Gobbled by Ghorks

by Robert Paul Weston

Gügor looked down at the floor and, to everyone’s surprise, he blushed. “Because . . .” he said at last, “Eloise-Yvette is Gügor’s 1TL.”

  Jean-Remy narrowed his eyes. “1TL? What does zees mean, 1TL?”

  Gügor took a deep breath. “One. True. Love.”

  For the second time that morning, the laboratory fell silent. Jean-Remy zipped across the room and stopped so abruptly in front of Gügor’s face, you could almost make out the skid marks he left floating in the air behind him.

  “My sister? Eloise-Yvette? Your one true love?!”

  Gügor nodded sheepishly.

  “You had better explain yourself, my friend.”

  “Okay. But if you want to know Gügor’s story, I’ll have to start at the beginning. . . .”

  CHAPTER 4

  In which Gügor tells his tale

  Gügor wasn’t kidding—his story really did begin at the beginning.

  “Gügor was born the youngest in his family,” he explained. “Gügor had thirty-six brothers and sisters!”

  Patti whistled sympathetically. “Thirty-six?! I’ve only got the three myself. Sisters, that is—and I can hardly stand ’em!”

  Gügor explained his early days, growing up on Mount Squash, the ancestral home of knucklecrumplers. “Gügor’s parents wanted him to follow in the family footsteps, and get a job crumpling things with his hands. But Gügor wanted to know why. ‘Because it’s tradition,’ said Gügor’s father. ‘And look at these hands, son. It’s what knucklecrumplers are made for.’” Gügor held up his own hands, showing off his big knucklecrumpler mitts to everyone in the laboratory.

  “He had a point,” said Elliot. “Your dad, I mean.”

  Gügor nodded. “Yes, but Gügor didn’t want to crumple things just for the sake of crumpling things. Gügor wanted to make things . . . by crumpling things. That’s rickem-ruckery, fixing machines—or even inventing new ones—with nothing but your bare hands.” Gügor smiled a goofy grin and poked one big thumb into his chest. “Gügor has an advanced degree in applied rickem-ruckery from Mount Squash College! After graduation, Gügor went off to make his fortune! That was how Gügor ended up in Paris, where he met Eloise-Yvette.”

  “Why Paris?” asked Leslie. She was curious, and besides, it was a city she had always dreamed of visiting.

  “Yes,” said Jean-Remy, “why Paris—and where does my sister come into all of zis?!”

  Gügor lowered his voice. “Not everyone knows this, but lots of creatures live in the catacombs underneath the city. Four-eyed snoods and triple-bearded oven trolls, even a few marrowranglers, who are distant cousins of us knucklecrumplers. Gügor met them all. Most of them were artists and writers and musicians, of course. Except in Paris they had a special word for them.”

  “Unemployed,” said Harrumphrey.

  “No,” said Gügor. “Bohemians. When Gügor showed them his rickem-ruckery skills, they gave him a job inventing instruments to play in their underground jazz clubs. Gügor was so proud! His first real job! Gügor even learned to play one of his very own creations: a steam-powered electrombone!”

  “You play electrombone?” asked the professor. He seemed quite impressed.

  Gügor nodded proudly. “Gügor invented the electrombone!”

  “Smarter than he looks,” Harrumphrey quipped.

  “Eventually, Gügor began performing with the other creatures.” He chewed his lip and glanced at Jean-Remy. “That was how I met Eloise-Yvette. They had a special name for her, too. She was called the Bluebird.”

  Jean-Remy nodded. “I remember. It was her stage name, on account of her sapphire skin and what I can only assume was her melancholy singing voice. I never went to see her perform. I wanted nothing do to with her ridiculous ‘Bohemian’ friends.”

  Gügor sighed. “If you had come, you would have seen Gügor perform, too. On his electrombone! They called us ‘The Bluebird and the Brute.’” Gügor hung his head. “I’m sure you can guess who ‘the Brute’ was.”

  Leslie patted the back of Gügor’s big warm hand. “We know you’re not really a brute. At least not when you’re in the Rickem-Ruckery Room.”

