CHAPTER ONE: The Dude Who Stayed Alive
Mr. and Mrs. Mr. Duerrsley was the president of an online company called Grungelings, or, more commonly called, A Company That Sells Print-Out Surfboards, that sold print-out surfboards. He was a really big dude, with, like, no neck, but he did have a totally cool goatee, which made up for the other stuff. Mrs. Duerrsley was skinny and had totally cool blonde hair. She also had a really big sweet tooth, which came in handy when Mr. Duerrsley's sister sent them 20 pounds of chocolate fudge for Christmas (yummy).The Duerrsleys had a small son named Pudgley, who, in their and everyone else's opinion, was the coolest dude on the block.
The Duerrsleys had everything they needed (except for that long board Mr. Duerrsley was hoping to get for Christmas), but they also had a deep, dark, terrible secret, and their second-greatest fear was that someone would find it out. They didn't think their social life could take it if any of their popular friends found out about the Kloppers. Mrs. Klopper was actually Mrs. Duerrsley's sister, but Mrs. Duerrsley hadn't graced Mrs. Klopper with her presence for several years; actually, Mrs. Duerrsley pretended that she didn't have a sister, for her sister and undudacios husband were as unpopular as you could possibly be. The Duerrsleys couldn't imagine what would happen if the Kloppers just showed up on Private Swim. The Duerrsleys knew that the Kloppers had a small son too, but they had never seen him. They didn't want Pudgley hanging out with a dude like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Duerrsley woke up on that drizzly Friday.....the thirteenth, nothing really looked like it was out of the ordinary, or, like it was going to be out of the ordinary that day. Mr. Duerrsley tried to whistle as he picked out one of his most dudacious Hawaiian print shirts for work, as Mrs. Duerrsley jabbered away about the new neighbors (they weren't exactly new, they just hadn't met them yet) and wrestled Pudgley into his high-chair. None of them noticed a large, white chicken flop past their window. At eight twenty-nine and fifty-nine seconds, Mr. Duerrsley counted down the last second before he went to work. He then picked up his briefcase and gave Mrs. Duerrsley a high five, but missed because Pudgley was throwing a tantrum. "Little Dude," said Mr. Duerrsley as he left the house and got in his company car.
At the corner of the street, he saw the first thing that day that would catch his attention- a cow- reading a map. For a second there, Mr. Duerrsley thought that it was the neighbors strange idea of yard art. Then he looked at it a second time. There was a black-spotted cow sitting on the corner of Private Swim. No map. What was he thinking? Cows can't read maps. The can't even spell 'eat more chicken'! But then, why was the cow there at all? Mr. Duerrsley did hear that the new neighbors moved from the country. Yeah, that was it. He gave the cow a popular glare. It popular glared him back. As Mr. Duerrsley drove around the corner and up the next street, he looked at the cow in the mirror. It was kinda hard to see, on the count of there was a Hawaiian lei hanging from the mirror. He did see it reading, no looking at the sign. Cows can't read maps or signs. He thought he should suggest Hooked on Phonics to the cow. Mr. Duerrsley put the cow out of his mind. The only thing he was thinking of while he was driving along was, well, driving.
But, shortly after, driving was driven out of his mind by a whole lotta empty space. Oh, yeah, and the fact that there were a lot of people on the streets dressed in bathrobes and fuzzy slippers. Mr. Duerrsley was shocked. Did someone set a new trend without telling him? He turned on the radio and looked at a group of the people standing nearby. They were whispering to each other. Then it hit Mr. Duerrsly that maybe it was a publicity stunt. Maybe advertising for some movie. Or, they could be collecting for something. Of course, that was it. They were collecting money. A few minutes later, Mr. Duerrsley arrived in the parking lot of Grungelings. He sat with his back to the window in his office on the thirteenth floor. If he had sat toward the windows, he would have found it hard to concentrate on work that morning. Harder than usual. He didn't see the chickens flopping past the windows, but most of the people in the streets did. Most of them had never seen a chicken before-even at KFC. Mr. Duerrsley had a dudacios morning, without any chickens. He designed several print-out surfboards, which, he thought, were very cool. He was in a dudacious mood until his lunch break, when he decided to go down to the Starbucks to get himself a Tall, Decaf, Low Sugar, Caramel Moca Choca Latte, with Cream, Milk, Whipped Cream, Chocolate Sprinkles, and one of those little cookies that looked like straws.
The bathrobe people had slipped his mind until he saw a group of them in the coffee shop. As he gave them a popular glare as they passed, Mr. Duerrsley wasn't looking where he was going, and ran into someone, spilling his coffee. He made his way back to the counter, trying to remember what he ordered so he could order it again. While waiting for his coffee, he heard two of the strangely-dressed people talking.
"Dude, have you heard about the Kloppers?"
"--- yeah, and their son, Harold---"
"Duuuuuuuude" the two said in unison.
Mr. Duerrsley was scared. He wanted to say something to them, but couldn't think of anything to say. He paid the guy behind the counter the $26.99 for his coffee and left the shop.
Mr. Duerrsley ran back up the street to Grungelings. Took the stairs up the to thirteenth floor (the elevator was broken), and rushed into his office, slamming the door behind him. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and began to dial his home number. But then he changed his mind. He pressed the 'clear' button on his phone until all of the numbers were gone from the screen, and stroked his totally awesome goatee, thinking......dude, he's being not dudacious. Loads of people had the name Klopper. And probably a bunch of them had a son named Harold. Actually, he didn't even know if his nephew's name was Harold. It might have been Henry. Or Harry. Or Clyde. It made no sense to tell Mrs. Duerrsley; she'd just get upset at the mention of her sister, and Mr. Duerrsley would have to wear earplugs for the rest of the night because of all that yelling. But, all the same, he didn't blame her. If he had a sister, like, who was that unpopular, but....those people in bathrobes and fuzzy slippers....
