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Revel in the Ribaldry 23A

Well I seem to have lost my way slightly regarding which book should supply the next excerpt. So, in an attempt to bring you some of the most wonderful Hamster-Sapiens work available, may I present you with a random extract from this book…

Yes, the divine ‘The Psychic Historian’. The best book ever written in the history of the world. You don’t believe me? Read on…

Now one of the major tenets of Betty was coined from the words of a popular religious song of that era, which had been miss-transcribed by a probationary nun during the earliest years of the order of Our Lady of the Tilted Cervix. No one knows what the true wording of the ancient song was, but in her miss-transcription the probationary nun scribbled ‘When I get that feelin’ – I want sex on the ceiling’ and the ways of Betty were set (if not in stone, then certainly) in bold black print. The result of this error meant that the nuns of Our Lady of the Tilted Cervix then had to live up to their name by indulging the locals in high-altitude sexual intercourse.

Naturally there was no shortage of volunteers from a country plagued by internal strife and external war. In fact the recruiting office was so overwhelmed with would-be nuns that its recruitment officers had to beat them off with a sharp tongue and a big stick. Eventually a select number were then handed their habits, and duly packed off to the island of Impetigo. And for a while all had gone swimmingly. Then one day a nasty case of Poor Sore Willy was discovered in Deepest Jungle Land, and blaming the nuns for this worsening condition as it ran riot through the population, the convent was placed out-of-bounds by the elders of the nearby villages.

With no income and nothing to do, the nuns began calling the outside world upon their huge radio set. They searched the ether for inspiration. After weeks and weeks of twiddling dials they finally discovered what they sought.

Hamster-Britain had a severe shortage of fondant icing. What little could be manufactured domestically exchange paws for quite incredible amounts of Rodentos. It was beyond the pocket of all but the very rich, and if the situation remained, it was quite likely that the poor would rise up in some sort of confectionery revolution, and possibly bring down the government and behead the royal head of state. It was immediately clear to the nuns where their duty lay. They must save their country by the only known means possible: They must produce copious amounts of fondant icing, and ship it, by whatever means, to Hamster-Britain.

The first part of the problem was easily solved. They turned their creative talents away from inventing news means of sexual gymnastics – to the production of fondant icing. Sugar bearing plants were multifarious and many-fold: And beating them into a fine white paste-like material merely took physical effort. But the problem of transporting the resulting product to Hamster-Britain confounded them utterly.

“Fluff and bollocks!” The Mother Superior was heard to shout loudly from the privacy of her window in frustrated despair, “Arse holes and piles!”

But then fortune fell upon them from the sky – in the form of a lost dirigible pilot who had been blown off course by a particularly nasty gust of wind. His name had been Pilot Officer Brandenberg Dangerpimple. For a share of the profits, and some ‘sex on the ceiling’, he was willing to transport the fondant icing for them until either he was caught and hanged as a profiteer; the war ended; or he grew too old to either fly a dirigible or indulge in sexual intercourse.

“Marvellous.” The Mother Superior exclaimed, and threw up both her paws and the hem of her habit in joy, “But what might we do if any of those three possibilities were to transpire?”

“I’ll teach my future son to fly as soon as his rear paws can reach the rudder pedals.” Dangerpimple had assured the chief nun. “And any other sons that I might acquire en route to an old age.” He added with a wink of his eye.

But that was all in the past. Now Brandenberg Dangerpimple was being taken upon a tour of the new fondant production facility.

“As you can see, Brandenberg, this line is entirely automated.” Sister Serendipity Clone waved an all-encompassing paw to include the interior of a huge bamboo shed, into which a considerable amount of modern production equipment had been recently installed.

Dangerpimple was impressed; but he also foresaw a problem. He smoothed back his head fur and released the air from his lungs in a single rush. “I think I’m gonna need a bigger airship.”

Serendipity looked concerned. “Is this a problem?”

“I’ll have to be promoted to Flight Lieutenant.” Dangerpimple replied. “That’s going to mean a lot of greased paws. I’m not sure I have sufficient funds…”

Serendipity smiled, then reached under her habit and brought forth a huge wad of Rodentos. “I was saving them up for something nice – but needs must and all that.”

Dangerpimple snatched the offered cash, and rammed it down the front of his flying trousers. “There.” He said, “All safe and sound. And in a secondary role they can protect my wanger from anti-dirigible fire as well!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

See? Did I not tell you the truth? Where have you read better than that? Naturally this book is available at most e-book stockists, and for the best eReaders – including the more famous Kindle, iPad, Nook, and Kobo. Wonderful tales; witty prose; and cheap as chips. What more can you ask for!

 

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 20

That last excerpt from The Abduction of Wetpatch Wilson was so divine that I thought I’d include an extra one. And here it is…

Only the Saint of All Hamsters knows how many slimy tunnels that the delightful Sprightly was led down by the floundering Wetpatch Wilson. Wetpatch certainly didn’t. He’d given up counting almost straight away, and even the normally observant field mouse had retreated into a world of her own. So when they literally stumbled upon a gang of huge mutant woodlice – each emblazoned with rather faded examples of the emblem of the Crustacean Collective upon their tough, segmented carapaces – both rodents were very surprised. Wetpatch was well aware that woodlice couldn’t speak – even huge mutant ones – but he was reasonably well-versed in the semaphore language of the local woodlice that lived amongst the rotting mushrooms and other disgusting detritus of Hamster Heath’s famous Danglydong Dell. So, despite being an insolent youth, he attempted to convey his thoughts in the time honoured fashion of sign language.

