Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1: A Rubbish Present
Chapter 2: Rude Words
Chapter 3: Some New Traps, etc., etc.
Chapter 4: Gang Dog, or not Gang Dog? That is the Question
Chapter 5: The Treasure Hunt
Chapter 6: A Gruesome Discovery
Chapter 7: Funeral Rites
Chapter 8: The Mystery Deepens
Chapter 9: Malcolm (My Teddy)
Chapter 10: The New Suspect
Chapter 11: Ray Quasar
Chapter 12: Brainstorming
Chapter 13: The Hunt Begins
Chapter 14: The Hunt Continues
Chapter 15: The Rescue
Chapter 16: The Catch
Chapter 17: Grounded
Copyright
About the Book
Ludo, Noah, Jamie, Phillip and Jennifer are THE BARE BUM GANG! They have an embarrassing name but a cool Gang Den, so things could be worse.
The newest member of the gang is Rude Word, the world’s ugliest dog – and he’s causing trouble. He’s throwing up strange furry body parts . . . and Mrs Cake’s dog Trixie is missing! Ludo and the gang have to turn detective and get to the bottom of this gross mystery. But when other pets disappear, they realize the mystery is bigger than they’d thought.
Can they get Rude Word off the hook?
To the BBG originals:
Graham Doran, Simon Morley
and Niall McGowan
Thanks also to Dylan and Declan
for lending Ray Quasar
No snakes were injured in the
writing of this book
I COULD TELL Dad was excited about something. His face was shining like a light bulb.
‘I’ve got something for you, Ludo,’ he said, looking at me and grinning.
I was with Mum in the kitchen. My baby sister, Ivy, was sitting in her high chair, making baby noises. She’d just learned how to make a raspberry sound, and that was her favourite. It went ‘Ppprrrrraaaaaaaaapppppssssssst’ and she was very proud of it. It was quite similar to the sound of her filling up her nappy, but not as soft and squelchy, or as smelly.
Dad was late and we’d finished dinner. It was fishcakes, peas and chips. Dad’s dinner was on a plate in the oven, and it was all brown and shrivelled up, like it had been zapped by an alien death ray. Mum always burned Dad’s dinner when he was late. I think she did it on purpose as a way of helping him to remember to get home early.
‘A present?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sort of. It’s just what you’ve always wanted.’
Mmmmm . . . There were lots of things I’d always wanted. A radio-controlled model helicopter, a Swiss Army knife, a crossbow, an air rifle, my own canoe, a robot that tidied my bedroom and did my homework and conquered my enemies using mind control. Any of those would have been good.
‘What is it, Jim?’ asked Mum. She didn’t look like she thought it was going to be good. She looked like she thought it was going to be a disaster. Strange how mums always know these things.
‘It’s in the car. I’ll go and get it.’ Then Dad went out again.
Mum looked at me and shook her head.
The next bit of Dad I saw was his backside. He’d pushed the door open with it, and was trying to drag in something heavy attached to a rope. The thing he was pulling made a noise that sounded a bit like ‘Grrrrrlllllaaaahrachshtrsshh’.
It wasn’t the sort of sound you wanted to hear, except maybe in a film where you like being scared. If I had to say what it sounded like, I’d say it sounded like a monster. A monster eating another monster.
Ivy said, ‘Ppprrrrraaaaaaaaapppppsssssst,’ which I think was her way of talking to the monster. In baby language it probably meant something like, ‘I am the Leader of planet Earth. If you come in peace we will offer you the hand of friendship. But if it is war you seek, then planet Earth has powerful weapons and we will destroy you.’
Dad finally managed to pull the thing into the kitchen, and for a second I thought I was right. About the monster, I mean.
Mum screamed.
Ivy stopped going, ‘Ppprrrrraaaaaaaaapppppssssssst,’ and started crying. Fine Leader of planet Earth she turned out to be.
‘What is it?’ shouted Mum.
‘He’s very friendly,’ said Dad.
‘Get it out of my kitchen!’
