Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 6

Long before those silicon superstar earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.

In this, the sixth excerpt from my somewhat unique book series, I bring you a taster from the inexplicably unpopular The Abduction of Wetpatch Wilson – a book, I might add, that a test reader considered the funniest yet (until the fifth and final book – Danglydong Dell Diaries, arrived, of course).

Well naturally not one of those present in the former Federation Council Chambers could make any sense of the seared and ruined notice that Droop so painstakingly reassembled over the next five hours. It was simply too damaged to read – even after holding a candle behind it, and peering really hard. But the time hadn’t been totally wasted: Desmond had invented a highly interactive Education Computer so that Wetpatch wouldn’t fall too far behind in his studies for the Right to Adult Existence Examination that was due later in the year. And the fact that he’d managed to utilise some advanced Crustacean technology for it made it seem exotic and exciting – and Wetpatch had it follow in his wake everywhere that he went – even to the toilet.

“Hey, Wettie. The Education Computer, which naturally Wetpatch had named Kevin (despite Sally’s assertion that it should be known as Eddie) called, as it trundled behind the young hamster upon a multitude of tracked wheels, “Can you slow down? I got just the one ocular unit: I don’t got no depth of field. These walls get real hard sometimes: I done scratched my paint-work a thousand times already.”

As an education computer Kevin was a mine of information – most of which had been gleaned from the central computer of the Federation Council. Naturally the folk of Hamster Heath had added their input, and generally speaking it had been a worthwhile endeavour. But the machine’s use of the spoken language was flawed, and everyone was concerned that (upon Wetpatch’s eventual return to hamster civilisation) he’d sound like a single-brained-celled idiot to the populace of that fair town.

“Can’t you do something about it, Professor?” Sally had asked. “The thing speaks abominably.”

“I’m sorry, Sally dearest.” The hamster genius had replied, “I share your concerns, but really I don’t have the time: There’s just so many things to study if we’re ever to find the whereabouts of the Federation Council members. I’m afraid that it’s a matter of priorities.”

“Sure, Sally.” Ho had offered, when the ambassador mentioned it to him, “I got time between baking cakes and things: How ‘bout I try fix computer talking stuff?”

It had been a genuine offer, and Sally was grateful for it: But she must refuse.

“I’m sorry, Mister Ho.” She said as she patted his paw, “That’s very kind; but your Hamster-British is complete shit. With your verbal input we’d have Wetpatch talking like a Chinese chef by the time we get home. Now run along and knock me up a nice bowl of something vaguely edible. Can you do that for me?”

Of course there wasn’t anything that Ho wouldn’t do for Sally – even accepting horrendous insults without reply. “Sure, Sally.” He said chirpily, “How does sea-slug burger sound?”

Moments later Wetpatch flung himself into the tiny room that he called his ‘cabin’. Naturally Kevin followed him in, and settled down upon its suspension in the only free corner of the room. The remainder of the room was stuffed to the gunwales with ‘stuff’ that Wetpatch had ‘liberated’ from various places throughout the vast building.

“Sorry, Kevin.” Wetpatch began. But his mind quickly wandered when he heard Droop Van Dong shuffling past his door. He could tell it was Droop by the sound of the ball and chain that Roman had manufactured and affixed to his chubby leg.

Kevin recognised the sound too. “Hey, Fat-boy; get your blubber in here, will ya: I got somethin’ real important to tell ya.”

Wetpatch was surprised at this invitation by the quasi-automaton. He couldn’t imagine what an education computer would have to say to an imprisoned Dutch hamster clone. But he was about to find out…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Sorry, Earpluggers

I don’t usually drag my heels when creating a new Earplug Adventure; but recently life has been getting in the way somewhat. I’ve been busy doing stuff, vacationing, getting hooked on E-bay auctions, and undergoing medical examinations that involve devices going into places that are best left to the imagination. So the earplugs have been taking something of a back seat. But, rest assured, the 30th tale will be written. And just to prove that the occasional shot for it is still being taken, here’s a charming inaction shot of a character to whom I have yet to assign a moniker. Or, to put it another way, here’s photo of a cork with no name, but who will have a significant role to play in the story that is tentatively entitled The Grand Tour…

Nice, isn’t it!


Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 5

Long before those pesky earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.

This time around we visit Fanfare for the Common Hamster in search of a delightful excerpt. And here it is…

It was cold, dark, and down right nasty beneath the surface of the River Turgid, as it ambled between Prannick’s twin towns of Near and Far Kinell with all the pace and alacrity of a bout of constipation. But Perfidity Gallowsmith had scant moments to consider such discomforts: Her immediate concern was the severe depletion that had taken place to the air reserve that she’d managed to accumulate in her hamstery cheek pouches moments before being knocked unconscious by a huge torpedo-shaped cavy-dropping, and falling into the river. Since then she’d been forced to ditch her famous chainmail knickers and leather breast-hammocks in order to remain above the mucky goo of the river bed, and now she was feeling distinctly naked both outwardly and inwardly.

It was difficult for her to judge whether the onlookers upon the bank were still ‘on looking’, but she couldn’t take the risk of being discovered by them: In Prannick the vanquished leader was always put to death in a most public exhibition. She would rather drown than face that ignominy. Then, as she drifted with the river’s flow, the town’s sewage out fall pipe seemed to crawl by at a snail’s pace. It was dark and foreboding; but it might also supply a temporary sanctuary for her.

“With any luck,” she spoke to herself through lips that were clenched so tight that they might have been hermetically sealed, “there’ll be air at the top of the tunnel.

Striking out for the circle of black in an otherwise colourless environment Perfidity tried to gauge the time of day: She must be in and out of the tunnel before sixty-three minutes after thirteen o’clock, when the Town Ka-ka Release Officer emptied the slurry pit below the public toilet into the river: An ignominious departure into the hereafter was preferable to Death By Excrement. But as she approached the outfall she became aware of a subtle change in its appearance. It seemed to have become somehow blacker. A more intense black. A negative-light sort of black. She blew-off several times to dispel the intense feeling of fear that was threatening to steal her reason away. But despite these gaseous out-pouring, the darkness seemed to be drawing her to it. Then, as she began to struggle against the impossible pulling sensation that seemed to be acting upon each and every atom that made up her rather large, but surprisingly curvaceous body, the darkness seemed to leap forward to engulf her. She had just sufficient time to break-wind once more, and then scream incoherently.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 4

Long before those literary masterpiece earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books. 

Here’s a random excerpt from the third of the aforementioned – The Psychic Historian...,

Soon the young male hamster found himself walking along a colonnade of (what appeared at first sight to be) market stalls. But rather than being the purveyors of fruit, vegetables, unpleasantly sweating meat products, and sunglasses of dubious origin, the stalls were actually the point of contact between any would-be students, and the representatives of the town’s universities.

“Come and scrutinize our literature. Study our informative prospectus.” Those who manned the stalls would cry out. “Look how nicely we’ve laid out our campus.”

The young hamster was impressed by their entrepreneurial skills. He stopped and chatted with several before finally settling upon a college that enjoyed the moniker, ‘The Chunder Bellows School for Blistering Idiots’.

“Hello.” He smiled as he introduced himself to the ageing wood mouse behind the counter, “I’ve checked-out all the other colleges here today, and I’ve decided that your college is the one best suited to my needs.”

The ageing wood mouse took up a quill made from the tail feather of a wren, and dipped into a pot of ink. He then prepared himself to write upon a large sheet of headed notepaper.

“Name?” The wood mouse inquired in a disinterested tone.

For a moment this seemed to stump the young hamster. Then realization struck, and he smiled: Obviously the old mouse was almost blind. “It’s there – at the top of the page.” He informed the wood mouse.

