Villain's Lair

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  “Thataway!” Sticky said, pointing to the floor.

  Sure enough, beneath the rug was a trapdoor. A trapdoor that, Dave discovered, led to steep, crooked, spiraling steps that led, well, down.

  No, not just down.

  Down, down, down.

  As they descended into the deep darkness, they could hear Damien’s voice echoing through the…down-ness.

  Dave whispered, “Does this take us to the dungeon?”

  “Sí, señor!” Then he asked, “Can’t you see, señor!” You’re stumbling around like you’re blind!”

  “It’s dark in here!”

  For a gecko like Sticky, there was plenty of light to see by. He yanked on Dave’s ear and said, “Theeees way! You’re going to fall off if you don’t watch it!”

  “Fall off?”

  “Sí!” He kept tugging. “Come over this way. Hug the wall. And watch out for rats! They’re as big as cats and they’re everywhere!”

  Something as big as a cat scurried across Dave s feet. Dave did a little dance, nearly lost his balance, then said, “This place is a nightmare!”

  “Ay chihuahua, don’t I know?”

  The place was, in fact, worse than a nightmare. Perhaps one could dream of tall, oozy, slimy walls and creaky, crooked steps or of rats scurrying and bats fluttering, cobwebs snagging and spiders dangling…but the smell…oh, the smell! Who could dream a smell like that?

  No, they were definitely wide awake, and the farther down they went, the stronger the stench became until it was nose-pinching, eye-stinging awful.

  “What is that smell?” Dave whispered, his eyes at last adjusting to the darkness.

  “Death,” Sticky explained, his voice small and shivery. “We’re getting near the dragon pit.”

  A few steps later, Dave came to a stop. “I feel like we’re walking into a trap.”

  The reason he sensed this was because of something even creepier than the smell or the oozy, slimy walls or the scurrying rats and fluttering bats and dreadful, dangling spiders.

  He had just noticed the silence.

  The sudden, eerie silence.

  “The voices have stopped,” Dave whispered ever so softly.

  Sticky tugged on Dave’s ear, leading him off the spiraling stairs and into an uneven crevice in the wall. It was barely wide enough for Dave to hide in, and the cold, damp walls were giving him the chilly-willies. He wanted out. He wanted out badly.

  But then he heard footsteps approaching.

  “Do not move a muscle,” Sticky whispered into Dave’s ear.

  Dave held his breath as a dark figure in black boots and a caped coat crept up the stairs.

  Crept past them.

  Dave kept holding his breath.

  For another minute.

  Maybe two.

  Then the nose-pinching air was shattered by an ear-splitting squeal.

  “Blasted varmint!” Damien shouted, and then a pitiful screeeeeeeeeeeech descended into the dungeon until finally there was a thump.

  And then, from somewhere beneath them, came the sound of muffled machine-gun fire.

  Only it wasn’t a machine gun.

  Or even a six-shooter.

  It was the dragon, charging his prey.

  “It was only rats!” Damien called down the stairs at the Bandito Brothers. Then he laughed his evil, demented laugh. “Bwaa-ha-ha-ha-ha! Hors d’oeuvres for my pet!”

  The black boots and caped coat strode by again, faster on their way down than they’d been on their way up. “And if you don’t want your brother to wind up as the main course,” he called down the stairs, “you’ll do everything I say!”

  “He’s not really our brother!” Angelo called.

  “Do I care, you fool?” Damien shouted back.

  After Damien was gone, the coast was clear. Dave stayed in the narrow crevice longer than was necessary. He had heard the cat-sized rat fall to its doom. He had heard the rapid fire of the Komodo dragon’s claws. He was, it’s fair to say, scared.

  What had he gotten himself into?

  Was flying really worth this ?

  “Àndale, hombre!” Sticky urged. “If he moves the power ingots, we’ll never find them.”

  But Dave stayed put, and through chattering teeth, he whispered, “Why would he bring the Burrito Brothers down here? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Sticky rolled his eyes. “Not Burrito, Bandito. They’re a mariachi band, okay? It has nothing to do with food. And they’re not really brothers. That’s the name of their band.”

