Just Tricking! Read online

  Andy Griffiths discovered a talent for tricking his parents at an early age. Since then he has tried to trick many other people including friends, neighbours, teachers and complete strangers with a variety of lame pranks, poorly executed stunts, pathetic disguises and ridiculous stories.

  Terry Denton hates writing illustrator biographies. So he draws them. He was sitting at his desk trying to write this one when his head fell off. It landed on a skateboard . . .

  Also by Andy Griffiths

  and illustrated by Terry Denton

  Just Tricking!

  Just Annoying!

  Just Stupid!

  Just Crazy!

  Just Disgusting!

  The Bad Book

  The Cat on the Mat is Flat

  Also by Andy Griffiths

  The Day My Bum Went Psycho

  Zombie Bums from Uranus

  Bumageddon: the Final Pongflict

  Also by Andy Griffiths

  (with Jim Thomson and Sophie Blackmore)

  Fast Food and No Play Make

  Jack a Fat Boy: Creating a healthier lifestyle

  for you and your children

  Pan Macmillan Australia

  First published 1997 in Mammoth by Reed Books Australia

  This Pan edition first published 1999 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  These electronic editions published in 1999 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  Text Copyright © Andy Griffiths 1997

  Illustrations Copyright © Terry Denton 1997

  The moral rights of the creators have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.

  National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Griffiths, Andy, 1961–. Just tricking

  I. Denton, Terry, 1950–. II. Title.

  A823.3

  Adobe eReader format 9781-74197-011-1

  Online format 978-1-74197-614-4

  EPUB format 978-1-74262-217-0

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Macmillan Digital Australia www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online.

  You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  CONTeNTS

  Playing dead

  Cockroach

  Gorillagram

  Nick-knockers Anonymous

  Tell ya mum I saved ya!

  Emergency spew relish

  Beat the bomb!

  Born to die

  Invisipills

  A TerrIBLE Christmas and a CRappy New Year

  t’s 8.15 a.m. and I’m still in bed. I should have got up an hour ago.

  But I didn’t. You want to know why? Because I’m dead.

  Well, not really dead. I’m just pretending I’m dead so I don’t have to go to school.

  If I can convince Mum and Dad that I’m dead, not only will I have pulled off one of the greatest practical jokes of the century, but I’ll get off going to school for the rest of the year. Maybe even for the rest of my life.

  I got the idea from my dog. I’ve been taking Sooty to obedience classes each Sunday morning. We’ve only been going for a few weeks, but already he’s learned to sit, beg and roll over. Yesterday he learned how to play dead. I thought, if my dog is smart enough to do it, then why not me?

  All I’ve got to do is lie here without breathing or blinking. Well, when I say without blinking, I mean blinking when nobody is looking.

  And when I say without breathing, I don’t mean not breathing at all – that would be stupid. I mean just taking a tiny little breath every so often – just enough to keep me alive.

  The only thing that worries me is, I’m such an excellent practical joker, I might trick myself into thinking I’m really dead. And if that happened, I’d be as good as dead – or as bad as dead – because as far as I can see, there’s nothing really good about being dead, except that you don’t have to go to school.

  Suddenly Mum bustles into the room.

  ‘What? Still in bed? Come on, you’ll be late!’

  I hear the rattle of the curtains being opened.

  The sudden light hurts my eyes, but I remember not to blink.

  Any moment now Mum is going to see me. And scream.

  She’s standing right next to me.

  ‘Pooh, what a stink! When’s the last time you cleaned this room? It’s an absolute pigsty! Dirty socks and undies everywhere. Why can’t you put them in the washing basket like your sister does? If you’re not showered, dressed and out of this house in ten minutes you’re going to miss your bus, and I’m not going to drive you.’

  She walks out of the room.

  I stare at the ceiling. What else would a real corpse do? It’s not as if it would make some brilliantly witty comeback, like, ‘Lay off me, you old bag. I’m not going to school today because I’m dead. Just leave me alone so I can rot in peace.’ Yeah – that would be a good line, but I can’t say it because I’m supposed to be dead. So, I just lie here and stare at the ceiling some more.

  Next thing I know, Dad is standing next to the bed.

  ‘Andy?’ he says.

  I don’t answer.

  ‘Are you all right?’ says Dad in a slightly deeper voice.

  I’m holding my breath. My body is tight.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder and shakes me roughly.

  ‘Andy!’ he says. ‘Andy, I’m warning you . . . if this is another one of your practical jokes, it’s not funny! You hear me? Not funny!’

  I tense as hard as I can while Dad shakes me. Then he stops and puts his thumb and forefingers around my wrist. He’s trying to find my pulse.

  Damn! It’s the one thing I can’t fake. All the same, I try to concentrate on my heart and slow it down.

