Written by CaptainSausage
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Sunday, 23 September 2012

image for The Somewhat Violent Adventures of Sherlock Hunt: Murder at Black Dog Manor

It was to my utter delight that I learned I was to become assistant to the great Sherlock Hunt, master detective. I had heard such stories about the man that I dared not believe I would have a chance to actually work with him. Nevertheless it was to be my employ, and on the day it began I hastened to Baker Street with a spring in my step and joy in my heart.

"Good morning Mr Hunt," I ejaculated.

"What the fahk do you want?" came the terse reply.

"Tis I, Watson," I spouted. "I am to be your assistant."

"Well Watson. There's one thing I don't like and that's scum," and with that he punched me square in the testes. I fell to the floor clutching my damaged man parts.

"Whatever was that for?" I dribbled, breathlessly.

"It's a test. To see if you're scum or not."

"Did I pass?" I asked, getting up off the floor.

"How the fahk should I know?" said the inscrutable Sherlock Hunt. "Anyway, no time to mess about. There's been a murder."

And with that he grabbed his violin case and off we went. I had heard many tales of Hunt's brilliant musicianship, and hoped that perhaps one day I would get to hear him play violin for myself.

"Is it a Stradivarius?" I probed, pointing to the case.

"Nah, a fahking Gatling," was the surprising reply.

As we raced through the cobbled streets of London town, we passed a boy carrying an apple.

"Oi!" called out Hunt. "Where did you nick that from?"

"I didn't steal it," protested the child, but to no avail.

Hunt took the fruit and began eating it. He then clipped the urchin round the ear and said, "Now clear off, you little toerag or I'll have you deported to bleeding Australia."

This was not the Hunt I had expected to see. But I persevered, sure in my mind that the great man may have his quirks but that deep down he was an awesome intellect and a most excellent sleuth. I was sure I would have much to learn from him.

We took a hackney carriage to Black Dog Manor, a couple of miles outside London. As we disembarked from the coach, Hunt said to the driver, "Don't worry about the cost, I'm special branch," and we left without paying.

Sherlock Hunt had received a telegram that very morning before I arrived. It said that Herbert Horn, owner of Black Dog Manor, was dead. The maid greeted us at the door and showed us in. She was clearly very upset.

"Come on in sirs. There's the body over there on the floor," she wailed. "It's ever so sad. Happened overnight."

"Right you slaag!" barked Hunt and he put the maid in a headlock. "What have you done? Why did you kill him?"

"I didn't. I didn't," shrieked the terrified wench.

"Come on, let her go," I ejected.

"Oh! Tell me how to solve the case will you?" and with that he dropped the maid and grabbed me in a headlock. He rubbed his knuckles against my scalp. "You killed him didn't you? You set up this whole thing."

"No. I didn't."

Then with a sudden thought he dropped me as well. "I know. Let's search the body."

He walked over to the corpse, and pulled a packet of white powder from his pocket. He then placed the powder into the pocket of the body, and pretended to find it there.

"Well. What have we here? Some opium perhaps. I'd better test it."

Hunt laid out a line of the powder on the floor and snorted it up.

"Seems legit. Now let's do a full test."

He rolled up his sleeve and removed his belt and tied it tight around his arm to use as a tourniquet. He then produced a syringe and injected the powder into the veins of his arm.

"Oh yeah!" he exclaimed. "That's top skag. Right, where the fahk were we?"

Looking around, Sherlock Hunt spotted a blunderbuss above the mantelpiece. He grabbed it, and used it to shoot the dead body straight in the head. Before I could ask why, he placed the weapon in the hands of the corpse and said, "There. It was a fahking suicide. Case closed."

I felt I had to say something. "But what about the..."

"Case fahking closed!" he said.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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