Casper Candlewacks in the Attack of the Brainiacs! (16 page)

The omelettes had grounded ten villagers, what with the force that Jean-Claude fired them. Casper took Lamp's last two eggs and danced forward, one in each hand. He dodged behind Mayor Rattsbulge to avoid the omelette that soared towards him and threw an egg right back, but its flight path met that of a chocolate log and they both exploded, spattering their innards across the crowd.

Casper dived for the cobbles and held his breath. He could feel the cold eggy slop hitting his head, but as long as it didn't touch
his mouth, he knew he'd be fine. Jean-Claude was close – Casper could hear the bagpipes and smell the garlic.

All around the Frenchman, the remains of Lamp's inventions hissed and sizzled. One thing was for sure– he'd be cooking no more food tonight.

“Give up, Jean-Claude!” cried Casper, hiding his face behind a poppadom. “You've lost! Your machines are ruined!”

“Ah,
non
. Not all of zem!”

FLOOM.

Casper dived for the cobbles once more, the omelette missing him by centimetres. He peeked up in time to see that it had hit Bash Brewster, and that he'd responded with the closest bit of food to hand, which just happened to be
Mitch McMassive. Squealing, Mitch spun through the air towards Jean-Claude's table and Casper had to duck again, but Mitch's squeak and a hideous burp from the bagpipes told Casper all he needed to know. Direct hit.

“
NON!
” roared Jean-Claude. “My machine! You fool!”

“Sorry,” said Mitch. “I've got some tape at home.” But the damage was done. Round the tiny barman, the Omelette Gun deflated and died, screaming its last sad notes through a dozen punctures. The last invention was broken – Jean-Claude was beaten.

“But… but…” The Frenchman's mouth pursed in horror, and then he saw Casper. “Heh.” His face tightened. “You think you are so clever, boy?”

“Give up, Jean-Claude.”

“Never! If I am going down, I will take your fazzer wiz me!”

“What d'you mean? My dad's fine!”

But as Jean-Claude vaulted over the table and bustled through the crowd, Casper had doubts. “Where are you going? Come back and give yourself up!” Casper tried to push after him, but the gaps in the crowd closed themselves up as soon as they'd opened. Soon he was face to face with Betty Woons and two cream pies, but he only managed to dodge one of them.

As he fell, bodies piled on top, squelching and yelping.

“Stop it now!” Casper yelled, wriggling under the mass of three brawling villagers. “The fight's over. We've won! We need to get Jean-Claude!”

But everybody's ears were filled with custard.

“Let me go!” He wrenched free and pushed the villagers aside, climbing upwards and scraping sauce from his dress.

Across the square, some huge commotion had caught the villagers' eyes. The crowd was too dense to see what was causing the ruckus, so Casper pushed forward, worried at how close it was to Julius's table. And then he saw them – two men locked in a heated sword fight.

“Combat!” The brainiacs screamed with excitement.

One of the sword-fighting men was French and stumpy; the other tall and balding. Their swords were producing quite a few crumbs. In fact, they weren't strictly
sword
fighting at all because for that you'd need swords. And those weren't swords. They were
baguettes.

“Dad?” Casper bellowed. “What's happening?”

Jean-Claude growled at the intrusion and stabbed at Julius's chest, missing, but forcing him back.

“Casper—”

CLOB
.

Jean-Claude's loaf struck Julius round the head and he clattered to the floor in a bread-
clobbered heap.

“DAD!”

The crowd let out a disappointed sigh.

“Over already?” moaned Audrey Snugglepuss. “But I so love a good duel.”

“Oh, it's not over.” Anger swelled in Casper's belly as he ran to his defeated father, lying there crummy and winded. He leant down to pick up Julius's loaf, not once taking his eyes off the villain before him. “Jean-Claude D'Escargot, you've messed with the wrong village.”

“Bah.” The Frenchman spat at the ground and sneered through his grubby teeth. “Do not make me do ze laughing, boy. Get out of my way. I will be finishing off your fazzer.”

“I'm not moving.” Casper's baguette trembled. “You've come here for revenge, but my dad owes
you nothing. How many chefs' careers have you ruined with bad reviews, huh? Hundreds? Even thousands? My dad was just the first to stand up for himself. You think you can ruin my dad's life just because you're too high and mighty to write a proper review? You didn't even taste his food!”

