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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 bigger glass of
straight whiskey while Doctor Whacko is narrating).

"Look out for Blondin!" I heard Sunblock Hose shout as I went skidding off the edge of the roof and into the most unsupportive night air.

"Look out for who?!?" a voice then called from below.

"Blondin!" Hose shouted back, "You know, the aerialist!"

"Never heard of him!" the voice replied.

"Then look out for Whacko!" Sunblock Hose shouted as I struck the ample girth of the Scotland Yard inspector who had just arrived on the scene.

"Why, Inspector Atheltheethells Jones!" Sunblock Hose exclaimed as he slid down the drain pipe. "How good of you to arrive at such a propitious moment!"

"The treasure is gone!" George Foreman cried out as he came out the front door of Poundacherries Sweat Lodge. "Someone took it while we were upstairs!"

"Do you mean every one of those valuable diamond-embedded axes is gone?" I asked. Foreman nodded. "Thank God," I sighed.

"Well, they may have gotten the treasue, but we certainly have them," Sunblock Hose exclaimed, pointing to the ground. Following his pointing finger I saw more of the baby footprints, one of which had stepped in a large conglomeration of dog feces.

"Do you mean, we can now trail this scent across town, following them to their eventual destination?" I asked.

"No, Whacko," Sunblock Hose replied with a laugh. "I just thought it was funny they stepped in doggie doo." Atheltheethells Jones laughed heartily along with Hose.

"I love it when they do that!" Jones chuckled.

Hose handed me a crowbar. "Here, Whacko, see if you can pry Nary Marestongue away from the crime scene so you can take her home. I shall dress up like a sailor and go down to the docks and see if I can score . . . uh, scare up some clues."

Nary Marestongue was coming out of Poundacherries Sweat Lodge at that very moment, flushed and out of breath. I indicated that I was ready to escort her home, and we got into a hansom cab, which headed for Lower Chamberpot. Miss Marestongue, who had so long borne herself in the calm, angelic fashion of a woman in the afterglow, broke down in sudden outburst of weeping.

"I'm sooo lonely!" she wailed, "Take me now, Dr. Whacko!"

But how could a poor self-service surgeon like myself, living off the coat-tails of a world-famous detective, ever hope to take advantage of such an offer? Surely a rich young heiress like Miss Marestongue would charge double what the girls in Whitechapel did. But maybe she'd give a writer's discount, though Author Conman Doll would undoubtedly show up to claim it, should it be offered.

Such a confusion was what filled my mind as we crossed London Bridge. Our helpful cabman, his head through the tapdoor as he offered to aid Miss Marestongue's plight, totally ignored the sign stating that the bridge was going up to let steam launch traffic pass underneath. With a fearsome whinney I heard the cab-horse go over the edge, and felt the sickening lurch as the cab began to follow . . .

WILL WHACKO FALL INTO LOVE?

WILL NARY MARESTONGUE GIVE CONMAN DOLL THE WRITER'S DISCOUNT?

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

(Originally presented on the Baker Street list on July 13, 1998.)