Hamstersaurus Rex vs. the Cutepocalypse

by Tom O'Donnell

  Fatima Jabour continued. “I will now announce the delegations assigned to the Committee to End Robot Exploitation,” she said, reading off a list. “The Bird-lords of Somnus II, The Muscle-oids of Herculon, The Sentient Treefolk of Planetoid X . . .”

  My mind wandered a bit as the Consul General went through all the committees and the delegations assigned to each. Something so familiar about that gray alien coach . . .

  “Come on, Death Ray Disarmament . . . come on, Death Ray Disarmament . . . ,” Martha muttered under her breath the whole time.

  In the end, the Scavengers of Zoblorg VII were not assigned to the Death Ray Disarmament Committee. Instead we got the Committee for the Preservation of Space Fungus.

  “. . . Is that a good committee?” I whispered to Martha.

  She rubbed her temples. “No, Sam. It’s the only one worse than Accounting Mistakes.” She took a deep breath and an instant later she was cheerful again. “It’s okay, though. We can do this. An obstacle is just an opportunity! An obstaclunity! Just like my unfair GPA error! All we have to do is work twice as hard and make zero mistakes!” Martha’s smile had gone from chipper to slightly insane.

  As the delegates filed out of Conference Room B / the Chamber of Unity to reconvene in their smaller committees, someone in the crowd tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to see Cid Wilkins.

  “Sam Dunk!” said Cid. “I came straight from the airport to support the team! Go Horace Hotwater!”

  “Cid, I’ve got to talk to you,” I said. “There was a—”

  “Glad to see you, lad,” said Rupert MacFarquhar, who loomed over Cid, looking as creepy as ever. “Quite a colorful extracurricular you kiddies do here in the States. Where I’m from it was rugby union, caber toss, or nothing.”

  I felt Hamstersaurus Rex moving inside my bag, agitated at the sound of Rupert’s voice. I tried to calm the little guy down.

  “Sam, you were saying something,” said Cid. “There was a . . . what?”

  “Oh yeah. There was a . . . parking ticket,” I said. “On your car! Outside!”

  “My car? But the spot was unmarked,” cried Rupert. “I dinnae park illegally, I swear by the stones of Dumbarton Castle!”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said. “It looked like they might tow it.”

  “Ach! No tow!” cried Rupert, and he ran for the exit. “No tow!”

  “Wow, thanks for looking out,” said Cid.

  “Cid, I need to ask you something,” I said.

  “If you want to know about the heli-skiing, honestly, it was a total snooze,” said Cid. “If you’ve dropped out of a helicopter and skied down a dormant volcano once, you’ve done it a million times.”

  “No, not your vacation,” I said. “I want to ask you about the note you put in my backpack! What is Rupert lying about? Is he dangerous?”

  “Note?” said Cid. “What note?” He seemed genuinely confused.

  “The note that . . . ah, never mind,” I said. “I must have gotten mixed up. Sorry.” Before I had time to process the implications of this, Dylan grabbed my arm.

  “Sam, what’s taking you so long!” said Dylan. I realized the rest of the team had left me behind and she’d been sent back to collect me. She noticed Cid. “Oh, sorry, didn’t realize you were hanging out with your new best friend.”

  “Cid’s not my new best friend,” I said.

  Cid looked taken aback.

  “I mean, he’s obviously my best new friend,” I said. “But I don’t have any other new friends.”

  “Greetings, m’lord Cid,” said Dylan with a bow. “We’ve met before but I’m just a peasant, so no sweat if you don’t remember my name. It’s Dylan, by the way. Sam and I used to hang out.”

  “Uh. Hi,” said Cid. “Of course I remember.”

  “Dylan, stop!” I said.

  “So sorry to embarrass you in front of the aristocracy, Sam,” said Dylan. “But it’s time to go. I don’t want us to lose Best Delegation because you’re late.”

  “I’m really sorry about this, Cid,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Sure, no problem,” said Cid, who still looked quite puzzled and uncomfortable. “Bye, Sam.”

  “That was really rude back there!” I whispered to Dylan, once we’d gotten out of Cid’s earshot.

  “Yeah, well, that was just a taste of what you’ve been sending Drew’s way all week,” said Dylan.