“He cheated me wiz his English tricks!” Jean-Claude roared. “He made me ze fool! I will be paying him back, if it's ze last thing I do.” With his free hand, Jean-Claude fumbled for a cigarette from a pack in his pocket, pursing it between his rubbery lips as he lit it.

“You'll have to get past
me
.” Casper didn't know what he was doing. He didn't even know if he was holding his baguette the right way round. But he couldn't fail now. The consequences would be too dire.

“
Hergh
.” Jean-Claude coughed, letting the cigarette flop to the side of his mouth. “Zen DIE!” He charged, slashing his baguette straight at Casper's neck. Casper parried the blow by instinct, but lost his footing and stumbled backwards. Instantly Jean-Claude was on him again, jabbing from above and then lunging at Casper's chest. Casper fell back further, dodging his blows, but losing vital ground.

The crowd began to chant, but what they said was too indistinct for Casper to hear.

FWOOSH
.

The baguette whistled past Casper's head, but he ducked just in time.

“You cannot do ze winning, boy.”

The crowd chanted, every mouth repeating the same words, but Casper still couldn't make out
what they were saying.

“Stop that!” he yelled between frenzied bats of his baguette. “It's distracting.”

Lamp appeared by his ear. “It's easy for us, Casper.” He tapped his brain. “Brainiacs, you see. Just copy what we say and you can't lose. Speak up, everyone!”

The villagers chanted more loudly. “Lunge! Parry! Lunge!
Riposte!
” they cried, and Casper did his best to follow their instructions.

“Zey cannot help you!” Jean-Claude beat back Casper's attack with ease. “I 'ave fed their minds with intelligence, not sword skill.”

“Jump!” cried the crowd and Casper did so, just as Jean-Claude swiped at Casper's feet.

“You're wrong, sir,” said Lamp.

Fencing's easy when you know
what the other guy's going to do next. It's a bit like chess.”

“Pah! As if you know zat.”

“Parry! Parry! Feint! Stab!”

Casper didn't know what some of those moves were, but he tried his best and it
was
forcing Jean-Claude backwards.

“Lunge! Riposte! Lunge!
Flèche!
”

“What's
flèche
?” Casper had to guess, swinging his baguette twice round his head. Evidently he was wrong because he found himself wide open. Jean-Claude didn't need a second opportunity; he charged and struck hard on Casper's chest. The cobbles met his fall, knocking the wind from his fingers and the baguette from his lungs (or was it the other way round?).

A gasp rose from the crowd, followed by deathly silence.

Jean-Claude loomed over Casper. He pressed his crust firmly to his victim's neck. “You lose, boy. I am ze last man standing. Victory, she is mine.”

“Oh yeah?” It was a struggle to speak with the bread pressing against Casper's windpipe, but
he had nothing left to lose. “I thought this was a cook-off. If you're the winner, where's your food to show for it?”

“You destroyed it wiz your petty little food fight.”

“Then cook some more!”

“
Non!
I will not!” Jean-Claude raised his baguette.

“Tell them why not, Jean-Claude.” Casper turned his head to face the crowd. “They deserve to know. Why can't you cook any more?”

The Frenchman spluttered. “It… er… IT DOES NOT MATTER.” He raised the baguette further, ready to strike.

But Casper hadn't finished. “It's because you can't cook! Admit it! You couldn't make toast if your head was a toaster!”

“Fine. I cannot do ze cooking! What does it matter? It ends the same for you, boy.” He grinned his black-toothed grin.

“You'll never get away with this, Jean-Claude,” said Casper helplessly.

Jean-Claude tipped his head back and laughed, a vile, phlegmy, dirty laugh that echoed round the square and made Ted Treadington cry. “Who will be stopping me? Huh?” He swung his baguette menacingly and the crowd shifted backwards. “
Au revoir
, boy,” snickered Jean-Claude. He raised the baguette once more, this time bringing it crashing down.

Casper scrunched his eyes shut, clenched his teeth. This was it…

SPONK.

He held his breath, but the hit never came.
Something had gone
SPONK
, but it wasn't him. He dared to open an eye. The man standing over him was considerably larger than Jean-Claude D'Escargot. In his outstretched hand was a massive Cumberland sausage. Casper's gaze followed the flabby hand that held it, to a purple mayoral gown, to a broad gold medallion, to sixteen trembling chins, to the furious face of Mayor Rattsbulge, his lip curled in anger.

