Tag Archives: rude books

Revel in the Ribaldry 32

Methinks the time is right for a splash of rude, ribald, and disgustingly funny Hamster-Sapiens. On this occasion we delve into the last of the series -namely this magnificently naughty e-tome…

This e-book is available at most e-book retailers, including the publishers Lulu.com

To introduce this snippet I should explain that (as she was in the act of disembarking a submarine and boarding a cross-channel ferry mid-channel) Road Safety Technician Amy Crumpet has been cast into the waters of the English Channel. Thinking quickly she had struck out through the chill, dark waters towards the very object that had caused the accident – a surfacing turtle. As the last of her breath escaped her cheek pouches she managed to climb into (what she thought was) the sanctuary of the reptilian’s anus…

Before long the darkness and solitude began to affect Amy. Sitting alone upon cold unyielding flesh made her feel unwelcome and utterly alien. She tried talking to herself, and tried to compose a love sonnet to P C Gravy. But it was no good: She needed to be able to see her environment, and possibly explore it. So she stood as best she could in the low-ceilinged reptilian rectum, took out two freshly-minted seven Rodento coins from her waist band, and struck them together. She was rewarded with a shower of sparks that briefly illuminated the immediate area. And what she saw amazed her. It also informed her that she’d missed the turtle’s anus by some distance – for all about her she could see egg upon egg upon egg – stretching away into the staccato shadows. And the ceiling wasn’t half as low as she’d expected either.

“Cor.” She said gleefully, “I certainly won’t go hungry. And it also explains the total absence of excrement upon my silken fur.”

But then another thought intruded: “But I don’t know this turtle’s destination. If it’s about to lay its eggs, then no doubt it will seek a warm, sandy beach – and that could take weeks to find.”

For the second time Amy screamed shrilly.

“And there can’t be enough air in here to keep me alive indefinitely.” She added after calming herself once more, “My only chance to live comes with the vain hope that she surfaces regularly, rolls upon her back, and exposes her minge to the air. And what are the chances of that? ” It was a rhetorical question, but Amy answered it anyway. “None. Zero, Nada.”

So she screamed some more – until her voice went hoarse, and she was finally forced to stop by a burning desire to suck a lozenge – a small packet of which she fortunately carried in her waist band.

But it appeared that not all of her despairing screaming had been in vain. Water conducts sound extremely well, and when the slow-witted ocean-dweller heard unmistakably strange high-pitched mammalian sounds emanating from her private parts she became curious. Curious enough to stop swimming purposefully forward, and allow herself to bob to the surface.

Deep within the turtle Amy felt the floor heave as internal ballast shifted. Then she felt the undeniable sensation of ‘going uppy-ness’. She let out three rousing cheers.

The female turtle was surprised when her minge apparently gave forth with sounds of delight. In fact she was so surprised that she found it necessary to pass comment…

“I say, oh personal chasm.” She said in her best ocean-reptilian, “What gives in the vocal department?”

Amy heard this gargled utterance – not as comprehensible words, but as the sounds produced by a sentient creature.

“Hello out there.” She cried out as she struggled towards the exit. “I’m an air-breather – just like you!”

Had the turtle possessed eyebrows it is certain that they would have arched alarmingly.

“Is that an egg speaking?” She inquired.  “If so please remain quiescent until such time that I am able to bury you in some deep warm sand.”

Although Amy didn’t speak turtle, something in the turtle’s tone told her that the noises she could hear outside came as a form of admonishment.

“Oh, if only I was telepathic.” She wailed almost inconsolably, “Then this stupid language barrier wouldn’t be as impenetrable as a belch. Oh if only Joan Bugler had been swept away with me!”

Perhaps it was something in the way that Amy composed her thoughts at the moment, or even a stray neuron firing out of sequence inside her cold-blooded head; but the turtle comprehended the hamster’s meaning, and in a moment of epiphany she mentally squealed, “By the length of a Ragworm’ tadger – I can read the strange furry being’s mind!”

And indeed the turtle could. Deep within her body the small hamster received this thought. For a moment she suspected that she’d gone quite mad, but when the turtle’s subsequent message amounted to thrilled surprise combined with a powerful mothering instinct, Amy was certain that the thoughts couldn’t possibly have originated in her own brain: She hated pathetic mewling babies with a passion, and possessed the mothering instinct of a well-armed death squad.

Fortunately this latter thought had no turtle equivalent, so the huge creature had no reason to feel ill-will toward the parasite within her.

“I’m on my way to India.” She informed Amy directly.

“India?” Amy’s thought came to her like a distant, slightly panic-stricken voice upon a gentle breeze, “But that’s on the other side of the planet. It’ll take yonks to get there. And when you do you’ll just drop me into a big hole on the beach, and then bury me. And how would I get back home again afterwards? I’m just a hamster. No-no – this won’t do. This won’t do at all!”

The turtle was surprised at the vociferousness of Amy’s thoughts.

“Ooh-er.” She thought in response, “You have a powerful personality. I get the distinct impression that if you stay in there much longer you could eventually overwhelm my simple psyche, and take control of both my mind and my body. And that won’t do either.”

Amy was used to thinking on her hind paws. As a road safety technician she had to be: Early morning go-kart drivers could be unpredictable, and Amy had been forced to leap to the side of the road on many occasions since taking on the job at Hamster Heath high school. She thought now – like she had never thought before. In fact she thought so hard that the turtle began to swoon from the mental energy discharges that erupted invisibly from the rodent’s cranium.

“Please,” the turtle cried out both verbally and mentally, “you’re torturing me beyond reasonable tolerance. Stop please: I’ll do anything that you want. Do you wish me to eject you into these cold northerly waters?”

Amy wasn’t sure whether the last remark was meant as a threat, but she quickly realised that if the turtle wished it could be rid of its uninvited passenger with just a single spasm, and that she – Amy – would surely perish as a result. So she guarded her thoughts much as an evil pick-pocket guards its ill gotten gains.

“Oh, most certainly not.” She replied to the turtle’s inquiry. “But I do have suggestion that I think will satisfy both of our needs. But first – tell me: Can you swim upside down?”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Ah, they don’t write ’em like that anymore!

Revel in the Ribaldry 31

The time is due for another excerpt from one of my…er…fabulous...Hamster-Sapiens books. It has been a while since I last entertained you with a snippet from this book...

…so it seems logical to do that right now. And here it is – and chosen entirely at random by pure chance…

Horatio became aware that Beryl was tugging at his sleeve, but tried to ignore it. So Beryl was left with no alternative but to knock off his novelty fedora if she wanted to gain his attention. So she did, and it worked wonderfully.

“I’m not native.” She whispered, “Who is that pompous ass-hole from which distain drips from every pore?”

Acknowledging the indisputable truth that Beryl wasn’t going to remain quiet unless Horatio gave her the information she required, the trepidatious young hamster decided to acquiesce to her demands.

“His name is Henderson Dangerpimple.” He spoke as quickly as he thought Beryl’s brain could assimilate the information, “He is a professor of Pox and Pustules at Chunderford University. He was the owner of the seafront fondant shop in the same town. Unfortunately his shop was destroyed by a mini-tsunami caused by a huge propeller that fell into the sea from the airship Dragon Slayer.”

Beryl was confused. “And he blames you for it?

“I was one of the passengers.” Horatio shrugged his shoulders, but instantly regretted the act lest the subtle movement reveal his location to the ethereal sniper.

“But still,” Beryl persisted, “that seems a little unreasonable.”

“Well I stole his wife too.” Horatio added slightly shamefaced. “They’d only been married a few hours. They hadn’t even consummated the union. But it wasn’t my fault: I had a really snotty allergy: An allergy to life without Colleen Slapper it turned out. So I told her that I loved her, begged her to leave Henderson, and she did. Now he hates me. I guess I can understand his motivation.”

“Is that tale in your autobiography?” Beryl inquired. “If it isn’t it should be.”

“Yes.” Horatio turned to regard the female beside him, “Haven’t you read it properly?”

“Not everything.” It was Beryl’s turn to look shamefaced, “Only the rude bits when you talk about your massive scrotum and suchlike. I just like to browse when I read.”

Horatio nodded. Once again he found himself capable of understanding the motivation of someone else – and it made him feel good. The Horatio Horseblanket Chronicles did run to three volumes after all. And there was the illustrated version too of course: That even included the famous photograph of his personal area that appeared on the cover of The Bucktooth Times. “Yes.” He said, “So I imagine that you’ve read all about how the President of Europe had a Particularly Popular Peoples Party pamphlet inserted into my anus and then set alight?”

“Oh yes.” Beryl assured Horatio, “It’s one of my favourite bits. And the episode where the famous Hamster-French three-wheeled go-kart race, Norbert Disentangle bit you in the…”

But Horatio was no longer listening: Instead he was regarding the TV monitor as a

cascade of whooshes and fizzles gave way to an actual picture…

“Yeah.” An unknown pilot yelled as he struggled with the controls of a recalcitrant military dirigible, “He’s my first-born. I named him after the first thing that I saw when I entered the delivery room in the hospital. His name is Legsakimbo.”

Further conversation with an unseen comrade was interrupted as the airship bucked and yawed in the turbulent night air.

Below searchlights scanned the heavens – sweeping across the night sky like photonic brooms. Every so often anti-dirigible explosives would be sent hurtling into the air from gigantic catapults – to cause mayhem and consternation amongst the crews that flew high above enemy territory.

“Legsakimbo Dangerpimple?” the comrade struggled from somewhere aft in the gondola with a huge cup of tea and a slice of lemon drizzle cake for the pilot. “That sounds almost exotic – like something from Deepest Jungle Land or somewhere similar.”

“Totally accidental I assure you, old chap.” The pilot gratefully accepted the gift of delicious comestibles, and began stuffing his face.

The comrade checked his fob watch. “Hmmm.” He muttered, “I think I’ll check with Marius: We should be just about there by now.”

But he didn’t need to. Instead a voice crackled over the intercom…

“This is Marius Moonvictim, Skipper: Time that we said ‘bye-bye’.”

“Roger that.” The pilot responded into a huge brass microphone that hung above his pilot’s seat. He then clicked on a radio transceiver. “This is Pilot Officer Brandenberg Dangerpimple to base. We’re having some difficulty with our navigator. Request permission to break off the attack, over.”

“Your navigator?” A distant voice floated in and out of audible range, “What the fluff’s wrong with Moonvictim this time? Over.”

Dangerpimple didn’t hesitate to lie. “Bad case of the shits, I’m afraid, over.”

It took a few seconds for the distant voice to become audible again, but when it did, the owner sounded exasperated.

“Tell him to hold it in, and get on plotting your course. The target for this bombing raid was chosen by the Prince himself personally.”

“Too late, base.” Dangerpimple couldn’t help but smile wickedly as he spoke, “I’m afraid that he’s soiled the navigation equipment. When we get back it’ll need a complete overhaul. We’re virtually flying blind up here. I think we can just about make it to the emergency landing tower at Mollusk by dead-reckoning if we turn back now. If we try to continue – then I think that we’d probably get horrendously lost, and fly right off the edge of the world. Over”

He knew that this last line was a certain winner. He needed only wait a paw-full of seconds before a radio acknowledgement was received.

“Right’o, Marius.” He shouted, “Plot us a course for you-know-where.”

He heard a laugh in response. “Already plotted and on the board, Skipper.”

And Brandenberg Dangerpimple’s response to that was a sharp twist of the wheel to starboard, and the instruction to his nearby comrade, “Okay, Flight Sergeant Binge Tanning: You know the ropes: Prepare for borders.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 30

It’s been a while since the last bout of ribaldry-revelling. Since this e-book…

…gets the lion’s share of my affections, I chose, this time, to delve into the rude wonders of this one…

…which is a double sequel – to The Psychic Historian AND this e-book…

So, you could be forgiven for thinking that it must contain all the qualities of both. And you’d be right. Here’s a random excerpt…

The next reader didn’t arrive in a cloud of smoke; appear from thin air; or present himself in an imaginatively spectacular manner as many had expected: Instead he merely ambled into view upon rickety legs from his perch upon a roughly-hewn log at the rear of the audience. But when he spoke everyone was absolutely certain that the being that now stood with his be-whiskered snout to the microphone could only be, without the faintest doubt, the elderly owner of The Where House – Boney Legge himself.

“I aint much good at public speakin’.” He announced. “In fact I aint much on speakin’ at all. I just likes to ogle and complain – in that order; or, dependin’ on me mood, goin’ for a shit at inopportune moments. But like the rest of us what live hereabouts I keep a diary, and for some reason the ghost of Freda Bludgeon took mine and made somethin’ out of it. She had no choice of course, coz it’s me what wrote the next bit of the story. But coz as an orator I’m total crap, I’m gonna ask my android friend, Colin, to do the talkin’ for me. How does that sound to you lot?”

“If it means that we don’t have to listen to you mangle the Hamster-British language anymore, that’s just fine.” Molly Horseblanket yelled from her seat beside her son, Horatio.

Boney nodded enthusiastically. He then waved to someone in the shadows. Moments later the tall, handsome, artificial hamster strode to the dais; hopped aboard; and gave the audience one of his toothy smiles for which he was almost famous.

“Well isn’t this a lot of fun, Boney?” He said. “I do love a nice chin wag on a sub-zero evening.”

Boney wasn’t sure that he would describe the current situation as ‘fun’: He’d rather be tucked up nice and warm in front of the brazier in his foldaway scooter park; perhaps playing darts at the Mouldy Lectern public house; or even watching nothing happen on the CCTV monitors in his security office whilst wrapped up in his favourite duvet, and supping on luke-warm cocoa. But he had to admit that it wasn’t exactly the worst type of torture that he was experiencing right now, and he consoled himself with the thought that his mere presence there that night might inspire one or two of the audience to spend a couple of Rodentos, and visit his emporium of alien artefacts, and possibly keep him financially solvent for another week.

“Yeah.” He replied, and tried a patently false smile that somehow came across as a lecherous leer, which frightened Farmer Niblet so badly that she squealed loudly, and instructed her husband, Farmer Tablet, to “skewer the deviant with your pitchfork, my dearest”.

Fortunately for the evening’s proceedings, Farmer Tablet seldom did as he was instructed. Instead gave Boney a cheerful ‘thumbs-up’.

Colin didn’t really need to clear his throat in preparation to speak; but he found that generally it got everyone’s attention rather well, especially when he turned his volume control up to ‘ten’ – nearly frightening people stupid in the process. And so it was that evening in Danglydong Dell – when he accidentally wound up his volume dial to eleven, and instead frightened Wendy Nuthatch stupid.

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.”

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

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.”

“You know those are exactly the same words that a police-female spoke when I got out my special tool during our last adventure on an alternate world.” Colin chuckled. “Lionel and Fanangy had to break me out of jail just a short while afterwards.”

“Hey!” Gargantua suddenly bellowed, “Maybe I aint no psychic, but my nose is smelling real good today. I smell cavy. One of ‘em is a foreign cavy too. It’s got the unmistakable pong of Sponx royal finery about it.”

“Margarita?” Primrose cried out in hopeful wonderment.

Again Gargantua shrugged his mighty shoulders. “Do I know this Margarita?” He inquired from behind suspicious eyes.

As Boney scrabbled to retain his tenuous grip upon the flanks of his mount, Primrose mentally slapped her wrist. “No, or course not.” She answered. “Silly me. Now tell me – does your sensitive nose detect the aroma of a Law Master’s saddle?”

Gargantua scented the air. “Yeah,” he answered in surprise, “I do. All sweating ass-hole stuff. You know it reminds me of the time when I was a Law Master’s mount. Great days. Great days indeed – what with all that driving peasants from their hovels, and chasing Stix across the countryside until they dropped from heat exhaustion or threw themselves down holes. Then I got sold to Lucas Cleats of course. It was still fun after that – but a different kind’a fun. Not so much Stix chasing; but loads’a abbey crushing and Law Master mangling. But it quickly palled, and I became disillusioned. So when you lot came along I saw it as a perfect opportunity to right some wrongs. As a result – here I am. Ta-dah!”

“Don’t he go on!” Boney complained. “It’s enough to make me ears come out in sympathy with me aching knees.”

But Primrose hadn’t been listening. Instead she strode forward through the market place, and headed straight for the only building in town that had rented rooms with adjoining stables.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Obviously I don’t need to remind you that this e-book is available at various outlets – some of which are mentioned on the sidebar. They include the publishers Lulu.com

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 27

Once upon a time I knew which book was supposed to supply the next excerpt, but somewhere between R.i.t.R 1 and now I’ve managed to become completely flummoxed. My default position is to jump straight to this book…

…partly because it’s the best book in the world, and partly because it’s the best book that has ever been written by anyone, anywhere, at any time. So today I’m going eschew my fall-back position and go for this book…

…which isn’t any of those things I said about The Psychic Historian, but is entertaining, and without the prior existence of which the best book in the world would not have been written. And here is the random excerpt. Hope it’s good…

Although the elevator was slow, the anti-mould snail had kept it pristine. Consequently both hamsters felt not the slightest discomfort as it ascended at a moribund crawl. And when, eventually, the door slid open on reasonably well-oiled sliders, Tonks had managed to shed much of the muck and filth of the lower floors, and was able to lead Colin on to the ground floor with a certain amount of pride.

