by Bruce Hale
“Okay, that’s weird,” said Steph.
People crushed around a table piled high with sweets. I spotted Melvin Prang and his parents, along with three kids—probably the other schools’ contest winners.
But no Beefy D.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Stephanie asked a store employee.
The woman pointed to a corner.
“Me too,” I said, joining Steph.
Hector crossed his arms. “I’ll scope out the scene, pahangle.”
We found the bathrooms in a short hallway off the main floor. Steph entered the Kitties, but the Dawgs’ door was locked. As I waited, I checked out the Beefy D posters. BAD UNDIES: EVIL IS AWESOME, they read.
Then I noticed a third door, slightly ajar. I wandered over.
A voice rose. “I don’t care if it’s not where I saw it. Find my Throne!”
I peeked through the doorway at a man’s broad back. A very short man.
“Search the whole house,” he snarled into his cell phone. “No, they don’t. They think I’m a stupid rapper, padangle.”
It was Beefy D. My breath caught in my throat. So he wasn’t a rapper, but who was he? Hmm…short, powerful, looking for a throne…
Beefy D was the UnderLord!
And his bodyguards were searching our house.
“Right,” said the man. “And pick up that other thing.”
He turned suddenly. I found myself face-to-face with the dark lord of Underwhere. And, boy, what a face—so ugly, it’d make onions cry.
His eyes widened. The UnderLord passed a hand before his face. In a flash of blue light, Beefy D’s pasty skin, average features, and gold teeth were in place.
“Whoa, pahangle!” he said. “You ’most spooked me outta mah spangle.”
I backed up, pointing. “You…you,” I said.
The UnderLord advanced. “What’s the hapangle, mah frangle?”
“Your face.” I edged into the hallway.
He leaned closer, teeth glinting and rotten-egg smell reeking. “Whatever ya think ya peeped, they’ll never believe ya.”
I opened my mouth to say who-knows-what. Just then, Stephanie left the Kitties room, and two women stepped into the hall behind me.
“There you are, you naughty rap god, you,” said the taller one. She was a breathless brunette with big eyes. “We’ve been searching everywhere. It’s showtime!”
“Let’s go, you adorable podrangle,” said the shorter, blonder one.
The UnderLord stepped close to Steph and me. “Mah public awaits. Pardonnez-mangle.” His grin looked like the grille of a fancy sports car.
The women linked arms, leading Beefy D to the stage. He flashed peace signs and blew kisses to the crowd.
We followed at a safe distance.
“He’s the UnderLord for sure,” I told Steph.
“You have proof?” she said.
“I saw his real face—seriously ugly—before he changed it to the Beefy D face. And his guys are searching our house for the throne.”
“But why would the UnderLord pretend to be a rapper?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. He’s a music lover?”
Steph’s jaw tightened. “We’ve got to expose that phony.”
“But how?”
Beefy D was welcoming the group. “Yo, yo, yo! How’s the foodangle?”
“Evil!” the crowd called.
“And what kind of undies do ya like?”
“Bad!” everyone chanted.
“So right!” said Beefy D.
“So right!” they echoed.
Hector joined us. “Wow,” he said. “I bet he could make them do anything right now.”
That’s when it hit me.
“Of course!” I said, turning to face them both. “That’s why the UnderLord’s a rapper. Think about it. Who can affect lots of people? Who can set trends, mold minds, and make a ton of money at it?”
“A politician?” asked Hector.
“A rapper,” said Steph.
“So how do we unwrap this phony?” I said.
Beefy D called the contest winners up. The kids stood awkwardly beside him—except Melvin, who raised a fist and shouted, “Yo, yo, yo!”
I wished I’d never written that stupid rap for him.
Hmm…stupid rap. Now that was an idea.
“Rap for us, Beefy!” I shouted.
Hector caught on. “Yeah, we want rap! We want rap!”
The people near us took up the chant, and soon the whole crowd got into it.
The tall brunette shook her head. “I don’t think…”
“Uh, I’m missin’ mah posse, mah bandangle.” Beefy D glanced nervously around. “Can’t rap without ’em.”
“Awww,” the group whined.
“Pleeease,” said a pretty lady near the stage.
“Didn’t bring mah music,” said Beefy D. He glanced back at the DJ, who shook her head. “Sorry, mah frangles.”
The pretty woman wouldn’t give up. “You could rap freestyle. We’ll clap the beat.” She put her hands together. Soon the whole house picked up the rhythm.
The fake rapper gave a shaky smile. He was stuck, and he knew it. “A’right, a’right, mah padangles. Lemme lay this down for ya.”
Name is Beefy D,
I don’t come from good family.
And the frangle of mah drangle is
an elephant strangle.
West coast, east coast,
All your coasts I’m gonna roast
’Cuz I come from down under.
Under where? Under there!
