”

The oaf screamed and I flew like a bird, or maybe more like a bag of garbage, before I could whisper a bruise-preventing spell, while hurtling through space, an angelic apparition distracted me with the words, “Cootie! I am your father! The man you inadvertently helped won’t be happy until he has a job. Help him!”

That was when my body got intimate with the pavement with a great KERCRACK.

“NEXT TIME I’LL FIND YOUR MOTHER AND PUT YOU BACK INSIDE HER!” Mr Lucky promised.

I wondered how he would do that. I didn’t mind suffering to make people happy, but what good would I be dead? Presumably, somewhat less good.

3

One sunny day, after the fire department extinguished the flames and life returned to normal for the Luckys, I returned to discover, much to my surprise, that the Lucky’s and all their neighbors were living on the sidewalk near the burnt hulk of the low income housing complex. The adults looked pretty unhappy. Me, I barely resisted the temptation to drag them into the abyss of despair, and just managed to put on my winning smile before cheerily greeting the miserable lot.

“Good morning everyone! Isn’t it an absolutely phenomenal day to be outside?”

The Luckys looked unconvinced. Indeed, they looked ready to murder me. To make matters worse, with exceptionally poor timing, their little cutie-pie burst into a fresh round of high-pitched, ear-violating shrieks.

I bent down and whispered into Mr Lucky’s ear, “Cheer up. I can help you get the best job of your life.”

“Really?” he asked in wonder. “I have no education and my IQ is just 82.”

“Never mind that! You see Mr Lucky,” I said, donning my Tony Robbins hat, “you have to believe in yourself and always understand that you have so much potential. You can do anything you want with your life. There’s no such thing as luck; just set goals for yourself and if you stay focused and eat your breakfast you can have the whole universe! Do you want a suit and tie? You can have them! Do you want a car and a carport? You can have them too! You only need a reasonable plan.”

By the time I finished my spiel he was standing up and cheering me on in a fit of excitement. As soon as he got his feet back on the ground we decided he would definitely become the CEO of a major beer brewery. We started planning and had just finished drafting our day’s itinerary and initiated a personal transformation trip to a business suit discount outlet, when, as luck would have it, Mr Lucky tripped over an empty bottle and broke his honker.

Whining, he said, “I’ll never get hired now!”

“Not with that attitude! Listen, you’re more employable than ever! Faces don’t get hired, people with confidence and exuberance get hired! Now, pick up your feet and let’s go! There’s a new fast food joint looking for a short order chef.”

4

Three months later, still homeless, with his mighty minimum wage earnings going into medical treatments for his daughter, with dreaded winter edging nearer, Mr Lucky’s confidence began to falter and I was running out of speeches and advice.

“Maybe you could use your wand again, Mr Cootie,” the man suggested.

“I can’t just magically give you a job. Imagine all the questions people would ask.”

“Could you improve my skill set?” he asked.

“Your employable assets?” I repeated, musing. I knew very well that no miracle could grant intelligence to anyone, not even to the most woefully short-changed child of humankind. Well then, what was I to do?

“Maybe Bob could start his own business,” the woman brilliantly suggested. “He used to deliver cold pizzas on foot. With super-powers he could deliver pizzas ten times faster than any car!”

I was desperate for a solution, anything to salvage my honor and confidence in my life-enhancing, magical powers. I considered consulting with my father, but decided not to tempt evil. With a deft flourish of my wand and a catchy spell, Mr Bob Lucky received twin, gas-powered prosthetic devices.

“HEY, THANKS!” said Bob, beaming as he dashed off through a blur of traffic.

Though Bob believed in himself, no one else believed in his ability to deliver pizzas on foot, so it was back to life as a short order cook for the Lucky Heart Restaurant, to everyone’s surprise, he robbed a few churches and banks and sold all my sex toys to some kids. Then he bought a house and retired, leaving me to deal with the cops. Luckily I tracked the Luckys down to an affluent, uptown neighborhood. When I arrived, I heard the whole family weeping, sobbing and some wailing too. I offered a box of 30% more absorbent tissues, but their hands were full of crumpled, wet newspapers.

“So, you’re feeling guilty, aren’t you?” I assumed, trying not to show my complete exasperation.

