MARCO HATES THE BANJO

My name is Marco. You know the drill, I can't tell you who I am or where I live. It's too risky and we've got to…wait, why am I telling you this? You already know all of this stuff. Besides, what I am about to tell you is not related to Yeerks. It is much scarier. All the horrors of the war, the killing and the bloodshed could not have prepared me for this.

My dad was late getting home from work and I wondered what was taking him so long. I was about ready to call when I saw my dad pull up in his car. He walked over to the house carrying some kind of case with him. It looked like a guitar or something. He came in the house with some sort of a goofy smile on his face. Uh oh. I hadn't seen that look since my dad met my step-mom Nora. It was a look that scared me.

"So, what's in the case?" I asked tentatively.

"Something all three of us are going to have fun with, but don't tell Nora. I want it to be a surprise." Now I was curious.

My dad opened up the case and I couldn't believe what I was seeing. My dad had bought a banjo. The horror! He didn't even know how to play the banjo, as if anyone would want to. Something we would all have fun with? I don't think so. This was going to end badly. For me and for the banjo if I could get my hands on it.

"Now I know you'd want to hear me play when I brought it home so I have been taking lessons. Personally, I think I'm pretty good. I've been practicing this one so here we go."

He took out the banjo and began playing and to my further horror, singing. The song was Cowboy Hoedown by Billy-Bob Harris. Let's just say that it was bad. In fact, if I hadn't known better, I would have sworn that some crazy cult had invaded my house, and proceeded to torture a cat while wailing some crazy religious ritual. It was that horrible. By the time he was done, I was very surprised to find that I had not slipped into a coma or gone deaf. I clapped and pretended to have thoroughly enjoyed his performance, a big fake-grin on my face.

He began to pull out another piece of "music" but I stopped him, saying, "Dad, don't you think that you should practice just a little more before I hear you play? You know, just so I'll be able to hear you at the height of your ability."

"You know," he answered, "you're right, son. I should get some more practice in before I play again. Then, I'll throw a big concert and invite the whole neighborhood to listen!"

Oh no, please no. Anything but that! I would rather stand up in front of the school and give a speech on algebraic logarithms (which I know nothing about) than endure the embarrassment of watching my dad perform on the banjo in front of a neighborhood of people. Jake would laugh his butt off of course. So would Rachel and Cassie and everyone else I know, Animorph or not. I could not allow this to happen. I would have to get rid of the banjo as soon as possible, using any means necessary. Where to start?

I would have to be sneaky and creative. Also, I would have to do it in a way that would not hurt my dad's feelings. I loved my dad, just not his singing or his banjo. I must begin planning immediately so the problem doesn't get worse. I know, I'd hide it, then when he was gone, I would get rid of it for good and say that I was at the store. It would look like someone had stolen it. Yes, I could morph owl at night, then take it out to a dumpster somewhere away from the house. I just had to wait for my dad to go somewhere.

Okay, it's been a week since the banjo incident and my dad has spent all of his time with the thing. Whenever he leaves, the banjo leaves with him. Nora was no more thrilled about this than I was, and decided to help me with disposing of it. We were not very successful. She was a math teacher and going over the area and perimeter of the house and where we could hide it while I dozed off into a stupor.

Meanwhile, my dad had built some sort of studio in the garage where he practiced the accursed instrument for about sixteen billion hours a day. Then, when he was done, he locked up the garage with about seven padlocks. I think he had gone completely insane by that point. He stayed up for hours and hours reviewing notes. I could always hear him muttering things like F sharp and G flat and it was driving me up the wall!

I couldn't even sleep anymore because of the stupid freaking banjo. By this point I had been thinking that banjos should be illegal and that all banjos in the world should be burned in public bonfires. That just shows about how much sleep I had been getting lately. I had even started to have dreams about banjos. Tonight, my dream involved my dad becoming a world famous, banjo-playing superstar. I was his servant/lackey and for my payment, I got to hear a private concert. It was torture. I committed suicide and everyone went to my funeral. Then I woke up and resolved to end this once and for all.

At midnight, I snuck out of my room, went to the garage and morphed Hork-Bajir. I sliced the chains off the door, crept inside, then took the banjo. I then went to some deserted alley and made sure no one could see me in my Hork-Bajir form. I then sliced the living tar out of the banjo, beat it against the pavement, and ripped off all of the strings. Ha, take that banjo. I then threw the pieces away in a nearby Dumpster.

I demorphed, then re-morphed to owl. I flew home, went to sleep and acted as if nothing had happened.

The next day, my dad became very worried. He started to put up flyers for his missing banjo, offering a two-hundred-fifty dollar reward for whoever found it. After a week of that, he gave up and took down the flyers. I was satisfied that I had finally disposed of the banjo for good. I decided that if I happen to survive the war and have kids, then I am going to forbid them from ever mentioning banjos in the house. I was going to ground them if they ever played the banjo.

After this whole ordeal had been resolved, my dad came home late again. This time he brought a bagpipe. That was even worse. A bagpipe!? Where did he think we lived, Scotland? I then had a mental break down.

This was never going to end, was it?

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