Hamstersaurus Rex vs. the Cutepocalypse

by Tom O'Donnell

  “Sir, what happened?” I said.

  “I was trying on a pair of 1997 New Year’s Eve novelty glasses,” said the man, “when all of a sudden they just flew off my head!”

  “No need to worry,” I said, “there’s an invisible monkey on the loose.”

  A look of absolute terror spread across the man’s face. “. . . I just thought somebody was playing a prank on me,” he said, looking around. “An invisible monkey? That’s much, much more alarming!”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Up there!” cried Serena, pointing with her smartphone.

  About fifty feet away, Madame Karla’s brooch and pair of sparkly sunglasses in the shape of the year 1997—the eyes were the holes of the two 9s—floated above one of the parking lot’s twenty-foot-tall light poles.

  “How do we even get up there?” I said.

  “Anybody know how to levitate?” said Serena.

  “The one day I forget my grappling hook . . . ,” said Beefer.

  “Hammie, can you climb it?” I said.

  Hammie Rex looked a little uncertain, but then he barked in the affirmative. At least he was ready to try.

  “No need,” said Beefer, stepping forward. “Even without a rope, climbing sheer surfaces is basic Ninja 101 stuff.”

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t send the little guy?” I said. “We’re only going to get one shot at—”

  “No time for discussion! I’m about to earn that reward money!” cried Beefer, and he backed up and pulled his ninja mask over his head. “You’re welcome.” Then he took a running go at the light pole.

  “Beefer, wait!” I cried, but it was too late.

  “Spinning ninja jump-climb maneuver GO!” yelled Beefer as he launched himself at the light pole. Instead of climbing up it, though, he kind of awkwardly swung around it once, then twice, building momentum with each revolution.

  “Oh no,” I said.

  “Oh yes,” said Serena. Her phone camera was trained squarely on Beefer as he spun around it a third and final time before letting go and flying wildly through the air. He sailed about fifteen feet before smashing directly into a heavy bin full of Beanie Buddy stuffed animals. The Beanie Buddies went flying and a nearby rack—holding used kitchen appliances—tipped over. The whole thing fell right on top of Beefer with a horrendous crash.

  The noise startled the Chameleonkey. With one final cackle, the creature sprang off the light pole, onto a tent, then onto another tent, where it vaulted into the woods beside the parking lot and disappeared for good.

  A second later, Hammie, Serena, and I caught up to Beefer. He was nearly buried under Beanie Buddies and old food processors.

  “. . . Did I win Science Night?” asked Beefer, who seemed dazed.

  “Nope,” I said. “And the Chameleonkey got away.” Hammie Rex gave a frustrated growl and kicked a pebble hard enough to send it sailing over the flea market.

  “Well, luckily one thing did get caught,” said Serena. “That whole spinning ninja thing, on video.” She replayed the footage on her phone and her eyes lit up. “This has got to be the most spectacular thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Spectacularly . . . good?” said Beefer.

  “Oh no,” said Serena. “The opposite of that.” She showed him the clip (which she had already color-balanced and edited for clarity). On-screen, Beefer pulled on his mask and ran, then twirled around like a rag doll and flung himself at high speed into a big pile of stuffed animals. “Folks, I think I have my next blog post,” said Serena, eyeing her phone like it was a bar of pure gold.

  “What? That’s not journalism,” said Beefer. “Don’t post that!”

  “Too late,” said Serena. “Just did. They make it so easy.”

  “But I didn’t sign a release!” wailed Beefer.

  Dylan and Drew strolled up, of course now sporting matching plaid scarves.

  “Did you guys catch the Chameleonkey?” said Dylan.

  “Of course we didn’t,” I said. “But I’m glad to see you got your scarves!”

  “Thanks,” said Drew, fluffing his. “I realized plaid is just, like, double the stripes.”

  “I was being sarcastic!” I said.

  “Sam, I’m not sure why it’s so important for the rest of us to bankroll your property damage anyway,” said Dylan, stepping between Drew and me. “Seems like this toy store thing is your problem. We were just being nice by trying to help.”

  “Oh, were you?” I said. “So when exactly were you going to try to help?”

  Dylan glared.

  “Oh man, it’s already up to six thousand hits,” said Serena.

  “Serena, take it down!” said Beefer. “I’m worried someone will see that video and mistakenly think I’m foolish.”

