How Many Pills Did You Take is the final book of the Grumbles the Novel trilogy.

The zany free-for-all of the first two novels is replaced by the seriousness of the situation as secret agent Pettie
Grumbles realizes that it’s time for all of the gadgets to come out of the bag and all of the tricks to come out of the book
if she’s ever going to save the world.  

As daylight breaks and pirates invade Montreal’s port, Pettie and Toga hurry up Mont-Royal and infiltrate The
Weatherman’s glorious, grease redolent pageant to himself, the festival of Spudapalooza.

Will Pettie and Toga be able to find Toga’s kidnapped friends and free them? Can they stop The Weatherman from
deploying his secret weapon meant to ensure world domination? Will Pettie reset the cycle of nature and make it snow?
And finally, will Pettie and Hector sail off into the sunset? Telmemydoom might know, but, predictably, no one wants to
ask her.
“I survived yet again,” said The Weatherman. “I survived to protect you from people who would take away your spuds,
who would seek to make you eat fresh food in the name of your health, and who would take away your screening time
and return you to the life of unmonitored streets and the dangers and pitfalls of natural weather.”

Across the sky, an advert plane flew with a banner that read, “This festival has been underwritten by Prudential. Nice
days mean lower premiums! Helping to keep you safe from elemental weather and acts of God…Prudential…like a
rock!”

“Long live The Weatherman!” some blind fool cried out.

“Have a nice day,” yelled The Weatherman in return, flinging his hands up to the sky.

In answer, the entire crowd murmured, “And a nice day to you!”

“Let us eat spuds!” he hollered.

The crowd burst into a frenzy.

“She must pay for her transgressions,” someone from the crowd screeched.

I looked down the long line of people, gazing into scrunched, angry faces.

Cassandra clipped my calves again with her heel, “Forward, traitor,” she hissed in a deliberately loud voice.

The crowd hissed back at me, “Traitor, traitor! A scourge on our nice day! With her life and dignity she must pay.”

They began throwing ketchup-covered fries at me. One landed right between my pushed-together breasts, and with
my hands tied behind my back, I was unable to remove it. My face became pocked as fries hit and slithered down and
off my shoulders.

With glee, Cassy forced me forward as the crowd responded to the fever pitch of The Weatherman’s comments, then
erupted into frenzied free-for-all. Cans of fizzy orange soda whizzed in my direction, cutting my face and bare arms,
and leaving me oily and sticky at the same time. I flinched time and time again, always to the backdrop of Cassandra’s
cruel laughter. I didn’t think I was going to make it to the end, but given what the end would be, I was in no rush to get
there.

I searched the crowd desperately, darting my eyes back and forth. Surely there are agents around. I hoped someone,
anyone would come to my rescue, but it wasn’t looking good. I had to come to the conclusion that M, the great
administrator of the greatest institution on Earth, The Post Office, couldn’t organize her way out of doll’s house.

“See how the Earth grumbles at our traitor?” proclaimed The Weatherman with raised arms, even as he and
Cassandra exchanged uncertain glances and looked at the ground below.

Steam sizzled from the seams of the manholes, and I could have sworn the ground shifted slightly under my feet. Is
this the quake that will finally get us? The end-all-that-be-all? The big one? Think. Think. You’re a spy. But nope,
nothing happened even when I used all the tricks in the book. Rewrite, screamed my inner Telmemydoom.

Quickly, I tried to figure out how to use the pent up energy of the Earth to escape. I just about had a plan when I
noticed two small, lithe bodies scurrying around, placing patates frites paper bags at the edges of the crowd. Although
hope had always led me astray, I still believed backup was on its way and that The Post Office would not let me down
(again).

Cassandra struggled to push me down the gauntlet as the Earth continued to tremble beneath our feet. The crowd
had not yet cottoned to fact that a seismic event was about to swallow up the mountain or push it higher. This was
something that even The Weatherman couldn’t control.

I struggled to remain upright on those godforsaken heels and that shaky ground as the crowd continued to stone me
with ketchup-drenched fries. Suddenly, a glimmer of hope fluttered in my heart when I caught a glimpse of brown skin
and black hair. The despair that had been heavily filling my veins like corn syrup vanished when Toga winked at me
and ran by.

A few minutes later, there was a large kaboom, followed by boom after boom after boom.

“We’re being slawed!” someone yelled. “Take cover!”

Waves of sulfur, black clouds, malaise and rot filled the air as the cabbage bombs diffused their all too familiar smells.
My stomach quaked. All of it consumed my senses, and I was brought to my knees by the thickness of the assault
weapon. What a way to go, I thought as a hot fry, laden with ketchup, somehow found its way into my mouth. Then, I
actually went down for the count.
Reviews for Grumbles The Novel, Book Three
Excerpt for Grumbles The Novel, Book Three
Comment/review will be posted as they are received.
Fiction-SF/New Adult/Science
Fiction/Cli-fi/Environmental Fiction
Whimsical Publications,
LLC/paperback, 162 pages
August 2014
$9.95

ISBN-13: 978-1-940707-18-1
Grumbles The Novel, Book Three: How Many Pills Did You Take
Karen Faris
Whimsical Publications, LLC
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