by R. L. Stine
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4197-4363-4
B&N edition ISBN 978-1-4197-5800-3
eISBN 978-1-68335-839-8
Copyright © 2021 The Topps Company, Inc.
™ & © The Topps Company, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Garbage Pail Kids and GPK are registered trademarks of The Topps Company, Inc. and is officially licensed by The Topps Company, Inc.
Background artwork credits: Dirty Surface: Shutterstock/garmoncheg; Notebook: Shutterstock/Pixfiction; Clipboard: Shutterstock/NWM
By R.L. Stine
Interior illustrations by Jeff Zapata
Cover art by Joe Simko
Book design by Brenda E. Angelilli
Published in 2021 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
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Another dip into the garbage pail means another thank-you to Ira Friedman of Topps and Charlie Kochman of Abrams. They are not recyclable. I need their expertise and knowledge at all times.
ONE
Hi, my name is Adam Bomb, and welcome to Smellville. I thought I would introduce you to all my friends, but I’m about to E-X-P-L-O-D-E from shock.
I just returned home from my after-school Whack-a-Mole class (I take it for extra gym credit). But as I stepped into my living room, I nearly spit out my teeth when I saw my friend Rob Slob standing next to an enormous monster.
The room was dark, so it took a while for the creature to come into focus.
Rob Slob stood next to the beast and had one hand on its head. “Hey, Adam,” Rob said. “This pig followed me home. Can I keep him?”
“Huh?” I made a loud choking sound, and my eyes almost popped out of my head, so I pushed them back in with two fingers.
“That’s not a pig, Rob,” I said. “It’s a hippopotamus.”
Rob scratched his hair. Whenever he does that, large insects fall to the floor. “That’s weird,” he murmured. “How did a hippopotamus follow me home?”
Brainy Janey walked into the room. Janey is a real brainiac. She’s so smart, she reads books without pictures in them.
Janey stopped and studied the animal for a long minute. “I recognize it,” she said finally. “It’s a hippo from the hippocrampulus family. It’s part of the river-wading family of reptiles.”
See? Janey knows everything!
Rob scratched his head again, and a small toad hopped out from his hair. It bounced off the coffee table and scampered under the couch.
Rob probably should have a shampoo.
“Well, how did a hippo follow me home?” he asked.
“The Smellville Zoo ran out of money,” Janey said. “They had to let their animals go.”
The big gray hippo grunted, opened its jaws wide, and swallowed Rob’s entire left arm.
Rob grinned. “Look . . . he likes me. Can I keep him? Can I keep him, please? He can stay in my room.”
Janey and I helped Rob pull his arm free. “I don’t think he’ll fit through the door,” I said. “He’s way too huge.”
“No fat-shaming!” a voice cried. It was Babbling Brooke, and she came bursting into the room. “That’s fat-shaming, Adam! Don’t you know you’re not allowed to make fun of overweight people anymore?”
I squeezed my fists at my sides and hoped I wouldn’t explode. “You can’t fat-shame a hippo, Brooke!” I cried. “Because that’s what a hippo is—huge! It’s as big as a . . . as a . . . hippo! Have you ever heard that expression before?”
Brooke bent down and slid her arms around the creature’s neck. “He’s sweet,” she cooed. “If you ignore his looks and his breath.”
The hippo nibbled on her fingers.
I saw that Pooper, our dog, had backed up to a far corner. Pooper eyed the hippo suspiciously, and the patchy fur on his back stood on end.
Behind me, Ptooey, our parrot, hopped up and down on his perch. “How do you know?” the parrot squawked. “How do you know?”
“How do we know what?” I asked.
“How do you know?” Ptooey repeated. “How do you know? How do you know?”
“How do we know WHAT?” I shouted.
“What!” the big parrot squawked. “What! What! What!”
Cranky Frankie wandered into the room. “Shut your yap!” he shouted at Ptooey.
“How do you know? How do you know? How do you know?”
Frankie made a disgusted face and sat down on the hippo’s back. He probably thought we had moved the couch. “Who taught that bird to talk, anyway?” he mumbled.
“Who taught you to talk?” the parrot shot back.
“Shut your yap!” Frankie repeated. It’s his favorite expression. “I found a new recipe for parrot chowder! Can’t wait to try it.”
“How do you know? How do you know? How do you know?”
“Frankie, you’re sitting on a hippo,” Babbling Brooke said.
Frankie sneered. “Yeah, sure. And you’re standing on King Kong.”
“No, seriously,” Brooke said. “Look for yourself.”
The hippo made a long, loud BURRRP. To be honest, I’m not sure what end of the hippo the sound came out of.
Frankie jumped up. “Shut your yap!” he shouted at the hippo.
Rob Slob rolled his eyes. “Frankie, don’t you think it’s surprising to see a hippo in the house?”
Frankie growled at Rob Slob. “I think it’s surprising we let you in the house!”
“Where do hippos come from?” Babbling Brooke wondered out loud.
