Casper Candlewacks in the Attack of the Brainiacs! (15 page)

Julius was pacing in circles. “Boys, as much as I love chatting about livestock,
we really have to go
.”

“Dad. This is important.” Casper turned back to face Lamp. “Look, Jean-Claude's been lurking around the village for a while now, but can you remember when he arrived?”

“Maybe two months ago. Shortly before Mavis and Bessie arrived… Oh dear.”

“Oh, I am
so
stupid! What if they're Jean-Claude's hens, Lamp? What if Jean-Claude came to Corne-on-the-Kobb with his plan and his hens, spotted your potential and gave you Mavis and Bessie so you'd have a head start? You'd eat their eggs and start getting brainy even earlier than the rest of us.”

“But they're my cousins,” whimpered Lamp. “The tags on their necks said so.”

“They're not your cousins. Those are French hens, Lamp.”

“Oh,” Lamp's lip quivered. “French? S'pose that explains why I could never understand them.”

“You were Jean-Claude's first test-subject and it worked. How he got the hens laying clever eggs, we'll never know. Feeding them books? Sending them off to school? Probably something cruel, knowing him.”

“Poor chickies.” Lamp tickled Mavis's head.

“Guys,” Julius looked up at the clock with desperate eyes. “It's good that you've solved it, but come outside and you'll see we've got bigger fish to fry.”

This made no sense. “What's the hurry? It's only seven o'clock. Why are you even up this early?”

“Early? It's seven in the evening!” cried Julius.
“And I'm supposed to be serving food!”

“
What?
” Any remaining joy slipped off Casper's face. “The evening?”

“Yes! Evening, with the cook-off, in the square. Didn't you wonder why the kitchen was so empty?”

“No, I mean, I noticed, but—”

“This was the first time Jean-Claude left the kitchen, my only chance to rescue you before the cook-off. I had to leave Amanda alone with my food to come and find you. I need your help, Casp. This is desperate.
Come on!
” Julius dashed from the kitchen, Casper and Lamp hot on his heels. They danced through the empty tables of
Bistro D'Escargot
and pulled open the door, and the sound from the square hit them full in the face, like a frying pan of noise.

The cook-off had begun.

The square was packed; let's just get that straight. Every single villager of Corne-on-the-Kobb had turned up at least twice to see the grand cook-off. The pigeons were out in force, perching on both the statue and the real head of Mayor Rattsbulge. Some outsiders were here too – muddy yokels from Little Grimston and snooty aristocrats from Upper Crustenbury – all scrabbling about and falling over
and getting tangled up with each other.

To the left of the square, in front of the pub, a long trestle table had been set up to hold all of Jean-Claude's equipment (most of which Lamp had invented): the Fry-Frencher, the Steam-powered Casserole, the spinny thing that turned bricks into chocolate mousse and, of course, the wheezing, sneezing, tartan Omelette Gun, which floated wobblily above the heads of the villagers and screeched like a burst Cuddles.

There stood Jean-Claude D'Escargot, the chef who couldn't cook, proud in his new chef whites and enormous puffy chef's hat. A huge chunk of the crowd watched him work with adoring
oohs
and
aahs
as he pretended to cook, lifting and putting down a knife or turning a tap on.

None of the crowd could get near to Jean-
Claude's machines, however, owing to the four enormous bollards that separated his tables from the rest of the square. Those bollards had pale-blue tracksuits and hairy arms and spotty bruised faces. And worst of all, those bollards had names. Casper tried to say those names aloud, but his throat felt as dry as dust.
Bash
, he thought,
Clobber, Spit and Pinchnurse. The Brewster brothers
.

“He p-p-paid them in l-lunch m-money.”

Little Snivel Brewster had crept up behind the boys. He wore a tiny version of the very same tracksuit his brothers had on and a grimace that said,
You've lost
.

“I've b-been to your t-t-table. She's serving b-bowls of t-tap water. S-says it's the only f-fing she c-can c-cook.”

“Oh, cripes,” cried Julius. “Amanda!” He
launched off towards a long table draped with a Union Jack, set up outside the front door of The Battered Cod. This side of the square was empty, apart from Amanda and Cuddles Candlewacks and three pigeons queuing for a bowl of water. Cuddles sat on a stack of plates, gnawing on some fingers, while Amanda flustered about as if she was running a country.

“Just a minute!” Amanda cried, desperately sloshing the contents of her water jug with the wrong end of a wooden spoon. “I can't keep up with all these orders.”