“Hello.” He said by waving his paws above his head in much the same manner that woodlice use their antennae to communicate. “Can you show me the way to the Federation Council?”

Unfortunately the mutant woodlice that lived within a vast series of tunnels that had been burrowed into a submarine mountain didn’t speak Danglydong Dellish. All they read was, “Herpes. I’d like to show you something that bounces.”

Well naturally, having little contact with mammals, the woodlice had no conception of herpes. But the idea that there were things that bounced intrigued them.

“Show us. Show us, oh damp furry thing.” Their leader implored, “Bouncing things are simply marvellous.”

Unfortunately Wetpatch read this as, “Bow to us. Bow to us, you damned flaccid thing. Dancing will sting my mother’s anus.”

Wetpatch looked to Sprightly for help. Fortunately, being a servant of the Federation, she recognised the creatures for what they were – terrestrial woodlice that had been deliberately bio-engineered for use as construction workers in areas that were too hazardous for both mammals and water-dwelling crustaceans. She had instinctively spoken fluent mutant woodlouse since the day when she bounced upon the knee of her lesbian aunt – the strange Uncle Daphne – and now turned that talent to good use. So in order to placate them she picked Wetpatch up and shook him so violently that his swollen testes bounced with sufficient vigour to satisfy the woodlouse leader’s request, and added “There, was that what you wanted?”

“That was lovely.” The leader woodlouse signed. “Thank you vastly. How can we repay you for such intense entertainment and a profound sense of fulfilment?”

“Well what we’d really like,” Sprightly signed carefully lest a stray finger might suggest that she wished to procreate, “is to be taken to the Head Council Member with almost infinite alacrity.”

To her surprise Sprightly watched as the entire group of mutant woodlice bristled angrily. “Have I said something out of place?” She enquired.

Then, to her dismay, she watched the lead wood louse as it signed, “Sorry, no-can-do. Think of something else.”

“I can’t think of anything else.” Sprightly complained. “We’ve come here on a mission to save the Crustacean Collective from tearing itself apart with petty rivalries and stupid empire building. Why can’t you take us to the council, you foul multi-legged abominations?”

“Because we’re runaways.” The leader replied in an agitated manner that made his antennae difficult to read. “We don’t work for the lobsters no more. We work for ourselves now. We’re building our own empire. It’s not very big yet: But you know what they say – from substantial tubas giant rhubarb trees grow. Not that any of us have seen a real rhubarb tree of course: But we’ve felt the Braille descriptions, and they seem majestic and desperately moist.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Like I’ve mentioned countless times previously, this magnificent e-book remains available at most e-book retailers (including the one of your choice), despite the fact that, in seven years, not one bloody copy has sold. Please do something to recify this desperately unfair situation!

Revel in the Ribaldry 11

With five books from which to choose the next excerpt, I hope randomness does a good job. Well actually its not quite as random as totally random: the excerpts appear in sequence. e.g Ist excerpt: Book 1. 10th excerpt: book 5. So 11th excerpt can only come from Book 1. This one…

…which is where the randomness kicks in. I now turn to a page; close my eyes;  and plonk my finger wherever it may fall. Oh, look…today’s excerpt is…

It was a poorly measured amount of time later when Tonks reawakened to find herself being carried along a dank, ill-lit corridor. Furthermore this activity could only be described as being done ‘in a furtive manner’. She was about to say something indignant like ‘Unhand me you curs’, or ‘It’s lucky for you I don’t have my army skirt on: If I thought that you’d seen my regulation knickers, I’d have your guts for garters!’ But a soft feminine paw clamped over her snout with a vice-like grip that would countenance no argument.

“Shush,” Fanangy whispered, “we’re getting awfully close to the Artefact Store. Remain silent.”

Tonks sighed, and Lionel and Boney both turned about and ‘shushed’ her angrily.

“Wah we dooa?” she mumbled through her furry gag.

“Pardon?” Lionel couldn’t help being polite, even in the midst of danger and imminent discovery.

Tonks repeated herself three times before Boney indicated that Fanangy should allow their captive to speak.

“I said,” she was finally able to elucidate, “what are we doing?”

“Just what you instructed.” Boney tried a conspiratorial grin, but it got lost somewhere between his brain and his jaw muscles, and came out as a dangerously lascivious leer, which startled Tonks for a moment.

“We have a plan,” Fanangy explained, “that is both devious, and will succeed. It also relies upon you somewhat I’m afraid. Not that I think you’ll fail or anything: It’s just a bit of a cheek of us involving you in something so underhand.”

Now if there’s one thing that’s specifically designed to really get the juices of a female army sergeant flowing – it’s something underhand: Especially when it’s going to be perpetrated against a commanding officer whom she believes is both incompetent and downright mean. She wanted to know everything.

