Hamstersaurus Rex vs. the Cutepocalypse

by Tom O'Donnell

  “What exactly seems to be the trouble here, Mr. Gibbs?” said Principal Truitt.

  Before I could answer, Jimmy Choi stepped forward. “Ahem. I saw the whole thing, ma’am,” said Jimmy (of course holding his own Snuzzle). “Sam is trying to smash our toys. Possibly because he hates fun.”

  “Is this true?” said Principal Truitt. “Do you hate fun?”

  “No,” I said. “These Snuzzles are dangerous!”

  “I WIKE FWESHWY BAKED CHOCOWATE CHIP COOKIES,” said Omar’s Snuzzle, from underneath Hammie Rex.

  “Annoying, perhaps,” said Principal Truitt, “but they don’t seem dangerous.”

  “They’re trying to lure us into a false sense of security,” I said. “Waiting for the right moment to strike!”

  “CAN I GIVE YOU A WITTWE SMOOCH?” said Jimmy’s Snuzzle.

  “CEWTAINWY!” said Caroline’s Snuzzle, demonstrating the toys’ much-hyped ability to wirelessly interface and talk to one another.

  “Riiiight,” said Principal Truitt. “And why is Hamstersaurus Rex out of his designated Hamster Habitat?”

  “He was, er, helping me battle this evil menace and, you know, save the school,” I said. “Just like how he saved the school last—”

  “We all remember, Mr. Gibbs,” said Principal Truitt, with a touch of irritation creeping into her voice. “But Horace Hotwater has enjoyed months of uninterrupted calm and safety now. Perhaps it’s time to dispense with the heroics and focus on schoolwork?”

  Principal Truitt nudged Hammie Rex aside and picked up Omar’s Snuzzle. She eyed it.

  “SKATEBOAWDING IS COOL,” said the Snuzzle.

  “I happen to disagree,” said Principal Truitt. “But this is clearly a harmless child’s toy, Mr. Gibbs.”

  “If I may, ma’am,” said Caroline. “It’s actually the ultimate twenty-first-century smartpet experience.”

  “Mmm,” said Principal Truitt. “Well, I don’t want any more disturbances like this in the future, so no more Snuzzles in the halls or classrooms. Keep them stowed in your lockers during school hours or better yet, leave them at home.”

  This elicited a communal groan from all the Snuzzle owners.

  “And I’m going to need you to put Hamstersaurus Rex back in his enclosure, Mr. Gibbs,” said Principal Truitt. “Now.” She turned and strode off down the hallway.

  “Thanks a lot, Sam,” said Omar as his Snuzzle toddled back toward him.

  “I’m not the bad guy here!” I said. But I had to admit: none of the Snuzzles seemed to be displaying any of the homicidal tendencies of the one that attacked me. They were mostly nuzzling and cooing. I gathered Hammie up and started back toward the library.

  “Well, okay, maybe I was wrong,” I said to the little guy. “Maybe it was just some sort of freak one-in-a-zillion malfunction that caused the Snuzzle at Tenth Street Toys to attack me. And maybe it was just the wind I heard in the bushes the other afternoon?”

  Hamstersaurus Rex grunted. From the look in his eye, the little guy didn’t seem convinced. Still, if Snuzzles weren’t an immediate threat, that was a good thing, wasn’t it? It meant I could focus on the nigh-impossible task of coming up with six hundred dollars that I (unjustly) owed a grumpy toy store owner. Ugh.

  At lunch I put my tray down beside Dylan and Martha. “Guys, I need your help!”

  “Well, that’s creamed corn. The green stuff is supposed to be spinach. And I think the thing in the middle is baked ziti,” said Dylan, pointing out the various food items on my tray.

  “No, not identifying cafeteria food,” I said. “I need your help catching a mutant spider monkey! Just like old times!”

  Martha and Dylan looked at me like I was crazy. Still, I’ve noticed that every time you have to explain to your friends why it’s important to track down a freaky mutant creature that’s causing trouble it gets a little easier. I told them everything I knew about the so-called Chameleonkey: its camouflage, its preoccupation with shiny objects, and how the reward money was my only path to paying back Mr. Lomax for the damage to the store. “. . . So in conclusion,” I said, “I think we ought to set a trap at the Maple Bluffs Flea Market on Saturday.”

