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The Adventures of
Sunblock Hose
and
Doctor Whacko

The world's fast and furious
consoling detective and his mannequinal
sidekick by A. Conman Doll
(whose has his hand up Doctor
Whacko's back for some odd reason).

As shots rang out through all 21 floors of number 2 Laker Street, it was my greatest pleasure to find that I had made it to the floor with appropriate haste.

"Come, Whacko, come!" Sunblock Hose cried out. "I had to leave a note for the landlady to let her know that we will be back for supper!"

Looking up through the haze of smoke and airborne plaster, I could see that the bullet pocks on the wall did indeed spell out such a message and within moments Hose and I were in a hansom cab, careening down Twixton Road on our way to Laurenbacall Gardens.

It was a foggy, softly-lit morning, with dew upon the tender leaves of nature's verdant panorama and the waking symphony of birds and crickets working their magic upon my spirits. Sunblock Hose seemed somehow energized by our brisk flight through the morning world, and prattled endlessly about the differences between the cat-gut strings of a Stradivarius and the strings of a Garchasna, which are made entirely from the spinal cords of dock rats.

"Stop, driver, stop!" I cried out at last, when I could stand no more. We were still two miles from our destination, but Sunblock Hose insisted on walking the rest of the way with me, his eyes lazily searching the ground as we went.

"Look! A shilling!" he ejaculated and snatched his prize from the grime of the street. Before we arrived at our destination, he had accumulated nearly a pound.

Number 3 Laurenbacall Gardens had a gaudy and well-trafficked look.

Three tiers of well-covered windows were differentiated by only a "No Waiting" sign in one of the lower levels. A small knot of loafers lined up outside the gate, and Inspector Lestadt met us at the door. He was a small, rat-faced fellow, and I could not help but wonder what manner of sound his spinal cord would make on a base violin.

"I have left the body untouched!" Lestadt said to Hose as he led us into the house and to a large square room adorned only by a vulgar flocked wallpaper and an equally heavily flocked Queene Anne bed surmounted by a King Henry VII canopy. Indeed, much vulgar flocking had gone into the decor scheme and I was glad that the entire scene was lit only by a red wax stump of a candle, melted and drooping.

Centered in all this was a single, white, motionless female (SWMF, as the ad Sunblock Hose would later place in the paper would read), stretched out upon the bed. On her rigid face was an expression of horror that seemed to me could only come from a good look at the awful decor that surrounded her.

The ready, nimble fingers of Sunblock Hose were all over the body, unbuttoning here, unlacing there, while his eyes pored intently over her every physical detail.

"That normally would cost five shillings," Lestadt told me as he watched in admiration.

"You can take him to the mortuary now!" Hose commanded at last, and I felt the strong hands of Lestadt's constables grasp my shoulders.

WILL DOCTOR WHACKO WIND UP ON A SLAB?

WILL HOSE GO FOR A FULL TEN SHILLINGS WORTH?

BE HERE TOMORROW FOR THE EXCITING ANSWERS! SAME WHACK-TIME! SAME WHACK-WEB-PAGE!

(Originally presented on the Baker Street list on June30, 1998.)