Pugnapped!, page 1
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© 2021 Marty Kelley
Cover © 2021 Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.
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ISBN 978-1-4549-4081-4
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Cover and interior illustrations by Marty Kelley
Cover and interior design by Shannon Nicole Plunkett
FOR THE REAL HEATHER AND HOT JOHN;
TWO OF THE KINDEST, MOST GENEROUS PEOPLE I’VE EVER MET.
AND FOR TIM PUTNAM AND HIS STUDENTS AT CSDA, WHO HELPED ME IMMEASURABLY ON EARLY VERSIONS OF THIS STORY.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
An Important Message from Commander Universe
Chapter 1: My Arch-Enemy
Chapter 2: My Other Arch-Enemy
Chapter 3: My Sidekick, X
Chapter 4: The Doggone Dog Is Gone, Doggone It
Chapter 5: Evil, Mutant Squirrels and a Noisy Clue
Chapter 6: An Almost Amazing Rescue
Chapter 7: The Villain Makes a Big Mistake
Chapter 8: We Find the Villain, But Lose the Villain, But Find Another Villain. Almost.
Chapter 9: A Confession
Chapter 10: French Presidents and Some Bad News. Some Very Bad News.
Chapter 11: Speaking with the Enemy.
Chapter 12: A New Arch-Enemy. Again.
Chapter 13: Action! And Duct Tape!
Chapter 14: We Should Have Used More Duct Tape.
Chapter 15: The Big Fight Scene. Sort Of.
Chapter 16: Squeals of Joy and Squeaks of Chewy Charlie
Chapter 17: Yet Another New Arch-Enemy
About the Author
“Hey, nerd-burger!” yelled a voice behind me. “What are you doing out here in your pajamas?”
Rudy and I spun around to see my arch-enemy, The Parasite, standing at the door of Comic World. He glared at me with his beady, evil eyes and burst into cackling laughter. “Mwaaa Ha Ha Ha Haaaaaaaaaa!”
“Oh, man,” Rudy groaned. “I am not in the mood for Chaz Pharsight right now.”
“What do you want, Parasite?” I snapped.
“I want to know why you’re running around the neighborhood in your little jammies, doofus.”
“These are not pajamas,” I explained in a deep, heroic voice. “This is a sleek, aerodynamic superhero outfit.”
“And what is that all over your face? Did you draw on yourself with a marker?”
“That is my mask, Parasite.”
“And what did you do to your hair?” The Parasite sneered. “It looks like you glued a buttered gerbil on your head.”
“I told you that hairdo was a mistake, dude,” Rudy whispered.
I shooshed Rudy and ran my hand over my perfectly sculpted superhero hair. “I used my mother’s super-hold hair gel. It’s called style, Parasite.”
“Stop calling me Parasite, weirdo. My name is Chaz. What is wrong with you?”
“See the cape?” I asked, flapping my cape. “See the mask and the amazing superhero outfit? See the super-heroic hair? I am Commander Universe. And this is my sidekick, Rudy.”
“I’m not your sidekick, dude,” Rudy sighed.
“More like Commander Gooniverse. You have a pillowcase pinned to your shoulders.” The Parasite laughed again. “You get weirder every day, Stevie.”
I gasped.
How could The Parasite possibly have recognized me? I spent hours in my secret laboratory yesterday creating a superhero outfit that would hide my true identity of mild-mannered Stevie Blunt. My disguise was foolproof and my hair was absolutely perfect.
“Who is this Stevie person?” I asked, looking around. “I am Commander Universe. I don’t know anyone named Stevie. Although he certainly sounds like a smart, handsome, and very cool person.”
“He’s not. He’s a weirdo dork-o-rama who runs around town in his pajamas with marker all over his face,” The Parasite sneered. He reached for the door. “Why don’t you fly back to planet Goofball? I’m here to buy the first issue of Captain Fantastic that Mr. Falcetti just got.”
“You’re too late, Parasite,” I said, giving him SUPERHERO LOOK #8: DRAMATICALLY ARCHED EYEBROW. “The first issue of Captain Fantastic is mine.”