“No,” Tonks finally said with apparent disbelief, after having the entire plan laid out before her, “surely not?”

Then a grin creased her normally bland features, and Lionel thought that she looked almost attractive.

Unsurprisingly Fanangy noticed a slight tremble in Lionel’s trouser department. Her eyes narrowed – at least as much as rodent eyes would allow – and a metaphorical green light illuminated them from within. Then to everyone’s consternation she blurted, “But I think we can probably accomplish our aim without the aid of the good sergeant. I’ll take her role. I’m sure we can dress me up as drably. My feminine curves could be sufficiently hidden by the copious over-use of pillows. And a spot of axle grease administered to my lovely face would make me easily the equal of Tonks on a one-to-ten scale of hideousness. Well nearly anyway. In the dark. To a mole.”

Lionel wasn’t particularly well-versed in the ways of the world; but even he could spot a terrible case of jealousy at a hundred paces – with both his eyes averted, and corks shoved so deeply into his ears that it hurt. For a moment though he was flummoxed. What could have brought about this sudden change? Was it something that he’d done? Then he noticed his trousers flapping – and realised that, for once, it wasn’t wind. This brought on a bout of self-appraisal.

‘Is that why I’m so scared of Fanangy?’ He thought more quickly than he had ever done. ‘Because she’s so pretty? Surely not? But why would I find Tonks more alluring? Could it be that I find Fanangy threatening – whereas Tonks is merely… Is merely what? Certainly not homely and kind in a mothering sort of way. And I don’t go for ugly old bags – so it can’t be that. But something got my trousers flapping – if not spectacularly – at least enough for Fanangy to notice…’

Then, abruptly, a sense of wellbeing came over him as he recognised the truth, and he cried out, ‘I’m normal. I’m normal after all! Praise be to the Saint of All Hamsters, my gonads work within statutory parameters – at least upon a superficial level!” Then he came to his senses once more, and added, “Sorry.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2012

That wasn’t too bad, I hope. I should now mention that this e-book remains available at many outlets, including the ones mentioned in the Tooty’s Books Available Here page beneath the header; and the book covers on the sidebar.

 

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 3

Time to revel in some Hamster-Sapiens ribaldry again. Since this is the third extract, it’s only fitting that it should come from the third book in the series – namely this tome of significantly fabulous short stories, all pulled together in one wonderful narrative. Or something like that…

Of all my books, this is my favourite. I don’t know what it is about it that so pleases me. Maybe it is the way it almost wrote itself. I can still recall – I think it must have been back in 2008 – sitting at my desk top computer, hoping for inspiration. I’d written the intro – explaining the significance of the Psychic Historian character – Sorbresto Titt – and why he was visiting The Where House. But, having done so, I had no story to tell. So, rather than stare at a blank monitor screen, I closed my eyes. And there it was: a dry dusty track through a desert landscape. Then an ageing hamster, with a pack thrown over her shoulder, shuffled into view. In that moment I had my opening story.  So, being desperately logical, I’ll show you that opening scene right now…

If the audience had been impressed before – now they were stunned to within a micron of sentience. For indeed the huge monitor did show the contents of Flotti’s genetic memory – as filtered and reconstructed by the dazzling advanced-brain of Sorbresto Titt. They all went “Oooh.” as the screen cleared itself of some momentary static to show an ancient crone staggering along a dusty trail that led through a rocky gorge. She was dressed in sackcloth, and upon her back she carried a heavy pack.

Of other life there was no sign. Nevertheless she whistled a happy tune, and would break into a little jig each time she reached the surprisingly infectious chorus – not that anyone had heard it thus far.

“Oi, where’s the bloody sound?” someone chirruped from the watching audience.

“Oh, that’d be my fault.” Colin apologized, and quickly found an errant jack plug, “I completely forgot to plug it in – which just goes to show that computer brains are just as forgetful as organic ones. So, as you can see, none of you are inferior to me in any way, shape, or form: Just different.”

He then remembered to insert the jack plug into the appropriate socket, and everyone could hear the old crone’s melodious singing.

“She’s bloody good.” The same chirruper made himself heard once more, “She could make the top of the hamster hit parade, she could. I’d sign her up to a record deal right this second – if she wasn’t long-dead and turned to dust – and I was a record producer of course.”

But no one was listening: They were too interested in what was happening on-screen…

“Hola, buenas dias.” The old crone spoke to someone off-screen, “Como estais?”

This caused consternation to flow through the assembled ranks of seated hamsters like a nasty dose of influenza. Generally speaking foreign languages were an anathema to them. Some grew fearful: Others angry.

Noticing that he was in danger of losing his paying customers Boney acted quickly.

“Colin,” he yelled across a rather loud conversation in Spanish, “You’re a walking encyclopaedia: Can you interpret?”

Well in response to such a reasonable request from his employer, Colin said, “Boney, I do believe that I can do better than that: How do you fancy sub-titles?”

Then he did what any good-natured, self-aware, servomechanism would do. He got out his special, multi-purpose, tool, and indicated what he intended to do with it.