They shook their heads. The child, not yet a year old, cast a murderous glance my way, shook a flaming finger at me and complained in perfect English, “Sure we’re rich now, but what about the rest of the world? It’s drowning in abysmal poverty, rock music, synergistic mob behaviour, wet dreams, fast food, family destruction, global cooking and 7-11s 24/7; – not to mention electrolytic advances in vitamin pill production systems. Did you think to read a newspaper, just once, before creating me?”

I stood there, transfixed by my daughter’s piercing accusation. Then I did the only thing that seemed to make sense: I gave them my wand. Laura Lucky’s eyes lit up. Before I could escape, she jumped halfway across the room and nearly gave me an enema with my own wand! I escaped through a window and hobbled away, my buttocks impaled. Ten blocks away, out of breath, I wiggled the stick free and let out a blood curdling scream of frustration.

5

The whole family was after me, so I hid in a cemetery and wept and thought, “Why isn’t anything going right? Why can’t I make anyone happy? Why was I so unlucky?”

“Cootie, don’t feel blue. Lots of people need you.”

I turned and there he was, my confidence angel.

“Ha! Who needs me?” I asked.

“All the cadavers buried here. Resurrect one and you’ll see”

I rolled my eyes.

“Trust me,” the angel said.

I fumbled for my bloody wand and reluctantly looked among the tombs for someone to revive.

“Be careful,” the angel shouted after me and flew away, forever, I secretly hoped.

Be careful, be careful, I repeated to myself until I found a headstone with the name, “Mr Totally Unlucky.”

“Here’s someone who deserves to live again,” I concluded with confidence. In a magical jiffy I opened the grave and sprinkled the corpse with a secret concoction of invigorating vitamins. Within moments, the dilapidated body was reconstituted and stood before me, a beastly, horned silhouette in the night.

“Aren’t you going to thank me?” I asked, hoping I had not made another mistake.

No such luck. The resurrected monster laughed brazenly before bowing and saying, “I am much obliged for your kindness. BUT THE WORLD WILL PAY FOR IT!” With these words, he winked and left for the city.

Unable to bear another failure, I snapped my wand once, twice, three times and leapt into the empty grave. I clawed the earth down on me and lay there, sighing, sighing until a complete idiot noticed me and convinced me to give life another chance.

The People Who Didn’t Want to be Saved

1

One day, for no particular reason, John Bugle felt exceptionally generous and gave his son his velvet-lined slippers, his sticky wand, his sequin-covered top hat and the biker sunglasses with one lens missing.

“Don’t thank me, son,” his Dad began, very gravely, pulling the hat over his son’s face. “This is just my way of saying, your destiny has arrived: it’s your turn to save the needy people of the world. Go and pull them out of exploding volcanoes! Talk to the lonely and rejected, employ the unemployed and …. umm, bring laughter to people who are tired of being laughed at.”

Cooter pulled the hat down to his eyebrows and heard a call for help from the fluffy clouds in the stratosphere. Sitting down, he placed the soles of his feet together, placed the wand between them, and took off like a bullet to save someone’s day.

2

He rocketed, feet first, to the man helplessly hurtling through the sky with piercing screams. However, before stopping the man’s free-fall he remembered how his father had once been sued, so he decided to make certain that the free-falling, screaming man really wanted to be saved.

“Excuse me, did you call for help?” Cooter shouted.

The man swore at him and then grabbed his hand and begged his instant forgiveness. Though Cooter pulled with all his strength, they both accelerated towards certain death. At that moment he noticed that the falling man was an airline pilot, so he just had asked, “I guess you thought you’d never be unlucky, did you?”

The man swore at him again, and this time didn’t ask for forgiveness, or even say sorry, not even when Cooter asked for an apology.

“Well, he’s probably under a lot of stress,” Cooter thought, and wondered how he could help. He pointed his wand at the screaming man and – as they burst neared the ground – he mangled some magic words and changed the man into a bird, unfortunately not the kind that flies well, for it was a kind of domesticated chicken. The good thing was, since chickens are much lighter than full-grown men, by the power of his magic hat, Cooter was able to land safely. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to undo the spell before a fox came and severely abused the chicken.

