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Secrets of the Dripping Fang #05; The Shluffmuffin Boy Is History by Dan Greenburg; Illustrated by Scott M. Fischer |
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CHILDREN'S FICTION | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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The fifth book in a hilarious series about two orphans and a world of monsters After the gang got a little pyromaniacal at the Mandibles' place, nothing's as it should be. Wally has suddenly turned into an eternal optimist, Vampire Dad wants to give the twins up for adoption, and Cheyenne has been acting awfully, well, hypnotized lately. Meanwhile, everyone in downtown Cincinnati is snotting and snuffling from a mysterious and deadly flu virus--and the ont larvae are quietly gaining strength underground. nbsp;nbsp;nbsp;nbsp; Luckily, a suspicious stranger with a syringe shows up to give Wally a free 'vaccination.' (Now, there couldn't possibly be anything wrong with that picture, could there?) Although a paid assassin is stalking Wally while his twin sister Cheyenne is under the power of the queen ont, it is up to them, their vampire Dad, and their friends to save the human race from the giant onts. Chapter 1 nbsp; Bargaining for Cheyenne’s Life nbsp; Cheyenne Shluffmuffin lay in bed, shivering. Although the girl’s slim body quaked with cold, her thin pajamas and sheets were soaked in sweat. Her skin was so hot, it scalded the fingertips of whoever touched her. nbsp;The darkened room in the attic of the odd house in the forest smelled like cherry cough syrup, menthol, and stale bedclothes. The sound of her labored, wheezing breathing was hard to listen to. nbsp;The doctor removed a glass thermometer from between Cheyenne’s parched lips and held it close to the bedside light. nbsp;“How high is my temperature, Doctor?” Cheyenne asked weakly. nbsp;“A hundred and six,” he said. nbsp;A tortured cough momentarily convulsed her body. nbsp;“That’s . . . not so high,” she gasped when she could breathe again, “is it?” nbsp;“No,” said the doctor, “not compared to the temperature of boiling water.” nbsp;Wally, Cheyenne’s ten-year-old twin brother, leaned close to Shirley Spydelle’s ear. “Are doctors supposed to be sarcastic?” he whispered. nbsp;Shirley shook her head. “No, Wally,” she whispered back. “But that’s troll doctors for you—no bedside manner. However, they do make house calls.” Shirley rubbed four of her eight legs through her silk pajamas and pulled her robe more tightly around herself. Even giant spiders sometimes feel a chill. nbsp;“Hey, honey, a hundred and six is nothing,” said Vampire Dad, pulling the blankets up over his shivering daughter. “I once had a hundred and twenty.” This was an outrageous lie to make Cheyenne feel better and she knew it. Dad had never had a temperature higher than a hundred and four, and for the past three years he’d had no temperature at all. nbsp;The troll doctor yanked his stethoscope out of his long floppy ears and zipped up his medical bag. His wart-covered head was so large, it threatened to tip him over on his stubby legs and send him crashing to the floor. nbsp;Wally, Dad, Shirley, and Shirley’s human husband, Edgar, followed the troll as he hopped down three flights of stairs to the front door. nbsp;“Okay, amigos,” said the troll, “that’ll be two hundred bucks. Cash.” nbsp;Dad looked at Edgar, then shrugged and raised his palms. nbsp;“My word, Doctor,” said Edgar in his charming British accent. “When we spoke on the phone, I understood you to say one hundred.” nbsp;“Right,” said the troll. “A hundred for the house call, a hundred for the stairs. Stairs are murder on a troll’s legs. If I’d known you had stairs, I never would’ve come.” nbsp;Edgar pulled a roll of twenties, as old and limp as cloth, from his wallet. He counted out a sheaf of them and extended it to the troll, who snatched it quick as a toad’s tongue. nbsp;“What is your prognosis, Doctor?” asked Edgar. He struck a wooden match with his thumbnail, held the flame close to the bowl of his pipe, and inhaled deeply. It failed to light. nbsp;“Well, Professor,” said the troll, “there’s a very good chance she’ll live through the night, in which case I wouldn’t be surprised if she makes it all the way to lunch tomorrow.” nbsp;“And after that?” Wally asked. nbsp;“After that?” said the troll. “After that your guess is as good as mine. To be on the safe side, though, I’d probably have me a good funeral |
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