Now this action surprised many in the audience. Well actually it amazed them. Some it even astonished. And fourteen found themselves capable of being overcome by the thrill of the moment, and simply fainting.

This was because Colin kept his very unusual tool in a very unusual place. Now, having extracted it from beneath his special celebratory sporran, he proceeded to walk up to the TV monitor, and shove his tool into an especially prepared socket just beside the on/off switch – where he would remain standing awkwardly for the rest of the evening – almost certainly with a fixed smile upon his handsome face.

The result of this audacious action was the appearance of words along the bottom of the screen. And after a quick wiggle of his hips they became recognizably Hamster-British.

“Where are you bound?” the voice off-screen was asking the ancient forebear of Flotti Pañuelo, “And by what name are you known?”

“I’m bound for the twin cities of Sod’em and Begorrah.” The ancient crone replied. “And my name is Flappi Pañuelo.”

A gasp ran around the audience like a Mexican wave.

“Blimey,” Horatio Horseblanket exclaimed, “she must be Flotti’s great, great, great, great, great, great…”

But he got no further because he suddenly fell silent after receiving a severe backhander from his mother – accompanied by a hissed reprimand that went something like, “Shut it, you gobby twat: You may be the youngest-ever inductee to the Hamster Hall of Heroes, but I don’t like being shown up in public.”

And, whilst rubbing the back of his furry head, Horatio replied rather indignantly, “What about that time I showed those old black and white pictures of your enormous peach-like bum to people waiting at the bus stop? You didn’t seem to mind that at all!”

“That’s because the bald hamster at the back was a famous pornography producer.” Molly shot back. “I thought he might have a part for me.”

“Oh he had a part for you alright.” Horatio leaned as far away as possible whilst still remaining seated, “A very private one I seem to recall.”

“It paid the rent that month, didn’t it?” Molly snapped. Then she realized that no one was watching the ancient tale of Flappi Pañuelo anymore: They were paying her more rapt attention than she felt comfortable with.  “Just carry on.” she instructed Sorbresto, “Now!”

Well what then transpired upon the TV monitor was a revelation. The psychic camera seemed to pull back to reveal that Flappi was speaking with a heavily-built male Jerboa – who rode upon a chariot that was pulled by a team of armoured praying mantis. Beryl Bogbreath screamed shrilly. Fanangy Panakan was only a heartbeat behind her.

Fortunately for Flotti she was in a trance, and so was unaware of the hideous spectacle that emanated from deep within her genetic past. This was just as well because she’d held a life-long aversion to the preying mantis ever since one fell from a balcony in the Spanish seaside town of  Bunnidorm, and landed in her strawberry blancmange – utterly destroying it; the table; and the evening in the process, and very nearly biting her mother’s head off. Only the timely arrival of the Spanish waiter carrying a huge bottle of fizzy cola – with which he proceeded to hose down the panicking creature – saved Mrs Pañuelo from a ghastly fate.

But that was by-the-by. Sorbresto Titt was accessing the moment that followed…

“You are a hamster.” The rather haughty Jerboa said.

“That I am, Sir.” Flappi was forced to concede.

“But this is Sandy Desert Land.” The Jerboa stated the obvious once more.

“So?” Flappi stood as insolently as she could muster under the weight of the pack upon her back.

“Your inflatable cheek pouches will do you no good here: There is very little water in which to drown. In any case we Jerboas find your stubby little tails most distasteful: It almost looks as though you have a willy poking out of your arse hole. Do not be surprised if some tribal chieftain takes umbrage at your hamsteriness, and has you flogged, jailed, or dispatched to the next realm of existence. You’d do well to find your way back to that far-off place from whence you came.”

“Thank you very much, but I’ll take my chances.” Flappi replied. “I’m here to visit the holy shrine of Freda Lung, and maybe take in the existential frisson of the sunken city of Bilge.”

The Jerboa appeared confused. “Ugh?” He grunted. “But you told me that you sought the twin cities of Sod‘em and Begorrah.”

“Well they’re on the way, aren’t they?” Flappi showed the first sign of doubt.

“In a ‘round about sort of way.” The Jerboa agreed.

Then he made a sudden decision. “Hop on board, you absolute sex-goddess,” he smiled for the first time, “I’m going that way myself. Perhaps we can attempt procreation en route? Better still – let’s a have a go now – right here – in the open – where there’s a chance someone might see us. What do you think?”

“Well…” Flappi began, “I’m not entirely sure…”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

P.S The © date of 2013 represents the later – improved – version of this book. Naturally it is available as an e-book from most suppliers. A list of the better-known ones appears on the sidebar – or in that list of ‘Pages’ beneath the header.

 

Back – After Six Years Absence

Thought you might enjoy a reblog of something I wrote way-back-when…

How many times has your rip-roaring tale of gung-ho-ness stuttered to a halt because you’ve written your characters into a desperate corner, and you can’t find a logical way out? Loads of times, I’m sure – especially if (like me) you’re the sort of writer who can’t stand planning the whole story out before hitting the first key of the story proper. There’s nothing worse for a writer (other than writer’s block) than thinking up a fabulous new direction in which to take the story – only to be forced to ignore it because you can’t fit it into the pre-existing plot.

