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Kids Next Door Mission
Operation
C.O.W.B.O.Y.
Crazy
Old
Wingnut
Boy
Overexaggerates
Yeehawing
A suburban street stood peacefully in the sunlight, the varying houses and lawns arranged in neat rows, awaiting whatever surprises the day would bring.
The azure-blue sky happily hung above the backdrop, the sun gently warming the rooftops and sidewalk with gentle heat. Wispy clouds floated overhead, sprinkling fine mist across the grass, while the air hummed with promise, as if the whole neighborhood was waiting for something fun to begin. A soft cool breeze drifted through the suburb, gently lifting blades of grass like curious fingers, and brushing past the people’s skin with its usual warm fuzziness. It carried the usual summer cocktail—fresh soil, mowed grass, pond water, hose water, birdseed, air fresheners, and the faint sour sting of gasoline—an open invitation to step outside and have fun. The soundtrack of suburbia played on: bees buzzing like busy fans, birds calling across power lines, dogs huffing at squirrels. Tires rolled, footsteps crunched, kids laughed from fenced-in yards. It seemed like just another perfect day, but little did everyone know that a few yippie-yi-oing hijinks were waiting for them, and no one would survive the enthusiasm they would soon spread.
A slow rumbling sound suddenly formed on the horizon, footsteps sending tremors through the ground. It barreled slowly, heels digging deeply into the ground, its originators eagerly scanning the area with a distinctly bright glint in their eyes. The distinct smell of high-octane gasoline polluted the air, spreading across the houses like wildfire as the source forced itself further ahead on its path down the road. Additionally, five distinct screams cut into the foul-tasting wind, their owners relaying their desperation to the occupants of the vast street, but no one seemed to understand.
Five children pounded down the streets, their eyes bloodshot and their breath uneven. The marrow in their legs wobbled like Jell-O, every step threatening collapse, as their feet struck the ground at twice their normal rate. Cold sweat clung to their skin, breath wheezing out like dying engines as the chemicals stung their faces. The pudgy girl in goggles and overalls held a small glowing dome above her head, arms wobbling uneasily, the eerie green light pulsing as if it was the only thing keeping them alive in the dark.
Not far behind them was a large tank, its gaze intently staring at the dome’s contents. Its massive treadmill-like treads sent shivers vibrating through the earth, their crushing small rocks into meal and painfully ripping the pavement in its wake. A storm of grit swirled around it, belching the distinct smell of high-octane gasoline into the air with every inch they gained. Atop its highest platform, a giant glass dome swiveled toward the kids, joints screeching loudly as its sights locked onto the elusive green light; and lunged forward; hungry for sweat, speed, and conquest.
Before they could finalize their attack, however, a rope slashed through the foul air like a whip, its loop descending upon the kids with perfect aim. It quickly tightened around their waists, yanking them off their feet with a sharp tug and whisking them away into the unknown. The tank’s top dome shrieked as it tried to track their movements, but they were already gone—just a blur in the breeze too fast to track with the naked eye.
Feeling the sudden wind on its face, the tank started braking, its tread tracks ripping a few more feet of pavement. It sniffed the air all around it, trying to get some freshness from all the surrounding pollutants, but they were too thick to carve out a clear opening. The metal joint supporting the platform whirred somewhat loudly, the tiny gears inside chattering uncontrollably as the raised surface tilted slightly upward. The tall dome split open, the glass splitting with a slow quiet screech, revealing two certain familiar adults staring stonily at the kids.
“I assumed we had those pesky Kids Next Door right where we wanted them, Ms. Wink,” one of the adults said, her mustache flapping against her walrus tusks as she scanned the area for their targets. “Where do you suppose they—”
Before she could finish, a loud cowboy cry—“Yippee-ka-yow!!”—pierced the silence—a call to chaos.
They saw a figure standing on a high branch, shrouded in dark shadows like an ink splatter on paper. Its eyes glowed neon red, their flame sending shivers down their spines as it scanned the horizon for potential targets. The wind caressed its skin with the fresh smell of leaves, quietly ruffling its clothes as it advanced toward the two wide-eyed adults on the platform. It carried its usual calm chill, sending slight shivers throughout the mysterious person’s limbs as it stood firmly on the wooden branch below. The figure also held a rope in its hands, its grip so tight its fingers shook rapidly in the sunlight directly behind.
Inside the loop of that rope were exactly what the two adults were looking for—five kids with a glowing dome, frozen in midair as if they were puppets abandoned in the middle of a show, and swaying left and right as if being pushed on swings. Their eyes remained wide open, their mouths glued shut (with the exception of the bald-spotted girl with sunglasses, whose lower jaw was locked in its dropped state), and their skin shivering slightly as they stared off into space. The dome's contents softly struck the edge of the glass, delivering a quiet, hollow thump that seemed to vibrate in the air like a forgotten heartbeat. The glow pulsed, casting a sickly green hue across the blue sky, and painting the kids' faces in faint ghostly tints. The wind itself felt heavy and charged, as if preparing for an attack, the sharp metallic ozone tang dancing around as the light continued to blink.
“Y'all looking for us?” the figure asked, its brow furrowing as if ready to lock and load.
Wind whipped through the clearing, stirring dust and leaves as the villainous adults sat atop their tank, looming like thunderclouds in designer clothes. Sunlight gleamed off their freshly ironed shirts, their shadows stretching long over cracked pavement.
“Our sincerest apologies, but we'll be taking my dome back now,” said the walrus-tusked adult, voice syrupy with mock courtesy, her flipper hands dangling over her armrests as the wind toyed with the folds.
That was right—Ms. Wink and Ms. Fibb had returned, and they weren’t here for polite conversation.
They had been cooking a revenge plan ever since Numbuhs 1-5 had crashed their sacred eleventy-billion-hour-adult swim time at the Tepid Waters club. They had planned a serene afternoon of sun soaking, pool floating, and cucumber sandwiches; followed by an unveiling of the dome’s contents at an exclusive (and very adult) party. They had even coordinated their favorite outfits—Ms. Wink in a lavender dress shirt, a darker lavender tie, violet pants, and bluish lavender tennis shoes; and Ms. Fibb in a light blue dress shirt, a striped teal tie, tan pants, and red tennis shoes—to stun the attendees, everything carefully ironed and polished to an exacting degree.
But these kids had the nerve to sneak into their house, steal the dome, and turn it into a neighborhood toy.
The pair responded with fury and invention—a tank that could scale fences, track scent, and send destabilizing tremors through the ground. Through cul-de-sacs and backyards, they hunted. And now, they'd found them—dangling from a rope held tightly aloft by a figure cloaked in shadow, sunlight flashed off its eyes like camera lenses.
“An interesting proposal, Ms. Wink,” Ms. Fibb murmured, eyes flickering.
“Indeed, Ms. Fibb.” Ms. Wink’s finger rose and pressed a button with lethal elegance.
SUPER CHAIR TRANSFORMATION
COMMENCE!
The tank roared to life—gears shrieking, engines howling. It launched its pilots in the air, flinging them skyward as wind clawed at their faces. The body spun like a miniature hurricane; treadmill wheels retracting inside; churning out a stench of mildew, scorched metal, and citrusy doom.
A titanic foot landed on the ground with a delicate thunk, sending mild shivers through the pavement. Three more legs unfolded with metallic screams, spinning rapidly like tetherballs in a tornado. Two missile arms stretched upward, and the giant dome lowered just above tank’s body like a jewel into a crown. The machine settled with a final stomp, sending shockwaves through the tree.
