Stink and the World's Worst Super-Stinky Sneakers (6 page)

   “You’ll be number twenty-seven,” said a lady behind the table.

“Stink!” said Judy. “You can’t enter your own shoes in the contest.”

“Why not?” Stink asked.

“Don’t you get it? You’re a judge now. Judges can’t win the contest. That’s like voting for yourself for president.”

“So?”

“Stink, would you think it was fair if I were a judge, and I picked my own sneakers to win?”

“Not really,” said Stink.

“See? Picking your own sneakers makes you a cheater head.”

“A cheese head?” asked Stink.

“No, a big fat
Cheater
Head,” Judy said.

Just then, Mrs. D. motioned for Stink to come over to the important table up front, where the judges sat. Red and blue ribbons were set out on a fancy tablecloth, alongside the shiny Golden Clothespin trophy.

“What’s with the fancy clothespin?” whispered Judy.

“That’s the award,” said Stink, pinching his nose shut, like with a clothespin, and making a P.U. face.

   “Here’s your new judge,” Mrs. D. told the other two judges. “Meet James Moody. Believe it or not, he goes by the name Stink.”

The other two judges laughed. “Well, your name alone qualifies you to be a judge,” said the woman from Odor-Munchers. “Thanks, Stink. You really saved the day.”

“Glad to meet you. I’m Mr. Moore. Call me Steve,” said the other judge.

“You sure are tall,” said Stink, shaking his hand.

“Stink,” said Mrs. D., “this is the man I wanted you to meet. Mr. Moore — I mean, Steve — is a professional smeller.”

“That’s me,” said Steve.

“You mean that’s your job — you smell stuff?” asked Stink.

“That’s my job. I work for NASA, and they call me the Master Sniffer.”

   “They call me The Nose!” said Stink excitedly. “I want to be a professional smeller when I grow up. But my sister said —”

“What kind of stuff do you smell?” Judy asked Steve.

“Anything that goes up into space, I’m your man. If it’s too smelly, we can’t have it aboard the space shuttle. Up there, you can’t just open a window. You’d be surprised at the number of things that don’t pass the smell test.”

“Really? Like what?” asked Stink.

“Like film for a camera, felt-tip markers, a stuffed teddy bear . . .”

“Bad news, Stink!” said Judy. “You can’t go up into space now. They won’t let you take your teddy bear.”

“Hardee-har-har,” said Stink. Steve the Smeller laughed a deep laugh.

“What do you have to do to be a professional smeller?” Stink asked. “Do you have to be tall? Because I’m short.”

“No, but you can’t have allergies,” said Steve. “You have to be good at detecting odors, like, say, new-car smell. And you have to be willing to sniff bad smells — even a dirty diaper.”

Stink nodded like a bobble-head doll on a dashboard. “I sniffed a whole stinky museum,” Stink told him.

“And of course you have to pass a test. Every few months, I have to take the ten-bottle test.”

“I made ten bottles of my own stinky toilet water!” said Stink. “Just ask my sister.”

“I sniff scents in a bottle and I have to guess if it’s popcorn or wet-paint smell,” said Steve. “Then I rate it on a Sniff Scale from zero to four. Anything over a 2.4 on the Sniff Scale fails the test. Kind of like what we’re going to do today.”

   “And I passed my sister’s Way-Official Moody Stink-a-Thon,” Stink told him.

“Good for you,” said Steve. “Sounds like you’re already on your way to becoming a Master Sniffer.”

“Someday I really want to smell a corpse flower.”

“Oh, those corpse flowers sure are humdingers,” said Steve. “I flew all the way to England once, just to smell one at the Royal Botanic Gardens.”

“Whoa. No way!” Stink wanted to hear more, but it was time for the contest to begin.

Stink rushed over to smelly sneakers Number Twenty-seven. He hated to admit that Judy was right. But entering his own sneakers
was
no fair. He, Stink Moody, did not want to be the UN-proud winner of the All-Time, World’s Worst, Super-Stinky
Cheater
Contest.

Stink gave the number back to the lady. “I’m not in the contest anymore,” he told her. “I’m a judge now!”

No way did Stink want to cheat. He was an official Junior Sniffer now. A Junior Sniffer could not be a big fat cheesy, cheese-head, cheater head.

“Let the sniffing begin!” said the head judge lady. She handed Stink a clipboard. He took his sniffing very seriously. He walked up and down the rows and rows of torn sneakers, worn sneakers, yucky blucky sneakers. He walked in front of the sneakers and behind the sneakers. Here a sniff, there a sniff, everywhere a sniff, sniff.

Stink rated each pair on a smelly scale of zero to four. He wrote down notes like “smells like a swamp” and “worse than a dead skunk” and “triple P.U.” All the while, he couldn’t help wondering which pair was Sophie’s.

“Hey, I’ll give you a tip.” Steve the Smeller handed Stink a tissue. “Take a whiff of a pair of sneakers, then hold the tissue up to your nose in between sniffs. That way, your sense of smell won’t get so tired.”

“Thanks!” said Stink. Wow-ee! A professional tip from Professor Smells-a-Lot himself. Stink puffed up with pride. He sniffed the next pair.

“What do you smell?” Steve asked.

   “Feet,” said Stink. He did the tissue trick, then smelled the sneakers again.

“What else?” asked Steve.

“Dirt. Old carpet smell. Maybe even moldy cheese.”

“Good for you,” said Steve. “Moldy cheese. That’s exactly what I thought.”

Stink sniffed some more sneakers. He couldn’t help thinking that his were still the smelliest. He couldn’t help thinking that he could have won the Golden Clothespin Award. Until he came to Smelly Sneaker Pair Number Thirteen, that is.

Stink leaned over and took another whiff. Phew! His eyes crossed; his nose wrinkled; his tongue curled.

Number Thirteen smelled worse than a barn full of bats. Worse than a basement full of rats. Number Thirteen smelled stinkier than the litter boxes of ten hundred cats!

He sniffed Number Thirteen. He sniffed the clean tissue from Steve the Smeller. Then he sniffed pair Number Thirteen again. All the toilet water in the world could not have made his shoes as smelly as these sneakers.

Stink E. Moody, Judge and Junior Sniffer, had found a real winner. A way-official, want-to-barf, gag-me-with-a-spoon winner.

“Geez, Louise,” said the lady judge when she came to Number Thirteen. “Jump back, Jack. I think I’m going to pass out.”

“This one’s a Humpty of a Dumpty,” Professor Smeller agreed.

“Rotten eggs,” said the lady judge.

“Burnt hair,” said Steve.

“Cat pee,” said Stink. “And dead worms.”

“He’s got the nose, all right,” said the professor. “Not many noses would pick up on that dead worm smell.”

“Worse than rancid roadkill,” said the lady.

“Worse than C
₄
H
₉
SeH!” said Steve.

“What’s that?” asked Stink.

“Skunk spray,” Steve told him. Stink cracked up.

Stink knew for sure now. These sneakers would be outlawed in outer space. These skunks were a number ten on a scale of zero to four. All the king’s horses and all the bad smells could not outsmell the Numero Uno, All-Time World’s Stinkiest Sneakers, Putrid Pair Number Thirteen.