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.