So my tip for today is this…

Insert needless asides and details that move the story along not one jot, and which might appear at first to be totally spurious, but will later be called upon to get you right out of the literary shit. As an example I bring you this extract from my book ‘Danglydong Dell Diaries’. You will find that it appears needlessly rude – but boy did it come to my rescue when I needed to save my characters from oblivion later in the book…

Blubbersday, the Forty-sixth of Plinth. Like the other two parties before them, the group that was psychically protected by Primrose Pickles entered Far Kinell through one of the four main gates. In their case it was the rickety old Historic gate, where market stalls had been set up that sold ‘old fashioned’ or ‘retro’ stuff – like woollen bloomers, clogs, wooden false teeth, earthenware bed-warmers, beetroot wine, and a plethora of multifarious strap-on dildos.

For a brief moment Colin was quite taken by the latter, and even went so far as to study one or two of them minutely.

“Ere,” Boney called down to him from the broad back of Gargantua the giant cavy, “leave them fake dicks alone. Nothing good can come of tinkerin’ with the unnatural.”

“But I’m unnatural.” Colin reminded his current owner. “There isn’t a natural product in my body. And I was just wondering if I could utilise one of these as an addendum to my ‘special tool’. It could be fun. I could frighten sailors with it.”

Boney had to think about this for a few seconds. “Yeah that sounds alright.” He replied finally, “Maybe we can mass produce ‘em too, and sell ‘em as advanced alien trinkets. They don’t have no patent laws in this world, do they?”

It was a brilliant idea, and Colin duly flicked a few coins in the vendor’s direction, and snatched up the largest, most impressive specimen on his stall. It wobbled alarmingly in his paw as he walked away, and appeared almost too real for comfort. “Indeed they don’t.” He said quietly.

Primrose, meanwhile, was reconnoitring the immediate area with all six senses. She cocked her head upon one side – as if listening to something that no one else could hear.

Gargantua noticed this, and immediately he began mimicking her.

“What are you doing?” Primrose inquired.

“Hoping that whatever you’ve got rubs off on me.” Gargantua replied. “Maybe I can be the first recorded psychic cavy in history.”

“Do they keep such records in Prannick?” Primrose was instantly fascinated.

Gargantua shrugged his shoulders, which almost flipped Boney from his elevated perch. “Somewhere in some secretive cubby hole of The Wheel they do, no doubt.” He said.

Primrose’s fascination dissipated. “I’m trying to sense Tybrow Mooney’s presence, or at least his spore.” She spoke sternly, “Don’t interrupt with mindless trivialities.”

Colin arrived. He waved his wobbly dildo in Primrose’s direction. “What do you think of this, Primrose?” He asked politely.

Primrose wasn’t really paying much attention. “Lovely.” She said absentmindedly.

“Would you like me to go back and buy one for you?” Colin offered generously, “There was a sign that said ‘One size fits all’. Obviously I wouldn’t know what that means, but I’m sure it must be a positive attribute.”

Primrose then noticed the dildo as it wobbled like an elongated jellybean. “No!” she screamed. “It’s disgusting. Put it away.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan

To discover how this was put to good use later in the tale, check out Danglydong Dell Diaries at any e-book retailer. It’s also available from the stockists mentioned on the sidebar and under the header – those being Lulu, Apple, Amazon, and Barnes & Noble.

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 21

As per usual with this wondrous series, I bring you an excerpt from one of the following Hamster-Sapiens tales…

And today it’s the turn of The Abduction of Wetpatch Wilson!

Divine inspiration didn’t strike Wetpatch very often. In fact he couldn’t recall it ever happening before. But he was in receipt of it now. “Rat Trek!” He blurted.

Roman was mightily impressed with this. “That’s right.” He said with a smile so broad that he resembled a wide-mouthed frog that had been smoking the magic mushrooms of Danglydong Dell. “Mister Horseblanket was well versed in the science fiction genre, and would often utilise the events that took place in episodes of Rat Trek during periods or crisis. And like his hero, Lionel Flugelhorn made the best use of the fertile minds of those far away script writers. He freely admitted in a recent interview on Heathen Radio that without a thorough grounding in sci-fi, he and his friends would surely have perished in one of those frightening scenarios thrown up by the alien artefacts from Area Ninety-nine.”

Wetpatch didn’t know what to say when an auditory vacuum formed during the period that Roman spent trying to re-gather his breath following an ill-advised second extended sentence. So he fell back on old ways. “Yeah? So?” He grunted.

Like some sort of truncheon-wielding biathlete Roman drew in sufficient air to calm his tortured lungs for just long enough to say, “You’re a fan of the show. You have a box set of DVDs. Have you seen an episode that might pertain to our current situation in any way?”

So whilst the young police officer rolled about the carpeted floor gasping for his life, Wetpatch considered the question. It was patently true that science fiction had often pulled Horatio Horseblanket out of the metaphorical shit and probably saved the lives of countless hordes. It was equally true that Lionel Flugelhorn had also utilised his knowledge of the genre for the betterment of his situation on more than one occasion.

