The goon woke in a hospital with a bandage wrapped tightly around his ribs and an IV dripping sedatives into a vein in his arm. Though he could not remember how he had been injured or how long he had been unconscious, his first thought was to call the office and find someone to cover his shifts. He had a busy week of beating people to a bloody pulp, and his victims weren't going to punch themselves in the face. He couldn't leave his bosses in the lurch. He was evil, but he was professional.
Perhaps it was his dedication to his work that had built him such an impressive resume: fifteen broken jaws, fifty-seven legs, a hundred arms, and more noses than he could count. He had knocked out thousands of teeth, pushed a few people off bridges, and once buried a guy in concrete up to his neck. He had been nominated for Goon of the Year nine times by OUCH (Organization of United Criminals and Henchman), and had won its highest honor, the Brass Knuckle, seven times. At the office, he showed up early and left late. He had his lunch on the job, frequently beating people as he ate his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. You didn't get on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list by taking a sick day! He leaned over to the IV line that fed his body sedatives and yanked out the needle. He couldn't have predicted how much it would sting. The pain brought back a wave of memories.
The goon had been in the employ of an eleven-year-old evil mastermind who wore a black mask with a white skull painted on it. It had been a fiasco. "Simon," as he called himself, had made some rookie mistakes that had led to bigger problems. His first mistake was working with a mad scientist named Dr. Jigsaw-a kook with a doomsday device that was supposed to pull Earth's continents back together. Second, the kid had spent a fortune building a secret fortress at the North Pole for said kook. Naturally, some heroes came along and destroyed the place just before the overly complicated plan could be unleashed on the world, which was Simon's third-biggest blunder; he should have killed the heroes as soon as they arrived. Instead, he took them hostage. Even babies know that heroes have a tendency to escape just in time and ruin a villain's plan. Sure enough, the heroes destroyed Dr. Jigsaw's continental-shift machine. During this calamity, something fell on the goon. Then everything went black and he woke up in this hospital.
Now the goon's cell phone rang. Someone had set it on the table next to him, and as he reached for it, he realized he was missing a hand! In its place was a hook. The goon studied it for a moment, then the closest thing to a smile his mouth had ever produced appeared on his face. Most people would have been devastated to see a menacing metal hook where their hand should be. Not the goon. The hook was just the kind of thing that would win him his eighth Brass Knuckle award.
He reached over with his real hand and snatched up the phone. When he saw that the caller ID said SIMON, he answered it.
"Hello," the boy's voice said over a tremendous racket. It sounded as if he were trapped in a storm. "It's me. I see you survived the explosion."
"Not quite. I lost a hand. I had a doctor clean it up. They put a hook on my arm."
"Cool," Simon said.
The goon almost smiled again. It was cool, but he didn't like to brag. "It actually hurts a lot and I have to give up the piano," he said.
"Oh. Your sacrifice is noted and appreciated."
"I'm sorry about the plan, boss," the goon said. Through the wind he heard laughing. Then again, it might have been a cry for help. He couldn't be sure. "Boss? Are you OK? It sounds like you are laughing."
There was a long pause followed by a number of grunts and groans, then Simon's voice returned. "Your concern is amusing, my friend, but completely unnecessary. You see, Jigsaw and his little machine were just part of a much bigger plan, one that is going exactly the way I want. Take care of yourself. I'll contact you when I need you again."
Then the phone went dead.
"Hello, it's good to see you awake," a doctor said from the doorway. He was tall, with gray hair and a kind face. "I wanted to talk to you about your hand. I know you must be very troubled to find the hook-it sort of looks like a prop from a pirate movie. Fortunately, it's just temporary. We're ordering a new one that looks and acts a lot like a real hand. It should be here in a week."
In response, the goon tossed his pillow into the air, then used his hook to slash it in two. Feathers flew around the room. "Actually, I think this will be just fine."
Simon's plan was not going exactly the way he wanted. He was trapped on a tiny ledge on the side of an enormous ice mountain at the top of the world-the North Pole, to be exact. The temperature was just above negative 35 degrees Fahrenheit and in all directions there was little more than drifting ice sheets and glaciers. Firm ground was nearly a mile above, and the deadly cold waters of the Arctic Ocean were far below. He had been stranded on the ledge for two days, freezing, starving, and desperate for water. No, things were not going as planned at all!
Still, Simon (formerly known as Choppers, formerly known as Heathcliff Hodges) refused to ask his goon for a rescue. In his effort to become an evil mastermind, Simon had read many books, including one by business tycoon Donald Trump. It had argued that you should never let your underlings know that you need help. It undermined their respect for you. He would save himself.
