of a children’s playground and snuffled ravenously at the swings and slide.
Screams of pain and horror echoed through the city. The earth thundered as impossible monstrosities lumbered through the night. From the shadows, I watched giant cannibals tear the heads from policemen at a doughnut shop. With great slurping noises they sucked the spinal cords from their victims. A few blocks down the road, a Liquifier slathered its web into a parked car and trapped a pair of lovemaking teenagers. Another Liquifier draw near to watch its sibling feast.
* * * *
The Titans are everywhere. Spider-demons, cannibals, winged goats, vile plant-things. They see me, but leave me be. In fact, they regard me with trepidation. And why not? I am the usurper of their father’s throne. In their eyes, I am capable of unspeakable devastation.
I am writing this in a luxurious penthouse apartment. I had to walk up sixty floors. Mr. Pash, Mr. Pash—all of this should have been yours. I am sorry that I laughed. So terribly sorry. I had planned to throw myself off the balcony, but in the end, I could not.
Just as I was about to jump, an enormous pair of snarling, oddly inviting lips opened up in the pavement below.
BUCKTOOTHED BOY, BELOVED BY MILLIONS
“Little Perky! Come home this minute!”
Mommy’s calling for you, Little Perky, little bucktoothed, black-haired boy. Mommy found a firecracker in your room. Firecrackers are so very naughty! You could lose a finger if you’re not careful.
Brush those heavy bangs out of your eyes and look around. Look around with those large round eyes, those shiny black eyes, those sweet mischievous eyes (beloved by millions!).
There’s Mr. Finkle’s house. Mr. Finkle is so funny when he’s mad. The veins stand out on his face and neck like big icky worms.
Way down the block—that’s where the Widow Prim lives. That noisy old crow! Her long nose is just like a beak. She always yells at you whenever you walk on her grass. “Get those big clodhopper feet off my grass, Little Perky, or I’ll tell your Daddy!”—that’s just what she yells.
Finkle, Prim, Finkle, Prim… Yes, visit Mr. Finkle today. A good long visit. You should wait a while before going home. Daddy teaches school to big kids, and he’s got some pretty old-fashioned ideas about discipline. That firecracker might have made him mad enough to get out the Board of Education (yee-ow!).
Mr. Finkle is working in his garden this afternoon. Oh, it’s a nasty garden, all weed-choked and silly. The tomatoes are tiny and hard! The cucumbers look like green bite-sized snack sausages! The lettuce is wormy and wilted (just like his face!). His garden was a lot better last year. Remember? You used his watermelons for slingshot practice.
“Well, if it isn’t Little Perky.” Mr. Finkle harrumphs at you as he hoes at the soggy clay. “In trouble again, I’ll wager. Didn’t I hear your mother calling?”
“Gee, Mr. Finkle—I don’t think so!” Your big eyes roll with glee. “That was Mrs. Finkle calling for you!”
“Oh, dear! Coming, Bitsy!” Mr. Finkle drops the hoe and trots off toward his tidy little pink-with-blue-trim house.
Dig deep in your pockets, Little Perky. You’ve got lots of firecrackers—might as well put them to good use. Wouldn’t the Finkles like a nice tossed salad…?
Run, Little Perky! Outrun the flying dirtclods and chunks of tomato!
Time for a commercial break, Little Perky. Koala Kough Drops are eucalypti-licious! Australian nights can get mighty cold, and when Kippy Kangaroo gets a scratchy throat, he turns to Koala Kough Drops for oh-so-fast relief.
Oh, what a day! What a sunny, wonderful day! You skip down the sidewalk, happy as a big, goofy dog. Your bangs bounce up and down as you skip. Time to peek in on Widow Prim…
Up to her little yellow house you creep. Peek through every green-trimmed window, Little Perky. Now where’s that Widow? She has to be home—she never goes anywhere.
Oh, goody! The back door is unlocked. You creep into the Widow’s kitchen and—what’s this? Pots and pans are scattered everywhere. She’s making pudding! The greedy old thing! Whipping up a big batch of butterscotch pudding all for herself!
On the windowsill you spy a vial of pills. The Widow’s heart medicine! Quick as a bunny, you pop the pills into your hanky, grind them under your heel, and pour all the white powder into the sugar bowl.
Suddenly you hear the flush of a toilet. It’s funny to think that Widow Prim actually goes to the bathroom. You mix the powder into the sugar with your finger. Then you slink out of the kitchen, easing the back door shut behind you.
You pick up a sturdy twig and rattle it against a picket fence as you stroll down the street. What to do now? Suddenly, someone steps in front of you. Mr. Finkle! His face is as red as a beet. The veins look just like thick, pulsy nightcrawlers! Now you’re in for it, Little Perky!
“You awful child! You’ve ruined my garden!” Mr. Finkle’s hands clench and clench. “I’m going to spank your bottom, you little vandal!”
Mr. Finkle reaches out for you, then stops as a scream erupts from Widow Prim’s house. The back door flies open and out shoots Widow Prim, clutching at her chest. Her face sure looks funny. All pale and twisty. Mr. Finkle pushes you aside and runs to help the Widow.
Now the sky’s all full of words. That’s weird, ain’t it? They’re all backwards, but you can figure some of them out. Ronald something, Ingrid Pretty… The words are getting smaller. What’s a producer? Does he sell produce to Mr. Furgeson’s grocery store? Those words sure go by fast!
“Little Perky! Little Perky, come home this minute!”
Uh-oh, the show’s starting again and you’re in trouble deep. Why did you leave your roller skates on the stairs? Poor, poor Daddy. How come he’s not getting up? You skip out of the house and down the street—
Suddenly you stop. There’s Mr. Finkle, walking down the sidewalk. He’s turned from you, but you can tell it’s him ’cause his head is so big. The back of his head reminds you of a ripe melon! You check your back pocket—yep, you’ve got your slingshot handy. You find a big old rock, load up and let fly.
Gee. The inside of his head looks like a melon, too!
You’d better run, Little Perky! Run as fast as you can! Down the street, past Mr. Finkle’s house, past the school, the fire station (wouldn’t it be nice to slide down the pole?), Mr. Furgeson’s grocery store, the hardware store, the pet shop (too bad Daddy wouldn’t let you buy that talking bird…still, Daddy knows best!), the barber shop, oh, your feet barely touch the ground, you’re running so fast!
Oh no, Little Perky! You ran too far! You’ve actually left Smartville behind. And now—why, this won’t do! You’re wandering in a big smelly city (smells just like doggy doo) and is that your reflection in that pawnshop window?
No, no, no—that’s some greasy-haired baggy-pants, some no-good drifter, some boozy old has-been with a saggy booze face. The kind Daddy used to warn you about.
Better run back, Perky! Back to Smartville and all its wacky citizens. Back to Smartville, where every housewife wears her hair in a flip and every husband
