The Case Of Clive The Ripper
I and Holmes had seldom crossed paths recently. For me it was simply a case of juggling my work at the practice, my marriage, and my mistress, a negro woman smuggled up the Thames by a Prince, no less, as reward for my having cured him of a rather nasty case of hairy feet. I still couldn’t pronounce her name and I did worry that the coal-shed was possibly not the best place to keep her chained up and certainly less than desirable when the urges for wanton acts that my good wife would violently refuse took ahold. As for my dear friend, Holmes spent each week either experimenting with new ways to take the cocaine he lived for or working feverishly on some case or another where my assistance – such little as I could ever afford – was not required. I recalled reading a little of his exploits at solving the Mystery Of The Murdered Marmot in the previous week’s London Zoo Digest, and there was, of course, the much-publicised events surrounding the climax to The Aberystwyth Aardvark Affair. In truth, Holmes’ fascination with solving animal-based crimes did not interest me as much as it once had. Not since Fluffy. As I stepped out from my civil practice on the evening of the ninth of August, 1891, with the only thought in my mind that of whether to use the vacuum pump or the new-fangled electrical generator on my nubian’s nipples while my darling wife was away in Norfolk visiting with her sisters, it was with some surprise that I found myself face-to-face with Wiggins, the leader of the Baker Street Irregulars. His dirty face filled me with disgust as easily as his scrawny, yet toned buttocks straining at the trousers two sizes too small for him aroused some other primeval urges. Quickly he told me that Sherlock Holmes was currently out of his drug-induced dreamstate and asking for my aid and then, without so much as a wave, he sprinted down the street. I might normally have chased him on the pretext of gaining more information while really enjoying the muscles of his gluteus maximus rippling through the coarse fabric but the lure of my friend Holmes quenched my unmanly desires and I strode towards Baker Street with great haste. I was shown in and up to his office immediately upon arrival. Holmes stood in the centre of the room, his chin resting on his chest, his hands clasped behind his back. He glanced at me, smiled, and pointed to the Chesterfield. "Seat yourself, my good doctor, and please take a cigar and some brandy to...
The Jerusalem Caper
It started, as these things normally do, in my office inside the walls of Jerusalem. It was late and I was getting bored of looking out through the rain of the early evening into the crowded streets below. Scholars, priests, guards, vendors: all making their way home. It made me want to go home too. I’d made up my mind to leave when Effie Perine of Judea, my secretary, stepped inside and leaned her body against me. "Samuel, there’s a woman outside," she said, looking up into my face with her dark, oval eyes. "A client? Or am I becoming attractive in my old age?" I asked. "You’re the detective," she quipped back. "Detect. And no, you’re not." And she stepped back out again. I had a few seconds to brush out the creases in my tunic and make sure my sandals were on straight before she returned. With Effie was a dark-haired beauty, a real looker. She had a face that would stop a runaway mule in its tracks and legs under her dress right up to under her chin. In my mind. I cleared my throat and tried to clear my mind. "Samuel Spadius," I introduced myself and pointed to the chair. "Won’t you take a seat Miss …?" "Thankyou Mr Spadius," she said. "Magdalene. Mary Magdalene." I watched her sit down. She looked like full-bodied wine pouring slowly into place as she folded into the seat. I caught a glimpse of ankle as she crossed her feet and turned slightly away from me. I wouldn’t need to visit Matthias The Adult Stone Tablet Seller for a while. My money lender would be pleased. Effie too. "That’ll be all Effie," I said. I knew she was probably giving me a look as she turned and left but I couldn’t keep my eyes off the siren in my office. That was one lucky chair. I tried to snap out of it. "So what can I do for you Miss Magdalene?" All business. Business pays the bills. "I’ve heard you’re good, Mr Spadius." she said. Her voice was like silk from the East. I liked the way her lips pursed when she said "good". Made me feel like behaving anything but. "I’m not good." I replied. "But I’m good at what I do." That made her raise her eyebrows. "And my friends call me Sam." "And your enemies, Mr Spadius? What do they call you?" "Anything they want dollface." I kept my eyes locked on her, trying to read the broad. Maybe she was rich, her rich magistrate husband missing, presumed dead. Maybe she was lonely. Maybe she’d read...