It was a lot harder for him than usual to concentrate on work that day and when he left the building at two o'clock, his boss told him that he doesn't leave 'till five, so he better get back in there and work for the next three hours. When he really left at five o'clock, he was very worried about the whole Klopper incident, that he ran into a dude outside.
"Oops," he said as the little dude struggled to get to his feet. It took Mr. Duerrsley a little while before he realized that the little dude was wearing matching leopard print bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. He didn't seem to mind being almost trampled over by someone twice as large as him. In fact, he smiled really, really, really big, and said in a voice that sounded like a mouse with a sinus infection:
"That's okay, for today is a sunshiny day! Nothing can upset me! I am invincible! Even Buggles like yourself should be celebrating today! Whooo Hooo!" And with that, he gave Mr. Duerrsley a big hug and waddled down the street.
Mr. Duerrsley was dumbfounded. He had been hugged by a complete stranger in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. And.......dude....what's a Buggle? He raced to his car and drove home, hoping that he was imagining things, which he wasn't exactly capable of.
As he drove into the driveway of square root of sixteen, Private Swim, he saw it- the cow he saw that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one- where else could you see a cow in New York City?
"Shoo, Besssie!" Mr. Duerrsley said to the cow.
The cow didn't move (I don't think it could, sitting on a garden wall). It just gave Mr. Duerrsley another popular glare. Was this normal for a cow to do? Mr. Duerrsley let himself into the house, still eyeing the cow. He was not going to say anything to his wife.
Mrs. Duerrsley had a normal day, unlike Mr. Duerrsley. At dinner, she told him about the new neighbors, who hadn't moved from the country, and about Pudgley's new phrase (I'm so cool). When Pudgley went to bed, Mr. Duerrsley went into the living room to watch the news on the tube.
"And finally, fried chicken lovers everywhere have reported chickens flying all over New York all day. No one is able to explain why these chickens, who don't have a reputation for flying, are behaving so strangely." The news guy grinned evilly, sort of like the Grinch. "Interesting. And now to Billy Bob the weather guy for the weather. Any more chicken showers tonight, Billy Bob?"
"Well, Bob Billy," said the weather guy, "I'm not too sure about that, but something else odd has been happening. Viewers from Rhode Island, New Jersey, and even Maine say that instead of that hail storm we were supposed to be getting, fireworks have been shooting across the sky! Sorry to burst your bubble folks, but the Forth of July is on the Forth of July, not on the Thirteenth of February! Heh heh."
Mr. Duerrsley quickly changed the channel to the twenty-four hour surfing network. Fireworks all over New England? Chickens flying? Dude, chickens can't fly! Weird lookin' people in bathrobes and fuzzy slippers. And a whisper about... the Kloppers.
Mr. Duerrsley came into the kitchen with two cups of strong coffee. He couldn't go on any longer. Her had to tell her sometime. He cleared his throat. "Uhhhhh....Prune...dear, you haven't talked to your sister lately, have you?"`
As Mr. Duerrsley had expected, Mrs. Duerrsley drank her coffee in one large gulp.
"Duh, no. Why are you asking?"
"A bunch of funny stuff happening. Chickens....fireworks..and there were a whole lotta weird looking people in town today."
"Sooooooooooo?" Mrs. Duerrsley said in a patronizing voice.
"Well, ya know. I thought it might have to do with," Mr. Duerrsley looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping and continued, "her crowd."
Mr. Duerrsley thought if he should tell her he heard the name "Klopper" or not. To tell or not to tell. That is the question. Mr. Duerrsley looked at his wife, who was staring at the wall now. Not to tell. That is the answer. He decided to beat around the bush a little. "Ya know, their son might be about Pudgley's age now."
"Uh huh." Mrs. Duerrsley said.
"What's his name again? Harry?"
"Harold. Unpopular name if you ask me."
"Oh yeah," said Mr. Duerrsley, shaken. "I agree. Pudgley's much better."
He didn't say anything to Mrs. Duerrsley as they went to bed. While Mrs. Duerrsley was combing her hair one hundred times, Mr. Duerrsley looked out the window. The cow was still there. It was looking down the street like it was expecting something.
Was it just his 'magination, once again...running away with him? Could all of this have to do with the Kloppers. If it did, it might get out that they are related to a couple of...well.....his social life couldn't take it. The Duerrsleys got into bed. Mrs. Duerrsley quickly fell asleep, but Mr. Duerrsley stayed awake for quite awhile. The last thing he thought of before he fell asleep was that even if the Kloppers were involved, they wouldn't dare trouble their popular relatives. He yawned and turned over on his side. It couldn't possibly affect them.
How very undudaciously wrong he was.
Mr. Duerrsley might have been sleeping soundly, but the cow on the street wasn't tired at all. It sat perfectly still, staring down Private Swim. It didn't move at the sound of the loud music playing down the street, or the sounds of car doors slamming.
A dude appeared at the end of the street the cat was staring at. He appeared so suddenly that you would have thought he just well, appeared suddenly. The cow looked at him. Narrowed it's eyes, and swished a fly off of it's back.
Nobody had ever seen a guy like this on Private Swim. He was tall, thin, and very old. He had spiked hair that was mostly gray, and wore a purple bathrobe with stars and moons on it that swept to the floor. Under it, a T- shirt and jeans, and purple fuzzy slippers. He had bright blue eyes, star- shaped glasses, and a nose that was pretty average. This dude's name was Mombus Bumblebore.