“They come from zoos,” Brainy Janey answered. “That’s their natural habitat. If you want to see a hippo in the wild, you have to go to a zoo.”
“And what do they eat?” Brooke asked.
We all looked down. The hippo was gobbling up garbage that we had dropped on the living room rug.
Okay, okay. So we’re not the neatest kids on the planet. Sometimes our garbage piles up.
“Look at him go with that garbage,” Rob Slob said. “He’s a total clean freak! He can be our new housekeeper!”
“Awesome idea!” I cried. “We won’t even need a vacuum with this guy around.”
I watched the hippo chew up a pair of shoes that were left in the corner. He really was cleaning up.
“So . . . I can keep him?” Rob Slob asked. “Can I?”
We all nodded yes.
“What are we going to name him?” Brooke asked.
Cranky Frankie snickered. “How about we call him Rob Slob Junior?”
And that was how Rob Slob Junior got his name.
We didn’t have any more time to discuss it, because the front doorbell rang.
“That must be the hippo’s owner coming to take him home,” I said.
>
But I was very wrong.
TWO
I opened the door and found the Perfect twins, Peter and Patty, standing on our GO AWAY! doormat, with perfect smiles on their faces.
They wore matching red-and-blue polo shirts with the words I’M PERFECT on the front. And their white shorts looked like they had been starched and ironed, because they were smooth as steel.
Patty Perfect held a tan-and-white chihuahua in her hands. The dog had sparkly white teeth. It grinned at me with the same smile as the Perfect twins.
“You remember Good Boy,” Patty asked, but it wasn’t a question.
The dog stuck its paw out to shake hands.
I just stared at it and couldn’t be more puzzled. What were Patty and Peter doing here? Whenever they saw me or my friends, they always stuck their noses up at us as if we were garbage.
I squinted at the twins. “I can’t believe you call your dog Good Boy.”
“But that’s his name,” Peter said.
“I get that,” I said. “But—”
“We named him Good Boy because he’s so good,” Patty said. She patted the little dog’s head and he made a giggling sound.
“He’s perfect,” Peter said. “But we couldn’t name him Perfect because our cat is named Mister Purrfect.”
“Cute,” Luke Puke said. And then he began to gag.
Junkfood John quickly stepped aside. He had a big bag of salted garlic prune twists in his hands. “What are you two doing here?” he asked the twins. “Are you selling Goody-Goody Scout cookies? Because I’ll take six boxes.”
I spun around to face him. “You already bought six boxes of Good-Goody Scout cookies,” I reminded him.
He burped. “That was breakfast.”
John’s burp smelled of garlic and prunes. The Perfect twins staggered back and started to cough. Good Boy coughed, too.
When they finished coughing, Peter and Patty pushed past us into the living room. My other friends all jumped up from their chairs, surprised to see them.
Through the kitchen window, I could see Rob Slob Junior, our new hippo, helping himself to a garbage brunch in the backyard. Pooper, our big brown mutt, sniffed at Good Boy from across the room, then went back to sleep.
Patty and Peter walked to the kitchen and set their chihuahua down on our table. They frowned at the stacks of drippy, dirty dishes piled high. We don’t always have time to wash them. We usually just eat our food out of the least dirty ones.
What’s the harm?
“Did you come over to wash our dishes?” I asked.
They both shook their heads. “We can’t wash dishes,” Peter said. “The dishwashing soap is too harsh on our skin.”
“We came over to show off Good Boy,” Patty said. She patted the dog again, and I swear he went HEE-HEE.
Brainy Janey stepped up to the table. “I love chihuahuas,” she said. “Did you know their name comes from the chihuahua plant? It means friend in Spanglish.”
“I didn’t know that,” Peter said. “Are you sure?”
“Brainy Janey is always sure,” I said. “She reads the kind of books you don’t have to color.”
“Chihuahuas are the result of two different breeds coming together,” Janey continued. “The Chis and the Huahuas. In ancient times, the Huahuas were as big as elephants. So it’s amazing the breed is so tiny today.”
Peter pointed to the kitchen window. “Is that a Huahua in your backyard?”
“No, that’s our new housekeeper,” I said.
For a moment we all watched Rob Slob Junior snuffling up garbage from the lawn.
Patty rubbed Good Boy under his chin. “We came to show you the kinds of things Good Boy can do,” she said.
“We’re not trying to be show-offs,” Peter said. “Because we’re perfect. But we thought you should see this.”
“Gather around, everyone,” Patty said. “We want you to watch Good Boy.”
THREE
Peter Perfect leaned over his dog. “Good Boy, stand on one hand.”
Good Boy swung his skinny front paws down and kicked up with his rear paws. He arched his back and balanced carefully on his paw. Then he stayed there, his hind legs pointing straight up in the air.
“Now, cartwheel, Good Boy,” Patty said.
The chihuahua did a perfect cartwheel, landing on his back paws.
“Backward cartwheel,” Patty ordered.
The dog did a backward cartwheel, landing perfectly.
