Hamstersaurus Rex vs. the Cutepocalypse

by Tom O'Donnell

  Hamstersaurus Rex snorted.

  Cid shuddered. “I never even took this thing out of the box because it just seemed . . . irritating.”

  “I don’t get the appeal either,” I said. “But then again, one of these things has been trying to kill me for the past few weeks.”

  “If it’ll make you feel better, you can check and make absolutely sure this one’s not evil, too,” said Cid.

  “You wouldn’t mind?” I said.

  “Be my guest,” said Cid. “In fact, you’re free to interrogate any of my toys.”

  I squinted at the Snuzzle. “Hey, Bobbo, what’s your, uh, primary object?”

  “I WIKE TO PICK PWETTY DAFFODIWS,” said Bobbo.

  “And do you also want to destroy Hamstersaurus Rex?” I said. I waved Hamstersaurus Rex back and forth in front of the Snuzzle’s eye sensors.

  “HMMM,” said Bobbo, regarding Hamstersaurus Rex. “CAN I GIVE YOU A WITTWE SMOOCH?”

  The Snuzzle blinked again and puckered its strange rubbery lips. It was adorable and more than a little nauseating. Hammie recoiled.

  “Okay, I’ve seen enough,” I said. “Sorry to be so suspicious, Cid. A regular old annoying Snuzzle is way better than a murderous one.”

  “No worries, Sam Dunk,” said Cid with a shrug. “Just another day in the life of a Hamster Monitor, right? You’ve got to pound the pavement, chase down every rumor, interpret clues, et cetera. So cool.”

  I felt myself blushing. “Honestly, Hamster Monitor is kind of just a made-up thing. We print our own ID cards,” I said. “And when all is said and done, it’s probably a good thing you don’t have an evil manny.”

  “Nope, just an incredibly awkward one. But I sure wish I could have helped you wrap up your Snuzzle mystery like we solved the Case of the Chameleonkey.” Cid looked a little embarrassed. “It is okay that I call it a ‘case,’ right?”

  “Absolutely!” I said. “You could even call it a caper if you want.”

  “Caper! Even better! Speaking of which,” said Cid. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. “The Maple Bluffs Animal Control reward money.”

  “Whoa!” I said. “But wait, this is the full three hundred dollars. You deserve half.”

  “No need,” said Cid, waving me off. “I was just happy to get to participate in an adventure with my new buddy Sam Dunk and the world’s coolest mutant hamster.” He scratched Hammie Rex on the tip of his tail. Hammie gurgled.

  “I can’t let you do that, Cid. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you. The fair thing to do is to recognize my friend’s contribution,” I said, parroting Dylan’s words.

  “Trust me, Sam Dunk,” said Cid. “I’m a twelve-year-old with his own indoor waterslide who’s bored of jetpacking through the Alps. The last thing I need is any more money. You take it and pay back Tenth Street Toys.”

  “Are you . . . sure?” I said.

  Cid grinned and nodded.

  “Wow, thank you so much,” I said. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you’ll hang out and try this toast simulator!” said Cid, holding up the VR helmet. “After you beat the toast level, you can try muffins, crullers, and even focaccia.”

  “I’d love to,” I said with a sigh. “But . . . I should probably get back to Model Interplanetary Council practice.”

  “What the what-what practice?” said Cid.

  “Model Interplanetary Council is a competitive educational simulation where students . . .” I stopped myself. “You know, actually the easiest way to explain it is that it’s a huge drag. But it’s something I’ve got to do.”

  “Keeping your word. Much respect for that,” said Cid. “It’s what makes you such a good friend.”

  “Thanks, Cid,” I said. “Mind if I use the bathroom on the way out?”

  “Sure, you know the way,” said Cid. “Thirteenth door on the right.”

  “How could I forget?” I said.

  I walked down the long hallway and stopped. I found myself standing at the familiar door with the sign that read “DO NOT ENTER.” I looked at Hamstersaurus Rex. The little guy looked back at me.

  “I don’t know, dude,” I said. “Should we?”

  He grunted in the affirmative. Hammie wanted to get to the bottom of this whole thing as much as I did. Even if Rupert hadn’t reprogrammed Gooboo the Snuzzle, there was still something off about him.

  I listened at the door and I heard nothing. Carefully I tried the handle. Locked. Hamstersaurus Rex pantomimed breaking it open with his head. It was a classic Hamstersaurus Rex move.