The first thing she did was prick up her furry ears, and listen intently. Satisfied by the silence she then took her sidearm in her good paw, and made off for the Sentinel Robot bay. As she did so she couldn’t help but notice that the CCTV camera panned around to follow her progress.

“I didn’t know that your security system worked.” She said to Colin.

“It works fine.” He replied. “It’s just that Boney can’t be arsed to use it. He prefers the Sentinel Robots.”

Tonks asked the obvious next question. “So why is he using it now?”

Colin had no idea, so he decided to be creative. “Perhaps he’s trying to look down the front of your uniform.” He suggested. Then as supportive evidence for this theory he added, “Your breasts do jiggle pleasantly. Not that I’m an expert or anything. I never was much of a letch. Or a letch of any kind, come to think about it.”

But Tonks wasn’t listening: Another shudder was in the process of passing through the building, and the lights dimmed momentarily.

Meanwhile, in the Security Office, the monitors were being shaken dramatically. Not because of the apparent earthquake that was in the process of giving Fanangy’s epiglottis a hernia due to excessive nervous gulping: But because the cameras that fed them had gone out of focus.

“Damnation from the Great Angler Herself.” Boney cursed as he thumped the ageing cathode ray tubes with frustration, “I could’a sworn I caught a glimpse of a nipple just then!”

“Probably a shadow.” Lionel attempted to quell his employer’s enthusiasm for the sergeant’s mammary glands, “Army regulation vests would never allow loose titties in a potential combat situation. They could block the view of a rifle sight. ”

Boney was forced to accede to Lionel’s almost-pure logic. “Yeah, I s’pose you’re right.” He grumbled.

Then the screens settled, and a clear view of the corridor returned. But of Tonks and Colin there was no sign.

“Try the Sentinel Robot bay.” Fanangy croaked, “It’s the next door along.”

Naturally Fanangy’s suggestion was the correct course of action. This was because of two quite disparate reasons – at least in Lionel’s eyes. The first was that she was utterly gorgeous, and therefore incapable of being in error upon any subject, whether corporeal or esoteric: And secondly because Tonks and Colin now found themselves staring with bewilderment at a Sentinel Robot bay completely bereft of Sentinel Robots. Instead, at the cavernous room’s centre, a device that simply defied description seemed to crouch like a defecating toad.

“It looks like an oddly mottled huge steel box with flashing lights all around it.” Tonks exclaimed breathlessly.

“And a vast array of cables reaching from it, and disappearing into all four walls, the ceiling, and the floor, in a manner most redolent of things most creepy and crawly.”  Colin added.

“What do you think it is?” Tonks inquired.

“Beats the shit out of me.” Colin replied helpfully.

Tonks asked another question. “Was it there when we departed for the Artefact Room?”

This time Colin’s response was a little more forthcoming with information. “No.” He said.

“And imagine the remarkable engineering skills required to have constructed this stupendous device in such a short time.” Tonks said admiringly.

Any further utterances were silenced before they could be properly composed. Once more the building shook, and a loud hum of harnessed energy filled the air.

“Yikes.” Tonks managed before a loud booming voice spoke…

“Who dares speak in the presence of The Overmind?”

Colin was quick to respond. “Oh, that’d be us. Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend or anything. The name’s Colin by the way. I’m an android.” He then indicated Tonks, who appeared to have entered the trance-like fugue that hamsters in general, and startled females in particular, enter at times of extreme stress. “Oh, and this, apparently inanimate, life-form is Sergeant Tonks. I don’t know if she has a first name; but she’s a hamster. I don’t know the Latin for her species: hamstery-hamsteritious, or something, I expect.”

“Cease this infernal noise!” The voice of the Overmind boomed.

Despite owning the best pair of electronic ears on the planet, Colin couldn’t be sure precisely where the sound was emanating from. He suspected that it might be the large device in the centre of the room. “Sorry.” He said quietly.

“Bring me your mobility.” The Overmind demanded.

Colin’s aim was to please at every opportunity: But this demand required too much of him. “You what?” He enquired eloquently.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2012

P.S I wonder if I’ll ever write another Hamster-Sapiens book. Do I still have the ability? Oh, I don’t know; there are so many books I’d like to write, but I simply can’t be arsed.

 

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 26

Since I began posting these extracts from the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books, I’ve been really pleased with everyone’s reactions to them. To date only one extract needed to be deleted – due to lack of interest – and I thank every one of you who clicks the Like button whenever you read one. For this excerpt I’ve delved into the abyss that is this book…

Hopefully you’ll like it as much as the others.

Upon this command the monks fell back to a position behind the drunken mob. No sooner had they done so – when the gate gave way abruptly, and with a loud splintering sound it crashed to the ground. Instantly the army of rogue Stix bandits came pouring through the gap – to be met with a sight that they couldn’t have imagined in their wildest dreams: Monks of The Wheel – drunken and debauched – and showing them their personal protuberances! And what frightful willies they were too – every one of them. Or rather they weren’t: In fact they were outstandingly average. But with Primrose’s hypnotic powers at their fullest, every member there appeared to match Brother Alfonso’s in sheer frightfulness to the nth degree.

“Argh.” The first wave of bandits cried, “Frightful willies everywhere: Back, damn you! Back!”

But heedless the second wave pushed them onwards, and they were almost within striking distance with their knives and cudgels before they too succumbed to the apparent sight.

“No – The Rim preserve me.” They would cry out in despair, “My mind is in turmoil!” And then they too would turn aside, and try to beat a hasty retreat.

But no one had considered Lucas Cleats himself. Something had obviously changed in Lucas Cleats since he’d come to the attention of Stubby Collet as a young, up-coming, Stix member, because not only did he recognise the monk’s private parts for what they really were; he also recognised Primrose as the alter-ego of Stubby Collet.

Raising his mailed fist he marched resolutely towards Primrose. “This is your evil work!” He growled menacingly.

“Ah-ha!” Brother Alfonso yelled as he leapt into the space between Cleats and Primrose, and raising the hem of his habit to chest height, “Their danglies may not be real – but mine is. Retreat immediately before I club you to death with my mighty truncheon.”

Under certain circumstances this ploy might have worked. Indeed Brother Alfonso had once tried such a gambit before. The result that time was a sharp slap with a chain mail glove, followed by excruciating pain, and his instantaneous surrender: This time didn’t go any better.

“El Diablo.” Brother Alfonso cried in abrupt and unexpected agony, “Mi Guillermo burns like the fires of The Hub itself. No mi gusta chain mail gloves!”

Cleats then pushed the stumbling giant aside, and withdrew his blade from it’s scabbard. “Let’s be done with these illusions, Stubby.” He spoke calmly to Primrose. “Out of respect I’ll make it quick for you.”

In one fluid motion both Darkwood and Quentin bravely stepped to intercept him, but were cast aside by invisible mental bolts that sent them sprawling.

Joan, Felicity, and Algy Timber all tried flinging empty custard pots in his direction, but Cleats avoided them all with ease, and barely broke the pace of his advance.

But then lady luck stepped in as Joan cried out, “Oh if only we could introduce some custard to his gullet, we would be saved!”

And outside the gate, still recovering from being used as a battering ram, lay Cleats’ enormous bull cavy.

“Custard?” The enormous cavy said – his ears pricking up. “Did someone mention custard? I absolutely adore custard. Let me at it. Let no rodent stand in my way!”

He then leapt to his feet, and charged through the broken portal. He took a brief moment to ignore all the wayward private parts and fleeing bandits, and then locked his gaze upon the last remaining pot of custard, which as luck would have it, stood upon a trestle table beside the shapely form of Primrose Pickles.

“That mother-fluffer is mine.” He bellowed loudly whilst charging blindly – oblivious to the fact that his master stood between himself and the tantalising custard.

Well what happened next was horrifying beyond belief. Even the drunken monks paused in their synchronised posing to gasp in awe, and the others openly cringed. Lucas Cleats had been caught from behind by the massive lowered head of his mount, and was flung bodily high into the air, where he landed with an “Oof” upon the steep slate-tiled roof of the gatehouse. He then quickly slithered downward in a terrifying cascade of dislodged tiles and startled grimaces. He would have inevitably fallen to a grisly death upon the shattered remains of the wooden gate below, but somehow his scrotum managed to become ensnared in the gutter, and he was left dangling above the precipice by his private parts.

“Oh I wish I’d brought my digital camera.” Algy Timber spoke into the resulting silence, “I could really liven up my personal web site with pictures of that.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Now you can see why I call this Revel in the Ribaldry. Fun- what? Of course the e-book is still available – after all these years – at most stockists, some of which are mentioned beneath the header and on the sidebar.

Revel in the Ribaldry 24

It’s  no good; when it comes to selecting which book supplies the next extract, I’ve completely lost the plot. But, rather than adopting my default position, which always results in me choosing The Psychic Historian, this time I’m going to plump for this slightly underrated e-book…

Okay – VERY underrated e-book. Maybe this extract, whatever it is (because its always random), will make people think again. Let’s hope so: I worked hard on this (all those years ago) and I really would like to sell a few copies.

“You miserable failure.” Wetpatch thought he heard someone say as he rematerialized beneath the emergency raffia mat.

“I’m no such thing.” He responded in his most indignant tone, which was very indignant indeed because he’d been studying Indignancy as part of the school curriculum, and had been practising upon the village green with his pal Algy Piecrust for weeks.

“Oh Wetpatch.” Amy squealed with delight as she whipped back the covering, and then quickly averted her eyes in case time travel did nasty things to people, “You’re back!”

Immediately everyone began fussing around the young hamster – asking all sorts of questions, and checking to see if he retained most of his more obvious body parts.

Naturally, after learning from Desmond that time travel can sometimes be disorientating, and can often lead people to hear things that weren’t actually said, and were usually the product of their sub-conscious, Wetpatch made his report.

Everyone was delighted, though slightly appalled by the news that both the crew and passengers were due for a pasting by the volcano’s shockwave, and that vomiting would be commonplace.

Desmond was particularly thrilled that Tutu would be safe, and was probably half way to Chunderland by now: But was slightly disconcerted when Wetpatch informed him that Tutu was a brilliant navigator, and that the lanky creature possessed a natural flair for the science, and could actually wipe his bottom with the bathroom light off.

So now, it seemed, it was just a matter of trying to survive the shockwave when it hit. And Wetpatch knew exactly where he intended to ride it out…

After securing Kevin to the wall with a pair of extremely large bolts and a length of braid from the lounge drapes, Wetpatch settled himself into a harness that swung lazily from a spring that was attached to the ceiling.

“It won’t matter how much the ship bucks about.” The youngster informed the education computer, “I’ll be cushioned from its effects by this. Of course I’ll probably empty my stomach all over the place, but I’ll remain fundamentally unharmed.”

Kevin, despite being a machine, was less than enthralled at the thought of being puked over.

“Hey, dumb-ass hamster,” it spoke as eloquently as it could, “How’s about stuffing me in a cupboard or up the extractor fan? I can’t stand no thoughts of messy stuff getting in my innards. What you wanna have me ‘round for anyways?”

Actually Wetpatch had a very good reason for having Kevin around when the shockwave hit. Amongst its many talents, Kevin could double as a DVD player, and it just so happened that during the rapid descent into the deeps, several box sets of Rat Trek had fallen from the hold of the Disemboweller into the Bargebutt, and Wetpatch had collected them, cleaned all the filth and bodily wastes from them, and now intended to spend his time on a sci-fi fest to end all sci-fi fests: Hour upon endless hour of Rat Trek re-runs – with popcorn. He simply couldn’t wait

“It’ll take my mind off my recalcitrant balance mechanism.” He explained after Kevin demanded an explanation for the inclusion of audio-visual stimulation during a period of extreme physical and mental stress. “And if I position a mirror on the opposite wall – you can watch too!”

And so it came to pass. Almost exactly three hours, sixty-two minutes, and ninety seconds later, the S.S Bargebutt found itself in the grasp of an invisible monster. Joints creaked, bulkheads bristled, and transfer hoses wobbled horrendously as the vessel was dragged across a sizable portion of the globe by the racing volcanic shockwave. Up became down, left became right, and somewhere in the middle seemed like it might end up on the outside. All in all the mighty sub was tested far beyond its builder’s design expectations, and was not found wanting. Regrettably the same couldn’t quite be said of its crew however. As promised by the earlier form of Tutu – vomiting abounded, and a great gnashing of teeth could be heard throughout its endless corridors. Recriminations were commonplace, and many a rodent said things that they feared they might later regret.

In his cabin, Wetpatch was riding the storm quite well. Although he was bouncing around the room on the end of his spring like an expiring house fly, his brain remained active, and his stomach surprisingly calm.

Kevin was doing less well. The two bolts turned out to be made of inferior shit-metal, and the braid had been manufactured in a country where quantity was generally preferred over quality, and had duly snapped at the first serious tug. The education computer now lay in the corner with both its display unit and solitary ‘eye’ camera facing the ceiling. Its tracked wheels spun helplessly, and oil was leaking from places that Wetpatch never imagined Kevin possessed. But like the obedient automaton that it was, Kevin continued to play Rat Trek, Episode Seven of Season One, ‘With Winter Comes a Nose Warmer’. And Wetpatch was doing his best to watch it even though Kevin couldn’t help itself from rolling from side to side as the vessel bucked and weaved like a conquistador’s cavy.

It was just as (on screen) Mister Splatt had finished explaining some complicated science stuff to an uncomprehending Captain Perp that a thought suddenly intruded upon Wetpatch’s enjoyment of the action adventure television show.

“Hang on a minute.” The adolescent hamster cried out over the general cacophony made by a ship that was being pounded to within microns of tolerance, “That can’t be right!”

And he wasn’t talking about Mister Splatt’s pseudo-science either. But it was to be another hour before the storm had passed, and he could put his resulting inspirational theory to Professor Desmond…

“Fluff and bollocks!” The wild-furred scientist bellowed moments after listening with great intensity to Wetpatch’s worrying tale and his most recently posited theorem.

“Fluff and bollocks?” Inquired Sally as she strode into the control room, paw in paw with Mister Ho, and with Amy in tow. “It’s not like you to swear gratuitously.”

Desmond apologised and then explained exactly what it was that had brought out the beast in him.

“I don’t think that Tutu was really Tutu.” He began, which confused the heck out of all three listening hamsters.

“What Professor Squealch means is…” Wetpatch decided to explain upon Desmond’s behalf, “…due to some unexplained interference from either the high pressures experienced in the depths. Or possibly somebody using an illegal cell ‘phone. Or perhaps electromagnetic activity from deep within the planet’s crust – his time machine didn’t send me back to the right time and place.”

“But…” Sally began; but she quickly realised that she knew next to nothing about temporal translocation, and duly shut her gob.

“But…” Amy tried more successfully, “…if it wasn’t the proper Tutu, in the proper place, at the proper time: Who was he, where was he, and when?”

The question had been succinctly put, and Roman, who had been snoozing beneath a pile of laundry, openly applauded her before joining the group.

“We think,” Wetpatch continued, “that I was diverted through a sub-atomic maelstrom into an alternative dimension in which everything appeared to be exactly the same as this one. But we can’t be sure that it actually was the same – so now Professor Squealch is all worried about Tutu again. He thinks he might be dead!”

“Fluff and bollocks!” Ho verbally ejaculated. “Some real bad shit!”

Indeed it was ‘some real bad shit’. “If our conjecture transpires to be proven,” Desmond came close to wailing, “then we can’t even be certain that Wetpatch is the same Wetpatch that we sent through time. And he can’t be certain that we’re the same bunch of miserable rodents who sent him. Oh this is unbearable: I’ve never felt more out of my depth – even when compared to that time when I went potholing with Tutu and Horatio Horseblanket, and there was a cave-in, and the river began rising, and we had to grasp the tunnel roof with our incisors, and converse through our nostrils!”

For several moments the situation looked extremely grim. Then Wetpatch had an idea…

“Send me back again.” He suggested chirpily, “Only this time I’ll take a camera. We can check the resulting photos for anomalies after I get back.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Well what a load of sci-fi cliches and quasi-scientific bollocks that was. But it was fun too, wasn’t it? Unbelievably this book is still for sale at most e-book retailers. They don’t give up, do they! And neither should you. Visit the sidebar or Tooty’s Books Available Here beneath the header, and buy it now. Like straight away. Immediately. This instant. You know it’ll be little money spent well. Bargain of the week.

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 23B

For this fabulously random extract from the world of the Hamster-Sapiens series I have delved into the hallowed cyber-pages of this magnificent e-book…

And very nice it is too – as you will now discover…

Felicity Bugler, Joan Bugler’s diminutive dormouse adopted sister, stretched hugely beneath her cosy duvet atop the bunk bed that she shared with the slightly rotund hamster. She listened minutely as tendons popped into their allotted slots, and joints nestled together in the time honoured way that young joints generally do. Then she sniffed the air, and came to the instant conclusion that her sister was absent.

