Tag Archives: silly stories

Climatic Calamity (part 12)

In Part 11, our heroes finally arrived at the Museum of Future Technology. Good for them. But now that they’re there, where are they gonna find a space ship? Read on…

Chapter 4

Stepping from the windy exterior into the frosty interior of the Museum of Future Technology’s foyer, both earplugs were surprised at the absence of either a Robot Ticket Collector or a Robot Guide. Hellfire tried whistling for the latter automaton, but without success.

“I don’t like just walking in without a ticket.” He complained. “It feels dishonest.”

But they did anyway and were astonished to find that the minus zero degrees continued into the museum proper…

In his desperate search for living beings such as himself, Hellfire had skipped ahead through the frozen tableau that was the museum. He turned back nervously in time to see Erronious pass through the door from an adjacent corridor.

“Oh, Erronious,” he wailed, “are we the only earplugs left alive? It’s horrible: where is everyone?”

Erronious showed no emotion. He simply grunted: “Keep searching: someone is bound to show up.”

And so this proved to be. Shortly after arriving in one of the main pedestrian arterial routes, both earplugs spotted a green female ahead of them. Hellfire called along the frosty corridor:

“Hello. Oo-oo. Excuse us. Can you tell us where to find the nearest Café Puke? We’re cold and gasping. And I think my friend, Erronious could use their toilet.”

Mavis Dorker was surprised to find others about. “Oh,” she called back. “Sorry, but all the Café Pukes have shut up shop. Their staff were sent home hours ago. Everyone is taking to their homes to keep warm. They’re huddling together like small hibernating omnivores. The only reason I’m out and about is because I’m claustrophobic: I don’t have the sort of friends who would like to huddle with me: and my frozen-over lavatory has proven highly resistant to my rubber mallet. I’m hoping to find a pneumatic drill in one of the maintenance lockers.”

“Yeah, enough of your personal problems.” Erronious growled. “How do we get to the UFO hangar from here?”

As an assistant librarian, Mavis was delighted to be able to help the strange pair of earplugs. “Go through that arch behind you: turn left: go straight on for two kilometres – until you find the emergency stairwell: then go down three levels: pass through a yellow portal that leads to the Tunnel Temporale. You’ll find a small green door in the wall beside the tunnel. That will open directly on to the hangar.”

Hellfire managed a quick, “Ta, er, whatever your name is,” before Erronious dragged him through the aforementioned arch.

A hideous amount of time later, and exhausted by the trek, the two earplugs found themselves passing through the yellow portal mentioned in her instructions by Mavis. Hellfire was pleased to be there, especially when he noted the warmer air in which they now stood.

“Wow, Erronious,” he said, “it’s almost balmy here – in comparison anyway. But I wouldn’t want to take my trousers off; it isn’t that warm.”

A grim Erronious replied:

“Yeah, and I think I know why. And it aint good.”

He didn’t bother to explain until he and Hellfire stood inside the Tunnel Temporale…

“Um,” Hellfire said uncertainly, “is this thing supposed to be glowing? Didn’t they turn it off years ago, coz of all them time storms what nearly tore the museum apart?”

Erronious sighed several times before replying with, “I never thought I’d see the day when someone would reinsert the fuses of the Tunnel Temporale. Obviously desperate times require desperate acts. But I can kind’a see some logic in it. If they run the tunnel at minimum power; target a period in history when it was – or will be – really hot; then just let the heat from that time percolate down the tunnel, it should warm up the museum a little. Risky though: if some engineer felt tempted to up the power just the tiniest bit, those time storms could come sweeping back, and make this ice-age look like a comedy sketch.”

“Ooh,” Hellfire said nervously. “Perhaps we should have stayed with that snotty-yellow earplug: his den was nice and warm.”

Erronious looked at his friend sternly. “No.” he snapped. “We have a task to perform. Where’s this bloody green door?”

Shortly, Erronious and Hellfire found themselves standing in an empty UFO hangar…

For a moment the grey earplug’s shoulders slumped. “Nada.” He said in a disappointed tone. “We’re too late. Everyone must have flown the coop before the weather made it impossible. That’s it – we’re stuffed. Game over.”

