Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 18

Long before those demented 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.

On this occasion I’ve selected an excerpt from ‘The Where House’.

Several seconds elapsed before Fanangy chirped up with, “Cripes, Colin’s taking an awful long time getting dressed. Shall we intercede?”

“Leave ‘im alone.” Boney snapped. “It’s a very tricky job – putting on a different ‘ead. And he ‘as to do it with his eyes lookin’ the other way too!”

At that precise moment Colin’s subtly altered face appeared at the side window. “What do you think?” he asked.

“Wowie, Colin,” Fanangy exclaimed, unsure whether she was pleased or disappointed, “you still look like you!”

Then, to the consternation of all present, a ripple seemed to flow across Colin’s face, and instantly he looked like someone else completely.

“By The Saint of All Hamsters,” Lionel bellowed in a voice that belied his tender years, “you look like someone else completely. I don’t happen to recognise him, probably because I don’t watch factual TV very much, but it’s quite uncanny. How does it work?”

“Well,” the strange face said with Colin’s placid tone, “this particular face is constructed with thousands of micro-contortion bars running through it. And the epidermis is made of Vario-Visage.”

Lionel mouthed the words ‘Vario-Visage?’ to Fanangy.

“Jeepers, Lionel, don’t you read all the latest science magazines? It’s obviously an alien version of Bendi-Face – the special mask stuff that they make for impossible spying missions into enemy territory.”

Lionel accepted this. He had little choice. “But the voice?” He said, perhaps with a slightly triumphant tone to it, “He sounds like Colin.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, young fellow.” Colin spoke in a perfect facsimile of Gymp’s voice, “Not with my Alterno-Garglebox insert. With this little gizmo I can sound like any damned thing I want to!”

With that he roared like an angry weasel, and everyone cheered until they were sick.

The public flogging of a number of graffiti artists was just getting underway when Colin and the others arrived in ‘his’ staff go-kart.

Immediately Colin made his way to the Officiating Podium to join the General and his wife, Agnes, there. The others simply slipped into the crowd, and thereby rendered themselves anonymous, and therefore invisible.

Colin allowed several thrashings to take place before he began his act of discrediting Major Hardcourt-Gymp. But when he began, there was no mistaking his intent. Making certain that the microphone, which supplied both the public address system and the listening hoards on local radio, was ‘open’, he sidled up to the general and said, “I say, General; you know you were looking at my willy this morning…?”

The General’s grim enjoyment of the spectacle before him evaporated like a fart in a hurricane. “What!” He verbally ejaculated.

Colin continued as though the other hamster hadn’t spoken, “Well I fancied a second opinion. I wonder if your good wife…?”

He didn’t say anything else. Instead he got out his ‘special tool’.

“The Great Angler Herself preserve me.” The general roared as he reeled back in surprise. “That looks a whole lot more impressive than that thing I saw this morning. That certainly doesn’t conform to normal military parameters: That’d make a damned fine target for an enemy sniper, and make no mistake! Agnes, cover your eyes!”

But Agnes couldn’t cover her eyes quickly enough. She couldn’t avert them either.

“Oh, flipping heck.” She wailed before fainting horribly, and falling from the podium.

“Gymp, you buffoon!” The General bellowed like any good general should, “You’re a disgrace to your uniform. And that is definitely not a regulation willy. You are summarily dismissed from the Tadgerstone Rifles. Go – before I have you shot as a scoundrel!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2012

Sorry About My Moribundity

I couldn’t help but notice that progress on THE GRAND TOUR has been somewhat slower than is normal with an EARPLUG ADVENTURE. This is because…well actually I’m not really sure why I’m writing so slowly. Maybe I have my mind on other matters. But whatever it is, I thought I should keep you salivating for the next episode – despite my moribundity – even if I haven’t actually written it yet. So, to this end, here is a small montage that features two future characters. Their names are Dorkan and Dawlish Deathwish. They are brother and sister and they have an entire planet to themselves. Here’s some of the stuff they’ll be getting up to…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2018


Three Cameras, a Shade, and a Potted Plant

Funny (innit?) how different cameras see the same thing…er…differently. Take, for example, the lamp that stands, beside a pot plant, in the corner of my sitting room. I often use it to test a newly acquired camera. Surely three pictures, taken within seconds of each other, would appear identical. You’d think so, wouldn’t you? So let’s see. Picture Number One was snapped with a tatty old Fujifilm J10 boasting 8.2 megapixels…

