War of the World Records (26 page)

Arthur's jaw dropped at the sight of it, while the audience oohed and aahed in reverence.

When Bianca Bainbridge approached the microphone, every eye in the theater shifted to her. That the woman was not completely upstaged by the trophy beside her was a powerful tribute to her own beauty and elegance.

The moment she spoke, the crowd fell silent.

“For more than a century,” she began in her smooth, sultry voice, “the Championship Cup has been bestowed upon the single Family to Possess More World Records than Any Other Family on Earth. An elite group of persons sharing both a common goal and a common name, the recipients of world-record breaking's highest honor must endure constant toil to earn their title. No competition is fiercer than this. Indeed, many families do not survive the race intact. For the winners, the resulting fame and fortune more than make up for the struggle; for the losers, there is only shame and regret. In the end, only one family can reign victorious.”

The woman held up an envelope.

“It is my privilege to be the first to congratulate them,” she smiled. “This year's World Record World Championships champions are . . .”

She slid her slender forefinger under the envelope's seal, revealing the embossed card beneath, amidst the obligatory drum roll.

Though Arthur had largely come to terms with his performance that day, the sound of the drum still managed to churn his stomach. It was hardly suspenseful. Everyone in the audience knew exactly whose name was on the card.

Bianca Bainbridge opened her mouth to speak—but then paused abruptly, squinting at the card in front of her.

Oh no,
Arthur thought.
Nobody's told her.

Miss Bainbridge, being a friend to the Whipples, was clearly shocked to see another family's name printed on the card.

While it was hard not to appreciate her sentiment, Arthur couldn't help but wonder why the WRWC Commission insisted on hiring celebrity presenters who hadn't the slightest interest in what they were presenting.

The actress stood staring at the card for an extended moment—then turned away from the microphone and walked inexplicably toward the wing at stage left.

The crowd murmured loudly.

Arthur slumped down into his seat.
Oh
, he groaned to himself,
how embarrassing.

It was bad enough he had to live with being the one to lose the cup for his family, but now, to have his failure dragged out like this in front of thousands of people—it was absolute torture.

As Bianca Bainbridge neared the side of the stage, a flustered-looking man with curly gray hair and a purple sash stepped out from the wing to meet her. The pair exchanged alternating looks of concern as they whispered back and forth to one another. After a few moments of this, the actress closed her eyes and nodded. The man, smiling nervously, gestured to the microphone, then followed Miss Bainbridge back to the stage's center.

By this time, the unseen drummer was well on his way to achieving the World's Longest Continuous Drum Roll—and Arthur was feeling every beat of it.

“Do pardon the interruption,” Bianca Bainbridge insisted as she returned to the microphone. “Just a bit of a shock, I'm afraid. But I now have official confirmation from Commissioner Helms. And so, with your permission, I shall now resume the announcement.”

She held up the card and raised her chin to the balcony.

“The Family to Hold the Most World Records on Earth, and thus, the WRWC Champions are . . .”

The Goldwins rose from their seats.

“. . . the Whipples!”

Rex Goldwin and his family had already begun waving at the crowd when the words actually sank in. The gratified expressions fell from their faces, leaving behind stunned outrage.

Arthur and his family exchanged bewildered glances. Mr. Whipple looked to his wife in shock.

Tepid, confused applause rose up from the audience.

Arthur's father slowly rose from his seat and made his way down the row, his face wrinkled with confusion.

At the sight of Mr. Whipple starting for the front, Rex Goldwin leapt into the aisle and darted up the stage steps before his rival could reach them. He stormed onto the stage and charged straight for the man with the purple sash.

“There must be some mistake!” shrieked Rex. “It's the Goldwins who have won the championships, not the Whipples—the Goldwins!”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Goldwin,” the commissioner replied calmly. “I'm afraid there is no mistake.”

“Look. You've got it wrong here—understand?”

“Mr. Goldwin, I'll have to ask you to leave the stage now—or I shall be forced to summon security.”

Rex shaped his mouth into a snarl and took another step forward, then noticed the two hulking men in dark glasses stepping out of the wings on either side of him. He halted his advance and straightened his jacket.

“Very well,” he seethed. “But if you insist on proceeding with this nonsense, you will soon find yourselves the target of the Largest Lawsuit Ever Filed! You won't be fit to host a tic-tac-toe tournament by the time I've finished with you!”

With that, Rex spun around and stormed off the stage, knocking shoulders with Mr. Whipple as he passed him on the stairs. “This is far from over, Charlie,” he hissed over his shoulder.

