Hamsterdamned!

by Adam Millard

  Strangehouse Books Catalog:

  Strange Sex: A Strange Anthology

  Robamapocalypse by Kevin Strange

  Tales of Questionable Taste by John Bruni (stories)

  Cotton Candy by Kevin Strange

  The Last Gig on Planet Earth by Kevin Strange (stories)

  Zombie! Zombie! Brain Bang! A Strange Anthology

  Vampire Guts in Nuke Town by Kevin Strange

  Strange Vs Lovecraft: A Strange Anthology

  McHumans by Kevin Strange

  Dinner at the Vomitropolis by Jesse Wheeler

  Alien Smut Peddlers from the Future by Kent Hill

  Damnation 101 by Kevin Sweeney

  A Very Strangehouse Christmas: A Strange Anthology

  The Humans Under the Bed by Kevin Strange

  Re-Animated States of America by Craig Mullins and Andrew Ozkenel (stories)

  Strange Fucking Stories: A Strange Anthology

  Hamsterdamned! by Adam Millard

  StrangeHouse Books

  P.O. Box 592

  Wood River, IL

  62095

  www.strangehousebooks.com

  Copyright © 2014 by Adam Millard

  Cover art Copyright © 2014 by Bill Hauser

  All persons in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental or for the purposes of satire or parody. This is a work of fiction.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Printed in the USA.

  Table of Contents

  Hamsterdamned!

  The Great Brain Robbery

  Suicide Bob

  The Wrexham Chainsaw Masochist

  Help! My Ass has Rabies!

  Hamsterdamned!

  Mike’s balls were on fire. He jerked forward, patting at his crotch, expecting to feel the burn on his hands as the flames engulfed them. The drunken haze in which he woke prevented him from seeing the conflagration immediately, and as he punched away, slapping his apparently bare bottom-half with both hands, he was suddenly aware of laughter, cruel and boisterous, all around.

  “Looks like he’s whacking off!” an excited voice said before erupting with laughter once again.

  As the miasma lifted, affording Mike a view of his cream-slathered crotch, it all came flooding back.

  Stag-do. Amsterdam. Bunch of asshole friends whose job it was to make his last few days as a single man as tortuous and pleasurable – often at the same time – as they possibly could.

  “How’s that feel, buddy?” John said. The sight of an empty tube of Deep Heat Max in his friend’s hand offered Mike little relief. Sure, his balls hadn’t been doused in petrol and set alight, as he’d first thought, but it still felt like it.

  Hissing, sucking air in through clenched teeth, Mike said, “You fuckers! Oh, fuck, that burns so bad.” It was all he could do not to pass out; this, he thought, is what my dick should feel like at the end of the weekend, not the beginning.

  Through watery eyes, a can of something green appeared. The sound of a ring-pull snapping pulled him from the depths of unequivocal agony into which he’d been sucked. Hey, your cock and balls are melting, but at least we have beer…

  Mike snatched the can from Stuart, who had laughed so much he’d turned an unnatural shade and seemed to be wearing a beard of mirth-induced drool. After pouring half a can on Big Jim and the Twins – he couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw steam – he drank the rest in one thirsty gulp. A cheer went up around the minibus and Mike immediately forgave them for inflicting so much pain upon him.

  “Told you not to fall asleep,” John said, taking the empty seat next to the groom-to-be. “These fuckers are animals.”

  “Oh, I must have missed the part where you tried to stop us,” Stuart said, immediately followed by a snort that would make a pig blush.

  Mike wiped his eyes on his sleeve, being careful not to get any of the liquid lava in, or even near, them. “How long was I out for?” he said, reaching for another can. That was the great thing about stag-dos; you could drink until you feel asleep, wake up, and carry on where you left off. The only downside was that, in essence, you were having one final blowout before it all came to a grinding halt. Mike wondered how long it would be before Beth – of ‘will you please marry me, Beth?’ fame – started telling him who he could be friends with, and who he had to give the brush-off. It was only a matter of time, and when that time came, he knew he would do it. That’s what married life is, she’d say, and he’d nod like a dutiful dachshund, all the while discarding years of friendship as if it mattered less than a week’s toenail growth.

