Sleuthier

Steel Deadeyes sat on the floor of his office, crossed legs, Indian style. He had been told a long time ago that it was a good for circulation, and while he had not looked into whether that was true or not, he felt now was the best time to figure it out on his own.

For you see, Steel had sold his chair (along with his desk, gun, and ‘coffee towel’) in order to pay the rent for his office/apartment. Laid out in front of him, on the floor, were his crime journal, a telephone, and a phone book opened to his own ad that he had bought at the start of his detective career. The ad ran as follows:

Need a detective? Call Steel Deadeyes
and he’ll “Steel” your problems
right from under you!
55S-TEEL

Considering his line of work, he wondered whether it had been wise to associate his name with theft. Also considering that he had received a total of no phone calls.

As of yet. He thought. Only a matter of time. And time is the one thing, I’ve got plenty of.

A month of time, to be exact. And then he’d have to either sell more of his possessions (and he didn’t have much left to sell) or be evicted.

He was wondering whether he would sell the phone book or the phone first, when he heard four very distinct knocks.

“What the hell is that?” he said to himself, reassuring himself with his own voice, as he is liked to do. He looked around from his vantage point of the floor, trying to locate the origin of the knocking.Failing that, he returned to the whole phonebook or phone selling issue.

Well… He thought. While I do think the phone is an important aspect of getting and then solving cases…I do get a kick out of seeing my name in print-

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He looked to the phone, wondering if this might actually be his ringtone, as he’d never actually heard his phone ring before. Again the knocking ceased.

“Okay Steely boy,” He said aloud to himself (and instantly reminded himself to never call himself ‘Steely boy’ again.), “Think like the detective you are. First, what was the noise? A knocking noise-“

“Hello?” came a voice from the hallway, on the other side of his door.

“Be with you in a moment!” he yelled, slightly irritated in having his thought process interrupted.

“Alright,” He continued, “Second, what kind of knocking was it?” This took him a while, “Kind of like knuckles…against wood.” Again he scanned the room, his eyes eventually falling on his door.

He stared at the door of his office for a few moments when he heard, “Is this a bad time?” from the voice in the hallway. All of the pieces locked in place, like a jigsaw puzzle. A jigsaw puzzle of someone knocking on a door. His eyes grew wide in excitement.

A possible client! He stopped himself from yelling it aloud. Instead he yelled, “I’m coming! Don’t leave me!”

He attempted to stand from his crossed legs position and suddenly realized how sore his knee joints were. He slowly made his way to the door, emitting a small expletive with every step.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine! Just…uh… Stubbed my toe on my desk!” He yelled. Then looking back to his things piled on the floor, he instantly regretted it.

It was another few seconds before he reached the door and opened it.

The woman standing in the hallway was the kind of gal you only saw at the grocery store. The kind of woman that guys like Steel would approach in the vegetable aisle under the pretense of looking for a good head of lettuce, and then back off when he lost his nerve.

“Hiya,” She said, “Are you Mr. Deadeyes?” Her voice was nasally in a 1950s-New York- secretary-lost-in-a-crime-novel kind of way. Steel could have kissed her for being so cliché. Her being cliché made it easier for him to be cliché.

“That’s what they tell me, Toots,” He said, knocking on the cloudy window pane on his door that had his name etched into it. The pane fell back into the office and shattered.

Steel had always prided himself on having a neat and, above all, safe work place. He thought back to his days of reporting at The Crimetown Chronicle, and his desk with home made "safety edges" and the perfectly organized system he had set up to file away papers. When he tried to take his system office wide, he had been fired. He assumed for unrelated reasons.

So while Steel trembled at the thought of all those deadly shards of glass spread out in his office, he put on a brave face for his prospective client, and decided it was best to ignore this and continue as if it had not happened.

“How can I help you?” He continued.

“May I come in?” She countered. Steel looked back to the glass shards and his “desk area” on the floor. An ordinary man would have come up with an excuse. In a town like this, looking unprofessional could get you killed. It was a proven fact; this town had the largest death rate for unprofessional looking people in the nation. These were the kind of facts Steel would report on in The Crimtown Chronicle.

But Steel was no ordinary man, and he had seen too many detective movies to start improvising now.

“Watch the glass,” he said, swinging the door open and walking back to where his chair would be, had he still owned a chair. He began to sit back down on the floor, but then stopped himself, remember his sore knees. He straightened himself back up.

“Now, what can I do for you, Ms…”

“Mrs.” She corrected, looking around the room, “I thought you had a desk.”

“What?”

“You said you stubbed your toe on your desk”

Steel considered this for a moment, shook his head, and simply said, “No.”

A moment passed. Steel knew he had this effect on people. Most of his conversations had a moment just like this one. The other person would have to stand their and consider what exactly had just happened. They rarely make heads or tails of the situation, and Steel usually took the initiative these moments allowed.

“Now, what can I do for you, Mrs…?”

“Beckwith. Bellany Beckwith,” she said, with a voice so nasally Steel felt like sneezing.

“Mrs. Beckwith. I’m Steel Deadeyes-”

“Yes, do you have somewhere I can sit?”

Steel looked around the mostly empty room. “Uhhh…Here we go.” He said, bending over and placing the phone book perpendicular to the floor.

She looked at the makeshift seat for a while and then decided to stand.

“Now,” Steel continued, turning toward his window, looking contemplative and deep, “How can I help you, Mrs. Beckworth?”

“-with”

“What?” he turned his head to look towards her.

“Beckwith.”

“Becks with who?”

“ME. Beckwith. I’m BeckwITH. Bellany-“

“Beckwith, yes. I see. How can-“

“-you help me?” she hesitated, “I’m not sure you can…”

“What makes you think that?”

She looked around the empty room once more. Her glance, settling on the phone book for a few seconds, eventually found its way to meet Steel Deadeyes’ gaze.