Perhaps in any other household this situation wouldn’t have raised more than a slightly inquiring eyebrow; but this was the Bugler girl’s bedroom, and there had been no recorded instance of Joan ever rising from her bed before the trim and nimble Felicity did. Not one eyebrow even so much as quivered upon the pretty forehead of the female dormouse: No: – alarm bells rang loud and clear inside her head, and inaudible klaxons all but deafened her. She was off of the top bunk quicker than you could say ‘Horatio Indigo Transvestite Horseblanket’. A second later she was in the corridor calling Joan’s name in her most frantic manner.

Felicity’s immigrant gerbil mother, Brenda, appeared at her bedroom door.

“Felicity.” She bellowed in her strange accent that no one had ever been able to place, as she entered the corridor whilst rubbing sleep-filled eyes, “What’s you doing girl? You’s gonna wake them neighbours, and make ‘em all mad as heck. What you shoutin’ Joan’s name for anyway – aint she layin’ in that bunk of hers like some lazy tart kind’a thing?”

It took a few nanoseconds for Felicity’s reply to penetrate the gerbil’s sleepy brain.

“What?” She shrieked in alarm, “She aint in no bed? Her day-clothes aint been took outta the closet? She’s done gone outside with no knickers coverin’ her shapely hamster ass? Where’d she go?”

It wasn’t a rhetorical question, but Felicity’s expression told the middle-aged gerbil that it should have been.

“She been kidnapped?” Brenda offered.

Again the look from her adopted dormouse daughter.

“You mean she gone to that weirdo place in that other dimension kind’a stuff?” She suggested less hopefully.

“Can you think of any other plausible explanation?” Felicity asked – more in desperation than hope. “Or even a whimsical one?”

“But her knickers, girl.” Brenda tried to argue. “She don’t go nowhere without her sturdy cold-store kind’a pants on. Nowhere!”

“I know.” Felicity suddenly wailed, and tears began to form in her eyes. “It must have been some sort of terrible trans-dimensional accident.”

Then a thought struck. She spoke as the thoughts grew in both numbers and intensity…

“Let’s think – this is a socially rented apartment that belongs to the local socialist government: What could be different about this particular edifice that might cause Joan to have a trans-dimensional accident?”

Both rodents placed their metaphorical thinking caps firmly upon their metaphysical craniums; but after fifteen minutes of intense thinking, Felicity came up empty.

“Nada.” She said dejectedly, “I’m calling Police Constable Gravy: Perhaps he can shed some light upon the situation.”

“You just hold your stag beetles.” Brenda held up a paw to thwart Felicity as she reached for the wall ‘phone. “I just thunk of something.”

Moments later both rodents were hammering on the toilet door, and calling Joan’s name. Felicity tried picking the lock with the end of her tail, but it was too furry. So Brenda set about the hinges with her powerful incisors. Within moments the door fell outwards into the corridor, and they raced each other to be first inside. Naturally, being small and nimble, Felicity won, and duly tripped upon the new mat, and, with a wail of dismay, disappeared out of the open window.

“Felicity, girl,” Brenda called down to her adopted daughter as she struggled amongst the briars below, “You gone done forgot your own knickers too. Ya just gave the post-hamster a heart attack. But ya done good: Ya found where Joan went. Now ya can call that P C Chest guy to come find her.”

But Felicity wasn’t so sure. As she struggled to regain her modesty by tucking her nightdress between her knees whilst giving the aging post-hamster the kiss of life, she called back, “I don’t think so. I’ll tell you all about it after you’ve ‘phoned for an ambulance.”

Felicity didn’t actually explain anything to her mother until she’d called her boyfriend, Roosevelt Teabiscuit. Naturally the equally diminutive dormouse had rushed around to Brenda’s apartment, and was already unbuckling his novelty sporran as he walked in.

“Sorry, Roosevelt,” Felicity had said moments after Brenda had screamed in horror, “I should have told you that mum was here, and that I needed you – not for your amazing powers in the rampant non-reproductive sexual intercourse department – but for your equally amazing talent as a psychic catalyst.”

Roosevelt had duly apologized for being presumptive, and now they all sat around the dining table to discuss Felicity’s remarkable discovery.

“As I fell through the window I remember distinctly hearing the words – ‘Honestly, if you spent a little more of the church’s coffers on constructing roads, we wouldn’t be having this difficulty’, which in itself isn’t proof positive that Joan has crossed over into Prannick, but the reply – ‘Never mind that, just keep pushing: It makes your powerful buttocks go all shapely’ – kind of tears it. Those voices belonged to Darkwood Dunce and Quentin Blackheart. I’d recognise them anywhere.”

“You heard all this while you was fallin’?” Brenda squealed with disbelief, “But it only took one of them seconds. That kind’a thing don’t sound right to me. I’m tellin’ ya – you’s took a nasty knock on your noggin, girl, that’s what you’s done. You’s aint heard nothing but the post-hamster droppin’ to his knees and praisin’ The Saint of All Hamsters for the sight of your wotsit.”

As theories went Brenda’s was a very good one. Unfortunately it was also entirely incorrect.

“Mummy, dearest,” Felicity responded kindly, “shut the fluff up, and listen.”

She then made her proposal to prove that she had really heard what she thought she’d heard.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

There, didn’t I tell you it was nice! This book remains available at most e-book stockists. Some are mentioned on the sidebar and beneath the header in Tooty’s Books Available Here. But you can get it at all sorts of places in many countries of the world. If you liked the extract, you’ll adore the book. Oh yes: it’s also a bit rude – so no children to see it, okay? 

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 22

For R.i.t.R 22  we visit, once again, that great well of ribaldry – Fanfare For The Common Hamster. This is what the e-book looks like…

And this is what a tiny portion of the script looks like…

Joan was surprised to find Stubby Collett alone upon the path that led away from Far Kinell by the most circuitous route possible. Of the Abbot there was no sign, despite the fact that he’d promised to tend Stubby’s wounds in their absence.

The others – Darkwood, Rootley, and Brother Alfonso, weren’t though, and nodded sagely as Stubby explained that the Abbot’s nerves had become frayed to within one micron of total mental collapse, and that, in an effort to free the poor hamster from his inner religious turmoil, he had pretended that they were being stalked by a wild mutant weasel, and in an effort to dissuade the beast from consuming them Stubby had apparently transformed into a mythological homo sapien once again, and frightened the imaginary monster away.

Naturally the Abbot had sought, and found, solace in his beliefs, which ran counter to the sights that his eyes beheld, and so, in an almost catatonic state, the former Farley Dunnock had taken the only course left to him (other than madness) and had returned to the town – presumably to reassume the role that he believed he was born to do – that being The Abbot of The Wheel.

“I didn’t like him anyway.” Stubby concluded, “He smelt funny.”

Then his eyes alighted upon Felicity, and despite his grievous injury, his trousers flapped alarmingly. “Cripes,” his voice half-said/half-trilled, as he surveyed the dormouse’s non-curvaceous hips, “there’s a sight for sore eyes, and make no mistake.”

He then introduced himself to the two newcomers.

“I’ve always wanted to meet a brilliant illusionist.” Felicity informed him, “A really crappy one visited our school once, and appeared to turn into a bowl of pitted cherries. He looked delicious; but I saw right through his visual subterfuge: It was quite obviously a hologram.”

Stubby bristled, “It was no such thing!” He bellowed his best – which with his chest seeping blood all over the place was really quite impressive.

For some mysterious reason no one seemed to notice the incongruity of the small harvest mouse’s outburst – except Roosevelt. And he spoke in a manner that greatly impressed Rootley Farnham.

“Excuse me,” he said, “How the fluff would you know? Were you there?”

Now under normal circumstances it is certain that Stubby would have denied ever having been anywhere near a school for girl rodents, let alone within Joan, Felicity, and Roosevelt’s continuum: But these weren’t normal circumstances: He was grievously hurt, and he was also in the company of a psychic catalyst. So he said, “Yes. I’ll have you know that appearing to turn into a bowl of pitted cherries in front of several hundred young females taxed me enormously, and I had to have a lay down afterwards.” Then in a more aggrieved tone he added, “And to think that they believed that it was nothing more than smoke, mirrors, and advanced laser technology: Well it offends me greatly.”

“I’m sorry.” Felicity whispered as she reached out to comfort Stubby, “But why were you giving an exhibition of advanced illusionism to a bunch of girl hamsters and one dormouse?”

Stubby sighed. He then informed them that prior to becoming a psi-cop field agent; he was a talent scout for them. He’d hoped to promote an interest in psychic abilities amongst the young persons of several alternate realities.

“Sadly with scant reward.” He sighed again. “We met with little success. Except for Joan, of course.”  Then he coughed a bit, and everyone knew that the interview was over.

                                                                 ***

The timely arrival of the Abbot – Farley Dunnock – at The Rancid Maggot Inn might have saved Perfidity Gallowsmith from a lynching by outraged ‘Wheelists’, but The Law Master quickly realised that she must regain their trust and loathing by being seen to act as a Law Master should, and stop behaving like the drunken, exhibitionist, trollop that she was.

The primary reason for this sober summation of her current situation was that only moments after having made his grand entrance, the Abbot had strolled to the bar, downed a flagon of ale, touched up the barkeeper, and then slumped to the floor – where he began speaking gibberish, and attempting to unravel the coarse raffia mat that Mooney kept for soaking up his customer’s sweat and vomit. Clearly something had happened to the Abbot, Perfidity reasoned well enough: Now she must grasp the nettle: This was just the opportunity that she’d spent the last thirty seconds praying for…

“Right then,” she announced, whilst slipping into her best chainmail knickers, and strapping on Jock, her favourite dagger, “who’s feeling ready for a punch-up? I’m looking to form a posse.”

                                                                         ***

The small group of rodents had been prevaricating over a decision concerning Stubby’s immediate future for some time, and were no closer to a solution regarding his welfare, when Rootley gasped, and hissed, “A posse departs the Rancid Maggot Inn. We must act – in haste if possible.”

Stubby forced his trembling eyelids to flutter open. “You have a talent too, I see.” He then added, “Do you have more details concerning this posse?”

Rootley shook his furry little head, “ ‘Fraid not.” He said.

Stubby then shook a wavering finger in the approximate direction of Roosevelt. “Touch the puny hamster, young dormouse: He has need of your energy and ministrations.”

Everyone’s expressions asked the same question: What energy’s that then?

“He’s a psychic catalyst.” Stubby explained as quickly as his trembling lips would allow, “I sensed it the moment he arrived. He resonates with such power that my buttocks haven’t stopped clenching for more than ten seconds at a time.”

Feeling rather embarrassed by the attention, Roosevelt coloured beneath his fine mantle of fur. He then straightened his tie, and did as he was bid.

Immediately Rootley’s buttocks constricted so violently that he squeaked in alarm. But then his pinched expression was replaced by a look of serenity. “I can see them.” he breathed, “Not my spasmodic buttock muscles, you understand: The whole posse. They’re on their way to the Hoopla Hall. The Law Master leads them. She’s carrying her favourite dagger – Jock. And her knickers…they’re her best chainmail ones. Fluff it – the bastards’ll be passing straight through here in just a few moments!”

Then a nearby horn could be heard blaring into the night. It sounded like a cavy giving birth to a weasel inside a tin bath.

“Cripes.” Roosevelt squeaked as he jumped and released his grip upon Rootley.

Darkwood began to panic. “What are we going to do?” he said, casting his gaze first one way, then the other. “I can’t get caught hanging about outside a gent’s bog-hole again! Not so soon anyway.”

“Run, muy rápido.” Alfonso suggested.

“Bog-hole?” Stubby’s tremulous voice cut through the type of mass-apprehension that is so taught that it almost audibly twangs like the whiskers of a champion weightlifter, “We’re in close proximity to Far Kinell’s almost-famous public bog-hole? By The Saint of All Hamsters – salvation stands before us upon cast iron feet and rough wooden shingles: There’s an inter-dimensional cross-over portal inside it. I’ve used it several times before. Quickly now, despite the agony – get me inside.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

This magnificent example of hamster fiction is published by Lulu.com, and is also available at most e-book retailers, including the one that best suits your e-reader, tablet, or whatever

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 21

Due to some over-enthusiasm with the last episode, I’ve managed to get out of whack with these excerpts. So,this time I’m taking you back to the first volume – being this…

So, if you don’t mind, here is the excerpt…

Then Lionel took a sip of the steaming-hot tea. If it hadn’t been wet it would have set his bifurcated lips aflame.

“By the Great Angler’s Enormous Tit,” he bellowed, “that’s certainly cleared out both my sinuses and my cobwebbed mind!”

He then went on to explain that he’d been deep in thought. But before he could actually explain anything at all, Boney interrupted…

“It’s about the pretty lass, aint it, son?” he said – which surprised both Lionel and Boney because he was so rarely this insightful.

“Yes it is.” Lionel replied. “And it’s all to do with that day, long ago, when I arrived here.”

“Nose-surfing on an ocean of filth, I seem to recall.” Colin piped up during a break in the game for TV advertising and a desperately needed lavatory break for the players.

“That’s right.” Lionel turned to his android colleague, “And who was it that caused me to slip and fall into that vile ocean swell of slurry?”

Boney had no idea where Lionel was going with this train of thought, but he figured it best to humour the youngster, “A tractor driver, weren’t it?”

Lionel smiled. “And what happened to said tractor driver?” he inquired metaphorically.

Boney recognised the inquiry as being metaphorical because Lionel answered his own question before there was time to so much as suck a lower lip in contemplation, “He was taken to Chunderford General Hospital!”

This last point was obviously very important; but it was still early in the day, and not all of Boney’s neurons were facing the right way when they fired.

“Hmm,” he said, “nasty business. Nasty, nasty business.”

“Would that be his perforated scrotum that you’re talking about there?” inquired Colin.

“Indeed it would.” Lionel turned his attention back to Boney. “And whose teeth left those deep, painful, incisions?”

This final question stumped both flesh and blood, and non-flesh and blood hamsters alike.

Eventually Boney mumbled, “Well it was Fanangy, weren’t it? But ‘ow can that be? She was with us the ‘ole time. But she wouldn’t lie about somethin’ as important as biting down viciously on some poor unfortunate tractor driver’s ball-bag: That’s a pretty major to-do, that is. Grievous Bodily Harm at least. What d’ya reckon the answer to this conundrum is?”

“Time travel!” Lionel blurted the words more loudly than he intended to.

This was not received well by Boney: He was certain that it was a well-publicised fact that time-travel was impossible, and would remain so until the end of…er…time. The best argument against the existence of time-travel was the fact that no one had yet met someone from either the future, or the past: Ergo – time-travel was impossible. Boney said as much.

Now Lionel was quite adept at constructing illogical responses to random ephemera whilst playing his beloved computer games; and since he was rapidly becoming an expert on the television science-fiction show, Rat Trek, he thought that he could see a hole in this line of reasoning so vast that he could sail an ocean-going raft through it at top speed, with microns to spare.

“But what if they didn’t let on that they could travel in time? He said.

For a moment this fabulously reasoned argument stymied Boney. He was forced to fall back upon a stock answer to such difficult questions…

“It aint my place to think about such stuff,” He said, “Better minds than mine ‘ave got ‘emselves all tied up in a knot over simpler things than time-travel and suchlike.”

He may have got away with such a poor response just a few weeks earlier; but Lionel had gained much in mental stature, even if he hadn’t physically. So Boney was forced to retreat into his mental castle’s inner keep.

“Arse-holes,” he said as Lionel scoffed, “I’m going for a shit!”

This verbal bombshell exploded in Lionel’s lap like a packet of bursting Grainobisk Crappettes. He was stunned at his employer’s bluntness. In fact he was so stunned that he utterly failed to see either Boney make for the lavatory, or Colin quietly depart for destinations unknown. Eventually, after taking several heartbeats to recover his decorum, he elected to merely sit by himself for a while, cogitate, and sip his scalding tea until it stopped hurting.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2012

Obviously I don’t need to mention that this e-book is available on most platforms, including those mentioned on the sidebar and on Tooty’s Books Available Here beneath the header: you already know. Well if you didn’t, you do now.

 

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 19

Revel on the Ribaldry 18 featured an extract from The Psychic Historian. So, mathematically the next extract should come from this less-than-successful e-book…

And so it does – purely at random too…

Cecil staggered aboard the Disemboweller upon unsteady legs. He took a moment to check fore and aft to see if he’d left anybody upon deck; threw up over the side; then dropped into the conning tower, and sealed the hatch shut behind him.

In their tiny submarine that was parked directly astern of the huge former-pirate vessel, Tutu and Gloria sighed with relief. Finally they were about to get underway.

“Now am I right in thinking that Cecil understands about the Z-Drive?” Gloria asked over Tutu’s shoulder from her position upon the spectacularly embroidered pillion seat. “I mean – he does realise that the field that we generate might not encompass his entire vessel, and that it may be torn to pieces by seismic sheer, or whatever the computer called it?”

“I imagine so.” Tutu replied coolly.

Actually Tutu was having second thoughts about taking the Disemboweller along. His original plan was to find the Bargebutt – which he was certain would be desperately damaged by the exploding volcano, and utterly unserviceable – and carry everyone to safety aboard the pirate ship. But now that he’d had time to consider his plan, he now thought that it might be total cak.

“My plan is total cak.” He verbalised his thoughts. “The Disemboweller is a rust-bucket, and Cecil Seasalt is a drunken tit. What was I thinking? The mission is clearly doomed from the start. We might as well give up now, and go live in the woods.”

