by Bill Myers
Wait a minute! How could Collision have followed me all the way to Africa? (And when did I have a fish dinner?)
It was about then that I decided it might be a good idea to open my eyes—you know, just to see what nightmare I was living in now.
But when I opened them, I saw it was no nightmare. It was worse! I was staring right into the face of . . . not a cat, but a dog! And not your normal, everyday, backyard killer variety. No sir, that would be way too normal and everyday. Instead, this little Fido was your ugly skin-and-bones variety, who had some very sharp fangs.
An ugly skin-and-bones variety who looked exactly like those laughing hyenas you see on the National Geographic channel. Only this guy wasn’t laughing. Instead, he was licking his nice sharp fangs and anticipating biting into a McDoogle morsel!
I immediately took charge and screamed hysterically.
He immediately leaped back and snarled viciously.
I tried to talk, but it’s hard speaking when your heart has relocated to your throat.
He crouched lower, growling, showing teeth so yellow they cried out for one of those tooth-whitening strips.
After several more attempts at speaking, my voice finally kicked in with an all-powerful, totally in charge: “Nice doggy, doggy, doggy . . .”
I heard another growl and spun around to see two more of the critters trying to sneak up on me from behind.
Not wanting them to feel left out, I repeated my greeting, throwing in a few more whimpers and plenty of whines. “Nice doggies, doggies, doggies . . .”
They crouched, snarling with teeth so pointed and ugly they could have signed up for the Vampire Family Dental Plan.
Unsure what to do, but not wanting to be anyone’s dog food, I slowly rose to my knees.
They growled louder, not thrilled that their midnight snack was trying to get away.
“Listen, fellas,” I half squeaked, half croaked, “I’d love to stick around, but I’ve got this thing about dying. I mean, I break out in a bad case of death every time it happens.”
They weren’t impressed with my logic and inched in closer.
I rose to my feet, doing my best to stand strong—though it’s hard to stand strong when your legs are as wobbly as Jell-O on a blade of grass in a hurricane . . . during an earthquake.
The good news was, I stood a lot taller than them.
The bad news was, they could solve that by chewing off a couple of my legs.
Ever so carefully, I unhooked myself from the parachute and took a step backward.
Ever so carefully, they took a step forward.
I took another step backward.
They took another step forward.
It was like a weird dance. But instead of music, we were swaying to the melody of their growls and snarls . . . (while my knocking knees served as the rhythm section).
I stole a look over my shoulder and saw the cliff with the river below. I figured I had two choices:
1. Stick around as their dinner guest.
2. Leap off the cliff and practice my skydiving . . . (This
time without a
parachute.)
Decisions, decisions. To die or to die, that was the question.
(I just wished there were more answers.)
Anyway, after taking a vote of all parties concerned (me, me, and me), the decision was unanimous, the me’s had it. I would die—but not by the teeth of these crazy canines with the bad overbites. No sir, I’d check out of this old world by doing what I do best . . . destroying myself through my own God-given clumsiness.
So with a deep breath and another prayer to check if God had changed His mind about those clean clothes, I spun around and raced for the cliff. Of course, my puppy pals were right on my heels . . . literally:
CHOMP!!
“YEOWWWWWWW!”
Unfortunately, the cliff wasn’t exactly a cliff. It was more like a steep hill—a very steep hill. Which would explain my
roll, roll, rolling
tumble, tumble, tumbling,
along with my ever-popular
bounce, bounce, bouncing.
And just when things were getting a little boring (and a lot painful), the hill flattened out a moment. Of course, the drooling doggies were still attached to my behind until I finally
K-Slammed
into a giant
“OINK!”
pig.
Well, not exactly a pig. Its hairy body, ugly warts, and giant fangs (which begged for the same dental work the dogs needed), not to mention its grumpy personality, told me it was definitely not planning to wind up as anybody’s ham dinner.
At least not mine.
At least not my poodle pals.
Instead, the thing gave a few angry grunts followed by a fierce
“SQUEAL!”
Now, unable to speak Pig-ese, I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant. But apparently my doggie dudes knew. They immediately let go of my heels (and other parts of my backside) and looked pretty frightened.
The warty warrior grunted a few more times, pawed the earth to show his sincerity . . . and charged at them like a bull. He didn’t take a lot of steps, but enough to make the clueless canines turn tail and run, yelping all the way.
Whew, talk about grateful.
Talk about wanting to thank him.
Talk about—uh-oh . . .
Now my hog hero had turned around and was glaring at me. Apparently, I was next on his attack list.
Having no idea what to do, I looked back at the hill. It dropped sharply toward the river. I would have no trouble continuing my rolling, tumbling, and bouncing routine the rest of the way into the water. But I figured I’d already met my quota of broken bones for one story. So, once again, I tried turning the ol’ McDoogle charm on this fellow. I cranked up my best smile (which looked more horrified than happy) and after three or four tries finally managed to croak out, “Nice piggy, piggy, piggy . . .”