Mombus Bumblebore didn't realize that he just arrived on a street that thought he was totally unpopular. He was looking in the pockets of the bathrobe for somethin', but didn't realize that he was being watched until he looked down the street. The sight of the cow amused him, but in a different way that it would anyone else walking by and seeing a cow in the yard of a New Yorker. He laughed and said, "Dude, I should have known."
He found what he was looking for in the pocket of his bathrobe. It seemed to be an Oreo. Yes, an Oreo. I don't know how he did this, but the next thing you know, all the street lights in the street were out. Now nobody would be able to see what would be happening that night. Bumblebore began to put the Oreo back in his pocket, thought the better of it, and then ate it. He made his way down the street to where the cow was sitting and sat right next to it on the wall. He didn't look at it, but a few minutes later he started to talk to the cow.
"Fancy seeing you here Professor McDonalds."
He turned to smile at the cow, but the cow was no longer there. Instead he was smiling at a rather strange looking woman, who was wearing a yellow and red striped bathrobe, with cowprint fuzzy slippers. Her brown hair was pulled up in a bun.
"How did you know it was me?" she demanded.
"My dear professor, I've never seen a cow sitting on a garden wall in New York before, or for that matter, anywhere."
"You'd be sitting on a garden wall all day if the grass was ant infested," said professor McDonalds. Mombus Bumblebore looked down at an ant climbing up his ankle.
"Dude, all day? When you could have been partyin'? I must have gone by a whole bunch of parties on my way here."
Professor McDonalds just stared at him.
"Oh, yeah, everyone's partying all right, all without ME! But them not inviting me is beside the point," she scoffed. "You'd think they would make their parties a little less.....noticeable. But, of course not. Even the Buggles have noticed their celebrations. It was all over their news." She put her head in one hand and pointed to the Duerrsley's house with the other. "I saw it with my own two ears....wait, no....eyes. Flying chickens, fireworks....Well, duh, they're not that stupid. The had to have noticed something sooner or later. Fireworks in Rhode Island- I bet that was Jello- us Jiggle. He never was quite there."
"Dude, don't blame them," Bumblebore said. "They haven't had anything to party about in eleven years. That is, except birthdays."
"Yeah yeah yeah. I know, I know," said Professor McDonalds, who by now was pretty mad. "But that is no excuse to go crazy and run about aimlessly. People have been walking about in the streets in Buggle clothes, spreading rumors."
Here she turned her head and looked at Bumblebore, like they do at a really dramatic parts in Soap Operas, hoping that he would tell her something, but, he didn't, so she continued. "Wouldn't that be a cowinkeedink if the day Voldemort went bye-bye forever, the Buggles find out about us all? He really has gone, right?"
"I guess," said Bumblebore. "Too bad it's not Thanksgiving. We sure do have a lot to be thankful for. Do you want a mintie thingie?"
"Huh?"
"A mintie thingie. I'm not sure what they're really called, but they are Buggle candies that are really good."
"Uh, no thanks," Professor McDonalds said slowly, thinking that this wasn't the time for a.....mintie thingie. "Even if Voldemort has really gone,"
"Dude! Surely a person like yourself can call him by his real name? What's up with all this 'Voldemort' business? For eleven years I've been tryin' to get people to call him by his real name: You Know Who." Professor McDonalds twitched, but Bumblebore, who was tying to get the last mintie thingie out of the box, didn't notice. "All of these different names get confusing. I have no earthly idea why people are afraid of calling him by his real name. I'm not."
"I know you aren't," said Professor McDonalds, sounding like she would rather be somewhere else, talking about a different subject. "But its not the same. Everyone knows you are the only one Volde- oh, okay, You Know Who, was scared of."
"Aww, shucks," said Bumblebore, blushing. "You Know Who had powers I will never have, thank goodness."
"Only because you're too cool to use them."
"Good thing that it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Promtree said she liked my new hair do."
Professor McDonalds looked sharply at Bumblebore and said, "The chickens are nothing compared to the rumors going about. Ya know what everyone's sayin'? About why he left? About how he was defeated?"
It seemed this was the climax of their conversation, the part she had been waiting to discuss. The reason she sat camouflaged as a cow on a garden wall all day. It was obvious that whatever 'everyone' was saying, she wasn't going to believe it until Bumblebore confirmed it. Bumblebore, however, was looking for another box of mintie thingies in his bathrobe, and didn't bother to answer.
"What they are saying, that is," she continued, "is that last night, You Know Who showed up in Bobric's Hollow. He was looking for the Kloppers. The rumor is that Lindsay and Joe Klopper....are...are...dead."
Bumblebore bowed his head. Professor McDonalds gasped.
"Lindsay and Joe........it can't be... I didn't want to believe it. Oh, Mombus..."
Bumblebore put his arm around her shoulder. "I know." He said in a low and depressing voice.
Professor McDonalds's voice was weak as she went on. "But wait, there's more. They say that he tried to kill the Klopper's son, Harold. But he failed. He couldn't kill that little child. No one can explain why or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harold Klopper, You Know Who's power was destroyed, and that's why he's gone."
Bumblebore nodded sadly.
"It's ......it's true?" said Professor McDonalds. "After killing all of those people he couldn't kill a little boy? Of all the things that would stop him, it was a little boy? But how on earth did Harold survive?"
"I can only guess," said Bumblebore. "The world may never know."
Professor McDonalds pulled out a washcloth and dabbed her eyes with it. Bumblebore sniffed as he pulled out a pocket watch that was unlike any other. It had three hands, no numbers, but was filled with water and little grains of sand floating around in it. It must have made at least some sense to Bumblebore, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Dirgah's late. I'm guessing that it was he who told you I would be here?"
"Yes," said professor McDonalds. "And I suppose that you aren't going to tell me why you chose this place of all places.?"
