The Mystery of the Mystery Meat Read online

  Pretty Freekin Scary™

  The Mystery of

  the Mystery Meat

  a. novel by

  Chris P. Flesh

  Illustrated by Saxton Moore and Carlos Villagra

  Continued thanks to Nancy Holder,

  who helped bring this story to life.

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3,

  Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland

  (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre,

  Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Pretty Freekin Scary™ and related trademarks © 2008 Cloudco, Inc. Used under license by Penguin Young Readers Group. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Printed in the U.S.A.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-65238-1 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: In Which Your Beloved Narrator Exercises Remarkable Self-Control!

  Chapter One: In Which A Kiss is Interrupted

  Chapter Two: In Which Miss Pretty Falls Under a SPELL!

  Chapter Three: In Which Pretty’s Spell Backfires!

  Chapter Four: In Which Freekin Sinks His Teeth Into a Chunk of the Mystery

  Chapter Five: In Which Pretty Reveals a Terrible Secret!

  Chapter Six: In Which Things Go From Bad to Worse!

  Chapter Seven: A Caution: This Chapter is Particularly Disgusting!

  Chapter Eight: In Which Freekin Rallies the Troops!

  Chapter Nine: In Which Our Hero Acts Heroically!

  Chapter Ten: In Which Pretty Spills the Beans!

  Chapter Eleven: In Which Pretty Summons an Unlikely Ally!

  Chapter Twelve: In Which Our Story Concludes! (Almost!)

  Epilogue: In Which Freekin Receives His Hero’s Reward!

  Prologue:

  In Which Your Beloved

  Narrator Exercises

  Remarkable Self-Control!

  Welcome, Dear and Gentle Reader, to this book. I am Chris P. Flesh, Narrator Extraordinaire, and it is my extreme pleasure to completely unnerve you with the horribly thrilling and excruciatingly nerve-wracking adventures of Franklin Ripp. If you have walked the twisted, terror-infested path of Franklin’s journey with me before, you know what you are in for. But if you are new to this strange tale of an undead boy, the girl he loves, and his two best friends from the Underworld, well, then, I hope you have a strong stomach and a courageous heart, because you are going to need them.

  But first, allow me to bring a ray of sunshine into this shadowy set of paragraphs: I am delighted to announce that the International Order of Narrators has agreed to reconsider their completely idiotic and highly unfair decision to throw me out of the organization. You may recall that I was booted because a VFI (very famous individual) complained about my curious nature, insisting that I had asked him too many questions in my attempt to narrate his story with all the care and feeling it deserved.

  Can you imagine such a thing? I cannot. It would be like punishing a doctor for making too many stitches after he cuts out your diseased spleen (as well as any other rotting organs stinking up your abdominal cavity). Or firing a gardener for hacking down too many man-eating plants before the tiny Goldschmidt triplets arrive for an afternoon of mud-pie-making and insect-devouring in your backyard. As you know, asking questions is what a narrator does, and one certainly ought not be punished for fulfilling the requirements of one’s chosen profession. For how can one provide information to the reader if one does not know—

  A minute? This is Belle, the Narrator’s niece. It’s kind of my job to interrupt Uncle Chris when he goes on too long. I’m visiting this weekend, and I brought my best friend, Haley, only I call her Elvis.

  Hi! I’m Elvis, Belle’s BFF!

  Let me confirm that yes, Belle is here, and so is “Elvis,” who is indeed her best friend forever. And interestingly enough, our new tale about Franklin concerns his two best friends from forever, otherwise known as the Afterlife. They are Scary, a shape-shifting phantom, and Pretty, a little monster who has two big eyes and five little ones, ponytail ears decorated with suckers, a mouth glittering with fangs, and tentacles instead of legs. They came from a part of the Afterlife called the Underworld, which is reserved for monsters and phantoms, and it’s a good thing they insisted on accompanying Franklin to the Land of the Living. For they will help him solve the Mystery of the Mystery Meat, once and for all.

  Mystery Meat, you may recall, was created by Horatio Snickering III in 1889, in a tiny kitchen in the equally tiny village he named Snickering Willows. Mystery Meat was an overnight sensation, and Mr. Snickering built an immense brick factory to increase production. The fabulous concoction was served to millionaires in the finest restaurants and to soldiers in the heat of battle. And it was served in school cafeterias across this great land of ours (and still is, to this day).

  But its beginnings—and its contents—were shrouded in mystery. People wanted to know what was in Mystery Meat, and they bombarded Horatio Snickering with questions about his creation at every turn. “What’s in it? Would you please share the recipe as a favor to my dying nephew? Would you share it for a million dollars? Or perhaps in return for the lives of your wife, child, and sprightly little dachshund, Wotan, to whom I have become quite attached?”

  The questions swirled around him like the smoke from one of his ever-present cigars. Some say they drove him mad. Others say it occurred to him that while he might be immune to such a barrage of questions, others who worked for him—his employees—might succumb and reveal the secret recipe.

