Hot Dog and Bob: Adventure 4 (3 page)

A trapdoor opened right under our feet and sucked us down another crazy slide.

“Would you please get your shoe out of my ear?” shouted Clementine. “And where the heck is that flying weenie when we need him?”

“Why don’t you get your ear out of my shoe?” I yelled back as we fell. “And I hate to say this, but I’m starting to think that Hot Dog might not be coming this time.”

“Bummer!” Clementine shouted. “By the way, I really didn’t appreciate those snotty remarks you made about me back there!”

“
My
snotty remarks?” I yelled. “What do you call ‘skinny little weasel’ with ‘bony’ knees and ‘funny’ ears—a compliment?”

But before Clementine could argue back, we shot out the bottom of the slide into a
freezing cold swamp!

“AAAHHH!!!” We screamed, sputtered and splashed toward the shore (which was at least five or six zillion miles away).

“Look, a log!” I yelled out.

We grabbed on to the slimy, floating log and gasped for air. Then, all of a sudden, the log splashed out of the water, opened its mouth and started chasing us around the swamp!

“AAAHHH!!!” We screamed again.

“That’s not a log!” hollered Clementine.

“No kidding!” I said, swallowing a mouthful of gross green pond water.

Then, just as the slimy jaws of death were closing in on us …

“Never fear! Hot Dog is here!” Hot Dog shouted, zooming up in a speedboat. “Unless you two guppies wanna be gator grub, you’d better get your booties in this boaty!”

Clementine and I climbed aboard as fast as we could. The Game Gator tried to catch us, but Hot Dog put the pedal to the metal and outran the slimy sucker!

“Thanks!” I panted when we got to shore. “I was afraid you’d forgotten about us!”

“Me? Forget about you?” said Hot Dog. “No way, partner! The Big Bun and the Dogzalot scientists were having technical difficulties beaming me down here. Turns out Mr. G. put a beam-proof barrier around this whole underground area.”

“Well, you finally made it, and that’s what matters,” said Clementine. “Now if you wouldn’t mind getting us out of this slime pit …”

“I would if I could,” said Hot Dog, “but I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a pickle.”

“Why am I not surprised?” groaned Clementine.

“The Dogzalot scientists figured out how to break through the barrier coming down here,” said Hot Dog, “but not vice versa.”

“Vice versa?” I asked.

“As long as Mr. G’s around,” Hot Dog sighed, “nobody’s getting’ outta this place!”

“In other words,” said Clementine, “this game isn’t over at all!”

And boy was she ever right! Just then another trapdoor opened under us and sucked us down another insane slide!

“Whoa, baby!” Hot Dog hollered. “I’m too old for carnival rides!”

“How old are you, anyway?” Clementine said as we fell.

“Oh, we don’t give much thought to age on Dogzalot,” he said as we spiraled down, bumping pinball style. “Two, maybe three? You guys know what a lousy memory I have. I guess I mighta, sorta, kinda lost track.”

“No offense,” I yelled, “but if you can’t even remember whether you’re two or three years old, your memory must be
really
bad!”

“Not two or three
years
!” laughed Hot Dog. “Two or three
hundred
years!”

“No way!” I said. “How is that even possible?”

I had so many questions to ask Hot Dog: Is everyone on Dogzalot born with superhero powers? Do hot dogs go to school? And what does the Big Bun look like? I mean, does everyone just call her that? Or is she really— you know—a great big bun?

But before I could ask, we plopped off the slide and landed right in front of Mr. G., who said,

Hot Dog stood up superhero style and said, “I’m no snack, Mack! Now remove that beam barrier on the double, and let us out, or you’re in trouble!”

“Maybe you should leave the rhyming to the experts,” I whispered to Hot Dog.

If Mr. G. was scared of Hot Dog, he sure didn’t show it. He walked over to a big red curtain and pulled it open. Every kid from my class was there, and they were all trapped in see-through egg jails!

The whole horrible scene (with our friends in eggs and the red curtain and everything) seemed so much more like some kind of freaky play than real life that Clementine and I just stood there and stared.

After way too long I finally yelled, “Don’t worry, Marco! We’ll get you out of that thing!”

Every now and then, Clementine says stuff without thinking it all the way through. “That’s it! You rotten rhyming slimy head!” she yelled at Mr. G. “You let our friends go, or else!” But Mr. G. didn’t seem too scared. He just snapped his fingers, and all of a sudden Clementine was stuck in an egg jail too. Things were going from terribly bad to horribly worse fast!

The ceiling slid open, and Mr. G. and all of my egg-trapped classmates started floating up. Mr. G. waved down to Hot Dog and me and said,

“Quick!” I said to Hot Dog. “Fly up and do your stuff!”

“Hang on, kiddos!” Hot Dog called. “Help is on the way!”

Hot Dog put his arms up, Superman style. Only he wasn’t going anywhere. Neither of us was! Our feet were permanently stuck to the ground!

“Well, whaddya know about that?!” said Hot Dog. “I sure as onions didn’t see that one comin’! By golly! That Mr. G. sure is one sneaky old gator!”

“We have to do something!” I screamed. “We have to stop him! We have to save Clementine!”