Mr. Whipple, dazed and bewildered, stumbled up the steps and onto the stage, then walked cautiously to the microphone.

His face glowed in the spotlight as he slowly began. “I—I'm afraid I don't know what to say. For once, it seems I am in agreement with Mr. Goldwin. Surely, the Goldwin family—not the Whipples—have won this year's championships.”

Bianca Bainbridge touched Mr. Whipple's elbow and said, “I'm as surprised as you are, Charles—but Commissioner Helms assures me your family is indeed the winner.”

“Please, Commissioner,” said Mr. Whipple, turning to the man with the purple sash, “I don't understand. The Goldwins have clearly broken more records than we have. Indeed, we have already come to terms with our loss today and are actually quite satisfied with our efforts here this week—so if this is some kind of prank or a careless error of some sort . . .”

“I assure you, Mr. Whipple,” said the commissioner as he approached the microphone, “this is no prank. Perhaps Mr. Prim will be so kind as to explain.”

There was some fussing with the curtain, and an awkward moment later Archibald Prim stepped onto the stage. The certifier's brow was so deeply furrowed, his expression could be read from the rear of the topmost balcony.

Mr. Prim strode up to the microphone, cleared his throat, and addressed the crowd. “Really, this is most irregular,” he protested. “I have never once been made to explain a decision publicly before. However, if the commission truly requires it, my explanation is thus . . .”

Mr. Prim dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief.

Arthur and his family leaned forward in their seats.

“Near the end of the competition,” the certifier began, “I became aware of an additional Whipple world record. Unfortunately, this record took several hours to certify, so an official award for it could not be presented prior to tonight's ceremony. But since the record itself was indeed broken during an official event before the end of competition, it must be included in the standings for the overall championships. The record in question, of course, is for the Highest Number of Unsuccessful Official World Record Attempts, broken this afternoon by one Arthur Whipple.”

Arthur's heart froze. What had Mr. Prim just said? The words turned to mush in Arthur's mind. It seemed for a moment he had caught their meaning—but now, he couldn't quite seem to put them together. Surely, Mr. Prim could not have said what he'd thought he had said.

Arthur felt Ruby's hand on his arm. He turned to see a look of surprise and joy on the girl's face.

Arthur's heart jolted back to life. He turned again toward the stage as Mr. Prim continued.

“I have been tracking the Whipple boy's failed attempts as a matter of procedure ever since I was assigned to his family one month ago. Astounded by the boy's extraordinary number of failures, I decided to conduct further research—and discovered him to be quite close to breaking the late Tad Biltmore's record in the same category. When the Whipple boy failed his attempt at knife-block speed stocking earlier today, he officially broke Biltmore's record of 6,391 Official Failures—adding another record to his family's total and tying the Goldwins' score in the competition. Being the boy's first world record, however, this also gave the Whipples the distinction of becoming the Family with the Most World-Record
Holders
, with all fifteen of their family members holding records, as opposed to the Goldwins' total of fourteen. It was this record that broke their overall draw with the Goldwins, further distinguishing the Whipples as The Family to Hold the Most World Records on Earth, and naming them this year's World Record World Championships Champions.” Mr. Prim shook his head. “Honestly,” he grumbled, “it's so simple, it hardly requires explanation.”

Arthur's heart was pounding so hard now, it seemed his ribs would be unable to cage it any longer.

There was a brief moment of stunned silence—and then, the audience erupted into tumultuous applause, the likes of which Arthur had never heard before.

A rush of cool water washed over the boy's soul.

He turned to Ruby. She flung her arms around him and kissed his cheek.

The next moment, he found himself hoisted onto the shoulders of his siblings and paraded into the aisle.

“Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!” they chanted.

The theater leapt to its feet. Smiling faces and clapping hands swirled around him. Arthur's heart soared.

As he neared the stage, a warm, familiar face caught his eye.

“You've done it, lad!” his uncle Mervyn called from the edge of the aisle, eyes sparkling with tears. “You've done it!”

Arthur smiled and waved to his godfather—but was promptly whisked up the stage steps and onto the stage.

The Whipple children set Arthur down at the stage's center, where their father waited beside the giant golden trophy.

The crowd hushed.

Mr. Whipple beamed down at Arthur. “Well, my son,” he said, “it seems your strengths are rather more
quantifiable
than I had imagined. And here is the proof.” He hoisted the Championship Cup off its pedestal. “This . . . belongs to you.”

He offered the trophy to his son.

