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.