"I've come to bring Harold to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."
"Oh no. You can't bring him here. Not to live with these people!" shouted Professor McDonalds, jumping up. "Bumblebore, you can't. I've been watching thema ll day. You couldn't find two more people on the planet more unlike you and me. And then there's their son, who, need I say, was kicking and screaming all day. Harold Klopper living here? Hmph."
"It's the best place for the little dude," said Bumbebore strongly. "His aunt and uncle can explain everything to him when he's able to take it. I've written them an e-mail."
"An e-mail? Are you kidding?" said Professor McDonalds, exasperated. "How can you explain all of this in an e- mail? These people won't be able to understand him. He'll be famous, a star... I wouldn't be surprised if today were declared Harold Klopper Day in the future, there will be movies and TV serieses dedicated to him. Every child in our world will know his name!"
"Professor McDonalds, I believe you are proving my point," said Dumbledore seriously. "It would be enough for him to go, like, crazy dude. Famous before he could even say famous! And for something he can't remember! Can't you see how much cooler a life he'll have if he grows up away from it al until he's old enough to deal with it?"
Professor McDonalds sighed and sat back down. "Yes, I'm sorry, you're right. But how is Harold gonna get here?" She looked at his bathrobe, seeing if Harold was in it (it did have a lot of pockets).
"Dirgah's bringing him."
"Do you think that it's a good idea to trust Dirgah with Harold? I mean, this is really important."
"Dude, I'd trust Dirgah with my life, and my surfboard," said Bumblebore.
"I'm not saying that he's a bad guy, buy he is a little careless, and clumsy, and...what was that?"
A high pitched sound had broken the silence. It got louder and louder as they looked around for something going up the street. They both looked up at the sky and a huge ice cream truck fell out of the blue, and landed right in front of them in the street.
If the ice cream truck was big, then the guy in it was huge. He was twice the size of a normal dude, and six times as wide. He had dirty brown hair (it was normally just brown, but he hadn't washed it in quite awhile) that was formed into dreadlocks and had a beard that was the size of, well, his beard. He had hands the size of a big screen TV and feet the size of German Shepherds. In his muscular arms that seemed to never end, he was holding a bundle of blankets.
"Dirgah," said Bumblebore, relieved. "At last. And where did you get the ice cream truck?"
"I borrowed, it Professor Bumblebore,......sir," said the man, carefully opening the door of the truck as he spoke. "Ol' Cirrus Cloud lent it to me. I have Harold sir."
"Did you have any problems?"
"No siree- his house was almost destroyed, but I got him out before the Buggles started arrivin'. He fell asleep as we were flying over New Jersey."
Bumblebore and Professor McDonalds went over to the giant and looked into the blankets. Inside was a small baby boy, fast asleep. A piece of black hair was covering a strangely shaped cut, like a dollar sign.
"Is that where..?" whispered Professor McDonalds.
"Yup," said Bumblebore. "He will always have that scar."
"Couldn't you do something about it, ya know, like, remove it?"
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one on my left ankle that is the complete map of the New York Subway System. Well, let me have him Dirgah. We should get this over with. The sooner the better."
They approached the Duerrsley's house, but were stopped by Dirgah.
"Could I say goodbye to him sir?" asked Dirgah. He bent his rather large head over Harold and gave him what seemed to be a very scratchy, hairy kiss. Then suddenly, Dirgah let out a sob that sounded like a strangled moose, whatever that sounds like.
"Be quiet!" insisted Professor McDonalds. "You'll wake up the Buggles!".
"Oops, s-s-sorrrry," weeped Dirgah, burying his head in a washcloth. "But I can't take it. Lindsay and Joe bein' dead an' all. An' poor Harold, off ter live with Buggles."
"Yes, it is very sad, but get a hold of yourself Dirgah, or, the Buggles will see us," Proffessor McDonalds said as quietly as she could, patting Dirgah on his arm as Bumblebore walked up to the Duerrsleys front door. He placed Harold gently on the 'Welcome' mat, took a slip of paper out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harold's blankets and walked back to join the other two. For a few minutes the three of them stood there, staring at the bundle of blankets on the doorstep. Professor McDonalds blinked a lot more than usual, Dirgah's shoulders quivered, and the light had seemed to have gone out in Professor Bumblebore's blue eyes.
"Well," said Bumbledore, the first one to speak. "That's done with. We have no business stayin' around here. We might as well go party."
"Yeah, I guess you're right," Dirgah said, "I'd be gettin' Cirrus his ice cream truck back now. G'night Professor Bumblebore, Professor McDonalds."
Still crying, Dirgah climbed back into the ice cream truck, wiped his eyes, started the ignition, and few off into the night, ice cream man music playing.
"Well, I'll see you soon," said Bumblebore. Professor McDonalds answered with a nod of her head.
Bumblebore turned and walked down the street. He pulled another Oreo out of his pocket and all of the street lights were lit up once again. He could barely make out a black-spotted cow turning the corner of Private Swim, with it's cow bell around it's neck ringing softly. He could just see the bundle of blankets outside of number square root of sixteen.
"Good luck, dude," he whispered. He turned and with a swish of his bathrobe, was gone.
A breeze ran through Private Swim, which was silent under the night sky. Harold Klopper rolled over in his blankets without waking up, hand grasping a piece of paper kindly asking the Duerrsley's to check their e-mail, not knowing that he was famous, special, or that he was going to be waken up in a few hours by the scream of his Aunt Prune as she opened the door to put out the milk bottles. He didn't know that he was going to spend the next few weeks of his life being poked by his cousin Pudgley.....He didn't even know that at this very moment, people meeting in the streets all over the United States of America were raising their glasses and toasting: "To Harold Klopper, the dude who stayed alive!"