  “Thank you. But next to Eloise-Yvette, that was how Gügor felt.” The knucklecrumpler’s shoulders fell, and he sighed heavily. “She probably thought the same thing. That was why Gügor never told her how he felt. Gügor never told anybody how he felt. Not even you, Jean-Remy . . . until today.”

  “Aw, Gügor, you poor thing! I know just how you feel. Maybe a bit like this.” Patti ran one hand through her seaweed hair. She came out with a lump of silt and sculpted it into a tiny heart, complete with a jagged crack down the middle. She held it up for him to see.

  Gügor nodded.

  “But if you don’t tell her how you feel,” Patti went on, “then you’ll never have a chance to do this.” She gently squeezed the heart, and the crack vanished.

  Gügor shook his head. He twisted his toes nervously into the laboratory floor. “Gügor is shy.”

  “Everybody’s shy sometimes,” said Leslie. “My mom used to move us around so much, I was always new in town. I hated going up and introducing myself to the other kids, but sometimes that’s what you have to do. You just have to tell people how you feel.”

  “So that’s what we’re gonna do,” said Elliot. “We’re going to Simmersville, we’re going to rescue Jean-Remy’s sister, and Gügor is going to tell her how he really—”

  “No, no, no!” Jean-Remy swooped down between Elliot and the others. “I told you. Ze telegram is a fake!”

  Gügor opened the letter and sniffed it. “It smells like Eloise-Yvette. She always wore Lait de la Lune perfume.”

  Jean-Remy sighed. “Okay, let us say—hypozetically—the telegram is real, and zis city, Simmersville, it has been infiltrated with ghorks, and yes, my sister and her friends, zey have been kidnapped. Perhaps it is all true—which I do not believe it is—but if it is, yes, we must go and rescue her. But Gügor! My friend! Do you really crave ze love of someone like my sister? Someone so vain and selfish, who cannot be trusted?”

  Gügor frowned. “That doesn’t sound like Eloise-Yvette at all.”

  Leslie and Elliot couldn’t understand the discrepancy between Gügor and Jean-Remy’s versions of Eloise-Yvette. How could they be talking about the same fairy-bat?

  “I don’t get it,” said Leslie. “What’s up with you and your sister?”

  Jean-Remy sighed. “I don’t like to talk about it,” he said. And that was all.

  “Maybe if you did, we’d be able to under—”

  Leslie was interrupted when the doors at the far end of the laboratory slammed open and a big blubbery figure came slopping across the floor. It was Reggie. He was dripping with something slimy. With every plonk of his enormous galoshes, the huge bombastadon dribbled a trail of what could only be described as . . . snot.

  “What happened to you?” asked the professor.

  “Ghorks,” Reggie muttered. “With insidiously exaggerated nasal passages.”

  Harrumphrey sighed. “Not again. We just finished cleaning up after the last time!”

  “Fear not, my friends,” said Reggie. He shivered his epaulettes and spattered several laboratory tables with mucus. Two globs sailed clear across the room and hit Bildorf and Pib.

  “Hey! You did that on purpose,” cried Pib, “and you’ve completely ruined our uniforms!”

  “Yick,” said Bildorf, doffing his postman’s cap. “You can expect a hefty dry cleaning bill, you big blubbery bonehead!”

  “As I was saying,” Reggie continued, ignoring the complaints of the hobmongrels, “I don’t believe we have anything to fear . . . at least for the time being. No attack on the Creature Department is imminent. In fact, the ghorks don’t appear to be interested in DENKi-3000 at all.”

  “That’s a new one,” said Harrumphrey.
<
br />   “Yes, quite.” Reggie poked his lower lip out thoughtfully between his tusks. “Apparently, they are preparing to fulfill some sort of ancient Ghorkolian prophecy.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” said Patti.

  “What sort of prophecy?” asked the professor.

  Reggie explained what he had discovered about the so-called “Great Hexposé” of the Fabled Sixth Ghork.

  “A sixth ghork? How could there be a . . .” The professor trailed off, obviously unsure of what to make of this news. He looked around at his creaturely colleagues. “Has anyone ever heard of a sixth ghork?”

  They all shook their heads. Elliot and Leslie were just as dumbfounded. They looked at each other, wondering the very same thing: What would a sixth ghork be like?

