The Pirate's Booty (Inventor-in-Training) Read online

  THE PIRATE’S BOOTY

  Inventor-in-Training, Book One

  D.M. Darroch

  Illustrations by Jennifer L. Hotes

  SLEEPY CAT PRESS

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright text © 2012 by D.M. Darroch

  Copyright illustrations and cover image © 2012 by Jennifer L. Hotes

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Sleepy Cat Press. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-890797-05-8 (Kindle edition)

  ISBN 978-1-890797-06-5 (trade paperback)

  To Leslie and Jenn, for sharing your talents, and

  To Aidan, for laughing in all the right places

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: Angus Sets Sail

  Chapter Two: Angus “Joins” the Crew

  Chapter Three: The Plank

  Chapter Four: BP Moves In

  Chapter Five: The Swim

  Chapter Six: Table Manners

  Chapter Seven: Marooned

  Chapter Eight: A Beast in the Night

  Chapter Nine: At West Beach

  Chapter Ten: BP Goes to School

  Chapter Eleven: Making Glue

  Chapter Twelve: Chef’s Surprise

  Chapter Thirteen: Body Jumping

  Chapter Fourteen: Discipline

  Chapter Fifteen: The Boat

  Chapter Sixteen: Seaworthy

  Chapter Seventeen: Ivy Saves the Day

  Chapter Eighteen: House Arrest

  Chapter Nineteen: The Hold

  Chapter Twenty: The Pirate’s Booty

  Chapter Twenty-One: At the Pier

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Bucket

  Chapter Twenty-Three: The Next World

  Angus’ Pirate/English Dictionary

  Chapter One: Angus Sets Sail

  The day Angus Clark vanished began just like any other mundane school day.

  By seven AM his mom had yelled at him five times to get out of bed. At quarter after seven, she reminded him for the third time to stop reading the dishwasher installation guide long enough to put on his socks. At seven thirty, she grabbed his airplane encyclopedia out of his hand and threatened to donate it to the library if he didn’t finish his breakfast before the bus arrived. After some world record speed hair-combing, haphazard tooth-brushing, and a few harsh words on both sides, Angus emerged from his house just in time to scrabble on to the bus and land in the front seat as Mr. Nelson kicked the shuttle into first gear.

  He didn’t see his mom again until twenty minutes to ten when she delivered his forgotten lunch and gym clothes.

  School wasted Angus’ precious thinking time. It seemed that his teachers spent too much time on quite trivial information, like multiplication tables and grammar rules, and not nearly enough, or any time really, on the truly fascinating applications of household electronics and aviation technology.

  This morning was a perfect example. His math teacher, Ms. Evergood, was going on and on about area and perimeter. That is, it was crucial to say “square” after the number when you were figuring out how many acres of grass a cow can eat, but not when you were measuring how much wood to buy to fence in that cow.

  It would have been much more interesting for everyone if they could have designed the best remote control device to drive the cow. Or even just a cell phone app connected to a microchip implanted in the cow’s neck, like they do at the vet’s office. And after that, they could talk about alternative uses for the cow, like using it in place of ride-on mowers at city parks to reduce emissions.

  So he began to think about other ways to employ this technology. Like, should he be purely capitalistic about it and rent out his cow to the neighbors on weekends? What would be a good price to cover future research and development efforts while still being a good value for weary dads who just wanted to nap on their Saturday afternoons? And of course, that led to considering other animals as well. Angus made a list. It looked like this:

  ANIMALS I CAN CONTROL REMOTELY AND MAKE $$$$

  1. Monkeys to save firefighters all that time climbing up and down trees rescuing cats.

  2. Dogs to mop kitchen floors after birthday parties.

  3. Peacocks to fan sweaty people on the beach.

  4. Boa constrictors to perform the Heimlich Maneuver.

  “Angus!”

  Oops. By the expression on Ms. Evergood’s face, that hadn’t been the first time she’d called his name.

