Tag Archives: book excerpts

Revel in the Ribaldry 4

As in the time honoured fashion of Revel in the Ribaldry, for the fourth extract from the defiantly different Hamster-Fiction series of e-books, I have delved into  the fourth book. Well it makes sense to – doesn’t it? Actually, in some ways, it doesn’t. And that is because this book…

…is the forgotten book of the series. For some reason I cannot fathom, not a single copy of this book has been bought by anyone anywhere. That, or my stats are faulty. But whatever – here comes the promised extract…

“Big tits and arse holes!” Desmond roared when he received Wetpatch’s subsequent report. “Space/time has gone to buggery!”

Everyone crowded around the lounge table in order to study the sheaf of photographs that Wetpatch had brought with him from the recent past.

“Are those Bermuda shorts that Tutu’s wearing?” Amy inquired. “A little out of character I would have thought.”

“And regard that calendar, if you will.” A madly-pointing Roman gesticulated towards the photograph of his choice. “I thought we were supposed to be saving the Crustacean Collective: Not the Cephalopod Emirates. If that’s not a naked octopus waving its tentacles in a most provocative manner, I’ll eat my police truncheon!”

“And look at this picture of me in the showers.” Amy squealed. Then she thought better of it, and quickly changed her tune. “No, on the other paw, perhaps you shouldn’t.”

But it was too late: Everyone’s eyes turned to regard the picture with rather less than entirely intellectual interest.

“Oh I see what you mean, Auntie.” Wetpatch called above the resulting clamour. “Your nipples are protruding through your silken chest fur like cigarette butts, which obviously means that you’re taking a cold shower in this picture. You never take cold showers, Auntie: Never in a million yonks. You like ‘em hot ‘n’ sweaty – like your sex. That can’t be the real you!”

“Now perhaps you’ll understand why I shouted ‘Big tits and arse holes’:” Desmond bellowed, “This is an utter disaster. As a brilliant scientist I am mortified. This is probably the lowest point of my career. I was going to retire when this particular adventure is over – but now I can’t possibly. Now I’ll have to spend my dotage producing ever greater works, if I’m ever to live this down. I’d like to kick myself up the arse if I could.”

“It wasn’t your fault that there was some sort of weird interference.” Sally tried to placate the desperate genius. “You’ve never made a time machine at the bottom of the sea before.”

“Indeed.” Cringe put on his most enthusiastic voice, “At least the youngster came back alright. At least we know that he’s really him this time.”

The enthusiasm turned out to be infectious.

“Yes, that’s right.” Roman added his two Rodentos-worth, “I can vouch for that.” He said adamantly.

“You can?” Desmond’s tone had turned hopeful once more.

“Of course.” Amy stood foursquare with the police constable. “Roman and I took Wetpatch into the toilet, where we drew a huge cross upon his buttocks with a felt-tip pen.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Wetpatch chirped happily. “And just to prove it…”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

P.S Its hard to believe (isn’t it?) that this book has a sales figure of zero. I mean – seven sodding years, and not one copy graces someone’s e-book reader. How about putting that terrible wrong to rights? Why not visit an e-book stockist – like the ones mentioned on the side bar to your left, or that area beneath the header – and purchase an e-copy of The Abduction of Wetpatch Wilson right now? Its jolly good you know – in a slightly whacky way. It’ll probably make you chuckle.

 

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 23

It has been quite a while since I posted an extract from one of these books…

They are, of course, the legendary Hamster-Sapiens series. And on this occasion I have chosen a random extract from my favourite – The Psychic Historian.

The mayor warmly greeted the Chinese fact-finding mission after they were plucked from the swell, dried off, dressed in the only clothing available that would fit them – the local girl’s school sod-ball team uniform – and were presented to him.

“What is your name, brave sir?” He inquired of the ageing oriental who was feeling distinctly embarrassed in his dark green gym slip, white plimsolls, and pneumatic shoulder pads.

“Mister Fong – Senior.” The Chinese hamster replied proudly, despite his apparel.

“Of course you realize that you have done the town of Sadness a great service.” The mayor informed him.

“Suppose so.” Mister Fong (Senior) replied once more.

The mayor looked around at all the town councillors as they gathered in the rain upon the steps of the town hall in front of almost the entire population of Sadness.

“Is there any way that we can repay you for your act of heroism?” he inquired.

This was just the opening that Number One son was waiting for. He’d been practicing his speech for this moment since he’d been placed beneath a hair dryer in the parlour of a seafront beautician in an attempt to make him look more presentable.

“Yeah.” He said loudly as he stepped in front of his honoured father, “There is. Pops wants to set up chain of Chinese restaurants in Hamster-Britain. He don’t like taxes and organized crime. You take care of both – he make Sadness into happy town.”

The mayor mulled this over, and then whispered quietly amongst his acolytes.

“Chinese food, eh?” He said at last. “Is it nice?”

“It’s a bit samey.” Number One son confessed, “But, yeah, I think it’s nice.”

