B.U.R.P. Strikes Back Read online

  Then it’s back to the tailors’ to try on our new suits. I thought wearing a suit would feel all itchy and tight, but mine fits great! I look like I stepped out of a clothing catalog! I admire it from all angles while Kurf nods approvingly. “You clean up good!” he says. “For a human.”

  I grin.

  “What about me?” Dad asks, holding his arms out wide.

  “Two thumbs-up,” I tell him. “If you wear that home, Mom’ll think I left my real dad up here at Akbar’s!”

  “Two pounds!” the tailor shrieks as he circles around Pockets. “How could you gain two pounds in one meal?”

  “If I’d had tuna to eat, I wouldn’t have had to stuff myself with bread!” Pockets throws up his paws. As he does, his suit rips right down the seams.

  Feemus looks ready to faint from embarrassment. “Take it off,” the tailor cries. “I’ll have to start all over!”

  It takes so long to remake the suit that we miss the tour of the gardens. I think it’s safe to say that no one (except maybe Feemus) is too broken up about that. Kurf checks out the itinerary and says, “Yay! We get to go to the slog-eating contest! That’s been sold out for weeks!”

  “What’s a slog, anyway?” I ask.

  “Ohhh, you’re gonna love it! Just make sure you don’t sit in the front row!”

  So, of course, where are our seats? That’s right: row one, front and center! We’re apparently considered “special guests,” since Pockets is the judge. The fact that there are rain ponchos on each seat is a bit worrisome. A long table has been set up in the front of the room, with six giant bowls across from six folding chairs. As the judge, Pockets will be standing behind the contestants to make sure they’re actually eating the food and not hiding it in their laps.

  One by one, the contestants file in to thunderous applause and take their seats on the stage.

  “Bloppy!” I shout as the last contestant enters. I’d recognize my big goopy friend anywhere! Who else looks like a melting orange snowman? I jump out of my chair. “Dad, it’s Bloppy!”

  “I can see that,” Dad says, clapping louder.

  “Bloppy is the favorite to win,” Kurf explains. “He may have a small mouth, but he chews faster than anyone. In fact, I’m not sure he even chews; he may just shovel it in!”

  As Bloppy glides to the front of the room, goo oozes off him and then slurps back up onto his body, as usual. A strange condition of his species, but that’s what makes him so perfect for his job at Akbar’s roller rink: keeping the floors clean and smooth. “Archie! Sal!” he calls out when he sees us in the audience. “Thanks so much for coming!” We cheer some more and wave.

  “Pockets!” Bloppy shouts as he gets to the stage. He reaches for a hug, but Pockets holds up his paw to stop him. Pockets is not a hugger. Plus, it probably wouldn’t look good for the judge of the contest to hug a contestant!

  Once the contestants are all seated, waiters enter carrying huge white buckets. Pockets makes sure an even amount gets poured into each bowl. “Ick!” I whisper to Kurf. “The slog looks like chunks of rotten garbage!”

  “That’s exactly what it is!” Kurf says, laughing.

  A foul smell rises up from the bowls, and I have to cover my nose. I’m pretty sure my first slog-eating contest will also be my last. Pockets blows a whistle and the contestants begin shoveling the slog into their mouths. “Quick!” Kurf shouts. “Put on your poncho!”

  The audience cheers as slog goes flying out of the bowls in all directions. Pockets is protecting himself by erecting a force field in front of himself. I yank the hood farther down over my face and peek out. Bloppy’s doing great, but the guy next to him in a green-striped suit has almost emptied his bowl! The card in front of his seat says his name is Thoster. He has a wide mouth that extends almost all the way across his even wider face. He reminds me of a capital T—a wide head and a skinny body. I’ll never get tired of seeing new kinds of aliens.

  Right as I’m sure Bloppy’s about to lose, Thoster glances over at him. He then stops eating to pick his teeth with his pinkie nail! The crowd’s going nuts! Bloppy slurps up the last of the slog and Pockets blows the whistle. “Bloppy is the winner,” Pockets announces, looking bored and slightly annoyed. “I should be saving the universe right now,” he mutters loud enough for me to hear. “Instead I’m doing this?”

  Feemus jumps up and runs to the table. I figure he’s going to congratulate Bloppy, but instead he gets right up in Thoster’s face. “Throwing the contest?” Feemus shouts at him. “That’s… that’s… well, it’s not cool!”

  “Feemus!” Dad says, jumping up. “Leave the man alone. You don’t know that he let Bloppy win!”

  “That’s okay, sir,” Thoster says. “I did let him win. He deserved it. He has a very small mouth, and I have a very large one.”

  Feemus shakes his head. “That may be. But you let Bloppy win because you know he’s Pockets’ friend and you want Pockets to like you.”

  “Wait,” Dad says, “what’s going on with you two?”

  Feemus glares at Thoster, who is wiping off his hand before holding it out to Dad. “I’m Thoster. I joined Pockets’ fan club a few weeks ago, and the little guy feels threatened by me.” He pats Feemus on the head. “But truly, there is no reason. There’s enough of Pockets to go around.”

  At the sound of his name, Pockets jumps. Thoster turns to look adoringly up at him. Dad and I have to hide our laughs behind our hands. Feemus seems to have met his match! Guess he’s not the only member of the fan club after all!

  Pockets lowers himself onto his four paws and scampers through the crowd until he’s at the door. Feemus shakes his head at Thoster one more time and runs after Pockets. I want to go talk to Bloppy, but he’s having his picture taken with his medal.

  Unfortunately, Kurf has to go home before the rehearsal dinner, so we say our good-byes covered in slog. “Have fun in your fancy hotel room,” Kurf teases.

  “I will!” I reply, although we’ve barely been in there long enough for me to remember what it looks like.

  Dad and I stop at one of the restrooms on the way to the ballroom to clean up from the contest. Getting the smell out of my nose is something that soap and water isn’t going to fix!

  It’s a little past six when Dad and I arrive at dinner. My lack of sleep is starting to catch up to me again. I yawn as I look around the enormous ballroom. Pockets and his father are in deep conversation in the corner. The last time I saw them together, they were acting like typical cats—rolling around on the floor and leaping around each other. Guess this isn’t exactly the right occasion for being silly. Assorted aliens clutching autograph books and cameras look on in adoration. These could only be the fan club members. I spot Thoster and wave. He tips his hat at me. A small chunk of slog hangs from his ear. I shudder as he pulls it off and pops it into his mouth.

  The chief abruptly turns to face the room. “All right, everyone. Let’s get this show on the road.” He gives orders to the waitstaff, telling them which guests will be at which tables tomorrow and to make sure everyone has at least one tuna sandwich before offering seconds. He turns to the stage, where Feemus is fiddling with the microphone. “A short film of Pockets will play in the background while the guests are getting settled and eating their salads and soup. Then Feemus will make his opening remarks.”

  At the sound of his name, Feemus drops the microphone and a loud squeak shoots from the speakers. “Sorry, sorry!” he says, quickly grabbing it. “It’s an honor to meet you in the flesh, sir, truly, just the biggest thrill.” He makes an awkward bowing motion.

  The chief takes a deep breath and continues. “After the remarks, I shall come up to present my son with the award.” He turns to Pockets. “Then it will be your turn to give your speech. Do you want to practice now?”

  Pockets’ ears press down against his head. “No!” he says. “I mean, wouldn’t it mean more to hear it for the first time at the ceremony?”

  The chief nods and pats his son on