The production assistant made a chair out of his hands so Goliath could sit comfortably.
A human makeup expert started work. Gently and with great concentration, she brushed and dusted and smoothed makeup onto Goliath’s front and back and even under his arms.
Goliath giggled. Limpy wasn’t surprised. This was the very first time Goliath had ever had makeup on his outside.
Limpy felt himself grinning.
Goliath really was a star.
Amazing.
And it was excellent that Goliath was so keen to impress Penny’s family. Because that meant he probably wouldn’t do anything too greedy.
Limpy settled back to enjoy the show. He hadn’t felt this happy for . . . he couldn’t remember how long. Since he was a little kid on a mud slide probably.
He gazed around and saw that part of the studio was a large kitchen. Must be in case Goliath needed a snack.
The kitchen didn’t have any walls.
Limpy guessed why. The production people had probably discovered that when Goliath got hungry, it was urgent. And if there were walls in the way, Goliath tried to go through them.
That’s very considerate and generous of the production people, thought Limpy. Very extremely generous. Very remarkably generous in fact.
A faint worry started to niggle at Limpy’s warts.
If he forced himself to think honestly about it, it did seem almost unbelievably generous.
‘Are you a keen cook too?’ said a voice.
A mosquito landed next to Limpy.
‘Cook?’ said Limpy. ‘Why do you ask?’
He wondered if the mosquito had mistaken him for Goliath’s personal chef.
‘We’re all keen cooks here in the cooking show audience,’ said the mosquito. ‘I’m here to expand my culinary repertoire. Give my family the chance to try new things. They are so unadventurous, my family. All they want for dinner is blood.’
‘Did you say cooking show?’ said Limpy, a chill gripping his warts.
‘That’s right,’ said the mosquito. ‘She’s our favourite TV chef. Always cooking weird unusual things. And after she does, they become crazes around the world.’
Limpy started to feel ill.
The mosquito stared at him.
‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry,’ it said. ‘I didn’t notice. I thought you were an audience member. But you’re more of a, what would you call it, ingredient.’
Limpy hoped he hadn’t heard right.
‘Did you say ingredient?’ he croaked.
The mosquito looked embarrassed.
‘Sorry,’ it said. ‘Not very tactful of me. But I didn’t know how else to put it. Because of the main recipe on today’s show. The dish she’s going to cook for the nation. Cane toad cheeks.’
Limpy stared at the mosquito, horrified.
He looked across at Goliath.
Goliath was in the studio kitchen, which Limpy now realised must be the cooking show set. He was sitting on one end of a kitchen bench, on a chopping board. He gave Limpy a grin and a thumbs up.
Limpy felt sick.
‘This is crazy,’ said Limpy to the mosquito. ‘We cane toads have got poison glands near our cheeks. Any human who eats our cheeks will die.’
The mosquito shook its head.
‘Sorry again,’ it said. ‘Cheeks is cooking lingo. When I say cheeks, I don’t mean the ones you’re gabbing with, I mean the ones you’re sitting on.’
The mosquito pointed to the kitchen bench.
At the other end of the bench from Goliath, a production assistant was putting down a large platter piled with pale, skinless, but familiar objects.
‘Those are some she prepared earlier,’ said the mosquito.
Limpy stared at the platter, aghast.
He’d never seen them like that before, but he knew exactly what they were.
Cane toad buttocks.
The cooking show started.
Limpy huddled under the rack of clothes.
He felt like his brains were being fried. Not because he was anywhere near sizzling olive oil or bubbling butter.
Because of what he was seeing.
The human woman with the black hair and red lips, the one who’d been so friendly to Goliath in the swamp, was standing on the set behind the kitchen bench. She was wearing a white coat now, to show she was the chef. And she wasn’t being so friendly to Goliath.
She was holding him upside down in front of a camera and prodding his buttocks with a fork. Goliath was starting to look doubtful. She obviously hadn’t used a fork in rehearsals.