After the transformation was complete, Ms. Wink and Ms. Fibb sat like pastel tyrants in their safe glass haven, their hardened eyes reflecting the chaos.
The arms rose, heat rippling from them in shimmering waves as they awaited their pilots’ command.
The shadowy figure tightened its grip around the rope, eyes burning hotter than ever, its focus locked onto the missile launchers.
A small beep was heard in the cockpit, echo ricocheting off its walls—and then, fire.
Twin missiles flew up into the into the sky, roaring loudly, blasting heavy gusts of wind, and trailing exhaust that singed the air. The shockwave rocked the rope, bark slowly cracking under the strain.
“Uh-oh!” the figure yelped, eyes quickly cooling and crouching to the left as tension snapped in its legs.
The branch tilted sideways with a loud snap.
Too late.
“Yee-haw!” the shadowy figure shrieked as the branch was slashed in a fiery BOOM. The rope slipped out of its hands, payload plummeting to the ground. The kids spun slowly through the air, a wobbling tangle of limbs and shrieks, as Numbuh 2 clutched the dome like a life raft. Splintered wood followed, slicing the air and bouncing off the dome with sharp pings as they sped faster and faster toward the pavement, and then—
THUD.
They hit the ground like thunder. Dust rose. The earth groaned. For a moment, silence—except the tremor still humming in their bones.
A while later, the kids were up on a strange balcony, the rope loosely binding their sleeping bodies.
The surrounding wind howled quietly, the earthy smell of dead leaves swirling around the wooden planks. Its cool fingers surreptitiously crept around them, tiny particles of dust sprinkling their noses like fairy dust as they snored softly in the open. Mushrooms grew around them in various hues, their pungent odor lacing the air as its breath gently caressed the operatives’ skin. The kids rocked back and forth, rhythm well-coordinated like pendulums swinging inside their clocks.
Eventually, Numbuh 1 opened her eyes, her eyelids still droopy and the world still slightly blurry. She slowly took in the Easter egg hue of the sky, its vibrant light whispering for her to come closer and see whatever exciting sights it had to offer. “Hmm?” she asked, her voice slightly slower and more monotonous than usual as she began to look around her.
She scanned around the place as her vision began clearing up; taking note of the faded red walls, wagon wheels, and holes in the floor; and saw the slow, peaceful breath of her teammates continue as if nothing had happened. She stepped upright on the floor, the balcony softly creaking under her weight, and glanced at the warped railing, some of its nails bent as if pulled upward by invisible hands. The tang of rust crept up toward her nose, its harsh texture tingling her skin, slightly turning her stomach as she began her way to the edge. “This isn't our treehouse,” she said, feet tapping slightly on the slightly warped planks.
“Hmmm…” the bald-spotted British girl said as she stared down at the landscape below her, the twinkle in her eyes faint and sparse as her stomach began its slow flip inside-out. She stared down at the street below her, the faint chorus of motors, chatter, and footsteps dancing in the wind. Why does it feel like this place is...watching us? she thought, swiveling her head toward the branches, trunks, and red walls surrounding where her team was stranded.
Her eyes scanned the area around her, taking note of every movement happening in and around the place. She glanced at the ground below, every movement from the people and cars tingling her skin as the wind gently stroked her. The sound of doors opening and closing crept up toward her ears, whispering at her to come in and experience the fun of whatever waited inside. The distinct scents of carpets, sandwiches, vacuums, and exhaust wormed their way into the earthy atmosphere as well, sending a whiff of enticement the British girl’s way. After a few seconds, Nicole’s eyes caught a familiar red light, one she had seen many times with her parents—the words MINI MALL, written on a sign suspended high above the ground, eagerly awaiting new passersby.
“Where are we?” she asked, raising one eyebrow and rubbing her chin.
Her teammates slowly woke up, dusting themselves off and following her lead in their search.
She looked back at her team, eyes dull and slightly drained of color. “We better split and look for a way out of here—”
Before she could finish, a loud boom pierced the air, the grating din of scraping wood lining the assault.
The kids quickly turned toward the door, loud gasps escaping their lips, and their skin shaking as if their skeletons were struggling to escape.
The same shadowy figure from before was standing in the doorway, propping open the doors with its oversized hands. Its red eyes flared intensely, the white light behind them blazing like a warning of danger coming their way. The air beyond the light was slightly warmer than the air outside, its cocktail of hay, soil, and rustic paintings blowing out an invitation to come inside and play. Additionally, the faint flavor of baked beans crawled out from behind the figure, its phalanges worming their way toward the kids’ mouths to try its source.
“Yee-haw!” the figure yelled, placing a hand near its red eyes.
The kids stood there, eyes snapped wide open and jaws slowly dropping, as they observed the figure waving around the mask containing those eyes.
The white light quickly faded a few seconds later, revealing the contents within—cardboard boxes, hay bales, a series of wooden posts, a trunk and a few branches, a series of frames and ribbons on the wall, even a tire swing on a rope.
The darkness around the figure also melted into the light, revealing the silhouette of its owner—not a fellow Kids Next Door operative, but an old man, whose boots clicked against the floor like echoes from several decades earlier. These boots were reddish orange with metal spurs, the light inside reflecting that of the sun on the horizon. A matching wide-brimmed hat with a yellow band slightly shaded his eyes, but the numbuhs managed to catch a brief glimpse of the bright twinkle emanating from his pupils. A yellow short-sleeved button-up shirt covered his torso, while a beer gut hung above his red belt, where a small silver buckle tapped rhythmically like the rhythm from a long-forgotten square dance. This belt held up a matching yellow pair of pants, which rustled in the wind like wheat in a field, and a red bandanna with green polka dots hung around his neck, swinging slightly like a cowbell. The tilt of his hat gave him the distinct look of someone who’d broken out of an old Western reel—and, other than a pair of green glasses and shoulder-length gray hair, hadn’t bothered to change clothes since.
“That sure was a close one, partners,” he continued, springing up off the ground and arcing his left fist cleanly toward an imaginary target, “but we showed them a-dults what for, didn't we?!”
“And...who are you?” Numbuh 1 asked; arms crossed, brow furrowed, and one eyebrow raised; while the rest of her team stood frozen in their slack-jawed expressions.
“I'm Lasso Lad,” the old man replied, nimbly jumping from one foot to the next as he rapidly twirled his toy pistols (which he stored in green holsters on his belt) in his reddish-orange-gloved hands, “the rootin' tootin'est, shoot-'em-up hootin'est, ain’t-that-fat adult-fightin’ cowboy…” He fired these pistols with a soft bang, corks speeding toward two more invisible targets before their strings yanked them back, and then shook his head sharply from side to side like bubbles fizzing up in a shaken can of soda. “This side of the Mississippi!” he finished, replacing his pistols in their holsters.
“You fight adults?” the British girl burst out, her right eye bulging, her right eyebrow raising, and her right pointer finger raising toward his glasses.
“You're darn tootin'!” Lasso Lad agreed, kicking with his left foot and dancing with quick and powerful movements, “I'm the last member of the rowdiest bunch of grown-up fighters ever: the Cowboy Kids Club!” He momentarily stopped, a huge smile painted across his face as he rested his hands on his hips. “Welcome to my secret treetop ranch in all its glory!” he finished, his hands shooting out in the direction of the interior.
