by Gary Urey
“Sure it will,” Dr. Wackjöb countered.
“No it won’t. You heard what Bayarma said. Pierre has over a hundred men experienced in killing! They’re probably carrying M4 carbines, MK13 grenade launchers, AR15 assault rifles, and a bunch of other military-style guns. We have six unarmed people, one of who is injured, and twelve tough women armed with swords, knives, and bows. I’d say the odds are pretty much against us.”
“But they don’t have a flying dragon nose!” Mumps shouted.
Everyone looked at me. For the first time since becoming Super Schnoz, I didn’t feel like a superhero. My dirty, shredded Super Schnoz costume hung off me in threads. The Mardi Gras mask disguising my nose was long gone.
“Jimmy’s right,” I said, hanging my nose in shame. “I can still fly, but without any pepper to fuel my cayenne canyon, we’ll never defeat Pierre and save the camels.”
“What do you need pepper for?” Bayarma asked. “And what is this ‘cayenne cannon’ you are talking about?”
Vivian, the Not-Right Brothers, and Dr. Wackjöb spent the next five minutes explaining how I had crushed ECU and the Apneans just by using the power of my nose and a snuffler full of spicy pepper.
Bayarma’s eyes grew wide with excitement. “You are coming with us,” she said, jumping on her horse. “If his big khamar just needs hot pepper to blow up army tanks and defeat aliens, then I may have exactly what you’re looking for.”
CHAPTER 24
DANCE OF THE BUDDHA
The women helped us onto their horses, and we galloped across the desert. Thankfully, they had lots of water for us to drink. I wanted to inflate my nostrils and fly, but Bayarma asked me to share her horse, a fleet Mongolian stallion she called Od, which she told me meant Star in her native language.
“How do you speak English so well?” I asked as we scurried up a rocky embankment.
“I am fluent in Mongolian, English, French, Russian, Mandarin Chinese, and the slang of American hip-hop,” she answered. “I was raised herding cattle in the Gobi, but I graduated from Inner Mongolia University with a degree in foreign languages.”
“What about the other women? Do they speak English as well?”
Bayarma shook her head. “No. They have lived their entire lives as nomadic Gobi herders.”
We rode in silence for a long time. The only sounds were pounding horse hooves and blowing gusts of wind. A plume of black smoke rose from a camp in the distance. Bayarma let out a cry of despair, slapped her horse, and raced toward the camp like she was in the home stretch of the Kentucky Derby.
When we got there, the scene was one of utter destruction. Several yurts were ablaze, all of the animals were gone. Bayarma hopped off Od, clutched her sword, and examined the carnage.
“Mother, Grandmother!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Eej ni, Emee, where are you?”
The other horsewomen frantically joined in the search for friends and loved ones, but there was no one. The place was completely empty of people.
“The Frenchman and his brutes have raided the camp and taken more of our mothers, grandmothers, and sisters to help find the camels!” Bayarma said, her face flaming with fury. “If we don’t find them quickly, who knows what will happen!”
Vivian slid off her horse and ran up to me. “Schnoz, you’re the only person who can help. We need to come up with a plan and fast.”
She was right. I didn’t fly us across the world just to watch yurts burn. I walked up to Bayarma, grabbed her shoulders, and shouted, “Keep calm and smell on! We all need to have clear heads. You said something about pepper. Tell me more.”
Vivian, the Not-Right Brothers, Dr. Wackjöb, Jean Paul, Bayarma, and I powwowed around an overturned cooking pot. The tension and desperation in the air was so thick I could sniff it with a spoon.
Bayarma grabbed a cloth sack full of dried peppers about the size of a finger. “The pepper is called bird’s eye chili,” she explained. “We use it in many Mongolian dishes.”
Vivian, Jimmy, and Bayarma each grabbed a handful of the peppers and then pulverized them to dust with a stone pestle and mortar. I quickly snorted up a wad, aimed my nose at a rocky mound, and let out a sneeze. The peppery blast that followed made my nose hairs dangle in defeat. Instead of blasting the rock to smithereens, the sneeze merely made two watermelon-sized indentions in its side.
“The pepper’s not powerful enough,” I whined.
