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Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

Sherlock Holmes
and the Adventure

It was a fucking autumn morning. I dropped into 221B Baker Street to borrow a cup of cocaine, and was taken aback at the sight of a gleaming white refrigerator floating around the sitting room.

“Ah, Watson,” came a familiar voice, and I realised the refrigerator was in fact the gargantuan forehead of my esteemed friend Mr Sherlock Holmes. “Come in, will you.”

“I am in, Holmes.”

“So I deduced,” he replied intelligently, “from looking at you and seeing that you are here.” Turning to the fireplace opposite me, he casually played a minuet on his ukulele, drop-kicked it into the fire, and continued: “I see that you came here by hansom cab to-day, and your driver was hard of hearing.”

“That’s right!” I exclaimed, my funny little eyebrows leaping comically.

“Furthermore,” said Holmes, “I observe that you left your own residence in haste, following a marital spat regarding which side you ought to part your hair on.”

“Gadzooks, Holmes!” I sputtered oafishly, my saliva spraying forth in astonishment. “Correct again!”

“Recently, you purchased as a pet a pomeranian puppy with peach-yellow patches, naming it Archibald – only to then discover that the animal is female.”

My eyeballs bulged impossibly from their sockets, so startling my lips that they tried to escape my face: leaping forth from the stupidly gawping mouth, and sticking there, protruding and fishlike. Moved by amazement at the precise accuracy of my friend’s deductions, I made tiny hops from one fat leg to the other, back and forth like a performing pig. My polka-dot necktie came untucked from my trousers and rolled itself up, like a cut piano string. I was dumb with excitement, and although Holmes was still facing the mantle, it was all I could do to jiggle my blobby round head about and hope this resembled an enthusiastic nod. But the master detective had not finished yet.

“For luncheon yesterday,” he declared, “you ate steak and kidney pie, but the overpowering scent of a new lavender potpourri diminished your enjoyment of the meal. Two Thursdays ago, you trod on a cat. When you were eight years old, you suffered a sprain of the right elbow upon falling eleven feet from a bonsai tree. You trim your nose hairs with scissors properly intended for your wife’s toenails, and your favourite colour is green.”

The force of my own surprise lifted my entire egg-shaped body into the air, and I fell backwards into a wheelbarrow full of mulberries. Then my head fell off.

“Good gracious, Holmes!” I spurted. “Great flapping bottoms!” I blurted. My rudimentary legs wiggled in the air, as I struggled to regain verticality. “Jehovah’s jolly green genitals, Mary’s memorable mammaries, and the consecrated cunt of Christ! Your every inference is correct to the last detail. Having barely glanced at me since I entered the room, you have nonetheless extrapolated my biography. How did you do it, Holmes, and how, unfailingly and unerringly, do you do it?”

At last my companion turned to face me, and fixed his steel grey eyes upon my own. “My dear Watson, it could not be simpler. You see, I am a wizard.” And he painted rainbows in the air with his finger.

The Ending Story

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

The Ending Story

Bastian’s mother had died, leaving him a feeble demi-orphan, with eyes full of dreams and a body full of candy bars. He was only happy with his head in a book. Bastian loved books as much as he hated physical activity, his dad, and being chased by bullies down an alley, then thrown into a dumpster inexplicably full of straw.

He took refuge in a dusty old bookshop, with wooden shelves and knick-knacks, all coated in layers of accumulated whimsy. As quietly as he could, Bastian closed the door behind him, and was immediately set upon by a grumpy old potato, twinkles firing like laser beams from his every eye. Bastian might have been blinded, had the old potato not urgently thrust a large, leatherbound, conspicuously mysterious book into his face. “Don’t read this book!!” the potato yelled. “It’s too wonderful!!”

“All right,” said Bastian. “What book would you recommend?”

“Have you read,” shrieked the potato, “Treasure Island??! AAAAAAA!!!”

And so, Bastian read Treasure Island. It was longer than the books he was used to, and the archaic language was a little difficult. He wished he was allowed to have a Nintendo.

Boop

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

Boop

No-one could believe the man went “Boop.” But there it was, all over the news: “Boopity boop boop.” We were all pretty angry at first, but his childlike innocence won our hearts, and then he taught us to hope again. One day he just disappeared – I think he went back to Heaven.

The Man Who Hated

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

The Man Who Hated

The man hated everyone. He crouched behind a rock and hated them. “Grrr,” he went. “Bah!” he thought. He hated them so much, it gave him a headache, which made him hate them even more.

One day the rock fell on him, and he bled to death in the sun.

Oliver Twist

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

Oliver Twist

Oliver and a hundred other orphans lived in misery. To pass the time, they made Oliver ask Harry Secombe for a second helping of gruel.

“Please sir,” Oliver stammered, meekly proffering his bowl, “can I have some more?”

“More?!” bellowed Harry Secombe, his eyeballs inflated with passion. “Of course you may have more, you poor, weak child! I didn’t realise you were so hungry. Who else would like some more?”

Soon every boy was enjoying a fresh bowl of piping hot gruel. Then there were fat sausages, and creamy mashed potato, and trifle for dessert. Merriment filled the hall, and Harry Secombe’s cheeks were so rosy, and his laughter so jolly, it seemed to the orphans that Father Christmas was among them.

Harry Secombe threw his arms wide. “Parents for everybody!” he cried.

The Old Dog

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

The Old Dog

Boy, that dog was old. Then it died.

Lemonade

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

Lemonade

Ma used to make lemonade. I remember it, just like I remember the old farm.

One time, some events happened. Looking back, I realise that was the end of my childhood.

People change, but I’ll never forget the taste of Ma’s lemonade.

The Voice

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

The Voice

Max picked up the phone. “Who is this?”

“I’m you, Max. I’ve been you all along.”

Max realised the voice was right. It was spooky!

Heaving Romance

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

Heaving Romance

They met tumultuously. Soon Ronaldo clutched her bosoms like a man, and she surrendered her rude bits.

That spring, and every spring thereafter, they were married.

The Dentist

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

The Dentist

The dentist filled the hole in the man’s tooth.

Later, the man died from tooth poisoning. The dentist was a spy!