He pulled himself to his feet and balanced precariously on the tiny ledge. He searched the surface of the mountain for a handhold as he had done so many times before, and once again found nothing. Was he doomed to die? He went over everything he had ever been taught during his time as a secret agent. His former headquarters was filled to the brim with gadgets that would save his life-grappling guns, antigravity sneakers, and much more. But he'd have settled for a rope right then. He thought of his former teammates, especially Duncan Dewey, code name: Gluestick. Duncan would have had no problem with the icy cliffside. His skin produced a powerful adhesive that allowed him to stick to nearly any surface-hence his code name. He could walk along the ceiling like a fly or run up the side of a skyscraper.
It was all part of the upgrades the team members had received when they first became spies and members of an elite organization, the National Espionage, Rescue, and Defense Society, or NERDS, set with the task of saving the world from evil. Their fifth-grade weaknesses had been turned into superstrengths with the help of top-secret computer technology. Simon had huge front teeth, nearly as big as a horse's. It was how he had gotten his spy code name, Choppers. After his upgrades, he could use his buckteeth to hypnotize and control others. A lot of good that did now when he was alone and slowly turning into a snow cone. What had their hopelessly incompetent director, Agent Brand, said to the team? "You don't need gadgets. You are the gadgets." That was it! Simon was the gadget.
He slammed his face into the ice, driving his enormous front teeth deep into the mountain. Alternately using his teeth and the heavy cleated boots he wore, he began to climb slowly.
Perhaps Simon should have been grateful for his amazing upgrades and his many hours of training, but that wasn't how he felt. He was boiling mad. Sure, being a member of NERDS had been exciting, but because the work was secret, when the young spies weren't out on a mission they went right back to being picked on by their classmates. He and the others had suffered hundreds of wet willies, power wedgies, and flicked ears, but had they ever fought back? NO! They had to protect their secret identities and the work they did around the world. Well, it was all bunk! What was the point of having superpowers if you couldn't fight the bullies who tormented you? One day, while the school's resident meanie was dunking Simon's head into a toilet, the boy had realized that knuckleheads like this one would always torment people like him. The only way to change it would be to change everything. He decided to destroy the world. With society in shambles, people would be forced to rely on those with great intelligence-namely himself. Once again, reading and learning would be held in high regard, and people like Simon would be admired rather than abused and humiliated.
But his brilliant plan had been foiled by his own teammates. Of all people in the world, he had been sure his former friends would join him. They too were misfits, outcasts, spazzes-they'd been bullied, stuffed in lockers, and forced to hand over their milk money on a daily basis. But Simon had failed to see the effect Duncan Dewey had on the others. The chubby kid had always been a walking ball of positive energy. The abuse he suffered time and time again seemed to roll right off his back. And his grating optimism had infected the team. He'd even managed to convince the others to accept Jackson Jones, one of their cruelest tormentors, as a new member. When Simon finally revealed his brilliant plan to the NERDS, Duncan turned against him and the others followed. They acted as if he had betrayed them!
Simon's thirst for revenge kept him going now through the painful climb. He was close to the summit. At the top, he hoped to find the remains of Dr. Jigsaw's secret fortress, or at least some clothing and food. But when he was only a few inches away, the mountain shook violently. He bit hard into the ice with what was left of his strength. He knew well the source of the tremors. Jigsaw's continental-shift machine was still active and was forcing the mountain farther into the sky. There was another quake, and this time Simon's teeth could not hold on. The next thing he knew, he was falling-down, down, down into the sea. He hit the waves with a painful splash and, exhausted, sank into the icy black abyss.
For Simon, death seemed inevitable. But fate had another plan. It flash froze him like a fish stick. His heartbeat slowed to an almost undetectable rhythm, as did all his brain function. Every molecule in his body crystallized and a block of ice quickly formed around him, turning the boy into an ice cube of evil.
For weeks he floated south with the currents, bumping into ice floes around Iceland and Greenland, drifting past Canada and right down the eastern seaboard of the United States. Several lobster boats tried to reel him in, but the block was simply too heavy, and by the time Coast Guard officials got there to investigate, Simon had drifted away. The cube shrank a bit as it bobbed along in the warm waters of the Florida Keys, and on down past Cuba. Eventually, what was left of the chunk of ice washed ashore on a tiny, uninhabited island in the Caribbean Sea.
The waves hurled it onto a pebbly beach, where it was met by a squirrel with huge front teeth. Shocked by the cube's sudden appearance, the squirrel fled into the jungle and didn't return for three days. By then, the ice had melted considerably. When the squirrel mustered enough bravery, it hopped on top of the cube. It licked the ice and then spat out the salty water. Then, just as it was sure the ice posed no danger or benefit, it peered into the crystal cube and saw Simon's giant buckteeth. It let out a startled squeak and began to dig at the ice with its little claws. Its excited chirps brought dozens of squirrels out of the jungle, and together they scratched and chipped at the ice, working to free the boy. Squirrels are not big thinkers, as a rule, but if one had read the minds of these particular squirrels, one would understand that they thought they had stumbled upon their god.