Dad didn’t seem to hear. ‘Had a bit of trouble with the old fellow. He didn’t like being left in the car, and he . . . er . . . ate the gearstick. And part of the steering wheel. And . . . um . . . some of the seat. Quite a lot of the seat, actually.’
The thing he’d dragged into the kitchen wasn’t a monster.
It was a dog.
The ugliest dog I’d ever seen. He had a short body, about the size of a microwave oven, and an enormous head as big as a toaster, and he had droopy, slobbering lips and only one and a half ears. His fur was black with brown splodges, and he had shiny pink gums.
This is my best drawing of him.
‘Do you like him, Ludo?’ Dad asked.
I quickly thought again about all the things I wanted, meaning the helicopter, etc., etc., and then I saw Dad’s face, how excited he was, how much he wanted me to like him.
‘Yeah, he’s OK,’ I said. ‘What kind of dog is he anyway?’
‘The man in the pub said he’s a pedigree flugel hound.’
‘There’s no such thing,’ said Mum.
‘What’s he called?’ I asked, trying to stop the argument in its tracks.
‘His name? Ah, well, there’s a slight problem there. The man who gave him to me said he was called . . . well, it was a rude word.’
‘What sort of rude word?’ said Mum, sounding cross.
‘Really quite rude.’
Dad mouthed something at Mum so I couldn’t hear it. Then he said to me, ‘We’ll have to think of a new name for him.’
‘No we won’t,’ said Mum, ‘because he’s not staying.’
‘But I paid fifteen pounds for him!’
‘You paid how much?’ yelled Mum. ‘He should have paid you!’
And then there was no stopping the argument. In the end, after all the shouting, it was decided that I could keep him for a month on trial, but that I had to pay for part of his food out of my pocket money. And I had to take him for a walk twice a day, which was all a bit unfair as I didn’t even want him in the first place. And if he ate any more of the car or any part of the house then Mum would take him straight round to the vet’s to be put to sleep.
The dog ate Dad’s burned dinner and Dad had some cornflakes.
AFTER THE DOG had finished Dad’s fish cakes, chips and peas, Mum said I had to take him for his first walk. I called the rest of the Bare Bum Gang before I set off, but the only one who was allowed to come out to play was Noah, and he didn’t want to because he was scared of dogs. So I went by myself to the field near the park, where you are allowed to walk your dog as long as you bring a bag for the you-know-what.
We didn’t have a lead, just the rope that Dad had used. The dog pulled me all the way, as if he knew where he was going. It was like being dragged along by a tractor. Although he was strong, the dog didn’t seem very vicious, which was a relief. But when it came to snuffling, this dog was the world champion. Everything on the way had to be snuffled – every stick, every stone, every lamppost. When he snuffled, as well as the snuffling noise he also made a wet plapping noise like an old man with no teeth eating an ice cream.
I’m not really scared of dogs, not like Noah is scared of dogs. He’s scared of all d
ogs, even the friendly ones that wouldn’t even dream of biting you. I think he might have had a bad experience when he was little. I’m only scared of the ones that definitely do bite you. And, frankly, anyone who’s not scared of a dog that’s actually biting them needs their head examined, as well as whichever part of them is being bitten – say, their leg or their bum.
But my dog didn’t seem to be a biting dog, or not a biting-people dog, anyway, because he could have bitten me lots of times and he didn’t.
When we got to the dog-poo field, Mrs Cake was the only person there. She had a dog called Trixie. Trixie was a Jack Russell terrier, about the size of a big rat, and she definitely was a biting dog. Trixie especially liked to bite children, because they’re nice and easy to chew. So I was scared of her. Not as much as I’d be scared of a sabre-toothed tiger or a great white shark, but more than I’d be scared of, for example, some broken glass or a medium-sized baboon that had escaped from the zoo.
Mrs Cake was also quite scary. Her hair was in a funny shape, and she carried an umbrella whether or not it was raining. In the Olden Days she’d probably have been burned as a witch. I don’t think that would have been fair, and I’m glad we live in Modern Times, but you could sort of understand why they’d do it. It was probably why she had a dog rather than a cat, because if she’d had a cat, especially a black cat, then everyone would have said she was a witch for definite, rather than just as a maybe.