  This was just what Dave needed to get his mind off of rats and dragons and death. “What? You said they were bandits! Now they’re a band! Are you lying about everything! Are you just out to get me killed?”

  “Ay-ay-ay.” Sticky rolled his eyes. “Look, the Bandito Brothers were a band, but people stopped hiring them because they were awful and they’d steal stuff from parties. So they became the outlaw Bandito Brothers.” Sticky shrugged. “Stealing is easier than playing.”

  “What about those bandoliers?” Dave asked. “Are they real? Why are they still wearing them?”

  Again, Sticky shrugged. “It’s part of their costume, señor. Without six-shooters, you have nothing to fear.” Then he added, “Tito uses his as suspenders.”

  Dave shook his head, remembering his original question. “But why did Damien bring the Bandito Brothers down here?”

  “The same reason he always dragged me down here—to make them fear him and his dragon.” Sticky frowned. “He is training them.”

  This conversation had somehow calmed Dave enough to continue down the steps toward the dungeon. He hugged the oozy, slimy wall closely, approaching a lighted area beneath them. Soon a huge pit came into view. The floor of the pit was mostly sand, and the sides curved out and then in again like a fishbowl. Across the pit from Dave was the dragon’s den—a deep, shadowy cave that gashed through the otherwise smooth wall. And in the center of the pit was a tree that wasn’t quite a tree—it was more a trunk with branches but with no leaves.

  “There it is!” Sticky whispered, pointing to the ugliest beast Dave had ever seen. It seemed like a creature from another world. Another time. Another dimension. A hungry creature with a lumbering gait and a long, flicking forked tongue. A vile creature that stank of death and decay and, oh yes, disgusting dragon doo-doo.

  “Hello, my sweet!” Damien Black called to it from the rim of the pit. He went out of view for a moment, then suddenly the treasure hunter was in the pit, holding an enormous goose by the neck. “Here you are!” he cooed at the dragon, then flung the goose across the sand and sauntered toward the dragon’s den.

  The goose flapped and honked, manically, trying to get away from the dragon, but the beast was hungry, fast, and ferocious, and there was no escaping him.

  “Do not think that will work for you,” Sticky whispered. “That evil hombre is putting on a show for the Brothers.” He tugged Dave by the ear, turning him so they were eye to eye. “Stay here. Do not go into the pit. The dragon will kill you.”

  And with that, Sticky jumped off Dave’s shoulder and scurried into the pit.

  Chapter 9

  THE PIT OF DOOM

  A Komodo dragon senses its prey with its foot-long tongue. It can hear (although not very well) and can see (although what it recognizes, primarily, is movement), but it is the long yellow tongue that tells it the most. Each tip of the forked tongue delivers airborne molecules from potential prey to organs on the roof of its mouth. Organs that can tell, amazingly, if the left tip has more prey molecules than the right tip. Organs that let the dragon know which way to go.

  This is why the Komodo dragon’s tongue flicks in and out so frequently.

  This is why the tongue is forked.

  This is why the dragon’s head swings from left to right as it walks.

  It is looking for something to kill.

  Komodo dragons typically like big prey. Prey that will sustain them for days on end. Prey like deer and boars and g
oats, and yes, when available, humans.

  And, like a hinge-jawed garbage disposal, the Komodo dragon will consume nearly all of its prey with its large, serrated teeth. From brain to bones, it leaves very little of its victim behind.

  A Komodo dragon does not, however, usually bother with little things like mice or toads or speedy gecko lizards. There’s not enough there worth hunting.

  So it was with a certain amount of immunity that Sticky now entered the dragon’s pit and scurried across it toward the den.

  Dave, as you might imagine, knew none of this. All he knew was that he’d risked life and limb to transport a sneaky, talking gecko lizard into a devilish dungeon, where he was now totally alone.

  Well, alone in the sense that he had no one to talk to.

  There were still, of course, the Bandito Brothers.

  And where, you ask, were they?

  A very good question, and precisely the one Dave was asking himself at that very moment.

  To get the answer, Dave crept along, keeping one eye on the dragon’s den into which Sticky had disappeared, one on the dragon chomping ferociously on his feathered prey, and one on the end of the wall ahead of him, wondering what awaited him around the corner.