Now, to be fair, I really don’t think he was rude. He probably just didn’t hear. I mean, how could he hear anything the way he was pawing the earth, grunting in rage, and squealing as he charged?
SQUEALING AS HE CHARGED?!
Suddenly, rolling, tumbling, and bouncing seemed like a great plan—especially for someone with my experience.
So, without a moment’s hesitation, I turned and ran for your life. (It would have been for “my” life, but at the moment mine wasn’t worth much.)
And I wasn’t wrong. Because with every roll, tumble, and bounce, I felt my market value dropping. By the time I reached the water with my ever-popular Wally McDoogle patent-pending K-Splash,
I was worth about ten cents, if you count the ten-cent deposit for my body. Or zero cents, if you realized that I had just surfaced next to a baby elephant.
Baboons, hyenas, warthogs, baby elephants? What was I, the Crocodile Hunter?
The best I figured, Li’l Dumbo was only a few months old. And he was more than a little cute. Especially the way he tilted his head and looked at me. But that was nothing compared to the way he lowered his trunk, took a snout full of water, and
SPLISSSSHed . . .
it all into my face.
“Hey!” I shouted (in between coughing and drowning). “What do you cough-cough think you’re drown-drown doing?”
He hooted in delight, dipped his built-in fire hose back into the water, and
SPLISSSSHed . . .
me all over again. (Kids nowadays, I tell you, they have no respect for their elders.)
But two could play that game. I leaned back and splashed a huge handful of water into his face. He hooted in joy and sucked up another snout full of water.
This time I saw it coming. I took a deep breath of air and ducked under the surface of the river. No way could he get me there . . . until I felt his trunk slipping under my shirt and tickling my belly.
“Come on, little fellow!” I said, giggling. “Cut it out, now!”
At least that’s what I wanted to say.
Unfortunately, it came out more like . . . “Blub-blub-blub, glug-blub-glug-blub!” (Hey, you try talking underwater.)
But even that was pretty fun. What wasn’t fun was when I started laughing. Actually, that was fun, too. It was the breathing that got a little complicated. The breathing that sounded a lot like . . . “Gag-gag-gag, choke-gag-choke-gag!” (Hey, you try breathing underwater.)
When I finally surfaced, I gasped for air, only to be met again with another
SPLISSSSH.
But it was all in good fun . . . except for the other elephant trunk wrapping around me.
Wait a minute, how many trunks do elephants have?
I opened my eyes in the splashing water. There was Little Dumbo spouting away, having the time of his life. But someone had joined us. Someone about ten times bigger and ten times less happy. Before I could move, the bigger one (I’m betting it was Junior’s mommy) tightened her trunk around me and lifted me out of the water.
“Easy, girl!” I shouted. At least that’s what I wanted to shout. Unfortunately, it came out more like: “Augh! Augh! I’m going to die! I’m going to die!” (Hey, you try being a coward.)
But Momma wasn’t quite done teaching her lesson. To further encourage her baby not to play with strangers (and strangers not to play with her baby), she raised me high over her head—which, of course, led to the necessary and even louder “AUGHHH”ing in terror.
Now, I really don’t want to complain. I mean, the view up there was actually pretty good. Unfortunately, the ride was a bit bumpy. Especially the part where she suddenly flung me through the air:
“AUGHHHH!”
and I suddenlier
K-rashed
into a tree on the riverbank.
The good news was, I didn’t pass out.
The bad news was, well, I didn’t pass out. Because by the looks of things, Momma wasn’t quite done making her point. As I staggered around, trying to remember how to use my feet, she charged toward me, making it clear that she remembered how to use her tusks.
I stared, frozen in fear. I was trapped with nowhere to run. And then, when she was less than ten feet away, when I was about to become the world’s first elephant-kabob, I heard a boy scream.
I looked around, surprised that it wasn’t me. In a flash, I was tackled hard from the side, landing on the shore of the river.
Of course, I was dying to know who hit me (and would probably die finding out). But when we landed, I got very involved in
K-thunking
my head against a very unsoft rock.
Well, I wish it had been a very unsoft rock. But by its leathery scales, its lizardlike feet, and giant, snapping crocodile jaws . . . I figured it just might be something like, oh, I don’t know . . .
A GIANT SNAPPING CROCODILE!
Ever have one of those days?
It looked like I was about to die one of those deaths. . . .
Chapter 5
The Kid
I rolled onto my belly, raised my head, and looked directly into the mouth of a giant crocodile. And how did I know it was the mouth of a giant crocodile? Believe me, after My Life As Crocodile Junk Food, I know all about the mouths of giant crocodiles.
