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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 injecting large doses of
morphine while Doctor Whacko is narrating).

The sensation and sounds of a hansom cab falling over a draw-bridge that wasn't supposed to be a draw-bridge and into the Thames is something that I hope the reader will trust me to say that he or she would rather not experience. I will, therefore, omit the details of such traumatic happenings, and move on to the moment wherein, Nary Marestongue and I found ourselves treading water and watching the hansom cab, horse, and driver floating away downstream. I later learned that all three not only survived, but flourished as a "Reluctant Bathers Service" in which they would drive malodorous loved ones into bodies of water after pretending to take them to a music-hall.

"Climb on my back," I'll told Miss Marestongue as I paddled for my life. "If you go down, I would just as soon you went . . ."

"Why, thank you, doctor!" she gurgled in delight as she bobbed in the tides, somehow knowing what I was going to say even before I said it."

"No one is going down while I'm in the audience!" came the familiar voice of Sunblock Hose. I looked up to see a steam launch with Hose standing upon the prow, dressed in sailor togs. As we were pulled aboard, I noticed that half of Scotland Yard was with him, as well as an ancient dog.

"Allow me to introduce Tobiwan Houndogy, the psychic tracker and former canine companion of Sherman the gerbil-stuffer," Hose announced, indicating an old dog wearing a sack-cloth robe.

"He's the best on the Force," Atheltheethels Jones added.

"Tobiwan not only brought us to the scene of your distress, Whacko, he has also found the stolen Viagra Treasure and the murderers of the Sholtomoltos!"

Holmes pointed up river to a rapidly moving steam ferry with two ominous figures watching us from the stern. One of them looked just like a Valentine's Day Cupid, down to the sash and bow and arrows. The other was an aging man in an American cavalry uniform, whose legs were so stiffened he had to use a cane to get around.

"Halt, ferry!" Jones called out as we neared the other boat.

"He's not a fairy, he's a cherub!" the stiff-legged man called back.

The cherub seemed quite insulted by the remark, and aimed his small bow and arrow at us, and began to pull back his bowstring. I raised my revolver and fired.

"Too low!" Sunblock Hose shouted, "you'll only put holes in the boat, and sink those valuable axes of the Viagra Treasure to the bottom of the Thames."

Well aware of my actions, and determined to rid London of those cursed axes, I kept firing.

I felt Nary Marestongue pull close to me, seeking protection, her small body pressed against my back and her dainty hands gripping my arms tightly to keep me turned in the direction of our foes.

"Stupid fairy couldn't hit the broad side of a toadstool!" she shouted in a deep voice not unlike my own. The cherub seemed even more perturbed by her taunts, and I felt the sharp prick of a tiny, Viagra-dipped arrow as it entered my flesh . . . .

IS THIS THE END OF DR. WHACKO AT LONG LAST?

OR IS IT JUST THE BEGINNING OF DR. WHACKO LASTS LONG?

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

(Originally presented on the Baker Street list on July 17, 1998.)