Limpy couldn’t understand what the woman was saying, but he guessed. She was demonstrating how to choose a yummy pair of cane toad buttocks.
Plumpness is very important, she was probably saying. And tenderness. And juiciness.
Limpy felt sick with panic.
Goliath wasn’t looking too happy either. He gave an alarmed croak as he spotted the tray of cane toad buttocks prepared earlier and the big pan of sizzling oil and butter on the stove top.
Limpy knew he had to move fast.
In a few minutes the studio audience would be sampling fried cane toad cheeks, including Goliath’s, and across the nation a new food craze would be born.
No cane toad’s bottom would be safe ever again. Soon it wouldn’t be golden buttocks printed on wrappers and boxes that humans threw out of cars, it would be cane toad buttocks.
Limpy tried to think what to do.
He was pretty sure that leaping onto the set and offering his services as a weather toad probably wasn’t going to work. Not with a bottom-prodding chef in charge and a studio audience hungry for fried cane toad delicacies.
He needed to offer something that would satisfy seriously hungry humans. Something that would delight their tastebuds even more than a juicy buttock.
Limpy saw the chef put Goliath into an empty saucepan and keep him there with a heavy lid. She started preparing another part of the recipe, mixing together flour and water.
I know what that is, thought Limpy.
Whenever he’d seen human fried food, it always had batter on it. The chef was planning to make battered buttocks.
Limpy stared at the machine she was using to make the batter. A machine that whizzed everything round, very fast.
And suddenly he knew what he had to do.
Yes, of course.
Limpy hopped across the studio floor and dragged himself up onto the kitchen bench.
Goliath had forced part of his head out from under the saucepan lid.
‘Limpy, no,’ he croaked. ‘Save yourself. I’ll choke as many of them as I can with my buttocks. Get away, Limpy.’
Limpy ignored him. There wasn’t time to chat, not even with the bravest most generous cousin in the world.
The whizzing machine was still whizzing.
Another sound filled the studio. The sound of applause. Limpy saw that the humans in the studio audience were laughing and clapping.
At him.
This was good. If humans were pleased to see him, they’d probably be happy to have a taste of what he was about to prepare for them.
Toad Delight.
Limpy dived into the whizzing machine.
It was like being hit by a truck. Everything went blurry and Limpy felt himself being sucked through the sticky batter and splayed against the wall of the metal bowl. He felt his cheeks, both pairs, being dragged in strange directions by the force of the whiz.
Then suddenly everything started to slow down.
Limpy guessed the chef must have turned off the machine.
When the machine stopped, Limpy peered woozily over the edge of the bowl. The whole TV studio was spinning around slowly, and the studio audience were looking a bit stunned, which Limpy assumed was because the TV people hadn’t warned them a TV studio could do that.
Limpy saw what he was looking for.
A bowl of sponge-cake pieces near him on the kitchen bench. Prepared earlier, Limpy guessed, for when the chef did the desser
t part of the show.
Well, thought Limpy, the dessert part is now.
He scraped his hand across his face to get a big glob of frothy dribble to fling onto the sponge cake and create, for the very first time on national television, Toad Delight.
Except there wasn’t any frothy dribble.
Limpy frantically felt his mouth, his chin, his nose, his ears.
Nothing.
He looked desperately over at Goliath, who was struggling to get out from under the saucepan lid.
‘Goliath,’ he yelled. ‘I need you. Over here.’
With a super-amphibian effort, Goliath pushed the lid off the saucepan. It clanged to the studio floor, which made the chef yell angrily at the production assistants before she remembered she was on camera.
‘Goliath,’ yelled Limpy. ‘Quick.’
Goliath was across the kitchen bench in a couple of hops. The second hop brought him thudding onto the START button of the whizzing machine.
‘Good on you, Goliath,’ croaked Limpy.
As the machine started to spin again, Limpy grabbed Goliath and dragged him into the bowl.
‘This won’t feel very nice,’ he shouted into Goliath’s ear. ‘But you’re doing it for cane toads everywhere.’