“Glory?!” Numbuh 1 shot at the old cowboy kid, placing her hands back on her hips as she hardened her gaze. “This place is a—” She stomped her left foot on the ancient wood, sending tremors that slightly shook the floor, but those tremors shattered the spot she was standing on, the harsh surface rapidly scratching her leg and snagging her skirt as she plummeted to the ground. “Duuump!” she screamed, landing with a giant thud that sent uneasy quivers through the dried asphalt.
The others just ignored her statement and proceeded on through the door, the kids’ eyes still frozen wide open.
The wood beneath their shoes creaked loudly with each step, the boards sinking slightly toward the road below. Each plank was frosted with patches of dark green mold, damp and slick and squelching quietly as their feet made contact. The stench of decades-spoiled milk dotted the walls around them, wrinkling their noses a little. A few loose boards were strewn around the floor, their hard edges dotted with a few strands of hay that reflected the golden sun outside. A few wide gaps yawned between these floorboards to expose the shopping mall below, and shafts of light pierced through missing planks in the walls and ceiling. Wind whispered through the cracks, carrying the soft creak of the structure settling. Off to the side, a crooked ladder leaned precariously, its rungs worn smooth and splintered, leading up to a shadowy platform above.
“Make yourself at home, partners,” Lasso Lad began, wobbling slightly as he stepped around a few holes.
Numbuhs 2-5 smiled brightly, their heads occasionally turning to the left or right as they proceeded further into the vacuum awaiting them.
“I keep all the important equipment here,” Lasso Lad continued, sweeping his arm toward a cluttered row of boxes stacked high with cowboy memorabilia—rocking horses, dusty ropes, cracked boots, even a dull rusty trumpet awkwardly lying on top of a fraying lasso. The scents of old leather, lemon cleaner, and grape juice laced the air; while an old bottle of sparkling water sat on top of a barrel next to a very grimy baseball. A lopsided birthday present sat perched on top of a taller box, the scent of long-dried rain emanating from its pink wrapping paper between two nails holding a ten-gallon hat and a thinner rope. “Safe from any adults who might think of rustling it,” he finished, stopping short of a window next to a faded wanted poster. “Yes, sir! Only top-shelf equipment here!” He placed his hands on his hips as his eyes sparkled brightly at his newfound friends.
Numbuh 1 poked her head into the window a few seconds after that; her clothes faded in several areas with patches of dirt; and a few angry scratch marks stinging her arms, face, and legs. She craned her neck around the room, a chorus of clanging metal, rustling paper, swinging ropes, and pops and crackles greeting her ears as she spied on her teammates—Numbuh 4 thrusting a fencing sword, Numbuh 5 inspecting a hat, Numbuh 2 rummaging through a file cabinet, and Numbuh 3 winding up an old turntable—flying around the stash. Her eyes flashed fierily, her brow furrowing and her head veins growing as she clenched her teeth tightly.
“Top-shelf?” she shouted, slightly raising her left eyebrow as she leaned slightly closer. “This stuff is trash!” She quickly thrust her head inside, her right hand following not long after, as Lasso Lad slightly leaned back, his eyes bulging and a small frown lining her face.
“TRASH?!” the cowboy man yelled right back, his wrinkled face inches from the sunglasses-wearing girl’s, cracking the air between them with his words. He turned away briefly, taking in a slow, exaggerated breath as if he were preparing for an opera performance. “Why, with this high-tech radio graphamajiggy,” he continued, his sparkly eyes and goofy smile returning almost instantly as he picked up a large blue radio with red dials, “I can spy on adults day and night!”
The kids all stood wide-eyed, dimples outlining their cheeks as their smiles revealed their nearly white teeth (except Nicole, who still had a small frown and a furrowed left eyebrow), a bright twinkle rapidly dancing in their eyes as they gazed upon the mysterious old device.
Lasso Lad grabbed the dial in the middle, fiddling with it and producing a garbled mess of songs and stories. His dimples stretched out further as he began tuning it faster, his eyes beating rapidly like tiny hearts the further he got into all the chaos escaping the speaker. His hand stopped after several high-octane seconds, the corners of his mouth pulling it upward as a few quick, unintelligible words broke out of the machine.
“I will remember…” one voice continued, its slow Western drawl sending electric tingles up Lasso Lad’s spine.
“If I ain't seen all!” the man yelled, tilting his head slightly to the left, his expression pulling Numbuhs 2-5’s mouth corners further upward. He slipped the radio behind a stack of boxes, a hollow thunk echoing from behind. “And what about these super-duper teletalking receiviolas?” he followed up, pulling out an old-fashioned tin can telephone and dangling it in his fingers.
Numbuhs 2-5 stared at its movement, their wide-open eyes twinkling slowly and their mouths hung open. “Oooohhhhh…” they burst out, their eyes slowly spinning around as if the grown-up Cowboy Kid was hypnotizing them.
“I can use these to relay important news to my teammates,” Lasso Lad continued, whipping one can up toward his mouth, as his brows bounced up and down as if high on overcaffeinated soda. After a few minutes, he turned his head in the opposite direction, his facial skin bouncing quickly like elastic in an electric storm. He cupped his left hand almost perpendicular to his ear, tilting his head slightly toward his imaginary conversation partner. “Hello!?” he piped up, his shrill voice cutting through the air like piano wire through clay. “Can you read me?!”
The bald-spotted British girl grabbed the other end, her fingers dry and cold against the slightly rusted metal. “Hello,” she began, her words low and even as if she had spent her entire life practicing for this call, “would you like to accept a collect call...” She paused before she finished her sentence, the swelling returning in her veins and her brow slowly furrowing as her skin shook violently. “FROM THE 21ST CENTURY?!?” she shouted, her voice a missile ready to explode on its target as she headbutted the vacuum between them.
She pulled herself back onto the balcony, her knuckles white and her teeth impatiently chattering. Her eyes began to shake uneasily in their sockets, their lids rapidly bobbing up and down as pent-up tension struggled to escape her legs. She stretched her receiviola as far back as it would go, vibrating the rope so uneasily a few of its threads began to snap in half, and released it, her phalanges still shaking as it shot forward faster than a bullet from a pistol.
“Yike!” Lasso Lad yelped, his body leaning across another stack of boxes as his eyes stared off into space.
Numbuh 1 just grinned at this, her heart beating rapidly as the old Cowboy Kid shot her a quick glance through his slightly drained eyes.
Meanwhile, Ms. Wink and Ms. Fibb were at their house, sitting in their reclining chairs with their glowing dome by their side.
Before them, a metal tub brimmed with molten lava, its bubbling hiss crackling like underground fireworks. Sunlight flared off its surface, the heat curling into their skin (and the air) like coarse bristles. The cool breeze brushed past, drawing a synchronized shiver onto their bodies as the scent of damp earth wormed its way into their nostrils. Between them, the dome throbbed with its sickly green light, contents thudding gently against the glass, brushing their liquid preservative’s simmering surface.
“Shall we open the dome now, Ms. Fibb?” Ms. Wink asked, shooting a quick glance at her partner.
“I'd prefer to open it when the time is right, Ms. Wink,” Ms. Fibb responded, the wind toying with the folds of her flipper hands.
“The time is right, Ms. Fibb,” the buffalo-horned adult responded, the dome’s light creeping onto her mane.
“It is my dome, and I shall open it when I choose,” Ms. Fibb shot back, her voice barely rising.
