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Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 13

Long before those delectable 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.

The following excerpt erupts, like a literary volcano, from Fanfare for the Common Hamster…

Nobody likes a sore loser, and there was surely no loser of more intense soreness than the Law Master of Weasels Pit – after once more losing her quarry – this time in a vast sump of slurry. Feeling utterly defeated she returned to the Rancid Maggot Inn where she resumed her copious imbibing, and entertaining those few lawmen who could be bothered to join her by showing them her latest piercings. Slowly, as the rough ale took its revenge for having been wrenched from the sanctuary of the beer cellar, Perfidity’s thoughts slowed, and the exalted feeling of being one with The Wheel seemed to putrefy, releasing the very beast within her that, under normal circumstances, she would have most dreaded: In short she got all horny.

Naturally Quentin Blackheart had already slipped from the scene, and was enjoying a bowl of steaming night time gruel in his little cabin beside Lake Effluence, so could not begin to assuage her needs.

Bet he was probably hamster-sexual anyway’, she thought morosely.

And the others now lay upon the floor, snoring in a most unmelodious way. It took a few moments for her brain to fully acquire the next thing that she looked at; but when she recognised the stairs for what they were – the way to Tybrow Mooney’s bedroom – she put aside her feeling of revulsion and loathing, and sent herself reeling towards the door.

Now it’s quite possible that in the event of the Law Master bursting into Tybrow Mooney’s private sanctuary  – smelling something evil, and swaying like a rhubarb frond in a hurricane – the potential recipient of a really good rogering could have been forgiven for clutching his night dress to his shallow chest, and screaming shrilly until either his eyes watered, or he ran out of breath. But this did not happen. This did not happen because Tybrow Mooney was very conspicuously absent.

“Ugh?” Perfidity grunted as she whipped back the sequined duvet that covered the solitary bed. Then she staggered in confusion: She could clearly hear the skinny hamster’s snoring; but of his body there was no sign. “Ugh?” she repeated.

Then, as is the way of well-trained Law Masters, her ability to overcome drunkenness kicked in: Rational thought returned.  She replaced the approaching third grunt with, “What the f…?”

Then she noticed that the candle beneath her outstretched arm was not burning her fur in the time-honoured way of candles: Instead it was making it stand on end, and giving her tingling feelings in places that she didn’t know existed.

“Tis the Axle’s candle!” she boomed like a wounded fog-horn, “Be extinguished!

With that she attempted to snub out the flame with a thumb and finger.

Naturally the sole result was that she was flung across the room by the resulting electric shock.

Stunned back into full intelligence she decided to avoid the problem of the Axle’s candle for the moment, and concentrate upon the invisible snoring. Well it didn’t take long for her to discover the hidden speakers, and then trace the wire to the bedside cabinet in which the old-fashioned cassette tape recorder lay. Of course she had no idea what she held in her paws as she turned it over and over in a close inspection: But she knew that it was a device, not of Prannick, but of somewhere else entirely. She also conjectured that it was evil incarnate.

“Hmmm,” she hummed as she replaced the items, then tidied the mess that she’d made whilst flying across the room. “Hmmm.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

If, by chance, you’d like to view this wondrous e-tome, you can do so by visiting the pertinent book covers upon the sidebar to the right side of your screen.


Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 4

Long before those literary masterpiece 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. 

Here’s a random excerpt from the third of the aforementioned – The Psychic Historian...,

Soon the young male hamster found himself walking along a colonnade of (what appeared at first sight to be) market stalls. But rather than being the purveyors of fruit, vegetables, unpleasantly sweating meat products, and sunglasses of dubious origin, the stalls were actually the point of contact between any would-be students, and the representatives of the town’s universities.

“Come and scrutinize our literature. Study our informative prospectus.” Those who manned the stalls would cry out. “Look how nicely we’ve laid out our campus.”

The young hamster was impressed by their entrepreneurial skills. He stopped and chatted with several before finally settling upon a college that enjoyed the moniker, ‘The Chunder Bellows School for Blistering Idiots’.

“Hello.” He smiled as he introduced himself to the ageing wood mouse behind the counter, “I’ve checked-out all the other colleges here today, and I’ve decided that your college is the one best suited to my needs.”

The ageing wood mouse took up a quill made from the tail feather of a wren, and dipped into a pot of ink. He then prepared himself to write upon a large sheet of headed notepaper.

