Monthly Archives: November 2015

The Poo of Fu Manchu…

From the Diary of Dr J Watson:

When I heard nothing from my illustrious companion followFront Door Arch with Crows Foot Hardwood Painteding the delivery of a certain publication, I began to experience a growing feeling of dread. (It put me in mind of the opening passage of a story by our old pal Poe – ‘The Balls of the Pants of Usher’ or some such thing). In any case, I determined to seek out my friend and reassure myself that he was in no danger and was in fact simply ignoring me. As usual.

However, my anxiety was not to be so easily exorcised, for as I approached the door to 221B Baker Street, I ran smack into Inspector Lestrade, who was exiting that very building with some haste.

“Lestrade, old fellow, what’s to do?”

The inspector’s usually pallid features were even more pallid than usual and he gripped my arm, pulling me to one side. “Watson, thank God you’re alive – after witnessing the…” and here he held a hand to his face as if he were about to experience his breakfast a second time. “I was about to fetch a doctor, but you’ll do. Quickly…” And he pushed me through the doors and up the stairs.

My companion’s rooms were untidy (even by his standards) and Holmes himself was lying on a makeshift bed in the centre of the room, his face a rather nice shade of scarlet. The hue was so fetching that it put me in mind of our first case together – ‘A Study in Deep Purple’ but my short reverie was indeed short-lived as a shriek from my friend’s beautiful lips jerked me back to reality.

“Arrrrggh!” He said.

“Holmes!” I shrieked.

“Watson!” Screamed Lestrade. “Control yourself, man.”

I knelt down by the bed and held a hand to my companion’s forehead. “Tell me what you know, Inspector.”

And he did just that. It seems that the pages of the book I had sent to Holmes had been infused with a strange potion. Holmes, being thorough as was his wont, had scrutinised the pages over the course of a few days and at the end of that time had begun to realise that in doing so he had actually poisoned himself. Calling for Lestrade, he was able to utter a few garbled phrases (mostly containing the words ‘fuck’ and ‘shite’) before lapsing into the coma that I now found him in.

During the next few hours, Lestrade and I were able to transport Holmes to Hardacre’s Sanatorium,  which deals with many such strange cases. I collected my bag on the way, along with my old chemistry set and four pairs of latex gloves, and set to work to identify whatever it was that had laid out my companion in this way.

Late into that first night, I sat back from my studies and rubbed my head. Lestrade, who had stayed by Holmes’ bedside mopping his brow, cast me a hopeful glance.

“Any luck?”

I shook my head. “I haven’t been able to identify the exact quantities involved, but I’m certain of one thing – the pages of this book were drenched in the poo of Fu Manchu.”

“Oh, shit.”

I nodded. “Indeed.”

(To be continued)


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Posted by on November 29, 2015 in Detective Fiction


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Curiouser and Curiouser…

To Sherlock Holmes Esq from Doctor Watson

Dear HolmesThe_Mask_of_Fu_Manchu_by_Sax_Rohmer_-_Illustration_by_Ron_Lesser_-_Pyramid_Books_F-740_1962

I received a curious package in my morning mail today, containing what appears to be an account of the adventures of my recent captor, Mr Fu Manchu. The report is in the form of a novel by some chap named Sax Rohmer (clearly a foreigner) who details the antics of the zealous Chinaman and his plan to ‘take over the world’.

The book was apparently sent to me by one Mr Nayland Smith, who is currently Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard. My dilemma, as you will no doubt have guessed, is that Nayland Smith is himself a character in the book!

I am sending the complete package to you via my errand boy, Loose Lennie, in the hope that you can fathom out exactly what is afoot (for surely some sinister plan is in the offing).

I remain yours,

Rather worriedly


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Posted by on November 17, 2015 in Detective Fiction


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Escape from Hangman’s Lane…

From the Diary of Dr J Watson:

It is now a few days since my encounter with the dreaded Fu Manchu, but even though I am safely back in the arms of my dear wife, I can still feel the cold, clammy walls of that awful place.Chinese Maid

Thanks to my call for help via Billy the Pigeon, Holmes alerted the police and within an hour, Lestrade and his trusty Bobbies surrounded the house and freed me from my own personal hell. Fu Manchu was, of course, not to be found, but one of his henchman – Eye-no Tell – is helping the police with their enquiries.

Holmes, as is his wont, did not attend my rescue himself as he apparently had to attend an urgent (his words) concert of violin music at the Albert Hall. No doubt he will call and see me at some point, and in all fairness, since the ‘adventure’ was entirely due to my own stupidity, I cannot hold him in any less regard for his absence.

I have little else to think about at the moment, so I am sitting here scribbling in my diary, while Mrs Watson practices her new hobby – massaging my feet. I must admit I was rather sceptical when she first suggested it, but feeling those long slender fingers working their way around my size tens, I have to admit that the whole thing is quite erotic. (Apparently, she learned the technique from our new maid (a young Chinese woman who very kindly returned my wife’s purse after it was stolen the other day). The girl’s eagerness to please was apparent and we decided she would be perfect to replace our previous maid (who, according to the note Su Ling found on the kitchen counter, has run off with a soldier, despite being almost seventy years old).

My present relaxed state aside, I do have some concerns about Mister Manchu’s purpose – since he clearly did not achieve whatever devious plot he had in mind. I suppose he will already be planning how he will again lure myself or Holmes into some kind of oriental ambush. I only hope we are able to anticipate how he might inveigle himself into our lives and homes. If not, I fear we may all find ourselves in very grave danger.


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Posted by on November 10, 2015 in Detective Fiction


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A Call for Help (Again)…

To Sherlock Holmes Esq from Doctor Watson
(By Carrier Pigeon)


Forgive the overindulgence of exclamatory marks, but I am in gravest peril. Your telegram arrived the other morning as I was setting out to meet with Mister Humanfuc as agreed, but I regret to say I stuffed the message in my pocket thinking I could peruse it later.

What a fool I was, Holmes – what a fool!Victoian streets

Mister Humanfuc is an imposter. Or rather, he is pretending to be something he definitely is not. On my arrival at No 1A, Hangman’s Lane, I was struck by the odd way the street sign appeared to be written on a piece cardboard and attached to the wall by a nail. The cabbie who dropped me at the end of a row of derelict houses, told me I was at the right place, but then he gave a rather bizarre cackle that sent an absolute chill up my spine.

No doubt you, Holmes, would have registered some alarm at this juncture, but allowing that Mrs Watson and I indulged in a larger-than-usual helping of sexual shenanigans the evening before, I was perhaps a little ‘giddy’ as a result and consequently ignored what should have been an obvious warning.

Mister Humanfuc (or Fu Manchu, as you have presumably guessed) welcomed me into his ‘humble’ abode and immediately pushed me down a flight of steps into what I can only describe as a particularly hideous shithole. I must have banged my head, for I have only in this last hour awoken to find myself in this dire circumstance. Luckily, after I had (finally) got around to reading your note and recognising (at last!) what a total prick I’ve been, I happened to notice the small barred window high up on the wall of this vile place. And there to my surprise, was Billy – your much-loved pigeon. I could hardly believe it and did wonder if you yourself had sent him to my aid (though I could not imagine how he could have found me).

There is of course no glass in the window and so it was with great happiness (relatively speaking) that I began to entice the bird into my prison and scribbled this note on a piece of rag. I trust Billy will make it back to Baker Street without incident.

(I noticed there was a small camera attached to Billy’s neck so I hope he has been able to photograph the area around my prison).

With some concern


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Posted by on November 1, 2015 in Detective Fiction


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