Back at the old Cowboy Kids Club headquarters, dust bunnies were still dancing in the afternoon sunbeams crawling through the holes in the wood. Lasso Lad stood on the mold-infested floor, the super-duper teletalking receiviolas’ tin cans still dangling around his neck. He plucked them off his neck, the string snapping back with a soft twang. He turned his head toward the smiling Kids Next Door operatives (and the frowning one in the window), the grin already returning to his face as he made his way toward the boxes.
He slipped the telephone behind one of the boxes, the metal softly scraping across the thin wooden surface.
He slowly turned his head to the left, a faint creak escaping his neck like those from the boards that lay beneath his feet. His eyes swept across the room, catching on dust particles in the air. A few feet from the box, an old rope dangled from a rusty nail, frayed fibers split like decades-old straw. He stepped closer, his fingers twitching energetically, his smile exposing his teeth as he reached toward the rope. It began to wriggle in his hands, twitching quickly as if it had a mind of its own.
He began to twirl it in rapid circles, the fibers rustling his right glove as the rope slowly snapped into rhythm. His right arm spun like out-of-control propellor, its shoulder joint releasing a series of popping cracks as it sent his sleeve bouncing up and down like a butterfly fluttering its wings in the wind. The rope whipped up a hurricane of different smells, the torrent firing itself the kids’ way as the old cowboy man stood steadily, his legs barely tingling in the cool gusts he created.
“Hey, guys!” Lasso Lad yelled, flashing a grin at the kids. “Check this out!” He skipped through the rope, as light as air, barely brushing the fibers as it whispered beneath him. His boots tapped the old floor with a soft click, barely sliding on the damp floorboards.
“Whoo!” he burst out, skipping back through the rope. “Whee-hee!”
Numbuhs 2-5 grinned, eyes wide. They cheered him on, barely suppressing their laughter as he continued to make graceful leaps through the lasso.
However, Numbuh 1 stood several feet from her teammates, her arms crossed and her brow furrowed as she watched the elderly Cowboy Kid perform several more lasso tricks. “So you can twirl a stupid rope, big deal!” she shot at him, her eyes flashing violently and her left eyebrow slowly rising. “I'm getting out of this dump.”
She turned toward the door, her boots squelching the mold and creaking the floorboards as she stomped toward the exit. “When the rest of you are done playing cowboys and imbeciles,” she fumed, her sunglasses catching on the dust bunnies in the air, “maybe we can get back to the treehouse!!!!!”
Just as she was about to finish the last word, a lasso loop tightened around her turtleneck just above her waist, the scratchy fibers tangling with the threads. It yanked her backwards with a sharp tug, her eyes snapping wide and the breeze forcing itself past her body as her loud scream pierced the vacuum surrounding her. The British girl felt an electrical shock in her skin, her eyes hitting the back of their sockets as her eyelids flapped uneasily in the wind. Before she could plan her next move, she heard the wall behind her crack, her brain bouncing off her skull’s walls and a few loose splinters scratching her arms and legs as her butt hit the floor.
“Relax a spell, partner!” Lasso Lad yelled, his left fingers trembling slightly as he eased his hand down, his palm facing the floor.
Almost immediately after the last word, Nicole’s eyes scanned the room again, a dull twinkle painted about them as they itched against their lids. Her head whipped around the room frantically, the tingling sensation growing increasingly uncontrollable, her focus dancing from the door to the windows. After a few seconds, a shimmering light caught her eye, its unmistakable glow a beacon toward a heroic era long gone. “Huh?” she asked, turning toward a frame on the wall to her left.
Inside the frame, three kids grinned wide beneath cowboy hats, arms slung around each other and a dark brown horse. The horse’s light chestnut mane whipped slightly sideways, wind-tossed and wild, while the girl in the bottom right corner—red long-sleeved shirt, light blue bandanna, teal hat with a lavender band—pressed her palm on the horse’s nose bridge, its coarse fur sending a tingling buzz through her arm. Above them, a red-haired boy in nearly full Lasso Lad getup (except with shorter hair and no glasses) threw an energetic wave toward the camera. Beside him, a brown-haired girl—square-lensed glasses, smaller brown hat with a purple ribbon, purple bandanna, blue short-sleeved shirt—stretched her arm outside the photo’s edge. All four smiled with bright, infectious joy as if their hoedown never ended, only paused long enough to snap a memorable picture.
“Who are these cowdorks?” Nicole asked, her eyebrows rising and a wave of tension running through her lasso-bound body.
“Only the best dang a-dult fighters who ever lived!” Lasso Lad burst out, his wide grin reflecting his energy. He swung his left fist at an imaginary target, eyes twinkling energetically as they met Numbuh 1’s. “The best until they...” He squeezed his eyes shut, his shoulders jerking with a slow, violent quiver. His chest tightened, and suddenly, a few ragged breaths broke out of his lungs. “They growed up!” he bawled, glasses pressed to his face as a series of choked sobs escaped his lips.
Numbuh 1 swallowed hard, eyes softening as her brow drooped. “That's...that's too bad,” she murmured, her gaze falling toward the floor, unsure of how to respond.
Before she could finish her thought, two big hands grabbed her shoulders, quickly yanking her forward.
“But it’s OK now!” Lasso Lad yelled, his grin and energy returning. “Thanks to you and your friends,” he continued, lifting the bald-spotted girl off her feet in a surprising burst of strength, throwing both fists high in the air, and swinging his left fist again, “we can reform the Cowboy Kids Club!” He burst into hearty laughter, his body vibrating with each chuckle as he clutched his belly.
“We're not cowboys!” Numbuh 1 yelled, throwing arms out in exasperation before crossing them again. “Anyway, you can't fight adults if you are an adult,” she continued, her eyes flashing behind her sunglasses.
Lasso Lad gasped loudly, his body trembling rapidly. “I am not an a-dult!” he shouted loudly, his eyes flashing even brighter and his eyebrows slanted in a fiery frown.
“Are too,” Numbuh 1 responded, hands behind her back.
“Nuh-uh,” Lasso Lad shot back, his hands also forming fists.
“Yuh-huh,” Nicole said, leaning her head closer.
“Nuh-uh,” Lasso Lad repeated, butting in closer.
“Are too!” Numbuh 1 shouted, fists clenched at her sides.
“Are not!” Lasso Lad yelled, his left fist raised as if ready to punch Nicole.
The British girl suddenly flung her left hand into the old cowboy man’s mouth, startling him. “DOES A KID HAVE FALSE TEETH?!” she yelled, extracting a set of dentures that dripped with cool, slimy saliva as she pointed at them.
“I can do anything you cowpokes can!” Lasso Lad yelled, his brow furrowing further and his face slightly contorting, but only muffled sounds emerged from his gums.
“Whatcha say?” Hillary asked, eyebrows raising as she shrugged her shoulders.
Lasso Lad shot his hand at Numbuh 1, snatching the saliva-ridden dentures, and carefully popping them back into place.
“I said,” he repeated, wheeling around and locking his eyes onto the kids as his expression intensified, “I can do anything you cowpokes can!”
The kids’ eyes snapped wide open, their skin tingling uneasily as loud gasps escaped their mouths.
“Can you retrieve the dome!?” Numbuh 1 shouted, her voice sharp, throwing her arms out again. “We had it until you went and lost it!” Her hands formed fists once again as she leaned in slightly further. “Can you do that, huh?!” she yelled, pointing at Lasso Lad’s wrinkles.
Lasso Lad popped his fingers inside his mouth, blowing a loud shrill whistle that pierced the air.
The door slid open, followed by rush of cool air. Dust motes danced in as sunlight streaming through the opening.
