Hairy Pooper and the Kidney Stone

Hairy Pooper and the Kidney Stone

by Jonathan Avidan

Chapter 1: "He-Who-Let-The-Boy-Live"

Mr. and Mrs. Pugsley of Number 4 Private Drive were proud to say that they had managed to invent over 50 new sexual positions within only two years of marriage. But they were much more proud to say that they had no relation to strange, weird, hippies-or-trekkies type of folks – or did they?

Vermont Pugsley ran a company called Grudgings which made dildos – however his wife thought it made drills. Vermont was ever so surprised for she never asked where he got all those free dildos.

Vermont was a large beefy man, due to all the Italian take outs he secretly bought as his wife cooking could kill an elephant, and had no neck but a very grand mustache which dropped ten inches downwards on either side of his mouth and was littered with spaghetti remains and meatballs. His wife, Pentiuma, was tall and bony with thrice as much neck as a normal homo-sapiens as she was raised in Africa and had to wear those horrible metal rings around her neck until she was rescued by the UN. They had a son, Loudly, and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere – and that's because they were almost rudely stupid.

The Pugsleys had anything they wanted, partly due to the fact that their greatest aspiration was for once finish that damn ten piece puzzle, but they also had a secret. Their greatest fear was that someone would one day discover the secret that, well – you'll just have to face it, that they were related to the Poopers, who were hippies – and trekkies. Yes, hippies – and trekkies. They also had a son which they named Hairy, for he was born with so much hair, and I don't mean on his head – and they didn't want Loudly to mix with a boy like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Pugsley awoke on the dull, gray Tuesday our story reluctantly begins, as Vermont was leaving for work. He slapped his wife's behind and tried to kiss Loudly, and when the child refused, pushed his head into the cereal bowl. Loudly giggled. "Little tyke," chortled Vermont.

As he came outside he noticed something that only hippies, but not necessarily trekkies, usually see – a cat. But this was not an ordinary cat – this cat had rectangular markings around his eyes and was sitting on a miniature couch, wearing a turban and smoking a pipe as he read the morning newspaper. Vermont shook his head and found the cat doing just the same thing, only now it was giving him a stern mind-your-own-beeswax look.

Vermont made a mental note to go visit his psychiatrist again as he got into his fancy car and drove down the street. He didn't even notice the owl which soared down towards him, crashed against the windshield and dropped sideways onto the rode.

Vermont was half-way there when traffic slowed down and he gasped, for the streets were littered with people wearing cloaks – and fluffy pink undergarments on top of them! No, this couldn't be, thought Vermont. But then a young man wearing fake pointy-ears knocked on his window, smiling madly and, and said "Rejoice, for He-Who-Let-The-Boy-Live has gone at last! It was the Poopers – their son Hairy!" Vermont finally realized what was smiling at him, and swallowed.

"HIPPIES AND TREKKIES!" he bellowed. "NOOOOOO!"

He stamped his foot on the treadle and tried to run over as many of them as he could. After all, the police wanted them dead as much as he did, so he was safe from the long hand of the law.

He reached Grudgings within minutes, turned off the car and ran into the building. He didn't even bother to make out with his secretary but instead shut himself in his office and was half-way through dialing his home number when he decided not to. "Terrible, terrible news," he muttered. "And such a turn-off. I'll tell at home her after I get lucky."

He let himself forget his woes as he yelled at five different people, made some important crank-calls, put some anthrax in one of his employee's coffee and finally took the liberty to make out with his secretary.

As he returned home, he found the same cat. He knew it was the same cat because of the rectangular markings around its eyes, and that it was smoking a pipe. But now it was relaxing in a miniature Jacuzzi.

"Shoo!" Vermont called at it. The cat shot him a very stern look which made Vermont yelp and run into the house.

Vermont had a quiet dinner with his wife, and also got his quicky after Loudly was put to bed. They watched the news to cool down.

"And finally, birdwatchers everywhere were slaughtered in the masses today as the Conservatives finally passed the Birdwatcher-Hunting motion. A very joyous day indeed. Also, some owls were seen today. And now – to Jim McMac for the weather."

"Well, Todd, no weather report for today as I was busy shooting down as many birdwatchers as I could find. An old lady even tried to tell me she was not a birdwatcher, but a grandmother of three! Ha! I could see the lie in her eyes."

"Good for you! Kids watching at home, if you happen to spot a man or a woman watching the sky for birds – go and tell your parents – it's okay now! In a related story—"

Vermont decided that now, after this happy piece of news reached Pentiuma's ears, he could tell her the sad news. "Honey?" he said.

"What, Vermont, want another quicky?" she said, her eyes lighting up.

"No, no, Pentiuma dear," he said glumly. "Its, well, your sister. She's—" But Vermont choked as Pentiuma stuffed a particularly thick dildo in his mouth.

He took it out and continued. "I'm sorry, Pentiuma dear, but you'll have to listen. There were – there were –" He took a deep breath. "There were hippies and trekkies on my way to work, today." Pentiuma uttered a soft scream. "Yes dear, and they mentioned the Poopers. What's their son's name again, dear?"

"How come?" Vermont raised his brows.

"Well, it was on Doctors Weekly, the first baby ever to be born with pubic hair."

Vermont felt his stomach clench. Loudly shared some blood with that freak. "And how are they?" he asked.

"Dunno. Burned the note with their phone number once little Loudly was born. Didn't want him, you know, to become a trekkie - god forbid."