Steel understood what she was getting at, “Yes, well. My desk and chairs are just out for…cleaning. Big murder case before you. Yeah, I solved it, but there was a lot of murder in here. Lots and lots of murd- where are you going?”

“I think I’ll just look into my problem myself. Thank you.” She said, as she started out the door.

Steel tried to run after her, but what with all the sitting, his knees were in no condition. He watched as she closed the door behind her

Steel went to the window and tried sitting on the sill, and as he was sliding to the floor he realized he had missed the window entirely by a few feet. He sat with his feet out in front of him and looked to the place on the wall where his calendar used to be. He could not remember when he had sold it.

Crazy broads. He thought, thinking back to Mrs. Beckwith. He smoothly took a cigarette from his pocket and placed it in his mouth. He searched his pockets for a lighter, but came up short. He smoothly took the cigarette from his mouth and placed it back in his pocket.

One month, he reminded himself, I’ve got one month to get a case.

He looked around his office. He tended to do that more often, now that he didn’t have much to actually see

I need some chairs.

The Finale of Penguin Holmes

Holmes was not particularly surprised to find himself in a dark, damp, jail cell. He scanned his setting. Again, not astonished to find Watson was not with him. He was however taken aback by the small rat in the corner sitting there, drinking tea, and reading a newspaper.

“Hey, rat-“ Holmes started

“I’m a mouse” interrupted the ra-mouse, without looking up from his paper.

“Really? You look like a rat.”

With a sigh the mouse, put down his paper and explained, “I’m getting paid by the hour to complete the jail experience. I told them that mice were just as likely to hang out at a jail as a rat, but they wouldn’t hear it. So, here I am.”

“Oh”

“Yeah, those unicorns are really uptight about the whole perfect appearance,” The mouse lifted his newspaper again.

“When did the mayor order the jail to be built?”

“A couple of weeks ago. About the same time the curfew was placed into effect.”

“Could you tell me the mayor’s name?”

“Look, I’m really not supposed to talk.”

“I see, oh well, I have a pretty good idea who it is anyway”

The mouse shrugged and went back to his paper.

Holmes looked around the cell. No windows, and the bars seemed pretty sturdy. And knowing who commissioned the jail to be built, he knew that escape was highly unlikely.

Holmes sunk his head down to his chest and closed his eyes. After about ten minutes like this he heard hoof steps coming down the hallway. When they stopped in front of the cell’s bars, Holmes looked up to his visitor, a moose walking on its hind legs, dressed in a three piece suit with a bowler cap standing several feet away from the cell. Holmes greeted his old nemesis, “I was wondering when you were going to show up, Moriarty Moose.”

Moriarty Moose smiled, “That’s Mayor Montgomery Moose to you, Penguin Holmes…and, well, everyone else, I suppose.”

“So, you wanted a new identity, but you thought, ‘Hey, why lose the alliteration?’”

Moriarty shrugged, and Holmes continued.

“It must have taken some work tricking all the unicorns into trusting you.”

“Not at all. They really are very stupid creatures.”

“Quite… But, I thought you were still in prison. Did 2 lifetimes go by that quickly?”

“Holmes, we both knew it was only a matter of time-”

“Prison sentences usually are.”

“-Until I escaped. You know Holmes, you mustn’t interrupt people. It’s very rude. A person might hold a grudge. Maybe hatch a plot, and exact revenge.”

“Indeed,” Holmes said, looking around his surroundings.

“So…Holmes, no doubt you’ve already figured it all out. Should I explain or should you?”

“If you don’t mind. I haven’t figured out how or why, but after you busted out of jail you found yourself in Unicornicopia”

“I’m disappointed Holmes. Usually you know the whole story.”

“Yeah, well…I’ve only been on the case for a few conscious minutes. Anyways, like me, you must have been repulsed by the place. However, while I wished to leave immediately, you saw an opportunity to exploit a people, and I take it you had not forgotten me, the penguin who had sent you to jail. So you hatched a plot. You easily befriended the unicorns and became their mayor. You read in the newspaper that London Town had reached a record low in its crime rate. So, you started stealing Ms. Equulues’ freshly baked pies. Easy to do, with your new curfew in place. Knowing I would be out of work, you must have met up with Equulues and dropped into the conversation that I was a detective. So when her pies started disappearing she called me, and I was forced to come to this vile place by an empty wallet. When Watson, Equulues, and I were drinking our tea you sneaked into the kitchen and drugged the next round of tea. And now, with your newly built prison, you have the perfect place to keep me for as long as you like.”

“Correct, Mr. Holmes. And now that you’ve been caught, you shall be sentenced to death.”

“What?”

“Yes, death. Apparently the new mayor here is very hard on murderers.”

“Murderer?”

“Ms. Equulues. You poisoned her tea. You’re a very evil man, Holmes.”

“You killed her”

“No, as far as all the unicorns are concerned. You killed her. And in a way, you did. Without you, I never would have gone to prison, never would have broken out, never would have come here.”

“You can’t blame me for your crimes, Moriarty.”

“No, you’ll do that yourself. Won’t you?” Moriarty smiled as Holmes stared back at him.

“Where is Watson?” Holmes asked.

“He’s being held at Equuleus’ house. He was…heavy. But we’ll sort some kind of…harness or something to execute you both.”

“You won’t get away with this Moriarty.”

“And what makes you say that Holmes? When it looks to me, that I already have.”

“Just one thing, the murdering Mayor Moriarty Moose. Everyone knows, unicorns included (however naïve they may be), that mice are all good natured.”

Moriarty’s eyes widened and he looked to the now vacant corner of the cell, “…That was a rat, not a mouse.”

“It was a mouse” Holmes smiled

“I specifically remember it being a rat,” he started to back up down the hallway.