While I lamented about my weak, wimpy sneeze, Dr. Wackjöb grabbed a handful of the crushed peppers and examined them closely.
“We just need to enhance the capsaicin,” Dr. Wackjöb muttered.
TJ scratched his head. “What’s capsaicin?”
“Capsaicin is the main chemical compound that makes peppers hot,” Dr. Wackjöb explained. “If only I had some allyl isothiocyanate to increase the naturally occurring capsaicin production.”
“Where do you get ‘all … ill … iso … thio … whatever’?” I asked.
“Allyl isothiocyanate is the oil responsible for the hot taste of horseradish and wasabi.”
Bayarma produced another sack and handed it to Dr. Wackjöb. “Do you mean this?”
Dr. Wackjöb opened the bag and took a whiff. His cheeks turned red and his eyes started watering. “This is the most powerful horseradish root I have ever seen,” he said, fanning his face from the heat. “Where do you get it?”
“It grows wild in certain areas of the Gobi,” Bayarma said.
“TJ, grab the pestle and mortar,” Dr. Wackjöb ordered. “You and I are going to try to make the most powerful pepper mutation known to man.”
Three of Bayarma’s horsewomen approached me. They bowed politely and then tossed a bundle of colorful fabric at my feet.
“What’s this stuff?” I asked.
“It’s a costume from one of our Tsam dances,” Bayarma said. “Tsam means ‘dance of the Buddha.’” She rummaged through the fabric and yanked out the most awesome, freaky, scary mask I had ever seen.
“It’s a dragon mask!” Jimmy exclaimed. “Try everything on.”
The mask was fiery red with huge golden eyes and pearly white fangs. Bright yellow feathers finished off the presentation. I carefully slipped finished off the presentation. I carefully slipped the mask over my head. The dragon’s papiermâché snout fit perfectly over my massive beak. I then slipped into the rest of the costume.
Bayarma smiled. “Wonderful! You look like a Mongolian Tsam dancer.”
A hard squall blew through the camp. My nasal cavity inhaled the breeze, expanding my nostrils. I drifted steadily into the air. The dragon costume’s red tail flapped in the wind.
“I’m off to scout for Pierre!” I yelled from up above. “When I find him, I’ll be back, and we can start our assault. Hopefully, Dr. Wackjöb and TJ will have the pepper ready for me to blast them into the Stone Age.”
I sucked in a deep snoot full of air, pointed my honker toward the horizon, and flew off into the clouds.
CHAPTER 25
BATTLE OF THE BACTRIANS
After thirty minutes in the air, I finally sniffed out Pierre and his soldiers. They were in a dry desert valley, pursuing a panicked herd of wild Bactrian camels that were for the moment just out of firing range.
I sailed high above them, scoping out their operation. Jimmy’s hunch had been correct; the militia carried powerful rifles and machine guns, and drove military-style jeeps and Hummers. Trudging behind the squadron were at least two dozen frightened Mongolian men, women, children. Thick ropes bound them together while four of Pierre’s goons forced them to march.
“Bayarma’s people,” I said aloud. “I bet her mother, Sarantstral, is one of them.”
As I banked left to turn my beak around and return to the gang, a round of gunfire blasted over my head, barely missing my nose. I looked down and saw a bunch of Pierre’s men firing at me.
“What kind of ugly bird is that?” one of the men shouted.
“Looks like a big kite shaped like
a dragon,” said another.
“Let’s shoot that sucker out of the sky!” cried a third man.
A bullet clipped the end of my dragon’s tail, sending a spray of yellow feathers and papier-mâché into the air. I sniffed harder, quickly flying out of firing range, and headed back to my friends.
Everyone was waiting for me when I finally landed. A million questions flew in my direction.
“Did you find them?”
“How many are there?”
“What about their guns and equipment?”
Bayarma rushed up to me. “Did you see my mother?”
“Maybe,” I answered. “They were forcing a couple dozen of your people to march with them. One of them was probably your mother.”
Dr. Wackjöb and TJ emerged from over the ravine carrying a large clay pot.
“Does the pepper work?” I asked.