“Whu…?” was all that Casper could manage. He felt something lying across his feet, heavy like a stocking at Christmas. He lifted his aching head, but found no presents. Jean-Claude lay face down on the cobbles, out cold after a sausage shot to the temple.

“He… couldn't… even…
cook
?” wobbled Mayor Rattsbulge, sneering down at the
motionless Frenchman.

“He tricked you all into doing it for him,” muttered Casper, cool relief coursing through his veins.

“HOW DARE HE!” Colour flushed back through the mayor's face. “
A chef who can't cook?
Why, that's like… a mayor who can't raise taxes.” A shudder travelled through the whole of his gigantic body, finishing with a wild shake of his jowels. “This imposter will forfeit his place in the cook-off at once, and will henceforth be banished from Corne-on-the-Kobb. You, men, GET HIM OUT OF MY SIGHT!”

The crowd cheered and Casper would've leapt up and kissed the mayor had he not been exhausted to his bones and wearing a dress. Closing his eyes, he rested his head back on the
cobbles and let out a long sigh. It was over. Jean-Claude had been beaten and Julius got to keep his restaurant at the price of one bread shot to the head. Luckily, Casper knew his father would be fine after a cup of tea and a drop of brandy – he'd had worse, after all; Julius fell off the roof three times when fixing the aerial and survived to tell the tale.

In the meantime, Jean-Claude gurgled as Bash Brewster hoisted him over one shoulder. “Where's we takin' 'im?”

“Search me,” shrugged Mayor Rattsbulge. “What's it say on his label?”

“He's from France,” murmured Casper from his horizontal position on the cobbles. “Are you going that way?”

“France?” Bash chewed over the word as if
he'd never heard it before.

“Chip shop's near France, innit?” said Clobber.

“We's deffo goin' chip shop,” grinned Spit.

“We'll take 'im,” said Bash. “Maybe 'e's got lunch munny.”

“He's yours,” announced Mayor Rattsbulge dismissively. “Just take him away.”

The four brothers tromped away across the square, Jean-Claude flopping limply up and down in time with their footsteps. They tromped down the road, past the pelican crossing and off into the sunset.

Snivel shuffled forward and hovered close to Casper. “D-d'you fink they'll m-make it to F-france?”

“Doubt it,” grimaced Casper, pulling himself up painfully to a standing position. “They'll probably forget where they're going round the
next corner. And I wouldn't want to be them when Jean-Claude wakes up. Right mood he'll be in.”

“M-maybe they need a n-navigator,” said Snivel. “I'm g-good with maps.”

“That's an idea.”

“Ooh! And you can feed him a omlit if he gets rowdy,” suggested Lamp, skipping out from the doorway of
Bistro D'Escargot
flanked by Mavis and Bessie, free from collars and flapping the cobwebs off their wings. “Nice bit of brains should calm him down, get him thinking rationally. Want to take the girls?”

“Y-yeah. All right.” Snivel puffed up his chest proudly. “If they'll c-come.”

As if on cue, Mavis and Bessie strutted over to peck at the youngest Brewster's feet, and for
the first time since Casper had known him, Snivel looked genuinely happy.

“Go and find your brothers, Snivel,” said Casper. “Keep 'em in line!”

“W-will do!” He did a little salute. “C-come on, ladies.” He trotted off at a pace in the same direction as the Brewsters. Mavis and Bessie flapped along beside him, and before long they were out of sight.

Back in the square, Lamp had gone cross-eyed. “Casper, there's something dongly on my face.”

Casper frowned. “That's your nose.”

“My nose. I knew that.” Lamp shuffled awkwardly. “Nose.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Casper, I think my brains is running out. I used to know about noses and stuff, but now
I can't remember.”

Casper felt his pulse surge. Could it possibly be? He had to check. “What's four plus three?”

“Um,” Lamp chewed his lip. “Thursday?”

“Wrong!” Casper had never been so happy to hear a wrong answer, but he couldn't look too happy, for Lamp's sake. He lent his friend a comforting arm. “Bad news, Lamp. I think the eggs are wearing off.”

Lamp gave a sorrowful sniff.

“It's OK. I like you best when you're not a brainiac.”

“Thanks, Casper.” Lamp grinned. “What's a brainiac?”

 

All around them, villagers were coming to their senses.

“Must've been something in those burgers,” mumbled Mayor Rattsbulge.

“Why's I holdin' a calculator?” asked Sandy Landscape, and then he went off to plant it.