“Ugh?” The wood mouse responded in puzzlement.

“Chunder Bellows School for Blistering Idiots.” The young hamster nodded pleasantly – pleased to have been able to help.

“You what?” The wood mouse was now even more perplexed. “Your name is the same as the college you wish to join? That seems more than coincidental.”

Now it was the turn of the young hamster to be confused. “But my name is Lancelot Ballesteroid!” He cried out in surprise.

In an instant the ageing wood mouse understood. “Ah,” he began to write the words Lancelot Ballesteroid in the box marked ‘name’, “it appears that you have indeed selected your college well: For certainly you are a blistering idiot.”

Lancelot didn’t know how to take this: Was it some sort of test? He thought that he’d play it safe. “Yes.” He said.

“Address?” The wood mouse asked, then stepped back to await Lancelot’s response.

Again Lancelot decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and so replied with, “Yours or mine?”

The ageing wood mouse sighed. “Oh, I don’t know – let’s try yours: we can come back to mine later.”

Lancelot liked the thought of that, and wondered if they would be having crumpets with their cup of tea. But he kept his counsel and said only, “Number Twenty-twelve, Rincon Del Anus, Hamster Heath.”

“Does it have a postal code?” The wood mouse inquired in a most professional manner.

Lancelot replied in the affirmative.

The wood mouse gave him a long appraising look, but said only; “Good. Perhaps we should come back to that later as well.” Then he added; “Age?”

Lancelot’s eyes darted this way and that. He wondered if this too was a test. What possible age could the wood mouse refer too? Then it came to him; “Ice.” He said loudly.

At this the wood mouse sighed so deeply that Lancelot thought that he might be in danger of inverting himself. “Perhaps you should see a doctor?” he suggested helpfully. “Your lungs don’t appear to have developed properly. Or have you been gassed?”

“Perhaps I should see a shrink.” The other responded. “But then I guess I’d have to be at least half-way crazy to want to run a college for morons in the first place. So your name is Lancelot Ballesteroid, you come from Hamster Heath, and you were born during an ice-age. Do I have all the facts correct?”

Lancelot considered this. “Two out of three aren’t bad.” He said uncertainly.

“If you’re happy with that – I’m happy with that. We’re done.” The wood mouse then extended a paw. “Welcome to Chunder Bellows.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

The five e-books that feature here are all available at many e-book retailers, including those mentioned in the sidebar to your right. You should take a look – if only out of curiosity.

P.S Did you see that? It wasn’t rude. No one farted or dropped their trousers! What is the world coming to?

Photography: Winter or Spring?

Question: Which season paints the prettier picture – Winter or Spring?

Well I guess the answer to that depends on which picture was taken during the Winter months; and which was shot in Spring? Yep, you’re right; the vagaries of English weather have turned the seasons inside out. The picture directly above originates in January: the one above it in March. So, I imagine, any preference comes down to whether you like sunshine or snow. Me – I can’t choose between them.  

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 3

Long before those adorable earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books. 

So, on this occasion, I’m gonna treat you to an excerpt from the fantabulous Danglydong Dell Diaries…

Tumblesday, the Twenty-two’eth of Twat. Horatio could well remember when the ultra-realistic Patti Poo-pants doll had been unleashed upon the young female population of Hamster Heath. His testicles had still been tucked up safely inside his torso at the time, and there were times when he’d almost been tempted to ask his mother for one himself. But he hadn’t bothered for two principal reasons. One: His mother would have thrown up her arms in panic at the thought that her only son was hamster-sexual. Two: He would have received a vicious back-hander from her for daring to suggest that she spend her ill-gotten gains on something so essentially Hamster-French.

