Читать книгу You're a Bad Man, Mr. Gum! - Andy Stanton - Страница 8

One day a massive whopper of a dog came to live on the outskirts of town. Where did he come from? Nobody knows. What strange things had he seen? Nobody knows. What was his name? Everybody knows. It was Jake the dog.

He was a furry wobbler and friendly as toast and he soon made himself very popular. He would often come into town to play with the children and give them rides on his enormous broad back. No matter how many children wanted a laugh on him he never grew tired. He was just that sort of dog. If he had been a person he probably would have been a king, or at the very least a racing car driver with a cool helmet.

Or perhaps he would have been a gardener because Jake the dog loved nothing more than playing in gardens. He enjoyed rolling his big doggy body around on a springy green lawn to see what it felt like (generally it felt like a lawn) and chomping up the flowers in his big doggy mouth to see what they tasted like (generally they tasted like flowers). He looked so happy that nobody really minded his messy visits.

In fact, a rumour began that if Jake the dog visited your garden it meant you were in for some good luck, and if he left a ‘little gift’ on the lawn you were in for double good luck and maybe even a telegram from the Queen.

So the townsfolk started to leave pies and bones out on their lawns, hoping to tempt Jake into their gardens. Sometimes it worked and sometimes not. Mostly he played where he liked and when he liked. He was a free spirit, like Robin Hood or The Man in the Moon or something, I dunno – he was just a dog, after all. All summer long Jake played, and everything was fine until the fateful day he discovered a garden he’d never played in before. It was the prettiest, greeniest, floweriest, gardeniest garden in the whole of Lamonic Bibber.

On that fateful day Mr Gum was snoozing away in his unmade bed. (I told you he was a lazer and that’s what lazers do.) He was dreaming his favourite dream, the one where he was a giant terrorising the townsfolk. His enormous bloodshot eyes flashed evilly like flying saucers high up in the clouds as he snatched the roofs off houses to steal the toys from the children’s bedrooms. Nobody could stop him. He was the biggest and the best, he was –

WHACK!!!

For a moment Mr Gum did not know what was happening. Where were the tiny houses? Where were the frightened people? Where were the – WHACK!!! ‘Ow!’ yelled Mr Gum, rubbing his head and looking around in terror. ‘Oh, no!’ he rasped. The angry fairy was hovering over him, frying pan at the ready.

‘Sort out the garden, you lazy snorer!’ yelled the fairy, and down came the frying pan.

Mr Gum was too fast this time and shot out of bed like a guilty onion. PFFF! went the frying pan as it hit the bedcovers, sending up a little cloud of dust and ants.

Mr Gum legged it out of the bedroom and went hurtling down the stairs. He stepped on an old slice of pizza lying in the hall and skidded into the kitchen, riding it like a cheese and tomato surfboard. He could hear the fairy right behind him, shrieking with fury.

‘I ’aven’t done nothin’ wrong! I kept the flippin’ garden TIDY!’ shouted Mr Gum as he flung open the back door and ran outside. He started to say something else but when he saw the garden the words got stuck in his throat. They tasted horrible.

The garden was not tidy. The garden was a total wreck. The lawn was tufted up and torn. The flowerbeds were trampled and chewed. Rose petals and sunflower heads lay scattered all over the place like rose petals and sunflower heads. There was something lying under the oak tree that Mr Gum did not even want to think about. And in the centre of the wreckage played the most monstrous dog Mr Gum had ever seen.

It was Jake, of course. The beast was rolling around for his own fun, his golden-brown fur matted with grass, his happy eyes squinting into the sunshine. Before Mr Gum’s disbelieving eyes, nine moles popped out of their holes and joined the party.

The two smallest ones began bouncing up and down on Jake’s furry belly and doing somersaults. The rest of them chased each other in circles or had races.

WHACK!! The pan came down on Mr Gum’s head faster than Superman. SPLAP!! The pan whipped him one on the bottom. BOING!! A fat one to the belly.

Mr Gum doubled up in pain and tripled up in fear as the fairy raged. ‘It ain’t my fault!’ he yelled. ‘I ain’t never seen that dog before!’

‘I don’t care whose’ BASH! ‘fault it is! It’s your’ SPLURK!! ‘job to’ WALLOP!! ‘do the gardening,’ VROINNNK!! ‘you stupid trouserface!’

Mr Gum flung himself down on the lawn and lay there whimpering, his eyes shut tight in unbraveness. Jake, on the other hand, was having a brilliant time. But just then a cloud shaped a bit like a bone drifted by.

With a hungry bark Jake ran off to chase it. Mr Gum watched as the dog bounced over the fence and disappeared off to who knows where. The moles raced back to their moleholes at the speed of moles. As suddenly as it had begun, the terror was over.

Mr Gum spent all afternoon repairing the damage. The fairy watched over him, scowling and brandishing the frying pan dangerously to hurry him on. Eventually the garden was back to normal, and with one last WHACK for good measure the fairy flew back to the bathtub and vanished. Mr Gum breathed a sigh of relief and went inside to find he’d missed his favourite TV show, ‘Bag of Sticks’, which was a picture of a bag of sticks for half an hour. (Mr Gum was the only person in the country who ever watched ‘Bag of Sticks’. Everyone else turned over to watch ‘Funtime with Crispy’.)

‘That dog ought to be given a meddling medal, he’s such a meddler,’ muttered Mr Gum. ‘I hope that’s the last of him.’

But it wasn’t the last of Jake, it was the beginning. Jake’s big doggy brain could not stop thinking about that amazing garden and the very next day he returned with much the same result as before. And the day after that. And the day after that. But not the day after that, because it was a Wednesday and everyone knows that dogs have the day off on Wednesdays.

But on Thursday you should have seen him! He was back with a vengeance. Every day (apart from Wednesdays) it was the same story. That massive whopper of a dog would come bouncing over the fence and start romping around like an uncontrollable doctor, sometimes leaving his ‘little gifts’ as was only natural. Mr Gum would run out into the garden shaking a fist on the end of a stick to frighten him off but he could never catch him. Jake would just bark like a cheeky schoolboy doing an impression of a dog barking. Then he’d bounce over the spiky fence and disappear off to who knows where.

Three weeks later Mr Gum was covered in frying-pan-shaped bruises and he had missed ten episodes of ‘Bag of Sticks’. It was time for action. Nasty action.

It’s time for action,’ said Mr Gum to nobody in particular. ‘Nasty action.’

Nobody in particular shrugged his shoulders and wandered off to eat his dinner. Mr Gum went to the shed and got out his thinking cap. He put it on his knee (it was a kneecap) and started thinking about how to get rid of that dog.