“Name?” The wood mouse inquired in a disinterested tone.

For a moment this seemed to stump the young hamster. Then realization struck, and he smiled: Obviously the old mouse was almost blind. “It’s there – at the top of the page.” He informed the wood mouse.

“Ugh?” The wood mouse responded in puzzlement.

“Chunder Bellows School for Blistering Idiots.” The young hamster nodded pleasantly – pleased to have been able to help.

“You what?” The wood mouse was now even more perplexed. “Your name is the same as the college you wish to join? That seems more than coincidental.”

Now it was the turn of the young hamster to be confused. “But my name is Lancelot Ballesteroid!” He cried out in surprise.

In an instant the ageing wood mouse understood. “Ah,” he began to write the words Lancelot Ballesteroid in the box marked ‘name’, “it appears that you have indeed selected your college well: For certainly you are a blistering idiot.”

Lancelot didn’t know how to take this: Was it some sort of test? He thought that he’d play it safe. “Yes.” He said.

“Address?” The wood mouse asked, then stepped back to await Lancelot’s response.

Again Lancelot decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and so replied with, “Yours or mine?”

The ageing wood mouse sighed. “Oh, I don’t know – let’s try yours: we can come back to mine later.”

Lancelot liked the thought of that, and wondered if they would be having crumpets with their cup of tea. But he kept his counsel and said only, “Number Twenty-twelve, Rincon Del Anus, Hamster Heath.”

“Does it have a postal code?” The wood mouse inquired in a most professional manner.

Lancelot replied in the affirmative.

The wood mouse gave him a long appraising look, but said only; “Good. Perhaps we should come back to that later as well.” Then he added; “Age?”

Lancelot’s eyes darted this way and that. He wondered if this too was a test. What possible age could the wood mouse refer too? Then it came to him; “Ice.” He said loudly.

At this the wood mouse sighed so deeply that Lancelot thought that he might be in danger of inverting himself. “Perhaps you should see a doctor?” he suggested helpfully. “Your lungs don’t appear to have developed properly. Or have you been gassed?”

“Perhaps I should see a shrink.” The other responded. “But then I guess I’d have to be at least half-way crazy to want to run a college for morons in the first place. So your name is Lancelot Ballesteroid, you come from Hamster Heath, and you were born during an ice-age. Do I have all the facts correct?”

Lancelot considered this. “Two out of three aren’t bad.” He said uncertainly.

“If you’re happy with that – I’m happy with that. We’re done.” The wood mouse then extended a paw. “Welcome to Chunder Bellows.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

The five e-books that feature here are all available at many e-book retailers, including those mentioned in the sidebar to your right. You should take a look – if only out of curiosity.

P.S Did you see that? It wasn’t rude. No one farted or dropped their trousers! What is the world coming to?

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 3

Long before those adorable 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. 

So, on this occasion, I’m gonna treat you to an excerpt from the fantabulous Danglydong Dell Diaries…

Tumblesday, the Twenty-two’eth of Twat. Horatio could well remember when the ultra-realistic Patti Poo-pants doll had been unleashed upon the young female population of Hamster Heath. His testicles had still been tucked up safely inside his torso at the time, and there were times when he’d almost been tempted to ask his mother for one himself. But he hadn’t bothered for two principal reasons. One: His mother would have thrown up her arms in panic at the thought that her only son was hamster-sexual. Two: He would have received a vicious back-hander from her for daring to suggest that she spend her ill-gotten gains on something so essentially Hamster-French.

Of course Horatio had known nothing of Amstair Fronce at that time. He was yet to meet the famous three-wheeled go-kart racing champion, Norbert Disentangle. He was yet to paddle a dug-out canoe across the Bay of Biscuit, and be saved by a Hamster-French air-sea rescue helicopter. He was yet to have rampant non-reproductive sexual intercourse with the beautiful (if vain) Candice Rancide. Or smear Brie upon the raging volcano that was his sore anus during the most recent outbreak of Hamsters Arse. In fact he was yet to do anything that was in any way connected with that fair land across the sea. But he knew instinctively that anything produced in Hamster-France was, in some way, more stylish, and therefore more desirable, than anything made locally. He also knew that it was intrinsically wrong for a boy to want a girl’s doll – even if it did defecate most realistically.