“What?” cried The Parasite. “You bought it?”
“I still can’t believe you’re going to waste $75 on a stupid comic book,” Rudy said.
“A stupid comic book?” I gasped. “This is no ordinary comic book, young Rudy. This is the very first issue of Captain Fantastic. There were only 1,000 copies ever printed. It contains his personal training journal, where he explains how he developed his incredible skills after he was involved in a terrible toxic waste spill. The training journal is top secret, and everyone who reads it must swear an Unbreakable Oath of Secrecy. The only way to find out what’s in it is to get that comic book. And now I’ve got it.”
“No, you don’t. You didn’t have the $75 to pay for it,” Rudy said. “Mr. Falcetti said that he’d hold it for you until Monday.”
“That’s right. And once I get my hands on that top-secret training journal, I will learn how to control these amazing powers I’m developing.”
Yesterday, I was involved in a tragic accident. A twisted supervillain covered me with millions of gallons of toxic waste. Now I’m developing incredible superpowers, just like Captain Fantastic. I will be the world’s newest, greatest superhero . . . Commander Universe.
“Where are you going to get $75, Stevie?” The Parasite laughed. “You probably don’t even have 75 cents. My father gives me money to buy whatever I want. I’m going in to buy that comic book right now. It’s the only one I’m missing from my Captain Fantastic collection. After I get it, I’ll have every issue ever printed. And you’ll still just be hanging around out here in your pajamas like the super goober that you are.”
I jumped in front of him. “Oh, no you don’t, Parasite. I won’t let you use that training journal for evil.”
“Get out of my way, Commander Pajamaverse.” He pushed past me and reached for the door of Comic World just as Mr. Falcetti flipped the sign in the window to “CLOSED.” Mr. Falcetti stepped out the door, locking it behind him.
“Wait! Mr. Falcetti!” The Parasite cried, yanking a wad of cash from his pocket. “I have money. I want to buy Captain Fantastic!”
“Sorry, kid,” Mr. Falcetti answered. “Closing early for the weekend. It’s my wedding anniversary. I’m taking Mrs. Falcetti out for an afternoon movie and the Early Bird Special at that fancy new French restaurant, La Maison des Oeufs Verts au Jambon. And anyway, I said I’d hold that comic till Monday for Stevie.”
I gasped again. How could he possibly have recognized my true identity?
“Looks like your evil plans have failed again, Parasite,” I said, standing in SUPERHERO POSE #142: HANDS ON HIPS.
The Parasite laughed another evil laugh. “Mwaaa HA HA HA HAAAAAA! You’ll never come up with $75 by Monday, Commander Weenieverse. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you use your Weenie-Vision to watch me read the first issue of Captain Fantastic.”
He jumped on his jet-powered rocket cycle and blasted off down the street toward his evil lair.
“I’m going home,” Rudy said. “My mom made more pistachio pudding. I’d invite you to come over, but she’s still kind of mad that you called her a villainous super-criminal and yelled about her pudding rearranging your molecules.”
I was halfway back to my headquarters when a blood-curdling scream echoed through the neighborhood. . . .
Miss Boyle is the prettiest lady in our whole town. She has long brown hair and rainbow-painted toenails that look like a birthday party. She always wears flip-flops so people can see her party toes.
I have my suspicions that Miss Boyle may actually have superpowers of her own. She zips around the neighborhood on a candy-apple-red hovercraft, occasionally disintegrating evildoers with her sonic death blaster.
“Oh, Stevie,” she laughed, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Is that marker all over your face? And what did you do to your hair? It looks like you have a greased-up weasel on your head.”
“It’s a mask!” I cried. “And my hair is spectacular! And I’m not Stevie. I’m Commander Universe. I was involved in a tragic toxic waste spill and I’ve developed amazing superpowers. I’m here to save the day.”
Miss Boyle smiled. “I need a hero like you, Stevie.”