But Hellfire had noticed another pedestrian door. “Wait a minute.” He said. “Aren’t they always getting extra-terrestrial delegations from far away worlds like Scroton and the Ice Planet? Where do they park their space ships?”

Twenty seconds later, and inside an adjacent hangar…

…Erronious’ dejection reached new depths. “Not here, obviously; it’s too jam-packed with so many flying saucers.” He said sarcastically.

Again Hellfire’s wandering gaze had spotted something to give him hope. “Look,” he said, “that sign says Hangar Two: maybe there’s a Hangar Three!”

Another twenty seconds later they discovered that there was indeed a third hangar…

…but it didn’t do anything to improve Erronious’ demeanour. Instead of acting dejectedly or petulantly, he decided to study the ornate emergency lighting in the ceiling above. “Hmmm, recessed.” He noted. “Not terribly efficient. Nice in a bathroom though.”

Hellfire wasn’t listening: he was too busy dragging Erronious through yet another door. Moreover, having passed through that door, both of their mouths fell open at a wondrous sight…

Erronious was momentarily stupefied. He could form no words. Hellfire did better:

“Wow, look at the bloody size of that! So big and bulbous!”

“It’s…it’s…” Erronious managed.

Hellfire spoke the words for him:

“It’s a Submarine Space Freighter!”

Erronious re-gathered his wits. “Look,” his words echoed off the hangar walls, “the dorsal navigation light is lit. This is a working vessel! Hey, I’m not hallucinating, am I? It is real, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, sure is” Hellfire cheered. “It must be that one we saw this morning in the Café Puke automat. And there was me moaning about it. How could I moan about a submarine space freighter? It’s lovely! Let’s get a closer look: after all this, I’d hate to think we’re sharing a hallucination and it’s just a mirage.”

But, of course, it was no mirage…

“What does it feel like to touch?” Erronious asked.

“Hard and kind’a rubbery.” Hellfire answered cheerfully. Then he had a slightly negative thought: “Ooh-ur,” he said, “what if it’s in for repairs? Let’s check out the back end – sometimes known as the stern in naval parlance. Make sure it’s got engines.”

So they did, and, to their untrained eyes, it all looked tickety-boo…

“Looks like a bit of space rust up there,” Erronious noted, “but otherwise no obvious damage. How do we get inside? We don’t have a robot: who’s gonna fly this thing?”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

Locked out and minus a pilot’s license. Could this be the end of Erronious’ and Hellfire’s great expectation? Return for episode 13: you might find out!


Climatic Calamity (part 6)

I promised worse was to come for our little silicon heroes: well here it is…

Others, who had already made it inside the thick stone walls couldn’t help but enjoy the feeling of superiority that safety afforded them…

“Gosh,” some would say, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this level of smugness. We are so clever to be inside, out of the cold, whilst the dull-witted hammer upon doors and demand entry. I no longer need to keep up with the Joneses: I’m already leagues ahead!”

Who could argue with that summation? The weather outside the Museum was worsening by the minute…

Meanwhile, in the mountain pea-farming region, Erronious and Hellfire held an impromptu meeting with several other pea farmers, who looked to the reformed criminals for leadership…

“Right now, I’d suggest you all get to your homes and put on some thermal socks, woolly underpants, and a bobble hat.” Erronious told them.

Hellfire followed this up with:

“We’ll worry about our insurance policies later. Forget the bloody peas: right now it’s all about survival!”

Hellfire was absolutely right when he spoke of survival. Several Precipitous Ledge Walkers were of the naturist kind. They had no thermal socks, woolly underpants, or bobble hats. All they had were frozen assets…

In fact many earplugs were becoming increasingly at-risk…

So, in an act of altruism that would have astonished their earlier selves, Erronious and Hellfire spent the next half-hour finding lost souls and sending them to their friend’s houses or the nearest drunk tank…

“I think, Hellfire,” Erronious said through frozen lips and chattering teeth, “this might be a good time to find shelter for ourselves.”

