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.

 

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