Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 11

Long before those anthropomorphized 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 excerpt originated in the least successful book in the series – The Abduction of Wetpatch Wilson

It quickly transpired that what Droop could see caused mass exclamations of surprise and puzzlement. At first sight they looked like precise co-ordinates. They did at second sight too. And when Desmond punched the figures into the ship’s computer, the resulting location made everyone snort in consternation. And the reason for this was because it was deep inside an underwater mountain.

“How fluff they get there?” Ho inquired eloquently.

“Aint that some obvious stuff?” Kevin called from the open doorway into the corridor, “They perhapped.”

“You said that they perhapped onto an ethereal plane of quasi-existence.” Amy argued with bitterness in her tone. “Now you’re saying that they perhapped into a solid mountain? If Professor Squealch hadn’t made you, I’d suspect that you’d been left behind just to confuse us.”

Although Kevin was a mere machine, Desmond had programmed it to comprehend emotion and feelings. Consequently it felt rather hurt at the semi-accusation.

“Hey,” it cried out plaintively, “I been given all that emotion, and feelings, and biological crap ya know. I’s hurt something like buggery by your semi-accusation. And who’s saying that the mountain’s solid anyway. Maybe it’s like a big hard balloon thing.”

And although everyone put aside a brief moment to contemplate Kevin’s appreciation of emotions, feelings, and biological crap – what really gained their attention was the theoretical scenario in which a mountain could be hollow.

“Is it possible, Desmond?” Sally asked hopefully of the wild-furred hamster.

“It would take an army of workers yonks and yonks and yonks to hollow out a mountain.” Desmond shook his head and smiled condescendingly, “I really feel that this time my creation’s idea is somewhat fanciful. Gag-makingly in fact.”

“Fanciful is good.” Wetpatch felt duty bound to remind the professor. “Hasn’t your whole career as a brilliant inventor been based upon fanciful ideas? I don’t remember any of them being gag-making – even that machine that turned people upside down and shook them around lots and lots in an effort to simulate birthing to those right-wing Argumentalists who doubted that vaginal tissue could really stretch that much; and that natural birth was just a government conspiracy to cover up the truth that we’re all products of spontaneous existence, or that we were brought here in flying saucers from the planet Gargh. Just because Kevin’s a machine – that doesn’t make his fanciful ideas any more unlikely than your own.”

“That’s right, Professor.” Roman unexpectedly railed against his hero. Or rather he didn’t. “Kevin is your brilliant invention: You obviously built in sub-routines especially designed to think up fanciful situations and scenarios. Ergo – Kevin’s intelligence is an extension of your own.”

Well this statement placed an entirely different complexion upon the argument. Fortunately Desmond didn’t actually say those words. Instead he made do with, “Oh yeah; you’re right. Brilliant idea, Kevin. I don’t suppose you have any idea how they ‘perhapped’?”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Taken out of the context of the main story, that might (possibly) have made little sense. But if you’d read the preceding text first, quickly followed by the words that appeared after this excerpt, it might have hung together rather well. Of course, the only way to discover the truth is to purchase the (surprisingly inexpensive) e-book – at almost any e-book stockist, which includes all the majors. Check out the book covers – to the right – for direct access to Lulu, Apple, B&N, and Amazon.

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Junior Earplug Adventures: The Grand Tour (Part Four)

Meanwhile, far away, upon the planet Earth. Or, to be slightly more precise, upon Henhouse Island…

 

…former would-be God and Dictator, Ballington Cork, remained inside the stasis field…

…in which he had voluntarily imprisoned himself since his thwarted attempt to take control of the Museum of Future Technology…

…and embarrassing defeat at the hands of the famous Earplug Brothers…

During his time inside the stasis field, he’d endured many dreams and nightmares. Sometimes he couldn’t tell which was which…

And he might well have continued his unbearable existence, but for a fleeting moment of mental contact via the undiagnosed psychic talent of former disco-king, Hambledon Bohannon…

