Bluto's Secret
Weapon
by Valerie
Kravette
I tore into
the driveway and rushed to unload supplies as the
radio screamed about the Martian invasion. But
soon I was faced with a worse crisis. My dog,
Bluto, stole a family pack of corndogs while I
unloaded the SUV and was munching them. I
shuddered.
“Give
them to me, Bluto!” I had to get them away
before we headed for our bomb shelter. It would
be impossible to be in close quarters with him
after he’d eaten those things.
My wife rushed
into the garage, and caught us wrestling.
“What are you doing?” she screamed.
“We’re under attack!”
“Grab
Mikey and head for the shelter,” I said.
“I’ll be right down. Bluto, you stupid
mutt, give me those corndogs!” Bluto growled
and held fast.
Suddenly, the
outside of the garage door glowed bright orange.
Then it disintegrated.
When the dust
cleared, there they were. The ugliest bastards
I’d ever seen. Green, ten feet tall and
pointing ray guns right at us. It was too late.
My wife
fainted. I screamed. Fortified by corndogs, Bluto
farted.
“Geez,
Bluto!” My eyes watered. I figured his
atomic-powered discharge was the last thing
I’d ever smell.
The Martians
screeched, staggered, and dropped dead.
Bluto wagged
his tail and spewed a second wave of poison gas.
The rest of the bastards fell.
National
Guardsmen wearing hazmat suits arrived. They
checked the bodies. “Dead as doornails,”
one of them said. “Yeesh! What’s that
terrible smell?”
“My dog
ate corndogs. He’s the one who killed the
Martians.”
“Good
doggie.” The soldier grabbed a phone and
said, “General, we found a way to stop the
Martians!”
Not since the
development of the atomic bomb or the first Moon
mission was there such an emergency effort. The
country mobilized in three days. Corn was
diverted from ethanol to corndog production. The
world’s meat packers worked overtime to
produce as many corndogs as possible.
Countries put
aside differences, and gathered their dogs for
battle. A chain of dogs spanned the continents.
When the next wave of Martians attacked, we
donned gasmasks and fed our canines corndogs. On
command, every dog let loose. Gigantic clouds of
sulfur and methane covered the globe for seventy-two
hours. The invaders never had a chance.
After losing
millions, the Martians surrendered. Bluto and I
got the Congressional Medal of Freedom, the Croix
du Guerre, and a huge tickertape parade. Earth
and Mars signed a peace treaty.
Though famous,
Bluto was unfazed by the book signings, TV
appearances and movies made about his life. These
days he snacks on corn chips. I’ll give him
a couple if the winds are right. But no more
corndogs.
Martians
petitioned the Galactic Assembly to outlaw
corndog production throughout the universe. In
the spirit of peace, Earth and all the other
planets agreed.
Nevertheless,
I keep a secret stash of contraband corndogs in
my underground shelter.
Just in case.
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