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

your chest. Either way, Lenny, Fergus and Marsden could smell the scent of fear and desperation a mile off and I was going to have to step up to Savani in order to assert myself. It seems that I was going to have to go ‘street hood’ to get some ‘street cred’ and there was only one option left − to break out in rap.

At that moment the cogs in my brain started to whir but something just didn’t feel quite right. It was like the wheel was spinning but the hamster was napping, but it didn’t matter either way − I was going to nail this. Everybody knew that girls couldn’t rap − this was in the bag! Savani was about to get served a cold dish of ‘don’t mess with Howie’ with a side serving of ‘in your face!’ But perhaps it was best to start by giving Savani a little entree of ‘Sassy Sootfell!’

“Whatcha want you lil’ smurf? Why you busting my chops here on my turf?” I said as I attempted my best impersonation of Quockingpoll’s most infamous rapper, Doop Snogg.

Savani looked at me as if a grotesque carbuncle had appeared where my face used to be.

“Oh! You want to go gangsta do you? If it’s a rap battle you want, it’s a rap battle you shall have!” responded Savani as she stretched her neck from side to side, as if she was actually warming up for a fist fight.

“Let’s do it!” She cried. “Savani’s in da house... you wanna be quick on your feet to seize the beat and bust a rhyme so sweet but if you can’t take the heat then get off the street before you’re revealed as obsolete!”

The crowd of students applauded with hoots and hollering. I could see that Savani meant business so I flipped my baseball cap backwards − maybe looking like a rapper was going to get me over the line, this was getting serious and I was going to need every bit of help that I could muster. This time I really concentrated but the cogs were still a bit rusty and all I got were fragments and snippets of random words: “buzz... bazooka... banana... Batman,” rather than some happenin’ lyrics. Bummer! I was starting to regret my assumption about girls not being able to rap. It seemed that Savani could indeed bust a rhyme − I was going to have to pull out all the stops. I could feel the eyes of Lenny, Fergus and Marsden on me, willing me to fail. Here goes nothing I thought.

“Good try small fry,” I rapped as I eyed off Savani, “but that ain’t gonna fly.”

I then cranked it up and let loose. “Bust it! Bada bing. Bada bang. My buzz has got... um... bite, it’s brash and it’s brutal like a big bad... um... bazooka. Beware of my brassy beat: bloated like a blowfish, bent like... um... a banana, brazen like Batman. Bam!”

I thought that my rap frenzy was a pretty darn good attempt but the students just stood there looking around in awkward silence. I glanced at their faces and I was getting about the same amount of enthusiasm as when I told my parents that I wanted to become a ventriloquist. Even Barney was avoiding eye contact with me. Finally, Lenny broke the silence. “You suck Footsmell!” he bellowed and everybody laughed.

“Is that all you got rapper boy?” queried Savani. “Let me show you how to bust a beat properly!” Savani did a little hip-hop shuffle and then broke out in rhyme. “You wanna be Doop Snogg but you’re just a goose who sounds like Dr Seuss! You’re already out of juice and you need to get back in your caboose ’cos you’re like a tiny baby in a lil’ papoose and you’re about to see me let loose! I got one word for you... vamoose!”

Again, the crowd responded with fawning cheers and clapping. I was starting to get irritated − this rap battle certainly wasn’t going according to plan and was beginning to look more like a rap massacre. “Try harder Howie!” I said to myself. “You can still make a come-back!” Again, I tried to channel some inspiration and guidance and, again, my brain didn’t cooperate as I only received a few token offerings: “tram... scram... jam... yam.”

Yam?! Huh? I didn’t even like yams!

I could tell the crowd was getting edgy – the jeering and insults were giving it away: “Get on with it Footsmell,” “You’re a birdbrain,” “You stink Howard!” I could feel the pressure but I couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer, I decided it was time to face the music as I dove in.

“What ya talking about twisted sister? I ain’t speaking about no green eggs and ham. My rhymes rattle off like... um... the 4-11 tram. Rolling you under just like that. Um... Scram! If you wanna jimmy and if you wanna jam, then I’m da man! Um... Yam!”

Again, an awkward silence ensued, but was quickly filled with some additional namecalling: “You daft pillock!” “You’re a dopey dingbat!” “You nobble head!” I’m not exactly sure what some of these words meant, but I was sure that they weren’t compliments and these insults were starting to affect my confidence. This was one tough crowd; I was giving them my all but obviously these bunch of ungrateful nincompoops had lofty expectations. If they thought that a school rap battle was going to be some super stellar display of rhythm and rhyme, then they were going to be bitterly disappointed.

“That was limp as wilted lettuce Sootfell!” stated Savani. “Watch me take it to the next level, super stellar is what I’m talkin’ about!”

“Oh great!” I thought to myself. And that’s what Savani did. Unfortunately for me, she did take it super stellar.

“You are in the vicinity of a rapping divinity and it’s hard to keep up with my fluidity!” The words were coming out of her mouth like bullets. “Skippity boop and skippity bop, you