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Bluto's Secret Weapon
by Valerie Kravette

I tore into the driveway and rushed to unload supplies as the radio screamed about the Martian invasion. But soon I was faced with a worse crisis. My dog, Bluto, stole a family pack of corndogs while I unloaded the SUV and was munching them. I shuddered.

“Give them to me, Bluto!” I had to get them away before we headed for our bomb shelter. It would be impossible to be in close quarters with him after he’d eaten those things.

My wife rushed into the garage, and caught us wrestling. “What are you doing?” she screamed. “We’re under attack!”

“Grab Mikey and head for the shelter,” I said. “I’ll be right down. Bluto, you stupid mutt, give me those corndogs!” Bluto growled and held fast.

Suddenly, the outside of the garage door glowed bright orange. Then it disintegrated.

When the dust cleared, there they were. The ugliest bastards I’d ever seen. Green, ten feet tall and pointing ray guns right at us. It was too late.

My wife fainted. I screamed. Fortified by corndogs, Bluto farted.

“Geez, Bluto!” My eyes watered. I figured his atomic-powered discharge was the last thing I’d ever smell.

The Martians screeched, staggered, and dropped dead.

Bluto wagged his tail and spewed a second wave of poison gas. The rest of the bastards fell.

National Guardsmen wearing hazmat suits arrived. They checked the bodies. “Dead as doornails,” one of them said. “Yeesh! What’s that terrible smell?”

“My dog ate corndogs. He’s the one who killed the Martians.”

“Good doggie.” The soldier grabbed a phone and said, “General, we found a way to stop the Martians!”

Not since the development of the atomic bomb or the first Moon mission was there such an emergency effort. The country mobilized in three days. Corn was diverted from ethanol to corndog production. The world’s meat packers worked overtime to produce as many corndogs as possible.

Countries put aside differences, and gathered their dogs for battle. A chain of dogs spanned the continents. When the next wave of Martians attacked, we donned gasmasks and fed our canines corndogs. On command, every dog let loose. Gigantic clouds of sulfur and methane covered the globe for seventy-two hours. The invaders never had a chance.

After losing millions, the Martians surrendered. Bluto and I got the Congressional Medal of Freedom, the Croix du Guerre, and a huge tickertape parade. Earth and Mars signed a peace treaty.

Though famous, Bluto was unfazed by the book signings, TV appearances and movies made about his life. These days he snacks on corn chips. I’ll give him a couple if the winds are right. But no more corndogs.

Martians petitioned the Galactic Assembly to outlaw corndog production throughout the universe. In the spirit of peace, Earth and all the other planets agreed.

Nevertheless, I keep a secret stash of contraband corndogs in my underground shelter.

Just in case.