The Case of The Naked Asshole

It was midday on the 9th of July, 1884 when Holmes and I were to have a curious meeting, which in turn lead to an even curiouser case. After a brief correspondence, Holmes and I were set to meet with a gentleman who claimed to have built a spaceship, one he called “Earth” that he wished us to see.

Holmes and I rode separately, as he had been home frittering time away with his vast experiments on cocaine, and I was at hospital, voluntarily tending to the wounded from a local fire.

I arrived first, expecting to see a clipper ship of some sort or perhaps a spacious steamship, but instead I was greeted at what appeared to be a giant horse apple (or “Osage orange” which a Yank had once tried to sell me for the purpose of repelling insects. When I questioned him as to whether I should eat the unsightly fruit or make a balm out of it, he hurriedly left the stoop.)

This gentleman (who was not the same as the man on my stoop) went by the initials W.D., and he claimed to be from the future, but all he could produce to prove this to Holmes and myself was a reasonable made-up man doing a terrible impersonation of Abraham Lincoln. Surely the fact that President Lincoln had been assassinated not twenty years ago would lead to a more accurate study for this young actor, but there was far too much squeaking coming from the man and very jerky movements. I was not impressed, and I imagined Holmes would feel the same, whenever he would arrive.

By the time Holmes made his appearance, the mysterious W.D. and his horrid Lincoln actor had left, and what remained of their work was merely the giant space ball, as it were, and some blueprints and plans.

Holmes was quite aware of this space ship “Earth” on his exit from his ornate carriage and inquired as to why we were there, sensing nothing of importance was left for him. I agreed, and I thought it best to move on to our next case, so as to give Holmes some play at what he likes most. From there, we crossed the street to a seminary which had borne witness to more than just the gospel.

The first thing that I took notice of when we entered the Seminary was the amount of lace that was loose. It seemed as though instead of raining manna from heaven lace had rained instead. It was almost indecent to look at it. The next thing that I noticed was a statue of the Lord which I suppose one would expect to see in an institution of learning that has dedicated itself to Christendom. I’m sure Holmes could have told me, simply by looking at this statue, the particular sect and beliefs of this school, I cannot. What I can tell you is that this wasn’t a crucifix, there was no cross to speak of and yet Jesus stood there, in only a loin cloth, looking quite sad. From this unique statue my gaze fell upon a tuft of red hair that was stuck to the wall. I noted that it was quite curly but Holmes didn’t seem interested in this bit of information, indeed he had probably already catalogued it. On the floor were copious amounts of rat droppings in little piles scattered around the room and in and amongst them lay the most expensive necktie I had ever seen. On one end of the room was the seal of the institution we currently inhabited and on the other was a full length mirror that looked like it could have been a recent and hasty addition.

As Holmes began to regale me with the details of the cookie cooking party that had obviously preceded the crime, Lestrade, that sometimes buffoon sometimes genius, ambled imprecisely into the room coughing all the while. He must have been taking statements from the guests of the cookie cooking party because he asked immediately if we had found the streaker. I was a bit disappointed that Holmes hadn’t been allowed to lead me on a wonderful journey that ended in streaking and instead had to be abruptly met with the idea by Lestrade. I feel Holmes must have felt similarly as both similarly dismissed him without truly acknowledging him. (I do regret this as the fool felt the sting of our passive dismissal and mumbled something about dismissing his English roots and actually being an American which, I dare say, is how we must have made him feel.)

After Lestrade’s exit Holmes deduced that the hair had to have come from the rat that had made such a mess of the room and took me to see the Baker Street Bakery Baker, who must have been responsible for the cookies at the aforementioned cooking party. The man was kneading dough as we entered and said he had been doing so for the last 24 hours straight. This didn’t seem reasonable to me and I soon noticed red hairs protruding from the dough from all angles. As we were interrogating the bumbling baker a peculiarly crippled orphan boy entered from the alley to inquire about become an apprentice to this hirsute bread maker. It seemed the heat from the oven may have been too much for him as he soon thereafter ran from our presence in a fit of indignation. Holmes and I gave chase which seemed futile for me and Holmes soon grew bored of and disengaged.
It was then that a stray flying object flew into my open, panting mouth, and as I am not used to having foreign objects in my mouth, I noticed it in an instant. As I pulled the stringy substance off my tongue, I saw that it was a hair. I noted this to Holmes, and together we were able to determine that the hair had the false, waxy composition of a hairpiece.