  “You’ve been asleep for an hour,” John said. “So far you’ve missed Tony lighting the mother of all farts, and Donald mooning a coachload of nuns.” He threw his head back, chuckling like a kid who’d just seen his first dirty magazine. “You should have seen their faces, dude. Looked like they’d never seen a black dude’s bare ass before.”

  And why would they? Mike thought. In fact, that was the last thing they’d probably expected to see on their way to whatever fucking nunnery they called home.

  Still, John persisted with his story, about how one of them had made the sign of the cross, and how another had made a finger-crucifix, as if Donald’s ass was a vampire, liable to bite her neck should it get close enough.

  “If you hadn’t fallen asleep,” John said, licking foam from a freshly-cracked beer, “you’d have seen it and your balls wouldn’t be looking like something from Attack of the Killer Tomatoes!”

  Mike was tired. The trip had been underway for less than twelve hours and he was ready to turn around head back to Birmingham. That was the thing. His days of partying were over; it was time to grow the fuck up and act his age. Thirty-two was nothing, not really, and certainly not to his buddies, who saw nothing wrong with dragging alcohol-marinated slappers back to their respective bedsits for one night of instantly forgettable, and practically ineffectual, lovemaking. Mike had moved in with Beth, waved goodbye to his eight-by-eight shed he’d called home, and was now spending his nights talking; talking about kids, about kids’ names, and about who the kids were going to take after. I hope they take after you because you’re tall. No, I hope they take after you because you’re smart. No, they won’t take after either of us because we’re not doing that thing we have to do to fucking make kids. Mike had listened to her incessant yapping, replying with the occasional nod – it kept her happy – and saying things like, ‘That’s a nice name,’ and, ‘I’m sure it won’t hurt.’ He’d listened, because that’s what good men do, but if the truth be told he wasn’t ready for kids, not yet. It had taken him two years to propose, and another six months to set a date. Who the fuck was he kidding by pretending he was ready to shoot out a few sprogs?

  “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” John said. He sounded disappointed. “Snap out of it, man. This is probably the last time she’s ever gonna let you go out again. After this it’ll be nights in with mutual foot-massages; before you know it, you’ll be reading the babies a story and getting up five times a night to change shitty nappies.”

  John was right; this was his weekend – his final weekend as a free man – and the last thing he should have been thinking about was Beth.

  “You’re right, mate,” Mike said. “And I really appreciate you putting all this together. I don’t appreciate you burning off my nut-sack, but I know you’ve put a lot of time and effort into this.” He smiled.

  “Just enjoy the ride,” John said as he uncapped
a hip-flask. He handed it to Mike. “You’re going to have the best weekend of your fucking life. I guaran-fuckin-tee it.”

  Taking a long, hard slug from the hip-flask – probably should have sniffed it first, though he didn’t think they’d go as far as handing him piss to drink – Mike glanced out through the window as a cheer erupted throughout the minibus. They were just passing a large green sign; pockmarked and weathered, it announced their arrival and the start of what John promised to be, The best weekend of your fucking life.

  Welkom In Amsterdam.

  *

  Amsterdam. The Venice of the North. Home to more bicycles than people. Where fifty euros will get you three hookers and a large bag of something green and aromatic, that is, if you don’t mind your hookers with the odd appendage missing. Where the tourists visit Coffee-shops while the residents drink in Koffie Huises (the same thing but with 100% less space cake and hashish). Where, if you step blindfolded off the riverbank into the canal, there is a very good chance you will land on a fucking houseboat.

  Amsterdam. Home to Dierenhoekje. Roughly translated as Animal Corner; a small pet shop sidling the Amstel. In its tarnished window two kittens rolled around, batting each other playfully across the face. The sign hanging in the door flashed closed, though it always did, even when they were open – especially when they were open.