Naturally Gloria blamed herself. Her beauty had obviously dazzled Tutu into a state of intense ‘thickicity’ and ‘twat-ness’. Due to the unexpected sight of her scanty bikini, he’d obviously lost his power of proper reason, and only now was he really showing signs of recovery. She cursed her genes. Then she cursed her skin-tight denim jeans, because they were giving her a right royal ‘wedgie’, and she wasn’t enjoying it.

Then the computer said, “Engaging Z-Drive.” And it didn’t matter anymore: Gloria was screaming too loudly in fear to worry about chafed labia majora.

Quite how the computer knew where to point the two vessels as they transited null-space no one knew: But one moment they were bobbing up and down alongside the quay at Chunderland – the next they were bobbing up and down somewhere else entirely. Although inebriated Captain Seasalt grabbed the periscope and turned it through three hundred and sixty degrees. He was greatly relieved to find that the submarine had remained intact, and that none of it was now slipping forlornly to a watery grave upon the seabed immediately alongside the quay in Chunderland harbour.

“Any idea where we are?” He asked of the navigator – Gustav Grossemember.

“Nein.” The former pirate and rock group roadie replied. “One sea is looking much like another to me. I am usually navigating by chasing smaller vessels, capturing their crew, and asking the way.”

Cecil nodded: It was good system: Certainly he would have employed it – had he ever been a pirate of course. “Not much help to us here though, is it?” He responded in a most ‘captainly’ way.

“Sorry; Kapitan.” Gustav looked down at his huge feet in shame. Then a thought occurred, “Hey, maybe those two on the really titchy submarine are knowing.”

Cecil nodded again, but wished that he hadn’t. Unfortunately his sea legs appeared to have remained back in his office in Chunderland, and it made him feel decidedly nauseous. “Yes.” He said, “Pop across and find out, will you?”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Okay, this book isn’t the great work that the 3rd book in the Hamster-Sapiens series is; but it isn’t total ‘cak’ either. How about you break it’s duck and go purchase a copy. The Lulu logo on the sidebar will take you to the publishers. Or, alternatively, click on one of the book covers (also on the sidebar) and you can get it for your Kobo, Nook, or Kindle. Doesn’t that sound like a really good idea? iBooks also sell it. And others too numerous to mention. 

Revel in the Ribaldry 18

So, in an effort to maintain continuity, prepare yourself for an excerpt from this magnificent piece of hamster fiction…

…which, as you probably already know, is the greatest hamster book ever written – even if I do say so myself. Selecting an excerpt at total random has produced the following. Please enjoy…

Soon the weeks passed, and Missus Dazzlepaint quickly learned the routine of visiting multifarious communities of desert-dwellers, and making everyone feel much better about themselves. Then one day they discovered that the road upon which they travelled approached the city of Al Kaboom.

Naturally Missus Dazzlepaint was reticent to enter the city from which she had been so forcefully ejected. She said as much – in such a vociferous manner that Missus Nozzlejet blanched, and Missus Muzzleflash covered her ears and began to sing a tuneless song very loudly indeed. But she needn’t have worried – because just as their stag beetles began pulling the caravan in a crawling advance towards the main gate – a vast metal sailing vessel materialised out of thin air, and came crashing down to earth right in front of them. The materialisation of an advanced vessel within range of the city’s defensive archers was normally enough to start an all-out war; but before the inhabitants of Al Kaboom could react, large portals were opening in the sides of the vast vessel, from which a host of armed and armoured cavies disgorged. They were through the main gate before anyone could say much more than “You what?” and the city had fallen before its inhabitants even knew that it was under attack.

Hidden in the shadow of the huge sea-going craft, the Trinity’s caravan became almost invisible. Consequently no one bothered to investigate them, and they found themselves free to do some investigation of their own. Creeping about in night-black underwear, and smothered in their own concoctions that rendered them aroma-less, they slipped into the city – only to be amazed at the sight of sentient cavies everywhere.

“They must be demons from hell.” Missus Nozzlejet opined intelligently.

“Or creatures from another world, where cavies aren’t dull-minded beasts of the field.” Missus Muzzleflash suggested in a moment of inspiration.

But Missus Dazzlepaint made the most accurate appraisal of the situation.

“They must be mutations from an alternate universe.” She said adamantly. “Someone, or some thing, has created them. Presumably whomever, or whatever it was – was then overthrown by his/her/its creations, and they subsequently commandeered a vessel with inter-dimensional capabilities.”

Missus Nozzlejet nodded in agreement. “With new-found intellect, and a superior technology, it must be as easy as pie for them to run roughshod over any number of inferior civilisations, and possibly enslave them.”

“A piece of piss.” Missus Muzzleflash confirmed her friend’s hypothesis.

“What can we do about it?” Missus Dazzlepaint rolled up her sleeves preparatory to combat.

“We?” Missus Nozzlejet replied, “Nothing, dear. But you most certainly can.”

Missus Nozzlejet then outlined a plan that was so audacious and unbelievable in its simplicity that it wasn’t just bound to succeed: It would become the stuff of legend.

The next day Missus Dazzlepaint slipped unseen into her old apartment in Al Kaboom. She was grateful that no one had replaced the lock or had moved another tenant in: She had  no wish to utilise her karate skills upon some poor unfortunate who just happened to get in her way. Crouching behind the balustrade of her former balcony she took out her charcoal and papyrus, and settled down to draw.

The day after that two burly cavy guards escorted Missus Dazzlepaint into the presence of their leader – Lord Mutor the Mutant Cavy.

“So, inferior gerbil-being, what’s got you so fired up that you just had to come visit?” The mutant cavy boomed in a most mutated manner that fairly shook plaster from the walls of the Sultan’s palace, and made the massive throne’s gold leaf pucker and curl.

“These.” Missus Dazzlepaint replied as she withdrew a sheaf of papers from a satchel that bounced lazily upon her hip. She handed them to the self-imposed new Sultan.

To say that Mutor’s eyes bulged so alarmingly that it looked like his head was about to explode would do his appearance an injustice. Beneath his dense facial fur the skin turned red, and super-heated steam could be detected escaping from his anus.

“What is this supposed to mean?” He inquired as his index claw drew Missus Dazzlepaint’s attention to a charcoal drawing of a naked cavy as he lowered himself into the stench pit. “My gonads are far larger than this artist’s impression suggests. Correct it – or I’ll have you eaten.

“I only draw what I see.” Missus Dazzlepaint remained calm in the face of death, “I could no more alter that drawing than I could stride purposefully across the desert with my knickers ‘round my ankles. And that’s only a copy anyway.”

Lord Mutor started at this information. “Whatta ya mean – a copy?”

Missus Dazzlepaint raised her snout deliberately until her eyes were locked with those of the super-intelligent cavy. “You’re a super-intelligent cavy.” She snorted, “You work it out.”

Well, if nothing else, Lord Mutor was a super-intelligent cavy – due in no small part to genetic experimentation carried out upon him by an earlier version of his dimension’s equivalent of Professor Desmond Squealch – and could extrapolate significant ramifications with only the merest hint of data.

“Where are they? The other copies I mean.” He demanded, “Speak – or I’ll eat you myself – and I’m normally into herbaceous borders.”

“Wherever you’ve stationed your troops.” Missus Dazzlepaint replied calmly. “I am a master potionist as well as being an absolute whiz with the charcoal and papyrus. Disguising myself with various potions that have been created to confuse and mind-boggle, I have infiltrated to the very core of your mobile empire. There I have secreted facsimiles of this charcoal misrepresentation: At an appointed hour they will become visible. When they do – your empire will implode.”

“It’s not a foregone conclusion.” Mutor sounded defensive.

“I think it is.” Missus Dazzlepaint retained her cool demeanour, “What cavy army would follow a leader whose private parts were so shrunken and insignificant? I’ll tell ya: None.”

Mutor could find no reasonable counter-argument, so he said, “Ah, but they’d know the truth when I got out my personal protuberance and associated doo-dahs, and showed them!”

Missus Dazzlepaint merely smiled wanly at this. “Do you really think that would work? Would they really follow Mutor the Exhibitionist? I don’t think so. Or Flasher Mutor. Perhaps they might consider obeying the commands of Mutor the Insecure: But not for long, and with little enthusiasm. Face it, Mutor, your days of ruling Al Kaboom are over.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

You know, it’s been too long: I really should try writing another of these Hamster-Sapiens books. But until I do, this (and the other e-books in the series) remains available to all and sundry. Check out the book covers and the Lulu logo on the sidebar to access them. Really, it’s a good idea.

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 17

Up to 17 already: gosh how time flies. So it’s time for an excerpt from this fair e-tome…

I can’t think of a better choice. Talking of choice, let’s allow random chance another go at selecting the excerpt this time – after all it’s worked pretty well so far, with the possible exception of Revel in the Ribaldry 16.  And here it is…

Algy Timber  had been waiting patiently outside Tybrow Mooney’s lock-up garage for longer than he cared to recall. His bladder was sending urgent messages to his brain, but fortunately his conscious mind had found a way to override this information – if only temporarily. This new-found skill had allowed him to remain seated in the passenger seat of Fabian Strangefellow’s fabulous sporting go-kart, and watch the small brick-built construction with an intensity rapidly approaching that of a Garden Cross spider as it awaited the arrival of a myopic fly.

Fabian Strangefellow shifted in the driver’s seat. Like Algy he too had spent many hours watching for any sign of either Felicity or Roosevelt’s emergence. But an important difference between the two hamsters made his experience so much more bearable. He was vastly more experienced in ‘stake outs’, and had chosen to wear voluminous trousers that allowed him to keep a large plastic bag fastened to the end of his willy without anyone seeing it. Consequently his comfort levels were several pegs higher than those of Algy, and he hummed a pleasant, if repetitive, little tune.

Algy butted in on the forty-second chorus. “Are you sure this is the right garage?” He demanded – not for the first time in the many hours of the youngster’s mysterious absence from Hamster Heath.

“My dear chap,” Fabian replied – apparently unable to show any sign of irritation, “I assure you that this is the very spot to which I tailed my dear, dear, assistant, and the lovely Felicity. They went in: They never came out: And they’re not inside there now. Now why don’t you pop around the rear of the vehicle, and relieve your tormented internals. You know that you’ll regret this stoicism in later life if you don’t. Have you never heard of enlarged prostate glands? They play merry hell with your water works.”

Algy was about to take his new-found associate’s advice, when to his utmost joy he watched as the up-and-over door of the garage began shaking. In fact so taken with this was he that he failed entirely to notice something about Strangefellow – but the strange hamster’s superior air seemed to dissipate for a moment, and his expression betrayed concern. Then Algy’s bladder kicked in, and he creased up with agony. In that moment his gaze fell, and locked, upon Strangefellow’s visage.

“You look like someone’s just cloned your bank details.” He squeaked to ward off the pain, “What’s wrong?”

Of course Strangefellow couldn’t admit that his secret desire was that neither Felicity nor Joan return from the parallel universe – at least not until he was ready to ‘courageously brave the void between worlds, and save them from certain doom’. Then he thought of the adulation that he would receive: And the television interviews that were bound to follow of course: Along with the book deal and personal appearances.                                                                                                                        

“Wrong, my dear Mister Timber? Wrong? Why nothing at all.” He lied.

Then the garage door opened, and Joan appeared – squinting in the day light.

“Bollocks!” the strange hamster bellowed – his wide-brimmed hat billowing gaily in the morning sunshine, “Fluff and bloody bollocks!”

But Algy wasn’t listening: He was already out of the car, and running towards his portly young employee. But, as he approached upon legs so desperately crossed that he feared he might stumble, fall to the ground, and accidentally urinate copiously inside his Kool Kustard company-jodhpurs, he noticed that Felicity was there too – with Roosevelt Teabiscuit holding her paw. And then a whole bunch of others as well – including someone with chocolate all down the front of their jacket.

‘Or is that blood?’ He thought.

Of all those standing in the doorway of Tybrow Mooney’s garage, it was Joan who spotted Algy first.

 “Cooie.” She called, and waved theatrically, “You look like you need a wee. How did you know we’d be here?”

Algy was about to reply, when his bladder got the better of him, and he was forced to dash behind a huge dandelion.

Naturally Fabian Strangefellow stepped into the hurriedly vacated breech.                                 

 “Logical deduction, my dear Miss Bugler.” He offered a limp paw and a half-curtsy, “It comes from a life-time of experience.”

He then cast several ethereal daggers in Roosevelt’s direction.

Roosevelt’s response came in the form of body language. It was a form of body language that Fabian had learned many yonks previously when he was captured by a tribe of Pygmy Shrews whilst on a caravan holiday in The Republic of Darkest Pongo, and almost eaten. Only the sight of his shaven, and heavily tattooed genitals had saved him from certain death at the time: But their language was forever burnt into his consciousness.

“Things got out of control.” Roosevelt had also learned the subtle moves well, “Our plan was skuppered from the beginning: It’s far more dangerous in Prannick than we’d assumed. I barely got out alive. If it hadn’t been for the skills and knowledge of Stubby Collet – chances are we’d all be pin cushions by now. Talking of which – Mister Collett desperately needs a doctor.”

In the few fleeting moments to took for Roosevelt to impart this information, both he and Strangefellow had fallen silent. It came to the attention of Felicity, but she assumed that the great private detective was having a hamstery fugue, and that Roosevelt was experiencing some sort of ‘episode’ caused, no doubt, by the trauma of his experiences in Prannick.

The others merely stood and waited patiently, which suited them just fine because it gave them the chance to regain their breath, their composure, and their dignity – the latter of which being very important to a hamster – especially one from a semi-medieval society, and particularly one with royal blood coursing through his veins, and who has mislaid his favourite cavy.

“Ah,” Strangefellow suddenly reanimated, “this must be Stubby Collett: My word, Stubby, you look like someone threw you into the path of an omnibus. Perhaps we should convey you to a hospital. I have a fine example of the go-kart builder’s art: If you would care to…”

“No hospital.” Stubby interrupted rudely, “Too many questions asked. Get me to an experienced military surgeon who just happens to have left the forces, and is readily available within close proximity to Hamster Heath. But do it quickly: My life ebbs away.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

There, wasn’t that nice! Of course the e-book is even better. Were you interested, you could purchase it, for a very reasonable sum, at most e-book retailers. Or you could click on the cover pictures on the sidebar. You could, if you felt particularly daring, click on the Lulu logo on the sidebar and be transported to my publishers directly. It’s all good fun. It’s worth it just to have a look at all my pretty book covers.

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 15

Since this series of excerpts from my wondrously fabulous Hamster-Sapiens e-books appears to be fulfilling a desperate need deep within the bosom of so many, here’s another one. Of course, numerically at least (if not artistically) it must come from the majestic…

Yes, Danglydong Dell Diaries – not only a sequel to Fanfare for the Common Hamster, but to The Psychic Historian too. I mean, what else could you want from a book? And here is that random extract…

Wendy Nuthatch knew better than to return to the dais. Like Horatio before her, she had read the program. In fact she’d written it, so was well aware that to step upon the dais now would invite disaster. Instead she merely checked her watch, folded her arms against the increasingly chill winter breeze, and sat back to watch.

Into the same chill winter breeze stepped Joan Bugler. As was usual for the young, if plump, female – she appeared out of thin air. She then reached back into the invisible realm from which she had just arrived, and yanked through a prissy-looking fellow in bright red tights, a huge floppy hat, and a colourful, gold braided, jerkin. He carried with him a long dull-metal trumpet.

Once the brightly-bedecked apparition had recovered from the transition from one reality to another, he promptly put the trumpet to his mouth and blew a pleasant little ditty that had the first five rows tapping their toes in time with it. Those further back lacked natural rhythm, but appreciated the melody nevertheless.

The tune only lasted a few moments. Joan then stepped to the microphone.

“Did anyone recognise the tune?” She inquired.

Naturally no one did, but Horatio was excellent at putting two and two together, and correctly guessed that it was the recently rearranged, funked-up, version of Fanfare for the Common Hamster.

Joan pointed at Horatio and grinned. “I thought you’d figure it out. Can you guess what happens next?”

Horatio didn’t just want to guess; he wanted to be an active participant. Leaping from his seat, and dashing forward, he reached out to Joan’s paw, and said, “May I?”

Joan had once experienced non-reproductive sexual intercourse with Horatio. They now enjoyed a near-telepathic talent for understanding each other’s needs. “Of course.” She replied, and helped Horatio on to the dais.

To Horatio alone she said, “Reach into Prannick Horatio.”

Naturally Horatio didn’t need further prompts. He lunged with his free paw into the undetectable portal, grabbed hold of the first thing that he found there, and yanked as hard as he could. His paw returned clutching a spectacular plume that had been fashioned from the feathers of some exotic bird. The plume came attached to a huge brass helmet. And attached to the brass helmet was the heir to the throne of Sponx – Darkwood Dunce – and he didn’t look best pleased.

“I say!” He bellowed in a disturbingly effeminate voice that he quickly brought under control, and duly continued in a more testosterone-enriched tenor, “Have a care, cur; don’t you know who I am?”

It was a great show, and the people of Hamster Heath applauded loudly, which gave Horatio time to regain his seat.

