C HAPTER 1
Warren Trumbull grunted as he pedaled up the hill. He didn’t grunt because the hill was steep —after pedaling up it every weekday since summer vacation had begun, he was used to it. He grunted because he was pedaling for speed. Along the hilltop ran a unicorn crossing.
Warren didn’t like anything mythological, and ’corns were the worst. All that stuff the MPS (Mythological Protection Society) put out about them—that they were noble and majestic and held the beauty of the universein their horns—was garbage. What ’corns did was pop bike tires.
He reached the crossing and sped down the other side of the hill. A shrill whinny and galloping hoofbeats sent a chill up his spine, and he pushed down on the pedal as if he were trying to drive it three feet into the asphalt. Horn hissed on rubber just as he shot away.
“Not today, pinhead!”
Warren laughed at the beautiful white stallion with the golden mane and silver horn as it pranced in frustration behind him. It was the first time in three days that his tire had escaped the ’corn. Today Princey wouldn’t threaten to fire him for being late for work. The day was shaping up nicely.
Warren worked for Prince Charming’s Damsel in Distress Rescue Agency, doing the assignments that no one else wanted—genuine damsel rescue went to the older guys. Warren was eleven, too young for a real job. He was stuck doing whatever work he could get. Working for Princey wasn’t much, but twenty bucks a day out of Princey’s grimy pockets was better than nothing.
Some of the guys were already waiting in the bleachers when Warren pedaled up—Rank Frank Divine and his admirers, and a new guy Warren had never seen before. Rank Frank leered at him as he parked beside the garbage can.
“Hey, Piggy, where’s the pinhead? You’re supposed to show up in fifteen minutes with your tire flapping!”
“Suck on a Hydra, Frank.” Warren took a seat three rows up, close to the new guy and well away from Frank and his crowd. They didn’t call him Rank Frank for nothing.
“Is Princey here yet?” he asked the new guy, who was wearing a shirt with “Rick” stitched over the pocket.
Rick something-or-other’s long head shook slowly on its long neck. “Nope.”
“Wouldn’t you know it? I’m finally on time, and Princey shows up late.”
“That’s the breaks, Piggy.”
“Don’t call me Piggy. My name is Warren.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Warren shrugged his soft, heavy shoulders. “That’s all right.”
“Okay. My name is Rick Howell. Sorry about the piggy thing.”
“Forget it.” Warren wished
he
could forget it. The problem was that the nickname fit him so well. He had pink skin and a little piggy nose, turned up at the end so that his nostrils stared everyone he talked to right in the face. His ears stuck out and up—little piggy ears. He looked a little piggy all around.
“Hey, Piggy,” Frank called, “why are you here so early? Did someone wake you up by huffing and puffing and blowing your house down?”
Everyone laughed except Warren and Rick. That Divine, he was a real funny guy.
“You know what Neptune’s trident is, Frank?” Warren asked.
“That big fork he carries around? I’ve seen him with it on TV. So?”
“So go sit on it.” This time no one laughed but Rick.
It used to be that everyone called Warren Warren. That was before he learned that the old hag who lived next door to him was a witch—a real witch. She caught him late onenight raiding her garden. She said that if he was determined to eat like a pig, she’d make it easy for him.
Warren ran around on all fours, squealing, for two whole months. Dr. Fileberg said he was lucky to have recovered as much as he had, but it would go beyond luck for him to recover any further. Warren’s father said he hoped Warren had learned his lesson. Warren had.
“Ba-blee-ba-blee-ba-blee, that’s all, folks!” Rank Frank whooped.
“Do you know where I live?” Warren
Warren Trumbull grunted as he pedaled up the hill. He didn’t grunt because the hill was steep —after pedaling up it every weekday since summer vacation had begun, he was used to it. He grunted because he was pedaling for speed. Along the hilltop ran a unicorn crossing.
Warren didn’t like anything mythological, and ’corns were the worst. All that stuff the MPS (Mythological Protection Society) put out about them—that they were noble and majestic and held the beauty of the universein their horns—was garbage. What ’corns did was pop bike tires.
He reached the crossing and sped down the other side of the hill. A shrill whinny and galloping hoofbeats sent a chill up his spine, and he pushed down on the pedal as if he were trying to drive it three feet into the asphalt. Horn hissed on rubber just as he shot away.
“Not today, pinhead!”
Warren laughed at the beautiful white stallion with the golden mane and silver horn as it pranced in frustration behind him. It was the first time in three days that his tire had escaped the ’corn. Today Princey wouldn’t threaten to fire him for being late for work. The day was shaping up nicely.
Warren worked for Prince Charming’s Damsel in Distress Rescue Agency, doing the assignments that no one else wanted—genuine damsel rescue went to the older guys. Warren was eleven, too young for a real job. He was stuck doing whatever work he could get. Working for Princey wasn’t much, but twenty bucks a day out of Princey’s grimy pockets was better than nothing.
Some of the guys were already waiting in the bleachers when Warren pedaled up—Rank Frank Divine and his admirers, and a new guy Warren had never seen before. Rank Frank leered at him as he parked beside the garbage can.
“Hey, Piggy, where’s the pinhead? You’re supposed to show up in fifteen minutes with your tire flapping!”
“Suck on a Hydra, Frank.” Warren took a seat three rows up, close to the new guy and well away from Frank and his crowd. They didn’t call him Rank Frank for nothing.
“Is Princey here yet?” he asked the new guy, who was wearing a shirt with “Rick” stitched over the pocket.
Rick something-or-other’s long head shook slowly on its long neck. “Nope.”
“Wouldn’t you know it? I’m finally on time, and Princey shows up late.”
“That’s the breaks, Piggy.”
“Don’t call me Piggy. My name is Warren.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Warren shrugged his soft, heavy shoulders. “That’s all right.”
“Okay. My name is Rick Howell. Sorry about the piggy thing.”
“Forget it.” Warren wished
he
could forget it. The problem was that the nickname fit him so well. He had pink skin and a little piggy nose, turned up at the end so that his nostrils stared everyone he talked to right in the face. His ears stuck out and up—little piggy ears. He looked a little piggy all around.
“Hey, Piggy,” Frank called, “why are you here so early? Did someone wake you up by huffing and puffing and blowing your house down?”
Everyone laughed except Warren and Rick. That Divine, he was a real funny guy.
“You know what Neptune’s trident is, Frank?” Warren asked.
“That big fork he carries around? I’ve seen him with it on TV. So?”
“So go sit on it.” This time no one laughed but Rick.
It used to be that everyone called Warren Warren. That was before he learned that the old hag who lived next door to him was a witch—a real witch. She caught him late onenight raiding her garden. She said that if he was determined to eat like a pig, she’d make it easy for him.
Warren ran around on all fours, squealing, for two whole months. Dr. Fileberg said he was lucky to have recovered as much as he had, but it would go beyond luck for him to recover any further. Warren’s father said he hoped Warren had learned his lesson. Warren had.
“Ba-blee-ba-blee-ba-blee, that’s all, folks!” Rank Frank whooped.
“Do you know where I live?” Warren
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