Well, I stood as far away from Mrs Cake and Trixie as possible. I kept my dog on his rope. But as soon as Trixie saw me she came running across the field, probably thinking she was in for a good old chase, with maybe a nice little bit of bum cheek to chew on at the end of it.
I felt my dog go tense at the end of the rope. I thought for a second that he was going to run away, adding being a coward to the list of things that made him a rubbish dog (ugly, smelly, stupid, only having one and a half ears, etc., etc.). But then I felt him pull forwards on the rope and I couldn’t hold on. He ran straight towards Trixie making that same horrible growling noise he’d made when Dad first brought him to our house with an added bit of plapping and snuffling.
Before he reached the little rat, Trixie realized what was about to happen to her; she turned round very neatly and ran back to Mrs Cake, whimpering and whinning. In fact, she didn’t even stop when she reached Mrs Cake but shot straight past her. Mrs Cake shouted out, ‘Trixie, Trixie! Come here, you naughty girl,’ but that didn’t make any difference. Then my dog trundled past her as well, and she hit him on the back with her umbrella, but he didn’t even slow down.
Then Mrs Cake started shouting at my dog and she used some very rude words, and that was sort of funny – I mean, hearing an old lady use words like that – even though Mum says it’s not clever or funny.
It was then that I decided what to call my dog. It was getting a bit silly just calling him ‘my dog’ all the time. So from now on he would be called Rude Word, or Rudy for short.
After the dogs had run off Mrs Cake shouted at me for a while, and I said sorry, although it wasn’t my fault. What I really wanted to say was that I was glad that Trixie was getting a bit of her own medicine, but I didn’t want to be rude to Mrs Cake because she had her umbrella at the ready, and anyway, it’s wrong to be rude to old ladies, even if they might be witches.
Then Mrs Cake went to look for Trixie. A few minutes later Rude Word came back to me. He looked a bit guilty and was licking his lips.
‘Good boy,’ I said, and patted him.
THE NEXT DAY was Saturday, and straight after breakfast I brought my new dog down to the Gang den.
The den was in a tiny little wood near where we live. I thought Rudy would like the trees for weeing on, etc. He had a Weetabix for breakfast. So far, he seemed to be able to eat just about anything. Remember, he’d already eaten quite a lot of our car, and some fish cakes, chips and peas. Oh, and in the night he got up from his cardboard box and ate most of what was in the rubbish bin and also a pair of my dad’s dirty underpants from out of the laundry basket.
By the time I got to the den Phillip, Noah, Jamie and Jennifer were already there.
Phillip is our Gang Admiral, which means he’ll take charge of our navy when we finally get one. We usually call him The Moan, because he’s always moaning.
Jennifer is The Moan’s sister. We wouldn’t normally let girls into our gang, especially sisters, but Jennifer was good at tae kwon do, which is like karate. It was her idea that we should be called the Bare Bum Gang, but I don’t want to go into that now. It’s enough to say that it was once something to be ashamed of, but that now it made us proud.
Noah is sort of my second in command, and also our Gang Doctor. The thing about Noah is that he’s nice and wants everyone to be nice to each other and not fight too much or call each other bad names.
Jamie is our Gang General, because he’s the best at fighting, apart from Jennifer. Jennifer couldn’t be the Gang General because her job was to be the Gang Girl, and that was enough work for one person.
The best thing about our gang is the gang den. Part of it is almost like a cave dug into the side of a hill, and another part sticks out at the front and that’s how you get in. The entrance is cunningly disguised by the drooping branches of a weeping willow tree, and we’d made really good traps all around it to catch people who tried to invade us.
I’d recently invented a new kind of trap that I don’t think had existed anywhere in the world before. I called it my balloon squirty-ink trap, and it was even better than the Smarties-tube fart bomb trap that used to be our top-of-the-range trap.