  If any of Horatio Snickering’s competitors learned how to make Mystery Meat, he would be ruined, and all his employees would starve. Literally.

  So he decided that the only thing he could do was make all questions illegal, no matter how innocent or unimportant they might seem to those who asked them, or whether they related to Mystery Meat or not. It lay within his power to do so because, as I mentioned, he owned the entire town. If anyone was caught asking a question, no matter the su
bject, the asker was charged with Curiosity, and if they were found guilty, they were escorted to the city limits and ordered never to return. In addition, if they attempted to communicate with their family and friends who still lived in Snickering Willows, those people would be forced to leave town as well. And they were never, ever heard from again.

  Consider, then, what it might be like to grow up without ever asking a question. That was exactly what it was like for Franklin Ripp, who was born over a century after asking questions was made illegal in his hometown. He never asked a single question in his entire life, and he should have, because then he would not have died an early, horrible, disgusting, humiliating death.

  (A note: I have promised never to reveal exactly how he died, because it is just so very awful that Franklin couldn’t bear for you to know. In return, Franklin has allowed me to tell his story, which, while very dismaying, revolting, and stomach-churning, is nevertheless very juicy—just like Mystery Meat!)

  I can tell you that he wouldn’t have died if he had asked questions first, such as:

  1. Is this dangerous?

  2. Should I be wearing a helmet?

  3. And a parachute?

  These are only examples, mind you, because I don’t want to give the slightest hint about the actual means of his demise.

  After his hideous, disgusting, embarrassing death, he found himself in the Afterlife. He was most distressed, declaring his death “a total Ripp-off.” His life had been going awfully well. He had friends, and more importantly, it looked like Lilly Weezbrock wanted to be his girlfriend.

  A word on Lilly Weezbrock.

  You might hear adults daydreaming about winning the lottery. “If I won the lottery,” they will say, “I would quit this stupid job.” “If I won the lottery, I would sail around the world.” Kissing Lilly Weezbrock was Franklin’s version of winning the lottery. He knew it would change his life forever.

  He almost kissed her on the last day of school, but alas, he lost his nerve, and as I have noted, the next day he died.

  Thwarted Franklin badgered the Afterlife Commission into giving him a second chance. He did this by asking the very first question he had ever uttered:

  “Why? Why was I taken so early? Why did I come here when things were going so well? Why, why, why?”

  Once he started asking why, he couldn’t stop. The Afterlife Commission got very tired of his incessant questioning. Monsieur DeMise, a member of the Commission, was a rotting corpse like Franklin and a romantic at heart. He suggested Franklin should be allowed to prove his life was worth living—by getting his one true love, Lilly Weezbrock, to kiss him by June 13—the end of the school year and, interestingly enough, the anniversary of his death. If they kissed, he could stay. If they didn’t, he would return to the Afterlife and never ask the Afterlife Commission a question again.

  Franklin agreed, and faster than you can say, “Rest in peace,” he was back among the living. His parents were overjoyed, and his dog, Sophie, barked with glee and tried to bury his thighbone…while it was still attached to his body.

  For you see, the Afterlife Commission neglected to mention that Franklin would come back as an undead corpse and that he would continue to rot (and smell) throughout the duration of his experimental return. As a result, Franklin’s nemesis, Brad Anderwater, renamed him “Freekin,” and the name stuck to him as surely as a maggot on a fresh lesion.

  And so did Freekin’s two friends, Pretty and Scary. I have already mentioned them. Let me emphasize that they were foreigners in Freekin’s strange little town and quite unused to (1) living (2) in a place where no one asked questions. And when Freekin came back from the Afterlife, he had also seen how good and necessary asking questions could be, since asking a question would have saved him all this trouble.

  And he had a lot of questions about what was going on in Snickering Willows, because first of all, a terrible plague spread throughout the town. It was called Chronic Snickering Syndrome, and through skillful detective work (and asking a lot of questions) Pretty, Freekin, and Scary discovered that it was caused by a new flavor of Mystery Meat called Neapolitan Nacho.

  Second of all, the people who made Neapolitan Nacho had also figured out that it made people snicker and snort uncontrollably. But instead of doing the right thing and announcing their enormous blunder to the public, they created another new flavor called Toasty Twinkle. Toasty Twinkle would turn anyone who ate it into a lethargic, uncurious sleepwalker who wouldn’t care about anything ever again. Such mindless Willowites would buy whatever bizarre flavor of Mystery Meat the villainous Mystery Meatarians came up with next…yes, even if it contained broccoli!

  This is Elvis, and may I say, “BLECH!”

  Pretty, Freekin, and Scary succeeded in putting a stop to the Toasty Twinkle plot, too. In a wild adventure of derring-do, Pretty set the Mystery Meat Ultra Top Secret Processing Area on fire, destroying the batch of Toasty Twinkle—and nearly losing her life.