Of course Horatio had known nothing of Amstair Fronce at that time. He was yet to meet the famous three-wheeled go-kart racing champion, Norbert Disentangle. He was yet to paddle a dug-out canoe across the Bay of Biscuit, and be saved by a Hamster-French air-sea rescue helicopter. He was yet to have rampant non-reproductive sexual intercourse with the beautiful (if vain) Candice Rancide. Or smear Brie upon the raging volcano that was his sore anus during the most recent outbreak of Hamsters Arse. In fact he was yet to do anything that was in any way connected with that fair land across the sea. But he knew instinctively that anything produced in Hamster-France was, in some way, more stylish, and therefore more desirable, than anything made locally. He also knew that it was intrinsically wrong for a boy to want a girl’s doll – even if it did defecate most realistically.

These remembrances were flashing through the young male hamster’s mind now – as he sat upon the night bus from Poxford (where he’d been studying at Saint Dunces) to Hamster Heath – and, most significantly, the elderly male hamster on the seat opposite him looked decidedly like one of Britain’s most celebrated failures of recent times – Sir Goosewing Gray.

“Excuse me.” Horatio raised a paw and stamped three times on the bare metal floor to gain the older hamster’s attention, “Aren’t you Sir Goosewing Gray?”

The look that Horatio received was one of pure malice, and the following silence (that could only be described as ‘vicious’) should have set alarm bells ringing in Horatio’s head. But Horatio being Horatio, he ignored the warnings, and pressed on regardless.

“Yeah, didn’t you used to work for Twang Toys?” He continued.

Gray’s eyes snapped around to peer at Horatio. “Shush.” He hissed as silently as possible.

This gave Horatio reason to pause. He craned his neck around to see if Gray had any earplugs or headphones rammed into his ears. He even checked to see if the young female that sat beside him was a prostitute. But when she refused to lift her skirt and reveal her split crotch panties he quickly realised his error.

“Pardon me.” He said politely, and raised his hat to the young female, “Mistaken identity. I thought you might be a right slapper ‘on the game’.”

Then he turned his attention to Goosewing Gray once more. “If I’d been a girl when I was a kid, I’d have been a very annoyed youngster if I’d bought a Shitty-Arsed Sheila doll.”

Gray’s expression altered again. This time it pleaded – ‘Go away, and don’t mention the Shitty-Arsed Sheila doll again.’ But Horatio was immune to subtle nuances. Unless Gray told him to fluff off, he’d pursue this line of conversation until the bitter end.

“Yeah.” He started yet again, “Wasn’t Twang Toys utterly ruined by the Shitty-Arsed Sheila doll fiasco?”

Now it was most fortuitous that the bus carried very few passengers that blustery mid-Twat day, and with the exception of Goosewing Gray and Horatio, all of them were first year students in Poxford, and were either too young to recall the industrial melt-down to which Horatio referred, or had their heads buried in an electronic game device. It was fortuitous in two ways. One: No one looked up and pointed derisively. Two: Gray didn’t feel sufficiently rattled to bite upon a poisonous ‘tooth’ that he kept hidden at the back of his mouth on the off-chance that he might be accosted in the street by a film crew – and the tragic error that was his life become uncovered upon live TV.

“What was wrong with the Shitty-Arsed Sheila doll exactly?” Horatio decided to press on despite the young female standing up and walking to another seat, and inadvertently showing that she didn’t wear split crotch panties at all: Instead they were pink, with blue spots and a smiley face embroidered upon each buttock.

“You’re the fluffin’ expert.” Gray hissed through the side of his mouth, “You tell me!”

Well Horatio was always up for a challenge, and despite the fact that the sovereign of Hamster-Britain – Horatio’s blood father, Prince Rupert of Bandigal – had knighted Gray for Services to Industry and Other Follies, Horatio felt that he probably knew more about the whole affair than anyone aboard the bus – save, obviously, for Goosewing Gray himself.

“I imagine that it had something to do with the excrement.” Horatio half-stated – half-inquired.

Gray nodded, but remained mute.

“Whereas the Patti Poo-pants doll featured fake excrement that smelt of either jasmine, cinnamon, rose petals, or Amstair Fronce’s most famous perfume – Canal Boat Number Five,” Horatio continued, “sadly yours smelt like….”