Abruptly aware that he and Joan were not alone, Darkwood immediately doffed his helmet; made a sweeping gesture that might have been a bow; winked at Joan; and then called, “Greetings good people of Hamster Heath. I’m just so thrilled to be here. Really I am.”

“We’re thrilled that you’ve agreed to appear.” Nurse Growler, from the local surgery, called out in response. “It’s not every day that we get to meet the heir to a kingdom in our dinky little town.”

“Why thank you, fair maid.” Darkwood nodded in satisfaction. “It is not every day that I am so privileged to stand before an audience of such class and breeding.”

“Breeding?” Huck Ballesteroid’s startled tones filled the dell. “Is that big poofter suggesting that we start breeding? Well I’m all for it: I’ve always had an eye for Nurse Growler. She’s a right miserable-looking sod, but I bet she goes like a race-prepped go-kart.”

Nurse Growler might not have been the most friendly and caring of nurses, but she had always been extremely professional, and was never short of medical equipment should the need arise. She could usually lay a paw upon some important implement – night and day – becalmed or tempest – sober or totally rat-arsed. And so she did that night in Danglydong Dell. From somewhere (no one could honestly say that they witnessed its appearance) Nurse Growler produced a heavy cast iron enamelled bed pan.

Upon the dais Darkwood flinched. He’d never seen a bedpan before, and feared that it was some terrible advanced form of weaponry. And he was right. Nurse Growler stood up, pushed Doctor Growbag’s head between his knees so that she had room to swing, and proceeded to revolve upon the spot – building up speed with every turn – until she launched the bedpan with all the skill and fury of a rodentolympic hammer thrower. The bedpan then sliced through the air in a rising arc like a startled sparrow with a veterinarian’s thermometer up its jacksey.

In his bath chair Huck Ballesteroid had a terrible sense of foreboding. Ever since childhood he’d been certain that one day this moment would come. And now it had arrived – not on the battlefield as he’d hoped – but in Danglydong Dell; on a winter’s night; with everyone watching. He sighed in the face of dreadful inevitability and made his peace with his chosen deity.

The bedpan, when it arrived, came out of the dark night sky like a silent meteorite, or an avenging dirigible passenger’s frozen turd. It caught Huck directly between the eyes – knocking him senseless, and pitching him backwards into the lukewarm water of his bath chair.

For a moment utter silence reigned. Then Horatio (who had history with Huck) cheered like a hamster possessed, and within a heartbeat the entire dell had erupted with a cheerful chorus of hoorahs.

Darkwood didn’t know what to make of it. So he leant forward and spoke into the microphone, and said, “I say, do you want to hear my tale, or not?”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Fantasy? The writers of Game of Thrones should have read this book before they wrote that series. Imagine how much better it would have been – especially the ending! But that’s by-the-by: they didn’t, and the world’s a sorrier place for their omission. But you can still buy this tale of derring-do at most e-book retailers – some of which are mentioned on the sidebar or in Tooty’s Books Available Here beneath the header. Also check out the Lulu logo on the sidebar.

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 14

Fourteenth excerpt means it must be from the fourth book. In a world gone mad, it’s the only logical thing thing to do…

Yes, the book that everyone ignores. Well please don’t ignore this extract: it’s rather nice – in a vile sort of way. And here it is – entirely chosen by our best chum, random chance…

Tutu, meanwhile, had not been visited by the time-travelling Wetpatch. He was still under the illusion that he had until eternity to reach Hamster-Britain aboard Droop’s private submarine. In fact he was rather pleased at the prospect of a long ocean journey because he believed it would take that long for him to comprehend the rudiments of the euphonium. It wasn’t enough that he should learn to play the instrument: In order to become a virtuoso he must understand its inner workings, and merge his soul with it. Fortunately for the cross-eyed twit, the ship’s computer enjoyed the luxury of an artificial intelligence component. It was just this that saved Tutu from a dreadful demise…

“Hey, Honey.” The computer whispered in its seductive female voice, “I have some disturbing facts lined up for y’all.”

Tutu didn’t enjoy being in receipt of disturbing facts. In fact he hated them worse than penile thrush – especially when it interfered with a really unimportant task.

Looking up from the rear inspection panel of the euphonium, he snapped, “What is it? Can’t you see I’m busy!”

“I’m sorry, Sugar.” The A.I replied, “But I don’t have any conception of the word ‘busy’. I understand it’s meaning in the literal sense – that being how it’s described in the National Dictionary of Hamster-Britain: But its relationship to you, Honey, is lost to me.”

“The facts! The facts!” Tutu uncharacteristically lost his cool. “I have a flange weeble to adjust you know!

“Well here it is, Tutu, honey: You’d best be strapping your masculine rodent body into something real soft, and get this vessel out of here real quick, baby – coz the volcano at Perineum is going to explode, and y’all well within the blast radius.”

Tutu was well acquainted with blast radii: He’d been in too many of them during his years of servitude to Professor Desmond Squealch.

“Fluff!” He yelled, and jabbed frantically at the High Velocity Button that stood proud from the dashboard, with flashing L E Ds highlighting it in a most spectacular fashion. “Is this ship warp-capable?”

It was a foolish question, and Tutu knew it; but he hoped for the best anyway.

“Well, Honey,” the computer’s seductive voice said after several seconds of cyber-cogitation, “there is the experimental Z-Drive. Y’all could give that a try.”

Tutu had never heard of a Z-Drive. In fact he wondered if the computer wasn’t playing some ghastly trick upon him, and had made it up on the spur of the moment.

“Z-Drive?” He heard himself query. “Is that some sort of experimental propulsion system that Professor Squealch included in this vessel by accident?”

“Well, Tutu, sugar, you get five out of ten for logical deduction from scant data: But you aint entirely right.” The computer’s sultry tone hadn’t moderated despite the seriousness of the situation, and Tutu found it hard to concentrate: And his trousers kept flapping uncontrollably too. “It’s a means to tap into the underwater equivalent of hyperspace:” It continued. “It’s called Moister-Space – and if you want to live to an old age, you should open the hidden panel above your head; pull down the cord you find dangling in there; then hang on for dear life. The Z-Drive is experimental, unproven, barely out of the theoretical stage, and highly intoxicating.”

“That may be the case,” Tutu managed to reply coolly, “but will it get my furry rear end out of here?”

The computer’s response was equally chilly. “Yes, but I have no idea where we’ll find ourselves afterward. It could mean instantaneous loosening of the bowels.”

Tutu mulled this over for perhaps fifteen nanoseconds. Then a warning klaxon nearly made him burst from his seat like gerbil with a scalded rectum.

“Warning.” A defence mechanism overrode the hamster/computer companion interface. “Unimaginably vast shock-wave approaching. Batten down the hatches. Put away the best crockery. Collision imminent.”

Tutu didn’t waste a second more prevaricating. There really was no other decision that he could make. Circumstances minimized his options to one.

“Operate the Z-Drive now.” He yelled above the tumult, and yanked on the cord.

“Initiating primary use of the Z-Drive in ten seconds.” The computer became terribly professional now that it had been given a clear and concise instruction. “Ten, nine, eight…”

Such dire straits brought out the worst in Tutu, and instantly his fine veneer of civilisation was torn away by the abrasive nature of the situation. “I said now – you cybernetic asshole!” He roared in his most inelegant tone.

Naturally the computer did what any well-designed computer would do in such a situation. It hurried through the remaining digits in triple-quick time, and the Z-Drive was duly initiated.

©Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Now does that strike you as the sort of book that people gleefully overlook? I can’t understand it. Anyway, whatever, it remains available at most e-book outlets. So, if you’ve chosen not to ignore this amazing literary piece, some of the better-known ones are mentioned on the Tooty’s Books Available Here page beneath the header.

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 13

The thirteenth excerpt from the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books features this magnificent work…

Surely the greatest book about sentient hamsters that has – or will ever be – written. Well I think so anyway. It’s certainly my favourite. Here goes…

Several minutes were wasted as Sorbresto Titt scanned the mass of fur and flesh that sat before him – searching out an involuntary nervous twitch, or a stray mental burp. But his search was fruitless: Everyone appeared to have turned to stone, and their brain activity reduced to hibernation levels.

Then Lionel had an inspired thought…

“Hey,” he bellowed loudly into the microphone, “Did anyone notice that the last history lesson came from a location that lies north of Hamster Heath? Well it did – and there hasn’t been too many of them. In fact I can’t think of any at all. Now I wonder why that is?”

This was just the catalyst that Sorbresto had sought. Hamstery fugues were escaped, and the naturally inquisitive minds of the rodent crowd began to reassert themselves.

“Might be coz it’s bloody cold up in the north of Hamster-Britain.” Farmer Jacksey postulated his most recent theorem.

“Oh yes indeed.” Beryl Bogbreath threw her considerable weight behind Jacksey’s statement. “And in the Extreme North it’s cold enough to freeze your tits off in the winter – so they say. I’ve not been there, or anything; so I wouldn’t know from personal experience.”

Quite where this was leading was anyone’s guess – and pretty much everyone was figuring on it leading nowhere at all. But then Beryl had a second thought…

“Chester.” She squealed with a sudden recollection.

“Beryl.” Chester Bogbreath responded coolly.

“Didn’t your family come from somewhere north the northiest place of most northern Hamster-Britain?” Beryl asked/stated.

If a smile could resemble a drunkard’s vomit – that’s what the mayor’s smile did at that precise moment. Chester did indeed hail from the most northern extent of the land – and he’d been trying to hide the fact his entire political career. No hamster in modern times had admitted to being a furry northerner, and remained in office. And a matching accent was the purest form of poison known to political hamsterdom. Quite how his wife had discovered the identity of his forebears eluded him for the moment. Perhaps he’d spoken of his childhood whilst hopelessly drunk, or asleep, or during a moment of ecstasy. But whatever the reason – all of Hamster Heath were now aware of the fact.

‘Or are they?’ he thought secretly, ‘I could always deny it, and call my wife a stupid bitch. Yes that’s what I’ll do – only I’ll leave out the stupid bitch bit: That could lose me a few votes and a whole week’s rumpy-pumpy’.

“What, in the name of the Saint of All Hamsters’ made you think that, dear?” he said rather too loudly to be entirely convincing.

“Because it’s true.” Sorbresto called out clearly as he strode to the edge of the stage, and looked directly down upon Chester. He then tapped the side of his head, and whispered, “Psychic – remember?”

“Well of course you’re absolutely right.” The vomit-ridden smile turned mellifluous. “I have a proud heritage. The Extreme North is a wonderful place: Who wouldn’t be proud of a lineage that stretched in a northerly direction?”

“A proud heritage, eh?” Sorbresto said as he invited Chester to join him, “Let’s take a look, shall we? Or are you scared of what we might find?”

Chester could tell when he was being manipulated – and this strange alien hamster was very good at it. He was placing him in a virtually untenable situation. He couldn’t refuse – people would say, ‘what does he have to hide?’ Conversely if he accepted the challenge – everyone would soon learn that he really did have something to hide.

‘What’s best?’ He asked his inner self, ‘to have them suspect – or to have them know for certain? What might the ramifications be?’  His inner self answered in an instant. ‘If they suspect something – they’ll think that you’re a sneaky bastard. Chances are they won’t vote for you come election time – and some of the more argumentative types might assault you in the street – with their fists. But if you confess the terrible crime of your heritage – they’ll think that you’re  just about the most honest politician that they’ve ever met – vote you in for another term – and possibly Molly Horseblanket might caress your private parts for you in the sanctity of your mayoral limousine.’

Chester was shocked: He’d no inkling that he’d ever desired Molly Horseblanket – or any part-time prostitute for that matter. This inner revelation caused his tongue to betray him…

“What do you think I should do, Molly?” he whispered.

For the briefest moment Molly stood mute with surprise. She simply couldn’t understand why the mayor would be asking for her opinion. Then she noticed the tiniest amount of lolling in his tongue department – and like some form of carnal epiphany it all became clear to her. This was her chance to get on the inside of the local council, and she wasn’t going to blow the opportunity.

“Go for it, Chester.” She whispered back, and winked suggestively.

“I accept your challenge, strange alien hamster.” Chester announced as he clambered upon the stage. “Do your worst: This politician has nothing to hide.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Naturally this e-book is available at an e-book stockist of your choice. After seven years on release it’s pretty omnipresent.  But then, why wouldn’t it be? Quality always prevails.

Revel in the Ribaldry 12

The excerpt on this occasion must come from this book…

It’s the rules. As per usual  the selection is made by random chance. Good old random: you can always rely on him. Oh, look, here it is…

As per instructions from Fabian Strangefellow, Roosevelt Teabiscuit duly intercepted Felicity Bugler as she exited The Institute Of Hugely Important Studies, and was not surprised to be invited to walk the young dormouse home. Only when he discovered that they were well on their way towards the wastelands that bordered the petrified forest and The Green Mucus Home For Old Bastards did he begin to have misgivings concerning his employer’s plan. It was most decidedly the ‘wrong’ end of town in which to be found at night. But not all was doom and despondency for the small male dormouse: En route they encountered several roadside rhubarb trees, and despite her obvious attraction to him, at no time did Roosevelt feel the need to fight off Felicity’s ardent sexual advances because, of course, there were none. The reason for this became clear as they skirted the industrial estate: Felicity paused to ignite a thistle cigarette, and by the light of the flaring match Roosevelt could see that she was very slightly younger than himself, and was yet to be influenced by the persuasive aromas of hot young bodies and the presence of strong, silent, rhubarb trees.

Roosevelt was about to introduce the subject of her mental exercises at The Institute for Psychic Rodent Research when Felicity cried out in gleeful surprise…

“Well fluff me: Would you look at that!” She said, pointing toward a row of lock-up garages, “That’s one of Joan’s crossover points into Prannick: I wonder if I can see through the wall?”

This was almost too much for Roosevelt. His plan was working so well that it came close to making his trousers flap with joy.                                                                “Indeed.” He said in a calm tone that perfectly disguised his excitement.

It never occurred to Felicity to try out her potential psychic skills by attempting to see inside the garage. Instead she simply broke the ageing lock with a single karate chop, and let herself inside.

Fortunately Roosevelt always carried his favourite Timmy the Twonk Engine wind-up torch. Most young people of Hamster Heath did so since it had become known that the town’s only Hero of All Hamsterdom – Horatio Horseblanket – was very keen on them, and owned several of each model in a multitude of hues. It took several twists of the large blue knob on the side to fully charge the capacitor. But when at last the meter read ‘full’, Roosevelt unleashed a beam of such incandescence that he thought it might actually burn its way through the wall, and advertise their illegal presence to all and sundry. He needn’t have worried. The sudden arrival of Tybrow Mooney through the same wall placed the tall hamster directly in the beam’s way, and instead of devastating the brickwork, it ravaged the mean rodent’s eyesight so badly that he screamed incoherently, and cast a huge bowl of gold coins in their direction.

Naturally neither dormouse waited to see what would happen next: Instead they fell to the floor, and began sweeping the fallen coins into large internal pockets that Dormice always have stitched into their coats, and sometimes their cardigans too. They didn’t see Mooney turn about in a eye-streaming panic, feel his way back to the wall, then disappear though it. But they did hear the almost inaudible ‘pop’ of displaced air as he receded into the alternative dimension. Suddenly heedless of the great wealth dragging at her, Felicity hauled herself and her bulging coat to the wall, whereupon she placed her forehead to the rough surface, spread her fingers as wide as her tiny paws would allow, and concentrated…

What she ‘saw’ upon the other side of reality could only have occurred because of the close proximity of the psychic catalyst – Roosevelt Teabiscuit. She saw Mooney race from his bedroom, then barrel down the stairs that led to the bar, screaming, “Law Master: Law Master: They’re back!”

Perfidity Gallowsmith, better known to the residents of Weasels Pit as The Law Master, was carousing in a most unladylike fashion in the Rancid Maggot Inn. She had already shown her knickers to various members of the clientele several times, and was in the middle of exposing one of her huge furry mammary glands to Quentin Blackheart, who was equally drunk (and secretly hamster-sexual) when Tybrow Mooney burst into the bar from the back room.

“Law Master – come to my room:” He bellowed as he pointed back along the way he had just come, “I have something to show you!”

Perfidity Gallowsmith spluttered with great mirth at this exhortation. “No,” she waved a drunken finger in her best admonishing manner; “it is I who has something to show you!”

With that the huge furry mammary gland appeared from inside her leather jerkin – slapping Blackheart about the cheek pouches as it did so. She then proceeded to jump up and down several times to increase the shock-effect.

The Law Master knew instinctively that in the morning she would regret this brazen act, and that her pectoral muscles would ache abominably. But she also knew that Quentin Blackheart would ‘lean’ upon any witnesses, so that no one beyond these four walls would ever learn of her disgusting weakness of the flesh.

Mooney paused to savour the moment. He licked his lips appreciatively. Then he then took a few discrete photographs with a digital camera that he kept hidden behind his Official Booze Purveyor badge.

‘Perhaps’ he thought quietly to himself, ‘I can use this as evidence against her. Maybe I’ll get that roll in a shallow ditch with her after all.’