Notice how the autofocus had concentrated upon the pot plant? Well, with me standing in the exact same spot, it would be reasonable to assume that the second shot, via a 14.1 megapixel Canon Ixus 130, would look pretty much the same – only clearer. Well I thought so anyway…  

No, I wasn’t standing over by the door honest.  But what about a camera that falls roughly half way between the two megapixel extremes? How would that compare? I tried a 10.2 megapixel Samsung D1070. The result…

…was not what I expected. Which, I think, just proves that it isn’t the eye behind the camera that selects how a picture will look: it’s the sodding software. How very disappointing – even if the pictures aren’t.

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 17

Long before those delectable 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.

So, on this seventeenth attempt to invite you to join the Hamsterista of the world, I bring you an excerpt from Danglydong Dell Diaries.

It must have been an hour or more later when Tits remembered why they’d entered the bar. She was now thoroughly sated, and her belly almost protruded as much as her namesakes. Joan was in a similar position. Brother Alfonso, unused to alcohol, could barely form a coherent thought. Dung giggled stupidly into the bottom of his glass. And Brenda was asleep on the floor, with her tail wrapped about her like a hibernating dormouse. Dragging herself up from her seat in a cosy ‘snug’, the large breasted female approached the bar.

Kendrick looked up from wiping some glasses. “Ah-ha, fair female, do’est thou require a top up?”

Tits tried to shake her head, but it began to spin, so she gave up. “Um, not right now, thank you.” She tried curtsying again, but her knees buckled, and she fell upon a stool.

“What I’d really like is a little information.” She said as she righted herself, and then slumped against the bar.

Although a charming and gregarious character that treated all of his patrons with utmost equanimity, Kendrick couldn’t help but have a lustful eye for females who were constructed to his preferred configuration. Or to put it another way – he had a hankering for girls with big boobies.

“Ah-ha.” He boomed at a level of audibility several decibels lower than was normal for him, and which he probably thought sounded conspiratorial, “So t’is information you’re wanting, is it? How much are you prepared to pay for this information? Would a peck on the cheek sound unreasonable?”

For someone who was reasonably inebriated, Tits was remarkably fleet of thought. “Face or bum?” She said with a girlish grin.

“Oh, what a naughty female you are, you intoxicating wench from far away.” Kendrick’s tone had moderated even farther. “Poor Kendrick wishes only to lay his lips upon the delightful face of his most beautiful guest. Your bum I’d sooner grab with both paws. But more of that later: What is that you want to know?”

Tits described Tybrow Mooney as best she could. Having never seen the ghastly specimen, she had only the verbal picture that Joan had drawn of him with which to work.

“Tall and skinny, and looking more like a tailless rat than a hamster, you say? Kendrick rubbed is chin in thought. “That does sound familiar. And he used to own a tavern hereabouts?”

“I think it was called the Rancid Maggot Inn.” Tits told the helpful barkeeper.

Kendrick snapped his fingers. “I know the place.” He said almost as cheerfully as he might have yelled, “I’ve won the lottery!”

This time he actually lowered his voice to little more than a whisper, and Tits had to strain to catch his words over the general hubbub of the busy bar. “A bunch of weird eastern Europeans have taken it over. I think they might be desmons.”

“I’ve been told they’re bank voles.” Tits corrected him.

“Oh you might be right at that.” Kendrick tried to compare the two species in his mind’s eye. “I’ve also heard that they’re converting it into some sort of education centre – stroke – religious shrine to the former owner. Oh that’d be this Tybrow Mooney that you’re looking for. Odd, he doesn’t look very rat-like in the mural they’ve painted on the side wall. But that’s religious fervour for you: You can be blind to the truth, but still believe.”

Tits found that she liked this Kendrick Tweezledown. He was kindly, slightly lecherous, and possessed great insight and wisdom. He wasn’t that bad looking either

– especially for a mouse.

“Hmmm.” She agreed dreamily.

Kendrick looked at her. “Your pupils are dilating.” He said. “That means one of two things: I’m in with a real chance with you; or you’re too drunk to care.”

“A little of both I expect.” Tits mumbled as her head slumped closer to the bar top.

For the first time since she’d met him, Kendrick looked ill at ease – flustered even. “Do you think one of your friends can come and help prop you up. We’re not due to close for another hour, and I don’t think that you’re going to last the distance.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 16

Long before those cretinous 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.