Inside the room walked a horse almost identical to the one in the photo, her hooves slowly plodding the creaky, mold-spotted floorboards. But she wasn’t the lively equine partying with the kids—her grayish brown coat was dull and worn, her dull chestnut mane and tail limp and unkempt. Her eyes sagged downward, half-closed in exhaustion. Bandages were wrapped around her right back leg and tail, and two more crossed on her right shoulder, remnants of some long-past injury. The distinct earthy smell of hay mingled with the faint metallic tang of blood in the air, dancing its way into everyone’s noses. She seemed weighed down by the world, her steps slow and hesitant as she struggled to carry the red saddle on her back.
“Y'all want the dome?” Lasso Lad shouted, his right finger pointing at the kids. “Well, you just wait right here and I'll fetch it for ya!”
The old cowboy man took a few steps toward the horse, his boots creaking the floorboards. He placed a hand on the latter’s mane, his rough glove rubbing against the coarse fur, and pulled himself up onto the saddle. Clip Clop’s knees trembled as he settled into position, but she managed to steady herself, heaving her front legs off the ground with visible effort and panting.
“Me and Clip Clop won’t be but a moment,” Lasso Lad said, gently yanking the red reins to the right. “Y'all make yourselves comfy, you hear?” He urged the horse toward the door, her hooves producing tiny cracks as she rotated 180°.
With a grunt, he approached the horse, his boots creaking on the floorboards. He grabbed the mane, his rough glove scraping against the coarse fur, and pulled himself up onto the saddle. Clip Clop’s knees trembled beneath him as he settled into position, but she steadied herself with a slow exhale, pushing off from the ground with visible effort.
“Me and Clip Clop won’t be but a moment,” Lasso Lad said, tugging the reins with a sharp yank to the right. “Y’all make yourselves comfy now.” He urged the horse toward the door, her hooves echoing across the floor as they hit the boards.
Clip Clop’s legs quivered as she strained against the weight of the saddle. She groaned quietly between her teeth, her back and butt sinking lower as she tried to maintain her balance, flailing her legs in a motion almost identical to horses in Old Western movies.
“Hi-ho, Clip Clop,” Lasso Lad shouted, his voice loud and full of energy, holding his left hand out as if waving at the kids. “Away!” He tipped his hat and shooting them another quick glance before turning toward the door.
With a final yank forward, the duo disappeared into the outdoors, the slight tremors in the floorboards and the sound of the wind rushing in behind them.
Several seconds later, a loud crash echoed from outside the room. A hole appeared in the balcony, and an equally loud thud followed, sending vibrations through the building.
The horse’s hoofs sent slight tremors through the old floorboards, the mold spots squishing and a series of small cracks popping from the planks. The wind blew steadily against the two Cowboy Kids, the dust motes brushing past their skin and lightly stinging their eyes as they proceeded onward. Lasso Lad’s hat bounced up and down, his tousled hair rubbing past the fabric and producing a slight electric shock that zipped through the air like a laser in the sky.
The Kids Next Door operatives heard a loud crash several seconds later, their eyes wide as they looked at the huge hole in the floor. An equally loud thud followed, sending a heavy shiver through the pavement below.
“I meant to do that!” the old cowboy man shouted from below, his voice thick with effort.
The kids stared at the hole, wide-eyed.
“He may be old,” Alberto said, leaning against a hay bale, “but he’s pretty cool.”
“He is definitely not ‘cool,’” Numbuh 1 snapped, arms on her hips as she glared toward the door. “And now that he’s gone,” she muttered, her voice edged with frustration, “we should get back to the treehouse.” She pointed at the doorway, her brow furrowing further and her body trembling uneasily.
“But Lasso Lad said he'd be right back,” he protested, the stick horse between his legs as he slumped downward. “And besides,” he continued, a wide smile slowly forming and his head perking slightly upward, “he’s got all this neat stuff!” He energetically threw his arms in the air, dropping the stick horse.
“Can't we stay just a little longer?” Hillary begged, standing on one foot as she slowly rose her other, her eyes locked onto the stack of hay bales in front of her. “Hyah—” she began, firing her foot at the central bale and sending the stack flying forward. However, the top bale flipped backward and crashed on top of her, knocking the Jewish-American girl to the floor. “Oof!” she groaned, the bale’s bristles prickling against her back.
“Fine!” Nicole grumbled, slapping her face with her left hand. “Whatever!”
The team began their (long) wait for the Cowboy Kids’ return, Numbuh 1’s brow still furrowing. The others were lost in all the toys, trinkets, and gadgets scattered around them; their laughter mingling with the occasional clink of metal or whirl of a lasso.
Hours went by. The sun crept westward, long shadows stretching across the floorboards as the hum of laughter dulled to soft murmurs. The air thinned and cooled, brushing past the windows and holes with a faint whisper.
As the moon’s silver glow crept into the openings, the kids began yawning loudly, the fatigue echoing though the barn-like structure. They trudged away from the boxes, their feet dragging and eyes struggling against the weight of gravity. They collapsed on top of the hay bales surrounding the radio graphamajiggy, the strands pricking their butts as their limbs lay limp like abandoned puppets. Sleep slowly and steadily kicked in, their minds vivid with flickering images of the two Cowboy Kids—Lasso Lad doing lasso tricks, Clip Clop pounding steadfastly on the ground—as they sagged further downward.
Numbuh 1, however, paced back and forth, her boots tapping a steady rhythm across the wooden floor as she stared down at the ground, a sharp contrast to the softness of her teammates’ slumber. Her eyes perused the space around her—the floorboards, the door, the boxes, the photo, and then back to the floorboards—searching and calculating. The faint glow from the sunlight flashed in her eyes, casting her irises brighter, as the veins in her head pulsed intensely beneath her skin.
The night slowly bled into early morning. Pale sunlight spilled in, driving away the shadows with its gold-tipped fingers. The cool breeze stirred, carrying a mix of birdseed, soil, fresh bread, leaves, and polish—the usual dry perfume of the Mini Mall area waking up. Dust flew lazily among the sunbeams illuminating the room, another invitation for the kids to go out and have fun.
While her teammates slowly murmured in their sleep, Numbuh 1 stopped pacing, her eyes turning toward her watch.
“Well, I think we've wasted enough time waiting for that crazy gentleman,” she stated, locking her vision intensely onto the sunlit doorway. She set her jaw into place, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Let's get out of here.”
She began marching toward the exit—brow furrowed, jaw tight, eyes locked forward, hands clenched into tight fists. The others trudged a few feet behind her in a sluggish line—arms limp, shoulders slumped, feet dragging against the floorboards like wet moldy socks.
“Ohh...” Numbuh 2 moaned, goggles slipping slightly down her nose. “This stinks.”
“I can't believe this,” Numbuh 5 agreed, cap tilted slightly low over his eyes.
“I don't want to go,” Numbuh 2 added, voice thin and barely afloat.
They were about two thirds of the way to the door—Numbuh 1 had just stepped on the first creaky wooden step toward the ground—when the radio graphamajiggy crackled to life. A sharp burst of its distinct static shot across the room like a firecracker.
“Hello,” a familiar cowboy drawl jumped out, slow and upbeat. “Do you read me?”
“Lasso Lad!” Numbuhs 2-5 cried out, eyes lighting up and huge smiles returning, as they all shot back toward the radio graphamajiggy, tripping over each other’s words in excitement.
