“Uh, Harold?” Sammy said behind me.
“Yeah?”
“Garvin is back.”
From the top of the factory I saw the door opening and Garvin walked in.
“Get these dogs off me!” Mr. Snood yelled into the horn.
“Oh, hey, you found them,” Garvin said. “Way to go, Dad.”
Garvin headed up the stairs toward the dogs, and I jumped onto the conveyer belt Floyd was on. He was way down at the bottom, eating Flooze without a care in the world.
“Here we go,” I said, and then I rode that conveyor belt like a snowboard. Snood’s Flooze bars flew everywhere and a new alarm sounded.
Sammy was right behind me, sliding fast, and we were on a crash course with Floyd at the bottom.
“GET THOSE KIDS OUT OF MY FACTORY!” Mr. Snood yelled into the horn.
Garvin jumped on a conveyor belt of his own, sliding down toward us. Floyd had reached the packaging area. The robot arms wrapped him up tight in a Flooze package and sent him down the line toward the boxes.
“Prepare for impact!” I yelled.
The conveyor belt leveled out and I tumbled head over heels, but I grabbed Floyd as I went by and held on to him like a paper-covered football. Sammy was coming in even faster. She hit me from behind, and we all flew into the air.
Our landing was not great, but we survived, and then we started running.
“Come back here, Fuzzwonker!” Garvin yelled.
“Get him, Garvin!” Mr. Snood said into the horn.
Garvin was over our heads on one of the conveyor belts, and he attempted a very complicated dive from one belt to another. He was about to tackle me like a fumbled football, but at the last second, I darted out of the way. Little did Garvin know, I was standing on a very bouncy part of the conveyor belt. When he hit, the belt buckled like a giant trampoline and launched Garvin into the air.
“AAAAAAYYYYYOOOOOAAAAAAAAYYYYAAAAOOOOOO!” he screamed.
We arrived at the door and pulled it open. When I turned back, I saw Garvin had landed in a vat of Flooze. He bobbed up and down, covered in marshmallow cream.
“Fuzzwonker!” Garvin yelled, only it sounded like he had a mouthful of taffy.
“OUT!” Mr. Snood roared. And then the dogs jumped up and licked his face again.
“No problem, sir,” I said. “Sorry for the interruption.”
We bolted out the door and sprinted to our bikes. I’ve never pedaled that fast in my life. We pedaled so fast I thought my legs were going to start smoking from the friction.
When we were safely away, we pulled over on the sidewalk and Sammy held our wrapped-up tiny buddy. I tore the paper away and found Floyd fast asleep, his goofy little mouth covered in Flooze.
“I guess he overdid it,” Sammy said.
“The first day of school will do that to a guy,” I agreed. “Put him in my backpack, will ya?”
Sammy carefully set Floyd in my backpack, and I could hear him snoring lightly as we started off again.
I thought about what to do. Dr. Fuzzwonker wouldn’t give me a dinosaur for two more years. I wasn’t going to drive the car or get a flying motorcycle anytime soon. But maybe I’d get a yes if I asked for a sidekick.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go talk to my dad.”
“So, how did it go?” Dr. Fuzzwonker asked when I showed up at home a half hour later. We took the elevator down to Fizzopolis.
“It was mostly average, I guess. I learned some math.”
“Well, that’s just fabulous, isn’t it? And how about our little friend? How did he do?”
“Oh, Floyd did fine,” I said. “He was no trouble at all.”
“Marvelous!” Dr. Fuzzwonker said.
I stepped out of the elevator and let the doors close.
“Um, Dad?”
Dr. Fuzzwonker headed for his tree-house laboratory, so he didn’t notice that the elevator had gone back upstairs, where it would pick up Sammy.
“It’s not as easy as I thought it might be keeping Floyd a secret.”
Dr. Fuzzwonker gasped. “Did Garvin Snood see him? Say it isn’t so!”
“I kept him safe from the Snoods.”
“WHEW! You had me worried there for a second.”
Floyd sat on my shoulder and yawned. When I turned around and saw that the elevator had reached the kitchen, I knew I was running out of time. I’d given Sammy specific instructions about how to use the elevator, and now she was coming down. Better spill the beans.
