Operation: Golden Bum Page 2

  “Whatever he wanted tigertop for, it wasn’t lunch,” I said. “It’s poisonous and will give you a very bad stomach for several days after eating it.”

  “Well, this suspect hasn’t eaten any mushrooms,” Doctor Nowkoff said, picking up what looked like a deflated balloon. “His stomach is completely empty.”

  A smile crept across Fangs’s face as he took a step closer to the doctor. “My stomach’s empty, too.” He smirked. “Perhaps we should go to dinner and fill it up. Somewhere cosy, where there isn’t mushroom between us…”

  The eyes on Zed’s severed head flickered open. “Give the lovey-dovey stuff a rest, Enigma,” he groaned. “I’m going to have a hard time being sick if I don’t know where my throat is.”

  “I wouldn’t make the stitching too secure, doctor,” Fangs snarled. “I may have to tear him back into bits to get the information I need about the Great Disgusto.”

  “Do your worst, funny fangs,” spat Zed. “I won’t tell you a thing.”

  As Fangs sneered at the zombie, I picked up the henchman’s jacket again and felt a slight lump in the fabric beneath my claws as I did so. On further examination, I discovered that it was the zip for a hidden pocket – and inside was a single tooth. “This looks too clean to be one of Zed’s,” I said.

  Fangs leaned closer to the bits of zombie on the table. “What’s the deal, Zed?” he asked. “Why are you carrying poisonous mushrooms and teeth around?”

  “I’m saying nothing,” Zed said.

  “Then I’ll find a way to make you tell me what I want to know,” said Fangs.

  “You can’t if I’m not able to talk.” One of the zombie’s hands jumped up onto its fingers and scuttled along the metal table to its head. Then it reached inside Zed’s mouth and, before anyone could stop it, ripped the entire rotting tongue out and tossed it into the far corner of the room.

  “This is a waste of time,” I said. “We’ll get more answers if we take the tooth down to the lab.”

  “In a moment,” said Fangs. “I just have to get Doctor Nowkoff to check my lips first. They’re suffering from a lack of kisses.” He closed his eyes and pursed his lips in the doctor’s direction.

  “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” soothed Doctor Nowkoff. With a smile, she lifted Zed’s head up by the hair and pressed the zombie’s rubbery lips to my boss’s mouth.

  They say people heard the scream over a mile away.

  Thursday 1349 hours: MP1 Laboratories, London, UK

  Professor Hubert Cubit is MP1’s top brainbox – in more ways than one.

  Early on in life, the professor realized that facts and information only ever come in square things. “Books, computers, filing cabinets – all square and all filled with knowledge,” he told me during my first week of training. “Tennis balls, potatoes and scoops of ice cream – all round and hardly any knowledge in them at all.”

  Determined that he would also be stuffed with information, the young Hubert built a tight-fitting wooden box to wear like a hat at all times, so changing the shape of his head as it grew, from a useless sphere to a fact-filled square. It is for this reason that he is now known within MP1 as “Cube”.

  Fangs paced the laboratory as Cube studied the tooth under his microscope. “Very interesting…” the professor muttered.

  “What is?” asked Fangs.

  Cube peered over the top of his square glasses. “Why, the tooth, of course! We may not have been able to find a match in the dental-records database, but that doesn’t mean it can’t lead us to its owner.”

  “Was I right?” I asked. “It’s not one of Zed’s, is it?”

  “No, it’s not,” replied Cube, scratching the corner of his scalp. “The enamel is in good condition, and it contains faint traces of magic.”

  “Magic?” I said. “So it could be the tooth of a wizard – like the Great Disgusto?”

  “That is quite possible, yes.”

  “Knowing that still doesn’t help us, though,” Fangs pointed out. “Even if that is one of Disgusto’s teeth, it can’t tell us where to find him.”

  Cube smiled. “It may do just that, if you allow yourself to think outside the box. Although, of course, I myself do all my thinking inside a box…” The professor began to giggle at his own bad joke.

  “You’re such a square,” Fangs grumbled.

  “Really?” said Cube. “Thank you very much!” He peered back through the eyepiece of the microscope. “You see this tooth has a most unusual filling.”