Then it was back to business for him…

“You don’t understand,” He cried out plaintively, “They’ve found me again. The prisoners must have escaped. If we go now we can slay them like the curs they are!”

In her drunken state Perfidity didn’t realise that Mooney had misidentified his pursuers: She assumed, reasonably enough, that The Abbot had assumed his duties as a spy for her against the Stix. But she was too inebriated to think coherently beyond this point.

“Thank you very much, that won’t be necessary.” she slurred whilst popping her wayward tit into its cosy chain mail chest-hammock, “But you can lead me to the bog-hole? I think I’m about to puke vastly.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

This e-book remains on sale at many outlets – some of which are mentioned on the sidebar and on the Tooty’s Books Available Here page beneath the header. As you can easily see – it’s…ah…fab!

 

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 10

The tenth extract means we’re back at the fifth book in the Hamster-Sapiens series of rude tales and daring rodentia. This book, to be exact…

…which is not only wonderful, but stupendous too. Or is that ‘not only wonky, but stupid too’? Whatever – it’s worth a look. Here’s the excerpt…

Blubbersday, the Forty-sixth of Plinth. It was agreed between them that the group of rodents should split into three groups, and go in search of Tybrow Mooney. The obvious place to start was his former inn that had recently been taken over by a group of wandering bank voles who hoped to turn it into some form of perverse theme park. It was patently obvious that if they all arrived together, the voles would instantly draw the obvious conclusion that a mob had been sent to trap and kill them, and quite possibly react badly to this perceived threat.

Being used to bossing subordinates about, Tits took it upon herself to organise the formation of the three search parties. She’d already stressed the importance of leaving no group without the protection of a psychic energy detection system.

“We must have a psychic in each group. Big fists and scary protuberances are all well and good; but when the attack is of the mental kind, we need a psychic ace in our hole.”

“Ah, what hole would that be?” Colin inquired, “Because if it’s a bum-hole I’m afraid I don’t have one.”

“It’s just a term.” Fanangy explained to her android chum. “There is no hole. Or an ace either for that matter.”

“Could I be forgiven for thinking that the former sergeant is talking a load of bollocks then?” Colin inquired further.

Tits recalled a time, many yonks in the past, when she had taken a side arm from her holster, and threatened to shoot Colin up his non-existent bum hole. He had acquiesced to her demands that time: She saw no reason why he shouldn’t again. So she reminded him of this, and fingered her rifle menacingly as she said, “Colin – if you have nothing constructive to say – just shut the fluff up.”

Colin gave a cheerful wave, and took a backward step. “Certainly, Sergeant.” He replied in his infinitely polite way, “Until I have something of pertinence to elucidate, my lips shall remain hermetically sealed. Not literally of course, but you get my meaning.”

Satisfied that she wouldn’t be interrupted again, Tits then chose the teams.

“Colin – you belong to Boney, so you go with him. Boney needs to ride on Gargantua, so that’s him taken care of. For psychic protection team ‘A’ gets Primrose. Team ‘B’ will consist of two couples – for the obvious reason that Felicity’s psychic powers are exactly nil when Roosevelt isn’t around. Fanangy and Lionel will accompany them because of their vast experience doing really weird shit. Adjusterming can bring some wisdom of age to this group.”

“So that leaves you, the vile Arthur Dung, dippy Brenda, and Brother Alfonso Club-cock, with Joan as your psychic protector.” Primrose stated the blindingly obvious. “Couldn’t we just drop Brenda and Arthur off at an inn, and go about our business without their hindrance?”

“Oi,” Dung bellowed, “I wasn’t no hindrance when you needed someone to push all that ice cream up hill. I aint gonna be one now!”

“Golly – me too.” Brenda yelped in support of Dung, “Hey you’s might be needin’ someone with a furry tail kinda thing. Ya never know when a furry tail’s gonna be real useful.”

It was a good argument eloquently put, and no one was able to satisfactorily refute it.

Primrose sighed. “Very well, you two are on team ‘C’. Good luck, Tits.”

To avoid attention from the townsfolk of Far Kinell, the three teams entered independently of each other. Tits had decided to disguise her rifle in a large sack that they’d found wrapped around a signpost, which had almost certainly been deliberately placed there by anti-social urchins to confound and confuse weary travellers.

“Little bastards.” Dung had complained at the time. “Not just a modern phenomenon then? You get’ em everywhere.”

But by now the former rifle-hamster had led Joan, Brother Alfonso, Brenda, and Dung towards a likely-looking hostelry where they hoped to ask questions about any new hamsters in town who resembled Tybrow Mooney.

The bar keeper – a long-snouted wood mouse by the name of  Kendrick Tweezledown – spotted them as they entered the busy establishment, and beckoned them to the bar with a welcoming smile, and a hearty hail.

“Ah-ha, a weary group if ever I saw one.” He roared with laughter immediately after speaking the words, “Is it rough ale and foul pasties that you’re after?”

Tits didn’t realise quite how hungry she was until that moment. Now she wouldn’t turn up her nose to anything – even if it was only vaguely edible and closely resembled a turd.

“Thank you,” she curtsied, and added, “That would be lovely.”

“Well you’ll get nothing of the kind here.” Kendrick bellowed good-naturedly. “We only serve really tasty stuff. How’d you fancy a big bowl of rice pudding?”

This question was answered when five sets of gums began to salivate freely.

“And a big cup of tea too, I’d wager.” Kendrick added. “Or maybe something a little stronger? I have a fresh cask of rhubarb wine out the back. Would you care to partake?”

Joan looked to Brother Alfonso. “Do we have sufficient Prannick Spladlids to pay for it?”

Alfonso gave a brief smile. “I wear the cloth of the Church of The Wheel. He knows that the abbey is good for the bill. Let us eat, drink, and – perhaps for a few moments – be merry.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Most E-book retailers, in their wisdom, continue to make this book available to buy. You should partake of their service.

Revel in the Ribaldry 9

If this is the ninth instalment, the book in question must be this one…

Yes, it’s that total flop of a Hamster-Sapiens book – The Abduction of Wetpatch Wilson. I mean, how is that a book with a title that includes a character’s name like Wetpatch Wilson, fails to inspire people to check it out? I dunno: beats the shit outta me. Anyway, in yet another attempt to temp an e-book-buying public to part with a couple of Dollars, here’s this particular excerpt…

“He’s probably used his legendary deductive reasoning to calculate that the volcano would probably mangle the Bargebutt – and he’s come to save us.” Amy explained with a huge smile upon her face so lovely that it made Roman visibly wilt. “And he’s Professor Desmond’s manservant too: What would he do with himself in that great big mansion they share otherwise?

“That’s right.” Desmond agreed readily, “He’s the sort of chap who’s only really happy when he’s either with me – doing super-scientific stuff – or having sexual intercourse with the sturdily-built ladies of the forest. He adores action: He abhors sitting around upon his furry arse almost as much as he abhors a vacuum.”

Sally’s ears pricked up at the utterance of two significant words. “Sturdily-built?” She

inquired eagerly. “I’m sturdily-built. I think we can all agree on that.”

“No, Sally.” Ho spoke before the object of his desire could dig a verbal hole too deep from which to climb, “You amply-built. Not same. Sturdy is muscles. Ample is fat.”

To say that Sally was shocked at this information would have misconstrued her state of mind. She was angrier than at any time that anyone could recall. She was even angrier than the time when she was arrested for exposing her naked arse to the local police cameras. Her anger even transcended normal hamster behaviour, and steam seemed to vent from several hidden orifices.   “No one,” she roared incandescently, as she cast Ho aside, dragged herself upright, and abruptly stilled the violent movements of the wildly swinging periscope with a careless paw, “has ever called me fat. My mother was fat. Her mother before her was too. But I am not. I have my father’s genes – and he was a freestyle motocross rider, I’ll have you know. If anyone thinks that I’m fat – please raise a paw now.”

They were all hamsters, but they weren’t completely stupid. Most of them still stared at the unmoving periscope with something approaching awe: They certainly didn’t want to make Sally angrier than she was already.  “No.” They all said in perfect unison as they shook their heads in negation.

Wetpatch spat out Sally’s knickers. “Absolutely not.” He said – wiping his mouth and trying not to gag when he recognised the obstruction for what it was, “Here – get that sturdy arse of yours undercover again.”

Placated, Sally moved away a short distance to regain her underwear. This gave everyone the opportunity to turn their attention to the arrival of their unsolicited rescuers; and Ho a moment to question the wisdom of total honesty.

Any further potential conversation was rudely interrupted by the horrendous screeching sound made by the Disemboweller as the ancient rust-bucket gave in to the ceaseless drag of gravity, and slowly slid down the starboard flank of the vast Crustacean vessel – to settle alongside it in the alluvial mud.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

P.S Actually I have a theory about this book’s inability to sell. It’s a bloody mess!

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 8

Now is the time to revel once more in an extract from this Hamster-Sapiens e-book…

…which is quite possibly the silliest book in the world.

And so, without further preamble, to it…

Inside the stockade all was quiet. The sun was at its zenith, and any intelligent being was safely ensconced in a place that was cool and shady. This included the Royal Governor of Deepest Jungle Land– Brigadier-General Sir Guy Whynd-Pype and his rotund wife, Dame Edith.

On this particular occasion they had been joined in their mud bath by the commanding officer of the Hamster British Army regiment – the Floundering Rifles – Colonel Blowhard Bugle.

“Well I gotta say, Dame Edith,” he bellowed unnecessarily in his huge, gravely voice, “this sure is a nice mud bath ya got here. And I really like the wicker fence ya got round it. Guess it keeps the eyes of all the guys from ogling ya great big titties!”

Dame Edith hadn’t really wanted to invite the Colonel, but her husband had insisted.

“We would be considered socially remiss at the cheese and wine club, Edith dear.” Guy had explained. “But I’m sure he’ll be well-bred. I doubt he’ll say a word about your vast bosom. And if he does – well I’m sure that it will be entirely complimentary.”

Now the moment had arrived, and, Edith had to admit it – the Colonel had been complimentary – in his way.

“Yes, Colonel.” She replied at last, “We had it specially created by a local artisan.”

Any further conversation was interrupted by a great shaking of the wicker fence, and the muffled voice of an exhausted male hamster apparently issuing from it.

“Brigadier-General, Sir.” The voice called, “This is Special Agent Lieutenant Ventnor Vomington of the Army Rescue Service. I’m here on special security business. Can we speak freely?”

The Brigadier-General was in something of a quandary: Should he allow the young lieutenant to shout out potentially classified information that anyone within earshot could hear; or should he invite him to join them in the mud bath?

A trickle of sweat ran down his snout, and dropped, with a splash, into the mire. He made up his mind.

“Do you have any underpants on, Lieutenant?” he inquired.

He saw the fence go taught for a moment. Clearly he had surprised the youngster with his question.

“Er, I do, Sir.” The reply came, “But I’ve travelled here – first by express dirigible from Hamster-Britain to the coastal garrison town of Boowangi Junction– then on my rear paws through the jungle to here. Sorry to report that my underpants are less than pristine, Sir.”

“Do they pong something terrible?” Dame Edith inquired in her desperately cultured voice.

Again the fence went taught. “I’m not really sure.” Vomington’s tone was sounding ever more desperate, “I’ve rather got used to the smell of my own sweat and stray bodily wastes. I’m probably a poor judge.”

At this point Colonel Blowhard Bugle’s patience ran out. He instructed Vomington to visit his quarters, where he would find a fresh pair of underpants hanging in the bathroom. He further instructed him to remove his soiled pair, place them in the wash basket, and then return to the mud pit in the Colonel’s clean pair.

Special Agent Lieutenant Ventnor Vomington gently eased his tortured body into the soft, cool, caress of the Royal Governor’s mud bath. But even as he did so, his mind was centred entirely upon his task…

“I’m here in response to your urgent call to the Army Rescue Service,” he informed the Brigadier-General. Then lowering his voice to a whisper he added, “Is there any new information, Sir?”

“There’s no need to whisper, Lieutenant,” Blowhard Bugle spoke loudly, “Her ladyship is fully cognizant with the facts.”

“Oh yes,” Dame Edith spoke in her most polished tone, “I knows all about it. That actress tart has got herself kidnapped while she’s been entertaining the troops with all that talky-talking stuff what she does.”

Vomington looked from the Brigadier-General to the Colonel and back in search of an explanation. “Talky-talky stuff?” he asked.

“My dear wife means the good lady’s monologues.” The Brigadier-General explained, “She’s famous for them you know.”

“Yeah,” Colonel Blowhard Bugle confirmed his superior’s summation, “The complete works of William Shakedick. The guys can’t get enough of it. Personally I think they like it because she does it in a flimsy negligee. Ya know what I mean? But, hey, I could be wrong: Maybe they’re into that culture crap.”

“Do you think you can save her, young man?” Dame Edith asked with an urgency that was emphasized by her cut-glass, aristocratic accent, “Coz her poor husband’s – like – totally losing it with worry.”

Vomington looked at Dame Edith with surprise. “Her husband? No one mentioned a husband in my report. Does he have a name?”

At this Dame Edith tittered, and opened a muddy packet of Liquorish Gobb-Shites, which she began offering around. “Oh you are funny: ‘Course he’s got a name.”

“Indeed.” the Brigadier-General answered Vomington before accepting one of the huge, chewy, black candies, and forcing it into the side of his mouth, “His name is Fruti Disgusto. I suspect that he might not be Hamster-British.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Check out ‘Tooty’s Books Available Here’ for some of the better known e-book retailers. You should find this fabulous work there.

P.S It may also be the rudest book in the world.

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 7

For the seventh extract from the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books, I take you back to yesteryear – namely 2013 – to the second book. This one…

Yes it’s the tale of a modern-day hamster – Joan Bugler (pictured with quite large breasts) – whose psychic talent allows her to pass her body through walls into an alternate reality that is ruled by a medieval church. A nasty place – full of nasty people – and some very nice people too, of course. And what an adventure she has there – even if she doesn’t want to.

Upon the main street of Weasels Pit, beside the Stoat and Wanger Public House, the village hag – Chaffinch Comelightly – was deep in conversation with the broad-buttocked resident Gravy-Stirrer.

“That’s right,” the ladle-wielding female nodded vehemently, “a bloody good fart at the dinner table’s worth half a dozen or more in the bed chamber.”

Chaffinch Comelightly tittered through a portcullis of blackened teeth: As usual the idiot Gravy-Stirrer had misconstrued her meaning. But before her titter could escalate into a hearty guffaw, something happened that made the ageing crone wet herself…

“Wheee!” Felicity cried as the race-prepped foldaway motocross scooter magically leapt from the side of the Stoat and Wanger, with her at the controls, and her gerbil mother standing upon the pillion foot plate.

“Fluff….” Brenda Bugler added her voice to that of her smallest adopted daughter, “…me, this is scary!”

Then the machine landed heavily as it hit the dusty track – its long-travel suspension soaking up the impact like a boxer’s face – and then bounding away in a series of pogo-hops that would have put the local gay community to shame.

Punting like delirious wood lice, Felicity and Brenda made excellent speed through the village – casting aside local inhabitants as though they were worthless immigrants.

“Hey, my baby girl, where’d you go getting’ the skills what’s necessary for this kind’a thing, huh?” Brenda inquired breathlessly. “You sure is some action-girl. You ever think of joinin’ a circus? Or maybe a troupe of travellin’ stunt-motorbikists?”

But Felicity wasn’t listening: All her attention was required to keep the front wheel pointing in the direction of Far Kinell.

Meanwhile Algy had returned to the Hamster Heath Sports Stadium. He’d reasoned, well enough, that before they embarked upon a course of action that could result in calamity if things went wrong, it would be a good idea to see if the recipient of their love and care was still actually drawing breath.

“Is Primrose improving, Matti?” He asked the attentive lemming.

“Well, you know…” Matti replied in the slightly uppy and downy way that Norwegian lemmings speak, which can really endear them to some, or make them local pariahs, “…she has her good moments…”

Any further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of  the team captain of the Heathens and several of his Offensive Linemen.

Algy gulped: He felt terribly intimidated by their sheer size, and, he had to confess to himself, a little intoxicated too.

“How’s she doing, Doc?” The captain inquired, “Coz me and the boys are feeling real cut up about her being hurt like that. We know it wasn’t our fault – or that big Spanish guy too: It was those bastards who shot her in the first place who make us real mad.”

All the Heathens growled menacingly in an almost pleasant counter-melody to their Captain’s rhythmic speech-pattern.

Algy felt his sphincter loosen, and a frightened ‘perp’ escaped. But fortunately the menacing growl had ascended into a piercing shriek – so no one noticed.

“Calm yourselves, lads,” Matti instructed them. “There’s no point in over-stressing your cardiovascular system with ill-considered, and ultimately wasteful hatred for someone who you will never encounter. It’s not like you could ever get your paws upon them or anything…”

This was to be a significant statement: But, of course, no one was aware of it at that moment. Nevertheless the words went in one of Algy’s ears – and didn’t reappear out of the other.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

P.S I usually select these extracts at pure random; but on this occasion I had to pass on three before I found this one – because they were just so darned rude!

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 6

The sixth extract from the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books returns to the opening book. You know it: it’s this one…

So without further ado and unneccessary preamble, let’s get down!