Wetpatch had once met Lionel at the grand opening of a rather graceless unicycle ballet, and couldn’t help but be impressed by both his girlfriend, and the copy of Fantabulous Stories that protruded from his back pocket. And he had at least seventeen copies of Horatio’s autograph: So he could see no logical reason why he – Wetpatch Wilson – shouldn’t duplicate the efforts of his illustrious predecessors. So he set to work, and quickly began running titles of Rat Trek: Season One past his inner eye.

Roman was well into his third cup of coffee, and probably his Nth spool of cotton candy, when Wetpatch looked up from the floor where he was ruminating, and waved for his attention.

“I think we shall have to conduct our search using an amalgam of science-fictiony scenarios.” Wetpatch informed the slightly older hamster. “No single tale of the much-loved TV show relates directly to our situation. But I believe that if we behave in much the same way that the helms-hamster, Mister Lulu, did in the second season opener ‘The Death Ray of Dork’, we shall take the first step upon the road that will carry us upon our great crusade to bring stability to The Crustacean Collective.”

“Wonderful.” Roman clasped his paws together in glee. “Good old Mister Lulu, whomever he is. What did he do?”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Wasn’t that lovely! It didn’t tell you a bloody thing about the story, I know; but that’s the problem with random excerpts: they’re a bit…you know…random. Also as per usual, this e-book is available via the links on the side bar to your right. If you’re on a tablet it’s probably down the bottom somewhere. But it has to be somewhere. That’s the trouble with tablets; the screen isn’t big enough. On the plus side, my earplug stories look really nice on them though.

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 12

Long before those little-sod 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.

For this excerpt of Hamster-Fiction, I bring you a sample from the best of the five: The Psychic Historian…

Taking his pistol from its holder, he eased the door open – only to be assaulted by the sight of a youthful male hamster as he rode his foldaway stunt scooter over a series of artificial jumps. Upon these he would perform various ‘tricks’ like heel-clickers, naks-naks, nose-twirlers, and, most spectacularly, a mid-flight willy-wave. And all by lustrous candle light. He culminated the run with a perfect back-flip – before landing safely beside an Germanic officer who not only stood awkwardly as he dunked a bratwurst into a huge flagon of rose hip wine, but who also appeared to have the sort of face that Caruthers would gladly have slapped from dawn ‘til dusk.

“Ach, it is being you!” The officer bellowed as he spotted Caruthers over the top of his tankard, which he quickly passed on to the puzzled youngster – before adjusting his monocle in a most fastidious fashion, and growling. “My men are being chased away, and my mission looted – and it is by none other than you!”

The shock of recognition turned Caruthers’ paws to jelly, and he dropped his sidearm to the hardwood floor, where it clattered alarmingly.

“B-b-b-but you’re dead.” He managed as he unplugged his ears. “I saw you fall to your death. I heard the impact.”

Manfred Stenchlinger hobbled forward. “You are not having so much the luck, Hamster Britisher.” He sneered with a hatred that seemed to permeate the air, and frighten the stunt scooterist. “Sure enough I was falling to my death, but my storm troopers bravely fell before me, and were cushioning my fall. My only injury occurred because I was falling upon the helmet of my sergeant, and the spike was going right up my jacksey. I was always hoping that we would be meeting upon the field of battle – where I could slay you, and grind your genitals into the ground. But it was not to be. We are meeting here – where I am defeated – and you are wearing the dirty underpants.”

Caruthers quickly retrieved his weapon, and wished that he could retrieve his trousers too: He couldn’t take the risk of the mad officer doing something unpleasant. He indicated the room in which all three hamsters stood. “What is this place?” he demanded.

Stenchlinger’s eyes seemed to scan the room as though seeing it for the first time. “This,” he said, “is being the home to my family.”

Caruthers cast a glance in the direction of the young hamster who stood stock-still in a most perplexed manner, and who only allowed his eyes to make any movement.  “Is this your son?” he inquired gently lest he frighten the youngster any more than necessary.

“Ja, he is being my son.” Stenchlinger replied as he pulled up a stool and painfully lowered his weight on to it. Then the merest hint of a smirk appeared at the edge of his mouth. “Would you care to meet his mother?”

Caruthers didn’t particularly care to meet anyone else; Stenchlinger had been enough. But he was a very polite hamster, particularly when in someone else’s home. “Is she pretty?” he asked in the time-honoured fashion.

“Ja, I am thinking so.” Stenchlinger now openly sneered in the way that only a truly unpleasant bastard can. “I think you will be feeling much the same when you see her.”

He then called to someone in an adjacent room, “Oh darling, could you be coming into the stunt scooter display room? I am having someone here who is wishing to meet you.”

If Caruthers had thought that his incredulity could be stretched no further – then he was desperately mistaken and utterly wrong. This is because the pretty female hamster who nervously entered the room was obviously none other than Amelie De Pottage herself! Her name caught in Caruthers’ throat, and he almost gagged upon his own oesophagus.

“Bonjour, Caruthers.” She spoke with a voice that indicated infinite patience and the acceptance of the inevitability of fate, and with an accent that would have made Caruthers’ trousers flap if he’d been wearing any. “ ‘Ow are you?”