  “No way,” said Patti. “That’s nothing but pure, down-home hooey! There’s only five kinds of them bozos. Ever’body knows that!”

  “That’s what we all assume.” Reggie puffed out his floppy jowls. “But what if it’s not quite accurate? What if this Fabled Sixth Ghork truly does exist? What could it mean?”

  “A ghork with a sixth sense,” Elliot whispered.

  “With psychic powers,” said Leslie.

  “Like telepathy.”

  “Telekinesis.”

  “Predicting the future.”

  “A ghork with that kind of power,” said Harrumphrey, “could mean the end of creaturedom as we know it.”

  The professor looked to Reggie. “Did you find out anything else?”

  The bombastadon stroked his flabby chin. “Not a great deal. Merely that the insufferable cretin was headed to join the rest of his monstrous friends in some nearby hamlet. He called it . . . Simmersville, I believe.”

  Leslie’s eyes popped wide. “So it is true. The ghorks really are in Simmersville. I knew it!”

  “Sounds to me like it’s time to save the day,” said the professor, unable to suppress the note of hopeful excitement in his voice. “The only question left is: How best to get there?”

  CHAPTER 5

  In which Leslie suggests disguises (that aren’t disguises), Harrumphrey explains the skepticism of computers, and Reggie zaps himself

  How to get there?” asked Patti. “That’s the least of our troubles! You expect us to just waltz into town without anyone noticing? Look at us. In case you’ve forgotten—we’re a bunch of creatures!”

  Patti had a point. For generations, the DENKi-3000 Creature Department had remained a closely guarded secret, the inner workings of the company hidden from the citizens of Bickle-burgh. Following the attack of the ghorks, some of the locals were (perhaps, somewhat) accustomed to the idea of having creatures for neighbors, but they nevertheless preferred them to remain out of sight.

  Simmersville was two or three hours away by car. It was safe to assume all the same rules applied there. If the Heppleworth Food Factory had its own Creature Department, it would also be a secret. In fact, it was unlikely anyone in Simmersville knew anything about the strange, hidden world of creaturedom.

  “I’m sure half of Simmersville would faint dead right away if we suddenly went capering up the main street of town.” The professor looked around the laboratory at his department of creaturely inventors. “I doubt they’ve seen anything as outlandish as you guys before!”

  “Oh, yes they have!” said Leslie. “And that’s exactly how we can sneak into town undetected.”

  “Do you mean to imply,” Reggie inquired, “the people of Simmersville are familiar with the creatures of creaturedom?”

  Leslie shook her head. “Not creatures, no. But what they do know is . . . costumed cabaret!”

  The professor furrowed his brow. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “The timing couldn’t be more perfect,” Leslie explained. “Every year, the Simmersville Food Festival ends with a big dinner-theatre-style cabaret, right in the main square. It’s super-cool!”

  “Cool?” Elliot couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How is it possible you think my fishing vest is dorky, but you like dinner-theatre-style cabaret?”

  “It’s possible,” Leslie answered, “because your fishing vest is dorky.”

  “It is not!” Elliot waved his hands up and down the vest. “Look at how many pockets I’ve got!”

  “I think you just proved my point,” said Leslie.

  “There is no way a cabaret is cooler than my fishing vest! You only have to say it. Dinner-theatre-style costume cabaret! It sounds like the sort of show old people go to see in Las Vegas.”

  Leslie shut her eyes. “Have you ever been to Las Vegas?”

  “No,” Elliot grumbled.

  “And have you ever been to a dinner-theatre-style costume cabaret?”

  Elliot hesitated. “Well . . . no,” he said at last.

  “Then let me finish explaining.” Leslie moved her eyes over the creatures, who by now were curiously crowding around her. “Trust me, guys. No matter how weird you think you look, you’ll have no problems in Simmersville—at least not this weekend. It’s all because of the cabaret. The performers dress up in the weirdest, most outrageous costumes you can think of. All we have to do is tell people that’s what you are—cabaret performers—and you’ll fit right in.”

  “Is that true?” asked Gügor. He spread his arms and thumped around in a circle. “Even as weird as Gügor?”

  “Weirder,” said Leslie. She tugged on the bottom of her T-shirt, pulling the fabric out to show everyone the silk-screen print. “As weird as this.”