  (Yes, that would indeed give him three eyes, but under such circumstances, eyes are allowed to dart back and forth doing double duty, so stop counting.)

  What Dave discovered was that all three Bandito Brothers were hanging in separate cages from telescoping cranes. At the moment, the cranes were retracted, but they had the ability to extend out and over the dragon pit and whoosh open, dropping whatever was inside them into the pit.

  Now, being fairly new to the ways of sneaky-peeking around disgusting, devilish dungeons, Dave made the mistake of jerking back when he saw the Brothers. Jerking back is the thing one naturally does when trying not to be seen, but it is also, unfortunately, what usually gives one away.

  “Did you see that?” Angelo said.

  “It was a boy!” Pablo replied.

  “Where? Where?” the rocky-brained Tito asked.

  “Shhh!” the other two commanded.

  Then Pablo said, “Pssst! Boy! We saw you. Now come quickly! Before that insane Mr. Black returns.”

  “If you help us, we’ll help you!” Angelo whispered hoarsely.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Pablo coaxed. “Set us free and we won’t tell him you’re here.” Then, in a sly voice, he added, “And if you don’t, we will!”

  Had Dave known the Bandito Brothers, he would have expected this. You see, blackmail was a big part of their repertoire.

  It was a tactic that they used regularly.

  Liberally.

  And, as you might suspect, with great relish.

  Which is to say, they enjoyed using it as much as one might enjoy using mustard or ketchup or chopped pickles on one’s hot dog, as opposed to eating it, say, plain.

  Yes, blackmail, the Bandito Brothers all agreed, made everything so much yummier.

  But to Dave, the thought of setting the Brothers free did make sense. How could they possibly be on the side of a madman who caged them and threatened them? Surely he could get them to help him recover the power ingots. Or at least escape.

  Sticky, had he been there, would most certainly have said, “Freaky frijolesl Are you crazy?” or perhaps “Are you a loco bobol” or “Chony baloney, don’t free those rata-toniesl” or simply “Hello? Señor Estúpido?”

  But Sticky was not there. Sticky was deep in the dragon’s den, sneaking up the cape of Damien’s coat as the villain unearthed his most precious treasures and removed the little satchel of power ingots from among old gold coins, exquisite jewels, diamonds, and his favorite loot of all—tiger-eyes. (The stone, not the real thing. Although, with Damien Black, it is understandably confusing.)

  So, without Sticky to guide him, Dave decided: he would free the Brothers.

  But first, he thought, he should take a step of caution. He needed something to conceal him— to make him not so easily recognized or identified. But what disguise does a thirteen-year-old boy keep in his backpack? Sticky hadn’t slipped one in alongside the matches or the grapes, which just goes to show you how shortsighted a klepto-maniacal lizard can be.

  But what was in the backpack was his favorite ball cap. A dark red one with a diamondback snake design.

  He pulled it on, keeping the bill down as low as possible to cover his face. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but at least it was something.

  When the Bandito Brothers saw Dave round the corner again, they practically rubbed their hands in glee. In a moment, they would be free! In a moment, they would race across the pit, overpower the madman, and discover what riches he had stored in that dragon’s den.

  It would indeed be a glorious day in their lives.

  “Hurry, friend!” Angelo whispered. “There is no time to lose!”

  “Me first!” Tito cried. “Me first!”

  “Hush, Tito!” Pablo commanded, then turned to Dave. “Cool hat, dude. Now get busy!”

  “How?” Dave asked, for there were big buttons, switches, and levers beside each crane.

  “The levers!” Angelo said. “Pull the levers!”

  So Dave did.

  Thump went Tito as the bottom opened up.

  Thump went Pablo.

  And, finally, thump went Angelo.

  “Thank you, friend, thank you!” Angelo said. And then, with a wicked, backstabbing, double-crossing look on his scary, scarry face, he pushed a button on the wall.

  A trapdoor beneath Dave’s feet fell open.

  Whoosh, Dave slid down a slippery metal tube and landed in the sandpit.

