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.

Advertisements

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.

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 17

Long before those delectable earplugs appeared upon the scene, my comedic desires were pleasantly assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.

So, on this seventeenth attempt to invite you to join the Hamsterista of the world, I bring you an excerpt from Danglydong Dell Diaries.

It must have been an hour or more later when Tits remembered why they’d entered the bar. She was now thoroughly sated, and her belly almost protruded as much as her namesakes. Joan was in a similar position. Brother Alfonso, unused to alcohol, could barely form a coherent thought. Dung giggled stupidly into the bottom of his glass. And Brenda was asleep on the floor, with her tail wrapped about her like a hibernating dormouse. Dragging herself up from her seat in a cosy ‘snug’, the large breasted female approached the bar.

Kendrick looked up from wiping some glasses. “Ah-ha, fair female, do’est thou require a top up?”

Tits tried to shake her head, but it began to spin, so she gave up. “Um, not right now, thank you.” She tried curtsying again, but her knees buckled, and she fell upon a stool.

“What I’d really like is a little information.” She said as she righted herself, and then slumped against the bar.

Although a charming and gregarious character that treated all of his patrons with utmost equanimity, Kendrick couldn’t help but have a lustful eye for females who were constructed to his preferred configuration. Or to put it another way – he had a hankering for girls with big boobies.

“Ah-ha.” He boomed at a level of audibility several decibels lower than was normal for him, and which he probably thought sounded conspiratorial, “So t’is information you’re wanting, is it? How much are you prepared to pay for this information? Would a peck on the cheek sound unreasonable?”

For someone who was reasonably inebriated, Tits was remarkably fleet of thought. “Face or bum?” She said with a girlish grin.

“Oh, what a naughty female you are, you intoxicating wench from far away.” Kendrick’s tone had moderated even farther. “Poor Kendrick wishes only to lay his lips upon the delightful face of his most beautiful guest. Your bum I’d sooner grab with both paws. But more of that later: What is that you want to know?”

Tits described Tybrow Mooney as best she could. Having never seen the ghastly specimen, she had only the verbal picture that Joan had drawn of him with which to work.

“Tall and skinny, and looking more like a tailless rat than a hamster, you say? Kendrick rubbed is chin in thought. “That does sound familiar. And he used to own a tavern hereabouts?”

“I think it was called the Rancid Maggot Inn.” Tits told the helpful barkeeper.

Kendrick snapped his fingers. “I know the place.” He said almost as cheerfully as he might have yelled, “I’ve won the lottery!”

This time he actually lowered his voice to little more than a whisper, and Tits had to strain to catch his words over the general hubbub of the busy bar. “A bunch of weird eastern Europeans have taken it over. I think they might be desmons.”

“I’ve been told they’re bank voles.” Tits corrected him.

“Oh you might be right at that.” Kendrick tried to compare the two species in his mind’s eye. “I’ve also heard that they’re converting it into some sort of education centre – stroke – religious shrine to the former owner. Oh that’d be this Tybrow Mooney that you’re looking for. Odd, he doesn’t look very rat-like in the mural they’ve painted on the side wall. But that’s religious fervour for you: You can be blind to the truth, but still believe.”

Tits found that she liked this Kendrick Tweezledown. He was kindly, slightly lecherous, and possessed great insight and wisdom. He wasn’t that bad looking either

– especially for a mouse.

“Hmmm.” She agreed dreamily.

Kendrick looked at her. “Your pupils are dilating.” He said. “That means one of two things: I’m in with a real chance with you; or you’re too drunk to care.”

“A little of both I expect.” Tits mumbled as her head slumped closer to the bar top.

For the first time since she’d met him, Kendrick looked ill at ease – flustered even. “Do you think one of your friends can come and help prop you up. We’re not due to close for another hour, and I don’t think that you’re going to last the distance.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 14

Long before those rumbustious earplugs appeared upon the scene, my comedic desires were pleasantly assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.

For this excerpt I have cunningly chosen a snippet from The Abduction of Wetpatch Wilson

Well naturally enough, after being thrown from his lobster-shaped saddle on several occasions, and having his antennae crushed against the ceiling repeatedly, the captain of the Federation Council Stealth Vessel S.S Bargebutt had no choice but to quickly regain control of his emotions. It took a while longer before he was as successful in recovering the ship from its headlong dive, but eventually the creaking submarine levelled off, and the egg sisters – Blur and Sprightly – released a simultaneous sigh of relief at having survived their own sabotage.

