Hot Dog and Bob: Adventure 1 (2 page)

“What took you so long?” asked the talking hot dog. “A couple more minutes and I woulda been lunch meat!”

I didn’t know what to do. I mean, it’s not like there’s a rule book that tells you how to act if you find a talking hot dog in your lunch box. So I slammed the lid down as fast as I could and pretended nothing was wrong.

“Dude! What’s your problem?” asked Marco.

“Are you okay, Bob?” asked Clementine. “You look like you’re gonna puke!”

“I, um, gotta go,” I said, grabbing my lunch box and running out of the lunchroom.

“Have a nice trip!” Barfalot said as I ran by. He stretched out his leg and tripped me with his foot, launching me straight into the trash can. “See ya next fall!”

“‘See ya next fall!’ That was a good one!” Pigburt and Slugburt giggled.

As you can probably guess, Barfalot, Pigburt and Slugburt—the Terrible Triplets— are dirty, rotten bullies. Barfalot’s the leader, and the other two are his brainless bodyguards.

Anyway, I didn’t have time to get into a fight. I climbed out of the trash can, picked up my lunch box and ran to the boys’ bathroom as fast as I could.

I double-checked to make sure I was alone. Then I slipped into a stall and locked the door.

I was hoping I’d open my lunch box and realize that the whole thing had just been some kind of weird daydream. But when I looked inside, the hot dog was still there.

“Who are you?” I whispered. “How come you’re in my lunch box?”

The strange little guy stood up on my pizza. “Hot Dog’s my name, fightin’ bad stuff’s my game!” he said, with his tiny little hot-dog hands on his tiny little hot-dog hips.

“Ohhh-kaaay,” I said.

“Whenever there’s big alien trouble on another planet, the Big Bun sends one of us superhero hot dogs from Dogzalot to help out,” he said proudly.

“The Big Bun?” I laughed.

“Hey, buster!” the little guy said, shaking his finger at me. “If the Big Bun says you got big trouble, then believe you me, you got big trouble!”

“All right, I believe you! I believe you!” I said. “But how come you’re in
my
lunch box?”

“Well, kid, it’s like this,” he said, sitting down on my bag of peanuts. “I kinda got this, well, this … what is it they call it again? Oh, yeah! This little, uh, memory problem.”

“Memory problem?” I repeated.

Hot Dog sighed. “Seems on my last mission I kind of bumped my head on Rocky the Rock Monster’s fists. Hey, how was I supposed to know the guy’s hands were made out of granite?”

Hot Dog sighed again.

“Anyway, the Big Bun says from now on I need backup,” Hot Dog explained. “She doesn’t trust me to handle the job alone. Says I gotta have a partner with a good memory. You know, just until mine gets back to normal.”

“Um, excuse me, Mr. Hot Dog, sir,” I said. “Are you saying this, uh, Big Bun picked me to be your partner just because I have a good memory?”

That was pretty hard for me to believe. You’d think if an alien ruler was going to pick a human to save the planet, she’d pick some extra special kid, like my buddy Marco. Marco won the spelling bee for our entire county. Plus, he’s the best skateboarder at Lugenheimer Elementary.

But me? Well, I’m just Bob—pretty much your normal, average guy. Bob, who does fine in school, but doesn’t take home any awards. Who plays sports, but doesn’t score the
winning point. Who tries to be nice and stuff, but doesn’t
save the world
or anything! And now a superhero hot dog was saying I got picked to be his partner because I have a good memory? Talk about weird!

But unless I was dreaming, weird or not, it was true!

“Listen, kid,” Hot Dog said, leaning in close. “You don’t have to call me mister. Call me Hot Dog. After all, from now on it’s me and you stickin’ like glue. Partners till the very end!”

“The very end of w-what?” I asked rather nervously.

“The very end of my mission on your planet, of course,” said Hot Dog.

“Oh!
That
very end!” I said. “So, er—what exactly
is
your mission on my planet?”

Just then, the bell rang.

I was dying to find out what Hot Dog’s mission was, but I’d have to wait. My teacher, Miss Lamphead, hated it when we were late. “Come on,” I said. “I gotta get to class. I can’t wait to show you to my friends.”

“No sirree, Bob!” Hot Dog said, hiding under my pizza. “This mission is top secret. I’ll hide out here until the time is right.”

“Right,” I said, making sure to leave my lunch box open a crack for air.

I took a deep breath and walked down the hall, trying my best to look like someone who didn’t have a talking hot dog in his lunch box.

I made it to class just as the late bell rang.

“Is everything all right, Bob?” Miss Lamphead asked nicely.

“Yes, Miss Lamphead,” I said, sliding my lunch box under my desk.

“Are you sure, dear?” she asked. “You don’t look very well.”

“Maybe it was that little trip Bob took to the trash can!” Barfalot yelled out.

“Ha, ha, that’s a good one!” Pigburt and Slugburt snorted. “‘Little trip to the trash can!’ Ha, ha!”

“Please wait your turn to talk, boys,” Miss Lamphead said. “I’ll call on you just as soon as I can.”

Miss Lamphead was always nice and thoughtful, even to the Terrible Triplets. But all of a sudden
she
was the one who didn’t look very well.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Lamphead said, patting her forehead with her lacy purple handkerchief. “I hope I didn’t accidentally eat something with cheese at lunchtime. I’m terribly allergic to cheese, you know.”

At first Miss Lamphead just looked kind of pale. But then she started getting sort of yellow and strange looking. Suddenly she stared straight at me with this freaky, wild-eyed expression. Then when she opened her mouth to talk, somebody else’s voice came out.

“We do not tolerate late children on Pizzalopolis,” she roared. “And we will not tolerate late children here! You will write ‘I am extremely dumb for being late’ 437 times in a row. And when you are done with that, you will erase every speck on this floor with your pencil eraser!”

I started feeling sick to my stomach.

“Wow,” I heard Hot Dog say. “She’s even stricter than the Big Bun!”

“I don’t know what’s going on,” I whispered. “Miss Lamphead’s usually really, really nice.”

“Excuse me, Miss Lamphead,” Clementine said, raising her hand. “What do you mean Pizzalopolis? I thought you were from Nebraska.”

“Who said you could talk? You noisy, nosy child!” snapped Miss Lamphead. “
You
will write ‘I am extremely dumb for asking questions in school’ 964 and a half times. And then you will make lots and lots of tiny little pencil marks on the floor for Late Bob over there to erase.”

“Bob and Clementine sittin’ in a tree,” sang Barfalot, “E-R-A-S-I-N-G!”

“Ha, ha!” snorted Pigburt and Slugburt, who had no clue what E-R-A-S-I-N-G even spelled.

Well, that’s when things got
really
interesting. Miss Lamphead turned from sort-of yellow to all-the-way yellow, kind of like cheese. In fact,
exactly
like cheese. My teacher was turning into a gigantic cheese pizza right in front of our eyes! Pepperoni and all kinds of other
pizza toppings popped up all over her body, which was getting bigger and rounder every second. Oh, and did I mention the mozzarella? Melty mozzarella oozed out of her nostrils. That was the sickest part of all!