“Amanda, darling. What about the
Crown Jewels Kebabs
?
Steak 'n' Kidney Pies?
Those
Bulldog Toffees
I boiled up?” Julius looked like he might pull his few remaining hairs out. “Tell me you've been selling the
Jellied Eels
, Amanda.”

“But I like water!” sang Amanda.

Casper looked from his dad's empty table to the swarm of brainiacs surrounding Jean-Claude's, and felt his heart sink. This cook-off was more one-sided than last year's Kobb Valley Bodybuilders versus Pensioners Rugby Match, where the pensioners shuffled off halfway through to watch
Antiques Attic
.

Anemonie Blight's pointy black shoes clicked on the cobbles as she skipped past. “Candlewacks is leaving home!” she sang. “Candlewacks is leaving home! Pack your bags, loser! Need help with the bus fare?” The point of her nose wrinkled as she flicked a single penny piece at Casper and skipped away.

BOOM!

Across the square, green confetti filled the air
and the crowd cheered.

“That's my Omlit Gun,” puffed Lamp proudly. “Jean-Claude would be nothing without it.”

“Yeah,” sighed Casper. “And with it, he's everything. But hang on… that's exactly it!”

“It is?” said Lamp.

“Just like you said – he'd be nothing without all your inventions. He relies on them to win. All we have to do is destroy those machines and Dad can't lose!”

Lamp chuckled. “Oh, Casper, you are silly sometimes.”

“N-n-no,” muttered Snivel, “h-he's right.”

Lamp grinned at Snivel, and then at Casper, and then noticed neither was grinning back. He put the grin in his pocket for later and replaced it with a wide-eyed look of horror. “But… I made them.
They're mine and I made them.”

“If we let Jean-Claude win, I have to leave the village. For ever. Would you prefer that?”

It was obviously a hard decision. Lamp looked Casper up and down and did some counting in his head. “S'pose I could make some more. But do you have to kill them?”

“There's no other way. Sorry, Lamp.” Casper steadied his nerves with a few deep breaths. “Right. Dad, get some food ready. If this goes according to plan, you'll have a couple of hundred hungry villagers to feed.”

“I can do that,” nodded Julius.

“Snivel, Lamp – you need to distract the Brewsters.”

“I'll c-call them ugly,” said Snivel.

“I'll teach them the particulars of Fermat's Last
Theorem!” cheered Lamp.

Casper grabbed the jug of water. “And I'll deal with the machines. This should short the circuits. Good luck, chaps.”

Lamp saluted.

Snivel itched his face.

“Casper,” said Amanda, “why are you wearing my dress?”

The crowd was thick near Jean-Claude's table, so nobody saw the three approach, but Snivel got the Brewsters' attention quickly enough.

“Hey! B-Bash!” Snivel shouted, his squeaky voice carrying over the crowd with surprising power. “You got a f-face like a d-donkey's armpit.”

Bash spun round, spotted his little brother and snarled. Snivel didn't wait a second longer than he had to; he darted away between two men in
anoraks, but Bash caught the scent and blitzed straight after him with fists raised. Never one to miss out on a fight, Pinchnurse followed behind. Meanwhile Spit and Clobber scratched their buzz-cut heads and nibbled their lips at the mathematical conundrums Lamp was posing. With Jean-Claude pretending to fricassee some rabbit loin for the baying crowd, not a soul saw Casper steal behind the line of tables with his water jug.

Crouching, Casper reached up and poured a splosh of water into the top of a jiggling pink laundry basket.

TSSSSSS.

Squelches of unbaked bread seeped through its holes and the jiggling stopped. Next was a spaghetti-stretching mechanical monkey.

SHHHHKNK.

The monkey's arms dropped and the spaghetti flopped to the table.

GLUGLUGLUG… BONK.

There went the coconut-juicer.

SSSSPNTBLOLOLOING.

Hundreds of champagne jellies bounced to the cobbles.

FIZZZ-WHEEE.

Whatever that one used to be, it was now purple and broken.

“Lunch munny.”

Casper frowned. That was an odd noise for a machine to make. He poured a little more water on.

“Lunch munny.”

And then Casper felt the hot-tuna breath on the back of his neck and realised his mistake.

Jean-Claude looked round from his chopping board. “What is going on?” His rubbery face curled with displeasure as it met Casper's, and his cigarette dropped hissing to the floor. “
Boy.
I thought I was rid of you, but 'ere you are, getting in my way once more. You are like a boomerang and I 'ave had enough of you. Brewsters? Throw him away! And zis time, make sure he won't come back!”

