Tuesday, December 09, 2008

THE WHITECHAPEL CAPER - PART 1

DUE TO ARTISTIC INFERENCES AND OTHER ANIMALS, THE AULD BIRD & BUFF HAVE BEEN ON A HIATUS HERNIA BUT NOW WE'RE BACK WITH THE SHERLOCK HOLMES CASE CONAN DOYLE NEVER DARED TO PRINT.

WARNING: FOR ALL THOSE WITH NUT ALLERGIES, LOOK AWAY NOW

WATSON: Good Lord, Holmes, have you read the Times this morning? There’s been a grisly murder in Whitechapel. Apparently some blighter has carved up a strumpet like a prize hog.

HOLMES: What? It actually says that?

WATSON: Poetic licence, Holmes, but that’s the gist of it. Nasty business, that.

HOLMES: Indeed. No doubt we’ll we hearing from that imbecile Inspector Lestrade at any moment.

WATSON: Dunno, Holmes, says here that Lestrade’s practically solved the case already. He’s confident that it’s the work of a Jewish butcher.

HOLMES: Absurd. No self-respecting boucher of the Hebrew persuasion would do such a thing. It’s not Kosher.

WATSON: I’m inclined to agree, but Lestrade thinks the fellow is a lunatic. One of the victim’s kidneys is missing, and a bit of her left flank as well. The Yard thinks the fellow has done a Sweeney Todd on her, and dined on steak and kidney pie.

HOLMES: Bestir yourself, Watson, we’re off to the morgue.

WATSON: Good God, Holmes, must we? I haven’t finished my kipper.

HOLMES: Sod your kipper, Watters, it’s imperative that we view the body before Lestrade mucks about with the corpse and makes a mess of it.

WATSON: According to this, the killer’s beaten him to it. Says here there’s hamburger all over the alley behind Murcheson’s Dross House. Sounds as if she’s been gutted like a mackerel.

LATER, AT THE MORGUE, VIEWING THE MURDER VICTIM’S BODY

WATSON: Gad, Holmes, I’m after losing my breakfast.

HOLMES: Steady on, Watson. I need your cold objective eye at the moment. Am I mistaken or is this the work of a skilled surgeon and not a hacker of veal cutlets?

WATSON: Bless me, Holmes, but I believe you’re right. These incisions were made with great precision, and the stitching is nothing less than exquisite.

HOLMES: What do you make of this vertical incision, Watson?

WATSON: Eh? Oh, egad, Holmes, I do believe the blighter has nicked her womb!

HOLMES: Nicked it, my Aunt Fanny, Watson. The bounder has absconded with it!

WATSON: But why, Holmes? For what diabolical purpose?

HOLMES: There is insufficient evidence to support any conclusions as yet - but look here, Watson. Do you notice these curious initials on the autopsy report?

WATSON: Hmm. PM.

HOLMES: What do you make of it, Watters?

WATSON: Post Mortem, I would imagine, Holmes.

HOLMES: Or “Professor Moriarty”.

WATSON: Holmes, have you been at the Peruvian nose powder again?

HOLMES: I’m chagrined. Upon my honour, I haven’t touched the filthy stuff in a fortnight. Don’t you see it, Watson? Who BUT Moriarty could have committed such a heinous crime?

WATSON: Eh? Well, I don’t know, Holmes - Jack the Ripper?

HOLMES: Oh, sod the Ripper, Watson! The Ripper was a dunce compared to the evil genius who dissected this diseased harlot.

WATSON: Holmes, confidentially – the Ripper – is it true that he was actually the Duke of Clarence?

HOLMES: My lips are sealed, Watson. Out of respect for the sovereign I can say no more.

WATSON: The degenerate swine, I knew it!

HOLMES: What?! How dare you speak of the Queen in such a manner, you disgusting, flatulent old reprobate! I should thrash you to within an inch of your life!