“We don’t know,” Dr. Wackjöb said. “You have to test it out first.”
I looked into the pot expecting to see a bunch of ground pepper. Instead, I saw a bunch of little brown balls the size of Milk Duds.
“What’s this stuff?” I asked, scratching the end of my nose.
“Simply grinding both peppers and mixing them together did not change the levels of capsaicin,” Dr. Wackjöb explained. “TJ and I had to boil each of the ingredients down to this clay-like substance. We’re hoping that heating the combined properties of the bird’s eye chilis and the Mongolian horseradish root will greatly increase its heat.”
I grabbed two of the pepper balls and shoved one up each nostril. The sting was so intense I nearly passed out. My elephant trunk started tickling. I aimed my nose at a rocky mound and sneezed. The boogery blast that shot from my cayenne cannon sounded like a howitzer going off. My brain throbbed and my ears rang. The pepper balls, combined with my atomic snot, exploded the mound to pieces and left a crater the size of a Florida sinkhole.
“Success!” Dr. Wackjöb and TJ cheered, slapping each other a high five.
We finalized our battle plan. Vivian, Bayarma, and I would fly ahead to bombard Pierre and his men with pepper balls. The rest of the gang would ride on horseback with the women to guard my flank.
We all bent over until our noses were touching.
“On the count of three,” I said. “One, two, three …”
“SUPER SCHNOZ!” we all screamed.
Vivian and Bayarma strapped the clay pot filled with pepper balls on my back and climbed on board, and we soared into the clouds. As we approached Pierre’s men, I saw my worst nightmare was coming true. They had found the herd of Bactrian camels and were now rounding them up.
“Ammo!” I ordered. “Quickly!”
Vivian and Bayarma shoved a round of pepper balls up my nostrils. I swooped low and fired on a group of men. They had just lassoed an adult camel and two nursing calves. My aim was perfect. The pepper balls made a direct hit, and the camels escaped over a hill and out of sight.
The Battle of the Bactrians had begun.
Pierre’s men were everywhere, rounding up the innocent camels. I swooped and dove like an animated dragon in a Disney movie, blowing away the camel rustlers with my pinpoint, pepper-ball-fueled booger blasts.
Pierre and Arnaud came into view. They were riding in an open-air Hummer, pointing into the sky, and ordering the men to stop hunting camels and start shooting at me. Dozens of men trained their sights in my direction.
“I need more pepper balls!” I shouted to Vivian and Bayarma.
I felt Vivian’s hand reach around my head and shove a single pepper ball up my honker.
“It’s the last one,” she said dejectedly.
“At least we will have died trying to save innocent camels,” Bayarma said.
I saw a cloud of dust appear on the horizon. The horsewomen stormed onto the battlefield carrying the Not-Right Brothers, Dr. Wackjöb, and Jean Paul. TJ and Mumps hopped off the horses and hurled globs of fresh camel poop at Pierre’s men. The fleeing camels suddenly turned on the men, spitting wads of slobbery goop into their eyes. Before the thieves could wipe the poop and spit from their faces, Vivian, Dr. Wackjöb, and Jean Paul had freed the captured Mongolians.
Half of Pierre’s men raced after their former captives, the other half fired at me. A bullet clipped the dragon mask, causing it to fly off my head. The gunfire missed my flesh, but the impact knocked me sideways. Before I could right myself, I was dive-bombing directly toward Pierre’s Hummer.
“This can’t be!” I heard Pierre cry. “It’s … it’s le Nez! You are destroying all my plans!”
“I’ve been saving this for you two!” I sneered and then sneezed the final pepper bomb at the two evil perfumers. The explosion split the Hummer in two. Pierre and Arnaud stumbled from the burning vehicle and attempted to flee, but Dr. Wackjöb and a horsewoman quickly wrestled them to the ground.
“Hello, old friend,” Dr. Wackjöb growled in Pierre’s face. “I will greatly enjoy turning you over to the Mongolian authorities.”
I turned to check on the others. What I saw blew my nose with joy. Using only swords, knives, and bows and arrows, the horsewomen had chased down the rest of Pierre’s men and quickly subdued them.