As the snow continued to billow around the mighty flanks of the museum…

…something of the cold permeated into the interior…

“What’s this, Mister Pong,” Chester Earplug inquired of the restaurant owner, “you’re closing the museum’s only exotic food restaurant?”

“Can’t keep egg foo yung warm.” Mister Pong replied. “Pongs never serve cold egg foo yung.”

And, as the day darkened…

…even Rudi, Valentine, Miles, and Magnuss Earplug looked on and wondered what the heck was happening…

“Heck, man, what’s happening’? This sho’nuf aint funky.” Valentine complained.

“I can dig it, Bro,” Rudi answered for the others. “We’re action guys: we fix things. Aint no fixing this.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

If you don’t like the sight of earplugs suffering horribly from chilblains and runny noses, don’t return for episode 7. But if you don’t care two hoots what happens to them, come back tomorrow for the next exciting extract from Earplug Adventures: Climatic Calamity!

Climatic Calamity (part 5)

Well, in episode 4 the climatic calamity began. Now see how it worsens. Not a good time to be an earplug!

Talking of married couples: former Father Superior, Frank Tonsils joined his young wife – former nun, munitions worker, and owner of the defunct Time Shard Museum of Future Technology – Buttox Tonsils (nee Barkingwell), and her best friends – the former monks, Zak Bravado and Bolah Googly – as they stepped out of their farmhouse to survey the frozen ground…

“This is gonna cut into our profit margins.” They heard Frank mutter to himself. “And how am I gonna pull my wheelbarrow back up the mountain from the marshaling yards on the plain below?” He added. “The rope will be all slippery!”

Elsewhere earplugs of every hue, shape, and size were being inconvenienced by the apparent onset of sudden winter…

With insufficient armoured personnel carriers available, many were forced to walk to lower climes, where they prayed the chill air would be warmer. But if they had only known that the situation was no better at lower altitude…

…they might have saved themselves the effort, and, instead, dug themselves snow caves. In fact earplugs were flooding from all over towards the perceived sanctuary that Lemon Stone offered…

The four monks that manned the watchtower at the head of the gorge could only watch impotently as swarms of earplugs passed by…

“Flipping heck,” one of them bellowed, “all that revenue that we’re missing out on. Are you sure that door is frozen solid? We could be asking ten Pluggentos per pass to enter the citadel. Within hours we could be rich beyond the dreams of avarice!”

“Shut up,” one of his colleagues grumbled, “and put another log on the stove.”

Because of its close proximity to the museum, Ciudad de Droxford was almost invisible in the whiteout. The palms trees that grew all around the city had withered and were frozen solid in multiple layers of ream ice…

The streets, themselves, were liberally coated in a sheet of ice. Only the brave or foolhardy ventured on to them…

The situation was no better at the museum itself…

…though the fascists and mariachi bands continued to struggle through their twin conventions in the Age of Stone…

Meanwhile, the caretaker of the Age of Stone – Susan the amorphous blob from the future – looked up at the sky. Snow was unheard of in her era: she was fascinated. Those hammering upon the ‘castle’ door were less entranced: they just wanted to get inside…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

Like I said: not a good time to be an earplug. And it gets worse!

Surprise Visit (part 15)

It’s hard to believe, I know, but we’re only three and a half chapters from the end of the tale. The good news is – the PDF version is complete and only awaits the completion of the on-line telling of this Earplug Adventure before becoming available for all to read or download, in its entirety, free of charge and utterly gratis. It will look exactly like this…


But enough of the future: on with the present…

Meanwhile, the proper leader of Scroton scurried along one of many thoroughfares that radiated, like a spider’s web, through the Museum of Future Technology. As he made good speed for a meeting with the chief curator, Cushions Smethwyke, his retinue followed in his wake…

“You need to be fit.” Walker observed as his eyes took in any number of side passageways and corridors. “It seems that to get anywhere, an inordinate amount of shoe leather must be worn down.”

