Super Schnoz and the Booger Blaster Breakdown (10 page)

I raised my hand. “Sorry to interrupt, but what does a pretty Mongolian girl with nice hair have to do with camel pee?”

“You like to get to right to the point.” He chuckled. “I like that in a
homme.
As Sarantstral and I grew closer, she revealed to me the secret of her beautiful hair—the urine of the wild Bactrian camel native to the Gobi desert.”

“Totally gross!” Jimmy chimed.

“Please don't tell us that your girlfriend washed her hair with camel pee!” TJ cried.

Mumps stood up and pointed to his skull. “See where the pigeon pooped on my head? It makes my hair all shiny. Maybe camel pee does the same thing.”

“Not quite the same thing,” Jean Paul offered. “But you are on the right track.”

“Stop judging,” Vivian barked at TJ and Jimmy. “Nomadic peoples have to make do with what they have.”

“Boys, I had the same reaction when I saw Sarantstral wash her hair in camel urine for the first time,” Jean Paul said. “I then realized that people all through the centuries have used urine to make soap, cleaning agents, and even toothpaste. She explained that only the urine of the
wild
Bactrian camel works for shampoo. Domesticated camel urine does not have the same shine and thickening properties as that of their wild cousins.”

“Camel pee smells awesome!” I exclaimed. “Keep going!”

“To make a long story short, I brought home Sarantstral's secret of luxurious hair, and it set off a wave of
l' urine de chameau manie
—camel urine mania—in the European hair care industry.”

Jean Paul then turned away, the expression on his face growing sad as painful memories flooded his brain. He wiped away a tear and finished the story. “Much like the American buffalo were almost brought to extinction for their hide, the wild Bactrian camels of the Gobi desert were exploited for their urine and are now nearly extinct—all because of me.”

“What happened to Sarantstral?” Vivian asked.

“I do not know. The
urine de chameau manie
faded away rather quickly, and I never saw her again. The rush of foreign beauty companies racing into the desert for camel urine nearly destroyed their culture. Last I heard, she had fled with her family into the city slums to look for work.”

No one said anything for the longest time. Vivian sniffled into a tissue, and the rest of us stared into space. Another helicopter passed overhead, but Jean Paul's tale of lost love was so depressing that I just let it pass without attempting to hide.

“I vowed to make it up to the people whose centuries-old way of life I had destroyed,” Jean Paul said, his voice hoarse from emotion. “This is how I discovered that wild Bactrian camel dung, processed in the correct way, creates an elixir of
odeur
very similar to
vanille.”

“Why do you need
wild
camel dung?” I asked. “It would be easier to use poop from a zoo.”

“Camels in the zoo eat dried hay and various grain pellets. Their wild brothers eat native Mongolian
herbes
and dry, thorny plants that other animals of the desert do not eat. Their natural diet makes the
différence.”

Jean Paul then explained that he pays bands of nomadic shepherds to follow the last wild herds of Bactrian camels of the Gobi Desert and collect their droppings. After collecting the camel's dung humanely and without disturbing their natural habitat, they mail the sacks of dried poop to his laboratory in France for processing into Strange. They have a generous form of income, and Jean Paul has the main ingredient for a world-famous perfume.

“What will happen to the herdsman and camels now?” Jimmy asked.

“Pierre du Voleur is not a stupid man,” Jean Paul explained. “He has no doubt brewed up a plan to hunt down and capture the last roaming wild camels. He will then cage them to make a cheap synthetic ingredient that imitates the smell of Strange. He has done this once before, when European cosmetic companies used the oily secretions of the Venezuelan bloated toad to make a wildly popular nail polish. The toad is now extinct—all because of Pierre du Voleur's greed.”

I remembered Arnaud saying that Pierre had made a fortune off the Venezuelan bloated toad. How could anyone hunt a creature to extinction just for money? An image of Humphrey popped into my mind. I saw his sad camel eyes staring at me from behind the fence at the Central Park Zoo. His telepathic message to me was loud and clear. He had revealed the secret of Strange to me, and now I had to save his wild brothers and sisters in Mongolia.

“Everybody, head back to the hotel and grab your luggage!” I ordered. “We're checking out!”

“What are you talking about?” TJ wondered. “We still have four more days to see the New York sights.”

