Free Dumb Clucks by R.L. Stine Page B

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.

    â€œGULLLLP!” Coach made a strange sound. Then he started dancing around with his tongue flapping, going, “Unnh unnnh unnh.”
    â€œCoach? 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?
    â€œCoach Bunz, what’s up with this?” I asked. “What game are they playing?”
    â€œIt…it’s supposed to be soccer,” he bellowed. “But they’re all pretending to be chickens !”

    â€œNo way,” I muttered. I ran over to two little dudes who were having an argument.
    â€œHe says it like this,” the first kid said. “Cluck-luck-luck. Cluck-luck-luck.”
    â€œYou’re joking!” the other kid shouted. “He goes Cluck- bluck -luck. Cluck- bluck -luck.”
    â€œYou’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!
    â€œDudes! 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?”
    â€œCluck cluck,” the big redheaded dude sneered.
    â€œListen 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?”
    â€œCluck cluck,” the kid repeated. What a joker.
    â€œ The Tweenage Mutant Ninja Tadpoles are much more awesome than Stupid Chicken!” I shouted. “Little Cluck-Cluck is a dumb cluck! The Tadpoles rule!”
    â€œPeck him!” the redheaded kid growled. “He can’t say that about the Courageous Caped Cluck-Cluck!”
    â€œPeck 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.
    â€œDudes, 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.
    Â 
    â€œOW! OW! OW!”
    Â 
    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.
    â€œHelp! 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
T HE U PCHUCK C ALLS
    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.