Googol Boy and the peculiar incident of the Great Quiz Trophy by John Michael (classic books for 13 year olds txt) 📕

Rigor Billy-Bob Mortis, who was a recluse hill-billy bootlegger back in the day of prohibition, used to live by the swamp near the Totenkopf Abattoir, which was another seven klicks down the road. One day, one of the moonshine boilers blew up and scattered his parts all over the swamp. And that would have been pretty much the end of ol’ Billy-Bob, a long forgotten footnote in the obituary section of the Quockingpoll Flats Gazette except for the fact that he started turning up in the form of a scary apparition.

His face was like the moon, cratered and pale and he had black lips with broken teeth and menacing blood-shot eyes. His shaggy red hair was crawling with worms and maggots and, perhaps even more frightful, were his long yellow fingernails which looked like they could skewer you like it was nobody’s business. Since his untimely death, Billy-Bob fables have become part and parcel of Quockingpoll folklore and, to this day, are popular bedtime stories which are used to keep children obedient, well-behaved and fearful, oh, and to give them terrifying nightmares as well.

“Barney, what was that yelling about?”

“Well... it’s just that... well... those poor orphans.”

“What do you mean? Because they have no parents?”

“Well that too, but I was thinking about the stolen money.”

“Yeah... it’ll hit them hard.”

“They’ll be eating nothing but gruel... nothing but gruel Howie!”

“I think that’s already their situation but, yeah, it’ll be tough.”

“The orphanage relied on that money.”

“I bet that the matron is gonna be really peeved.”

“I sure hope that she doesn’t take it out on those poor lil’ orphans,” cried Barney.

Not much was known about the goings-on at the orphanage. The matron was a mysterious figure who was seldom seen but it was known that she ruled with an iron fist. There were tales about her only appearing after dusk, like some vampire who haunted the night. There were also stories about how she would feast on the blood of the orphans but, to be honest, I’m not sure how much truth was associated with that particular rumour. She was a tall woman who had a robust frame with square shoulders and her large bosom could double up as a battering ram. I had never heard of a vampire of such stout proportions and I’ll tell you straight out, if the matron ever did take to the skies, her attempt at flight would defy all known laws of aerodynamics.

I had only come face to face with her once. It was one gloomy November night when Mum had forced me to walk the dog with her as punishment for fighting with my sister, Deborah. It seemed that every time my sister and I had a fight, I would end up walking our bulldog, T-Bone, with my mum while my sister would end up lounging on the sofa, watching TV and eating corn chips. Not fair! It had gotten to the stage where my sister would intentionally provoke a fight just to get me out of the house so that she could watch her favourite program − usually some reality show about artificial people in unreal situations doing fake things. Sometimes I would play it cool and ignore her predictable jibes:

“You’re as sharp as a spoon and twice as dense.”

“Your IQ is so low that T-Bone teaches you tricks!”

“The last time I saw a face like yours, it was behind bars... in a zoo... being fed bananas.”

I would just sit there like a Zen master, unflappable, unperturbed, unruffled. Yep, I was ‘cucumber boy,’ as in ‘cool as a...’ while she would fling her verbal slings and arrows. Of course, that would just get her more annoyed and Deborah wasn’t one for fair play. When things weren’t going her way she always loved to upset the applecart. She’d get angry that I was ignoring her taunts and then she’d pull out her pièce de résistance by hollering “Mum! Howie farted!” and that would bring Mum storming into the room and I would get the ol’ “That’s it mister, we’re taking T-Bone for a long walk!” Farts were a strictly taboo subject in our house. “Why?” I hear you ask. Well, don’t get me started on that one, I guess I’ll just have to tell you about it some other time.

The first half of my ‘walk of punishment’ always involved me grumbling to Mum about how I was always getting framed but she assured me that it was all in my mind. When I complained to Dad, he said something about me being the youngest and Mum not wanting to cut the apron strings − whatever that meant.

It was getting dark and the snow had started to fall steadily and there was definitely a cold nip in the air. As we passed the orphanage we heard a distinct clinking of keys. It was the matron. You could make out her portly silhouette in the fading light with her keys hooked to a chain around her waist, jingling and jangling with each step she took. They were those old style skeleton keys which prison wardens used to carry around.

“Good evening Matron Fulton,” said my mum as the woman approached the gate.

“What are you doing here?” queried the matron in an unfriendly tone. She had a fleshy face with close set eyes. Her dark hair was tied into a tight bun on the top of her head which seemed to stretch her eyebrows upwards, making her look like she was in a perpetual state of alarm.

“Can’t you read?” she enquired as she pointed to the ‘no loitering’ sign which hung on the gate and then made a condescending “tut-tut” sound.

“Just walking the dog,” responded Mum.

The matron looked down at T-Bone and frowned.

“I don’t like dogs, they’re just like children. They are slobbery, they are noisy, they never stop eating, they defecate everywhere, oh yes, and they smell,” responded the matron with a forced smile which made her look like she was wearing a scary Halloween mask.

“Well,