“RETREAT!” Casper yelled, diving to his left just as a brutish fist whooshed past his head. He leapt up, spun round and ran straight back under Bash Brewster's outstretched arm into the crowd.

“D-did you do it?” Snivel was right by him, ducking daintily through t he pack of villagers.

“Some, but not enough.” Casper looked back to see only six of the thirty or so machines pluming smoke.

“S-sorry. B-bash forgot he was ch-chasing me and went b-b-back. I c-can't keep them away for l-long enough.”

Lamp stood under Mayor Rattsbulge's statue nursing a dead arm. “They didn't agree with Fermat's conclusion, Casper,” he said, prodding the arm gently. “Wakey wakey.”

“Six machines down at the cost of one arm and very nearly my head. We need a new tactic.” Casper gritted his teeth. “Long-range attack. Everyone, empty your pockets!”

Casper had some fluff, a paper clip and the ring pull from a tin of peaches. Snivel had a packet of plasters and a comfort blanket. Lamp had twenty-eight-and-a-half eggs.

“Where do you keep all those?” asked Casper, amazed.

Lamp tapped his nose. “Secret pockets,” he said. “I sewn them in.”

“But that's perfect! Who's got good aim?”

Snivel shook his head.

Lamp shrugged.

“Fine. I'll give it a go,” Casper grunted. “If I can get an egg in the works, it'll clog up all the machinery. We've got twenty-eight eggs and twenty-four machines to hit. Should be fine.” His stomach gurgled. Fifteen metres away sat the line of Lamp's machines, the wheezing Omelette Gun right in the middle. In front, the four Brewsters towered protectively above the crowd. Casper flicked the hair from his eyes and grabbed an egg. “Watch this.”

The egg left his hand cleanly, spinning as it cleared the heads of the nearest villagers and
soared into the sky. Up it flew, up and up, until it seemed to hang in the air above Jean-Claude's table. But the egg had veered too far to the left, and as it began to plummet, Casper saw he'd pitched too short. It dropped like a stone, flipping and wobbling until it landed with an ominous crack… on the shoulder of Bash Brewster's tracksuit.

Bash looked at the yolk running down his front, and then up at the crowd. “Oo did dat?” he roared, teeth bared, and without waiting for an answer, he reached behind him and flung the first thing to hand at the villagers. A clump of boiled rice struck Sandy Landscape's cheek.

“Oy there!” Sandy lashed out with a carrot, whipping about and catching the hairs of Spit Brewster's nose. Spit roared in indignation and started lobbing boiled tomatoes, which struck a
dozen screaming faces as they hailed down on the crowd. Clemmie Answorth grabbed a bucket of mayonnaise and a ladle to flick it with, while Mayor Rattsbulge had drawn two double-barrelled sausages from his holster.

“FOOD FIGHT!” the mayor roared as he unloaded the first sausage at Mitch McMassive.

“
Non!
Do ze stopping!” yelped Jean-Claude as a strawberry meringue exploded by his feet and his Soufflé Puffer toppled to the ground. A volley of olives followed the meringue, uprooting two more of Lamp's nearby inventions and knocking off Jean-Claude's hat. “My machines! You are ruining zem!”

Casper's mouth gaped open. “I missed, but… I hit!” The food fight was in full fling now, and the biggest casualties were the delicate inventions, their intricate wiring now spattered with spinach and buttercream, their circuits fizzing from the red wine
jus
that rained from the sky. Grabbing two more eggs, he flung one into the crowd and cracked the second over Mrs Trimble's head.

Anemonie had joined in by now, jabbing at nearby brainiacs with the spiky end of a pineapple, and Milly and Milly Mollyband had scaled Mayor Rattsbulge's statue and were taking potshots with seedless grapes.

Casper cackled with delight as he shielded himself from a treacle tart and threw more eggs. Snivel ducked deftly when Sandy Landscape lunged at him with a carrot, then giggled and introduced the gardener's bald spot to an egg.

“Stop it!” shouted Lamp. “Those eggs are mine!”

The hideous wheeze of the Omelette Gun screeched above the crowd noise, and those not yet blinded looked round to see Jean-Claude, the vacuum-cleaner neck under his arm, loosing omelettes at approaching villagers.

“Get back!” he roared. “Ze machines must not be 'armed!”

An omelette splattered Anemonie in the face, and by the time it slid off, she was already reciting Shakespeare.