Parody of Sherlock Holmes. [enter synopsis here]
The universe was quiet. Even the Earth, a tiny planet within our solar system, was silent. We narrow our story down to one place in particular, The British Isles, or Her Majesty’s United Kingdom, which slept soundly to the ticking of its orbital moon. Its capital, London, a smoky haze of filth and stench and pollution, practically sticking the knife into Mother Nature for her bountiful land, had closed its eyes to the night. The high towering buildings loomed over the cobbled worn streets, rotting newspapers and old dustbins surrounded the walls. The dreadful fog hung like a veil in front of the dwellers eyes, so thick was this fog; everybody carried binoculars just to see their feet. The streets tonight however, were empty. No human strayed on the path this dull hour. The streetlights seemed to flicker. Somewhere, a dog howled. A cat howled to the night. We turn our tale to Butcher’s Road, where a row of terraced houses sat parallel to the park.
An owl hooted.
All the houses were dark but for one; a three-storey house, 112a, bright with chaos and calamity. Through the window our tale begins. Clattering and pottering around, our hero passionately works in his misshapen room, full of intricacies and abominations of the psychological sort. His fingers trembled as the scientist applied the small dose of white powder into the formula in front of him. His eyes were wild, watching the mixture bubble and bubble, like a witch creating a magic potion. But he had added too much. The substance overflowed with sizzling bubbles, and he retracted in alarm, as the chemicals frothed and writhed in front of him.
His parrot, Squawks, the pet of the household, screeched nervously as the foolish scientist failed yet another of his wild experiments. He made a note in his journal. He noticed that the glass which held his concoction had cracked. Then, it shattered involuntarily. He made another note. He was interrupted by a gentle knock on the door, and his assistant entered.
Stanley Boston, rubbing his ears with a damp towel after his bath, was holding a torch, for all electricity was switched off at 10 o’clock. He stepped into the makeshift laboratory in just his slippers and a nightgown. The parrot chirped a greeting.
“Maybe you should quit the testing for one night and come to bed,” said Boston sleepily, “The maid has toasted the blankets nicely before retiring. We shall sleep well.”
The scientist slumped his shoulders in defeat. He couldn’t refuse a warm bed; his experiment would have to wait.
“I’ll be there in a minute, Boston. Let me tidy my equipment.”
Boston stroked his now damp yet still sexy stubble, yawned and closed the door. The scientist could hear the dull footsteps on the wooden stairs. Creak! The 11th step always sounded no matter where you stepped on the stair. Solemnly, he began to sweep up the shards of glass with his hand and placed them in an unused jar. He could use the shards to trick Boston or something handy like that. His tarot cards and now empty tea mug lay on the study desk; the dream interpretation book lay open at ‘F’. The man shut the book and collected his cards. He thought about dealing a prediction but right now, he couldn’t be bothered. His warm bed called to him. He placed the items in the drawer. Next, he picked up the tea mug, with dregs of tea leaves still at the bottom. He studied them briefly; the dregs seemed to form the shape of a ship, but he blinked, and saw only the shape of his faithful parrot there. He sighed, and proceeded to wash the mug before creeping up the stairs. He decided to skip the creaky step tonight. Their bedroom was on the second floor of the house, along with the bathroom. The toilet, kitchen and his ‘study’ on the first, and the dining room (for special occasions) and living room on the ground floor. They even had a small garden, where he and Boston grew vegetables. He had created his own fertiliser, so they grew extra large and extra fast. This was extra good for them. His room was barren and empty, the only place that held no secrets. A large wardrobe and chest of drawers and the double bed matched the dark blue wallpaper and matching curtains. The carpet was soft under his bare feet as he took off his socks. He dressed down to his underwear and climbed into the bed next to Boston. He was right, the bed had been heated.
Shamrock woke to an empty bed. He could still see the dents in the sheets where Boston had been snoring in contented rest. The smells of breakfast rose from the kitchen. He was making the classic full English, though he was unaware of the occasion. He stepped out of his bed and strode to the mirror, which lay on the chest of drawers. His brown hair was fairly long and straight, cut perfectly around his bird-like head. His blue eyes seemed to glitter in the morning sun blaring through the grime-covered windows. His hooked nose was able to sniff out the culprit eventually. He had the mind for these things; he was a perfect being in society, above the rest. He should wear a crown, and ride in a golden carriage. The King of Mystery. Now that had a nice ring to it. He combed his hair gently, and then messed it up with his fingers covered in hair gel, for a bit of va-va-voom, he says. He changed his underwear (after 3 days!) and put on his Sunday best: jeans and a sloppy t-shirt. His sock even had a hole. Holy footwear! ‘Jesus Christ has no power over me’, he thought. Shamrock hastily changed it so that there were no holes. Odd socks. Nice…
He stepped down the wooden stairs, skipping the 11th step. Boston was already fully clothed in a tight fitting tank top and black jeans. His blonde hair, like strands of the softest straw, crowned his hair in a princely way. He was busy frying the sausages and bacon. Shamrock leaped onto his back, messed up his hair and jumped down again, to make his way to the small dining table. Boston simply sighed and proceeded to stir the beans. That was the great thing a Boston. He just didn’t care what you did to him (except under the covers, then he was all over you!) it was something he could easily tolerate.
“So, my lover, why are you making me breakfast?” he asked, munching a slice of buttered toast.
“Read your mail and find out,” he replied putting the finishing touches to the mushrooms.
Shamrock turned to face the table and noticed the small pile of letters. The first one seemed to be handwritten, none of that fancy typing crap, which was unusual. The style was scruffy, like a dog’s mangy hair, and full of spelling errors. The envelope was covered in coffee stains and cigarette burns. Nonetheless, he grabbed a knife (which he was going to eat with soon…) and opened it; he couldn’t be bothered to use his fingers for fear of a paper cut. Then Boston could have babied him… ‘Darn, I should have used my finger!’ he thought with dismay, no sympathy sex now…
The letter was from a Winston Lockwell, who appeared to live in Wensleydale. He was writing to complain about the death of his doctor, claiming that a ghost was haunting the moor. Now, Boston and Holes had set up their own little business which dealt with the paranormal and psychodynamic. This was of the expected, but there was something unusual about this case. The letter smelled of gas.
“Boston, have a whiff of this letter,” said Shamrock as breakfast was laid on the table. He took the letter and gave it a suspicious sniff.
He wrinkled his nose; “That’s gas that is, how come it pongs?”
“I believe we should find out, right after I’ve read the effin’ thing!” he chewed his bacon slowly as he read the letter;
Dear Shamrock Holes,
I am writing to you from Wensleydale Manor, pleading with you to solve my case. My lord believes that the doctor has died from diarrhoea clogging his arse but I know this is not the case. There is a legend in these parts but I wish to discuss this with you in person. I fear for the lives of not just myself, but for the others too. I do hope you come and work on this case. I believe the legend is repeating itself. Help!
Winston Lockwell, aka The Butler.