Toad Rage (10 page)

He didn't really care because nothing mattered now that Charm and the others were doomed, but at least being curious kept his mind off the pain of thinking about them.

Sort of.

Except he couldn't see anything but drains.

Then they turned a corner and Limpy realized they were approaching what looked like a wider section of drain. An eerie light flickered from above.

“Where are we?” Limpy asked the slug.

“This section of drain runs under a pub,” replied the slug. “That's a place where humans drink beer and forget their troubles and where they live.”

Limpy looked up.

His warts prickled.

Through a grating he could see shapes in a room above them. Human shapes, drinking, silhouetted against the flickering screen of a telly.

“Don't worry,” said the slug. “They can't see us.”

Limpy hoped the slug was right.

“The tissues are over here,” said a gloomy voice.

Limpy looked around.

It wasn't a human voice.

Suddenly Limpy realized that all around him were animals and insects sitting slumped against the walls of the drain. They all looked as sad and depressed as he felt. Several of them were swigging from bottles with the dull-eyed expressions of folk who weren't really that thirsty.

“Go on,” said the voice. “Don't be embarrassed.”

A kangaroo was dabbing its eyes with a tissue and holding a couple more out to Limpy and Goliath.

“No thanks,” said Goliath.

“It's okay to be upset,” said the kangaroo. “I would be if I'd just discovered I was an unloved species.”

“We're not upset,” said Goliath menacingly to the kangaroo. “And we're not unloved. I love my cousin Limpy and he loves me.”

Limpy nodded. But only for a moment because he was feeling so upset.

The kangaroo was right.

How could I have been so stupid, thought Limpy miserably. How could I have imagined I could have a real friendship with a human? How could I think humans would want to make a fluffy toy out of me?

“Sorry,” the kangaroo was saying. “Didn't mean to rub it in. If it makes you feel any better, imagine what it's like for me. Humans love me. I'm on the Australian coat of arms. And every travel show ever made about this country. Plus most of the cooking shows. Imagine how I felt when the Games Mascot Committee gave me the thumbs-down.”

The kangaroo blew its nose loudly on a tissue.

A koala put its arm round the kangaroo. “I know how you feel, mate,” it said, and took a swig from a bottle.

“At least they didn't try and swat you,” said a blowfly indignantly.

“Or rush out of the room screaming,” said a diamond-bellied black snake sadly.

“Or scratch you off the list,” said a flea bitterly.

“I wouldn't be a mascot now if they came on their hands and knees and begged,” said a funnel-web spider. “Not after all the unkind things they said about me in that committee room.”

“At least they said them to your face,” said a crocodile. “All I got was a letter.”

“I wouldn't be a mascot now if they offered me a million dollars,” said a wombat.

“I wouldn't be one,” said a blue-tongued lizard, “if they offered me a million carports with cracks in the foundations big enough to raise a family in.”

“I wouldn't be one if they offered me a million sticks of sugarcane,” said a cane beetle.

“Or a million sticks,” said Goliath, snatching a tissue and blowing his nose.

Limpy listened to the hurt, indignant voices of the animals and insects around him, and suddenly he felt his warts prickling with anger.

“What I reckon,” he said, “is that we've all been treated shabbily by our country.”

The other animals and insects fell silent.

They turned to look at Limpy.

“These Games,” continued Limpy, his voice ringing off the wet walls, “are meant to be about a universal spirit of friendship. That's what they're always showing on telly. Well, the humans haven't shown us much friendship. I reckon we're better off not being a part of such an unfriendly Games. When we look back at all this, I reckon we won't have to feel sad for one minute about not being mascots.”

The animals and insects looked at him, eyes shining.

Then they all burst into mournful cries.

“Yes, we will,” wailed a fruit bat. “We'll feel sad and worthless for the rest of our lives.”

Limpy turned away, close to wailing himself. He wished he could have been more help.

Oh well, he thought miserably, at least this lot are only feeling flat. At least they won't actually be flat. Not like poor Mum and Dad and Charm and the others at home.

Then Limpy felt a tugging at his elbow. He looked down. It was the cane beetle.

“Don't feel so bad,” said the beetle. “At least your other country hasn't let you down.”

Limpy looked at the beetle, puzzled. “What other country?” he said. “I was born in Australia.”

“Cane toads are from South America,” said the beetle. “Your ancestors were imported. They were shipped to Australia to eat us cane beetles.”

Limpy tried to digest this.

“That's dopey,” he said. “You lot live too far off the ground for us to eat you. It's a known fact.”

“Exactly,” said the beetle. “But the sugar industry blokes who brought you over didn't think of that.”

Limpy's head was spinning.

Imported?

“You're sure you're not confusing us with avocados?” he said.

“Ask that bloke,” said the beetle, pointing at the TV screen in the bar above them. Limpy looked up. On the screen a man was being interviewed.

“He's one of the major sponsors of the Games,” said the beetle. “One of his companies grows sugar. He'll tell you.”

Limpy's mind was racing.

Thoughts he'd never had before were crashing around inside him.

How dare they?

How dare humans be so cruel to us when we didn't even ask to be here in the first place?

When they brought us here.

It's an injustice.

It's a scandal.

It's not on.

Limpy looked up at the telly screen again.

The Major Sponsor was having a laugh with the interviewer. He looked like a man who was used to getting his own way.

Good, thought Limpy, his warts glowing with anger. Because I need somebody to help me stop this injustice, and I choose you.

“H
ang on,” whispered Limpy. “Corner coming.”

“I don't like it,” said Goliath. “I want to get off.”

Limpy sighed.

“You didn't have to come,” he whispered. “I could have done it on my own.”

“I wouldn't have come,” said Goliath sulkily. “Not if you'd told me I'd have to get this close to a fruit salad. You know I hate fruit.”