  “Perhaps you could tell us the answer to number three?” she demanded.

  He scanned his textbook quickly. He wasn’t even on the page with the questions. He fumbled through his book, anxiously looking for number three.

  “Anyone want to tell Angus what page we’re on?” Ms. Evergood was using her “I’m rapidly losing my patience” voice.

  “Eighty-seven,” piped up Ivy. Figures. Ivy always knew what page they were on. She practically always knew the answers before Ms. Evergood even asked the question. Ivy. Such a goody-goody.

  Angus found the question, rapidly scanned the word problem, quickly figured the double-digit multiplication in his head, and confidently announced, “Three hundred and sixty feet!”

  “Ivy, would you please tell the class the correct answer?” asked Ms. Evergood.

  Ivy smiled sadly at Angus. “Three hundred and sixty SQUARE feet.”

  Figures. Just another day in math class.

  The rest of the school day was fairly uneventful. Except for a quick trip to visit the principal, it had been just like any other day.

  He hadn’t gotten into that much trouble once he had explained that he needed to balance five chairs on top of each other during social studies to illustrate an airport radio control tower. The final addition of the classroom hamsters in their cage, complete with the running wheel, had probably been ill-advised. But it wasn’t his fault that Billy Roberts had chosen that moment to trip and land on the structure. Besides, it had only taken the class fifteen minutes to find two of the hamsters, and the janitor wouldn’t have to remove too much of the baseboard to get the third one out of the wall.

  Now he was staring out the bus window, heading home, and eager to get back into his laboratory and continue working on his newest invention.

  You see, Angus Clark was way more than just an average kid. Angus Clark was an inventor in training. He had a business card to prove it.

  He scratched his head thoughtfully, causing his light brown hair to stick straight up. His mom was forever making him use new hair gels and styling creams, trying to make his three cowlicks lay flat. Every day, the same thing. “Wash your face. Comb your hair. Don’t forget to brush your teeth. Pick up your shoes. Make your bed.” Didn’t she realize what a waste of time all that was? His face was just going to get dirty again, and he’d be putting his shoes on again tomorrow.

  Seriously. One day soon he’d be a famous inventor and he’d never have to comb his hair again. He’d build a robot to do it.

  Angus knew he wasn’t a full-fledged inventor yet. He had a lot of great ideas, but none of them actually worked.

  There was the Spankmatic 3000 that he had designed when his bratty four-year old cousin visited for a week. His mom had found his specifications and had stripped Angus of his lab privileges for a month. Worse, she’d forced him to read talking train books to the little creep for the remainder of the visit.


  And then there was the Olfactory Biohazard he’d developed to protect his tree house from squirrels. Okay, so squirrels don’t sound that fierce. What you need to know is that before Angus had a full-fledged lab in his parents’ garage, he had to store some of his machine parts in his tree house. There is nothing more frustrating than looking for a ¼-inch screw that you know you had yesterday and finding nothing but a pile of hazelnut shells. His mom didn’t believe him, but he had seen light reflecting off of metal twelve feet up in the cedar tree.

  Back to the Olfactory Biohazard. Angus had researched squirrels, and had learned that they were repelled by the scent of mint. He figured they were probably put off by lots of other smells, too. The more stinks, the better, he thought. So he concocted a potion of mint, raw eggs, jalapeño peppers, cold coffee out of his dad’s mug, old boot water, several of his mom’s baking extracts, laundry detergent, cat litter, and the best ingredient of them all, fish emulsion from the garden shed. He mixed them in a bucket, and left it in his tree house to develop a potent aroma.

  It was coming along pretty nicely, a thick green film growing across the top, when he decided it was time to transfer it to a spray bottle. He was carrying it down the ladder from his tree house when his boot got stuck in a rung, and the whole glorious disgusting rancid mess cascaded down on top of him.