“I specifically remember it telling me it was a mouse. A London Town mouse, judging from the newspaper he chose” Holmes said, lifting up a tiny edition of The London Town Times.

“No…” Moriarty said, advancing towards the jail door at the end of the hallway.

“Meaning, he had probably read all about my cases, and about you, Moriarty. It only took your name to remind him of where he had no doubt seen your face before.”

“No!” Moriarty shouted, now running towards the door, and his escape. But before he could reach his destination, the door opened to reveal two unicorns, chest to chest, with a mouse perched on the head of the left one.

“That’s him.That’s Moriarty the killer.” The mouse said, pointing to the now cornered moose.

Moriarty lowered his antlers and charged for the door. He slammed into the stomachs of the two unicorns and bolted away as they lay on the ground. When they recovered, they made their way to Holmes’ cell.

“On behalf of Unicornicopia, we’re awfully sorry about this whole ordeal, but we have to be sure. It wasn’t you who poisoned Ms. Equulues?” the older unicorn said.
“No, the reason being that…I’m a penguin…and… penguins never kill with poison?“

“Okay then, off you go.” The unicorn said, unlocking the cell door.

“…Alright, thank you…” Holmes said as he started out of the jail. He stopped mid stride after passing the unicorns and turned to one of them to ask, “I don’t suppose, you know when the next train out of here is?”

“There’s a train leaving for London Town in a couple of hours.”

“With me on it.” Holmes said.

Holmes started out of the jail, but stopped when he saw the mouse standing there.
“Thank you,” Holmes said.

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Holmes. I read all about you in the London Town Times. I knew you couldn’t have killed that lady.”

“Well, thank you anyways…”

“It’s Ralph”

“Thank you, Ralph.”

Holmes once again started out of the door, but then ran back in after a couple of seconds passed, “Wait! I couldn’t have done it! Because, I’m a penguin and it would have been very difficult for me to reach the tea!”

The older unicorn, the younger, and Ralph stared at him.

Again Holmes started away muttering to himself, “Well, I thought it was a better excuse…”

*****************************************

When Holmes explained what had happened to Watson, they were on the train back to London Town.

“So, Holmes. I imagine we’ll be seeing Moriarty again.”

“I sincerely hope not Watson…”

“…Wait, what happened to Ms. Equulues? Was she drugged as well?”

“Yes”

“Is she alright?”

“No,” Holmes said, breaking eye contact with Watson.

“…I see… Holmes-“

“Watson, I could go a long time without ever talking about Unicornicopia again. The people were exploited by Moriarty as a trap for me. I know it’s not my fault for that, but then they were exploited by me to get out of prison.”

“But Holmes-”

“Yes, I know I am innocent. But I still don’t like it.”

They sat in silence. Listening to the train’s progression across the land. Already the musical quality and happy air of Unicornicopia were falling behind them. The sun had gone down and the darkness of the night was starting to set in.

“They’re too gullible, Watson.”

“Holmes?”

“The unicorns. I just wish they weren’t so gullible.”

“Yes, Holmes.”

*****************************************


That actually might be the last I write (or re-write) about Penguin Holmes in a while. I suppose eventually I might come back to it, as it is probably the most I have ever developed an idea, the most I've ever written about a single cast of characters, and the most effort I've put in to a storyline (as little as that may be). But, for now, I think I'll try and write more short stories and expand on different characters and ideas. Thanks for reading.

Penguin Holmes part 3

Penguin Holmes and Walrus Watson sat in silence as Ms. Equulues returned with more tea with a smile on her face. When she had returned to her seat and Holmes and Watson had refilled their cups the silence continued. And as Holmes and Watson sipped their tea the silence went unbroken. And nothing was what continued to be said as they sat there. Finally, Holmes tackled the growing silence with, “Good tea”. But the silence would not go down without a fight.

Holmes watched the second hand on the mantle above the fireplace tick 30 seconds past and a thought struck him.

“Oh right! I suppose I ought to look at the scene of the, uh, theft.” He stumbled over the last word, unsure of how it would be taken be his hostess and her inherent unicornian innocent nature.

She gasped. But composed herself to say, “Of course. It’s right through here” They rose from their seats, and followed her into the kitchen. The kitchen was as cozy and comfortable as the rest of the house, and seemed to be made for baking and then radiating the smell to the rest of the house. Ms. Equulues stood at the doorway as Holmes and Watson moved toward the window in question.

Holmes began to examine the area, noticed her standing there and said, “Excuse us Ms. Equulues, but my partner and I would prefer to look at the scene alone for a moment.”

“Oh, right. I'll just uhh...right.” She said and left.

“Why did you do that?” asked Watson.

“My friend, I would like to be able to say crime, theft, and suicide without a sharp gasp from behind us every time”

“Suicide?”

“As in, I’m going to commit it if I have to stay here longer than I have to.”

“Ah.”

“Watson, up.” Holmes commanded.

Watson lifted Holmes up and began showing him around the kitchen. Watson was unable to resist the temptation of making airplane noises and wooshing Holmes around.

“ Watson, if you do not stop I will be forced to find a new, less childish assistant. Now take me to the windowsill.” And Watson did. Holmes began searching up and down, and all around the aforementioned area of the windowsill.

“This is odd,” Holmes said, after examining the afore-aforementioned area of the windowsill.

“What is?” Watson asked.

“You can set me down now, Watson. Thank you.”

Watson did so on the kitchen table that sat directly underneath the window. And Holmes began to explain himself, “Watson, as you know, usually, in a crime scene we have evidence of some kind. A scuff mark. A hair. Something, anything that the thief, or the murderer may have left behind…” Holmes turned away from his associate and faced the window and said to himself, “Only once have I encountered nothing at a crime scene…”

Holmes turned around sharply, “Watson we must leave immediat-“ But Watson was no longer there. Holmes looked over the edge of the table to see his friend lying on the floor. A floor that was now swirling the new patterns and colors. And it wasn’t just the floor. Holmes blinked several times as the whole room started to dance in front of his eyes.

