Any Writer Who Can Think Up the Name ‘Chunder Bellows’ Is Alright With Me

That was a reader’s quote, after his happy reading of this book…

And here’s an extract from the tale that he so enjoyed…

The first few days at Chunder Bellows School for Blistering Idiots were a total blur for Lancelot. Quite literally: The college nurse had filled his eyes with a solution that almost blinded him. It was a deliberate act: The college authorities didn’t want him identifying the persons responsible for trying to free his brain of the millstones of stupidity by beating some sense into him. But it was to no avail. All subsequent Intelligence Quotient tests came up woefully short.

Lancelot himself ached all over, and had there been a train back to Hamster Heath he would have gladly boarded it – even if he’d been forced to pedal solo for the entire journey. But as the days passed from his life – so did the bruises pass from his skin, and in next to no time at all he was well again. He even introduced the sport of Poo-Jumping to the college fitness administrator, and had a huge ramp built on the playing fields so that he could practice running down hills very fast indeed. But eventually he fell afoul of the college founder – Chunder Bellows himself.  Lancelot sat nervously in the corridor as he waited to be invited into Chunder Bellows’ private suite high in the belfry. He wracked his brains as to how he’d managed to offend the legendary hamster. Was it possible that he’d accidentally failed to notice his eminence whilst shopping in the town? He didn’t think so: Chunder Bellows came from European hamster stock, and was almost twice the size of his fellows. He also wore his head fur in a turquoise Mohican cut, and swaggered so vainly that smaller creatures were often forced to dash into heavy traffic to avoid being bowled over by him. So that seemed unlikely.

Over the next hour Lancelot ran scenario after scenario through his head until he could think no more. Only when he was utterly spent mentally did the red light above Bellows’ door finally illuminate. Lancelot had been warned about this. It could mean one of three things. One: I’m free now, please enter. Two: An aerial attack is underway: Run for the shelters. Or Three: The lock on the lavatory door is broken again, and I can’t get out. It was dependent upon the number of flashes per second as to how someone should react to this visual stimulus.

The beat of the flashing light was slow and steady. To Lancelot’s mind this indicated a certain calmness of spirit. It fitted scenario One perfectly. So Lancelot knocked smartly upon the huge wooden door, and entered.

The interior of Chunder Bellows’ suite was hugely impressive – especially to a young hamster who had lived his entire life in a two-room apartment above the town cheese shop with his mother, her aunt, and someone who referred to herself as the Fairy Lesbian. It was huge, panelled throughout with dark wood, and enjoyed a view out over the grounds of the college. Lancelot couldn’t help but notice that it also enjoyed views directly into the girls changing room, showers, and unsightly nipple fur removal facility. But he said nothing.

Bellows stood, and almost filled the room with his bulk. He didn’t offer a paw of welcome. Instead he merely towered over Lancelot until the youngster began trembling. Only then did he re-seat himself, and offer Lancelot a cigar.

“Well, well – you’ve caused quite a stir.” He boomed – not angrily, but not in a friendly fashion either. But it wasn’t neutral either, and Lancelot was at a loss to describe his benefactor’s mood.

“Is it the Poo-Jumping, Sir?” Lancelot inquired nervously, “I know that several students have miss-timed their take-off, and have consequently soiled their uniforms. But I’m sure that with sufficient practice…”

Bellows cut him off with a wave of his meaty paw. “No – it’s not the Poo-Jumping.” He growled. “I only wish that it were. At least I could do something about it. No my problem is far worse. Tell me – how did you get here?”

Lancelot wondered how literal Bellows was being. Did he mean to inquire after the route that Lancelot had taken from where he’d been clandestinely urinating in the mosquito-breeding pool – to Bellow’s office? Or did he mean the college itself? Then in a moment that the young hamster would have considered an epiphany – had he been aware of the word – he realized that during his brief time at Chunder Bellows he’d learned to think in a slightly less linear mode, and could now see alternatives to his first, and usually only, thought. It had been a general question: Not specific to time and place. The grand master of the college was asking after Lancelot’s reasons for approaching the college in order to gain entry to its hallowed halls of learning.

“It was either this – or extermination.” He blurted. Then in a more calm manner explained that he’d actually failed the Right To Adult Existence examination during his last year at school, but was given a reprieve when the mysterious Fairy Lesbian put a spell upon the examination board members, and demanded that they allow him one more chance. If he could prove them all desperately wrong by maturing into a hamster of average intellect, he would be allowed to live beyond his tender years, and not consequently waste millions of Rodentos being housed, fed, and entertained courtesy of the public purse because he was too stupid or bone-idle to get a job.