  Leslie’s T-shirt was emblazoned with a stage photograph of her favorite band, Boris Minor and the Karloffs. They were famous for performing in costumes that looked like monsters from old black-and-white horror movies. Everyone leaned in for a closer look. When they saw the band, the creatures nodded to one another. Leslie was right; they certainly didn’t look any stranger than Boris Minor and the Karloffs.

  Leslie’s face lit up as she pointed to the picture. “And guess who’s playing the big finale in the cabaret this year!”

  “Them?” asked Elliot. He had only heard a few of their songs (the ones Leslie had forced him to listen to), and he was fairly certain the two of them would never see eye-to-eye when it came to music. “Didn’t they split up? Like, before we were even born?”

  Leslie shrugged. “They get back together for special events, like the Simmersville Food Festival Dinner-Theatre-Style Cos-tume Cabaret.”

  “Oh, brother,” said Elliot.

  “Leslie might be on to something,” said the professor. “But if we’re going to pass as cabaret performers, we’ll definitely have to practice some dance moves.” He made two fists, tucked his elbows into his ribs, and shimmied his hips.

  Patti winced at the professor’s one-man samba (crossed with “The Chicken Dance”). “Some of us,” she groaned, “are gonna need a teensy bit more practice than others.”

  Harrumphrey stomped his foot. “Some of us aren’t going to practice at all. Because some of us don’t dance. Don’t sing, either. And definitely don’t do cabaret!”

  “I get the feeling yer referrin’ to yourself there,” said Patti.

  Harrumphrey nodded his enormous cranium. “Huffleheads don’t dance.”

  “A hufflehead? Is that what you are? I always took you for a glowerpuss.”

  Harrumphrey ignored Patti’s comment. “While I admit Leslie’s idea does possess a modicum of validity, there is no way in all of creaturedom you’ll get me doing a song-and-dance number.”

  “Don’t knock it till you try it,” said Patti.

  In response, Harrumphrey did what he did best. He harrumphed.

  “I think it’s a capital idea!” said Reggie. He puffed out his chest (even more than usual). “Back in my regimental days I had quite the reputation as a submaritone.”

  “A what?” asked Elliot. “There�
�s no such thing.” He lifted his fingers and counted off the male voice types he remembered from music class. “Tenor, baritone, bass, basso profundo, and . . . well, that’s it. There’s nothing after basso profundo.”

  “Of course there is, my boy!” Reggie lifted his brow indignantly (you could just about make out his eyes under the bulge of forehead blubber). “Submaritone! ‘Deep as a submarine,’ as they say. Look here, I’ll give you a demonstration.” Reggie sucked in a deep breath and—

  “Not now, Reggie,” said the professor. “We’ll practice later. First, we have planning to do. If the ghorks have taken control of the Heppleworth Food Factory, they’ll be on the lookout for intruders. We need a way of getting to Simmersville without being detected. Any ideas?”

  “It’s fastest by air,” said Patti.

  “Maybe,” said Gügor, scratching his chin, “there’s a way we could use Jean-Remy’s flying pan.”

  Patti sighed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Gügor, but there ain’t no way you’ll fit in a flying pan, ’specially not with the rest of us along for the ride.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Jean-Remy. He swooped down from where he had been perched, up on the railing of the Think Tank. “Gügor! You may be right!”

  Harrumphrey eyed Jean-Remy suspiciously. “How big is this flying pan of yours?”

  “No-no-no! Ze flying pan, it is too small. Too small to carry anything but ze perfect crêpe! However, ze technology I used to make ze flying pan, it was based on something else. Something . . . top secret.” Jean-Remy looked at Harrumphrey. “I zink you know what it is I am talking about.”

  An odd grumbling noise came from deep inside Harrumphrey’s throat. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

  “Why not? It is a secret flight, no? Zis would be ze perfect time to test it!”

  “Except no one in creaturedom has ever successfully piloted a machine like that. Not without crashing, at least.”

  “What machine?” asked Elliot. (This sounded very intriguing.)

  “Ze Coleopter-copter!”

  “Is that like a colonoscopy?” asked Leslie. “Grandpa Freddy had one of those last year. I don’t think he liked it.”