Now, looking inside its mouth wouldn’t have been a problem, if I happened to be a crocodile dentist and it happened to be in for its six-month checkup. (Or if I happened to have a rifle, and it was looking to be made into a pair of crocodile-skin boots.) But since I left my drills (and rifle) at home, and since it didn’t appear to have an appointment, things got a little interesting.
First, the croc had this thing for my head . . .
It wanted to bite it off!
I was flattered, but I really wanted to save face (along with my ears, hair, and everything else attached to it), so I rolled away as fast as possible.
Next, the croc wanted a free handout (or my hand in its mouth).
I yanked it away, too.
Well, most of it. I was a little slow in the pinky-removal department. But just as its jaws were coming down for some finger food, the little kid who had tackled me suddenly reappeared. He threw his arms around the croc’s mouth, slammed it shut, and flipped it onto its back.
Talk about impressive! I mean, the boy was a lot younger than me and a whole lot skinnier (if that’s possible), but he easily handled the croc critter.
Once he had it on its back, he shouted something to me. I didn’t understand, until he motioned to a nearby dugout canoe close to the riverbank’s edge and shouted again.
Now, I’m no genius, but I figured being alive and safe in a canoe was a lot smarter than being dead and in the mouth of a croc. So I scrambled to my feet and raced through the sand to the canoe.
I’d barely jumped inside when I heard the kid running behind me. I spun around just in time to see him grab the side of the boat and shove it toward the water.
The croc—that now seemed even crankier— raced right behind him not twelve feet away.
Better make that ten.
Er, eight.
The kid shouted, obviously wanting me to get out and push. I would have, if my knees hadn’t suddenly turned coward on me. I don’t want to say they were knocking, but they shook worse than a pair of maracas in a mariachi marching band (whatever that means).
Unable to move, I did the next-best thing. I opened my mouth and:
“AUGHHHHHHH!”ed.
(We all have special abilities. For some it’s fighting crocodiles, for others it’s screaming like a little girl.)
I glanced behind us. The crotchety croc was four feet away and opening its mouth.
We slipped into the water with the canoe.
So did the croc. Now it was two feet away.
Er, one.
The kid leaped into the canoe just as the croc’s jaws came down and
K-BIT
into the canoe.
The good news is, dugout canoes are not as tasty as humans. The bad news is, the croc would have an ugly bruise on its snout—which isn’t so bad unless they were having class pictures taken tomorrow.
I started to thank the little kid, but he’d already moved to the front of the canoe, grabbed a makeshift oar, and started to paddle.
I picked up the other oar and tried to help. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I paddled, it was always in the wrong direction. And after ten minutes of sending us into little figure-eight circles, one way, then the other way, then the other way again, I figured I’d be more helpful if I stopped.
Of course, I had a thousand and one questions to ask the kid. Intelligent things like . . .
—What do people call him when they don’t call him “kid”?
—Where were we going?
—Was he taking me to his village to eat me?
But since we couldn’t communicate, I decided to wait.
The sun had finally come up, and I could see all sorts of cool trees and stuff along the bank. The whole place was like a jungle but a lot drier. And hotter. In no time flat, the kid had his old ragged T-shirt peeled off. Now he sat on his knees paddling, sweat pouring off his back, wearing only a pair of ugly worn gym shorts and some goofy-looking sandals that had soles made of old tires. I didn’t want to say anything about his wardrobe, but the guy was definitely fashion-impaired.
I felt bad that he was doing all the work, so I decided to paddle again. He heard me reach for the oar and spun around. He jabbered something I didn’t understand, until his teeth flashed in a bright white smile. Only then did I realize he was making a joke about my seafaring skills. He jabbered some more, grinned some more, then grabbed my oar and threw it into the water out of my reach.
I had to laugh. It was nice to know that despite the culture gap, we could still communicate through the international language of my clumsiness.
After a few minutes, I laid my head back in the warm sun and closed my eyes. Only then did I think about my superhero story. And with nothing else to do, I started imagining what would happen next to Rhyming Dude McDoogle. . .
.
When we last left our hero, he was being transported to Material Man’s headquarters in Hollyweird by the awful...
Ta-da-DAAAA...
Give-Me-It-All Beam.
For the most part, it was an okay trip...except for the in-flight movie, which he’d already seen, and the two-and-a-half microsized pretzels they gave him for a snack. (I guess even transport beams are trying to cut down on expenses.)
Then there was the minor cross-wiring problem. Apparently, Material Man had also discovered a Four-H prizewinning hog that he wanted. And since he beamed in the hog and Rhyming Dude at about the same time, their body parts got a little confused. No biggie, except that Rhyming Dude hated his new curly tail and wasn’t really fond of having four legs. Of course he complained, but it came out like:
“Oinky, oink-oink,
Oink, oink, oinky-oink!”
The good news was, he was still talking in rhyme. The bad news was, nobody could understand him. (Then again, with his incredible lack of talent, maybe that wasn’t such bad news after all.)