That Dirty Dog and Other Naughty Stories for Good Boys and Girls (3 page)

‘Mum says I need building up, so she's been giving me big breakfasts,' replied Stinky. ‘Today I had stewed prunes, then leftover cauliflower cheese and cabbage fried like hash browns, two eggs, bacon, two pork sausages, a whole can of baked beans…'

‘Enough, enough!' said Mrs Hammond.

‘Oh, no,' said Stinky.

‘What?' asked Mrs Hammond.

‘Talking about food like that gets me excited. I think I've just done another smell,' said Stinky.

Now, smelling a fluff out in the open is one thing, but trying to get away from it in a small space like a principal's office is another.

Mrs Hammond didn't even make it to the door. The last thing she remembered was being hit by a stench that was almost too bad to describe. ‘Try to imagine,' she said later to the ambulance officer, ‘opening the back doors of a truck that has been sitting in the hot sun for two weeks – and finding a dead elephant inside.'

Mrs Hammond was only away for a week, but in that time the school really changed. And all because of Stinky. Kids were organised to track his movements during lunchtime so they could warn others to steer clear of him and, just like fire drills, teachers taught everyone how to leave the building quickly and safely if Stinky let one go inside.

Mrs Hammond didn't dare call Stinky into her office for another chat – one brush with death was enough – so, until Stinky's old school was rebuilt, they would just have to put up with him. Kids began wearing coats inside because the windows were always open, and some even had gas masks that their parents had bought for them.

Then one day, Mrs Hammond got some even worse news. The government had decided to test every kid in the country so that they could work out which were the best and worst schools.

Mrs Hammond was immediately against the idea because it was so unfair. Schools in some areas might have a lot of kids whose parents worked long hours to put food on the table, which might mean they didn't have much time to help their kids with schoolwork and reading and stuff. And other parents might be in trouble or going through a really hard time. So when the test results came through, that school would get a bad rating – even if the teachers were doing a fantastic job helping those kids to keep up. Which made it a good school!

‘So,' said Mrs Hammond to her teachers, ‘our school is not going to take part in this test because it's wrong.'

‘But the government will insist,' said Mr Brown, one of the teachers. ‘Won't you be putting your job at risk?'

‘I don't care,' said Mrs Hammond.

‘There might be another way,' said Mr Brown, looking slightly nervous. ‘But it's disgusting.'

Well, Mr Brown's idea was worse than disgusting. But Mrs Hammond agreed to it. She had no choice.

Mr Brown's plan was this: the government would definitely send someone along to supervise the test, to make sure things were done properly and no-one cheated. ‘But,' he said, ‘what if the supervisor couldn't stay in the room?'

‘And how might that come about?' asked Mrs Hammond.

‘Stinky Adams,' replied Mr Brown.

Mr Brown needed the kids' help for this plan, and he explained to them that Mrs Hammond thought the test was unfair. It would be tough, he said, but the plan was for Stinky to let one go during the test so that the supervisor was forced to leave the room.

But!
The kids would have to pretend that nothing had happened. If the supervisor smelt a rat, the trick wouldn't work.

The supervisor could never say that she left because of a terrible smell – that would just sound too rude. So, with a bit of luck, the school's test results wouldn't make it on to the list.

Of course, the big question was how to get the kids to stay in the room during one of Stinky's smells.

‘Practice is the answer,' said Mr Brown. ‘We can become immune. Every day for the next month, I'm going to ask Stinky to do a really bad smell – I can't believe I'm saying this – and I'm going to ask you all to last a minute longer than the day before. I'm sure we can do it, but I should warn you. On the day of the test I'm going to ask Stinky to do one of his worst – something truly frightening.'

‘Oh, no!' the kids said to each other, gagging already. But they liked Mr Brown and Mrs Hammond, and they were determined to help.

So, the very next day, the practice sessions began. At first, most kids could only last a few seconds before collapsing and gasping for air. But Mr Brown was right. Slowly but surely they got to the stage where they could last a full thirty minutes, which was probably the length of the test.

Finally, the day arrived. Luckily it was on Stinky's birthday and Mr Brown suggested that he ask his mum for a special breakfast. Two bowls of prunes, four eggs, two bits of bacon, three thick pork sausages, three fried potato cakes and four bits of toast with a really thick layer of peanut butter. That would do the trick.

It certainly did. As the kids sat down to do the test and the supervisor took her place at the front, everyone could tell that Stinky was just about bursting. Stinky looked over to Mr Brown, who nodded. Then, silent but deadly,
Stinky let it rip.

Now we've all come across the odd bad smell but this was something else. Something evil and twisted. A very sick puppy. Nothing could help you imagine what it was like – not even the smell of a thousand dead rats, or a hole-in-the-ground dunny, or the breath of someone who had just smoked a hundred cigarettes after not cleaning their teeth for a year, or rotting fish-heads in a bin.

Kids shifted in their seats, held their breath or tried to think of something else – anything except getting up and leaving.

The supervisor's eyes widened as the horrible smell wafted over. What was that foul stench? And how come no-one else seemed to notice it? Was it her imagination?