Bellows nodded sagely at this. Then he leaned forward in his chair, and peered at Lancelot in a most disturbing fashion. “That’s all very interesting – but it’s not the answer I was looking for.”

He then explained that he’d meant ‘how did Lancelot get from Hamster Heath to Poxford’?

“The last train to Poxford.” Lancelot chirped gleefully – fully aware that such a journey would never again be made, and as a result his momentous journey would go down in history.

Bellows peered some more. “Do you recall any of the passengers?” He asked.

Lancelot thought back over the intervening months. Only one person stood out from the crowd. “There was a pretty girl with powerful thighs pedalling on the seat opposite.” He recalled. “She stood out a bit.”

Bellows had a weakness for pretty girls. “Really – in what way?”

“She wore crotch-less knickers. From where I was seated it looked like two sand eels wrestling in a thicket.”

For a moment Lancelot thought that Bellows was going to have a heart attack. And it was this simple act of Bellows clutching at his chest and fighting for breath that brought forth a second recollection of the journey for the young hamster. “Oh yes that reminds me – there was that lovely middle-aged female who might have been having a myocardial infarction!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

 

Just How Famous Am I?

When you’re a self-proclaimed literary genius, international author, and master chef, it’s monumentally important to discover just how famous you are. Or in the case of me – how famous I am. To this end I ‘Googled’ Tooty Nolan. Of course, strictly speaking, I should have punched in my parentally-given name. But, heck, I’m Tooty Nolan: I’ll do as I damned well please. But, anyway, I was reasonably pleased to discover that I’m averagely omnipresent. More importantly, so are my books. And even more importantly, it proves one of my assertions: I AM an international author. Look, the people of France can buy my books…

Not to mention India and Brazil…

Of course I’m well catered for in my homeland too…

And not just on Amazon either. Why, even Polish book retailers carry my titles…

Now, tell me, did you notice something peculiar about these screen-shots? Yes, none of them feature any Tooty Nolan books. Instead they display my best work. My ‘Silent’ Books – which is probably as it should be – because they really are rather good – in an old fashioned, very English sort of way. Well I think so anyway. Look, they even prefer them in Norway…

In most cases this pair of books sell through Barnes and Noble. So it came as a pleasant surprise that even that respectable retailer is willing to stretch it’s street cred by including Earplug Adventures…

And why not: wonderful prose and stunning photography rolled into one genre. It’s a no-brainer. Talking of no brains: oh dear – look at this…

Oh no – even Walmartians can read my books. The operative word being ‘can’. Maybe they have that right: unfortunately they don’t choose to exercise it. So far Walmart have sold exactly none of my books. Why aren’t I upset? 

So there you have it: clearly I am famous. Just not famous enough to keep the Bank Manager happy.

P.S This is how my daughter sees her famous Dad. Er…not exactly flattering, is it!

Book of the Month?

I was surprised, when I checked out one of my books at Barnes & Noble, to discover that these books…

…bore a temporary label that read Book of the Month. Naturally I was pleased, and duly read the sample pages of the latter book. Here is a snippet from those pages…

When next I awoke I knew for certain that the world around me was real and tangible. There was a smell of straw and ancient timbers permeating the air. Once again I lay upon my back, but now the azure sky had been replaced by the sight of the cobweb-strewn rafters of an old wooden barn.

Sitting upright I discovered that I was alone – save only for the company of a wood mouse that searched amongst the detritus upon the floor close to the large double doors. It skittered away as I gained my feet. As it did so I discovered that I wore the combat fatigues from the vision of the past presented to me by Tasman. The strange, unrecognisable hand gun hung from an iron hook that had been driven into one of the oak uprights.

I felt a pain in my head. My hand discovered that someone had inexpertly wrapped my head in a bandage. I was relieved when it came away unbloodied, and the pain subsided.

Feeling better I decided to take stock of the situation in which I found myself. Firstly I knew that my name was Felicity Goldsmith.

‘A good place to start.’

I appeared to be some form of soldier. Or was I a paint-baller? The thought appalled me. No, I was certain that I’d never been a paint-baller.

‘What else?’

I knew a boy who has eyes like a goat. It was odd that I didn’t think of his eyes as particularly unusual.

‘Again what else?’

I came up empty. Try as I may, I could find nothing more leaking out from my closed-off memory. I knew that I should have felt fear – or at least an appropriate portion of apprehension – with the situation. It was quite possible that I was brain damaged, or I’d simply lost my mind. But Tasman’s calm demeanour, and his gentle delivery had staved off the panic for another time.

‘Or preferably never.’

With nothing better to do I climbed to my feet. I felt stiff, and wondered if that was what octogenarians felt like all the time. I then placed the weapons belt around my waist; and made for the large rickety double doors.

