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Gosh golly donkers, I just know something’s fishy with that funny-talking Mr. Maliki from down the street. The other day local crazyhead Mike Slag told me how much Mr. Maliki said he needed my help, but now he swears he doesn’t need me around at all. He says he’s ready do handle things on his own, even though I just know Osama bin Meany and other al-Qaeda toughs are giving the poor guy non-stop trouble. So why would he say he doesn’t need me anymore? This looks like a case for Encyclopedia Bush!

To prove our value, my best friend Condi Kimball and I set up a tent in Mr. Maliki’s front yard. There we waited for anyone suspicious to cause a ruckus. It didn’t take long. Some of his rude nieces and nephews showed up and started kicking our tent and telling us to leave. We imprisoned those rugrats in holes we dug by the cellar, then stripped, beat, and photographed them for good measure. After that, we showed Mr. Maliki how helpful a couple kid detectives could be, but he didn’t seem as pleased as we’d hoped.

It was clear that our tent wasn’t safe enough, so we brought a bunch of bricks over from my Dad’s place and constructed a giant fort to protect us from those irritating nieces and nephews. Then we built a bunch of paths around the house for easier access to all parts of it. This let us guard the outside pretty good, but what about the inside? If Osama bin Meany got past us, we’d be helpless. Fortunately, my Dad’s the Chief of Police, so we had him make us a skeleton key that worked on every door in the place. Much to our surprise, though, Mr. Maliki would often grumble or yell at us to leave just because we were eating cookies in his kitchen or sometimes forgetting to flush his toilets. He was still missing his need for us.

Then, one night while I was standing over him in his sleep, it hit me. We could only find Mr. Maliki’s need for us if the al-Qaeda gang tried to attack his place and we prevented it. Condi and I spent the rest of the evening hanging “Encyclopedia Bush” flags all over the house so that the gang would know where I, their arch-nemesis, had taken up residence. We knew they’d then take out their wrath on Mr. Maliki’s house, and we’d catch them and turn them in. Mr. Maliki would surely discover his need for us after that!

My plan would’ve worked, too, if I hadn’t been in the back shed borrowing some gasoline from his lawnmower when the toughs egged his house. And I’m sure I would’ve caught them TP’ing the place if I hadn’t been reallocating some of Mr. Maliki’s money to pay Dickie Cheney to build a few more plastic playground sets in the back yard. I thought I’d catch them easily, but it’s hard work being a detective.

In the end, Mr. Maliki never did find his need for me. In fact, it wasn’t long until he was forced to move away entirely. For whatever reason, though, the folks he sold the place to don’t seem to like kid sleuths very much. Now they come around and cause all kinds of trouble at our homestead. I guess there is a bright side, though. Because there are never any shortages of cases to solve at my house, my family’s become super appreciative of my detective work. It turns out the need for me that we thought we’d find at Mr. Maliki’s was right here at home the whole time. Chalk up another victory for Encyclopedia Bush!