Toad Rage (12 page)

“Fancy seeing you blokes again,” said the voice.

Limpy looked around, not daring to breathe.

Then his breath squeaked out in a big sigh of relief.

It was the mosquito from the girl athlete's room, lying on a windowsill, legs crossed, wings folded behind his head, grinning at them.

“Sorry if I startled you,” he said. “I was just having a bit of a lie-down between morning tea and my pre
lunch snack.” The mosquito patted his bulging belly and burped. “I love the Games.”

“You're lucky,” grumbled Goliath. “I'm not allowed to eat most of the food around here.”

“Nice to see you again,” said Limpy to the mosquito. “You'll have to excuse us, we're a bit busy.”

He turned to lead Goliath toward the next room, and froze again.

There, in front of him, was a pile of round, flat objects stacked one on top of the other.

Limpy felt his body start to tremble.

They looked like … no, they couldn't be …

“Discuses,” said the mosquito. “Humans chuck em. Very popular event, throwing the discus.”

Limpy stared at him as this sank in.

“They're not… dead?” he whispered.

The mosquito shook his head. “Plastic,” he said. “Be a good event for you blokes.” He looked at Limpy's crook leg. “Specially you, cause to chuck 'em you have to go round in circles.”

Normally Limpy would have eaten anyone who made a crack about his crook leg, but the mosquito sounded genuinely helpful.

Before Limpy had a chance to explain that he could never throw anything that looked like an uncle, the crowd in the stadium gave a roar.

“Come and see this,” said the mosquito, beckoning
Limpy and Goliath over to the windowsill.

They went over and peered through the window.

Far below, in the center of the stadium, a tiny figure with its hair in a ponytail was running with a big stick held over its head.

“If she gets this jump,” said the mosquito, “she's in the final.”

Limpy gasped.

It was the girl.

Limpy gazed down at the tiny figure as she jammed the stick into the ground and went soaring high on the end of it, up, up, over the crossbar.

The crowd roared so loudly the window shook.

“She's done it,” yelled the mosquito, dancing around on the windowsill. “An Aussie pole-vaulter's in the final. Great little athlete, that one. I've bitten her heaps.”

Limpy couldn't take his eyes off the girl as she waved delightedly to the crowd.

That could be me, he thought. If only …

His dreams were shattered by the sound of dogs barking and human voices shouting.

Close.

Very close.

“Oops,” said the mosquito. “I forgot to mention. After your little stunt at the dinner the other night, cane toads are public enemy number one around
here. Kill on sight, I think I heard the security chief say. Good luck. Oh, if you see any deodorant, bung it on. At the moment, those dogs can smell you miles away.”

The mosquito buzzed out a window up near the ceiling. The only window in the room, Limpy saw, that wasn't sealed.

It was too high to hop up to.

The dogs were getting closer.

“Oh no,” croaked Goliath. “I've only had experience with one dog. One dog's all I can cope with. I'm hopeless with packs.”

Limpy's brain was racing.

There wasn't even time to get back to the shower room.

“I can't see any deodorant,” Goliath was shouting, rummaging through toilet bags in a frenzy. “We're going to die.”

Then Limpy saw two sticks leaning against the wall next to the high window. They were long, thin sticks, each with a metal hook on the end for opening and closing the window.

Limpy grabbed them and pushed one into Goliath's hands.

Suddenly he knew what to do.

T
he drain was cold and full of car fumes, and the water had smelly blobs of chemical factory sludge and congealed cooking fat floating in it.

Limpy didn't care.

All he could think of as he splashed along next to Goliath was the wonderful feeling.

The wonderful soaring feeling.

Okay, at first it had been a terrified feeling. As Limpy had sprinted across the changing room floor, stick held above his head, he'd felt himself starting to veer off to one side. He knew that if the veer turned into a circle, he'd crash into the pile of discuses and still be dragging himself out from under them when the guard dogs arrived.

He could hear them getting closer.

They sounded bigger than the one at the restau
rant. Fiercer too probably, and specially trained not to swallow anything that came out of a toad's glands.

Limpy begged his crook leg to stay strong.

Although he was still veering, he didn't crash into the discuses.

Instead he jammed the far end of his stick under a bench, gripped his end, and flung himself upward in the biggest hop of his life.

He felt the stick bend as he went upward and then, miraculously, straighten out again and carry him soaring, soaring, through the high window.

Even after he let go of the stick, he carried on soaring, arms wide, yelling with fear and excitement and so much joy he didn't know how he could ever feel more joyful. Until he saw Goliath soaring next to him, eyes bulging and tongue plastered across his face, and did.

“Yes!”

Limpy heard his voice echoing down the drain and realized he was yelling joyfully again now, just remembering it.

He turned excitedly to Goliath.

“Wasn't it brilliant?” he said. “Wasn't it the most wonderful, brilliant, fantastic thing you've ever done?”

“No,” said Goliath.

It's shock, thought Limpy. He's in shock from the excitement.

“It's all right for you,” said Goliath. “You landed on nice soft grass, not in a hard rubbish bin full of really sharp sandwich wrappers.”

Limpy watched sympathetically as Goliath pulled a fragment of plastic out of his scalp, studied it glumly, and ate it.

“I hate pole vaulting,” said Goliath. “It's scary and it hurts.”

