HTB Chronicills - Sherlock Homeless

Back by poxular remand, Harold the Bum continues his zany antics in lieu of a life...

Harold donned his tweed deer stalker cap and transformed into Sherlock Homeless, the blindingly brilliant, brilliantly blind sleuth. He was searching for clues because he's really smart. Surely, they had to be here somewhere. Surely, he would find them because he was Sherlock Homeless the greatest detective from Shit bridge all the way to the trailer park. Shirley had said so, surely he was.

Methodoniclly moving from side to side with only moderate resistance from gravity, he surveyed the scene through his lenseless magnifying glass in the pitch dark blackness. Suddenly, hours had past and still nothing pointed in the direction of the perpetrator. Nope, not a fucking thing. These were obviously evasive clues attempting to elude his detection. Sherlock understood the mind and motives of malicious inanimate objects having been one for much of his life. Sherlock momentarily indulged himself to reminisce of those bygone salad days of many minutes ago, before he wore the hat of a man who couldn't decide if was either coming or going.

Things had been going so well. He'd managed to work his magic. Starting with little more than a withdrawal wracked body, a misfiring mind, and a pocket full of key chains he'd acquired in a manic misappropriation binge at half a dozen retail outlets, he had built an empire from the ground up. The true wizardry was that his vast dominion fit neatly into a tiny Ziploc baggy tucked away in his left breast pocket. Right here...

That was the moment, that horrible, heart skips a beat moment, when he realized she had left him. It was like all the worst parts of the Old Testament happening at once. No, worse, it was as if Warren just walked in to the room.

Now, he was on this case like so many others, such as the Case of the Un-missing Bar and Grill Hose or the Eighth Street Garage Inquiry, but this case was different. This case was personal. This case was close to his heart. At least, it had been until the object of his desire had vanished from his left breast pocket. Now, he would stop at nothing, extended pauses due to nods notwithstanding, until he was reunited with her. That beautiful, tiny brunette baggy of yore.

How he pined for her when he realized she (the baggy) had run off and left him like yesterday's high. She was all he ever wanted, all he ever needed, but mostly all he fucking had left! This is why he specifically put it in his left pocket, because it didn't seem right. There had been so much more just a few hazy, muddled, incoherent increments of time ago. But now, as Sherlock sleuthfully stumbled through the darkness everything seemed like a drug induced nightmare!

"Oww!" Howled a well camouflaged urban outdoorsman type chap whose groin was being compression checked by Sherlock's size twelve sneaker.

"Sorry, so sorry, my good mongrel", Harold offered quickly but insincerely to the previously half dazed and recently half testicled miscreant. The stranger was fortunate that Sherlock had worn his golf shoe on his right foot tonight. Seizing the opportunity to take a statement from this potential suspect/witness/mostly suspect who lay rolling and cursing wildly at his feet. Very suspicious behavior, indeed!

Sherlock demanded, "I say, has anyone told you that you bear a striking resemblance to Gordon Gano?"

[Incoherent moaning with a festive smattering of profanity]

"What, what? Yes, indubitably." Sherlock Homeless absently chimed in reply to the continuing groans.

"Very well then. I'll cut to the quick since you seem to be previously engaged. I'm on a bit of a fox hunt, you might say. Tally-Ho! My quarry is one-inch tall, translucent plastic baggy last seen in the vicinity of me. I had it and now it seems to be gone. Have you seen, touched, or ingested anything matching that description recently?"

"Gone, baggy, gone, yeah the bag is gone!", the suspect blurted out.

"Precisely", Sherlock was on the right path. His instincts told him so, and it was the only path on this side of the bridge.

"Gone, baggy, gone, yeah the bag is gone!", the man shouted as he gripped his crotch protectively.

Meanwhile, back in the deepest recesses of Sherlock's opiate enhanced skull bone...

Braincell #1 - "Did you hear that xylophone music?"
Braincell #2 - "What's it sound like?"
Braincell #1 - "uhm... Like a fucking xylophone!"
Braincell #2 - "I'm drawing a blank here."
Braincell #1 - "Seriously? You're a fucking brain cell and you don't know what a xylophone sounds like?"
Braincell #2 - "Gimme a break, dude. I majored in mildew husbandry, not audible hallucinations!"
Braincell #1 - "Fuck! That's all I can say. Fuck!!!"

Back on the other less sensible side of Harold’s brainbone…

Sherlock applied the NCIS Gibbs technique, "Regrettably, yes, the baggy is gone. Now, what have you done with her?"

"Gone, baggy, gone, yeah the bag has gone away. Gone away."

A confession! Sherlock reached into his left breast pocket to pull out his Scotland trailer park back Yard identification to make the arrest. Out came the big joker playing card that doubled as his badge and a little plastic baggy flew into the air whimsically spiraling down before his eyes.

Reunited and it feels so good!

She had returned to him. How he loved her so. Harold’s face took on the look of a newborn suckling at their mother’s breast, then faded off into Narcoleptic Catatonia. He was addicted. 

The young boy whispered under his breath, "No shit, Sherlock."

Go to Part 2 of this story by clicking on the brain cell below or check out the clues to the mystery.

Clues to the Mystery and Bonus Blatherings

Q: Who the fuck is Gordon Gano?

A: He's the vocalist from the 80's band The Violent Femmes.

Q: Who the fuck are The Violent Femmes?

A: Let me go on like a blister in the sun

Q: That's retarded.

A: That's not a Question.

A: The Femmes also recorded a song called Gone Daddy (baggy) Gone with a chick in the video who looks a lot like my friend, Alison.

Q: I didn't ask a question.

A: Fuck you.

Q: Can we go now?