  “Wait,” I said. “We can’t just knock down one of Cid’s doors.”

  Hamstersaurus Rex whined and backed up a little farther. Then he looked at me, awaiting the go-ahead for a super-strong head butt.

  “Is there any way you could use your dino-powers to, like, quietly pick the lock?” I said to Hamstersaurus Rex.

  The little guy squinted at me.

  “Sam, this still isn’t the bathroom,” said Cid, startling me.

  “Sorry!” I said. “I was just—we were—I wanted to see what was behind this door. Just to make sure.”

  Cid stared at me for a moment with an unreadable expression. Then he smiled. “No problem, Sam Dunk,” he said. He pulled a large key ring out of his pocket, found the right key, and unlocked it. The door slowly swung open. Beyond it lay a small, dusty room. Stacked against the wall were the dozens of canisters of Dinoblast Powerpacker that I’d seen Rupert purchase on the video. Otherwise it was totally empty. There wasn’t any furniture or even a single picture on the wall. Cid flipped on a light.

  “Sorry about the dust,” said Cid.

  “Is this all he keeps in here?” I said, looking around.

  “Guess so,” said Cid. “To be fair, it’s hard to fill up a house this big. I could definitely imagine another waterslide going in this room.”

  “Can I help ye lads?” said Rupert, who stood silhouetted in the doorway behind us.

  Hamstersaurus Rex growled.

  “Uh,” I said. “Sorry, Mr. MacFarquhar, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Hey, don’t sneak up on us like that, R-Train!” said Cid, capping Rupert on the arm.

  “Apologies, Master Wilkins,” said Rupert, who gave a slight bow of the head.

  “Look, Rupert, Sam Dunk has a question for you,” said Cid. “Why in the world are you stockpiling Dinoblast Powerpacker?”

  Rupert sucked at his teeth. “I cannae lie: I’m a wee bit of a fitness fanatic and I’m trying to increase my muscle mass. With SmilesCorp nae in business anymore, I figured I’d better snap up every canister I could, before it’s too late.”

  “No offense,” I said. “But you don’t really look like a ‘fitness fanatic.’”

  “Aye, that’s because I’ve just started,” said Rupert with an eerie smile. “You can consider this the ‘before picture.’” Then he rolled his sleeve up and flexed his pale arm. It made a small muscle.

  “. . . Okay, well, good enough for me,” said Cid with a shrug. “Keep pumping that iron, R-Train. You satisfied, Sam Dunk?”

  “Yeah,” I said, staring at the floor as we walked toward the exit.

  “I know I can be a bit gruff at times,” said Rupert, behind me. “I didnae mean to scare ye or your growling beastie. . . . Is that a wee hamster now?”

  Hamstersaurus Rex glared at him.

  “You’re half right,” I said, and I walked out the door.

  Cid escorted me down the hallway to the front door.

  “Have fun at school this week,” said Cid. “Let me know if I miss anything important Mr. Copeland says about saving money by taking cruises during hurricane season.”

  “Wait, you’re not going to be at school all week?” I said.

  “Ugh, no,” said Cid. “My dad is insisting on making the whole family go heli-skiing on these artificial islands off the coast of Japan until Friday. Even Rupert is coming with us. Super lame. Anyway, you said that Model Interplanet
ary Council thingy is happening next weekend?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Well, maybe I’ll come out to root for Horace Hotwater!” said Cid. “It’s either that or hang out at the Maple Bluffs Flea Market again. Because, you know, I don’t have any friends.”

  “All right, see you Saturday, Cid,” I said as I collected my backpack. “Though it will definitely be less exciting than the flea market.”

  “Until then, Sam Dunk,” said Cid. “I’ll try to bring you back some Japanese Funchos.” He scratched Hammie’s belly.

  “Bye,” I said.

  As I crossed the mansion’s expansive yard—the topiary was in much better condition now—there was one detail that kept sticking in my mind. The floor of Rupert’s little room had dust on it, sure, but there were places that didn’t. Places that looked like there had recently been furniture. And why did the door to an empty room have a “DO NOT ENTER” sign on it, anyway?

  As the heavy security gate clanged behind me, Hamstersaurus Rex whined from inside my backpack.

  “Yeah, dude, I kind of feel like something’s not right, too,” I said. “Rupert MacFarquhar makes my skin crawl.”

