Hamstersaurus Rex vs. Squirrel Kong

by Tom O'Donnell

  PFFFFF! The copter fired a pressurized Funchos blast. But a last-second gust of wind knocked it off course. Instead of hitting Nils Winroth, the brightly colored flavoring cloud hit the person standing beside him.

  “Blech! What’s going on?” cried Coach Weekes, wiping the sticky dust from his eyes. “Why am I seeing orange?” He’d been thoroughly coated from head to toe.

  “What the heck?” said Dylan, her jaw falling open.

  “Um,” said Nils Winroth, looking mystified. “Quadcopter is not supposed to do this. Perhaps a malfunction?”

  His bodyguards shrugged.

  “Why is all I taste Tangy Honey Habanero?” wailed Coach Weekes. “Am I dead?”

  Before I could get to it, the quadcopter darted vertically away out of reach.

  With an earsplitting roar, Hamstersaurus Rex burst out of my pocket and landed on the ground. The smell of all the Funchos Flavor-Wedge dust sent him over the edge. He was about to frenzy.

  “Hammie, no!” I cried.

  “Everyone remain calm,” said Principal Truitt in a terrified voice into the mic. “Please don’t panic at the sight of this deranged hamster! Any sudden movements might incite Hamstersaurus Rex to kill!”

  CHAPTER 22

  “WHY’S THE HAMSTER looking at me like that, Gibbs?” asked Coach Weekes. He took a nervous step backward. “He looks . . . hungry.”

  “Hammie, please!” I cried. “Calm down. Take a deep breath.”

  Hamstersaurus Rex gave a vicious snarl and took a step toward Coach Weekes.

  “Don’t eat me!” squealed Coach Weekes.

  “What is happening?” said Nils Winroth. “Everyone is afraid of a hamster? I don’t understand.”

  “Come on, Hammie,” I said in a steady voice. “You’re the rock in the middle of the sea! A rock doesn’t go psycho over Funchos dust. Remember?”

  Hammie took another step toward Coach Weekes. From the corner of my eye I saw that Mr. Duderotti was moving toward him with his hands outstretched. Hammie took another step.

  “Don’t just do what everyone expects you to do! You’re better than that! You are the rock, so be the rock! Just be the rock!”

  Hammie paused.

  “Be the rock!”

  Hammie blinked.

  “Be the rock!”

  The little guy shook himself like he was covered in water.

  “Be. The. Rock.”

  Slowly, Hammie turned to stare back at me, a little dazed. I could see that the crazy look in his eyes was gone. He grinned. An instant later, he came bounding back to me, trailing slobber the whole way.

  “You did it!” I cried. “You conquered your addiction to junk food!”

  The little guy leaped into my outstretched arms and I hugged him close to my chest.

  “You know, Hamstersaurus Rex doesn’t look very dangerous,” said Omar Powell.

  “He looks cute,” said Tina Gomez.

  “I assure you, that animal is a cold-blooded engine of destruction!” yelled Principal Truitt into the mic. “He totaled my car! My car was nice!”

  The little guy rolled over onto his back and I started to rub his belly. His dino feet began to kick in the air. The crowd gave a spontaneous “Aaaaaaw.”

  “Wow,” said Wilbur Weber, “what a delightful ending. I can’t believe everything worked out so—”

  “Oh my God, what is that thing?!” shrieked Julie Bailey from the bleachers.

  As one, the crowd turned in the direction she was pointing. A massive furry shape stomped out of the trees and onto the disc golf course. In the cold light of day I could see a crazed, remorseless look in Squirrel Kong’s coal-black eyes.

  There was a moment of stunned silence, as the crowd realized they were looking at a real-life monster. Then, they panicked. Screaming attendees of the First Annual Maple Bluffs Disc Golf Exhibition Tournament fled in every direction. Omar Powell dove under a trash can. Julie Bailey made a beeline for the woods, shrieking the whole way. Mr. and Mr. D’Amato herded their three boys behind them for protection. All around me, it was utter chaos. One of the news teams’ cameramen threw his camera down and started to run. Hamstersaurus Rex roared again.

  “Sam, the copter!” cried Martha over the din. “It’s coming back!”

  “Where?” I cried.

  I turned around to see the copter shooting right toward me at top speed. I started to run and made it four steps before my foot caught on the tangle of microphone cables that led to the podium. For an instant I was airborne. Then I hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of my lungs. I rolled over onto my back. The copter hovered directly above me.