Pardon me, padangle, while ah
shake mah derriere!
And then Beefy D broke into one of the lamest dances I’ve ever seen. It looked like angry wasps had slipped into his oversized pants and were stinging him everywhere. His rapping and dancing were so far off the beat, he’d have had to take a train to get back to it.
I looked around. Mouths hung open. A few people made faces like they smelled something bad.
And that something was Beefy D.
He didn’t notice. Carried away with his bad self, the rapper hopped offstage and danced in the audience. This was my chance.
Before I could lose my nerve, I nudged Hector and Steph. “Let’s go!”
We dashed for the stage and pounded up the steps. I grabbed the mike.
“Listen to me!” I said. “This guy’s no rapper. Check it out!”
Hector made beat-box sounds, and I chanted the rhyme I’d written for Melvin:
Zombies in the evening,
Zombies in the morning,
Zombies in your underwear,
They never give a warning.
Creeping through your kitchen,
Don’t you dare to linger,
Hiding in your breakfast—
Whoops! I found a finger!
The crowd stomped and clapped. “Go, kid, go!” someone shouted.
When I reached the end, the audience hooted and hollered. Smiles covered everyone’s faces, everyone’s except Beefy D’s and Melvin’s.
“See? He’s not really a rapper!” I yelled over the applause. “Even I can out-rap him.”
“So can my dog!” someone shouted. People laughed.
I raised my hand. “No, you don’t get it. He’s the UnderLord. He’s come to conquer our world!”
“That’s a lie-angle! I’m Beefy D! The best!” cried the bogus rapper.
The crowd hooted. “You mean the lamest!” a chunky woman yelled. “That kid out-rapped you, no contest.”
Beefy D’s face turned the color of a blood orange. “That’s—,” he choked out. Then he recovered some control. “Uh, ya got things all skimble-skamble, padangles. Beefy D be the baddest rapper around.”
“Sure you are,” said a tall redheaded man, “if bad means bad.”
Beefy D ground his teeth. “Don’t get the Beefster riled—”
Steph took the mike. “Zeke’s telling the truth!” she said. “The UnderLord has
enslaved one world, and now he wants ours. He’s evil!”
“Don’t listen to those nitwits!” cried the UnderLord, his Beefy accent slipping. “Are all you Uplanders morons?”
“Who you callin’ a moron, shrimp?” The heavy woman waded toward him, swinging her purse. The mob surrounded them. I lost sight of the UnderLord.
“You had to go and ruin it, runt,” said a voice behind me.
I spun. Melvin stood there, fists clenched.
Uh-oh.
“Not now, Melvin,” I said.
“My first time onstage, and you blew it for me.”
Steph and Hector stood shoulder to shoulder with me. “Hey, Mel,” she said. “The TV reporter wants to interview you.”
“Me?” Melvin brightened. Then he glared at me. “This isn’t over, midget. Wait and see.” He hurried off.
“Did the TV guys really want him?” I asked.
“Sure,” said Hector. “For the new reality show, Who Wants to Be a Dorkus?”
I scanned the crowd. “Hey, where’s the UnderLord?”
“I don’t know,” said Steph. “But we better go before Melvin gets back.”
On the way out, we searched the packed store, but couldn’t spot the fake rapper. Too much confusion. The little man had vanished like a rat down a hole. We met Caitlyn outside.
“Call me psychic,” said Hector, “but I have a feeling that we won’t be riding home in Beefy D’s limo.”
And what do you know? The Amazing Hectorini was right.
CHAPTER 15
Science Stinks
After all that excitement, the next day was a letdown. The UnderLord had escaped, and who knew what he’d try next, or where? The H.U.S.H. agents liked their dhow-naught, but they didn’t believe us when we told them that the UnderLord had been Beefy D.
And Caitlyn wouldn’t speak to us because she was so embarrassed.
(Well, at least there was one bright spot.)
But all that was overshadowed by something even more depressing: schoolwork.
Just before our break, Mrs. Ricotta announced, “When we come back, everyone will present their science projects.”
Sheesh. I was doomed.
At recess, I slumped on the jungle gym. “I’m going to flunk science,” I told Hector. “In all the excitement, I sort of forgot to redo my experiment.”
“That’s what happens when you put saving Undies before schoolwork,” said Steph.
I hated to admit it, but she was right.
Hector smiled. “I should let you suffer longer, but I’m just too great a guy.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Don’t you see? We captured that castle because you understood the science of making methane.”
“Hey, that’s right!” I said.
“You are good with gas,” said Stephanie.
I shook my head. “Yeah, but Mrs. Ricotta doesn’t know that. Too bad I can’t use our castle attack as my science project.”
Hector reached into his book bag. He pulled out some blown-up photos. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “you can.”