After a moment’s further thought the mayor extended a welcoming paw to Mister Fong (Senior). “May your life in Sadness be long and fruitful. But, sorry, the name Stickee-Lickee will have to go: It’s a bit rude.”

Number Two son quickly scurried forward. “What about plan B, honoured father?” He said. “We call it Golden Showers. Nothing rude about that.”

Again the mayor smiled. “Perfect. We have a deal?”

Then, finally, Mister Fong (Senior) smiled. “No.” He said, “You no speak Hamster British proper: We GOT a deal!”

With that the picture faded out, and someone wisely raised the house lights. It had been a moving moment for all concerned. Hamster-Britain had been a sallow, disrupted nation – until the arrival of egg fried rice. The audience took a moment to give thanks to the Saint of All Hamsters for having led the Fongs to Fadness. Then the current Fongs reanimated.

“Well was it good?” Yu Wah inquired of Sorbresto. “Did my forebears really act with great courage and chivalry?”

Tears formed in Sorbresto’s eyes. ‘Was that all that this fabulous beauty had wanted to know? That her family had acted with honour?’

“Yes.” He said, as he tried male-hamsterly to reign in his emotions.

“That’s good.” Yu Wah smiled massively “Now we have rampant sex – yes?”

Sorbresto smiled the smile of a much-travelled, world-weary, male hamster. “Yes – now we have rampant sex. But not here: I have a trailer out the back. It has a chandelier to swing from if you’re really keen.”

Upon the stage Boney’s legs wobbled in amazement at this turn of events. But then a profitable thought crossed his mind, and he spoke these words…

“Intermission, everybody. Food an’ drink available for all. I can even send out for Chinese if anyone’s interested. All at very reasonable prices of course.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

 

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 9

Long before those nauseatingly fabulous 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.

On this momentous occasion I’ve elected to share with you an excerpt from The Psychic Historian.

It was clear from Freda Bludgeon’s appearance that time had passed in the green valley where the famous author lived in her stone-built cottage. Now her grey muzzle perfectly matched the low cloud that hung above the valley like a menacing oil spill. Her clothes had become worn, and the previously bright white net curtains that hid the interior of the house from nosey passers-by were dull and splattered with the detritus of years.

Freda, herself, was trying desperately to write her latest best-seller, but it was obvious that she had been stricken with the nastiest case of writer’s-block since the invention of the written word.

“Oh woe is me.” She cried plaintively as she flung aside her tatty, almost useless, typewriter, “Until I can feel my belly full once more I swear that I cannot write another word.”

Any other complaints and utterances of self-pity were put aside when there came a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Get up off yer skinny arse; answer the door; and you’ll find out – won’t you.” The gruff reply pierced the thick wooden door that barred the cold, blustery, day from entering like a head-hunter’s spear.

The voice belonged to Izzy Ekaslike – the local postal delivery person. For a moment the thought of what Izzy might have in the bottom of his satchel gave Freda reason to hope. ‘Is it possible that he might be delivering a royalty cheque?’ She thought it unlikely – especially since everyone was so poor now that not a single book had sold in the last year – anywhere throughout the entire land of Hamster-Britain.

‘But there’s always overseas sales.’ She thought, ‘Not every country has adopted the environmental concerns, and legislated new anti-pollution laws that my endless campaigning has managed to push through parliament, and which now cripples the country’s industry and farmers to such an extent that they’re no longer competitive in the world market.’

“Be right there.” She said chirpily.

Izzy Ekaslike stood and dripped in the doorway as Freda opened the door to him.

“Izzy.” Freda said by way of welcome.

“Miss Bludgeon.” The miserable-looking male hamster replied politely – if a little curtly.

“Do you have a little something for me?” Freda inquired.

Izzy held secret feelings for Freda, so he was surprised, and slightly thrilled, by the question.

“How’d ya mean?” he inquired in turn. “What – in me trousers, ya mean?”

Freda, for all her fame, was no female-of-the-world. “Your trousers?” she looked puzzled. “Has your satchel developed a hole in it?”

Izzy’s shoulders slumped. He knew it had been too good to be true. Famous authors never had sexual intercourse with postal delivery people: It was a well-known fact. “Yeah,” he said, even more grumpily than usual, “It’s a letter.”

With that he flung an envelope across the threshold; turned away abruptly; mounted his push-along-scooter – which Freda noticed no longer bore any tyres upon its tiny wheels – and made off at his best speed, which was actually very slow, due in no small part to the fact the road was nothing more than potholes held together by short stretches of tarmac.

Moments later Freda had returned to her pantry, and was tearing the envelope open with her incisors. It had been weeks since anyone had bothered to contact her, and she was shaking with the excitement of anticipation.

