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Sprouts

by Robert J Braid

Now, Johnny wasn't a bad boy. He didn't burn ants with his magnifying glass or tear the legs off frogs like the other boys his age. No, Johnny was a pretty good boy (rather gentile fellow), generally speaking. Except, he didn't like being a little boy. He especially resented being called Johnny. John, he thought, sounded so much more grown up. And if he were to get any respect, he couldn't continue to be called Johnny.

"You want us to call you John now?" said his mother after the announcement at dinner. "You think that after only eight years the name Johnny has worn out? Besides, not only is it on your birth certificate, it's sown into the waist-band of all your underwear."

His mother, however, was more than willing to humor him, just as long as he didn't start demanding an allowance.

"OK, John it is. Or would you prefer Mister John?"

He hadn't even considered the title of Mister, but it visibly pleased him.

"OK Mister John, now finish your Brussels sprouts."

Johnny somehow found little satisfaction in his successful negotiations, if he still had to eat his Brussels sprouts. They are admittedly quite gross, and Johnny could not quite comprehend why his parents would take such blatantly sadistic liberties as to force feed their own child such culinary atrocities. But years of experience had taught him that open confrontation would only lead to a double serving. If he was going to get to bed tonight with his taste buds intact, it would be a matter of stealth, not force.

As his parents finished an infuriatingly tempting dessert and an excruciatingly long coffee, Johnny sat patiently staring at his Brussels sprouts, mentally preparing a line of escape.

His parents got up and gave him that last word of warning he was waiting for about not being able to go to bed until he's cleaned his plate. As they started to clear the table, he feigned acquiescence, popped one of the green slimy balls into his mouth and started to chew, ever so slowly. Five seconds, he told himself. Just long enough for his mother to give him some condescending remark about knowing he would see it her way as she headed towards the sink.

As soon as her back was turned, he spit the sprout out into his hand and slipped it into his sock. He very admirably mimed chewing while his mother returned to clear the rest of the table and faked the best swallow anyone has ever seen. Right under her eyes, he sucked another horror ball into his mouth, and even managed an awkward smile as he masticated. She was so impressed that she took his plate and said that that ought to be enough for the night. He slipped this one into his other sock and felt a surge of satisfaction welling in him, which he expertly concealed with fake chewing and another award-winning swallow as his mother returned to the table.

"May I be excused?" said Johnny ever so humbly. "Mister John," he thought to himself, "you are an expert."

With no other reason to retain him, and with a righteous air of satisfaction at being able to effectively coerce her own child (for his own good, of course), Mother let Johnny go. With a hint of skepticism, she watched his hands as he left the table. He didn't seem to be hiding anything....

Up the stairs, down the hall, sprout juice dripping in his shoe, Johnny knew he was safe, but tried not to strut. From his bedroom window, he hurled the nasty greens into the neighbor's yard. Mr. Furly was on vacation and wouldn't find them until they were in an advanced stage of decomposition. Too proud to read, Mister John stretched out on his bed and replayed his maneuvers over in his mind until night caught up with him and he drifted off into sleep.

Johnny awoke, startled by a noise. Was it at the window? Did mother find the sprouts in Mr. Furly's yard? Was it a dream? Johnny interrogated himself vainly until his heart beat calmed. It seemed quiet, except for the noises his parents were making down the hall, to which he had grown quite accustomed. It wasn't them, but curiosity gnawed at him so much that he couldn't get to sleep. He wanted to know what was out there. He had to look. He had to make sure that he had only imagined it.

He walked over to the window and opened it. A still suburban night. Street lights, parked cars, mowed lawns, a dull wind. There was nothing. Not a soul around. What was he so afraid of? Now, Johnny thought, he could get to sleep.

As he closed the window, a small dark object flew in and landed on the floor. Not quite able to see what it was in the shadows, Johnny walked over to where it had landed and bent over. Small, round, looks pretty soft. Johnny reached down to pick it up. But just then it shot up and lodge itself in his mouth. Hardly able to breathe, Johnny fell to the floor and tried to spit it out, but it seemed to drive itself further and further down his throat. Johnny tried to scream but couldn't even manage to cough. The slimy ball was firmly lodged in his throat and he had to swallow. Gasping for breath, Johnny recognized a sickening taste in his mouth. It was the Brussels sprouts. They were back.

