Hamstersaurus Rex Gets Crushed

by Tom O'Donnell

  “Sure: math class!” I said. “Look, you know what would really take your mind off ‘the curse’? Some go-karts and a loaded baked potato at the most awesome place in town, possibly the world.”

  “Hmm. I’m not exactly in the mood for a party,” said Dylan.

  “If not a party, how about a jamboree?” I said with a grin. “Perhaps of the Country Gopher Family variety.”

  RaddZone’s special musical/variety show was called the Country Gopher Family Jamboree. An animatronic family of hillbilly gophers (Gomer, Big Virgil, Sweetie Pie, Aunt Ellie Mae, Dweasel, Leisl, and Grumpy Grampy) played jug band instruments and told corny jokes and said “aw shucks” and “tarnation” for eleven minutes every half hour. As long as Dylan and I had been friends, we’d considered the Country Gopher Family Jamboree to be the most ridiculous, hilarious thing in the world.

  Dylan cracked a smile. “Remember last time we were there?”

  “Gomer Gopher’s tail fell off right in the middle of his drum solo!” I said, giggling.

  “I bet you ten official RaddZone prize tickets that nobody’s even bothered to reattach it.”

  “Ten prize tickets? That’s a value of almost seven cents!” I said. “You’re on!”

  That settled it. We were going to RaddZone. With a hamster in each pocket and my best friend at my side, I set a course for fun. Well, Dylan’s dad set a course. In his hybrid SUV.

  The nondescript strip mall that housed RaddZone gave no clue what lay inside. But sandwiched between a Coat Barn and a Harry’s Health Food Hut, was an earthly paradise for sixth graders. As we pulled over to the curb, I felt my pulse quicken.

  “You know, back in my day, I set the high score on Ms. Super Plunger Jr. at the Laundromat down the block,” said Mr. D’Amato. “Maybe I ought to come inside and show you kids how it’s done.” He cracked his knuckles.

  “That’s cool, Dad,” said Dylan. “I’m not sure they have Ms. Super Plunger Jr. at RaddZone. Maybe check a museum?”

  “Or under one of the pyramids,” I offered.

  “Ha-ha,” said Mr. D’Amato. “Your generation is fooled by fancy graphics and Wi-Fi capability, but video games peaked thirty-three years ago. At my neighborhood Laundromat. FRA lives!”

  “Huh?” said Dylan.

  “Ms. Super Plunger Jr. only let me put in three letters when I got the high score,” said Mr. D’Amato with a shrug. “Not enough room for Frank.”

  Dylan and I got out of the car and walked through the double doors emblazoned with the grinning face of Gomer Gopher, RaddZone’s cartoon mascot. Inside was a space roughly the size of an airplane hangar: an open floor plan housing three floors of arcade games, batting cages, an indoor go-cart track, and a laser tag arena. High above everything towered Mount Putta-Putta, the complex’s mini-golf course, styled as a fake Hawaiian volcano. A cloud of dry ice puffed out of its mighty crater. I almost teared up every time I walked into RaddZone. Somehow it felt like . . . coming home.

  Wilbur’s party was already in full swing. His parents must have rented out the entire place, because I recognized everyone there from school. Jimmy Choi was locked in a tense Skee-Ball shoot-out with Caroline Moody. Drew McCoy was simultaneously eating two corn dogs while ordering a third. Tina Gomez handed a wad of tickets to the hulking teen at the prize counter. She didn’t have enough for any of the Country Gopher Family masks, so she settled for a pencil eraser that said “RaddZone” on it. I guess her old one wasn’t irreplaceable after all.

  “Mmm. The smell of nacho cheese; the sound of tokens disappearing into coin slots forever; the slightly sticky carpet beneath your feet,” I said to Dylan. “Feeling any better yet?”

  “Maybe a little,” said Dylan. “I think I need to beat you at air hockey a couple dozen times to take the edge off.”

  “You got it,” I said. “Hang on, there’s something I need to do first.” I’d almost forgotten that my pockets were full of rodents who needed a little nudge toward romance. The hamster date!

  I sidled up to the snack bar.

  “Um, pardon me, ma’am,” I said to the teenage girl behind the counter. “What’s your most romantic food item?”

  “Dunno. RaddSpudd?” She shrugged. “That’s what we call a loaded baked potato.”