The tea. Holmes thought as the room started to darken. The stupid, damn, extremely tasty, drugged tea. And he passed out.

How will Watson and Holmes get out of this one? Stay tuned for the clarifying finale of The Endeavors of Penguin Holmes and Walrus Watson in Unicornicopia and the Case of the Stolen Pies from the Windowsill of Ms. Equulues but are Things What They Seem?! (working title)

The Play's the Thing...

Gregory Fay stood in the wings, listening as the audience filed in. Had he concentrated, he would have heard the individual conversations among them, but his mind was, understandably, elsewhere.

He felt the stage manager’s hand on his shoulder, as he knew he would, as he always did. 5 minutes to places. Not that Gregory particularly needed reminding. Every night he was at his place, a good 10 minutes before it was called. It wasn’t that he needed to be, or that he wanted to be, he just was. The tap on his shoulder was more than just a call. It was an agreement. A ‘thank you’ and a ‘you’re welcome’ back.

Gregory tried to free up his mind during these few minutes before the show. Tried to be a “ready conduit for the character” as his acting coach had said (All those years ago). But it was impossible not to think about all the little things, however briefly. The costume change after act 2. The relatively new blocking for the third scene. The line that was cut, placed back in, and then re-cut. It was pointless to deny them. They pushed to the front of his mind, he gave them a fraction of his attention, and then he ushered them back to his sub-conscious, or wherever they went. Fully aware that they were likely to spring up again, and fully aware that the one thought he set aside would be replaced by two others.

But all of that started to clear, as the countdown approached THE moment. That split second right before a show. When the lights have gone down, the audience has fallen silent, and the players begin to make their first entrances in the dark. That precise moment when the first step is about to be taken, when the entire show flits through Gregory’s mind. Every line, movement, scene, and act briefly passes by his consciousness, filling him with the energy to perform. It never landed on any specific moment within the play, but was all encompassing just the same. That split second of a fleeting moment was what Gregory lived for.

He ran the curtain idly through his fingers. ‘How many times had he performed on this stage?’ he almost asked himself. He wouldn’t have been able to count the times and satisfactorily answer himself, and decided to divert his thought process to something more play-oriented. He took a deep breath, still not quite listening to the audience, but very aware of their presence. He had listened in on their small chat once, when he was just starting out, and was struck by how almost none of the conversations were to do with the play at all. He had amused himself to think that all of these people were unaware that a play was even about to take place. They had shuffled into this large, cold, dimly lit room talking about their jobs, family, friends, anything. And when the lights went down they would be caught off-guard

“What’s happening?” One would whisper, almost in fear.

“I don’t know,” another would reply, “Shhh, something’s going on.”

The play would start and they would all be delighted at their good fortune to have stumbled into the right place at the right time.

Gregory smiled at this remembrance, and pushed it back far in his mind as the lights went down. This was it. He lifted his foot off the floor and there it was. The flash of the play through his mind, filling him with adrenaline.

But then something else happened. Something that wasn’t a part of the carefully orchestrated clockwork behind the stage that we so accustomed to.

Riding just behind that flash of excitement followed another flash. A split second of a vision, and yet not a vision. Almost another reality. A separate reality.

The theatre was now rundown; rats could be seen scurrying in the almost impenetrable darkness. As Gregory’s foot traveled through the air, he could hear and feel the wood beneath his still planted foot creak and groan under his now full weight. And he could feel the changes in himself. He was older now. Much older. And tired. Had he looked down in that split second, he knew he would have seen the wrinkled skin on the back of his hand do little to cover up the coursing veins and now brittle bones that comprised his knuckles. But he had not looked down in that moment, he had looked out. And of all of these disquieting images that passed before him, the one that terrified him most was that of the audience. Seat after seat, row after row, all empty. He, his theatre, and his performances, were all abandoned a long time ago. He was alone.

And then it was gone. He stumbled as his foot made contact once more with the floor, but the vision, the other reality was gone. He tried to push it out of his mind, as he had with all the other thoughts. He had a show to perform. But he could not. The show must go on, but Gregory Fay had been shaken.

Throughout the play, Gregory could feel in himself a sense of desperation. He felt himself fighting against that vision. Fighting to keep himself in the moment. But many times, he found himself looking out into the house to reassure himself that they were all still there. And on several occasions he wasn’t sure that they were.

It was during the curtain call; when Gregory ran out, center stage, to thunderous applause when the reality imposed itself once more. And it wasn’t the audience thundering any longer. Wood, smoke, and fire roared up around him. And as the theatre crumbled down upon him he remembered the last the 30 years of his life. The struggling to get a new gig. The lonely nights, the alcohol, and the depression. The seeing in the newspaper the story of his old stomping ground scheduled for demolition. Sneaking past the crew. Walking to the stage in the dark (the path etched into his memory).
The revelation was short lived. The captain went down with his ship, the king with his reign, and Gregory Fay died with his theatre.

Penguin Holmes Part 2

If you read the original on Facebook, this is probably where the most notable changes that I've made come into play.

***********************


The train rumbled to a stop and Penguin Holmes and Walrus Watson stepped off and stared at the Main Street of Unicornicopia. The streets were almost unrecognizable as such. They looked more like perfectly tended to gardens spanning from house to house. The main street was like a river of flowers, flowing down the road, with every house like an island adrift in the flora, leading down to Unicornicopia’s main town square. Where most towns would have a courthouse, Unicornicopia had a fountain of water, so crystal clear, you’d have to plunge in to be sure it was actually there. The sun was, of course, out and shining and a gentle breeze seemed to invigorate everything that had the pleasure of being perfectly touched by its cool touch.

Penguin Holmes shuddered in disgust.

