Googol Boy and the peculiar incident of the Great Quiz Trophy John Michael (fox in socks read aloud .TXT) 📖

Mr Perriman’s scowl went into overdrive — he now looked like he had gone through an entire bag of lemons. “Those two shots ain’t worth diddly-squat unless you get this third one in... remember that! It ain’t over until the full-time siren Hogwart!”

I ignored Mr Perriman’s trash talk... he was just trying to rain on my parade. I was feeling super confident and the entire class was chanting my name.

It was music to my ears. That’s right Corporal Punishment! Are you hearing that sweet sound? It’s Howard! Not Hogwart! Not Hubert! Not Howell! I’ll show that Perriman! Who does he think he is with his stupid big fat chin? Nothing could stop me now! I was invincible.

I now felt like the world was my oyster... well... hmm... come to think of it... I actually hated oysters... they looked like super-sized boogers! I mean I didn’t mind clams... but you couldn’t really say I felt like the world was my clam. Either way, oysters or clams... it didn’t matter! All I wanted to do was end with a big finish. Give the crowd something they’ll remember! I thought I’d hit the top left-hand corner of the board, giving it some top spin so it would pivot downwards and go through the hoop in a diagonal direction... leaving that delightful sound for all of my adhering fans.

I bounced the ball once, the crowd quietened down immediately. It was so silent that you could have heard an ant fart from fifty paces. I bounced the ball again and then I aimed, and quickly redid my calculations − height, velocity, trajectory − and threw the ball. This time, however, I didn’t have that same feeling when the ball left my fingers. Something wasn’t right and I immediately realised what it was.

Unfortunately, in my haste and in my pursuit of unabashed glory, I forgot to factor in additional variables, such as the slight draft in the hall, the temperature variation and the residual grit on the basketball. As the ball hit the top left-hand corner of the board, it skidded ever so slightly, reducing the topspin and it pivoted downwards at a steeper angle. As a result, instead of the delightful sound, the ball connected with the rim of the hoop and circled around once, twice... would it drop in or rebound outwards? It circled the rim thrice... the situation was looking awful... awful indeed.

And what about Barney? He would never forgive me if he had to run laps around the oval. Especially now that he had ripped his pants. He would have to run the laps with his Bert and Ernie underwear out in full view for the entire world to see. If the running didn’t kill him, there was a good chance he would die of embarrassment.

The ball went around the rim one more time.

The ‘just know’ feeling came back again, but it was more along the lines of when you just know ‘if something can go wrong, it will go wrong.’ I started to wallow in my misfortune, oh why did I have to get so überconfident, so cocky? Such arrogance had been the downfall of so many great heroes in the past − the Hulk, Ironman, Spiderman, and now it was my turn.

The basketball went around the rim of the hoop for the fifth time. My brain did a quick calculation of the centrifugal force, trajectory and speed of the ball. Chances of the ball going through the hoop − 31.2 percent. Bummer!

I just couldn’t watch anymore. I closed my eyes and tried to block out everything but instead, I had an unsettling vision and foresaw our ill-fated destiny.

There we were, Barney and I, looking quite miserable out on the oval, one hour had passed and we had just finished our second lap. It certainly was an ominous scenario − at this stage, we were running at walking pace (if you could call it running) and we were stumbling, coughing and wheezing. Our clothes were soiled and ripped and we looked gaunt and scrawny. A flock of ravens were circling above, waiting for us to collapse in exhaustion so that they could pick the flesh off our bones.

Mr Perriman was following us with a cat-o-nine-tails* in his hand, which he was cracking at our heels while screaming at us. “Ye are a pack of blaggards. Get movin’ ye bilge-rats... ye still needs to scour the mizzen masts and hoist the battens if ye is to avoid walkin’ the plank.” I’m not sure why he was talking like a pirate and I had no idea as to what he was saying, but he was even scarier with a whip in his hand — he had gone from Corporal Punishment to Captain Blackbeard. Again, he cracked the whip and hollered at us. “Yer doom be nigh, ye lily-livered scurvy seadogs!”

At that moment, we collapsed from exhaustion as the merciless sun beat down on us and finally, we gasped our last breaths. Barney looked at me with a solemn expression and mumbled his final words. “Avenge me Howie. Avenge my death.” I responded with a hollering cry. “No! Take me instead!” And then I collapsed. And that was that. We had both kicked the bucket.

Our funerals were a mournful affair, as funerals often are. Principal Ditherington provided a long (very long) eulogy and, yes, he did interweave unicorns into his speech. I won’t bore you with all the intricate details but the phrases “brave heroes,” “valiant and noble young men,” “courageous souls” and “ravenous appetite” were mentioned throughout the eulogy, a lot. Well, that last term was used exclusively for Barney but, on the whole, the funeral was well attended and there were tears aplenty. The one upside to our untimely deaths was that they did finally fire Corporal Punishment, he would never be able to inflict his torment on another poor student.

I opened my eyes and snapped