  The proprietor, Guus Barnhart, refused to waste any more money on the place. He’d spent his entire life trying to build a successful business, and what happened? Some prick gave the go-ahead to build a pet superstore on the opposite side of the river. Every day he lifted the shutters to find that giant fucking balloon dog, taunting him from across the bridge. Occasionally, Guus would relieve his pent-up aggression by taking pot-shots at the thing with his .22. He’d hit it a few times, too, and watched it slowly deflate like the cocksucking canine it was. The next day, there it was again, repaired by some sick sonofabitch with access to an apparently endless supply of puncture repair-kits.

  “Nice day today,” Anneke said, glancing out through the window. Anneke wasn’t a bad wife; she just didn’t realise how close her husband was to the edge, or that he’d envisioned killing her with a dog-chew, pummelling her to death with one of the rubber bones he kept out back, strangling her with one of the ferret-leads hanging up next to the counter. He loved her, though, for the most part.

  “Is it?” Guus irritably grumbled. He cast the clock a cursory glance; an expected delivery of hamsters was late. It didn’t bode well for the rest of the day.

  “Look at how beautiful the sky is,” Anneke said – nay, fucking sang like something from a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. She was no Julie Andrews; she was barely a Julio Iglesias. “Doesn’t it make you happy to be alive?”

  She was really getting on Guus’s tits. “Dear, a tricky shit would make you happy to be alive,” he said, flicking nonchalantly through a cat-food catalogue.

  She laughed, which was odd because he hadn’t meant it as a joke. “You really need to cheer up,” she said, spinning around and around, her dress lifting up so that Guus could almost see the cobwebs. “The delivery will be here in a moment. More beautiful animals to sell.” She sighed.

  I wish I could sell you, Guus thought. Or trade you for a stump-toed gecko.

  “Do you know what day it is?” Anneke asked. The question came so suddenly that Guus was scared to answer it.

  “Friday?” he said, not intending it to be a question. As if to rectify his mistake, he repeated it with more conviction. “Friday.”

  Anneke frowned, playfully placed her hands on her hips. Guus wanted to drop-kick her through the front door. “Silly,” she said. “It’s our anniversary. Forty years we have been together, and you forgot.”

  “I didn’t forget,” he said. “I just didn’t think we bothered anymore. I’ve had the same ingrown toenail now for ten years, but I don’t wake up on the anniversary of its appearance and give it shit. All I’m saying is that you, my beautiful, funny, talented…” he couldn’t keep up these painful lies for much longer, “…wife of seemingly forever, you are always there, and every day is a celebration.” God, he could spout bullshit better than most. Judging by her expression – the way her mouth had fallen open – he’d failed to get away with it on this occasion.

  Anneke was just about to retort when the front window exploded inward. Guus saw the front bumper of a van, watched as it tore his wife in half before slamming into the fish-tanks lining the far wall. It all happened in slow motion. As the fish spilled out into the store, Guus wondered if he had time to save them. Forget Anneke, who was in several pieces, most of which were floating out into the street on a sea of tropical-fish and spilled bird seed. It all took less than three seconds; Guus hadn’t even had a chance to wish his wife a happy anniversary before she was cruelly and violently ripped from existence by some strange happenstance. He’d had time to shit his pants, though, and shit them he had. Funny, he thought, how a little scare can just suddenly relax your bowels.

  It was also funny, he thought, that the van which had decimated his business and eradicated his wife bore the same logo – two rabbits copulating – as the very company who were late with his hamster delivery.

  As water continued to trickle out through the massive van-shaped hole in his frontage, Guus sloshed his way through the shop, towards the bloodied and battered vehicle. He believed his indifference to his wife’s demise to be a result of shock; he had still loved her, despite her charmless and often maddening persona. You just never expected a van to come piling though your shop window and grinding your missus into something you’d find between bread at a Dennis Nielsen barbecue.