The Wingly Wongly Well Goes To War
At the bottom of the Wingly Wongly Well it was moist and dark and that was just how everyone liked it. Cheeks – who considered herself to be the most beautiful toad in the whole, wide world – was perched on a stone sticking out of the puddle on the floor of the well. Every few seconds she would first lick her eyeballs clean and then squint off into the distance. Henrik Hedgehog and Centipede Jack wandered past enjoying a private game of Winglyball Wonglyball before they noticed what Cheeks was doing and stopped and stared. It was several more seconds before, with a deep sigh and a slight shuffle around, Cheeks turned to the two and bellowed "WHAT?" Henrik edged backwards at the volume of the question but replied politely "Cheeks, ve vere merely vondering vot you vere doink? Is zer a problem?" "I’M FINE!" screamed Cheeks. This time Centipede Jack took a couple of steps backwards too. With his huge amount of legs this was quite hypnotic to watch and, after a second of complete stillness in the well, Cheeks slid off the stone and plopped onto the surface. Henrik and Centipede Jack looked first at Cheeks coming slowly out of her trance with amazement and then at one another with sheer horror on their faces. They turned and ran. But they didn’t get very far. At that moment Crud The Crippled Cricket boinged in from somewhere off in the gloom. There was a high-pitched whistle as he soared through the air followed by a crunch of cricket on brickwork, an "Oof!", and a squelch. Crud rolled to a stop in the path of the fleeing hedgehog and centipede putting an instant halt to their attempt to escape. "Oh man!" said Crud excitedly. "My aim is getting so much better! I almost missed the wall that time! Did you see? Did you? Huh?" He leapt to his feet but the deformed back leg gave way and he fell onto the boggy ground once more. Centipede Jack leaned down and spoke quickly. "My dear chap, we would absolutely love to stay and observe your allegedly improving jumping prowess or lack thereof, but a feeling of impending doom has fallen over us and the urge to seek sanctuary as far away from this particular spot in the well as soon as possible is a desire too strong to resist." "Oh Wow!" exclaimed Crud. "Are your psychic leg hairs tingling? What do you think it means?" "I zink," interrupted Henrik, "zat a certain large toad of our acquaintance vill soon be killing most of us gathered here unless ve run....
I was a teenage spaceonaut
It was during that Summer when we all got caught up in the fervour of protecting Earth from aliens when I almost lost my life. Like many young people I rushed to sign up with one of the various private companies that were advertising at the tube stations and in the back of adult magazines; I think I saw the advertisement at Waterloo station but I’ll admit it might have been in Abseiling Bukkake Nuns. It doesn’t really matter now. A lot of the companies went bust before they were formed, were scams, or were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I got lucky. The "L. Ron Hubbard Body Thetan Defence Force" company, as incredible as it seems, actually had nothing to do with the crackpot Scientology "religion" and had been simply named after the seven founding members. I actually met Terry L. and Montague Thetan when I applied and we all had a good laugh about the legal challenges and threatening letters from John Travolta at the time. Later I would discover that Montague laughed at everything because he had been dropped on his head as a baby, three times as an adolescent, and twice the day before I first met him. His laugh, like the rash on his lips, was infectious though and I still remember him fondly. I underwent extensive training – along with seventeen other accepted recruits – in alien warfare on the new-fangled Space Invaders machine at the cafe beneath company headquarters and was introduced to the experience of what space travel would be like through several sessions of heroin-high ‘Pin The Tail On The Donkey’ games. And it wasn’t just physical testing; every week we were subjected to rigorous question and answer challenges at The White Stag. On the Wednesday when we finished third and won a bottle of Pinot Noir we were told we were as ready as we were ever going to be. We were split into crews of six at random and assigned to one of the company’s three spacecraft. I had never been as proud in my life as the moment I was assigned second-in-command of the Orbital Space Fighter (OSF) Marilu Henner (Taxi was popular at the time if you remember). It felt like forever but in reality it was the day after the pub quiz when we climbed aboard our vessels and awaited the signal to leave Earth behind and begin our six month criss-crossing patrols of the Van Allen belt (the most likely injection point of the vile otherworldly creatures who were rumoured to be planning an interplanetary invasion). I had cycled to...
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