Mr. and Mrs. Mr. Duerrsley was the president of an online company called Grungelings, or, more commonly called, A Company That Sells Print-Out Surfboards, that sold print-out surfboards. He was a really big dude, with, like, no neck, but he did have a totally cool goatee, which made up for the other stuff. Mrs. Duerrsley was skinny and had totally cool blonde hair. She also had a really big sweet tooth, which came in handy when Mr. Duerrsley's sister sent them 20 pounds of chocolate fudge for Christmas (yummy).The Duerrsleys had a small son named Pudgley, who, in their and everyone else's opinion, was the coolest dude on the block.
The Duerrsleys had everything they needed (except for that long board Mr. Duerrsley was hoping to get for Christmas), but they also had a deep, dark, terrible secret, and their second-greatest fear was that someone would find it out. They didn't think their social life could take it if any of their popular friends found out about the Kloppers. Mrs. Klopper was actually Mrs. Duerrsley's sister, but Mrs. Duerrsley hadn't graced Mrs. Klopper with her presence for several years; actually, Mrs. Duerrsley pretended that she didn't have a sister, for her sister and undudacios husband were as unpopular as you could possibly be. The Duerrsleys couldn't imagine what would happen if the Kloppers just showed up on Private Swim. The Duerrsleys knew that the Kloppers had a small son too, but they had never seen him. They didn't want Pudgley hanging out with a dude like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Duerrsley woke up on that drizzly Friday.....the thirteenth, nothing really looked like it was out of the ordinary, or, like it was going to be out of the ordinary that day. Mr. Duerrsley tried to whistle as he picked out one of his most dudacious Hawaiian print shirts for work, as Mrs. Duerrsley jabbered away about the new neighbors (they weren't exactly new, they just hadn't met them yet) and wrestled Pudgley into his high-chair. None of them noticed a large, white chicken flop past their window. At eight twenty-nine and fifty-nine seconds, Mr. Duerrsley counted down the last second before he went to work. He then picked up his briefcase and gave Mrs. Duerrsley a high five, but missed because Pudgley was throwing a tantrum. "Little Dude," said Mr. Duerrsley as he left the house and got in his company car.
At the corner of the street, he saw the first thing that day that would catch his attention- a cow- reading a map. For a second there, Mr. Duerrsley thought that it was the neighbors strange idea of yard art. Then he looked at it a second time. There was a black-spotted cow sitting on the corner of Private Swim. No map. What was he thinking? Cows can't read maps. The can't even spell 'eat more chicken'! But then, why was the cow there at all? Mr. Duerrsley did hear that the new neighbors moved from the country. Yeah, that was it. He gave the cow a popular glare. It popular glared him back. As Mr. Duerrsley drove around the corner and up the next street, he looked at the cow in the mirror. It was kinda hard to see, on the count of there was a Hawaiian lei hanging from the mirror. He did see it reading, no looking at the sign. Cows can't read maps or signs. He thought he should suggest Hooked on Phonics to the cow. Mr. Duerrsley put the cow out of his mind. The only thing he was thinking of while he was driving along was, well, driving.
But, shortly after, driving was driven out of his mind by a whole lotta empty space. Oh, yeah, and the fact that there were a lot of people on the streets dressed in bathrobes and fuzzy slippers. Mr. Duerrsley was shocked. Did someone set a new trend without telling him? He turned on the radio and looked at a group of the people standing nearby. They were whispering to each other. Then it hit Mr. Duerrsly that maybe it was a publicity stunt. Maybe advertising for some movie. Or, they could be collecting for something. Of course, that was it. They were collecting money. A few minutes later, Mr. Duerrsley arrived in the parking lot of Grungelings. He sat with his back to the window in his office on the thirteenth floor. If he had sat toward the windows, he would have found it hard to concentrate on work that morning. Harder than usual. He didn't see the chickens flopping past the windows, but most of the people in the streets did. Most of them had never seen a chicken before-even at KFC. Mr. Duerrsley had a dudacios morning, without any chickens. He designed several print-out surfboards, which, he thought, were very cool. He was in a dudacious mood until his lunch break, when he decided to go down to the Starbucks to get himself a Tall, Decaf, Low Sugar, Caramel Moca Choca Latte, with Cream, Milk, Whipped Cream, Chocolate Sprinkles, and one of those little cookies that looked like straws.
The bathrobe people had slipped his mind until he saw a group of them in the coffee shop. As he gave them a popular glare as they passed, Mr. Duerrsley wasn't looking where he was going, and ran into someone, spilling his coffee. He made his way back to the counter, trying to remember what he ordered so he could order it again. While waiting for his coffee, he heard two of the strangely-dressed people talking.
"Dude, have you heard about the Kloppers?"
"--- yeah, and their son, Harold---"
"Duuuuuuuude" the two said in unison.
Mr. Duerrsley was scared. He wanted to say something to them, but couldn't think of anything to say. He paid the guy behind the counter the $26.99 for his coffee and left the shop.
Mr. Duerrsley ran back up the street to Grungelings. Took the stairs up the to thirteenth floor (the elevator was broken), and rushed into his office, slamming the door behind him. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and began to dial his home number. But then he changed his mind. He pressed the 'clear' button on his phone until all of the numbers were gone from the screen, and stroked his totally awesome goatee, thinking......dude, he's being not dudacious. Loads of people had the name Klopper. And probably a bunch of them had a son named Harold. Actually, he didn't even know if his nephew's name was Harold. It might have been Henry. Or Harry. Or Clyde. It made no sense to tell Mrs. Duerrsley; she'd just get upset at the mention of her sister, and Mr. Duerrsley would have to wear earplugs for the rest of the night because of all that yelling. But, all the same, he didn't blame her. If he had a sister, like, who was that unpopular, but....those people in bathrobes and fuzzy slippers....