Upon emerging from the ancient barn, I wasn’t surprised to find myself standing in an old flint and brick walled farm yard. Beside the barn there stood several lichen-coated brick buildings originating in several eras. They all showed the evidence of a great passing of time, and it occurred to me that the farm might not be a working farm, but was instead a farm museum. The area was littered by the detritus of years. Old farm equipment lay about that looked not only decades out of date, but possibly centuries. Masonry crumbled here and there, and the roof of one particularly old outbuilding had been stoved in. Patches of briar were encroaching, and weeds abounded everywhere except the areas that were either paved with concrete, or cobbled. I could see young animals corralled at several points within the farmstead. From my position I could make out small numbers of sheep, cattle, pigs, and goats. Through a gap in some mature trees I discerned a pond upon which ducks sailed less than majestically. From a rickety edifice beside the charming flint farmhouse emerged the sounds of chickens clucking contentedly.

I was still studying the inexpertly erected chicken coop when a boy of roughly ten years emerged from the farmhouse. He held an empty wicker basket in each hand. Without noticing me standing there in my incongruous ‘uniform’ he let himself into the coop through a shaky wire door.

“Hello…” I called in what I hoped was a friendly inquiring tone.

The boy looked up. His recognition of me was instantaneous, and he smiled broadly, before dropping his baskets; letting himself back out of the coop; and dashing back inside the farmhouse.

“Tasman,” I heard him calling as his booted feet thundered up the stair to the upper floor, “Felicity’s up and about!”

I smiled as those same two feet then raced back down the stair; carried their owner across the yard at break neck speed; and then stopped dead in front of me. I then received a hug that almost crushed the wind out of me.

“Oh Fel,” he breathed, “I never thought you’d ever open your eyes again.”

I had no idea who the urchin was, or why he was so glad to see me, but it was nice to be wanted.

“Thank you.” I replied. “It’s nice to be back: Where have I been?”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2014

These books are also available at Amazon, Lulu, Apple iBooks, and various others. And very nice they are too – if rather violent at times. Well they do feature genocide, so a little violence is to be expected.

 

 

Okay, Time For Some Rude Hamster Fiction!

As per usual, when I’m struggling to think of anything new to bring you, I step back in time – to an era when I wrote books. Books with words alone, that is. No pictures. No earplugs. But, hopefully, books that include a giggle or two. Step up Hamster-Fiction. Welcome to a random extract of this wondrous e-book…

Joan and Lucas crouched in the shadows of the forest immediately opposite the great wooden gate that barred entrance to the abbey. Joan now wore Lucas’ trousers, whilst Lucas himself stooped self-consciously in his underpants, and prayed that he wouldn’t snag his scrotum upon one of the many thistles that grew thereabouts.

“You want my jacket too?” He complained.

“If I am to crush my generous mammalian mounds flat enough to convince the door-hamster that I am male, I am going to need something tight and sturdy.” Joan replied matter-of-factly.

“And what about your face?” Lucas took a moment to scrutinize his captive, “You may not be the fairest of face, but you don’t look like the arse end of a hay cart either. Where do you propose to hide your head:  inside my underpants?”

It was a facetious remark, but Joan couldn’t ignore it. “Faeces of the forest.” She replied. “We spread it about my facial fur, and in moments I’ll appear to be a slightly well-rounded urchin in need of a bath and a bed.”

“Cunning.” Lucas clearly approved. “Then once you are inside the wall you can wait until mid-morning prayer, and then open the gate to let us in. They won’t even begin to suspect until I sink my blade between their ribs. But by then it will be too late.”

Joan gulped. “Hmmm.” She managed.

Five minutes later found Joan tip-toeing towards the main gate of the abbey. She was being true to her word: She’d promised that she would finagle her way inside: and finagle her way inside she most certainly would. But any subsequent actions remained a mystery to her.

Joan raised her fist with which she planned to pound noisily upon the gate, but before the opportunity presented itself a small hatch opened upon the gate’s mighty flank. A huge dark-furred face filled it.

“Hola, buenas noches.” It said in a distinctly Spanish accent. “Como estais?”

Joan merely stood there with her arm raised – as if about to ask the teacher if she could go to the toilet.

The face then seemed to stiffen, and a look of questioning wonderment crossed it.

“Is that Joan Bugler hiding beneath a disguise of faeces of the forest that I see before me?” The face continued in an equally distinctly Spanish accent.

It was all that Joan could do to stop herself whooping with joy. “Alfonso Dos Fresas,” she whispered gleefully, “What are you doing here? I thought you’d given up the church, and were planning to return to your homeland and start a family.”