  And before he could even stand, the flicking tongue of the Komodo dragon was coming his way.

  Chapter 10

  DOOMED!

  “Nice dragon. Good dragon,” Dave said as the wagging head and flicking tongue came closer.

  Now, it wasn’t that the dragon was consciously bad or mean. He was just hungry. The cat-sized rat hadn’t filled the void in his stomach. Neither had the goose, which had been more feathers than meat. He was tired of snacks. He wanted a meal.

  Dave tried to re-enter the tube he’d slid down, but it was far too slick to climb. He looked around madly. The walls of the pit curved inward—he couldn’t climb those! The barren tree in the center of the pit had no pegs or branches that he could reach. And it was scarred with deep claw marks. Even if he could climb it, so could the dragon!

  There seemed to be no way out.

  No dangling ropes.

  No catapults.

  No elevators (painted or otherwise).

  Dave backed along the wall, his heart pounding as the dragon lumbered closer. Flick, flick, flick went the dragon’s long tongue. Flick, flick, flick.

  Then suddenly ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-THL7MP the Bandito Brothers came tumbling out of the slippery tube and into the pit.

  Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why these three men would willingly slide into the Komodo dragon’s killing arena, and I’m afraid it can only be explained this way:

  They were, indeed, bobos banditos.

  Idiotas!

  Estúpidos!

  You see, to the Bandito Brothers, it did not seem like such a risk.

  It seemed wise.

  Wily.

  Smart!

  After all, the dragon was occupied with the boy. All they had to do was sneak around them and overpower Damien Black in the den.

  For fearsome bandits such as themselves, it would be easy!

  And their plan might actually have worked, except for one thing:

  They stank!

  Especially Pablo.

  You see, to a Komodo dragon, stinky means yummy. And the sudden presence of the Bandito Brothers caused the dragon’s foot-long, forked, and yellow tongue great confusion. Ahead of him was dinner, but to the side of him? Wow, did that smell good!

  “Uh-oh,” Pablo said as the dragon changed direction.

  “Not good,�
� Angelo agreed.

  “Whoa! He’s cool!” Tito giggled, taking a step toward the dragon.

  “You idiot!” Angelo said, grabbing him.

  But Pablo nudged Angelo and gave him a little signal that meant, Let the dragon have him.

  Ah, what a coldhearted, backstabbing, double-crossing, rat-faced bandito he was.

  Meanwhile, Dave was hatching a plan of his own. He stood with his back flat against the wall by the den’s opening and shouted, “Angelo! Hurry up! We must kill Mr. Black and feed him to the dragon!” Then he changed his voice and called, “I’m coming, Pablo! I’m coming!”

  “Huh?” Angelo said, staring at Dave.

  “He knows our names?” Pablo gasped. “How does he know our names?”

  And then whoosh, out of the dragon’s den came Damien Black. “You!” he said, his dark and dangerous eyes drilling into the Bandito Brothers. “How did you get away?”

  Angelo and Pablo pointed to the place where Dave had been standing, but Dave was no longer there. The instant Damien Black had whooshed out of the den, Dave had whooshed into the den.

  And that’s where he now was, whispering hoarsely, “Sticky? Sticky, where are you?”

  But Sticky was no longer in the dragon’s den. He was in Damien’s coat pocket trying frantically to lift the satchel of power ingots that Damien had removed from the treasure chest in the den. He strained and heaved mightily. If he could just get the bag … up. If he could just get it…out…

  But then he realized that something was terribly wrong. Damien was moving fast. Shouting. Whooshing all over the place!

  He stuck his little gecko head up and couldn’t help gasping “Ay caramba!” when he saw the chaos in the pit. The dragon was stalking Tito. Damien was chasing Pablo and Angelo.

  Sticky looked around quickly.

  Where was Dave?

  He let out a little breath of relief—at least he wasn’t in the pit.

  But then he saw him, standing in the shadows of the dragon’s den.

  Ay-ay-ay. Why didn’t humans ever listen?

  But what could be done now? They were both in the pit and they had to get out. So Sticky waved with one hand. He waved with two. He tried desperately to get Dave’s attention as Damien whooshed around the pit.