Brady Carmichael and the Poodle of Mass Destruction - The Kachina Shaman by David Carnes

 
Brady Carmichael
    and the
Poodle of Mass Destruction
    In
The Kachina Shaman
     
    SMASHWORDS EDITION
     
    * * * * *
     
    PUBLISHED BY:
    David Carnes on Smashwords
     
    Written by David Carnes
    Illustrations by Christopher Park
    Cover Design by Nicholas J. Longtin
     
     
    Copyright © 2013 by David Carnes and Christopher
Park
     
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    This book is a work of fiction and any
resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or
locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of
the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
     
    * * * * *
     
    The phone rang, and it wasn’t the regular
phone. It was the red one.
    A teenage boy wearing dark pants, a
buttoned-up white shirt with a skinny tie and a pressed black lab
coat answered the phone. He pushed back his horn-rimmed glasses and
set down an old-fashioned clothes iron. It hissed loudly, releasing
a puff of steam that smelled like clean laundry, burnt circuits,
and wet dog.
    “Carmichael here,” said Brady Carmichael as
he picked up the red phone. “Uh huh. Slow down, Mr. President. OK,
OK. Really? Sure we can handle it. Sorry, the usual fees apply.
Nope, no more patriot discounts. Deficit, schmecifit – we gotta
eat.”
     

     
    “Alrighty then, agreed?” Brady paused,
waiting for an answer. “Good. Give us forty minutes.”
    He clicked off the phone and shouted, “Yo
Fifi! We got a job...”
     
    --
     
    Fifi took the headphone bud out of her ear.
She thought she had heard Brady say they had a job, but she wasn’t
sure.
     

     
    She paused the Jessie J. track she had been
listening to and delicately stepped off her yoga mat, avoiding a
patched and battered boxing bag that was still swinging in the air,
creaking softly.
    Her painted purple claws clicked on the
hardwood floor as she trotted over to the top of an iron spiral
staircase. In her high pitched, barky-growly voice she called down,
“Brady, you talking to me?”
    “Yeah Feef, we’ve got a job. Just got a call
from the President himself.” Brady yelled to her, craning his neck
to look up the winding stairs.
    “Ooo did you ask about Bo? How’s he doing?”
Fifi shouted down.
    “No I didn’t ask about the President’s dog.”
Replied Brady, “I didn’t think you liked Portuguese Water Spaniels.
Did something change?”
    Fifi had been having a hard time in the love
department. Her current infatuation was with celebrity dogs. Other
dogs might not be able to talk like she could, but her doggie
boyfriend should at least be unique. She was, after all, a
one-of-a-kind poodle. She had genuine alien-modified DNA that gave
her the strength of one hundred saint bernards and the smarts of
ten Einsteins. She felt that it would be right and proper to also
have a one-of-a-kind doggie boyfriend.
    Bo might be a Portuguese water spaniel,
thought Fifi, but he is the president’s dog and his butt smells
delightful.
    “Maybe we could see him when we’re done with
this mission?” she asked as she zipped down the stairs.
    “It’s a deal, Feef, but we’ve got to roll,
OK?”
    “Good, let’s suit up,” growled Fifi, “I’ve
got a date with the first dog and I don’t want to be late….”
     
    --
     
    Together Brady and Fifi headed down to the
secret complex hidden under their house.
    They stepped off the elevator and were
blasted by the smell of jet fuel, hot electronics, and Burma for
Him aftershave.
    Fifi and Brady walked purposefully into the
big lab next to the hangar where they kept their gear, the majority
of their testing equipment, their collection of ships, planes,
souped-up cars and Grampa.
    Actually, Gramps spent