“I change my mind, lets get out of here,” he said, and turned back to get on the train. Walrus Watson picked him up with a flipper. Holmes struggled and twisted, “Put me down! Right this instance! We’re leaving!”

“Now Holmes, you know as well as I that we need this case to keep our little place at Baker Street.” he said and Holmes stopped his tantrum, and Watson released his friend. “What was Ms. Equulues’ address again?”

“I really hate it when you pick me up like that.” Holmes said, sullenly.

“I’m sorry,” Watson said, genuinely.

“She lives on the main road,” said Holmes with a sigh, “It’s right over there, 334” He said, pointing to a house on the right side of the road.

Watson started for the house, but Holmes stopped him, “Wait,” Holmes looked around the town, “There’s something wrong here.”

“What is it?” Watson asked, trying to follow Holmes’ seeking gaze.

“I hate to admit it, but I was here a couple of years back. Don’t ask why, I hate to think about it. But, this street…” Holmes turned back to look up at Watson, “Watson, this is Main Street. There’s no one around.”

“Maybe, it’s tea time?” Watson put forth.

“No, even then we’d see children running around, playing and such. Lets get inside. As I much as I appreciate not seeing unicorn children frolicking, something is very wrong here.”

They made their way to Ms. Equulues’s door, doing their best not to trample down all the flowers, but overall failing miserably. Watson knocked on the door.

“One moment! One moment!” came a shrill voice from inside. The door opened to reveal Ms. Equulues, a squat little unicorn. She stood on her hind legs, and towered over Penguin Holmes and while she was not nearly as large as Walrus Watson, she was taller, not even counting in the horn that spiraled out of her forehead. Her fur was a light pink, touched with a bit of gray that came with age. She wore a housedress, probably her best for the expected company, and an apron. She was not the type of unicorn to go out very often. Those days had passed. Now she contented herself to baking and taking care of communal street/flower garden.

“Ms. Equulues? We’re-“ Watson started.

“Yes, yes. I know who you are. Come in, come in!” she said, a hint of fear in her voice as she moved away from the door.

Watson and Holmes shuffled their way in and Ms. Equulues continued, “Penguin Holmes and Watson I presume.”

Holmes politely nodded his head and opened his beak to speak but was cut off by their host.

“Well, I’ve got tea set up in the living room. I believe we should discuss things there, if there’s no objections.”

“None at all,” said Holmes, gesturing for her to lead the way.

The inside of the house was what you might expect of a unicorn home. It was large, yet not too large to be uncomfortable. The smell of baking things came from the kitchen and radiated throughout the house. They walked to the living room, where a small table was surrounded on three sides by 2 chairs and a couch. A fireplace was lit and crackling, merely adding to the overall feeling of warmth, but by no means the sole producer of the effect.

Penguin Holmes abhorred all of it. The coziness made him very ill at ease, and the over sweetness of scent of baked goods nearly made him gag. He controlled himself however and did, indeed, seem to perk up when he saw a tea set in the middle of the table and he had Watson help him into one of the chairs. Walrus sat himself on the couch. And Ms. Equulues, though it was rather difficult with horse legs, sat in the chair opposite of Holmes.

“Please have some tea and then we can talk about my dilemma. I’m just delighted that you two came,” Ms. Equulues said while pouring the tea into the cups, “I just don’t know what to make of it.”

“Excuse me,” Holmes started as Equulues placed the full tea cups on the table, “I couldn’t help notice that Main Street seemed a little more…deserted, than usual”

“Oh, that.” Ms. Equulues said, “Yes, that would be the curfew now in place. The mayor felt that Unicornicopia would be much safer with a curfew.”

Holmes looked to Watson, and then, with a smile, said to Ms. Equulues, “Seems kind of odd, Unicornicopia is possibly the safest place on the world. Everything is very stuff-“ Holmes checked himself before saying stuffy, “pristine. I can’t imagine that the crime rate is the city with a road of flower’s major concern.”

“Well, I don’t know about crime or ratings, but you can never be too safe is what I think, and the new mayor too. It’s his slogan. He built a new jail, as well. Just a precaution, mind you. But, like I said, you can never-“

“Be too safe,” Holmes finished for her, after taking a sip of tea, “Yes, well. Maybe he has a point, the mayor I mean.”

The three sipped at the tea that was perfectly perfect, and before Holmes or Watson had time to ask what the matter was Ms. Equulues began.

“Well, I suppose I should explain my little problem. See, I t all started about two weeks ago- or maybe it was three. Oh, the whole business is just so confusing. It was two, I’m sure of it. Anyways, it all started about two weeks ago, and I had just finished baking a blueberry pie and I had just laid it on the window sill to cool. And I turned around and when I came back to check on it was gone. Now, you can imagine my surprise when the pie I had baked suddenly vanished. I know it sounds bizarre but it happened. Just like that, too. I was looking at. I wasn’t. I turned around to look at is again. And boom, it was gone. Within minutes. And then the next day it happened again. And again. And again. So far two weeks have passed, a pie a day, and every single one of them has just vanished into thin air. I just don’t know what could have happened to them. ”

“So, you want me to find the thief?” Holmes asked, disappointed. He had been desperately hoping that something bad had finally happened in perfect land. Perhaps, not as bad as murder. But certainly worse than some stolen pies.

Ms. Equulues gasped, “Thief? Good heavens no! What would a thief have to do with my missing pies?”

Holmes was puzzled. He looked to Watson. Watson shrugged. He looked back to Ms. Equulues, “Well, isn’t it obvious? Someone has been stealing the pies. Pies don’t just vanish into thin air.”

Ms. Equulues stared into the fireplace as a look of horror slowly crept over her face, “Oh god, someone has been stealing…” She looked back to Holmes, “Well, we have to stop them!”

Holmes jumped at the suddenness of it, “Yes, that’s why you brought me here. I think. At least, that’s why I’m here now. Or something.”

