Getting Back to My Roots 2

Prior to those pesky Earplug Adventures, I spent my free time writing my somewhat-less-than-epic (but nonetheless fabulous) Hamster-Sapiens stories. They involved proper writing. That is, writing without photos inbetween the paragraphs. Here’s a sample from one of them…

In this extract, an unpopular local hostorian has accidentally fallen through a trans-dimensional portal, into an alternative, more primitive reality…

It took a few moments for Adjusterming Boficals to make the mental adjustment required to comprehend that he was no longer in Hamster-Britain. He stared in wonderment at the shattered remains of the abbey gate. He then stared with revulsion at all the thawed custard that lay slopped all over the tops of a number of wooden trestle tables. And he goggled with disbelief when he noticed a monk nailing a hurriedly-made plaque to the gatehouse roof gutter.

“Lucas Cleats caught his knackers here?” He exclaimed to himself. “What sort of memorial is that?”

“Oh, they like to celebrate even the most insignificant victories here.” Roosevelt Teabiscuit informed him as he stepped into view from beneath the remains of the gate.

“Do I know you?” Boficals inquired – his mind still not entirely in sync with the new reality in which he found himself.

Roosevelt introduced himself. He concluded with, “I work for Fabian Strangefellow.”

Boficals shook the dormouse’s paw. “Pleased to meet you.” He responded. “Have I travelled in time? Is this the town of Bristly Bottom?”

Roosevelt put him right as regards his location in both time and space.

“Such a shame.” Boficals looked disappointed, “I’d so wanted to steal a march over Horatio Horseblanket. Now I suppose he’ll find the lost village instead of me.”

“I didn’t know he was looking for it.” Roosevelt told him.

“He isn’t – but you know how lucky that jammy bastard is.” Boficals complained. “He’ll probably trip over it whilst out exercising his pet caterpillar one day, and all the glory will be his again.”

Roosevelt quickly changed the subject. “So what brings you to Prannick?” He inquired.

“An accident, I assure you.” Boficals looked down his considerable snout at Roosevelt. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to go back to Hamster-Britain thank you. No one in their right mind would willingly visit a semi-medieval alternate reality: And I am most certainly compos mentis!”

Roosevelt sucked air in through his teeth, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well there we have a little problem: The only two people capable of opening a transfer point willy-nilly are away sorting out a serious problem. Felicity and I have remained behind purely because we’re short-legged dormice, and the consensus is that we might slow them down.”

Adjusterming clearly didn’t believe a word that Roosevelt said. Just to prove this point he said, “I don’t believe a word you’ve said.” Then to add clarity to the reasoning behind such a bold and inflammatory statement he added, “Someone opened that transfer point through which I just tumbled: I don’t see anyone else around: Ergo it must have been you.”

Roosevelt sighed, but he was most impressed: The local historian’s logic was irrefutable. So Roosevelt made the decision to confess all…

“We couldn’t sleep – Felicity and I – after such a wonderful victory over the Stix bandits. We wanted to dance and celebrate, but Primrose Pickles forbade us: She said that we would need all of our energy for the next day. In any case we couldn’t find any alcohol or musical instruments, and they haven’t invented the record player yet. So we did the next best thing.”

“You decided to have rampant non-reproductive sexual intercourse.”

Roosevelt looked at Adjusterming with new respect. “Yes we did.” He replied slowly. “We did it all over the place. And it was just as dawn was breaking that we decided to be extra daring, and do it in the open.”

“You decided to have rampant non-reproductive sexual intercourse upon the trestle tables.”

Roosevelt’s respect for Adjusterming grew exponentially. “Wow.” He said, “How did you know?”

“The buttock-prints in the spilt custard.” Adjusterming replied as his paw swept around to encompass the trestle tables. “They are clearly extremely feminine.”

“Incredible.” Roosevelt said breathlessly. “Why I do believe that your powers of deductive reasoning exceed those of my employer, Fabian Strangefellow. Tell me – what do you anticipate my next piece of information to be?”

Adjusterming stroked his chin intelligently, and withdrew a clay pipe from his back pocket, which he proceeded to light with a match that he kept in his ear for just this sort of occasion. “I am Hamster Heath’s foremost historian: It’s my duty to know all about the people of the town – just in case one or two of them do something noteworthy. For example I know that a certain dormouse by the name of Roosevelt Teabiscuit is well known as a psychic catalyst. I must confess that up until this moment I had decided to withhold judgement upon that claim, and refrain from labelling you a charlatan. But now that I have learned that you have been experiencing Felicity Bugler’s rude portions, I am now forming the opinion that the ‘word on the street’ is correct. Further I would now wager that at the height of her ecstasy, whilst slithering about upon the top of that trestle table over there, she opened a part of her brain that had previously been closed, and involuntarily opened the trans-dimensional portal through which I arrived.”

