Carnival Chaos Read online

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  © 2020 StudioMDHR Entertainment Inc. All Rights Reserved. Cuphead™ and StudioMDHR™ are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of StudioMDHR Entertainment Inc. throughout the world.

  Art & Story Direction by Studio MDHR.

  Illustrations by Studio MDHR’s Lance Miller.

  Cover design by Ching N. Chan & Studio MDHR. Cover illustration by Studio MDHR’s Lance Miller.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104

  Visit us at LBYR.com

  cupheadgame.com

  First Edition: March 2020

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Bates, Ron, author. | Miller, Lance, illustrator.

  Title: Cuphead in Carnival chaos / by Ron Bates; with illustrations by Studio MDHR’s Lance Miller.

  Other titles: Carnival chaos

  Description: First edition. | New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2020. | Audience: Ages 8-12. | Summary: “Cuphead and Mugman need to find the perfect gift for Elder Kettle’s birthday, but with the carnival in town, can they escape the chaos and get their gift before it’s too late?”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019048852 | ISBN 9780316456548 | ISBN 9780316456517 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316456555 (ebook other)

  Classification: LCC PZ7.B3778 Cup 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019048852

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-45654-8 (paper over board), 978-0-316-45651-7 (ebook)

  E3-20200123-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1 The Dawn Patrol

  2 Fakin’ and Eggs

  3 The Bank Job

  4 Cuphead Plans a Party

  5 Fork in the Road

  6 Cuphead Writes an Essay

  7 Nobody Here But Us Dummies

  8 In a Pickle at Porkrind’s

  9 A Cupful of Trouble

  10 Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?

  11 Djumpin’ Djimmini!

  12 High Hopes

  13 Just Plane Humiliatin’

  14 Brineybeard to the Rescue

  15 Cuphead Dunks a Duck

  16 Harebrained Schemes

  17 A Mirror-Aculous Discovery

  18 The Tortoises and the Hare

  19 A Dance with Danger

  20 Signs and Cymbals

  21 Horsin’ Around and Around

  22 Cuphead’s Curse

  23 Bumper Carnival

  24 The Great Escape

  25 Double Trouble

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Walt, who made it cool to wear big, fuzzy ears as a hat.

  —Ron Bates

  For Doutzen, Hans, and Hugo. May your lives be filled with wondrous stories.

  —Chad & Maja Moldenhauer

  CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

  “It’s morning, it’s morning, it’s morning!” the alarm clock screeched. “Up and at ’em! Let’s get movin’! Rise and shiiiiiiiiine!”

  The alarm clock sounded even more alarmed than usual, and who could blame him? It was past seven o’clock—eleven seconds past, to be exact. That meant there were only 61,189 seconds left in the entire day! And on a day as special as this, every single one of them was too precious to waste.

  “Wake up, wake up, WAKE UP!” he bellowed.

  His voice rumbled across the room, and down the stairs, and out over the Inkwell Isles, where it made quite an impression on the neighbors. The Potato family’s eyes popped open, the Cornstalks covered their ears, and the Cow sisters (who always seemed to have the jitters, poor things) gave milkshakes that day.

  But Cuphead? He kept right on snoozing.

  This surprised no one, of course—Cuphead was Cuphead. He preferred to wake up in his own way, thank you very much, and no amount of clanging or banging or pushing or prodding would change that.

  The alarm clock sighed. This being a special day and all, he’d hoped they wouldn’t have to go through the whole routine, but… oh well, there was no use putting it off. He gripped the shiny brass bell above his head and pulled it down until it fit him like an army helmet. Then he marched to the edge of the night table, raised his minute hand, and with the steely gaze of a general, waved the signal flag.

  Operation Beddy-Bye-Bye had begun.

  As usual, the radio was the first to see the signal. He was tuned in to everything happening around here, not that he ever got any credit for it. But he’d show them—he’d show them all. This was his chance to prove he was more than just the golden-voiced broadcaster of shows like Heebie Jeebie Theatre and Wyatt Burp: Rootin’ Tootin’ Root Beer Mug. He could be inspiring, too. And this was his moment. He took a deep breath, twisted the oversize knob on his brown wooden chassis, and blasted out a barrage of earsplitting, heart-pounding, troop-rallying marching tunes. (Personally, he felt “Battlefield Boogie” and “Jeepers the Jivin’ Jeep” would be best for marching. After all, they worked for the Lindy Hop.)

  Now it was the dresser’s turn. She opened her top drawer and the Clean Berets—a gutsy battalion of fancy French headwear—burst out. They leaped from the drawer, pulled their rip cords, and floated to the ground under a canopy of white linen handkerchiefs. There they joined the socks (who were foot soldiers), the suspenders (who were support units), the spectacles (who were lookouts), and the gloves (who were just plain handy), and together, they did what had to be done. First, they rolled out a big ball of twine and tugged on it until they’d run a long, long string around the room… all around the room. They ran it around the doorknob, the knickknacks, the lampshade, the curtain rod, a pair of bookends, and a polka-dot umbrella. When they finished, Sergeant Boxer (a plucky pair of green skivvies from the underwear drawer) tied the end of the string to Cuphead’s bedpost.