  I read somewhere about these people who use the power of the mind to slow down their heartbeat, so I figure I might as well give it a bash.

  I imagine that my heart is as still as a rock.

  A red rock.

  A paralysed red rock.

  A frozen paralysed red rock.

  A frozen paralysed red rock in a deep deep sleep.

  It seems like forever, but eventually Dad puts my arm back down onto the bed. Gently.

  And he says in a quiet voice: ‘Andy – now listen to me. You’re cold and you’re not breathing. You’re staring at the ceiling and I can’t find a pulse. You may be dead for all I know. But then your past record leaves me no choice but to wonder if this isn’t just another one of your so-called “jokes”. If you are just playing a trick, then I’ll give you to the count of three to get out of bed and we’ll say no more about it. But, if you don’t get out of bed, and I find out later that you’re not really dead . . . well . . . you’ll wish that you had been. Is that clear?’

  He’s trying to trick me. He wants me to nod. But I’m not going to fall for it. There’s only room for one practical joker around here – and it’s not Dad. He starts counting.

  ‘One . . .’

  I’m not sure I believe that I won’t get into trouble if I confess. He sounds pretty serious. I’ll probably end up being grounded for a we
ek. And I’ll definitely end up having to go to school.

  ‘Two . . .’

  What have I got to lose? And, anyway, I’ve come too far to chicken out now.

  ‘Three!’

  I don’t move a single muscle.

  Dad calls Mum into the room.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,’ says Dad. ‘I don’t know how, or why, but it appears that Andy is no longer living . . . that is to say, he is . . . er . . . dead.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she says, and starts to cry. ‘Oh no!’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dad move to put his arms around her.

  While they’re distracted, I quickly take a couple of good deep breaths.

  ‘But he was such a good boy!’ Mum wails. ‘Such a good boy! He had his problems . . . but deep down he didn’t mean any harm.’

  ‘No,’ says Dad, ‘I don’t believe he did mean any harm – it’s just he never knew when to stop.’

  Dad’s taking the whole thing better than I expected. I mean, he’s usually pretty calm and all, but I would have thought, maybe, he might be a bit more upset. After all, I am his son.

  ‘Oh well,’ he says. ‘No use standing around here all day. There’s work to be done.’

  ‘But surely you’re not going to work now!’ says Mum.

  ‘Well,’ says Dad, ‘somebody’s got to dig the hole.’

  ‘What hole?’

  ‘We can’t just leave his body here.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ says Mum. ‘Where are you going to dig it?’

  Dad hands her his handkerchief.

  ‘I think underneath the lemon tree might be nice – and it’d be good for the lemons.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Mum, ‘it’s been struggling a bit lately.’

  ‘I’ll go get the spade and start digging. I’d like to have him in the ground before lunchtime. Before he starts to smell.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Mum, wiping her eyes. ‘And while you’re doing that, I’ll put the kettle on. I think we could both use a good strong cup of tea.’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Have my parents completely lost their senses? Are they seriously thinking of burying me in the backyard? Aren’t there laws against that sort of thing?

  Dad leaves the room.

  Mum kneels down beside the bed and kisses me on the cheek. She passes her hand over my eyelids, just like they do in the movies. I’m so touched, I almost forget to close them – but I remember just in time.

  ‘I don’t care what anyone says,’ she whispers. ‘You were a good boy.’

  Mum leaves the room.

  I don’t dare open my eyes again. I wouldn’t want her to come back and catch me with them open. That would really freak her out. And I think she’s been freaked out enough for one day.

  Maybe I should confess.

  But how do I confess without freaking her out even more? After all, if she thinks I’m dead, and then I walk into the kitchen, what do I say? Somehow, I don’t think ‘Hi, Mum, I’m not really dead, I was just tricking!’ would go down all that well.

  But if I don’t confess, I’m going to be buried in a cold muddy hole in my own backyard.

  I’ll have worms gnawing at my eyeballs for the rest of eternity. That’s a pretty high price to pay for a practical joke. Even one as brilliant as this.

  The lemon tree is right outside my window. I can hear Dad digging. And whistling.

  Whistling?

  I die and he whistles? What is he – some kind of psycho? Normal people don’t whistle when their son dies. Then again, normal people don’t bury bodies in the backyard.

  But as I listen to Dad’s whistle, I begin to notice something strange. It’s different from his normal one.

  It’s too loud.

  Too cheerful.

  And now it becomes clear.

  My parents don’t think I’m dead – they just want me to think that they think I’m dead. All this crap about being good for the lemons . . . that’s not what it’s about at all. They’re just trying to teach me a lesson.

  They want to scare me.

  Well, I don’t scare easily. And I’m not about to be beaten at my own game by a couple of amateurs.

  After a long morning of staring at the ceiling, I’m pretty bored.

