Tuesday, 28 December 2010

A study in fuschia part 2

In the parlour of the stately mansion, El balcone, we all stood in silence, not one of us breaking the silence that had befallen the group of myself, my companion Sam L. Jones, our hostess Ms Craddock and her butler Jack moments ago. The doors into the parlour had burst open and in had walked a man declaring himself 'detective' Homer he looked like, for want of a better word, a moron. There he was in trousers a shade of yellow i have yet to encounter in any dye shop in the empire, his shirt was pink, untucked and stained with what seemed at first glance to be mustard but upon closer inspection was something more foul. He wore a deerstalker hat at the most offensively jaunty angle and upon his face he had a bemused expression that made me think his IQ was in the range of the plant that he proceeded to knock over as he entered the room.

"What you guys talking about?" said Homer, my companion was for the first time since we had met lost for words, it was most unlike Jones who had in the past talked his way around the guards at the palace and when confronted by the Queen had managed to get us both invited for tea the next day. "We were just about to discuss the events of the case Detective Homer, you and Mr Jones here have both answered my call for help." Said Ms Craddock.
"Yes...Yes, do go on my dear lady," Jones said regaining some of his cool.
"Well the events happened in this order, it was had been my 20th birthday in the summer, yet at the time i had been struck with terrible fever and could not properly celebrate, i was terribly disappointed, so with my papa travelling back to India to rejoin his regiment, he said i could have a late party, to which i invited a small gathering of friends. Myself and Jack were here and i invited Miss Scarlett Dagger a childhood friend, my servant from our previous home Mrs Anne White, a friend of my papa's young Captain James Mustard, the local priest Ian Green and the late Wilbur Smith IV, whom lived nearby and was fond of calling at all hours." Jones began noting down all the possible suspects, while Homer proceeded to eat the scones the butler had laid out. "They all arrived three nights ago and i proceeded with the introduction but it turned out only Captain Mustard and Mrs White were not at least acquaintances with the rest of the group, that night we went to bed early and rose late the next. We played croquet on the lawn where i believe Mr Smith won a small amount from the captain and reverend, we then had a fine tea and were entertained by music and then proceeded to the drawing room where we played a few hands of whist, everything was going smoothly until Scarlett jumped up accusing Wilbur of cheating, tempers rose as he defended his position but was sadly found with cards up his sleeve. We were mighty angry but he apologised, repayed our money, and even presented us all with a bottle of port which he said he was saving we were all, i thought, happy with the apology. I decided to turn in for the night after the incident at about 10 o'clock, everyone else did the same, it was about an hour later when Scarlett came to my door and entered my room to apologise for her behaviour earlier shouting in my house, i told her no need to worry and all was forgiven so we stayed up chatting amongst our selves, it was then we herd a clatter and a massive thud, running to the hall we found Wilbur lying at the bottom of the stairs. I gave an almighty scream which woke the whole house, we all ran to him and Jack confirmed he was dead, it was clear to everyone that foul play had occurred as his neck was terribly abused and bloodied like he had been strangled before his fall down the stairs, so we called the local police who then said they were at a loss and would put it down to accidental causes which i would not have, which lead to me calling you two fine detectives in, pray tell me what or who do you think could have caused this terrible tragedy to unfold?"
"It is a tricky problem there," said Jones "I will need to look at the scene and talk to those at the party, before firm conclusions can be drawn." the lady's face fell slightly, "Don't worry" I interluded "Jones here will get to the solution, no case has yet been too great for him. There will be a solution." She smiled at me, "I hope for my sake you are right doctor, come Detective Homer what is your take on the events i have described."

We looked over at the cake stand, where he was still eating the cakes "Scarlett...nom nom..... used a Dagger......munch munch..... in the..er erm what ya' 'ma called.......hall!"

To be continued.

Friday, 24 December 2010

A study in fuschia

It was on a cold November night that i found myself, Dr. John Sexy, in a carriage with my colleague Sam L. Jones, the most notable detective of our times. He had received a wire from a mysterious source late in the evening and proceeded to wake me from my doze in front of the fire to fetch us a cab and make our way to a house on the outskirts of the city of Dundee.

It wasn't until halfway through our journey that he moved from his position of staring out of the window in a look i knew was one he used when working over complex problems in his brain. "The facts, Doctor, are these," he said in a calm monotone voice, "This evening i received a wire from a Ms Dulcie Craddock of El Balcone, a country house a mile outside the city, she asked for my services in a terrible matter, a murder has taken place and the local constables have no clue how to act and it would take a week or more for a Scotland Yard boy to arrive and the trail will be cold by then, so she has sent word to all the local experts asking for assistance in the matter."
"Well," I said, "you'll have a clear run at this one old boy, no interference from outside sources then."
"Indeed, this should turn out to be perhaps my most easiest case to date." replied Jones.