Beads of perspiration began to form on her brow and she went white. She held a handkerchief to her mouth and staggered to her feet. She realised she hadn't taken a breath for well over a minute and panic set in. Lurching all over the place, she zig-zagged towards the door.

Kids were twitching in their seats, desperate for her to leave. But there was one more surprise in store. As the supervisor got closer to the door,
she got closer to
Stinky.

Now, I've seen some huge vomits before, but this one was a ten. All over the blackboard, all over the floor and even on the ceiling. Finally, the poor supervisor crawled out the door on her hands and knees, and stumbled towards her car in the parking lot.

You could hear the sigh of relief from all the kids. At last, they could leave too!

But it wasn't just a
sigh
everyone had heard. Stinky had let another one go!

Brian and Keith Taylor used to fight like no other brothers before them. They fought from the moment they woke up until last thing at night, when their poor parents would drag them apart and force them to bed. Even then, Brian would still sometimes sneak into Keith's room for one last punch, or maybe to pull his pillow away or rip his blankets off.

Why they fought so much, their parents could never work out. If Keith had a mate around to stay, Brian would crack the nasties and try to spoil their fun. Perhaps by throwing golf balls at Keith's head. Or pushing him. Or punching him. Or changing the TV to another channel. Or wrecking the cubby-house they'd just spent hours building. Or insisting that whatever they were playing with was his and that he needed it right now!

And the same when Brian had a mate. One day, Brian was mucking around with his friend Steven when they decided to play bockers. That's when you take it in turns to punch each other on the arm. As hard as you can. The first one to say he can't take it anymore is the loser. It's terrific fun. Especially when the other kid gets tears in his eyes.

Anyway, with each punch, Brian was saying to Steven, ‘Is that the best you can do?' Or, ‘That didn't hurt.' Suddenly, Keith appeared with a cricket bat and, as hard as he could, went
bang
, right on Brian's shoulder.

‘I bet that hurt,' said Keith.

Brian and Keith's fighting drove their parents mad, but never more so than when they started in the car. Sometimes their mother would lean over to give them a smack but they would flatten themselves against the back seat.

‘For the life of me, I'll stop the car and leave you here!' their father would scream.

‘It's not my fault,' Keith would yell. ‘Brian hit me.'

‘Bull,' Brian would shout. ‘He had his leg over my side!'

And so it would go.

One night, when the boys were being unusually quiet, their father put his arm around both their shoulders and said, ‘When you boys stop fighting for a minute, like now, it makes me and your mum so happy. Doesn't it feel nice? Have you ever realised that deep down you might actually like each other?'

Brian and Keith looked at each other and for the first time in ages they agreed on something.

‘Dad, you're weird,' said Brian.

‘A real sicko,' added Keith.

And off they went to their room for a really good fight.

Strange as it might sound, Brian and Keith really did like fighting and in a few short years they found themselves grown up and fighting again. This time, in a war! You see, Brian and Keith had seen ads on TV for the army and straight away both had thought,
Yes! This is the life for me.

Like many other brave Australians, they were soon sent overseas to a country where they were fighting to keep the local people safe.

Then came a terrible day.The officer in charge said that ten men were needed to sneak into an enemy weapons supply and blow it up. It would be dangerous – very dangerous – but it was their only hope.

Spies had found out that the enemy had three times as many weapons, and unless the Aussies could take some of them out with a surprise attack, there'd be trouble.

‘Any volunteers?' asked the officer in charge. ‘Anyone want to put their hand up?'

Straight away, Brian shouted, ‘Yep, count me in.'

‘Me too,' said Keith. ‘Hate for Brian to get shot and not be there to see it.'

That night, just before they set out, loaded up with bombs, the officer in charge said there was one order that they must stick to no matter what. If someone got shot, the rest were to leave him there to die. That might sound shocking, but there was just no way a single man could be wasted trying to help another.

‘Is that clear?' he thundered.

‘Yes, sir,' they replied.

Brian and Keith might never have said so, but they were scared. Scared of dying, scared of even thinking about the possibility that they might never see their mum or dad or Australia again.

Well, they had spread out over several hundred metres when a shot went
crack
in the night and Keith went down. Without having even seen the enemy weapons supply, Keith had copped a sniper's bullet right in the stomach.

Although panic gripped him, he lay silent. He wanted to scream out from the pain but he knew what the rules were. So, as the other men moved forward, knowing they couldn't stop to help, Keith looked down and saw blood, everywhere. Unable to move, he knew that he would bleed to death.

As Keith lay there in the dark, he thought about his family. Particularly about Brian. He loved his brother so much, but he realised he'd never said so. Just like their dad had said.

Suddenly, a hand. A hand was pulling at his shirt. Pulling him up. Was he imagining it? No. It was a hand that he knew. A hand that had wrestled and held him down and punched him a thousand times.

It was Brian hauling him up and over his shoulder, and saying softly, ‘Didn't think I'd leave you, did you?'

‘But the orders,' Keith managed to whisper.

‘Guess they forgot we're brothers,' said Brian. ‘Hang on tight, keep your head down and your mouth shut. Get any blood on me and you're dead.'