Stinkbomb and Ketchup-Face and the Quest for the Magic Porcupine by John Dougherty & Sam Ricks

Author:John Dougherty & Sam Ricks
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2018-02-20T05:00:00+00:00

“Yes,” agreed Harry the Raccoon, taking a sip of tea from a mug marked World's Best Raccoon. “We’re extremely raccoony. Aren’t we, Stewart the Raccoon?”

Just as Stewart the Raccoon was opening his mouth to answer, Harry the Raccoon passed him a note that said:

Stewart the Raccoon read it slowly three times and then said, “Er, we’re raccoons.” He turned the note over. On the other side, it said:

“Er, we’re not badgers,” he added.

“Oh, good,” said Ketchup-Face, reassured.

But Stinkbomb was still suspicious. “Aren’t raccoons supposed to have long, ringed tails?” he asked.

“We do have long, ringed tails,” said Harry the Raccoon. “Look!” And he opened a bag he was carrying and let Stinkbomb and Ketchup-Face look inside. It was full of long, ringed tails.

“Aren’t those supposed to be on your bottoms?” asked Ketchup-Face curiously.

“Not when you’re running for a bus,” said Harry the Raccoon. “You might trip over them.”

Ketchup-Face nodded wisely, but Stinkbomb was still not satisfied. “Are you absolutely sure you’re raccoons?” he said.

“Absolutely,” said Harry the Raccoon. “We’ve even got black masks on our faces.”

“Yes . . . but they seem to be held on with elastic,” said Stinkbomb thoughtfully.

“So?” said Harry the Raccoon rudely, but not too rudely, because he didn’t want anyone to realize he was really a bad guy.

Just then, Ketchup-Face pointed out of the window, and said, “What’s that?”

Stinkbomb looked. “It’s the river,” he said. “You know, the River Yuk. The big one that flows all the way from Stupidity to Loose Pebbles.”

“What’s it for?” Ketchup-Face asked.

“I don’t think it’s for anything,” Stinkbomb said. “Though if it was cleaner I suppose you could swim in it, or fish in it.”

“And you could fill barrels from it,” suggested Stewart the Raccoon.

All the other raccoons glared at him and made shushing signs with their eyebrows.

“Er . . . if you wanted to,” Stewart the Raccoon added. “But I don’t want to. I don’t like barrels. Or garbage cans. I’m a raccoon.”

Then there was silence on the bus, as it trundled on toward Stupidity.

And then they reached the Traffic Lights of Waiting a Crazy Long Time.

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