  “Hello?” Guus said, stepping around the van, trying his best to catch a glimpse of the driver. “Are you okay in there?” Silly question, but relevant. “You appear to have caved the front of my shop in and squashed my wife to death.’ Also relevant, but probably not the time or place to mention it.

  Just then, the back door of the van burst open. Guus leapt back, slipping on a shubunkin, which had had problems of its own before being trod into the carpet. He half-expected masked men to leap out, like they did in those raid movies with Denzel Washington or Clive Owen, so it came as a bit of a shock when six hamsters made a run for it.

  “You little bas…” He trailed off as he scrambled to catch the rodents. He’d paid for them – four euros each – and he was damned if he was going to let twenty-four euros slip through his fingers. Of course, they did. It was like trying to catch smoke, only furrier and – as was the case with two of them – more ginger.

  Out they went, onto the street where a pizza-delivery guy on a scooter swerved to avoid them. He did, just about, and moments later when he regained consciousness – but unfortunately not kneecaps – he told himself he’d done the right thing.

  “Come back here, you little furry shits!” Guus said, rushing from Dierenhoekje (Animal Corner now without any animals) and into the road. “I paid good money for you.”

  The six creatures were taking no chances. Sensing this mad sonofabitch, who appeared to be wielding a dead woman’s severed arm as a sword, would not give in until he caught them, they leapt straight into the Amstel.

  “Squeak,” one of them said as they drifted downstream. A moment later, something struck it in the head. It faltered for a second, but quickly regained its composure. Hamsters are intelligent creatures, and know when somebody’s throwing detached arms at them. It squeaked again, and all six rodents chittered in one final act of dissent at the poor enraged man on the embankment before disappearing into the distance.

  Guus made his way back to the shop, or what was left of it. He didn’t know what made him angrier: the van parked in the middle of the store wearing bits of Anneke’s flesh like Lady GaGa at a fashion show, or that the driver still hadn’t dragged his clumsy ass out to apologise.

  “If you’re drunk in there, you’re in very big trouble,” Guus said, though he anticipated the driver would have some explaining to do,
either way. Guus was about to speak again when the horn honked. Not once, or twice, but unremittingly. It was one of those noises which makes your teeth itch.

  Guus rushed for the driver’s door, accidentally kicking an overturned Russian tortoise across the room like a hockey puck. As soon as he was level with the window, he saw the driver, face planted firmly against the steering wheel. He pulled the handle and the door thunked open. More fish and body-parts slipped out into the store; Anneke’s head rolled from between the driver’s lap and landed in a cup-holder.

  “Are you okay?” Guus said, gently easing the driver’s head away from the wheel. The guy’s nose was broken, and teeth spilled out through his slack-jawed mouth, suggesting years of cosmetic dentistry was on the cards at the very least. Guus slapped him once, as if he hadn’t been through enough pain. “Come on. Answer me. Are you okay?”

  The driver spluttered then. He was alive. “Ha…hamsters,” he said, though it came out as hasta, proving that teeth are actually advantageous when it comes to speech.

  “Yeah, my hamsters,” Guus said, trying to keep his calm. It was difficult. His shop had been destroyed, his wife had been annihilated and, to top it all off, six hamsters – all paid for – had gone all Great Escape on his ass. “I just watched them floating off down the fucking Amstel. I’m pretty sure one of them gave me the finger.”

  The man spat a tooth out. “You…they aren’t…evil hamsters…”

  “You aren’t making any sense,” Guus said. “Are. You. Simple?”

  Shaking his head, the driver tried again. “They attacked me…escaped from cages…they’re not…they’re not right.”

  “I know they’re not right,” Guus said. “Who’s ever heard of a hamster that likes to swim?”

  The driver groaned. Glancing down, he saw Anneke’s severed head, though now it was wearing a gherkin and a modicum of mayonnaise. “I…sorry…” He trailed off, or died, one or the other. After a few minutes of silence, Guus realised it was the latter.