  “Ten thousand hits!” said Serena, pumping her fist.

  “Enough with the web traffic updates!” I snapped, startling everyone. “It’s not news that Beefer did something stupid and messed everything up!”

  “Hey!” said Beefer.

  “Yikes,” said Serena.

  I realized that they were all staring at me now, even Hamstersaurus Rex.

  I took a deep breath. “You know what,” I said, “it seems like you all have a lot going on right now. So I think from here on out, maybe Hammie and I will just try to handle this Chameleonkey thing ourselves.”

  Before anyone could say anything, I turned and left.

  “Why so glum, Bunnybutt?” said my mom as I walked in the front door.

  “No reason,” I said. “Just realized I don’t have any real friends.”

  “Oh, is that all?” said my mom. “Well, we can have pizza tonight if you want. Pizza’s better than friends.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  My mom sniffled a little. “I’m guessing Hamstersaurus Rex is in the garage?” She was highly allergic to anything with fur, even mutant dino-hamsters. Thankfully I’d constructed a homemade hypoallergenic habitat (patent pending) that mitigated the worst of it.

  “Yep,” I said. “Cartimandua and the kids are here, too.”

  “I’ll be sure to order an extra pie, then,” she said.

  I spent the afternoon tinkering with The Swords of Hamstervalia. By dinnertime, I had changed the title to A Hamster Alone. It was now the melancholy tale of the last hamster on earth, after an apocalypse where bees sting everyone to death. I still hadn’t written any of it, though. Mom and I had pizza from Vito’s and watched a movie about aliens trying to run a shoe store but none of it made me feel much better. After dinner I took the spare pie out to Hammie Rex and his family.

  Stompy, Chompy, and Hatshepsut were no slouches when it came to scarfing pizza. The pups could eat. Cartimandua gingerly nibbled at a basil leaf and Hammie Rex beamed with pride as he watched his kids gobble slice after slice of pepperoni and mushroom. It struck me that even Hamstersaurus Rex had his own priorities these days.

  I went to bed feeling unsettled. I still had no idea how I was going to get the rest of the money that I owed to Mr. Lomax, which was so unfair anyway. I considered asking my mom for it, but she’d taken a big pay cut with her new job. That was also unfair. Everything: unfair . . .

  I awoke with a start at 3:07 a.m. Or was it 8:19? The digits on my clock radio shifted strangely. Outside, I heard a noise. I crept out of bed and made my way to the window. In the glow of the streetlights I could see a small, furry creature crossing my front yard.

  I opened the window. “Hammie . . . is that you?” I whispered.

  The creature froze. Then slowly it looked up at me with one glowing red eye.

  “DESTWOY,” it said.

  CHAPTER 7

  I MADE IT DOWNSTAIRS and out into the yard in time to see the Snuzzle wedge its little paws underneath the garage door. With a crunching noise, it wrenched the door six inches upward.

  “Don’t do that, you’re going to break it, mister!” I yelled (a line that sounded way more heroic and intimidating in my head).

  The Snuzzle turned to face
me, its dangling eye sparking occasionally. “DESTW—”

  WHANG! I hit the Snuzzle right in the forehead with a toy car launched from my oversized slingshot (thanks, birthday money!). The Snuzzle staggered backward, stunned. Its good eye blinked.

  “There’s more where that came from, pal!” I said. “These pajama pockets are full of my hardest, pointiest toys!”

  The Snuzzle squinted its glowing red eye. But instead of charging, it turned and ripped a three-foot section of the gutter off the side of the house.

  “Whoa, hey! Come on!” I said. “My allowance depends on cleaning those!” I launched another toy car, but this time the Snuzzle swung the gutter like a baseball bat and knocked it right back at me. I had to dive to avoid taking a two-inch hot rod to the face!

  “DISENGAGE SECONDAWY TAWGET,” said the Snuzzle, dropping the gutter bat. “OBJECTIVE: DESTWOY PWIMAWY TAWGET.”

  It turned back toward the garage door. With another wrenching yank, the Snuzzle raised it far enough to walk through and—

  WHAM! From out of the dark garage, Hamstersaurus Rex smashed into the Snuzzle, knocking the evil toy across the yard. Stompy, Chompy, and Hatshepsut came charging out right behind their dad, snarling and growling and generally trying to look tough. They might each only be one-quarter dinosaur, but they had inherited all of Hamstersaurus Rex’s fighting spirit.