“Amelie?” Caruthers asked stupidly. Stupidly because the years had done nothing to diminish his former love’s beauty, and she was instantly recognizable – even wearing a crimson caftan and wading boots: And even more stupidly because he was well aware that Amelie had no identical twin, and that, as yet,  cloning was merely the product of the fevered imagination of the occasional science-fiction writer.

“Oui, it is I.” she replied gently. “ ‘Ave you come to rekindle our passion after all these years?”

In truth this had been just about the farthest thing from Caruthers’ mind: But now that the recipient of his bodily fluids stood across the room from him, the contents of his underpants began to alter his perception.

“Well…” he began awkwardly.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

 

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 8

Long before those inglorious 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.

This time I’d like you to study a wondrous excerpt from Fanfare for the Common Hamster

Finally, as evening drew on, they settled about the smoky fire and discussed a possible constitution for Prannick – once the power of The Wheel had been overthrown, of course.

“So tell me, Joan,” Darkwood spoke between draughts of a foul ale that they’d purchased from an inebriated chipmunk whom they encountered on the road that led towards Knackered Dobbin, and who was selling hot baked beans and treacle tarts to passers-by, “since you know Sponx is ruled by an absolute monarchy, and Prannick is a religious mono-culture, how well do you imagine that your land’s concept of democracy would fare in this obviously more culturally-primitive dimension?”

Joan’s reply was short and sweet. It was also a question.  “Capitalism, or Socialism?”

Darkwood pondered this subject for a moment. He then asked the obvious question, “Is there any real difference?”

Now if anyone had asked Joan this question just a paw-full of days previous, then it’s likely that she would have responded with, “You what? Socialism? Duh…” But the new Joan now used parts of her brain that hadn’t been dulled by an upbringing in the company of a moronic gerbil, and the ever-present aroma of custard. Just as Darkwood had done moments earlier, Joan too pondered the subject. When she spoke is was with precision and clarity…

“In ideology and theory – a difference so vast that it could lead to war:” She informed him, “But in practice – they are barely discernible. They’re both highly proficient in the art of corruption, but only one of them is capable of running a country long-term without bankrupting it or causing civil unrest. Well that’s if Hamster Britain’s government is anything to judge by. The same goes for dictatorships and police states: In the end you can’t tell one from the other. Except for cornflakes, of course: There’s always a greater choice of cornflakes and cereal-based products in states where free speech is the norm. Otherwise they’re much the same. Even the pornography looks remarkably similar. So I’ve been told: I’ve never actually indulged…”

She turned away to cover the brightening of skin beneath her youthful hamstery fur.

“Not doing well, are we Darkwood?” Rootley returned from prodding the smouldering fire, “In any case – aren’t we being a tad premature? We have the fluffin’ Wheel to overthrow first.”

“And I have a trabajo to find, if you recall.” Brother Alfonso spoke from inside a hammock that he’d fashioned from a huge sheet of muslin that was usually used for containing the village pudding, but had been washed and left outside to dry overnight by the village pudding maker, and which had been subsequently stolen by Brother Alfonso as he sauntered past en route from Lake Effluence to Rootley’s hovel, “As a monk my professional days are over.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Charming, wasn’t it? And intellectual too. You get everything in a Tooty Nolan book, you know!

 

 

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 6

Long before those silicon superstar 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.

In this, the sixth excerpt from my somewhat unique book series, I bring you a taster from the inexplicably unpopular The Abduction of Wetpatch Wilson – a book, I might add, that a test reader considered the funniest yet (until the fifth and final book – Danglydong Dell Diaries, arrived, of course).

Well naturally not one of those present in the former Federation Council Chambers could make any sense of the seared and ruined notice that Droop so painstakingly reassembled over the next five hours. It was simply too damaged to read – even after holding a candle behind it, and peering really hard. But the time hadn’t been totally wasted: Desmond had invented a highly interactive Education Computer so that Wetpatch wouldn’t fall too far behind in his studies for the Right to Adult Existence Examination that was due later in the year. And the fact that he’d managed to utilise some advanced Crustacean technology for it made it seem exotic and exciting – and Wetpatch had it follow in his wake everywhere that he went – even to the toilet.

“Hey, Wettie. The Education Computer, which naturally Wetpatch had named Kevin (despite Sally’s assertion that it should be known as Eddie) called, as it trundled behind the young hamster upon a multitude of tracked wheels, “Can you slow down? I got just the one ocular unit: I don’t got no depth of field. These walls get real hard sometimes: I done scratched my paint-work a thousand times already.”

As an education computer Kevin was a mine of information – most of which had been gleaned from the central computer of the Federation Council. Naturally the folk of Hamster Heath had added their input, and generally speaking it had been a worthwhile endeavour. But the machine’s use of the spoken language was flawed, and everyone was concerned that (upon Wetpatch’s eventual return to hamster civilisation) he’d sound like a single-brained-celled idiot to the populace of that fair town.

“Can’t you do something about it, Professor?” Sally had asked. “The thing speaks abominably.”