  “Unusual in what way?” I asked.

  “Well, fillings are generally made from some kind of amalgam,” Cube explained. “Mercury mixed with another material, such as silver, zinc or even copper. But this tooth is filled with concrete.”

  “Nonsense!” barked Fangs. “I’ve never heard of anyone having their cavities filled with concrete.”

  “Just because you haven’t heard of it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” retorted Cube. “This could be a very important lead.”

  “It could mean the owner of the tooth has to have their dental work done on the cheap,” I suggested.

  “Exactly.” Cube beamed. “And to my knowledge – of which there is a considerable amount – there is only one dentist in the world who would perform that sort of shoddy, backstreet work. Nicolas Sizer.”

  “We’ve got our first lead!” I cried. “Sizer will be able to tell us whether or not this is the Great Disgusto’s tooth. Do you know where we can find him, professor?”

  “He’s often hard to track down,” he said. “But I may have a couple of addresses for him, somewhere in the corner of my mind…”

  Thursday 1530 hours: MP1 Private Jet, 30,000 Feet

  Fangs set the automatic pilot on the sleek MP1 jet and then joined me in the cabin. We were on our way to France after Cube had helped us to track down Sizer’s current address – 230 Rue de Wakening, Paris.

  “But why would Zed have one of the Great Disgusto’s teeth?” I asked.

  “If that tooth does belong to Disgusto,” Fangs reminded me.

  “We should know soon enough. Arrival in Paris expected in just under fifteen minutes,” I said, looking at the GPS on my laptop.

  Fangs settled back in his seat and closed his eyes. “Wake me up when we get there.”

  “No time to nap, Agent Enigma,” barked a tinny voice. Cube’s face appeared in a window on my laptop screen, fitting the space perfectly. “You’ll find your latest selection of gadgets in the locker above you.”

  Fangs sighed and pulled a flight case down from the overhead compartment. “What have you lumbered us with this time?” he asked.

  Cube beamed. “What you have in front of you are my very latest inventions – cutting-edge technology that will aid you in your quest to find and apprehend this magical miscreant Disgusto.”

  Fangs lifted a plastic kettle out of the case. “Cutting-edge?” he sneered.

  “Don’t be so quick to dismiss my work, Enigma. That particular gizmo took months to develop.”

  “But it’s a kettle…”

  “Not just any kettle,” said Cube. “If you look inside, you’ll find a high-tech tracking device hard-wired to the heating element.”

  Fangs lifted the lid and peered inside. “So it’s a tracking kettle?”

  “Precisely. Just plant it anywhere on the Great Disgusto’s person, and Puppy will be able to use the GPS on her computer to follow him wherever he goes.”

  “You want us to hide a kettle somewhere on Disgusto?” Fangs asked.

  Cube nodded. “Somewhere he won’t discover it and become suspicious.”

  “If he does find it, I’m sure he’ll think it’s just one of the many kettles he carries round with him all the time,” said Fangs sarcastically.

  “Exactly,” said Cube, missing the mocking tone in my boss’s voice completely. “He’ll have no idea he’s being tracked by MP1.”

  “Tracked by MP1 until he makes a cup of tea, that is,” Fangs pointed out.

 
“What?”

  “I’m presuming the tracking device is electrical.”

  “Of course,” said Cube. “It’s an electro-silicon compound of my own design—”

  “That will survive being immersed in boiling water when the kettle is used?”

  Cube blinked behind his square glasses and was silent for a moment. “Perhaps I’d better go back to square one with that particular item.”

  “Perhaps,” Fangs agreed.

  “Next,” Cube said, moving on, “you’ll find an emergency mode of transportation, should you need it.”

  “A skateboard,” said Fangs, peering into the case.

  “A rocket-powered skateboard,” Cube corrected. “And, finally, I’ve provided you with a particularly interesting item of clothing.”

  I picked up a pair of underpants covered in pictures of bright-red chilli peppers. “You mean these?”

  “I do indeed, Agent Brown,” replied Cube. “The material has been infused with seeds from one of the hottest chilli plants in the world.”