“Heowdy, partners!” the old Cowboy Kid continued, his voice lazy but rhythmic and full of energy. Static occasionally butted in between syllables. “I am at Ms. Wink and Ms. Fibb's house, and…we're having us a…pizza par-tay.”
Numbuhs 2-5’s mouths dropped open, their goofy smiles wide enough to accommodate entire soda cans. They leaned forward, eyes sparkling energetically and mouths watering quickly.
“Why don't y'all come on by and—” Lasso Lad continued, but a chorus of beeps cut him off.
Numbuhs 2-5 shot quick glances at each other, their hearts pounding loudly in their ears.
“Stay away!” the old cowboy man yelled—his voice faster, strained with panic. “It's a trap!”
Numbuhs 2-5 froze, their hearts beating even harder and faster. The air thickened with tension as they glanced at each other again, their expressions tight with worry. The breath whooshed out of them, tearing the air with loud gasps.
“Come over now!” Ms. Fibb’s voice rung out, unusually perky and tinged with a slight cartoonish cowboy twang. “And bring pizza!”
“We've got to save him!” Numbuhs 2-5 yelled in unison, eyes huge, arms flying in all directions.
“What do we do now?” Numbuh 5 asked Numbuh 1, hair zipping up under his hat as if it had been electrocuted.
“But we don’t have any of our stuff,” Numbuh 3 added, teeth chattering, shoulders pulled tight like springs.
“What do we do?” Numbuh 4 barked, eyes rapidly scanning the pile of toys and gadgets.
“We can’t win without weapons,” Numbuh 3 said, voice shaking, arms rapidly tingling.
Numbuh 1 just stood there, frozen. Her brow remained furrowed, her jaw tight, and her gaze locked on the radio and her teammates. Her eyes flicked back toward the door, a flash of light catching between her sunglasses. Her skin prickled again, her mind igniting.
Her teammates continued their frantic muttering, worry bleeding into every word.
Her eyes snapped wide as she glanced at each of them, their faces pale, their voices quivering. Her lungs tightened. Her eyes flew around the room—the door, one of the windows, the ladder, some of the boxes—each one sparking a new thought in her mind, too many at once.
She settled upon the old photo of the four Cowboy Kids, lips trembling as tears shimmered in her eyes.
Numbuhs 2-5 turned their heads toward her, a glimmer of hope returning to their faces, flashing dimly and steadily.
“So?” Numbuh 2 asked, her voice low. Her shoulders slowly shrugged, her gaze heavy on the floor. “What do we do, Numbuh 1?”
A few hours later, Ms. Wink and Ms. Fibb were lounging in their reclining chairs again, their dome glowing brighter than ever. The wind whispered through the neighborhood, its icy fingers stroking their skin.
They weren’t just ready to resume their plans—they were ready to eliminate any threats that stood in their way.
Above their lava tub, Lasso Lad and Clip Clop hung upside-down, suspended by a coarse rope. Smoke spiraled from the bubbling magma, tickling their skin with burning tendrils. The wind swung the two Cowboy Kids back and forth like a pendulum, its cold breath cutting through the heat. Clip Clop winced as pain flared in her knees, her tail trailing limply behind her.
“This is the worst pizza par-tay I have ever been to!” Lasso Lad yelled, his voice piercing the air, but Ms. Wink and Ms. Fibb didn’t even flinch.
A few seconds later, a certain alluring scent—hot tomato sauce, melted cheese, toasted crust, roasted ham and pepperoni—arrived around the corner. Numbuh 1 approached the villainous duo, holding a pizza box like a peace offering.
“Hey,” she said, raising her left eyebrow, “did someone order a large pizza?”
“Oh, yes, over here,” Ms. Wink replied, tilting slightly to the left. A sinister gleam flared under the mass of hair covering her upper face. “And there better not be any onions on it.” Her finger hovered over the red button on her armrest, twitching uneasily.
“Let me check on that,” the bald-spotted British girl responded. She flipped the box open, scanned the inside, sniffed, and frowned. “Oops!” she said, closing the lid. “There are onions on it.”
She pulled out the super-duper teletalking receiviolas, raising one can toward her mouth. “I'll have to call this one in,” she continued, her gaze locking onto Lasso Lad’s. The old cowboy man gave her a sly wink.
She grinned, lowering her right eyebrow.
“Kids Next Door...” Numbuh 1 began, both fists thrust skyward, “Battle stations!”
As if on cue, the lawn shook.
A stack of hay burst from the house, followed by another, the ground quivering with each soft tremor. From behind the stacks, a massive red wooden structure bulldozed through the wall, its tent “ears” flapping in the wind.
A barn-like structure surged upward, flinging the house’s roof into the sky. Dust and debris scattered around like confetti. A colossal horse-shaped vehicle rose from the wreckage, casting a long shadow over the two evil adults. Large planks formed its legs, each one ending in a gigantic hay bale comprising a foot. Several tree branches jutted from its flanks, releasing a sharp earthy scent into the air. Its wooden eyes locked onto the golden dome, their dark gaze faintly flashing.
Numbuh 1 leapt atop the topmost hay bale beside Numbuh 2, who was already gripping the controls.
“Charge!” she yelled, left fist in the air.
With a forward yank of the mallet lever and a backward pull of the shovel one, the makeshift steed lumbered forward, each step shaking the ground.
Ms. Wink and Ms. Fibb’s eyes snapped wide open in unison.
“This seems to call for drastic measures, Ms. Wink,” Ms. Fibb said, her flipper hands resting on her chest.
“I would agree, Ms. Fibb,” Ms. Wink responded, pressing the button.
SUPER CHAIR TRANSFORMATION
COMMENCE!
The chairs sank slightly into the ground, legs bending like compressed springs ready to launch.
Their inner legs folded inward with soft thunks against the wooden undersides, while the outward legs slid outward, extending fully—revealing knees—with deliberate mechanical grace.
The two evil adults began rose into the air, the wind clawing at their faces. Motors inside the legs screeched loudly, the pitch rising as their seats rose upward. The monstrous vehicle halted at the level of the horse vehicle’s wooden “nose,” casting long, eerie shadows across the lawn. The super chair strutted forward, each step shivering the earth and tearing grass out of the ground in its wake.
Before the villainous duo could make their first move, Numbuh 4 popped out of one of the windows. She held the radio graphamajiggy—now fitted with a long arm-like extension on its right, which ended in a glowing metal barrel surrounded by a red shade. She stood unflinching, braids slowly whipped in the wind.
Her eyes locked onto Ms. Wink and Ms. Fibb, flashing rapidly. Her fingers danced to the rightmost dial. She twisted it hard to the right.
A flash of yellow light exploded outward, carrying a garbled, high-pitched screech.
Ms. Wink and Ms. Fibb jerked back, slowly screaming, hands covering their ears. The chair leaned back with them, tilting as the front legs lifted up, its balance faltering.
She quickly turned it clockwise, unleashing a wave of yellow glowing light that fired a garbled high-pitched sound at the two evil adults, causing them to cover their ears.
The back legs stumbled backward, the left one slamming down into their own lava tub with a smoldering splash. Flames climbed the wood like a spider scaling a wall. The evil adults screamed slightly louder, arms flailing, urgency painted across their faces. Smoke twisted upward from the flames, its tendrils snaking toward their noses like tigers stalking their prey.
Atop the horse vehicle, Numbuh 2 gaped. Flames reflected across her goggles, her jaw slack. Then her eyes sparkled with recognition, a wide grin spreading across her face.
“Wahoo!!” she yelled, pumping her fists.
