Originally published in the May 1893 issue of Cricket And Ornamental Tobacco Pipes Monthly, The Case Of The Murdered Man is easily the most terrible Sherlock Holmes story ever written. It is also the most difficult of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's works to track down, as the author personally destroyed most copies and declined to publish the tale again. To this day, only fragments of the original tale have been recovered.
"London was a collection of buildings. There was fog. Horse-drawn carriages jostled along cobblestone streets. Merchants yelled at passers-by as they held their wares up for display, everything from rocks to handfuls of mud to moist scraps of paper scavenged from alleys."
"Watson became suspicious. Why had the butler stated his occupation as 'murderer' when he was clearly a butler? Was he hiding something?"
"Sherlock Holmes played the violin in his home at 221b Baker Street. Doctor Watson suddenly arrived. His landlady also suddenly arrived with a note that described the details of a new case. Within moments a constable suddenly arrived to see if Holmes wanted a ride to the scene of the crime and some preliminary information about the case. Before Holmes could answer all of the suspects suddenly arrived at 221b Baker Street and gave their account of what happened on the night in question."
"Sherlock yanked on the flight stick. His biplane did a loop, but his pursuers were still after him and they were shooting bullets towards him. Sherlock had an idea. He pointed the plane at a narrow vertical crevice in the face of a sheer cliff. He turned the plane sideways so it just barely fit into the gap. The enemy planes ran into the rocks and blew up. On Sherlock Holmes' shoulder, his pet monkey clapped in celebration and did a backflip."
"The woman was skeptical about Sherlock's deductive abilities. The great detective raised an eyebrow. 'Allow me to make a few observations about your person, ma'am. You are left handed, though you swing a badminton racket with your right arm. You have recently traveled to Africa, where you lost a shoe. Upon your return you found yourself in an argument with your sister concerning her treatment of your pet cat, which she had been charged with looking after while you were away.' The room went silent. Everyone was in shock. Holmes then gave a fascinating account of how he was able to make such seemingly impossible observations. His explanation was quite brilliant and entertaining."
"The body was a gristly sight. Imagine a person walking around and living, then laying down and being dead. This body was more like the second half of the previous sentence than the first half. Sherlock consulted Doctor Watson. Watson confirmed that the bloody holes in the corpse were most likely wounds."
"The dragon bellowed a final yelly shriek, gouts of hot flame shooting out of its nostrils as the legendary beast's head lolled back so its face was looking up. In an explosion of blood, the dragon blew up. Sherlock looked back at the chaos over his shoulder, completely motionless aside from a flick of his wrist to shake the gore loose from his katana."
"Watson looked on, fascinated as his dear friend inspected the object with a magnifying glass. Sherlock was in a state of deep concentration. Nearly ten minutes later, Holmes straightened. 'It's definitely a blimp, my dear chap.' The detective nodded thoughtfully."
"Sherlock and Watson already had their hands full, brawling with their doppelgangers, when suddenly the train compartment's door burst open and two more doppelgangers entered the melee. One of the train's conductors bravely stepped in to help, but within moments his own doppelganger crashed through the window and began strangling him."
"Sherlock was a tall man. He was also relatively thin, but not overly skinny. His nose was pronounced and almost hawk-like. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the number of pores on his face. They were completely normal in size and appearance. In fact, one would be hard pressed to find a reason to mention them at all. He had two arms, which he fit into the sleeves of his shirt and coat. Sherlock's hair was brushed into a style."
"Holmes reached into the box marked 'CLUES' and pulled out a sheet of paper. It was a rather lengthy and descriptive confession that the killer had signed and left behind. Once again, the master detective had solved the case."
We're not going to solve gun massacres with bad manners, people.
The guns are gone. Now what happens to all those paper targets? Don't tell me you forgot about the paper targets. The ones hanging from little clips on fancy clotheslines at shooting ranges. With no guns to destroy these legions of paper bastards, they go unchecked.
A sign proclaiming "BACTA: DA FUTURE" marks the town's medical clinic
1998: I upload dave.pcx, and change the course of history
Set goals for yourself, and fulfill them. Absurd! Only in video games!
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