WATSON: Eh, what? No, dammit, Holmes, not the QUEEN – the RIPPER, you horrible mutt sniffer! The Cocoa Powder has addled your brains again, man. Here, have a swig of this Laudanum to calm you down while I stuff your calabash with some of this loverly Afghan ganga.

HOLMES: Very well, Watson, but you’ll not dissuade me from my deduction that Moriarty is behind all this.

WATSON: Eh, behind all WHAT, Holmes?

HOLMES: The repetitious slaughter of all these bloody TARTS, of course! It HAS to be Moriarty, man – the Duke of Clarence is on holiday in Provence.

WATSON: Provence, you say? Odd, there’s been a series of gory mutilations in Provence the past few days. Oh, well, the French, y’know, a degenerate race.

HOLMES: True. Good God, Watson but this Laudanum is filthy-tasting offal. It’s like gargling with the liver bile of a goat.

WATSON: Eh? Oh, yes, quite. Here, rinse your palate with this Absinthe, Holmes.

HOLMES: Thanks, Watters.

HE DRINKS, CHOKES, SPITS.

HOLMES: Gawd, Watters, it’s as bitter as wormwood!

WATSON: Yes, that’s right, Holmes. A dreadful libation, properly served diluted with rain water and strained over a semi-melted cube of sugar. Damned near unpalatable otherwise. Killed that French artist bugger, what’s his name, the chap with the sawed-off legs.

HOLMES: Sawed-off legs? Did he by any chance consort with prostitutes?

WATSON: Holmes, I told you already, he was French, and an artist to boot. Need I say more?

HOLMES: Is there NO limit to Moriarty’s infamy? Now he’s mutilating French cripples, for God’s sake! We must stop him at all cost, Watson!

WATSON: Yes, of course, Holmes. Here, have some more Laudanum, there’s a good lad.

HOLMES: We need Toby, Watson. Go and fetch him at once and take him to Baker Street.

WATSON: But Holmes, surely you remember that Hudders has vowed to make geldings of us both if ever we bring Toby to our residence again.

HOLMES: Oh, sod Mrs. Hudson! Disguise the poor creature if you must, but bring him post haste. How else can we be expected to track that fiend Moriarty?

WATSON: Frankly, Holmes, you’d be hard pressed to find anyone that expects us to track Professor Moriarty. Besides, you know very well that Moriarty is a retired mathematics teacher who lives in a modest cottage in the Cotswolds.

HOLMES: Balderdash, Watson! That fiendish degenerate lives in an ostentatious townhouse on Charing Cross Road. But we won’t find him THERE. He’s gone to ground somewhere in Whitechapel, and soon he’ll be slaughtering strumpets by the barrowful. Where’s that ganga?

WATSON: Sorry, Holmes, here ‘tis.

HOLMES: Splendid, now go fetch Toby and meet me at Baker Street.

WATSON: But Holmes, what about Hudders? If you recall, the last time we attempted to smuggle poor Toby onto the premises, disguised as a libertine nun, she wasn’t fooled for a moment.

HOLMES: Oh, that’s easily fixed. While you’re out procuring Toby I’ll lace her filthy Jasmine tea with some of this Laudanum. By the time you return with our stalwart bloodhound she’ll be safely dreaming in Xanadu. Then you can have your way with her as usual.

WATSON: Good heavens, Holmes, I’m trying to digest my kipper!

HOLMES: Eh? Oh, quite, quite. Sorry, Watters. Well, perhaps Toby would like a go at her, eh, what?

WATSON: That’s quite enough ganga for you, Holmes.

TO BE CONTINUED...

2 comments:

doniacarey said...

Very funny. You've done yourselves proud, B&B. Congratulations and felicitations!

Splendor G. Mainwaring said...

This continued desecration of Sherlock Holmes is unconscientiable, and the slights to Queen Victoria are nothing less than despicable. In a more enlightened age, when Victoria Regina sat on the throne, the two of you would have been brought up on charges of high treason, given a fair trial, convicted and publically eviscerated. A pox on both your houses!