“I’m going to give the next command in French,” Patty said, then turned to the dog. “Chien, roulé, s’il vous plaît!”
Good Boy rolled over.
“His French isn’t as perfect as Peter’s and mine,” Patty said. “But he understands enough to obey instructions.”
“Your dog is pretty good,” I said. “But why are you showing us all these tricks?”
Peter raised a hand. “One more,” he said. “You’ll like this one.”
He pulled a black handkerchief from his pocket and blindfolded the dog.
Patty placed a blank sheet of paper on the table in front of Good Boy. Then she stuck a black marker in the dog’s paw.
“Okay, Good Boy, show us your ABCs,” Peter said.
The chihuahua hunched over the paper and began to write the alphabet blindfolded. A . . . B . . . C . . . D . . .
“Are we supposed to be impressed?” Cranky Frankie asked. “His D looks like an O.”
. . . E . . . F . . . G . . .
The dog filled the page with letters. When he finished, Peter Perfect pulled off the blindfold and petted the dog’s head.
“Good boy, Good Boy!” Peter and Patty cheered together.
“He’s a nice dog,” I said. “But why did you bring him here?”
“Yeah. Why all the tricks?” Babbling Brooke demanded.
“Because we’re entering Good Boy in the Smellville Pet Show,” Patty said. “And Peter and I wanted you to see that you don’t stand a chance.”
“So don’t waste your time,” Peter said. “Don’t even bother to enter your dog in the pet contest.”
“Are you kidding me?” I cried. “Pooper is an awesome dog. He can win any contest. Pooper can . . . ”
Patty glanced down at the living room rug. “Your dog isn’t even housebroken,” she said.
“Of course he isn’t housebroken yet,” I replied. “He’s only four!”
The Perfects both tossed back their heads and laughed. They had tinkly, soft, perfect laughs.
“And one more thing,” Peter said. “We’ll tell you the awesome grand prize you’re not going to win.”
I sighed and felt my body getting ready to explode, but I held it in. “Okay, tell us,” I said. “What’s the awesome grand prize?”
“It’s a free all-day trip to Six Thrills Amusement Park,” Patty said. “But you can kiss that prize goodbye right now.”
Their chihuahua stood up on his hind legs and threw kisses. SMACK. SMACK.
Wacky Jackie had been quiet the whole time. But now she spoke up. “I love roller coasters!” she gushed. “Know my favorite? It’s called the Stomach Punch.”
“Huh? Why is it called the Stomach Punch?” Babbling Brooke asked.
“Because it takes your breath away,” she said, flicking Brooke in the stomach with her fist.
Nervous Rex grabbed his belly. “Please don’t talk about roller coasters,” he groaned. “Roller coasters make me . . . nervous.”
“Walking makes you nervous!” Cranky Frankie snapped.
“We have to go,” Peter Perfect said, picking up Good Boy and tucking him under his arm.
“Mother and Father expect us home by five,” Patty said. “Peter and I set the table for dinner. We also wash and dry the dishes after dinner. And do you know why? Because we’re perfect.”
“So? We don’t wash our dishes,” I told them. “What’s the point? They only get dirty again.”
As the Perfects started to the front door, Good Boy raised a paw and waved bye-by
e. The door closed behind them.
I turned to the others. “We can’t let the Perfects win another contest,” I said. “What are we going to do?”
FOUR
Handy Sandy here. I’ll tell the next part of the story, if you don’t mind.
Adam Bomb started to pace back and forth, and he looked ready to explode. “We need a pet that can beat that show-off chihuahua,” he said. “Anyone have any ideas?”
I had an idea, so I raised my hand. I’m the handiest kid in the house. I’m always inventing things and fixing things and coming up with the best ideas.
I don’t want to brag, but I’m the one who invented the Virtual Flyswatter™ for killing flies online.
Everyone in our house loved that invention.
You might ask how the ten of us kids came to be living together in this big old house in Smellville.
And you may ask why we don’t have any parents living with us.
And why we can’t remember how we got here.
Well, you may ask those questions—but you won’t get any answers. Because we don’t have a clue.
Even Brainy Janey doesn’t know. And Janey is so smart, she can spell her name backward and forward.
We only know there are ten of us in the house. And we have fun and take care of one another and don’t fight—too much.
The other kids call us the Garbage Pail Kids, so that’s what we call ourselves now, too. And it makes sense, because our yard is jammed with garbage pails that are filled to the brim. We plan to empty them, just not right now.
But maybe our new housekeeper will.
Anyway, I raised my hand because I had a handy idea for solving our pet problem. “I could build us a new pet,” I said.
The others all stared at me.
“I can build us our own perfect dog and insert artificial intelligence,” I said. “I know I can build a winner.”
Adam shook his head. “You already tried that. Remember, Sandy?”
“Well . . . yes,” I admitted. “I built myself a little brother because I always wanted one. He was a great guy, too.”
“And then his head fell off after a week. Remember, Sandy?” Cranky Frankie chimed in.