These remembrances were flashing through the young male hamster’s mind now – as he sat upon the night bus from Poxford (where he’d been studying at Saint Dunces) to Hamster Heath – and, most significantly, the elderly male hamster on the seat opposite him looked decidedly like one of Britain’s most celebrated failures of recent times – Sir Goosewing Gray.

“Excuse me.” Horatio raised a paw and stamped three times on the bare metal floor to gain the older hamster’s attention, “Aren’t you Sir Goosewing Gray?”

The look that Horatio received was one of pure malice, and the following silence (that could only be described as ‘vicious’) should have set alarm bells ringing in Horatio’s head. But Horatio being Horatio, he ignored the warnings, and pressed on regardless.

“Yeah, didn’t you used to work for Twang Toys?” He continued.

Gray’s eyes snapped around to peer at Horatio. “Shush.” He hissed as silently as possible.

This gave Horatio reason to pause. He craned his neck around to see if Gray had any earplugs or headphones rammed into his ears. He even checked to see if the young female that sat beside him was a prostitute. But when she refused to lift her skirt and reveal her split crotch panties he quickly realised his error.

“Pardon me.” He said politely, and raised his hat to the young female, “Mistaken identity. I thought you might be a right slapper ‘on the game’.”

Then he turned his attention to Goosewing Gray once more. “If I’d been a girl when I was a kid, I’d have been a very annoyed youngster if I’d bought a Shitty-Arsed Sheila doll.”

Gray’s expression altered again. This time it pleaded – ‘Go away, and don’t mention the Shitty-Arsed Sheila doll again.’ But Horatio was immune to subtle nuances. Unless Gray told him to fluff off, he’d pursue this line of conversation until the bitter end.

“Yeah.” He started yet again, “Wasn’t Twang Toys utterly ruined by the Shitty-Arsed Sheila doll fiasco?”

Now it was most fortuitous that the bus carried very few passengers that blustery mid-Twat day, and with the exception of Goosewing Gray and Horatio, all of them were first year students in Poxford, and were either too young to recall the industrial melt-down to which Horatio referred, or had their heads buried in an electronic game device. It was fortuitous in two ways. One: No one looked up and pointed derisively. Two: Gray didn’t feel sufficiently rattled to bite upon a poisonous ‘tooth’ that he kept hidden at the back of his mouth on the off-chance that he might be accosted in the street by a film crew – and the tragic error that was his life become uncovered upon live TV.

“What was wrong with the Shitty-Arsed Sheila doll exactly?” Horatio decided to press on despite the young female standing up and walking to another seat, and inadvertently showing that she didn’t wear split crotch panties at all: Instead they were pink, with blue spots and a smiley face embroidered upon each buttock.

“You’re the fluffin’ expert.” Gray hissed through the side of his mouth, “You tell me!”

Well Horatio was always up for a challenge, and despite the fact that the sovereign of Hamster-Britain – Horatio’s blood father, Prince Rupert of Bandigal – had knighted Gray for Services to Industry and Other Follies, Horatio felt that he probably knew more about the whole affair than anyone aboard the bus – save, obviously, for Goosewing Gray himself.

“I imagine that it had something to do with the excrement.” Horatio half-stated – half-inquired.

Gray nodded, but remained mute.

“Whereas the Patti Poo-pants doll featured fake excrement that smelt of either jasmine, cinnamon, rose petals, or Amstair Fronce’s most famous perfume – Canal Boat Number Five,” Horatio continued, “sadly yours smelt like….”

“Crap?” Gray suggested.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

If you fancy purchasing this charming e-book, it is available from several sources, including those mentioned on the side bar, to your right.


The 29th Junior Earplug Adventure: Get it Free…Now!

Because the latest Junior Earplug Adventure is a little shorter than usual, I felt it unfair to charge the same price as the much longer editions. So I decided to give it away. Somewhere between posting the last episode on-line and publishing, the name changed. So this is what The Museum Out of Time now looks like…

Initially it is available only at Lulu; but it won’t be long before it appears for the Kindle, Nook, and Kobo. Small and perfectly formed, I think they call it. Download it: see for yourself.


How Kind, Kindle

Amazon Kindle are on board. Yes, this photo-novel e-book…

…is available at last. Alternatively you can read the serialised version on this site. Only here it’s called…

But which ever version you choose, you will have chosen well. Me? I’d go for the Kindle version.