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

This e-book is still available at most e-book retailers, including Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Also available via the publisher (to view click on the Lulu logo on the sidebar).


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s