Sh*tlock Holmes and the Case of the Lost Pounds

“Fatson, come here.”

“What is it, Holmes,” answered the chubby assistant, sporting a tweed suit and meaty porkchop sideburns.

“I believe it’s a clue,” rejoined Sh*tlock Holmes, who was dressed in a Sherlock Holmes outfit, complete with magnifying glass.

“It appears to be a rice cake with peanut butter smeared on it,” observed Fatson.

“Almond butter,” corrected Sh*tlock.

“How can you know that?” asked Fatson, perplexed.

“Smellamentary, my dear Fatson. And did you take a look in the pantry?”

“It seems perfectly ordinary to me…” bemused Fatson

“Take a closer look,” said Sh*tlock.

“Good heavens…”

“That’s right,” continued the detective. “No corn chips, toritilla chips, potato chips, pretzel chips, pita chips, Sun chips, cheese nibs, Cheez-Its, Cheese Whiz, Chex mix, cheese-and-crackers, crackers-and-cheese, peanut butter-and-crackers, peanut butter cookies, pretzels, Pringles, Pop-Tarts, pork rinds, Fritos, Cheetos, Doritos…

“Unbelievable! Perhaps they refrigerate their snacks,” suggested Fatson. “For freshness.”

Sh*tlock swung open the refrigerator door, and his assistant peered over his shoulder.

“I don’t understand it,” blubbered Fatson. “There’s nothing in here but fresh fruits and vegetables. No one eats like this. It’s impossible.”

Sh*tlock shook his head as he held a red plum to his face to examine it more closely. “How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”

Sh*tlock sniffed at the air, then moved toward the laundry room.

“Fatson,” said Sh*tlock. “Take a big whiff in that laundry hamper.”

Fatson obliged, but reeled backwards after sticking his face down to smell.

“Good God, Sh*tlock,” exclaimed Fatson. “That’s utterly horrible.

“Just as I suspected,” hmmmmmm’ed Sh*tlock. “Exercise.”

Fatson shook his head, “Have you figured the mystery out yet, Sh*tlock?”

“I believe I have, Fatson,” he said, pacing back and forth in the hallway. “The lack of junk food, the abundance of healthy nutritional items and the sweat-soaked workout clothes indicate a successful weight loss journey is underway.”

“That’s it, Sh*tlock,” exclaimed Fatson. “But you haven’t solved the mystery of where the missing pounds went. Do you have the answer to that, Holmes?”

“I believe I have, my good man,” said Sh*tlock. “Look over your shoulder.”

“What?” asked Fatson.

“Lower,” suggested Sh*tlock.

“There?” croaked Fatson.

“Yes, my good fellow,” said Sh*tlock. “Right there on your ass.”

“Ahh, yes,” frowned Watson, sucking his gut in a bit. “Mystery solved.”

Sh*tlock Holmes and the Case of the Lost Pounds

“Fatson, come here.”

“What is it, Holmes?” answered the chubby assistant, sporting a tweed suit and meaty porkchop sideburns.

“I believe it’s a clue,” rejoined Sh*tlock Holmes, who was dressed in a Sherlock Holmes outfit, complete with magnifying glass.

“It appears to be a rice cake with peanut butter smeared on it,” observed Fatson.

“Almond butter,” corrected Sh*tlock.

“How can you know that?” asked Fatson, perplexed.

“Smellamentary, my dear Fatson. And did you take a look in the pantry?”

“It seems perfectly ordinary to me…” bemused Fatson

“Take a closer look,” said Sh*tlock.

“Good heavens…”

“That’s right,” continued the detective. “No corn chips, toritilla chips, potato chips, pretzel chips, pita chips, Sun chips, cheese nibs, Cheez-Its, Cheese Whiz, Chex mix, cheese-and-crackers, crackers-and-cheese, peanut butter-and-crackers, peanut butter cookies, pretzels, Pringles, Pop-Tarts, pork rinds, Fritos, Cheetos, Doritos…

“Unbelievable! Perhaps they refrigerate their snacks,” suggested Fatson. “For freshness.”

Sh*tlock swung open the refrigerator door, and his assistant peered over his shoulder.

“I don’t understand it,” blubbered Fatson. “There’s nothing in here but fresh fruits and vegetables. No one eats like this. It’s impossible.”

Sh*tlock shook his head as he held a red plum to his face to examine it more closely. “How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”

Sh*tlock sniffed at the air, then moved toward the laundry room.

“Fatson,” said Sh*tlock. “Take a big whiff in that laundry hamper.”

Fatson obliged, but reeled backwards after sticking his face down to smell.

“Good God, Sh*tlock,” exclaimed Fatson. “That’s utterly horrible.

“Just as I suspected,” hmmmmmm’ed Sh*tlock. “Exercise.”

Fatson shook his head, “Have you figured the mystery out yet, Sh*tlock?”

“I believe I have, Fatson,” he said, pacing back and forth in the hallway. “The lack of junk food, the abundance of healthy nutritional items and the sweat-soaked workout clothes indicate a successful weight loss journey is underway.”

“That’s it, Sh*tlock,” exclaimed Fatson. “But you haven’t solved the mystery of where the missing pounds went. Do you have the answer to that, Holmes?”

“I believe I have, my good man,” said Sh*tlock. “Look over your shoulder.”

“What?” asked Fatson.

“Lower,” suggested Sh*tlock.