Arthur's hands trembled as he wrapped them around the cup's curved handles. Mr. Whipple released his hold, and Arthur felt the full weight of the cup in his arms. This was no dream.

His father stepped back and gestured to the microphone.

Arthur stepped forward, doing his best to keep the towering trophy from toppling sideways. He rose to his tiptoes and pressed his mouth against the microphone as he looked out at the audience. After a suspenseful pause, Arthur's distorted voice echoed over the loudspeakers.

“Thank you,” he said. Then he lowered his heels and stepped away from the microphone.

The crowd roared.

Arthur's father clutched him by the waist and lifted him off the ground, then sat him on his shoulder. Amidst the clamor, Arthur's mother and siblings gathered around them.

“Well done, my darling!” Mrs. Whipple cried as she embraced her son.

“You did it, Arthur!” shouted Beatrice.

Ivy and her matching toy bear, Mr. Growls, traded high fives with Arthur from their perch on Simon's shoulder. “Wurld wecord! Wurld wecord!” chirped the littlest Whipple.

Cordelia clutched Arthur's ankle and smiled. “It's just like you to wait till the last second to save our skins, isn't it, Arthur?!”

“Better late than never, Brother!” cried Henry. “For the first time in my life I was actually content with losing—but how much better is this?!”

Arthur grinned and looked into the audience.

Amongst the thousands of cheering spectators he spotted many of his heroes and past competitors—all applauding
him
. The Cannibal King, Jump Johnston, the Nakamotos. Even Bonnie Prince Bobo was grinning a big chimpanzee smile and slapping his hairy hands together.

Arthur's gaze then fell on the empty row where his family had sat only moments before. On the far end, Ruby stood on her seat, clapping her hands wildly and whooping at the top of her voice.

Arthur's eyes glistened in the spotlight. All of his dreams had come true. Everything was perfect.

It was then that the stage exploded.

Trophies & Catastrophes

T
here was a
blinding, deafening blast. The next thing Arthur knew he was flat on his face under a blanket of splinters and soot. He gasped for breath as a fifty-pound stage light crashed into the floorboards five feet from his head.

“Everybody up!” his father's voice bellowed behind him. “Off the stage—now!”

The audience, momentarily stunned by the explosion, now broke into a chorus of screams and shouts as they raced one another for the exits.

“Not again!” cried Nonstop Norman Prattle as he scurried down the stage steps and into the crowd, knocking over an elderly woman on his way.

Arthur glanced behind him to see a massive hole where the rear quadrant of the stage had been. Smoke and flames poured from the chasm.

Arthur picked himself up off the floor and turned to his family. His parents and older siblings struggled to help the octuplets to their feet amidst fits of coughing and crying. Arthur noticed Charlotte lying on the floor to his right. He grabbed her under her arms and helped her up.

“Come on!” shouted their father. “Let's—”

Another blast shook the theater, knocking the Whipples back to the floor.

“Help!” called a small frightened voice.

Arthur opened his eyes. Clinging to the front edge of the stage before him were two tiny sets of fingers.

“Charlotte!” he yelled, scrambling toward the edge. “Dad—come quick!”

Mr. Whipple sprang to his feet. “Wilhelm—get the little ones down! Mahankali—assist Mrs. Whipple. Henry and Simon—help where you're needed. We'll be just behind you!”

Arthur's father rushed to the front of the stage while Wilhelm scooped the other seven octuplets into his arms and led the rest of the family to the stairs.

Arthur grabbed his little sister's left arm as her legs dangled over the orchestra pit, its floor strewn with abandoned instruments and jagged music stands fifteen feet below.

“Help!” Charlotte cried again, looking up at her brother with eyes full of terror.

“Hold on!” Arthur shouted.

He strained to lift her, but their father arrived a moment later, clutching both of Charlotte's arms and pulling her back onto the stage.

“All right, you two,” said Mr. Whipple, holding Charlotte to his chest, “let's get out of here!”

They were ten feet from the stairs when the third blast struck. Charlotte spilled from Mr. Whipple's arms as he hit the floor.

Arthur looked up just in time to see a large chunk of the set crash down on his father. “Dad!” he cried.

From beneath the rubble, Mr. Whipple groaned weakly. “Get—get your sister off the stage. . . .”

“But Dad, what about—”

“Arthur, go—now!”

“Daddy!” cried Charlotte.

Arthur turned away from the wreckage and grabbed his sister, then ran for the stairs. “Come on, Charlotte!” he yelled.