Adjusterming hadn’t noticed, but Roosevelt’s mouth had fallen open with astonishment. “Cor.” The dormouse whispered, “You aught to be a private detective. Everything you’ve said has been accurate to at least three decimal places.”

As was his wont, Adjusterming came over all snooty. “Naturally. Now can you make the intuitive leap necessary to estimate my next request?”

Now had Adjusterming been talking so rudely to…say…Horatio Horseblanket (or his mother, Molly, or even the town’s retired police constable – Bootsie) then perhaps he could have expected a blank expression and a gaping maw: But he wasn’t: he was talking rudely to Roosevelt Teabiscuit – and if there was one thing that Roosevelt had learned throughout his adventures with his girlfriend, Felicity, it was to make intuitive leaps. “Sorry, no-can-do.” He replied firmly.

“Sorry, no-can-do?” Adjusterming queried.

“You want me to give her one.” Roosevelt stated it simply enough. “Slip her a length, as it were.” He added for clarity’s sake.

“If, by that, you mean that I require you to engage Felicity Bugler in some sordid sex-act – yes you are entirely correct. I want you to give her ‘one’ just like the ‘one’ that you gave her earlier. I want her orgasmic crescendo to recreate that portal again. I want to go home!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Gosh, that was ruder than I remembered it. Naturally the e-book remains available at most e-book stockists. Check out the sidebar book covers on the sidebar, or the Tooty’s Books page beneath the header, for easy access to the better known ones.

Getting Back to My Roots

I haven’t always written earplug stories, you know. Once upon a time I created a literary world that was very rude indeed. This could be the time to remind ourselves that it was stupendously wonderful in every way. How about a little snippet of my world-famous Hamster-Fiction, huh? Maybe this wondrous tome?

Well here goes. But first I should set the scene. A soul group has been thrown out of the desert town of Gonad Gulch – principally because of their song’s subject matter. In the fracas, the lead singer has taken a blow to the side of his head from a house brick – and is dumped in the aforementioned desert by angry townsfolk…

It was obviously a while later, and the sun was just beginning to peek above the distant hills, when Chuck finally regained consciousness. Looking around all he could see was an assortment of broken musical instruments and the sides of a very deep ditch. He was confused upon thirteen different levels – all of them subterranean. It was only when someone called his name that he finally looked upwards – where he could see his three tenors – Adolf Pemberton, Minkles Forgetmenot, and Turbine Hall – all looking down at him as if from high vantage point close to hamster-heaven.

“Hey, guys, are you mutha-fluffers dead or something?” he inquired.

Adolf Pemberton was the first to speak…

“No, bro – but you’re gonna wish that your sad ass was.”

Alarm coursed through the fabric of Chuck’s brain as though a miniscule electric eel had been inserted into his rectum. “What’s going down, baby?” he asked nervously.

Minkles Forgetmenot was clearly angry. “You blew it again – that’s what ya did.” He roared in way that Chuck never imagined his second tenor capable – and was grateful that he’d never done it on stage: He might well have replaced Chuck as lead singer – and that would have been soul-destroying.

“Oh I don’t know…” Turbine Hall tried most male-hamsterly to find positive attributes in their generally negative situation, “…I think some of the blame can be placed at the door of our tour manager. He should never have booked us into a religious town like Gonad Gulch. It was asking for trouble.”

“Shut your goddamned mouth.” Minkles turned his fury upon the third tenor. Then Chuck winced once more when it swung back in his direction…

“You and your dumb-ass lyrics, Chuck.” Minkles managed to moderate his tone slightly. “Sure your melodies are great….”

“And his bass-lines throb like no one else’s.” Turbine tried interrupting.

“But the subjects of your songs…” Minkles continued – his shoulders sagging in despair.

“They’re about ass holes, man.” Adolf said the words that Minkles was trying to avoid. “My Farts Don’t Stink: What kind’a title is that? The chicks just don’t dig it.”

“People don’t forget them though.” Turbine chipped in. “They’re very memorable.”

“No they don’t, ya dumb ass.” Adolf agreed. “They remember them too goddamned well. They get us banned from every town that we ever visit.”

“Your songs stink, Chuck.” Minkles began to turn away from the upper edge of the ditch. He turned back for a moment. “And here’s a news-flash, bro: Your farts do too.”

With that Adolf and Minkles disappeared from Chuck’s view.

Only Turbine remained.  “Fruity, Chuck.” He said as he smiled eagerly. “Your farts smell fruity. I happen to like fruity.”