In the lounge meanwhile all was pandemonium. Several pirates had been knocked unconscious by the violence of the descent, and even Sally had managed to poke herself in the eye with a wayward nipple.

Ludwig was furious: Several energy weapons had discharged by accident, and the décor was in ruins. He was also in pain – due entirely to his own weapon discharging, and badly singeing his cod piece. Conversely Bootle had rode out the calamity inside Cringe’s multi-layered dress uniform very well, and now strode amongst the injured pirates, pressing his tiny heel against their private parts, and grinding them with all his might – which, unfortunately, wasn’t very mighty at all.

The aforementioned Cringe lay spread-eagled across the upturned sofa, and groaned quietly as his face began to puff up, and bruises appeared through his facial fur.

Only Wetpatch appeared unfazed by the situation. With the Mind-Cap still firmly attached to his head, he had passed through the maelstrom of furry agonies untouched. Rather like a drunk falling down stairs, Wetpatch’s disconnected body had rolled with the metaphysical punches. He had become limp and compliant. His limbs had become supple, and his flesh yielded to the demands made upon it in much the same way that wet soap slips from even the most tenacious grasp, disappears from view beneath the foamy water, and then mysteriously embeds itself inside the bather’s unsuspecting arse crack.

“Recalculating course changes required to arrive at the Crustacean Collective Council chambers.” Sally heard Wetpatch say to no one in particular.

At first the middle-aged catering assistant felt full of wonder at the child-hamster’s ability to navigate without instrumentation or any fore-knowledge of his destination. Then she realised that if Ludwig were to fall silent from all his teeth gnashing and incoherent roaring, he might overhear the youngster’s stupidly high-pitched voice. So she did what any quick-thinking rodent in such a situation would do: She whipped off her knickers, and stuffed them into Wetpatch’s mouth. Then, after making sure that Ludwig’s back remained turned to her, she knocked the Mind-Cap clean across the room with one mighty swing of her handbag, then chased after it, kicking it into submission, before depositing it in the waste reclamation chute.

Ho, meanwhile, had hidden inside the dumb-waiter that carried meals from the galley to the lounge. And because it was padded with aroma-sensitive insulation, he survived the encounter with near-death with nothing more than a scraped elbow where he’d caught it upon the door handle.

“Hey,” he cheered as he emerged, “we survive good. Well most of us anyway. If anyone interested – Ho cook celebratory dinner.”

In the security camera office, Roman, Amy, and Branston were only now regaining their unsteady legs. The Security staff did likewise, and for some while there was much prodding of damaged soft tissues followed by bitter complaint.

Although Roman remained somewhat shaken by recent events, Amy had the presence of mind to quickly check the multitude of monitors.

“What do you seek?” The diminutive Branston inquired, as he rubbed a swollen knee.

“The Disemboweller.” Amy gasped her reply. “If the transfer conduit was perforated, then it’s odds-on that Professor Desmond Squealch and his manservant, Tutu, succumbed to a most hideous death.”

But Amy needn’t have worried. Pirate submarine umbilicals were legendary for their strength and durability, and although looking battered to within a micron of serviceability, the pirate vessel remained both intact and attached to the Bargebutt. She breathed a sigh of relief: With Hamster Heath’s most famous inventor alive, they still stood a chance of returning home intact, and with their mission completed.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

What is your favourite e-book supplier? Don’t answer that; the question was rhetorical. I asked it, merely as an excuse to mention that this book (and others) are available at most suppliers, which probably includes your favourite. Check out the sidebar for access to some of the better-known ones. →

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 9

Long before those nauseatingly fabulous earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.

On this momentous occasion I’ve elected to share with you an excerpt from The Psychic Historian.

It was clear from Freda Bludgeon’s appearance that time had passed in the green valley where the famous author lived in her stone-built cottage. Now her grey muzzle perfectly matched the low cloud that hung above the valley like a menacing oil spill. Her clothes had become worn, and the previously bright white net curtains that hid the interior of the house from nosey passers-by were dull and splattered with the detritus of years.

Freda, herself, was trying desperately to write her latest best-seller, but it was obvious that she had been stricken with the nastiest case of writer’s-block since the invention of the written word.

“Oh woe is me.” She cried plaintively as she flung aside her tatty, almost useless, typewriter, “Until I can feel my belly full once more I swear that I cannot write another word.”