It was a little over half an hour before we arrived at the house where upon entering the building we were shown into the parlour. There sitting at the table was our host Ms Craddock, it was Jones who spoke first, "Greetings Ms Craddock, I'm Sam L. Jones and this is my companion Doctor John Sexy."
"How do you do?" I added.
Jones continued "We apologise for the lateness of our arrival but we just received your wire this very evening and sought to head over as soon as possible."
"No need for apologies gentlemen i am glad you responded so speedily to my request," Ms Craddock said, "I hope you could be of assistance in the matter as it would take an age for a Scotland Yard detective to arrive and i fear by then it might be too late."
"Don't worry," I said, "Mr Jones here is the finest detective in all of Scotland he can, I'm sure, easily sort out the problem at hand."
"I think," said Jones tentatively, "that we should start out with you telling us the events that lead up to and including the murder that took place here."
"Very well," Said Ms Craddock, "I shall get my butler Jack to bring down the other detective and then tell you all the events that took place."
"The other detective?!" I remarked.
"Yes, he arrived about a half hour before you did," said Ms. Craddock, "strangest thing barged right in, said he would solve it and without another word went to look for clues upstairs.... Ah here he is, what did you say your name was again sir?"
Behind us the double doors leading into the parlour had burst open and in walk a man of short stature with a bemused look upon his face, "Why, I'm Homer, Detective Homer."

To be continued.

Wednesday, 22 December 2010

The end

and thus brings about the end of the Homer trilogy in the future i shall look to produce detective novels with similar characters, keep watching this space.

At last the idiot learns

It was a cold snowy July morn in panty panty and the world was at peace as the recently ressurected Homer was frolicking through the enchanted internet he was back among the partially social people and could be now contacted at a moments notice.

However Homer being Homer being a goat, he had stupidly sent an affensive email to Mark Zuckerberg describing how terrible he was and that his website, despite Homer's need to use it or else all his friends would forget about him, was a piece of rubbish. This did not sit well with Zuckerberg the pony as he read his one insulting email a day, "I shall have to deal with mr Homer personally as this insult to myself and facebook shall not stand!"

So Zuckerberg travelled to Panty panty and met with Homer the overly grammatical owl, and gave him a stongly worded letter that not only told him to cease and decist but also called into question his ability to write as his stories were too fantisful for the readers to connect to the characters, and also questioned his mother's sexuallity.

reading the letter Homer began to cry, Zuckerberg then proceeded to take all of Homer's money and musical talent and proceeded to leave Panty panty while Homer lay sobbing.

The End.

Tuesday, 21 December 2010

The idiot to end all idiots

After being resurrected somehow, Homer the racist swan was back and this time he had a new idea that he thought would set the world on fire, "what if i get rid of the one of the most direct ways of contacting me! Why thats a brilliant notion," and with two clicks of a literal mouse the task was done.

"Now to sit back and see what i have acomplished," said our feline friend.

Minutes became hours, hours became days, days became minutes again (time is a funny thing) and still Homer the bee didnt hear from any of his supposed friends who had previously murdered him. "Why? oh Why? have they not joined my revolution he thought as he logged into his email account.

In his near empty inbox Homer the hound found one new email it was from his friend Sam, "This will cheer me up no end," remarked the kangeroo version of Homer. The Email read, Dear Homer I cant be bothered to txt you my phone is at least 2 metric feet away, and without facebook i can no longer contact you, this is an email to confirm the end of our friendship,
fond farewells,
Sam the bunny.
p.s everyone else feels the same but can't be bothered with the process of email.

It was the sadness from this email that prompted Homer the mexican to them overdose on potatoes and take his own life.

The End???

A story to end all stories

Once upon a time in a land with a name that looked like Panty panty but was pronounced Brooklyn, there lived a boy called Homer, the term boy was used very loosely as he more resembled a wise cracking skunk. Oh how he loved to spend his days writing stories that just popped into his large yet overly small head, anything from potatoes to space badgers were icluded in his fantasmical stories. A clear lack of direction and chronology were evident in these stories but nontheless they were widely viewed.

On day while quilling his next masterpiece our fearless mongoose ( yes he's now a mongoose, I can do that) heard a gunshot outside his stately council flat, the sound cut through the air like a warm piece of toast cuts through a cold winter morning, our hero was scared...

Looking out of his window with a nervous stare he realised that there was indeed no danger as the wielder of the gun was none other than his chum-pall Malik, "Chuff, chuff choff." Said Malik as he rapped on the door much like a woodpecker raps on a plate of chips. Homer the goat leaped out of his beanbag and galloped as fast as his horse feet would take him to meet his part time lover, but that was his first and most deadliest mistake to date. As he opened the door he was greeted by not just malik but also a crowd of people who without seeking their permission he had incuded in his stories, and thus broke the image and likeness contracts Tetley had on his friends costing them £2.6 million in a lucrative sports deals with Nike. Each was armed with their weapon of choice, Malik a gun, Chris Duff a baseball bat, Sam with a Nurf gun, Laura a baking tray, Faye a mace, Tetley with guilt and Ruaridh with Hip.

Like a powerful panter in Ruaridh's nightmares they struck and knocked down our hero lobster. he was dead and they then proceeded to stuff his dead racoon body with the potatoes he was so fond of.

The End?