“Walking is good for you.” Beatrix admonished the military leader of Scroton.

“One could get awfully lost.” The red-faced Julian Prim said between gasps.

“Not really.” Beatrix replied. “One need only ask the museum’s Artificial Intelligence for guidance. If it’s not too busy doing other stuff, it will tell you where you are; where you want to be; and how to get there. How else do you think Nigel knows where he’s going?”

Shortly, having rounded just a couple more junctions, Nigel presented himself and Beatrix to Cushions, who had Cheerful Charlie Chopsticks for company upon her ‘throne’…

“Oh, Golden One,” Cushions gushed obsequiously, “I’m so honoured that it takes every erg of my energy to maintain mental and physical equilibrium and not fall off this huge contraption!

“Hi,” Cheerful Charlie added with a wave over Cushions’ shoulder, “you’ve just missed jelly and cream, sorry. Would you like me to send out for you?”

The behaviour of the two trained, long-term professional curators nonplussed Nigel slightly. “Ah, not for the moment, thank you.” He replied to Cheerful Charlie. To Cushions he said: “Miss Smethwyke, we must discuss the most dreadful situation that currently threatens, not only the Museum of Future Technology and, by extension, my home world; but, ultimately many civilisations across the cosmos.”

It was Cushions’ turn to be taken aback. “Yeah?” She managed. “I thought it was just us who were up Kaka Creek without a paddle.”

“Then Magnuss hasn’t told you?” A mystified Beatrix interjected.

It was time for Cushions to come clean: “He might have.” She answered, “But after the first couple of sentences, I kinda went into panic-denial. What was it, specifically?”

“That the attacking ships are of Scrotonic design.” Nigel answered for his wife. “That they utilise the latest technology to which even I am not privy.”

Cushions’ mouth opened and shut several times before her brain caught up. “You mean,” she was finally able to annunciate, “that we’re being bullied by ethernet cable ends? I can’t believe it. It’s too much for my silicon mind to accept. Surely no cable end would destroy an entire city, just to prove how powerful they were – would they?” 

Nigel dismissed the notion with a careless gesture. “No.” He replied adamantly. “No cable end would ever do that. It runs contrary to all our beliefs. But we must consider the possibility that another race – as adept at manufacturing hi-tech equipment at speed and in volume as we of Scroton – has purloined our designs and now uses them for their own advantage.”

“Oh, good.” Cushions responded. “So what do you want us to do? All our ships are half-way across the Galaxy, doing all that exploration and diplomatic stuff. We can’t call upon them. In any case, if those ships are half as good as you say, our old bangers might get blown to pieces!”

“We ask only one thing of you.” Nigel replied. “By whatever means, you must not allow them to defeat you. You must not surrender. I have ordered a fleet of similar ships built. Ships that fly the right way up, I might add. The first elements will arrive here by the end of the week. The remainder are due at approximately the same time that the aliens return for your answer to their ultimatum.”

“Excellent.” Cheerful Charlie piped up. “We’ll make sure we have plenty of jelly and cream in.”

Nigel ignored the resident buffoon. To Cushions he said: “Is there anything you require in between times?”   

“Power.” Cushions replied. “Energy. Our batteries are depleting too quickly. We have a manually operated charger, but no one has sufficient leg strength or endurance to operate it.”

“Leave it to us.” Beatrix replied.

Five hours later…

“Can you see the power level read-out, Faati?” Fermin asked the Queen of the Pygmies.

“Yes.” Faati snapped back.

“How much longer do we have to keep doing this before the batteries are fully charged?” Fermin inquired.

“Long enough,” Faati answered, “to prove your boast to Walker that you can run and run and run without the need to sit down for an hour afterwards.”

Five hours later…

…the museum’s maintenance crew informed the exhausted cable ends that they could prise themselves off the charging machine and allow themselves to be carried to a hot soapy bath to recover.

