Author Topic: Buckets of gore at Massacre Mews. Sergeant Stoatstrangler reports. (Read 3512 times)

Silbuster · « **on:** April 06, 2015, 06:45:53 PM »

Sergeant Stoatstrangler of the Yard ‘ere. Standing in for Inspector Lestrade owing to him being hors de wotsit. ‘ere to relate the dastardly doings and ghastly goings on in the blood soaked bloodbath of Massacre Mews.
It all started sort of innocuous like. I was ‘aving a laugh with some of the lads when the Inspector strode in.
“Assemble the troops, Sergeant. Some dopey doxy is due to be done-in in some forsaken hole called Dunlivin unless we can stop it.”
“Dunlivin eh, Inspector?”, I mused, “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“You do surprise me, Sergeant!”, he laughed.
I nodded sagely at that one but, in truth, I was none the wiser. A lot of the Inspector’s wisecracks sail serenely straight over my ‘ead.

Dunlivin looked like a dump but we’d scarcely clocked it and meeted and greeted Mr ‘olmes and Dr Watson before the Detective shouted a warning and shot off. ‘e’s quick off the mark in more ways than one, our Mr ‘olmes. ‘e was sprinting for the ‘all where the lady was exercising ‘er jaw before we’d ‘ad time to take in the right shower of cutthroats, villains and scum from the world over ‘eading our way. Their leader, who looked like the sort of woman you wouldn’t like to meet in the park, would’ve intercepted our Meerschaum smoker if DC Popperwell hadn’t cut ‘er down with a long range, brilliantly jammy shot. The rest of ‘em scuttled more circumspectly towards us while sending out flanking detachments left and right. Not to be outdone, the Inspector advanced down the centre while I ‘eaded then off on the right side and PC Pocklington on the left.

It was cool, calm gunplay what won if for my lads. The final score was four one to us with our only loss being PC Dunkle, who, considering he’s solid oak from the eyebrows up, is going to leave a ‘ole in the forest but not the force. ‘owever, victory came only just in time since it wasn’t going well in the centre. Mr ‘olmes was ‘olding the doorway while a gent with an improbably large sword tried to get past ‘im and put some cutting comments to the politico. ‘e already seemed to ‘ave ‘ad a chat with Special Branch who looked most cut up about it. Rushing to the Inspector’s aid, we ran into several of the chopper’s friends but, with the Inspector and Dr Watson, we ‘ad them surrounded so it was all going to be alright…

My but those swords were big. And sharp. Soon we were down to just the three of us with even the Inspector and the Doctor down and out for the count. WPC Sniper Sue tried to intervene but she’s only knee high to a grasshopper and was knocked down amongst the daisies. Looks like we’ll need some smelling salts. Suddenly running footsteps were ‘eard from the left. Could this be PC Pocklington to rescue? Not unless he was carrying a sabre. Damn, it seemed Pocklington had been paddled. Massacre Mews, by now, was looking like a funeral parlour during a coffin shortage and we were probably next up for embalming.

Fortunately, at this point, Sherlock showed ‘is opponent where ‘e could stick ‘is sword. Which so surprised the bloke trying to give me a crewcut that it gave me the time to kick ‘is family jewels into orbit followed up with a nice smack to the noggin as ‘e bent down to see where they’d gone. ‘aving balanced the books, so to speak, we then settled accounts with the rest of ‘em.

Surrounded by a carpet of groaning humanity, I only ‘ad a couple of questions left. Who were they? And were there any more of ‘em? I certainly b****y well ‘oped not!

Sergeant Stoatstrangler of the Yard.