The Great Brain Read Free

ticking and our zombie simpleton couldn’t even tell the time. The whole crazy situation was about to come to a head, and the outcome would depend on the contents of his head – a head that was as empty as a risen zombie’s crypt.
    The bet had been a rash response to the continuous goading Mick had weatheredfrom Mr Noel for the entire school year. The teacher was entranced at the insurmountable thickness of Mick’s head, delighted at his deadset density and amazed at how dazed this young zombie actually was. It was a constant source of mirth for Mr Noel, who was bored to tears by his rubbish teaching job at Horror High and took to bagging Mick out as a hobby.
    Our dumb chum was the unvarying butt of Mr Noel’s jokes. He would pick on Mick, getting on his wick by giving the undead hick heaps of stick for being thick as a brick.
    A sick trick.
    That’s called sadism: B-grade writers padding out their stories with cheap, second-hand riffs and crapping rapping. And what Mr Noel was doing blew too.
    Mick put up with Mr Noel’s rude jibes for nearly an entire year, copping grief every day in class for not knowing the answers to easy questions. Until one fateful day …
    Mr Noel strolled in, chest puffed out, eyes shining, ears pricked up, teeth flossed, nose polished, looking for trouble. He spotted Mick and knew he’d found it.
    â€˜So, Living-Dead. Let us pose a question I knew the answer to on last night’s episode of Who Wants to Be a Horror Millionaire. What is the square root of a triangularised cylindrical oblong when it’s in outer space?’ Mr Noel tapped his foot impatiently. ‘Well?’
    Mick gaped like an ape in a cape juggling grapes. (Like I said – sadism.)
    Finally Mick shrugged his shoulders and mumbled, ‘Don’t know, sir.’
    â€˜Don’t know, sir,’ echoed Mr Noel, sniggering. ‘Well, class, what a surprise – Living-Dead doesn’t know . I’m dumb-founded, which is the opposite of Living-Dead, who’s founded in dumb. My mindless, young zombie student just admitted he doesn’t know the answer to that question, but what I’d really like to accurately discern is this: what does Living-Dead know? Eh?’
    The rest of the class grinned, waiting for the response. They knew what was happening here; it was a longstanding ritual. Mr Noel would mock Mick mercilessly, harangue him about his hard-headedness and force the boy to finally ’fess up and admit he knew nil.
    But not today. Today was the day all that changed. Today was the first day of the rest of Mick’s life, or the beginning of the end – depends which way you look at these things.
    Beginning of the end, I reckon.
    Normally Mick pre-empted the humiliating daily pageant, ending the demeaning process prematurely by admitting to Mr Noel and the class that he knew nowt about owt. But today would be different. Today he’d finally be biting back.
    â€˜Is there anyone in the history of the world dumber than Living-Dead?’ Mr Noel asked the class rhetorically. ‘Anyone at all?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ mumbled Mick. ‘You.’
    A hush fell over the class. Suddenly the air was frozen enough to crack intoprisms and sell to an Alaskan kaleido-scope company.
    â€˜What?’ asked Mr Noel disbelievingly.
    Mick stared defiantly into Mr Noel’s eyes. ‘You. You’re dumber. You’re the idiot, Mr Know-All.’
    Mr Noel gagged and sputtered as he swallowed the hysterical laugh that had started from his throat. He felt certain he’d misheard, but his brain jogged his memory and assured him he’d heard it right the first time.
    â€˜You what?’ asked Mr Noel, incredulously.
    â€˜You heard me,’ snapped Mick.
    â€˜You’re insane. Thick and insane.’
    â€˜Wanna make a bet?’ said Mick. ‘Wanna make a bet I’m smarter than you?’
    â€˜You are insane, Living-Dead,’ stated Mr