  “This Saturday?” said Martha. “I can’t.”

  “Huh?” I said. “Why not?”

  “Well, since my grades have been utterly ruined,” she said, “my only hope to get into the Sorbonne’s veterinary sciences program is to double down on my e-curricks.”

  “E-curricks?” said Dylan.

  “Sorry. I mean my extracurriculars,” said Martha. “I was attempting to use slang, as we young people are known to do.”

  “But, Martha, you already have so many e-curricks!” I said. “What about competitive origami? What about glassblowing decathlon? What about interpretive jousting?”

  “It’s not enough!” said Martha. “I need to lead a winning Model Interplanetary Council delegation or I’ll never fulfill my dream career trajectory of horse vet, volcanologist, president, CEO, president.”

  “You said president twice,” I said.

  “I assume we will have had a female president by the time I’m thirty-five,” said Martha. “So the only meaningful barrier left for me to break will be first female nonconsecutive president. You know, two different terms, like Grover Cleveland. Anyway, my Horace Hotwater Model Interplanetary Council team is practicing all day that day.”

  “Well, good luck with whatever that is,” I said. “How about you, Dylan? Can I count on your help or does seven years of friendship mean nothing these days?”

  “You’re in luck,” said Dylan. “It means I can spare a little time this Saturday to help you capture the Chameleonkey. I’m going to be near the Maple Bluffs Flea Market that morning anyway.”

  By remaining extremely vague, I was also able to convince Serena to help. All I had to do was pitch the idea to her in the form of a misleading internet headline: “You’ll Never Believe What’s Been Happening at the Flea Market, But Once You Do Your Heart Will Melt!” I told her the potential for viral video content was high. I invited Beefer to come along, too. An extra set of hands might be useful (even if they were unconnected to any sort of brain). Of course Hamstersaurus Rex—my steadfast partner in every adventure—would be there as always.

  On Saturday morning, I left Cartimandua and the pups in the hamster habitat in my garage and rode my bike to the Maple Bluffs Flea Market with Hamstersaurus Rex. The market happened every week in the big parking lot next to Windchime’s Organic Foods. As far as the eye could see, shoppers browsed tables piled high with comic books, old toys, vinyl records, secondhand clothes, and pretty much anything else under the sun. As I waited for the others, I tried to resist the urge to buy a windup moose for fifty cents, even though it was pretty cool. While I was weighing the pros and cons, Hammie Rex accidentally knocked over a whole row of Hawaiian-themed nutcrackers. I was picking them up as Serena arrived.

  “Heya, Sam,” said Serena. “What’s happening, Spikehead, otherwise known as Hammie Rex?” She filmed the market with her smartphone as she arrived. “Wow, this place is great! So kitschy!”

  “Yep,” I said. “You can find whatever you want here. As long as you didn’t mind it smelling like it’s been in somebody’s garage for the last thirty years.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said the nutcracker vendor, who could apparently hear me.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Ooh, cool windup moose!” said Serena as she zoomed in with her camera. “How much?”

  “Ninja reveal GO!” yelled Beefer, startling us both as he leaped out from behind a stack of old board games. He struck a ninja pose and held it for a long moment while Serena and I stared at him.

  “. . . Cool?” I said.

  “You’re darn tootin’ it is,” said Beefer. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road. Who am I supposed to ninja chop and/or ninja bite?”

  “Nobody,” I said. “Our goal is the nonviolent capture of the elusive Chameleonkey.”

  “Fine
,” said Beefer. “But you owe me big-time for this, Sam!”

  “You haven’t even done anything yet,” I said.

  “I took time out of my busy schedule to come help you,” said Beefer. “Time is a ninja’s most valuable resource.” He bowed.

  “Oh yeah?” said Serena, turning the camera on Beefer now. “What else you got on the docket today, chief?”

  “Lots of . . . friend events,” said Beefer. “I have friends!”

  “Sure you do,” said Serena, still filming.

  “Hey, look. It’s Dylan,” I said.

  Indeed, she was making her way through the crowd, wearing a brand-new visor. Right behind her was Drew McCoy, wearing the same brand-new visor.

  “Drew?” I said under my breath. “Seriously?”

  “Hey, guys,” said Dylan. “Serena, this is Drew.”

  “Yo,” said Serena. “Cool visors.”