“Commander Universe,” I corrected. “I don’t know anybody named Stevie. Although he sounds like a wonderful, charming, and very good-looking person with amazing hair. What is your emergency, citizen?”
“Oh,” Miss Boyle sighed. “It’s awful—”
Before she could finish, a snarling beast the size of a school bus thundered around the corner of Miss Boyle’s house, its steely jaws dripping ropy strands of sizzling acid. Razor-sharp fangs jutted from its horrible black gums. Its deadly claws raked the ground, spraying sparks in its wake. The earth shook as the creature barr
It was time to be a hero. . . .
She patted the beast’s belly. “Don’t you be a naughty puppy, Cupcake. You be nice to Stevie.”
Miss Boyle sighed. “It’s my precious little Cupcake’s birthday today and I’m driving to Boston to pick up a cake for the party tonight.”
“You’re driving all the way to Boston for a birthday cake?” I asked. “For your dog? Boston is a two-hour drive from here.”
“Oh, yes,” Miss Boyle answered, scratching the evil monster’s head. “I took my little Cupcake to the Pug Olympics in Boston last year, and we discovered this amazing little bakery in the North End. They had an incredible triple-almond torte, made with imported almonds and organic, free-range, gluten-free flour and cream from pasture-raised cows. My little pookie-snookums loved it so much, didn’t you? Didn’t you, you wittle cake-nibbling sweetie-poops? So, of course I’m driving there to get one for my little snuggie-wuggums’s birthday party. Nothing is too good for Mama’s wittle baby-waby.” Miss Boyle slumped in her hovercraft. “At least, I was driving there today.”
“Is your vehicle disabled?” I asked, inspecting it for signs of damage. “Perhaps I can fix the problem with my Thermal Weld-O-Vision.”
“No,” Miss Boyle sighed. “Cupcake’s personal activity specialist just called with awful news: they have fleas in their recreation center. I can’t send my precious little lovie lumpkins someplace that has fleas. And I can’t take her to Boston with me because she gets carsick. We had to take a train the last time we went, and she got so upset on the ride home that I had to schedule extra sessions with her puppy therapist and she had to take anti-anxiety medication. I don’t know what I’m going to do. If I don’t get that cake, my poor little scruffy-wuffy’s birthday party will be ruined. I’ll never find anyone else who can watch her on such short notice. My precious little Cupcake needs so much special attention.”
This was my first chance to help a citizen in distress.
“I’ll help you, citizen. Give me the coordinates of the bakery. I’ll fly there and return with the cake.”
“Oh, Stevie,” Miss Boyle sighed. “I wish you could.”
“You’re right,” I said, nodding. “The cake will probably get ruined when I blast through the sound barrier. Maybe I could use my Mind-Meld Brain Control Power to hypnotize Cupcake so she won’t get carsick.”
“No,” Miss Boyle said. “We tried hypnosis once when we went to a mommy/puppy spa weekend. My little Cupcake didn’t do well with that. At all.”
I strained to think of any way I could help Miss Boyle. This was my big chance to use my amazing new powers.
“I don’t dare call one of the other canine recreation coordinators in town,” Miss Boyle said. “The last time I did that, I got charged $250 for the day and she didn’t even bother to read the directions I left. She served my little sweetheart a tenderloin steak that was cooked medium. Cupcake always has her tenderloin cooked medium rare. My poor little lamby-kins was very upset for days. I had to take her to extra therapy sessions.”
“You paid a dog-sitter $250?” I gasped.
“Not a dog-sitter,” Miss Boyle corrected. “A canine recreation coordinator. They’re highly trained expert play facilitators.”
I puffed out my mighty chest. “I’ll watch Cupcake for you, Miss Boyle.”
Miss Boyle looked at me with eyes like twin bowls of chocolate ice cream.
“What?” she asked. “You, Stevie?”
“Me. Commander Universe.” I said, standing in SUPERHERO POSE #27: CALM AND CONFIDENT.
Miss Boyle shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, Stevie. . . .”
“I don’t know Stevie, either,” I said. “I keep telling you, I’m Commander Universe.”