3

Before he could discuss the outcome with his father, his super-powerful hat detected an S.O.S. in the middle of a storm. With the wand firmly between his feet, he rocketed into the howling weather and found a fishing craft near sinking. The fisherman stopped praying and screamed as Cooter rolled across his deck and into the bridge. He came swinging with a pole and hook.

“BY THE DEVIL’S HORN, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

“I might ask the same thing of you,” replied Cooter, rubbing his noggin. “This isn’t exactly a safe place to be, even in good weather. There’s half a mile of water below!”

“This ain’t no time to start questioning my livelihood. Some of the apostles were fishermen. You just get a pail and start bailing! We’re taking on water faster than a sponge.”

Cooter started bailing, but even with his powers, he could not stay upright against the waves.

“WE’RE GOING TO SINK! Sir, to save your life, would you mind if I changed you into a fish?”

“What? And be caught, killed and fried in a skillet? NO THANKS! I’d rather drown.”

That gave Cooter an idea. He leaned towards the sea and sucked up its waters in one mighty slurp, sending the boat rushing down to the muddy bottom, where thousands of fish and odd creatures and plants lay gasping and dying under the clearing sky. As the danger of sinking was gone, Cooter wondered why the fisherman looked displeased. Indeed, the fisherman looked aghast at the precious sea-life expiring on the exposed sea floor.

“THE FISH!” he cried. “There will be nothing to eat tomorrow! My family has fished here for generations! I will go home and hang myself after I kill you – you IDIOT!”

4

After a narrow escape he had no time to rest, for screams rose up from the city. After a pause the tired and frankly annoyed boy attempted to fly through the air again, but was too heavy, being weighed down by the sea in his belly. So, to lighten his load and possibly save the fisherman’s livelihood, he relieved himself somewhat, but in rude fashion, though without being noticed.

Cooter straddled his wand and flew as fast as possible, at about the speed of an immensely overweight turkey, towards an apartment complex barbequing its occupants. Beneath him, fire trucks were stuck in rush-hour traffic. Hundreds of people danced excitedly on their balconies, as if they too needed a bathroom break.

“Hello sky-box-dwellers!” cried the flying boy, still annoyed by the fisherman’s ingratitude. “Do you suddenly want to have your feet on the ground?”

An elderly, habitually polite woman, replied, “Please, young hero, would you mind taking our place in this fire?”

Cooter felt his heart throb as if with pity, but his nose twitched as he tested the smoke. “Sorry, I’m not into toxic barbeques. Otherwise, I would have been glad to volunteer. Do you want me to toss the whole burning tower into the Yellow Sea, though it’s only half full?”

An old woman cried, out, “Oh God, why did we put our faith in architects, engineers and fire engines? We should have put our faith in you.”

Cooter offered to turn them all into a flock of birds.

“Quick! Turn me into a finch!” one man yelled.

“Turn me into an bunting!” another shouted.

“A kite!”

“A kingfisher!”

“A COCKATOO!”

And so on, all names he’d never heard of before, therefore making his job impossible. He thought of urinating on the burning tower, but thought that was impolite, so instead he turned everything in the building into stone, everything – well, except for most of the humans. This almost instantly extinguished the fire.

The people cheered and celebrated for a few seconds, or just until they found all their precious furniture, textiles, rare books, appliances, soft beds and electronics turned to stone. Cooter fled away again, barely eluding a hail of stone fruit and toilet paper.

5

In his haste and confusion of emotion, quite by accident he flew directly over the city’s nuclear power plant, which happened to be on the brink of catastrophe. Cocking his super-ear, Cooter overheard the following conversation inside:

“Should we call Super-Cooter?” one asked.

“Are you mad? You know how much seawater he drank? He’ll try to save us with a fearsome urination!”

Hearing them laugh, Cooter smashed through the walls, wagged his finger at them like his mother had done a thousand times at him, and said, “Why have you lost trust in me?”

“Ah, well, you have made a few errors in judgement, haven’t you?” they cunningly replied, half-grinning, half in reproach.

“Can you get better service from another hero? Right. Then don’t complain so much, and be happy with your lot!”

Despite this excellent speech, they still didn’t trust the kid and shut the plant down. The trouble was, this meant that nothing in the city worked except for a few bicycles and battery operated toothbrushes. People weren’t exactly overjoyed about that, so the Ministry of National Energy asked Cootie to donate his super-energy.

