Hamstersaurus Rex vs. the Cutepocalypse Read online

  DEDICATION

  For my mom and dad

  —T.O.D.

  For Andrew

  —T.M.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  About the Author and Illustrator

  Books by Tom O’Donnell

  Back Ads

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  “. . . AND BY ADDING lobster to your dessert,” said Mr. Copeland, “you can really get your money’s worth at a cruise-ship buffet.”

  Seventeen-eighteenths of the class reacted to this pearl of wisdom with bored silence. But Martha Cherie’s hand shot up at lightning speed.

  “Um, what exactly does this have to do with the Industrial Revolution?” asked Martha.

  I’ll admit the long digression about stretching your cruise-ship dollar seemed a bit off topic to me, too. But who was I to judge? At that very moment, I was in the middle of drawing Hamstersaurus Rex battling Hades, the Greek god of the underworld.

  “You know, that is a great question, Martha,” said Mr. Copeland, throwing his besandaled feet up onto his desk. “And it’s one I want you to mull over and ask your seventh-grade teacher on the first day of school next year. Because isn’t the most important part of learning sometimes not knowing the answer?”

  “Not knowing the answer gives me a very pronounced rash,” said Martha, scratching her neck. “And we still have four weeks of class left, Mr. Copeland.”

  “Nope,” said Mr. Copeland. “We have three weeks, four days, and eleven minutes of class left. But please, call me Arnold.”

  As the end of the school year approached, the mood at Horace Hotwater Middle School had started to change. Everyone was, in a word, preoccupied. Omar Powell began wearing Hawaiian shirts to class every day. Caroline Moody steered all conversations toward her upcoming Grand Canyon vacation. Wilbur Weber was pretty excited for something called “SnailCon.” Jared Kopernik was going to spend his summer searching for the Loch Ness Monster. He was planning to check out the “one place nobody had ever thought to look”: Sheboygan, Wisconsin.

  The only thing my best friend, Dylan D’Amato, could talk about was the training camp she would be attending in July, put on by disc golf legend Alfonso “The Wrist” Chapman. She was particularly thrilled because the newest Hotwater Discwhipper, Drew McCoy, would be attending the camp with her.

  Martha Cherie also seemed happy about the impending summer break. She was glad to have “conquered” sixth grade and eager to move on to seventh, thereby putting her one small step closer to full adulthood. You’d think that as hard as she worked all year, she’d be looking forward to relaxing. But there would be no unstructured free time for Martha. Summer was her chance to spend all day, every day, doing résumé-building extracurricular activities. She had a slate of externships, clubs, camps, and lessons lined up that are too numerous to list here.

  In fact, there was probably only one kid at Horace Hotwater who wasn’t looking forward to vacation: me. I don’t often admit it, but deep down, I actually kind of like school. My grades may not be great, but I get to draw a lot and I know what I’m having for lunch up to a week in advance. Normally I would spend my summer break hanging out with Dylan, but she would be gone for most of the time. Now I was staring down two and a half solid months of boredom. It’s not like I had nothing going on. I was hoping to finish my new movie script called The Swords of Hamstervalia—the first installment of a nine-part epic fantasy saga about a faraway kingdom of hamsters that had swords—but so far I hadn’t gotten much further than the title. The only bright side of the summer break was that no evil, monolithic corporation would be menacing me.

  That’s right. SmilesCorp was done. Serena Sandoval’s blog post exposé had a bigger effect than anyone could have dreamed. Millions of people had read her account of the company’s nefarious mutant-related misdeeds. It even made national news. I don’t exactly understand all the corporate ins and outs (Martha tried to explain it all to me once), but thanks to the terrible press, SmilesCorp’s stock price had plummeted, forcing the company to declare bankruptcy. A few months back, they permanently closed their Maple Bluffs campus.

  That was great news for Hamstersaurus Rex and me, and not-so-great news for the local economy. SmilesCorp was by far the biggest employer in the area. When they closed up shop, all their employees—including my mom—were unceremoniously laid off. Thankfully she quickly found a new job at the municipal library. Others weren’t so lucky.