I ran to the gondola and slipped on my Super Schnoz costume. My cape fluttered in the wind, while my Mardi Gras mask fit snugly and perfectly over my beak. “We're not staying in New York or even America for that matter,” I said. “I'm flying us all to Mongolia so we can save the Bactrian camel!”

CHAPTER 20

SIX THOUSAND MILES

I rushed to the gondola and lifted the thick ropes around my shoulders.

“Hurry, everyone!” I hollered. “We're losing time!”

“Slow down, Schnoz,” Vivian said. “This won't be like flying us from New Hampshire to New York. Mongolia is on the other side of the world!”

Vivian was right. Mongolia was thousands of miles away. Plus, the bulk of the flight would take place over a vast ocean. The trip would be dark and dangerous. My nostrils drooped in desperation. All I could think of were Pierre and Arnaud slaughtering wild camels just to make loads of cash.

“Maybe we should take a commercial airline,” Dr. Wackjöb suggested.

“No time,” Jean Paul said. “There is not a direct flight from New York to Ulaanbaatar. It would take three days of changing planes to get there. And by that time, Voleur will have set his plan in
mouvement.”

“Pierre's already left for Mongolia,” I said. “He has a private jet flying him there.”

TJ flipped open his laptop and started googling. “New York to Mongolia—as the Schnoz flies—is roughly six thousand miles. For our Canadian and European friends, that's just over ten thousand kilometers.”

“Impossible,” Jimmy said. “We'll never make it.”

“Nothing's impossible!” I cried. “I'm Super Schnoz, for sneezing out loud! I've crushed a lot stronger enemies than a sleazy French guy and his wormy little assistant. We have to find a way.”

Everyone paced around the rooftop, trying to figure out how we could get to Mongolia before Pierre commenced his camel genocide. TJ, Vivian, and Jimmy debated velocity and wind speeds. Dr. Wackjöb and Jean Paul discussed how they could get their hands on a Cessna Citation X, the fastest passenger plane in the world with a top speed over seven hundred miles an hour.

“What about Schnoz's solid rocket boogers?” Mumps suggested.

“What about them?” Jimmy grumbled.

“Just a few sniffs of cayenne pepper lifted us out of the backyard and all the way to New York City in a couple hours. Maybe if Schnoz snorted a bunch of pepper, he could fly a lot faster and farther.”

“Mumps, you may be on to something,” TJ said excitedly. “Let me crunch the numbers. This may take a while.”

While TJ typed away on his laptop, Jimmy, Mumps, and Dr. Wackjöb hurried back to the hotel to collect our luggage. Jean Paul opened his wallet and showed Vivian and me a fading color photograph of Sarantstral. The woman was beautiful—long, black hair, pearly white teeth, and a perfectly round face. She was standing inside a large tent (Jean Paul called it a yurt), wearing a long purple tunic decorated with colorful beads and silver.

“She has a pair of Nike running shoes on her feet,” Vivian noticed. “It really clashes with her traditional style of dress.”

Jean Paul chuckled. “Yes, Sarantstral always had one foot firmly planted in tradition and the other reaching toward the future. I gave her those shoes as a gift for her nineteenth birthday.”

“I got it!” TJ exclaimed. “I know exactly how we can get to Mongolia in less than twenty-four hours.”

“Then let's hear it,” Vivian said.

“Okay, put on your math caps and pay close attention. It took Schnoz six snorts of pepper to power us three hundred miles in two hours from New Hampshire to New York City. Mongolia is six thousand miles away. Six thousand divided by three hundred is twenty. Multiply twenty times two—meaning two hours—and that's how long it will take Schnoz to fly us to the capital city of Ulaanbaatar.”

Jean Paul shook his head. “Forty hours is almost two days. We will be too late. Voleur has an
énorme
head start and will have already started his onslaught.”

“Let me finish,” TJ said impatiently. “Six snorts powered us for two hours. That's about an ounce of pepper. So, if Schnoz snorts two ounces of pepper every two hours instead of one, we can get there in twenty hours instead of forty. Get it?”

“Totally makes sense, TJ!” Vivian shouted. “That means Schnoz will need over eighty ounces of cayenne pepper for a round trip from America to Mongolia and back again. They sell those big sixteen-ounce jars at the Pepper Emporium. We can load up.”

“Your
idée
just may work,” Jean Paul said and then looked at me. “Do you think you can pull it off?”