“We’ll just hook you up to the electric grid. It’s won’t hurt,” they said.

Cooter starred, flabbergasted, for he was sapped by his adventures, and wondered where he could pee. To encourage him, they said,

“Don’t doubt your powers! Your father has done it a million times!” they lied, and added, “Don’t hold back your precious energies! People need their morning coffee!”

“I understand, but I have a better idea,” the magician kid suggested, his voice rising as he started shaking with anger.

“What’s that?” they asked, eyebrows furled.

“I’LL BLOW UP YOUR NUCLEAR PLANT! MAYBE THE RADIATION WILL CAUSE MUTATIONS AND CREATE AN INTELLIGENT SPECIES, OR MAYBE JUST A POLITE ONE. GOOD-BYE!”

6

After flushing the excess salt out of his system, Cooter reported the world’s behavior to his father, who nodded and nodded and almost fell asleep. “Well,” he finally managed in response, “nothing has changed, son. I guess they’ll never learn.”

“I’m not giving up yet. I want to have as much fun as you did.”

“And understandably. Life is rather boring without the world’s daily emergencies. There was nothing quite like a morning newspaper to give me a new goal and reason to live.”

“And we have a responsibility to use our gifts to ensure that good always triumphs over.”

“Maybe we do, or maybe we’re just here to amuse them.”

“COOTER! COOTER!”

It was his mother, shouting for him from the garden. “Get over here and help me! We’ve got twenty bushels of tomatoes to haul into the kitchen. There you can crush them with your feet into a fine sauce!”

His father shrugged his shoulders, looked up to the heavens and said, “Don’t worry, son, the world can wait a day or two. It’s the small things in life that always gave me the greatest sense of accomplishment, and with luck you’ll feel the same way.”

The Earthquake Department

When Cooter learned that the distant province of Shaky Grounds often suffered powerful and very fatal earthquakes, he screamed for a long time, then he cried, and finally he sat down and planned. First he refreshed his knowledge of the causes of earthquakes. Then he asked his father for advice on the prevention of earthquakes.

John’s eyes brows wriggled before he said, “Take a bottle of superglue and some masking tape.”

“What for?”

“To glue your feet to the earth when it shakes so hard you’ll think your head will fall off.”

Cooter hesitated to ask about the tape, for fear of more bad advice. Then he decided to leave for Shaky Grounds, jumped on his magic paddle and –

“One more thing, son: should I tell your mother that you went out picking mushrooms or that you went to the library to study?”

“Tell her both lies, in case she doesn’t believe one of them. BYE!”

He whacked himself with his paddle so hard that he exploded off the ground and hurtled through the sky, straight at the province of Shaky Grounds. He was sorry for not wearing a helmet, or at least a seat belt.

Arriving in the town of Earthsfault, he met a bunch of kids wearing bandages. Cooter lifted his hat, hid his bruises, and said, “Take me to the man responsible for your earthquakes. I’m going to have a word with him!”

“You think he’ll listen to you?” they asked, trying not to laugh.

“Hahahahahahaha! Of course, everyone listens to Supercooter!”

The bandaged ogres whispered to each other before telling the younger boy, “We are flattered by your desire to help us. However, you’re so young, and you have no experience in earthquake rescue operations. This job is out of your league. Sorry, but we’re looking for a different kind of superhero.”

Cooter grinned. “You think you can attract someone better? Ha! A small town like this, hundreds of miles from a big metropolis? No serious superhero wants to work here. Now, if you want to save your town from another earthquake, you’ll buy me some chewing gum and take me to the source of the shaking.”

They gave him some pre-chewed gum and took him to an old mine on the outskirts of town, and unceremoniously threw him down the dark shaft. While airborne, clever Supetercooter crawled inside his magic hat and flapped like a bird until he landed, unhurt, three miles beneath the surface of the earth, in a boiling cave. In the distance hung a neon sign that read, The D.E.P.. The fearless boy went there, oh so quietly, opened a wooden door and found a dusty and musty office behind it. A single desk was manned by a heavily bearded office clerk.

“How can I help you?” he inquired.

“I’m here to stop the earthquakes that kill people and flatten buildings. Am I in the right place?”

“I don’t know. I don’t answer that question.”