“Crap?” Gray suggested.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

If you fancy purchasing this charming e-book, it is available from several sources, including those mentioned on the side bar, to your right.


Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 2

Long before those bewildering earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books. 

As you can clearly see, there are five of them available currently.  And very nice they are too – if you don’t mind stories that are not really suitable for pre-teens and can be a bit…ah…RUDE sometimes. In this brief series of  Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That, I aim to bring you little snippets from all five books. This time I’ve chosen a random snippet from Fanfare for the Common Hamster.

Deep within the bowels of the National Institute for Psychic Rodent Research, Felicity Bugler was coming desperately close to complete physical and mental exhaustion. Yet still Freddy Ringworm continued mercilessly to produce back-to-front playing cards for Felicity to ‘read’ with her mind.

So, once more, the young dormouse summoned up the strength to use her latent psychic ‘powers’ that Doctor Rambling Bramble felt certain that she possessed – at least in theory – possibly – if they were lucky.

“Queen,” she sighed – then added hopefully, “The Queen of Sods?”

Freddy flipped the card to reveal the Thirteen of Caks. Yet again Felicity’s shoulders slumped, and she yawned uncontrollably.

Upon an instruction from Bramble, who stood behind plate glass in a control booth, Freddy began to extract another card from down the front of his trousers where he kept them warm. But his paw was stayed by the arrival of a large group of Kool Kustard employees.

Primrose Pickles was just releasing herself from the kitchenette as they passed, and so was the first person to greet them – with a platter of inexpensive pancakes. She was overjoyed at the appearance of Joan. She couldn’t help herself from jumping up and down and squealing her name enthusiastically several times before having a paw clamped over her snout by Bramble as he appeared from the booth door, and pushed her back into the kitchenette – but not before relieving her of the pancakes, which he offered to Joan, Darkwood, Rootley, Brother Alfonso, and Reg Daftwaddle – for a small fee.

“My, Joan – you’ve certainly led us a merry dance: Where have you been?” He said – after pocketing four gold coins and a two Rodento note, “I don’t recognise these strange hamsters: Are they your friends?”

Joan didn’t respond immediately: She was still too shocked by Primrose’s welcome, and wondered if the young beauty practised lesbianism. If that was the case then she was doubly shocked: She’d never met a lesbian before. Then she caught sight of her sister through the brain-testing room window, and all thoughts of lesbianism were cast aside upon a tidal wave of emotion. It was patently clear to her what her sister was trying to do: She was risking her own sanity in an attempt to save her stupid, fat, hamster, sister from herself!


Freddy Ringworm had neither the opportunity nor wits to mount a defence: Joan was in the door, across the room, and shoving him aside before he could say ‘Horatio Indigo Transvestite Horseblanket’ – and all so that she could hug the tiny dormouse that was Felicity.

After recovering their composure, the sisters talked in excited squeaks for several seconds before their breath ran out, and they both dropped into the testing-chair in order to gasp mightily, and inwardly digest the information that had passed between them. This gave Algy Timber, who had only just returned from the toilet, the opportunity to vent his emotions. He did this in two ways: Outwardly he skipped upon the spot for several seconds, in a show of relief that at any other time would have left him mortified; then scuttled across the floor to greet her in the most un-boss-like hug imaginable. Inwardly he was finally able to cast off the constant desire to punish himself by chewing upon his private parts. The resulting sudden rush of endorphins in his brain made him go all numb, and he subsequently slumped in a heap at Joan’s feet.

“Sorry, Joan,” he said, slightly embarrassed, “but I have an intolerance to endorphins: That’s why Mildred prepares me so much porridge: It’s the perfect counter-agent. Nice to see you safe and well. You don’t happen to have any pancakes left I suppose?”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

The 29th Junior Earplug Adventure: Get it Free…Now!

