‘They just left Nalhalla,’ I said, groaning inside. ‘The trip here will take hours and hours.’
‘We have to hold out,’ Bastille said fervently. ‘Alcatraz, your plan is working! For once.’
‘Assuming we can survive for a few more hours,’ Kaz said. ‘You have a plan about that, kid?’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Kind of. Bastille, how good are you with stilts?’
‘Um . . . okay, I guess.’ She hesitated. ‘I should be worried, shouldn’t I?’
‘Probably.’
She sighed. ‘Ah well. It can’t possibly be worse than death by teddy-bear avalanche.’ She hesitated. ‘Can it?’
I just smiled.
Four Teens And A Pickle
In March 1225, two years before his death, Genghis Khan sat down to breakfast to dine on a bowl of warm hearts cut from the chests of his enemies. At that time, he was ruler of the largest empire in the history of the world. He reached up, scratched his nose, and said something extremely profound.
‘Zaremdaa, en ajil shall mea baina.’
He knew what he was talking about. As do I. Trust me, I’ve been a king before. (No, really, I have. Sometime, check out volume four of my autobiography, page 669.)
I was only king of one city, really, and only for a short time. But it was ridiculously, insanely, bombastically tough to do the job right. Tougher than trying to get hit in the head with a baseball shot out of a cannon. Tougher than trying to climb a hundred-foot cliff using a rope made of used dental floss. Tougher, even, than trying to figure out where my stoopid metaphors come from.
I’ve never understood one thing: Why do all of these megalomaniac dictators, secret societies, mad scientists, and totalitarian aliens want to rule the world? I mean really? Don’t they know what a pain in the neck it is to be in charge? People are always making unreasonable demands of kings. ‘Please save us from the invading Vandal hordes! Please make sure we have proper sanitation to prevent the spread of disease! Please stop beheading our wives so often; it’s ruining the rugs!’
Being a king is like getting your driver’s license. It sounds really cool, but when you finally get your license, you realize that all it really means is that your parents can now make you drive your brothers or sisters to soccer practice.
Like Genghis Khan said, ‘Zaremdaa, en ajil shall mea baina.’ Or, translated, ‘Sometimes, this job sucks.’ But really, hasn’t everyone said that at some point?
‘Zaremdaa, en ajil shall mea baina!’ Bastille said from way up high.
‘What was that?’ I called up. ‘I don’t speak Mongolian.’
‘I said, sometimes my job really sucks!’
‘You’re doing great!’
‘That doesn’t mean that this doesn’t suck!’ Bastille called.
You see, at this point, Bastille was balanced atop a set of stilts, which were in turn taped to another set of stilts, which were in turn taped to another set of stilts. Those were on top of a chair, which was on top of a table. And all of that was balanced on top of the Mokian university’s science building. (It was a large, island-bungalow-style structure. You know, the kind of place you’d expect to find Jimmy Buffett singing, Warren Buffett vacationing, or a pulled-pork buffet being served.)
‘Do you see anything?’ I called up to her.
‘My entire life flashing before my eyes?’
‘Besides that.’
‘It’s really easy to see who’s balding from up here.’
‘Bastille!’ I said, annoyed.
‘Sorry,’ she called down. ‘I’m just trying to distract myself from my impending death.’
‘You weren’t so nervous when I suggested this!’
‘I was on the ground then!’