How to Curse in Hieroglyphics (5 page)

“You already said
Blood-Puddle,”
Pilot pointed out.

“I already said
Puddle of Blood,”
Cheryl corrected him.

“Oh.” Pilot blinked and then—not wanting to appear uncool—turned the blink into another eye-roll.

Suddenly, the ginormous black rotary-dial phone in the barn jangled loudly—a jarring, startling ring that sounded as if someone had duct-taped a brass marching band together and pushed them down a flight of stairs. Pilot jumped a few inches in the air, but the girls were used to it. Cheryl reached behind her without looking and plucked up the clunky handset.

“Yello,” she said by way of greeting.

Tweed watched, silent, as Cheryl nodded and “uh-huh”ed her way through the conversation. After two or three minutes, Cheryl said, “Well, hold the fort, we're on our way,” and placed the handset back in its cradle.

“Sitch?” Tweed asked.

“It's the Bottoms Boys' birthday bash,” Cheryl said, with perhaps a hint of smug satisfaction. “Not even at the cake-'n'-cookies stage yet and there's been a containment breach!”

The Bottoms family lived in a big rambly house on the edge of town and had four sons—quadruplets—aged three years old, named John, Paul, George and Bingo. It was their birthday party, and Mrs. Bottoms had unwisely decided to go with only two babysitters to help keep an eye on a backyard crowd of rugrats wreaking havoc in a bouncy castle. Two sitters—Cindy Tyson and Hazel
Polizzi—who (thirteen years old notwithstanding)
weren't
Cheryl and Tweed.

Tweed shook her head gravely. “Parents. They never listen.”

“They never do.” Cheryl jumped down off the workbench and went to get the gear bag. “Ankle-biters are on the loose, literally. Cindy got bit real hard on the leg. Might need stitches.”

Tweed nodded, frowning. “Bite radius was …?”

“Two inches. Four tooth marks. Rear lower calf muscle, from the sound of things.”

“Ha. That means she turned her back on the enemy. Sloppy work.”

“Amateur,” Cheryl agreed. “Anywho, that was Mrs. Bottoms calling for backup. Said she'd pay double our hourly rate if we could round the critters up in good time. Plus an extra fudg-ickle each as a performance bonus.” Cheryl heaved the army-surplus canvas tote up onto the work surface. “Do an equipment check. They're heading toward grumpy old Farmer Taylor's cornfields.”

“Roger that.”

Cheryl glanced over at Pilot. “Could use some air support, Flyboy.”

“Yeah, uh … no can do, little ladies.” Pilot grimaced. “My plane's grounded until I fix a wicked shimmy she picked up.” He jumped off the workbench and headed for the door. “Have fun with the little monkeys, I got a date with a monkey-wrench!”

The girls waved goodbye as he left and turned directly to the task at hand.

Knowing what had happened to the other party sitters, they knew their best chance of success in retrieving the quad toddlers lay in adequate preparation and reliable training. Tweed got a pair of bungee cords out of the workbench drawer and, with Cheryl's help, strapped a Baby-Go-Bye-Bye collapsible travel playpen to their regular equipment bag.

It made for a slightly awkward ride at first as they pedalled their bikes, the bag slung between them, once more past the carnival's fence—behind which the angular shapes of rides were beginning to poke up—but they soon got the groove of it. Once they got to the cornfield, the twins decided that they might as well have a little fun with the job. With swift efficiency, they set up their gear, did a brief scout of the terrain and gave each other the patented C
+
T Secret Signal.

“Roll camera … ” said Tweed.

“Aaand … ” said Cheryl.

“…ACTION!!”

EXT. A GROVE OF WALNUT TREES -- ESTABLISHING SHOT -- DAY

A group of ESCAPED PRIMITIVES (short in
stature, almost childlike, utterly feral)
crouch on their haunches, their GRINNING
FACES smeared with GORE (or, perhaps, CAKE)!
In the near distance is a CORNFIELD.

The GROUP LEADER suddenly raises his head,
sniffs the air. He frowns angrily.

PRIMITIVE LEADER

(in a commanding voice)

Booger …?

The PRIMITIVE LEADER is clearly unhappy about
what he has seen. He begins to howl and
points toward the GROVE. The sound of BRAYING
HORNS can be heard.

PRIMITIVE LEADER (CONT'D)

Booger booger BOOGER!!

A PAIR OF “GRR-ILLA” SOLDIERS, clad in QUASI-
MILITARY GEAR, burst through the trees,
mounted on ENORMOUS BLACK STEEDS.

 

CAMERA ZOOMS IN as the PRIMITIVES react:
PANIC! RAGE! SPITTING UP!!

 

CLOSE-UP ON: The GRR-ILLA SOLDIERS.

GRR-ILLA SOLDIER CEE

They'll try to make a break for it.
When they do, go wide -- circle
around and drive our quarry toward
the trap!

GRR-ILLA SOLDIER TEE

(sneering)

Barbarian beasts!

The PRIMITIVES make a break for it -- RUNNING
CRAZILY toward the CORNFIELD.

 

CAMERA TRACKS through the CORN, racing along
with the PRIMITIVES, running like crazy!!

 

CUT TO: The PRIMITIVE LEADER's Point Of View,
as he RACES DOWN an EMPTY corn row -- toward
FREEDOM!! …

SWITCH TO:

CLOSE-UP ON: The PRIMITIVE LEADER's face --
and the shock in his BEADY EYES as he sees
what's up ahead…

PRIMITIVE LEADER

(through a mouthful of primitive pacifier)

OOK!!

GRR-ILLA SOLDIER TEE'S mighty STEED rears
up in front of the fleeing PRIMITIVE, iron-
shod hooves flashing through the air! The
PRIMITIVE's escape path is thwarted! SOLDIER
TEE CRACKS her WHIP!

 

CUT TO:

WIDE SHOT of the PRIMITIVES, hightailing it out of there!

The SOLDIERS split off!

GRR-ILLA SOLDIER CEE

(hollering)

Don't let them get away!

GRR-ILLA SOLDIER TEE

(shouting to her horse)

Yah! Yah!

PANORAMIC OVERHEAD SHOT OF:

The PRIMITIVES, running madly through the
NEAT ROWS of CORN, driven by the GRR-ILLA
SOLDIERS, who execute a precision PINCER
MANOEUVRE.

The unsuspecting PRIMITIVES are being driven
toward a WAITING ROPE-CAGE TRAP!

 

CUT TO:

 

A LONG-SHOT reveals the hanging ROPE-CAGE
TRAP, suspended from a distant TREE.

The PRIMITIVES are right where the GRR-ILLA
SOLDIERS want them!

SOLDIER TEE's WHIP SNAPS through the air!

The TRIP MECHANISM is TRIGGERED!
SPROING!!!

And the PRIMITIVES are SCOOPED UP in a
shocked, screeching tangle of fur and fury!

 

CUT TO:

 

The ROPE-CAGE swings from the tree, a bundle
of EEE-EEE-OOOH-OOOH-ing savagery and extreme
grumpiness.

GRR-ILLA SOLDIER CEE

(triumphant -- and kinda grossed out by a chewed-up pacifier) Ha! Got them!

GRR-ILLA SOLDIER TEE

(smugly)

Let them eat cage.

It is the CONCLUSION of another successful
HUNT …