  As I finished my drawing, Mr. Copeland elaborated on the importance of putting sunscreen on the tops of your feet so you don’t get flip-flop tan lines. Martha sighed, frustrated by the lack of educational content. The final bell rang. This afternoon I had somewhere to be.

  “Hey, Dylan,” I said, “I think there might be a part for you in The Swords of Hamstervalia, once I write it. Could you play a valorous shield-maiden who follows the ancient Hamster Code of Chivalry?”

  “Sounds pretty cool,” said Dylan. “But I’m honestly not sure I’ll have the time. It’s going to be a busy summer.”

  “No, yeah, me too. My mom wants me to clean out the attic so I’m pretty slammed also,” I said. “Anyway, do you want to walk over to 3223 Birchpoplar Way together?”

  “Sounds great,” said Dylan. “We just need a few minutes to swing by our lockers. We’re planning on wearing matching sweaters to the party.”

  “We?” I said.

  “Me and Drew,” said Dylan. She stared at me like I was insane.

  “Really?” I said. “I thought this was a friends-only type deal and I’m not sure Drew is exactly—”

  “’Sup,” said Drew McCoy as he sidled over to us.

  Dylan laughed loudly.

  “. . . Was there a joke in there somewhere that I missed?” I said.

  “No, it was more, like, his timing,” said Dylan, still giggling. “‘’Sup.’ Classic. Man, Drew is so funny.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Hey, Drew. How’s the stuff you’re . . . um, what are your interests again?”

  “I like collecting comic books but not reading them,” said Drew, “wearing cool fedoras, and of course, my newest passion is disc golf.” He gave me a double thumbs-up.

  “Awesome,” I said.

  “Drew is a real Renaissance man,” said Dylan. “You know, he should be in your movie, too! As the main character!”

  “Yeaaaaah,” I said. “Well, I just remembered I forgot to buy a gift to bring to the party, so maybe I’ll probably just meet you guys there.”

  “I already have a great gift that we could just say is from both of us,” said Martha, appearing out of nowhere like some sort of apple-polishing cat burglar. “It’s an eight-pack of three-ring binders. Very practical.”

  “Right. Cool. That’s an idea,” I said to Martha, who could always trample a good excuse. “But . . . wouldn’t that just reward my laziness instead of teaching me a valuable lesson?”

  “Good point,” said Martha.

  “So, instead I’ll just swing by Tenth Str
eet Toys on the way there,” I said.

  “Toys,” said Martha, stroking her jaw. “That’s an interesting gift option. I usually just give my friends office supplies. I wish I could go with you, Sam, but I’ve got to swing by the school office and then I’m having a surprise fifteen-minute Model Interplanetary Council micro-practice before the party.”

  “Seriously, Martha?!” said Julie Bailey, who I didn’t know had been eavesdropping on our conversation. “We had a three-hour macro-practice yesterday!”

  “Yes, and you have a lot of room for improvement, Bailey!” said Martha. “You need to focus, because we are in this thing to win it. In Model Interplanetary Council there’s no second place. Only first planetary loser!”

  “Yikes,” I said. “Well, anyway, I’ve got to run. Later, Martha. Bye, Dylan.”

  Dylan stared at me.

  “Goodbye, Drew,” I said with a sigh.

  “’Sup,” said Drew, as I dashed off.

  I made a beeline for the school library, where the official Horace Hotwater Hamster Habitat now resided. These days Hamstersaurus Rex was no longer confined to a dusty closet filled with unwanted books. He wasn’t even locked in a sturdy PETCATRAZ Pro™ (the toughest small rodent cage on the market). He now had the run of an ever-expanding network of interconnected PETCATRAIL Pipes™: clear plastic tubes that supposedly simulated a hamster’s natural habitat in the wild (I guess there are a lot of plastic tubes out there in the woods or wherever hamsters live). The PETCATRAIL had already spread to every corner of the library (I’ll admit I may have gotten a little carried away when I built the thing).