“Why not?”

“It’s the responsibility of another office. This is the Department of Earthquake Productions.”

Cooter felt his temper rising. “ARE YOU THE EARTHQUAKE MAKER?”

“No, I just press the button. Now, if you have any more problems, please fill out the appropriate forms on your left, right, and all around,” he said, vaguely gesturing at all the paper forms Cooter could fill out. The boy thought he had heard something strange. Had the clerk said he was in the Department of Earthquake Productions?

The stuffy old man looked nervous. He moved some papers around on his desk before saying, “Don’t be surprised. Not many people know about us. Earthquakes have gone out of fashion, so we are scheduled to produce only a few more earthquakes before we cease operations.”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Supercooter cried and jumped through the ceiling and fell down in a pile of ruble. As he unfolded his hat, he asked, “Do you mean that the government pays you to create earthquakes? Why? Are you all crazy?”

The old clerk stood up and become animated. “Young man, you seem to have the wrong idea about earthquakes. Every town in Shaky Grounds loves earthquakes! Our people love being shaken out of our boring, daily routines! There’s nothing like the adrenaline rush you get in the middle of a good, earth-shaking quake. Entire towns jump up and dance and pray like there’s no tomorrow and only the cowards run to open fields. Haven’t you ever experienced one?”

“Uhm, no, I haven’t, he confessed.

“Then you don’t know what you’re missing!” said the old man, who shook his head and worried about the young generation.

Cooter couldn’t believe it. “But I’ve seen entire cities destroyed by earthquakes. It’s on television; it’s in my school books!”

“Well, whatever you learned, you didn’t learn about the land of Shaky Grounds. We love danger.”

“Then why is your earthquake production operation scheduled to finish?”

The old man blushed. “Well, people just grew bored of earthquakes. Nowadays, volcanic explosions are in fashion.”

“That sounds like progress,” said Supercooter, remembering some great firework.

“Unfortunately, our volcanoes don’t last more than a year. So, we’re already planning floods for next Christmas.”

“Cool. So, it looks like you don’t need me here and I can go home. Nice meeting you,” said Cooter, shaking the man’s hand but staring at the ground, trying, in vain, to hide his disappointment.

“Cheer up,” said the musty old clerk. “There is something you could do.”

His eyes lit up. “You want me to rescue you from this abominable hole?”

“I have a smaller task in mind. Could you go up and buy seven light bulbs, some milk, a food mixer and some wallpaper? I’ve been stuck here so long and I’d love to redecorate the office. Do you think you could do that?”

Cooter jumped at the chance to be useful and cried, “Of course!” He jumped back into his hat, remembered something, jumped back out and said, “Could you loan me some money? I’ll pay you back, I swear!”

The clerk laughed, opened a fat wallet and passed a few bills to the boy.

Above ground, Supercooter had to fight dense holiday shopping crowds, agonized over his choice of wallpaper, and had to wait for hours in long check-out lines. Finally he returned holding a warm milkshake, some Christmas lights and a roll of hideous, used wallpaper.

At the D.E.P. office, the clerk thanked him.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” asked Cooter, proudly.

“Could you help me decorate the office?”

Cooter swallowed hard. He wanted to say no, but he was a superhero, he had to help people, so he screamed “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAI!”Then he pulled out his hair and said, “Sure, I guess.” And so it happened, and for a whole week they decorated the office in silence.

“Hey, do you think people are ready for a new earthquake?”

“Probably,” said Cooter, angrily. “They’ve been so rude to me in the stores. I always tell them I’m in a hurry, but they never let me to the front of the line.”

“Hahahahahaha!” laughed the delighted clerk. “That means it’s time for another EARTHQUAKE!” He laughed again and held a dangerous finger above the red button on his desk. “Do you want to press it?” he asked Cooter, tempting him with a grin.

“Oh, sure. But let me bring you aboveground, so that you can enjoy the excitement as much as everyone else.”

The dusty old clerk hugged the boy and together they disappeared into the magic hat and flittered away to the centre of town. Then Cooter rushed back to the office and pressed the button. There was no earthquake. Instead, a trapdoor opened, flooding the office with boiling magma and forcing the terrified Supercooter to dig up to freedom with his magic paddle. He came out in the centre of town and was so exhausted from the week’s work that he let the people of Earthsfault put him on a bus and send him home. Before falling asleep on the empty bus he thought how proud his father would be and asked himself how he would ever repay that crazy old clerk from the D.E.P..

