Time for some more rude Hamster-Sapiens book extracts. Well one anyway. Today we delve into the intellectual abyss that is this e-book…
And the extract that has been selected by random chance is this one…
“Tell me.” Dung roared as he dragged Algy to his feet, “Why are the Stix so frightened of Brother Alfonso’s willy?”
“Coz it’s scary, I guess.” The puzzled monk replied.
“And custard.” Dung continued, “Does it affect everyone like it affects you?”
“It’s banned by The Wheel.” Brother Algy gave a whimsical smile, “Guess they banned it for a good reason.”
“Hmmm.” Dung went.
“Hmmm?” Brother Algy queried.
Dung decided to explain his thought processes – not so much for Algy’s benefit, but to confirm in his own mind that his sudden inspirational plan was devoid of errors.
“Joan Bugler’s plan was to bring this load of frozen custard into Prannick, where she hoped to engage the talent of a powerful psychic that would mentally convince the Stix bandits that we were the Hamster Heath Heathens Sod-ball team. They were to be convinced that those huge roustabouts were about to attack them with shovel-loads of rock-hard confectionery – just as they did to the forces of The Wheel during the Battle of Weasels Pit. Theoretically the mere threat of the infamous Heathens would make any band of recalcitrant Stix bandits turn tail and run. But the custard has thawed horrendously: No amount of psychic fooling around will convince them now. What we need is a completely new plan: And I’m the one to supply it. Me – Arthur Dung – the most despised rodent in Hamster Heath – except that insolent little shit Freddy Ringworm down at the Institute of Highly Important Studies, that is. This is my one chance at populist immortality, and I’m gonna grab it with both paws, my dumpy little tail, and my skinny cleft buttocks!”
“Oh.” Algy almost seemed interested,” You’d better be along then, and tell ‘em all. But be quick about it: I wanna have a wee, and I don’t like someone looking.”
But Brother Algy was talking to thin air: Arthur Dung was already slithering his way towards the exit – and his destiny.
Joan had just finished apprising everyone in the Abbot’s quarters of her plan to fool the Stix into fleeing, when in staggered Arthur Dung. He was exhausted – not only from the long climb from the lower latrines, but also because he’d been forced to keep taking side trips to ask the way. Consequently he was too out of breath to speak immediately. But he didn’t really need to: Everyone could see the tell-tale stains of liquidised chocolate custard that had adhered to the hem of his trousers, and they all recognised the fact that Joan’s plan lay in ruins.
Joan wailed almost inconsolably for perhaps five or six seconds before pulling herself together, and facing the problem by quickly trying to conjure up an alternative plan from inside her fertile young mind. Unfortunately she came up empty.
By then Dung had recovered sufficiently to say, “Don’t worry, Miss Bugler: I think I have the very alternative plan that you’re desperately wracking your brains to find.”
He then explained it.
“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 instead?”
©2013 Paul Trevor Nolan
Naturally this stroke of literary genius remains available to purchase. Just check out the side bar to access some of the retailers with the wisdom to list it – including my publishers (hah!) Lulu.com.