Stinkbomb and Ketchup-Face and the Badness of Badgers Page 5

  “Why?” asked King Toothbrush Weasel worriedly.

  “Because we’re almost at the end of the story,” explained Ketchup-Face.

  “And we need to get to a shop,” added Stinkbomb.

  shouted Ketchup-Face.

  “Who?” said the little shopping cart. “Oh—oh, right.”

  “Ow!” said Malcolm the Cat, waking up, as Ketchup-Face jumped into the basket of the cart and sat on him. “Ow! Ow!” he added as Stinkbomb and King Toothbrush Weasel and the frightened chicken scrambled in after her.

  “Where to?” asked the little shopping cart eagerly.

  yelled Stinkbomb.

  CHAPTER 22

  IN WHICH

  THE BADGERS GET WHAT’S COMING TO THEM

  AND ALL ENDS HAPPILY

  As soon as the sun had set, the badgers crept out of the enchanted wood and stole across the valley. A-snuffling and a-scurrying they went, their teeth and claws all gleaming and badgery in the moonlight. Their hearts were filled with evil and wickedness, and their minds were filled with thoughts of treason, and their tummies were filled with worms and bits of garbage.

  The other creatures sensed with their animal senses that the badgers were on the move, and they were filled with fear. The cows cowered, and the quails quailed, and the foxes lay in bed recovering from having been by the pigs. Some of the braver animals made their feelings clear as the badgers passed by—a snake hissed; a snail booed; a blackbird blew a raspberry; a raspbird blew a blackberry; a hedgehog wrote an angry letter to the newspapers—but mostly they just hid, knowing that whatever the badgers were up to, they were up to no good.

  But as the badgers, intent on evil, came over the hill and entered the valley that led down to the tiny village of Loose Pebbles, they saw a marvelous sight such as they had never seen before.

  It was a trail of garbage cans, all of them shiny and new, leading right through the village and just begging to be knocked over.

  shouted the badgers.

  And they were just about to rush forward and knock all the garbage cans over when Harry the Badger spoke.

  “Hold on!” he said, in a voice so commanding that the badgers all immediately held on. “We can’t go knocking all these garbage cans over!”

  “But . . . but we’re badgers!” said Stewart the Badger.

  “Yeah!” agreed Rolf the Badger. “What kind of badgers would we be if we went about not knocking garbage cans over?”

  Harry the Badger folded his paws and looked sternly at them. “Quiet badgers, that’s what kind,” he said. “We’re supposed to be quiet so we can get to the palace under cover of darkness and make me king!”

  “Yeah,” said Rolf the Badger, “but we could just knock over a few garbage cans on the way, couldn’t we?”

  “Plee-ease!” added Stewart the Badger, and all the other badgers put their paws together, stuck their bottom lips out, and made their eyes really really big, because they’d once heard from a little girl that it’s a good way to get what you want.

  “No!” said Harry the Badger sternly.

  “Awwwwww!” said all the badgers.

  “Well,” said Harry the Badger, “maybe just one. As long as you’re very, very quiet.”

  “Hurray!” whispered all the badgers, and they set off again. They were as silent as they could be, although Stewart the Badger kept whistling under his breath because the tune to “Blueberry Jam” was stuck in his head. It wasn’t a particularly catchy tune, but he had heard it four thousand seven hundred and sixty-nine times.

  Rolf the Badger had to keep nudging him to be quiet.

  Into the village the badgers tiptoed, agog with wonder at the number and variety of garbage cans on display. Which one should they knock over? The square green one by the rug store? The cylindrical bronze one by the drug store? The tall red bottle-shaped one by the hug store? Each was so tempting—but how to choose?

  Then, suddenly, they saw it. Their eyes widened with delight and expectation, because each of them knew that if they could knock over only one garbage can, it would have to be this one. It stood at the very end of the street, as tall as a house and twice as wide, gleaming silver in the moonlight. As they stared, the delirious badgers could imagine it crashing to the ground in a more crashy and bangy way than any garbage can they had ever knocked over.

  They looked at one another and exchanged excited nods, and then they charged!

  In one gigantic mob they ran, hurling themselves toward this garbage can of all garbage cans, their hearts filled with ecstasy and rapture at the naughtiness of what they were about to do. Faster and faster they raced, until they could not have stopped if they wanted to—and just before that moment of sheer joy when they collided with it and knocked it tumbling and clattering to the ground . . .