  With mechanical precision, the Snuzzle flipped onto its feet and then sprang high into the air. I lost sight of it in the glow of the streetlight. THUD! At the last second, Hamstersaurus Rex rolled out of the way as the Snuzzle smashed the dirt with its balled fist. Hammie opened his jaws for a monster chomp, but the Snuzzle twirled and kicked him in the face, sending him reeling. The Snuzzle picked up the section of gutter to bash Hammie.

  From behind it came a tiny roar, a few octaves higher than Hammie’s. Chompy had clamped his jaws right onto the Snuzzle’s fuzzy backside. The Snuzzle seemed confused for a moment. Then, with blinding speed, the Snuzzle swatted Chompy away. The hamster pup squeaked as he rolled across the yard.

  Hamstersaurus Rex let out a roar loud enough to wake up the whole neighborhood, possibly the state. Now his eyes almost seemed to glow with pure rage as he flew at the Snuzzle and—at the last instant—spun his dino-tail like a whip. KAPOW! The blow smashed the Snuzzle against the trunk of our oak tree, with a metallic crunch. The gutter bat went spinning away.

  “WAWNING!” said the Snuzzle. “SEVEWE DAMAGE TO ALL SYST—”

  KERSMASH! Hamstersaurus Rex kicked the Snuzzle’s chest with both feet. The impact popped the Snuzzle’s right arm off and sent it flying.

  “EWWOR! EWWOR! . . . IMMINENT SYSTEM FAIWUWE DUE TO CATASWTOPHIC DAMAGE . . . ,” said the Snuzzle.

  Hamstersaurus Rex snarled and smashed the Snuzzle again, and again. I’d never seen the little guy go berserk like this, not on Squirrel Kong, not on the Mind Mole, heck, not even on a bag of Funchos Marinara and Cream Cheese Flavor-Wedges! The threat to his pups had pushed Hammie over the edge. He roared and head-butted the Snuzzle, over and over. He didn’t stop until the toy was pulverized beyond all recognition.

  “DESTWOOOOooooooooo . . . can I give you a wittwe smooocchhhgggh . . . ?” said the Snuzzle, its voice slowly fading. The sinister red light of its eye dimmed and then, at last, went dark.

  Without wasting an instant, Hamstersaurus Rex darted across the yard to Chompy’s side. I jogged after him. The little pup looked banged up but—as far as I could tell—there was no real harm done. He seemed nearly as mad as his dad about the whole thing.

  “You survived your first robot punch,” I said. “Not bad.”

  Hamstersaurus Rex cuddled Chompy close and licked his fur. Stompy, Hatshepsut, and even Cartimandua joined the group hug. I noticed now that Hammie Rex was shaking as the adrenaline of the fight wore off. The little guy was terrified for the safety of his kids. I knew what I had to do.

  “Hammie, Cartimandua, don’t worry,” I said. “From now on I promise I’ll keep your pups out of harm’s way, no matter what.”

  I didn’t have occasion to show it much these days, but I pulled out my official Hamster Monitor ID card.

  “I swear it on this sacred lanyard,” I said.

  Hamstersaurus Rex looked up at me with tears welling in his eyes. Chompy yipped.

  “Sorry, little dudes,” I said. “I know you want to have adventures and stuff, but right now you’re just too young.”

  Stompy kicked some dirt. Hatshepsut blew a miniature hamster raspberry.

  “Sam, what on earth is going on out here?” said my mom, who was standing on the front step.

  “An adorable-yet-evil robot was attacking the garage but Hammie Rex kicked its stupid butt,” I said.

  “Oh good. But you need to come inside, son, it’s the middle of the—ACHOOOOOOO!” My mom let out one of her earth-shattering sneezes. Lights started to go on around the neighborhood. If anyone had managed to sleep through the fight of the century, they were awake now.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” I said. “I’ll go back to bed soon.”

  I quickly ushered the hamster family back into the garage. They were shaken but glad to be snuggled together in their habitat. I locked the garage door behind me, and put my bike lock on it, too, for good measure. Then I breathed a sigh of relief: the evil Snuzzle menace was finally vanquished.

  On my way back into the house, I gathered up what was left of the ultimate twenty-first-century smartpet experience: a lumpy mass of fake fur, shattered plastic, and dangling wires. The Snuzzle may have been defeated, but now I knew one thing for sure: it had a mission. Someone had intentionally programmed it to attack. And it wasn’t after me. It’s pwimawy tawge—er, its primary target was Hamstersaurus Rex!