  The other end, they tied to an electric fan.

  “Now!” the alarm clock called to the socks.

  The Argyle twins—Lefty and Roger—plugged in the fan. As the blades spun faster and faster and faster, the string coiled around them like spaghetti on a fork. Then everything started to move. The doorknob turned, the knickknacks knocked, the lampshade crumpled, the curtain rod rattled, the bookends bumped, the umbrella opened, and finally Cuphead’s bed, which had until that very moment been reliably horizontal, suddenly stood straight up like a buck private on inspection day. It bolted upright with such speed and fury that Cuphead was catapulted out from under his covers, into the air, and across the room.

  But oddly enough, he did not crash. Or bash. Or splat. He didn’t do any of those things. Instead, he landed—quite comfortably—in the pants, shirt, and shoes he’d l
aid out the night before.

  “Ahhhhhhh! Good morning, everybody!” He yawned.

  The whole room cheered.

  Cuphead liked mornings. They were the start of a brand-new day—a day when anything could happen! He smiled, saluted his friend the alarm clock, and strutted across the room to a large wall calendar with a picture of an octopus on it.

  “Yup, this is it,” he said, drawing a big red circle around the date.

  Well, as everyone knows, a big red circle on a calendar means only one thing: This is a special day. And he was about to write something inside that circle that would’ve explained just how special this day really was, but he couldn’t.

  The octopus had taken his pencil.

  “Hey! What’s the big idea?” Cuphead roared.

  The octopus winked. A squishy green tentacle popped out of the picture and drew a big red X next to Cuphead’s big red circle. Cuphead snatched the pencil and drew a second circle next to the big red X. The octopus drew another X, Cuphead drew another circle, and so it went until one of them had three in a row, making him the international tic-tac-toe champion of Cuphead’s bedroom. There was a brief award ceremony followed by the shaking of hands and hands and more hands, because congratulations take a while when one of the players has eight arms.

  But finally they were done and Cuphead could return to his original task—writing Elder Kettle’s birthday! in the first red circle on the calendar. Yes sirree, it was a very special day.

  Then, as the radio blared out a jumpin’, jivin’ number by Flimm Flamm and His Tubadors (the swingin’est band in dancin’ land), Cuphead bebopped out of the room and headed down to breakfast.

  Cuphead and his younger brother, Mugman, lived with Elder Kettle in a neat little cottage on the edge of the Inkwell Isles. They were happy here, and Cuphead couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather live, or anyone he’d rather have as a guardian. After all, Elder Kettle was one of the kindest people on all the isles, and nearly everyone considered him a friend.

  If anyone deserved a big birthday celebration, it was Elder Kettle. Cuphead could hardly wait for this evening to get here.

  “Good morning, Cuphead,” the old kettle chortled. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a humdinger,” Cuphead told him.

  But he didn’t tell him anything else.

  Elder Kettle made a little scowl. On this of all days, he’d expected a slightly different greeting from the young cup. He gave a lackluster flip to a flapjack in his skillet. (Elder Kettle was famous for his flapjacks, but this morning his heart wasn’t in it.)

  “Yes, a humdinger of a day,” the kettle tried again. “I suppose you might even call it… special?”

  He peeked at Cuphead out of the corner of his eye, but again, Cuphead didn’t say a word. He just poured himself a big bowl of Mush Flakes and sat down at the table next to Mugman.

  Elder Kettle paced back and forth, stroking his thick gray mustache. He wrinkled up his forehead until his eyebrows clanked together like a pair of colliding spoons.

  “Gollywompers, it seems like there’s something important about today, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what it is,” he said loudly. “Either of you boys know what it might be?”

  Poor Elder Kettle. He wasn’t just dropping hints; he was tying anchors to them. It was agony. So Cuphead (who was nothing if not compassionate) looked up from his bowl, stared into Elder’s desperate, pleading eyes, and said—

  “Nope.”

  Then he shoved the spoon back into his mouth.

  “Oh, I know!” Mugman said excitedly. “It’s your—”

  WHACK!

  Cuphead kicked his brother under the table. It wasn’t a hard kick; it was the kind of kick you give to someone who’s about to spill a very big secret about a very big surprise and make a large number of people very unhappy.

  Mugman rubbed his leg.

  “It’s your, uh, imagination,” he finished. “It must be. Because as far as I know, this is just another day.”

  He’d gotten Cuphead’s message but still moved to the other side of the table. With a secret this big, you could never tell when another kick might be coming your way.

  Elder Kettle let out a long, sad sigh. He was always excited about his birthday, and he’d been waiting all morning for someone to wish him well. But his friends hadn’t called, the neighbors hadn’t stopped by, and now even the boys had forgotten. The corners of his mouth sagged into a frown as he grumpily slid a half-burned flapjack onto Cuphead’s plate. Oh well. Maybe it was just another day.

  Knock, knock, knock!