“Sí, that was my plan, Joan.” The huge shaggy head dropped so that the eyes disappeared momentarily. Then they reappeared. “But my heart was not in it. I could not leave this land whilst two situations remained unresolved. The Wheel still rules much of Prannick: And you were gone.”

For the second time in just a few minutes Joan gulped, and was lost for words. But before she could begin to search her memory banks for some profound response, Joan heard a key rattling in the lock.

“To be here at night, and dressed thus, your immediate situation must be dire.” Alfonso whispered, “Enter, Joan, but let no one see or hear you: Your disguise is weak at best: Even woodland shit can not disguise your maturing feminine beauty.”

Then the gate was opened, and a huge paw grabbed Joan by the ears; yanked her off of her hind paws; and dragged her inside.

She was still recovering as the gate swung closed once more, and the key rattled for a second time.

“Would you care to take a bath?” Alfonso inquired. “I have a spare habit that might possibly hide your physical charms. It is only slightly soiled from potato peeling.”

Joan was still feeling rather shell-shocked – both from the speed at which she’d been brought into the sanctuary of the abbey, and the revelation of Alfonso’s feelings towards her. She’d always assumed that if Alfonso Dos Fresas had any leanings at all it was towards big hunky sod-ball players. A split second later her thoughts were placed further into a whirl as Alfonso swept her into his arms, and ran upon sandaled feet – into the main building and up the wide flight of stairs; along a corridor; and finally into the self-same, stone-cold, bathroom that she’d first visited all those many yonks ago.

“I will leave you alone now, Joan.” Alfonso said as he lowered the shaken female hamster onto her wobbly legs, and set fire to some kindling beneath a huge cauldron of water. “I do not imagine that you would care to have me witness your stark nakedness by lamplight. A towel is on the back of the door. There is wood for the fire in the cupboard. I will leave my spare habit outside the door.”

Then, like a sudden summer thunderstorm, he was gone.

“Blimey.” Joan said to the empty room. “Events certainly move apace in Prannick these days. I hope Alfonso doesn’t think that I’m still a virgin: I’d hate to disappoint him.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

As you’ve probably gathered, these hamster books aren’t suitable for children. Only big ones. Ones who have left school. If you fit this category, this book is available for you at most e-book outlets. Check out the Tooty’s Books Available Here! page for a few of the obvious ones.

The Causality Casualty

A few years ago – maybe four or five – I began writing the third in my ‘serious’ Causality Merchant series of sci-fi mysteries. Half way through the third draft I tossed it aside and (instead) took on the mantle of the “world’s premier earplug author”*. I keep promising myself to pick it up again and give it a second chance; but, somehow, it just never seems to happen. So, to this end, I’ve decided to give myself a metaphorical kick up the arse and try to produce some inspiration to continue. And what better way than to test out a snippet from the first book…

If the response from readers is good enough, I just might give it another try. Here it is – selected purely at random. Hope you enjoy it…

It was an hour later when Janice passed by the Study window, en route to the sideboard. Her timing was such that she witnessed Wozniak ease the slightly battered sports car into the driveway. He then drove it from sight around the end of the house. She found the packet of Band-Aids she was looking for in a drawer, and quickly made her way into the hallway, where she opened the front door – leaving it slightly ajar.

A half-minute later Wozniak slipped into the house. As carefully as his big frame would allow, he crept to the kitchen door, which Janice had also deliberately left ajar for him, and paused to listen.

Katherine Marcus was sitting at the table as Janice gently applied a Band-Aid to a small wound upon her forehead.

“There, that should keep the bugs at bay.” Janice said in a satisfied tone.

Katherine was clearly still suffering from a degree of shock – as well as a splitting headache; but she still managed a smile of thanks to Janice.

Janice may not have believed that this Katherine Marcus seated before her was in anyway different to the Katherine Marcus who verbally abused her on an almost daily basis; but if the woman was going to play the role of innocent victim, Janice was all for going along with it – just to see how far the other woman was prepared to go. Why Marcus was doing this to Peter remained a mystery to her: But if her friend and employer needed his help – and clearly he did – she was prepared to go to pretty much any length to be there for him. To this end she regarded Katherine with a friendly demeanour as she placed the kettle upon the stove.

“I expect you’d like a nice hot cup of tea after that nasty bang.”

“Sorry…?” Katherine tried to find a name.

“Janice Gale.” Janice replied with a smile upon her face. “I’m the housekeeper here: The ‘woman who does’. Do you take sugar in your tea?”

Katherine appeared confused.

“Tea?” She inquired through a puzzled expression.