I shook my nose. “It's a nice plan in theory, but it won't work in realty.”

“What do you mean it won't work?” TJ asked, sounding a little miffed.

“My nose can't take that much heat. Do you remember what happened when I battled ECU—Environmental Clean Up, the evil company that tried to close our school? Luckily, the battle with them ended before I bled to death from sniffing so much cayenne pepper. The stuff shredded my nasal lining!”

“Saline solution would do the trick,” Vivian said. “But it would take a tanker truck full of water to keep your nose moistened enough to handle all of that hot pepper.”

We all looked at the large, round water tower on top of the building. The same one I had hid behind when the police helicopters were prowling about.

TJ ascended the tower and peered inside. “It's full of water,” he said. “My guesstimate is that it holds at least two hundred gallons.”

“Will that be enough water?” Vivian asked me.

I shrugged. “Don't know, but we have to give it a try. The lives of endangered wild camels are at stake.”

The water tower was way too heavy for us to lift by ourselves. TJ tied one end of the gondola's ropes to the water tower and then secured the other end around my shoulders. I took a snort of cayenne pepper, lifted the water tower in the air, and gently placed it inside the gondola.

“The tower takes up nearly the whole
gondole,”
Jean Paul said.

Vivian climbed inside. “There's just enough room for all of us to fit reasonably comfortably,” she observed. “But you can kiss our luggage goodbye. There's not enough room.”

Just then, Jimmy, Mumps, and Dr. Wackjöb stepped onto the rooftop with our luggage. All three were red-faced and panting for breath.

“Thanks for getting the luggage,” I said. “But we can't take it with us.”

Jimmy's mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding me? The elevator's broken and we had to lug this stuff up twenty flights of stairs.”

“Come with me, Mumps,” Vivian said, zipping her jacket. “We're going shopping to stock up on cayenne pepper and food. We have a long trip ahead of us.”

CHAPTER 21

CRASH LANDING

TJ plotted our course on his laptop. I would fly eastward over the Atlantic Ocean, sailing through European and Russian airspace before finally landing in Mongolia. By his calculations, we should land in the capital city of Ulaanbaatar in just under nineteen hours. Jean Paul would then hire a guide to lead us into the desert after Pierre. I prayed that we had enough cayenne pepper and saline solution to get us there safely.

Everyone squeezed into the gondola. I took a snoot of pepper to ignite my solid rocket boogers and attempted to rise in the air. We didn't budge an inch. The tremendous weight of the water tower made liftoff nearly impossible.

“Take in more cayenne,” Dr. Wackjöb suggested, tossing me a sixteen-ounce jar. “That should get us airborne.”

I snorted up the fine red powder until my sniffer felt like it was on fire. After huffing nearly a half a bottle and letting out a mighty sneeze, I felt the gondola rising into the air and beginning its ascent over the city. Thankfully, TJ and Dr. Wackjöb had rigged a hose with a spray nozzle to the water tower. They drenched the insides of my burning honker with cool, refreshing H
₂
O.

Smooth sailing lasted only a few moments. When I had finally reached a comfortable altitude, a noisy helicopter buzzed my flank.

“This is the New York State Division of Homeland Security!” a loudspeaker rang out over the whine of helicopter wings. “Identify yourself immediately!”

“Holy schnozola!”
I hollered down to the gang. “First, police whirlybirds are hunting me down for something I didn't do, and now the government is nipping at my nose!”

“They must think we are
terroristes,”
I heard Jean Paul say.

“What are you going to do?” Vivian shouted.

“I'm going to do what they want and identify myself!” I said.

I closed one nostril with my finger and banked hard to the right. The helicopter was now directly in front of me. We starred at each other like a turkey buzzard and bald eagle squaring off over an animal carcass. Two uniformed men were inside. One flew the chopper; the other clutched a high-powered rifle.

“Identify yourself!” the pilot repeated through the loudspeaker.

“I'm Super Schnoz!” I yelled and then inhaled another snoot full of pepper. The blistering sneeze that followed was so powerful it propelled me away from the helicopter and over Long Island Sound. The skyscrapers of Manhattan slowly faded away in the distance. The waters of the Atlantic Ocean lay below like a giant green carpet. Mumps turned on the hose and gave my hard-working honker a well-deserved nasal flush, and we were on our way to save the Bactrian camel.