  “Oh, I know what a RaddSpudd is,” I said, plunking some money down. “One, please. Extra romantic!”

  She sighed and took my money. As I waited for my order, I made a mental checklist of all the arcade games I was going to play while I was here: Shark Punch definitely; Alien Autopsy: Turbo obviously; Tiny Wizards IV for sure; the Muscle Meter where you hit the sensor with a big mallet and it tested your strength . . . maybe? I usually scored a “Pasta Arms,” but maybe today was the day I could hit it hard enough to be a “Jumbo Shrimp.” Across the snack bar, I noticed a girl standing alone beside the soft-serve machine. She had dyed purple hair and wore a T-shirt with an image on it that looked like a smiley face with no eyes. I didn’t recognize her, yet she was somehow . . . familiar. She definitely didn’t go to Horace Hotwater Middle School (no one with purple hair did). Maybe Wilbur had other friends? I was looking at the floor when I realized that Purple Hair was staring right back at me. I suddenly remembered where I’d seen that odd smiley design before. It was the SmilesCorp logo! I looked back up, but Purple Hair had vanished. Creepy.

  “Here,” said the snack bar girl, startling me. She handed me my RaddSpudd. “I tried to shape the chili glob into a heart, but it kind of ended up looking more like a lung. Sorry.”

  I found a deserted corner on the second floor with a dusty Love Tester machine that, if I had to guess, no one had put a token into in fifteen years. Nearby was a jukebox. I changed four dollars into tokens and then put on as many songs with “Love” in the title as I could afford.

  “All right, you two hamster kids!” I said, taking Cartimandua and Hamstersaurus Rex out of my pockets. “Have fun, and don’t let anybody see you! Neither one of you is technically supposed to be here. We don’t want the employees to mistake you for an infestation.”

  Hammie Rex’s eyes were as big as saucers. He stared at me like he was going to die. Cartimandua yawned, rolled over, and went to sleep.

  “When she wakes up from the nap, you guys are going to have so much fun,” I said. “RaddZone is a very romantic place! True story: this is where I first fell in love with nachos.”

  I poked out my index finger to give Hamstersaurus Rex the world’s smallest high five. For the first time ever, the little guy left me hanging.

  “Whatever,” I said, shaking my head. “Enjoy your loaded baked potato. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  I found Dylan at the air hockey tables.

  “Hello, my friend,” said Dylan, twirling the puck on her finger. “Ready to become a human sacrifice to the mighty gods of miniature table sports?” She seemed to be back to her old cocky, competitive self.

  Dylan is way better than I am at air hockey (and all sports and games, and most, you know, things in life generally) but somehow I beat her at air hockey three times in a row. The first two matches I was playing my best. The third one I intended to lose but I somehow still won after Dylan scored on her own goal three times. She was really off her game.

  “Sorry,” I said after winning that third match.

  “I don’t know what’s happened to me,” said Dylan, looking at her hands in disgust. “I think it’s the curse of Horace Hotwater.”

  “Come on,” I said. “You’re telling me that a vengeful pioneer ghost is taking the time to mess with your air hockey game? Whatever happened to bleeding walls and making people’s heads spin around?”

  “You’re right,” said Dylan with a nervous laugh. “I’m being ridiculous.”

  We played Skee-Ball. I beat her. We played ring toss. I beat her. We played that game where you shoot the little ducks with an air rifle. Her performance was, er, lacking.

  “I didn’t hit a single duck,” said Dylan.

  “Maybe that’s a goo
d thing,” I said. “Why are we shooting at them, anyway? What did they ever do to us? The cycle of violence needs to stop!”

  “It’s the curse,” whispered Dylan. “It has to be.”

  “You don’t know that,” I said. “You’re just having an off day.”

  “Sam, I’m losing at things that require focus and hand-eye coordination to you,” said Dylan. “No offense.”

  “Maybe you’re not worse. Maybe I’m suddenly not terrible at everything,” I offered. “Maybe this is finally the Year of Sam!”

  Dylan did not seem comforted by the idea that it might be the Year of Sam.

  “Hey, you guys,” said Julie Bailey, munching a cotton candy ball the size of her head. “Everybody’s racing go-karts!”

  “Not me,” said Dylan, slumping down between two arcade machines. “Not going to happen. I forfeit.”