  “All those times I ripped on Drew I was just joking!” I said, which wasn’t really true. “What? Can Drew not take a joke? Another way he’s lame.”

  “Sam, I don’t want to argue about this right now,” said Dylan, “but I will—”

  We’d caught up to the other two Scavengers of Zoblorg VII. Martha looked impatient.

  “Hurry!” said Martha. “Committee roll call is happening at nine thirty!”

  Our team quickly made its way down the crowded hallway—past an alarming number of kids with their Snuzzles—toward Conference Room 2H, where the Committee to Preserve Space Fungus was supposed to meet.

  Drew pointed at the team from L. L. Dupree (the Grub People of the Third Moon of Biplos), who were also on our committee.

  “L. L. Dupree,” said Drew, shaking his head. “Man, I hate those guys.”

  “Drew, you know it’s just a mindless, arbitrary rivalry,” I said. “There’s no reason for Horace Hotwater kids to dislike L. L. Dupree kids. It’s all completely made up.”

  “You’re made up,” said Dylan.

  “What does that even mean?” I said.

  “Stop it, both of you,” hissed Martha. “There are judges everywhere. Look!”

  She nodded toward three stern-looking adults conferring in a nearby doorway. They had the telltale shimmery robes and clipboards of official MIC staff. Dylan and I (reluctantly) shut up.

  “Okay,” said Martha, talking quietly as we walked. “We have about forty-five seconds to talk strategy: we need to decide if Zoblorg VII is for or against the preservation of space fungus.”

  “Huh? I didn’t even know that was a question. Isn’t it the Committee for the Preservation of Space Fungus?” I said. “Why would we be against it?”

  “It’s risky,” said Martha, “but it gives us the opportunity to make a flashy, controversial argument and really stand out from the crowd. If executed well, MIC judges will eat it up.”

  “Hmm. I like it,” I said. “Plus, if I’m being honest, space fungus sounds pretty gross. Yeah. Let’s be against it.”

  “I strongly believe we should be for preserving it,” said Dylan, crossing her arms. “Space fungus is just as important as any other endangered species. Like tigers or whales.”

  “You’re just saying that ’cause it’s the opposite of what I said!”

  “Am not,” said Dylan.

  “Martha, she’s doing it again!” I said.

  “Shhh,” said Martha. We had arrived at Conference Room 2H. “I’m not sure what the right choice is. Play it safe or take a chance?” said Martha, sucking at her teeth. “I’ll know when the time is right. Just pay close attention and follow my lead. On three: Glorzzzb. One, two, three . . .”

  “Glorzzzb,” we all whispered.

  The Zoblorg VII delegation found our seats at one of several smaller tables. Soon every chair in the room had been filled. A boy sitting at the front—made up to look like some sort of purple reptile creature—banged a smaller crystal against a smaller geode.

  “Greetings, delegates, I am Committee Grand Archon Dave Cunningham from Flargoxx the Shadow Planet / Ives McGaffney Middle School,” he said. “I hereby call the Committee for the Preservation of Space Fungus to order. I now move to hear any motions presented by the delegations. Raise your placard to introduce a motion.”

  Several delegates held their placards up. Martha didn’t. It was unlike her not to raise a hand. I guess she was still mulling our team strategy. The Grand Archon scanned the room.

  “The committee recognizes the delegation from the Third Moon of
Biplos,” said the Grand Archon.

  “Glomby gomby gleeeeeglob!” said the L. L. Dupree team in unison. Then a kid with a bowl cut took the lead. “That is the traditional Grub Person greeting that you might hear in the warm, habitable tunnels beneath the frozen, nightmarish surface of our world. This delegation would like to make a motion affirming that the discussion of the preservation of space fungus is a really neat thing to do.”

  “Noted. All in favor, raise your placards,” said the Grand Archon.

  All the committee delegates raised their placards.

  “All opposed, raise your placards,” said the Grand Archon.

  No one raised any placards.

  “Let the record show that the committee affirms that the discussion of the preservation of space fungus is a really neat thing to do,” said the Grand Archon.