However, a minute later, but half way across the Galaxy, Phruten Vedge was on the brink of entering a public lavatory, when Anders Dumbell unceremoniously accosted him…

“Phruten! Phruten!” He yelled and tugged at the biker gang leader’s shoulder epaulettes. “Something unthinkable has happened. Something that, under normal circumstances I would say was impossible on Scroton. But, look at the wall screen over there: the one showing the state-run rolling news channel.”

Phruten did as he was bid…

“Argh,” he yelled, “What am I looking at?”

“A fire-storm.” Anders wailed his reply. “It has destroyed the space ship factory. No one knows how it happened: but the Bingbonger, the Clutterbuck, the Plankton Regis, and another one that doesn’t have a name yet, have all been destroyed!”

“This is terrible.” Phruten yelled at a higher pitch than was normally acceptable for such a tough guy. “I’m so glad I’m standing directly outside a toilet right now!”

But just when both cable ends thought that the situation could not worsen farther, the screen switched to another view…

The voice of a reporter followed immediately. It said:

“Holy carp: did you see that? Two missiles have taken out the lemon curd factory! Oh-no, this is disastrous; they were using the surplus manufacturing capacity of the lemon curd factory to produce the extra vessels for The Golden One’s space fleet! Everything has gone up in smoke. This is the worst day in cable end history. Someone hand me a café Cortado – heavy on the brandy!”

However even this was not the final act of infamy. Another screen displayed the image of the space ship design studio in flames…

“Cripes, Anders,” Phruten spoke in a hushed tone, lest his voice break with sorrow and fear, “arson, obviously. Who is going to tell The Golden One?”

The answer flew daintily to Anders’ lips: “Ena.” He replied.

By the strangest of coincidences, Nigel received the news of his proto-fleet’s destruction at the same moment that he planned to enter the Buggeram Bay’s toilet…

“I’m not sure I can accept that.” He said quietly to Walker. “I don’t have an appropriate response.”

“Give it a few minutes to sink in, Sir.” Bertram Hisscod suggested. “Allow yourself the chance to absorb the information slowly.”

“Yes, thank you, Bertram.” Nigel said gratefully, as he turned to enter the toilet…

…”If I have a really long wee, it’ll give me time to compose myself. I just hope that in my moment of despair I don’t lose control and miss the urinal entirely.”

“Best make it a sit down job then, Sir.” Walker said as he made to follow his leader. “I’m sure Bertram will hustle you up a cup of tea.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

You have to feel sympathy for poor old Nigel: he has to contend with so much. Perhaps he should do as he suggested at the beginning of the adventure. That is quit and go live in a cave. 

Surprise Visit (part 13)

Are you enjoying Surprise Visit? If so, please leave a comment in the ‘comment’ box. It should go something like this: “Yo, Tooty, what a groove.” or “Hey, man – I can dig it!” Or something similar – such as “Divine, darling!” or “Absolute bloody genius.” Or, “I nearly wet my pants, it’s so good.” The choice is yours. Now on to the next extract…

Meanwhile, in the arboretum Café Puke franchise…

…the heroic earplug duo and their allies from Scroton were still in deep conversation. Outside – shooting in through a window in the back wall – Rupert Piles caught everything upon his mighty TV camera…

“This is good.” He said to himself. “I’ll be able to stretch this into a two-part docudrama. I might even win an award for it. Heaven knows I’m overdue one. Let’s hope no one gets the drop on me, like the aliens did on Nigel and his gang.”

Whilst important discussions were taking place in one Café Puke outlet; in another, which happened to be located at the edge of the nearby Wide Blue Yonder…

…a surprised pair of Baristas were…ugh…surprised to see Jungle-Jake lead Mary-Sue and Moyst into their workplace.

“Hey,” the taller of the two Baristas – both of whom were cleaning spilt coffee from a table near the back – cried, “what are you guys doing here? Has your café burned down, fallen foul of the Health and Safety Executive, or something?”

“Or have you been fired for rudeness and overt gum chewing?” The shorter earplug inquired.

Mary-Sue explained.

“I smelt some sugar cane.” Jungle-Jake added. “The pong led us here.”

