Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 14


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

For this excerpt I have cunningly chosen a snippet from The Abduction of Wetpatch Wilson

Well naturally enough, after being thrown from his lobster-shaped saddle on several occasions, and having his antennae crushed against the ceiling repeatedly, the captain of the Federation Council Stealth Vessel S.S Bargebutt had no choice but to quickly regain control of his emotions. It took a while longer before he was as successful in recovering the ship from its headlong dive, but eventually the creaking submarine levelled off, and the egg sisters – Blur and Sprightly – released a simultaneous sigh of relief at having survived their own sabotage.

In the lounge meanwhile all was pandemonium. Several pirates had been knocked unconscious by the violence of the descent, and even Sally had managed to poke herself in the eye with a wayward nipple.

Ludwig was furious: Several energy weapons had discharged by accident, and the décor was in ruins. He was also in pain – due entirely to his own weapon discharging, and badly singeing his cod piece. Conversely Bootle had rode out the calamity inside Cringe’s multi-layered dress uniform very well, and now strode amongst the injured pirates, pressing his tiny heel against their private parts, and grinding them with all his might – which, unfortunately, wasn’t very mighty at all.

The aforementioned Cringe lay spread-eagled across the upturned sofa, and groaned quietly as his face began to puff up, and bruises appeared through his facial fur.

Only Wetpatch appeared unfazed by the situation. With the Mind-Cap still firmly attached to his head, he had passed through the maelstrom of furry agonies untouched. Rather like a drunk falling down stairs, Wetpatch’s disconnected body had rolled with the metaphysical punches. He had become limp and compliant. His limbs had become supple, and his flesh yielded to the demands made upon it in much the same way that wet soap slips from even the most tenacious grasp, disappears from view beneath the foamy water, and then mysteriously embeds itself inside the bather’s unsuspecting arse crack.

“Recalculating course changes required to arrive at the Crustacean Collective Council chambers.” Sally heard Wetpatch say to no one in particular.

At first the middle-aged catering assistant felt full of wonder at the child-hamster’s ability to navigate without instrumentation or any fore-knowledge of his destination. Then she realised that if Ludwig were to fall silent from all his teeth gnashing and incoherent roaring, he might overhear the youngster’s stupidly high-pitched voice. So she did what any quick-thinking rodent in such a situation would do: She whipped off her knickers, and stuffed them into Wetpatch’s mouth. Then, after making sure that Ludwig’s back remained turned to her, she knocked the Mind-Cap clean across the room with one mighty swing of her handbag, then chased after it, kicking it into submission, before depositing it in the waste reclamation chute.

Ho, meanwhile, had hidden inside the dumb-waiter that carried meals from the galley to the lounge. And because it was padded with aroma-sensitive insulation, he survived the encounter with near-death with nothing more than a scraped elbow where he’d caught it upon the door handle.

“Hey,” he cheered as he emerged, “we survive good. Well most of us anyway. If anyone interested – Ho cook celebratory dinner.”

In the security camera office, Roman, Amy, and Branston were only now regaining their unsteady legs. The Security staff did likewise, and for some while there was much prodding of damaged soft tissues followed by bitter complaint.

Although Roman remained somewhat shaken by recent events, Amy had the presence of mind to quickly check the multitude of monitors.

“What do you seek?” The diminutive Branston inquired, as he rubbed a swollen knee.

“The Disemboweller.” Amy gasped her reply. “If the transfer conduit was perforated, then it’s odds-on that Professor Desmond Squealch and his manservant, Tutu, succumbed to a most hideous death.”

But Amy needn’t have worried. Pirate submarine umbilicals were legendary for their strength and durability, and although looking battered to within a micron of serviceability, the pirate vessel remained both intact and attached to the Bargebutt. She breathed a sigh of relief: With Hamster Heath’s most famous inventor alive, they still stood a chance of returning home intact, and with their mission completed.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

What is your favourite e-book supplier? Don’t answer that; the question was rhetorical. I asked it, merely as an excuse to mention that this book (and others) are available at most suppliers, which probably includes your favourite. Check out the sidebar for access to some of the better-known ones. →

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