Any other complaints and utterances of self-pity were put aside when there came a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Get up off yer skinny arse; answer the door; and you’ll find out – won’t you.” The gruff reply pierced the thick wooden door that barred the cold, blustery, day from entering like a head-hunter’s spear.

The voice belonged to Izzy Ekaslike – the local postal delivery person. For a moment the thought of what Izzy might have in the bottom of his satchel gave Freda reason to hope. ‘Is it possible that he might be delivering a royalty cheque?’ She thought it unlikely – especially since everyone was so poor now that not a single book had sold in the last year – anywhere throughout the entire land of Hamster-Britain.

‘But there’s always overseas sales.’ She thought, ‘Not every country has adopted the environmental concerns, and legislated new anti-pollution laws that my endless campaigning has managed to push through parliament, and which now cripples the country’s industry and farmers to such an extent that they’re no longer competitive in the world market.’

“Be right there.” She said chirpily.

Izzy Ekaslike stood and dripped in the doorway as Freda opened the door to him.

“Izzy.” Freda said by way of welcome.

“Miss Bludgeon.” The miserable-looking male hamster replied politely – if a little curtly.

“Do you have a little something for me?” Freda inquired.

Izzy held secret feelings for Freda, so he was surprised, and slightly thrilled, by the question.

“How’d ya mean?” he inquired in turn. “What – in me trousers, ya mean?”

Freda, for all her fame, was no female-of-the-world. “Your trousers?” she looked puzzled. “Has your satchel developed a hole in it?”

Izzy’s shoulders slumped. He knew it had been too good to be true. Famous authors never had sexual intercourse with postal delivery people: It was a well-known fact. “Yeah,” he said, even more grumpily than usual, “It’s a letter.”

With that he flung an envelope across the threshold; turned away abruptly; mounted his push-along-scooter – which Freda noticed no longer bore any tyres upon its tiny wheels – and made off at his best speed, which was actually very slow, due in no small part to the fact the road was nothing more than potholes held together by short stretches of tarmac.

Moments later Freda had returned to her pantry, and was tearing the envelope open with her incisors. It had been weeks since anyone had bothered to contact her, and she was shaking with the excitement of anticipation.

When, after she’d managed to calm her trembling paws, Freda had battled her way past the arsenic-laced seal, the cheese wire wrapping, and the small incendiary device inside, Freda’s eyes pored over the attached letter. In the brief moments before her solitary oil lamp stuttered into extinction she managed to decipher the opening lines: They read…

Dear Miss Bludgeon, you are an utter bastard. I hate you with all my heart. When the time comes for you to die, I hope it is long and protracted, and gives you the opportunity to reflect upon your actions, which have been instrumental in destroying the fabric of life in Hamster Britain. If it was physically possible for a minge to fall off – I hope your does. Or at least get horribly infected. Due to your stupid environmental interference I have lost everything, – my company, my family, my self respect, and, most importantly, my great wealth. Recently I was forced to sell one of my kidneys to one of the few rich people left in this benighted country, and the larger of my testicles to scientific research – merely to buy a loaf of bread and some fuel to power my lawn mower.  Worse still is the fact that I am one of your biggest fans. This winter I have found it necessary to burn my entire collection of your mystery novels – not because I now hate your work, but because it is the only way to heat the tiny garden shed that I now call home. If Springtime doesn’t arrive soon I’ll have to burn all your self-help and sex guides. After they’re gone I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t even nail up an electrical socket without literary aid: And quite what I’ll find to do with my willy confounds me. But that’s all by-the-by: The point of this letter is…

To say that Freda was shocked was possibly the understatement of the year. She was more than shocked. In fact she was so shocked that she had to run to toilet, which was fortuitous because she kept an early prototype Timmy the Twonk Engine wind-up torch on top of the cistern for situations just like this. Winding the handle on the side of the torch for all she was worth, Freda dropped her knickers, sat her withered buttocks down as comfortably as possible (which was difficult because the toilet seat had broken during an autumn storm, and she was yet to find the fiscal resources to replace it), and settled herself to read the remainder of the letter.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

These magnificent e-books are available all over the place. For easy access to your chosen e-reader (or whatever) visit the book covers over there → on the side bar. Failing that, you can always click on the Lulu logo, or Google ‘Tooty Nolan Books‘.