  Hammie whined again. I took a look. The little guy was holding a folded scrap of paper in his jaws.

  “What is that?” I said.

  I took the paper and unfolded it. While I’d left my backpack unattended, someone had slipped a note inside. In large, typewritten letters it read:

  “HE’S A LIAR. DON’T TRUST HIM.”

  “. . . Did Cid put this in my backpack?” I said to Hammie Rex.

  The little guy gave a yip. I stopped on the sidewalk and turned back toward Cid’s mansion. Through the iron bars of the gate, I saw a lone figure standing on his front porch. Rupert MacFarquhar had his arms crossed. I kept on walking.

  CHAPTER 13

  I NEVER GOT AHOLD of Cid while he was on vacation. The school week passed in a blur of quadruple and sometimes quintuple MIC practices. Thankfully there were no more attacks on Hamstersaurus Rex or his family—curious that this corresponded with the same period of time that Rupert MacFarquhar was out of the country. But with my head a confusing soup of Zoblorg VII trivia and competition rules, I hadn’t learned any more about who the mysterious hacker “the Saw” was either.

  Saturday rolled around. The day of Model Interplanetary Council had come. The Horace Hotwater Middle School delegation arrived in an old yellow school bus (which Martha insisted on calling an “interstellar transport vessel”) at the SnoozeKing Suites Hotel and Conference Center out by the interstate. As we pulled into the parking lot (or “entered the atmosphere of Iota Horlogii b” as Martha would have it), Coach Weekes stood.

  “Listen up,” he said. “It’s the day of the big game—”

  “It’s not a game,” said Martha. “It’s a simulated session of an extraplanetary governing body.”

  “Button it, Cherie,” said Coach Weekes. “Point is, now’s the time for one of my classic Coach Weekes pep talks. D’Amato knows what I’m talking about. This will really get you kids jazzed up for this planet doohickey today. Am I right, D’Amato?”

  “Oh yeah, Coach!” said Dylan. “Do the one about the mighty wolf spirit that dwells within each of us. That one’s super inspiring.”

  “Aw, come on!” said Coach Weekes, throwing his hands up. “You spoiled the pep talk ending!”

  “Sorry,” said Dylan.

  “Thank you, Leslie, for almost delivering such a stirring speech,” said Martha. “May I address the delegation?”

  “Okay. Fine,” said Coach Weekes, dejected. “Who cares?”

  “We’ve come a long way in the last week,” said Martha. “Some of us have made, ahem, more progress than others.”

  “’Sup,” said Drew.

  Drew had been completely confused during every single practice. As recently as Friday, he indicated that he thought we were all going to be competing in some sort of swim meet. As far as I was concerned, he was still deadweight.

  Martha continued. “. . . But we worked hard and the point is, we have a real shot at winning Best Delegation. As long as we can remember that we stand together, as a team.”

  “Tell that to Sam,” said Dylan.

  “Tell it to Dylan!” I said.

  “I just told it to both of you,” said Martha.

  Dylan and I had been bickering the whole week and it was 100 percent Dylan’s fault for always sticking up for Drew.

  “In conclusion,” said Martha, “my fellow Scavengers of Zoblorg VII, know that as your head delegate and basically the real coach of this team—”

  “Hey!” said Coach Weekes.

  “—I believe in each one of you,” said Martha. “Now let’s get out there and show these other schools what we’re all about. On the count of three: Glorzzzb! One . . . two . . . three!”

  “Glorzzzb!” we said in unison, though I’m not entirely sure why.

  “All right, delegates: costumes on!” said Martha.

  “Martha, do we really have to do this?” I said.

  “How well we visually represent the planet and culture of Zoblorg VII is a crucial factor the judges consider when awarding Best Delegation,” said Martha. “So suck it up and put your wobbly antennas on!”

  “All right, all right,” I said as I put a set of fuzzy antennas on my head. We also had to apply a thick coating of teal face paint and, perhaps most humiliatingly of all, don our “traditional Zoblorgian garments.” This consisted of pieces of trash crudely stitched together. My outfit was an ill-fitting tunic made of an old soda box sewn to a garbage bag with some dental floss. I completed my ensemble with a necklace of crushed cans.

  “So . . . how do I look?” I said to Hammie Rex as I dabbed the last of the greasepaint around my eyes. Hamsters can’t really laugh, but he sure looked like he wanted to.