Just as she was bending her legs to make a leap, however—
Thud.
A new leg sprouted from the charred stub, its foot slightly shaking the ground, vibration trembling her spine.
“Uh-oh,” she gasped.
She froze, skin tingling, eyes darting.
She yanked the two levers forward and backward in quick succession. The interior beneath her began to rumble.
The horse’s mouth flew open, unleashing a gust of earthy hay aroma.
A snapping crack! followed, cuing a long lasso whipping out of the jaws like a chameleon’s tongue. It whirred through the air, fibers vibrating uneasily, and snatched the chairs’ backrests. The impact briefly pushed their occupants forward.
“Huh?” they muttered in unison, even-paced, laced slightly with laughter.
Suddenly, a bright flash light up from behind Ms. Wink’s huge mane of hair. Her eyes narrowed, gleaming ominously. “Oh,” she said, voice sugary with mock gratitude, “thank you, children.”
She pressed the button on her armrest again.
The chair reared slightly upward.
The monstrous furniture vehicle burst into motion, circling the horse vehicle several times. The latter’s rope, still attached to its mouth, coiled tightly—more serpent than fiber with each second—constricting more with each revolution. like gripping its body like a snake crushing its prey. Its timber knees creaked under the pressure, joints grinding like woodchippers as they shook against the support beams overhead.
The two evil adults snickered softly, amusement flickering in their eyes like strobe lights in sync with their super chair’s accelerating pace. Each step sent tremors up Numbuhs 1 and 2’s spines, their skin tingling rapidly. They gripped the edge of their perch, heads whipping around with the chair’s movements, necks stiff from trying to stay level.
Then, after about twenty-five seconds, the chair veered off to the right. Its massive legs pounded forward, each step slicing sod and flinging grass and dirt in the horse vehicle’s direction. It stopped several yards in front of its opponent, sharply turning 180° to face its prey, and stood still—taunting its adversary. The evil adults leaned in, gaze narrowed, as if studying a cornered animal.
Their chair followed suit. It bent its knees and tilted its cockpit forward, the pilots sliding slightly forward. A pause for a few seconds, and then—snap!—it flung itself backward, lightly slamming the evil adults into the wooden backrests. A pulse of light surged through the dome as the lasso quietly cracked from the horse’s jaws, the remainder dangling as if it had been bitten cleanly through tension.
The equine contraption jerked violently—and then began to spin out of control.
It whirled into a tornado, splintering several fences as its hay-bale hooves sliced the lawn, planks bursting into the air like jagged confetti.
Inside, Numbuhs 3-5 tumbled over and over, heads repeatedly smacking the wooden floor, hearts beating loudly, eyes aching intensely, screams ripped from their lungs, breath cut short with each revolution. Their vision began to blur, chests heaving with panic, every nerve oversaturated with dizziness.
Above them, Numbuhs 1 and 2 fought to stay upright, faces whipped heavily by the wind. Their hands gripped right as the machine gyrated rapidly beneath them, their balance tested with each violent lurch.
The horse vehicle finally came to a stop, its giant hay bale feet dancing on the ground as it tried to remain upright. It continued to spin in circles, the feet sending soft tremors through the ground. The operatives shook their heads, their vision spinning in all directions as the horse began to slow down.
Then—silence.
The horse vehicle staggered, its hooves stumbling in disoriented half-circles, trembling under its own weight. Its spin slowed to a wobbly trot, cracks breaking out along its legs as its head whipped in various directions. A slow rumbling echoed from inside as it began to collapse. It eventually fell hard, a bone-jarring crash sending a moderately huge shockwave through the ground beneath it. Several pieces of wood snapped and scattered, debris launching in all directions like thrown splinters. The operatives braced themselves.
Ms. Fibb’s grin widened as the dome’s light flashed even more brightly. “A most satisfying moment, Ms. Wink,” she said, voice practically humming.
Ms. Wink hovered her finger over her armrest’s button again, finger quicky twitching—but before she could press it, the horse vehicle rose.
Its front legs lurched forward. A series of clangs and pops burst from the interior. The hay-wrapped hooved planted firmly into the ground, softly slamming the grass. A few more boards fell to the ground as the horse lifted itself tall, eyes blazing with renewed purpose.
“Kids Next Door,” Numbuh 1 yelled, fists clenched tightly, “present lance!” She punched the air, wind snatching at her sleeve.
Numbuhs 3-5 emerged from the windows below, wielding a makeshift lance fashioned from the stick horses. They swung it back and forth, the wind catching each arc like a playground swing turned lethal.
“Such pesky children, Ms. Fibb,” Ms. Wink said with mock civility as a hidden panel in their super chair opened wide.
A giant rake sprouted out, its metal tines emitting a slight tangy odor of charged metal, as the motors inside screamed loudly.
The two vehicles reared up, silhouettes against the sky like mechanical horses preparing to charge.
The ground beneath them shook with each step. Grass tore loose. The space between them collapsed with each thunderous gallop. their pilots’ gaze hardening and flashing brighter and faster than ever.
Numbuh 1 leaned over the edge of her bale, gasping, her heart hammering hard against her ribs.
Ms. Wink and Ms. Fibb stared straight ahead across the field, eyes locked, smiles fixed.
Then—a collision.
An explosion of light and sound. Splinters, dirt, and dust flying in all directions. A wave of debris shot around the neighborhood like bomb fragments in a war zone.
About fifteen minutes later, calm had settled again over the battlefield—at least on the surface.
Ms. Wink and Ms. Fibb were back to lounging in their chairs, the dome between them pulsing with an even brighter glow than ever before. The wind drifted lazily through the neighborhood, icy breath brushing across their faces.
Lasso Lad and Clip Clop still dangled from the thick branch, the lava’s steam curling up to sting their skin. But this time, they weren’t alone—the Kids Next Door operatives were suspended by another rope right next to theirs, their shoes caught awkwardly in the fibers like thorns jabbing into their feet.
Another lava tub waited directly below them, its contents roiling and crackling just as loudly as the other one, casting a heat so intense the sunlight only made it worse. The rising heat licked at their kids’ faces, their hair hanging downward and dancing like candle wicks ready to ignite. Their skin prickled faster, their hearts pounding unsteadily as the wind continued rocking them back and forth, swinging them like a weight on a giant Newton’s cradle.
“How appropriate, Lasso Lad,” Ms. Fibb began, voice sharper and more brittle than usual, “that you would be captured with a group of children.” Her eyes narrowed on the old cowboy man, her tone cracking with bitter venom. “You should've quit years ago. You should've grown up!” she yelled, fists clenching tight. “You should've gone…to the prom with me!”
She broke down sobbing, loud wails escaping her mouth as she buried her face in her huge flipper hands.
“Perhaps now is the time, Ms. Fibb,” Ms. Wink murmured, leaning slightly to the right.
“Yes,” Ms. Fibb responded through sniffles, placing both hands on the glowing dome. “The time is right.”
She flipped the dome upside down. The sickly green liquid inside hissed uneasily, bubbles rising as if trying to escape. “Now let's see how you like it, Mister Lasso Lad…” she shouted, eyes locked on the cowboy man as she unscrewed the lid. A damp popping sound emerged, a blast of rancid steam stinging the air as she slowly lifted it. “When your greatest enemy has...” she continued, plunging her left hand into the sludgy goo and fishing out a dripping hairy mass, “a full head of hair!”
She mashed the slimy mass onto her scalp with a wet slap, the green sludge oozing down her face like tears unshed for years.
