Dumb Clucks
R. L. Stine
Rotten School
Dumb Clucks
R.L. Stine
Illustrations by Trip Park
For Cameron
–TP
Contents
Map
Morning Announcements
1. Me’re Not Mmmminto Mmmmadpoles
2. A Birdbrain That Thinks
3. Cluck-Bluck-Luck?
4. The Upchuck Calls
5. No Stink Bomb, No Naughty Words
6. Upchuck Does a Happy Dance
7. Hatch Your Own
8. Like Picking Your Nose
9. Chicken on Ice
10. Rah Rah Rotten School
11. The Caped Quacker
12. Danglephobia
13. He’s Coo-Coo-Coolossal!
14. Calm and Quiet
15. Why Does a Chicken Have Three Toes?
16. Flash!
17. Flytraps for The Upchuck
18. Cover Your Ears!
19. Don’t Catch the Plague!
20. It Turns into a Surprise Party
21. A Thank-You from the Headmaster
22. The School Is Ruined!
About the Author
Other Books by Rotten School Series
Copyright
About the Publisher
Map
MORNING ANNOUNCEMENTS
Good morning, Rotten Students. This is Headmaster Upchuck, wishing you a Rotten day in every way. I have today’s morning announcements.
But first I have a reminder for those students who are trying to drown out my voice by barking like a dog. Many students are interested in what I have to say, so please be courteous.
BARK BARK BARKBARK!
BARK BARK BARK!
Who was that? Get his name. I want that stopped. I mean it. It’s not funny.
Here are today’s important announcements. Please listen carefully.
BARK BARK BARKBARK!
BARK BARK BARK!
The meeting of the After-School “No Members Allowed” Club was canceled because no one showed up.
This message from Chef Baloney. He wants all students who complained about last night’s dinner to know that monkey brains are considered a treat in some parts of the world.
Our science teacher, Mr. M.T. Beeker, has an urgent message: Eight monkeys are missing from the science lab. If anyone knows where they are, please contact Mr. Beeker.
Coach Manley Bunz has figured out why our first-grade softball team is such a big loser. He would like to remind team members that your head is used in soccer—not softball.
Fifth-grade class clown Harry Sholders will be demonstrating how to send your sneeze flying across the table at lunch today.
Our librarian, Ms. Shuttup, reminds all students that the Rotten School books by R.L. Stine are not allowed in this school because they are filled with lies, lies, LIES!
Chapter 1
ME’RE NOT MMMMINTO MMMMADPOLES
Seven o’clock at night is homework hour in Rotten House, our dorm. So I knew where to find all my friends: downstairs in the Commons Room—our living room—watching TV.
We don’t do our homework at night. We do it in the five minutes before class starts in the morning. That way, it’s still fresh in our minds.
That leaves more time for important things like watching TV, playing video games, and snapping your fingers in your friends’ faces to make them flinch.
You probably do your homework at home. But we don’t go home, because Rotten School is a boarding school. That means we live here.
I’m Bernie Bridges. I bet you know me because I’m in the Fourth Grader Hall of Fame.
I know. I know. There is no Fourth Grader Hall of Fame.
But if there was, I’d be in it.
I don’t like to brag, but I’m the dude who knows how to get the most out of fourth grade.
The most money, that is.
Tonight I was planning a special sale of awesome T-shirts. I piled the shirts up on a cart and wheeled them into the Commons Room.
I knew my buddies would be fighting over them, begging me to let them each buy four or five shirts.
“All right. Line up, dudes!” I shouted. I wheeled my cart in front of the TV.
All my Rotten House pals were there. Feenman, Crench, Belzer, Chipmunk, Beast, Nosebleed…
I rubbed my hands together. I was already counting my money.
“Listen up, guys,” I said. “Did you know it’s a holiday? It’s Lucky T-Shirt Day. And every shirt I have on this cart is a lucky shirt!”
“Bernie, you’re blocking the TV,” Crench said.
“You can’t watch TV while I’m having this special sale,” I said. “Half off every T-shirt! Get up, dudes. Check ’em out!”
“Bernie, you’re blocking the TV,” Feenman said.
“Guys, you don’t understand,” I said. “I’ve got your favorites here. Look! Tweenage Mutant Ninja Tadpoles shirts. Only five dollars!”
I grabbed Crench by the shoulders and tried to hoist him out of his chair. But he plopped right back down. “Bernie, I can’t see the TV.”
“Up. Up! Everyone up!” I shouted, clapping my hands. “I’ve got the Tadpoles, dudes! I know you’re totally into Tweenage Mutant Ninja Tadpoles.”
They stared at the screen.
My friend Beast opened his mouth wide and let out a deafening burp. It lasted about two minutes. Big chunks of food flew from his mouth and sprayed the room.
Normally, a burp that good would make my pals laugh for hours.
Tonight they stared at the TV screen. No one even blinked.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “You drive a hard bargain. You can have the shirts for four-fifty each!”
I held up a T-shirt. “Look, dudes. You can wear your favorite Tadpole. Hey—who wants Herman? I’ve got Herman shirts. Who wants Murray? Sidney? Melvin? Melvin is your hero—right, Feenman?”
