"This is Too Easy!"

According to Holmes!

 

     Ah, this is the life! thought Inspector Walt Haberdashery.  He was home from work; it had been another sucked day at The Yard, dealing with small-time criminals and big-time a******s.  Now he could kick off his shoes, have himself a drink, and relax while reading The London Daily News.  He turned to the Crime Section.  Most people turned to the comics to escape from the drudgery of the day; not Haberdashery; he lived and breathed crime twenty four hours a day.  After all, it was what he was all about.  Not crime per se, but preventing it.  He took another drink from the liver-demon he had poured himself.  He greedily upended the glass; it was gone, and he hadn't had nearly enough, so he got up and grabbed the half-empty bottle and sat back down.  He started to pour himself another drink, looked at the tiny glass, said, "Screw it!" and just started guzzling straight from the bottle.

 

 

     Ten minutes had gone by and the empty bottle mocked him from the coffee table.  He needed something to eat.  He stood up, and 'whoa!'; he suddenly realized just how drunk he was.  He did The Elusive Candlelit Donkey Dance around his apartment, trying to find his balance, and not succeeding.  He staggered over the rug and went down. 

 

     "Son of a Whitehall w***e!" he screamed from the floor.  He tried in vain to regain his footing for a few seconds, then gave up.  "I'll just rest here for a minute," he mumbled to himself, collapsed in a drunken heap, and was soon fast asleep.

 

 

******

 

 

     When he next became aware of anything, he heard an urgent knocking at his door.  He sat up, every muscle in his body protesting, and looked at the door; so far away it seemed impossible to reach; so he decided to not even try.  Piss on 'em!  He was just starting to head back to 'Black Silence Land, when damn it!  there came more urgent knocking on the door. 

 

     Can't you see we're closed? he screamed in his head.  It seemed that even the silent screaming hurt his head.  He struggled up, resembling a slow motion train wreck, and somehow managed to stumble the three feet to his front door and flung the door open, where it jarred loudly against the opposite wall, sending fresh waves of pain shooting into his head. 

 

     "Shut up!" he shouted, which only caused more pain.

 

     "Oh, pardon me," said the slim stranger wearing dark trousers and a white dress shirt.  Haberdashery had never seen him before. 

 

     "Oh, I wasn't talking to you; I just meant the noise; ah, I'm feeling a bit under the weather.  What can I do for you?"

 

     "Oh, I don't want to bother you, but I was just walking by on the road in front of your building on my way to my cousin Elm--"

 

     "Yes, yes, get on with telling me!"

 

     "Oh, sure, your roof is on fire," he said matter-of-factly.

 

     "What?" answered Haberdashery and he rushed out in the yard.  He turned and looked up.  His panicked eyes sought out the raging inferno but all he saw was the dark.  "Say, what're you talking about?" but the guy was gone.  Before he had time to wonder about it, a two-in-hand wagon came careening around the corner just down the road from his apartment building and he could clearly recognize the leering face of Sherlock Holmes holding the reins and his porker friend Mr. Watson was standing in the bed of the wagon and as he watched, Watson grabbed his crotch and yelled,

 

     "Special delivery for you, Haberdashery!" and he hit something, and...

 

 

******

 

     Sherlock Holmes was mighty proud of his newest invention, a catapult hooked to his wagon that would hold a big bag of dog s**t quite easily.  The bag itself was secured to the catapult, so nothing would impede the flying s**t.  He was quite aware that his was a petty and childish, but damn Haberdashery anyway!  HE  had caused all of this!  There was simply no way he could be allowed off the hook.

 

     "About ready Mr. Holmes?"

 

     "Almost, Mr. Deaver."

 

     Mr. Deaver was a guy who was a little down on his luck that he had met at The Staggering Bucket Tavern a couple of days ago.  He'd gone there to think of a way to put Haberdashery in his place, and after several liver-demons, had thought up the perfect way and Deaver had agreed to knock on Haberdashery's door and tell him his roof was on fire.  Then, when the idiot inspector came rushing out of his building, he and Watson would drive by in his wagon and the catapult of dog s**t would be unleashed. 

 

 

******

 

 

     Deaver couldn't believe his good fortune when the slightly-strange man drinking at The Bucket offered him five pounds to knock on this one apartment door and claim that the roof to the building was on fire.  That was the easiest five pounds he had ever earned. 

     

 

******

 

 

     One moment, Haberdashery didn't see anything, the next the dark sky was raining s**t.  It came raining down on him like a s**t downpour, and as he stood there in the yard with crap sliding down his clothes, he screamed,

 

     "Damn you Holmes!"

 

 

 

******

 

 

     The hell with this! Haberdashery thought.  Holmes had screwed with him for the last time! 

 

 

******

 

 

     Suddenly, he jerked awake.  The ringing that had startled him was the ringing of his telephone.  He struggled to recall his latest misadventure with Sherlock Holmes and the present from Fido.  His groggy mind was perplexed.  Slowly, the cobwebs cleared and he realized he'd been dreaming.  All those beers; apparently, Holmes beat him even in his dreams! 

 

 

The End

Reviews

[Marie]

I thought it was real up until the last. I wonderif Holmes is clever enough to ship a package over the phone...?

[Michael Stevens]

That is a great idea, except I doubt ordering products over the phone had been invented back then; hey, another thing for Holmes to invent!