  “Sam, you better not be adding more pipes to this monstrosity,” said Mrs. Baxley, the school librarian. “You’ve already completely blocked off access to the microfilm reader! Someone may want to use it again someday!”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Baxley,” I said. “I guess we could move the whole setup back to Room 223b. Even though it doesn’t get any natural light and Hamstersaurus Rex did save the whole school on multiple occasions. . . .”

  “No, no, it’s fine,” grumbled Mrs. Baxley. “I’ll just add ‘zookeeper’ to my job description. . . .”

  “Not zookeeper,” I said. “Hamster Monitor. And I’m happy to make you a badge and lanyard if you like.”

  Mrs. Baxley scowled. I didn’t feel too guilty, though. All the extra space wasn’t just for Hamstersaurus Rex. Inside the central PETCATRAIL bubble I saw Cartimandua snoring away peacefully on a bed of soft cedar chips.

  “Rise and shine, Cartimandua,” I said. “Time for the soiree.”

  Cartimandua yawned and rolled over, which was her version of a friendly greeting. Just then, three tiny shapes came tumbling out of one of the tubes: Stompy, Chompy, and Hatshepsut.

  “Heya, kiddos!” I said. “Ready to party?”

  The three hamster pups hopped up and down, jostling the cage and squeaking with delight. That’s right, a month ago Cartimandua and Hamstersaurus Rex had a litter! Each of the little fuzzballs was one-quarter dinosaur and 100 percent adorable. Chompy took after his father in the pointy teeth department. He pretty much tried to eat anything that wasn’t nailed down (including, one time, actual nails). Stompy had oversized dinosaur feet and, if I’m being honest, a bit of an anger management issue (kids go through phases, I’m told). Hatshepsut (named by Martha) was totally hyperactive, bouncing off the walls of the enclosure with a perpetually whipping T. rex tail.

  Right behind them came their frazzled father. Hamstersaurus Rex’s eyes were bloodshot and his fur stood out in greasy clumps. I noticed more than a few new gray hairs among the orange patches.

  “Wow, buddy,” I said. “You look like you just got stomped on by Squirrel Kong. Only less rested.”

  Hatshepsut started wailing. Hamstersaurus Rex sighed and separated her from Chompy, who was gnawing on his sister’s tail. Meanwhile Stompy managed to kick the metal hamster wheel hard enough so that it wobbled and almost fell on top of her head. Hamstersaurus Rex gasped and caught it just before it did.

  “Hammie, you think you’re stressed out now,” I said, “wait till they start driving!”

  It was a joke I’d heard Dylan’s father tell about 150 times. I figured Hamstersaurus Rex would appreciate a dad joke. Instead he just squinted at me. The little guy loved his pups, but total responsibility for three new lives was really stressing him out. He was used to being the maniac, not taking care of maniacs. Cartimandua, as you might guess, was very laid-back about the whole parenthood thing. None of the commotion had woken her up.

  I scooped the happy hamster family out of the PETCATRAIL and tucked them into my backpack.

  “Chompy, no biting. Stompy, no kicking,” I said. “Hatshepsut, just try not to get overstimulated.”

  Hamstersaurus Rex gave another weary sigh as I zipped them up. Soon I was jogging down the front steps of Horace Hotwater Middle School. Twenty minutes after that, I was at my neighborhood toy store trying to think of a good gift for Beefer Vanderkoff for his bar mitzvah. If you’d told me eight months ago that I’d be celebrating the day my lifelong bully became a man, I would have countered that you were completely nuts. But then again, I suppose I wouldn’t have believed you about the giant squirrel or the evil telepathic mole either. Sixth grade is full of surprises!

  “Can I help you, son?” said Mr. Lomax, the owner of Tenth Street Toys. “Or are you just planning to lovingly caress some toys that your mom is never going to buy you?”

  I was a bit of a regular here.

  “Oh, I’m definitely buying something today,” I said. “Don’t you worry about that, Mr. Lomax.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Mr. Lomax. “You didn’t bring your weird, scaly hamster in here, did you? Because you know the rule.” He pointed to a handwritten sign on the door that read “NO WEIRD, SCALY HAMSTERS.”