I would hazard a guess that Holmes’s knowledge of disguises and various wiggeries would lead us through the comprehensive list of businesses to the originator of the piece, and in a way, I was right. Holmes ushered me just down the street to our Baker Street residence, though he was inclined to call it his home. I, feeling like the ever intrusive houseguest, was eager to declare that it was my home as well.

I was relaxing in my favorite armchair at 221B Baker Street while Holmes was busy at work, comparing the strand of false hair to the hundreds he kept filed away, next to his collection of cigar ash. The brilliant Sherlock Holmes held onto the assortment of ashes, the faction of fake hair, and many others for this sort of occasion.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. And simply from the knock, my ever observant friend Sherlock Holmes could tell that

It was our landlady, Mrs. Hudson. He explained to me he could tell from the sound of the knock in conjunction with the stomp from her enormous and heavy footwear.

Mrs. Hudson had returned from a weary day working her new business, selling what was either golden letters, golden lettuce, or perhaps even golden lattice. It could even have been all of these combined, but Mrs. Hudson with her squeaky, screeching, and mildly irritating falsetto voice, it was hard to discern anything concrete from her. I thought it best to move on from the golden lettuce shaped like letters and I asked her for some tea. As Mrs. Hudson occasionally suffered from hearing loss, I thought it best to loudly pronounce the T of tea, over and over again, while she playfully tried to smack me on my rump. With this talk of T and Rump, Holmes was sure he was onto the bigger picture here, though I think he was indicating something more lascivious between Mrs. Hudson and myself, which I will neither confirm nor deny.

Surely a commodity such as golden lettuce had to be coming into the country from an external source, as it is not an indigenous food staple of the United Kingdom. We forged our way ahead to the shipyard docks, a desolate place in evening time, the water shrouded in mist, sailor’s calls and wailing shrieks of ship horns, the moors molded in budding moonlight.
It was here where we observed a bushy old sea captain climb his way up the jagged rocks and proclaim that this was indeed the end for him. He would throw himself into the depths of the ocean, where remained the only woman he would ever love. In hearing this news, I was sure the man talked of the nonsensical myth of a mermaid, or perhaps he’d loved and lost his woman onboard a ship. Unfortunately, I was unable to ascertain any more from this surly, bedraggled man as after his declarations of such recklessness, as his son, a clear enabler of sorts, allowed his father to jump into the water to drown.

The sea captain plummeted from the rocks to his death, waving his arms as he fell like they were two pieces of spaghetti, and the young man quickly had second thoughts about this tragedy, diving in after him for an attempted rescue.
Sherlock explained to me that he was able to unscramble the secret message that was left for him in the latticed golden lettuce letters and he knew that someone was to drown at the docks.

In his grief, the young man revealed to us that the scraggly old sea captain was his “ma”, and I understood that this poor sea captain had been living a tortured life as one of those woman/man combinations I only read about in medical textbooks. The woman at the bottom of the ocean was himself.

As the Sea Captain’s body disintegrated from the various oceanic chemicals, and the young man ran away to grieve privately, Holmes and I thought it best to seek information from the Rat King, a slovenly man who lived in the alley behind our apartment.
I must admit, what I enjoyed most of this adventure was that all of our locations were close distance-wise to our home, but also it did prove strange that so many happenings could occur just outside our door.
The Rat King preferred fresh garbage to munch on, and though he was hideous, naked, and hairy, we had to look upon him to plumb the depths of his knowledge of the street. He was prone to running from us, but was beleaguered by the state of big buildings, little work, and Mr. Pickins the circus owner refusing to hire him back into circus work.
Holmes thought it best to seek out Mr. Pickins, as Mr. Pickins was not only the owner of the circus of freaks, he also ran the toupee shop up the street, one that provided a hairpiece that of the same composition as the earlier hair that flew into my own mouth.