When, after she’d managed to calm her trembling paws, Freda had battled her way past the arsenic-laced seal, the cheese wire wrapping, and the small incendiary device inside, Freda’s eyes pored over the attached letter. In the brief moments before her solitary oil lamp stuttered into extinction she managed to decipher the opening lines: They read…

Dear Miss Bludgeon, you are an utter bastard. I hate you with all my heart. When the time comes for you to die, I hope it is long and protracted, and gives you the opportunity to reflect upon your actions, which have been instrumental in destroying the fabric of life in Hamster Britain. If it was physically possible for a minge to fall off – I hope your does. Or at least get horribly infected. Due to your stupid environmental interference I have lost everything, – my company, my family, my self respect, and, most importantly, my great wealth. Recently I was forced to sell one of my kidneys to one of the few rich people left in this benighted country, and the larger of my testicles to scientific research – merely to buy a loaf of bread and some fuel to power my lawn mower.  Worse still is the fact that I am one of your biggest fans. This winter I have found it necessary to burn my entire collection of your mystery novels – not because I now hate your work, but because it is the only way to heat the tiny garden shed that I now call home. If Springtime doesn’t arrive soon I’ll have to burn all your self-help and sex guides. After they’re gone I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t even nail up an electrical socket without literary aid: And quite what I’ll find to do with my willy confounds me. But that’s all by-the-by: The point of this letter is…

To say that Freda was shocked was possibly the understatement of the year. She was more than shocked. In fact she was so shocked that she had to run to toilet, which was fortuitous because she kept an early prototype Timmy the Twonk Engine wind-up torch on top of the cistern for situations just like this. Winding the handle on the side of the torch for all she was worth, Freda dropped her knickers, sat her withered buttocks down as comfortably as possible (which was difficult because the toilet seat had broken during an autumn storm, and she was yet to find the fiscal resources to replace it), and settled herself to read the remainder of the letter.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

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Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 2

Long before those bewildering 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. 

As you can clearly see, there are five of them available currently.  And very nice they are too – if you don’t mind stories that are not really suitable for pre-teens and can be a bit…ah…RUDE sometimes. In this brief series of  Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That, I aim to bring you little snippets from all five books. This time I’ve chosen a random snippet from Fanfare for the Common Hamster.

Deep within the bowels of the National Institute for Psychic Rodent Research, Felicity Bugler was coming desperately close to complete physical and mental exhaustion. Yet still Freddy Ringworm continued mercilessly to produce back-to-front playing cards for Felicity to ‘read’ with her mind.

So, once more, the young dormouse summoned up the strength to use her latent psychic ‘powers’ that Doctor Rambling Bramble felt certain that she possessed – at least in theory – possibly – if they were lucky.

“Queen,” she sighed – then added hopefully, “The Queen of Sods?”

Freddy flipped the card to reveal the Thirteen of Caks. Yet again Felicity’s shoulders slumped, and she yawned uncontrollably.

Upon an instruction from Bramble, who stood behind plate glass in a control booth, Freddy began to extract another card from down the front of his trousers where he kept them warm. But his paw was stayed by the arrival of a large group of Kool Kustard employees.

Primrose Pickles was just releasing herself from the kitchenette as they passed, and so was the first person to greet them – with a platter of inexpensive pancakes. She was overjoyed at the appearance of Joan. She couldn’t help herself from jumping up and down and squealing her name enthusiastically several times before having a paw clamped over her snout by Bramble as he appeared from the booth door, and pushed her back into the kitchenette – but not before relieving her of the pancakes, which he offered to Joan, Darkwood, Rootley, Brother Alfonso, and Reg Daftwaddle – for a small fee.

“My, Joan – you’ve certainly led us a merry dance: Where have you been?” He said – after pocketing four gold coins and a two Rodento note, “I don’t recognise these strange hamsters: Are they your friends?”

Joan didn’t respond immediately: She was still too shocked by Primrose’s welcome, and wondered if the young beauty practised lesbianism. If that was the case then she was doubly shocked: She’d never met a lesbian before. Then she caught sight of her sister through the brain-testing room window, and all thoughts of lesbianism were cast aside upon a tidal wave of emotion. It was patently clear to her what her sister was trying to do: She was risking her own sanity in an attempt to save her stupid, fat, hamster, sister from herself!

 

Freddy Ringworm had neither the opportunity nor wits to mount a defence: Joan was in the door, across the room, and shoving him aside before he could say ‘Horatio Indigo Transvestite Horseblanket’ – and all so that she could hug the tiny dormouse that was Felicity.

After recovering their composure, the sisters talked in excited squeaks for several seconds before their breath ran out, and they both dropped into the testing-chair in order to gasp mightily, and inwardly digest the information that had passed between them. This gave Algy Timber, who had only just returned from the toilet, the opportunity to vent his emotions. He did this in two ways: Outwardly he skipped upon the spot for several seconds, in a show of relief that at any other time would have left him mortified; then scuttled across the floor to greet her in the most un-boss-like hug imaginable. Inwardly he was finally able to cast off the constant desire to punish himself by chewing upon his private parts. The resulting sudden rush of endorphins in his brain made him go all numb, and he subsequently slumped in a heap at Joan’s feet.

“Sorry, Joan,” he said, slightly embarrassed, “but I have an intolerance to endorphins: That’s why Mildred prepares me so much porridge: It’s the perfect counter-agent. Nice to see you safe and well. You don’t happen to have any pancakes left I suppose?”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013