Mission Seven: Paperweight

BBBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!!!

I felt the surge all over my body as Jon turned on the age zapping machine.

Suddenly, everything was blurry. I reached up to my glasses, thinking they had fallen off. But, no. They were still on my face. I slowly removed them and my vision became clear.

"I can see!" I screamed.

"Yeah, well I've got hair!" the little professor announced proudly.

"Um," I scanned his shiny and youthful dome, "no, you don't."

Boy Xavier felt of his head, then exclaimed, "Drats!"

I turned to The Haitian and said, "Well, looks like we got a week off from this competition. Just because I'm young again is no reason we can't go sell some paper!"

He stared at me. "Do you really think you are in any shape for bagging and tagging?"

"What are you talking about?" I asked. As I flexed my arms I said, "I've never felt better. Young. Full of vigor!"


"Alright," he replied. I followed him to the door.

But as soon as I got there, I was suddenly out of breath. "Go...on without....me," I said leaning against a kid Twi'lek. "I just....need to catch....my breath."

"Sir, look." The Haitian handed me his compact.

"Why...do you...carry....a compact?" I asked.

"..." He didn't respond.

I flipped it open and looked in the mirror.

"NoOoOoocoOoOOOoO........OoOoOoooOOOooOOO!" I screamed.

I was fat. Again. How could Jon be so sick and cruel? This had to have been Henchman's idea. This was indeed the most perverse challenge yet. But I had to handle it.

I defeated obesity once, I could do it again!

I called up my other Black friend, Shaquille O'Neal.


"Yeah, man, sure, I can do that, man."

The next day he arrived on Hacknor with a load of other fat kids, ready to whip us into shape.

"Alright, you fat losers kids, man. We're going to get you into shape. Let me hear you roar!"

A few kids begged for tacos and another cried for his mother.

"Not bad, but we can do better. Let me hear you roar!" he repeated.

Silence. I said, "Could we skip the roaring and just start the weightloss?"

"Sure thing."



"Alright, plunky butts," he began. "Let's do it to it."

We all looked around at each other. I wasn't sure what he wanted us to do to it, and neither was anyone else. We stood there for about a minute when Shaq finally said, "Sit ups!"

We all laid on our backs. It was rather comfortable, and I would have fallen asleep if Shaq didn't scream insults at me and force me to do three sit ups.


"I can't do anymore!" I cried. "Let me eat some cheesecake!"

Shaq stood up, towering above us all. He clapped his hands and said, "Not bad for the first day. But you're still a bunch of lardos. We'll push it harder tomorrow."

And we did.


He had us run nearly five yards!

As the week progressed, I was feeling hopeless. I wasn't losing any weight and we were just being pushed harder and harder by Shaq. It was tiring. Every day I was exhausted. So exhausted, all I could do when I got back to my room was eat five bowls of Frosted Mini-Wheats and twelve Poptarts before dozing off for the night.

On the last day, we all stood around wondering what exercises we'd be doing. We feared the worst, but were relieved to see him arrive holding a syringe.

"Intravenous food!" one fat boy screamed. Several fatties charged him. He stuck his arm out and knocked them all unconscious.

When they awoke, he began, "This here is steroids, man."

"Isn't that illegal?" someone asked.

"I don't know, man. I ain't a lawyer. I just do what I do, you know, and I do it and if it's good then things work, you know."

We shook our heads.

He approached us one at a time and administered the shots.

"Alright, chubby checkers. Let's see you do some push ups, man."

The last day ended, and I was feeling pretty sad. The week was over and I didn't feel like I had accomplished anything.

Until I looked in the mirror.


"Nice, Bennet," I said to my reflection. "Now, let's find that professor kid and beat him crippled."