“It won't always be like that,” said Limpy. “When we're doing it in a stadium, there'll be soft mats to land on.”

Goliath didn't reply.

Limpy saw he'd picked up a handful of something green and oozy from the water.

“Is this chemical factory sludge or congealed cooking fat?” asked Goliath. “I'm starving.”

Poor old Goliath, thought Limpy. He'll cheer up when he sees how delighted the other animals and insects are that we've found our special event.

The animals and insects didn't seem that delighted.

“Um,” said the kangaroo to Limpy and Goliath, “I'm afraid there's something we have to tell you, and, well, um …”

The kangaroo looked unhappily at the koala, who stared at the drain wall and pretended to be thinking about something else.

Limpy couldn't believe it.

He'd just finished telling all the animals and insects about the pole vaulting, complete with actions and yells and a detailed description of how brave Goliath was after he landed in the rubbish bin, and now, as he looked around at all their faces, not a single one was pleased or excited.

“It's like this,” said the kangaroo. “Um …”

An awful thought hit Limpy.

Someone else must have chosen pole vaulting.

A wombat or a jellyfish or a stick insect.

Limpy opened his mouth to explain how the highly developed hopping muscles in a cane toad's legs and the superb gripping qualities of a cane toad's hands were a perfect combination for pole vaulting, but he didn't get a chance.

“We've had a meeting,” said the kangaroo. “A meeting with some head lice we know who work in television. They think the Non-Human Games idea sounds great, really exciting, but there is … um … a problem.”

Several of the other animals and insects murmured their agreement.

Limpy felt wobbly with relief.

At least no one else wanted to do pole vaulting.

At least he and Goliath could be the ones to break all the pole-vaulting records and become national sporting heroes, and make cane toads popular and loved.

At least it wasn't a big problem.

“The problem is,” said the kangaroo, “we've decided you two can't be in the Games.”

The other animals and insects all growled their agreement.

Limpy stared at them, bewildered.

Goliath took a menacing step toward the kangaroo.

“Why not?” he said. “What have you got against me and my cousin?”

“It's not the leg,” said the kangaroo hastily, backing away and glancing guiltily at Limpy. “It definitely has nothing to do with the crook leg, you must believe that. And we do acknowledge that the whole thing was your idea, and we're very grateful for that.”

“So what is it?” said Limpy, suddenly filled with a mixture of anger and dread. “Spit it out.”

“The reason we can't have any cane toads in our televised Non-Human Games,” said the kangaroo, “is that you're too ugly.”

“U
gly!” said Goliath, pacing up and down. “What do they mean, I'm ugly?”

Now that all the animals and insects had gone, his voice echoed indignantly around the empty drain.

Limpy sighed sadly.

“Lazy I could understand,” continued Goliath, “or smelly, or maybe even greedy, but ugly? I don't get it.”

Limpy sighed again.

If I had the energy, he thought miserably, I'd probably tell Goliath to calm down.

Because what does it matter now?

Most of the humans in the world think cane toads are ugly and vile and repulsive, so what does it matter if most of the animals and insects do too?

We're history, that's all that matters.

“I reckon they're just jealous,” said Goliath bitterly. “Jealous they haven't got warts.”

“Goliath,” said Limpy wearily, “sit down.”

“I can't,” said Goliath. “I'm too upset. Right now I'm probably the most upset individual on the planet.”

Limpy was about to say, “Actually, you're not,” when another voice said it first.

Limpy stared.

A slug was crawling toward them.

Limpy's first impulse was to eat it. Then he recognized its friendly face. It was the slug who had brought them there in the first place.

“Why aren't you off training with the others?” said Limpy.

“They don't want me in their Games,” said the slug sadly. “They say I'm too slimy.”

“Bad luck,” said Limpy.

“Yeah,” said Goliath. “Very upsetting for you. But I'm still the most upset.”

“Actually,” said the slug, “I think she is.”

He pointed upward with a feeler.

Limpy looked up. Through the grating he could see the telly screen flickering in the bar above them. On the screen was the girl. She was talking to an interviewer and struggling to hold back tears.

“She's just been banned from competing in the pole-vaulting final,” said the slug. “She failed the blood test.”

“What blood test?” said Limpy.

“Athletes get tested to make sure they haven't got any drugs or chemicals in their blood,” said the slug. “Stuff that'll enhance their performance. They found some sort of weird steroid in hers. She says she doesn't know how it got there. It's a prohibited substance, so she's automatically banned.”

“Serves her right for cheating,” said Goliath. “I reckon cheats should be run over by trucks.”

Limpy turned away from the screen. Humans, he thought sadly. Even the good ones turn out to be dud.

“Actually,” said the slug, “she might not have been cheating. Certain poisons and venoms contain steroids. Perhaps she was bitten by a snake or something.”

Limpy stared at the slug.

His mind was racing.

It raced all the way back to the park where the girl had taken him after rescuing him from the teenagers in the loading dock.

He'd accidentally scratched her hand.

Could some of his poison have gotten into her blood?

It was possible.

Limpy looked back up at the screen. The bloke with the clipboard was being interviewed now, red-faced and angry.

Then the girl was on again, looking even sadder than she did before.

Watching her, Limpy felt his own throat tighten.

It would be difficult paying her back for saving him.