  “Why on earth would you make a pair of chilli underpants?” Fangs asked.

  Cube shrugged. “Because the banana ones kept running in the wash.”

  An alert sounded from the cockpit, and I glanced at the GPS on my laptop. “We’re closing in on Paris, boss,” I said. “And I think—”

  “Not a moment too soon,” Fangs interrupted. “Sorry to cut our jolly little chat short, Cube, but we’ve got an ugly wizard to find.”

  “Just don’t cause any chaos, Enigma,” Cube warned. “The prime minister is in Paris today, giving a fascinating speech on—”

  “Kssssssssttttttt!” Fangs made a hissing sound into the laptop microphone while waving his cape back and forth in front of the camera. “Sorry, Cube… Ksssssst… We’re losing you… Kkkweeeeekkkk… I think we’re going through a tunnel… Jzzzttt!”

  Cube scowled. “How can you be going through a tunnel? You’re flying at over thirty thousand—”

  Fangs clicked the “x” on the corner of the video feed, closing the connection. “That’ll keep him quiet for a while.” He grinned. “Now we can just sit back and relax until we’re toasting croissants in the most romantic city in the world.” He slumped back into one of the cabin’s leather seats.

  I looked past him through the cockpit window. “The croissants might not be the only things that are toasted,” I said.

  Fangs clasped his hands behind his head. “What do you mean?”

  “You may want to think about some extra training on how to set the autopilot function of these jets.”

  “Extra training?” said Fangs indignantly, opening his eyes.

  The Eiffel Tower was looming large through the cockpit window. After leaping out of his seat, Fangs lunged for the controls and pulled the plane’s nose up just far enough to miss the top of the monument – and a group of terrified tourists – by a few centimetres.

  After getting his breath back, Fangs turned to me and quipped, “Well, that gave them quite an eye-ful!”

  I groaned.

  Thursday 1731 hours: Back Street, Paris, France

  An hour later, we were edging our way along Rue de Wakening – a filthy backstreet in one of the seedier districts of Paris. “This must be it,” I said, glancing up at the sign above the door. It was in the shape of a tooth and looked appropriately decayed. “What’s the plan?”

  “Leave it to me,” Fangs said, baring his sharp vampire teeth. “I’ll make sure he gets the point…”

  Inside, the surgery was little more than a dingy apartment, and we found ourselves standing in the kitchen with a bored-looking receptionist. I guess she wasn’t happy that Sizer liked to work so late. After we told her that Fangs was a tourist in need of an urgent filling, she sent us through to a living room that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. We sat in mismatched armchairs and flicked through the selection of magazines on the coffee table while we waited.

  “This looks a little out of place,” said Fangs, picking up a pristine copy of Gold Trader magazine from the stack of battered comics and old newspapers. “Not exactly the reading material of an incompetent dentist.”

  “Maybe one of his customers left it here?” I suggested.

  “Next!” a voice called out.

  “OK,” said Fangs, standing up. “Let’s get the truth about that tooth.”

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, monsieur,” said Nicolas Sizer without turning round as we entered what had once been the flat’s only bedroom and was now Sizer’s dental surgery.

  Fangs settled back in the dentist’s chair, which was next to a tray of equipment that had clearly seen better days. I waited near the door, in case our suspect tried to make a quick getaway once he realized who we were.

  “Now,” said Nicolas Sizer, choosing a rusted metal scaler and turning to my boss. “What have we got here?”

  “You’ve got trouble!” snarled Fangs, flashing his MP1 identification card.

  The dentist’s eyes widened. He snatched up a metal bowl and swung it at my boss’s head. Fangs moved as quick as lightning, leaping to his feet and grabbing Sizer’s wrist, just in time to stop the metallic dish colliding with his skull. Then he pushed Sizer into his own dentist’s chair and plucked another scaler from the nearby tray. He brought the sharp tool in close to Sizer’s teeth.

  “Don’t look so down in the mouth,” Fangs growled. “We’re only going to ask you some questions.”

  The trembling dentist nodded.

  I pulled the mystery molar we had found on Zed from a pocket in my utility belt. “We know you worked on this tooth,” I said. “We want to know who it belongs to.”