  His mom had to wash his clothing three times to get the stench out, and he was just now able to eat finger foods without gagging. The more he thought about it, that invention would have functioned marvelously. Maybe he’d give it a second try.

  But none of his designs had failed as miserably as the Anti-Meow Tongue Spray.

  The concept was solid. His mother’s fat orange cat Sir Schnortle waddled around all night howling piteously to be let outside. She was afraid he’d be eaten by raccoons, so Angus and his dad had to endure the beast’s deep-throated mewls. Just when Angus had finally fallen to sleep, the two-ton feline would climb on to his chest, nearly smothering him, and announce “MEEOOOW” at the top of his cat lungs.

  Clearly, something had to be done.

  Angus borrowed some library books about herbal remedies. It wasn’t his preferred reading material, but desperate times called for desperate measures. His idea was solid, and his research was thorough. The Anti-Meow Tongue Spray should have worked. It may have been a calculation error; his lemon mint to bergamot ratio was slightly skewed. However, it could also have been a geometric mistake; his angle of aim was a bit off. Whatever the cause, he had the scar to prove that cats don’t appreciate being nailed squarely in the left nostril by herb spray.

  Angus banged open the front door, shrugged off his backpack, and dropped it to the floor with a thump. He raced through the hallway to the kitchen where his mother was peeling carrots for dinner.

  “How was school today?” she asked, without looking up from the sink.

  “Hmmph,” responded Angus.

  “That’s nice, Dear. Put away your shoes wash your hands hang up your coat,” she replied.

  Angus grabbed a bag of snack crackers from the cupboard and headed for the garage. Air from an open window in the kitchen grabbed the door and slammed it shut behind him.

  He could barely hear his mom yell “Angus!” through the thick wood door.

  He strapped on his mustard yellow tool belt, adjusted his plastic safety glasses, and was sure to check that his screwdriver was in its place. A screwdriver was the most essential tool an inventor could own.

  Angus gazed lovingly around his laboratory. To the untrained eye, Angus’ cabinet of scientific wonders looked much like an old work table piled high with broken kitchen appliances, screws, nuts, bolts, tin cans, milk cartons, and tattered magazines with a few computer innards and light bulbs thrown into the mix. On the floor, a collection of plastic bins of various sizes and colors contained rocks, slabs of wood, old PVC pipe, wires, and an array of electronic components.

  To Angus, this table represented all the possibilities in the universe. In the upper left corner were the components he had sorted last week to build a robotic gum chewer: his mom’s broken bread machine, red and green colored wires, a mini-light bulb from his dad’s old flashlight key ring, and an empty wrapper of bubble gum. He’d chewed the bubble gum while redrawing his blueprint, so he’d need to buy some more before building the robot.

  On the floor to the right was a drawing of Sir Schnortle. The consequences of his Spankmatic 3000 failure had taught him not to leave around specifications that just anyone, especially his mom, could read. To those less scientific than he, the picture looked like an upside-down box with wheels. Only he knew that suspended from either side of the box was a bungee cord hammock. Harnessed into the hammock was a full-body leotard perfectly sized for a cat of profound girth, and sound-cancelling head gear with cat ear holes. He had gotten the idea while watching wrestling with his grandfather one weekend. He was considering calling this invention the Cat Muffler.

  Directly in front of him was his current work-in-progress. He was more excited about this invention than any he had designed before. Yesterday, it had actually started to make a humming noise! This particular invention, the Insectivore Incinerator, was built from a handheld barcode scanner.

  His father often brought home defunct electronics for Angus to disassemble. His mother complained about all the “clutter in the garage”, but invention is a messy business. This time, Angus had thought he’d just try to get the scanner to work again, but then he thought it would be a better idea to improve upon the original design and roast some beetles in the process.

  He picked up the Incinerator, flipped the “on” switch, and on a whim, pointed it at a pile of cedar cones resting on top of his rock bin, and pulled the trigger. The scanner vibrated and grew warm in his hand, and then there was only smoke where once there were cones.