  The next morning, I called the only person I could think of who might be able to help me get to the bottom of the mystery: Martha Cherie. Her mother answered the phone and politely informed me that Martha was not home. She had several “e-currick” practices that day—Math Chorale, Linear A Club, and of course, Model Interplanetary Council—and would be in and out all day long, no way of predicting when. Martha organized her own schedule. I called back several times, trying to catch her. Not sure what Ms. Cherie thought the fourth time I gave her the message: “I need Martha to examine the murderous toy that attacked Hamstersaurus Rex!” By the fifth dial, my calls to the Cherie residence were going straight to their answering machine. I sighed.

  I considered calling my other friends—Dylan was, after all, a Hamster Monitor, too—but I was still annoyed with them. I figured they’d just blow me off anyway. Jerks. Instead, I tossed the broken remnants of the Snuzzle into my backpack for later study and decided to focus on a much less important task: earning a bunch of stupid money.

  The damage the Snuzzle–hamster battle had done to our front lawn gave me a great idea of how to make some cash, though. Most everyone in town had a yard. Nobody liked mowing it. Surely they’d pay someone like me to do that unwanted task for them. And at fifteen dollars a lawn, I’d only need to mow . . . well, honestly, it was better not to think about how many lawns I’d have to mow. I didn’t want to get depressed. But after I mowed that unspecified (probably quite large) number of lawns, I’d be able to pay back Mr. Lomax. Maybe.

  So Hamstersaurus Rex and I went door-to-door, asking if any of the neighbors needed grass clipped. Entrepreneurial lesson: when attempting to drum up new business, perhaps it’s not the smartest idea to have a mutant dinosaur-hamster hybrid perched on your shoulder, especially one that has recently woken up the whole neighborhood in the middle of the night. I lost count of the nervous refusals and irritated door slams. Eventually I found myself several blocks from home, standing at the weathered door of a house I knew all too well. It had the most overgrown yard in all of Maple Bluffs.

  “If this guy doesn’t need our professional landscaping services, nobody will,” I said. Hammie Rex nodded. I knocked.

  The door swung open and there stood Old Man Ohlman, still sporting his trade
mark tinfoil hat.

  “Good afternoon, Old M—er, Mr. Ohlman,” I said. “You remember me!”

  “Of course,” said Old Man Ohlman. “You’re Lt. Col. Conrad ‘Tiny’ Burton, the world’s first child astronaut!” He gave a crisp salute.

  “No, that’s not me,” I said.

  “Are you Bryan Stokes, the boy who’s never tasted candy?” said Old Man Ohlman, shaking his head. “So sad. So very sad. I have some licorice. It’s pretty old but I reckon I could wipe the dust off it.”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Augustine D. Katz Jr., heir to the Katz dog grooming fortune?” said Old Man Ohlman, doffing his hat.

  “I’m Sam Gibbs!” I said quickly, before he could take another guess.

  “Sam Gibbs,” said Old Man Ohlman. “. . . From the phone company?”

  “No!” I said. “Okay, so remember that evil mole that attempted to mind-control you—”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific,” said Old Man Ohlman.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Anyway, I’m Sam Gibbs and this is my friend—”

  “Oh, I’d recognize Hamstersaurus Rex anywhere!” said Old Man Ohlman. He extended his hand. Hammie looked at me quizzically, then stuck out a tiny dino-paw to shake it.

  “How’re the kids, HR?” said Old Man Ohlman. “Any big summer plans?”

  Hamstersaurus Rex gave a confused grunt. Old Man Ohlman laughed.

  “Never one to mince words, were you, Hammie? That’s what I like about you,” said Old Man Ohlman. “You and Cartimandua should come over for dinner sometime! We can all split one giant pancake.”

  “Anyway, sir,” I said, “we were wondering if you might need some yard work done.”

  Old Man Ohlman squinted at me and dropped his smile. “Son, are you saying the condition of my lawn is anything less than immaculate?”

  I looked out over the grass, which was at least a foot high. The only spots where it wasn’t a problem was where it had been killed by the clumps of thorny weeds that poked out of the ground. His mailbox was hidden under a mound of kudzu and I was pretty sure most of his flower bed was milkweed.