  “What?” I said. “You love wheeled vehicles! And meaningless competitions! What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “I can’t handle coming in last place,” said Dylan. “Sorry, Sam. I think I’ll just go watch the Country Gopher Family Jamboree.”

  “I’ll find you when the race is done,” I said. “Let me know if they reattached Gomer’s tail!”

  At the racetrack, Wilbur’s party guests were busy picking out which go-karts they were going to drive. I found a sweet ride, a sleek red kart with the number twelve blazed in orange on the hood. I put on my helmet and hopped inside to pull up to the starting line.

  “Oh, Sam, you can’t drive number twelve,” said Wilbur. “That’s my go-kart.”

  I wanted to complain, but it was Wilbur’s birthday (half a year ago).

  “No problem, buddy,” I said as I climbed out to pick another. “Awesome party, by the way. Thanks for the good times. Snails are cool.”

  By now all the good go-karts were taken.

  “Hmm. There’s still that one over there,” said Wilbur. He pointed to a scuffed-up kart that was the color of week-old asparagus. In a slightly yellower shade of green, “#0” was painted on the back. It was, of course, the last go-kart available.

  “Great,” I said.

  I got in and pulled number zero up to the starting line. It felt like one of the tires was smaller than the others. From beside me, Wilbur gave me a thumbs-up from behind the wheel of number twelve.

  “You all know the rules or whatever,” said the racetrack attendant, another sullen teenage RaddZone employee, through a bullhorn. “Always wear your helmet. No bumping. And please, please keep your shoes on.”

  “What if they’re slowing us down?” said Jared Kopernik, who had already removed one of his sneakers.

  “C’mon. Do you want this whole place to smell like feet, Jared?” said the kid with the bullhorn, shaking his head. “Now, everybody on your mark. Get set . . . go or whatever.”

  He waved a checkered flag. The go-karts launched from the starting line. Well, most of them did. My kart puttered out onto the track at a leisurely pace as everyone else blew past. The race was three laps around a figure-eight track, and I quickly found myself at the back of the pack. So maybe it wasn’t the Year of Sam after all. Maybe Dylan really was just terrible.

  For two laps, I bided my time and looked for an opening to (hopefully) pass somebody, anybody. My kart was sluggish and wobbly. Every time I took a curve too sharply, I heard an unhealthy rattling noise from under the hood. Still, Dylan had motivated me: I was determined not to finish last. Up ahead I saw an opening in the pack. I punched the gas as hard as I could and I felt the engine jump. Maybe old number zero had a little juice left in her after all.

  Suddenly Omar Powell swerved in front of me. I pulled my foot off the gas, but somehow, the pedal stayed down. I was still accelerating. I slammed on my brakes and . . . nothing happened. The front bumper of my go-kart smacked into Omar’s rear one.

  “Watch it, Sam!” screamed Omar as I edged past him.

  “Number zero, no bumping!” said the racetrack attendant through his bullhorn.

  I hit the brakes again. Again nothing. I looked down to see that, yes, the gas pedal was permanently depressed in the “floored” position. There was something gooey underneath it. I tried to bend over and pull the pedal up, but my seat belt locked and I couldn’t reach it.

  KLANG! I’d let the wheel drift, and my go-kart sideswiped Drew McCoy’s, causing him to spin out dangerously. Behind me I heard the squeal of other karts trying to avoid him.

  “Number zero, what are you doing, man? Not cool!” yelled the racetrack attendant. “Pull over! Not cool!”

  “My brakes are out!” I cried. “I can’t stop accelerating and my brakes are out!”

  Nobody heard me over the sound of the race. Guess that’s why he had a bullhorn.

  I swerved to narrowly miss Dwight Feinberg’s vehicle, then Erica Spencer’s. I kept on gaining speed. As I rounded the final curve, I gasped. Up ahead was the finish line. A hundred feet past it, everyone had stopped already. They were climbing out of their karts, shaking hands and congratulating one another on their final positions. They had already finished the race.

  I had no way to slow down. I was going to crash right into them!

  CHAPTER 5

  “EVERYONE MOVE! GET out of the way!” I cried from my car. “I can’t stop!”

