Blacky Blasts Back

WHAT THE
REAL
CRITICS HAVE TO SAY

My gran bought me your book as a birthday present.
I have no idea what I did to upset her

– Lauren, aged 7,
NT

You have many things in common with Roald Dahl,
but writing good stories isn't one of them

– Brendan, aged 14,
SA

I read your book while I was recovering
from appendicitis in hospital. I'm not sure
which experience was most painful

– Gabrielle, aged 8,
ACT

My teacher caught me reading your book during
Maths. She was going to give me a detention,
but reckoned I'd suffered enough

– Jasmin, aged 10,
VIC

Your new book is pitiful, pathetic and poorly
written – a huge improvement on your last

– Mya, still in the womb,
NSW

First published in 2010

Copyright © Text, Barry Jonsberg 2010

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
The Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (
CAL
) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest
NSW
2065
Australia

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
   Jonsberg, Barry, 1951-
   Blacky blasts back: on the tail of the Tassie tiger
   For primary school age.
   
ISBN
: 978 174237 223 5 (pbk.)
   
A
823.4

Cover and text design by Bruno Herfst

This book was printed in November 2009 at McPherson's Printing Group, 76 Nelson Street, Maryborough, Victoria, 3465, Australia.
www.mcphersonsprinting.com.au

www.allenandunwin.com/kids

For Freddi, Tris and Damien

My name is Marcus, but you can call me Boris the Impaler.

Hell child.

Born-to-be-wild.

Ripper-off-of-chooks'-heads-with-his-teeth.

Or just plain Marc if you prefer.

It was Monday morning and I sat at the breakfast table, glowering at my sister Rose. For some reason, Mum had neglected to provide a live chook whose head I could bite off, so I was forced to settle for a round of toast.

I tore off a jammy chunk, drool dripping from my chin. Then I let out a low growl, my eyes hard pinpricks of pure evil. Wickedness ran through my veins. My muscles bunched and tensed. Fingers, itching for destruction, clawed at the tablecloth.

‘Are you okay, Marcus?' said Mum, putting a milk jug in front of Rose. ‘You look constipated.' I gave an icy chuckle, but then a stabbing pain shot through my ankle and I choked on my toast. Rose had kicked me under the table. She'd been doing that a lot recently. My chuckle turned into a strangled whimper. I coughed violently and a plug of bread exploded from my throat, travelled like a speeding bullet across the table, ricocheted off the milk jug and pinged Rose between the eyes.

Mum shrieked.

Rose slumped to the floor, eyes rolling back in her head.

Amid the confusion, I grabbed my backpack and scuttled out the door.

School beckoned and Boris had impaling to do.

Assembly. A perfect opportunity for raising hell.

It is the custom at my school for seven hundred kids to sit cross-legged on the gym floor and fall asleep while teachers drone on about nothing. Today Miss Dowling, our Principal, was the main event, so I waited while the warm-up acts finished their turns. If I was going to do something spectacularly bad – something gut-wrenchingly terrible – it would have to be when Miss D was in full flow.

Words floated across the gym and died before they reached my ears. I was lost in my own head, planning. My first idea was to stand when the Prinny was slotting into top gear, and drop an amazingly loud and fruity fart. Trouble is, that's not something you can produce on demand. I wasn't confident I wouldn't just strain, turn beetroot red and poop my pants.

Nasty, yes. But more embarrassing than destructive. Not the behaviour of a devil child.

Maybe I could just yell out something really offensive. Pull the pigtails of random year-seven girls. Projectile vomit on Miss Dowling's shoes.

I was running through the options when I realised the time had come. Miss Dowling had the microphone and was pacing the stage. I hadn't even noticed her move into the spotlight. And I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. But what I
did
know was that this was the time to act. Just leap up and do something really, really bad. Trust my instinct. Let the evil work through me. Now or never. Do it, Marcus.
Do it!

I jumped to my feet and Miss Dowling paused in her flow of words. She looked straight at me. My knees trembled but I opened my mouth. I would have been fascinated to know what I was going to say, but I never got the chance. She spoke first.

‘Splendid, Marcus,' she said. ‘What a good start to our School Community Project! Those pensioners will be so grateful for your help with their gardens. I hope the rest of you are as impressed as I am by Marcus's selflessness. Five gold stars!'

My mouth closed and opened again. I did a fabulous impersonation of a goldfish for a few moments. Then I sat down.

Lunch. A perfect time for mayhem.

Normally I take a packed lunch, but this morning I'd left it in the fridge. After braining Rose with the lump of half-chewed toast, I had made a hasty retreat. So I searched my pockets for shrapnel and came up with enough to buy a hot dog from the canteen. A double helping of tomato sauce dripped over my fingers. I chewed at the roll, but left the pale sausage intact.

Miss Monkhouse was the teacher on yard duty. This was a stroke of luck. Miss Monkhouse is the scariest teacher in the school. She regularly chews up students and spits them out. She's as tough as a sumo wrestler, only larger. She's never smiled and doesn't seem inclined to risk it. She can maim at fifty metres with one blow of her tongue.

Miss Monkhouse leaned against a pillar at the side of the canteen, blotting out the sun and gazing at the kids in the yard. She had her back to me. I balanced the dripping hot dog in my hand and edged closer. The broad expanse of her neck made a perfect target. I couldn't miss. I could imagine the moment of impact. The splat of the hot dog, the splatter of flying sauce, even . . . maybe, just maybe . . . the sausage sliding down her neckline and lodging in the small of her back. If her back had anywhere that was small.

I took a deep breath and let my missile fly.

You know how I said I couldn't miss?

I was wrong.

The hot dog hit the pillar she was leaning against and rebounded. The impact must have drawn her attention, because she turned around. Just in time to see the hot dog bounce on the edge of a rubbish bin, teeter for a moment on the rim like a basketball making up its mind whether to be a basket or not, and then drop neatly into its depths.

You could have practised that trick a thousand times and never pulled it off. Miss Monkhouse gazed at me.

‘Good boy, Marcus,' she said. For a second I thought she was going to smile. I think she tried, but the muscles must have seized up through lack of use. ‘You wouldn't believe how many children just drop their rubbish on the ground. Well done. Five gold stars!'

Science. Last lesson of the day. Perfect for mischief.

Chemicals, Bunsen burners, test tubes. The Spawn of Satan couldn't have asked for a better environment for creating havoc. No way I could fail. Like shooting fish in a barrel. Easy-peasy lemon-squeezy.