It was a lot harder for him than usual to concentrate on work that day and when he left the building at two o'clock, his boss told him that he doesn't leave 'till five, so he better get back in there and work for the next three hours. When he really left at five o'clock, he was very worried about the whole Klopper incident, that he ran into a dude outside.
"Oops," he said as the little dude struggled to get to his feet. It took Mr. Duerrsley a little while before he realized that the little dude was wearing matching leopard print bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. He didn't seem to mind being almost trampled over by someone twice as large as him. In fact, he smiled really, really, really big, and said in a voice that sounded like a mouse with a sinus infection:
"That's okay, for today is a sunshiny day! Nothing can upset me! I am invincible! Even Buggles like yourself should be celebrating today! Whooo Hooo!" And with that, he gave Mr. Duerrsley a big hug and waddled down the street.
Mr. Duerrsley was dumbfounded. He had been hugged by a complete stranger in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. And.......dude....what's a Buggle? He raced to his car and drove home, hoping that he was imagining things, which he wasn't exactly capable of.
As he drove into the driveway of square root of sixteen, Private Swim, he saw it- the cow he saw that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one- where else could you see a cow in New York City?
"Shoo, Besssie!" Mr. Duerrsley said to the cow.
The cow didn't move (I don't think it could, sitting on a garden wall). It just gave Mr. Duerrsley another popular glare. Was this normal for a cow to do? Mr. Duerrsley let himself into the house, still eyeing the cow. He was not going to say anything to his wife.
Mrs. Duerrsley had a normal day, unlike Mr. Duerrsley. At dinner, she told him about the new neighbors, who hadn't moved from the country, and about Pudgley's new phrase (I'm so cool). When Pudgley went to bed, Mr. Duerrsley went into the living room to watch the news on the tube.
"And finally, fried chicken lovers everywhere have reported chickens flying all over New York all day. No one is able to explain why these chickens, who don't have a reputation for flying, are behaving so strangely." The news guy grinned evilly, sort of like the Grinch. "Interesting. And now to Billy Bob the weather guy for the weather. Any more chicken showers tonight, Billy Bob?"
"Well, Bob Billy," said the weather guy, "I'm not too sure about that, but something else odd has been happening. Viewers from Rhode Island, New Jersey, and even Maine say that instead of that hail storm we were supposed to be getting, fireworks have been shooting across the sky! Sorry to burst your bubble folks, but the Forth of July is on the Forth of July, not on the Thirteenth of February! Heh heh."
Mr. Duerrsley quickly changed the channel to the twenty-four hour surfing network. Fireworks all over New England? Chickens flying? Dude, chickens can't fly! Weird lookin' people in bathrobes and fuzzy slippers. And a whisper about... the Kloppers.
Mr. Duerrsley came into the kitchen with two cups of strong coffee. He couldn't go on any longer. Her had to tell her sometime. He cleared his throat. "Uhhhhh....Prune...dear, you haven't talked to your sister lately, have you?"`
As Mr. Duerrsley had expected, Mrs. Duerrsley drank her coffee in one large gulp.
"Duh, no. Why are you asking?"
"A bunch of funny stuff happening. Chickens....fireworks..and there were a whole lotta weird looking people in town today."
"Sooooooooooo?" Mrs. Duerrsley said in a patronizing voice.
"Well, ya know. I thought it might have to do with," Mr. Duerrsley looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping and continued, "her crowd."
Mr. Duerrsley thought if he should tell her he heard the name "Klopper" or not. To tell or not to tell. That is the question. Mr. Duerrsley looked at his wife, who was staring at the wall now. Not to tell. That is the answer. He decided to beat around the bush a little. "Ya know, their son might be about Pudgley's age now."
"Uh huh." Mrs. Duerrsley said.
"What's his name again? Harry?"
"Harold. Unpopular name if you ask me."
"Oh yeah," said Mr. Duerrsley, shaken. "I agree. Pudgley's much better."
He didn't say anything to Mrs. Duerrsley as they went to bed. While Mrs. Duerrsley was combing her hair one hundred times, Mr. Duerrsley looked out the window. The cow was still there. It was looking down the street like it was expecting something.
Was it just his 'magination, once again...running away with him? Could all of this have to do with the Kloppers. If it did, it might get out that they are related to a couple of...well.....his social life couldn't take it. The Duerrsleys got into bed. Mrs. Duerrsley quickly fell asleep, but Mr. Duerrsley stayed awake for quite awhile. The last thing he thought of before he fell asleep was that even if the Kloppers were involved, they wouldn't dare trouble their popular relatives. He yawned and turned over on his side. It couldn't possibly affect them.
How very undudaciously wrong he was.
Mr. Duerrsley might have been sleeping soundly, but the cow on the street wasn't tired at all. It sat perfectly still, staring down Private Swim. It didn't move at the sound of the loud music playing down the street, or the sounds of car doors slamming.
A dude appeared at the end of the street the cat was staring at. He appeared so suddenly that you would have thought he just well, appeared suddenly. The cow looked at him. Narrowed it's eyes, and swished a fly off of it's back.
Nobody had ever seen a guy like this on Private Swim. He was tall, thin, and very old. He had spiked hair that was mostly gray, and wore a purple bathrobe with stars and moons on it that swept to the floor. Under it, a T- shirt and jeans, and purple fuzzy slippers. He had bright blue eyes, star- shaped glasses, and a nose that was pretty average. This dude's name was Mombus Bumblebore.