…whose mind often wandered into esoteric realms whenever circumstances had forced him to forgo his daily intake of driving disco rhythms. This telepathic touch immediately inspired the slumbering Ballington Cork to initiate an exit protocol…

Or, to put it another way, he switched the stasis field off. Moments later, after having stretched his legs and emptied his bulging bladder, he let himself out of the Stasis facility…

…and made off across the adjacent concrete apron…

He had only one destination in mind: his RD125 Landing Craft…

…aboard which he intended to visit the distant mainland.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2018

 

 

 

 

 

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 10

Long before those silicon-wonder 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 I’ve decided to display a random excerpt from Danglydong Dell Diaries…

“It’s a bit of a long-shot, isn’t it?” Stubby seemed unconvinced a few moments later. “Your plan relies entirely upon some pretty spectacular physiological differences between the people of Prannick, and the people of Hamster Heath, which, quite frankly, I think are rather unlikely. Take the two Algys for example: They are so identical that we don’t dare let them touch each other in case they explode.”

“Ah, but there’s a good case in point.” Dung counter-argued by grabbing Algy and dragging him to the centre of the room. “Are they so identical?”

It was a rhetorical question, so no one responded. Dung continued by addressing Algy directly…

“Mister Timber,” His tone was quizzical, “Do you like custard?”

A shudder ran through Algy as though someone had just slipped a large slug into his underpants.

“Can’t stand the stuff.” He said. “It’s bad enough that I have to work with the muck five days of the week: Eating it would be like adding insult to injury. I’m a porridge person myself.”

“Hmmm,” Dung nodded sagely. “But if someone put a gun to your head, and shouted, ‘eat it – you snivelling cretin, or die’ could you, in fact, eat it?”

It was a ridiculous question, and Dung knew it – yet he shook Algy several times in order to force a response.

“Yes of course I could it eat it, you stupid hamster.” Algy retorted, “And I wouldn’t need a gun to my head to do so either. A twenty Rodento note would be enough.”

“Could you keep it down?” Dung urged.

“Of course.” Algy retorted again.

“How much could you eat?” Dung pressed, “A cup full? A bowl? A flagon? A family tub?”

Algy was becoming weary of what he considered a pointless interrogation, but Joan must have had an inkling of where Dung was going with his questioning, and duly urged Algy to answer.

“All of them.” He replied. “One after the other. Or all together if they were different

flavours, and one of them was dandelion and lemongrass sorbet.”

There appeared a definite light of passion in Dung’s eyes when he then asked, “Would it make you drunk?”

“It might make me vomit uncontrollably,” Algy sniggered as he adjusted his Kool Kustard company tie, “but I think I can hold my dairy products with the best of them.”

“By the Rim!” The Abbott cried out in revelation. “The big-nosed hamster makes perfect sense: The reason that custard never became popular in Prannick was because of its pseudo-alcoholic effect upon the population.”

“That’s right.” Joan began bouncing with enthusiasm. “Don’t you remember, Mister Timber – how we tried to open a custard store in Weasels Pit just after we’d helped free it from the tyranny of The Wheel, but…”

Quentin Blackheart took up the line…

“…I had to close it because of all the bad behaviour it was causing with the youth of the town. And many of the patrons of the Stoat and Wanger public house were too drunk to walk there, and the landlord almost became bankrupt overnight.”

“Of course.” Darkwood threw up his paws. “That’s why I get so giggly and show complete strangers my shaven buttocks when I eat custard in Joan’s realm: I’m always pissed as a fart!”

Then everyone began relating tales of how they’d seen custard have detrimental effects upon the cognitive powers of Prannick-folk. Only Stubby and Dung remained silent. Stubby indicated to Dung that they should speak alone.

Moments later they stood together in the corridor.

“You realise what you’re suggesting?” Stubby began. The warning tone in his voice was clear – even to an insensitive bastard such as Arthur Dung.

“What – does getting drunk infringe upon the monk’s religious beliefs, or something equally trivial?” Dung sneered.