All in one breath, I asked: “I know I can’t have a dinosaur yet or drive the car or ride a flying motorcycle, but if it’s okay with you, I could really, really, really use a sidekick with this job of mine. Please? With a bowl of sugar on top?”
Dr. Fuzzwonker rubbed his chin. He thought and thought and thought about all the things that could go wrong as he looked around Fizzopolis. It was a lot of responsibility for one kid.
“Do you really, really, really trust this person you have in mind?” Dr. Fuzzwonker asked.
“I really do,” I said. And then the elevator arrived, the bell went ding, and the doors opened up.
“I made a friend,” I said. “This is Sammy. She’s very helpful. And trustworthy.”
Sammy walked out into Fizzopolis.
“Nice place you got here.”
Dr. Fuzzwonker’s jaw dropped. Phil, the blob creature, was standing next to him. His jaw dropped, too. Well, actually his whole face dropped. Phil doesn’t exactly have a chin.
Dr. Fuzzwonker looked at Floyd, who was talking into my ear.
“He says without her we haven’t got a chance,” I said. “He might be right.”
Dr. Fuzzwonker looked at Sammy for a long time. She smiled up at him and took two steps closer.
“I promise to keep the Fuzzwonker family secrets.” She spit on her hand and reached out. “I’ll shake on it.”
Dr. Fuzzwonker paused a moment more, then held his hand out to his side. Phil spit a blob of something green onto Dr. Fuzzwonker’s hand. When he reached toward Sammy to shake, she didn’t hesitate.
“Welcome aboard,” Dr. Fuzzwonker said nervously. He wasn’t as sure as I was, but he’d given me a big job, and Sammy did seem trustworthy. It was going to have to work.
“Hey, you have a lagoon!” Sammy said.
Sammy got a closer look, and Floyd said something else into my ear. When he was through talking, Floyd jumped down and started walking on his tiny green legs. Then his pants fell off.
“He says he needs a travel buddy. It gets boring in the backpack all by himself.”
Floyd sat down on the Ping-Pong table and began interviewing for the position of travel buddy. Every Fizzy in Fizzopolis lined up.
“Son,” Dr. Fuzzwonker said. “I think we’ve created a monster.”
Dr. Fuzzwonker didn’t know the half of it!
In that same week, Floyd jumped into a vat of macaroni and cheese in the school lunchroom.
A week after that, he tried to put on a talent show in Fizzopolis, because they had one at my school. He organized an escape on Halloween and took all the Fizzies trick-or-treating. Sammy and I were only getting started at the tasks of keeping Floyd out of trouble, guarding the recipe for Fuzzwonker Fizz, and protecting the biggest secret in the world.
Fizzopolis!
The night after Floyd’s first day at school, I woke up and found him sleeping on the windowsill.
“What the heck are you doing out of bed?” I asked.
Floyd didn’t answer. He was too busy snoring and probably dreaming about the Snood Candy Factory and what was inside. I’m pretty sure he was also thinking about running through the neighborhood in his underpants and sneaking into the building so he could eat Flooze all night.
Because there is a secret among Fizzies that only Fizzies know. Well, a secret only Fizzies and me know. Floyd told me.
For Fizzies, Flooze is the best-tasting candy on earth. They live for that stuff!
Sammy and I might think it’s ab
out the crummiest candy there ever was, but Floyd and his Fizzy buddies love Flooze.
As I looked out the window, I could imagine Mr. Snood in the Snood Candy Factory. He was probably saying something like this: “I must have that Fuzzwonker Fizz recipe! It’s worth millions! Billions! Zillions!”
From where Mr. Snood stood, he could see Flooze being pulled in giant goopy sheets, stretched, cut, and wrapped. All those squeaky gears, rolling conveyor belts, and robotic arms lifting boxes and boxes of Snood’s Flooze. He probably just took a sloppy bite of grape-flavored Flooze and washed it down with a bottle of strawberry Fuzzwonker Fizz.
That Fuzzwonker Fizz is pure magic, a taste explosion that would have puckered his lips and sent chills down his spine. I bet he burped for seven seconds in a row, a dud by Fizz standards, then turned to the neighborhood outside.
