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