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More Adventures of
Sunblock Hose
and
Doctor Whacko

The world's Faust and pharmacist serial
consenting detective and his little
wooden friend by A. Conman Doll
(who is refers to Wacko as "Mr.
Timber-toes" when they're alone).

Screams of horror turned quickly into delighted laughter, and Miss Marestongue's victims took turns vigorously shaking her hand.

"We actually thought we were Siamese twins!" the left member of the pair in the formerly one-piece greatcoat told her. "Apparently our mother dressed us with one set of clothes for economic reasons from childbirth on, and we came to think that we were actually physically connected!"

"It was Mr. Hose's idea that I split you apart with the axe," Nary Marestongue exclaimed, blushing.

"I observed a certain elasticity of your attachment," Sunblock Hose remarked with a yawn. "And since we had the axe . . ."

"You don't know the irony of it!" the right-hand twin laughed. "Run ahead, brother Barred-Tail Mule, and prepare the treasure room for our guests!"

"You don't know how much pleasure it will give me, brother That Dead Ass! I'm not nearly as attached to you as I used to be." Barred-Tail Mule disappeared into the giant edifice made entirely of buffalo skins.

"Welcome to Poundacherries Sweat Lodge!" the remaining brother said with the broad sweeping gesture of a genial host. "An oasis of pseudo-Native American culture in the white man's settlement of South London. I am That Dead Ass Sholtomoto. My brother and I are the sons of Major H'dache Sholtomolto, once of the US Cavalry."

"My father's commanding officer!" Nary Marestongue exclaimed.

"Quite so," Sholtomoto replied. "Sergeant Marestongue was a close friend of our father. They prospered together in Indian country, and our father came ahead to England with a great deal of cash and artifacts while your father went on to serve out his tour of duty with General Custer. That didn't work out too well, I hear."

"Mr. Sholtomoto! Mr. Sholtomoto!" a large, bald-headed man can running out of Poundacherries Sweat Lodge. "The other Mr. Sholtomoto . . . he's dead!"

"Dead?"

"See for yourself! But these strangers should stay out here."

"I am no stranger, Foreman," Sunblock Hose said and kicked the bald-headed man in the groin. "Surely you remember the amateur who gave you one of those the night of your retirement from boxing!"

There was a small squeak of a reply from the ex-boxer: "Not Sunblock Hose! I'd have recognized you in an instant if you'd have just told me your name."

"Come, George, let us attend to my poor brother!" Sholtomoto said.

"You paid too much for that muffler," Foreman told Sholtomoto. "The extra long one you bought for winter ... now that there's just one of you and you're not Siamese, you could have . . ."

Foreman opened the massive buffalo-skin door to Poundacherries Sweat Lodge and we followed him inside. As he slammed the door behind us, I could not help but notice the sharp edges of a hundred axes beginning to fall . . . .

WILL THE HORROR NEVER END?

OR HAS THE NIGHTMARE JUST BEGUN?

BE HERE NEXT WEEK FOR THE THRILLING ANSWERS! SAME WHACK-TIME! SAME WHACK-WEB-SITE!

(Originally presented on the Baker Street list on July 11, 1998.)