lT’S THE END WHEN l

SAY lT’S THE END

STEPHAN PASTIS

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 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used
fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information
and material of any other kind contained herein are included for
entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for
accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury.

First published in Great Britain 2018 by Walker Books Ltd

87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

© 2018 Stephan Pastis

Timmy Failure font © 2012 Stephan Pastis

The right of Stephan Pastis to be identified as author of this

work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

This book has been typeset in Nimrod

Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,

transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any
form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior
written permission from the publisher.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data:

a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-4063-8278-5

www.walker.co.uk

www.timmyfailure.com

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To my cousin Nick Tripodes, who never
could have guessed when he drew this
odd Santa in a Christmas card that I
would steal it and use it in a book.

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 A Cliff-hanger of a
Prologue That Will Make
You Want to Read More
of the Book. Also, It
Contains a Giant
Chicken.

Some kids start their day eating a complete,

balanced breakfast.

I start mine trying to throw a principal

out a window.

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A window that is ten storeys high.

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 I should have known it would end up like
this when they wouldn’t let me into the bar.

Even after showing my ID.

So I subdue the bouncer with a mix of

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charm and martial arts and kick open the
double doors of the bar.

Where I am accosted by two thugs I

recognize: Rick “Drill-A-Kid” Drillashick and
Crispin “Bowling Turkey” Flavius.

“Listen, boys,” I tell them. “It doesn’t

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have to go down this way. I’m just here for a
drink.”
But they refuse to listen.
So I hurl them down the surface of the
bar like they are human bowling balls.

And take my seat at the now-empty bar.

Cool as the unopened beer bottle poised
menacingly above my head.

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 “Dr. Alfredo Goni,” I mutter, tapping my
fingers on the shiny bar. “I should have
known they’d throw an orthodontist at me.”
“Right-o,” he answers menacingly. “And
I brought backup.”
I whip around and see his accomplice.

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 “I don’t want any trouble,” I tell Mickey
Molar.
It is a tense moment. And nobody moves.
Except the grizzled bartender, who waddles
toward me from behind the bar.
“Whaddya want?” she asks.

“Whiskey, neat,” I tell her. “And don’t

try anything funny, Toots.”
But she ducks. And my eye catches the
quick flash of a beak in the mirror. And I spin
around.

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 “Edward Higglebottom the Third!” I cry,
hopping off my barstool. “I must say, I wasn’t
expecting a giant chicken.”

And in a flash, the bar explodes in a frenzy

of violence.
Punches. Kicks. Chicken feathers.
And one by one, I hurl a series of would-be
assassins from the high window.
Ron “Speedo Steve.”
“Minnie the Magnificent” Benedici.
Donny “Dangermouse” Dobbs.

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 And I make a run for the billiards room,
crashing through the makeshift barricade.

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 And I enter the dark, dingy room.
Where, brandishing a cue stick, is my
school principal, Alexander Scrimshaw.

“We meet again,” I tell him.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he answers,
surveying the damage to the bar.
“Mistakes were made,” I tell him. “But
none of them mine.”
“Yeah, well, to get to me, you’re gonna

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have to go through the Scrum Bolo
Chihuahua,” he says, pointing to a giant
Chihuahua perched atop the light.

So I offer the Chihuahua a doggy treat.

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 And he licks my hand and runs off.
“I expected more,” says Scrimshaw.
I watch as Scrimshaw backs farther away,
waving the pool cue like a club.
“All we wanted was world domination,” he
says, “but you stood in the way. You, Timmy
Failure. So I had to crush you. With algebra
you’ll never use. Pop quizzes you didn’t
expect. Boring novels you couldn’t endure.”
“I know,” I answer. “And all under the
guise of being a school principal.”
“Yes.”
“So what were you, really?” I ask.
“A secret agent for a vast criminal
organization. All school principals are.”
“Of course.”
“So do what you will,” he says. “But you
won’t take me alive.”
“This could get ugly,” I tell him.
“Principals like ugly,” he answers.
And when I turn briefly to check for
more of his goons, he kicks me behind the
knees, sending me reeling.

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 As I struggle back onto my feet, he runs
for the double doors. I spring like a cougar
onto his back.

And from high atop his shoulders, I grab

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him by both ears, steering him into the bar,
the tables, the walls.

Dazed from the impact, he falls to the

ground.
And I drag him to the broken window and
lift him high overhead.

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 “Wait, wait, wait,” he says, gasping for
breath. “I will make you a deal.”
“I am about to vanquish my enemy
forever. There is nothing more I could
want.”
“But there is.”
“Then talk fast,” I tell him. “Because you’re
very heavy. Portly, even.”
“Next Tuesday,” he says, “there will be
a pop quiz in geography. Spare my life and
you don’t have to take it.”
“Will I still get a good grade?”
“B,” he answers.
“A minus,” I say.
“B plus,” he counters.
“Deal,” I say, putting him down.
And when I do, he shoves me with both
hands.
And I fall through the window.
Where my shoelace snags on the window
frame.
And my life hangs by a thread.

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 “You fiend,” I utter as I dangle like the pen-
dulum of a clock.
“It’s the end of Timmy Failure,” he says,
bending down to cut the shoelace with a
piece of broken glass.
“It’s the end when I say it’s the end,” I
tell him.
And he cuts the shoelace.

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 “Okay, now it’s the end,” I say.
And I fall.
But not before leaving him with some
final words of wisdom:

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