”Well, I’m glad you’re here now, no matter what the reason was for me getting you,” she said with conviction, to which Holmes nodded. “Let me get you some more tea,” Equulues added while standing and walking to the kitchen.

“Watson,” Holmes whispered to his companion.

“Yes, Holmes?” Watson whispered back.

“Have I mentioned how much I don’t want to be here?”

“Yes, Holmes,” Watson replied.

The New Penguin Holmes part 1

Well, I've gone back and visited my old Penguin Holmes story (found on my facebook) because I felt that they could be improved by being better. I will be releasing them in several posts on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays. It looks like it might be a five parter, maybe less. Anyways, tiny things have changed. Minor plots points. Characters are generally the same. There still might be small spelling or grammar errors or continuity problems that I, uh, 'kept in' to 'preserve' the original. Without further ado, here it is.

**************************

The train cart was pretty nice. Our protagonist had seen better train carts, but he's not the type to complain about a slight lack of luxury. I suppose now would be a good time to introduce the protagonist. Or I could continue about the train cart for no reason. Yes, that seems more like my style. The train cart had an odd colored wall paper. It was odd merely because I can't quite describe it. I want to say pink, and yet that would give the impression that it is cutesy when it isn't. I guess I could say it was pinkish brownish old looking color. That will have to do. The cart was quite spacious and had plenty of room for baggage, sitting, sleeping (if the journey called for it), and plenty of other things that I could bore you with, but have decided not to.

Anyways on to our protagonist, whom I'm just sure you're dying to meet. Or else you should be. He's a real swell fellow. Intelligent, witty, bold, daring, and courageous. Reminds me of me. Because it is me.

Just kidding, I wouldn't do that. I'm just stalling for more time, because I'm unsure how to approach the actual introducing of the protagonist. Well, I suppose I could just say his name and let you fill in the blanks, but I feel this story would lose some credibility as an actual story if I did that seeing as how my protagonist is a penguin. Well, kind of. He's more of a penguin/man. His name is Penguin Holmes.

Mr. Holmes looked out at the landscape flashing past the train and let out a tired sigh as the green in the grass and leaves took on an unreal neon tinge and the clouds seemed to begin to radiate happiness. Holmes rolled the window blind down and sat back in his chair. He despised Unicornicopia.

Alright, now I know I've lost most if not all credibility seeing as how my protagonist is a penguin parody of Sherlock Holmes and the setting is "Unicornicopia", but I beg you to just stop reading here, because it just gets worse.

Unicornicopia is, simply, the land of Unicorns and was and always has been happily perfect and completely perfectly happy, if you were in to that sort of thing. Penguin Holmes was not. Sure, he liked being happy like the rest of us, just something about the sing-songy manufactured happy that Unicornicopia exuded didn’t appeal to him.

Not that Unicornicopia actually manufactured happiness, it was more a trait of the land. Nobody really knows which came first, the unicorns, or the inherent happiness of the land. But nobody questioned that the two were made for each other. Unicorns are the most trusting and good natured sentient beings in existence, and that goes along way with the campy feel the land of Unicornicopia inexplicably generated.

"This was a mistake," he said to no one in particular.

"What was?" asked a familiar voice from behind the sliding door of the train cart. The door opened and in stepped a Walrus. Walrus Watson (I cannot apologize enough to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle).

"Taking a job without any details in the worst place on Earth," said Holmes as he shifted his position to make room for Watson to sit across from him.

Watson, being a walrus, was a rather large fellow. Had this been a regular story with actual people I would say that his heftiness was due to a glandular problem. This being a semi-parody of Sherlock Holmes with a Penguin agenda, I can only say that Watson’s weight was a species problem. Actually, had he stayed in his home town of Walrilla he would be considered perfectly normal, if not a little on the small side.

"Oh, come now," Watson said while settling in to his seat, "Unicornicopia isn't that bad"

Holmes rolled up the window blind and in the distance a rather large amount of trees were dancing to a song that was inaudible over the train's own grumblings (that also seemed to be picking up a musical quality).

"A little dancing never hurt anyone," Watson said, trying to be helpful.

"Yeah, well tell that to Achilles..."

"...What?"

"Huh? I don't know. I can't concentrate with that damn sun smiling at me."

And sure enough the sun now had a face and was looking down on all of the earth with a giant grin, as if to say, “Gee, what a great day. I’m shining, the Earth is spinning, the trees are dancing. Everything’s going to be alright from here on out.”

Holmes violently pulled the shade down again and was greatly displeased with the fact that it was completely transparent.

“Oh for the love of- …When we get off this train, we're going straight to Ms. Equuleus' house, solving whatever little mystery she has, and getting the hell out of here," Holmes said as he sank back down into his seat.

"Alright," Watson said, "But I guess I should tell you that we still have 4 hours before we reach Unicornicopia's train station.

"Well then you'll have to wake me up when we get there," Holmes said and rested his head on his chest.

Watson got up and went to the dining cart. The train whistle blew out a verse of “The Sun Will Come Out (Tomorrow)”. Holmes, without raising his head or opening his eyes, raised a single eyebrow (or the penguin equivalent to an eyebrow) and muttered, "Bloody unicorns".

Sleuthy

‘These were dark times in the city of Crimetown. Dark and humid times. With a 45% chance of rain. And a 100% chance of crime’

Steel Deadeyes smiled to himself as he wrote in his crime journal. His office barely lit, except for a small lamp on his desk and the moonlight fighting its way through the slits in the window shades.

‘I had a BLT sandwich down at the deli today.’ He continued to write, ‘He wouldn’t give me a discount for being a Private Eye. But it was still good. Really good, in fact. Good enough…’ He skipped a few lines, imagining the anticipation of anyone who might read it later. “Just how good was it?” They would be asking themselves.