  “Pull!” shouted Stinkbomb and Ketchup-Face together, and the two of them with King Toothbrush Weasel and the frightened chicken and all the villagers pulled as hard as they could on the cleverly disguised night-colored rope, which was tied to the enormous garbage can. And the little shopping cart, in its cunning hiding place under the can, heaved and squeaked with all its might, and the can rolled right out of the way.

  “Aaaaargh!” yelled the shocked badgers as, unable to stop, they ran headlong into the village jail, which had been hidden behind the garbage can all the time.

  “Oh, no!” they added as Malcolm the Cat leapt up and slammed the door behind them.

  “Caught you, you horrid old badgers!” Ketchup-Face said happily. “And now you have to be in jail forever and ever!”

  “Well, not forever and ever,” said Stinkbomb. “Just until the end of your sentence.”

  “That doesn’t seem very long,” said Ketchup-Face. “Just till the end of a sentence? It should be till the end of the whole story, at least. Except that’s not very long now.”

  “Actually,” said King Toothbrush Weasel, “the penalty for treehouse is to stay in jail until halfway through the story after next.”

  “That seems fair,” said the little shopping cart.

  “Buk-AWWWWWK!” said the frightened chicken.

  “Wait a minute,” said Malcolm the Cat. “These don’t look like the same badgers to me. Maybe we should let them go.” He opened the jail door. Then he said, “Or maybe they are the same badgers,” and shut it. “On the other hand . . .”

  “Grrr!” growled Rolf the Badger. “Just you wait!”

  “Yeah!” agreed Harry the Badger. “We’ll get out of here, and then we’ll knock over all the garbage cans in town and do some other evil things we haven’t thought of yet!”

  chorused all the other badgers, except Stewart the Badger, who had found the jail’s games cupboard.

  “Hey!” he said. “Anyone want to play Monopoly?”

  “Dibs on the little car!” said all the other badgers at once.

  “Come on, everyone!” said King Toothbrush Weasel. “Time to celebrate! Let’s go to the Loose Pebbles Café!”

  “HOORAY!”

  said Stinkbomb and Ketchup-Face and the little shopping cart and all the villagers.

  “Buk-AWWWWWK!” said the frightened chicken.

  “Grrrrr!” said the badgers, and they began to drive the little car too fast around the Monopoly board, knocking over the houses and hotels as they went.

  A few minutes later, Stinkbomb and Ketchup-Face found themselves in the Loose Pebbles Café, surrounded by admiring villagers and being bought all manner of delicious treats. As they told everyone the story of their adventures, King Toothbrush Weasel pinned medals on them. In the café, everything was warm and cozy and friendly, and in the distance they could hear the happy sound of the jail door opening and closing repeatedly.

  Only one more thing, they thought, was needed to make the scene completely perfect.

  And then, to their delight, they saw two
familiar shapes silhouetted on the frosted glass of the café door, and the door began to open.

  “Mom! Dad!” cried Stinkbomb.

  “Hello, my darlings!” came their mother’s voice from outside. “Can we come in? Has the story finished yet?”

  “Yes,” said Ketchup-Face happily.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With thanks to everyone who’s ever done, said, or been anything that has ended up being stolen by me and put into this book. Particular thanks go to: Toby Perot for inspiring Ketchup-Face’s song; Saskia Honey Jarlett McAndrews for her exceptional king-naming skills; my old and dear friend John Sandford, wondering if you’ll remember which bit I stole from you; and Malcolm the cat for being a cat named Malcolm. Also to Rob Kempner for transcribing the music for “Blueberry Jam.”

  And particular particular thanks go to Noah and Cara for all the inspiration and ideas, help and encouragement, and for lighting up my life even when the curtains are drawn and I’m trying to sleep. Without you, there’d be no Great Kerfuffle.

  —J.D.

  JOHN DOUGHERTY was born in Larne, Northern Ireland, and not many years later they made him go to school—an experience he didn’t find entirely enjoyable. Fortunately, the joys of reading helped him through the difficult times. It’s therefore not completely surprising that when he grew up he became first a teacher (the nice sort), and then a writer of stories and poetry to make children giggle. He also writes songs, some of which he performs with First Draft, a band made up of three children’s authors and a bookseller. He now lives in England with his two wonderful children, the original Stinkbomb and Ketchup-Face.

  Photo Credit: Jo Cotterill