“Hide behind the cream trifle then,” whispered Limpy. “Or the chocolate mousse.”

“I don't like cream or chocolate either,” said Goliath. “Why can't I hide behind a worm stew?”

“Because,” whispered Limpy, warts prickling with exasperation, “we're on a dessert trolley. Humans don't eat worm stew for dessert. Not once on telly have I seen a human eat a worm stew for dessert.”

Goliath looked amazed.

“What?” he squeaked. “Not even with slug topping?”

Limpy slapped his hand over Goliath's mouth. “Quiet,” he whispered.

The waiter was coming back to the trolley.

Limpy and Goliath clung to the shuddering fruit salad bowl as the trolley was wheeled over the thick restaurant carpet to the next table.

“How long till we get there?” whined Goliath for what Limpy calculated must be the hundred-billionth time.

Limpy sighed.

“Not long,” he said.

He peered out from behind the fruit salad bowl.

Three tables to go.

Three tables to the Major Sponsor's table.

“If these humans see us, we're history,” moaned Goliath. “They might be dressed posh, but they'll still try to beat us to death with their ice cream spoons.”

“They won't see us,” whispered Limpy. “Not if you keep quiet and keep your head down.”

Limpy hoped he was right.

Luckily most of the people in the restaurant were staring at a large screen on the stage, where the bloke with the clipboard was showing images of athletes doing athletic things.

Limpy couldn't understand a word the bloke was saying.

He didn't need to. He had a pretty good idea what was going on. The cane beetle had explained it all. How this was a special dinner for all the Games sponsors. So they could find out what world records the Games organizers were hoping would be broken in the various events.

“Why do they want to know that?” Limpy had asked.

“Advertising,” the cane beetle explained.

Limpy still didn't understand.

“Here's how it works,” the cane beetle had continued. “Imagine a TV ad. An athlete in bed with a heavy cold. Cut to the athlete breaking a world record, say for eating sugarcane. Cut to the athlete with a gold medal explaining how XYZ cold tablets clear blocked sinuses in record time. Get it?”

Limpy had got it. And now, as the dessert trolley clattered over to the next table, he had another thought.

Perhaps that's why most humans were so bad-tempered and angry.

Blocked sinuses.

Limpy peered out from behind the fruit salad bowl.

Two tables to go.

Two tables to the Major Sponsor's table.

Limpy felt his warts tighten with nerves. And also
tingle with pride. The cane beetle had suggested sneaking into the sponsor's dinner, but the dessert trolley had been Limpy's idea.

“This dessert trolley idea,” muttered Goliath, “is dopey.”

Limpy ignored him.

He ran through in his mind what he had to do when they finally got to the Major Sponsor's table.

First, tell the Major Sponsor about the injustice cane toads were suffering, with special mention of their brains being squeezed out through their ears.

Then, explain how the sugar industry was partly responsible.

Finally, persuade the Major Sponsor to make amends by running heaps of TV ads telling humans that cane toads are really very nice once you get to know them.

Limpy knew it wasn't going to be easy, specially as he didn't speak the Major Sponsor's language.

Everything would depend on how much he could get across to the Major Sponsor by drawing diagrams on the tablecloth in chocolate mousse and strawberry sauce.

Limpy tried to look on the bright side.

Perhaps, he thought hopefully as the trolley clattered to the next table, the girl athlete with the big stick might appear with me in the ads.

At that moment the girl athlete walked onto the stage.

For half a second Limpy thought he was dreaming, that the stress was making him see things.

Then he realized other athletes were walking onto the stage as well. The bloke with the clipboard was introducing them as the athletes who'd been in the presentation. The people at the tables were applauding loudly.

Limpy would have joined in but for one thing.

A woman at a nearby table who'd been asleep had just been woken up by the applause. Limpy saw that she wasn't facing the stage. She was facing the dessert trolley.

Now she was staring.

Now her eyes were bulging and her mouth was opening wide.

Now she was screaming.

Limpy hoped desperately she'd just had a bad dream. He hoped desperately she wasn't screaming at him and Goliath. He hoped desperately she just hated rhubarb pavlova.

Except she wasn't pointing at the rhubarb pavlova; she was pointing at him and Goliath.

Other people were looking.

And yelling.

Almost certainly not at the rhubarb.

Limpy felt the trolley jolt and move off at speed. The waiter had grabbed it and was charging out of the restaurant with it.

As they sped past the Major Sponsor's table, Limpy saw the Major Sponsor frowning at the disappearing trolley. He didn't look like a man who'd want to make amends. Not when he wasn't getting any dessert.

Limpy peered toward the stage, hoping to catch the girl athlete's eye. She was peering quizzically toward the trolley, but Limpy could tell she couldn't really see what was going on.

Then a massive jolt nearly flung Limpy into the raspberry pudding as the trolley crashed through some swing doors.

“Jump!” Limpy yelled at Goliath.

“I can't,” said Goliath. His voice sounded muffled. Limpy saw this was because his head was in the cream trifle.

Then Limpy saw something that churned his stomach even more.

A security guard was running toward them down the corridor with a big snarling black dog on a lead.

The security guard stopped, crouched down, and suddenly the dog wasn't on the lead anymore.

With a wet snarl it leapt onto the trolley.

Limpy pressed himself into the cold glass of the fruit salad bowl and tried desperately to look like a piece of rockmelon.

If only he could reach Goliath and push him down into the trifle before the dog saw him.

Too late.

The dog snatched Goliath in its jaws, jumped off the trolley, and ran down the corridor.

“Goliath,” screamed Limpy.

The corridor was full of waiters yelling and bumping into each other. The dog darted through them and disappeared.