  Or maybe it wasn’t! Someone was here! Someone had remembered! Elder Kettle rushed to the door wondering which wonderful, considerate, thoughtful neighbor had come to see him. As it turned out, it was none of them.

  It was Hilda Berg.

  Hilda Berg wasn’t a wonderful, considerate, thoughtful neighbor. Hilda Berg was a pest. Elder Kettle tried to hide his disappointment, but it wasn’t easy. Hilda was a tough one to like. First of all, she thought she was just a little bit above everyone else on the isles. True, she was a zeppelin and she did live in the sky, but did she have to be so snooty about it? Also, she was perpetually angry. Elder Kettle didn’t know why she’d come to see him this morning, but he was sure it wasn’t to say happy birthday.

  “Good morning, Hilda,” he said.

  “Good?” Hilda sneered. “You think this is a good morning?”

  Oh, what a shock—Her Dirigibleness wasn’t happy. Elder Kettle sighed.

  “What’s the problem?”

  Hilda glared at him, her nostrils flared, and her body inflated to a size so large he thought she was going to explode.

  “The problem,” barked Hilda, “is this!”

  She lifted a tightly clenched fist (which was a scary sight on the best of days), and in it was a ball. It was round and white with horseshoe-shaped stitching along the edges, and it looked just like every other ball except for one thing. On the back side, scribbled in large black letters, were these words: PROPERTY OF CUPHEAD.

  “Yesterday, I was tending my cloud garden—the loveliest in the entire sky, mind you—when this hideous projectile came crashing through it. It completely destroyed my prizewinning airigolds!” she snapped.

  Airigolds, for anyone who’s never seen them, are charming little puffballs made of only the most heavenly cloud material. Each flower rests on a slender cloud stem with wispy white leaves that flutter gently in the wind—unless, of course, they’re smashed by a home run.

  Elder Kettle scratched his chin.

  “I see,” he said. “Well, I’m very sorry, Hilda. But I’m sure it was an accident.”

  “An accident? It was a tragedy!” she cried. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to raise a cloud garden? Each bloom must be coaxed from the delicate mist, then lovingly shaped into a precious form. I’ve spent weeks perfecting my airigolds. Then, in one thoughtless instant, that cloud wrecker—”

  Her bony, accusing finger pointed straight at Cuphead, who was still at the table. He gave her an apologetic look. And he would’ve gladly explained to her that he’d made the hit of his life yesterday, the kind that climbs higher and higher and you think it’s never going to come down (but you’re still surprised when it doesn’t), and he certainly hadn’t been aiming at her cloud. But of course, he couldn’t tell her that—or anything else—because he had half a flapjack stuffed into his cheeks and it was impolite to talk with his mouth full.

  Elder Kettle shook his head.

  “I’ll speak with Cuphead, Hilda,” he said.

  “See that you do,” she told him. “That boy is a menace. If he crosses me again, I’ll deal with him myself!”

  Elder Kettle bit his lower lip and a little puff of steam rose out of his spout. He didn’t like threats, not first thing in the morning and definitely not on his birthday. He thought about slamming the door but, of course, he didn’t. Elder Kettle could never be rude to anyone. Not even to
Hilda Berg.

  “Good day, Hilda,” he said.

  “Good day, indeed!” she grumbled, and stormed away down the path.

  Elder Kettle closed the door and walked back to the breakfast table. He raised a disapproving eyebrow at Cuphead, but then set the ball by his breakfast plate.

  “That must’ve been quite a hit. I wish I’d seen it,” he said, and smiled.

  Cuphead smiled back. He was glad Elder Kettle wasn’t angry, and even gladder to have his ball back. There was nothing in the world Cuphead loved more than playing ball.

  Elder Kettle sat down in his chair and drummed his fingers on the table. He really shouldn’t let Hilda upset him—not on his birthday. He leaned back, picked up the newspaper, and opened it.

  “Hey! I know what special thing is happening today,” Mugman said, and Cuphead’s eyes grew to the size of donuts. “The carnival is coming!”

  “Carnival?” Elder Kettle yelled.

  Mugman nodded. “It’s right there in the newspaper.”

  Sure enough, on the front page was a big, bold headline that read CARNIVAL COMING TO THE INKWELL ISLES.

  Elder Kettle frowned.

  “Oh no, not the carnival. Not here,” he groaned. “Not again.”

  His mind drifted back to a time when he was a very young kettle. It was the last time the carnival had come to the Inkwell Isles. He remembered every sight and sound and scent. But mostly he remembered the clown who had approached him the instant he’d walked through the gate.

  Guess your weight, sonny? the clown had asked in a chillingly spooky voice.

  Okay, the little kettle had replied.

  The clown had then lifted him into the air and shook him up and down and side to side, and never did guess his weight. But in the process, every coin had fallen out of the kettle’s pockets and he’d left the carnival without a cent.

  Elder Kettle told the boys the frightening story. They needed to know.

  “I want you to stay away from that carnival,” he said. “It’s filled with liars and thieves.”

  The boys promised.

  “It’s time for school; go get your things,” Elder Kettle said.