“Oh yeah,” the first Barista said as comprehension dawned. “We had a load of sugar cane crystals in sachets: but no one bothers with the real thing, not when they can have nice white refined sugar. It was past its sell-by date. We’ve been burning it in an incinerator out the back.”

“If you wanna look around out there,” the second Barista said helpfully,” you might find a few sachets on the ground. We were having fun flicking  ’em at each other, and we couldn’t be bothered to pick them up. But, watch it, people take their plugmutts ‘round there to have a pee, so they might smell a bit iffy.”

Meanwhile the autofocus of Rupert’s camera found it difficult to see clearly through the futuristically pseudo-opaque glass in one of the café’s side windows…

More fortunately, the microphone experienced no difficulty picking up what the occupants of the café were saying to each other.

“Let me get this right.” Nigel was saying to Magnuss. “You never actually saw the aliens: they spoke through a vocoder-like apparatus, so you have no idea what they really sound like; they destroyed La Ciudad de Droxford as a demonstration of their power; they want your unconditional surrender; and they’ve given you two weeks to make your decision – and left you to think it over?”

Magnuss was happy with that summation. Then he thought of something else:

“Oh yes, they also left a huge ovoid ring. It’s hanging in the air, over the sea, just off the coast, near the sewage outlet. It’s heavily armed, has multiple layers of electro-magnetic defensive screening, and is the means by which the semi-fleet departed this region of space.”

Beatrix picked up on one of Magnuss’ terms: “Semi-fleet?” She inquired. “Might an alternative nomenclature for a small number of armed invasion ships be termed a ‘flotilla’?”

Magnuss thought about it for a second. “Yes, I guess it would.” He answered. “Yes, the ovoid ring was the means by which the flotilla departed this region of space.”   

Beatrix turned to her husband. “There, I told you so – when we blew up that shape-shifting sausage roll: there is a flotilla of our latest ship out there – and it’s kicking ass!”

Nigel didn’t need to be reminded. All his fears were taking on corporeal form. “Do we know where they went to?” He asked Magnuss. “You know, when they left via the ovoid ring?”

Magnuss fetched out his cell phone. He spoke as he did so. “We sent a drone in after the…flotilla. Before we lost contact with it, the drone sent this back.”  Quickly searching through its library of images with deft movements of his pinky-orange fingers, he produced this…

A collective gasp escaped the seven sets of Scrotonic lungs. “Weird Space!” The seven owners of the seven sets of lungs exclaimed in a hushed tone.

“Recognise the planet?” Magnuss inquired. “It’s brown all over, with no surface water.”

No one did: but Julian noticed something pertinent:

“It has an aura.” He said. “A glow, if you will. It could indicate a substantial cloaking facility. Large enough to hide the entire world, maybe. You said that their ships evaded your sensors? Perhaps this world is evading Scroton’s.”

Nigel’s fears doubled at these words. “You mean that there is a hidden planet in Weird Space that we don’t know about – that has a capacity to develop technology as well or better than we can? If I had any pants on, I’d probably be pooping in them as we speak”

Beatrix looked at Nigel. “You don’t have any pants on?” She inquired quietly.

“Forgot to pack any.” Nigel explained. “That’s why I chose the kilt. But enough of my wardrobe disaster: We need to act – and act decisively. “

Talking of acting decisively, in the Wide Blue Yonder Café Puke, Moyst, Jungle-Jack, and Mary-Sue had thanked the Baristas for their help, and were leaving the café – their pockets burgeoning with vaguely unpleasant-smelling sachets of unprocessed cane sugar…

So, the difficult facet of their task completed, now it was merely a matter of retracing their steps back to the arboretum; past the bamboo plantation…

…and finally to the café where Nigel, presumably, awaited his sugar…

“Pity we couldn’t find a mortar and pestle.” Jungle-Jake lamented quietly.

“That’s old tech.” Moyst snorted derisively behind him. “No one can expect a Barista to find ancient stuff in the Museum of Future Technology. I mean – it’s counter intuitive, aint it!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

Right then, now it’s time for you to do your bit. Comment. Comment. Comment!


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 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

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