  This was the gist of Model Interplanetary Council, a bunch of boring stuff governed by a lot more super-boring rules. Even when it wasn’t happening at five a.m. it was hard to stay awake. I tried my best as countless motions, points of personal privilege, seconds, and waivers were introduced and voted on. The experience actually made me long for Mr. Copeland’s cruise-ship tips. Inside my bag, I heard Hamstersaurus Rex quietly snoring. I unzipped it a few inches. The little guy looked so peaceful. Oh how I wanted to join him . . .

  “The committee recognizes the Scavengers of Zoblorg VII,” said the Grand Archon.

  Martha stood.

  “Doh meefa, xeesotee! Zlorrrrk,” said Martha. “We stand in this committee today to represent the world of Zoblorg VII, a proud lava-covered planet with a long and complicated history that I will now tell you about. . . .”

  Martha spoke at length, and yes, I will admit, I stopped paying attention somewhere in the Zoblorgian stone age. My mind was racing. If Cid hadn’t left the note, then who had? I’d been assuming the mysterious note was trying to warn me about Rupert, but . . . what if it wasn’t? And who was the Saw anyway? They had to be connected. . . .

  “. . . and with that, I turn the floor over to my fellow Zoblorgian delegate, who can further elaborate on the subject,” said Martha. “Sam.” She smiled, tapped her Scepter of Authority on the floor, and motioned for me to stand up.

  I slowly rose. While I was mulling over the Snuzzle mystery, I’d missed whether Martha had come out for or against the preservation of space fungus. The eyes of a dozen alien delegations were on me now, and I had no way to figure out the answer. Still, I had to say something. I looked at Martha for any clue as to which way she’d gone. She smiled blandly, though her eyes looked intense. I glanced at Dylan. She scowled at me. I looked at Drew. He was retying his inner tube scarf more jauntily.

  “Yeah, so, our team, um . . . hates space fungus,” I said.

  A shocked hush fell over the room. I guess it really was a controversial argument.

  “But this is the Committee for the Preservation of Space Fungus,” said the Grand Archon, looking dismayed.

  I shrugged.

  “And that’s actually what we want to do!” said Dylan, elbowing her way in front of me. “Please excuse my colleague for misspeaking so stupidly. He’s probably our worst delegate.”

  I glared at her. “I didn’t misspeak. And I’m not the worst delegate. The worst delegate’s name rhymes with ‘shoe,’” I said. “In fact, the planet of Zoblorg VII hereby declares war on all space fungus!”

  “No, we don’t! We vow to devote our entire GDP to saving space fungus!” said Dylan, glaring back at me. “Save the space fungus! Save the space fungus! C’mon, everybody! Save the—”

  “Excuse me, Grand Archon,” said Martha, clacking her Scepter of Authority against the floor. “The Scavengers of Zoblorg VII would respectfully like to introduce a motion for an emergency five-minute recess.”

  A murmur went up among the other delegations of the committee. The Grand Archon furrowed his brow. “Why?” he said.

  “Because, uh . . .” Martha was stumped.

  “I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” said Drew. Whether it was quick thinking or just something that popped into his head, I had no idea.

  “Okay, sure,” said Grand Archon Dave Cunningham, looking a little embarrassed. “All those in favor of an emergency recess, raise your placards.”

  Somehow, we narrowly won this vote. Maybe there were other kids who had to go to the bathroom, too? Or maybe they collectively decided to take pity on the imploding team from Horace Hotwater? I grabbed my backpack as Martha hurried the rest of us out of Conference Room 2H. Drew made a beeline for the bathroom—his diversion wasn’t just a clever ruse—while Martha marched us down the hall and around the corner to an empty hotel ballroom. She shut the door behind us.

  “Wow. Nice work, Sam,” said Dylan. “You probably cost us Best Delegation.”

  “Me? You’re the one who started the fight!” I said. “You called me stupid!”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Dylan. “I said you did something stupidly. There’s a huge difference, and if you think that’s the same as calling you stupid, then you really are stupid.”

  Martha cleared her throat.

  “Sam, Dylan,” said Martha, “WILL BOTH OF YOU PLEASE SHUT UP!”

  Dylan and I went silent. Hamstersaurus Rex poked his head out of my backpack with a startled grunt.