‘Good enough…to kill for’

Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair and simultaneously took a drag of his cigarette and a sip from his black coffee. A trick he had learned after repeatedly debating with himself which one made him look more like hard boiled. His coffee mug had the words, “Worlds Greatest Sleuth” written in big bold gold letters. He had bought it at a garage sale.

He opened the upper right drawer of his desk to reveal his .357 Magnum revolver. He lifted the gun out of the desk just to feel the weight of it.

“On nights like this,” he said to the empty room, “Sometimes the only protection from the cold, hard streets. Is cold, hard steel.” Extremely pleased with himself, he placed the gun back in the drawer.

“Come in!” He said to the person he thought was standing outside his door. The door didn’t open however, because no one was there.

“Just checking” Steel said to himself. Usually he could see through the moderately opaque glass, but the hall light blew out 2 weeks ago. And he had learned to do without by merely guessing when someone would be there. It might seem foolish now, but when he’s right, it really throws people off guard.

The window he had installed into his door had the words:

Steel Deadeyes
Private Detective Investigator
Detective
P.I.

The ‘Steel Deadeyes’ and ‘Private Detective Investigator’ had been professionally added to the glass, but Steel had crossed it the latter out with a sharpie when he felt it was redundant and wrote in ‘Detective’. And when he saw in the yellow pages that the majority of people in his line of work were listed as P.I. and not Detective, he made the change again.

‘That’s what I do” Steel Deadeyes thought to himself, “I adapt.”

When Steel was fired from his job as a television critic, did he just roll over and give up?

“No!” Steel shouted to no one in particular.

Did he sell out and get a steady paying job that he wouldn’t have enjoyed very much because he has a problem with authority?

“Not a chance!” Steel yelled, after sipping from his mug, causing coffee to spew over his desk.

“Damn it!” He yelled, reaching into his lower left desk drawer and pulling out a towel that he kept there just for this very reason.

“Come in!” he yelled, realizing he hadn’t done so in a while, and leapt back in his chair in shock when the door opened and Steel’s landlord, Mr. Mosalletti walked in.

Steel tried to compose himself, but when he leapt back in shock, the towel he had been holding flew up in the air. Any dignity he might have salvaged from the situation was quickly destroyed by the fact that the large coffee-soaked swab decided to land on Steel’s head, completely covering him down to his shoulders.

Still, Steel persisted in his nonchalance, “How may I help you, Mr. Mosalletti?” he asked, putting his feet up on his desk and his hands behind his towel covered head.

“Take that stupid towel of your head.” Steel did so with a, “Yes, of course” and proceeded to sit up straight. “Listen, Steven-“

Mosalletti was broken off by Steel loudly coughing and pointing to the sign on his door. The landlord looked at it, and quickly turned back to face Steel.

“I’m not going to call you by Steel Deadeyes, Steve. Frankly, I’m not all that thrilled with you having a window installed into my door AT ALL. But Steel Deadeyes has to be the dumbest name I ever heard. And my name is Moe Mosey Mosalletti. Listen, I let you rent this place because you told me that you were going to have a job soon. That was 2 months ago, and you’re 2 months behind on your rent. Now, you seem like a nice guy. But without a job…I just can’t-”

“I have a job…” Steel interjected, pointing to the door once more.

“A real job. A paying job. How much dough has this Private Eye whatever brought in?”

Steel looked down and began folding and refolding his towel. He mumbled something.

“That’s right, nothing.. I need that rent money by tomorrow Steve, or I’ve gotta kick you out.” He started toward the door, and turned back to add, “Also, I’ve been getting complaints that you’ve been yelling things to yourself again. It’s bothering the other tenants.”

Steel took the towel and placed it neatly back in the bottom left drawer. He looked at his Crime journal still on his desk, now with wet patches where the drops of coffee had landed.

He turned to the first entry and read:

“Crime Watch: Day one.

A man jaywalked across the street right outside my office today. Is there no justice in this city?

A car sped through a red light, trying to catch the tail end of yellow. Is he trying to get some place quickly, or is he running from his past?”

He closed the journal and rolled his chair over to his window. He pried open the window shades and looked out at the busy street. His office was one story up above a laundry mat. He had asked for a third or fourth story, but those rooms already had people in them. People with incomes.

Steel had wanted to be able to look out across his crime-ridden city, just like all the P.I.s from TV and movies. He decided that that must be their secret to success. They had a view of the city, and he didn’t. They could look out and see all of the crimes and mysteries out their just waiting to be solved. And from that vantage point, the solutions must be crystal clear.

His vantage point only showed him a deserted street and a rival laundry mat on the other side.

He rolled back to his desk, put his feet up, and watched as the phone didn’t ring and the door wasn’t knocked on. He almost yelled out, “Come in!” but then remembered his fellow tenants.

He sighed and took his journal and opened it back up to the current day.

‘‘These were dark times in the city of Crimetown…”

A Few of My Favorite Things

I thought I should explain that in my first post, when I said that I expected 2 cents a word from my parents for these entries. That wasn't wishful thinking. I'm actually getting that money. I'm saying this as a warning to anyone who might be following this blog. Expect quantity, not quality.

That's why I've decided to make this post with a hackneyed 'facebook note'-like premise. Things that I like:

The Dune series: When you are a person that likes to watch star trek or star wars, it's very easy to be identified as a nerd. Simply say, "I really like Star Trek" and BAM! Everyone within earshot knows what you are. However, yell out, "I really like Dune" and watch as your nerdiness flies over the head of everyone around you. However, this lack of response can get quite boring, so I've decided to enlighten you all (you're welcome).

Dune is a science fiction series of novels written by the late Frank Herbert, mainly circled around a planet, named Arrakis (nicknamed Dune), completely covered in a nearly uninhabitable desert. This planet however, happens to be the only place where the all important 'spice' can be found. Spice is kind of like a super drug. A drug that lets you see small glimpses of the future. With the only side effect being the physical effect of having awesome blue on blue eyes, it's understandable that everyone in the universe would seek control of Arrakis, and of the spice.