When my turn came, I got more scientific than Dr. Science. I covered the blackboard with diagrams showing how to make methane gas with a rotten banana.
“This was my project,” I said, “until a clumsy cat broke the jar.”
“That’s no excuse,” said Mrs. Ricotta. “Everyone must show results.”
I grinned. “Oh, I will. You see, the broken jar released lots of stinky gas—”
“Just like your armpits!” shouted Melvin Prang. The class giggled.
“Settle down!” said the teacher. “Continue, Zeke.”
I paced. “And that got me thinking about methane. I mean, how do we use it? My research showed that ancient people used it in warfare.”
“Is that so?” said Mrs. Ricotta.
“Uh-huh,” I said. (It wasn’t really.) “So I tried to re-create how a methane attack might have gone.”
I displayed a photo. It showed the oversized garbage jars from Skivvy Town. “First, you’d need to make a lot of gas. Like this.”
“Like you,” said Melvin.
Mrs. Ricotta glared. “Melvin, I’m warning you.”
“Then, you’d need to find a way of moving that gas….” I showed the photo of Steph and me working the bellows.
“Like—,” Melvin began.
“Melvin, go sit outside!” Mrs. Ricotta watched him leave, then turned back to me. “Zeke, that’s very impressive—A-quality work.”
I beamed. It was A-quality work, and I had done it.
“And finally,” I said, “you’d need to sneak all of this into a city—in a kind of Trojan Buns.”
“Zeke!” said our teacher.
Up went the pictures of the attack. Everyone hooted and clapped when I explained how we had launched the gas.
“And this attack would succeed?” asked Stephanie’s friend Heather.
“It did,” I said triumphantly. “Uh, I mean…yeah, it would.”
Mrs. Ricotta frowned. “Hmph. C-minus.”
“A C-minus?!” I said. “What about the A-quality work?”
She gave me a long look over her glasses. “Although your science was sound, the way you used it was not.”
“But—”
“I am disappointed that you have once again stooped to potty humor. Really, Zeke, it’s beneath you.”
I had the perfect comeback to that. But I just bit my lip. Sometimes, you’ve got to quit while you’re ahead.
The rest of the day passed quietly. Melvin Prang didn’t cream me; I guessed he was watching and waiting.
After school, I cruised home with Stephanie and Hector.
“What next?” asked Hector.
“I was thinking snacks,” I said.
Steph elbowed me. “He was talking about Underwhere.”
“I knew that,” I said. We turned onto our street. “What do you think about Underwhere?”
“Well, they do seem to need our help,” she said. “And the UnderLord still—”
A furry body shot from the bushes and scaled me like a tree. “Ow! Those claws hurt.” It was Fitz.
“Meer, murr,” he said, climbing into my arms. “Meer murr reoww!”
“Something’s up,” said Hector.
“Yeah,” I said. I freed Fitz’s claws from my shirt. “Your cat’s up me.”
Just then, a tall, snowy-haired man hurried down our driveway. He looked like a stork in a high wind—all ruffled feathers and skinny legs.
“Are you Zeke and Stephanie?” he asked.
“Yes…?” said Steph.
“Great milk of Minerva!” said the man. “You must come with me right away.”
“Uh, not to be rude,” I said, “but who the heck are you?”
The stork man blinked. “We spoke. I’m Dr. J. Robert Prufrock, your Great-aunt Zenobia’s friend.”
“Mrrow,” said Fitz.
“What’s this about?” said Hector.
Dr. Prufrock ran a hand through his hair, making it stand straight up.
“No time to explain,” he said. “My artifact is missing, and I’m afraid the UnderLord may have taken it. I need your help right away.”
I looked at the cat. “Well, meow muffin,” I said. “Here we go again.”
Fitz rolled his eyes. “Mwwrr.”
About the Author and the Illustrator
BRUCE HALE dreamed of finding underground worlds as a boy, but the closest he ever came to finding one was when he and a pal explored the storm drains under their neighborhood. And that only got him wet and into trouble with his parents. These days he stays above ground, where he writes and illustrates the popular Chet Gecko mysteries, and occasionally performs as a song and dance man with a local troupe. He lives in Santa Barbara, California, with his wife and many hats. You can visit him online at www.brucehale.com.
SHANE HILLMAN has published a number of comic strips on the web and in print. This is his first book, but it won’t be hi
s last—publishing comics is an early step in his devious plan to take over the world. He lives in Houston, Texas. You can visit his groovy website at www.shanehillman.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Also by Bruce Hale
THE UNDERWHERE SERIES
Pirates of Underwhere
Flyboy of Underwhere
Credits
Cover art © 2008 by Shane Hillman
Copyright
PRINCE OF UNDERWHERE. Text copyright © 2008 by Bruce Hale. Illustrations copyright © 2008 by Shane Hillman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition May 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-185081-3
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