  “Sam, when I asked you to ‘elaborate,’ I wanted you to elaborate on Zoblorg VII’s environmentally conscious way of life,” said Martha.

  “Oops,” I said.

  “See?” said Dylan. “I was right. He wasn’t even paying attention!”

  “Yes. But after Sam took his position,” said Martha, “it was your job to back him up. Not get into an argument with him in front of the judges.”

  “But . . .” Dylan trailed off. Now she looked deflated, too.

  Martha looked off into the distance. Then she began to speak. “Some say the natural order of the universe is chaos. That strife and conflict are the only constants out in the cold void of space. In the year 13,824 B.Z., the Interplanetary Council was formed to refute that dark proposition. The people of many worlds voluntarily came together because they believed that different species might put aside their quarrels and avert war through structured diplomacy. In short, this whole endeavor is about cooperation. Now I ask, if a hundred alien races can come together and peacefully hash out their differences, can’t two best friends do the same?”

  Dylan and I both stared at the floor now. We nodded.

  “Excellent,” said Martha. “Hamstersaurus Rex and I are going to wait here while you and Dylan find somewhere private. You have”—she checked her watch—“four minutes and eleven seconds to work out all your problems. After that, we’re going to go back into committee and prove that we, the Scavengers of Zoblorg VII, are the best cooperators in the entire universe. In fact, we’re going to completely destroy everyone else at cooperation. Got it?”

  We nodded again. I handed my backpack to Martha and Dylan and I found a nearby supply closet. We stepped inside.

  “Well . . . ,” said Dylan.

  “Well . . . ,” I said.

  There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been way too hard on Drew. He’s not a bad guy. If I’m honest, I think I’m—I’m probably jealous of him.”

  “What?” said Dylan. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Because you want to spend all your free time with him and go to disc golf camp and wear your matching scarves and stuff,” I said. “I can’t help but feel like . . . you don’t even want to be friends with me anymore.”

  “Of course I want to be friends with you, Sam!” said Dylan. “I thought you didn’t want to be friends with me.”

  “Huh? You mean because of Cid Wilkins?” I said. “Look, Cid’s cool and I’m glad I met him, but I only started hanging out with the guy because everyone else was so focused on their own problems.”

  Dylan sighed. “It’s not just Cid,” she said. “Your real best friend is
someone else now: Hamstersaurus Rex. I used to be the strong one; the one who was always looking out for you. And don’t get me wrong, I love Hammie, but ever since he came along . . . well, you don’t really need me for that.”

  “What are you even talking about? You’ve saved Hammie and me so many times I’ve lost count!” I said. “You helped stop Squirrel Kong and the Mind Mole! Your golf disc is what prevented Michael Perkins from eating Hammie Rex at Science Night. Both of us need you. A lot.”

  “You really mean that?” said Dylan.

  “Yeah!”

  “I guess it is kind of ridiculous to be jealous of a class pet,” said Dylan. “Sorry I’ve been giving you a hard time, too.”

  “Look,” I said, “maybe as we get older, the stuff we’re interested in is going to change. The people we hang out with might change. And maybe our friendship will have to change, too. It’s going to take some work to keep it together. But it’s worth it to have a best friend like you.”

  “I feel the same way,” said Dylan. “Thanks, Sam.”

  We hugged. Just then, the lights flickered and went out. A second later they came back on.

  “What was that?” said Dylan.

  We cautiously stepped out of the supply closet and made our way back to Martha. She was distracted, feeding Hamstersaurus Rex dried beet chips and attempting to teach him facts about Zoblorg VII. Meanwhile Drew had returned from the bathroom and he was rummaging through my backpack. The lights flickered again.

  “Drew, what are you doing?” I said.

  “Sam! ’Sup? Sorry. I smudged my alien face paint, so I borrowed some of yours.” He held up the little tin of teal greasepaint.

  “I told him it was okay,” said Martha. “Makeup blotchiness is definitely a factor the judges consider. Some people say it’s why Marneyville Middle School lost out on Best Delegation last year.”

  “Also, Sam, this is a rad Zoblorgian junk amulet you had in your backpack,” said Drew. “If you’re not going to wear it, do you I mind if I do? It even lights up!” He held up the remnants of the broken Snuzzle; its red eye was glowing.