  So as we open our story, the factory is still on fire. Thick, gristly smoke clogs the air and fire engines barrel down the streets. Freekin has left Pretty unconscious in his room, watched over by Scary, while he races over to Lilly’s house to make sure she is safe and sound.

  Lilly thought Freekin was a hero. Frankly, I do, too.

  And so do Belle and Elvis! Yay, Freekin!

  And so did poor little Pretty…and yet, she will embark on a desperate course of action that may spell the end of Snickering Willows forever!

  This is Belle. Holy cow! Like what? What does she do?

  Well, my dear, if you want to know that, then you must read the book, like everyone else.

  Hop to it, Uncle Chris. Let’s get this story started!

  This is Elvis. Please, Mr. Flesh, tell us what happened next! I am dying of Curiosity! HA HA HA!

  Very well…

  Chapter One:

  In Which A Kiss Is Interrupted

  Freekin and Lilly strolled toward Lilly’s modest, one-story house, holding hands and smiling at each other beneath the smoke-clogged moon. Snowflakes dusted Lilly’s adorable nose and golden blond hair, and Freekin fell in love all over again. Their footsteps crunched on the snow, Lilly light on her feet like an athlete, while Freekin sort of walk-lurched, walk-lurched, like the Frankenstein monster. The heat of the fire at the Mystery Meat factory had melted the Wacky Glue that kept his left foot attached to his ankle, and he didn’t want to stop and fix it. He didn’t want to do anything that might break the spell that seemed to have fallen over Lilly and him.

  The world was a muffled hush like the closing of a casket after a funeral. The wails of the fire engine sirens had died, and Freekin supposed the bright red trucks had all reached the scene of the terrible fire at the Mystery Meat factory. A fire Pretty set to stop the Mystery Meat people from feeding Toasty Twinkle to the town.

  Go, Pretty, Freekin thought proudly. He planned to check on her as soon as Lilly was safely inside her house.

  Freekin and Lilly reached the Weezbrocks’ front door, decorated for the holiday season with an evergreen wreath covered with little teddy bears and red ribbons stamped in white with SEASON’S GREETINGS: THE SNICKERING WILLOWS MYSTERY MEAT COMPANY. Lilly’s father worked at the factory, and Freekin figured he was probably not too thrilled that it was on fire.

  “Well, I should probably go in,” Lilly said reluctantly. She smiled at him, her teeth as white as finely polished knucklebones, her eyes as blue as oxygen-starved blood. “Crazy night, huh? I’m so excited for the Nonspecific Winter Holiday Dance. Thanks so much for asking me to go with you.”

  “You’re welcome, Lilly,” Freekin replied, and his ears tingled as if they were stuffed to bursting with maggots. When he had first come back from the dead, he discovered that they fell off whenever he got near her, and he had learned to glue them to his head. He had learned a lot of things. He was really getting his unlife together, and he was absolutely sure he would kiss Lilly by June 13.

  Maybe even now! he thou
ght, thrilled to the desiccated marrow of his bones as they faced each other with her hands in his. Freekin took a breath, not that he had to breathe. But he was nervous.

  Okay, here goes, he thought. He licked his lips in preparation of a life-changing experience.

  He moved his head toward hers. His ears prickled and pulsed.

  Then the front door crashed open, and Lilly’s towering, muscular, unhappy father filled the doorway. Big and bald, he wore a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with the words MYSTERY MEAT UNION WORKERS, LOCAL 1313 stretched across his chest.

  Lilly and Freekin jumped apart, and Freekin’s left hand came off in Lilly’s grasp. She made a little face and hid it behind her back, and Freekin realized that she didn’t want her father to see that they’d been holding hands.

  “Lilly, you shouldn’t be out tonight. Come inside,” Mr. Weezbrock snapped, rubbing his large stomach. He glared at Freekin. “Hey, Dead Boy, go home.”

  “Oh, Daddy,” Lilly protested. “Freekin’s not dead. He’s just…unalive. And he’s a hero! He just saved us from—”

  Freekin cleared his throat and gave his head a quick shake. He had explained to Lilly that she couldn’t go around talking about how he had burned down the factory. He was trying to keep that a secret.

  “Oh, right,” Lilly said under her breath.

  Mr. Weezbrock gave Lilly a death stare. No decent Snickering Willowite could ask a question, of course. Mr. Weezbrock couldn’t say, “Saved us from what?” Law-abiding Snickering Willowites made leading statements and left them unfinished, waiting for the other person to fill in the blanks.

  “Yes, he, uh, saved Deirdre and me from getting run over by a fire truck,” Lilly said quickly, her eyes big and wide. “The driver didn’t even see us! Freekin pushed us out of the way and let it hit him instead.”

  She flung her arms wide open as she gestured, and her father’s heavy eyebrows merged into one thick, angry unibrow across his forehead as he stared at Freekin’s hand in hers. She followed his line of vision.