Mombus Bumblebore didn't realize that he just arrived on a street that thought he was totally unpopular. He was looking in the pockets of the bathrobe for somethin', but didn't realize that he was being watched until he looked down the street. The sight of the cow amused him, but in a different way that it would anyone else walking by and seeing a cow in the yard of a New Yorker. He laughed and said, "Dude, I should have known."
He found what he was looking for in the pocket of his bathrobe. It seemed to be an Oreo. Yes, an Oreo. I don't know how he did this, but the next thing you know, all the street lights in the street were out. Now nobody would be able to see what would be happening that night. Bumblebore began to put the Oreo back in his pocket, thought the better of it, and then ate it. He made his way down the street to where the cow was sitting and sat right next to it on the wall. He didn't look at it, but a few minutes later he started to talk to the cow.
"Fancy seeing you here Professor McDonalds."
He turned to smile at the cow, but the cow was no longer there. Instead he was smiling at a rather strange looking woman, who was wearing a yellow and red striped bathrobe, with cowprint fuzzy slippers. Her brown hair was pulled up in a bun.
"How did you know it was me?" she demanded.
"My dear professor, I've never seen a cow sitting on a garden wall in New York before, or for that matter, anywhere."
"You'd be sitting on a garden wall all day if the grass was ant infested," said professor McDonalds. Mombus Bumblebore looked down at an ant climbing up his ankle.
"Dude, all day? When you could have been partyin'? I must have gone by a whole bunch of parties on my way here."
Professor McDonalds just stared at him.
"Oh, yeah, everyone's partying all right, all without ME! But them not inviting me is beside the point," she scoffed. "You'd think they would make their parties a little less.....noticeable. But, of course not. Even the Buggles have noticed their celebrations. It was all over their news." She put her head in one hand and pointed to the Duerrsley's house with the other. "I saw it with my own two ears....wait, no....eyes. Flying chickens, fireworks....Well, duh, they're not that stupid. The had to have noticed something sooner or later. Fireworks in Rhode Island- I bet that was Jello- us Jiggle. He never was quite there."
"Dude, don't blame them," Bumblebore said. "They haven't had anything to party about in eleven years. That is, except birthdays."
"Yeah yeah yeah. I know, I know," said Professor McDonalds, who by now was pretty mad. "But that is no excuse to go crazy and run about aimlessly. People have been walking about in the streets in Buggle clothes, spreading rumors."
Here she turned her head and looked at Bumblebore, like they do at a really dramatic parts in Soap Operas, hoping that he would tell her something, but, he didn't, so she continued. "Wouldn't that be a cowinkeedink if the day Voldemort went bye-bye forever, the Buggles find out about us all? He really has gone, right?"
"I guess," said Bumblebore. "Too bad it's not Thanksgiving. We sure do have a lot to be thankful for. Do you want a mintie thingie?"
"Huh?"
"A mintie thingie. I'm not sure what they're really called, but they are Buggle candies that are really good."
"Uh, no thanks," Professor McDonalds said slowly, thinking that this wasn't the time for a.....mintie thingie. "Even if Voldemort has really gone,"
"Dude! Surely a person like yourself can call him by his real name? What's up with all this 'Voldemort' business? For eleven years I've been tryin' to get people to call him by his real name: You Know Who." Professor McDonalds twitched, but Bumblebore, who was tying to get the last mintie thingie out of the box, didn't notice. "All of these different names get confusing. I have no earthly idea why people are afraid of calling him by his real name. I'm not."
"I know you aren't," said Professor McDonalds, sounding like she would rather be somewhere else, talking about a different subject. "But its not the same. Everyone knows you are the only one Volde- oh, okay, You Know Who, was scared of."
"Aww, shucks," said Bumblebore, blushing. "You Know Who had powers I will never have, thank goodness."
"Only because you're too cool to use them."
"Good thing that it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Promtree said she liked my new hair do."
Professor McDonalds looked sharply at Bumblebore and said, "The chickens are nothing compared to the rumors going about. Ya know what everyone's sayin'? About why he left? About how he was defeated?"
It seemed this was the climax of their conversation, the part she had been waiting to discuss. The reason she sat camouflaged as a cow on a garden wall all day. It was obvious that whatever 'everyone' was saying, she wasn't going to believe it until Bumblebore confirmed it. Bumblebore, however, was looking for another box of mintie thingies in his bathrobe, and didn't bother to answer.
"What they are saying, that is," she continued, "is that last night, You Know Who showed up in Bobric's Hollow. He was looking for the Kloppers. The rumor is that Lindsay and Joe Klopper....are...are...dead."
Bumblebore bowed his head. Professor McDonalds gasped.
"Lindsay and Joe........it can't be... I didn't want to believe it. Oh, Mombus..."
Bumblebore put his arm around her shoulder. "I know." He said in a low and depressing voice.
Professor McDonalds's voice was weak as she went on. "But wait, there's more. They say that he tried to kill the Klopper's son, Harold. But he failed. He couldn't kill that little child. No one can explain why or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harold Klopper, You Know Who's power was destroyed, and that's why he's gone."
Bumblebore nodded sadly.
"It's ......it's true?" said Professor McDonalds. "After killing all of those people he couldn't kill a little boy? Of all the things that would stop him, it was a little boy? But how on earth did Harold survive?"
"I can only guess," said Bumblebore. "The world may never know."
Professor McDonalds pulled out a washcloth and dabbed her eyes with it. Bumblebore sniffed as he pulled out a pocket watch that was unlike any other. It had three hands, no numbers, but was filled with water and little grains of sand floating around in it. It must have made at least some sense to Bumblebore, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Dirgah's late. I'm guessing that it was he who told you I would be here?"
"Yes," said professor McDonalds. "And I suppose that you aren't going to tell me why you chose this place of all places.?"
"I've come to bring Harold to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."
