| this juncture. Watson: It�s really quite a baffling mystery. Reminds me of those transvestite murders, awhile back. I say, Holmes, could there be a connection. Holmes: No, Watson. This is not the work of Jack the Stripper. We�re dealing with a new hand of death. Watson: Hand? Oh, yes. (small laugh from Watson) Well, when we catch this fiend, we�ll have to measure. It could be a foot of death. Or more. Lestrade: The men at the yard are working overtime, on this one, Mr. Holmes. With luck, we�ll bring the murderer to a quick justice. Holmes: And hopefully, before he strikes, again. Gentlemen, the moon will be rising in an hour. It�s time to end this reign of terror. To the streets, Watson! Watson: Coming, Holmes. (make own joke here) Holmes: Will you join us, Lestrade? Lestrade: I�m expected at the Yard, but there are two men waiting, below. If you need them, Holmes, they are yours. Holmes: Very well, then. Come along, Watson, and keep a grip on your pistol. We may need it. End of Act Two Advertisement: Announcer: And now ... Act 3 of �The Sphincter Murders� Watson: I say, Holmes, how much longer must I continue this awful mascarade? I don�t care for this queer business, at all! Holmes: For as long as it takes, old friend. You may be our only hope, to catch this arch fiend, who seizes his victims in a .... Watson: Yes, I know. Both Men: Climactic Moment Of Terror! (silence for a few moments and then the sound of approaching footsteps) Holmes: Ah, here comes another possible, John. I�ll slip back into the shadows. Do your best, Watson. Watson: (spoken quietly, to himself) Oh Lord, help me! Holmes: You may go, Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson: Very good, sir. (footsteps draw closer. Watson steps forward) Watson: Get me buns! Hot cross buns. Get me buns. Hot cross buns! (footsteps stop) Pedestrian: What�s that, you say? Watson: Get me buns. Hot cross buns. Pedestrian: I don�t see any buns. Watson: Get me banana. Get me nuts. Hot cross banana nut buns! Pedestrian: I still don�t see any buns. Where are they? Watson: Holy, holy, holy buns. Hot cross, holy buns. Pedestrian: Ya damned fruity. I�ve a mind to call a constable. I�ve got the coin. Now, where�s the buns? |
| The Mystery of the Sphincter Murders |
| by Robert N. Kirkpatrick |
| Absurd Digest |
 |
| Surely something should be written in this area! What a horrible waste of space! The secret of the universe could be revealed in such a large area! Einstein knew alot more about potatoes than he was ever given credit for! His mother was killed by a swarm of potatoes! How everyone scoffed, when the tabloids warned us of their impending arrival! And what is the deal with the trees? Do potatoes leap from trees? I think not! |