Because the latest Junior Earplug Adventure is a little shorter than usual, I felt it unfair to charge the same price as the much longer editions. So I decided to give it away. Somewhere between posting the last episode on-line and publishing, the name changed. So this is what The Museum Out of Time now looks like…

Initially it is available only at Lulu; but it won’t be long before it appears for the Kindle, Nook, and Kobo. Small and perfectly formed, I think they call it. Download it: see for yourself.


Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 1

Long before those dumb-ass earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books. 

As you can clearly see, there are five of them available currently.  And very nice they are too – if you don’t mind stories that are not really suitable for pre-teens and can be a bit…ah…RUDE sometimes. In this brief series of  Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That, I aim to bring you little snippets from all five books – and that includes the fourth book, which (would you believe it) has not sold a single copy in the half-decade since publication. So, since I mentioned The Abduction of Wetpatch Wilson, let’s kick-off with a sample from that wondrous submarine tale…

Meanwhile Wetpatch and his schoolmates had concluded their competition, and were now kicking an old cola can into the shallows, and then throwing pebbles at it.

To his surprise Wetpatch was proving a crack shot, and several times his pebbles would ricochet onto the promenade and scare the shit out of old ladies taking the air.

Amy noticed this, and called Wetpatch over.

“Wetpatch,” she smiled sweetly – a ploy that had always worked well with her nephew – “how would you like to take a trip around the harbour in a dugout canoe?”

Wetpatch considered the question. Then he asked, “Will I have to dig out the canoe first?”

“No.” Amy’s smile faded slightly, “It will have been pre-dug out by an army of wood-gnawing rodents from over-seas. You won’t even have to paddle: They have a water vole that clambers off the back and pushes. I expect Mister Ho, Sally Blunderbuss, and that tart Gloria will join us.”

Wetpatch considered some more. The young trainee teacher was certainly hot stuff. He wouldn’t mind ogling her for half an hour. He agreed, but added a caveat. “Just as long as I can take some pebbles along.”

Both Amy and Roman were surprised at this. “Why?” They asked in unison.

“I want to impress Miss Bewtocks.” Wetpatch pulled himself up from his usual insolent slouch, “If the sailors that we pass en route leer horrendously I shall hurl pebbles at their groins with telling accuracy.”

Well this was possibly the most male hamsterly statement that Amy had ever heard Wetpatch utter; and despite the vague illegality of his intended behaviour, she agreed to his terms.

“Will your friends want to come?” She added.

Wetpatch looked casually over his shoulder in the direction of the beach where the schoolboys were currently hiding behind towels whilst they dressed themselves in their swim suits, “Nah,” he replied, “They’re all going into the sea.”

“A little bracing for a swim this early in the summer, I would have thought.” Roman opined with open admiration of the youngsters.

“Nah.” Wetpatch corrected his assumption, “They’re not going to swim: They’re just going to wade in up to their waists.”  He could see that neither adult showed the slightest comprehension. “It’s a shrunken gonad competition.” He explained, “They’ve taken measurements before they got here: When they come back out of the water again after five minutes, they have a re-measure. The owner of the most dramatically shrunken privates is the winner.”

Despite his better judgement Roman couldn’t help but ask the next question.

“Who’s going to do the measuring?” He asked.

“Well not Gloria Bewtocks, that’s for certain.” Amy answered before Wetpatch could open his mouth, “It would probably give a false reading. I suppose Mister Ho could though.”

“Who mention name Ho?” Mister Ho called out as he arrived with a nervous-looking Sally on his arm, “I don’t have time measure nothing: Sally think we being followed. Gonna take her round harbour. No one follow us out there. We got boat trip to go on. You come too?”

Well with an offer like that, not one of the three hamsters could resist. And as far as they were concerned, Gloria Bewtocks could watch out for the other boys. They’d probably prefer her company anyway: She could hold their towels for them.