Miss Boyle smiled. “Well, Commander Universe, Cupcake is a very delicate little puppy.”
Cupcake growled and bared her razor-sharp fangs.
“She needs to be looked after very carefully,” Miss Boyle continued. “Can I trust you to look after my precious little snuggle-bug?”
I raised my eyebrow and smiled. “Of course you can, citizen. And naturally, I won’t charge you $250. Superheroes never work for money. But $75 would help me save the planet from The Parasite and his evil plans.”
Miss Boyle laughed. “I’ll tell you what, Commander Universe. If you’ll watch Cupcake this afternoon so I can get her birthday cake, I’ll pay you $100.”
“$100?” I cried.
“One. Hundred. Dollars.” Miss Boyle said. “This is an emergency. I really need someone reliable and heroic to watch Cupcake for me this afternoon. It would cost me more than twice that much to hire someone I don’t even know. And she won’t get fleas from you. I hope.”
Miss Boyle winked at me.
I winked back at her and adjusted my cape.
It was time to be a hero.
After a quick call to my headquarters to arrange details with The Chief, Miss Boyle handed me a bulging three-ring binder crammed with top-secret instructions for guarding Cupcake.
There were 17 pages describing how Cupcake needed to be brushed and groomed, 56 pages about what she could and could not eat, a schedule of her favorite TV shows, 6 pages of telephone numbers for her medical specialists, 3 pages of directions (with photos) for cleaning the wrinkles in Cupcake’s face so she doesn’t get “stink-face,” a list of approved music and activities, and about 150 other pages of stuff.
There was also Mr. Woobles.
Mr. Woobles is a squeaky, plastic clown that looks like it has been chewed, swallowed, barfed back up again, and then run over with a lawnmower, smashed with a hammer, and chewed up some more.
“Mr. Woobles is Cupcake’s favorite toy ever,” Miss Boyle explained, squeaking the awful thing a few times in Cupcake’s stink-face. “You love Mr. Woobles, don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you?”
Cupcake howled with joy and chewed Mr. Woobles loudly and sloppily while Miss Boyle explained the difference between Cupcake’s four toothbrushes. She was demonstrating how to hold the liver-flavored, organic dental floss when a man strolled out of Miss Boyle’s backyard. He wore a bright yellow T-shirt with “Hot John” printed across it in huge red letters. He had a pair of Death-Ray Goggles on. His arms were covered in strange, evil symbols. The scruffy little beard thingy on his face made it clear that this man was an evil supervillain. . . .
Miss Boyle’s eyes sparkled like a really big disco ball covered in a million bike reflectors and fireworks. She lifted Cupcake and strapped the strange device around the beast’s neck.
“There,” she announced. “That’s your first birthday surprise, my precious little treasure. The nice man installed PuppyVision for you!”
Cupcake barked and yipped.
“PuppyVision?” I asked, eyeing the device. “What sort of evil scheme is that?”
The man laughed a deep, villainous laugh. “It’s not a scheme. And it’s not evil. It’s a total entertainment system for the dog who has everything—only available from Hot John’s TV Systems. PuppyVision comes complete with surround sound, a high-definition 84-inch plasma screen, and a customized, programmable, hands-free remote control unit that I invented. Plus,” he added, smiling at Miss Boyle, “I’ll throw in free 24/7 customer service. Just for you.”
He pointed to the device that Miss Boyle had strapped to Cupcake’s neck.
“The micro-processor in this box reads the dog’s brain waves and changes the channel based on what the dog wants to see. PuppyVision offers over 450 channels. All designed for dogs.”
“It reads Cupcake’s mind?” I gasped.
“Well . . . sort of,” Hot John explained. “It measures changes in the brain’s magnetic energy field and switches to a channel that reflects the wearer’s current mood. You can fine-tune it with this small knob on the side of the box.”
This was obviously some nefarious mind-control technology, complete with a Dial of Misery.
Hot John would have to be added to my list of dangerous supervillains. Before I could question him further, Miss Boyle gasped.