As he and Charlotte reached the steps, Henry and two bearded gentlemen—one in a top hat and the other in a bowler—rushed past them.

“Get Dad!” Arthur called to Henry.

“We're on it,” Henry replied. “Just get Charlotte down to Wilhelm with the others!”

Arthur nodded and bounded down the stairs, his little sister clasped in his arms.

He caught up with Wilhelm and the rest of the family ten yards up the aisle, then turned with the others to watch the rescue effort taking place atop the stage.

Lighting cans and hunks of scenery rained down around the three rescuers as they struggled to free Arthur's father. Henry and the man with the top hat hefted the fallen piece of set off the floor, while the man with the bowler reached down to grasp hold of Mr. Whipple's arms.

Just as the stranger pulled Arthur's father clear of the debris, another blast sent a lighting rig crashing to the stage in a shower of sparks, obliterating the space where Mr. Whipple had been trapped.

“Charles!” Arthur's mother cried in panic. “Get down here this instant!”

Henry and the benevolent strangers lifted the dazed man to his feet. They now stood on the only section of stage that had not been demolished. One more blast was all it would take.

As Arthur watched the men limp for the stairs, something caught his eye in the private balcony near the curtain at stage right.

There, standing on one of the seats, was a tiny man with a crooked mustache, cursing and pounding his fist on a small black box with a silver antenna.

Arthur's eyes narrowed. “Rayford,” he spat. He turned to the others, pointed upward, and shouted, “There—in the opera box! He's got a remote! We've got to stop him!”

Wilhelm glanced overhead and cried, “Mahankali—stay vith the others! Keep them avay from the stage!” Then he dashed down the aisle, leapt onto the giant crimson curtain, and began to climb.

At the sight of this, the dwarf let out a shriek and hopped off his chair, then scurried through the doorway at the back of the compartment.

The butler swung himself up and over the balcony railing and chased after him.

Henry and the pair of hat-wearing good Samaritans walked Mr. Whipple down the stage steps as Wilhelm reappeared at the balcony's edge, holding the dwarf in one hand and the remote detonator in the other.

“And just vhere did you think you vere going, mein kleiner Freund?” smiled the butler.

“Put me down, you brute!” screeched the dwarf.

“Very vell,” replied the butler. “Let's get down together, shall vee?”

And with that, Wilhelm vaulted over the rail.

“No—wait—what are you doing—you barbariaaaaaaaan!”

A moment later, the butler landed on his feet in the aisle below, the dwarf clutched safely in his arms. Rayford's face, however, had turned several shades paler.

“There vee are,” said Wilhelm, setting the little man on the floor beside Henry.

Henry crouched down and grasped Rayford's shoulder. “You might want to think twice before making any more requests of the family you just tried to blow up. I'd say your best bet is to hold still and keep quiet till we can get you to the police. Understand?”

His lip quivering with rage, the dwarf nodded.

Just then, the stage's sprinkler system came on behind them and began to put out the scattered flames.

Arthur's parents rushed to meet each other.

“Charles!” cried Mrs. Whipple. “Don't frighten me like that! Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, dear. No more than a scratch.”

“Argh,” Mrs. Whipple grumbled. “If I never see another stage on fire again, it'll be too soon!”

“Agreed,” replied her husband. “I must say, we're still too close to this one for my liking. The crowd certainly seem to have the right idea; shall we join them?” He offered her his arm.

“Please,” she said, and took it.

“Come, children,” called their father, “we've had enough catastrophe for one evening. Let's get out of here.”

Mr. Whipple led the group toward the rear of the still-retreating crowd, then turned to the two men who had helped save his life. “Gentlemen,” he said, “it is a rare thing indeed to be the recipient of such selfless heroism—and from complete strangers, no less. I am truly in your debt.”

“Don't mention it, my good man,” replied the top-hatted gentleman in a cheerful, aristocratic tone. “It's the very least we could do for a chap such as yourself. Though I must tell you—”

At that moment, Arthur noticed a curious sight up ahead. While the rest of the crowd hurried up the aisle and through the lobby doors, one man stood stationary in the shadows.

It took another moment for Arthur to realize the man's identity—and yet another for Arthur to spot the gun in the man's hand.

As Rex Goldwin raised the pistol out of the shadows and aimed it at Mr. Whipple, Arthur cried out at the top of his voice.

“Dad!”

But it was too late. The shot echoed through the auditorium before the man could heed his son's warning.

And yet, Arthur's father did not fall.

The moment Rex squeezed the trigger, something struck his hand and threw the gun from his grasp.