When the dust settled, I saw Bayarma and Jean Paul hugging a beautiful older woman with streaks of gray in her Halloween-black hair. The woman was wearing a worn pair of Nike running shoes.
Jean Paul had finally found Sarantstral.
CHAPTER 26
A GIFT OF CAMEL
After three days of traveling, we landed in New York and then took a quick commuter flight back to New Hampshire. Dr. Wackjöb had booked us a first-class flight out of Mongolia. Thank goodness, because the thought of flying six thousand miles back to the United States with nose power made my sinuses want to explode.
My spent honker needed a well-deserved vacation.
The smell of Strange was still everywhere, and I kept thinking about Jean Paul. He had decided to stay in Mongolia to be with Bayarma and Sarantstral.
When I made it back home, I gave each of my parents a gift from the trip. Instead of picking them up an I LOVE NEW YORK T-shirt or an Empire State Building key chain, I got them each a traditional Mongolian hat that I had picked up at a shop inside the Ulaanbaatar airport. I told them all about visit to the Big Apple, except for my experiences with Pierre and Arnaud and the New York City Police Department. I also left out that little part about flying six thousand miles to the Gobi Desert and fighting evil camel poachers.
Two months later, Dr. Wackjöb invited Vivian, the Not-Right Brothers, and me to his office for lunch. The weather was too cold to ride bikes, so Vivian’s mom dropped us off. When we walked into his office, Jean Paul and Bayarma were standing there.
We all gave them a big hug.
“What are you two doing here?” I asked.
“I thought you stayed in Mongolia,” TJ said.
“Where’s Sarantstral?” Jimmy wondered.
Jean Paul chuckled. “One question at a time. First, Bayarma and I are here because we wanted to say merci for everything you did for us.”
“Second, I am now in a master’s program at Columbia University in New York,” Bayarma said. “I’m studying conservation biology with a specialization in the wild Bactrian camel.”
“And third,” Dr. Wackjöb added, “I invited Sarantstral to come, but she is too vital in the lives of her people to leave the Gobi Desert.”
We spent the next hour eating pizza and reminiscing about our time in Mongolia. Jean Paul informed us that Pierre and Arnaud were now serving a five-year sentence in one of Mongolia’s toughest prisons for entering the country illegally with instruments of war.
Then Jean Paul turned to me and said, “Bayarma and I have something to show you.”
Dr. Wackjöb led us through the Gecko Glue® and Snore Cure Mist® factory and outside into the back parking lot. Five inches of snow had fallen overnight, blanketing everything in white. We stopped in front of a flatbed truck loaded with a huge me
tal crate.
Jean Paul handed me a key. “Unlock the crate. Inside is a présent for you.”
I gave Vivian and the Not-Right Brothers a confused look and slipped the key into the lock. When I opened the crate, my nose nearly fell off.
“Humphrey!” I exclaimed.
The camel trotted out of the crate and nuzzled his hairy face against my nose.
“This is the camel I told you about,” I said to Vivian and the Not-Right Brothers. “He’s from the Central Park Zoo.”
“So this is the camel that finally gave you the secret of Strange,” Jimmy said.
“You mean its poop gave up the secret.” Mumps chortled.
“And don’t forget,” TJ added, “this thing almost got you arrested by the New York City police!”
“Why … how …” I stammered.
“The Central Park Zoo is closing its camel exhibit,” Bayarma explained. “Other zoos offered to take the Arabian camels, but there were no takers for the lone Bactrian.”
“I made a sizeable donation to the zoo and assumed responsibly for the camel,” Jean Paul said.
Bayarma explained that she had wanted to ship Humphrey to Mongolia to be with his wild brothers. However, after talking with a zoo official, she decided that it would be extremely difficult—if not impossible—to return a habituated animal to its wild state.
“I have purchased thirty acres of cleared woodland outside town,” Dr. Wackjöb said. “That will be Humphrey’s new home. I assume that you five will take responsibility for his care and feeding.”
I was so happy that I wrapped my arms around Humphrey’s neck. The camel licked my nostrils, puffed up his cheeks, and then fired a wad of spit right in my face. A camel saliva bath had never felt so good.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