  PFFFFF! Dylan yanked me out of the way just in time to dodge another pressurized Funchos blast. The grass where I just had been was stained neon orange.

  Hamstersaurus Rex jumped for the copter, but it had already darted up and away vertically into the sky. I heard the sound of his jaws snapping closed as he missed it by a few inches.

  “Sam, I think now is when I say I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about Squirrel Kong,” said Dylan, helping me to my feet.

  “Sorry I disrupted your big day,” I said. “And sorry I said disc golf wasn’t real. It’s real.”

  Nils Winroth’s two security guards rushed toward Squirrel Kong as she waded through the terrified crowd. With a mighty bellow, she sent one flying with a swift kick. The other turned and fled as fast as he could.

  “Sam, I think it’s time I did one of the things I do best,” cried Martha. “Alert the proper authorities. Maybe Animal Control will have something that can defeat a deranged twelve-foot-tall squirrel.”

  “Good thinking,” I said.

  Martha turned and disappeared into the panicked throngs of people.

  “So what the heck do we do in the meantime?” said Dylan as she watched Squirrel Kong rampaging through the crowd.

  “She’ll attack whatever the copter sprays.”

  “So we stop the copter,” said Dylan.

  We turned to see that it was now hovering about thirty feet off the ground, preparing for another dive-bomber-style attack.

  “Allow me,” said Dylan. She squinted like an Old West gunslinger. Then, from behind her back, she whipped one of her tournament-grade golf discs right at the copter. It flew with laserlike accuracy, but at the last second, a gust of wind knocked it off course, and it missed the quadcopter.

  “Not fair!” cried Dylan.

  Squirrel Kong bellowed with rage again.

  “Out of the way!” cried Mr. Duderotti (or Gordon Renfro, if you prefer) as he shoved past me toward the oncoming beast. He had a spray bottle of Microcyll in hand.

  “All right, Specimen #13108,” he cried, “it’s time to finally shut this experiment down!” He held his arm out heroically and spritzed. Nothing happened. Another gust must have blown the Microcyll mist in the wrong direction. Squirrel Kong blinked.

  KABLAM! She casually swatted Mr. Duderotti out of the way, sending him tumbling end over end like a rag doll. Shattered pieces of the spray bottle landed on the grass, right beside his sunglasses and ponytail. He came to rest ten feet away, in an unconscious heap.

  “Whoa. Squirrel Kong knocked his hair off!” cried Dylan in disbelief.

  “It wasn’t real hair,” I said.

  Just then, the quadcopter swooped again and crop-dusted the crowd with Funchos dust. Dylan slung two more golf discs at it but both were blown off course, just like the first. The copter zipped away into the sky again.

  “Ugh, it’s the stupid wind!” said Dylan. “Sorry, Sam. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

  “There’s no way to get the quadcopter,” I cried. “We’d have to be able to—”

  “Fly, my friend!” cried a familiar voice from behind me.

  Dylan and I turned to see Beefer Vanderkoff, standing on a park bench, with Michael Perkins in feathery coils around his shoulders. He spun once, twice.

  “Fly like . . . something that . . . flies!” he cried as he heaved Michael Perkins int
o the air. At first, the boakeet looked like it was going to hit the ground like so many feet of wet garden hose. But then his little wings started to flap, faster and faster. I almost couldn’t believe it. Michael Perkins was gaining altitude. It was awkward looking, to be sure, but he was flying.

  Michael Perkins intercepted the quadcopter and bit down on its grabbing claw. The quadcopter attempted to shake him free, but the boakeet managed to wrap himself around the craft. The copter struggled to stay aloft as Michael Perkins continued to constrict. Copter and boakeet hit the ground together. Then, with a loud, metallic pop, Michael Perkins crushed the SmilesCorp 4B-800 Delivery Copter.

  “Feather boa!” cried Beefer, striking a triumphant anteater style karate pose.

  “Beefer!” I cried. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Well, Sam, when you called and told me that you’re scared and a baby,” said Beefer as he scooped up Michael Perkins, “I knew I had a duty to save you from SmilesCorp and their giant devil squirrel.”

  “That’s not exactly how I put it, but okay, cool,” I said.

  “Dude, your pet snake looks weird,” said Dylan.

  “Not my fault!” said Beefer.