It’s a good act’, Janice thought, as she smiled sweetly in response. Out loud she said, “Perhaps you’d prefer coffee? It’s only instant I’m afraid: the coffee machine sprang a leak weeks ago, and I haven’t got round to mending it yet.”

Katherine appeared grateful at the suggestion:

“Coffee would be wonderful. Perhaps you have something for pain too? I have a headache the size of Wycksford.”

Janice’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the imaginary village. She knew for certain that the illusionary village of Wycksford did not exist; and Marcus must surely know that she knew.

What is this woman up to?’ She asked herself. Then a sudden thought struck that caused Janice to feel very uncomfortable in her presence. ‘Heavens: Maybe she’s schizoid: She could be as mad as a March hare!’

“Certainly,” she said in the most matronly manner she could muster, “but I don’t think I have any aspirins: would paracetamols do? You’re not allergic, or anything?”

Katherine shook her head. “I don’t know what paracetamols are. I might be allergic to them. I don’t know. I suffer quite a few allergies you know. Are you sure you don’t have aspirins? I think my head’s about to explode.”

“Well I could look in the bathroom.” Janice replied – uncertain if she should leave the strange woman alone in the kitchen. “There might be an old packet lying about in the cabinet. Just wait here a moment; I’ll take a look.”

Janice quickly exited the kitchen – where she found Wozniak skulking in the shadows of the hall.

“Did you see that?” He whispered as he made sure that the kitchen door was closed securely behind Janice. “She’s never heard of something as dull and ordinary as paracetamol: surely that must mean something.”

Janice brushed past him toward the stairs.

“She’s never heard of tea either, apparently. What does it mean? It means that she’s probably suffering from concussion. Now I’m going to see if I can find some aspirins. Then I really think we should take her to a doctor.”

Wozniak pounced upon this.

“Then you think she’s behaving oddly too?”

Janice started up the stairs.

“I always think she’s behaving oddly: she’s an odd woman. But she could also be play-acting, or suffering from some form of schizophrenia. But whichever it is – that head wound is real enough.”

Wozniak pursued Janice up the stairs, speaking louder with every step:

“I saw you jump when she mentioned Wycksford: doesn’t that suggest something?”

“What?” Janice stopped upon the stair for a moment. She was becoming frustrated with a situation – the like of which she had never experienced before. She felt ill equipped to handle it sensibly anymore. This was definitely ‘Wozniak Territory’.

“What does it suggest?” She snapped. “Nothing: that’s what. Of course she mentioned Wycksford.” She said desperately. “She invented the damned place!”

With that she continued upon her way up the stair, and entered the bathroom. There she began going through the contents of the vanity unit.

“No, Janice; you’re wrong:” Wozniak appeared at the head of the stairs. He shook his head. “She mentioned Wycksford because to her it’s a real place. Somewhere she knows well. Home perhaps. The way she described her headache suggests that it’s quite a big place too.”

Janice emerged from the vanity unit clutching a foil wrapper containing just two tablets.

“Look I don’t care right now.” She said. “I’m going to take that woman these last two aspirins in the house; and then perhaps we’ll take a little air in the garden. I take it you’ve hidden the car sufficiently well?”

“In the garage.” Wozniak replied whilst letting Janice past. “I’ll watch from the window.”

“Whatever.” Janice spoke curtly over her shoulder as she descended the stair.

I’m pushing too hard’, Wozniak thought to himself as he heard the kitchen door open, and Janice’s gentle voice offering Katherine the aspirins; ‘Just let the facts speak for themselves’.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2014

This book, and it’s sequel, are available at Lulu, iBooks, Amazon and Barnes & Noble (see sidebar or relevant page beneath the header) and most other e-book stockists. The paperback is available at Lulu.com.

* Quote from a work colleague who is a supportive follower of my earplug escapades and who has often supplied me with the raw materials required to shoot the pictures. i.e earplugs.

A Second Prodigal Earplug Returns

Yes, although my work-rate has diminished of late, I have been toiling casually upon the tart-up of this e-book…

And now it’s done and finished. It’s also re-published. So, if you’d care to visit the publishers – those being Lulu – you can see for yourself. And if you hang around long enough, before too many days have passed it’ll appear on Amazon and B&N and all those other outlets too. Naturally it is more wonderful than the original – possibly bordering upon divine. I don’t like to overstate things, but sometimes feel that if Angels  were to read e-books, they might well choose Junior Earplug Adventures. They are, after all, literary miracles. Yes, it’s a bloody miracle they get published at all. And just to prove it, here’s a montage…

And in the time honoured way of things earplug, here’s a photographic snippet of the photo-novel…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2016

Getting Back to My Roots 2

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.