An Extract Abducted

Once upon a time I wrote a lovely tale about a schoolboy hamster, who, whilst engaged upon a school trip to the seaside, was abducted by a submarine race of rodents. No, that’s not quite correct: It wasn’t lovely at all. It certainly wasn’t suitable for children – though one reader did admit that his grandson had stumbled upon it and asked his mother for a copy (he didn’t get one). It was rather rude you see. Take a look at this brief extract: see what you think.

Temporally speaking it was only a hop, skip, and an enormous bound later when Roman and Amy found themselves upon familiar territory. Such was their unshakable belief in Amy’s plan that they were both certain that the lounge was just around the next corner. But if there was a flaw in Amy’s plan, the young female hamster reasoned, it was the police constable’s certainty that he would find more Happy Lobster Juice there.

‘Was it too much to expect?’ She wondered, ‘Wasn’t it more likely that an automatic system would have turned off the flow? Wasn’t it probable that in between times the pirates had gorged themselves upon the remaining liquid?’ There were so many scenarios – all of which could end in disaster if they weren’t extremely careful. Then she tripped upon some courgette rind that had obviously been spilled during the descent; collided with a statue of a naked water nymph that had miraculously survived thus far; and caused a most horrendous racket when it smashed into a million shards and was scattered as far as the eye could see along the smoky corridor.

“Holy Fluff!” Amy screeched in alarm.

For a moment Roman stood stock-still in shock. He’d never heard such an expletive pass the delicate bifurcated lips of such a lovely female before. Then shock was replaced by fear as two pirates, alerted by the noise, trudged around the corner in their huge boots, and carrying their deadly directed energy weapons. Worse still – one of them was Gustav Grossemember!

“Argh!” Amy added in horror.

But in that moment of panic, when their plan seemed to billow from the existential window of life like a wind-blown net curtain and career across the metaphysical countryside upon a silent motorbike, their forethought and planning suddenly paid dividends.

Watching events intently upon their TV monitor, Blur and Sprightly sprang into action, and before the two pirates could say much more than “Ach, it is being two of the prisoners: Kill them! Kill them upon sight.” a vicious bolt of electricity leapt across the gap between a broken light fitting and the two helpless former chart-toppers – and blew their guns to pieces.

Well Roman didn’t waste a second lecturing upon the dangers of loose electricity within a confined space: Instead he grabbed Amy’s free paw – the other was covering her eyes – and leapt past the two stunned and bewildered desperados; dived into the empty lounge; and ran his tongue along the skirting board in search of any stray residue of the Happy Lobster Juice leak. As a consequence of this, when Gustav had recovered sufficiently to find his way back into the lounge for a sit down upon the sofa, he found the police constable ready for action.

“Hee-yah” Roman screamed as he jumped across the room – his feet thrusting forward in search of a target.

Moments later those same feet made contact with Gustav’s head, and for the short, powerful, ex-roadie for Badly Needed Piss, it was ‘Goodnight Sweetheart – over and out’.

Roman then pursued the other desperado for fifteen circumnavigations of the lounge compartment, until his opponent suffered some sort of cardio vascular hiccup, and fell headlong down the garbage chute.

“Oh Roman,” Amy gushed as she threw her arms about the young police officer’s neck, “You’re such a hunk. If we weren’t in mortal peril, and we weren’t embarked upon a mission of utmost import, I would wrestle your tattooed personal protuberance from inside your police regulation trousers; and we’d have rampant non-reproductive sexual intercourse right here and now – where the cameras don’t work anymore!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan

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I changed my mind: it is lovely – but in a slightly disgusting way.

A Fanfare, Please, for ‘Fanfare for the Common Hamster’

Way back in the mists of time – that being 2007 – a certain Tooty Nolan wrote a divine magnum opus about a fat female hamster with the talent to pass through walls into alternative realities. Here is a brief extract…

Naturally Rootley, being small and nimble, soon found himself chosen to edge into the obsidian stench of the sewer outlet. As he did so he called out Joan’s name. He tried calling in various tones – from a surprisingly resonant bass, to a shrill soprano that hurt the awaiting Margarita’s ears and made Brother Alfonso’s nose bleed. But in response – save for the constant dripping of foetid water from the curved brick ceiling – all that Rootley’s sensitive ears could detect was silence. So, reaching out with both paws before him, Rootley plunged forward with the abandon normally associated with gay gerbils – and was immediately lost in echoes.