Well since the time-line had been altered, there was no way that The Overmind – no matter how brilliant of mind or powerful of will – could possibly know that reality had been altered. It couldn’t even guess that without the Piss Bowl’s interference it would have loathed the colour scheme that now ruined the aesthetic simplicity of The Where House with its garishness and retina-shocking hues. Even less could it imagine that it had ever harboured desires so vast – as to encompass an entire world within its personal domain. Only of its origin did it recall anything with any degree of accuracy.

“Oh woe is me.” The hamsters all heard it wail as they approached – booming so loudly that the shell of the building was now attempting to peel itself from the ancient brickwork, “What manner of beast am I? Created from a deadly combination of alien DNA, the bodies and minds of some poor unfortunate combat veteran hamsters, a few shitty old robots, and a computer console that had seen better days: And what have I got to show for it? Tasteless fittings that are shaped like androgynous nipples, generally appalling décor, a tendency to effeminate outbursts, and a force twelve storm overhead. It’s not much is it! What am I to do?”

Well if timing isn’t everything – then no one knows what is. Because at that very second Lionel chose his moment to lead his entourage into the former Sentinel Robot bay – pausing only long enough to lay the Piss Bowl down gently upon the floor in the corridor outside.

As the swing door clanked shut behind them Lionel found his voice…

“I say,” he began rather politely, “we’d like to have word with you, if you don’t mind.”

The Overmind didn’t look up. It wasn’t looking down to start with. Though it might have been looking inward – gazing upon its self-pity and loathing.

“Oh, look at you, in your drab beiges and greys.” It said bitchily. “Come to gloat, have you? Well fluff you: You can shove your pity up your nose: I like being miserable. And I have the power to make you miserable too. You see if I haven’t!”

“Don’t you talk to Lionel like that!” Fanangy scolded The Overmind.

“Ooh, what’s this?” The Overmind jeered, “Thinking with your hormones, I see. That’s a dangerous game, young fluffy being. Hormones can make you moist; and moistness conducts electricity…Why – if I wanted – I could swat you like a…”

“Please don’t.” Lionel interrupted the mighty machine, “She’s rather…”

Lionel found himself momentarily lost for words.

Silence reigned. If a pin had dropped at that precise moment it would have sounded like a gunshot, an earthquake, or the back door of the local municipal swimming pool slamming shut on a blustery day.

“Yes?” The Overmind chose to remind Lionel that he was in the middle of interrupting its exceedingly loud tirade.

“Yes?” Boney, Tonks, and Major Hardcourt-Gymp added in rapt anticipation.

“Yes?” Fanangy whispered as she looked up at him through eyes that resembled bottomless pools of dark liquid – reflecting nothing more, and nothing less, than total unquestioning faith and an adoration that stretched to infinity and back again.

Lionel gulped. Desperation marched across his face like storm-blown rain clouds He tried to imagine how the fictional Captain Perp would have dealt with this situation. But he came up empty. He then recalled the autobiography of local hero, Horatio Horseblanket, which he’d been studying so intently. Still nothing came. So, finally, with no other recourse open to him, he decided that he should entrust his voice to the only place that truly remained a mystery to him: His own inner feelings.

“Special.” He finally concluded.

At which The Overmind burst into tears. Not real ones of course: Cyber-Metaphorical ones. Or even Roboto-Metaphysical ones.

The Where House fairly shook to the rhythm of its sobs.

“Oi, pack that in.” Boney yelled in desperation, “You’ll ‘ave the whole building down ‘round our ear ‘oles, for fluff’s sake! Pull yer self together, ya artificial dim-shit!”

Fortunately the all-powerful intelligence managed to do as it was bid. In between sniffles it said, “Oh that was lovely. So totally hamstery. If only I could feel like that. But I’m a huge, ghastly, machine – fit only for overwhelming and consuming. Oh woe is me once again.”

“Well actually I might have the answer to your problem.” Lionel said as he began to recover from his deep inner embarrassment, “You won’t necessarily like my next suggestion, but I think you’ll agree it’s a whole lot better than being you.”

Well the Overmind listened to what Lionel had to say, and before long the vast device began imploding, and ejecting the constituents of its construct. In short – it spat out the soldiers, re-built the robots, and stuffed all the Smartgas into a handy canister that just happened to be hanging around beside the vending machine.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2012

This fabulous work remains available at most e-book retailers – the better-known of which appear on the sidebar and the Tooty’s Books page beneath the header. Not buying it is illogical. Unlike the characters in the story, you are a logical being. Ergo; the book must be bought. It’s the only logical thing to do.

 

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.

 

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.

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 2

As a second extract from the Hamster-Sapiens series is called for, the most logical source of material would seem to be the second book. This book, to be exact…

So, with minimal preamble, let’s get down…

“Oh Roosevelt,” Felicity squealed with delight as she pressed her paws and forehead against the inner wall of Tybrow Mooney’s lock-up garage in Hamster Heath, “I can see people and everything!”

Roosevelt was busy counting the gold coins that Mooney had thrown at them in his haste to flee. As a consequence he wasn’t really paying a great deal of attention. “Is that right?” he said without looking up.

“Yes,” Felicity replied, unaware of her exciting new friend’s distraction, “There’s a whole bunch of armed ruffians in a bedroom. They seem to be milling about somewhat. If I had to guess I’d say they were drunk. Oh, now a huge female hamster’s entered. I think she’s drunk too: She keeps showing her knickers to the males. Oh dear– now she’s waving an exposed titty at them. They all seem a little bashful: Perhaps she’s their auntie or something. Oh no, that can’t be right: They’re not all hamsters.”

Roosevelt’s ears had pricked up at the word ‘Titty’. He now gave his full attention to Felicity.  “Maybe she’s the boss.” he suggested.

“Could be.” Felicity agreed, “She’s shouting at them now, and cuffing them about the ears and cheek pouches too. “I wonder why she’s doing that? Oh I wish I could hear what she’s saying.”

 

“What do you mean?” The Law Master, Perfidity Gallowsmith, slurred her words and swayed so alarmingly that Quentin Blackheart was forced to overcome his revulsion at the physical touch of female fur, and grab her, “There’s no one here? I’ve drained a tankard of rough ale, and spat out a tasty pasty – just to find an empty room? Mooney – I thought you said that you’d been followed by Stix: Where are they then – you total tonge?”

Tybrow Mooney stood on the landing outside. He would have liked nothing more than to slip away from the scene, and hope that the Law Master forgot everything the following morning. But several lawmen blocked his egress down the stair.

“Well…” he began.

 

“I can see Mooney!” Felicity shouted excitedly.

“Does he have any more gold coins about his person?” Roosevelt inquired through avaricious lips.

“I can’t tell.” Felicity replied, “I can’t get an angle on him from here.”

So Roosevelt suggested that Felicity shift along the wall, and look again. Unfortunately there was a large pile of beans where Felicity needed to stand, so she quickly clambered up them, and stood there awkwardly as she tried to gain her balance.

“Here, let me help you,” Roosevelt held out a steadying paw.

Now what happened next could not have been foreseen – even by the combined brains of doctor Rambling Bramble, his charming assistant, Primrose Pickles, or even Hamsterdom’s youngest national hero, Horatio Horseblanket: Certainly everyone understood that Roosevelt enjoyed the talent of Psychic Catalyst, and that anyone possessing psychic powers would find their abilities enhanced in his presence: What no one knew was that these powers would be enhanced a hundredfold if physical contact was made. And, naturally, this is what occurred.

“Gosh,” Felicity screamed in a virtual rapture as once more she pressed her fluffy forehead against the rough brickwork, “I’ve got colour vision. And audio too!”

Then she said “Urk!” and stumbled forward – disappearing through the wall.

This in itself could have constituted a disaster; but unfortunately her flailing paw grasped Roosevelt’s snout in a vice-like death grip, and dragged it through the wall – with its owner in close attendance.

©Paul Trevor Nolan 2012

Yes, this story is about psychic powers and a medieval society. And hamsters, of course.

Like the other Hamster-Sapiens e-books, this one is available almost everywhere. See the sidebar or ‘Pages’ beneath the header for the more popular retailers.

P.S The hamster on the cover is Joan Bugler – the ‘star’ of the book.

 

 

Revel in the Ribaldry 1

When I published my early Hamster-Sapiens stories, they were always sub-titled Ribald Tales From a World Ruled by Hamsters. I don’t know why I dropped that description later, because it was (and remains) most apt. Interestingly (when I look back with the wisdom of hindsight) sales dipped from the moment I ceased to use it. So, here I am partially ressurrecting it in a number of extracts titled Revel in the Ribaldry. If they prove popular I may turn it into a glut. Afterall, the Hamster-Sapiens tales may be a few years old now; but that doesn’t make them any less…how shall I put it?…wonderful. How about fantastic? Okay, I’ll go with ‘entertaining’.

Since the original Horatio Horseblanket Chronicles books have been unavailable for several years, I’ll start proceedings with the book that is now considered Book One in the series, but which was written in the wake of the well-received aforementioned. It is this remarkable tome…

And here is the random extract…

If (just a few short weeks earlier) someone had suggested to Lionel that he would be leading the fight against an insane device that combined the organic remains of a squad of combat veteran hamsters, alien DNA, and several large (but essentially thick) robots, anyone who knew him would have scoffed: None more than Lionel himself: Lionel, after all, enjoyed making model armadillos, playing repetitive computer games, and watching inane daytime television. Indeed, until that rain-soaked day when his parents finally cried “enough”, and tossed him out of the family home, his idea of a good time was lying in bed with a sausage sandwich and a glass of aphid milk.

As things transpired, Lionel still hadn’t actually fashioned his ultimate plan to thwart the advancing menace that was The Overmind: But he’d formed the beginnings of an idea inside his fluffy little head that should, he hoped, free The Where House of its bio-electronic tyranny.

“So what shall we call this thing?” Lionel inquired as he held the artefact aloft for all to see. “It’s a bit dull to look at, isn’t it!” He added as he turned it over in his paws beneath a stuttering light in the lower latrine.

Indeed the artefact was a bit dull. In fact it was exceedingly dull. On a scale of visual languor it would have scored ten out of ten with consummate ease. So, as a consequence, not one single hamster present could summon up an idea for a suitable moniker.

All, that is, except Boney. “How about we call it ‘Arse Wipe’?” he half-suggested  – not thinking for one second that anyone would take him seriously.

Ten eyes – eight of them real: Two totally artificial, all swivelled to regard him. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw pity reflected in at least five of them.

“Well I mean,” He quickly realised that an explanation for his outrageous suggestion was required, “it’s gonna be about as useful as a bog roll in a hail storm when we confront The Overmind with it – aint it!”

Lionel continued to stare: ‘Could the ageing rodent be right?’ He thought to himself in that frozen moment, ‘Should this potential battle-winner be named ‘Arse Wipe’? If nothing else, it was original’.

“Oh, Boney,” Fanangy scolded, “How can you be so untrusting of Lionel’s abilities? Of course the Arse Wipe will be of more use than a bog roll in a hailstorm. Obviously Lionel’s plan is going to be ingenious: Success is certain. But Arse Wipe does have nice ring to it: I once had an Uncle named Arse Wipe – though of course he pronounced it Arssay Wippay. His wife was named Ringpiece. She had cruel parents. They were put to death for their crime – or so the legend goes.”

“So,” Colin felt duty-bound to step in and halt the pointless banter, “now that we’ve sorted that out – what are we going to do with it?”

Up until now Sergeant Tonks had remained quiet; and Major Hardcourt-Gymp appeared to be almost comatose with silence. But suddenly the Major’s aid spoke. She said, “Yeah – what are we going to do – like now? Emphasis on the now.”

This seemed to galvanise Gymp. “Indeed: Well put, Sergeant. We must cease this prevarication, and act. Hand me the Arse Wipe: I shall activate it once more; and we shall be about our business, which of course is my reinstatement as a sentient hamster that is fit to once again lead the Tadgerstone Rifles.”

“But you don’t know what to do with it.” Lionel whined as he realised that the situation was slipping from his tenuous control. Then a steeliness came over him, and he pulled the artefact to his puny chest, adding, “No – leave it alone: It’s mine.”

“Yes, that’s right, you big bully.” Fanangy instantly sided with her beloved Lionel, and snarled at the military officer in such a way that he blanched beneath his military-regulation facial fur, and began to wonder if being sentient was all it was cracked up to be.

“Will you lot stop all this yakking!” Boney roared as best he could with his age-clogged lungs, “All the time we’re stood about doin’ nothin’ – that thing upstairs is takin’ over more an’ more of my business.”

And of course he was right – and Lionel knew it. “Right then.” He said in his most authoritative voice, “To the elevator!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2012

Naturally the e-book version remains available at most e-book retailers. See the sidebar or ‘Pages’ beneath the header for the most popular ones.

P.S The sub-title of the original copy had a sub-title of it’s own. It was ‘Where All the Parts Are Private’. Why on Earth did I drop that? Because I’m creative; and creative people are allowed to be morons.

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

 

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.

Getting Back to My Roots

I haven’t always written earplug stories, you know. Once upon a time I created a literary world that was very rude indeed. This could be the time to remind ourselves that it was stupendously wonderful in every way. How about a little snippet of my world-famous Hamster-Fiction, huh? Maybe this wondrous tome?

Well here goes. But first I should set the scene. A soul group has been thrown out of the desert town of Gonad Gulch – principally because of their song’s subject matter. In the fracas, the lead singer has taken a blow to the side of his head from a house brick – and is dumped in the aforementioned desert by angry townsfolk…

It was obviously a while later, and the sun was just beginning to peek above the distant hills, when Chuck finally regained consciousness. Looking around all he could see was an assortment of broken musical instruments and the sides of a very deep ditch. He was confused upon thirteen different levels – all of them subterranean. It was only when someone called his name that he finally looked upwards – where he could see his three tenors – Adolf Pemberton, Minkles Forgetmenot, and Turbine Hall – all looking down at him as if from high vantage point close to hamster-heaven.

“Hey, guys, are you mutha-fluffers dead or something?” he inquired.

Adolf Pemberton was the first to speak…

“No, bro – but you’re gonna wish that your sad ass was.”

Alarm coursed through the fabric of Chuck’s brain as though a miniscule electric eel had been inserted into his rectum. “What’s going down, baby?” he asked nervously.

Minkles Forgetmenot was clearly angry. “You blew it again – that’s what ya did.” He roared in way that Chuck never imagined his second tenor capable – and was grateful that he’d never done it on stage: He might well have replaced Chuck as lead singer – and that would have been soul-destroying.

“Oh I don’t know…” Turbine Hall tried most male-hamsterly to find positive attributes in their generally negative situation, “…I think some of the blame can be placed at the door of our tour manager. He should never have booked us into a religious town like Gonad Gulch. It was asking for trouble.”

“Shut your goddamned mouth.” Minkles turned his fury upon the third tenor. Then Chuck winced once more when it swung back in his direction…

“You and your dumb-ass lyrics, Chuck.” Minkles managed to moderate his tone slightly. “Sure your melodies are great….”

“And his bass-lines throb like no one else’s.” Turbine tried interrupting.

“But the subjects of your songs…” Minkles continued – his shoulders sagging in despair.

“They’re about ass holes, man.” Adolf said the words that Minkles was trying to avoid. “My Farts Don’t Stink: What kind’a title is that? The chicks just don’t dig it.”

“People don’t forget them though.” Turbine chipped in. “They’re very memorable.”

“No they don’t, ya dumb ass.” Adolf agreed. “They remember them too goddamned well. They get us banned from every town that we ever visit.”

“Your songs stink, Chuck.” Minkles began to turn away from the upper edge of the ditch. He turned back for a moment. “And here’s a news-flash, bro: Your farts do too.”

With that Adolf and Minkles disappeared from Chuck’s view.

Only Turbine remained.  “Fruity, Chuck.” He said as he smiled eagerly. “Your farts smell fruity. I happen to like fruity.”

Chuck reached up. “Bro, shut the fluff up.” He said. “But first get me outta here!”

It was later still, and now the desert sun parched the earth upon which the four hamsters lay beneath the shade of the only rhubarb tree for as far as the eye could see. Adolf and Minkles were back on talking terms with Chuck, but they had nothing to say. And what verbiage Turbine could muster was largely ignored.

“So where’s the band?” Chuck finally managed.

“Quit.” Minkles grunted.

Chuck was confused. “Out here in the middle of the mutha-fluffin’ desert? Sho-nuf sounds unreal to this dude.”

“A passing newt-wrestling circus offered the brass section jobs as apprentice tadpole trainers.” Turbine informed him, “And the rhythm section caught a bus to Prairie Dog City – where they fancied being Office Buggers.”

For a fleeting moment Chuck thought that his ears were malfunctioning. But when Turbine repeated himself verbatim, he realized that his former band-members were far more stupid than he had ever given them credit for. No one but the most desperate of individuals took a job in Prairie Dog City. The prairie dogs that lived there were known for mistreating their staff in the most unfettered fashion imaginable, and treating hamsters in particular with utter disdain.

“You’re shitting me.” He breathed in almost-disbelief, “Those guys must have their brains scrambled or something. And Office Buggers? There sho-nuf aint a no more demeaning job in all of North America. Man – they gotta be desperate or something.”

