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.