"Oh no. You can't bring him here. Not to live with these people!" shouted Professor McDonalds, jumping up. "Bumblebore, you can't. I've been watching thema ll day. You couldn't find two more people on the planet more unlike you and me. And then there's their son, who, need I say, was kicking and screaming all day. Harold Klopper living here? Hmph."
"It's the best place for the little dude," said Bumbebore strongly. "His aunt and uncle can explain everything to him when he's able to take it. I've written them an e-mail."
"An e-mail? Are you kidding?" said Professor McDonalds, exasperated. "How can you explain all of this in an e- mail? These people won't be able to understand him. He'll be famous, a star... I wouldn't be surprised if today were declared Harold Klopper Day in the future, there will be movies and TV serieses dedicated to him. Every child in our world will know his name!"
"Professor McDonalds, I believe you are proving my point," said Dumbledore seriously. "It would be enough for him to go, like, crazy dude. Famous before he could even say famous! And for something he can't remember! Can't you see how much cooler a life he'll have if he grows up away from it al until he's old enough to deal with it?"
Professor McDonalds sighed and sat back down. "Yes, I'm sorry, you're right. But how is Harold gonna get here?" She looked at his bathrobe, seeing if Harold was in it (it did have a lot of pockets).
"Dirgah's bringing him."
"Do you think that it's a good idea to trust Dirgah with Harold? I mean, this is really important."
"Dude, I'd trust Dirgah with my life, and my surfboard," said Bumblebore.
"I'm not saying that he's a bad guy, buy he is a little careless, and clumsy, and...what was that?"
A high pitched sound had broken the silence. It got louder and louder as they looked around for something going up the street. They both looked up at the sky and a huge ice cream truck fell out of the blue, and landed right in front of them in the street.
If the ice cream truck was big, then the guy in it was huge. He was twice the size of a normal dude, and six times as wide. He had dirty brown hair (it was normally just brown, but he hadn't washed it in quite awhile) that was formed into dreadlocks and had a beard that was the size of, well, his beard. He had hands the size of a big screen TV and feet the size of German Shepherds. In his muscular arms that seemed to never end, he was holding a bundle of blankets.
"Dirgah," said Bumblebore, relieved. "At last. And where did you get the ice cream truck?"
"I borrowed, it Professor Bumblebore,......sir," said the man, carefully opening the door of the truck as he spoke. "Ol' Cirrus Cloud lent it to me. I have Harold sir."
"Did you have any problems?"
"No siree- his house was almost destroyed, but I got him out before the Buggles started arrivin'. He fell asleep as we were flying over New Jersey."
Bumblebore and Professor McDonalds went over to the giant and looked into the blankets. Inside was a small baby boy, fast asleep. A piece of black hair was covering a strangely shaped cut, like a dollar sign.
"Is that where..?" whispered Professor McDonalds.
"Yup," said Bumblebore. "He will always have that scar."
"Couldn't you do something about it, ya know, like, remove it?"
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one on my left ankle that is the complete map of the New York Subway System. Well, let me have him Dirgah. We should get this over with. The sooner the better."
They approached the Duerrsley's house, but were stopped by Dirgah.
"Could I say goodbye to him sir?" asked Dirgah. He bent his rather large head over Harold and gave him what seemed to be a very scratchy, hairy kiss. Then suddenly, Dirgah let out a sob that sounded like a strangled moose, whatever that sounds like.
"Be quiet!" insisted Professor McDonalds. "You'll wake up the Buggles!".
"Oops, s-s-sorrrry," weeped Dirgah, burying his head in a washcloth. "But I can't take it. Lindsay and Joe bein' dead an' all. An' poor Harold, off ter live with Buggles."
"Yes, it is very sad, but get a hold of yourself Dirgah, or, the Buggles will see us," Proffessor McDonalds said as quietly as she could, patting Dirgah on his arm as Bumblebore walked up to the Duerrsleys front door. He placed Harold gently on the 'Welcome' mat, took a slip of paper out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harold's blankets and walked back to join the other two. For a few minutes the three of them stood there, staring at the bundle of blankets on the doorstep. Professor McDonalds blinked a lot more than usual, Dirgah's shoulders quivered, and the light had seemed to have gone out in Professor Bumblebore's blue eyes.
"Well," said Bumbledore, the first one to speak. "That's done with. We have no business stayin' around here. We might as well go party."
"Yeah, I guess you're right," Dirgah said, "I'd be gettin' Cirrus his ice cream truck back now. G'night Professor Bumblebore, Professor McDonalds."
Still crying, Dirgah climbed back into the ice cream truck, wiped his eyes, started the ignition, and few off into the night, ice cream man music playing.
"Well, I'll see you soon," said Bumblebore. Professor McDonalds answered with a nod of her head.
Bumblebore turned and walked down the street. He pulled another Oreo out of his pocket and all of the street lights were lit up once again. He could barely make out a black-spotted cow turning the corner of Private Swim, with it's cow bell around it's neck ringing softly. He could just see the bundle of blankets outside of number square root of sixteen.
"Good luck, dude," he whispered. He turned and with a swish of his bathrobe, was gone.
A breeze ran through Private Swim, which was silent under the night sky. Harold Klopper rolled over in his blankets without waking up, hand grasping a piece of paper kindly asking the Duerrsley's to check their e-mail, not knowing that he was famous, special, or that he was going to be waken up in a few hours by the scream of his Aunt Prune as she opened the door to put out the milk bottles. He didn't know that he was going to spend the next few weeks of his life being poked by his cousin Pudgley.....He didn't even know that at this very moment, people meeting in the streets all over the United States of America were raising their glasses and toasting: "To Harold Klopper, the dude who stayed alive!"