“And who cares if their measurements go all awry.” Amy added, “It’s a silly sort of competition: No one’s a winner – not really: Especially the winner.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Another Ancient Excerpt

Since the ancient excerpt from my first Clive Thunderbolt-penned book went so well, here’s an almost-as-ancient excerpt from the sequel…

The bell jangled cheerfully as Janice led the hunting party into the kitchen from the herb garden.  It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the lower light levels inside, but in those moments she thought that she saw movement in the hallway.

She allowed everyone inside and gave all of them time to seat themselves around the table before she drew Wozniak aside.

“We’re not alone.” She whispered from behind the cover of the fridge door.

Wozniak went riged.

“Oh I think that there’s enough milk for all of us.” He said for the benefit of the others.

“How do you know?” He whispered.

“I saw movement in the hallway.” Janice replied with a tremor in her voice that threatened to become a scream. “I think it was a leg. I saw bare skin. It must be him!”

Wozniak made a quick decision.

“There’s not enough room in here for all of us to get into a bout of fisticuffs with anyone: someone’s liable to get hurt. You make the tea: I’ll take a dekko.”

Janice grasped Wozniak’s arm.

“Not by yourself?”

“I’ll take Tom.” He tried to smile. “Be ready to send reinforcements.”

“Tom,” Wozniak said loudly as he re-emerged from behind the huge door and collected up the two javelins, “there’s something I want to show you – out in the hall.”

Tom looked puzzled.

“Right-oh.” He said, and obediently followed his brother from the room.

Once in the hallway Wozniak eased the door shut behind them. He explained the situation to Tom.

Tom hummed as he looked up the stairwell.

“He has the high ground. If we go barrelling up there he could easily drop a wardrobe or something equally massive on our heads – and take us both out in one fell swoop. I think this is going to require a modicum of stealth.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Wozniak replied as he held out a javelin to Tom. “Which is why I brought these. There’s no room to swing a baseball bat indoors.”

He then noticed a heavy oak walking stick in the umbrella stand. He pulled it out and checked its considerable weight.

“But we can take this along in case I’m wrong.”

At that moment they heard the sound of a motorcycle arrive outside.

“Impeccable timing as ever.” Tom grinned. “It’s the cavalry.”

Wozniak and Tom strode out to meet P.C Duncan as he heaved his police motorcycle on to its stand. They were both disappointed.

“You haven’t brought your gun!” They stated the blindingly obvious in unison.

“No I haven’t.” The police constable sounded aggrieved. “Two lads came round my place a little while ago telling my wife a cock and bull story about alien invasion. But she remembered you turning up earlier to fetch the young couple away before they got a chance to talk to me – and put two and two together. So she calls me on my mobile, and I came straight ‘round here on the way home. So no gun. And even if I’d been at home I wouldn’t have brought it: it’s not police regulation equipment: I could lose my job. And if I was to discharge it whilst on duty – well the shit would well and truly hit the fan.”

“Well with no gun,” Tom said haughtily, “you might as well fuck off.”

P.C Duncan was surprised at this response.

“No-no,” Wozniak stepped between them, “it’s good you came. I don’t know what the boys told your wife – but I hardly think that there’s an alien invasion in progress. But we do have an intruder. A man. A naked man.”

“With a huge penis.” Tom interjected.

“And we think we’ve got him cornered upstairs.” Wozniak finished.

P.C Duncan raised his eyebrows at this.

“Naked, eh?” He said as he made to push past into the house. “A pervert most likely.”

“You’ll need this.” Wozniak offered the walking stick to the policeman. “He’s very, very, strong.”

“He killed my Rottweiler/Doberman Cross with his bare hands.” Tom added gravity to the situation.

P.C Duncan gulped audibly as he took the stick from Wozniak and checked for the presence of his handcuffs and pepper spray upon his utility belt.

“Right – we’ll see what we can do about this dog-killing flasher, shall we?”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2014

This magnificent literary masterpiece of unequalled thinginess is available in both paperback and e-book form. Check out the side bar for a look-see.