  Annoyingly, Dylan and Drew seemed to actually enjoy dressing up as Zoblorgians. They were cooing over each other’s matching outfits: trash “sweaters” made of shower curtains and scarves of old inner tubes.

  As head delegate, Martha wore a shiny, inside-out Funchos bag on her head and carried a traditional Zoblorgian “Scepter of Authority” that was actually a broken smoke alarm taped to a broomstick.

  Even Coach Weekes was not exempt from the costuming requirement. He grudgingly applied some face paint and put on a tank top made of old newspapers.

  Once we looked like five space aliens who hailed from a burning trash planet in the Crab Nebula, we crossed the parking lot of the SnoozeKing Suites Hotel and Conference Center to check in.

  “Wow, look at all these little weirdos,” said Coach Weekes.

  The lobby was filled with other kids and their coaches, dressed like their assigned alien species. The delegation from Oak Cliffs Middle School was painted gold like the Automata of Excelsion Prime. The team from L. L. Dupree were shrouded in dirty bandages as the Grub People of Third Moon of Biplos. I gave an involuntary shudder as I saw that every third kid at Model Interplanetary Council seemed to be clutching a Snuzzle. Omar wasn’t kidding: they truly were the hottest toy of the spring season.

  A woman in a shimmering robe with a high pointy collar sat at a table with the MIC sign-in sheet, looking bored.

  “Doh meefa, xeesotee! Zlorrrrk,” said Martha with a bow.

  “Sure,” said the woman, who seemed like she’d already heard quite a few traditional alien greetings this morning. “Team name and home planet?”

  “Horace Hotwater Middle School; Zoblorg VII,” said Martha.

  The woman checked us off her list. “Please go to the Chamber of Unity, that’s Conference Room B, for the Galactic Invocation Ceremony,” she said.

  Nearby, a coach—made up to look like a bald gray alien—seemed to be staring at me. Somehow he looked incredibly familiar, yet I couldn’t quite place him. Before I could get a better look, he melted back into the crowd, perhaps to rejoin his team.

  “Follow me,” said Martha. “I memorized the layout of the
SnoozeKing Suites in advance so I could plot the shortest routes between rooms.”

  We quickly made our way to a large hotel conference room filled with hundreds of middle school alien delegates. They all sat at tables arranged in semicircular rings in front of an elevated dais. Hanging above us was a gigantic mobile model of the Milky Way galaxy. Even I had to admit, the whole scene was as impressive as it was nerdy.

  “This is us,” said Martha, proudly pointing to a placard that said “Zoblorg VII” with four empty seats behind it.

  “Good luck, kids,” said Coach Weekes. “Remember: you can’t spell ‘succeed’ with ‘u’ and ‘me.’”

  By the time I’d realized that wasn’t true, he’d already taken his seat in the small section at the back with the other coaches and pulled out his sudoku book.

  “Wow, so . . . are all the other kids, like, pretending to be aliens, too?” said Drew.

  “Very insightful,” I said. “You’re really starting to put it all together, Drew. I’m so proud of—”

  “Stow it, Sam,” said Dylan. “The ceremony is starting. You’re being rude.”

  Up on the dais, a girl with thick glasses and bunch of extra eyes glued to her face had taken the podium. She loudly banged a crystal against a geode, until the assembly quieted down.

  “Greetings, planetary delegates!” said the girl. “I hereby call this session of the Model Interplanetary Council to order!”

  A cheer went up.

  “That’s Galactic Consul General Fatima Jabour from Kepler 10b / Isaac Newton Magnet School for Science,” whispered Martha. “Fatima’s an MIC legend—leader of last year’s Best Delegation and fairly strong competition for first female nonconsecutive president. She’s the one who decides which delegations are assigned to what committees.”

  “Cool,” I whispered. “What?”

  “Ha!” said Dylan. “Now who doesn’t know what’s going on?”

  “I’m playing dumb for Drew’s benefit!” I said. “I figured he’d be too embarrassed to ask.”

  “’Sup,” said Drew.

  “Shhh!” said Martha. “If we get a juicy assignment, like, say, the Death Ray Disarmament Committee, it’ll be much easier for us to win Best Delegation. We just don’t want something boring like the Committee to Prevent Relativistic Accounting Mistakes or the Committee on Spaceship Furniture Safety.”