Three months later…
High in the jungle trees, a dark figure jumped from limb to limb. It ran along impossibly narrow branches and leaped across insanely large gaps. As it hopped, it shook a feast of wild nuts from the branches down to a pack of squirrels waiting below. They scurried about, gathering the nuts, until a fight broke out between two of the bigger squirrels. There was much squeaking and screeching until the figure from above swooped down and landed in front of them. The squirrels suddenly lowered their heads, not from fear, but as if they were under a powerful spell. Their master had arrived.
He was not a squirrel, but a boy, with shaggy red hair and blue eyes, wearing torn jeans and broken shoes. His thick glasses were held together by tiny strips of sticky vines, and his two front teeth protruded out of his mouth like totem poles. He spoke: "None of you should be fighting over nuts. These are for the trip. If you want something to eat, work on the blackberry bush-the berries won't keep aboard the boat."
The boy pushed the hair out of his eyes and looked up. Black clouds were gathering in the east. He muttered, "If my calculations are correct, this entire island will be under water by tomorrow night. Prepare yourselves, minions. We leave in the morning."
One of the little squirrels clicked and chirped.
"It doesn't matter where in this world we go, little one," Simon said. "For very soon I will have the entire planet in the palm of my hand."
It had taken Simon two months to construct his vessel. It was nothing fancy: a raft, a sail, and a makeshift cabin to shelter them when the waves were too strong. He knew a hurricane was coming. As part of his training as a member of NERDS, he had learned to read weather patterns, and this one indicated a particularly nasty storm.
The next morning, as the first cold drops of rain fell, he loaded the raft with the nuts they had been collecting for months, then marched his small army of squirrels aboard. Once they were settled, he gave his ship one final touch: With the juice of some blackberries, he painted a name on the side. Then, with all his strength, he shoved the raft into the water. The waves were rough and the squirrels squeaked in fear, but he ignored them. There was no turning back; the island offered them no hope anymore.
Who could say how long they were adrift? The bigger question was how they survived. The storm bullied the little boat, smashing it from left and right. It pounded on its hull while the thunder bellowed doom overhead, but still the tiny boat stayed upright.
When the hurricane finally passed, the danger wasn't over. The hot sun beat down mercilessly on the castaways. They drank the last of their fresh water. Soon, even the nuts were gone. Lying delirious on his battered raft, Simon prepared for his final hours. Then he felt a jolt; his little boat had hit dry land. He looked around. His squirrel crew shoved and pushed at one another for a better view. They had washed ashore on a rocky beach. Just beyond was a highway with cars zipping past in both directions.
"Where are we?" Simon said to himself. He saw buildings in the distance. One was a giant white tower rising high above everything. Simon recognized it at once and smiled. It was the Washington Monument. "We're home," he whispered.
The boy and his squirrels left their little ship on the shore of the Potomac and clambered up the embankment to the road. Simon turned and looked down at the tiny boat that had saved their lives. He smiled to see that the name he had painted on the side hadn't washed away. The Revenge had served its purpose.
Simon turned back to the highway and immediately stepped out into the path of a speeding Volkswagen Beetle. The car came to a screeching stop only inches from Simon, and the angry driver leaped out, his face as red as a fire truck.
"Are you crazy, kid? That's how you get killed, you know. You can't just walk out into traffic. If I hadn't seen you and…hey! What's with all the squirrels?"
"Look at me, sir," Simon said.
The man tore his attention away from the army of furry rodents and eyed the boy. The kid looked as if he hadn't had a bath in a long, long time, but what was most interesting were his teeth. He had the biggest set of buckteeth the man had ever seen, and this particular man had grown up on a horse farm.
"We need a ride," Simon said as a strange fog came over the man. His eyes, fixed on Simon's teeth, glazed over and his jaw slackened.
"Sure," he said as if lost in thought. "Whatever you want."
Simon ordered the man back into his tiny car. Simon and the squirrels climbed in as well, and the boy directed the man to an address in nearby Arlington, Virginia.
On the way, they got a number of odd stares. A few people nearly drove off the road. It wasn't every day you saw a Volkswagen full of excited squirrels in the carpool lane.
Soon, the driver pulled up in front of a two-story Colonial home on a leafy green street in South Arlington. Simon told him to wait with the squirrels, and the boy snuck behind the house into the empty backyard. He scowled. Where was the swing set his father had built for him? Why would they take it down? Wouldn't his parents still hope he was coming back?