“There?” croaked Fatson.

“Yes, my good fellow,” said Sh*tlock. “Right there on your ass.”

“Ahh, yes,” frowned Fatson, sucking his gut in a bit. “Mystery solved.”

Another Unexpected Visitor

PART TWO

“Well, I’m pretty sure that TOM’s going to live,” said Downsizing Doc, loading up her medical bag.

The medical professional had met Jack Sh*t, Fat Daddy and Tricia at the League of Extraordinarily Fat Gentlemen headquarters, a 25-story tower in downtown Obese City. She had just finished examining the bloodied body of TOM, one of the League’s founding members.

“Why were you stabbing him in the chest and guts with a Bowie knife?” asked Jack.

“Ummmmm,” said Downsizing Doc, darting her eyes. “I was checking for internal injuries.”

“And why’d you have to hit him in the crotch with that hammer a dozen times?” asked Fat Daddy.

“Testing his reflexes,” said the doc. “Look, I don’t have all day to stand around and answer a bunch of silly questions. He’ll be okay in a few weeks.”

The doctor exited the headquarters, and Tricia started gathering her things.

“Well, I’m off for my dentist appointment,” she said.

“Isn’t tonight trivia night?” asked Fat Daddy.

Tricia shot him at glance that might have struck dead a lesser man.

“That’s okay, Tricia,” said Jack, deep in thought. “You can leave early.”

“I’ll come in late tomorrow to make up for it,” said Tricia, gathering her things and walking out quickly.

“Fat Daddy, I think somebody was trying to kill TOM,” said Jack.

“Ya think?” smirked Fat Daddy. “Look at all this blood.”

“I’m alright,” moaned TOM. “It was… it was…”

At that point, TOM passed out.

“Damn,” said Jack. “It sure would have been convenient if TOM had stayed conscious long enough to tell us who his attacker was.”

“Now,” said Fat Daddy. “All we have to do is figure out who would have wanted TOM out of the picture. This calls for a little detective work, Jack. Jack? Jack?”

FD turned around to see that Jack was suddenly decked out in a full Sherlock Holmes outfit, complete with magnifying glass.

“Have no fear, Fatson,” said Jack. “Sh*tlock Holmes is on the case!”

“Who the f*ck is Fatson?” frowned Fat Daddy.

“I know who the would-be killer is,” said Jack.

“You’re going to do another one of those cliffhanger dealies, aren’t you?” asked Fat Daddy.

“Indubitably, Fatson” remarked Sh*tlock. “Indubitably.”

TO BE CONTINUED…
even later this afternoon

Sh*tlock Holmes and the Case of the Lost Pounds

“Fatson, come here.”

“What is it, Holmes,” answered the chubby assistant, sporting a tweed suit and meaty porkchop sideburns.

“I believe it’s a clue,” rejoined Sh*tlock Holmes, who was dressed in a Sherlock Holmes outfit, complete with magnifying glass.

“It appears to be a rice cake with peanut butter smeared on it,” observed Fatson.

“Almond butter,” corrected Sh*tlock.

“How can you know that?” asked Fatson, perplexed.

“Smellamentary, my dear Fatson. And did you take a look in the pantry?”

“It seems perfectly ordinary to me…” bemused Fatson

“Take a closer look,” said Sh*tlock.

“Good heavens…”

“That’s right,” continued the detective. “No corn chips, toritilla chips, potato chips, pretzel chips, pita chips, Sun chips, cheese nibs, Cheez-Its, Cheese Whiz, Chex mix, cheese-and-crackers, crackers-and-cheese, peanut butter-and-crackers, peanut butter cookies, pretzels, Pringles, Pop-Tarts, pork rinds, Fritos, Cheetos, Doritos…

“Unbelievable! Perhaps they refrigerate their snacks,” suggested Fatson. “For freshness.”

Sh*tlock swung open the refrigerator door, and his assistant peered over his shoulder.

“I don’t understand it,” blubbered Fatson. “There’s nothing in here but fresh fruits and vegetables. No one eats like this. It’s impossible.”

Sh*tlock shook his head as he held a red plum to his face to examine it more closely. “How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”

Sh*tlock sniffed at the air, then moved toward the laundry room.

“Fatson,” said Sh*tlock. “Take a big whiff in that laundry hamper.”

Fatson obliged, but reeled backwards after sticking his face down to smell.

“Good God, Sh*tlock,” exclaimed Fatson. “That’s utterly horrible.

“Just as I suspected,” hmmmmmm’ed Sh*tlock. “Exercise.”

Fatson shook his head, “Have you figured the mystery out yet, Sh*tlock?”

“I believe I have, Fatson,” he said, pacing back and forth in the hallway. “The lack of junk food, the abundance of healthy nutritional items and the sweat-soaked workout clothes indicate a successful weight loss journey is underway.”

“That’s it, Sh*tlock,” exclaimed Fatson. “But you haven’t solved the mystery of where the missing pounds went. Do you have the answer to that, Holmes?”

“I believe I have, my good man,” said Sh*tlock. “Look over your shoulder.”

“What?” asked Fatson.

“Lower,” suggested Sh*tlock.

“There?” croaked Fatson.

“Yes, my good fellow,” said Sh*tlock. “Right there on your ass.”

“Ahh, yes,” frowned Watson, sucking his gut in a bit. “Mystery solved.”