  But my voice was drowned out by the roar of go-kart engines and the general grand-prize/game-over racket of RaddZone. In a last-ditch effort to slow myself down, I nosed my car into the barrier that lined the track. But the rubbery wall bounced me back on course, and I was still gaining speed. I wouldn’t be stopping that way. As I blew past the finish line, my position flashed on a big leaderboard: eighth place! Pretty respectable (if I wasn’t about to crash in three seconds).

  “Number zero, slow down!” cried the racetrack attendant. “What are you doing? The race is over! Slow it down, bro! You’re going to hurt somebody!”

  A few of the finishers realized what was happening now. Somebody screamed. I hunched down in the seat and tried to imagine finishing out sixth grade in a full-body cast.

  Just then I heard a mighty roar, even louder than the race. From out of nowhere an orange blur bounded over the barrier and landed twenty feet ahead, directly in my path. It was Hamstersaurus Rex! He dug his heels in and braced for impact. I gasped, but it was too late to swerve aside. My go-kart hit him hard—but his incredible dino-strength held fast. The front bumper of number zero crumpled and the little guy slid ten feet backward, digging a pair of tiny ruts into the track. My tires squealed mightily before my vehicle finally slowed to a full stop.

  “Thanks, little guy!” I cried, overcome with pride and relief.

  “Hey, it’s Hamstersaurus Rex!” cried Julie Bailey. “He’s back!”

  A cheer erupted from the other kids.

  Hamstersaurus gave a strained grunt, and I realized that the back wheels of the cart were still spinning in place; the gas was still floored. I managed to untangle myself from my seat belt and bent over to get at the pedal. Sure enough, between the pedal and the floorboard was a big wad of adhesive blue goo, the sticky stuff they sell at office supply stores to put posters on walls. I yanked the pedal up and the back wheels stopped spinning. Hammie Rex exhaled. I climbed out of the go-kart and hugged him so hard he burped. The little guy had saved my life, yet again.

  “My name is Una Raddenbach. I’m the owner here,” said a middle-aged woman in a RaddZone striped polo shirt, who was speed-walking toward me on the track. The teen racetrack attendant trailed behind her, repeatedly brushing his floppy haircut out of his eyes.

  “What happened?” said Ms. Raddenbach.

  “I don’t know,” I said, yanking my helmet off. “The brakes on this thing don’t work and it was rigged so that when I pressed the gas pedal it wouldn’t come back up.”

  I showed her the incriminating blue sticky stuff. The other kids from the race were running toward my vehicle, too, now. They crowded around Hammie Rex and me.

  “So your go-kart was .
. . sabotaged?” said Ms. Raddenbach, looking around at Wilbur’s other party guests.

  “I guess?”

  “Jason, check the brakes,” said Ms. Raddenbach.

  The shaggy-haired teen racetrack attendant, Jason apparently, popped the hood of number zero and looked inside. He sucked air in through his teeth.

  “Aw man,” said Jason. “Yeah, like, the brake lines have been cut or whatever.”

  “Son, did you see anyone messing around with your kart?” said Ms. Raddenbach to me. “Anyone acting strangely?”

  “No,” I said. “I mean, nobody else wanted to drive number zero, but maybe that’s just because it’s painted like spoiled guacamole.”

  “I chose that color myself,” said Ms. Raddenbach with a small frown. “Do you have enemies?”

  “Yeah, lots,” I said with a shrug. “But mainly they seem to be evil corporate types after my cool hamster.” I held Hamstersaurus Rex up for her to see.

  “He does look pretty cool,” she said matter-of-factly. “All right, nobody leaves the building until we figure out exactly what happened. Jason, I want you to watch the doors. Tell R.J. and Marissa, too.”

  Jason nodded, flipped his hair, and ran off in the direction of the main entrance. The other Horace Hotwater kids murmured quietly and looked askance at one another, now wondering if there was a traitor in their midst. I scanned the faces nearby, searching for the purple-haired girl in the SmilesCorp shirt I saw earlier. She was nowhere to be seen.

  “Now,” said Ms. Raddenbach, eyeing the other kids, “which one of you—”

  Suddenly there was a loud pop and RaddZone went dark. A hush fell over the place. The only light was the faint red glow of the emergency exits scattered around the cavernous space.

  “What in the name of . . . ?” cried Ms. Raddenbach, storming off. “What’s going on? Turn the lights back on! R.J.! Marissa!”

  “It’s a power outage!” one of the kids screamed.

  “It’s aliens!” someone else screamed.