“Leave them alone, Rex!” shouted Ruby, clutching a long-handled pair of opera glasses.

The already retreating crowd screamed and ducked for cover.

Amidst the chaos, Rex glanced to his pistol, lying on the carpet a few yards away—then fixed his eyes on the girl standing between them. “You . . .” he hissed.

Ruby had stared into the eyes of many savage reptiles that day, but none of them could have looked half so cruel as her father's did then.

She raised the metal opera glasses a second time, but Rex swiftly knocked them to the floor. Before she could recover them, Rex struck her across the face with the back of his hand.

“Ruby!” Arthur cried from twenty yards away. He raced toward her, though he knew he would never reach her in time.

The girl fell backward into a row of seats, then crumpled to the floor. Gasping for breath, she watched Rex pick up the opera glasses and step closer. The next moment, he was towering over her, thumping the heavy-framed glasses against his palm.

“After all I've done for you in spite of your obvious defects,” Rex sneered, “this is how you repay me? It's time I taught you some gratitude, you little freak. . . .”

He raised the opera glasses into the air—then brought them down with as much force as he could muster. There was a loud
crunch
as the lenses shattered from their frames on impact. Ruby, however, remained unharmed.

When Rex tried to raise the weapon again, he discovered he could not. It was then he noticed the giant hand clasped around the end of it.

Rex turned to see a hulking figure crouching over him.

The figure plucked the metal handle from Rex's grasp as if removing a pinwheel from a petulant child, then opened its massive fist and emptied out the contents. Twisted bits of metal and glass spilled to the floor.

A look of terror came over Rex.

Then, the figure spoke.

“You should know better, Father,” said Royston.

Ruby's face filled with surprise at the sound of her brother's voice.

And with that, the giant grabbed Rex by the throat and lifted him off the ground.

The dangling man gasped for air, clutching and clawing at Royston's hand. But his son's grip was too strong.

Rex's struggling slowed as his face turned purple.

“Royston,” cried Ruby, “Royston, no!”

The giant looked down at his sister, then back up at the bulging, bloodshot eyes of their father.

“You've got to let him down,” Ruby pleaded.

Royston closed his eyes and nodded—then began to lower his arm. But before he could return Rex's feet to the floor, a voice called out behind him.

“Stop, villain—in the name of the Law!”

Ruby and her brother spun around to see a team of twelve uniformed policemen burst through the lobby doors and into the aisle.

At the head of the pack strode Inspector Hadrian Smudge.

“Unhand that man at once, Mr. Overkill!” cried Inspector Smudge. “You have already attempted to shoot one innocent man; I shall not let you strangle another!”

At that moment, Arthur and his family rushed up from the opposite direction and halted beside Ruby and Royston.

The giant released his father's throat and Rex fell to the ground, coughing and gasping for breath.

“I,” Rex wheezed, “I saw him aim the gun at Charlie, and I tried to stop him—but he's just too big for me. To think he'd turn on his own father. . . .”

“His
father
?” the inspector gasped.

“I'm afraid so,” coughed Rex. “He—he's out of control, Inspector. Surely you can see why I was too ashamed to admit he was my son. . . .”

“He's lying!” shouted Ruby. “
He's
the one who tried to shoot Mr. Whipple—Royston was only protecting me from
him
!”

“Pardon me, miss,” the inspector frowned, “are you not the same girl who, only a few months back, would have had me arrest the prestigious presidents of the Global Guild of Dwarves and Giants simply because you and your friend Angus thought they fit the description of a particular pair of party clowns? Oh, I don't think I'll be taking your advice any time soon. And besides—isn't this precisely what you wanted all along—for these villains Overkill and Undercut to be arrested? I should think a simple ‘thank you' might be more in order here.”

“But Inspector,” cried Arthur, “they were only working for Mr. Goldwin! He's the real culprit!”

“The children speak the truth,” said Mr. Whipple. “Mr. Goldwin has clearly been the mastermind from the beginning. Please, Inspector—as the one who hired you in the first place, I beg you—do not arrest the wrong man a second time.”

“Mr. Whipple,” said the inspector, “I'm afraid the Law cannot be hired or unhired at your every whim. Do you honestly believe you can call it off now, simply because it has chanced to find an offender whom you regard as inconvenient? I doubt you are so naive. Your chef and his associates must pay the price for their misdeeds—and it is my duty to ensure it. Now,” he said, turning to the task force behind him, “please take the tall man into custody. You may let Mr. Goldwin go free.”