“Yeah,” Minkles grumbled, “desperate to avoid being thrown out of every town in the west.”

“Oh I don’t suppose being an Office Bugger is half as bad as it’s made out to be.” Turbine said cheerily.

“Could you take it?” Adolf Pemberton growled from the opposite side of the rhubarb tree.

Turbine stopped being cheery. “I’m not sure.” He said, “What does the job entail?”

Well Minkles (being an expert upon the subject) proceeded to give a brief history of the position of Office Bugger in society in general, and in Prairie Dog City in particular. And it didn’t make easy listening.

Turbine turned pale beneath his facial fur, and even cast off his huge afro wig, and used it to mop up the cold sweat that erupted all over his body.

“You mean p-p-people actually do that?” he stammered, “They actually employ staff whose job is merely to be the butt of verbal abuse? That’s just so…”

He was lost for words, so Chuck said it for him, “Mutha-fluffin uncivilized? You got that right, bro.”

“But why are they called Office Buggers?” Turbine needed clarification of a couple of points. “If all the abuse is verbal, then should I assume that no anal sex whatsoever is involved?”

“Right on, man.” Minkles almost smiled, but the sight of Turbine’s sweaty afro lying in the parched desert dirt made his grim countenance return with a vengeance, “They don’t even get no decent rogering from behind inside the pencil cupboard. Folks just yell at ‘em. They yell things like – ‘Get your butt over here, ya little bugger!’ and ‘Why don’t you bugger off you ugly bastard!’ And that aint fun.”

“Yeah,” Adolf still growled, “and ‘Go to buggery, ya useless piece of shit!’ and crap like that.”

Clearly Turbine could see a theme manifesting itself in these verbal utterances. “They use the word ‘bugger’ a lot, don’t they?” He said – less as a question: More as a statement.

“Hence ‘Office Buggers’.” Chuck said as he too removed his afro, and sighed deeply with relief.

But still Turbine required more clarification. “So what’s so particularly awful about being an Office Bugger in Prairie Dog City? I mean – what could be worse than being told to bugger-off on a regular basis? It’s so demeaning.”

“In Prairie Dog City,” Minkles explained, “they call them real rude things. Things like…well I aint sayin’ the words coz they catch in my throat. If I say ‘em – well then I’ll most probably end up in Hamster Hell – and that just aint my bag, man. Can you dig it?”

Turbine could indeed ‘dig it’. He also grew very angry indeed – which was most out of character for him. But he hated injustice even more than his mother’s hot poultices that she used to administer to his private parts when he was a boy.

“I tell you what…” he began.

But he got no further because he was interrupted by the arrival overhead of a super-advanced dirigible that was coated in a glittery foil and bedecked with flashing lights.

A voice called to them from a quickly improvised cardboard megaphone. “Hey, you guys down there: Aren’t you Guff-Master Chuck and the Titillating Tonsils? We’re

from the secret scientific, quasi-military, base known as Area Ninety-Nine. It gets really boring after nine o’clock at night: How about you give us a concert or two. We can pay you. We even have our own funk musicians.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan  2013

There, that wasn’t bad at all. Was it? As usual the e-book is available just about everywhere – including those usual places mentioned on the side bar and beneath the header. So if you feel tempted to see how this tale panned out, you know what to do,

Time For Some Hamster Fiction Methinks!

On this occasion I think I’ll serve up a nice little (random) extract from this rather pleasant e-book…

And here it is…

Well after that it all went swimmingly. Both Rootley and Joan learned that Darkwood’s father – Longbeach the King of Sponx – had sent his eldest son out into the world to ‘learn a few things’ before he returned to his homeland where he was expected to dispatch his father (enfeebled by age as he would undoubtedly be by then) into the next realm of existence, and then take over the throne.

Darkwood had been interrupted only once, and surprisingly it had been by the normally quiescent Joan.“Excuse me for interrupting – but you have a most unusual name. Your dad does too. How come?”

Darkwood was surprised that none of his audience was aware that in Sponx the royal children are always named after the place of their birth. “I, for example,” Darkwood had explained, “was born in a dark wood. My father came into this world upon a long beach. Of course naming a child after their place of birth doesn’t always result in names quite so poetic: My younger brother, for example, was born in a public lavatory when the Queen was caught short on a Royal Visit to a neighbouring land. Now everyone in Sponx prays that I survive my experience in The University of Life: The name King Brick Shit-House would make their kingdom the laughing stock of the known world.

Well as time went by they all learned something of each other – though neither Darkwood nor Rootley could comprehend either that Joan had slipped from her own technologically advanced world, via an invisible, and undetectable, trans-dimensional portal: through into their semi-medieval land. Or that custard could be frozen: And that there was at least one factory in Hamster Britain producing the delicious sweet.

Margarita comprehended in a second, as cavies often do, and was most impressed with Joan’s ability to ‘walk between worlds’, and offered to carry her wherever she desired, free-of-charge, with the promise that although she was a cavy she would temporarily refrain from the characteristic Perambulatory Defecation Syndrome that was so prevalent with beasts of burden like herself.

“Thank you,” Joan replied, “I might take you up on your kind offer. Of course I didn’t know I could walk between worlds: They must have inadvertently opened a door inside my brain when I visited the Institute of Hugely Important Studies for a series of psychic tests. I’m certainly feeling cleverer and cleverer with every passing second: Perhaps in time I might achieve the level of genius. Or perhaps it’s nothing more than the lovely clean air you have here. I don’t know. But that’s by the by: What do we do next?”

Darkwood was very impressed with Joan’s verbosity, and recognised that he would have fallen helplessly head-over-heels in love with her if he hadn’t been hamster-sexual, and only really fancied hamsters with squelchy bits that dangled. And as things stood, Rootley appeared to be the only ‘talent’ available currently. Unfortunately he was a mere serf with whom Darkwood would countenance no dalliance under any circumstances.

“You’re looking at me funny.” Rootley observed.

Although caught out, Darkwood quickly recovered. “I’m royalty: I’m allowed to look at people funny.” He snapped. Then added, “You’re local: Answer me this: To which location do you suggest we transport ourselves next? Food, shelter, and a safe refuge from an inevitable pursuit by the Lawmen of Weasels Pit would be a prerequisite.”

“Dunno,” replied Rootley, “I’ll have to think about it.”

“Well don’t think too long,” Margarita piped up from the shrubbery, “I can hear horns being blown in the village below.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan

This e-book is available at many outlets. Might I suggest you take a look at some of the better-known ones by checking beneath the ‘header’ or looking on the ‘sidebar’ for easy access.

Millions Can’t Be Wrong

Every day millions of readers write in to say: “We want more Psychic Historian”. Well, actually, it was one – and she was far too polite to demand. But numbers don’t count. It’s not quantity, but quality that matters. So, in order to keep the several million (and one) happy – here is another extract from this wondrous e-tome…

A young male hamster – perhaps only a short while out of his adolescence – sat upon the seat of a busy train. Like the passengers around him he was peddling furiously, and hating every second of it.

“I think that it’s disgusting.” A middle-aged female of huge dimensions spoke haughtily beside him, “It’s not enough that we have to pay for our seat: Now we have to power the train as well!”

The young hamster nodded sadly. “Indeed madam,” he replied, “but you know what this socialist government’s like: Any popular bandwagon – and they’re aboard – with bells ringing and whistles blowing. The Eco-Green Liberals said that steam, electric, and diesel trains were abominations: The government thought that everyone agreed: And here we are – peddling for all we’re worth.”

“Yes,” the middle-aged female gasped, “and when people stopped using the trains as often – the same idiot government decided that since fewer trains were running, they could cut the services, tear up all the tracks, and melt them down to make bombs and suchlike. It’s lunacy: Sheer lunacy!”

“Are you going all the way?” The young hamster inquired.

“To Poxford?” The middle-aged female responded after taking a few puffs upon an inhaler. “Yes – if I don’t suffer a myocardial infarction before we get there. My litter lives there you see. I’m visiting – possibly for the last time.”

“The last time?” The young hamster was suddenly alarmed, “Do you expect to perish soon?”

The middle-aged hamster tried to laugh, but she couldn’t spare the oxygen, “I don’t plan to.” She managed, “It’s just that this is the last train to Poxford. The line closes tonight. And I can’t drive a go-kart because I don’t know my left steering string from my right steering string. And the principle of breaking into corners confounds me mightily. Until some brain-box starts up a bus service, or I evolve into a non-corporeal being with the ability to teleport, I’ll have to stay at home and pine for my offspring.”

This information came as quite a surprise to the young hamster. “If this is the last train to Poxford – how will I get home again after completing my business there?”

By now the middle-aged female was close to collapse. “Fluffed if I know.” She gurgled before slumping unconscious in her seat.

Moments later the conductor entered the carriage. Spotting the comatose female he barked, “This simply isn’t good enough. We can’t have slackers slowing down the

train: We have a time-table to keep to.”

He then stopped the train, and had the poor unfortunate female lowered to the side of the track, where she was rolled down an embankment by several members of the galley staff, and left sitting upon a roadside bench with a sign around her neck that read ‘Useless Slacker’.

“She can find her own way to Poxford.” He spat.

Soon the train was underway once more. Several disgusted passengers had chosen to disembark with the comatose female, and gesticulated rudely as the train pulled away. As a result of this there were far fewer legs to power the train along, and so it was an age before it finally drew into the station at the beautiful university town of Poxford.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ugh?” The wood mouse responded in puzzlement.

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

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

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

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

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2019

Let’s Have Some Hamster Fiction Again!

Ribald and rude. Hopefully funny too. It’s the Hamster-Sapiens e-book series. And here’s an extract from one of the little buggers…

Lionel was still smarting from Colin’s wicked over-ruling of his suggestion that Boney select a male hamster as the next subject, and felt rightly aggrieved at it. So to quickly circumvent a potential repetition of the android’s predilection to insensitivity the young hamster leaned close to Boney’s ear, and bellowed above the din of clamouring rodentia, “Pick a male this time, Boney: Maybe there’ll be a little less sex involved, and we can all enjoy an un-edited history lesson. ”

But before Boney could reply, Lionel noticed that Horatio Horseblanket was making strange eye movements at him. At first he thought that it may have been some sort of affliction that his hero had never bothered to mention in his autobiography – but he quickly dismissed the thought: Horatio was far too ‘warts and all’ honest to exclude something so potentially serious from his magnum opus. Then a thought emerged that momentarily struck fear into his youthful hamster heart: Could it be that Horatio had contracted penile thrush, and was trying to distract his attention from the unbearable itching sensation by making himself go all ‘boss-eyed’?  Again Lionel dismissed the thought: Horatio was almost certainly immune from such sufferings: Didn’t his mother keep a permanent incense-burner smouldering in the hearth of their delightful cottage atop Realsteep Hill? And, further, wasn’t the aforementioned incense-burner well-known as a successful counter-agent for everything from evil-spirits – through dormant membranes, flaccid tongue, Bolshevik revolutions – to penile thrush? Yes it was. So there must be some meaning to the orange-faced hero’s optical manipulations.

“’Ere,” Boney interrupted his thoughts, “looks like young ‘Orseblanket’s indicating his would-be nemesis at college – Freddy Ringworm.”

‘Of course’, Lionel felt like slapping himself across the forehead, ‘Horatio intended that they select Freddy Ringworm as their next subject’. Lionel smiled to himself because it was an excellent idea – not so much because it had been suggested by his hero – but because Ringworm clearly didn’t want to be chosen, and was skulking off towards the girl’s lavatory, with a cardboard periscope only partially hidden by his huge mauve blouse.

“Freddy Ringworm!” Sorbresto yelled above the din. “I select Freddy Ringworm!”

He then winked at Lionel, and whispered in the resulting silence, “Psychic – see?”

Well naturally the spotlight caught Freddy in its baleful glare, and soon the laboratory technician found himself reclining awkwardly upon Sorbresto Titt’s sofa.

“Is there anything that you don’t want fondled?” the hamster from an alternative dimension inquired of the loathsome former student.

This question startled Freddy. He hadn’t expected it, and nothing in his former experience had prepared him for it. “Whadda ya mean?” he shrieked in a most female hamsterly manner.

“I have to caress your epidermis.” Sorbresto explained – both for Freddy’s benefit, and anyone else who was to follow later. “I have to make physical connection with you in order to access your genetic memory. Strictly speaking a sample of your blood, or perhaps other bodily fluids would suffice – but that could get nasty – and I don’t do nasty.”

“My personal protuberance.” Freddy shrieked so loudly that it set off a burglar alarm in a neighbouring gentlehamster’s outfitters. “Don’t touch my willy. No one has ever touched my willy – and no one ever will!”

At this Doctor Growbag looked up from charming Flotti Pañuelo in one of the double seats at the rear of the auditorium. “I’ll vouch for that.” He shouted, “He wouldn’t let me anywhere near it during a physical examination for the college poo-jumping team at Saint Dunces. When I said ‘cough’ I had to measure the physical response by the displacement of nearby air. His dad was the same. No one ever went near his personal protuberance either. Well that’s what they say: But it’s not like I have incontrovertible evidence or anything…”

Growbag, realizing that he had inadvertently breached doctor/patient confidentiality, then closed his mouth, skipped silently to another location in the shadows, and exclaimed in a very loud voice indeed, “I say – who was that impersonating me? Is someone trying to get me into trouble with the Medical Board?”

But by then everyone had lost interest because the psychic historian had found just the right spot on Freddy’s body, and now images were forming upon the huge monitor…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Naturally, if you happen to be conversant with my hamster tales, you will have recognised that extract from…

Available as an e-book all over the place. Check out the links to some of the major suppliers beneath the header and on the sidebar. You won’t be (terribly) disappointed.

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 25

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

They are, of course, the almost legendary Hamster-Sapiens series. And on this occasion I have chosen a random extract from – Fanfare for the Common Hamster.

Rootley was almost half way back to his disgusting hovel upon the hill when he gasped, and halted his forward progress with such suddenness that Brother Alfonso tripped over him, and Margarita was forced into a rapid avoidance manoeuvre that resulted in the heir to the throne of Sponx being thrown from his saddle and badly damaging the plume that usually danced gaily upon the top of his shiny brass helmet.

“Shit,” Margarita exclaimed. She then added, “Whatta ya make me do that for, ya damned fool hamster? I could have done someone a serious injury!”

“It’s Joan:” Rootley replied as he heaved the bulk of a confused Brother Alfonso from him, “She’s in danger. We have to go back.”

“And you know this to be true because?” Darkwood’s voice did nothing to disguise his annoyance at having to replace his plume with something of an altogether inferior material. But of course he already knew the answer: It was Rootley’s personal ‘talent’.

“Can you be more precise?” Brother Alfonso enquired as he straightened his vast snout.

“Cold.” Rootley replied, “A terrible, terrible cold.”

“Well, heck and humdingery,” Margarita exclaimed rather too loudly for the situation, “didn’t she mention working in some place that lived in eternal winter? Hey that must mean she made it home, then got into some kind ‘a bind”.

Well it didn’t take more than a moment for the new found friends to realise that there was only one course of action to take.

“To the sewer outlet, I command thee.” Darkwood bellowed in his most royal voice. “Joan, the walker between worlds, needs our help!”

Naturally Rootley, being small and nimble, soon found himself chosen to edge into the obsidian stench of the sewer outlet. As he did so he called out Joan’s name. He tried calling in various tones – from a surprisingly resonant bass, to a shrill soprano that hurt the awaiting Margarita’s ears and made Brother Alfonso’s nose bleed. But in response – save for the constant dripping of foetid water from the curved brick ceiling – all that Rootley’s sensitive ears could detect was silence. So, reaching out with both paws before him, Rootley plunged forward with the abandon normally associated with gay gerbils – and was immediately lost in echoes.

It was so cold inside Freezer Three that Joan’s brain had almost ceased to function. Fortunately she had found the wisdom to clamber inside a large empty cardboard box, thrust her paws between her thighs, and then insert her tail into her rectum before becoming semi-comatose. But even in this state her will to live supplied her ears with sufficient energy to listen for clues to salvation. First one pricked up, quickly followed by the other as Rootley’s muffled voice could be heard calling her name.

‘Hmmm’, she thought, ‘that resonant bass is quite pleasant: But I’m not sure about the soprano: It could shatter ice.’

Then her brain reactivated properly. This was no time for hibernation: Help was on its way.

Rootley was overjoyed to hear Joan calling his name. “This way, Joan,” he called, “Follow my voice.”

He then continued to utter similar inanities until suddenly Joan’s paw materialised from the wall before him. He didn’t see it of course; but in the heat of the moment he’d quite neglected to theorise the potentiality of irregularities within the topography of the different worlds. So naturally it was Rootley’s testicles that Joan’s flaying paw encountered first, and which solicited a yelp of such intensity that it startled her so badly that she lost her grip upon the icy floor inside Freezer Three, and tumbled back into the medieval land of Prannick – and the relative warmth of stale piss.

© Paul Trevor Nolan

Naturally the ribald Hamster-Sapiens series remains available as e-books at many outlets, including those important ones mentioned on the side bar and beneath the header. They’re very nice, and you really should buy all five of them. You wouldn’t be the first to do so, you know: you’re in good company.