Vermont nodded his agreement. He turned over and dozed off into a night of uneasy sleep. But he didn't know that tomorrow morning would come the day when he'd have to deal with the freak he fears so, for Album Doubledare had other plans for him.

***

Album Doubledare popped out of thin air with the sound of a fart at the end of Private Drive and began walking towards Number Four.

He was a very tall and twice as old man with so many wrinkles it seemed as though his face were put beneath some sort of cobwebs and had a long hooked nose that would make Hitler faint. But his bright blue eyes sparkled goodness. He wore a bright blue cloak (to match his eyes) and, of course, fluffy pink undergarments on top. He had a three feet long beard he tucked under his undergarment and the end he tied in a nice butterfly knot. But then he noticed the streetlamps.

He rummaged his pockets for several moments and from the tiniest pocket he pulled out a rifle large enough and deadly enough to take out a whale and began shooting at each lamp until they were all put out. Strangely, it didn't make a pip.

He put the Put-Outer safely back in the tiny pocket and resumed advancing towards Number Four. As he reached it, he watched the cat smoking a pipe slowly turn into a woman. She was a stern looking old witch who wore her hair in a tight bun – which was ridiculous as she had less hair than the average baby's bottom. And of course, she was wearing a cloak with a fluffy pink undergarment on top.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McDonalds," Doubledare said with a smile.

"How did you know it was me? It's completely dark here," she said.

"My dear Mineralva, I've never seen a cat reeking of Whisky."

Professor McDonalds blushed. "Well, I had to drink something! I was sitting here all day waiting for you to show up."

"All day? Why, I must have passed fifty parties and twelve brothels celebrating on my way here! Alas, we've had so very little to celebrate, for eleven years..."

"So are the rumors true?" asked McDonalds, the whisky taking away all the little propriety she had. "Is He-Who-Let-The-Boy-Live gone for good?"

"He has indeed gone, but I believe not for good," Doubledare said, his face dropping. "I see from your idiotic gaze of happiness that you do not know how he has gone."

Professor McDonalds looked up inquiringly.

"He showed up in Godricville and knocked on the Poopers door, pretending to sell girl-scouts cookies," said Doubledare, "and you know what a sweet tooth James got. He stepped right into their house and James, being the coward he is, offered his service to him immediately, but he killed him at once. Then Lily did something I little understand so far and then, then, he came up to Hairy..."

McDonalds gasped.

"He tried to kill him! That son of a gremlin tried to kill him! But the one thing that could never happen did happen – the spell backfired. And now, Voldypoo is gone, a mere spirit."

McDonalds nearly fainted at hearing the name.

"Oh, get a grip, you withering hag!" muttered Doubledare as he slapped her twice across the face.

"How do you know all this?" she asked, coming to her senses.

"I was watching through the window, yet I was too high to act. Never again will I borrow a pipe from Mundungus."

She shook her head and asked, "and what's to be of little Hairy?"

"He's to come and live with his aunt and uncle right here."

"But, but, Album!" cried McDonalds. "These people are horrible! They had sex like I thought only Indians do! We can't let Hairy Pooper come and live with these horrible people! He'll turn out all psycho!"

"That's better than have Voldypoo's – get a grip, will you? – followers hunting him down. No, Mineralva, he'll be safe here. Hagger's bringing him right now."

Just as those words left the old wizard's mouth, something huge began blocking the sky – and it was drawing closer to them.

"Haaa, that's Hagger now," smiled Doubledare.

They both watched as a ten foot man dropped from the sky, with one hand holding a purple umbrella and the other one clutching onto a bundle of sheets which seemed to be a baby. I only describe this monster as a man because his eyes and nose were visible – but his whole body was covered in dark hair from his head to his toes, which were barely visible.

"Oh Hagger, do try and shave, will you?" said McDonalds. "You look like Cousin It."

Hagger ignored her. "Prof'sor Doubledare, sir. I've got little Hairy right 'ere. 'e began crying as we drift'd ova' Bristol, but I think 'e faint'd afta' 'e 'ad a look at me."

"I'm not surprised," Doubledare chuckled. "Where did you get that awful umbrella, Hagger? You know purple is out this year."

"Young Siriously Black gave it ta me," Hagger retorted, "saying 'e 'ad to go take care of some Wormtail. Didn't quite get wot 'e meant." He put little Hairy on the Pugsley's doorstep.

They watched as the baby turned. It had jet-black hair and a pale face, but was smiling benignly. On his forehead lay a scar the shape of a lightening bolt.

"Is that where—" began McDonalds.

"Yes, he will bear that scar forever, or at least until the seventh Harry Potter book comes out and changes everything," Doubledare explained.

"Can't you do something about it?"

"Wouldn't even if I could. Scars can be very useful. I've got one over my left knee the shape of Michael Jackson's di—"

"Err, Professor Doubledare, sir, the letta', sir," interrupted Hagger.

"Oh, yeah," Doubledare bent down and tucked a sealed envelope in Hairy's lap.

"What did you put in it?" asked McDonalds.

"I told the Pugsleys I'd turn them all into rats if they didn't behave, and some stuff about Hairy saving the world. I hope that will do, 'cause I'm not telling him anything until his fifth year."

"Well, I propose a toast!" said McDonalds, pulling a bottle of Whisky from her pocket along with three small glasses. "To Hairy Pooper, the boy who finished off He-Who-Let-The-Boy-Live!"

END OF CHAPTER 1