“Fuzzwonker Fizz will be mine. All mine! Mine! Mine! Mine! Muahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaa!”
Or maybe he’s asleep. How should I know?
Excerpt from Fizzopolis: Floozombies!
I’m Harold Fuzzwonker and I’m sitting in my classroom, where Miss Yoobler is about to start a movie. Miss Yoobler has terrible taste in movies, and she never gives out popcorn. And she makes us take notes! Who takes notes during a movie?
“Now, class,” Miss Yoobler droned. “The History of Flour is an informative and exciting documentary that will change the way you think about hot dog buns and pizza crust. Prepare to be moved.”
The History of Flour was part four of a series we were watching. These movies make me feel like my eyeballs are going to fall out and roll around like marbles on the classroom floor. We’ve already completed The Story of a Chicken, Butter My Toast, and Super Cobs: The Amazing Journey of Corn.
Miss Yoobler turned off the lights and started the movie. The screen filled with rows of swaying wheat and the sound of a tractor.
My best friend, Sammy, leaned slightly toward me and said, “I thought this movie was about pizza.”
“And hot dogs,” I added.
“You two are total airheads,” Jeff Flasky said. Flasky had an enormous head and big, round eyes. He was also the smartest kid in class.
“What does a field full of whatever that stuff is have to do with pepperoni pizza?” Sammy wondered. Flasky rolled his eyes as Miss Yoobler took three long strides toward us.
“Zip it, Fuzzwonker,” Miss Yoobler said. She was the strictest teacher in the entire United States of America. Unfortunately, Sammy was in a talkative mood and she kept yammering about pizza and hot dogs. Miss Yoobler took three more steps and loomed over my left shoulder like Frankenstein.
Garvin Snood was sitting two desks over. He was always trying to figure out the secret of Fuzzwonker Fizz, so we had to be extra-super careful around him.
“You boneheads are in for it now,” Garvin sniggered. He laughed like a hyena.
Miss Yoobler tapped her foot on the linoleum. It was like Chinese water torture.
“Harold Fuzzwonker, come with me,” she finally said.
“Take me!” Sammy said. “I’ll gladly go to the principal’s office! Last time I went there they had donuts and better movies.”
I picked up my backpack and Miss Yoobler marched me to an empty desk in the farthest back corner of the class. Sammy waved at me with a faraway look like we were separated by a giant river filled with crocodiles.
“Let’s see if sitting in Siberia will help you concentrate, Mr. Fuzzwonker,” Miss Yoobler said. She stood next to me for a while, but then Garvin Snood threw a wad of paper at Jeff Flasky and hit him in the side of his huge head.
“Garvin!” Miss Yoobler yelled, and then she was on the move toward Garvin’s desk.
I looked down at my backpack sitting on the floor. It was squirming wildly like a tennis ball was bouncing around inside. There were also muffled noises coming from under the flap.
“Oh, great,” I said. I nudged the side of the bag with my foot and made a shhhhhhhh sound. For a second everything was calm, but then the whole bag rolled over on its side and flopped forward. I heard the sound of laughing in there.
“Calm down, little buddy!” I whispered. “I’m already in enough trouble as it is.”
In case you don’t know about my best good buddy who lives in my backpack, his name is Floyd. How he got there takes a little explaining, but since we’re watching a mindless movie about flour, I can take a second to fill you in.
The super-short story of how Floyd got in my backpack, by me, Harold Fuzzwonker (sure to be more interesting than the History of Flour):
My dad is Dr. Fuzzwonker, and he keeps a top secret laboratory under our house. It’s the biggest laboratory you’ve ever seen—like several football fields—because some of what my dad makes needs a lot of space to roam. He creates Fuzzwonker Fizz, the soda pop that produces the biggest burps in the world. It’s extremely popular stuff that comes in about one hundred flavors. You should try some!
Classroom status update: I need to speed this up because Floyd is sucker punching me in the solar plexus. Ouch. I advise reading the next paragraph at double speed!
Dr. Fuzzwonker uses a machine he calls the Fizzomatic to make Fuzzwonker Fizz, but he also used it to make Floyd. Floyd is a Fizzy, and he’s not the only one. There are at least a hundred different Fizzies in my dad’s humongous secret space under the house, which is probably why he calls it Fizzopolis. Floyd just happens to be the smallest one and the biggest troublemaker.
