Mr. Slurmbucket

Mr. Slurmbucket opened his eyes. A bird was singing joyfully outside his window.

“Go away!” he shouted. “Stop making that terrible noise!”

Mr. Slurmbucket hated birdsong, but it was not the thing he hated most. The thing he hated most was a Nice Smell.

He hated Nice Smells so much that he had invented a special way of blocking them out. It was foul and disgusting, and I hope you never experience it. 

I have been up the highest mountains and to the bottoms of the deepest seas. I have crossed the widest deserts and explored the darkest forests. But I have never seen anything nearly as repulsive as Mr. Slurmbucket’s method of dealing with Nice Smells.

He had built a cupboard of Foul Odors.

It was a large cupboard, full of sturdy glass jars. Each one contained a Foul Odor, lovingly captured by Mr. Slurmbucket himself. He had everything: Sweaty Socks, Unwashed Armpits, and Blocked Drains. They swirled around the jars in shades of yellow, green, and brown.

If Mr. Slurmbucket happened to smell a Nice Smell, like fresh laundry or the delicate perfume of flowers, he would quickly open a glass jar and bury his face in it, sucking the Foul Odor deep into his lungs.

But don’t think that was his only disgusting habit. It was just the start.

After Nice Smells, next on his list of despised items were Clean Things.

Mr. Slurmbucket loathed Clean Things. If he saw something neat or tidy, he immediately messed it up.

Instead of spraying soapy clean water on the dishes, his dishwasher coated them with grease. It was a dish-dirtier!

And his food! Oh, it was too foul to describe. Worm stew and fat-on-a-stick were the nicest things he ate.

After a disgusting meal, he used a toothpaste made from salt and slugs. He kept his worn-out toothbrush in—it’s almost too horrible to say—the toilet.

Hard to believe, but it’s true.

You will not be surprised to hear that Mr. Slurmbucket liked to play tricks on people. He loved tipping sour milk into ladies’ tea and bursting stink bombs in elevators, but he was growing tired of the same old pranks. Today he woke up with a brilliant idea. He was going to open a sweet shop in the shack outside his house.

His first customer was a little boy, who chose an ice cream sandwich. He took a bite and started to cry. It was not ice cream at all. It was a bar of soap.

She dashed home and gave them to Horace. They made him feel even worse. They were not gobstoppers at all. They were rats’ eyeballs.

Molly marched back to Mr. Slurmbucket’s sweet shop.

“I’d like my money back,” she said. “You sold me rats’ eyeballs.”

“Did I?” Mr. Slurmbucket replied. “You should have checked.”

Molly took a deep breath. “Please give me my money back. It’s not fair.”

Mr. Slurmbucket thought for a moment. “I’ll give you a special treat instead. Wait here.”

A minute later he returned with one of his big glass jars. In it swirled a thick brown gas.

“What is it?” Molly asked.

“Open it and find out,” Mr. Slurmbucket said, hiding a smirk.

Molly twisted the top off. The gas wound out and into her nostrils.

The next day, Mr. Slurmbucket found a letter on his doorstep:

Dear Friend,

Today there is a sale of rotting fish heads at the fish market. They are going dirt cheap. Don’t miss out!

Mr. Slurmbucket loved rotting fish heads. They would make you or me sick, but Mr. Slurmbucket slept with two under his pillow.

He got into his car and drove off, leaving clouds of blue smoke behind him. (He used a special kind of gas that was extra polluting.)

Molly hid in a bush and watched. As soon as his car was out of sight, she climbed through a window into his house.

She began to clean it up.

She filled his bath with soapy water and dumped his clothes in it.

She scattered rose petals over the floor.

She threw his disgusting food in the trash can.

And finally, she approached his Cupboard of Foul Odors.

She put a clothespin on her nose, opened the jars, and let the Foul Odors go free. As the Foul Odors escaped, trees shed their leaves. Flowers shriveled. Even vultures were repulsed.

Soon, the Cupboard of Foul Odors was no more.

When Mr. Slurmbucket came home, he was in an awful mood. There was no sale at the fish market after all.

As he opened his front door, his nose twitched. He could smell the disgusting scent of rose petals. The hall was strewn with them!

Mr. Slurmbucket ran upstairs to his bedroom. The closets were empty, and his clothes were gone. He found them in the bath, soaking in the soapy water.

The living room was no better. It was spotless.

And the kitchen? It was so clean it was gleaming.

He opened the refrigerator to grab something disgusting to eat, but there was only a hideously fresh bowl of salad.

Desperate, he decided to open a Foul Odor.

But when he looked in the cupboard, Mr. Slurmbucket fell to his knees and howled in disappointment. The jars were empty. His precious smells, gone! Floating free in the atmosphere!

There was a note on the floor.

Ha! Hope you enjoy your clean house. From the girl who bought the rats’ eyeballs.

Mr. Slurmbucket groaned. It was going to take weeks to mess up all this clean. At least he had the clothes he was wearing. At least they were still nice and smelly. He buried his face in his armpit.

It wasn’t much, he told himself, but you have to start somewhere.