Holmes leaned back into his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests and pressing his fingers lightly against each other.
“Watson,” he ruminated, “would you wire the good Inspector?”
“But Holmes,” I explained, “you know Lestrade spends his Monday evenings imbibing with all the Yard.”
“All the more reason for him to be agreeable,” he said with eyes closed. “I believe, Watson, that the most outre Affair of Winter Quarter has come to an end.”
“Why, Holmes!” I sputtered, ignoring his incomprehensible use of French. “The case began not more than a few days ago, yet you’ve solved it already. How? Her Majesty will be most pleased.”
“It’s quite simple, really,” he said in that gratingly condescending tone. “You know my methods, Watson.”
“I do?”
“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” he said impatiently.
“Quite so, Holmes,” I nodded, “quite so.”
We sat in profound silence for a moment. I felt my wound from a wayward Jezail bullet flare up.
“You still don’t understand, do you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Get the hell out of 221B Baker Street, foo’.”
“This is a dream,” he said, languidly reclining on a settee.
“Then it is a good dream,” she softly replied.
By 10 AM tomorrow, I shall have penned my eight- to ten-page magnum opus on love, delusion, and Sino-American relations in David Henry Hwang’s M. Butterfly. I wish you luck with your finals, dear reader, and hope that you will do the same for me.
So I sit my Muse down a few days ago, and you know what happens? She comes in looking like a world of trouble.
My bodyguard, Sir Schitzendippen, gives me that “You want I should tuck her in at the bottom of the ocean, boss?” look, but I wave him away. I want to fire the dame myself, see, and I want to do it with my signature style.
“You. Your stuff. Out,” I tell her, making sure to gesture toward my office door.
Upon hearing my reasonable request, she starts drinking from the SASS FOUNTAIN and spitting in my face.
“What?” she explodes. “Where’s my severance package?”
“Oh,” I tell her in that soft, yet dangerous voice, “I almost forgot! I’ve got your severance package right here.”
I motion to her to lean closer, then I hand her an old tin lunchbox.
“Open it,” I tell her.
“There’s nothing inside!” she says with a huff.
“Oh, wait!” I say to her with a mischievous gleam in my eye. “I forgot to put in a KNUCKLE SANDWICH for ya.”
*POW* Pink-slipped corporate gangsta style, and no soup to go with that sandwich, Muzatch!
That’s a glimpse into my business model, gentle reader. Anyone care to intern here?