The Power of Positive Stinking The original tarantula bad boy, Erik Nidd, crawled toward us like a tank—if a tank had eight hairy limbs, a chip on its shoulder the size of a pyramid, and a really nasty disposition. His beefy arms and legs bulged with muscle, and his many eyes glowed with cruel delight. "Gecko and bird," he said."How nice. We wuz just lookin' around for someone to cream." In spite of myself, I took a half step back, then turned it into a dance shuffle. "Cream? No thanks. I like my coffee like I like my girls." "Strong and pure?" said Natalie. I turned to look at her. "No, not at all. Yuck." "Enough fancy-pants talk," said Erik. He flexed his other four legs."Let's do some clobberin', Stinkers." I edged closer to the building. "We didn't come here for a clobbering." "Where do you usually go?" Miss Warts-a-lot, the toad, hopped closer. Natalie cleared her throat. "We came to ask some questions," she said. Erik's face crinkled in puzzlement. "Questions?" "Yeah," I said, "like, what is the capital of Venezuela?" "Uh," said Erik.