“I’m sorry, Sally dearest.” The hamster genius had replied, “I share your concerns, but really I don’t have the time: There’s just so many things to study if we’re ever to find the whereabouts of the Federation Council members. I’m afraid that it’s a matter of priorities.”

“Sure, Sally.” Ho had offered, when the ambassador mentioned it to him, “I got time between baking cakes and things: How ‘bout I try fix computer talking stuff?”

It had been a genuine offer, and Sally was grateful for it: But she must refuse.

“I’m sorry, Mister Ho.” She said as she patted his paw, “That’s very kind; but your Hamster-British is complete shit. With your verbal input we’d have Wetpatch talking like a Chinese chef by the time we get home. Now run along and knock me up a nice bowl of something vaguely edible. Can you do that for me?”

Of course there wasn’t anything that Ho wouldn’t do for Sally – even accepting horrendous insults without reply. “Sure, Sally.” He said chirpily, “How does sea-slug burger sound?”

Moments later Wetpatch flung himself into the tiny room that he called his ‘cabin’. Naturally Kevin followed him in, and settled down upon its suspension in the only free corner of the room. The remainder of the room was stuffed to the gunwales with ‘stuff’ that Wetpatch had ‘liberated’ from various places throughout the vast building.

“Sorry, Kevin.” Wetpatch began. But his mind quickly wandered when he heard Droop Van Dong shuffling past his door. He could tell it was Droop by the sound of the ball and chain that Roman had manufactured and affixed to his chubby leg.

Kevin recognised the sound too. “Hey, Fat-boy; get your blubber in here, will ya: I got somethin’ real important to tell ya.”

Wetpatch was surprised at this invitation by the quasi-automaton. He couldn’t imagine what an education computer would have to say to an imprisoned Dutch hamster clone. But he was about to find out…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 1

Long before those dumb-ass 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 – and that includes the fourth book, which (would you believe it) has not sold a single copy in the half-decade since publication. So, since I mentioned The Abduction of Wetpatch Wilson, let’s kick-off with a sample from that wondrous submarine tale…

Meanwhile Wetpatch and his schoolmates had concluded their competition, and were now kicking an old cola can into the shallows, and then throwing pebbles at it.

To his surprise Wetpatch was proving a crack shot, and several times his pebbles would ricochet onto the promenade and scare the shit out of old ladies taking the air.

Amy noticed this, and called Wetpatch over.

“Wetpatch,” she smiled sweetly – a ploy that had always worked well with her nephew – “how would you like to take a trip around the harbour in a dugout canoe?”

Wetpatch considered the question. Then he asked, “Will I have to dig out the canoe first?”

“No.” Amy’s smile faded slightly, “It will have been pre-dug out by an army of wood-gnawing rodents from over-seas. You won’t even have to paddle: They have a water vole that clambers off the back and pushes. I expect Mister Ho, Sally Blunderbuss, and that tart Gloria will join us.”

Wetpatch considered some more. The young trainee teacher was certainly hot stuff. He wouldn’t mind ogling her for half an hour. He agreed, but added a caveat. “Just as long as I can take some pebbles along.”

Both Amy and Roman were surprised at this. “Why?” They asked in unison.

“I want to impress Miss Bewtocks.” Wetpatch pulled himself up from his usual insolent slouch, “If the sailors that we pass en route leer horrendously I shall hurl pebbles at their groins with telling accuracy.”

Well this was possibly the most male hamsterly statement that Amy had ever heard Wetpatch utter; and despite the vague illegality of his intended behaviour, she agreed to his terms.

“Will your friends want to come?” She added.

Wetpatch looked casually over his shoulder in the direction of the beach where the schoolboys were currently hiding behind towels whilst they dressed themselves in their swim suits, “Nah,” he replied, “They’re all going into the sea.”

“A little bracing for a swim this early in the summer, I would have thought.” Roman opined with open admiration of the youngsters.

“Nah.” Wetpatch corrected his assumption, “They’re not going to swim: They’re just going to wade in up to their waists.”  He could see that neither adult showed the slightest comprehension. “It’s a shrunken gonad competition.” He explained, “They’ve taken measurements before they got here: When they come back out of the water again after five minutes, they have a re-measure. The owner of the most dramatically shrunken privates is the winner.”

Despite his better judgement Roman couldn’t help but ask the next question.

“Who’s going to do the measuring?” He asked.

“Well not Gloria Bewtocks, that’s for certain.” Amy answered before Wetpatch could open his mouth, “It would probably give a false reading. I suppose Mister Ho could though.”

“Who mention name Ho?” Mister Ho called out as he arrived with a nervous-looking Sally on his arm, “I don’t have time measure nothing: Sally think we being followed. Gonna take her round harbour. No one follow us out there. We got boat trip to go on. You come too?”

Well with an offer like that, not one of the three hamsters could resist. And as far as they were concerned, Gloria Bewtocks could watch out for the other boys. They’d probably prefer her company anyway: She could hold their towels for them.

“And who cares if their measurements go all awry.” Amy added, “It’s a silly sort of competition: No one’s a winner – not really: Especially the winner.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013