The depth of the dune series can be staggering, especially when opening that first book. And I'll admit that a second reading is required to grasp all the subtleties is the plot. Not to say the first reading isn't enjoyable. It's as exciting as any action book. Knife fights, betrayals, harsh environmental conditions (it is a desert after all), Dune has got it all.

But I suppose what sets Dune apart from most sci-fiction works is the questions it brings up about destiny and religion. What are the moral implications of inadvertently becoming the messiah of a people based solely on the fact that they were preconditioned to accept you as such? Are you still their 'messiah', even if you do lead them to their exultation? Or were you just in the right spot at the right time? And if that's true, couldn't it be that messiahs in the wrong spot at the wrong time pass us every day?

Oh also, the book has giant wurms that live in the desert and can consume an entire village in one go. Even a city, if the wurm is big enough. Which is totally and completely AWESOME.

Next up, Agatha Christie novels: Now, while Sherlock Holmes is my favorite detective, Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot is a close second. But unlike with the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the detective isn't the reason I read these books. Ms. Christie has a certain feel for the criminal mind. What is it that brings a person to murder, to steal, and to lie. And the stories and characters surrounding the crime are what make these mystery novels compelling. So compelling, that her Mouse Trap play remains the longest running play in London with 23,074 as of April 10th, 2008.

Of the many that she has written, and of the ones that I have read, I would recommend 'Murder on the Orient Express' and 'And Then There Were None' (Possibly under the new title of 'Ten Little Indians'). Really good stuff.

The Sandman graphic novels: I opened with something nerdy, I'll end with the ever-nerdy (to the uninitiated) graphic novel. I'm not sure how to go about describing The Sandman, other than it is the darkest, cleverest, and over-all strangest comic* I have ever read.

The story circles around Dream, one of the endless (the others being Death, Desire, Delirium, Destiny, Destruction, and Despair). I suppose I could go into the story but, it being a comic* series, there's quite a lot to go into. For instance, there's the episode where Dream commissions Shakespeare to write "A Midsummer Night's Dream", and then to perform it in front of the real Oberon, Titania, Puck, and a hundred other little fairies and goblins.

*I say 'comic' because graphic novel takes too long to type, but I know a lot of people who get upset when you mix the two up. But really, who cares?

Anyways, all of these things are excellent and I really like them. I just got back from the library where I checked out one of each of these, and I'm really looking forward to reading them.

But that reminds me, does anyone else think that the 'safe place' sign they have at the library looks more like an adult snatching a child away? I don't think I'm the first person to ever say this, but whenever I see that sign that's all I can think about.

Also, since I feel like this post was kind of lacking in humor here's a joke:

Two peanuts were walking a subway.

One was BEAT UP.

Wait, no...

Ignobly yours, the ignoramuose

Several people (No one) have asked me, "Why have you named your blog, 'The Ignoble Ignoramus', 'The Ignoble Ignoramoose'?" And there are a lot of different ways I could answer that question, because there are a lot of different questions within that question. Why did I spell Ignoramus wrong? Why do I consider my self to be an ignoramus? Why do I consider myself to be ignoble? What does ignoble mean? Well, courtesy of me, I've decided to answer most of these questions that none of you actually asked in alphachronologibetical order, in relation to the middle and last names of the people (no one) and the time it takes to say the names of those people (no one) who confronted me with the questions in question.

Firstly, 'Why did you spell 'ignoramus' wrong both in the domain name and in the title of your blog?'

Well, it all started when I first thought of the title ‘ignoble ignoramus’ (more on that later). I did some very in depth research (googled it) and found 'ignoramous' as an entry in urban dictionary. "Huh," I thought to myself, "Ignoramous must be slang". So I accepted the spelling of -mous. Typed it in to the domain field, then the title field and that was that.

Until someone told me that the proper spelling was, in fact, 'ignoramus'.

"Oh no!" I exclaimed to an empty room, as I am like to do, "My witty alliterate title has a typo in it!" The irony of misspelling the word that I was using to describe myself as a moron was overwhelming, and I quickly went into hiding.

Several minutes later, I decided to step it up a notch on the irony front, and misspell ignoramus twice, in close proximity to one another. Failure averted (in my small self-centered world).

Which brings me to my next point. I am an idiot. This kind of thing happens to me all the time. So much so, that I will preemptively strike at upcoming showcases of my idiocy with obvious ploys of 'irony' wherein I hope to portray myself as SO stupid, that no one could possibly see through to the fact that I actually am, THAT stupid.

"But wait, you manly sexy devil, surely if you're able to manipulate a ploy that intricate you couldn't be considered an idiot," you might ask. If you were being prompted questions by me. And that's where you/I would be wrong. Just as animals over time learn to exploit the resources around them, I have learned to exploit the all too accepting of moron-itude prevalent in my generation, without the use of any intelligence whatsoever. And I don't think I am the only one.

All too often I see people attempt to do what I have learned to do. They stumble around searching for a word, when all of a sudden; they are no long certain of the word's pronunciation. So, instead of inviting the cruel mockery of the people around them, they exacerbate their lack of knowledge by not only mispronouncing the word in question, but even all of the simple words around it. I see it happen all of the time, mostly because I do it all of the time.

And I have to wonder, why do I do this cover up, instead of being open about something so simple as a pronunciation of a word? I do this, and lose any opportunity for someone to correct me, and for me to actually learn something new.

I'm afraid of people thinking that I'm not as knowledgeable as I think I am. And I'm willing to sacrifice knowledge in order to maintain that image. It’s a vicious cycle.

That is why I have chosen this title. I'm just an ignoble (common, base, low to answer question 4) ignoramus, trying to make you think I'm not.