Author's Note: My chapters are getting longer! Yay! (I made VERY small grammar changes.)
Disclaimer: I don't own Meet the Robinsons, but I do own the Mess Remover 3000. ;P
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"Okay, that should do it!" Lewis laid down the screwdriver and examined the PB and J invention.
"It's so exciting … Let her rip, Lewis!" Billie exclaimed, looking excited.
"Quickly," Art urged. "Uncle Joe can't hold on much longer!" A red faced Uncle Joe was rocking in his seat, sobbing and sucking his thumb.
"Everybody ready?"
"Go, Carl!" Lewis handed the machine to Carl. Everybody cheered as he activated the invention; it whirred promisingly, then jammed again. "Oh no," Lewis breathed, sounding apprehensive. Peanut butter and jelly exploded out of the gun, landing on everyone. "Oh no," Lewis moaned again, burying his face in his hands. "I – I didn't know, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"
"You failed!" cried Bud happily.
"And it was awesome!" Gaston applauded Lewis.
"Exceptional," Art added.
"Outstanding!" cheered Laszlo.
"Uh … I've seen better!" Petunia shrieked, always with a positive attitude.
"From failing, you learn," Billie told Lewis, shrugging. "From success, not so much!"
"If I gave up every time I failed, I never would have made the meatball cannon!" Gaston stroked his cannon lovingly.
"I never would have made my fireproof pants!" Bud said proudly, his hands on his hips. His pants were indeed flaming brightly. They seemed to be okay, until they burnt to ashes. "Still working out the kinks," Bud added sheepishly. Tallulah gawked in amazement as Bud stood in his underwear, a pile of ashes at his feet.
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Ah, yes. The meatball cannon. After exactly forty three prototypes, Gaston had finally succeeded. The weapon that had helped him beat Franny in countless food fights, his most prized possession, the one thing he kept most carefully guarded. (And by "most carefully guarded", he meant "stuffed farthest into the back of his sock drawer and carelessly hidden by mismatched socks.")
The first prototype had taken only a few days to make, especially since Gaston had all the materials and tools he needed at his fingertips. All he had to do was go into the garage and find Cornelius' spare junk. And not get caught by Cornelius. It was as simple as that.
While inventing the cannon, he had spent unusually long hours in his room working on it (using the garage would have been more sensible, but Gaston had never been one to think quickly). Franny had been slightly suspicious at the small explosions and noises emitting from Gaston's room, but when she thought about it, how unusual was it? It was, after all, Gaston.
Gaston had always been the "daredevil" of the family; being the middle of three children, he was always looking for ways to get attention from the Framagucci parents. Most of his pleas for attention ended up in some kind of injury. He jumped off the roof into huge piles of leaves (resulting in a broken leg and a sprained wrist), rode on skateboards down terribly steep hills, After rescuing Franny from an icy, watery death in the pond when she was eight, Gaston had spent one of the happiest weeks of his life basking in the glow of being "a hero." Once Franny returned to her old cheerful self again, however, the "hero" glow faded back to Gaston's usual mediocrity.
So, since it was Gaston, nobody really thought too much about it. At least, they didn't until prototype sixteen.
At prototype sixteen, an eleven year old Wilbur had been casually walking by Gaston's room (obviously not spying on him) when he noticed something purple, slimy, and apparently acidic (it was burning through the hall carpet) seeping underneath the crack of Gaston's bedroom door. With it came a loud crash and many muffled profanities. Wilbur stifled a snigger and knocked on the door.
"Hey, Uncle G," he called in his high, childish voice. "Are you okay in there?"
"Yeah! Yeah!" a frantic voice called back hurriedly. "I'm fine, Will, uh … go play with Carl or something!" Wilbur furrowed his brow, scowling. At eleven, Wilbur already considered himself above just "playing with Carl or something." Wilbur hopped carefully away, jumping over the spreading rivers of violet that were melting the carpet.
Gaston sighed, relieved, as he opened the door slightly and watched his nephew bounce away. He cowered inwardly at the thought of what his sister would say when she found out that he had burned away her carpet, but he pushed it into the back of his mind. He would cross that bridge when it came. After all, he had to keep moving forward, right?
He grabbed handfuls of toilet paper from the nearest bathroom and began attempting to mop away the purple liquid. It looked vaguely like grape juice. As soon as the toilet paper touched the stuff, though, the toilet paper began to melt away, smoking alarmingly.