  At last I hear Dad stop digging.

  Mum and Dad come into my room. I know what’s coming next.

  I suck my breath in and try to remain absolutely still. Dad grabs me underneath my arms. Mum lifts me up by the legs. I try to make my head flop around in a convincing corpse-like fashion. They carry me out to the backyard and lay me down underneath the lemon tree.

  Dad gets down into the hole – which I can see through my slitted eyes is deeper than I expected – puts his hands back underneath my arms and pulls me down towards him.

  My legs follow with a thud.

  The mud at the bottom of the hole is cold and wet and almost immediately my pyjamas are soaked through. I’m sure Dad is just dying for me to crack and open my eyes so he can say ‘Just tricking!’

  But I’m not going to give him the pleasure. Not now . . . not ever.

  Dad climbs out of the hole. Mum begins reading from a small blue book, her voice low and serious.

  ‘ . . . Ashes to ashes . . . Dust to dust . . .’

  Dad is standing to attention, shovel by his side.

  I’m starting to wonder if this is such a good idea after all. Dad starts filling in the hole. I don’t have to wonder any more – I know.

  First I feel dirt hitting my toes. Then my legs. And then my stomach. A big clump lands on my chest and I feel dirt splatter onto my face and mouth.

  Something’s wrong. It’s not possible that I’m such a brilliant actor that my parents really think I’m dead . . . is it?

  No, that’s stupid . . . they’ll crack . . . any minute now.

  Another handful of dirt splashes across my face.

  And another.

  And now I don’t know what to think . . . because I’m almost completely buried and I’m having trouble breathing.

  I open my mouth to shout, ‘Okay, you win! I was just tricking!’

  But a big clump of earth lands in my mouth and I can’t get the words out.

  It’s dark.

  It’s quiet.

  It’s cold.

  It’s boring.

  How long have I been here?

  Am I dead?

  If I am dead, then how come I’m still thinking?

  I know one thing for sure. If I ever get out of this – and it’s beginning to look like there’s not much hope of that – I’m never going to play another practical joke for as long as I live.

  Hang on, I can feel something on my stomach. Urgent jabbing and scratching. The weight of the dirt on my belly is lifting. When the scratching starts on my chest, I realise what it is.

  Sooty has come to save me! He’s the only one who realises I’m not dead! He must be able to smell me, to sense my warmth.

  And, as the weight of the dirt lifts, I decide I don’t care about playing dead any more. Anything would be better than this. Even school.

  I sit up and scream: ‘I confess! You win! I was just tricking!’

  I wipe the mud out of my eyes and see my parents staring down at me.

  They are shocked.

  The sight of me rising from the dead has them goggling at me in horror, their mouths frozen open.

  Mum starts screaming. Dad is trying to ward me off with his spade, holding it crucifix-style in front of him, as if I’m some sort of vampire.

  ‘Dad, it’s okay!’ I reassure him. ‘I was playing a dumb joke and I’m sorry!’

  But I might just as well be speaking another language.

  My words don’t seem to be having any impact on him whatsoever. He’s still brandishing the spade as he and Mum back slowly away from the hole.

  This joke is completely out of control. The only one who’s glad to see me is Sooty. He’
s standing at the top of the hole trying to lick my face. I push him away but he keeps coming back for more, like it’s a game. At least somebody round here is acting normal.

  Then, all of a sudden, Dad drops the spade and clutches at his chest with his right hand. He drops to his knees, his mouth still wide open, then falls forward onto his face.

  I leap out of the hole and rush to his side. I roll him over and check to see if he’s breathing.

  Nothing.

  I place my hands on his chest and push with all my weight, just like they showed us in first aid. I push three more times. Then I pinch his nose and pull his head back. I’m about to start mouth-to-mouth resuscitation when Mum screams.

  ‘Get away from him, you . . . you . . . zombie!’

  ‘I’m not a zombie!’ I tell her. ‘I’m not dead – I was just tricking!’

  ‘Don’t touch him, you bloodsucking freak!’

  ‘Mum, I haven’t got time to argue! I’ve got to do this. It’s Dad’s only hope.’

  I take a deep breath. Mum starts laughing. Poor Mum. The stress has affected her brain. And it’s all my fault. But I can’t help her until I’ve saved Dad. First things first.

  I take another breath and am about to put my mouth over Dad’s when he starts spluttering. First a sputter. Then a wheeze. And then a deep rocking laugh.

  Dad opens his eyes. They are wet with tears.

  ‘Would you mind sharing the joke with me?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure,’ says my father, pulling himself together with great effort. ‘We were just tricking!’

  And then they really start to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

  They’re bent over double like a couple of maniacs. Even Sooty is rolling around on his back, wheezing and carrying on.

  It takes a few moments for the shock to sink in, but then I realise that my parents have won.