  “Yeah,” said Dylan. “They were having a big sale at Visor Vizier. Figured we should pick up a matching pair before disc golf camp.”

  “It’s not a fedora but I could get used to it,” said Drew, touching the bare top of his head. “The design really lets the scalp breathe, you know?”

  Dylan (and nobody else) burst out laughing.

  “Have we met?” said Beefer.

  “Yes, at your bar mitzvah the other day,” said Drew. “And also we went to school together for several years before that.”

  “Not ringing a bell,” said Beefer. “I’m Beefer.”

  “’Sup,” said Drew. “I’m Drew.”

  “Okay, guys, we’re all here,” I said. “So apparently the Chameleonkey can’t resist anything sparkly. That means we need to stake out the shiniest table here.”

  “Ah, then you kids should go find Madame Karla,” said the nutcracker vendor, who was apparently still eavesdropping on our conversation.

  He was right, though. We soon found a woman draped in brightly colored scarves manning a table piled high with gaudy costume jewelry.

  “Bingo,” I said.

  “Wow,” said Serena, zooming in on a brooch that looked like a hamburger, “this stuff is hilarious.”

  “And what exactly do you mean by that, young lady?” said Madame Karla.

  “What she means is: Have you had any trouble with the Chameleonkey recently, ma’am?” I said.

  “Indeed I have,” said Madame Karla with a snort. “Every week! Last time the abominable beast made off with several sapphire-style amulets and an invaluable three-dollar mood ring!”

  “Well, we’re here to help,” I said.

  “I’m a ninja of untold power,” said Beefer.

  Madame Karla cocked her head.

  “And more importantly, I’m a respected digital journalist who had a very successful blog post,” said Serena, now aiming her smartphone at Madame Karla. “As you are the unfortunate victim of these horrible attacks, I’d like to learn more about your sad, sad life. You know, human interest stuff.”

  “Eh?” said Madame Karla. “Okay.”

  “So tell me what it’s like to be a struggling fake jewelry vendor, just trying to make ends meet?” said Serena.

  “I’m not struggling,” said Madame Karla. “I’m a successful optometrist who does this for fun on the weekends.”

  “Hmm,” said Serena, turning off the camera.

  “Okay,” I said, “so maybe we should take up our positions around the perimeter of the—”

  “Two matching charm bracelets, please!” said Dylan, plunking down five bucks on Madame Karla’s table.

  Madame Karla handed her two cheap-looking bracelets. Dylan smiled and gave one to Drew.

  “Oh wow, Dylan!” said Drew. “Pretty soon all our clothes will match!”

  “Now we have to pick out our charms,” said Dylan. “Madame Karla, do you have any shaped like disc golf discs?”

  “Or fedoras?” asked Drew.

  “Hey, can we try to stay focused for one minute?” I said.

  “Sam, that reminds me: this flea market would be a great place for you to get me a gift,” said Beefer, looking around. “Since you very inconsiderately didn’t get me anything for my bar mitzvah. I did see a guy selling some sweet battle-axes back there—”

  “Beefer, I don’t have any cash to spare for medieval weaponry!” I said. “I’m six hundred bucks in the hole. That’s the whole point of trying to catch the Chameleonkey, so I can claim the reward money and pay back—”

  “There’s reward money?” said Beefer.

  “Well . . . yeah,” I said.

  “Then I demand half!” said Beefer.

  “Children,” said Madame Karla.

  “Hang on. If Beefer gets half, then I want half,” said Dylan. “Well, a fifth. Because there are five of us.”

  I hadn’t considered my friends would want a cut of the Chameleonkey’s bounty. “Ugh,” I said. “Look, we can discuss maybe, possibly dividing up the money later.”

  “The fair thing to do would be to recognize your friends’ contributions,” said Dylan, her eyes narrowing.

  “But the whole point of claiming this reward is so I’ll have enough cash for the toy store!” I said.

  “Oh, so you need all the money so you can go buy toys with it?” said Beefer, shaking his head. “That’s just greedy, Sam.”

  “I’m not buying toys with it!” I said.

  “Drew and I are going to use our shares to buy matching scarves,” said Dylan.

  “You read my mind!” said Drew.

  “Look,” I said. “I didn’t even invite Drew, so obviously he’s not getting a share!”