  “That could be anybody’s tooth,” spat Sizer.

  “Well, we know it’s not one of yours,” said Fangs, jabbing at Sizer’s teeth with the scaler. “Yours are all safely tucked away in here – for now.” He gripped the dentist’s cheeks harder. “Whose tooth is it?”

  “I … I can’t tell you…” Sizer gurgled. “He’ll k-kill me if I tell you!”

  “Wrong answer!” Fangs barked, and he began to scratch his initials into Sizer’s two front teeth. “You can tell us – at the moment… But that’s all about to change.” Tossing the scaler aside, he snatched up a pair of silver pliers and clamped them around the dentist’s tongue.

  “Nwo! Nwot my twongue!” sobbed Sizer. “Wou wouldn’t!”

  “He would,” I said. “But he won’t if you tell us about the tooth.” I watched calmly as Fangs stretched Sizer’s tongue out from between his teeth. I understand that my boss sometimes has to threaten villains to get the information he needs, but he only ever uses violence as a last resort. The bad guys don’t know that, though, which is why they always crack.

  “Th-the Great Disgusto,” croaked Sizer. “It’s one of the Great Disgusto’s teeth.”

  Fangs released the dentist’s tongue. “Very good,” he said. “Now tell us why a rotting zombie would want to carry a tooth halfway around the world.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Fangs threw me a wry glance. “And he was doing so well,” he snarled, grabbing a drill this time and bringing it close to the dentist’s mouth. The room was filled with a high-pitched whining sound.

  “You know the drill by now,” Fangs said. “Answer the question and your brush with us will be at an end.”

  “OK, OK,” cried Sizer. “Don’t hurt me! Disgusto wanted to know h-how much his teeth would be worth on the b-black market.”

  “The Great Disgusto wanted to sell his teeth?” said Fangs.

  Sizer nodded. “But only before he accidentally … accidentally…” The dentist slumped to one side, consciousness draining away.

  “Fangs!” I shouted, pointing to an air vent in the wall behind the chair. Plumes of thick, green gas were flowing through the metal grille and slowly but surely filling the room. The stuff smelled like a skunk that hadn’t changed its socks in a month. Within seconds we were completely enveloped,
and Nicolas Sizer was out cold.

  “Get him out,” Fangs ordered, his cape pressed to his mouth. “I’ll let in some air.”

  As I dragged the unconscious dentist out of the chair, Fangs hurled the trolley of tools at the window. The glass smashed, and a weak breeze filtered into the room. It did little to disperse the thick gas.

  I dumped Sizer on the carpet in the waiting room. “He’s safe, boss,” I called back into the gloom. “You need to get out of there. You don’t want to—”

  THUMP!

  I grabbed a magazine from the coffee table and wafted enough of the gas away to spot Fangs lying unconscious on the surgery floor.

  “—pass out.” I sighed. After taking a deep breath of clean air, I plunged back into the stinking green cloud.

  Fangs came round about twenty minutes later. He was lying on the couch in the waiting room with his cape wrapped around him like a blanket. “Wassah?” he slurred. “I sorra wissa gas…”

  “It’s OK,” I assured him. “The gas has all gone now. I opened all the windows once I’d got you and Sizer to safety.”

  Fangs sat bolt upright – the name of our suspect obviously reminding him of the events of the past half-hour. “Where is Sizer?” he asked.

  “I let him go.”

  Fangs’s pale cheeks flushed … well, they were a little less pale for a moment. “You let him go? Did breathing in that gas turn you insane?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I made him a cup of tea first.”

  I’ve never seen my boss’s eyes grow so wide. “Tea?!” he roared. “Oh, that’s just wonderful. I do hope you gave him a couple of biscuits to go with his cuppa.”

  “Calm down, boss. I made him a cup of tea with our kettle – the one with the homing device inside.”

  “So?”

  “So … you were right about that homing chip melting down when heated. As soon as the kettle boiled, the chip inside dissolved – and Sizer drank the whole thing with his tea.” I spun my laptop round so Fangs could see the green dot blinking on my GPS tracking system.