“It strikes directly at the heart of their beliefs.” Stubby replied. “These monks are the spokes of The Wheel. They keep separate the evil that is at The Hub, and devote their lives to assisting the ordinary rodent of Prannick to attain a higher state of being – that being ascension to The Rim.”

Dung shrugged his shoulders. “So they fall off the wagon every so often: They’ll get over it. Besides – would they prefer being gutted by a bunch of mad-hamsters in stead?”

It was an excellent argument, and Stubby was hard-pressed to counter it. He had to make do with, “You’re an arse-hole – did you know that? But you’re also essentially correct: When shall we do it?”

The sound of splintering wood in the gatehouse below brought new impetus to Dung’s thought processes. “How about right now?” He suggested.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

This e-book is available at just about every e-book outlet, which probably includes your favourite.

 

Pretentious? Moi?

There I was, Googling myself, when, hey presto, I discover that I’m one of those wise asses who expound their opinions and display spurious knowledge upon the Internet. I wrote this, upon someone else’s blog, in 2014…

“No two writers are alike. I’m not sure that one writer (however successful) can really teach another ‘how to do it’. In the end we all find our own voice.”

Have you read my stuff? Earplugs and hamsters, for heck’s sake. How pretentious can I get?

Oh yes – that pretentious!

 

Junior Earplug Adventures: The Grand Tour (Part Three)

Far away, upon the surface of the ice planet, eternal winter was quickly re-establishing its meteorological pre-eminence. Snow was rapidly building up around multifarious buildings and places of worship…

It was also beginning to annoy the older brother of planetary leader, Marnus Pongfinger…

His name was Marnus Stenchnee, and he hated his job. This was because his job was redundant. It harked back to the ghastly days of the cold war, when artillery crews would creep out of their barracks during the hours of darkness…

…and keep the ‘enemy’ awake by shooting…

…over their heads, until dawn. Marnus’ task was to count the energy bolts that travelled overhead and assign them marks out of ten for brilliance. But now peace was deeply entrenched in Ice World society, he was feeling like the fourth wheel on a trike. So, as boredom threatened to overwhelm him, he decided to ‘stretch his legs’ for a minute or two…

And it was about three minutes into his two-minute walk, when the disgruntled royal sibling experienced a revelation…

And having done so he tossed aside his Observer’s Seat and went straight home for a poop and a warm bath…

Freshly cleaned and spruced-up, Marnus Stenchnee then set out into the snow, upon a quest…

A quest that would finally give his life some purpose.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2018

Junior Earplug Adventures: The Grand Tour (Part Two)

Aboard the Chi-Z-Sox, its captain, seated in the Captain’s Chair, with his wife beside him…

 

…stared, straight ahead…

…at the myriad wonders of the universe.

“I know.” Putridity said suddenly. “Let’s make our first stop that ghastly ice planet.”

Always keen to keep his wife ecstatically happy, Hydious agreed wholeheartedly and duly brought up an image of the very world to which his wife referred…

But then he recalled how the planet’s crust has succumbed to tectonic stress and the over-use of its natural resources – namely ice – as its inhabitants exported more ice to other worlds than could be practically replaced quickly enough. It resulted in…

…the surface breaking up – releasing surface water for the first time in countless centuries.

“Helmsplug.” Hydious boomed. “Set course for that ice planet. You know the one. The one we visited yonks ago. The one that was embroiled in a cold war. The one that very nearly fell apart. The one ruled by Marnus Pongfinger.”

“Aye, captain: I know the one.” The Helmsplug replied. “Its over there, in that direction.”

Moments later…

…the crew of the Chi-Z-Sox piled on the metaphorical coals. And quite a lot of moments later…

…that same Helmsplug had the ship’s forward sensors display the Ice Planet as it existed in real-time…

“Oh, Hydious.” Doctor Putridity Gout exclaimed. “Look at that polar ice cap: its growing like heck. Soon the planet will be entirely icebound again. They’ll be able to export ice cubes again. Think of it, darling: cool gin and tonics again. And ice packs for earplugs with arthritic or wonky knees!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2018