“Six-Shootin' Timmie?” Lasso Lad gasped, his eyes widening as a wide grin tugged at his face. “Is that you?!”
“My name is Timothea,” the walrus-tusked woman shot back, green liquid slithering down her face like veins of envy, “and I'm not a member of your stupid club anymore!” She turned away sharply, arms crossed, eyes flashing, and jaw tight with years of unresolved heartbreak.
Almost immediately after, Clip Clop’s eyes lit up with a sharp whip of her head right-side up. A shrill whistle escaped her teeth, followed by a quick snort. Her ears perked forward toward the buffalo-horned woman, drawn by the name and the memory.
“Yes, Clip Clop,” Ms. Wink responded flatly, her voice barely rising, “it's me...Joan.”
“Why, Timmie, you're just as cute as I remember,” Lasso Lad continued, hands clasped in a prayer-like gesture, his gaze twinkling upon Ms. Fibb’s face.
The walrus-tusked woman’s eyes flew open, skin tingling. The goo-colored toupee briefly jumped, flashing the same color red as Lasso Lad’s childhood hair.
“You know I loves me a girl with a full head of hair!” Lasso Lad beamed, swinging her right fist in the air.
“Full head of…” Numbuh 1 began, her left eye squinting. “That's a toupee!” she yelled, eyes twitching behind her sunglasses.
“Shut up!” Ms. Fibb blasted out, shaking her fists as her and her partner’s chair extended its legs with a mechanical whine. “I used to have real hair until it all started falling out when I was fourteen!”
She pounded both fists on the wood in front of her, the chair screeching as its legs extended twice more, casting a long shadow the crept toward the captives.
Their captives swung faster, adrenaline flooding their veins as their ropes creaked ominously. Their shoes collided mid-air, each bump sending shudders through their limbs. The rope fibers slowly thinned.
“And you never looked at me the same, Mister Lasso Loony!” Ms. Fibb screamed, her eyes flashing intensely. “You went to the prom with that blasted Texas Tammy and her full head of hair, instead of me!”
Then—crack—the branch holding Lasso Lad and Clip Clop suddenly split with a deafening snap, the rope flying loose. The two Cowboy Kids dropped like stones, wind tugging at their skin as gravity pulled the toward the blistering heat below.
The lava hissed in anticipation, bubbles popping unevenly, sparks flaring upward like angry fireflies. But instead of being swallowed whole, the two landed hard about 18 inches from the tub. The impact knocked the breath from their lungs, sent a soft tremor slithering through the earth.
“It isn't fair!” Ms. Fibb screamed, throwing her arms toward the ground. “It's not!” She rapidly shook her fists at the sky, fury and sorrow zipping through her veins.
Almost immediately after, Lasso Lad groaned and pushed himself up. He rushed toward his former fellow Cowboy Kid, gaze softening at her tears.
“There, there,” he said gently, hands held out like a traffic cop halting chaos. “It’s OK.”
He quickly snatched the toupee from her head, green goo slithering down his gloves. “Let me fix that for you,” he continued, flipping it 180° and carefully plopping it back onto her scalp.
Ms. Fibb continued sniffling as Lasso Lad patted her toupee in place, her shoulders trembling. Her eyes began to shimmer—brimming not with rage, but a wistful feeling long buried and aching to be heard.
“There!” he grinned, eyes twinkling with old sparks. He swung his left fist in the air once more muscles twitching beneath his sleeve. “Now that's the Timmie I remember.”
“Huh?” Ms. Fibb sniffled, blinking through damp lashes. “Do you really…think it looks...OK?”
“It sure does!” Lasso Lad hollered, voice cracking with exuberant energy as he whipped his head from side to side. A low half-howl escaped his lips, his hat jostling as his hair stood on end as if it had been zapped. “In fact, it looks so nice that I could just...”
He looked away, then back at Ms. Fibb, eyelids drooping like wilted petals as his eyes twinkled energetically. “Well...I could...I could...” he stuttered, heart beating rapidly. His hands clasped in front of him again, fingers slightly trembling. “I could just kiss ya!” He leaned in with puckered lips.
Ms. Fibb’s eyes ballooned, her toupee slightly jumping once more.
“Um, uh...” she stammered, glancing wide-eyed at her partner. “Uhh...”
But Lasso Lad kept closing in, left foot lifting behind him like a cartoon prince.
“I— That’s okay, I—” she squeaked.
Then—ZOW—she bolted away, shrieking as her toupee flew off and landed in her chair. She didn’t stop until she vaulted clean over the fence.
Clip Clop trotted toward Ms. Wink, tapping her snout on the buffalo-horned woman’s back.
“Huh?” Ms. Wink burst out as she spun around.
A sharp two-toned whistle emerged from the horse’s teeth, followed by another quick snort.
Ms. Wink’s eyes bulged. Then came her loud scream. She rushed toward the fence, arms pinwheeling as she scrambled over behind her partner.
Lasso Lad jumped upon Clip Clop’s back, tugged her reins, and waved his hat high. “Heigh-ho, Clip Clop...” he shouted, his voice laced with rushing adrenaline. “Away!”
The horse reared, legs flailing rapidly, and charged forward. Fence boards exploded outward as her body slammed through them, wood flying like popcorn. Dirt shivered beneath her gallop as the pair tore after the fleeing villains.
“I meant to do that!” Lasso Lad yelled behind him, heart pounding, grin wide, eyes wild. “Yee-haw!!!!!”
Back in the yard, the Kids Next Door operatives still swung slowly above the lava tub, The ropes creaked, swaying gently in the rising heat. Smoke curled toward their hair, its hot fingers tickling their skin. Yellowish orange light shimmered against their faces as the sun began to set,. They watched the four Cowboy Kids (current and former) vanish into the horizon, still running and screaming, shoes and hooves kicking up trails of dust. The air had slightly cooled around them—earthy; damp; and rich with the aromas of soil, grass, and a trace of bug spray—the sun’s maize hue slowly stretching across the yard.
“So long, partner!” Numbuh 4 yelled, her grin so huge her face ached.
“Maybe our trails will meet again!” Numbuh 2 added with a wave.
“Aw, knock it off,” Numbuh 1 chided, arms dangling downward.
“Don't let the rustlers get ya!” Numbuh 5 shouted, his hat slowly slipping.
“I said, cut it out!” Numbuh 1 shot at him, throwing her fists downward.
Numbuh 3 just giggled, his oversized sweater’s arms flapping. “Yippee-yi-yo-yo-yo!” he burst out, voice laced with joy.
Numbuh 1 slapped her face with her palm once again, groaning loudly.
She pulled a KND beacon device from her pocket with a flick of her wrist and thumbed the button. A slow beep-beep-beep pulsed the air as she scanned the surrounding area for any signs of backup.
As the five operatives still dangled, silhouetted against the evening glow, the bald-spotted British girl found her mind drifting. Today had taken them somewhere unexpected—toward a long-forgotten adult-fighting organization, into a hidden fight that led to an unexpected reunion.
They hadn’t succeeded in their mission as planned, but they had saved Lasso Lad and Clip Clop. And they’d also learned that not all adults had lost what made them kids. Some had just buried it—until it kicked its way back to the surface, energetic hat first. from certain death, and they’d discovered adults could fight adult tyranny just as well as any kid (and one could keep their inner child well into old age). After all, there were always surprises awaiting the Kids Next Door—and sometimes, the wildest victories didn’t come from the plan—but from the ride.
End Transmission