  Suddenly, the fearful screams crescendoed as the panic of the crowd seemed to reach a fever pitch. Squirrel Kong scanned the area and her eyes settled on something. She pulled her furry lips back in a snarl.

  I reached into my backpack and pulled out my last, best hope: the spray bottle of Microcyll I’d stolen from the science lab. Squirrel Kong plowed her way through the crowd.

  “Sam, you saw what happened to Tod—Gordon Renfro,” said Dylan. “The wind is too strong for that little spritzer. If you’re not right up in Squirrel Kong’s face, it won’t work. You’re liable to get killed!”

  “I know!” I said.

  The crowd parted as Squirrel Kong lumbered toward what appeared to be a bright orange ball on the ground. It took me a moment to realize that it was Coach Weekes, curled into the fetal position.

  “Is it . . . over?” said Coach Weekes hopefully. “Has my positive mental thinking affected this situation at all?”

  Squirrel Kong opened wide, picked up Coach Weekes, and put him in her mouth. She looked around. Her eyes settled on the towering SmilesCorp temporary scoreboard. Still carrying a blubbering Coach Weekes, she lumbered toward it and started to climb.

  CHAPTER 23

  SQUIRREL KONG HUNG on the top of the scoreboard, with a Funchos-stained Coach Weekes now clutched in her paw. The crowd had stopped their mad panic now. They were dead silent. All eyes were on the monster and her victim, whom she periodically slurped for Funchos flavoring.

  “Help me!” wailed Coach Weekes, between squirrel licks. “It was never supposed to end this way!”

  “Seriously, what is wrong with this town?” cried one of the West Blunkton Flingmasters.

  “Sam, we have to save him!” cried Dylan. “If Squirrel Kong doesn’t eat him, he could fall and die!”

  “I know, I know,” I said, “but there’s no way for me to get close enough to use the antidote now.”

  Hammie Rex snarled on the ground at my feet. He angrily stomped around, pawing at the grass and whipping his tail back and forth.

  “No, Hammie!” I said. “Beefer, is there any way Michael Perkins can fly up there and—”

  “Nuh-uh,” said Beefer, now clutching the boakeet protectively to his chest. “I mean, Michael Perkins isn’t scared or anything, he’s just tired, okay!”

  Hammie growled in the direction of Squirrel Kong and spat on the ground.

  “Dylan,” I said, “could you nail Squirrel Kong with a golf disc from this distance?”

  “Maybe,” said Dylan, “but I’m not sure what that would accomplish. They’re made of plastic, Sam.”

  Hamstersaurus Rex bit down on my pant leg and pulled it in the direction of the scoreboard.

  “Hammie,” I said, “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you: there’s no way you can possibly fight a twelve-foot-tall . . .”

  Just then, it hit me. I rummaged around in my backpack, where I’d stowed all the evidence from Roberta Fast’s office. At last I found it: the one Huginex-G bottle that wasn’t empty. I opened the lid. A bottom covering of viscous blue liquid sloshed around inside. I took a deep breath.

  “All right, little guy,” I said to Hammie. “This might be your chance to finally take Squirrel Kong down. Literally.”

  Hammie pulled his lips back to expose his fangs. He was smiling.

  “Here goes nothing,” I said. And I upended the Huginex-G into his open mouth. Hammie slurped down the blue syrup until there was none left.

  He burped. I waited. Nothing happened. It didn’t work.

  “Well,” I said, “I guess it was worth a—”

  Then Hamstersaurus Rex started to grow . . . and grow . . . and GROW! Before my very eyes, the little guy swelled and expanded until he was huge, massive, colossal! He was nearly as large as Squirrel Kong now. Hammie opened his mouth and let out a roar that rang out through the park. Many in the crowd backed away from the now dinosaur-sized dino-hamster.

  “All right, boy,” I said. “Go save Coach Weekes.”

  Hammie Rex bounded toward the scoreboard, shaking the earth with each step. Then he started to climb. I had the impulse to film this, but then I remembered my UltraLite SmartShot once again didn’t have a memory card. Stupid Roberta Fast!

  As Hammie Rex got closer to the top, Squirrel Kong pulled her back foot up and kicked him, causing Coach Weekes to sway precariously in her grip. Hammie took two more jackhammer stomps to the face before he opened his mouth and chomped down hard on her paw. Squirrel Kong gave a thunderous bellow of pain.