  Angus stood as if struck by lightning, mouth agape, then closed and reopened his eyes. He smacked himself in the head, and looked again. Sure enough, the cones had vanished. He turned and ran to the backyard. Beneath the cedar tree lay piles of cones and needles. Angus aimed the Incinerator and pulled the trigger. Again and again, the machine hummed, grew warm, and smoke replaced the cones.

  “It works! It works!” Angus yelled, jumping up and down and running in frenzied circles like a dog just released from the kennel it’s been confined to all day.

  “Yahoo!” He yelled, throwing his hands in the air, accidentally releasing the scanner to sail through the air. Angus’ stomach lurched as he heard his Insectivore Incinerator smack a large boulder. He ran to where the scanner had landed, hastily retrieved it, pointed it at a cone, and frantically squeezed the trigger. Nothing. Again and again he tried, but there was no humming, no vibration, no warmth, and absolutely no smoke.

  Angus kicked the boulder, instantly regretting it as he remembered he was wearing flip-flops, not shoes. He limped back to his lab, grabbed his trusty screwdriver and began to open the back of the scanner. Yesterday, after he had crossed red and blue wires with a green one, the Insectivore Incinerator began humming. Maybe if he added a yellow one he could repair the damage caused when the machine bounced off the boulder.

  “Angus!”

  His mom’s voice directly behind his right ear startled Angus, and his screwdriver clattered to the floor.

  “Yes, Mom?” he asked.

  “This garage is a mess. I need you to get some of this trash off the floor so your dad can fit the car in here.”

  “But Mom, I’m in the middle of something,” whined Angus.

  She spoke in a voice that brooked no argument. “Do it. Now. And add some water to this baking soda to wipe down the table.” A puff of powder escaped the lid as she plunked the orange box on his work table.

  “It’s not trash,” Angus mumbled to his mom’s exiting backside.

  Angus gave a deep sigh and looked longingly at the partially opened Insectivore Incinerator. He bent over to pick up the screwdriver, and thumped his head on the table, biting his tongue and
spilling the baking soda out of the box and into the exposed electronics of his invention.

  “Ouch!” he cried, gingerly touching the inside of his mouth. He looked at his wet finger and noticed a bit of blood from his tongue. Great. This afternoon was just getting better and better! He’d better move his invention out of the way before anything else happened to it.

  Without wiping the saliva from his hand, he reached for the Insectivore Incinerator. As his damp fingers grazed the exposed circuitry, he felt a burning sensation and smelled smoke. His head spun dizzily, enough to turn his stomach. In the depths of his nausea, he realized he could no longer see. It became utterly quiet. Then, there was nothing.

  Gradually, he came to his senses. He heard seagulls screaming and water rushing. His tongue throbbed. Something prickly was poking into his back.

  The first thing he noticed when his vision returned was that he was sitting on a mound of cedar cones and needles.

  The second thing he saw was the group of pirates leering at him.

  Chapter Two: Angus “Joins” the Crew

  Angus squeezed his eyes shut and smacked himself in the head.

  “Wake up wake up wake up,” he chanted.

  He opened his eyes again. Five pirates were still staring at him. Five filthy, stinky, crazy-looking pirates. And one parrot.

  “Blimey lad! Are ye squiffy? Get off yer bum, clean up that mess, and swab the deck!” shouted a burly female pirate, who despite tangled dreadlocks, missing and yellowed teeth, and a scar on her forehead, bore an uncanny resemblance to his math teacher, Ms. Evergood.

  Angus rose unsteadily to his feet and caught the mop thrown at him by a short, stocky male pirate dressed in a torn red shirt and ragged blue trousers. He felt a splinter pierce his index finger. This was the most realistic dream Angus had ever had. He could smell Red Shirt’s unwashed clothing. He could feel his fair skin burning in the bright sunlight and the cool wind drying the sweat from his hair. The ground rocked beneath his feet.