ninety-eight cents?”
Stink crossed his arms. “No sweat. I have a plan.”
“Don’t you mean a
brain
storm?” Judy asked.
“Good one,” said Stink.
“Your plans stink,” said Judy.
Stink cracked up. “My plan
does
stink.”
“It does?” Webster asked.
“Of corpse. The smelliest,” said Stink. Stink and Webster rolled on the floor laughing.
Judy made the cuckoo sign. “You guys know you’re a little weird-o, right?”
“A little weirdo? Well . . . your
brain
is little,” said Stink. “At least we don’t have pea brains.” He held up two fingers to show the absolute pea size of Judy’s brain. “Teeny. Tiny. Weeny brain.”
“The better
not
to get eaten by a zombie,” said Judy.
O n Monday after school, Webster asked Stink, “So what’s your plan?”
“Plan? What plan?”
“The super-smelly plan that’s going to make us ninety-nine gazillion dollars. So we can both buy the book? So we can go to the Midnight Zombie Walk?”
“Don’t have one.”
“But you said . . .”
“I just said that to mess with my sister.”
“We need a
not-fake
plan,” said Webster.
“Let’s think,” said Stink. “Two brains are better than one.” He slurped a brain-shaped sucker. Webster munched Zombie Zitz and Candy Scabs.
Ding!
“I know,” said Stink. “Let’s have a blowout yard sale and sell all our old stuff. Like action figures we don’t play with anymore.”
“Yeah! We can sell dinosaurs, cowboys, Mr. Spud Head, Debbie Dump Truck, my old Handy Andy, and Buzz Lightspeed. Too preschool.”
“Deal,” said Stink.
* * *
Webster ran home to raid his closet. He came back with a big box. In the box was one old marble, a toy lizard without a tail, and a plastic egg.
“That’s it?” asked Stink. “This is
so
not going to make us rich.”
“Giving away stuff is harder than I thought,” said Webster.
“Tell me about it,” said Stink. He pointed to the small pile on his bed. One Poky Little Puppy, a broken light saber, and a Red Robot pencil sharpener.
“Actually, I think I want to keep the pencil sharpener,” said Stink.
“Forget it,” said Webster. “Judy’s right. This plan stinks.”
“The stinkiest.” Stink sharpened pencils with his Red Robot. Pencil shavings littered the floor. They looked like moth wings. He picked them up and sniffed. They smelled good, like trees.
“Wait a second,” said Stink. “Maybe I
do
have a stinky plan after all.”
“What is it?”
“We sell smells,” said Stink.
“Shells?”
“No, smells! We get a paper cup, right? We put smelly stuff in the cup. Then we charge fifty cents for people to smell it.”
“What people?”
Stink shrugged. “Any people.”
“But who’s going to give us money just to smell stuff?”
“You’ll see. People love to smell stuff.”
“People don’t love to smell
skunks
.”
“But we can sell
good
smells, like . . . berries and dirt and stuff. No skunks. And
no
corpse flowers.”
“Who will pay us to smell dirt?”
“Riley Rottenberger. She likes anything rotten.”
“Riley Rottenberger would pay to smell putrid rotten burgers,” said Webster.
* * *
Stink set up a table in the yard and lined up his smell cups. Candy cane, pinecone, cinnamon, fruit gum, dirt, and dish soap.
“Dish soap?” asked Webster.
“What? It smells good. Like lemons.”
Also pencil shavings and eraser crumbs. Stink made a sign. 50¢ A SMELL. He set a fancy dish on the table. He put one dollar in the dish.
“The secret to selling stuff is you put some of your own money out. People see it, and they’ll pay money to smell stuff, too. Plus the fancy dish makes it look like a real store. Trust me.”
“Fifty cents a sniff!” yelled Webster.
“Two for
Stink crossed his arms. “No sweat. I have a plan.”
“Don’t you mean a
brain
storm?” Judy asked.
“Good one,” said Stink.
“Your plans stink,” said Judy.
Stink cracked up. “My plan
does
stink.”
“It does?” Webster asked.
“Of corpse. The smelliest,” said Stink. Stink and Webster rolled on the floor laughing.
Judy made the cuckoo sign. “You guys know you’re a little weird-o, right?”
“A little weirdo? Well . . . your
brain
is little,” said Stink. “At least we don’t have pea brains.” He held up two fingers to show the absolute pea size of Judy’s brain. “Teeny. Tiny. Weeny brain.”
“The better
not
to get eaten by a zombie,” said Judy.
O n Monday after school, Webster asked Stink, “So what’s your plan?”
“Plan? What plan?”
“The super-smelly plan that’s going to make us ninety-nine gazillion dollars. So we can both buy the book? So we can go to the Midnight Zombie Walk?”
“Don’t have one.”
“But you said . . .”
“I just said that to mess with my sister.”
“We need a
not-fake
plan,” said Webster.
“Let’s think,” said Stink. “Two brains are better than one.” He slurped a brain-shaped sucker. Webster munched Zombie Zitz and Candy Scabs.
Ding!
“I know,” said Stink. “Let’s have a blowout yard sale and sell all our old stuff. Like action figures we don’t play with anymore.”
“Yeah! We can sell dinosaurs, cowboys, Mr. Spud Head, Debbie Dump Truck, my old Handy Andy, and Buzz Lightspeed. Too preschool.”
“Deal,” said Stink.
* * *
Webster ran home to raid his closet. He came back with a big box. In the box was one old marble, a toy lizard without a tail, and a plastic egg.
“That’s it?” asked Stink. “This is
so
not going to make us rich.”
“Giving away stuff is harder than I thought,” said Webster.
“Tell me about it,” said Stink. He pointed to the small pile on his bed. One Poky Little Puppy, a broken light saber, and a Red Robot pencil sharpener.
“Actually, I think I want to keep the pencil sharpener,” said Stink.
“Forget it,” said Webster. “Judy’s right. This plan stinks.”
“The stinkiest.” Stink sharpened pencils with his Red Robot. Pencil shavings littered the floor. They looked like moth wings. He picked them up and sniffed. They smelled good, like trees.
“Wait a second,” said Stink. “Maybe I
do
have a stinky plan after all.”
“What is it?”
“We sell smells,” said Stink.
“Shells?”
“No, smells! We get a paper cup, right? We put smelly stuff in the cup. Then we charge fifty cents for people to smell it.”
“What people?”
Stink shrugged. “Any people.”
“But who’s going to give us money just to smell stuff?”
“You’ll see. People love to smell stuff.”
“People don’t love to smell
skunks
.”
“But we can sell
good
smells, like . . . berries and dirt and stuff. No skunks. And
no
corpse flowers.”
“Who will pay us to smell dirt?”
“Riley Rottenberger. She likes anything rotten.”
“Riley Rottenberger would pay to smell putrid rotten burgers,” said Webster.
* * *
Stink set up a table in the yard and lined up his smell cups. Candy cane, pinecone, cinnamon, fruit gum, dirt, and dish soap.
“Dish soap?” asked Webster.
“What? It smells good. Like lemons.”
Also pencil shavings and eraser crumbs. Stink made a sign. 50¢ A SMELL. He set a fancy dish on the table. He put one dollar in the dish.
“The secret to selling stuff is you put some of your own money out. People see it, and they’ll pay money to smell stuff, too. Plus the fancy dish makes it look like a real store. Trust me.”
“Fifty cents a sniff!” yelled Webster.
“Two for
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