The balloon squirty-ink trap works like this. First you get a balloon and then you put some ink in it. This part can be quite messy, and it’s probably best not to do it wearing your favourite clothes. If you’ve got an old Spider-Man costume or a pirate outfit that you don’t like any more because it’s for babies, you could wear that.
I think blue ink works best, but you can use any colour you have, say black, or red, or green, or purple. Then you take the outside part of a biro – I mean the bit that makes a tube when you take the refill out of it – and put it in the balloon hole. It won’t fit very tightly, so you have to tie it on with some string, or use Sellotape.
The balloon part of the trap looks like this.
(The balloon looks a bit floppy because there isn’t usually enough ink to fill it up.)
Then you put this whole apparatus into a hole you’ve dug specially (or you could use a hole you’ve just found lying around, or even one you dug before for some other reason, like burying a dead animal, or for making some other kind of trap). Next you put leaves and grass over the hole so that it’s properly disguised. Then, when one of your enemies steps on it, his foot goes down into the hole and squashes the balloon, sending a big squirt of ink right up his leg!
I’ve drawn a picture to help explain it.
I should say that the tank hasn’t got anything to do with the trap. It was already on the piece of paper from when I’d drawn it before.
‘THAT IS THE ugliest dog I’ve ever seen,’ said The Moan.
‘I think he’s sweet,’ said Jennifer. I don’t know if she really did think he was sweet or if she just wanted to disagree with The Moan, because he was her brother. ‘What’s his name?’
‘He’s called Rude Word, or Rudy, for short.’
They all laughed, and then when I told them why he was called that they laughed even more.
‘Is he trained to attack?’ asked Jamie, our Gang General.
‘Probably,’ I replied. ‘He certainly attacked Trixie last night. She ran away. It was brilliant.’
They all cheered, except Noah. Noah was half in and half out of the den, ready to escape in case Rude Word turned savage.
‘Does he bite?’ he asked, looking nervous.
‘I don’t really know. He hasn’t bitten me. But he might have bitten Trixie.’
‘Shall we see if he likes it in the den?’ said Jennifer.
&nbs
p; ‘No way,’ said Noah.
But all the rest of us thought it was a good idea. Rudy wasn’t quite so keen, and we had to push and shove him through the door. He made a sort of growling noise, which sounded a bit as if he was saying ‘rubbish’ over and over. Actually, even in the short time that he’d been my dog, I’d noticed that Rudy quite often sounded like he was saying something. It was almost as if he used to know how to speak, but had now forgotten and only had a few words left, which annoyed him. One of his favourite words was ‘ashtray’. He also sometimes said ‘Saskatchewan’, which is a place in Canada.
Finally we got him into the den. Noah was hiding in the corner being scared, and the first thing Rude Word did was to go and sit on top of him.
Noah didn’t like that.
‘He’s sitting on me,’ he said, in a sort of wailing voice. ‘He’s doing it with his bottom.’
‘Well what else could he use for sitting on you?’ said Jennifer.
‘His bottom’s all smelly.’
‘He’s got a clean bottom,’ I said. ‘In fact he’s probably got the cleanest bottom of any of us. He licks it all the time.’
And then Rude Word began to lick Noah’s face. That really made Noah unhappy.
‘I don’t want dog-bottom-lick all over me,’ he said, almost in tears.
Even though it was quite funny, I felt sorry for Noah and pulled Rudy off. The trouble was that then he went snuffling around the rest of the den, and his snuffle took him straight to our secret stash of sweets, buried in a shoe box under the floor. Rudy started to scrape away at the earth, with a big long line of drool dangling down from his mouth.
‘Let’s get him out of here,’ I said, and it took all four of us, two pulling and two pushing, to do it. When we finally managed it, I threw a stick into the trees and told Rudy to go and fetch it. He looked at me like I was the stupid one, but then decided to wander off anyway, probably to test out the trees for weeing purposes. The rest of us went back into the den.
The Bare Bum Gang Battles the Dogsnatchers Page 1
