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I’m warning you…” said Mom. “Sorry, Peter.”
    “‘I’ll paint the rainbow blue,’ said blue butterfly.
    “‘I’ll paint the rainbow orange,’ said orange butterfly.
    “‘I’ll paint the rainbow green,’ said green butterfly.
    “I’ll paint—’”
    “‘I’ll paint the rainbow black and hang skulls on it,’ said Terminator butterfly,” snarled Horrid Henry.

    “MOM!” wailed Peter. “Henry’s interrupting me again! ”
    “Henry, this is your final warning,” said Dad. “If I hear one more word out of you, no TV for a week.”
    “Then the fairy queen picked up the paint pots and—”
    Horrid Henry yawned loudly.

    “…and the butterfly fairies were so happy that they began to sing:
    ‘Tee-hee. Tra-la.
    Tra-a tra-la
    We are dainty little fairies
    And we play and sing all day
    Maybe you can come and join us
    Then we’ll paint the day away
    Tee-hee hee hee
    Tra-la-la-la.’”
    “Blah-blah, blah-blah,” snarled Horrid Henry. He hadn’t thought Peter could write a worse story than The Adventures of Fluff Puff but he was wrong.
    “That’s the worst story I ever heard,” said Horrid Henry.
    “Henry. Be quiet,” said Dad.
    Horrid Henry’s fingers curled around a sprout.
    “What did you think of my story, Mom?” said Peter.
    “That was the best story I ever heard,” said Mom.
    “Well done, Peter,” said Dad.
    Bong! A sprout hit Perfect Peter on the head.
    “OW! Henry just threw a sprout at me,” wailed Peter.
    “Did not!” said Henry. “It slipped off my fork.”
    “That’s it, Henry!” shouted Dad.
    “Go to your room, Henry!” shouted Mom.
    Horrid Henry leaped down from the table and began to stomp. “Look at me, I’m a butterfly fairy!”
    Horrid Henry stomped upstairs to his bedroom. It was so unfair. In the olden days, when people hadn’t enjoyed a play, didn’t they throw tomatoes and rotten oranges at the stage? He was only being historical. Peter was lucky he hadn’t thrown much worse at him.

    Well, he’d show everyone how it was done.
    He’d write the greatest story ever. All about King Hairy the Horrible and his wicked wife, Queen Gertrude the Gruesome. They would spend their days cackling and making evil plans.

    Horrid Henry lay down on his bed.
    He’d get writing as soon as he finished this week’s Screamin’ Demon comic.
    “Margaret! Stop shouting!
    Steven! Stop grunting!
    William! Stop weeping!
    Soraya! Stop singing!
    Henry! Just stop!
    Everyone. BE QUIET!” yelled Miss Battle-Axe. She mopped her brow. One day she would retire to a war zone and enjoy the peace and quiet.

    Until then…she glared at her class.
    “Now. I want everyone to settle down and write a story.”
    Horrid Henry scowled. Miss Battle-Axe always hated his stories, even Henry’s brilliant one about the Troll Werewolf Mummies who hid beneath teachers’ beds and snacked on their toes. She hadn’t even liked his cannibal can-can story about the cannibal dance troupe who ate their way across Europe.

    It was hard, heavy work writing a story. Why should he bother when his efforts met with so little reward?
    What was that stupid thing Peter had read out last night? That would do. Quickly Horrid Henry scribbled down Peter’s dreadful butterfly fairies story. Miss Battle-Axe didn’t deserve anything better.
    Done! Now back to his comic. Screamin’ Demon was just about to discover where the Master of the Macabre had hidden the treasure…
    Horrid Henry felt a long fingernail poke into his shoulder. He looked up into Miss Battle-Axe’s evil eye.
    “…And why aren’t you writing your story, Henry?” hissed Miss Battle-Axe.
    Horrid Henry smiled.
    “Because I finished it,” said Henry.
    “You…finished it?” said Miss Battle-Axe. She tugged on her ear. Perhaps it was time she had her earwax removed again.
    “Yup,” said Henry.
    “Let me see,” said Miss Battle-Axe, holding out her bony claw.
    Tee-hee, thought Horrid Henry, handing her the story. She doesn’t believe