When he carefully peered in the window of his house and saw the spot on the wall that had once held his photograph, it dawned on him what had happened. The NERDS had erased his parents' memories and then removed all evidence that he had ever existed. After he disappeared, they wouldn't have wanted Simon's mother and father asking a lot of questions about his whereabouts. They couldn't risk the exposure of their secret society. Every agent knew that if he or she died on a mission, his or her very existence would be erased like dust from a chalkboard, but Simon had never thought it would happen to him.
Unfortunately, Simon's swing set had been more than a swing set. He raced to where it had once stood and got down on his hands and knees. He dug frantically in the ground. Just when he was about to give up, his fingers brushed against a tiny knob. He gave it a twist and a small portion of the yard lifted, revealing a compartment that held an odd collection of objects. Simon reached in, snatching a toothbrush and toothpaste, as well as a cell phone, a case of protein bars, and, finally, a black mask with a white skull painted on it. He closed the hole, turned the knob, and prepared to rush back to the car, then stopped. He had caught sight of his parents through the picture window. There they were, sitting together and reading the paper-his father working his way through the sports section, his mother busy with her real estate listings. Something inside Simon stirred. It hadn't been a bad life. In fact, his mother and father had tried hard with him. Suddenly, he wanted to rush in and demand that they remember him, but he fought the impulse. Someday, when he had conquered the world, he'd come back here. Someday…
He walked back to the car. The driver was starting to come out of his trance, so Simon flashed his choppers once more and got the man back under his control. He tossed the protein bars into the backseat, where the squirrels attacked them. He devoured two himself and then took out the toothpaste and toothbrush and snatched up one of his furry companions.
"This toothpaste will let you hypnotize people. It won't give you the same powers that I have-I've been upgraded by a supercomputer-but it will help you do what I just did to this driver for a short period of time."
The squirrel chirped as Simon started brushing its teeth.
"Why do you need the toothpaste?" Simon asked the squirrel. "Because if I'm going to take over the world, we need some spending money."
WELL, WELL, WELL-LOOK WHO'S BACK.
LONG TIME, NO SEE. I COULD HAVE SWORN
I'D SCARED YOU OFF WITH THE TEAM'S
SPINE-TINGLING ADVENTURE FROM THE
FIRST BOOK. MOST PEOPLE WHO READ IT
RAN HOME CRYING TO THEIR MOTHERS.
IT'S TRUE.
IT WAS ON THE NEWS!
BUT NOT YOU, HUH?
I GUESS YOU'RE MADE OF TOUGHER STUFF.
WE'LL SEE.
IN CASE YOU'VE FORGOTTEN, MY NAME IS
MICHAEL BUCKLEY. I'M A FORMER MEMBER
OF THE SECRET ORGANIZATION KNOWN
AS NERDS (THE NATIONAL ESPIONAGE,
RESCUE, AND DEFENSE SOCIETY).
LOTS OF FAMOUS PEOPLE HAVE BEEN MEMBERS
OF THE TEAM. I CAN'T TELL YOU THEIR
NAMES 'CAUSE THAT WOULD BLOW THEIR
COVERS, BUT TRUST ME-THEY ARE OUT
THERE. AND THEN THERE ARE A FEW OF
US WHO STICK A LITTLE CLOSER TO
HOME. I VOLUNTEERED TO DOCUMENT THE
CURRENT TEAM'S MISSIONS AND HELP
WEED THROUGH THE NEW RECRUITS EAGER
TO JOIN. IF I REMEMBER CORRECTLY,
YOU WERE INDUCTED INTO THE TEAM ON A
TRIAL BASIS AND CHOSE A CODE NAME.
GO AHEAD AND REMIND ME. WHAT'S YOUR CODE NAME?
REALLY?
THAT'S YOUR CODE NAME?
THAT'S ONE SILLY CODE NAME.
OK, OK, I'M SORRY I MADE FUN OF YOUR
CODE NAME. GEEZ, TOUCHY?
LET'S GET BACK TO BUSINESS. IT'S TIME
TO BECOME A FULL-FLEDGED NERD, BUT
BEFORE YOU START JUMPING UP AND
DOWN, YOU NEED TO KNOW THAT BEING A
SPY IS DANGEROUS. YOU COULD GET HURT,
KILLED, OR WORSE! SO READ THIS BOOK
FROM COVER TO COVER, AND IF YOU CAN
DO IT WITHOUT WETTING YOUR PANTS,
YOU MIGHT JUST HAVE A CHANCE…
BUT HONESTLY, MOST KIDS END UP
WITH SOGGY SHORTS. IT'S NOTHING
TO BE ASHAMED OF….
WHO AM I KIDDING?
THAT'S TOTALLY EMBARRASSING!
MAYBE YOU SHOULD TAKE A QUICK TRIP
TO THE BATHROOM BEFORE YOU READ
THE NEXT SECRET FILE.
YOU BACK?
DID YOU WASH YOUR HANDS?
OK…PUT YOUR THUMB HERE.