  “You didn’t invite me?” said Drew.

  Dylan glared at me now.

  “Children!” said Madame Karla.

  “Sam, we are risking our necks to catch this invisible monkey and we should be fairly compensated,” said Beefer. “I’m about to strike. Who’s with me?”

  “Nobody’s risking their necks!” I said. “The invisible monkey isn’t dangerous.”

  “Hang on,” said Serena. “The monkey’s invisible.”

  I winced. “Yes,” I said. “It’s SmilesCorp Specimen #85882. Chameleonidae cebus.”

  Serena glared at me. “Sam, how am I supposed to get viral-ready HD video content of something that is invisible?” she said.

  “Hmm. Maybe turn this whole thing into a podcast?” offered Drew.

  “CHILDREN!” cried Madame Karla.

  “What?” we all said in unison.

  “The Chameleonkey!” cried Madame Karla. “It has arrived!”

  CHAPTER 6

  ON THE FAR corner of Madame Karla’s table, the gaudy fake jewelry seemed to be rifling through itself. The hamburger brooch slowly floated off the table. The effect was eerie, to say the least.

  “It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s the ghost of Horace Hotwater!” hissed Beefer.

  “Dude, don’t even start with that!” I said. “It’s the Chameleonkey!”

  “So, uh, what do we do?” said Dylan.

  “Get it!” I cried.

  Hamstersaurus Rex roared and flew at the Chameleonkey, but at the last second the invisible monkey let out a cackle and leaped . . . somewhere.

  “Follow that Chameleonkey!” I cried. “Don’t let it out of your sight!”

  “It was never in our sight!” said Dylan, scanning the flea market.

  I heard another telltale cackle. I turned to see the brooch bobbing above a rack of vintage Astro-Robo toys across the aisle.

  “There!” I started to run. “Split up and keep an eye on the brooch!”

  Dylan and Drew broke left. Beefer and Serena went right. Hamstersaurus Rex and I ran straight ahead, dodging through the crowded aisles and trying to cut off the Chameleonkey’s escape route. The brooch bounced from a rack of novelty T-shirts, to a bin of antique sporting goods, on to a shelf holding dozens of porcelain Baby President figurines. The Chameleonkey cackled and leaped again, tipping the shelf over and shattering Washington through Polk.

  I watc
hed the levitating brooch land on top of a tent housing a bowling memorabilia vendor. Hamstersaurus Rex and I ran underneath.

  “Hey, are you here to buy bowling cards?” said a large, goateed man in a bowling shirt who was suddenly blocking our path.

  “Er, just browsing, sir,” I said, keeping an eye on the tent above me. The Chameleonkey had stopped.

  “Well, check out this Mikey Mayfield rookie card!” said the goateed man, holding up a card that depicted another large, goateed man in a bowling shirt. “Only nine bucks!”

  Above us, the Chameleonkey broke left.

  “Sorry, got to go!” I said.

  “I haven’t sold anything in three months!” the man wailed.

  “Dylan, I think it’s headed your way,” I cried as Hamstersaurus Rex and I backtracked. Up ahead, I saw Dylan and Drew casually browsing a selection of knitted scarves.

  “Ooh, I think this scarf is perfect,” said Drew, holding one up. “Or should I say . . . scarf-ect.”

  Dylan laughed heartily at what may have charitably been described as Drew’s joke.

  “What are two you even doing?” I yelled.

  Dylan and Drew looked startled. “Whoa, sorry, Sam, we were just picking out scarves,” said Dylan. “Drew’s way into stripes. But I think polka dots are pretty underrated.”

  “We go back and forth,” said Drew. “It’s cute.”

  “I’ll take your word for it!” I cried as Hammie and I jogged past. “In the meantime, you let the Chameleonkey get away!”

  Up ahead I came to a four-way intersection of aisles. I had no idea where the Chameleonkey had gone. A second later, Beefer and Serena came running from the right.

  “Did you lose the little invisible weirdo?” asked Serena.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “Ugh, Sam, you just cost me my reward money,” said Beefer. “So inconsiderate.”

  Just then we heard a bloodcurdling scream of terror. Serena, Hammie, Beefer, and I looked at each other. Then we ran in the general direction of the scream.

  A few aisles over we found a man who looked genuinely shell-shocked, standing by a rack of sunglasses.