The machine didn’t spin for long.
Limpy knew it probably wouldn’t.
But it was long enough.
As the motor was switched off and the spinning bowl slowed down, Limpy got control of his cheeks and gave a yell of triumph.
Goliath’s frothy dribble was everywhere.
All over him and Goliath. And, most importantly, all over the bowl of sponge cake.
‘You did it, Goliath,’ said Limpy.
‘Grrggglllgh,’ replied Goliath, and sprayed another stream of frothy dribble into the air.
Limpy waited for the machine and the studio to stop spinning so he could introduce Toad Delight to the human world. He planned to use the big toothy grins humans seemed to like on TV. Plus lots of tasting samples.
Except, as Limpy’s vision stopped spinning, he saw that it wasn’t only the sponge cake that was drenched in frothy dribble.
The kitchen bench was too, and the chef, and the production assistants, and several cameras, and the front few rows of the studio audience.
Oh no, thought Limpy. This might not be how humans like their dessert.
The humans on the set were staggering around, trying to wipe the frothy dribble out of their eyes. The ones in the studio audience were starting to make a panicked dash for the exits.
Limpy stood waist-deep in batter, helplessly watching them go.
‘Come on,’ said Goliath, dragging himself out of the bowl. ‘Don’t just stand here. We’ve got to get moving. We can lick the batter off as we hop.’
Limpy was impressed by Goliath’s clear thinking. Usually when trouble happened, all Goliath wanted to do was find something to hit with a stick.
‘You’re right,’ Limpy said. ‘We should hide for a while. Give the humans a chance to calm down and change their minds about Toad Delight.’
He saw that Goliath didn’t agree.
Goliath was looking at him as if he was crazy.
‘We’re not hiding,’ said Goliath, pointing towards one of the exits. ‘We’re chasing.’
Limpy saw what Goliath was pointing at.
On the back of a departing human child was a familiar face. Big dark eyes, shiny black fur, a beautiful yellow beak, plus blue zip-up pockets and red plastic straps.
‘Penny,’ yelled Goliath. ‘Wait for me.’
He hopped off the kitchen bench and lumbered across the studio floor.
‘Come back,’ yelled Limpy.
Goliath ignored him.
The human child had already disappeared through the exit, and Goliath followed, still calling Penny’s name.
Limpy was torn.
If he stayed and persuaded some of the humans to taste the Toad Delight that was still lying around on the set, they might love it.
Love it so much they’d never slaughter another cane toad for its buttocks. Want it so much they’d let cane toads live in peace and dignity, gratefully accepting all the frothy dribble that cane toads generously gave them.
On the other hand, thought Limpy anxiously, there’s Goliath.
Humans around the country were probably feeling very cross about the big mess made on their favourite cooking show. Word was probably getting round that toads had done it.
So a cane toad roaming the streets of the city, dopey and lovesick and splattered with batter, could be in serious danger.
And, Limpy feared, it could get even worse.
The human child carrying Penny today looked different to the human child Limpy had seen with Penny in the swamp.
This new child was probably a friend or relative. She wouldn’t know who Goliath was or why he wanted their backpack. Neither would her parents. Which could result in even more violence than before.
Mostly to Goliath.
Limpy sighed, dragged himself out of the bowl, hopped onto the studio floor and, as quickly as he could, avoiding cables and angry humans, followed Goliath’s trail of batter.
Outside the TV studio, Limpy couldn’t see Goliath anywhere.
Just his batter, a few blobs of it, in the gutter.
Limpy’s warts tingled hopefully. Perhaps there was a trail of batter. Perhaps it would show him which way Goliath had gone.
He found a couple more blobs, but no trail.
The road was jammed with buses and cars full of scowling humans from the studio audience.
From the looks on their faces, and the lumps of dried frothy dribble also on their faces, Limpy could see they weren’t cane toad fans any more.
Fluffy cane toad toys had already been squashed flat on the road.