  “Of course I know the rule,” I said, which was technically a true non-lie answer. This policy had been put in place after an incident in which Hamstersaurus Rex (allegedly) gobbled the whole bowl of free peppermints by the cash register. Personally I didn’t see how you could steal something that was free and I doubted the case would hold up in a court of law.

  “Because I swear I just saw your backpack move,” said Mr. Lomax.

  “That is odd,” I said. “My backpack is actually full of, uh, regular school items.”

  “Regular school items?” said Mr. Lomax. His eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

  “Well, there’s an apple,” I said. “To honor my teacher, of course. And a protractor. And a couple of those, uh, graduation caps with the tassel thingies . . .”

  His expression softened. “Good boy. Study hard and one day you could own an unprofitable toy store. Now what can I help you with today?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, I need to get a cool toy for my . . .” I paused and considered my words carefully. “Yeah, all right, fine, I guess he’s my friend.”

  “Well, then,” said Mr. Lomax, now flashing a smile. “Might I suggest the Gamehouser APEX 720-X3 with Seven-Game Bundle?” He pointed to a video game system on the top shelf behind the counter. The price tag said $499.99.

  I swallowed. “You know, he’s actually more of an, er, acquaintance,” I said. “In fact, he used to stick me in toilets. Any gifts for someone like that?”

  Mr. Lomax frowned. “Feel free to browse,” he said. “As you well know, the cheapo toys are in aisle four.”

  That’s where I headed. Good old aisle four: where a kid who’d blown his birthday money long ago might still find a little happiness. Could I get away with giving Beefer a set of finger puppets and some wax lips? Nah, that was probably too cheap. He had risked his life to help Hamstersaurus Rex and me in the fight against the evil Mind Mole. What if I threw in some Silly Putty, too?

  I wandered into aisle five and continued to rack my brain. Beefer liked snakes, Renaissance music, and stomach-churning horror movies. But had he ever mentioned pogo sticks? What about magnetic chess sets? I starte
d to second-guess myself. If he was becoming a man, should I even be getting him a toy? Maybe what he needed was a flannel bathrobe? Or one of those special spoons for eating grapefruit? Maybe a set of preemptive dentures?

  On an otherwise empty shelf near the back, a strange box caught my eye: inside was an adorable, furry toy with pointed, bat-like ears and an antenna poking out of the top of its head. Its large eyes were closed.

  I picked the box up. The package said it was a “Snuzzle,” made by a company called Fundai. I’d never heard of them. This particular Snuzzle was named “Gooboo.” According to the text on the back, Snuzzles were “all new” and “oodles of fun.” It promised a fully USB-chargeable electronic “BFF” that could walk, talk, obey simple commands, and even communicate wirelessly with your friends’ Snuzzles “up to one hundred feet away.” It was, and I quote, “the ultimate twenty-first-century smartpet experience.”

  “Check it out, Hammie,” I said into my backpack. “You’re a pretty good ‘smartpet experience’ but this thing says it’s got you beat—”

  Suddenly, the Snuzzle’s eyelids popped open.

  “Whoa!” I said, dropping the box and stumbling backward into a rack of stuffed armadillos.

  “HEWWO,” said the Snuzzle, “FWIEND?”

  My heart melted. “Awww. Hi there, little fellow,” I said. “Aren’t you a cutie?”

  Hamstersaurus Rex gave a grunt as he peeked his head out of my backpack to see what the hubbub was.

  The Snuzzle blinked again. Its eyes had changed from friendly yellow to red.

  “DESTWOY,” said the Snuzzle. And it burst out of its cardboard packaging and flew right at me.

  CHAPTER 2

  THUD! THE SNUZZLE head-butted me right in the gut. It knocked the wind out of me and I staggered backward into an RC boat display. Wow. The toy might have been the size of a bread loaf but it had cyborg strength!

  “That . . . wasn’t . . . oodles of fun,” I coughed from under a pile of remote-controlled submarines.

  “DESTWOY,” said the Snuzzle again, and it crouched for another attack.