Chuck reached up. “Bro, shut the fluff up.” He said. “But first get me outta here!”

It was later still, and now the desert sun parched the earth upon which the four hamsters lay beneath the shade of the only rhubarb tree for as far as the eye could see. Adolf and Minkles were back on talking terms with Chuck, but they had nothing to say. And what verbiage Turbine could muster was largely ignored.

“So where’s the band?” Chuck finally managed.

“Quit.” Minkles grunted.

Chuck was confused. “Out here in the middle of the mutha-fluffin’ desert? Sho-nuf sounds unreal to this dude.”

“A passing newt-wrestling circus offered the brass section jobs as apprentice tadpole trainers.” Turbine informed him, “And the rhythm section caught a bus to Prairie Dog City – where they fancied being Office Buggers.”

For a fleeting moment Chuck thought that his ears were malfunctioning. But when Turbine repeated himself verbatim, he realized that his former band-members were far more stupid than he had ever given them credit for. No one but the most desperate of individuals took a job in Prairie Dog City. The prairie dogs that lived there were known for mistreating their staff in the most unfettered fashion imaginable, and treating hamsters in particular with utter disdain.

“You’re shitting me.” He breathed in almost-disbelief, “Those guys must have their brains scrambled or something. And Office Buggers? There sho-nuf aint a no more demeaning job in all of North America. Man – they gotta be desperate or something.”

“Yeah,” Minkles grumbled, “desperate to avoid being thrown out of every town in the west.”

“Oh I don’t suppose being an Office Bugger is half as bad as it’s made out to be.” Turbine said cheerily.

“Could you take it?” Adolf Pemberton growled from the opposite side of the rhubarb tree.

Turbine stopped being cheery. “I’m not sure.” He said, “What does the job entail?”

Well Minkles (being an expert upon the subject) proceeded to give a brief history of the position of Office Bugger in society in general, and in Prairie Dog City in particular. And it didn’t make easy listening.

Turbine turned pale beneath his facial fur, and even cast off his huge afro wig, and used it to mop up the cold sweat that erupted all over his body.

“You mean p-p-people actually do that?” he stammered, “They actually employ staff whose job is merely to be the butt of verbal abuse? That’s just so…”

He was lost for words, so Chuck said it for him, “Mutha-fluffin uncivilized? You got that right, bro.”

“But why are they called Office Buggers?” Turbine needed clarification of a couple of points. “If all the abuse is verbal, then should I assume that no anal sex whatsoever is involved?”

“Right on, man.” Minkles almost smiled, but the sight of Turbine’s sweaty afro lying in the parched desert dirt made his grim countenance return with a vengeance, “They don’t even get no decent rogering from behind inside the pencil cupboard. Folks just yell at ‘em. They yell things like – ‘Get your butt over here, ya little bugger!’ and ‘Why don’t you bugger off you ugly bastard!’ And that aint fun.”

“Yeah,” Adolf still growled, “and ‘Go to buggery, ya useless piece of shit!’ and crap like that.”

Clearly Turbine could see a theme manifesting itself in these verbal utterances. “They use the word ‘bugger’ a lot, don’t they?” He said – less as a question: More as a statement.

“Hence ‘Office Buggers’.” Chuck said as he too removed his afro, and sighed deeply with relief.

But still Turbine required more clarification. “So what’s so particularly awful about being an Office Bugger in Prairie Dog City? I mean – what could be worse than being told to bugger-off on a regular basis? It’s so demeaning.”

“In Prairie Dog City,” Minkles explained, “they call them real rude things. Things like…well I aint sayin’ the words coz they catch in my throat. If I say ‘em – well then I’ll most probably end up in Hamster Hell – and that just aint my bag, man. Can you dig it?”

Turbine could indeed ‘dig it’. He also grew very angry indeed – which was most out of character for him. But he hated injustice even more than his mother’s hot poultices that she used to administer to his private parts when he was a boy.

“I tell you what…” he began.

But he got no further because he was interrupted by the arrival overhead of a super-advanced dirigible that was coated in a glittery foil and bedecked with flashing lights.

A voice called to them from a quickly improvised cardboard megaphone. “Hey, you guys down there: Aren’t you Guff-Master Chuck and the Titillating Tonsils? We’re

from the secret scientific, quasi-military, base known as Area Ninety-Nine. It gets really boring after nine o’clock at night: How about you give us a concert or two. We can pay you. We even have our own funk musicians.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan  2013

There, that wasn’t bad at all. Was it? As usual the e-book is available just about everywhere – including those usual places mentioned on the side bar and beneath the header. So if you feel tempted to see how this tale panned out, you know what to do,