Even though our adventures led us merely up and down the street, my legs were weary and my brain was tired, and my accent was getting lower and lower class. I then sounded more like a chimney sweep than a refined and educated doctor. I asked Holmes to seek out a carriage for us and he was able to secure his same carriage from earlier.
I always enjoy carriage rides, they are a luxury I cannot live without, and these close quarters seem to bring out the best in Mr. Holmes. He took the time to regale me with stories of his schoolyboy days, and what an early teacher made of him. It was terribly amusing to hear that a Mrs. Diggery was sure that he would grow up to make lasagna, what with Sherlock having a particular distaste for ricotta cheese. I must say, I laughed at this so hard that for a moment I could not breathe.

When we arrived at Mr. Pickins’ toupee shop, we found no light to illuminate the entryway, and what was very surprising was that Mr. Pickins was able to flip a switch that controlled the lanterns and candles that were lit above us. Had we more time, I would have liked to investigate this contraption, but alas, we were on a case. I can only imagine it consisted of a series of wires and pulls that attached to flints near the wicks of the candles and that flicking it as he did this caused a spark that allowed the primed wicks to ignite.

Holmes confronted Mr. Pickins on his inclusion of rat hair in his toupees and posited that he was harboring runaway rats in the back room. I inquired as to any other workers, perhaps a son, one that might have been injured by the rats, and Holmes demanded that Mr. Pickins’ son be brought forth.

Lo and behold, we met again with the orphan child, Lily, which of course is a very genderless name when it comes to children. My middle name is Lily. It turned out that Mr. Pickins had disowned his child and refused to look at them after a few incidents with rats. The poor orphan had been eaten alive by rats and had limbs replaced with pieces of wood. Lily remarked that he was basically a tree.

Holmes returned to the Seminary, sure that there might have been a clue he glossed over while he was distracted by the crime at hand. He wished to look under Jesus’s loincloth, and I admit that prospect had me shocked.

He looked, and claimed to regret it. This piqued my own interest, and I had to look as well. As I reached through Jesus’s loincloth, I was able to knock loose a money clip that had been left there. Holmes was able to deduce that money was stolen from this Seminary and that the criminal had been morally and officially bankrupt at one time or another.

With this, Sherlock Holmes knew he was on the right track, and ran around the entire building in excitement, gathering up the cast of characters he had met during the day and referred to along the way. It was then that he described the crime in great detail, a crime involving red hair, tweed jackets, kneading hair and needing hair.

Sometimes Sherlock Holmes’s racing mind puts my brain into a tizzy and I am unable to keep up. I wished to simply know who was behind this streaking crime, and if he could solve it there was a slim chance he could become President of the United States, and Sherlock told me that William Henry Taft said that Abraham Lincoln was his favorite president, which reminded me of the earlier Abraham Lincoln I met. Holmes rambled on about some man named Jeb Bush.

I was lost in this story, and it seemed that Sherlock might have been as well but in hearing that if he didn’t solve the mystery he’d have to quit, that another detective could trump him, he was one hundred percent sure that the vicious money-grubbing streaker was none other than an angry, greedy fellow named Donald Trump.

Just then, in a cloud of smoke, this Donald Trump appeared to confirm his criminal activities, claiming his reasoning was, “so what?” and then proceeded to taunt Sherlock Holmes, and then escape. He yelled for a woman named Ivanka to bring a carriage around, but promptly ignored the carriage. He ran away and jumped into a gondola, where he paddled out of Sherlock’s reach.

We chased him, jumping into our carriage, where I got to hear another remarkable and hysterical story of Sherlock’s youth. Ah, how that man astounds and amazes me. And though it seemed for just a moment that the criminal in this case was out of his reach, I learned that Sherlock Holmes would always be able to put the finger on one naked asshole.

The Case of the Naked Asshole was performed, and consequently written by: Zach Scott – Sherlock Holmes, Stephen Kadwell – Dr. Watson, Matt Fox, Jordan Matthews and Kayla Tyson – Baker Street Irregulars.

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