So, on this sixteenth attempt to invite you to join the Hamsterista of the world, I bring you an excerpt from The Abduction of Wetpatch Wilson

After hours of fruitless searching of the massive undersea vessel, the young male hamster finally found what he sought reclining in a swing chair in front of the false ‘window’ in the lounge. He’d visited the room several times during his quest, and correctly surmised that Sprightly had been avoiding him.

“Oh Wetpatch.” The strange alien rodent wailed after Wetpatch had put forward his theory, “I was only trying to avoid you to spare you the horror of facing your ultimate demise.”

“What?” Wetpatch’s expression grew grim, “You mean Auntie Amy’s idea – that we’re all going to suffocate – is correct?”

“It’s all my fault!” Sprightly’s wail grew shriller.

She then explained that both egg-sisters had made their report to the captain by using sign language through a specially designed view port in his control room. It meant that they didn’t have to put on diving suits, and the captain didn’t have to hold his breath if they released all the water in his tank in order to talk with him face to face.

Some of Wetpatch’s insolence returned momentarily. “Yeah? So?” He sneered.

“Neither of us is much good at sign language.” Sprightly cried out, and then sobbed upon Wetpatch’s shoulder. “The captain misunderstood.”

What Wetpatch should have demanded at that moment was precise details. What had the captain misunderstood? What was his reaction to the false news? That sort of thing. But all he could think about was the impossible suppleness of Sprightly’s breasts as she crushed them carelessly against his arm.

“Cor…” He said lasciviously.

This simply utterance brought Sprightly to her senses, and she pulled away. Recognising that the magic moment was now firmly entrenched in the past, Wetpatch rather belatedly found the right questions to ask. And what he learned both shocked and awed him…

“What?” He boomed in his best stentorian tone, “The captain is in a bi-polar state of depression, and wants to die?”

“Yes.” Sprightly returned to wailing, “When we told him that the gut-rot pirates had shit all over the place, he thought we were telling him that the Gulfstream Pirates had been hit all over the place. He’s a huge baseball fan, and the Gulfstream Pirates are his home team. He’d bet heavily on them winning this year, and one loss would mean that their perfect season was over, which in turn would leave him at the financial mercy of his creditors; his evil brothers; and the Church of the Unwieldy Lobster.”

Wetpatch was having difficulty believing what his ears were telling him. “So now he wants to die? Is he some sort of tit? Can’t the Crustacean Collective come up with someone a little more stable to be their submarine captain?”

Sprightly shook her head. “He was the only applicant.” She sighed miserably. “Well there was a prawn, but none of his feelers worked properly, and he couldn’t tell left from right.”

And all that Wetpatch could think to say was, “Still…” Then another thought impinged itself upon his frightful reality…

“Hey.” His mood suddenly brightened. “Maybe I can cheer him up.”

Like a starving shrew grasps a mouldering cadaver, Sprightly grasped this idea. “Yes, what a wonderful idea: How were you thinking of performing this fabulous act?”

“Easy.” Wetpatch beamed, “I’ll show him my massively swollen testes. They’re enough to make anyone laugh – if only with relief that they don’t have to suffer the pain, anguish, and discomfort that I do myself!”

Clearly, as plans went, this was neither cunning nor sensible.                                                

“I don’t think so.” Sprightly replied – her face downcast and close to tears, “Lobsters don’t have testes: No matter how hilarious your enraged gonads may appear to a mammalian, the captain’s sense of humour will not be stimulated by their exposure. His visual acuity is a little off too, so there’s a good chance he’ll think your balls are your brains, and actually make the situation worse. He might even grip them in his mighty pincer, and tug them mercilessly from side to side, then cram them into your rearmost vent.”

Wetpatch was quite taken aback by this information. He’d read the autobiography of Hamster Heath’s only entrant into the Hamster Hall of Fame – Horatio Horseblanket, and during that remarkable young hamster’s adventures he’d relied upon his famous bollocks to save the day on more than one occasion. Wetpatch merely wished to duplicate his success. But he’d not read a single sentence that suggested that Horatio had ever suffered the ignominy of having his balls stuffed up his arse.  “Hmmm.” He pondered wisely for a moment. Then, as luck would have it, inspiration struck again, “I know.” He yelled joyously, “I’ll adopt plan ‘B’.”

©Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Now dare tell me that hamsters don’t make great vehicles for a tall tale!

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