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More Adventures of
Sunblock Hose
and
Doctor Whacko

The world's fast and furious serial
consenting detective and his little
wooden friend by A. Conman Doll
(who is now drinking a big glass of
straight whiskey while Doctor Whacko is narrating).

We put our shoulders to the single door in the corridor, and its smashing opening brought a cascade of light into the once-dark hall. Looking back, we could now see the staring corpse of That Dead Ass Sholtomoto, which I quickly tended to as best I could.

"He's dead, Jim," I pronounced. It was a long tradition among the medical men of my family to call someone Jim when we pronounced someone dead, and one that would continue, I was sure, long after men had left this planet and headed for the stars.

"He's also stiff as a board, Whacko," Sunblock Hose observed. "Rigor mortis doesn't set in this fast . . . look, a tiny arrow protrudes from his neck. I'll wager my Stradivaricose that this arrow was dipped in the water from the Viagra spring!"

"I'm impressed . . ." Nary Marestongue breathed in wide-eyed amazement.

"Look here, Mr. Hose," George Foreman said from the next room.

"Bar-Tailed Mule Sholtomolto is in the same condition!"

"Send someone for Scotland Yard, my good man," Sunblock Hose told Foreman. "Whacko and I shall look over the crime scene."

"And I shall look over the bodies!" Nary Marestongue chimed in.

The chamber in which we found ourselves was about five feet one way and eight hands another way, or, if you prefer, eighteen ears this way or six shins that way. The floor was made of rafters with the other side of the earlier floor's ceiling between them, and the dust . . . look, it was an attic. You know what an attic looks like. Don't make me waste a whole paragraph describing an attic. If you don't know what one looks like, get a ladder and go look at yours, okay? Good. And there was a dead Sholtomoto body and a trap door to the roof, too.

"What do you make of this, Whacko?" Sunblock Hose pointed to a small footprint in the dust.

"Hose!" I gasped, "A baby has done this awful deed!"

"Yes, Whacko, and what do you make of this footprint?" He then pointed to a round mark in the dust, like the imprint of a table leg.

"Hose!" I gasped, "The baby had furniture up here!"

"Very good, Whacko," Hose congratulated me. "You have completely broken free of rational thought as we know it."

I smiled at his compliments and followed him through the trap door onto the roof.

"Don't mind me," Miss Marestongue called up. "I'll find something to occupy myself with down here."

Just then the roof tiles gave way, and I found myself sliding toward the precipice of a several story drop . . .

WILL FALL COME EARLY THIS YEAR FOR DR. WHACKO?

AND WHAT KIND OF FURNITURE DID THE BABY HAVE, ANYWAY?

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

(Originally presented on the Baker Street list on July 12, 1998.)