Limpy looked anxiously, but he couldn’t see a big muscly real cane toad squashed among them.
Penny was nowhere to be seen either.
I need an eyewitness, thought Limpy. Somebody who saw them and can tell me which way they went.
He noticed that the blobs of Goliath’s batter were being nibbled by a couple of flies. He decided to start with them.
As he got closer, he saw a familiar mosquito chatting with the flies.
‘Turns out,’ the mosquito was saying, ‘if you fillet them carefully and pan-fry them in oil and butter, they’re quite safe to eat. You’d never guess they come from such rough-looking raw ingredients. Not that we’ll ever get the chance to taste them. After what those clowns did in there, no human will touch a cane toad buttock with a barge pole or a recipe book.’
The mosquito saw Limpy and stammered into an awkward silence.
‘Excuse me,’ said Limpy. ‘I was wondering if you could help me.’
‘I am so deeply embarrassed,’ said the mosquito. ‘I shouldn’t have been talking like that. But these blokes are cooking fans and they didn’t see the show because if they turn up without tickets, they get sprayed.’
‘When you say help you,’ said one of the flies, ‘do you mean eat some of that unsightly batter off your knees?’
The two flies looked hopeful.
Limpy shook his head.
Normally he liked inviting guests to lunch, but today there was no time.
‘I was wondering if either of you have seen my cousin Goliath,’ said Limpy. ‘He looks a bit like me but with much bigger muscles.’
‘And wonderful buttocks,’ said the mosquito.
Limpy gave it a look.
‘Sorry,’ mumbled the mosquito.
‘Goliath was chasing after his girlfriend,’ said Limpy to the flies. ‘Penguin backpack, yellow beak, fully insulated. He’s so in love you wouldn’t believe it. I’m worried about what will happen to him if he can’t find her. She’s the only backpack in the world for him.’
The flies looked at each other, and Limpy had the feeling there was something they wanted to tell him but didn’t know how.
‘Um,’ said one of the fl
ies.
The other pointed along the street.
‘Go all the way to the end,’ it said. ‘Then turn left. Bit further on you’ll find what it is you’re, you know, um . . . looking for.’
‘Goliath and Penny?’ said Limpy.
‘When you say Penny,’ said the first fly, ‘do you mean the only backpack in the world?’
Limpy nodded.
The flies gave each other another look.
‘Just Penny,’ said one.
‘Sort of,’ said the other.
‘You’ll understand when you get there,’ said the first fly.
Limpy wished he understood now.
But Penny was better than nothing.
Wherever Penny was, Limpy hoped Goliath wouldn’t be far away.
‘All the way to the end and turn left,’ said the second fly, ‘but don’t blame us, OK?’
Limpy was grateful for the directions, but a bit worried about why the flies seemed so awkward giving them.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’ he said.
‘No,’ said one of the flies.
‘Not really,’ said the other.
Limpy decided not to waste any more time. Dad often said when he was milking stick insects that it was like trying to get information out of a fly.
‘Thanks,’ he said to the flies and the mosquito.
‘You’re welcome,’ said the mosquito. ‘Be careful. Don’t let anyone with a frying pan creep up behind you.’
Limpy decided the mosquito meant well.
He headed off down the street without eating it.
The street was still busy and Limpy had to watch out for unfriendly human feet and tyres.
He tried not to look at the cooking show audience’s poor chucked-away cane toad toys lying squashed on the road.
Limpy sighed. So much for going on TV and winning the hearts of humans.
At least the toys gave him a bit of camouflage. Each time Limpy felt human eyes glaring at him, he flopped down with his legs in the air and tried to look fluffy.
Finally he reached the end of the street and turned left.
Limpy felt lucky he had a sense of direction. A lot of cane toads didn’t know left from right. Limpy had a little trick to help him remember. He reminded himself how when he was little, if things had been worse and the truck had squashed his leg completely, the one on the right would now be totally not right, and the one on the left would be the only one left.