And that’s why he has to go with me in my backpack to school. If he stays in Fizzopolis without me, he misses me too much and that makes him go bonkers. He makes huge messes and causes colossal problems. So every day when I leave for school I carefully pack Floyd into my backpack and hope he stays quiet. This almost never happens, so I spend a lot of time struggling to keep Floyd a secret.
See how short that was! And trust me, you didn’t miss anything important about flour. You’re all good. I can’t say the same for myself. While you’ve been busy reading all about Floyd, I’ve been freaking out.
My backpack was flopping toward the front of the class like a sack of potatoes rolling down a hill.
I couldn’t yell at Floyd or everyone would hear me and ask me who Floyd is. I glanced toward the door, where Miss Yoobler had stationed herself. At first I thought she was staring down into her phone, probably texting some pro wrestler for advice about how to keep her class from disobeying her. But then I realized she’d fallen asleep and that gave me some extra courage.
I got down on all fours and started crawling as the bag moved toward the front of the class.
I passed a couple of other kids who were sound asleep, and then Jeff Flasky, who was diligently taking notes. The next desk I was going to pass would be Garvin’s. Total disaster dead ahead.
The bag was getting dangerously close to Garvin’s mondo-sized foot, so I pulled a pencil out from behind my ear and threw it tomahawk-style at the back of Sammy’s head. Luckily, it hit her noggin eraser end first. Sammy is my super-duper palomino. She’s the only other kid in the world that knows about Floyd.
Sammy turned in Garvin’s direction and narrowed her eyes like a ninja ready to strike. But then she saw me, and I nodded toward the bag creeping across the floor. Her eyes darted from me to the backpack moving on its own, nearly at Garvin’s feet. Then she stared at Garvin.
“What are you looking at, weirdo?” Garvin asked.
Sammy sprang into action. In a matter of less than 1.3 seconds, she did five things in rapid succession:
She reached into her own backpack, pulled out a bologna sandwich, and took it out of the Ziploc bag.
She jumped into the air and did a roundhouse kick that landed squarely on my backpack! The bag (and Floyd inside) slammed into my face and knocked me onto my back. Boy, she could really kick hard. When I sat up, I had my bag (and Floyd) in a bear hug.
When Sammy landed, she stared at Garvin like she was going to hurl. Garvin had a look on his face that screamed: This kid is about to
barf on me!
Sammy made a really loud BLAAAAAAGGGLAAAAAAAK sound and acted like she was throwing up all over Garvin.
She tossed her bologna sandwich at him and it bounced off of his massive forehead. All the bread and bologna and lettuce came apart on his desk.
“AAAAAAAAAAAUUAAAAAAUUUAAAAAUUUUUUAAAAA!” Garvin screamed. He was sure he’d been thrown up on and wow was he freaking out about it. It didn’t look like real barf. It looked like a bologna sandwich.
“Garvin stole my lunch!” Sammy yelled.
“Sammy barfed on me!” Garvin yelled.
The whole class went bananas.
There was a lot of laughing and shouting and running around the room.
“Order! Order, I say!” Miss Yoobler said. She stomped over to Garvin’s desk like an army sergeant. While all the chaos was going on in the room, I crawled back to my desk in Siberia and tied a bunch of knots on the bag flap so Floyd couldn’t escape, then I slung the pack on and cinched it down tight in case it tried to roll away again.
“She threw up on me!” Garvin said from the other end of the room. “On purpose!”
“You owe me a bologna sandwich!” Sammy said.
“Everyone sit down this instant!” Miss Yoobler shouted. She had that tone we all knew that meant we’d better do what she said unless we wanted to go to prison for ten years.
Everyone calmed down as Miss Yoobler put on her reading glasses and examined the sandwich.
“Mr. Snood,” she finally said. “You are a very strange boy.”
She picked up all the parts of the sandwich and put it back together and spoke to him like he was a very small child. “This is a sandwich. Do you understand? A saaaaandwich.”
“I know what a sandwich is!” Garvin said. He looked at Sammy. “She threw up on me!”
The Trouble with Fuzzwonker Fizz Page 5