Feenman stared at the TV.
“Here’s a winner,” I said, pulling a shirt from the bottom of the pile. “This shirt has all twenty-four Tadpoles on it! Even Myron, the Shy Tadpole. Check it out!”
Silence.
Then…more silence.
Finally my friend Nosebleed spoke up. “Mernie, me’re not mmmminto mmmmadpoles,” he said.
“Huh? Nosebleed, what language are you speaking?” I asked.
“Mmmm I’m mmmeaking English,” he said. “I mmmave ummmph tissues stuffed in mmmmy nose. I mmmmhave a nosebleed.”
Poor guy. Everything gives him a nosebleed. Tying his shoes gives him a nosebleed! When the sun sets, it gives him a nosebleed!
“Bernie, Nosebleed was trying to tell you something,” Feenman said. “We’re not into the Tadpoles anymore. Too babyish! We’re into a new show.”
“Hel-lo?” I cried. “A new show? You, TRAITORS! I’ve got three dozen shirts with these slimy Tadpoles on them!”
Feenman shrugged. “Babyish.”
“Okay, tell me,” I said through gritted teeth. “What show are you traitors watching now?”
“We’ll give you a hint,” Crench said.
And they all chimed in at once, singing…
BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK
BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK
BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK.
Chapter 2
A BIRDBRAIN THAT THINKS
BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK
BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK
BLUCK BLUCK BLUCK.
I waited for them to stop BLUCKing. It took a long time.
Nosebleed blucked so hard, he got another nosebleed.
Finally they fell back on their chairs, gasping for breath.
“The name of the new show is Bluck?” I asked.
Everyone groaned.
“No way,” Feenman said. “Bernie, everyone is watc
hing Stupid Chicken.”
“He’s totally awesome,” Crench said. “He has Drumsticks of Doom!”
“And Buffalo Wings of Steel,” Belzer added.
I turned to Chipmunk. He’s the shyest kid in school. He had a blindfold pulled down over his eyes. Chipmunk only listens to TV. He’s too shy to watch it.
“Chipmunk, you’re loyal to the Tadpoles—aren’t you?” I asked.
Chipmunk cleared his throat for about ten minutes. It’s one of his most disturbing habits. “The Tadpoles are kinda violent,” he whispered. He started to tremble.
“Bernie, don’t you watch Stupid Chicken?” Belzer asked. “It’s the most popular cartoon on Chickelodeon.”
“It comes on every night after Teriyaki Chicken,” Feenman said. “You know. The Karate Klucker?”
“Huh?” I stared at the TV screen. There was Stupid Chicken. A fat, yellow chicken in a blue and red cape. He flew across the sky, blucking his head off.
“I don’t believe you dudes are sitting here watching a flying chicken,” I said. “How could you abandon the Tadpoles?”
The chicken flew into some kind of house made of ice. “Who lives there?” I asked. “Frozen Chicken?”
The guys usually love my jokes. But nobody even smiled.
“That’s the Henhouse of Solitude,” Crench said. “That’s where Stupid Chicken goes to think things over.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, perfect. A birdbrain that thinks!”
I stared at the screen. “What’s that dumb-looking featherball rolling behind Stupid Chicken?” I asked. “Something he coughed up after breakfast?”
Beast jumped to his feet and shook a fist at me.
His fist was bigger than my head! “Are you making fun of America’s National Chicken?” he boomed.
“Of course not,” I said. I took several steps back. Beast can be dangerous. Especially if he hasn’t had his rabies shots.
“That featherball is Little Cluck-Cluck,” Feenman said. “He’s always getting into trouble. He’s so funny.”
I stared at my worthless pile of T-shirts. “Ha-ha,” I said bitterly.
What was I gonna do with these shirts?
Maybe I could take a marker and draw feathers on the Tadpoles. I’d tell the guys it’s what Stupid Chicken looked like when he was a baby.
No. No way they’d believe it.
“Crench, tell me,” I said. “How can a chicken be a superhero?”
“Are you kidding?” Crench said. “First he pecks your knees to bring you down. Then he kicks gravel on you.”
“Exciting,” I muttered.
I slapped the pile of T-shirts. I had to sell them to somebody!
Suddenly I had an idea.
The first graders LOVE the Tadpoles. And they’re gonna LOVE these shirts!
I pushed my cart out of the dorm and raised my binoculars to my eyes. “First graders! Where are you? Where are you?”
Chapter 3
CLUCK-BLUCK-LUCK?
I spotted a whole bunch of the little dudes on R.U. Dumm Field. That’s our soccer field.
It must have been their evening gym class. But I couldn’t tell what kind of game they were playing. They were running around in crazy circles, flapping their arms.
Coach Manley Bunz was blowing his whistle so hard, he was as red as a tomato. His eyes bulged at least an inch out of his head.
I wheeled my T-shirt cart onto the grass. “Coach Bunz—what’s wrong?” I shouted.
“GULLLLP!” Coach made a strange sound. Then he started dancing around with his tongue flapping, going, “Unnh unnnh unnh.”
“Coach? Coach, did I startle you?” I asked.
I finally guessed the problem. He had swallowed his whistle.