It was so cold inside Freezer Three that Joan’s brain had almost ceased to function. Fortunately she had found the wisdom to clamber inside a large empty cardboard box, thrust her paws between her thighs, and then insert her tail into her rectum before becoming semi-comatose. But even in this state her will to live supplied her ears with sufficient energy to listen for clues to salvation. First one pricked up, quickly followed by the other as Rootley’s muffled voice could be heard calling her name.

‘Hmmm’, she thought, ‘that resonant bass is quite pleasant: But I’m not sure about the soprano: It could shatter ice.’

Then her brain reactivated properly. This was no time for hibernation: Help was on its way.

Rootley was overjoyed to hear Joan calling his name. “This way, Joan,” he called, “Follow my voice.”

He then continued to utter similar inanities until suddenly Joan’s paw materialised from the wall before him. He didn’t see it of course; but in the heat of the moment he’d quite neglected to theorise the potentiality of irregularities within the topography of the different worlds. So naturally it was Rootley’s testicles that Joan’s flaying paw encountered first, and which solicited a yelp of such intensity that it startled her so badly that she lost her grip upon the icy floor inside Freezer Three, and tumbled back into the medieval land of Prannick – and the relative warmth of stale piss.

© Paul Trevor Nolan

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Psychic Historian Anyone?

Long before my absurd earplug stories, I wrote a series of ‘proper’ books that were (I hope) rather funny, and were definitely rude. The series was entitled Hamster-Sapiens, and it was – for a while at least – quite successful. People actually paid good money for a copy. Unfortunately they took me an age to write, so I (mistakenly) decided to look elsewhere for inspiration – I.E my camera. This extract is from my favourite volume – The Psychic Historian, first written in (I think) 2008.

 In the short while that he’d been staying at Area Ninety-Nine, Turbine had clearly embraced science and technology. He even wore a brilliant-white lab-coat to emphasize the fact. And, amazingly, he’d proven most adept at creating vile cultures and ferocious moulds.

“Here,” he said to the chief scientist who was working on the task of creating a particularly virulent strain of Hamsters Arse with which Turbine intended to eradicate the prairie dog population of Prairie Dog City, “this is the latest batch.”

Turbine was sweating profusely – not from sheer effort, or the strain of long nights with his eye pressed against his microscope, but from heat-exhaustion.

“How long before they fix the air conditioning?” Turbine asked his boss.

“Indefinite I’m afraid, young Turbine.” The grey-muzzled old hamster replied as gently as he could, “They can make this technology work – but they don’t understand the principle upon which it works. It’s packed up.” He wailed, “And no one knows how to fix it!”

This was of great concern to Turbine. “This is of great concern to me.” he informed the chief scientist. “If my cultures get too hot they could grow at an incredible pace. They could replicate themselves exponentially over a matter of minutes, and break free from their electromagnetic constraints. Then we’d be right in the shit.”

Unfortunately Colin happened to passing at the time, and had caught every word. Even more unfortunately he chose to act upon them. He rushed from the room, raced along the corridor, dashed into the room that was labelled ‘Vile Cultures & Ferocious Moulds’, and began fanning the equipment with the hem of his lab coat. But most unfortunately of all – the speed of his fanning increased with every passing second until his paws became a blur, and the movement of air resembled a hurricane in miniature. The result of this action was that the table upon which the aforementioned cultures and moulds rested delicately was blown over, and the contents of the dishes were tossed into the ventilation system.

“Oh – dear.” Colin said as he realized his error. “I wonder if those spores were as dangerous as they looked?”

These were ominous-sounding words. They were the sort of words that made folk wince, and think ‘Now why didn’t he keep his big stupid gob shut?’ They were the sort of words that tempted fate to do its worst. Colin then compounded his verbal error by adding, “Oh I don’t suppose it was anything very important. I mean – what harm could a few spores in a ventilation system do? It’s not like it’ll bring down an entire civilization or anything.”

A few minutes later – as he was sauntering back the way he’d come – Colin discovered the truth of the matter. He was just pausing to adjust his wim-wom valve, when two burly guard-rats entered the corridor through a tubular emergency conduit. They wore isolation suits, and carried heavy-duty electric riot-prods.

“You.” One wearing a particularly shiny fez, upon which the words ‘Captain of the Guard’ had been hastily scribbled in felt-tip pen, growled, “Come with us.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan

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