The Humble Hero and the Petty People

1

Whenever I couldn’t find anything deserving the attention of a superhero, and I mean anything, even such dreadful injustices as pain, boredom and doubts about humanity, I went to the popular town of Hell. It was really an ordinary kind of town, but something about its name attracted me, at first, irregularly, then frequently, until at last I seemed to spend all my days there. People there just adored me. I don’t know why; maybe they appreciated my talent as a handyman, or my patience, maybe both. They always faced completely everyday problems that shouldn’t inspire emergency phone calls. At first I didn’t mind, was patient to a fault, and a model superhero. But gradually, almost too gradually to notice, their pleas for help became so frequent that I never had time to sleep, and didn’t see home for weeks, and – worst of all – their problems began to include the most utter frivolity.

2

The day my patience snapped began ordinarily enough, too ordinarily, if I can be honest. It began with a phone call from Miss Prissy, a local movie celebrity whose servants were on strike and needed help setting her table. Upon my arrival she answered the door, red eyes blinking, powdered cheeks stained with tears, breasts heaving with emotion, her mood full of relief, hope, and a dash of anger.

“OH MIGHTY SUPER-COOT! WHAT RETARDED YOUR ARRIVAL!?”

“Miss Prissy, please control yourself and tell me how I can help you.”

“You can start by holding me,” she began, and flopped into him.

“Sorry,” Coot apologized as he scrambled away from her, embarrassed, and helped her up. A tiny sliver of glass had cut his hand. A drop of blood splattered on her precious, white tile floor and sent Miss Prissy into paroxysms.

“AAAAAGGHH! GET OUT! OUT! OUT! OU-U-U-U-UT!”

“But, but I haven’t done my job yet.”

“Shall we take care of him?” asked a burly security guard, stepping between them.

“Can’t you see what transpired here?” Coot asked. “Judging from these shards, she’s broken a glass – a fine wineglass, I believe.”

“No kidding,” Miss Prissy replied, sarcastically, and suddenly had a brilliant idea. “Hey, be a savior and fix it ASAP. I need it for the party tonight.”

“Fix it? Do I look like a glue stick?” he answered, sourly, losing his trademark composure.

Being a talented actress, Miss Prissy turned on the faucet of tears. Like a perfect fool, or an inexperienced mother, Coot asked if there was anyone around who could comfort her, to which she responded with a fresh flow of brine. Fearing they would both be consumed with despair, he offered the following words of wisdom, “Why, Miss Prissy, did you shatter your brain or a wineglass? You mustn’t be so attached to material things.”

Unfortunately, Miss Prissy never tolerated this kind of philosophical attitude from anyone, and our hero departed, in genuine tears and a pattern of welts on his buttocks.

3

He crawled through the back door, jumped over the gate, down an alley and into a pack of whacked-out drug addicts who, at that moment, were in a hallucinogenic panic because, in their own words, “Joey’s socks don’t match! One of ’em is pink!” Appalled, they seized poor Joey, and violently beat him and denounced him for being a “Traitor to the cult of cool balance and symmetrical decency!”

“STOP IT! WHY DO YOU JUDGE A MAN BECAUSE OF HIS SOCKS?” cried Coot as he stripped his feet bare, being unwilling to be laughed at.

They turned to him and looked aghast, for his costume wasn’t zipped. One addict, clearly disturbed by Coot, tried to light a kind of cigarette and was in a panic looking for a lighter. Coot, remembering his oath to help all the wretched people of the Earth, stepped forward with his wand.

“Allow me,” he said, and a flame burst from the end of the magic stick and lit the watchamacallit.

“Hey, thanks. Here, have a drag. Good stuff.”

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” replied the clueless, somewhat innocent Coot.

“Hey, got any clean needles on you?” asked another addict.

“What do you need needles for? Are you sick?” Coot asked, touching the man’s forehead, his voice betraying his motherly concern.

“You’re playing stupid with us like that so come share the good stuff man!” they said, completely confusion reality and imagination.