I slapped him on the back till the whistle came flying out, along with his breakfast. He wiped the whistle off with a handkerchief and started blowing it again.
The first graders were still running around in crazy circles, flapping their arms, and…CLUCKING?
“Coach Bunz, what’s up with this?” I asked. “What game are they playing?”
“It…it’s supposed to be soccer,” he bellowed. “But they’re all pretending to be chickens!”
“No way,” I muttered. I ran over to two little dudes who were having an argument.
“He says it like this,” the first kid said. “Cluck-luck-luck. Cluck-luck-luck.”
“You’re joking!” the other kid shouted. “He goes Cluck-bluck-luck. Cluck-bluck-luck.”
“You’re a jerk! He does not!”
A third kid—a big, beefy, redheaded bruiser—pushed the other two kids aside. “You’re both stupid,” he growled. “Little Cluck-Cluck goes Cluck-bluck-gluck-luck-pluck-luck-gluck. Everyone knows that! It’s Cluck-bluck-gluck-luck-pluck-luck-gluck.”
They all began blucking and glucking their heads off. But I wasn’t listening.
I stared goggle-eyed at their T-shirts.
Yes. You guessed it. They were all wearing white shirts with a fat, yellow blob on the front.
And that fat, yellow blob was…Little Cluck-Cluck!
“Dudes! Dudes!” I shouted. I waved my hands over my head to get them quiet. “Dudes—you all know me, right? You all know I’m in the Fourth Grader Hall of Fame—right?”
“Cluck cluck,” the big redheaded dude sneered.
“Listen to me, guys!” I shouted. “You all know me. I’m the guy who sells you tickets to the sunset every night. I wouldn’t lie to you—would I?”
“Cluck cluck,” the kid repeated. What a joker.
“The Tweenage Mutant Ninja Tadpoles are much more awesome than Stupid Chicken!” I shouted. “Little Cluck-Cluck is a dumb cluck! The Tadpoles rule!”
“Peck him!” the redheaded kid growled. “He can’t say that about the Courageous Caped Cluck-Cluck!”
“Peck him! Peck him!”
Other kids took up the shout.
They all rushed forward, clucking and blucking and glucking. “Peck him! Peck him!”
I couldn’t back away. I was trapped inside a circle of clucking, flapping first graders.
“Dudes, check out these shirts! Here’s Herbie, the Sneezy Tadpole! You love him—right? How about Norman, the Hungry Tadpole. Isn’t it funny how he’s always hungry? Who wants to buy—”
They pushed the cart over. Then they dove at me.
“OW! OW! OW!”
That was me, yelling in pain.
They pecked my arms and legs. They pecked my chest and my back. They pecked the top of my head!
I went down on the ground. They turned their backs and started to do a chicken strut, kicking dirt and grass on me.
“Help! Coach Bunz! Help me!” I cried.
He was blowing his whistle too loud to hear me.
Was this the end of Bernie B.?
Chapter 4
THE UPCHUCK CALLS
I rolled myself into a tight ball and hugged my knees.
Finally the clucking and pecking stopped. Someone tapped my shoulder.
I slowly let go of my knees and looked up. “Belzer!”
“Hi, Bernie,” he said. He flashed me his crooked smile. “How’s it going?”
“Not great,” I said. I sat up with a groan.
Belzer brushed the dirt and grass off my shoulders. “That’s nice of you to play with first graders,” he said.
“I love spending time with the little guys,” I said. I checked out my bruises and bites. “How’d you get rid of them?”
“I told them they could have the Tadpole shirts for free,” he said.
I swallowed hard.
“They grabbed them and ran away as fast as they could,” Belzer said.
“Cute kids,” I said. I gazed around. “And where’s my cart?”
“They took that, too,” Belzer replied. “Some of them pushed it, and some of them rode in it.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said. I stood up and let Belzer brush the dirt and grass off my pants.
“I have a message for y
ou, Big B,” Belzer said. “From Headmaster Upchuck. He wants to see you—right away.”
My heart turned to ice. I had to pound my chest with both fists to thaw it out and get it pumping again.
“He probably wants to give me some kind of award,” I told Belzer. “Maybe he wants to name me Student of the Decade or something. I’ll bet there’s a big CASH PRIZE, too.”
“Maybe he wants to toss you out on your butt,” Belzer said.
“Maybe,” I agreed.
Headmaster Upchuck lives in a little white house next to the classroom building. His office is on the first floor.
A sign next to the entrance reads:
But the house is surrounded by an electric barbed-wire fence. The front yard is filled with big poison ivy shrubs. Two snarling guard dogs patrol the fence. And the welcome mat at the front door says:
I could be wrong. But I get the feeling the Headmaster doesn’t really want to see us.
Maybe he’s shy because of his height. He’s only about three feet tall. He could be mistaken for one of the students. Except that he’s as bald as a cantaloupe and wears a gray wool suit every day.
And now he wanted to see me. Why was I in trouble? My brain did flips, then flops.
He couldn’t know about my secret for getting free Nutty Nutty candy bars by removing the back of the candy machine.
He couldn’t know about how I wrote the answers to the math test on the lenses of my sunglasses.