The window. It was still open. He had to close it. Got to keep the other sprout from getting in. But was it too late? He shut the window and turned around. There wasn't a sound. Even his parents had stopped their bed squeaking. Silence all around. But was Johnny alone?

Johnny waited, afraid to move. Waited, just listening and watching. Through the quiet, between the throbbing pulse of his heartbeat in his head, Johnny made out a strange sound. It sounded like someone, or something, was snickering.

Johnny bolted out of the room and down the hall. "Mom! Dad! The Brussels Sprouts are trying to kill me!" He yanked on the knob but the door was locked.

"It's just a dream, honey. Go back to bed and try to think of happy things. OK Johnny? I mean Mister John." His parents were useless.

The thought of taking refuge downstairs crossed his mind, but he remembered the bowlful of Brussels sprouts that neither of his parents ate. They were probably waiting for him downstairs with all sorts of cutlery. His best bet was to lock himself in his room.

He shut the door and listened for the troop of sprouts that would be coming up the stairs any minute now.

"What's it like in there, B?" The tiny voice came from the darkness of Johnny's room and damn near scared him to death.

"Pretty gross," came the reply. But this time the voice cam from Johnny's belly. "Why don't you come and see for yourself, S?" Johnny started to regret having thrown the sprouts into the garden and not having incinerated them. They were after him again. But why?

B started to stretch out in Johnny's belly and exude all sorts of noxious gases that welled up and expelled themselves as fiery burps. The flames singed Johnny's lips and nearly burnt off his eyebrows. The evils was within him and it had to be expelled.

But there was evil in the room as well. An evil that sought Johnny's guts as a refuge. Where was the little bastard? Johnny slowly reached over for his baseball bat. "Yeah," said Johnny, "Why don't you try to come and see for yourself?" He'd show the little slime ball.

But just then a ball of fire escaped from Johnny's mouth, momentarily distracting his concentration, as well as lighting the way for S to come in. Before Johnny could even get a chance to swing, the second scum ball was wedged between his lips. Through clenched teeth, Johnny murmured all the naughty words an eight-year-old could possibly know, and a few that he shouldn't.

"Come on and give me a kiss, Mister John. Why don't you like us anyhow? We're really good if you give of a chance. Come on and open up."

Johnny breathed though his nose and desperately clutched at the sphere of gook at his mouth, but he could only manage to slip one layer after another of slimy leaves off the little green body. When he reached for it again the leaves would fly back in his face. One clever leaf covered up the holes of Johnny's nose. Sneaky little bastards. Johnny was forced to breathe through his mouth, and in flew the little green menace.

What was he to do now? He had two vindictive, flame-throwing Brussels sprouts lodged in his gut, a baseball bat at his feet, burnt lips and two useless adults locked in their room down the hall. Mister John, you're not as clever as you thought.

B and S were apparently having a ball in his intestines, swirling about and bouncing on his duodenum like a trampoline. The evil had to be expelled.

Johnny ran downstairs, risking the possibility of encountering an entire bowlful of those hateful green orbs. He figured that even if they could get out of the tupperware, they couldn't get out of the fridge. He ran to the cupboard and got out the maple syrup, grabbed a pack of peanut-butter crackers and a jar of grape jelly. He started shoving the lot of it down his throat, barely chewing, sucking the syrup out of the bottle. When the jar of jelly was empty, he went for a container of cake frosting and a can of fruit cocktail, with juice. Spoonful after spoonful of Maraschino cherries and little peach cubes went down his throat. He almost had to go for the box of Ho-Ho's and pickles, but the remedy started to take its effect.

Johnny ran back upstairs to the bathroom, taking a can of spray cheese with him, just in case. He had hardly opened the door before the color started to flow. Into the bowl went red and yellow, and pink and blue, purple and orange and ....... green! There they were, the little bastards. Flush! Flush! And the horror swirled away into the porcelain bowl.

The next morning, Johnny's mother saw the mess in the kitchen. Meanwhile, Mister John was upstairs in his bedroom looking out the window. He knew his mother would make him pay for the mess he had made, but he didn't care anymore. He just stared out the window onto the suburban streets and wondered what other nightmares awaited him out there.