Coot expertly avoided feeling confused and said, “Fine, I’ll give you a needle, since it’s so important to you. Please pull down your pants. There’s only one way to inject you with a wand, even one as little as this.”

Most of them obeyed, but a few clever ones demanded a topical administration of the drug.

4

Super-Coot received an emergency call from the Papal Seat in Rome. He found the Pope in his summer residence at Castelgandolfo, where he sat crying on the lawn of a secret courtyard, and jeers and laughter resounded from the children crowded around him.

Gently touching the old man’s neck he who knew less than nothing about religion, asked, “Sir, what ails you?”

He stopped weeping and checked his watch.

“You promised to be here a minute ago! In what time zone did you leave your brain?”

“Sorry. How can I help?”

He flung a deflated ball at him. “Can’t you see? Look at this soccer ball!” he said, reproachfully, as if Cooter was guilty.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Look, it’s flat!”

Cooter looked and was startled. The ball was indeed flat. More interestingly, it was printed with black and white crucifixes, presumably in honour of the Catholic man-god.

“Oh, I didn’t know popes played soccer,” remarked Coot, forgetting himself for a moment.

“Yes, yes, to connect with the common people, you know. We need to improve our ratings nowadays,” the old icon sighed, clearly annoyed.

“And it’s good for your health,” Coot added, bringing a fresh roar of laughter from the children.

“That may be true, but these boys, God bless them, have kicked my shins and given the bishops and I a drubbing we won’t soon forget! We’ll see you at confessional – you monsters!!” Pope Placido shrieked.

Coot was so embarrassed by the old man’s passionate outburst that he took the leather ball and in a single breath inflated it well beyond official size. When it blew to pieces the Pope ceased crying and the children ceased laughing and Cooter barely escaped their murderous clutches.

5

At last Coot was contacted by three dead sisters he had killed because they had asked him to and had asked him to because – surprise – they were sick of the world’s infinite pettiness. Unfortunately, things were far too ridiculous and philosophical in the world of the dead, so they began to complain about that too, and at last they called on their hero again. Coot, being ever glad to help the needy, expertly descended into the dusty world. Finding the three peevish ghosts, he introduced himself as usual,

“Good evening. I am Cooter Bugle, hero, magician and instant problem solver. How can I help you?”

“Skip the formalities, kid. Don’t you remember us? You helped us commit suicide last year.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, frowning at himself. “That case still troubles me. Did I do the right thing?” he asked, looking away, struggling to hide his confusion, hope and fear.

“We’re not so sure anymore,” said one.

“If the world has improved, we’d like to try life again,” another sister said.

“Umm, I’m terribly sorry, ladies, despite my best efforts, things are worse than ever.”

They roundly and soundly cursed the world.

Calming down, the third sister said, “There is one thing you could do for us.”

“What’s that?”

“Write a letter of complaint to the editor of the newspaper that printed our obituary beside a page with a coupon for glass eyes, beneath a public service announcement on our national sports addiction, above a report on the Catholic soccer league, and beside an article explaining that we died when our luxury sports car collided with a cattle truck! It’s degrading and outrageous!”

“Well, I must agree,” Coot confessed, nodding concernedly. “Still, you shouldn’t sweat the little things; what’s important is that you’re dead. Surely you can take some consolation in that.”

This time, though he wished to doff his hat like a true gentleman, he ran for his life to the land of the free, by which I mean the land free of philosophy.

6

“So, sun,” said my father. “What did u lurn from yur latest heroik advenchures?”

“I lurned that peepul waste a lot of tym worreeying about sirfasussss.”

“And without content dey feel uncontented. Is anyone exempted? The doctor of the innermost organ and the discoverer of the most abstract patterns in workforce behavyour? Are they?”

“Sadly, all are sunk in things remot from the sole. each one is spellbound by world superfacial laws for collars, heels, Capitals and bloody periods. Though i admit, sumtimes a rarer surface is a symptom of a disease and does spoil the content, but much that passeth for clearity is a blind show that serves only to obscure the thoughtless contentlesness.”

Rose Bugle interrupted, “Well said, my son. I dare say, neither you nor your father ever spoke better. If it weren’t so pleasantly ironic, I’d complain that your wisdom was intolerably out of character. Now, stay home for a time and attend to the greenery.”