"Great," he complained aloud. "How am I supposed to get rid of this!?" There was only one thing for it; he needed a Robinson invention. But how was he supposed to get one? He couldn't go to Cornelius – it would get back to Franny in a heartbeat. What he really needed was someone small, quick, willing to help (or be bribed), and would never get killed by Cornelius or Franny. There was only one person like that in this household, Gaston decided.
"Hey, uh … Wilbur?" he yelled. Wilbur's head immediately appeared outside the door. Gaston suspected he had never really left in the first place. He quickly stepped into the hall and shut the door before his nephew could figure out what he was doing.
"Yes, Uncle G?" Wilbur answered innocently. Gaston sighed, embarrassed to be asking an eleven year old kid for help.
"I need help," Gaston told him. The raven haired boy's angelic expression dropped immediately to be replaced by his trademark smirk.
"What do you need?" Wilbur asked slyly.
"Something to get rid of that." Gaston gestured to the rapidly spreading mess on the floor.
"Well," Wilbur said thoughtfully, "it just so happens that my father has been working on something to get rid of every imaginable mess." Gaston's hopes soared. "But," Wilbur continued, (Gaston's hopes plummeted down again) "it's still a prototype."
"Whatever," Gaston pleaded desperately. "I need to clean this up before Fra – your mother finds out."
Wilbur grinned. "I've been there before, my friend," he said knowledgably, a smooth talker even at age eleven. "And I'll get you something to fix the carpet too, as a bonus."
"Are … you wanting to know what's in it for you?" Gaston asked warily, before Wilbur could open his mouth.
"Nah," Wilbur replied charitably. "I'm feeling generous today; plus, I know what it's like when Mom's on the warpath. I'll be back in five." He sprinted away down the hall. Gaston grinned; his nephew truly was a Robinson.
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Precisely five minutes later, Wilbur was back with a colourful ray gun and a long, lethal looking metal bar with a dial. He handed them to an anxious Gaston.
"Easy in, easy out," he said proudly. "Dad wasn't even there."
"Yes!" Gaston cheered. He took the gun first and read the words on the side: "Mess Remover 3000?"
"Dad's never been that good with names," Wilbur shrugged. Gaston shook it off and aimed the gun at the carpet. Wilbur watched, waiting excitedly to see what would happen. A blue laser shot out of the end. As soon as the laser made contact with the purple liquid, it disintegrated and turned to ashes. Another quick zap and the ashes were gone.
"I love this invention," Gaston said fervently. He cleared away the last of the stuff, and then reached for the metal bar.
"Be careful with this," warned Wilbur. "This is a really recent prototype." Gaston nodded, not really listening, and examined the metal thing.
"How do you use it?"
"Just twist the dial to 'carpet'," Wilbur directed. "Then use that end and poke the bare spots." Gaston gently prodded the area where the carpet had burned away. When there was no result, he jabbed at the floor more forcefully. Still, nothing happened. Gaston stabbed the floor angrily – and dropped the Mess Remover 3000.
Time seemed to slow down dramatically as it fell to the floor. It hit the carpet with a dull thud – and set off. Wilbur yelped and ducked into a closet as the ray shot its' laser into the bathroom. It hit a mirror, and reflected out again. Gaston followed the laser's beam to the chandelier dangling from above; the laser was swiftly dissolving the chain that anchored it to the ceiling. He grabbed the ray from the floor and tugged the stuck trigger, stopping the beam, but it was too late: the chandelier was already tumbling to the ground. He leaped out of the way and watched, horrified, as it crashed through the floor, creating a gaping hole and landing – obviously – in Franny's music room. Gaston moaned and peeked into the opening; Franny, pale white and furious, was glaring up at him.
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"Enjoying your punishment, Uncle G?" Wilbur the Insensitive asked cheerfully. Gaston grunted, hiding his red face – Franny was forcing him to clean up after her frogs – she hadn't gotten around to toilet training them yet. Wilbur was grounded, but it didn't stop him sneaking into the travel tubes. Both of them were oblivious to the fact that Franny stood silently at the doorway. She smiled reluctantly at the sight of them, and left: maybe she would let them be. Just this once.
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Author's Note: Please, please, please review … don't cheat and just read the story. :) I want to know what you think!