  “Aaaaaaagh!” shrieked Coach Weekes as Squirrel Kong let him fall.

  The crowd gasped as Coach Weekes dropped ten feet before Hamstersaurus Rex managed to catch him with his dinosaur tail.

  Unfortunately, Squirrel Kong landed on Hammie’s head a second later, feet first. Her power drop dislodged his grip on the scoreboard. As he fell, Hammie somehow twisted and spun, using his tail to flick Coach Weekes, upward, past Squirrel Kong. As Weekes sailed vertically, one of his flailing arms caught hold of the scoreboard’s smile-shaped SmilesCorp logo, where he clung for dear life.

  Meanwhile, the two giant rodents scrabbled at each other as they plummeted the fifty feet toward the earth. Squirrel Kong was on top, forcing Hammie onto the bottom. The whole thing seemed to happen in slow motion.

  “This is awesome,” muttered Beefer to himself.

  “She’s going to crush him!” I said.

  Dylan covered her eyes.

  There was a deafening boom as they smashed into the ground together, blasting an instant crater in the Cannon Park green, and sending shock waves out through the soil.

  As the dust settled, Squirrel Kong stood atop Hammie’s motionless body.

  “No!” I cried.

  Squirrel Kong let out a long bellow of triumph. At the sound, most of the assembled crowd lost their calm once more. They turned and fled in terror.

  “I’m not scared, I’m tired, too!” cried Beefer as he ran off with the rest.

  But suddenly, Squirrel Kong went flying as Hammie kicked her off him. She skidded across the green on her back, tearing up the turf and taking out two disc golf goals and a maple sapling. Hamstersaurus Rex wasn’t beaten. Not yet.

  “Man, this is way better than the sheep that prevented that burglary!” I heard one of the local news cameramen say, as he held his ground while others around him ran screaming.

  Now Hammie was on his feet and charging toward Squirrel Kong at top speed. She pawed the dirt and began to run at him. The two titanic rodents were barreling toward each other like two furry guided missiles.

  They slammed together with bone-shattering force. Now they were a blur of grappling, kicking, biting, and scratching. Again, Squirrel Kong somehow maneuvered herself on top of Hammie. She managed to get a foot, then two, onto his neck and pin him to the gro
und. She was crushing his face into the dirt, while his stubby front paws waved uselessly. Hammy squealed in pain, but the noise was cut short as Squirrel Kong increased the pressure on his windpipe.

  “He can’t breathe,” I said, and I started to run toward the two of them. “She’s killing him!”

  “Sam, wait, it’s too dangerous!” cried Dylan, following me.

  We were close to them now. I pulled out the Microcyll spray bottle and started toward Squirrel Kong. Hammie wheezed pitifully on the ground.

  “No, Sam!” cried Dylan. “Don’t do it!”

  “I don’t care!” I cried. “I have to try to save him!”

  I was five feet away, now; almost close enough to spritz her with the Microcyll. Just a little closer . . .

  From out of nowhere came a lightning-fast flick of Squirrel Kong’s massive tail. I felt a flash of pain as it caught me right across the face. I had the strange sensation of the earth tumbling end over end. Then everything went black.

  CHAPTER 24

  I OPENED MY EYES to see Dylan standing over me. She was saying something but my ears were ringing and I couldn’t understand what it was. My head hurt.

  “. . . alive?” said Dylan.

  I tried to nod. She took my hand and helped me to my feet.

  “. . . think . . . have an idea,” she said, as the ringing faded and my hearing slowly returned.

  Nearby, Squirrel Kong was still crushing Hammie’s neck with her feet. His eyes were open but they looked glassy. He wasn’t breathing. He looked like he might not be alive at all. I shook my throbbing head and staggered toward them. Dylan stopped me. Then she showed me what she had in her other hand. It was the canister of Funchos Flavor-Wedge dust from the copter.

  “Squirrel Kong will always go for the dust, right?” she said.

  I nodded again.

  Then Dylan ripped the seal off the canister and tossed it like a grenade. It spun through the air, spraying orange dust in a spiral cloud, and landed a few feet away from Squirrel Kong. The canister lay in the grass, pumping out the remainder of its pressurized contents. Squirrel Kong blinked and started to salivate. She was torn: Finish Hammie off or give in to her craving? At last, she abandoned Hammie Rex and went for it.